Cloak Games: Tomb Howl Read online

  Something had changed since the last time I had been here. No, the room hadn’t changed. I had changed. I felt the auras of the magical objects in the room now. My power had increased, and so I had my sensitivity. I sensed the powerful auras around the Cruciform Eye and the dark magic around the two ritual tablets.

  But they were nothing compared to the powerful aura around Lord Kaethran Morvilind.

  He wore the gold-trimmed black robe of an Elven archmage beneath the red cloak of an Elven noble. He was tall and gaunt, with cold blue eyes and white hair like ice. Morvilind looked old and frail, but he was anything but.

  Even after encountering Arvalaeon, even after how much stronger I had become, Morvilind’s power still unsettled me.

  “My lord,” said Rusk. “Miss Moran to see you.”

  “Thank you,” said Morvilind, looking at his three monitors. He seemed to be scanning the official news feeds, which was a waste of time. There was rarely useful information on those. “Go about your duties.”

  Rusk bowed and left the library, leaving me alone with Morvilind.

  After a moment, Morvilind turned to stare at me.

  I looked back at him. He did unsettle me, and I was frightened of him, but I not nearly as frightened as I had once been. That was probably proof that there was something wrong with me. Terror was a rational response to Morvilind’s attention.

  He kept staring at me. Was he waiting for something? Should I speak first?

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  I went to one knee and waited.

  “You forgot,” said Morvilind. His voice was a deep rasp, much deeper than his aged appearance would have suggested.

  “Yes,” I said. “I apologize.”

  This was not going well.

  “Rise,” said Morvilind. “Since you were doing that anyway.”

  I got to my feet and stumbled a little. My head was still swimming from my hangover.

  Morvilind frowned. “Are you ill?”

  “A little,” I said. “I haven’t been sleeping well, my lord.”

  His frown deepened. “You are suffering the effects of excessive alcohol consumption.”

  “Um,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him the truth. If he knew what Arvalaeon had done to me, he might kill me out of hand. “A little. It…helped me sleep.”

  He took a step closer, and something buzzed in the pocket of his robe. At first, I thought a cell phone was going off, but he reached into his pocket and drew out an aetherometer, a watch-like device designed to detect and measure magical force. I really wanted an aetherometer, but I hadn’t figured out how to build or steal one.

  Morvilind flipped it open, glanced at the dials, and a flicker of surprise went over his face.

  He reacted to whatever he saw with blinding speed.

  Symbols of blue fire blazed to life in the air around him, forming a defensive ring. Elemental fire burned to life in his hand, harsh blue-white lightning snarling around his fingers. The strength of his aura pulsed against my senses. In an instant, he had summoned a tremendous amount of magical power.

  And it was all pointed at me.

  “My lord?” I said. I should have been more frightened.

  But if he decided to kill me, he would only do it once.

  “Remain where you are,” said Morvilind. He glanced at the aetherometer again, put it away, and drew out a crystalline vial. I had seen that vial many times before. It held the heart’s blood he had taken from me at our first meeting, the blood that let him find me anywhere in the world…and kill me from any distance, if he felt it necessary.

  He cast a spell, and I felt the familiar pain of the location spell.

  “You are Nadia Moran,” said Morvilind.

  “Yup,” I said, more flippantly than I should have. “Always have been.”

  The vial of blood went away, and the aetherometer came out again. “But these readings are wrong.”

  “Readings?” I said. I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did anyway.

  “In the Towers of Art, the presiding archmages devised a ranking system to rate the strength of an individual wizard,” said Morvilind. “The system was, of course, an oversimplification based upon erroneous premises, but it provided a useful shorthand. When last you stood here, your level of magical strength would have ranked at a four on that scale.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Where am I now?”

  “Fifteen,” said Morvilind. “Nearly sixteen.” His cold blue eyes drilled into me. “There is absolutely no feasible way that your magical power could have increased that much in so short of a time.” The frown sharpened. “Unless…”

  I waited.

