The songsmith watched in shock as the witch reached into a sheath at her belt and withdrew a black-hilted athame. “No!” Lydryth whispered, in an agony of helplessness. She grasped Alon’s arm, her fingers digging in painfully as the woman brought the blade up to the Flannan’s throat, and, with a quick, ruthless thrust, pricked it deeply. Red flowed in a steady stream.
Lydryth had seen death dealt before, but always in clean and open battle-never like this. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry, as the witch, chanting softly, began to encircle the pentagram, dribbling the weakly spasming Flannan’s blood onto the stone floor of the cave.
As the blood of the dying creature congealed upon the cold rock, the blue light darkened, taking on a sickly purplish tinge. The yellow flames atop the dark candles blackened, until they were the same color as the wax. As she neared the end of her obscene task, grasping the limp and now plainly dead mannikin, the witch’s chanting grew louder.
“What is she doing?” Lydryth whispered, fignting the urge to cower, hands over her ears, to shut out the sound. The witch’s chanting was growing physically painful to hear.
“Some kind of summoning,” Alon replied in a strained whisper. Lydryth glanced at his face in the moonlight and saw that he looked as sickened as she felt. “And a powerful one. She is invoking the Name of one of the most deadly of the Dark Adepts.”
Circle complete, the witch’s voice rose still higher as she gestured with her wand, raising her arms so high that her sleeves fell back from her flabby flesh and bony wrists. A blackish purple mist coiled upward out of the circle, hiding the pentagram from their view.
With a last, high-pitched cry of triumph, a sound that made Lydryth gasp and clap her hands over her ears, the witch fell silent. For long moments she stood poised; then she began to laugh delightedly. The skin at the back of the girl’s neck crawled as though leeches had fastened there.
Within the smoky confines of the circle, trapped by the protective boundaries of the pentagram, something now moved, at first slowly, then thrashing wildly in frantic struggles. A deep male voice cried out in fear, then cursed foully.
Flashes of Power crackled within the boundary cast by the circle-spell. Power that bore the dark purple hue of the Shadow. With a low, crooning sound, the witch stretched out her arms toward the circle, and the lines of Power arced toward her, encircled her wrists, then flowed up her arms, writhing like serpents formed from the essence of the Darkness. They crossed the witch’s breast, met over her heart, then pulsed, as though pumping their substance into her body. She gasped, transfixed with pain or pleasure, it was impossible to tell which.
But there was no doubt about the reaction of that dimly seen figure trapped within the circle. The man screamed in agony, as those lines of Power pulsed, feeding themselves into the witch. The prisoner’s shriek rose higher and higher-
-abruptly, there was silence. The lines of Power disappeared into the witch’s body, and slowly the mist faded away.
Lydryth saw that a man now stood within the pentagram, a tall man with a haughty, handsome face that bore the unmistakable stamp of the Old Race. He could have been Alon’s father, or older brother, for the resemblance between them was strong. The stranger was wearing a hunter’s or forester’s garb … short cloak, leather jerkin, brown breeches and high, soft boots. An ornate jeweled dagger hung at his belt, and a more businesslike short sword rode his hip.
As the last wisps of mist vanished, he stared at the woman who fronted him in the darkened cave with horrified realization distorting his well-cut features.
“My Power-,” he began in a choked voice.
“Is now mine, Lord Dinzil!” the witch crowed exultantly.
“But . . . why?” he asked dazedly.
The woman’s features were still shadowed from Lydryth’s view, but her voice bore a cruel smile. “You are a male, and for a male to have sorcerous abilities is a thing against nature.” Her head lifted proudly. “Women are the only rightful vessels of Power. I lost most of mine, many years ago, but now . ..” She flexed her fingers and purple light outlined them for a moment. “. . . what I lost, I have regained .. . aye, all that, and more . . . more!” –
“Dinzil!”Alon whispered softly. “I should have known….”
“Who is he?” Lydryth asked, glancing up at him.
Her companion shook his head. “Later.”
Suddenly the Dark Adept gave a low moan of distress and staggered. He put one hand to his head, then pulled it away with a cry of dismay, the fingers splayed widely. Lydryth could clearly make out the prominent veining and mottled skin of the elderly. As she watched, they crooked suddenly with the painful joint-rheum suffered by the aged. The Adept’s features took on years as dry bread soaks up broth. Lines scored his cheeks; silver frosted his black hair. “My Power . . . ,” the sorcerer whispered, “my Power . . .”
“Was all that was keeping you young, I fear, my lord,” the witch told him calmly. “Now that it is gone, your years will come upon you . . . and those years are many, are they not?”
Dinzil did not answer her. Shudders racked his tall body, and with each spasm he seemed to shrink and wither apace. His hair grew white and sparse, wisping around a face that now resembled aged parchment crumpled by a careless hand. Then his lips parted in a gasp of agony and teeth cascaded out, rattling down onto the stone at his feet. Dinzil held out a now-withered claw to the witch, and they heard a voice, no longer strong and resonant, but shrill and breathless emerge from his near-toothless mouth. “I would curse you if I still could, witchwoman . . . curse you with my last breath.”
The witch laughed.
“Ah, yes,” the ancient man that had been Dinzil, the Dark Adept, wheezed, “laugh while you may, witchwoman. But even if my ill wishes have no teeth left to rend you, still you will find yourself cursed. The Left-Hand Path is a most demanding one. The Dark levies a heavy price on the spirits of its servants. You will realize before you die exactly what you have called into yourself, and therein lies my curse. May it fall soon!”
” You are the one who should worry about death, my lord,” the witch mocked him. She raised a hand to push back her hood a little, and they saw that it had changed, was now firm-fleshed and slender. A lock of hair escaped from beneath the loosened hood, and that hair was now sable, as Dinzil’s had been.
With a careless wave the witch caused the candles to snuff out; then she indicated the cave mouth. “And now, our business is done, my lord. You are no longer welcome here, so may I suggest that you take your leave? You will find the land without this cave to be a familiar one, I daresay… though the inhabitants hereabouts have little reason to love you, I believe.”
With a courage and dignity that Lydryth had to admire, Dark Adept or no, Dinzil drew himself up as straight as he might, then tottered feebly toward the entrance. “Here, you will doubtless need this, grandsire,” the witch said mockingly, handing him the walking staff that had been hers. For a moment Lydryth thought that he would fling the stick at his tormentor, but he did not speak or look back.
The witch quickly eradicated the traces of her spell with her wand; then she picked up a pack from the comer and slung it over her shoulder. “And now,” she muttered, “to essay that mirror.”
She turned to face her watchers, and for the first time they were able to discern her features clearly. Lydryth saw that she was plainly of the Old Race, a woman of early middle years, with strong, boldly marked features that were too thin and driven to hold any beauty.
Just then the songsmith heard Alon’s soft gasp of recognition. “Yachne!” he whispered. “How-why-”
Lydryth’s mouth dropped open. The Wise Woman who had taught him his first magic! Was it indeed she on the other side of this arcane mirror-portal, engaged in a Dark rite? She remembered Alon’s face as he’d spoken of her, remembered his words: “But I never wanted to be a dagger for her honing.”
The woman walked toward them, raised her wand, then muttered a few words. A purple glow awoke within the depths of the crystal mirror, painting her features with a sickly light. As she stared into her side of the crystal, her eyes abruptly widened. For the first time, she was aware of her watchers.