Karilyne- Heart Cold as Ice Read online

  I followed it along slowly for only a short distance before I came to a corner. The wall turned left and I followed it again. Another corner, quickly. I continued this action until I had traced the entire perimeter of the small, square space that confined me.

  It was a cell. That much was obvious. Someone had locked me within a cell.

  Furious, I brought my right hand up again, but this time as I did so I also reached within myself. Reached for the Power, the cosmic energy that flowed from the Fountain of my City and radiated outward across all the levels of the Above and all the depths of the Below, empowering those of my kind, enabling us to feel the texture of the world around us and, if we desired, tear it asunder, creating portals for travel amongst those realms.

  My intentions were to create a doorway to another dimension and simply walk through it and out of this confinement.

  I reached for the Power but it did not answer my call. To my surprise, no portal materialized before me. Not even the usual sparkle in the air that preceded it. To my greater astonishment, I could not even feel the Power coursing around me.

  Still I was not afraid. Angry, yes. Enormously angry. I wanted my axe. One way or another, it could have freed me, either by ripping open the walls separating this universe from another, or by simply smashing the actual stone walls that confined me.

  No wonder my captors had taken it.

  One option yet remained. Closing my eyes, I laid my right hand flat against the nearest wall and breathed in and out slowly, reaching again for the Power. I intended to draw what I could from the environment around me and allow it to flow back out, channeling it in the way I am able: Cold. Cold.

  Seconds passed, but the temperature in the room did not drop in any noticeable way. No ice formed on the wall.

  The constant, nearly subliminal, low-level buzz that marked the Power, always awaiting my call, had vanished. In its place reigned only silence—and an awful, empty void within myself where it had dwelt.

  The wall did not feel any colder, but I realized then that my hands did.

  My hands.

  How could that be?

  I never feel the cold. By my very nature, and because of my Aspect, it never bothers me. It is my tool, my weapon—mine to command. So I found it peculiar and troubling when the flesh across my arms and chest suddenly broke out in goose pimples and a demon chill moved through my core.

  I shivered.

  A sick, sinking feeling crept over me then, as I began to suspect just where I might be. I dropped back onto the bench and leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, running my hands through my long, thick, raven tresses.

  How had I come to be here? What could I remember?

  Little. My thoughts were a jumble. I realized for the first time then that my head was filled with a sort of numbness, a low-level but persistent static, in place of the buzz of the Power. It had been there since I’d awoken, invasive and oppressive, but I hadn’t noticed it, so distracted was I with my plight.

  Forcing the distraction aside, slogging through my own mental processes like walking through waist-deep mud, I thought back to the last of my memories before awakening here.

  A visitor. I had been visited by someone.

  A soldier. Yes. An officer. A general from one of the little human empires.

  And by someone else. Someone I could not immediately recall, save as a vague presence…

  No matter. The point of the visit came back to me in a rush and all began to fall into place:

  * * *

  Some unknowable time earlier, I was lounging on the southern balcony of the upper level of my ice castle when Mirana came to me and announced the visitors’ arrival.

  In times past, I had been more discerning in just whom I allowed to approach my world and my refuge. But for centuries now no one had bothered me, and thus I had allowed my defenses to grow lax. The starship had dropped from the hyperspace layer of the low Above and appeared in orbit, then immediately zoomed down on a direct course for my property.

  “They didn’t have to search the entire planet’s surface,” Mirana stated, frowning. “They knew precisely where we are.”

  I regarded my alien Dyonari disciple—tall and lithe, with large, dark eyes and straight, platinum-blonde hair—and nodded absently.

  “A single ship?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any identification?”

  “The ship is registered to the Third Legion of the Anatolian Empire.”

  I pursed my lips. The Third Legion. Well. That was interesting, at least.

  “Have they shown any signs of hostility?”

  She shook her head. “Not so far.”

  “Very well. Allow them to land. I will grant a brief audience.”

  I stood, lifted my sword belt from a side table and fastened it about my waist.

  “For their sake, I hope they intrude upon my time with matters of some import.”

  I reached over and grasped the haft of my axe from where it leaned against the ice wall. It was cold and dark silver, double-bladed and very heavy.

  “Or else…”

  My voice trailing away, I strode for the grand hall. Mirana hurried along ahead of me to carry out my orders.

  * * *

  “Speak,” I commanded, and my voice echoed from the sheer walls and columns of ice that towered high above us.

  “Lady Karilyne,” the mortal said, bowing. “I thank you for your hospitality.” He straightened. “I believe what I have to say will be of considerable interest to you.”

  I sat back on my throne of ice and regarded this man. I am no judge of human ages and lifespans but he appeared to me to be older; perhaps in his late fifties. He was bald, had a blunt nose and wore the green and white dress uniform of the Third Legion, a military order among the mortals I was more familiar with than most. His insignia revealed his rank to be that of general. Behind him stood a taller figure wearing a light blue cloak and hood. The hood was pulled up and far forward, completely obscuring the person’s face but revealing intricate filigree designs in silver and gold wrought upon it. Living as I do in a castle made entirely of ice, I am used to seeing my very rare visitors bundle themselves up for warmth. But something about this person drew my attention more than most—though why I could not yet say. I glanced over at Mirana where she stood off to my right, but her expression was as always flat and unreadable.

