The Shattered Circle

20. Questions for the Dead

I knew sorrow was a poison as vicious and deadly as the dreaming death Luka had consumed, one I could not afford to let work its evil in me. I was up early the next morning and done with drills before dawn. Technique did not become perfect by accident, after all. Shira was only slightly later to rise, though more because Vex had fetched her than her natural inclinations. From where Anstydir and I were standing in the antechamber, I could hear the wight hounding the priestess across the mats in the training room with a vicious glee, the clacking of practice swords audible through the open door. The sound of at least a defense gave me some hope the lessons were sticking.

I turned my attention to the large wyrm-blooded man as he unfurled the first scroll. The smell of myrrh and other fragrant reagents made me think of death. Hardly strange considering the subjects of our interrogation. "How many questions do we have?"

The priests had given us the two dead assassins, though not without a price: a currently unnamed favor. I relished it about as much as I would have enjoyed licking a boot. "That depends on how cooperative they are." Anstydir studied the script on the scroll. "They cannot lie, but as you are well aware, my lady, they can be somewhat less than transparent. The spell can compel four questions from each of the dead before they are destroyed."

I crossed my arms, lips thinning in frustration. "Destroyed? I was under the impression you could cast this multiple times."

"What His Majesty sent is a more sophisticated and powerful spell than what you and I had discussed." Anstydir offered me the scroll to see for myself, but I waved it away. He seemed to take no offense, well aware that magic was not within my expertise. "They would have been able to lie and we would be limited to only what the corpses knew. This allows us access to the soul. The only complication: it is damaging to the corpse when an unwilling spirit is forced back into the body in such a manner. A...tax of sorts, preventing the rest of the holy dead from being disturbed overmuch."

I scowled. "They were sanctified?"

Anstydir shrugged his massive shoulders, clawed hands spreading the scroll. "So I was told. Shall we begin, my lady?"

I uttered a curse under my breath for the followers of the Dark Mothers. They'd probably sanctified the corpses out of spite, knowing I was the one requesting the bodies. I intended to have words with the high priestesses, diplomacy be damned. "Very well. The cup-bearer first."

Anstydir began to speak in a language I could not understand, but recognized immediately. In my experience, almost every mage besides the King in Black relied on the True Speech, whether casting a spell or scribing one. As the language of all things, from the fiery pits of Hell to the vaunted Heavens and everything between, it could either make or unmake. Mastery of it required more than just rote memorization or knowledge, however: it took will, aptitude, and a certain special imagination.

As he spoke, a cold wind seemed to emanate from the first man's body in a rush, a soft gasp spilling from unfeeling lips. A dull, chill blue glow suffused through his veins, giving him a distinctly unnatural hue and light. His flesh seemed waxen and pale, not sallow yellow from the after-effects of his own self-induced poisoning.

"You may ask the questions," Anstydir said quietly, his brow furrowed with focus. "It is fighting me and the spell requires more concentration than anticipated."

I nodded, marshaling together my thoughts as I looked at the dead man. "What is the name of the person from whom you obtained the vaendal you used to murder the King in Black's spymaster, Luka?"

The lips parted on the corpse and started to move. Even without the breath, a voice came clearly, bitter and angry. "You dare to disturb my rest and expect an answer, witch?"