This Darkling Magic

By C.M.J. Wallace

Note: This is book 3 of the Rift series, not a stand-alone novel, and is a continuation of books 1, Sing the Midnight Stars, and 2, Flight of Shadows.

Cloelle Banderal begs the lord of the Ancient City to resurrect her grandfather, but instead the Maleficus holds her captive and steals her memory. Andrin Sethuel, now royal wizard, discovers that he cannot free her despite his newfound puissance. Magic is failing because of the necromancer’s necrotic influence, and Andrin must use the Rondural to go back in time in a bid to save Torvia. Consequently, an unlikely alliance is born, its goal the destruction of the necromancer. Although the sorceress is bound by astromantic enchantment, her necromancy, enhanced by the spirits of the dead she harbors and commands, confers on her the power to kill all those who bear an aluian—and this darkling magic gives her the might to bring the kingdom of Carvel to an end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.M.J. Wallace
• Release date: Jun 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985914042

C.M.J. Wallace

C.M.J. Wallace is the author of the Rift series and is also a medical editor. She received her bachelor of science degree with honors from Michigan State University and, being a lover of English and not laboratory work, promptly started editing instead. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband and is currently working on another novel in the series.The first four books of Rift are completed and available as e-books, and the first three are available in print through Amazon; This Strange Magic will soon follow in their footsteps.Sing the Midnight Stars, book 1 of the Rift series, is a B.R.A.G. Medallion honoree.

Book preview

ABOUT THIS DARKLING MAGIC

Cloelle Banderal begs the lord of the Ancient City to resurrect her grandfather, but instead the Maleficus holds her captive and steals her memory. Andrin Sethuel, now royal wizard, discovers that he cannot free her despite his newfound puissance. Magic is failing because of the necromancer’s necrotic influence, and Andrin must use the Rondural to go back in time in a bid to save Torvia. Consequently, an unlikely alliance is born, its goal the destruction of the necromancer. Although the sorceress is bound by astromantic enchantment, her necromancy, enhanced by the spirits of the dead she harbors and commands, confers on her the power to kill all those who bear an aluian—and this darkling magic gives her the might to bring the kingdom of Carvel to an end.

THIS DARKLING MAGIC is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by C.M.J. Wallace. All rights reserved.

Cover art copyright © 2012 by Hillary Frances Eleanor Coy

Cover design by Hillary Frances Eleanor Coy

Map copyright © 2012 by T. F. Wallace

ISBN-13: 978-0-9859140-4-2

Smashwords Edition

To Doug, for all the firsts:

Because you were the first to buy my first book,

Because you were the first to review it,

Because of the first word you wrote about it: Wow!

So to you, my friend, goes my first dedication.

And I return the sentiment.

CONTENTS

By C.M.J. Wallace

Map

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10

Acknowledgments • About the Author

Preview: Rift, Book 4, THIS STRANGE MAGIC

The Characters of Rift

BY C.M.J. WALLACE

RIFT

Book One: Sing the Midnight Stars

Book Two: Flight of Shadows

Book Three: This Darkling Magic

Book Four: This Strange Magic

CHAPTER 1

Cloelle Banderal’s preparations for her journey to the Ancient City were entirely physical; little remained of her ravaged emotions, certainly not enough to matter. Only despair of heart and despondency of spirit, as if those counted for anything except a constant reminder of her desolation. She would go to Acheron and beg Abaddon, the Maleficus, to grant her request. If he said no, then she was no worse off. But if he said yes—she hardly dared allow herself to think of it—if he said yes, a possibility existed for the resurrection of her grandfather, if not for restoration of anything else. Hope stirred again as the thought took root and burgeoned into resolve.

But persuading Second Tome Ward Harmon Telle to go with her to Acheron because he knew a route to the city had not been as easy for Cloelle as convincing herself. Harmon’s intransigence almost forced her to resort to threats. Almost. It was fortunate that she’d been able to avoid that course because she had nothing to intimidate him with. Her arsenal lay as bereft and bleak as her present and future. Her grandfather was dead and she was no longer Second Sinistranus, no longer a Tesseroth Guard.

No longer the merest shadow of a threat.

In the end, Harmon’s temperament and tenderheartedness swayed him: he agreed simply because he liked Cloelle and pitied her and because he had been loyal to Raynor Banderal, her grandfather. And also because his information might protect Cloelle or at least give her some advantage that at present he was completely unable to see.

Cloelle ripped her pack savagely off the ground and hoisted it onto her back, shoving her arms through the straps and yanking them tight. A hard corner dug through the material and into her back, but she decided not to adjust the knapsack’s contents. The discomfort would be a welcome distraction from her dismal musings.

She looked in Harmon’s direction and rolled her cloak with an air of finality, stuffing it blindly onto the top of the pack.

