Chapter 24

* * *

Later, in his analysis of what had happened, Hustin concluded that they could not stay. The order was so pure and concentrated that the mortals and the vampires who accompanied them rushed to do their Mistress's bidding before they could even comprehend it. They leaped from their seats to aid those afflicted by the demon rampage and ran deeper into the dungeon. The men didn't dare turn around.

Without Latham, who by some miracle had kept his composure, they would surely have lost someone. The route was winding, there were wounded in the group, and only through the efforts of an Elder warrior did the mages in their entirety reach the small hall, where they fell to the floor from fatigue. Not so much physical as spiritual. The knight briefly examined the mortals, checked their condition, grimaced slightly, and approached a fellow sorcerer: "Do you understand what happened?"

Despite their long acquaintance, the mage and the aristocrat continued to treat each other with the courtesy of the highest circles. Not because they tried to keep their distance from each other, but simply because they were more comfortable.

"Roughly the same as the encounter with Carlon, only on a different level," Hustin answered without hesitation. "The Initiation of Abyss allows the Mistress to communicate with its inhabitants and, with luck, to make requests. She talked us out of it."

"We have to go back. If she is in the same condition as back then..."

"Hustin stroked his short beard thoughtfully and nodded uncertainly. After her fight with the priest, Celesta had lain unconscious for hours, completely defenseless. She probably needed help now. Only what to do with the humans?"

"My colleagues shouldn't be left alone."

"Yes, I see," Latham agreed. "I suggest you stay here for now, and I'll go and see if Messena needs help. Wait for me in... let's say, an hour."

"And what do you intend to do if she needs help?"

"I don't know," the knight admitted.

It wasn't a long walk to where they were caught up in the aftermath of the ritual. The mortals, frightened and weakened, could not run fast, so they fell to the floor at the first opportunity. Yet Latham did not find Mistress. He knew for sure he was not mistaken - there were traces of the circle drawn by the sorcerer on the stone and dust. Here in the dust were the imprints of people's boots, and a relatively free area where they had been sitting close together. Come to think of it, the wizards weren't doing too badly. A normal person might well have gone insane after the sight of a stream of whispering demons, while the Academy fugitives didn't even go into hysterics. They rested, helped the weakened and wounded, and asked perfectly reasonable questions.

Where did the Mistress go?

Latham strenuously banished bad thoughts from his mind. After his death and birth into Darkness, the Mistress of the Night became the center of his inner world, an unchanging foundation without which existence seemed vague and unclear. Celesta was always there. The risens knew who taught and protected them, made rules and judged, helped, and punished. She created the community system and developed it. She ruled wisely and justly, keeping her subjects from slipping into the mud. The latter admired most of all, and since childhood accustomed to the idea of serving his suzerain, the aristocrat found in the new mistress an ideal ruler - the heart of the folk, its essence. Now Latham knew exactly to whom his allegiance belonged.

There was a small pile of dust on the ground where Mistress had stood. The bodyguard stepped closer, tasted the fine dust with the tip of his finger, and his face relaxed slightly - it didn't look like the remains of a vampire. The undead decayed in other ways. The dust sagged slightly in the center, and a curious Latham shoveled it gently to the side. He grinned incredulously, moved a little closer, and, disregarding the stained clothes, began to shovel the dirt off the floor. No, he was not imagining it; there was an image of two narrow woman's feet carved and polished in the stone as if they had been made by a master craftsman. It was so carefully made as if for a moment the hard granite had acquired the viscosity that allowed the painstakingly crafted form to be immersed in it.

"And the stone turned into the water where it was touched by the bare feet of the eternal youth. A fitting phrase for a legend, don't you think?"

Latham swiftly shifted from his knees to a fighting stance as the first words began to be heard. By the time the unknown man had finished his short speech, the risen was at a suitable distance to attack, roughly assessed his opponent, cast a short spell, probing the situation... His sword was staring precisely at the throat of a short man dressed as a not very rich townsman, standing quietly at the lowest level of the catacombs. The vampire scanned the dungeon with his eyes, made sure there was no immediate danger, and focused his attention on the mortal. It was an odd situation. The man, not a nobleman, not a fighter, not a wizard by any stretch of the imagination, had managed to sneak up on one of the kingdom's finest warriors. His instinct, forged in hundreds of fights, was wary of anything incomprehensible and strongly advised him not to get into a fight.

