Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [2]
Ignoring the sharp stalagmites that jutted up from the uneven stone floor like the gray teeth of a giant frost troll, Yulda deftly made her way to the back of the cave, past hastily strewn fur rugs and the detritus of past experiments. She finally stopped before a large alcove covered in darkness so thick that even the combined illumination of the torches could not pierce it. With another word, she banished the darkness-
–and gazed upon the naked form of a vremyonni, held spread-eagled by four obsidian chains that pulsed with a baleful green light. The Old One was ancient even by the standards of his brotherhood. Deeply weathered flesh sagged on the wizard's decrepit bones, drooping toward the floor like melted candle wax. Faint tufts of silver hair sprouted from the creased lines of the man's skull; only his thickset eyebrows and flowing white beard bespoke the Rashemi blood beating sluggishly within his chest.
He stirred at Yulda's approach, gazing up at her with eyes that still shone brilliant gold, despite his treatment. The witch nearly stopped in her tracks. Power resonated from him, sharp and bright, so different from her own magic. She felt a wave of desire crest over her all at once-wild and desperate. With an iron discipline honed by nearly a century of study, the hathran mastered her body's need.
The Old One was dangerous still. His lore was deep; it burned within him, the very animating force that pumped each beat of his ancient heart. It had taken all of her cunning to lure the wizard into her trap and overwhelm his arcane defenses. She would not falter now and allow a single misstep to ruin her plan-not when she was so close.
"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Yulda asked in a voice not far from the purr she had offered her telthor companion earlier.
The vremyonni ignored her, staring steadily into her eyes.
"Where is the boy?" he asked at last, his deep, rumbling bass echoing in the frigid cave.
"The boy?" she replied with little comprehension-then she remembered the wizard's pupil, a lad of less than twelve summers, with soft, smooth skin and golden hair. "Ahh… I remember now. He's dead."
The news seemed to deflate the vremyonni even more than his cruel bonds. The Old One bowed his head, but Yulda stepped forward and pulled the sagging wizard's head up violently to face her.
"I will have your secrets, old man-and those of your pathetic brotherhood." She nearly screamed the last words.
He gazed at her for a few moments then said softly, almost whispering, "Before I will betray the very oaths that give me life, I would see the face of my captor."
Yulda stepped back as if struck. No one gazed upon the naked face of a hathran, least of all a man, yet her path these past decades had led her far beyond the ways that blinded her tradition-bound sisters. Reaching carefully, almost tenderly, up to her mask, the witch slowly removed it, revealing the weathered lines of her own countenance. She watched as the Old One's face changed-first in disbelief at the moment of recognition, then in horror as his gaze fell upon the gaping hole where Yulda's left eye should have been, a hole that now pulsated with an obsidian energy that seemed to draw the very light of the cavern into it.
"You…" the Old One stammered. "What have you done?"
The question hung in the air between them, and for a single moment Yulda felt free of the compulsion that had driven her for nearly half a century. The horror of her own actions came alive within her and cried out for justice. Here was an open door, an opportunity to step from her treacherous path.
The moment passed.
With a snarl, the hathran threw her white mask to