Chapter 410: A Creeping Feeling |
It wasn’t a demon. Simon was sure of that much. A demon wouldn’t have known his name. Anthroditen certainly didn’t. He’d called Simon Enis in their last encounter because that was the name that Simon had given him.
None of those facts made the moment any less terrifying. I can’t control my hand. It could slit my throat in my sleep. It could write a word of power and blow us up. Simon thought as his frightened mind jumped from fear to fear in a panic. No, it could write the words and summon a demon or drag us all into hell.
‘It could,’ the hand agreed in flowing script. ‘I could destroy you, your squire, and this whole inn, Simon, but why would I need to do that when you’re your own worst enemy? You kill everyone you—’
Simon pulled his hand away from the page by standing and then reached for his belt with the hand that was still obeying him. He tried to bring his hand under his control, but he couldn’t, so instead he looped his belt around his wrist and then tightened it so that it was immobilized.
Even then, it struggled, though, and Simon started to wonder if it might be able to use a magic gesture even now. That was concerning, but not as concerning as…
He’d looked back toward Varten, only to be shaken awake by his squire and bolt upright in bed. “Master… you were having a nightmare like I’d never seen before,” he said, instantly defensive as Simon looked around the room like a frightened animal. Simon could see the boy was afraid that he’d done something wrong, but that wasn’t the case at all. He’d done exactly the right thing. “I thought maybe it was demons or evil magic from one of those books and—”
“You did good,” Simon answered, hugging him tightly. “You did exactly the right thing.”
“Was it just a nightmare then?” Varten asked. The way he stiffened at Simon’s gesture showed how uncomfortable he was at the hug, so Simon released him, but he didn’t want to. While he wouldn’t say he had real affection for the boy, right now, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that the moment had been a dream and not reality.
It might still be some terrible prophetic foreshadowing, he told himself as he glanced down at his numb hand. Just because nothing had happened yet didn’t mean nothing would happen.
After that, they went even faster than before. There was no way he’d get through half the books he’d wanted to read, but whatever was happening scared him a lot more than the idea that he might miss out on a new word of power. The only bright side was that when he finally got around to checking the mirror one night by the campfire, he saw that the level progression was still intact. He hadn’t ruined anything with this dangerous sidequest.
Still, that was no excuse to dawdle. They stopped staying at inns when they weren’t convenient, and rode on harder than before. Simon didn’t explain why to Varten, and the boy never asked, but Simon could see his concern. If he noticed the way that Simon bound his hand tightly each night, he didn’t ask about that, either. He just did as he was told with a worried expression.
When they reached the Broken Tower four days later, the shadow had grayed as it spread almost to his elbow. This time, he didn’t endure the purity protocols that the Unspoken favored and instead forced a meeting with his Master immediately. No one was happy about that, not the gate guard or the man himself, but repeating the words ‘demon,’ and ‘open gateway to hell,’ tended to push past resistance, and though Simon was forced practically at sword point to stay in the same chapel, the guard promised, “Someone will be here within the hour to speak with you.”
That was better than nothing. Normally, Simon worked hard to fly below the radar and avoid drawing attention to himself, but right now, secrecy was less important than certainty. He needed to know what was happening to him, and the Unspoken were the people most likely to know the answer to that.
Master Harrin arrived only half an hour later, when Varten had just finished helping Simon remove his armor. The man was as gruff as ever, but when he saw the scorched platemail, his expression softened.
“What did you find? Who was Mr. Dekarlo in league with?” he asked.
“No one that matters,” Simon answered with a shake of his head. “This was someone else, Lord Marhew.”
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Simon could see that the name had no meaning to the steel-haired Master, so he continued. “He was a noble near the docks. While I was investigating the mission you sent me on, he abducted my squire for—”
“Your squire?” he asked, turning to regard Varten. The intensity with which he looked at the boy made it clear he was using the sight to see right through him.
“What did he do to him?” the Master demanded.
Simon put his hand between the old man and the boy, not to physically protect him, but to distract the man. Simon didn’t know exactly how clear Master Harrin’s sight was, but the strange striations were dark enough and clear enough that anyone with the right gaze should be able to tell something was amiss.
