The fire on the torch's head illuminated a short area of the woods around it. It was as if the world simply fell away beyond that glowing circle, and every step beyond might have been a plummet into hell's abyss.
Even though it seemed that such was the case, Cornelia kept lifting her feet and settling them back on the ground, taking step after step that led her closer to the caves. The scattered clluerths that made their home within these dark trees continued to cry out in the night, as if mourning the death of their kin that she'd slaughtered. Cornelia did not feel sorry for their show of grief. She had her own feelings of the same.
On this night—as important as it was—she'd lost the only two people in her life that she thought she could count on. Granted, neither of them had been with her long, but they had enough ties between them to make their dedication true. She, Glenn, and Blue had shared a common goal, and this journey through the woods had been pertinent to that. Now, Glenn had been killed in a most horrific way, and Blue had deserted her. She'd known the boy was a bit fragile at times, and so she could not say that his flight was unexpected. She only hoped that he could get himself out of the woods safely, for she would not turn back now.
As she moved on, the floor of leaves and grass beneath her feet finally wore down to stone. The trees thinned out around her, and the young woman with yellow hair knew she had reached her destination. The worry of creatures from the woods passed from her mind, for she had reached the place that the beasts had been set to guard.
The light cast over several poles that were wedged in the rock. From each, a small burlap sack was secured, reeking of rotten entrails, sulfur, and other elements mixed by the hand of one with true arcane knowledge. Combined with the arrangement of the poles, the blend of cursed ingredients served their purpose. They were set as a barrier, one that warded off the clleurths and would not allow them to cross beyond. Cornelia, however, was not some unholy monster. She was fine for the passage through, and she sighed with relief as she was accepted within. She was safe—from the creatures of the dark, at least.
From beneath her hood, she could see a faint glow ahead that was not created by her own torch. It was as she had been told. She would find the one she sought here. The woman moved forward into the dark mouth of the cave, minding her steps more carefully now. An even greater darkness had set around her, and she was welcomed only by the cold, uncaring whispers of the water that dripped down on her head. Cornelia continued toward the tiny glare of light, and once she had navigated herself around a bend, she came to a halt.
The den of the cave was separated from the dark passage by a stone door. There was an unbroken seam of light coming out from around the edges of the rectangular obstruction. At her approach, the door began to open on its own, soundlessly, as if it was braced on a cushion of air. Once it had begun to part, the brightness of the space behind it irritated her eyes as her pupils were forced to adjust to the sudden change.
She wasn't sure what she had expected to find upon reaching this place, and so she could not say that what she walked in on surprised her. The chamber was wide and dry, not appearing as a cavern at all. Quite opposing to the fact of the room's placement, the space was perfectly square, with a ceiling and floor and sharp angles very contrary to a naturally formed cave. It was as if the rock door had opened to a separated place on a magically fabricated plane of existence. And it was plausible to assume that this was exactly what it was.
Gingerly steps led her further into the room of fine adornments and tapestries, and she was an odd complement to it. She was a woman touched by the world, who'd moved through mud and past monsters to get here, and yet it seemed as if she should have arrived wearing her best gown—not that she possessed gowns and finery anymore.
A great globe of light hung overhead, illuminating the room with an attractive golden glow. There were numerous artifacts placed in this room—curious things that she had never seen the like of and yet had no time to look at. Set directly out in front of the entrance as if it were meant for all eyes to see, there was a long, polished table. Perched in a chair behind it, was a man.
He was bone-thin, his skin old and sagging. Oddly enough, his hair and beard hung down to his belt, and the strands were sleek and jet black, hardly matching the man on whose head they grew. He wore a fine robe of rich, dark blue, but the woman's eyes could scarcely be removed from his face. His thin lips had been wearing a satisfied smile since the moment of her emergence, and his small, delighted eyes were each the color of a blood moon.
His name was Severienus, a renowned sorcerer of former days, and he was Cornelia's final hope, or else she would have never found herself here.
