‘Pah! It is always useless to talk to women. They have no understanding.’
Miriel took a deep breath, but refrained from further argument. Leaving the Nadir to his endless breakfast she walked to her room and began to pack.
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8
Hewla eased her frame up from the wicker chair and winced as pain flared in her arthritic hip. The fire was dying down and she slowly bent to lift a log on to the glowing coals. There was a time when her fires needed no fuel, when she had not been forced to walk the forest gathering twigs and sticks.
‘Curse you, Zhu Chao,’ she whispered. But the words only made her the more angry, for once such a curse would have been accompanied by the beating of demon wings and the harsh raucous cries of the Vanshii as they flew to their victim.
How could you have been so stupid? she asked herself.
I was lonely.
Yes, but now you are still lonely, and the grimoires are gone.
She shivered and added another thick stick to the fire, which hungrily devoured it. It was small consolation that the Books of Spellfire would be virtually useless to Zhu Chao. For the spells contained in them had given Hewla life, long after her skin should have turned to dust, had held at bay the mortal pain of her inflamed joints. The six books of Moray Sen. Priceless. She remembered the day she had shown them to him, opening the secret compartment behind the firestone. She had believed in him then, the young Chiatze. Loved him. She shuddered. Old fool.
He had taken the grimoires she had schemed for, killed for, sold her soul for.
Now the Void beckoned.
Waylander will kill him, she thought with grim relish.
The room was becoming warmer and Hewla was at last feeling some comfort from the heat. But then an icy blast of freezing air touched her back. The old woman turned. The far wall was shimmering and a cold, cold wind was blowing
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through it, scattering scrolls and papers. A clay goblet on the table trembled and fell, rolling to the floor, shattering. The wind grew stronger. Hewla’s shawl flew back, falling across the fire, and the old woman stumbled against the power of the demon wind.
A dark shape appeared by the wall, silhouetted against icy flames.
Hewla’s hand came up and a bright light blazed from her fingers, surrounding the demon. The wind died down, but she felt the creature’s elemental power pushing back against the light. A taloned hand clawed through. Flames burst around it and it withdrew.
A flickering figure appeared to her left, and she saw Zhu Chao’s image forming.
‘I have brought an old friend to see you, Hewla,’ he said.
‘Rot in Hell,’ she hissed.
He laughed at her. ‘I see you retain some vestiges of power. Tell me, hag, how long do you think you can hold him from you?’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I cannot master the first of the Five Spells. Something is missing from the grimoires. Tell me and you shall live.’
Once again the taloned hand tore through the light. Flames seared it, but not as powerfully as before. Fear swelled in Hewla’s heart and, had she believed Zhu Chao’s promise, she might have told him. But she did not.
‘What is missing is something you will never find -courage!’ she said. ‘You will grow older, your powers fading. And when you die your soul will be carried screaming to the Void.’
‘You foolish old crone,’ he whispered. ‘All the books speak of the Mountains of the Moon. The answers lie there. I shall find them.’
Talons ripped at the light, and it parted like a torn curtain. The dark shape loomed in the room. As swiftly as she could, Hewla drew the small curved dagger from the sheath at her waist.
‘I will wait for you in the Void,’ she promised.
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Holding the dagger blade beneath her left breast she plunged it home.
Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess at the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel of the death of Miriel’s sister.