63 – Apostate

Unfortunately, Damon’s plans primarily hinged upon another’s work and not his own. Whether or not they could be accelerated depended on the mage preparing the ritual.

Thus, carrying his growing concern over the Keresi situation, he wound through the Wardens’ vault to the room where the Titled ritualist was bringing his most recent, and likely greatest ever, arcane working to life.

Damon’s eyes passed across the dense magical runes encircling the huge room. Laid in the center of the designs were piles and piles of gear, materials, and items of all variety. Enough to form a small hill. The vast majority of the Wardens’ wealth, pilfered from its members and soon to be put to use as sacrificial catalysts.

The Fell Apostate was not laying down further spellwork. In fact, the intricate designs seemed complete to Damon’s half-trained eye. He knew the broadest, most basic fundamentals of most magical disciplines, as any adventurer, guildmaster, or high noble should, but this was a ritual crafted by one of the foremost experts in the world, so he wouldn’t make even the most tentative claims with authority. Perhaps the ritual was near completion. Perhaps the Apostate had days of work left.

Damon had only interacted with this man thrice, so his strange appearance still unnerved him. The blindfolded mage wearing gray robes stood taller than even he. Unlike Damon, though, the Apostate had no muscle to balance his tall frame: he was stick-thin, like a man unnaturally stretched out. Wicked antlers capped the beastkin’s skull and made him seem even more towering—almost monstrous.

The man’s sightless gaze turned to him the moment he walked in. Damon had to fight a chill going down his spine. The sharply angled antlers, the long black hair dropping to his ankles, the white blindfold covering his eyes—and most of all, the knowledge that this man was at a very minimum an equal to the strongest of the Institute’s archmages, fifteen hundred if not higher, and a professional of the most esoteric and profane magics in existence. A founding member of Morningstar, and of such considerable power that he held few peers across the entire world. Yet so few knew he existed, even by Title.

“Damon Caldimore,” the Fell Apostate rasped in acknowledgment. The man never spoke in a higher volume than a whisper. Damon wasn’t sure he could. “Good. I had a matter to discuss with you.”

‘Damon Caldimore.’ Not Duke or Lord. The Apostate never used honorifics for either ally or foe. Their Title if they had one—and in which case, only their Title—or their name.

He tried not to let the lack of respect agitate him. At least the ritualist was consistent with the omission; it wasn’t disrespect shown specifically to him.

“And I as well,” Damon replied. “You seem to have made good progress. More than expected?” He gestured at the complex circle drawn in red and black something encompassing the room. “Are you nearly finished?”

“Yes,” the Apostate rasped. “I have hastened my efforts. I seek to complete our contract this night, rather than the morrow.”

Despite that being exactly what he’d come to ask for, Damon paused, then frowned. “Why?”

“I am called to the north. Events of great importance have transpired. Events that draw my eye.”

To the north?

“Where? For what?” Anything that caught the Fell Apostate’s attention had to be borderline cataclysmic.

“That is not for you to know, Damon Caldimore.”

He frowned, but he could hardly insist. He racked his brain for any recent major events in the north, but besides the Convoy—and Nysari Keresi’s involvement in it—he came up with nothing. Could they be related somehow? He doubted that. Not everything was intertwined.

“The work will not suffer?” Damon asked.

“The Contract is sacred. I will never threaten a Work.” His head tilted, and an icy finger tickled down Damon’s spine. There was something deeply unnerving about that blindfolded gaze. “If anywhere, failure will come from you, Damon Caldimore. Have you reconsidered the extent of your sacrifice, as I have advised?”

A cold anger settled into Damon. His jaw clenched, and a second passed as he pushed away his first vitriolic response. He knew he was working with monsters, but the constant reminder agitated him.

“I am not a madman,” he said curtly, “to spend the lives of my subordinates in such a bloody and indiscriminate manner. The name of the Wardens, and the wealth within, will suffice. You assured me of this.”

“Yes. But half measures speak poorly of a man,” the Apostate whispered. “It is an interesting Work you have provided. The Work is all that matters. Only men of unyielding vision will bend the world to their whims, Damon Caldimore.” A weak, one-shoulder shrug, and the Apostate turned away. “But if you have so decided, it shall be. I will push past the deficit. The theory is sound. The sacrifices heavy, if lesser than you could provide. I merely distaste the…” He was silent for several seconds. “Lack of resolve.” There was total condemnation in the phrase.

Damon fumed silently, holding his tongue lest he rage at the man. He had no intentions of testing the Apostate’s seeming unflappability.

Eventually, the Apostate rasped, “You had a matter to discuss as well?”

“No,” Damon said tersely. “No longer.”

“I see.” The Apostate turned away, uncaring of what had changed. “Make the necessary arrangements, Damon Caldimore. Send away the excellent kindling littering your halls; empty the building. I shall conjure a great pyre nevertheless. Tonight.” His voice took on a curious tone. “I admit I await with great fascination how this Work will manifest.”

Damon nodded toward the man, then stiffly walked out.

To his immense displeasure, outside the door, leaning against a wall, and likely having listened in on the entire discussion, stood the Red Tithe. Or Tobin, as was the innocuous—almost offensively so—name the man was currently using for this assignment.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“With a look like that, you’ll make me think you missed me,” the man said, smirking in that nasty way of his. “And no, I wasn’t eavesdropping. That implies I heard something I shouldn’t have. I’m merely keeping myself in the loop, like any good helper bee. You ought to thank me.”

Damon barely kept the disdain off his face. He settled for addressing the man in a way he knew would irritate him. “Tithe. Good. I needed to speak with you as well.”

“Red Tithe,” the assassin snapped, amusement vanishing. “Antlers there might not care, but he doesn’t care for much of anything besides splitting open souls and other flavorful profanities.” The obnoxious smirk returned. “Good taste, that, I do admit.”

“Red Tithe, then,” Damon returned smoothly. “My apologies.”

The assassin stared at him, then snorted. “Yeah. Sure. You know, sometimes you get under my skin, Caldimore, but then you go and do something like that”—he thumbed at the doorway leading into the ritual room—“and I remember why we’re such good friends. I’ve always had a special place in my heart for hypocrites.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed at the man, despite his efforts to remain aloof. The needling was hardly new. He despised the Red Tithe, even if he could acknowledge the man’s efficacy. The title of ‘Morningstar’s personal killer’ wasn’t an easy one to claim. Though not as dangerous as the Apostate, he was still an upper-Titled, and perhaps more immediately dangerous, if just thanks to his apparent instability.

“Hypocrite?” Damon asked frostily. “I’m not sure what you mean, Tithe.”

Irritation flickered across the assassin’s face at the repeated shortening of his Title, and his hand drifted to his sheath. Damon stiffened slightly, unable to help himself, and the Red Tithe glanced at his hand, then at Damon, and laughed. He patted Damon on the shoulder.

“Relax! No killing clients. Not until the Contract is over. Even I wouldn’t break a Contract.”

Damon couldn’t tell whether that had been a threat, a possibility worthy of great consternation. Even if his plans succeeded, this was one of the men he would still need to fear. He met the Red Tithe’s gaze evenly, though, not showing his unease.