Read Online Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) by Patrick Siana - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Siana
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would prove most advantageous in the months
to come.
With each pardon he performed his renown grew—as did the
number of men in his thrall. The ritual was little more than a light show, save
for a little twist. Sarad wove an invisible charm, planting a seed in Vachel’s
unconscious mind. The suggestion would firm its hold over the ensuing days, and
the supplicant would find his mind drawn back to the Prelate of the Church of
the One God. He would remember Sarad with admiration and reverence. After the
hypnotic suggestion took root, with little effort Sarad would be able to
subjugate the Duke’s will entirely should the need arise. In the meantime, he
had guaranteed another loyal supporter.
He reclined in his chair, relishing in his new, opulent
chambers. It had only been a few short weeks since his predecessor had gone to
his great reward. The stubborn old bastard had hung tenaciously onto his
vitality into his eighties, and Sarad had already wasted enough time waiting
for the pious fool to expire.
Getting close enough to kill his predecessor without being
detected proved to be a near impossible task, what with the throng of the One
Guard milling about and the myriad wards wrought in time beyond record when
Galacia yet boasted wizards of merit, which is why he had waited as long as
possible for nature to take its course. Yet Sarad’s timetable for advancement
to the Church’s highest office in Galacia had run out and he had been forced to
take matters into his own hands.
It had been quite the challenge, for employing even his not
inconsiderable magic proved difficult. Aside from having to avoid tripping any
of the wards, many of which would trigger in the presence of even the weakest
of cantrips, if the Prelate died suddenly there would be an investigation. If a
discernible residue of magic remained, the wizards from Arcalum would know
there had been foul play.
In the end Sarad settled on a devilishly simple plan. Consulting
an ancient grimoire acquired through black market dealings, he discovered a
spell that detailed a clever way to bring death to ones enemies with a small
investment of power, and, more importantly, one which would allow the arcanist
to cast the spell off site.
Safe in his own chambers, he wove the spell without fear of
detection, for while wards were placed outside the cleric’s dormitory and in
the keep proper, there were none inside their modest bedrooms. The ritual
required one black spider and a fingernail, lock of hair, or any other part of
the victim’s body.
It had been easier than expected to procure the components. The
vain Prelate wore his hair to the shoulders in a silver mane, and was
fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. His predecessor had a habit of
combing his hair before audiences, so when Sarad made an unscheduled visit, the
Prelate hardly had time to give his locks the proper attention, and as such
left his comb out. When the opportunity presented itself, Sarad adroitly
plucked a hair from the comb, the aged patriarch none the wiser.
Once ensorcelled the spider’s bite became deadly and, thanks
to the totem, the insect unerringly homed in on the victim. The poison stopped
the heart within mere minutes, and the cause of death would be virtually
undetectable. He had engineered the perfect murder. As Sarad congratulated
himself a toothy grin erupted on his face that was anything but holy, for now
there was but one man who outranked him in the Church and that was the Holy
Father himself, the Shining One, who dwelt in far off Aradur, half a world
away.
Sarad was snapped from his reverie as he felt a familiar
pull in the back of his mind, like the chime of a low-pitched, resonant bell. An
electric tingle swept up his spine. His Lord summoned him. The wolf-like grin
melted and his face became a stoic mask, empty of emotion. He rose and strode
with slow, deliberate steps toward his study.
He locked the door and then spun his hands, fingers splayed,
over one another in a
to come.
With each pardon he performed his renown grew—as did the
number of men in his thrall. The ritual was little more than a light show, save
for a little twist. Sarad wove an invisible charm, planting a seed in Vachel’s
unconscious mind. The suggestion would firm its hold over the ensuing days, and
the supplicant would find his mind drawn back to the Prelate of the Church of
the One God. He would remember Sarad with admiration and reverence. After the
hypnotic suggestion took root, with little effort Sarad would be able to
subjugate the Duke’s will entirely should the need arise. In the meantime, he
had guaranteed another loyal supporter.
He reclined in his chair, relishing in his new, opulent
chambers. It had only been a few short weeks since his predecessor had gone to
his great reward. The stubborn old bastard had hung tenaciously onto his
vitality into his eighties, and Sarad had already wasted enough time waiting
for the pious fool to expire.
Getting close enough to kill his predecessor without being
detected proved to be a near impossible task, what with the throng of the One
Guard milling about and the myriad wards wrought in time beyond record when
Galacia yet boasted wizards of merit, which is why he had waited as long as
possible for nature to take its course. Yet Sarad’s timetable for advancement
to the Church’s highest office in Galacia had run out and he had been forced to
take matters into his own hands.
It had been quite the challenge, for employing even his not
inconsiderable magic proved difficult. Aside from having to avoid tripping any
of the wards, many of which would trigger in the presence of even the weakest
of cantrips, if the Prelate died suddenly there would be an investigation. If a
discernible residue of magic remained, the wizards from Arcalum would know
there had been foul play.
In the end Sarad settled on a devilishly simple plan. Consulting
an ancient grimoire acquired through black market dealings, he discovered a
spell that detailed a clever way to bring death to ones enemies with a small
investment of power, and, more importantly, one which would allow the arcanist
to cast the spell off site.
Safe in his own chambers, he wove the spell without fear of
detection, for while wards were placed outside the cleric’s dormitory and in
the keep proper, there were none inside their modest bedrooms. The ritual
required one black spider and a fingernail, lock of hair, or any other part of
the victim’s body.
It had been easier than expected to procure the components. The
vain Prelate wore his hair to the shoulders in a silver mane, and was
fastidious in matters of personal hygiene. His predecessor had a habit of
combing his hair before audiences, so when Sarad made an unscheduled visit, the
Prelate hardly had time to give his locks the proper attention, and as such
left his comb out. When the opportunity presented itself, Sarad adroitly
plucked a hair from the comb, the aged patriarch none the wiser.
Once ensorcelled the spider’s bite became deadly and, thanks
to the totem, the insect unerringly homed in on the victim. The poison stopped
the heart within mere minutes, and the cause of death would be virtually
undetectable. He had engineered the perfect murder. As Sarad congratulated
himself a toothy grin erupted on his face that was anything but holy, for now
there was but one man who outranked him in the Church and that was the Holy
Father himself, the Shining One, who dwelt in far off Aradur, half a world
away.
Sarad was snapped from his reverie as he felt a familiar
pull in the back of his mind, like the chime of a low-pitched, resonant bell. An
electric tingle swept up his spine. His Lord summoned him. The wolf-like grin
melted and his face became a stoic mask, empty of emotion. He rose and strode
with slow, deliberate steps toward his study.
He locked the door and then spun his hands, fingers splayed,
over one another in a
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