The Lady of Castle Felmorel screamed then…as loud and as long as she knew how, as blue flames whirled her off her feet and held her captive and struggling upright in their grip. Nasmaerae was lost in fear and horror and self-loathing, as the blue flames of her own thought-stealing spell were hurled forcibly back through her.
She shuddered under their onslaught, fell silent as she writhed in helpless and spasmodic collapse, then howled with a quite different tone, like a lost and wandering thing. All the brightness had gone out of her eyes, and she was drooling, a steady stream plunging from the corner of her twisted mouth.
The eyes that swam with stars regarded the broken woman for several grim moments, then spat forth fresh blue flames to enshroud her in a racing inferno that raged for only moments.
When it receded, the barefoot woman was standing on the stone floor of the spell chamber, her fiery weavings shattered and gone. Her nightgown was plastered to her body with her own sweat, and her hands shook uncontrollably, but the desolate eyes that stared down at them were her own.
'You are Nasmaerae once more, your mind restored You may consider this no mercy, daughter of Avarae. I've broken all of your bindings…including, of course, the one that holds your Lord in thrall. Consequences will son be upon you, 'twould be best to prepare yourself.'
The sorceress stared into those floating, starry eyes In helpless horror. They looked back at her sternly and steadily even as they began to fade away, dwindling swiftly to nothingness. All of the magical light in the chamber faded and failed with them, leaving only emptiness behind.
Nasmaerae knelt alone in the darkness for a long time, sobbing slightly. Then she arose and padded like a wan-eyed ghost along unseen ways she knew well, feeling turns and archways with her fingertips, seeking the sliding panel that opened into the back of the wardrobe in her own bedchamber.
Thrusting through half-cloaks and gowns, she drew in a deep, tremulous breath, let it out in a sigh, and laid her fingers on her most private of coffers, on the high, hidden shelf right where she'd left it.
The maids had left a single hooded lamp lit on the marble-topped side table, the needle-slim dagger caught and flashed back its faint light as she drew it forth, looked at it almost casually for a moment, then turned it in her hand to menace her own breast.
'Esbre,' she told the darkness in a whisper, as she drew back her hand for the stroke that would take her own life, 'I'll miss you. Forgive me.'
'I already have,' said a voice like cold stone, close by her ear. A familiar arm lashed out across her chest to Intercept the wrist that held the dagger.
Nasmaerae gave a little startled scream and struggled wildly for a moment, but Lord Esbre's hairy hand was as immovable as iron, yet as gentle as velvet as it encircled her wrist.
His other hand plucked the dagger out of her grasp and threw it away. It flashed across the room to be caught deftly by one of the dozen or so guards who were melting out from behind every tapestry and screen in the room now, unhooding lanterns, lighting torches in wall sconces, and moving grimly to bar any move she might make toward the door or to the wardrobe behind her.
Nasmaerae stared into the eyes of her lord, still too shocked and dazed to speak, wondering when the storm of fury would come. The Mantimera's eyes blazed through a mist of tears, burning into her, but his lips moved slowly and precisely as he asked in tones of quiet puzzlement, 'Self-slaying is the answer to misguided sorcery? You had a
Nasmaerae opened her mouth to plead, to spill forth desperate lies, to protest that her deeds had been misunderstood, but all that came out was a torrent of tears. She threw herself against him and tried to go to her knees, but a strong hand on her hip held her upright When she could form words through the sobs, it was to beg his forgiveness and offer herself for any punishment he deemed fitting, and to…
He stilled her words with a firm finger laid across her lips and said grimly, 'We'll speak no more of what you have done. You shall never enthrall me or anyone else again.'
'I…believe me, my Lord, I would never…'
'You
Nasmaerae stared at him. 'I…no! No, Esbre, I dare not! I…'
'Lady,' the Mantimera told her grimly, 'I am uttering a command, not affording you a choice.' He made a gesture involving three of his fingers, all around her, swords grated out of scabbards.
The Lady Felmorel darted glances about. She was ringed with drawn steel, the sharp, dark points of well- used war swords menacing her on all sides. She saw a white-faced Glavyn above one of them, trusty old En-art staring grimly at her over another. Then she whirled away, hiding her face in her hands.
'I…I…
'Your life shall be shorn from you if you do not. Death or obedience, Lady. The same choice warriors who serve me have, every day. It comes not so hard to them.'
The Lady Nasmaerae groaned. Slowly her hands fell from her face and she straightened, breathing heavily, her eyes elsewhere. She threw back her head to look at the ceiling and said in a small voice, 'I'll need more room. Someone pluck away this rug, lest it be scorched.' She walked deliberately onto the point of someone's sword until they gave way before her and she could get off the soft, luxurious rug, then turned to face back into the ring and said softly, 'I'll need a knife.'
'No,' Esbre snapped.
'The spell requires it, Lord,' she told the ceiling. 'Wield it yourself, if it gives you comfort…but obey me utterly when I begin the casting, lest we both be doomed.'
'Proceed,' he said, his voice cold stone again.
Nasmaerae strode away from him until she stood in the center of the ring of blades once more, then turned and faced him. 'Glavyn,' she said, 'bring my lord's chamber pot hence. If it be empty, report so back to us.'
The guard stared at her, unmoving…but spun from his place and hastened to the door at a curt nod from Lord Felmorel.
While they waited, Nasmaerae calmly tore the soaked nightgown from her body and flung it away, standing nude before them all. She stood flatfooted, neither covering herself modestly nor adopting her usual sensual poses, and licked her lips more than once, looking only at her lord.
'Punish me,' she said suddenly, 'in any other way but this. The Art means all to me, Esbre, every…'
'Be still,' he almost whispered, but she shrank back as if he'd snapped a lash across her lips and said no more.
The door opened, Glavyn returned bearing an earthen pot. Lord Felmorel took it from him, motioned him back into his place in the line, and said to his men, 'I trust you all. If you see ought that offers ill to Felmorel, strike accordingly…both of us, if need be.' Bearing a small belt knife and the pot, he stepped forward.
'I love you, Esbre,' the Lady Nasmaerae whispered, and went to her knees.
He stared at her stonily and said only, 'Proceed.'
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and said, 'Place the pot so that I can reach within.' When he did so, she dipped one hand in and brought it out with a palmful of his urine. Letting her cupped hand rest on the floor, she held out her other hand and said, 'Cut my palm…not deeply, but draw blood.'
Grimly Lord Felmorel did as he was bid, and she said, 'Now withdraw…pot, knife, and all.'
As he retreated, the guards grew tense, waiting to leap forward with their steel at the slightest sign from Lord Esbre. As her own dark blood filled her palm, Nasmaerae looked around the ring. Their faces told her just how deeply she was feared and hated. She bit her lip and shook her head slightly.
Then she drew in another deep breath, and with it seemed to gain courage. 'I'll begin,' she announced, and without pause slipped into a chant that swiftly rose in urgency and seemed fashioned around his name. The words were thick and yet somehow slithering, like aroused serpents. As they came faster and faster, small wisps of smoke issued from between her lips.
Suddenly…very suddenly…she clapped her hands together so that blood and urine mixed, and cried out a phrase that seemed to echo and smite the ears of the men in the chamber like thunderclaps. A white flame flared between her cupped palms, and she lifted her head to look at her lord…only to scream, raw and horrified and desperate, and try to fling herself to her feet and away.
The star-swirling eyes of Azuth, cold and remorseless, were staring at her out of Lord Felmorel's face, and that musical, terrible voice of doom sounded again, telling her, 'All magic has its price.'
None of the guards heard those five words or saw anything but grim pity in their Lord's face, as the
