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Robert Newcomb: A March into Darkness

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Robert Newcomb A March into Darkness

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Collapsing to the floor, she began to bleed and give birth. Just moments before she fell unconscious, she managed to place an azure field around the little corpse that lay there beside her like a bloodied doll.

Summoned by her screams, her servants soon found her. Teetering on the cusp of death, Serena lingered under the care of her worried consuls for two more days.

On the third day her consciousness sensed the Heretics of the Guild for the first time, as their voices roused her from her nether-sleep. Opening her eyes, she commandingly raised one arm to order her shocked servants from the room. After they had gone, she closed her eyes again.

“Serena,”she heard.

“I am here,”she thought, innately understanding that she would not need to speak to make her thoughts known. Then her losses stabbed her heart again, hurting so badly that she could hardly bear it.

“My husband and child are dead,”she told them.

“We know,”the choir of voices answered.“In his twisted eagerness to rule the craft, the Jin’Saikilled them both.”

Serena took a quick breath.“How?” she asked.

“He used the Orb of the Vigors to destroy Wulfgar,”they answered.“The unexpected might of their clash had been underestimated-even by us. It had been aeons since your world witnessed such a titanic struggle of the craft. But the Ones cannot commune with the Jin’Saiagain, for the Forestallment required to do so is lost to his blood.”

“What of my child?”Serena asked.“I still do not understand.”

“When theEnseteratdied, your blood could withstand it; the vulnerable blood of your unborn child could not. But take heart. Wulfgar granted you many Forestallments before he died. You are a fully empowered sorceress, and your blood is strong. Any additional Forestallments required for your purposes can be gleaned from the Vagaries scroll. If you act soon enough, victory can still be ours.”

She smiled for the first time since the death of her family.“What do you wish of me?” she asked.“My life is yours.”

“We know, Daughter,”they responded.“Your mission will be a complicated one, and must be accomplished in steps. Listen as we tell you what to do first.”

As she lay near death, Serena was astounded by what she heard. Nonetheless it all made perfect sense. The task before her would be enormous. But the rewards would be, as well.

When the Heretics had finished speaking to her, she bid them good-bye. From that moment on, her strength and vitality had returned quickly. That had been seven weeks ago. She had accomplished much since then.

Reaching her destination, the queen of the Vagaries stopped before a pair of tall twin doors. A wreath of flowering red cat’s paw hung on each one. She pointed an index finger. At her bidding the heavy locks turned over and the doors parted. Serena walked into the room. The doors shut heavily behind her.

She paused for a moment to look around. Everything was just as she had left it. The room was to be perfectly maintained at all times. If she found the slightest thing disturbed, the handmaidens responsible for maintaining this place would die.

The chamber was large and well lit. Sunlight streamed in through numerous skylights; songbirds could be heard warbling in the outer yard. The brick floor was covered with fresh red rose petals. On the dawn of each new day the old petals were removed, then carefully replaced. Their familiar aroma permeated the air. Two specially chosen handmaidens stood in the far corners. As Serena looked at them, they bowed.

Finally satisfied, she again lifted her gown to stride through the lush foliage and toward the center of the room. When she reached the altar she stopped to look down. Her eyes immediately filled with tears.

The pink marble altar was just large enough to support a small body. An azure glow surrounded it. Reaching through the aura, the bereaved sorceress stroked her daughter’s cold cheek.

The tiny body was covered by a black silk sheet. More rose petals littered the shroud and surrounding altar top. Small and frail-looking, the dead baby girl lay peacefully atop the stone. The child’s eyes were closed in death. A small wisp of downy brown hair adorned the crown of her head. Had she lived, she would have been named Clarice.

In memory of the child’s father, Serena had ordered the floor covered with rose petals of the same variety Wulfgar had chosen to signal his demise. The glow she had conjured over the little corpse would ensure that the body remained perpetually preserved. The spell’s calculations had been purposely convoluted to avoid tampering, and Serena was sure that only she could unravel it. She turned and looked at her handmaidens.

“These petals upon which I stand,” she said. “They were fresh this morning?”

One of the handmaidens bowed. “Yes, Your Grace,” she answered.

Serena returned her gaze to her daughter’s lifeless form. “Good,” she replied. Silence filled the room again.

She suddenly heard someone knocking on the double doors of the crypt. Earlier this morning she had summoned the only two other people she would allow into this room without killing them outright.

“Enter,” she called out.

The doors parted to show two men. She bid them entrance.

Two servants walked into the room. They bowed to their queen, then to the little corpse.“When you are in this sacred place you are to bow to my child as well,” Serena had warned them. Given their queen’s mental state, they knew better than to disobey.

Serena looked commandingly at them. Einar, her senior consul, was dressed in his familiar dark blue robe. Tall and whippet lean, his dark brown eyes stared back at her with confidence. She watched him lower the hood of his robe to expose his sharp features and cruel-looking mouth. Serena trusted and respected Einar. His loyalty to her late husband had been unshakable.

Reznik was another matter. Serena found his kind to be greasy, unpleasant creatures, but she tolerated the partial adepts here on her small island because she found their gifts useful. At fifty Seasons of New Life, Reznik had a wrinkled face, a thick middle, and a balding head. A circular fringe of graying hair fell to his shoulders. Yellow teeth, a hooked nose, and limpid brown eyes finished the unappealing picture. As if suddenly needing something to do, he nervously ran his wet palms down the front of his bloody smock.

Also known as the Corporeals, his group had been granted sanctuary by Wulfgar. There were nearly two hundred of Reznik’s kind here on the island. Corporeals possessed partial, left-leaning blood signatures. They specialized in producing dark wares of the craft that they sold for profit. With no market left in Eutracia for their deadly wares, they gladly served the new queen of the Vagaries at the Citadel. Despite how much Serena looked down on them, even she had become impressed by their unique abilities.

As the leader of the Corporeals, Reznik was an expert herbmaster, potion blender, and cutter-healer. But he had little experience with royalty, and now he made the mistake of speaking first.

“Has the new Vagaries servant entered Eutracia?” he asked.

Serena glared angrily at him, then turned to look at the handmaidens. They each quickly looked at the floor. She turned back to glare at the Corporeal.

“Not here, you fool!” she admonished him. “Follow me.”

She strode past the two men, then caused the doors to open. As she walked out into the daylight, her servants followed. The twin doors shut heavily behind them. Saying nothing, Serena led them through the Citadel’s inner ward.

The island fortress was a majestic place. The Citadel walls rose straight up from the island’s rock. The many interior buildings and turrets were interconnected by an ornate series of catwalks suspended high in the air. Manicured gardens and majestic fountains dotted the grounds. There had been many nights when she and Wulfgar had walked these grounds, talking and dreaming of the day when they would rule the craft, and watch their daughter grow to womanhood. But those days were no more.

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