Laurell Hamilton - Death of a Darklord

Gersalius led her to the town square. There was a fountain in the middle of the paved area, and the water within it had frozen to solid white ice. The ice coated even the figure in the center, making it unrecognizable, though a thin trickle of water still played through the ice. The soft sound of water moved oddly through the silent courtyard, echoing off the two-story buildings that hedged the paving.

"It was a large town once. This is the center of an ambitious town," Gersalius said.

Elaine stood by the frozen fountain and let her breath out in a white cloud. Huge fluffy clouds hung low in the sky, pale gray, as if they held not snow but rain. But it was far too cold for rain.

The gray clouds cast everything in a sameness. The day was as dull and downtrodden as her mood. "Why did you bring me here?"

Gersalius turned to her. His smile died as he looked at her. "I know that right now you won't believe this, but it will hurt less as time goes by."

She shook her head. "Why are we here?"

"This is the heart of the town. It wasn't the first thing built, but it was the center of all their hopes. A fountain in a courtyard, very cosmopolitan. This is the heart of the village, and here is where the spell was laid."

Elaine looked around. "I don't see anything."

"Look at the fountain, Elaine. Open that inner sight and truly look at it."

It seemed like such an effort that she wanted to say no, I can't.

"If we can trace this spell back to its owner, we will find the person responsible for all this misery," Gersalius said. "Then you can have your revenge."

Vengeance, was that enough? No, nothing would ever be enough. But revenge was better than despair.

Elaine took a deep breath of the frigid air and closed her eyes. She held the breath, willing herself to be calm, to quiet the maelstrom in her mind. She opened her eyes slowly. The fountain ran with colors, as if someone had melted wax in the water before it froze.

Elaine brushed her hands over the ice. A line of sickly green, red the color of burned skin, the purple-blue of bruises; one line was iridescent, with many colors. Elaine couldn't decipher it at first, until she remember a drowned man she'd seen once. The last line was the color of a drowned man's skin, mottled and putrefying.

The thin line of free water that still coursed through the ice picked up the colors like a river picking up the dirt of different fields. The water ran black as it pooled in icy pockets, deep enough to dip a small bucket into, deep enough to drink from.

There was a thickness on the water's surface that held all the colors like an oil slick, but sparkling with some inner light that had nothing to do with the weak winter sunlight.

"He poisoned the water," she said, at last.

Gersalius nodded. "Indeed."

"Is it poison or magic? It gleams like a spell."

"Both," he said.

Elaine shook her head. "If it is in the water, then why does everybody rise from the dead, even strangers?"

"Most strangers don't die as quickly as Averil and Blaine. Most have time to drink the water before they die."

She turned to him. "Blaine won't rise as a zombie."

"No," Gersalius said.

"Will Averil?"

"I fear she was given water to bring down her fever."

Her relief that Blaine would rest now forever was spoiled by the thought of Silvanus's having to watch his daughter become a shambling corpse.

"Then why take Elaine's body if he won't rise?" she asked.

"Perhaps exactly because it won't rise on its own."

"I don't understand."

"If only people who have not drunk of the water lie quiet in their graves, then the townsfolk may discover that it is the water."

"Oh, so they took his body to prevent that." Elaine thought of something. "Then whoever is behind all this controls at least some of the zombies. He had the bestial zombie steal Elaine's body."

Gersalius nodded. "Good girl. You are right. Now, let us trace this spell back to its lair."

"I see only the ice and the colors. How do we trace it farther?"

"Open more than your eyes to your magic, Elaine. Think of it as opening a window a little more."

She frowned at him. "I am using my magic. I don't understand about windows and opening them farther."

"You are impatient, Elaine. That will not help things. If anything, it will make it harder for you. Magic does not come at the call of a whip, but of a whisper."

She wanted to cross her arms over her chest and be angry, wholeheartedly angry, but she realized it wasn't the wizard she was angry at. It was her grief twisting inside her, spoiling all with its touch.

Elaine took a deep breath and let it out. With the breath some of the tension left her. She would not let even her grief stand in her way. She would find the maker of this spell and destroy him. It was cold comfort, but it was all the comfort she had.

"All right, I'll try to open your window." She could hear the scorn in her own voice. The wizard had done nothing but be her friend, but in that moment, she hated the whole world. It was hard to work around that, but she tried.

Elaine reached into that cavern deep inside herself. The center of her own magic. She brushed it lightly, scooping some of the blue-violet light into invisible hands. Healing and wizardry had that light in common. She opened her eyes and spread her right hand over the fountain.

"Mo, Elaine," Gersalius said, but it was too late.

Blue-violet light spilled from her fingers, bounced along the ice, melting here and there. There were small explosions where her lights touched the inner poisons. Bursts of ice bouncing skyward.

The light poured into the black water. It bubbled and boiled as if some great heat were under it. The ice looked as if a monster had been eating at it.

"Send it outward, Elaine. Seek the power that you have touched. Find its home."

She gathered a pool of light into her hand, scooping it from nothing. The light pulsed and glowed, painting her face with violet radiance. She flung the light outward, casting it into the air like a hawk.

The light fell in sparks, bouncing along the ground. Then those sparks rose into the air and raced down the street, like manic violet fireflies.

"After them," Gersalius said. "You have cleansed the fountain, but destroyed the spell in the process. We won't be able to trace it a second time." He lifted up his robes and ran. Elaine followed, skirts caught up in one hand, boots digging into the snow.

The sparks raced like miniature comets in the air, diving around corners. Somewhere near the edge of town, Gersalius leaned against a building and motioned her on, too winded to speak.

She glanced back only a moment, then ran. Her own pulse thundered in her ears. Exhaustion miasma ate at her vision in little dots and squiggles. There was a stitch in her side that felt as if it would tear through her stomach if she did not stop. But short of passing out, Elaine wasn't stopping. Gersalius had said they wouldn't be able to trace it a second time. If she lost sight of the sparks now, it would be her fault. She would have failed Blaine again. Even in vengeance she was failing him.

Elaine fell to her knees at the bottom of a hill. Buildings lined the base of the rise, and a graveyard topped it. She had been here before. The violet sparks whizzed into the trees, lost to sight among the graves.

Elaine stumbled to her feet and climbed the hill on hands and knees, sliding in the snow. The high, spiked cemetery gate, meant to keep wolves out, seemed an insurmountable barrier. She couldn't catch her breath, but through the gravestones she saw a sparkling violet flame.

Elaine leapt up, grabbing a crossbar. She managed to scramble to the top of the fence, feet on the crossbar, hands balancing on the spikes at the top. She threw one leg over, skirts catching on the pointed iron, then toppled, fabric ripping. The cloth trailed in the snow as she forced herself to run toward the glimmering flame.