Wraithblood: The Elixir, Episode 18a
“No,” you say.
Samnirdamnus blinks, and for a moment the djinn, the ancient, immortal prince of the spirit world, actually looks surprised. “No?”
“No,” you repeat. “I will not ask for a secret.”
“Why?” says Samnirdamnus.
“Because,” you say, thinking it through. This would be so much easier if you could express it mathematically. “Because any secret you give me would probably lead to my destruction.”
For a moment Samnirdamnus stares at you, and then a wide smile spread’s over the djinn’s false face, the face of your father.
“Ah,” says Samnirdamnus. “I had thought you were supremely clever, but not wise. It seems your suffering may have taught you the beginnings of wisdom. Or, at least, as close to wisdom as mortals can ever come.” The djinn frowns, eyes of smokeless fire narrowed. “And, yet…the lines of destiny around you wind ever tighter. Farewell, then, broken one. I shall watch with great interest the choices you make in the next hour. For the destinies of millions yet unborn are now in your hands.”
Samnirdamnus vanishes, and you scowl at the empty place he occupied.
“What is it?” says Nasser, looking back at you. The others have returned to consciousness, free from the djinn’s power.
“Nothing,” you say, and follow the others.
You and the rest of Nasser’s crew follow Tarquin through the narrow stone maze of Callatas’s secret passages. At last Tarquin stops at a dead end, and presses a hidden switch. The wall swings open, and you step into the Master Alchemist’s library.
And the library is magnificent. Shelves fifteen feet high line the walls, heavy laden with books and scrolls and tablets of clay and stone and metal, written in a score of different languages. Mirrors, each the size of a large doorway, rest in niches within the shelves. Long tables hold more books and scrolls, along with strange artifacts of glass and metal. Strange symbols cover the mosaic floor, and you realize they are alchemical formulae. Which, as it turns out, are not all that different from mathematical formulae. You stare at the rows of symbols, fascinated, numbers clicking and spinning in your mind…
“This way,” says Tarquin. “We have to pass through the Master’s private gallery, and then we’ll reach his laboratory and his strong room…”
Azaces stops, staring at one of the mirrors.
“By the Living Flame!” he says, his face going bloodless. “No. No! It’s not possible.”
You turn, frowning…and feel your jaw drop.
A man stands behind the glass of the mirror, staring at you with pleading eyes. When your father and brothers were murdered, you only mourned one of them. Malcolm, Niall Strake’s second son, who was ever kind to you, who looked out for you against your father’s rapacity.
Who now stands behind the mirror’s glass, holding out his hands to you.
“Malcolm?” you say, astonished.
Around you, the men likewise stare at the mirror.
“Nerina!” says Malcolm. He looks thin, almost gaunt, with the manacles of a slave on his wrists and throat. “Thank the gods you’ve come. Father’s enemies didn’t murder me. They kidnapped me, and sold me to Callatas! He’s kept me in this sorcerous prison for five years. Please, please, free me before he comes back! I cannot endure this torture any longer!”
“How?” you say.
“Break the glass,” says Malcolm, “and free me, and I will escape with you.”
You step forward, intending to find something heavy to break the mirror, but then stop. All the other men are gazing at the mirror, their expressions rapt. Except for Khaenset, who looks as emotionless as ever, save for the slight, almost puzzled frown on his face.
“Nerina!” says Malcolm, sobbing, at the pain in his voice twists at even your cold heart. “Please! Callatas will return at any moment. Please, please, free me!”
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