Preservation and Destruction

[Alysia]

"Once chance, Veighn. Trade, or this gets destroyed."

"Trade for what?"

"I wonder what it might be worth to you."

"Ye'd better be offering something quite hefty, bog hag, for me to accept trading ye Lucien's contract for what ye think ye could do with that."

"What price for power? You know that I could destroy it, else you'd not consider it."

"So do so."

"I will."

---
Alysia traced the silken gleam of bright metal inlaid against carved blackwood, following the inward-spiraling pattern with her mind, then pressed her thumb against the coffer’s center lock panel. The box opened soundlessly, revealing a glittering assortment of spell gems, jeweled rings and bracelets, amulets, sachets of crushed herbs, and other precious adornments.

Inside were a pair of golden, serpentine armlets; a copper bracelet etched with the name of a noble family, heavy with verdigris and emeralds; some tarnished shen coins; six identical bronze keys, an oval of parchment covered with spidery writing; a lock of jet-black hair and what looked like a detached, uncorrupted eyeball; an iridescent dragon scale; a handful of perfect blood rubies; a small round stone; even an iron collar with her sigil and the name of an elf king engraved upon it.

She did not dally on the memories these artifacts represented and instead set all of them aside, wincing as she touched the collar, then lifted a thin, silvery chain and examined the pendant it supported. The pendant was flawless, a perfect shadow-black orb set in the grip of three gilded darkbone talons. It resembled a thing of crystallized, primordial shadow, dulled the ambient light and radiated power of its own.

What perversity caused the devil to entrust this thing in my keeping, thought Alysia. It is a thing of power, a portal to . . . It was no gift, so why would it ever be relinquished? She contemplated whether the orb was a trap to create a weakness in her wards and loathed herself for the fear she felt.

But what if would it pay the price of freedom? Is it equivalent to a human soul, freely given? For a moment, she longed to be in Rhilshen, where a god’s ransom in souls was stored in the catacombs beneath the fortress in Aeshelm. But that is no longer my place. My place is here. She flexed her fingers, held the sphere of mana on her palm, closed her fist around it. Green flames of life-sapping balefire blossomed around her fist and burned coldly against her skin as she weighed her options. Could it be turned to my own uses?

A remembered sense of violation and a sudden rush of and anger filled Alysia with certainty. No. It is tainted, beyond a doubt. A poisoned thing not to be trusted. There may be no accord between us, and I will grant him no succor.

[Alysia]

A disheveled dark-haired elf stood at the entrance to a cluttered workroom in the mage’s tower at Dark Lake Manor. The door before him was closed and shiny with ice, and the iron hinges were white with frost. He reached out his hand to touch the door, then thought better of it as an icy brume drifted out from under the door. He waited.

“Who dares intrude. . .” came a voice hissing into his mind.

He had expected this. “I am called Censith of Spire,” he said aloud, putting the weight of honesty behind his words. His teeth chattered with the cold as an ice elemental breathed down his neck. “I seek the Witch of the Dark Lake.” He felt pressure against the inside of his skull, accompanied by a sudden, inexplicable fear, and looked down at the stairs behind him, contemplating flight.

Finally, the pressure on his mind eased as the elemental construct withdrew. The door swung open and Censith felt himself bidden to enter. He peered inside. The workroom was dark, illuminated only by the blue glow of a sand-scribed spiral at the center of the room. At the center of the spiral rested a small and perfect black orb, nestled upon a mithril chain. A tall, silver-haired woman stood on the outer edge of the spiral, in one hand holding a translucent ewer of the luminescent sand.

“You are either brave or foolish, to enter my domain, child. Who sent you here, Censith?” demanded Alysia. “Answer!” She pointed her index finger at him, and he felt shadows coiling about his throat, time rushing about him.

“I am here of my own accord,” Censith answered hurriedly. His breath steamed and he felt his his larynx constrict. He knelt, lowering his head, aware that she was suspiciously watching him for any offensive movements, and felt compelled to elaborate. “I beg the Witch's counsel.”

“A fool, then." She laughed at him, and it was a surprisingly rich sound. "I have use for a fool. Go to the shore of the lake, and wait.” With those words, the pressure on his throat eased. He felt a hand upon his back, propelling him toward the stairs.