The next few minutes were tense as a bowstring. Alonso was made to stand guard o’er Lysa while Lord Gabriel sunk further down the corkscrew steps. Lysa found herself wondering about His Lordship, but when she told her curiosity to her watcher he would only command her to silence. Sitting and wondering was all she was permitted to do. In truth, for all the plots whirling ‘round her head, she knew very little about Lordships and all the accompanying politics. Baphosarex had a special distaste for those matters. What use were the laws of the living, compared to the laws of the dead? He figured they would never need to be taught - especially not to a little girl in the lawless south. While she loved her teacher, she did hate him for a moment, then. She briefly thought up a joke to tell him about this, only to then remember that he was dead. He died while she suffered. How did it happen? It is one thing to slay a king but another to slay a necromancer. Especially one of her teacher’s expertise.

“Baphosarex is dead,” she began, “But who, goodly watcher, dealt him the death blow? I know it could be no sickness, for he was the lord of sickness, and I know it could not be age for he was ageless.”

Alonso gave her silence. She would have to bargain or beg.

“Answer me, knight, and I’ll offer you an answer too. Or do you have no questions for the bronze woman? The wicked bitch? Remember that I’ve been given to the same lord who owns your hand.”

Alonso was leaning against the doorway, and now turned her head to him, having removed his houndskull helmet. He was older than she, but younger than Gabriel, and yet Lysa thought his face was the face of a man wizened by the years. He had a thick, dark beard, which you could sometimes see threatening to escape his helm. His nose and eyes were flat, small things, and a harsh weight pinched his features and wrinkled them. ‘Twas his eyes Lysa thought most peculiar; they were a plain gray, but were deep in his skull, and full of intellect which betrayed his zeal. The torchlight glinted off the studs in his brigandine. He was calm now, and his voice was like thunder rolling over distant mountaintops.

“Baphosarex was slain by the river called Gurod, down in the south, during the Battle of Gurod. We drove our lances against him, crushed the dead forces, and in doing so crushed his darker spirit. We had caught him crossing on a bridge of spines, pinned him between us and the hungry waters. His men, if the dead can be labelled such, stood against us, but not for long. Then the arch-apostate made his flight, screamin’ like a coward, but the bridge fell and the waters took him, swept him away to the depths, where the gods drown him daily, and remunerate his wrongs.”

Lysa furrowed her brow. She also tried to lean forward, but her body remained limp. It was no question that her nerves, her web of action, had been annihilated. Her sinews had been stretched, her joints roiled; aye, she’d ne’er be able to move again without a second spell. Healing was also her profession. Baphosarex had taught her that. Now he was dead at the hands of her new captors. She made a note to return to these thoughts later, when they could be more readily acted upon. Before the inner motivation is turned into outward change, the soul must hide ‘neath the body, and the truth must be disguised by tongue-wagging and flippant gestures.

“You led the charge, then?” She asked next.

“No - but I was at the faithful's side.”

Lysa curled an eyebrow, tilting her head. Alonso did not seem like he wanted to answer this unspoken question, but did nonetheless - perhaps a courtesy.

“Raphael Velenzi led that effort, aye. It earned him the regency, and stole my lord’s throne.”

Lysa understood nothing about this. Regency? So the old king had died, and for some reason his heir could not rule, so now there was a regent - who Gabriel warred against. Lysa understood little about the schemes of the northmen, but it was not her place to declare one king false and another true. There was the king who had saved her, and the king who had chained her.

“Gabriel’s brother, then?”

“Lord Gabriel’s brother, heaven’s sake. How long did the throne-takers chain you up down here, ignorant sorceress?”

She nodded downward, dark hair falling over her face, “My hands have not met this ground in five years.”

That gave Alonso pause. His eyes trailed across the diminutive figure before him, and it seemed for a moment that both her threat and his had been destroyed. Here was the sympathetic knight, here was the wounded maiden. There was no fire in that gaze - just cold pity. Lysa wanted to squirm away from it.