We have a long way to go, Harmon said. Are you sure you want to do this, Cloelle? He didn’t like the way her clothes hung on her, her emaciation an outward manifestation of the sorrow that infested her soul. If she wasn’t strong enough to make the trip and collapsed in the tunnels, he wouldn’t be able to drag her out.

She wanted to tell him that she had no choice, had to go. She wanted him to tell her not to. Yes, I’m sure. I was the Second Sinistranus, Harmon; I’ll take care of us.

But it wasn’t himself that Harmon was worried about. Cloelle, it’s far more dangerous there than you can imagine. You haven’t given me a chance to explain everything. Under his breath he added, I should have asked Andrin to force you not to go. And Andrin Sethuel, the Aleph Sinistranus, could easily have done so.

Cloelle looked at him and said evenly, But you didn’t because you respect me and you wouldn’t shame me that way. And neither will Andrin. He wouldn’t because his disgust about what she’d done had eviscerated all other feelings he might have had for her, and he no longer cared enough to shame her. Fresh grief punched through her, and she clenched the pack straps against her chest as if they could bind her anguish, a talisman against a wound that refused to heal.

Harmon sighed, acknowledging defeat. Just tell me we’ll be careful and we’ll come back.

His request was unreasonable, too optimistic. Without the slightest hesitation, Cloelle said, We will.

The tome ward led the way to the stables behind the Hall of Bakaythus. He walked into the last stall, which was empty, and pushed aside some of the straw with his foot. Set flush to the stable floor was a square wooden trapdoor. He tugged on the thick inset iron ring, and the door opened with a drawn-out groan that attested to its disuse. Harmon pulled it wide, to the fullest extent of its hinges, and let it drop on the floor. A black, impenetrable depth was revealed, and damp air puffed upward in a noisome cloud.

He took one of the two lanterns that the Bakaythus Guard had left for them earlier and examined the ladder that led into the darkness. It seemed sound enough. Swinging one leg over the depths, he felt for the first rung and started down gingerly. When he was at the bottom, he called for Cloelle.

She lowered their heavy bulging packs, climbed down, and looked up toward the opening in the stable floor. How are we going to shut that?

There’s a rope and pulley here. The tome ward pulled rhythmically on a thin cord Cloelle hadn’t seen next to the ladder, and the trapdoor arced smoothly into place. They were sealed in the tunnel.

Harmon used the waiting turbal to ignite the light channels along one wall, which were hollow rectangular stone conduits filled with oil. Lamps with thick glass crouched like sentinels over openings at the top of the channel, and despite the tunnel’s long disuse, their wicks had been left neatly trimmed by delorim apprentices. Light rippled down the dressed stones of the tall square passageway as the lamps lit in sequence, revealing a floor nearly devoid of rocks and pebbles.

Harmon blew out his lantern at the same time Cloelle blew out hers.

I hope you know what you’re doing, he said. The blackness seemed to press in on them despite the lights, and he found it difficult to speak at a normal volume.

So do I, Cloelle said fervently.

The Second Tome Ward hefted his pack and struggled into it. Cloelle settled hers into place and adjusted the straps, and they started toward Acheron, the Ancient City.

Are you even sure this will work?

Cloelle shrugged. Of course not. All I can do is ask.

And if Abaddon refuses?

Another shrug. Either he’ll be angry when he does and we’ll be in trouble or he won’t and we’ll go back.

Harmon stared at her.

The furrow between Cloelle’s eyebrows demonstrated her vexation. What option do I have? I told you about what happened between Andrin and me. Her admission of what had ensued was partly how she’d coaxed Harmon to accompany her to Acheron. And I think that Abaddon won’t renege on his word.

Harmon gave her a dubious look.

A small bat swooped by noiselessly in search of insects attracted to the light. Several more followed in its wake, the pattern of light around their wings making them look like leaves fluttering in the wind.

What do you know about the person we’re going to see? And about Acheron? Cloelle finally asked.

Did you notice the packs?

Not funny. She adjusted one of the straps, which was cutting into her shoulder, and wished she’d shifted whatever was digging into her spine.

I instructed the cook at the Hall of Bakaythus to fill them with food and water, enough for a week. Our journey to the city will take us about two days. It’s mostly downhill, so the going won’t be too bad…until we start back, that is.

Two days of uphill walking. I can hardly wait, Cloelle said dryly. And there’s no other tunnel that connects? Couldn’t we have brought horses?

A connection to this tunnel? None that anyone knows of. There are supposedly one or two other ways to the city, but it’s said that they’re not easy. Besides, horses won’t go too near Acheron. They can sense its inhabitants, and it spooks them.

There’s no connection to other tunnels and Acheron’s citizens frighten the horses. How do you know these things?

