The Final Redemption Page 4

  Cyhan was slow to answer, and when he did it was with more words than she had heard him offer in quite some time. “It might bother some, but any true bodyguard would be glad. Your safety should be their primary concern.”

  “I did not ask ‘any bodyguard’, I asked you,” Penny reiterated.

  “I cannot judge you for doing exactly as I would do myself.”

  Chapter 5

  I had been wandering the city for almost two days since my encounter with Myrtle. In the past I might have sought shelter somewhere, but in my present condition shelter wasn’t really a necessity. Rain, heat, cold, none of those things bothered me anymore. I never got tired or fatigued, so I simply walked. Avoiding the city guard was a simple task that hardly distracted me from my real task, which was entirely internal.

  I followed the threads of memory that I had found, regarding the creation of the shining gods. Each recollection led to others, and it was merely a matter of time to piece them together into a logical whole. The information I discovered, lurking in the shadows of my mind, was at times shocking. It was also sad. At long last I learned the story behind my daughter’s parents, my ancestor Mordecai Illeniel and his lover, Moira Centyr.

  While I examined these things, I learned secrets that made my confrontations with the shining gods seem laughable. It was no wonder they had sought to eliminate the Illeniel family. Their creator had left the keys to their undoing indelibly recorded in my ancestral memories.

  I still had no easy answer for how to deal with Mal’goroth, though if the things I had learned about the human gods held true for the dark gods of the She’Har there might be one person that held the key to their defeat.

  I had a larger problem, though. My feelings, my emotions, had faded. The grey emptiness that had been my existence for the past few months had returned. The only feeling still remaining to me was a dull longing, a craving—to recover the passion I had so recently discovered. I only knew of one way to do that.

  Increasingly my mind returned to the same thought, Myrtle.

  I still remembered where her home was located, and I often found myself wandering in that direction. I was drawn to the memory of her vitality, her emotions—her life. I wanted more of it.

  Initially I chided myself for such desires. I knew they were foolish. I knew it was wrong. My transformation into a life-sucking monster had made me ashamed, but as my emotions faded, so did my shame. My guilt passed away, leaving me amoral and empty, possessed only of an unsatisfied craving.

  She probably wouldn’t be missed, I rationalized. If I were to do something like that, it would probably be best to stick to undesirables, the people no one would care about. The thought was entirely logical, and yet I knew I would have found it repugnant—if I had been capable of such a feeling. Maybe if I stick to criminals, I could be an undead vigilante.

  That might sit better with my moral and emotional self, once I had taken what I needed. Not that I cared particularly; even guilt was better than the endless grey death of my current existence. An image of myself, cast as a tragic hero suffering eternally while being forced to prey upon the very people I sought to protect, played through my mind. At that moment it seemed preferable, almost artistic, compared to the empty void that resided where my heart used to be. What would Mother think of me then?

  Somehow I doubted she would see much difference in who I decided to prey upon. I would still be a monster.

  The debate went on within me for hours, until sometime around midnight I found myself standing outside Myrtle’s home. My feet had taken me there without conscious effort, while my mind pretended to be concerned with the deeper moral issues of taking a life to temporarily restore my humanity. What about using a criminal? I reminded myself.

  It doesn’t really matter. You’re here, take what you need. The only thing of importance is that no one will miss her. She’s just a whore. My hand opened the door even as my mind made the small effort needed to unlatch it from the inside.

  And Lady Thornbear was ‘just a whore’?

  “Just shut up,” I said aloud and then I stepped into the darkened interior of Myrtle’s small home.

  I had already examined it closely with my magesight of course, but my physical vision confirmed what I had learned earlier. She was alone, sleeping on a small cot in the corner. There was a small hearth, but it held no fire. Wood was probably an expense she couldn’t afford. The weather was currently relatively mild anyway.

  I stepped through the cluttered room carefully, making as little noise as possible. Once I stood looking down upon her I hesitated. Should I begin in a rush? Or proceed slowly? I had no idea what would be better—perhaps slowly, to savor the moment.

  Reaching down I drew the thin blanket that covered her aside, exposing her eminently female figure, clad only in a light nightgown. Even sleeping, she looked fatigued. Maybe I’m doing her a favor. Unable to wait any longer, I let my fingers lightly brush her bare knee, while removing the shield that would protect her from their dangerous effect.

  I shivered as a delicious sensation of warmth and energy traveled up my arm, giving me goose bumps. Myrtle stirred slightly, one hand pulling at her blanket, as if she had felt a chill. I suppose she did, I observed.

  She pulled the blanket upward, but my hand was still beneath it, so I ignored her movement. Instead I moved along her thigh, the aythar growing more powerful, the closer I got to her heart. Her eyes opened then, and even in the dim light she recognized me, as fear caused her heart to jump within her. She opened her mouth, presumably to scream, but I moved too quickly for her. With my right hand I caught her head, and kneeling, I covered her mouth with my own, to stifle her cries.