That was exactly what happened. Instantly, the Master’s gaze shifted from the boy to the hand, and Simon explained everything. “Nothing happened to Varten or the other children the man planned to sacrifice," Simon explained. “I interrupted and pushed him into hell. I even took care of a few other warlocks in his employ and had those who served him but said nothing about the man’s dark deeds hanged. Unfortunately, as I did so, I had a brush with darkness myself.”
“I can see that,” Master Harrin agreed. “Was this a spell, or…”
“I believe during our struggle my finger tips passed beyond the veil and into hell itself,” he admitted, drawing an audible gasp from his squire. Varten had clearly suspected something, but not this. “I clearly came within inches of falling in there myself, but by some miracle I was spared.”
“Your fingertips?” he raised an eyebrow. “And now it’s spread all the way to…” he gestured toward Simon’s elbow. The way he didn’t come close to touching him unnerved Simon almost as much as the sense that he was at a loss for words.
“That’s right,” Simon agreed, filling in the silence. “A little more every day,” he decided to leave the numb part out, because he didn’t like the suspicious colors that were starting to color Master Harrin’s otherwise white aura. “It was pitch black at first, but now it's just a dark gray, and I want to purify myself before it spreads.”
“I—” For once, the man seemed to be at a loss for words. “I will inform the Grandmaster. He will know what to do. Purify yourself until then, and then—”
“Wait, you’ve never seen this before?” Simon interrupted, stunned.
The man looked like he wanted to admonish Simon, but instead he said, “I’m sure he has. Be patient, Sir Enis, and we will find an answer to this together. Whether it’s fasting or prayer, we will find…”
Simon stopped listening to him. In that moment, all he wanted to do was whisper the words of soul repair, Delzam Eszloum. He didn’t know if it would work. He’d never tried it before. If it didn’t, he could try words of soul healing or even alteration after that. Suddenly, the man he’d come here to get answers from was leaving, and worse, the words he’d said about being sure were a lie. Only the knowledge that he’d spoil his sight entirely restrained him.
Knights probably don’t usually survive run-ins with demons, Simon reminded himself. The only kind of victory in that situation would be Pyrrhic.
Before Simon could decide if that was worth it or not, though, Varten turned on him with angry tears flashing in his eyes. “You almost fell into hell… You were tainted by it, and you didn’t tell me?” he demanded.
Simon could have snapped him back into line then, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave a tired shrug and said, “I was hoping to find the solution before you had to find out about the problem.”
That answer didn’t please his squire at all, but they talked through it for a while, until they were summoned again. Simon was grateful for that, because it was starting to get dark, and he’d much rather have this discussion before his arm went dead.
This time, they were both summoned to a large meeting room where all of the masters were in attendance. Simon hadn’t been here in some time, but he wasn’t intimidated by the nine elders sitting at the table across from him. Instead of worrying, he repeated his story.
Judging by the colors of the reaction, some of them seemed to have heard similar stories before, but others rippled with surprise. The Grandmaster’s aura told him almost nothing. The most Simon could see there was interest, though when he asked if Simon had “strange dreams, or any other symptoms,” his heart almost stopped.
“I’ve had troubled sleep,” Simon admitted, which was as far as he cared to take that line. “But I’m much more interested in purging this taint than I am at—”
“We should cut the arm off, and treat it like the spiritual gangrene it is,” Master Warow interrupted. That wasn’t the first time that particular idea had been brought up, but it wasn’t popular, and set the old men to debating again for a time.
Some indicated that it could invalidate Sir Enis’s destiny. Others thought that it was unnecessary, and prayer would be enough. Simon didn’t like any of those answers, and while he didn’t want to lose the arm, it apparently had some historical precedent, and it seemed better than losing his soul while people argued about things.
If this keeps up, I’ll lose control of my whole body every night, Simon told himself. Nothing good will come from that.
In the end, despite his testimony and his squire’s, they were told to return to the chapel. “We will make a decision tomorrow,” they promised him.
That was normal enough. What was less normal was that they were escorted back by armed knights, and that when they returned, guards were posted at the exits of the purification chapel.
Simon noticed almost immediately that his weapon and armor had been taken. That was disturbing. They hadn’t bothered with his squire’s, but the fact that they’d taken his said a lot. Whether it said that they were borrowing them to make needed repairs, or that they no longer trusted him with them, though, he couldn’t say.