It was Raynor, Harmon said hesitantly, relieved when Cloelle didn’t react at hearing her grandfather’s name. I asked him about every subterranean nook and cranny in Torvia when I became his Second. You know quite a few of them yourself. You’ve used them to track the city’s less savory characters.

I didn’t know about this one, Cloelle said.

We don’t want it known. It’s far too dangerous.

‘We’? she repeated incredulously. And who might that be?

The few of us who know. Harmon squirmed under her gaze but didn’t elaborate, and they walked in silence for a while before he continued his explanation. Some of what I’m going to tell you is speculation, I’ll admit, but it’s based on history and many interwoven threads of things we’ve learned and things we’ve only suspected for a long time. I came across some of this in my studies, and much of it Raynor and Larisse de Norville told me. Acheron was—is—a subterranean city, probably built by the early delorim as a fortress. It was the center of their culture and commerce for generations, a magnificent stone stronghold carved from the bedrock. They abandoned it when they moved back into the Daggerpeak Mountains, though, and eventually, after many centuries, it was forgotten. But there were things that didn’t forget.

‘Things’?

Harmon rolled his eyes in self-derision. "Well, people, but that’s using the term with a great deal of leeway. About the time the Rondural was brought to Torvia, a powerful man moved into the empty city and made it his own. I doubt that anyone wanted to challenge his claim to the place, actually. There are other creatures like him in the Ancient City, created by him in some way we don’t fully understand. He calls himself Abaddon, and he and his people are the Malefica, which the delorim translate as the Malign Ones. Larisse and Raynor told me the name is an accurate portrayal of the Malefica. Abaddon is the Maleficus, their lord and head.

"The only unfettered magic that I’d heard of before the astromancers discovered theirs was practiced by a primeval cult of blood worshipers who presumably died out, and their magic with them. But now I know that it lived on in a form more malign than it had ever been, as did they. I believe that when they knew they were dying, the ancients invested all their power in a single man who was one of them because they thought that they would live on in him, and I think that man was Abaddon. They sacrificed themselves, literally, for him. Their concentrated power made him immortal and far more powerful than any one of them had ever been, more powerful than all of them together, perhaps. He’s learned how to augment that power, had centuries to do it. Doubtless all his creatures can wield some of the same types of unfettered magic that the Maleficus does, but Abaddon is probably the most skilled by far.

They’ve learned how to live discreetly, how to avoid detection when they take their victims. I think they might not have to kill when they steal quintessence, which would explain why no one in Torvia seems to be aware of them.

What do you mean, ‘when they steal quintessence’?

Cloelle, Abaddon and his kind prey on people. Andrin saw things in his time as Aleph Sinistranus that made little sense. He discussed them with Raynor and me when he came to the Hall of Bakaythus to research them, but now that I know what Abaddon is, what Andrin observed is clear to me. They’re somehow able to take a person’s being, their soul. It’s what gives them their magic and their immortality.

They can steal souls? I can’t believe this, Cloelle said. "Wait. Earlier, you said calls himself Abaddon. Is he really that old?"

That’s what Raynor believed, and so does Larisse. And I think their judgment is above reproach. I’ve seen too many strange things to just dismiss the possibility out of hand.

"Come on, Harmon. That would make him, what? hundreds of years old, close to a thousand, maybe? And that’s counting only since he came to Torvia. You’re a tome ward, soon to be the Aleph Tome Ward. You deal in documented facts."

I also deal in magic, Cloelle, Harmon reminded her very softly, as if giving louder voice to his opinion would transform his brazen contradiction into an insult. And so do you, so it shouldn’t be that hard to believe. If Abaddon wields some type of unfettered magic, who knows what’s possible?

Cloelle huffed and said something unintelligible. Harmon thought it might have been Not that.

You don’t have to believe me or even try to. Wait until you meet him and then form your own opinion.

What? You’ve met him? It was outrageous that the tome ward should know more about an enemy of Torvia than a sinistranus and ridiculous that she should be jealous. But she was. Andrin had confided in Harmon things that he hadn’t told her, as if he had no faith in her, as if he had known that she wasn’t worthy of trust. Or friendship. A bitter lump of regret lodged like a stone in her gorge.

No, I’ve never met Abaddon, but Andrin had some dealings with him on occasion, mostly at the wharves, and he told me a lot about them one time. He shuddered at some memory his reply invoked.

Was it because of the underground bazaars? Cloelle asked.

Yes. Andrin made a strong case for Abaddon’s being behind the smugglers and the entire underworld in Torvia and most likely well beyond its borders. He’s certainly had enough time to entrench himself, at any rate. But Andrin never had any evidence that led to him. He said Abaddon has the wisdom of centuries and the wiles of a hunted animal, and he thought that Abaddon was responsible for much of the crime in Torvia.

