Page 2 of The Undying King


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Only twice had she seen this particular book. Once, when Imogen was twelve, she’d found Niamh scribbling madly in the pages and then again a year ago, when she first showed signs of illness. She hadn’t offered any explanation, and Imogen didn’t ask. Nothing could force her mother to reveal her secrets or motivations until she was ready, and the time had not come until now.

Niamh continued to stroke the book. “This was a gift. From King Varn.”

Imogen stared at the book with new eyes. When had Niamh consorted with a Berberi king?

“Ha! I knew that would chase the boredom off your face.” Niamh’s grin revealed bloodied gums and teeth stained scarlet. The grin faded. “I’ve not lied outright to you, Imogen, but I’ve withheld much from you—things you’ve a right to know—things I should have told you long ago were I not such a coward.”

Alarmed as much by claims of cowardice as she was by Niamh’s bloody mouth, Imogen rose. “Your tea should be cooled now.” She pointed a finger to halt Niamh’s protest and straightened her blankets.

“Not another word, Mother. We bargained, you and I. The box and then the tea. You have your box. Now you’ll have your tea. And no more foolish talk of cowards.”

She returned with the warm tea and held the cup as Niamh sipped and dabbed her dry lips with a soft cloth. The cloth came away spotted red. Both women stared at the stains for a few moments before Niamh spoke.

“We both know I’ve little time left to me. I should have done this sooner.” She handed the book to Imogen. “This book is for you. Recipes I didn’t have the time to teach you, bits and pieces of a life lived and mistakes made, discoveries of wonder.” Tears edged her eyelids. “Recollections of your childhood.”

With those words, the book grew heavier in Imogen’s hands. Like Niamh, she caressed the book reverently. She met her mother’s dark stare. “Why would you say such things make you a coward?”

Niamh’s gaze never wavered. “Because they aren’t what you need to know most, and some misdeeds are too write down or speak of, including the origins of your curse.” She shushed Imogen’s protests. “Listen to me. Promise you’ll read the book when I’m gone and remember that I loved you as my own.” She clutched Imogen’s gloved hand. “Swear it.”

“I swear.”

Seemingly satisfied with Imogen’s answer, she fell back against the pillow, her pallid features blanching the color of sun-bleached bone. “Look in the box. There’s a trinket there, a thing far more costly than a treasure house full of gold.”

Shaken, Imogen reached into the box and lifted out a piece of silver jewelry. It looked like nothing more than a noblewoman’s lost pendant on a delicate chain. Fine workmanship and far more valuable than anything she or Niamh owned but certainly not unique and not equal to the gold in a treasure house. She touched it, and a shock of vibration shot up her arm so strong, she yelped.

The pendant sat heavy and warm in her hand, weightier than its appearance suggested. The strange vibrations continued to pulse along her fingers through her gloves. Raised by a witch of Niamh’s caliber, Imogen didn't startle easily at the odd and sometimes frightening manifesting before her, but she inhaled when the intricate knotwork within the symbol moved, reforming in serpentine motion until a new pattern took shape.

She glanced at Niamh who smiled in satisfaction. “What think you of that piece?”

The pendant felt alive, not because of its movements but simply for its presence. Imogen wondered if she held it up to her ear, if it might whisper some dark secret.

“Well?” Niamh’s question interrupted her thoughts.

“I don’t know. It’s strange, touched by magic but none like yours.”

Niamh’s enigmatic laughter ended on a hiss of pain. She waved away Imogen’s solicitous hand. “Stop hovering. The pain will fade soon enough.” Once she caught her breath again, her voice trembled. “That is the map and the key to the gates of Tineroth.”

Imogen frowned, growing more certain Niamh’s suffering affected her mind. Tineroth and her sister city Mir were nothing more than fables, stories to entertain around the fire and moral lessons on the corruptive ruin of absolute power.

A flutter in her palm distracted her. The pendant writhed into a new mold, as if hearing the word “Tineroth” had awakened it from a half slumber. She almost leapt out of her chair when Niamh touched the pendant and a silver metal tendril rose to wrap around her finger like a living vine.

“This is the key to your salvation, Imogen. And maybe, just maybe, my redemption.”

Imogen overcame the urge to drop the pendant and wipe her hand against her shift. “Mother,” she said evenly. “Where did you get this thing?”

“It was a gift of thanks. From a man to whom I once offered succor during a time of terrible suffering. He said if I ever needed him, to use this key. It would lead me to Tineroth. You must go there.” Niamh’s eyes clouded. “I’d hoped to take you there myself, but it’s too late now.” She rubbed the tendril of silver with her thumb before twirling her finger to release it. It rose in the air as if seeking her and finally coiled back to entwine with its stiller mates.

Whatever mage-born spell had animated the trinket, Imogen was sure it had not been one laid by a local witch. Its power was ancient, and it both drew and repelled her.

Had she not seen for herself the pendant’s strange movements, she might have thought Niamh’s statements regarding Tineroth nothing more than the mutterings of an ill, hallucinatory woman, but she couldn’t deny what her eyes saw and her gloved hand felt.

“The stories say Tineroth and Mir vanished thousands of years ago. You would have me travel to some place that no longer exists?”

Niamh coughed and winced, her once beautiful face haggard. “The pendant will lead you straight there. Those with the Blessed Eye have sometimes recounted sightings of Tineroth when the day is longest in summer and the shadows fall thin on the ground. The pendant will be your Eye.”

Imogen didn’t relish the thought of journeying into unknown lands alone looking for a fabled city. So far, Niamh had only made her swear to read her journal. She hoped she wouldn’t have to promise to set off on some fool’s journey. She offered more of the skullcap and wort tea

Niamh refused. “I’m heartily sick of drinking that swill. Let me finish.” Her thin fingers worried a pulled threat on one of her blankets. “Tineroth is still ruled by its king—Cededa, son of Hamarath the Younger.”