  Her aythar was a torrent, flooding into me like a golden river of light and joy. My victim struggled for less than a second, her body twitching and then sagging as she fell into unconsciousness. My heart was beating now, and my own body felt as though it were on fire, burning with waves of pleasure and energy. For a moment my thoughts drifted toward Penny, but I clamped down upon them quickly. Sadness and regret could come later.

  A new sense of urgency, fear of my reawakening morality, caused me to feed more quickly. Throwing back the blanket, I kept my mouth upon hers while my hands held her now limp body against mine. I could hear Myrtle’s heartbeat faltering, growing erratic, but the aythar continued to roar into me. I wanted it all.

  “Momma?” said a small voice from the doorway. “Is one of your friends here?”

  Shock, fear, shame, and disgust ran through me, warring for first place in my debased heart. Releasing Myrtle’s body, I let her fall back into her tiny cot. Terror kept me from turning to face the small child standing behind me. I was killing her mother—right in front of her. What sort of animal am I?

  “I’m sorry child, I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” I replied while simultaneously replacing the shield around myself, the one that would protect her from my dark influence.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly as I turned to face her. Going on appearance, I’d have judged her age at seven or eight years, but a hard life had left its imprint on her. Suspicion hovered around her eyes and I was pretty sure that her use of the word ‘friends’ had been just as much of a fiction to her as it was when her mother first used it as an explanation.

  I could see that she had already taken note of her mother’s unconsciousness when she spoke again, “Who are you?” She was edging slowly to one side with just a hint of nervousness now. My senses told me that a knife lay under a thin blanket on the floor in the direction she was heading.

  I held up my hands in a gesture indicating I meant no harm. “Forgive me, I’m not one of your mother’s friends, but I’m here to help.”

  “Are you a physician?” she asked, her mouth struggling with the last word. She continued edging toward the hidden knife.

  I seized on the idea she had handed me. “I am a physician, but not the usual sort,” I agreed.

  “Momma says the physicians charge too m
uch, and most of the time they don’t help nobody, leastwise not if you’re poor,” she replied, showing her first hint of a child’s normal guilelessness as she repeated her mother’s wisdom.

  My heart was breaking inside as I watched the girl’s bravery in the face of such a frightening situation. Her life had already taught her to deal with the unusual. “I’m not going to charge anything. Your mother is very ill, and I don’t think I can help her—but you can.”

  That got her interest. The girl’s eyes brightened, and she stopped edging toward the knife. “How?”

  “Is that a tea kettle you left by the door?” I asked. I could sense the heat and steam rising from it. Apparently the child had gone to boil water, possibly over a charitable neighbor’s fire.

  She nodded.

  “Go ahead and make some tea for you and your mother. She’ll want some when she awakens,” I instructed.

  The tea was merely a distraction of course. I needed a moment to think and study the results of my assault on Myrtle. This time I had drained her to within moments of her death, and I wasn’t sure she had enough aythar left to recover. While her daughter made tea, I focused my senses upon her—seeking her center, the wellspring from which her aythar emerged.

  It was dangerously weak. It still struggled to supply her with energy, but her body was like a dry lakebed now, so empty that whatever new aythar appeared was instantly soaked up. The flame that represented her spirit was flickering, about to go out for good.

  Her daughter, by comparison, was ablaze with aythar, like a small bonfire next to her mother’s candle-flame.

  “What’s your name?” I asked as she placed a rough cup beside her mother’s cot.

  “Megan.”

  “Megan, your mother is very weak right now, and she needs a special kind of warmth that people make inside themselves. I think you can help her if you can give her some of yours,” I explained. “Does that make sense?”

  “A little,” she responded quietly.

  “This warmth is called aythar. I want you to pay attention, and I’ll try to teach you some words that will help you give her some of yours,” I told her.

  “Why don’t you do it?” she asked, with the embarrassing directness that children often have.

  I flinched inwardly. Such a thing might be possible, but I hesitated to dare it for fear of making a mistake and killing her. “I wish I could but if I try it might make things worse. It’s better if it comes from someone close to her, someone she loves,” I said, twisting the truth a bit. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded again.

  Over the next hour I taught her the phrases in Lycian that would help her to pass some of her aythar to her mother. Despite her youthful vitality, Megan’s emittance, her ability to channel aythar, was very limited, just as it was for most humans. She managed to keep her mother alive though, and that was the most important thing. Given a day or two Myrtle should recover, assuming she wasn’t assaulted by another shiggreth.

  By me, I thought bleakly. What will happen in a few days, when my emotions finally disappear again? When I’m nothing more than an amoral emptiness, looking for something to fill the void?

  I would kill her—or, if not her, some other poor soul, unlucky enough to catch my attention.

  My only sure way of preventing such a thing was to destroy myself before it could happen. Or steal enough aythar from people to keep yourself from getting to that point, I added mentally. Such a thing would be risky. Any lapse of self-control could lead to a tragedy. Sooner or later I’d make a mistake and either take too much, or wait too long before feeding.

  I pushed those dark thoughts aside and decided to focus on the present. Reaching into one of my pouches, I brought out a handful of assorted coins. It was a pitiful gesture to make, leaving money for them as if I was trying to buy forgiveness, but I knew it was important. Even if it did nothing to assuage my guilt they needed money to live. Myrtle wouldn’t be in any shape to provide for herself and her daughter for at least a few days.

