David Drake - Mistress of the Catacombs

“The next time you do that,” the wizard said, “they’ll break your fingers. That won’t affect the spell, you realize.”

Cashel squirmed forward. If he got a little closer, he could swing his legs to knock the Archa holding Tilphosa’s left hand off its—

One of the creatures behind Cashel gripped his ankle with the pincer of a forelimb and jerked him back. Cashel felt the tickle of blood starting to run down his heel.

Metra’s peal of laughter began discordantly and rose to a cackle just this side of madness. “I’ve been with the Mistress often since you left,” she said. “Every night She comes to me, Tilphosa. I’m very close to Her now.”

She laughed again, even more wildly than before. Tilphosa watched warily, relaxing her muscles for the moment.

“Did your Mistress make the ring?” Cashel said. He understood Metra, now. She’d taken the Mistress into her mind, and those who the Gods ride don’t stay sane or even human. The wizard might decide to do anything; if Cashel got her talking, it might pull her back toward sanity before a whim told her to cut Tilphosa’s throat.

“Not Her,” Metra said triumphantly. “The Intercessor Echea fashioned the rings, the ruby and the sapphire.”

“The Intercessor serves the Mistress?” Tilphosa said. “I don’t believe you!”

Cashel didn’t care about the answers to the questions—they wouldn’t help him get loose, which was the only thing important—but it sounded like the girl did. Either way, it kept Metra talking.

“The pattern can only exist once in the cosmos, girl,” Metra said. “Echea hoped to thwart the Mistress by cutting the gems and concealing them, so that we Children of the Mistress could neither find nor form the pattern ourselves. Echea’s own wizardry burned her to a husk, but still the Mistress has succeeded!”

Metra’s laughter was as brittle as breaking glass. The Archai stood motionless, watching like statues of waxed bronze. Could they understand what the wizard was saying? Now that he thought about it, Cashel wondered if they even heard human speech.

“Echea drove the Archai out of this city, didn’t she?” Tilphosa said. “Echea defeated the Mistress.”

“Echea is dead!” Metra shouted. “She’s dead, and her descendents will be destroyed! Now, shut your mouth, lady , or I’ll have your tongue plucked out. You won’t bleed to death in the time I need for you to remain alive.”

“Do as you please, Metra,” the girl said quietly. She seemed calm; completely a lady, completely self-assured even under the present conditions. “I don’t know what the future will bring, but I know the past brought your Mistress defeat.”

Metra stared at her. The expression Cashel saw flit across the wizard’s face was fear, unmistakably fear. Though it was gone as quickly as it appeared, it gave Cashel the hope he’d been lacking for the last while.

Somebody who says things with perfect assurance is convincing even if when you step out from the words you can see that they’re not really certain after all. It’s hard to get away from that kind of spell, especially if you’re trussed like a hen on market day.

Metra’s fright proved that her heart knew that the Mistress could fail, whatever her mind let her mouth say. Cashel’s world brightened by a considerable degree.

It didn’t change what Cashel would do, of course. He didn’t seem to be making any progress working at the cords holding him, but he didn’t have a better idea right now. He continued to strain and twist, then relax, in hope that he’d feel a change in his bonds. Not yet, but maybe the next time….

Metra took her athame from the satchel which held the tools of her art. She looked at it, then put it back and picked up Cashel’s quarterstaff instead. The weight made her frown.

“Iron caps,” she said with a tinge of anger as she examined the ferrules. “I believed you at first when you said you weren’t a wizard. I should have known better. And only a very powerful wizard can work with iron.”

“Your eyes are wide, Metra,” Tilphosa said. “Even in this bright sun. Have you drugged yourself so you don’t have to see the truth?”

The wizard didn’t appear to be listening. She began to draw in the courtyard’s soft silt with Cashel’s staff, making symbols in a circle around Tilphosa.

“Or aren’t you really there anymore, is that it?” Tilphosa said, her voice rising with anger. “Is it the Mistress speaking through your body? Your God doesn’t care if She leaves you blind after She’s done with you!”

Metra dropped the staff without looking where it fell. Even so it was too far away for Cashel to reach, unfortunately. He couldn’t have grabbed it anyway, tied as he was, but it would’ve been good at least to touch the hickory.

Tilphosa glanced down at Cashel. She was emotionally taut and breathing hard. Cashel smiled.

He was proud of his companion: she wasn’t giving up even the least little bit. They’d get out of this, he figured; and if they didn’t, well, Garric and the others would take care of things.

Metra gave Cashel a cruel smile. “Your staff was the perfect tool to form the words of power,” she said. “You’ve been a great help to the Mistress.”

She giggled uncontrollably, closing her eyes in her delight. When the fit passed she grinned at Cashel again, and added, “Your sister is named Ilna, isn’t she?”

Cashel kept his face impassive.

“Yes, Ilna,” Metra went on. “The Mistress told me. Your sister is aiding the Mistress in Her works just as you are.”

Cashel felt his face growing red. He said nothing, but he strained his arms and legs against each other, trying to snap the cords that joined them. They cut him, but that wouldn’t have mattered if he could’ve felt even a little movement in his bonds.

Metra took a pair of flasks made from sturgeon’s bladder from her satchel. They were closed with wooden plugs and tendon overties; she undid the ties and poured pinches of glittering powder from each into the symbols she’d drawn in a circle around Tilphosa. One flask seemed to hold blue vitriol, but the other crystals were the color of cinnabar.

Tilphosa watched with a look of sneering disgust. Though she wasn’t bound, the Archai gripped her by both wrist and ankle, holding her as securely as if she’d been nailed to a broad plank.

The sun was at zenith. Metra looked toward it without even trying to shade her eyes. Cashel winced, though the wizard didn’t seem to be affected by the blinding glare.

“The time is come,” Metra said in a tone of reverent wonder. She didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone, even to herself. She tossed down the flasks without bothering to stopper them over the remaining contents.

Cashel expected the wizard either to pick up his quarterstaff or to take out her own athame. Instead Metra raised her arms straight in the air, and cried, “ Noma para sarapamon! ”

A spark of red light snapped from Tilphosa’s ring and touched the powdered contents. The crystals flared up fiercer than the sun, dual coils of red and blue wrapping around one another. The twisting column rose higher than the stone walls of the courtyard, waking fresh glints from the tiny ruby.

The blaze thinned, then swelled fiercely again like a great artery pulsing as a heartbeat. “ Pseriphtha misontaik thooth ,” Metra chanted.

Something bellowed in the swamp. There was a splash and a second bellow, this time closer. It sounded to Cashel like the call of a seawolf, the great marine lizards which had sometimes come ashore to snatch sheep from his flock.

Seawolves lived in the salt sea, not the fresh waters of rivers and swamps like those this city had risen from. There must be something similar here, though.