In the dream she couldn’t talk, or at least, the words she said made no sound. As she fought her way up through the layers of sleep pushing her down and smothering her, she managed to make a grunting panic noise. Instantly a cool, dry hand was lightly touching her forehead.
Her eyes flew open, though she still couldn’t move. She thought it was another nightmare, the doctor nightmare, but no, Doctor was real. Wasn’t he?
From the shadows beyond the heavy red velvet curtains surrounding her bed, a colorless, tuneless voice said as if by rote, “You’ve had the nightmare again, Commissar Silverthorne. Wake up, Commissar. Wake up.”
“I’m awake,” she said testily. “Stop that, Doctor. I’m awake, and I’m fine.” The doctor was a corpse-faced man with cavernous cheeks, sunken dark eyes, emaciated body, and sparse hair growing in thin strands across his bald head. He never spoke. The only thing human about him was his hands; they were always white and clean and cool and dry. For decades now no doctor had actually touched a patient without latex gloves. It wasn’t sanitary. Not only did Alia find it peculiar that the doctor used his fingers to feel her face, her pulse, her forehead, sometimes her lips, but she was positively repulsed by it.
Doctor’s long head swiveled and his fingers moved slightly. The nurse, a blank-faced, square woman with short iron-gray hair, stepped forward into the low lamplight by Alia’s bed. “Doctor will medicate you tonight so that you may sleep. But now you must get up and bathe and dress. You are having dinner with Count von Eisenhalt.”
As if she functioned on robotics, Nurse squared around and marched out of the room, followed by the spidery, silent doctor.
He was unable to hear or speak, and he could not read lips. Nurse was the only person he communicated with in sign language. Alia had never heard of a person who could not hear or speak in these days of genetic engineering and in utero embryo testing. The medical technology had long existed to correct deafness and certainly muteness. It was extremely odd.
But Alia, with a curious lassitude that had been weighing her down in the last ten days since Tor had brought them to Halle Eisenhalt, reflected that it was likely she was mentally incapable of discerning exactly what was oddity and what was normalcy. She couldn’t seem to figure out such complexities anymore. Just as she was never quite certain whether she was awake, dreaming, or in a purgatorial trance somewhere in between.
She hadn’t seen anyone except the nurse and doctor in the last ten days, and she had barely spoken a dozen words. Perhaps tonight at dinner she would see Minden and Luca. That would help her. That would make the world real again. Deliberately she avoided thinking about Tor von Eisenhalt. Alia Silverthorne was a determined woman, a willful woman, a stubborn woman, and no matter if she was barking mad, she could not and would not admit to herself that she was afraid.
Her bedroom was medieval. The walls were rough blocks of yellowish rock, the floor paved with smoother stones, with a faded but deep rug centered on it. The windows were thick and opaque, with bubbles in the small diamond-shaped panes bordered by ropy black iron. The fireplace was enormous, six feet high and nine feet wide, and Alia had been aware that an enormous fire had been kept going continually. But the room was always cold.
There were wall-mounted lamps, all of black wrought iron. The bulbs seemed dim, but at least they were electric. Alia turned all of them on. Connecting to her bedroom was a thoroughly modern bathroom with all the amenities, and connected to that was a tiny cubicle mirrored from floor to ceiling. It was a dressing room, Alia supposed, for her clothes were hung neatly in it. They were her own clothes, from her apartment in Albuquerque. She refused to speculate on how they’d gotten here, somewhere in the dark mountains of eastern Germany, in this ancient castle. Her commissar’s uniform was laid out neatly, including her beret and her 9 mm pistol. Bathing and dressing quickly, she refused to study her drawn reflection in the mirror.
For the first time, Alia opened her bedchamber door and stepped out, steeling herself. She was at the end of a long hallway of the same golden stone. It stretched to her left, and she could not see the end. She saw no other doors along it. The only lights were dim flickering torches in sconces every ten feet or so. Alia felt small, like a lost little girl. But this unpleasant sensation made her straighten her shoulders and set her jaw and stride confidently down the hallway . . . or tunnel, it seemed . . . like the tunnel they’d run down forever and ever to get out of the White House . . . they were lost . . . she was lost . . .
“Stop it!” She didn’t shout the words; rather, she growled them. Still the echoes mocked her, an unending “Stop it, stop it, stop it . . .” until she wanted to scream.
