Impossible! He had watched him die; he had visited his grave. There was no room for doubt or ambiguity, any chance that he had survived his execution. And yet here he was, looking exactly as he had in life—better, even—with the same perverse grin that suggested he knew something Turold didn’t (and didn’t he always?).
“I can see you’re surprised, Turold. Don’t be,” he said, with a shrugging gesture. “It all makes sense when you think about it. I had to go somewhere, didn’t I? They never found me.”
“Wait—you?” he said, choking it out. “But that’s impossible! A Familiar could never last so long or live independent of its Original.”
“Yours, perhaps not, but Hildigrim’s magic was of a higher order. After all, he pioneered this spell. He made me for posterity. I was to finish what he could never live to complete.”
“Great gods, it looks just like him…I remember it so clearly,” Astrid said, hand over her mouth.
“Not just yet, my dears,” Hildigrim said, signaling to the courtesans, who were hovering behind the couple. “I think we owe them an explanation.”
Turold glanced back, and behind the line of beautiful (and terrifying) courtesans, the mirror no longer reflected the room. Instead, silhouettes of various shapes seemed to swim across its length, none of them at all distinct, yet all of them distinctly alien.
“They’re waiting, Turold. Waiting for your sacrifice,” Hildigrim said, clasping his shoulder. “I told them you wouldn’t fail us. You were my greatest apprentice.”
“I never served you—whatever you are!” he said, pushing off. “Even with his magic—after all these years? It’s not possible.”
“No, perhaps not; perhaps I had some help,” he said, gesturing to the portal. “You see, Lord Gramsteed issued a desperate manhunt to find me. He knew I was out there, as reports kept reaching his ears: Hildigrim Blackbeard alive! Seen among the ruins of such and such…robbed a man of his horse and was seen riding north, etc. Eventually, I had nowhere else to turn. I took a chance on one of the portals.”
“But how could you…without the Codex?”
“Sir Otrygg was gracious enough to help me,” he said, with a laugh. “And I’m the one who told him, upon my return, your sister is here! And others, everyone you ever lost, here for the taking! And they all want to come home!”
Turold almost fell backwards—or did fall backwards, though Astrid was there to catch him. The pieces, which never quite fit in his mind, suddenly snapped into place, assuming a grotesque portrait in the shape of his Master. Hildigrim held up his hands impatiently, fearing Turold would launch into a stream of objections (as no doubt the real Hildigrim would).
“Yes, I may have manipulated the old coot, though he gobbled it up without question. But Turold, it was the only way. The Four were scattered, I could never reach them myself. In fact, I could only find one of them, and I told her to seek you. I knew you had the Sight, or simply the vision to see it through. And I was right!”
“Giacinta?” he gasped. “You found her? But I still don’t understand, where was she?”
“To explain that you would have to see for yourself,” he shrugged. “It’s not like any place on earth…more like a dream if you dreamed the same dream for a thousand years. That’s their problem—they were dreaming for too long; I couldn’t find them. Only the portals can call them home. Sir Otrygg helped me open them all…though once he discovered why we opened them, he suffered a change of heart.”
“Yes, he knew she wasn’t his sister, you tricked him,” Turold said, more to Astrid now. “He even tried to destroy her. That’s what his letter told me, to kill her once and for all. But it was too late.”
“Yes, when she crossed over, trapped in a mortal form, she became hopelessly lost. And frankly, you didn’t help matters, what with your masks and changing faces,” he said, scowling. “I believe she almost fell in love with you. Lucky for us she found the cup.”
“Whoever you are, you’re a bastard,” Astrid said, shoving him. “In fact, now more than ever, you seem the spitting image of Hildigrim Blackbeard.”
“I’m flattered,” he said, bowing. “But I don’t mean to offend. You must understand, Turold, it could never be. She’s not a creature of this world. She—the other Four—they’re the very essence of the god itself. Once they come together, it will awaken from its shattered tomb and rend the city in twain. There will be no more Belladonna, no more tyranny. The god will finally be at peace!”