The woman obliged herself to place her torch in an empty holder near the entrance and then proceeded to approach the long table as well as the man behind it. Only when she stopped before him did he speak.
"I thought there were others with you. I see now that I was wrong."
His voice was surprisingly strong, his accent prominent. Certainly, her language was not his native tongue, but he seemed to speak it fluently.
"They're gone," she said. "Like all of the rest."
The man rose from his seat, more physically apt than his skin and bone revealed him to be. She watched him carefully from within her hood, alert, but not on strict defense. She did not reach for her weapons or give much thought to it just now. This man was the one she had come so far to see. This meeting had to go well.
"You poor, pitiful creature," he mocked, his eyes dancing. "But beautiful. Why have you come here? You know I expect an exchange—and that is a dangerous thing. Only those with nothing left to lose come here—"
"What do you desire?" she asked, cutting into his speech.
The bearded man leaned upon the table to leer at her.
"Ah! To be a man and to hear those words come from a woman like you. What indeed? You know who I am, doubtless. You must know of my deeds, and of the sadistic desires that come with the corruption of my humanity and race."
"I certainly know what you are," Cornelia assured him. She had meant for her statement to be expressionless, but a tinge of disgust managed to slip through.
She had researched, and she felt confident that she knew exactly what this man was about. Heathen rituals involving the use of human blood, bones and flesh; the summoning of monsters; and the most heinous of all crimes: the slaughtering of great numbers of people, harvesting their souls in order to feed his own power. These were all the things a sorcerer was known for, and worse than that, their kind seemed to take pride in these evil deeds.
Born with natural power, sorcerers had a choice of what they would do with it—grow it, ignore it, or use what little power they were born with to benefit the world. Unfortunately, Cornelia had never heard of one who had chosen to use their magical knowledge for good. They would sooner die, and that was regrettable. Along with demi-humans, even the most mild-mannered natural sorcerers were shunned—and sometimes executed—by men who managed to uncover them for what they were.
The ancient sorcerer Severienus, who'd reached his peak of power and earned his immortality centuries ago, smiled at the hard expression on the woman's mouth. It seemed as if he had reached into her mind and discovered all those things that she thought about him—and he was charmed by her dislike. He kept his pleasant attitude.
"Please, put down your weapons; there is no need for them here," he urged her. "Let me examine you, beautiful one."
How many times in her life had she been told that she was beautiful? Cornelia could not count. She was accustomed to appraising eyes, wicked little smiles, and inappropriate whispers. The sword at her side was a powerful weapon against monsters, but against men—mere, sex-driven men—her physical appeal was just as dangerous when she could use it to her advantage. This powerful, albeit strange, man before her had asked for a better look, and since she had come here to acquire a favor, she consented to his wish with neither hesitation nor qualm.
Pulling back her hood, she removed the blood-splattered cloak of drab brown from her shoulders and folded it to rest on the table. Her weapons followed in order to appease the man; her sword, shield, and satchel with various weaponry inside resting with her cloak. These things removed, she stood unrivaled by the remainder of the world.
Her sun-kissed skin was smooth and without blemish, young and taut. Honey-colored strands of hair cascaded down her torso in loose, natural curls. Her chin was rounded as nicely as any feminine chin should be. Her lips were full and even, like two fine, soft pillows resting against each other. Her nose was slender, a perfect centerpiece for her face. Stunning, seductive eyes with long lashes were set far apart beneath arched brows. Those eyes were as green as a forest meadow.
Even through a layer of dirt and grime, there was little doubt that she was unsurpassed. And if it was possible for a man to be uncertain that her face was the most beautiful he'd ever seen, then he would have to admit that her body was exquisite. The ratio of proportions from her feet to her neck was perfectly set, and yet it was almost unbelievable that such a body could exist. Her legs, her breasts, her waist, her thighs; every part of her could be singled out and compared to the great beauties of God's world—however few remained now—and the world would lose. The woman was a poet's dream.