Wait, Harmon. Cloelle stopped and let her pack drop to the ground. I have to adjust this. Something in there’s trying to carve a hole in my back. She rummaged quickly, tossing out a pan, a packet of dried meat, and a small loaf of bread before she reached the offending object, a bundle of flints. She tucked it deep into the pack, well out of reach of the rib it had been digging into, replaced the rest of the contents, and relaced the pack. Then she and the tome ward resumed their slow march toward Acheron.

Why haven’t you ever told me about Abaddon and the Malefica, and why didn’t Andrin? Cloelle tried to keep the irritation out of her words but wasn’t sure whether she succeeded.

Harmon fidgeted under the accusation her eyes imparted. He wanted to protect you, Cloelle. He fumbled for an adequate description. This man is dangerous beyond anything you’ve ever encountered. I tried to tell you, but I don’t think you listened. It’s likely that you can’t be protected from him if he takes either an unhealthy interest in you or a great dislike to you. I should have refused to come, but I knew it wouldn’t stop you and I couldn’t bear either the thought or the guilt of your going alone. He grimaced and mumbled, It should have been just me, not you. Just me alone. I could have asked for you. That would have been best.

I can take care of myself, she said coolly.

I know, Cloelle. I know it very well, and I admire that. And there’s no denying that you’re formidable in a fight, too, and that you’d best me in an instant. But I’ll say it again: You haven’t met anything like this man or anything near as dangerous. I’ve never heard about anyone like him before. Compared with Abaddon, Emperor d’Ylléd is a toothless kitten, harmless and friendly. Part of the danger to you is that you’re a woman and—and a desirable one. He stumbled over the last part and forced it out as quickly as possible, a red stain washing through his cheeks. It’s perilous for you to be in his thoughts. Your grandfather would have been appalled and ashamed of me for taking you to Acheron, and with ample justification.

He would have understood, Cloelle retorted hotly.

Frustrated, Harmon planted his feet and latched on to one of her pack straps, jerking her around to face him. "You’re not listening, Cloelle. Abaddon isn’t a man. You surely know that. You’re going to him to ask the unthinkable, to ask for what no man can do, to raise Raynor from the dead. Don’t you fear this?"

Cloelle’s acid rejoinder died on her lips, smothered by her mortification at thrusting Harmon into jeopardy, at the unhappiness every line of his body depicted because of the danger her stubbornness was exposing them to. He wasn’t looking at her. He was, in fact, suddenly engrossed in studying his boots, his jaw taut and cheeks a brilliant carmine once again. His mouth trembled and tears reflected the flame of a nearby lamp.

She had never seen placid Harmon act like this, but the thing that scared her most was his obvious fear. It was deep and absolute. And infectious. Harmon, I apologize. I should never have asked you to do this.

It’s not too late to turn back, he said, holding out no hope of changing her mind. He had the despairing look of a condemned man.

But it is. Cloelle tried to smile at him. Besides, if there’s as much danger as you say, you need me to watch your back. What kind of granddaughter would I be if I turned tail and didn’t try to get my grandfather back?

A safe one, Harmon said. But he dropped the subject.

When they stopped for a meal a few hours into the journey, the air was much more temperate than it had been near the tunnel entrance. Bats hung from the ceiling in small furry clumps, huddled for warmth and protection, or flitted on silent wings to other parts of the tunnel, irritated by the lamplight.

Cloelle took off her pack, dumped it on the ground, and rooted through it to retrieve a small loaf of heavy bread. She bit into a piece of it, savoring its meaty texture. How far down do you think we are?

Harmon sat beside her and leaned against the tunnel wall, watching several cave crickets move closer in stealthy forays, attracted by the pair’s food. Well below the Torvian sewers, the old ones. I’d guess about a thousand feet.

A thousand feet? How much farther do we have to go down?

Probably as far again. He bit down on his bread and pulled hard to separate the bite from the remainder of the loaf. Billia must have baked this, he remarked, his words muffled by the food. "A little hard on the jaw muscles, but so good. It’s no wonder Prince Danielen enlisted her services as Royal Baker."

If you’re trying to distract me, I don’t think it’s going to work. Cloelle was still trying to internalize the concept of being nearly half a mile underground. It seemed an impossible distance.

I’m not trying anything. You know how to resolve any doubts you might have: turn back, Harmon said a little tartly, too tired for circumspection or to contain his unfamiliar audacity.

Cloelle sighed. They were at an impasse. I’m not going to do that and I won’t let you go there without me. If you’re ready, we should leave. For the first few hundred yards, he had to jog to keep up with her, but the weight of her pack soon slowed her pace and they maintained a more comfortable tempo.

Nothing in the tunnels changed all that day. Passages branched off at predictable intervals, the lamps before them ignited when they were a certain distance away and extinguished behind them at the same distances, and their feet stamped out an echoing, repetitious rhythm that induced torpor. The monotony began to tell on them. After Harmon stumbled twice in a row, the second instance nearly pitching him headlong onto the ground, Cloelle called a halt for the night.

