If only Hiddukel held up his end of the deal.
Balcombe had learned much about bargaining since falling into this arrangement. Ten years and countless souls after he had struck his deal with the evil god in the darkness of Wayreth Forest, the mage had a plan that would help him reach his goal and stop his indenture to Hiddukel all at once. He would offer the god of deals, the dealer of souls, a spirit so pristine and priceless that the god would be willing to nullify his verbal contract with Balcombe just to get it.
But Balcombe intended to ask a higher price than even that. Hiddukel had long ago promised him both power and revenge. The former had been delivered, as Balcombe was certainly the most powerful wizard in the region. Now he would also have his revenge by claiming LaDonna's position on the conclave.
As he thought about how he would approach the subject with the god, Balcombe compressed the wound on his palm until the flow of blood stopped, then he wrapped it tightly with a clean strip of silk from an enameled box near the foot of the divan. He returned with the small bowl to his laboratory. There he mixed sweet-smelling powders with the thickening blood to make a paste. This he placed over a red-hot brazier, then thrust his head into the billowing cloud of smoke that streamed up from the bowl. This cloying vapor cleared away the exhaustion of the previous ten hours and left Balcombe feeling quick and sharp-minded.
It was a ritual he had performed countless times before invoking Hiddukel. Each encounter with the sharp-tongued god was a contest of wills. Hiddukel was the immortal sovereign of contracts. Anything said during a conversation with him, no matter how insignificant it might seem, could become eternally binding. Balcombe had long ago realized that any degree of caution was justified when dealing with such a being.
Feeling clarified and invigorated, Balcombe strode from his worktable to a heavily ornate floor cabinet standing in the corner. Inside were symmetrical shelves top and bottom, with an array of small drawers in the middle. The mage selected one drawer and pulled it completely out from its slot. He then reached back into the empty space and withdrew a smaller, square, completely closed box made of highly polished gray slate, approximately two inches on a side. He pulled a second drawer from its slot and nimbly popped open a hidden panel along its back edge and withdrew a tiny bronze key from the secret compartment thus revealed. Returning to the slate box, he turned it round and round in his hands until he found the side he sought. As he carefully passed the bronze key over that side of the box, an impression appeared in the shape of the key. Balcombe pressed the key into the notch and instantly the box folded itself open to reveal a small, royal blue velvet pouch.
Balcombe carefully unfolded the pouch, which appeared to be empty. Its most striking features were six tiny, steel hands, which held the mouth of the pouch tightly shut. The wizard spoke the sounds, "buldi vetivich," releasing the magical wards protecting the bag and causing the six tiny hands to disappear.
Tingling with anticipation, Balcombe tipped up the apparently empty bag and from it tumbled a perfectly cut, fist-sized ruby. Holding the gem up to the light of one of the many candles in the room, Balcombe could barely make out the frightened young face deep inside the gem's wine-colored facets, looking this way and that, trying in vain to see what was happening outside the magical prison.
They'd made it so easy for him, the knight and his son, and most especially the unwitting Delbridge, who by revealing the secret plan had provided everyone but himself with an alibi. Placing the gem in Rostrevor's sheets while supposedly casting magical seals on the area was child's play. The instant the squire touched the gem, he was drawn into it and trapped like a genie in a bottle. When Balcombe unsealed the room in the morning, he simply pocketed the gem unnoticed. Everyone else was too preoccupied with the inexplicable disappearance of the squire to notice anything.
But trapping a soul was no small task, even for a wizard of Balcombe's advanced skill. First the wizard had to prepare the vault, which had to be a gem of extraordinary value or it would shatter when the soul was forced into it. Next it was necessary to ensorcel the gem, making it receptive to magical effects. Then the wizard had to create an enchanted maze inside the gem, thereby forming a prison capable of containing a soul. All of these steps were necessary prior to the magical casting that actually trapped the soul and had to be performed ritually each and every time Balcombe sought a victim to soothe Hiddukel's hunger.
In fact, hunger may have been the wrong word. Balcombe wondered, as he often did, precisely what use Hiddukel had for the souls he received from his faithful. Did he consume them as food, or was he beyond the need for nourishment of any kind? Perhaps they became slaves in some nightmare realm mortals could never imagine. Or, what Balcombe considered the most interesting possibility, perhaps Hiddukel used them as a form of currency in dealings with beings even more loathsome than himself. Ultimately, Balcombe did not care what became of the souls; his curiosity was completely academic.
Balcombe hesitated, staring at the enormous, nightmare gem for many minutes before reaching into the depths of his black robe. He loathed conversations with Hiddukel. Still, it was the only way to get what he desired.
The mage's fingertips met with the slight, almost un-detectable seam located just above his left breast. He tapped it four times—two quick taps followed by two slow ones. The secret pocket he had magically placed there opened,