The aged mystic looked over her carefully in the clothes she wore, making his judgments. Her white shirt fit her well, with sleeves like hanging lace, and it was covered by a vest made of gold-colored thread, embroidered with elaborate trails of flowers up the sides. Her riding pants were dark brown and clung to her skin snugly. Her boots were of the same, reaching up to her thighs, and were decorated with the same golden flowers on the top cuffs. These were expensive garments and suited her well, but though they had been cleaned many times, there were still faded hints of bloodstains upon them.
The woman waited patiently for the verdict of his inspection, saying nothing herself, and finally, the old man had come back from his examination with new thoughts and knowledge.
"Perfection personified," he said finally, holding up his hands in appreciation. "If only you would smile... But you don't have much to smile about, do you?"
The mystic approached her then, circling like a vulture with slow movements. She stood still, allowing him to pass around her, and as he did, his voice came to her ears.
"I know you, but that should not come as a surprise," he said, running his spindly fingers through her hair as he stood behind her. "You've lived a short, painful life. You went from naïve days in the sun to a time of cold, lonely darkness. Abuse, neglect, horrid things. Then you were able to discover love. You were happy, and then once again that was taken from you. You have been robbed. Nothing now but a widow, without a friend in the world. Oh, perhaps you will once again live to see happiness, but what comes after that is imminent death for one as cursed as you."
Cornelia felt the man's hands slide around her waist, pulling her back against him. She did not flinch or speak. Her breath did not quicken in fear or agitation. He inclined his voice directly to her ear.
"You are truly just a shell. Your mind is set on one thing, isn't it, and you don't care what happens to you along the way as long as you achieve what you have set out to do. Admirable, truly."
His hands trailed up her vest, fondling her with a grip that was nearly sharp for the thinness of his skin. His touch sickened her deeply, but she did not protest. If this was what she had to do in order to gain what she'd come for, then she was willing to sacrifice a piece of her dignity. It would eventually be forgotten, and in the end, it would be worth any torture of her own.
"You ask me what I desire," he breathed into her ear, "and perhaps on an earlier day, it might have been an offering of yourself. But how could I find pleasure in ruining something that has already been ruined?"
He dropped his hands from her as if suddenly disgusted, and walked back to stand near the table. Cornelia might have felt relief if not for the trouble that now she had no idea of what he would demand as payment for her request—or even if he would still be willing to deal with her.
"You have a strong cause; that one thing is certain," Severienus said, running his long nail across the tabletop. "What task brings you here?"
"You mean you can't see that even though you know so much about me?"
He glanced at her firm gaze and smiled thinly.
"Clear it up for me, if you would be so good."
Cornelia did not take her gaze away from him, and she did not explain herself with words. Instead, she silently hitched up the mangled lace of her sleeves, urging them both up to her elbows. When she was done, she held her arms out to him, forearms up.
From her wrists to her elbows, the undersides of her arms were crisscrossed with thin, faded scars.
As if admitting to a moment of confusion, the sorcerer stepped forward and laid his hands over her scars, feeling whatever story they might have offered, but after only a short touch, he removed his hands and took a step back.
"Narestra...."
His voice was a whisper of old breath. Even though he had so calmly claimed to know her, this development seemed to surprise him—but it was not long afterward that he found his greatest smile yet. It pulled at his face, nearly smoothing all his wrinkles.
"You're hunting a sorceress," he said with flashing eyes. "Ahh, it makes sense to me now. Not many come here asking for such a bold thing."
"It is good that you know of her," Cornelia said, lowering her arms and pulling her sleeves back down. "It is all the better for you to offer me what you can."
Severienus considered her unusual request. It was odd, for most people did not dare attempt such a thing or develop it past a stage of simple, dormant hate. People that ventured to him had dying loved ones, or were dying themselves. Some had other great needs that somehow they saw fit to risk their lives against the clleurths for, but in all his years, he had never gotten a request such as this. To obtain knowledge and aid in order to go about the course of killing a powerful sorceress such as Narestra—Narestra and her mark of thorn.
