Ilona Andrews - Magic Breaks

“What is he saying?” I asked.

“I can’t,” Curran said. “ Power. Darkness . . . I think he’s losing it.”

Ghastek sank to his knees.

“You might want to go and get him,” I murmured to Curran.

“Can’t we just leave him there?”

“No, we can’t.”

Curran walked along the bridge, touched Ghastek’s shoulder, and pulled him to his feet. The Master of the Dead turned around. His eyes were wide under furrowed eyebrows, his mouth slack. I knew this emotion very well. Something had terrified Ghastek out of his wits. He returned to the ledge, his vampire and Curran following him.

“What was it?” Andrea asked.

Ghastek took a deep breath.

“I think he needs a minute,” I said.

Slowly Ghastek’s face relaxed. “Power,” he said finally. “Incomprehensible power. We’re in the very center of Mishmar, and that room is its heart. Everything you saw, all of the magic you felt, that room is the source of it all. I can’t enter. I tried. I just can’t.”

“We could wait until the tech hits,” Andrea said.

Naeemah shook her head. “Magic never goes away here.”

Curran looked at me, his gray eyes calm. “Baby?”

“Don’t,” Ghastek warned me. “You have no idea what it’s like to feel the weight of it on your mind. It will burn you. It’s darkness in the primordial sense of the word.”

It probably was darkness, but it was my kind of darkness. It spawned me and its magic ran in my blood. I stepped onto the bridge. Magic brushed against me, thin like gossamer but saturated with power. Wow.

“At least tie a rope to her so she doesn’t fall,” Ghastek called out.

I took another step. The gossamer magic thickened, sliding against me, guiding me, its touch soft against my skin but not against my mind. There the magic surged, overwhelming, terrifying, and potent. It offered no resistance. It just watched me, waiting, aware and alive, so strong that if I made one misstep it would choke the life out of me.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Curran said. “Kate?”

The gossamer veils pierced my mind, sliding through me in a flash of blinding pain.

“Kate?”

The magic moved around me, unimaginably ancient. I could see it now. It swirled with blue and gold, flowing into silver and then into deep red, a diaphanous light, its own aurora borealis spilling out in front of me, and beyond it an ancient heartless power that watched me.

“Get her off that bridge!” Ghastek yelled.

The magic beckoned me. To refuse was to die. I strode across the bridge and walked into the stone room.

Plain walls greeted me, devoid of any ornament or decoration. The room was just a hollow box of stone with a simple stone platform at the far end. But on the floor, in the center of the room, something magic waited. It started as a long pale mass rooted to the floor, and like a coral spreading from a common root and splitting into dozens of branches, it too spread out, growing out into a forest of pale protrusions. They glowed pale blue and purple, some as tall as me, some short, the size of my hand, but all sharp and dripping magic that swirled like tendrils of smoke. This looked so familiar . . .

The magic pulled me forward. I followed it, circling the mass, toward a platform at the far wall. I walked up five stone stairs, each a foot tall, and turned. The odd magic coral lay below me on the floor. In my head, I cleaned the main mass of protrusions, trying to see the form beneath.

Magic swirled at the other end of the coral.

The contours of what lay on the floor suddenly made sense.

A skeleton.

An enormous skeleton, at least nine feet tall. Its ribs curved up, its bones stretched, distorted, each bearing branching antlers of pale metal, but it was a human skeleton.

The magic snapped and shone like a length of silver silk suddenly stretched taut. A woman appeared above the skeleton, a translucent shape hovering above the bones level with me. She had dusky skin and big brown eyes. Gold colored her full lips and dusted her eyelashes. Blue-black hair cascaded down her back in soft curls. She wore a diadem of thin gold, so light and intricate, it looked spun rather than forged. Two golden winged serpents, crafted with meticulous detail wound around her arms, their spiderweb-thin wings cradling her wrists.

She looked like me.

No, wait. That was wrong. I looked like her.

Pressure ground on me. The magic of Mishmar waited like a colossal hammer poised above my head. If it fell on me, it would crush every bone in my body.

The magic drove me down. I sank to my knees.

I reached into my clothes and pulled out pieces of broken Slayer wrapped in a cloth. They matched the skeleton below perfectly. Same pale substance, neither metal nor bone, but both. A pale purple radiance emanated from Slayer’s blade, matching the bones below.

The magic ground against my mind and I heard the same word whispered over and over in my head.

“Z’emir-amit. Z’emir-amit. Z’emir-amit.”

Oh my God. I knew that name. I read about her. I studied her legends, but I never thought I would come across anything of hers because she had been dead for thousands of years. Dead and buried in distant Iraq, somewhere on the east bank of the Tigris River. That name belonged to the bones in front of me. I could feel it. I knew this magic.

I was looking at the corpse of my grandmother.

She wanted me to say her name. She wanted to know that I understood.

I opened my mouth and said it out loud. “Semiramis.”

Her magic drenched me, not the blow of a hammer, but a cascade of power, pouring onto me as if I stood under a waterfall.

Z’emir-amit. The Branch Bearer. The Shield of Assyria. The Great Queen Semiramis. A line from Sarchedon floated up from my memory. When she turns her eyes on you, it is like the golden lustre of noon-day; and her smile is brighter and more glorious than sunset in the desert . . . To look on her face unveiled is to be the Great Queen’s slave for ever more.

She had ruled ancient Mesopotamia. The gates of Babylon bore her name, but through the centuries she had returned to her beloved Assyria again and again. She built the walls of its cities, she led its armies, and she breathed life into its first hanging gardens.

I had carried a piece of her with me all these years and never knew it. Did Voron even know where Slayer came from, when he gave it to me? If he knew, then he must’ve wanted me to murder Roland with a blade made of his mother’s bones. How poetic.

The image of Semiramis floated forward. The magic clamped me in its jaws and lifted me into the air. I rose above the platform, held so tight I couldn’t even breathe.

Semiramis reached me. Her dark eyes looked into mine. I stared into the depth of her brown irises and saw the abyss. Time disappeared. Power battered me, crashing against my mind again and again. The first wave cracked my defenses, the second shattered it, and the third set my mind on fire. All of my secrets, fears, and worries lay before her and she drank them in like a starved vampire. It was like being thrown into the heart of the sun and feeling its raging fire consume you.

Her fury saturated me. My father had taken the bones of my grandmother from her resting place in Iraq and brought them here. She hated it. Her magic, her anger, and her grief permeated every inch of Mishmar and twisted it into hell on earth.

Hot tears bathed my cheeks. I was weeping.

She recognized me. She knew who I was. It was as if I were the grandchild of a devastating hurricane or an insane monster that had crushed and destroyed for so long, it no longer remembered how to nurture its young, but it still recognized its own blood and it tried to be gentle and to keep its own wrath from destroying me.