“I’m sorry,” said Alonso, as though he had lashed the whip, “Should you do right by His Lordship, you’ll ne’er find another shackle ‘round your wrist.”

Before Lysa could respond (not that she would have), she was reminded of a lesson about demons which her master once told her. A demon is idle in the depths. He dances with the Low One, and the gurgles of the drowning join him. But speak his name and he shall rise to meet you. And, sure enough, His Lordship stepped into the dank chamber, followed by a host of chain-clad warriors - who held firm a shrieking woman. Clutched in His Lordship’s arms was the dead princess.

No words were shared then. Lord Gabriel approached the sorceress, clutching the body tighter still. Her red hair was unbound from the many braids which she had come with. Her blue, silken dress, replaced by rags - which was more than Lysa got, anyway. The blood still dripped fresh from the corpse, staining her pallor. Her eyes, dull and gray, stared at nothing, for now the girl was of a different sight. A sight which Lysa would again blind her to. It was the death sight, the afterlife. The second life taken, to restore one. The princess was set on the floor in front of Lysa. Then Gabriel stepped back and delivered his command.

“Warriors, leave this chamber at once, and do not return lest at my hest. Work the magic now or you’re dead.”

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“I have been dead for five years. I will not die for another. Sir Alonso, grab the shrieker - Lord Gabriel, you shall be my hands.”

She was not used to performing this ritual with company. Ordinarily, the sacrifice would be sedated and chained, and her own hands - agile and thin and used to the art - would perform the steps. Men such as these would be reduced, and put into positions more suited for their brutality. But without her arms and her legs, the thought was useless. Yes, she would need to get her nerves back, quick as she could.

“Hm…” She pretended to think, “There is something I had not considered. Lord Gabriel, how much do you care for your daughter? If you love her, truly, I’ll need a second woman. This one should be around my size.”

Alonso’s suspicion (or perhaps “Mistress Hate”) had returned now, “What does that matter any? First you need one corpse, now two?”

At the mention of a corpse, the taken woman shrieked louder, twisted her wrists harder ‘against Alonso’s strong hands, flailing helplessly. Lysa found, throughout life, that women did not try as hard as men to hide their screams. It always disappointed her.

“Men!” Gabriel called to those outside the chamber, “A second woman - shorter than the first, and not such a bloody loud one!”

So the men left to retrieve her nerves. Lysa watched the dead princess, stared into her dead eyes. She was utterly beautiful, and even in death possessed the spirit of youth. No wonder her father was so fond of her; father’s were always fond of pretty daughters. Pretty daughters marry well, and a lord stands upon his marriages. What darker art is there than love? It is what pushes such men to wage these wars. Lysa wondered what reason Lord Gabriel had for reclaiming his throne. Perhaps there was no reason. Was there ever, with men such as him? Baphosarex had always been honest in his desires, at least. He wanted to rule the world - ‘till the river ruled him, per Alonso. Is it not true that parent over child is another sort of rule?

“The second woman, Lord, Lordsguard,” spoke a soldier, shoving forth the woman of which he spoke.

She was thin, short, and silent, her eyes much like the Princess’ but fixed on a different point. She swayed where she stood, as though she were standing on a great edifice, and then began to softly cry. Alonso gave both sacrifices a nervous glance (a feat, given how insistently one struggled in his arms). Lysa took a deep breath. She felt her own heart slamming. It had been long since she worked the spirits; she worried that her gift had atrophied like her limbs. Magic was a privilege, not a right, and it was the only privilege she was born to. Losing it… Would not be sufferable. Nor would Lord Gabriel and his sword-hand let her suffer it.

“These two will serve me fine, aye. Your men have good eyes. Now, Lord, bring me a lock of the silent one’s hair.”