  The human began to speak again, to introduce himself. “I am General Yevgeni Vostok, called by some ‘The Cold,’ of the Imperial Third Legion. I have come to—”

  Little did I care for his name or affiliation. I interrupted him. “And who is that standing behind you?”

  Vostok’s mouth hung open. He was probably unaccustomed to being interrupted. He blinked, then turned back to the other as if to ask permission to introduce him.

  The other ignored him, reached up with pale fingers and drew the hood back. That action revealed a thin face with pale skin and curly blond hair. He could almost have passed for a Dyonari, but he was not. I knew him instantly.

  “Cevelar,” I said.

  “Karilyne,” he replied, a slight smile touching his lips. “It has been too long.”

  I could have disputed that remark—I did not feel nearly enough time had passed since I had last been forced to interact with my brother and sister gods—but I let it pass. Instead I asked, “Why come you here to my world, and in the company of this mortal?”

  Vostok was looking from Cevelar to me and back. “I—was just about to address that,” he stammered.

  “By all means,” Cevelar stated with a serene smile.

  This surprised me, but if the blond god preferred a human to speak for him, I would not object. I returned my gaze to the rough-hewn general. “Yes?”

  “My lady,” he began again, “I have come to make you an offer as touching the late Baranak.”

  I stiffened. Whatever warmth had crept into my body fled, leaving only that which is cold as ice.

  He waited, seemingl
y oblivious to the reaction he had touched off within me. My hands tightened on the armrests of my throne.

  “Baranak.”

  The general nodded.

  “Our glorious, golden god of battle, dead and gone all these millennia.”

  “Yes.”

  My eyes were narrow slits now. I’m certain some coloring showed now even through my skin, pale as snow. Slowly I started to rise.

  Cevelar saw and perceived what Vostok did not. He stepped forward, his serene expression at last dissolving.

  “Karilyne, wait—hear him out. I assure you it will be of great interest—”

  “Get off my world,” I whispered. My fingers closed around the haft of my axe, where it rested against the side of the throne. “Both of you. Now. Or my wrath will be terrible to behold, and far worse to endure.”

  Cevelar was frowning now and he appeared uncertain as to how to proceed. He backed away a step. The human, however, stood his ground. This both angered and puzzled me. Could he believe so much in what he had come here to tell me that he was willing to risk my legendary wrath?

  “My lady,” he said, his eyes moving momentarily down to my axe where I now carried it in my right hand. “I—we—understand that Baranak meant a great deal to you. That he remains a sensitive subject for you. That we risk invoking your anger by even mentioning his name. But I believe you will want to hear this.”

  I continued to stare back at him, curious now where he was going with this, how vast his impudence could possibly be, how far it could reach. He was like an insect one prepares to crush, only to see it shouting defiantly back in its own language as the foot begins to descend. I could not help but be intrigued by his audacity, his boldness.

  Mirana took a step forward, defensive of me, dutiful as she had been since the day I’d found her intruding within the City and brought her into my service. With a quick look I halted her.

  For a long moment no one moved, no one said a word.

  “Speak, then,” I said at last, my voice low and flat. “Save yourself, if you can.”

  Vostok frowned deeper at this but shook it off and spoke in a strong, firm voice. “Certain information has come to me recently, as head of the Third Legion,” he said, “and Cevelar here has confirmed much and added more.”

  I glanced at the blond god but his expression was impassive once again.

  “Yes?” I prompted impatiently.

  “In short,” Vostok said, “I believe we can bring Baranak back.”

  I stared back at him. I blinked. “Back?”

  “Back. Yes. Back to life. Back to corporeal reality.”

  I considered where on his body my first axe blow would strike.

  “It is true, Karilyne,” Cevelar said quickly, moving forward. He knew me better than most; certainly better than some human soldier ever could. He surely sensed the outrage and the potential violence building within me. “Think about it. The chance to have Baranak back among the living!”

  My expression souring, I looked away and shook my head slowly. “What madness is this?” I asked, my voice at first low and distant. Then, turning back on them fully, “What madness?”

  They spoke then, first one and then the other, making their case. They talked of crystal gemstones and of residual traces of energy and personality and of the Fountain in the Golden City. They talked of those things and more, and I ignored most of it. At the end, when they had finished their technical explanations, I simply asked, “Why?”

  Both of them regarded me with surprise.

  “Even were it true,” I asked, “why would you care? What benefit for either of you to have the god of battle back among us?”

  “Why?” Cevelar repeated my question. “Why shouldn’t we?” he asked by way of counter. “Why not right the monstrous wrong done to our great god of battle? He sacrificed himself to save all of us. Now perhaps we can return the favor.”

  “You have but to accompany us to the location where we have been making our preparations,” Vostok added. He might have said more, but after turning to Cevelar and seeing something in the god’s expression he fell silent. For my part, I stared away to my right, through the tall crystalline windows at the barren snowscape beyond, my mind a thousand years and a universe away.

