‘Get out of there, you little fool!’ someone shouted: it was Grunmir. He grabbed her as if in an attempt to fling her away. ‘It’s death to get caught by that night demon.’ His rough hands shook her and then fell away as he saw the figure of Lord Bethrayal rise before him.
Now, she realised, now is the time to bind him. Instinctively, her magic began to work, its craft threading around the Lord Bethrayal. So caught up was he in bloodlust and anger that he didn’t notice as the spells wove around him. A spear flashed through the air and burned before his body. Iwa could see through his eyes; the pathetic figure of Grunmir cowered before him as the old woyak prepared to throw another spear.
But Lord Bethrayal was quicker, his hand ready to snuff out the old woyak’s life. Then, just before the blow landed, his hand turned away as Lord Bethrayal sensed the trap. With a terrible roar the figure turned towards Iwa: but it was too late. ‘Run, you idiot!’ Grunmir shouted as the figure of Lord Bethrayal hovered above her, but she paid no heed. Over the shores the waters bubbled and burnt as the grass withered and the Lord Bethrayal struggled to break free.
‘Have you lost all taste for life?’ Grunmir pulled her away, but Iwa only smiled. The fool still thought that he could protect her. ‘Get away,’ he said uncertainly as he turned, a pitiful figure, his spear raised in a futile effort to fend off his doom as the power of Lord Bethrayal flooded into her. She could feel it pulse through her, an unstoppable tide that beat through blood and bone, down into the tips of her fingers and the roots of her hair. She could see herself in the years to come – the mistress of stones, her dominion spread across the forest, crawling into every branch and leaf. The Karzełek would serve her, just as they had served the temple in the old days, and the ancient gods would raise themselves once more over this land. She could see the temple as it once had been: a palace of marble and gold. Not even the Polish lords in their wooden halls could dream of such a place. It was not just Lord Bethrayal’s power she commanded, but his memory also. She could see him as he had been in life, his body anointed as he sat on a golden throne, the priests bowing down before him.
Yet there was something else: a vague feeling that hovered uncertainly on the edges of her vision. What did she want with such power, or kneeling lines of Karzełek?
There is no time for such dreams, the voice of the stones whispered inside her. There is much that is left undone; save your visions for later. Around her neck the amulet burned and its bronze surface crackled with power as the ancient spells rejoiced.
Deep inside a strange feeling stirred. She was aware of things around her: Grunmir’s voice as he urged her to flee, the form of Lord Bethrayal burning across the night, and the smell of blood and fire. Carefully, she reached into the folds of her clothes and pulled out Jacek’s totem, her fingers running over the carving. She could feel the magic locked away deep inside. Miskyia had laid them well, those spells which had kept the thing hidden from her until the moment was ripe.
Now their power merged with hers like a cloak. She closed her eyes and saw the sun rise over the temple; the first kiss of day warm across the pillars, bringing with it the scent of roses. She could smell the sun burnished upon Lord Bethrayal’s oil-scented skin as he walked among the temple walls. I have conquered this place. He smiled. Yet there was something else, something which the stones were anxious to keep from her, even as the Lord Bethrayal bent down to examine a flower that grew in a hollow amid the marble, its petals riffling in the breeze.
The sense of unease lurked inside her. Even as the stones conjured another image to smother it, the sensation grew. Iwa could see the Lord Bethrayal’s hand as it touched the stones, the marble cold under his fingers. He never conquered the stones, she realised. She could see them as he picked the flower, watching, waiting, centuries of spells lying vile beneath the surface.
Nobody can rule over the temple. For all his cunning and guile, Lord Bethrayal had never seen the danger. Over the years the stones had worked upon him, the power of those old gods slowly oozing their corruption into him, playing on his greed and his vanity, tempting him with thoughts of power. It was they who kept a memory of him alive after he had been flung into the firmament. It was they who had sought Miskyia out and allowed her pact with Lord Bethrayal, and it was they who had planned all this.
She was back in the tiny room deep in the heart of the temple with the sobbing lines of victims, as the high priest prepared them for the slaughter and, as he turned, Iwa caught sight of the priest’s face: it was Lord Bethrayal. In the