  His lips thinned. “An Eternity Crucible. Someone put you into an Eternity Crucible.”

  “I didn’t betray you,” I said. It wasn’t as if I could have, anyway. Arvalaeon had already known everything about Morvilind that I knew.

  Morvilind let out an irritated breath, the first glimmer of anger appearing on his face. “Who was it?”

  “The Lord Inquisitor Arvalaeon,” I said. No point in lying to him. He could have forced me to tell him everything I knew.

  This time the anger exploded across his expression, and I took a cautious step back. I had only seen him angry, truly angry, once before, and he had butchered something like a hundred orcs and a pair of Archons in the space of about two minutes.

  But the anger wasn’t directed at me.

  “Arvalaeon?” said Morvilind. “Did you say Arvalaeon?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said.

  “I told him,” said Morvilind, glaring. “I told him not to interfere with my shadow agents again.”

  “Wait,” I said. “He’s done this before?”

  The Lord Inquisitor hadn’t bothered to mention that.

  “Twice,” said Morvilind. “It set my work back by years. Oh, yes, the great and noble Lord Inquisitor. The man who does the High Queen’s dirty work without fouling his own hands in the process. The wretched, miserable, self-righteous fool! He always complained that my methods were too extreme, but then he steals my tools from behind my back and uses them to his own purpose. I have lost years of valuable work because of him!” He began to stalk back and forth. He didn’t usually do that. “Always I am hindered by the bungling of small-minded fools! They are too craven to do what is necessary to save our race, but rather than standing back and letting me do what must be done, the idiots insist on interfering. Better a thousand deaths to prevent a million, but they bleat like cowardly sheep at the necessity of those thousand deaths. Arvalaeon is the worst of them! If the High Queen had listened to me instead of him, then the Archons would have been defeated centuries ago.”

  I stared at him, both frightened and fascinated. He almost seemed to have forgotten I was there. Arvalaeon had given no clue that Morvilind hated him that much. Of course, Arvalaeon hadn’t mentioned that he had “borrowed” Morvilind’s shadow agents before.

  I wondered if he had gotten those shadow agents killed.

  Morvilind was still ranting. I was afraid to interrupt him because I had never seen him this angry and I didn’t know how he would react if I did.

  “And his bungling came at the worst possible time,” said Morvilind. “My work approaches a crisis. Soon many things will be decided for good or for evil. I need a competent shadow agent to carry out my will, not one half-crazed by Arvalaeon’s wretched…”

  All at once, the rage vanished, and his usual cold mask returned.

  “But these urgent matters are pressing,” said Morvilind, “and I require a shadow agent, and I lack time to train another. We must discern whether you are still a fit instrument for my will. So, Nadia Moran. You will tell me what transpired between you and Arvalaeon, and if you value your brother’s life, you will leave nothing out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sure.”

  Morvilind frowned and tapped the vial of heart’s blood.

  Pain exploded through me, and I grunted and blinked a f
ew times.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” I said. “Sorry. I forgot. Okay, my lord. Wait, that’s not right. As you wish, my lord. I apologize for the…um, wrong term.”

  He stared at me. Was he that annoyed that I had forgotten to address him as “my lord?” Then I realized what had just happened. The amount of pain he had inflicted on me had been considerable. In the past, when he had used that much pain, it had left me curled up and sobbing on the floor.

  But when he had done it to me now…I mean, really. I had endured having my intestines pulled out foot by bloody foot. And not just once, but a couple thousand times. That put things into perspective.

  “Your psychology and perceptions have been altered,” said Morvilind, tapping the vial.

  “Guess so,” I said.

  “Let us determine the extent of the damage,” said Morvilind. “Tell me what happened. Omit no details.”

  “Very well, my lord,” I said. I found myself smiling at him. Nothing about this was funny, but it was kind of absurd. “I’ll try. It was a very long time ago.”

  So, I told him about the Inquisition, and Arvalaeon, and the Eternity Crucible, and Baron Castomyr and the Great Dark One. It took a while.