  No one spoke then, for what seemed like half of eternity. But of course it could not last.

  “Will you not at least consider—” Cevelar began again.

  I interrupted him. “Leave my presence. Go back to your ship.”

  Vostok spoke up then. “You will not even allow us to—”

  “I allow you to leave here alive, mortal,” I stated. “Be grateful.”

  My eyes moved from Vostok to Cevelar and I noticed then that he was staring at my axe, and he no longer seemed intimidated by it. To the contrary, for a moment I thought I detected a different sort of interest in his eyes—a coveting, perhaps. Then he looked away from it.

  Why wouldn’t he covet it? Only a few of the ancient Cosmic Weapons remained.

  Vostok was clearly torn. It was obvious he did not wish to openly defy me and invite my wrath down upon him. But he also appeared surprised that I was dismissing him and his companion so perfunctorily. He seemed genuine in his conviction that what he had suggested could indeed be accomplished.

  I frowned and licked my lips.

  Reluctantly the two visitors turned and began to walk from the hall. I stopped them with a word.

  “Wait.”

  They looked back, their expressions questioning, hope blossoming in their eyes again.

  “You may wait in your ship where it now rests for one hour,” I told them. “If I have anything further to say to you, I will call for you before then. Otherwise leave and do not return.”

  With that I turned and departed the hall by the back way. Mirana accompanied me, as did my doubts—and a sudden and unexpected uprising of hope.

  * * *

  “You will tell them no, of course,” Mirana said. “You would never go along with such a scheme as—”

  “I am considering it,” I stated, not meeting her eyes.

  Surprised at first, my disciple had the good sense not to argue with me—particularly about this. Instead she hesitated, then nodded in acceptance and stood to the side as always, awaiting my orders.

  They were not long in coming.

  “We will go with them,” I decided.

  “We will?” Mirana all-but-gasped.

  “Yes. We will see for ourselves precisely what they are up to, and hear what they have to say for themselves. We will inspect their facilities and examine their machines.”

  I hefted my axe in my right hand.

  “And then, if need be, I will smash it all to pieces,” I added as I descended the grand staircase and walked purposefully for the main entrance. “And slay them where they stand.”

  Mirana as always followed me out. I doubt she believed what I was saying, though, any more than I believed it myself.

  TWO

  A short time after the interminable journey aboard their spacecraft, my memories begin to fragment.

  We evaded a number of Hand starship patrols before landing on a world of rugged cliffs and strewn boulders, with a pale pink sky and the smell of something like lilacs in the air. It was midday there and the rough stone castle into which we descended, landing on a cobblestone courtyard at its center, was vividly visible in the sunlight.

  That was when the strange buzzing in my head began. Thoughts became difficult to string together, much less words and phrases. I could see it was bothering Mirana as well, though she did not complain.

  Cevelar and the human Vostok appeared unfazed by it, so I could scarcely say anything myself. Instead my apprentice and I followed them into the interior of the big edifice. We entered a large, high-ceilinged room with stone benches around its perimeter and a circular depression at its center. We stood to the side of the depression and I tried to study my surroundings and get a sense of what was truly happening here.

 
I was not successful, for it was here that the oppressive grayness began. Gray in the air, gray in my vision, gray in my thoughts. Walking through fog—though a fog that the others did not appear to notice.

  “Where is the Sword of Baranak?” Cevelar was asking me. His tone was casual at first but it became increasingly strident as he repeated the question. Much before and after is still a blur, but that memory remains very clear. “Do you know what has become of the Sword?”

  Dizzy, reeling, uncertain of why he should care, I shook my head. “I gave it to Lucian, ages ago,” I replied. “I was a fool.” I shrugged. “What he did with it I do not know.”

  “It has turned up several times since then,” the human Vostok stated, his voice coming to me through the distortion like the buzzing of a mosquito. “It became an heirloom of the royal family of our empire. Later it was stolen. Most recently it was wielded by General Agrippa of my Legion.”

  Cevelar looked at him. “Impossible,” he said. “No mortal could wield it.”

  I laughed.

  They both turned to me, astonished.

  “Agrippa,” I said, as if that explained everything. Because of course it did.

  Not knowing what to make of that, they looked back at one another. “Agrippa used the Sword during the Nightfall War,” Vostok said. “Very effectively. Somehow he was able to wield it. But then, over the past two years, it has vanished again.” He looked back at me. “We hoped you might know what became of it, given your historical connections to it.”

  I shook my head, feeling drunk. The room was spinning. “Why do you want to know where it is?”

  “It is important to our project,” Vostok said. “We need the Sword for the awesome power it contains.”

  “And because it was the object most closely associated with Baranak,” Cevelar added quickly, “we hope that it might contain enough of his—how shall I put it? Residual essence.” He smiled that annoying smile again. “Yes. Perhaps it contains Baranak’s residual essence. Enough to use as a baseline for reconstructing him. Like cloning an animal from a strand of genetic code.”