Their sleep was fitful, and their progress the next day was slower. Parts of the tunnel had collapsed and they had to negotiate around deep cracks in the floor. Out of curiosity, Harmon dropped a chunk of rock in one. They never heard it land.

Cloelle stopped and eased one of the pack straps off her bruised, aching muscles. Any idea how much longer?

I think we’re about four hours from Acheron, Harmon answered as he ignited the other side of the lighting channel. The side he’d originally lit had been broken off by a rock fall some time ago.

No one maintains this tunnel, then?

I guess not. I’d have thought that the Malefica would, but they certainly have other ways into the Torvian overworld. He gave her a faint smile and added, Raynor would have noticed an evil horde swarming out of the stables.

Cloelle laughed, but melancholy threaded through her reply. That would depend on the book he had his nose buried in at the time.

Besides, they probably don’t want too many easy entrances into Acheron, Harmon said. Unless this were cleared, no force of any size could get through here quickly or quietly, and if someone tried to repair this tunnel the Malefica would know it.

The passageway ended at a large pile of breakdown created by the collapse of its ceiling and opened onto an immense, damp cavern. Its roof, which was at least seventy feet above their heads, and the walls and floor were covered in moss that fluoresced a greenish-yellow, and the light the plants generated was enough to illuminate the entire space, including the rough path that led through the jumble of house-sized boulders.

Walking the rubble-strewn trail safely was nearly impossible. Before they reached the middle of the cavern, Cloelle twisted her ankle, crying out as she sank quickly to the floor to take her weight off the injured leg.

Harmon hurried to her and squatted to assess the damage. It’s not broken and it’s not a sprain, thank the heavens. Try walking on it to work out the pain. Here. He helped her to her feet and supported her while she tested the ankle. It held. Walk around a few minutes and then sit back down. I think it’ll be fine.

I do too. Cloelle wiped the sweat from her forehead, moved forward a few paces, and balanced against the nearest rock to rub the tender joint. How far?

The city should be close. Harmon lowered his voice. Did you notice that we’re being shadowed?

Yes. I wasn’t going to say anything unless it seemed prudent. Their invisible company had steadily increased its number the closer they got to Acheron, but the Torvians never saw them clearly: Their pursuers were shadow and suggestion. Do you want me to do anything about it? Cloelle asked unenthusiastically. The terrain didn’t lend itself to uncomplicated swordplay, and her injury promised to hinder her. If she had to make a stand, she preferred the odds to be more in her favor.

No. I expected this.

You expected it? Cloelle snapped. She held in the shriek that wanted to fly at Harmon. The bookish man had endangered them by keeping that information to himself, hampering her ability to protect him, to protect them. Her sword hand itched to chastise him, courtesy of the flat of the blade, and she wanted to reprimand him sharply, but with an effort she held both tongue and hand in check. As mildly as she could, she said, "If there’s anything else you expect, Harmon, tell me before it happens."

The tome ward flashed her a guilty smile.

They started off again, stumbling and forcing their way through three more caverns, each smaller and littered with more boulders and formations than the last. Finally, the path ended at a short, narrow slot low in the cavern wall.

This is it, Cloelle. Acheron lies beyond this opening. Harmon’s breathing was labored from exertion and excitement. He took off his pack, crawled through the narrow gap, and pulled and jimmied the bundle through. With a final brutal heave, he freed it.

Cloelle had been shoving on the knapsack and nearly fell out behind it. She scrambled through the hole and pushed to her feet, dusting herself off. Then she looked past Harmon.

They stood on a broad, flat, winding road at the top of a cavern so high, so impossibly enormous, that its edges faded away into invisibility. And not for lack of light. Tall stone obelisks lined the road. Their tops were of lacy pierced ironwork from which brilliant yellow rays shone, casting fantastic swirling patterns on the road, and yet they held no wick or oil, no flame, no explicable source of radiance. The pillars were spaced closely enough to leave no pools of darkness between them. Throughout the gigantic space, similar roads wound up the steeply sloped sides of the cave like brilliant snakes. At least half a mile across the chamber and a quarter mile below the Torvians sprawled the vast city of Acheron, glowing with the light from thousands of windows and streetlights. In the very heart of the city stood a high, imposing tower of malachite, its spire sharply pointed, its polished sides perforated by arched windows and lit by huge sconces that depended from the stone as delicately as jewels from a woman’s earlobes. The malachite wonder was so high that Harmon and Cloelle were at eye level with its apex. An ebony-dark pool surrounded the tower’s base, still and gleaming and sinister in the amber glow from the city around it and the soaring structure above it, and a ghost of the edifice shimmered in its depths. The tower’s massive door was accessible only by a single wide bridge.