  I removed the gold coins, replacing them in my pouch. Such valuable currency would only get the child robbed, or beaten as a thief. Even the silver would be a danger for her, but perhaps her mother could use it once she had recovered. What they really needed was a protector. No amount of money would help them in the long run, not without a patron or employer.

  In my current condition I wasn’t fit to take such a role, but I had an idea that might help.

  I left the coins on the cot next to Myrtle. She and Megan were both asleep now, the child having finally exhausted herself. As I stepped out into the night air I could tell that it was now closer to dawn than midnight, not that it mattered to me.

  My next goal was to find paper and ink. I had a letter to send. Fortunately I had an easy place to obtain such things; after all, I owned a house in the city. I let my feet find the way for me.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter 6

  Less than a half an hour later and I found myself standing in the street outside the house I had inherited from the father I had never met. Now that my eyes could look upon it I wondered why I had waited so long to come here. Since Marc had moved out, it had been unoccupied, except for my family’s occasional visits to the capital.

  Assuming that my family was safely ensconced at home in Cameron there was little reason I shouldn’t avail myself of its shelter and resources.

  My family.

  That was the trouble. If they happened to be within or if they arrived while I was inside… nothing good could come of that. “I’ll just get what I need and leave,” I said aloud, trying to reassure myself.

  What about Lyralliantha?

  That thought reminded me that I had more problems than just saving the woman I had nearly killed. I still had a dark god and Illeniel’s Promise to deal with. Technically, I also had one or two of the shining gods to worry about, but with my current knowledge they fell into the ‘asset’ category now, rather than the detriment category. So many things would have been easier if I had overcome my fear of the secrets of the past sooner, I chided myself.

  Illeniel’s Promise might be difficult. In order to satisfy my ancestor’s pledge, I needed to free the last living She’Har from the stasis enchantment he had used to protect her from the scourge that destroyed her people. Thanks to the knowledge granted by the loshti, the ancestor fruit of the Illeniel grove, otherwise known as Illeniel’s Doom, I knew the key phrase that would release the stasis enchantment. What I wasn’t entirely sure about was how to remove the spell-weaving that Thillmarius had placed around it to prevent anyone other than him from freeing her.

  Mal’goroth was the biggest problem. I had no easy solution for him. He was bigger, stronger, more powerful than me, and had nothing to lose. In the past relative power hadn’t been quite as important. An archmage becomes the power he seeks to wield, which meant there were often ways to circumvent such disadvantages so long as I didn’t lose myself in the process. Against Celior I had borrowed the strength of the earth itself to imprison him, and against Thillmarius I had fused myself with his identity in order to steal the spell-weaving that sustained him.

  Since my struggle with Thillmarius I had been unable to exercise my abilities as an archmage. I could still hear the voice of the earth, faintly, but I couldn’t seem to reach it. Most of the smaller voices I could no longer hear at all. It was as if a shadowy veil had fallen, isolating me, preventing me from touching the universe around me more directly. I still retained my abilities as a wizard, but I no longer produced my own aythar, I had to steal it from other living things.

  All of this meant that my options for dealing with Mal’goroth were limited. While I had dealt with two other gods without my abilities as an archmage I didn’t think those methods would work here. I had no way to construct a vessel strong enough to contain Mal’goroth, which is how I had captured Karenth, and I certainly couldn’t hope to fool him with a bluff, as I had with Doron.

  With the knowledge
of the loshti, which I was still trying to assimilate, I had the potential to access an incredible amount of power. I could thank my ancestral namesake and Moira Centyr for much of that mixed blessing, but it still wasn’t enough. Mal’goroth had devoured his fellow dark gods, and possibly Millicenth as well, absorbing their strength and making him more powerful than even the strength of all four of the shining gods combined.

  The best hope lay in Lyralliantha herself. While the vast knowledge I held contained countless gems it was woefully silent on the matter of how to control the dark gods of the She’Har. I simply couldn’t believe that such a sophisticated and powerful race would create something that dangerous without a means of controlling it.

  That brought me back to the house in front of me. Inside I could find both the materials to write and send my letter, and the last remnant of the ancient race that might doom or save us. My first step was simply going inside.

  My magesight was unable to sense anything within the building; a multitude of enchantments prevented that sort of prying, which meant I couldn’t tell if anyone was currently inside. I was forced to more mundane methods. Following an alley that led between my house and my still partially demolished neighbor’s house I went to the coach house that stood in the lane behind. It was a separate, and smaller building that I had purchased and repurposed years ago.

  Tyndal, my father, had apparently had little need for coaches, but my frequent trips to the capital had made it clear that we needed easy access to transportation other than our feet. We didn’t actually own a coach, or keep horses there. We didn’t stay in the city enough for that. Instead we usually borrowed a coach and horses from Lord Hightower, since Rose and Dorian almost always came to the capital with us. On the rare occasion that we came without them we’d simply borrow one from the king.