  “How long were you in Arvalaeon’s Eternity Crucible?” said Morvilind.

  “Um,” I said. “About one hundred and fifty-eight years. I died fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and nineteen times.” I could still see the bronze wheels of that damned clock in my mind.

  “Your abilities have improved significantly,” said Morvilind. “How long can you remain Cloaked while moving?”

  “About nine minutes,” I said. “Give or take, depending on how tired I already am.”

  “And how long can you remain Cloaked while standing motionless?”

  I shrugged. “A while. Indefinitely. I haven’t timed that out yet.”

  He walked towards me, and I flinched away.

  “Hold still,” said Morvilind. He flexed his free hand, ghostly blue fire dancing around his fingers. “There is one last thing to determine.”

  I recognized that spell. It was the very first spell I had seen him cast on the day we had met, the day my parents died. He had used it to determine my magical strength. His cold, bony fingers clamped around my jaw, and I felt his presence inside my thoughts, pushing at my will to see how strong my magic had become.

  I pushed back, shoving him out of my mind.

  When he had done this to me as a child, it had taken all of my strength. Now it was easy, not much harder than casting an Occlusion spell. I suppose if he had really wanted to stay in my mind, he would have done it, but he didn’t try.

  “Fascinating,” he murmured, stepping back. The harsh glare of the warding spells faded away. He must have decided that I wasn’t going to threaten him.

  “It doesn’t feel that way,” I said.

  “Your magical strength has increased exponentially,” said Morvilind. “Had you been born an Elf, your level of power would be sufficient to win you the title of magus, with its accompanying rights and responsibilities. You might make a far more effective shadow agent now. Indeed, you are now the most powerful shadow agent I have ever employed. Unfortunately, the process has left you with severe psychological damage. To judge from your hangover, it is likely you are going to develop substance abuse problems, and your state of trauma indicates you will have difficulty controlling your emotions and will likely act irrationally in stressful situations.”

  “But you don’t care about that,” I said.

  “Do I?” said Morvilind.

  “I didn’t betray you,” I said. “That’s what matters to you.”

  Morvilind said nothing. I gathered he was waiting for me to say my piece.

  “I didn’t betray you to Arvalaeon. I couldn’t have stopped him, but I didn’t betray you,” I said. “And I’m not going to betray you. You’re the only one who can cure my brother.” Unless I found a bloodcaster, but he didn’t need to know about that. “You can hurt me, but that doesn’t matter as much as it once did. All I care about is curing my brother. And if that’s not enough for you…well, just kill me already and get it over with. I mean, Jesus. You’ll only kill me once more.”

  Morvilind said nothing for another few seconds, and then he almost laughed. That surprised me. Granted, it was more like a twitch of his thin lips and a sudden intake of breath than a proper laugh, but it was as close to a laugh as he ever came.

  “That is correct,” said Morvilind. “No matter how badly you fail me, Nadia Moran, I will never kill you more than once.” A flicker of the anger returned. “Righteous and high-minded Arvalaeon cannot say the same.” He turned. “Follow me. I have a task for you, and we shall see if you can continue to serve me or not.”

  I shrugged and followed him. I expected him to walk to the front of the mansion, where he would have a car or something waiting. Instead, he went to a narrow door between two of the library’s bookcases, cast a spell, and opened it.

  That surprised me, too. I had known him for fifteen years (one hundred and seventy-three, if you counted the Eternity Crucible), and I had never seen that door open. I had never tried to open it. Morvilind had made it clear I was to never poke around his mansion without permission.

  Also, powerful wards had sealed the door.

  But now Morvilind undid the warding spells, and I followed him into the room.

  I think it was a summoning chamber of some kind.

  The first thing I noticed was the magical aura of the place. Morvilind had cast a lot of potent spells in here, maybe thousands of them over the centuries, and the aura lingered. It wasn’t quite as charged with magical energy as the Shadowlands, but it was close. The walls, floor, and the ceiling were covered in pale blue marble. An elaborate circle had been carved into the center of the floor, ringed with Elven hieroglyphics. Morvilind had another summoning circle in the library, but this one looked far more elaborate.