Incredible! Cloelle said. I can’t believe I didn’t know this was here.

I’ve never seen it either. It’s amazing, especially the Tower of Acheron. Harmon’s exuberance ceased as a sudden strong aura of danger sent his hand to his sword.

Cloelle gripped his arm and stopped him from drawing it. Quietly, she said, "Don’t do that. They’ve decided not to let us come farther without an escort. A visible escort."

Reluctantly, Harmon left his weapon in its sheath. Though far from a master swordsman, he knew the value of a blade and had once taught that lesson to a Mistrin soldier.

Almost immediately they were surrounded by a dozen large men, two of them with long blond hair and eyes so pale blue that they were nearly white. The men made no sound as they moved, despite their bulk. Their dark gray uniforms fit them snugly, and an impresa, a raven with a bloodred feather in its beak, was sewn on the chest of their tunics.

I think that these are some of his scouts, Cloelle said almost inaudibly to Harmon.

The largest of the men, one of the blond ones, held up his hand to silence her. You have entered Acheron unbidden, Second Sinistranus Cloelle Banderal and Second Tome Ward Harmon Telle. It is considered a grave offense by our lord, who does not suffer trespass in his domain.

I meant no disrespect, and if I offended, I apologize, Cloelle said. Correcting the man’s misimpression of her status would be futile, as would asking how he knew what their names and titles were, so she merely bowed low. She gestured toward Harmon. This man accompanied me as a guide and has no business with your master. If blame is to be assigned, then I’m the one at fault. Dread clogged Cloelle’s racing heart and thickened her words. I want to ask something of the Maleficus, something of a personal nature.

Speak. The huge man planted the tip of his sword on the road, folded his hands around the weapon’s hilt, and stood in an attitude of patient expectation.

Cloelle suspected the patience was a sham.

I hope to receive a boon from your master. She crossed her arms on her chest and lowered her head, a request to parley, wondering whether the scout would recognize it.

As if she’d given a satisfactory answer, the man said, Of course. Come with us.

My guide—

Will come with us. The steely words sliced off any chance of debate.

One of the men took the heavy packs from the travelers and carried them in one hand as if they weighed nothing. He started toward the city. Four took up positions beside Harmon and Cloelle, two on each side, and four fell in behind them. The remaining three took point and followed their companion, making their way down to Acheron.

Cloelle could feel their eyes on her and she looked up at the two walking beside her. They made no effort to look away, and their gaze was a mixture of curiosity and something that chilled her to the bone. It was like lust, only with much darker predatory undertones that were not sexual. Her heart started pounding so hard that she found it difficult to pull in air, and she unconsciously edged closer to Harmon.

As they approached Acheron, the Torvians saw that the entire city was walled in the same malachite that adorned the tower. The road curved to the right and ended at one of the tall brass gates that broke the wall’s expanse, abutting an arched brick passageway that sloped downward and obscured any view of what lay beyond. More large men guarded the gate but let the party enter without challenge. The metal clanged shut behind them, they passed through the tunnel, and Acheron was revealed.

The Ancient City was indeed magnificent. Each lane and walkway was brightly lit with delicate wrought-iron streetlights bearing large, octagonal, beveled-glass lanterns emitting the same eldritch light as the obelisks. They were so numerous that, had the city been bathed in the light of a rising full moon whose foil was the setting sun, the orbs’ glow would have been rendered superfluous. Round, colonnaded buildings were interspersed with solemn porticoed structures of gray and black marble, their roofs topped with a material that was either slate or some stone that closely resembled it. The alleys between the buildings were lined with carefully clipped topiaries of mythical creatures, the greenery kept alive by an unknown means; there was no natural light here, no way for the sun to provide nourishment to the subterranean plants. The broad main avenue was paved with red stone that glistened like freshly spilled blood, and tall granite columns stretched toward the roof of the enormous cavern, topped with statues of men and women of renown, their names and deeds carved on stone tablets set into the columns’ plinths.

Horses of deepest black pulled gilded carriages down the broad streets, carrying elegantly dressed men and women, all of whom turned to stare at the strangers. Their faces were avid with curiosity and something disquieting.

It made Cloelle think of the strange lust in the guards’ eyes.

They passed no mundane establishments—no butcher shops, no fruit stands, no alehouses or the like—as the heart of Acheron unfolded before them in austere and formal beauty like the wings of an ashen moth newly shed of its cocoon. No delicious scents of baking bread or meat wafted from any doorway, nor any sweet perfume from the open carriage windows as if such delights had never blessed the city winds. It was as though the Maleficus forbade them so near his malachite bastion. Stone and earth were all that revealed themselves in the air here, air that was like the dust of bones in a grave or the moldering scent of an ancient charnel house.

