Wraithblood: The Elixir, Episode 17a
“We should go through the library,” you say.
Everyone turns to look at you.
“Callatas, as a Master Alchemist, will value his library greatly,” you say. “So, therefore, it seems mathematically probable that the defenses around the library will be less…destructive.”
Azaces gives you a contemptuous sneer, which is as close as he will ever come to agreeing with you.
“That seems logical enough,” says Nasser. “Unless anyone else has any better ideas?” No one does. “Then lead the way, Tarquin.”
The sweating eunuch leads you into the marble maze of Callatas’s mansion. More of the Master Alchemist’s dreadful statues stand in niches in the wall, men and women forever transformed into marble and glass and crystal. Tarquin stops before an empty niche, and presses a hidden switch. Part of the wall swings open to reveal a narrow passageway.
“This way,” says Tarquin.
You walk through the cramped passage, Tarquin and Nasser leading the way, followed by Azaces and Riordan, while you and Khaenset bring up the rear. Out of the six of you, only Khaenset does not look alarmed, while even Nasser looks somewhat grim. You try to calculate your odds of surviving this venture with your life and sanity intact.
The numbers do not look good.
Then Azaces stops, and you walk into his back before you recover yourself. You start to chastise him, only to realize that everyone else has stopped as well. In fact, they are frozen in place. For a moment you wonder if you’ve triggered some sort of sorcerous trap. But you can still move.
“Fear not,” says your father’s voice. “They are unharmed. For now.”
You look up, and see the djinn Samnirdamnus standing on the wall, wearing your father’s form, his eyes of smokeless flame staring into you.
“You said,” you say, “that you would not warn Callatas, nor interfere with us.”
The djinn smiles. “Nor have I.”
“So you’ve merely stunned them…because you want to talk to me,” you say. “Which means you want to make a bargain with me.”
“Your mind is like a razor,” murmurs Samnirdamnus. “It cuts, it cuts, and it draws forth blood. Mortals are often so tedious…but you are not. If only you could see the lines of destiny that draw tighter and tighter around you, like a chain waiting to snap. Or a noose to choke you. In the next hour, you will make a decision that will change the world of mortals forever…or you will die, horribly.” The burning eyes flash. “If you are lucky.”
“If you intended to make a bargain with me,” you say, “this approach does not increase the odds that I will agree.”
“I have not come to make a bargain,” says Samnidamnus. “You have provided me with great amusement. And I am Samnirdamnus, a prince of the djinn, a lord of hosts beyond count. I pay my debts. Therefore, I will give you two gifts.”
You frown. There are all sorts of tales about gifts from a djinn. None of them ever end well.
“The first is a secret,” says Samnirdamnus, “not even known to the Master Alchemists themselves. The Immortals cannot see you.”
“What?” you say.
“The vision of the Immortals extends into the spirit world,” says Samnirdamnus, “and due to the massive damage you have inflicted upon your spirit with wraithblood, they cannot see you.”
“Oh,” you say. That sounds useful.
Unless Samnirdamnus is lying to you.
“My second gift to you is a question,” says Samnirdamnus. “Or, more precisely, an answer. You may ask a question of me, any question at all, and I will give you a true answer.” The djinn’s eyes burn brighter. “I am older than the mortal race, and I have seen this world for time beyond count. Think of all the secrets I know. And one of them can be yours.”
You can think of any number of secrets that might come in handy just now.
Assuming, of course, that the djinn tells you the truth.
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