not so sure.
There was anger in Azaces’s sense, but it was directed at himself. There was also confusion and regret and despair. Kylon sensed something else, too. The air around him was alive with arcane energy, both from the Hellfire engine and whatever dark aura powered the undead, but for a moment some other spell shivered nearby.
“Did you catch that?” said Caina.
Kylon nodded, keeping his eyes on Azaces. The big warrior did not move, his face tight as if he waged some internal battle.
“Didn’t recognize the spell,” Caina said. “Something alchemical, I think, and powerful. But I don’t know what. Maybe Rolukhan is working on the Hellfire engine.”
“This is stark madness,” said Malcolm, pointing at Azaces. “That man sold me to Rolukhan, and he will betray all of you if given the chance. You are keeping a serpent in your midst. If you have scruples about killing him, that is commendable. But I beg you, listen to me. If you spare him he will betray us.”
Morgant strolled forward, his black dagger in hand. “I have no qualms.” He raised the dagger. “I can promise you I’ll make it quick.”
Azaces did not even move his scimitar to block.
“Wait,” said Annarah. “Morgant, wait.” The assassin looked back at her. There was nothing like love in his emotional aura. That would have been like finding rain in the Desert of Candles. But there was…something. A flicker. Affection, perhaps? Certainly respect.
In any event, it was enough to make him stop.
“Why does he not speak in his own defense?” said Annarah.
“His tongue was removed,” said Nasser. “He cannot speak.”
“Then let me speak for him,” said Annarah. “He can speak through me.”
“How?” said Nerina.
“One of the Words of Lore permits it,” said Annarah.
“You’ll…read his mind, then?” said Caina. “A form of psychomantic sorcery.”
“No,” said Annarah. “To violate another’s mind is a grave misuse of sorcery. This spell shall permit him to speak using my voice. My tongue and lips shall form the words for him.”
“It is too dangerous,” said Malcolm.
“We have wasted too much time here already,” said Morgant.
“No,” said Annarah, looking at Malcolm. “If this man has betrayed you, the truth must be known. For truth is greatest and strongest than all, as the ancient loremasters said.”
“I would not have believed it unless Malcolm said so,” said Nerina. Her face had lost some of its usual manic intensity, likely because of the conflicting emotions roiling inside her aura. Finding her long-lost husband and learning her closest friend had lied about his death had taken a toll. “He…looked after me for so long, protected me. The calculation does not compute, nor does it balance.”
“I’m…sorry?” said Annarah.
“She means that she does not believe it,” said Malcolm. “I do…but if this is what it takes for the truth to be known, so be it.”
“Ah,” said Annarah. “What is his name?”
“Azaces,” said Nerina.
“Azaces,” said Annarah. “Do you consent to this? Will you let me serve as your voice?”
Azaces looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded.
“Understand, though,” said Annarah. “The Words of Lore will let you speak through me, but you will not be able to lie. Every word you say will be the truth. Do you still consent?”
“Handy, that,” muttered Caina.
Again Azaces nodded.
Annarah stepped closer to him, reaching up to put her right hand upon his left temple. She had to strain a little to do it. Annarah closed her eyes and started whispering under her breath, and Kylon sensed the peculiar flicker as she gathered power around her. It was different than any sorcery he had ever encountered before. It lacked the wild power of the elemental sorcery he wielded, the quicksilver nature of the alchemical sorcery, or the dark, corrupted power that a necromancer like Ranarius or Sicarion used. Yet for all that it seemed stronger, far stronger.
Morgant moved to Annarah’s side.
“And if you hurt her,” said Morgant, “I will kill you…and you may forget what I said about it being painless.”
Azaces said nothing. White light flickered around Annarah’s fingers and sank into Azaces’s temples, and the blue glow of an Immortal faded from his eyes.
“Speak,” said Annarah, a peculiar buzz in her voice, “and by the Words and Signs of the Lore, we shall hear you.”
Azaces’s bearded lips moved. No sounds came from his mouth, but Annarah’s lips moved in an identical motion. Her voice came from her lips, but…changed, different, the cadences of the words rougher, her speech more clipped.
She had also acquired a Sarbian accent.
“It has been long,” said Annarah. “Long