Despite the number of Malefica who inhabited the Ancient City, it was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. A carriage passed close, and the horses’ hooves struck the stone pavement with sharp ricochets of sound that made Cloelle’s eardrums throb in painful rhythm. At first she thought there was no other sound but the hooves and the constant grinding of the iron wheels on the road. Then she heard it, a subtle persuasion of voices too low to make out. First from one side and then another they called to her, enticing her with promises in words she couldn’t understand, and yet they embodied every desire in her heart. The urge to answer those crooning calls was overwhelming. Dazed, she tried to see where they were coming from so that she could run to them, and then with dazzling clarity she realized that they spoke inside her head. And just as surely, she knew what they wanted: quintessence, her very soul. The beckoning whisper was the voices of the Malefica, and to answer their call was death.

Harmon’s face was a rictus of horror that mirrored Cloelle’s. The delorim had never told him about this siren call, could never have told him, because they didn’t know about it themselves. He made himself fight the inviting susurrations, pushing at them until they gave ground and their deadly caressing cadences turned to snarls of frustration, and when they replenished their insistent provocation he struggled against them harder until his head rang and tears of pain filled his eyes. As he stumbled and almost went down, he couldn’t stifle a groan.

And as suddenly as it had come, the temptation of voices faded and was gone.

Bathed in relief and sweat, Cloelle trembled as if she’d just evaded a stalking beast intent on rending and devouring her. She wondered whether she would have been able to escape the voices of the Malign Ones if she’d come alone to Acheron. But that was probably why the guards were here, at least in part: to save the Torvians from racing to meet their own doom. She fervently prayed that the Malefica escorting them had their own desires under rigid control.

Cloelle shied like a skittish horse as one of the escorts came too close, his side melding briefly into hers. Harmon reached out a steadying hand to her, a hand that held hers a little too firmly and hung on a little too long.

The scouts herded the two down a dark avenue unfrequented by the carriages and their silent, bejeweled, malevolent occupants. They stopped simultaneously, without a signal, at a narrow door set in a high rock wall. The largest man rapped on the wood. The door opened soundlessly and closed behind the group with a hollow boom like a death knell.

Welcome to Acheron, Torvians. The overly muscled guard gave them a wintry smile that was far too evocative of the beckoning whispers.

The rest of the escort melted into the darkness, leaving Harmon and Cloelle in the care of the guard who had spoken. He gestured across the barren rectangular courtyard to another door set in the wall of what appeared to be a small castle. Then he disappeared too.

Come on, Harmon said. He took Cloelle’s arm and hurried across the open space as if they were pursued by demons.

The portal opened before they reached it, but no one was there.

Cloelle—

Shh. She slipped into the dark room that waited beyond, Harmon right behind her.

An oil lamp in a sconce began to glow as soon as they were both inside the small unfurnished antechamber. When Cloelle heard the door swinging shut behind them, she jumped toward it and clamped her fingers around the edge but lost her hold, and it thumped against its jamb.

Harmon tried the doorknob. It’s locked.

Don’t be alarmed.

The Torvians spun toward the voice and drew their swords simultaneously, Cloelle with fluid menace and Harmon awkwardly. She settled into a fighting stance and he did his best to emulate her.

A woman stood near the back of the tiny room. Her chestnut hair was loose and hung down to her shoulders. Later, neither Harmon nor Cloelle could say whether she was young or old, beautiful or ugly, or perhaps something in between. Nor could they recall the color of her eyes.

No need for that, she said, motioning toward their weapons. Harmon and Cloelle, without wanting or meaning to, sheathed their swords. Come with me. Her smile was invitation and seduction. She displayed the same kind of disconcerting interest that the guards had shown, and her voice had an irresistible lilting quality, a treacherous contralto counterpoint to the Malefica’s silent call.

Cloelle opened her mouth to ask where they were being taken, but before she could get the words out she had already forgotten what she was going to say. The minuscule room had disappeared, and she stood in a dim, round great hall of palatial proportions. The walls were finished in purple watered silk and threw off a black sheen in the light from numerous candles and several crystal chandeliers. Long heavily carved benches hugged the edges of the curved room at intervals. Deeply cushioned couches and armchairs in lavenders and a color that resembled the skin of a ripe eggplant were arranged in prescribed concentric circles as if a concert were about to begin. Copious paintings of eerie cavern landscapes and portraits of grave men and women saved the room from being engulfed by the somber colors. The ceiling was high enough to be invisible. The entire floor was covered in a parquet of mixed woods, and the same emblem that had been on the guards’ uniforms dominated the center of the pattern, a raven rendered in ebony, a single, bloodred feather in its beak. The sigil of the Maleficus.

The woman was gone.

Cloelle, what just happened? Harmon asked uneasily.

I’d like to know that myself.

Any idea who she was?