"She is a power-hungry wretch if ever there was one," Severienus commented. "Still young in her attempts—only at sixty years or so—but even in my younger years, I don't believe I assaulted my tasks with such vigor. She has judged many men, that one. Did she take everything from you as well? Of course she did. You would not be marked otherwise."
"You have done your share of marking, I am sure," Cornelia said pointedly to the man before her. He had not escaped her judgment.
"It is true that I had my days of glory," the sorcerer said. "I enjoyed cleansing fire as opposed to thorns, but that time has passed. I cannot say that I regret the things I did—the lives I took or the power I gained—but I have become tired, and yet there is no end in sight for me."
One day, Cornelia thought, those who you have marked will gather the courage to come for you as well. If the man was aware of this thought of hers, he did not show it.
"But you can help me end another," she said resolutely. "You have done your deeds, and they are not to be forgiven, but I have no hope of destroying you. My efforts belong to Narestra alone since I bear her marks. It is my part, and that is all I can do."
"But you cannot say that it is not a thought of revenge that drives you. It is not only such a selfless hope of aiding your fellow man."
Revenge; yes hatred. Those were things that brewed constantly inside Cornelia's heart. She was not the only one in this world who had been hurt by the misdeeds of the power-crazed. Her quest was ultimately for the good of man so that no one else would have to suffer, but it was also very personal to her.
"I need you to offer me what you can," she said with a tight jaw.
The old sorcerer paced about in front of the table in this glorious place of his retirement.
"I imagine that before you came here to me, you learned all you would need to know in order to bring about the death of one such as myself. There are so few of us left in this world. We are slowly being eliminated by those who hate us. Slowly, very slowly. Many are killed before even having the chance to gather more power. Who among us can blame those death-seekers, thinking us evil? We are an evil and rightfully loathed people. But we have our little ways of protecting ourselves, as I'm sure you have found out. Since the beginning, it has been written that aside from another sorcerer, only a select few who bear the mark of a sorcerer's cruelty can hope to destroy him. There is only one number of such a group of humans, and that number is three.
"As with your sorceress, there may be many who bear scratches from her thorns, but only survivors who were cut while the curse was still active may truly be counted as marked. You need to find those kindred to you, but be cautious: if there is any notion that marked ones might be growing closer to others, she will know. The sorceress will seek to eliminate you before you may confront her, for once gathered and locked in battle, the three can scarcely be defeated. But only by working together can they succeed. Two out of three will not work, and more than the three will not help. So, my lovely one, you alone are not sufficient to stand against her, even though you are marked, and even if you knew where to find her. No, there must be three—three marked; three touched by the sorceress' spiteful magic."
"I just need a way to find and identify them," she confirmed. "Which is why I have come to you for help. Is this within your power? Or have I made my journey in vain?"
He looked at her evilly, yet still wearing his snake-ish smile. Could she truly have doubted his power? After all the years he'd spent cultivating it and all the souls he'd taken from pathetic men to forge it?
"I can put you on your way," he assured her with a sneer.
"And what must I do to receive this blessing?" Cornelia asked.
She was anxious for the answer. No doubt, he would ask her for something that she did not want to give him, or for some task that was going to bear harshly on her conscience. Sorcerers liked to see human suffering nearly as much as watching their own power grow. They saw fit to judge mankind and offer them death for their shortcomings. Cornelia guessed, though it was only her opinion, that this inactive immortal had only taken up this job of trades and magical favors as a way of manipulating humanity and bringing hardship on selected people without directly putting his finger to it. Yes, whatever he would ask of her would bring harm to someone else—and it would likely be someone that she had no right to wound.
"It is a great thing you are asking of me," Severienus said, "a great thing that requires a great trade. I will have to think on it. Let us postpone this matter, shall we? Whenever I decide what I will require, I will spirit you back to me from wherever you are. Is that quite alright with you?"
"I find that I have no choice," the woman said hastily, set in her decision. She knew that what he would ask her for would not be pleasant. She had made her peace with that.
Severienus was satisfied with this, and nodded his head, stroking his beard as if showing affection to himself.
"Very good then," he said. "Follow me, and I will give you what you have come for."