it was on the last night of the Harvest Festival that Nyctasia slipped away from the festivities alone, and toiled up the slope of Honeycomb Hill by moonlight.
Overhead, the Reaper’s Eye burned steadily, like a beacon warning ships of treacherous waters. Danger, turn back. Turn back, fool, she thought, but she continued to climb, passing the cave and the rows of sweet, overripe golden grapes left drying on the vines. She did not stop to rest until she saw the ragged pile of stones where the bell-tower had stood. The great iron bell had crashed through the flooring easily, to disappear into the caverns below. The temple seemed to have sunk beneath the earth, and now its painted dancers, the fair and the wild, lay together in the tomb with nothing to choose between them.
Half the hilltop had caved in on itself, crushing the last of the life from the Cymvelan Circle for good and all. There was only a great pit now, like an open wound, to mark the place.
The Edonaris had argued hotly over the possibility of digging into the hillside to search for survivors of the cave-in, some arguing that it was their duty to try, others that the ground was still too unsettled to be safety disturbed.
But Nyctasia had assured them that no survivors were buried under the rubble.
She knew that all were dead, as surely as she knew that she had killed them-that the sound of the bell had finally shivered the weakened supports that upheld the whole hollow structure.
“But how can you be sure?” ’Corin had asked uneasily.
And Nyctasia, more composed and withdrawn than ever, had answered, “I know… that the One they summoned has been satisfied. The sacrifice has been accepted.
I know because it was I who carried out the sacrifice. Let no one set foot on the hill for any reason. Even if the earth has settled, the land is more dangerous now than before, more dangerous than you imagine.” But she had refused to explain further.
The superstitions of the countryside were well founded, Nyctasia thought, as they so often are. The land was unlucky indeed, the place was well and truly cursed, now, and it was for her to cast out the demonic presence that haunted it. The dragon had been wakened, and only she could bridle it.
But that would be a simple matter compared to the task that must be undertaken first. Before she could rid this place of its curse, she would have to cast out the demons of ambition and desire that haunted her own spirit. It was for that struggle that she doubted her own strength.
She had held vigil for days, fasting, solitary, silent, as she searched within herself for the guidance of the Indwelling Spirit. She had examined with uncompromising clarity the choice that lay before her, and sought the strength to choose aright, though each way she turned seemed to lead to a grave mistake.
But she could not delay any longer. The power that had been bound by the ancient spell, and guarded by the Cymvelan Circle, had now been invoked, and it had been waiting a very long time to be free. Corson is right, Nyctasia reflected with a rueful smile, I think too much. There’s no time for that. Sometimes it’s action that’s wanted.
She could sense the newly roused, restless power of the place all about her, like an unseen radiance, in the earth, in the air, in the very stones at her feet-and within herself. It was easy, all too easy for safety’s sake, to draw upon that power and use it to work her will. She felt as if she were again in the enchanted Yth Forest, whose untamed, predatory power had all but ensnared her once. The feeling was not in the least frightening. It was inviting, enticing, elating. It offered everything and demanded nothing, and though Nyctasia knew that it lied, she listened.
Without further thought, she reached out in spirit to summon the enemy, using its own power to compel it to come forth.
There was only a subtle shifting of shadows to show that it had obeyed, and a heightened sense that something was demanded of her. But Nyctasia had expected nothing more. This was a being that could not be imaged by the eyes of the spirit, and far less could it be seen by the eyes of the body. But its claim upon her was strong and undeniable. A bargain had been struck. A price had been paid, and paid in blood. But not until the service thus won had been received would that bargain be fulfilled, and the spell broken that had held this Power captive for so long.
It is an exile, as I am, thought Nyctasia, and probably less to blame for its plight than I for mine. It is fitting that I set it free. For she knew that this was not truly an entity of evil. It wanted, as she did, to return to where it belonged, and only the service it owed to her stood between it and its desire.
Had the Cymvelans succeeded in using its power to avenge themselves upon the Valleylanders, it would have carried out their commands as surely as it would carry out hers now. It had no ties to humanity, and made no distinctions among mortal beings. Certainly it did not care whether they lived or died.
Nyctasia could not blame it. She blamed only herself, for her reluctance to release the One that awaited her command, the temptation to turn its power to her own purposes. For the demon, believing that it could win its freedom in no other way, ceaselessly demanded that she yield to that temptation.