Our escort. Beyond that, I don’t think we want to know.

A tinkling laugh floated through the room. The volume fading with each word, the woman who had brought them there said, Someone is coming for you. Wait here.

I really don’t like the sound of that. Cloelle’s sword was once again in her hand.

Of what?

Either her disembodied voice or that someone’s coming for us. Take your pick.

Harmon hauled his sword out of its scabbard also. I think we’d better listen to her, though, and stay put. What do you suppose they did with our packs?

Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask Abaddon when we get wherever they’re taking us, assuming we’re not about to be pitched into a cell or thrown to the Malefica, that is. Harmon cringed and dogged Cloelle’s steps as she roved across the chamber, too nervous to stand in one place.

If you’re ready, I’ll take you to him.

They shouldn’t have been surprised, not after their peculiar encounter with the woman in the antechamber, but they were. A boy no older than eight years stood near one of the benches. His skin was so completely unblemished that it seemed translucent, but it missed being beautiful by also being as dead pale as the underbelly of a deep-sea fish. His hair was silvery and shone like burnished metal in the light of the chandeliers. But the most disturbing thing about the child was his eyes. The irises had no color at all, and the blind gaze he turned on the Torvians was as white and glistening as river-polished stones.

This way, please. His tone was soft and inflectionless.

Cloelle suspected that they might be in the tower, and all doubt was removed when the boy led them to the far side of the great hall, where the staircase began. It spiraled along the wall to the very top, leaving the wide space in the center open. She craned her neck to look up at the dizzying height and almost fell backward. The stairs seemed to shrink as they rose, forming a single, tiny point at the summit. There was no banister.

The walls of the staircase were made of a gray stone with patterns that reminded Cloelle of a dove’s feathers. There was no sign of joint or break anywhere, and she speculated that the delorim had used some kind of magic to build the tower. When she ran her hand along the wall and felt warmth radiating from it, she was certain that they had. On each of the countless landings, a large arched window gave a view across Acheron and a door led to suites built between the staircase and the exterior of the structure.

When they were about halfway up, the boy turned to them. Do you need to rest?

Cloelle? Harmon’s panting broke her name into two distinct syllables.

She shook her head, assessing Harmon’s state and deciding that he had a fair amount of climb left in him despite his stertorous breathing. No. Let’s get this over with.

The blind boy started up the stairs again, walking close enough to the sheer drop to make Cloelle want to pull him to safety.

The farther up they went, the more she crammed herself against the wall. Remind me not to do this again.

Do you want me to walk beside you on the outside?

"Are you insane? That would make me even more nervous. What if you tripped, or I did and made you fall?"

Harmon tried to laugh and found that he couldn’t drive the sound past the nausea the lofty staircase provoked.

After what seemed an age, they reached the penultimate level.

You must go on alone, the boy announced in his flat inflection. I have not been summoned and so cannot continue.

Thank you, Cloelle said, fighting the urge to whoop for air.

The boy left without acknowledging either Torvian.

Friendly thing, Harmon said. He braced his hands on the wall while he caught his breath.

I don’t think he’s capable of anything else. Just a feeling I have. Cloelle rubbed her moist face on her sleeve.

I wonder why he didn’t take us all the way to the top.

I think that when he said ‘cannot continue,’ he meant it literally. There’s probably some sort of magic that would have prevented him. Maybe permanently.

The tome ward winced. Do you really have to bring that up?

Harmon, Cloelle said, waiting until he looked at her, "you know better than I what we’re about to face. Keep your eyes and ears open, say as little as possible, and be prepared to run. Run, not fight. Her fingers dug into him as she tried to quell the certainty that fleeing would be futile. But at least she wouldn’t have to watch him die. No, that’s not good enough. Listen to me. I know I have no authority, so I can’t give you a direct order. But for my grandfather’s sake and if you ever loved him, run if I tell you to. No questions, no hesitation. Do it."

Harmon wanted to protest, but something stopped him. Instead, he said tremulously, And you listen to me. I’m scared to death, so don’t read anything into this. I need some comfort, and—and I’ve never kissed a woman before. I’d like to do it just once before I die. He put his hands behind her neck, dragged her face down to his, and kissed her, hard and thoroughly. Then he pounded up the stairs and a startled Cloelle had to run to catch up with him, her heart hammering like a ceremonial drum.

At the pinnacle of the Tower of Acheron stood a door that had no knob or keyhole, unassailable warden of the Maleficus’ chambers. Carved in the wood was an identical representation of the raven that graced the floor far below. As if the Torvians had beseeched the corvine bird for entry, the door swung open silently and revealed the private demesne of Acheron’s lord.

The sconces on the outside of the tower made it seem as if sunlight were pouring into the round room. Its walls supported bookcases stuffed with leather-bound tomes, many of them centuries old, their spines tooled and