abnabooks A Pact in a Poison Garden II
A Pact in a Poison Garden II
A Pact in a Poison Garden II
The saint snorted. Magic of the darkest kind.
Agreed, but dream-glass itself is by no means light or dark: it is simply useful due to how spiritually porous it is. One can press nearly anything into its being. Then - just as the colour in the glass of your temple stains the light - that captured essence will suffuse any mirage caught within and any illusion that it births.
He looked appraisingly toward the tower through the breaks in the illusionary canopy. I do not know what they use here in their enclave, but in the citys prism they have pressed the essences of dragons bile, strychnos, and deaths belladonna.
St. Cristabel gasped. A thimble of one of those might fell a horse! This whole garden is made of that?!
In a sense, yes. Ah! The fork. We must turn here. He followed a branching path to the right, continuing to avoid the reaching boughs. Though just as this illusion is but an echo of what it captures, the poison magic is not as fell as the true venom. Standing among the images might cause merely itching or rash at first.
He gave a low, dark laugh. His eyes grew distant. Wizards can be bastards, Cristabel. In the city, the illusion tricks you into thinking that your skin is merely irritated from sweat. As you press deeper into the image, its poison seeps into your flesh while you merely think you are sweltering from the heat. So, you throw off your cloak. Perhaps even your shirt.
Ducking beneath an illusionary branch, he continued his explanation. Here, such an action is twice as devilish. The heat in the City of Glass is true, for it lies in the heart of the desert, but that of this bower is a lie. You think you are cooling yourself of the heat, but you are truly opening your body to winters full grip. It bites into your flesh even as the poison coils its way toward your heart. By the time you have grown too weak to press on, the cold and venom have robbed you of all faculties.
A tree with a wide trunk loomed to their right. Look there. You pause before that tree, thinking to rest yourself for only a few moments, and once you let winter clench you tight, you will go to sleep and He sighed. Well, that is the devil of this illusion: it strikes when you have let your guard down. That is when one can be cut deepest.
St. Cristabel sniffed. Dishonourable. Wizards are bastards.
Are we truly, Solidblade Knight? a voice called from ahead. The poisoned garden may kill, but quietly and without suffering. Yet, from the accounts Ive heard, you split folk asunder and melt them with your gods vitriol. A mocking note entered it. I know which I would call the more bastardly death.
St. Cristabel growled, her face reddening beneath her freckles.
Steady, Kyembe pressed his hand to her shoulder. Ku-Hassandra, I cannot see you!
Can you not?
He blinked. What are you-By the stars!
The path utterly vanished as though it never were.
Kyembe and Cristabel whirled about within a hidden clearing, their hands tight on their weapons. No path lay through the trees where one could escape.
You helped me regain my object of power. She touched where her chest met her throat. It must have hung beneath the furs - a mummified hand dripping in sapphire rings. I owe you for that.
The Spirit Killer was unmoved. We owe each other nothing, Ku-Hassandra. It was your spell that aided Wurhi and I in escaping Avernixs camp: you saved our lives as we saved yours. We are equal now.
For a heartbeat, he caught a flicker of guilt across her face.
It was gone with the next breath.
Perhaps I feel I owe you more. She looked away as though some aspect of the illusion caught her eye. Your journey through the Forest of Giants nearly claimed your life while our trek after Avernixs camp was quite safe.
I cannot say I trust-
Kyembe. Cristabel placed a hand on his shoulder. Perhaps you should hear what this not much is before resisting. We are pressed for time, and we have a friend to save.
Ku-Hassandra raised a brow. You have some sense to you, Solidblade Knight.
I caused you offence and you caused mine. We are equal now. The Traemeans tone was as stiff as her words polite. And we have a friend to save, she repeated.
The Spirit Killer nodded to her appreciatively, and turned back to the wizard. And what do you wish?
Nothing much, as I have said. Ku-Hassandra lifted her chin. I simply would ask for a favour at a later time.
And what would that be?
I do not know, yet. But being owed by the Spirit Killer is good enough, I think.
He snorted. I have dealt with enough demons to know that an unnamed favour later is the most costly of prices.
It does not have to be. Ku-Hassandra leaned forward. Hear this: She raised her hand, folding her delicate fingers into a fist. She kissed her knuckles: the beginning of oath-making in the southlands. In return for this needed knowing, I - Ku-Hassandra of the City of Glass - will call upon you, Kyembe of Sengezi, for a service. You may choose what service you wish to perform. I have many needs, and I am sure one of them will be acceptable to you.
Crimson eyes narrowed. And I may refuse if it is not?
Yes. She said simply. I will merely ask for something else. A smile took her delicate lips. Eventually.