Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

His hand dropped to his side. “ The Book of Demons. ”

“Yes.”

“Why, in the name of Cia, why?”

“I can’t leave it behind to be found by whoever. It’s too dangerous to be floating free.”

“And it’s safe with you carrying it?” He stared at the floor and took a deep breath. “Keleios, you and I are contaminated. You endanger yourself by carrying that thing. It has a mind of its own, as most of the books of power do.”

“You don’t need to lecture me on enchanted times.”

“No, but on common sense, yes. Get rid of it, please.”

“I can’t. It won’t burn. Someone will find it. Someone searches for it, and they must not have it.”

“Searches for it? It’s common knowledge it’s here.”

“But with restrictive spells lacing it. It can’t be taken out as long as this keep stands. And it is stunted in power until the sorceries and herbs binding it are broken. Belor, if the keep falls, it is free. You know what it can do.”

“Carry it, if you must, but I’m not finished arguing against it.”

“I know.” They stepped out into the torchlit hall and Keleios extinguished the witchlight thankfully. A keep guard stood at attention at the door to the teleportation room. It was a permanent spell enabling the nonmagic soldiers to come and go to the outer wall. Keleios recognized the guard in his gold and black livery. Bundie was a tall Calthuian, young and overly ambitious but good with a weapon. He put his hand on his sword hilt and said, “Keleios, Belor, what keeps you up so late?”

“Prophecy, Bundie.”

One pale brown eyebrow raised, “Oh, grim news?”

“Grim enough for the guard to be doubled. The wards should go up soon. The keep is to be sealed for three days, starting tonight.”

“What did you see?”

“Death.” At his grim expression she smiled. “But I think it can be fought with steel as well as magic.”

He grinned. “Then we will be ready. Carrick runs the best-trained guards on the island, and who has more magic than Zeln’s school?”

Keleios did not disillusion him but agreed, “Pass word along.”

She turned to go and Bundie called, “I’ll see you the practice grounds tomorrow morning, prophet.”

It was a sly insult. Carrick, the weapons master, had often said, “Spellcasters are poor swordsmen and prophets worst of all, because most of them are mad.”

Keleios ignored the insult, almost. “I’ll be there, Bundie, and you had better watch your back.”

He laughed. “With you and the illusionist around, always.”

They paced the silent halls and felt the magic seep from under the doors. The very stones seemed to breathe spells. She knew the feeling was caused from lack of sleep and too much magic but everything was hushed, as if the world held its breath.

Belor spoke in a whisper. “What is wrong tonight?”

“You feel it also.”

He nodded.

She whispered back, “The gods walk among us. It’s a bad sign.”

They stood in front of her room.

“I don’t feel their presence. I know I’m only an illusionist and not a sorcerer, but my magic sense isn’t that blunt.”

“It was just an expression, you know. When things go really wrong, the gods are abroad.” He let it go at that, stifling a yawn, “Fair dreaming, Keleios, and be careful.”

“And to you. And I will be careful.”

She watched him go until he vanished round the corner. She shivered as from a sudden chill. Keleios wasn’t sure what had made her speak of the gods, but the words had rung in the air like a bell. Prophecy spoken in jest, perhaps. She knew the gods could hide their presence if it suited their needs. She whispered into the magic-laden air, “The gods walk among us. It is a bad sign.”

The door opened with the slightest of sighs. Keleios paused, thinking of murder.

The room was silvered darkness. Fidelis lay quietly on her side, pale brown hair flung across her pillow, one slender hand half-clinched on her hip. When she was six, Keleios had tagged after the older girl, as Alys followed Keleios now. One bright summer day Keleios had been playing near the water garden with a kitten. Fidelis had asked to hold it. Keleios had been so proud that the older girl noticed her. Fidelis had held and petted the tiny cat. Then with a wonderful smile that reached all the way up into her eyes, Fidelis shoved the kitten underwater and held it there while Keleios beat on her with tiny fists. Keleios had learned hatred from Fidelis. It was she who taught Keleios that all her fear and rage for Harque’s murder of her mother could be turned into something else. Fear crippled, rage blinded, but hatred could be formed into revenge. With revenge could come satisfaction.

When Keleios was a little older she and Belor had ambushed the older girl. They had beat her bloody. Fidelis had asked, “Why?”

“The kitten you drowned,” Keleios said.

“You never forget, do you?”

“No,” Keleios said, “I never forget.”

Was Fidelis trying to kill her now? It was better to be cautious. The spell tonight had been a blatant attempt; perhaps there would be others—although being a shadow worshipper, Fidelis was more inclined to treachery than frontal attack.

Keleios searched the room with her night vision. The cool, seeking breath of the night wind touched her through the open windows. It rustled the papers on the two worktables and sent rows of hanging herbs scritching against the wall. She gave over to her suspicions and searched the chamber with the other sense that could not be tricked by silvered shadows; even night vision had its faults. The air currents moved around familiar things. The shelves lining the walls were stacked thick with books and papers, jars and bottles, and the strange miscellany that spell casters of any sort seem to collect. There was evil in the room, but again familiar evil. A large gallon bottle, carefully blown and enchanted, sat on the third shelf of Fidelis’ side of the room. A demon swirled softly, bound by magic and hating. Oh, how demons hated to be used.

A scuttling under Fidelis’ bed attracted her attention, and pinpricks of many eyes stared back at her.

Fas, Fidelis’ familiar, was awake. The spider was only as large as a medium-sized dog, small for a wish spider, but he gave Fidelis the power of illusion.

The wind blew stronger, and the papers on Keleios’ table struggled against the lead-lined weight of the demon’s skull that held them down. The bare white skull was a trophy she had carried away from the Grey Isle. It had been one of the lesser demons, but not many people lived through encounters with the devilkin. All one needed was a magic weapon and a great deal of luck; her sword had given her both. Now the horned skull acted as a paperweight and a reminder that she had done the nearly impossible. A chunk of raw ore sat nearby, waiting to be forged if only Keleios could decide what it most wanted to be.

The herb press sat smelling of crushed thyme and verdis. She wondered briefly if one of the apprentices had forgotten to clean it again, but for once was too tired to care.

Something fluttered in the far comer, but it was only the dark cloth hiding Fidelis’ mirror—a beautiful thing in itself, lovingly carved of polished oak, a floor-length oval of unblemished glass. It had power as all enchanted objects did, and it was evil.

Fidelis had hidden it from Keleios’ view since the day Keleios had looked at it and said, “I see you standing in a chamber with a blond man. I can almost see his face.”

“How can you do that?” she asked, suddenly pale.

Keleios smiled. “Remember, I am an enchanter. I can divine the uses of enchanted items much more thoroughly than an illusionist/herb-witch.”