“Enough talking, we should perform the sacrifice,” a courtesan insisted.
“Patience! He deserves to know why,” Hildigrim replied. “Forgive me, these poor creatures, they’ve been waiting so long for its return. It’s all they know.”
Turold met the empty stare of the concubines, their blades still ready to cut him down and perform whatever unholy sacrifice was necessary. Surely this wasn’t what his master wanted, what Sonya Vasileyevna was willing to die for? To bring back some ancient god or devil to destroy the city and reunite the Four? Even Giacinta, before she drank the cup, was willing to sacrifice her own life to prevent it. Something was wrong, something he couldn’t understand and even this Familiar wasn’t aware of. He just had to figure out what before he left this room (if he ever left this room).
“Yes, explain this to me…why would Hildigrim, and Sonya Vasilyevna, and even you, seek the god’s resurrection? Why would our greatest magicians seek to destroy everything their order protected—its very source of power? And why did Sir Otrygg turn away? What did he see that they didn’t?”
“That’s just it, Turold. Sir Otrygg, Lord Gramsteed, the Council…they can only see the little things: the Order, their power, the city. These are but the smallest manifestations of the god. We didn’t just imprison god, we imprisoned ourselves!” he said, eyes widening.
Astrid clutched his hand protectively. She had encountered madness before, but this redefined her perception. They would have to kill him, though they would never escape this room.
“Mankind willingly crammed themselves in a cell, and contended themselves with only what they could hold in their twisted little hands,” he continued. “Yet the god could have given us everything—an endless horizon, a power beyond life and death. We chose death, Turold, so long as we could kill the god in vengeance. This world, this city, this order of yours, it’s a prison…though some of us would free mankind.”
“And yet you mean to sacrifice me,” Turold said, crossing his arms.
“Sacrifice isn’t death, not when so many others will live,” Hildigrim said, almost beaming now. “Hildigrim weighed this incredible burden, knew that the city would have to be lost, thousands of innocent lives (and some not so innocent). But what does that matter when mankind will live free, without its shackles? And to think that you will be the means of their deliverance? Turold, you are blessed!”
“But I saw on the map—the portals are closed,” Astrid interrupted. “This is the only one left. Without all of them, the god can never return. So what good will it do to sacrifice Turold?”
“Lord Gramsteed was clever, he read the signs,” Hildigrim said, signaling to the courtesans. “But not clever enough. True, the portals are closed; even worse, he destroyed the most powerful one at the Archives, a cunning move. But what he doesn’t realize is that we can open them all, right here, with the right sacrifice. And behold the Touchstone among us! Now, as time is pressing, I must ask you to deliver yourself unto the maidens…”
The concubines took hold of Turold and Astrid, blades drawn tightly against their throats. Astrid cursed them all and tried to break free, but Turold realized it was hopeless. He tried to accept his fate. After all, he had come here to protect the portals, to fulfill His Master’s quest. Nothing had changed; whether Hildigrim arranged the pieces or his Familiar, and whether Giacinta had truly loved him or had merely wanted to spill his blood, it had happened for a reason. Perhaps one day he would understand, and laugh at himself for all the false starts, the attempts to subvert his fate.
Yet when he caught Astrid’s expression, the look of anger and disappointment, he was no longer so sure. Sacrificing himself—he could accept that, even see it as an honor. But her, and so many like her, full of love and ambition, who merely wanted to make a better world in the name of magic…
“Hildigrim, wait! One last word,” he croaked.
Hildigrim gave an impatient smile and nodded.
“Where is he? Where is Hildigrim now? Have you seen him in there? Is he waiting for us?”
In response, Hildigrim gestured to the mirror, which once more clouded over with shadows. Then, indistinctly at first, but soon with sharper focus, Turold glimpsed a face peering back at him. The longer he looked at it, the clearer it became, until he could see the mouth opening and the words tumbling out.
“Turold…what’s he saying?” Astrid asked.
Turold felt a tear slip down his cheek. In a weak voice, he replied, “he says I looked taller than he remembered.”
