Chapter Sixteen
In the Palace of Xy
Bonding a person to do your will wasn’t that difficult. Riven knew of at least three ways, assuming you had the person’s blood, but they all had limitations and expirations. Frankly, it was easier to manipulate them in other ways.
Someone was always willing to be paid.
Bonding a babe had honestly never occurred to him, simply due to the waiting period. Invest that time and energy into something that was useless until it aged? There were no immediate benefits, and most blood mages didn’t plan that long-term.
They usually didn’t live long enough.
Bonding five to one of a similar age? Raising them together, teaching them to serve? What an amazing and clever idea.
How much more could Riven have accomplished with five absolutely loyal minions?
Mira was muttering about better light and more candles, Witless was knocking the desk against the door frame, but Riven could not wait any longer. He sat on the edge of his cot, and with Caris looking over his shoulder, unrolled the scroll.
It was inscribed on what had to be human skin, turned into soft vellum that was warm and supple in his hands.
The rollers were bone, no doubt human as well, and yellowed with age.
Without a thought, Riven invoked mage sight, but there was no glow.
That didn’t surprise him. It was safer that way.
Any Chained Mage who found it would destroy it immediately.
No, the surprise lay in the thin black words inscribed on the skin.
As he unrolled the scroll, spells of blood curses, divination through human entrails, and the preservation of odium once raised, were displayed.
Caris cleared her throat. “The one spell,” she said, inclining her head toward the scroll. “And no other. Yet.”
Riven nodded and continued rolling until he reached the binding spell. It was clearly the one most used, the vellum showing signs of wear there.
The tiny handwriting, cribbed into columns. The intricately drawn out spell-patterns, in spidery black lines. It was so complicated. So specific in its wording. The preparations would take a month at least, and the materials?
Mira and Witless left, so Riven moved to the desk, spreading out the scroll reverently. Caris settled to a chair in a corner, and took up what seemed like knitting, with needles that looked far too sharp to be safe. They danced in her hands, gleaming in the light.
The scroll drew him back. Gold dust and diamond dust mixed in certain proportions.
The total amounts listed came to pounds of the stuff.
The dimensions of the matrix that must be drawn out would take an entire room, with lines inches thick.
No wonder it was so rarely cast, the sheer cost would prevent many from even considering such a thing. What noble family could afford this?
Which begged a question. He lifted his head. “Does the Queen have siblings?”
“No,” Caris didn’t even look up. “Her mother died at her birth and her father sired no more children.”
“Ah,” Riven turned back and continued to read. Human sacrifice, and of course the children to be Bonded, unblemished and healthy, and of the same age as the one they were to be bonded to.
Hm. A human sacrifice, innocent of course, but not just for the energy of the blood. Riven blinked, dazed, when he read that the body of the sacrifice was consumed, wrung of every bit of life from all flesh and bone.
It took his breath. The power required, the life force, the cost of the gems and diamond dust alone. It was amazing, and at a level of magic he’d never dared approach. A major casting, certainly.
Witless lumbered in, tray in one hand. “Kavage, Master.”
“Thank you,” Riven responded automatically. He reached for the mug, then noticed, cradled in Witless’s arm, a doll baby.
Riven glanced up to see Witless’s smile brighten. “Baby,” he nodded rapidly, clearly excited. He cooed at the doll, cradling it as he left, closing the door tight behind him.
The lad seemed happy enough. Riven turned back to the sweet puzzle of the scroll and the challenge it offered, not even distracted by the quiet click of Caris’s needles.
Later, much later, he was brought back to himself by a touch on his shoulder.
Mira stood there, clearly amused. “It’s late,” she said.
Riven eased back from the desk, feeling the crick in his neck.
The candles were gutted, their light ebbing.
A tray sat close at hand; he’d clearly eaten.
Not that he had a memory of that, all that danced before his eyes were the words.
“It’s amazing,” he blurted out. “There is so much to be done, so much work. I have to memorize entire—”
“Not tonight,” Mira smiled even as she reached over to roll up the scroll. “Start again in the morning.”
Riven nodded as she left, carrying the scroll in its box. Still half-lost in his thoughts, he automatically prepared for bed. Notes, he’d have to take notes, make lists, plan out all the steps carefully.
Witless lumbered in, cradling the baby doll, and took the dinner tray. “Master done?”
“Master done.” Riven yawned and pulled up the blankets. “So much work to do…” he murmured to himself.
“Master care for babies. Witless care for babies.” Witless rumbled. “All good.” With that, he left, pulling the door behind him. The lock clicked into place.
Riven sighed, settling back into the comfort of the cot. He blinked into the darkness, his body relaxed, but his mind churning over the details. He drew a breath, willing himself to sleep. There was much to do in the morning, and—
Sleep came easily, with dreams of power dancing under his eyelids.
He woke bright and eager, throwing back the blankets in anticipation.
He washed swiftly. Witless brought new clothes, better quality then the last. Witless also brought a breakfast tray and Riven ate with relish.
The door opened and Nora appeared, no box in her hands.
“No scroll?” Riven asked, disappointed.
“The Queen wishes to speak with you,” Nora said. “Come.”