Among the rescued volumes of the Cymvelan library, Nyctasia had found certain works that she knew would be there, and she studied them carefully-not for the first time-before she set out to confront that which awaited her at the temple.
But most especially she devoted herself to the First Book on the Nature of Demonic Spirits.
“There are other worlds than our own,” she’d read. “And that which we call a demonic spirit is no more nor less than a denizen of another world who has become ensnared in this world of ours, through magic or mischance. And if beings such as ourselves were to be drawn into the world whence such Ones come, we should ourselves be as demons to those who dwell there, and it may be that this has come about, betimes, and none returned thence to tell of it. Or mayhap some have returned but been accounted mad by their fellows when they spoke of the strange regions they had visited. And some of those whom we deem mad were perhaps made so by sights incomprehensible to humankind, witnessed in worlds beyond our own.
“Then it is little wonder if those beings known to us as Demons should be desperate and dangerous in nature, and unpredictable to deal with, as mad folk are. And this is seen in those who are possessed by them, such that the most skilled physicians are oft hard pressed to decide whether some certain unfortunates are in truth possessed by demonic spirits or have indeed simply lost their wits.
“Now such a One, being out of Its own rightful place, does in consequence forfeit its proper form and nature, and appear to mortal eyes insubstantial, as an Absence rather than a Presence. But by virtue of Its displacement and discorporate essence does such a Being acquire sundry Powers which in no wise answer to the Laws governing substance and matter, even as the Indwelling Spirit submits not to be thus constrained. And thereby It may assume what guise soever should serve Its ends, albeit in illusory wise.
“Only by the Laws governing Immaterial Influences may such a One be compelled, and Its powers made to serve the Will of another. But this ought in no wise nor manner to be attempted, for the Power thus won may well be beyond price, but will prove well beyond the price that any one alone can pay. For even as the Invited Power is drawn from Without, so must the recompense be made from without, if Balance is to be restored, and such a Sacrifice the Spirit of Harmony forbids
…”
Excellent advice, thought Nyctasia, if it did not come too late. For the recompense had been paid already, and now it remained for her to assign a service, as It demanded. But if she consented to take advantage of that sacrifice, then the blood of the Cymvelans would truly be on her hands.
“Balance must be restored.” It spoke to her, silently, wordlessly, but its meaning was unmistakably clear to Nyctasia. “Take what is yours! Ask! Command!”
What’s done is done, Nyctasia told herself. It will not be undone if I refuse, they will still be dead. If I accept, they cannot be more dead than they are.
And though this seemed like reason, yet even as she voiced her command to the demon of the hill, she knew that the vahn within her replied, “Not they, but you can be more dead than you are…”
But Nyctasia gave the one command she had known she must give, whatever the cost to her own spirit, “Tell me of my city. Will there be war?”
And before she had finished speaking, she saw the answer, inwardly, as one sees memories, not before her eyes but behind them. She could envision, as if she had been a witness, the burning buildings, the barricaded streets, already littered with the dead and wounded. Fire raged unchecked from house to house, and the gates of the palaces were broken and undefended. Rhostshyl, the proud city, the city of marble and silver…
“No more!” Nyctasia ordered, but she could not forget what she had seen.
She was offered other visions, then, which said as clearly as words, “By my power you could prevent this. Use it. Use it. You could have the power to impose peace on the city. Take it. Take it. Your enemies will do your will. You will be hailed as peacemaker and savior of the city. Rhostshyl need not perish. Do it.
Do it. You must. It is your duty.”
Was it not, in truth, her duty? If she could prevent the death and destruction she had seen, had she the right to refuse?
But these thoughts were not her own. They were the work of One who sought to serve her for Its own sake. “You lie,” she said. Power won at such a price could not bring peace, could not give life, could not-whatever her intentions-be used innocently. This Nameless Being knew her every weakness, she realized, knew her deepest desires and her very thoughts. Such a servant is too dangerous, she decided, and ordered. “Show yourself! Take a form that I can see. Speak in words that I can hear.”
Again it obeyed. In man’s shape it walked out of the shadows and approached her, stepping into the moonlight to reveal the form and features of Erystalben ar’n Shiastred.
“I can bring him back to you,” it said, in his voice.