"There is no reason to worry, Messen Latham. I am not your enemy."

"Is that so?" The tip of his sword didn't waver, continuing to target Adam's apple on his scrawny neck. "Then who are you?"

"An observer," the mortal said with a wave of his hands. "I'm more of a witness and a checker at the moment, though."

He reminded someone with his manners, his detached friendliness. Something similar was going through his mind. Latham took a tiny step back, breaking the distance a little, and took his eyes off his adversary a little, hurriedly going over his memories. Where could he have seen, or heard of, an elderly townsman with an unremarkable appearance, without any weapon in sight, but with a muffled, hidden, but understandable presence of the power of Light, tucked into a corpulent body? A Saint? A High Priest of one of the temples? No, the feeling is slightly different - no hostility, no desire to punish the demon of the night. Then who remains?

The mosaic came together. The sword crawled silently into its scabbard as its master slid gently down to one knee.

"Ascended."

"Wow! Somebody still remembers."

Hardly the forces that planned and orchestrated the Academy's demise counted on the result. Yes, there were almost no mages left in Taleya. Almost, because every nobleman possessed a minimum of ability. Not nearly everyone was able to use them at a decent level. The victory, however, was pyrrhic and not much different from defeat. Tyran had taken the priests at the top of the most active temples, leaving those loyal to the Chancellor and the Son of the Sea without ideological support. Part of the Golden Quarter was caught in the breach, and the officials and clerks who inhabited them, some of them in very high positions, were killed. Panic spread like wildfire through the city to the poorer suburbs and by nightfall, at least a hundred thousand poor people had fled the Capital.

They fled without purpose, spurred on by wild rumors of angry gods and a new Plague. The troops could not react in time. The barriers had been set up in advance to intercept the small groups of students and teachers fleeing the Academy, and they did not expect to meet the crowds of terrified commoners.

Not two days later, Prince Kono declared his nephew bereft of Grace. The Civil War had begun.

But that was for later. For now, the risens had enough of their own concerns to oversee the affairs of mortals. It was necessary to reassure the servants who had been warned of the coming unrest, but who had never expected such an end. Somehow to accommodate mages from groups who had failed to penetrate the search net spread by the powers-that-be. To rob, a little, kill someone, extract a couple of documents from the vaults, which are not accessible at the usual time. In short, make the most of the opportunity. All in all, the Community was not confused and acted according to plan, but tensions were growing. The disappearance of the Mistress, who possessed all information and the fine coordinator, disturbed and a little frightened. Not so long ago, though, she had been presumed dead, so the rank and file vampires, who knew the true state of affairs, were not worried. But the Elders were worried

"It's been eight hours already."

"Garresh promised to let us know as soon as it became clear."

"I don't trust him!"

The objects trembled, and the thin glass crumbled as Medea raised her voice. She was afraid of everything to do with the Master of Light, and Garresh's interference in events weakened her control over her abilities.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"What did he say?!"

Latham mentally cringed at the sight of the approaching hysteria, but he repeated it aloud:

"Messena has been invited to speak with representatives of the Abode of the Abyss and will return here at the end of the conversation."

"Did he promise? Did he say she would come back?"

"Of course. He had a very friendly attitude."

The beauty collapsed into a chair, looked around at the other vampires, and stopped at Hustin:

"Can we search for her ourselves?"

"It's a lot easier to find Garresh himself," the sorcerer remarked melancholically. "He's a master and so on, of course, but lately he's been giving off a lot of phlegm in the upper spectrum. He hasn't had time to clean himself, I guess."

The vampire warlock was surprised to realize that he felt no particular bitterness at what had happened. A Mentor, before whom he worshipped and respected infinitely, was dead - but Tyran chose the time and place himself, departing with dignity, taking his enemies with him. The Academy is plunged into darkness, but it would be far more painful to see it desecrated by the hands of fanatics and fools. The libraries and the bearers of tradition have survived, and that is all that matters.

"Why did you have to let him go in the first place?" Zervan spoke up as Medea shook her head in horror, refusing the offer. "I'd have to stun him, tie him up, and question him thoughtfully."

Hustin smiled slightly indulgently, but almost immediately the smile disappeared. He had never met Garresh in person and judged the priest's magical potential from circumstantial sources and some studies of Taleya's background. Thus, how good a fighter he was, he could not judge. But before the sorcerer could speak, Latham spoke, who took Zervan's words as a veiled accusation of cowardice.

