“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“The Hand of Darkness.”
“How ominous.” Ruvaen shudders and takes a reflective sip. “Apt, but ominous.”
“I have forbidden my people from taking the virulium,” I continue firmly. “The price it exacts from their souls is simply too great.”
“If you’re going to be so concerned with souls and such nonsense,” Ruvaen snarls over the lip of his cup, “we’re going to have a devil of a time doing what needs to be done here. Do you want to root these Miphates from your land or don’t you?”
“I do—”
“Then don’t go weak on me now, Taar. Where is the ruthless warlord I’ve so come to admire?” He grins suggestively. “Is it that human girl? Has she turned you soft? Maybe a bit of sorcery on her end. Are you quite certain she isn’t a Miphata spy?”
My blood goes cold. “Leave her out of this, Ruvaen.”
“Oh, I would have!” the prince declares, leaning back in hischair, his long sleeves pooling grandly to the ground. “Gladly! In fact, I’ve never been less interested in a mortal wench. It’syouwho can’t seem to shake yourself free of her influence.”
“We need to prepare our forces.” I take a step forward, determined not to let him bait me. “We’ll never reach the citadel if we do not first breach the city. The death mages drastically reduced their supply of magic today. They will renew it, no doubt, but if we work together, we can hit them before they’re—”
“Oh, don’t worry your head about any of that, Taar, my friend. I’ve got everything well in hand.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I have a plan.” He grins, and the gleam of the fire plays across his glamoured features, making him look like a beautiful devil incarnate. “Hobgoblins.”
My heart seems to stop beating. I cannot react, cannot speak. Then in a cold blast of air: “What?”
“Oh, yes.” The prince swirls his cup again, idly watching the contents move. “I’ve shipped a whole tribe of hobgoblins in for the dirty work. They’ll rid us of those death mages soon enough. They’re immune to both iron and mortal magic, you know.” He feigns a shiver before casting me a quick glance. “Nasty buggers, but they’ll get the job done. Anynecroliphonhidden in those city ruins will be skinned alive by dawn. When the sun rises on this blighted world, the Miphates in the tower will hear the cries of their brethren’s still-living corpses, screaming from the cityramparts. Then, believe you me, their courage will fail.”
“You cannot do this, Ruvaen.” I take a step nearer to the fire. “You cannot turn hobgoblins loose in my world.”
“Your world?” Ruvaen rises abruptly, dashing his cup unheeded to the floor, and strides around the stone circle toward me. His glamours work to make him seem taller, more shining and impressive, like an avenging angel come down from heaven for the fell purpose of righteous purification. “Last I checked, this world was half-way swallowed up by Ashtarath herself. If you truly want to see it wrested back from the brink, you’re going to have to fight these evil forces on their own terms. Make no mistake, Taar.” He tilts his head, smiling again but without any trace of sincerity. His pale eyes dance with mockery. “I enjoy the sweet sound of your unicorns and their song, and oh! yes, who can fail to be moved by the wholesome power of transforming love in action? Always a delight. But this”—he waves his arm in an expansive gesture—“is neither the place nor the time. You brought me here for a reason, King. Because you know you cannot breach that city, cannot bring down those walls, without the darkness I am ready and willing to wield. If you want to see these lands of yours teeming with unicorns and song again, you’re going to have to embrace that darkness for yourself once more.”
So saying he reaches out, clasps my hand tight. I feel something pressed into my palm, a thin vial. I don’t have to look to know what it is. I feel the dark pull of virulium, right through the glass.
Growling deep in my throat, I try to push it back into Ruvaen’s grasp, but he shakes his head and backs away quickly, both hands upraised. “Do with it as you will, Taar,” he says. “Toss it in the fire, feed it to a reptant, crunch it under that big, booted foot of yours. But think on what I have said. Your people depend on you to make the hard choices. To become the sharpened blade, honed and ready to strike off the head of their great foe. No one else can do that which the gods have ordained for you, my friend.”
“You dare call on the name of the gods, even as you tempt me with this evil?” I snarl.
“You know the great stories. When have the gods shied away from using demons to work their ultimate will? Are we any better than they?”
I turn from him sharply, unable to bear the sight of his deceitful face. Drawing back my arm, I prepare to hurl the vial into the fire and be done with it.
But I hesitate.
In my mind’s eye, I see Shanaera. I see again the blackness pouring from her mouth and eyes as I held her in the blood-drenched fields of Agandaur. And I recall with bitter clarity the vow I made never to take the Demon’s Kiss again . . . a vow I recently broke, however inadvertently.
Dropping my head, I close my eyes, driving out that image of Shanaera’s face, replacing it instead with Ilsevel’s. Her voice sings in my head like an echo—memory of that terrible night when I nearlysuccumbed to the virulium’s violence, and yet she sang me back. She and Elydark, their voices strangely united, that gods-gift of hers burning through the darkness to find me where I lay suffering.
Is this the secret? Is this the truth I have suspected but been unable to discern until now? Maybe it was wrong for me to take virulium before, when I had no certain antidote. But now . . . now, with Ilsevel and her gods-gifted voice, I know I can be brought back again, the evil influence of demonic blood purged from my soul. I’ve known for some while now that the gods gifted her and sent her to me for a purpose. Is it so that I can become the monster I must, knowing all the while she will be there to rescue me, to bring me back to goodness?
No!My soul roars in rebellion against these wild thoughts. I know what this is; I’ve dealt with it before, the insidious workings of my own, tormented mind, coming up with excuses to justify taking the virulium. I’ve worked so hard to be free of its influence these last three years; am I really foolish enough to give in now?
But the whisper is there in the back of my brain:“Give me to drink, Taarthalor. Pour out blood unto me.”
I close my fist tight, hiding the vial against my palm. And though I do not turn to look at him, I feel Ruvaen’s smile, feel his eyes watching the back of my head.
23