Magic was a force of comparisons, and the woman’s hair was long, stringy, wet from dripping water. Like lines of nerves in the bloodstream. Her sallow face twitched as Lord Gabriel approached with the knife, and she sighed as he, with a cut and a yank, secured a clump of the stuff. Lysa instructed him to walk over. He stepped around his daughter, frowning. She had him put the hair beneath her own tongue. The texture was coarse and the taste undesirable - if one could believe it. Lord Gabriel shook his hand off as though he had touched hot coal.

Now with the essence of nerves in place, the essence of life was needed. While the ritual called upon only one stream of the stuff, that would not complete her deception. Lysa met the silent woman’s gaze, then frowned. A shame to waste a life, but perhaps it would also be a mercy. She nodded toward Lord Gabriel’s sword, which had been resting in the scabbard, exhausted after the battling. He drew the tired blade, and the steel gleamed in the firelight. Lysa spoke quieter, now.

“Cut their throats - aim the spray for your daughter, aye. Don't knick Alonso.”

That knight spoke, “My lord, think of the men. This art-”

“Is needed. The men will understand, or not. I am he who provides them their bounties, and they’ll not be so quick to rush from my side. Speak no more of this.”

So Lord Gabriel stepped first to the silent woman, held her still, and made use of his blade, and then clutching her hair as she fell aimed the life-blood at the corpse of his daughter. Lysa furrowed her brow. Stagnant blood, or softly flowing blood, she did not mind, but the spray got all over her legs and was cold. No matter, she needed to focus. She shut her eyes tight, and visible then to her was that which all sorcerers could see. Magick. It congregated like dust particles around the two corpses, swarmed like flies. Magick was as much an organism as any other, really. A moving, shimmering organism; one of many colors. Magick liked heat. Pyromancy was among the most popular practices for it - although that side of the art held naught but shows. It liked the heat of thermal vents. Liked the heat of the freshly dead.

“Now sever the next.”

More blood. A bit of gurgling. Lysa focused on the Magick of the second woman, located the individual cells. Then she whispered to them, spoke the tongue of the Ancient Ones, and commanded them to move. Instantly she felt her body grow heavy, her brain throbbing, her blood pulsing. The Magick took her energy - a bonus, for the colony’s advantage - and the energy of the dead woman. Then it gave the princess a sort of life. Then it destroyed the bundle of hair beneath Lysa’s tongue, and gave the sorceress her limbs.

Lysa, feeling very tired, forced her own eyes to open. She could not rest among these strangers. There was a new sound; the rasp of a new breath. She cast her gaze downward, and saw Princess Velenzi sleeping in peace, though her skin was still pale.

“Wake up,” Lysa said.

The Princess woke up with a gasp, clutching at herself and sobbing incoherently as Princesses are often wont to do. Then she shivered for a moment. Alonso stared, clutched his mace tight. Lysa did not blame him. For those without the gift, nothing was darker than the mystic force - and she would not feign ignorance to the taboo that would always follow sacrifice. But for now, Lord Gabriel was kneeling down, his eyes wide as dinner plates, and he was clutching his daughter. Lysa, shaking, got to her feet.

“For heaven’s sake, Alonso, fetch the witch some rags,” said the Lord of House Velenzi, whose daughter was now burying her nose in his armored chest, “The battle is won, my daughter is alive, and the sorceress is in my service. We must return topside - the sun must make itself bright upon my daughter. Tell the men to make ready their cups and their bellies - more victories are soon to come.”

“The thought of magick will disturb the men,” spoke Alonso, “We’ll say she’s but a different sort of healer - the folk kind. Most of these warriors are used to witch doctors - they’re common among the village folk. Perhaps she’ll do good on the morale.”

Lord Gabriel nodded.

Lysa, wanting not to laugh, asked, “And what of me, Lord? How may I serve you again?”

“For heaven’s sake,” he repeated, clutching the weeper tightly still, “You are a victor, too. Do as you will - but do not stray far.”