"It's a pity you weren't there at the time. I enjoyed watching you do this foolishness."

Oh, yeah?" The werewolf Elder leaned forward, hunched over, the tips of his ears pointed and pulled back.

Latham put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I've wanted to try it for a long time."

Hustin waved his hand carelessly, and the air between the disputants rippled and blurred, causing them both to recoil.

"This is no time to argue. You'd better think about what we're going to tell Gardaman. Should he come to Taleya or not?"

"Why?" Medea flinched. "What's he doing here now? When the war starts, there'll be carts of guns from Bardi. Loans, credits, northern wheat, whatever else there is."

"Right," agreed Hustin. "There's a lot more to it than that. But first of all, there are just as many opportunities to make money here, and secondly, there's only a fourth-ranking community in Bardi right now. Decisions are made in Taleya. A lot has happened in the last six months, and we have to figure out what to change and in what order. I, for one, intend to take a couple of students."

"It's a good thing, even if you're driven by the habit of lecturing others," the beautiful woman appreciated her lover's laboring impulse. She calmed down a little and began to sneer. "It is too early to do something. No one knows how long mortals quarrel among themselves, how long their crisis will last, and what are the priorities of the elite. Maybe they'll want to destroy all magic, and us, too. And I don't intend to decide anything without Celesta."

Medea's mood worsened again, and she looked around the other elders with a fierce gaze, secretly hoping to hear objections and cause a scandal. Unfortunately, no one was in any hurry to acquiesce to her wishes. So the young vampire, who had snuck up the wall to the high assembly, was greeted, if not peacefully, then at least quietly. Outwardly, the leaders of the raisens showed unity, wary of the turbulence of minds in troubled times.

"Is something wrong?" Latham was the first to react to the younger one's appearance.

"There's..." The vampire watched with frightened eyes, a grimace of admiration and horror on his expressive face. "There's..."

"So!"

"Mistress is back. She's in the conference room. Waiting..."

Medea was the first to leave the room. Not caring how she looked in the eyes of the simple risens, she dashed down the corridor, leaped up the short staircase, and burst into the hall. Behind her, just as impishly, were Zervan and Hustin, followed by Latham, the last of whom was walking briskly, grinning broadly. He had lost the least of his self-control at the happy news. Perhaps that was why the bodyguard, a little before he reached the entrance to the meeting room, felt something strange. Something that wiped the joy from his face and made him wary.

The vampires froze as they crossed the threshold and looked around in confusion. Darkness reigned in the hall. Not surprising, as the sun had not been seen in the depths of the catacombs since they'd been built. Nor had they seen fire or witchlight. The faint glow of decaying moss was enough for the sensitive eyes of its inhabitants, and no one was ever brought here. Today was different. The air seemed to grow heavier, filled with an oppressive, alien force; shadows in the corners of the room peered indifferently and pitilessly at those who stood at the door; hoarfrost covered the surfaces of tables and armchairs. The risens unconsciously huddled against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to see the figure seated at the far end of the room. For some reason, their gaze refused to linger on the face of the Mistress, slipping stubbornly to the side. The strongest undead sensed the change in their leader, struggling to suppress the fear and panic that arose in her presence.

"Sit down," a low whisper fell to the floor as ashes.

The vampires hurriedly took their seats, involuntarily trying to move as far away from Celesta as possible. The first shock had passed, though, and the inner circle had gotten over their emotions and adjusted to the power emanating from her mistress. Medea was the quickest to recover. She was the fastest to recover, and her face was full of delight, admiration, awe, and a small amount of fear. She had known the Mistress of the City the longest, trusted her as much as she could, and had no fear for her life. Her attitude toward Celaesta was a mixture of gratitude, faith, and mystical terror that was now being fed to her.

"We don't have much time, so I'll tell you the basics. The changes in my appearance and energy are temporary. In any case, I'll be able to control them soon enough," the vampiress's voice, like fine sandpaper, ran over the skin of those seated. "Until then, try not to disturb me unnecessarily. Of course, Hastin, you'll get a chance to take all the measurements, but no one has relieved you of your duties to take care of the fugitives from the Academy. By the way, describe the consequences of the ritual. I didn't go to the surface."

The warlock coughed, clearing his parched throat.