There was no wall of skirts this time. Riven strode through the doors of the Queen’s chambers confidently, to find her in the same position as the last time, and looking just as pale.
He advanced, going to one knee and bowing his head.
“Rise, Mage Riven.” The Queen said. “What did you think of—”
“Majesty, the scroll, the spell is amazing.” Riven rose to his feet. “Who created it?”
Satia seemed pleased. “That information is lost, I am afraid. It is an heirloom of my family.” Her expression grew bitter. “All that is left, I fear.” Her forehead cleared. “I am glad you see its value. Can you cast this spell?”
“The costs, the…components,” Rivan said. “A complicated undertaking, Your Majesty. But the mastery is required is well within my skill.”
“You shall have a position in my court,” Satia purred. “Royal patronage and protection, if you can meet the deadlines and successfully cast this spell.” She stroked her belly.
“My freedom,” Riven asked, “to practice my arts?”
“As you have seen, there is more to the scroll,” The Queen said. “It would be mutually beneficial to each of us to support the other.”
“Majesty, the casting will be expensive,” he warned. “I will need materials for practice, and room to prepare. The matrix alone—”
“Matrix?” she asked.
“The spell pattern.” he supplied.
“Ah,” she shifted on the lounge with a grimace. “You will have them.”
“And the children?”
“They will be acquired,” she said. “Purchased, perhaps, or by other means.”
“If I might suggest,” Riven said. “Sponsor an orphanage? The war will have created a need, and it will not attract attention.”
“A good thought,” she murmured, giving him an approving look. “I presume you will also require sources of power?”
He met her eyes and there was no flinch there. She knew what the requirements were.
“I can gather strength from the butchering of animals, to start.” he said slowly. “A slower process, but safer. A Chained Mage might detect my efforts otherwise.”
“Yes,” The Queen plucked a thread on her sleeve.
“Well, it might be some time before we can enter into another contract with the Guild.” She lifted her head.
“Tomorrow we will move you to a suite of rooms in the North Tower. There should be space enough for the workroom. Continue your studies and make your lists.” Her mouth narrowed.
“It will take time, but we will find the funds. This must be done.”
Clearly dismissed, Riven bowed and retreated to the door, Nora by his side. He smiled with relief to see the scroll box in her hands and followed her back to his chamber.
Witless had made the bed and was setting out fresh candles. Ink and a pen rested beside a stack of paper on the desk. Riven settled in as Nora handed him the scroll.
“Kavage?” Witless asked, baby doll cradled in the crook of his arm.
“Yes, please,” Riven said. Nora settled in the other chair, taking out a knife and a whet stone. Witless lumbered out, repeating the word “kavage” under his breath.
“He seems to do well,” Riven said absently.
“He’s been trained,” Nora, not looking up from her blade. “Chosen for the purpose.”
“To care for the babes,” Riven said.
“That too,” Nora said. “Someone has to, until the casting.” She shrugged, clearly indifferent. “Certainly, we have no experience. Wet nurses and nursery maids will take over after that.”
Fiery icy fingers clutched Riven’s spine.
Witless was the sacrifice.
He blinked, staring at the scroll as a wave of anguish swept over him.
His hands started to shake, as it crashed in, all of it, everything he’d managed to push to the side, following the lure of power.
Managed to avoid thinking about while the black spidery handwriting spoke of everything he ever dreamed of, everything he thought to achieve.
His gorge rose, thick in his throat. Riven threw himself from the desk, setting everything rattling. He went to his knees, grabbed the chamber pot and heaved.
Voices rose around him but his body demanded all of his attention. Strong hands took hold of his shoulders, and offered support.
“Master sick,” Witless said.
Riven nodded, spitting to clear his mouth. Cold sweat broke out all over his body; he felt weak and shaky.
A cool hand touched his forehead. “Too much, too soon,” Mira announced. “His enthusiasm pushed him too far, too fast.”
Riven shivered and spat into the pot. Witless offered him a cup of water and held it as he sipped.
“So, back to bed with him,” Mira said. “No further study for the rest of the day and we’ll see how he’s doing in the morning.”
“Witless can clean this mess,” Nora said, and Riven didn’t miss the relief in her voice.
“Clean mess,” Witless confirmed.
Riven shivered on the edge of the cot as Witless wiped his face and hands with a cool cloth and helped him out of his new clothes into sleepwear.
Riven shook under the blankets, curled in on himself, nursing his sore stomach muscles as Witless cleaned the floor, removed the chamber pot, and set things to right on the desk.
“Master clean,” Witless said, sounding happy and pleased. “Water, Master?”
Riven took a ragged breath. “No, thank you.”
“Master thanks Witless,” was the response, said with a happy chortle as if gratitude was a rare, precious thing. Witless went around the room and doused all but one candle. “Sleep, Master.”
The door closed behind him and the lock clicked into place.
Riven trembled. There’d be no sleep. Only the single flame, the dark shadows beyond, the call of the letheon in his throat, and the echo of Uncle Stancil’s voice in his head.
“At what cost, nephew? The taint on your own soul? All the blood on your hands?”