  The second thing I noticed was the Ringbyrne Amulet. It sat on a wooden podium before the circle, next to a closed book with a cover adorned in Elven hieroglyphics. The amulet was about the size of my hand, a disc of silvery metal inscribed with alien symbols. In its center rested a pale blue crystal that gave off a strange light. It offered protection against the creatures of the Shadowlands, and I had stolen it from Jarl Rimethur at the behest of Morvilind last year.

  Well. I say stolen, but Jarl Rimethur let me take it, in part of his plot with the Knight of Grayhold to screw over the Rebels.

  I hadn’t thought about Jacob Temple in a long time. I wondered what he would say if he saw me now.

  The third thing I noticed was the short man in the dark coat.

  He was short for a man (but taller than me, alas, because everyone’s taller than me), and wore a black coat, a white shirt, a black vest, black trousers, and gleaming black shoes. He had black hair streaked with gray at the temples, and his skin was vaguely olive-colored. He looked…Middle Eastern? No, that wasn’t right. Greek? Or…

  My brain caught up to me.

  This was the man I had seen last night, the man with shadows for eyes.

  I gave him a sharp look, but his black eyes looked unremarkable.

  “You,” I said.

  Morvilind frowned.

  “Good morning,” said the man. “I am pleased to see you looking healthier since our last encounter.”

  “You have met?” said Morvilind.

  “Last night,” I said. “He talked to me while I was drunk. I thought he was a hallucination.”

  “I needed to see if you were capable enough to perform as I required,” said the man, his deep voice pleasant and calm.

  “Perform?” I said. “Perform what?”

  “A task,” said the man. “Specifically, three tasks. That was the arrangement, as I recall.”

  I looked at him, at Morvilind, and then back at the man in the dark coat. This didn’t seem right. Morvilind had just complained about Arvalaeon using me for his purposes, and now he was going to
loan my skills out to some random human? Was Morvilind being blackmailed? I couldn’t imagine that. I had never seen Morvilind obey anyone. I supposed the only one who could command Morvilind was the High Queen, but I couldn’t imagine him listening to a human for any reason.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  The man smiled. “You haven’t told her yet, Lord Morvilind? Shall I introduce myself?”

  Morvilind grimaced. “You may as well.”

  “Very good,” said the man in the dark coat. “My name is quite unimportant, and hardly anyone has heard of me. But you might have heard of me, I think. Among the people who know I exist, I am known as the Forerunner.”

  I blinked. “The Forerunner…”

  I had heard that title before.

  Then the memory came crashing back, and I took an alarmed step back, calling my magic to me.

  “The Forerunner!” I said.

  Riordan and the Family of Shadow Hunters had been looking for the Forerunner for centuries. I didn’t know very much about the Forerunner, but from what I had learned, he was some kind of immortal wizard who had founded Dark Ones cults on Earth long before the Conquest. During his big speech at Venomhold, my murderous ex-boyfriend Nicholas Connor had said that the Forerunner had helped arrange the grand alliance of Rebels and Archons and the Dark One cults that he had assembled.

  Which meant that I was standing a few yards from one of the most dangerous and the most wanted men on Earth.

  And Morvilind had invited him here.

  “You have heard of me, I see,” said the Forerunner. “That is regrettable. I do not care for publicity, but one cannot always have things one’s own way.”

  I looked at Morvilind, my mind spinning. The Forerunner couldn’t be here without Morvilind’s permission. Morvilind had always forbidden me to ask him about the Dark Ones. He had sent me to steal various items related to the Dark Ones over the last few years. Was he a Dark Ones cultist? Was he working with the Rebels? Was he secretly an Archon? That seemed unlikely. The one other time I had seen Morvilind truly angry had been when he had slaughtered those Archons in the street.