"After Maestro Tyran completed the ritual, a sphere of space with altered characteristics emerged in Taleya, the center of which is located in the ritual hall of the Academy. As far as we have been able to ascertain, any life within the sphere is impossible..."

"Are there any survivors among the people in the square? Priests, magicians?"

"No, everyone is dead." Hustin looked questioningly at Zervan. He nodded, confirming.

"The characteristics of a sphere?"

"Two kilometers in diameter, completely black in appearance. Absorbs any spells directed at it, and does not react in any way to material objects, but animals, when briefly placed inside, came back dead. No tendencies to expand."

The translucent smoke that enveloped Mistress of Taleya parted for a moment, revealing an alabaster skin more befitting a stone statue. The impression was intensified by the absolute stillness and the icy cold that emanated from Celesta. A moment and the dim shadows closed in, leaving only the lower part of her face exposed.

"The Sphere is stable," a faint voice murmured. "For the next five hundred years, its boundaries will remain unchanged."

"How do you know?" Hustin flinched.

"I talked to its creators."

Four beings who long ago lost their human form. Clots of darkness, a pure mind filled with energy. Humans who, in search of knowledge and power, had adopted the laws of another reality and were therefore rejected by their homeland. She felt the indifferent and careful attention with which the entities that had closed the breach examined the hidden corners of her soul, weighed on invisible scales, measured according to their own, only accessible to them criteria.

When the four spoke, she couldn't stand on her feet and collapsed to her knees. However, the creatures didn't need to be worshipped - they were only interested in the answer.

She didn't dare refuse.

"Tyran didn't complete the ritual, and the rift to the Netherworlds was not sealed..." There was dead silence in the hall as Celesta began to speak. "The Abode of Darkness saw fit to intervene. Its... representatives have sealed the contaminated area of space and limited the further growth of cracks in the structure of reality. The Dark Priests vow that as long as the binding spell is intact, the border will not fluctuate more than a few millimeters. In time, the world will heal its wounds and the sphere will disappear."

"The problem is that the seal is fragile, and a strong enough surge of energy, from either our side or the other, can destroy it. Normally the priests would leave a guardian at the site of the breach, a kind of spell operator capable of correcting minor irregularities and calling for help in case of major problems, but now they don't have that option. I don't know for what reasons. They didn't say, and I didn't ask. It was enough for me that they offered to be my custodian."

"Did you agree?" Medea couldn't stand the silence when it became unbearable.

"I don't know how they would have reacted to the rejection," Celesta admitted. "It's within their power to wipe out all the undead of the kingdom, and I wouldn't risk tempting fate. Especially since the price they offered was generous enough - the knowledge, the power, the ability granted by access to the seal. It looked like a good deal."

"Can we trust them?" Hustin expressed his doubts.

Time will show.

The Risens have seen all sorts of things in their long centuries of un-life. Sharp twists of noble intrigue, creations of mad mages, miscarriages of mad evolution. Their psyches were trained. The nearly full Inner Circle had already recovered from their fright and were now peering with avid curiosity at the changes that had occurred to the revered Mistress. The first thing that drew the eye was the veil of shifting shadows that covered Celesta's body from head to toe. Leaving only her face exposed, it disappeared from time to time, revealing other parts of her body, only to reassume its impenetrable density. The shadows seemed to destroy any matter they came into contact with, at any rate, the vampiress avoided touching objects with her hands. Though she had hardly moved at all since the beginning of the conversation and sat motionless in a milky white chair, or throne, or chair with a disproportionately high back. Where the object came from and what material it was made of, no one knew.

In moments of danger, from extreme hunger or sheer exertion, the whites of the risens' eyes would fill with blood, and their pupils would dilate into a slit. An involuntary reaction, a sign of demonic nature. Celesta had no pupil at all. Neither did the whites, as such - one solid blackness flooded the eye sockets, staring cruelly and mockingly at the elders, silently asking: You weren't expecting me? And here I am. That, perhaps, was what was most frightening. The vampires wanted to believe that her words were true and that the frightening changes would soon disappear.

"Is there something urgent that needs to be solved immediately?"

The Elders looked at each other, and Medea shrugged her shoulders doubtfully: "Unless it's about Gardoman. Hustin thinks he should be called to Taleya."

"He thinks that's right. Call it in. Now leave me alone - I'm tired."

* * *