Alia almost did scream when the man appeared down the hall, just a black cutout, coming toward her. Then he passed directly under one of the torches, and she could see that he was a man in a black tuxedo, a man with dark hair and eyes and a terribly pockmarked face. “Commissar Silverthorne? I am Fetzen. If you will allow me, I will show you to the dining room.” The German accent made the words staccato, and his tone had a hint of arrogance. Alia supposed it had something to do with the commanding cadence of the German language, for it seemed that all German men—even butlers, as she supposed Fetzen was—sounded as if they were giving orders.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
It wasn’t that bad, really. Alia had no recollection of the exterior of Halle Eisenhalt; however, she sensed that it must be enormous. If it was, her bedchamber was close to the dining room and what seemed to be a more inhabited part of the castle. Fetzen led her down the hall, took a sharp left down another hall that had a Gothic wooden door that led into a huge, high-ceilinged room that had no furniture, only rugs and tapestries and some paintings.
Across that cavernous, echoing room were two twelve-foot-high double wooden doors. As they neared, the doors swung open, and Tor walked through them.
Though Alia had tried hard to steady herself for this moment, she stopped in her tracks, and her heart pounded.
Count von Eisenhalt smiled warmly and walked confidently forward to stand in front of her and bow slightly. “Alia, I’m so glad to see you are well enough to join us tonight. Please . . .” He turned and motioned to the door.
She walked forward, aware only of the pounding of her heart and the primitive sense of the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as Tor followed her. In the dining room she was enveloped by clouds of white silk and incense scent and Minden’s luxuriant voice murmuring to her as she kissed both cheeks. “Alia, Alia, how glad I am to see you well. How wonderful you look, like a stern Valkyrie.”
“Thank you,” Alia said uncertainly. She didn’t know what a Valkyrie was.
Luca Therion stepped forward, and Alia was shocked by his appearance. He didn’t look ill or ravaged. He just looked different. Luca had always had the rather dreamy look of philosophers and artists, and his sensitive features enhanced the impression. But now his hair was shorter and sternly fashioned, with none of the studied artlessness of the escaped lock over his brow; his soft doe eyes looked matte black; his features looked sharply carved rather than clear-cut. He looked stern. “Hello, Mr. President,” Alia said tentatively.
“Alia, my dear,” he said, though with none of his customary warmth. “I’m glad you’ve recovered and are joining us tonight.”
“Yes, well, it seems that I am the last one to rejoin the living,” she said rather lamely. “I gather that you and Minden have been—well?”
“Oh, yes, Doctor has been taking marvelous care of us,” Minden said, taking Alia’s hand to lead her to the fireplace. “Luca and I have dined together the last two nights. Tonight, however, is wonderful because Count von Eisenhalt is joining us.”
Alia studied the room as she allowed Minden to lead her. It was high-ceilinged, enormous, ancient, as all of Halle Eisenhalt must be. The table was immense, seating thirty at least, of a wood so old it looked black. Hundreds of candles centered along the expanse gave the wood a dark gleam, and white dinnerware
and gleaming goldware were set in four places at one end. No windows showed, for all of the walls were hung with tapestries and great rich burgundy velvet draperies with golden tassels. The fireplace was at the far end of the room, with what Alia assumed were servants’ entrances on each side. Even as she was doing her customary military assessment of the entrances and exits of the room, Fetzen came in through one of the rear doors carrying a silver tray with goblets on it. He served the four of them as they stood in a loose circle in front of a roaring, popping fire.
“To our host and our savior, Count Tor von Eisenhalt,” Luca said gravely.
“Count Tor von Eisenhalt,” Minden and Alia repeated. Then Minden added dreamily, “May you live forever.”
Tor smiled at her, then drank.
Alia took her place at Tor’s right hand, while Minden and Luca were seated on his left. Fetzen brought two silver platters and one silver flask. He served each of them, and the entire meal was a very rare prime rib and black bread. From the silver flask he poured them more mead, that syrupy but bitter and heady drink made from honey and fermented grains. After that he stood back by the door and did not move or speak or even look at the diners.
During the meal, Tor talked quietly of the history of the castle, of his father, of trivial things. Minden watched him obsessively, unmoving, barely blinking, the look of almost feral love plain on her face. Once Tor told her to eat, and she obediently took a bite, unseeing and unknowing. Luca ate sparingly and was also riveted on Tor, though he didn’t seem quite as distracted as was Minden.
Alia could not quiet the deep apprehension that filled her throughout the meal. It was a pervasive sense of unreality, an uncomfortable feeling that something, somewhere, somehow, was very wrong, that none of this was exactly as it looked or smelled or sounded . . . that if she just paid attention and was sharp enough, she could comprehend exactly what was off, what was jarring her.
It gave the food, the conversation, even the way Minden and Luca and Tor looked, a nightmarish quality to Alia.
She wondered if she was ill, fevered maybe, or if she had gone insane and they weren’t letting on, they were just being nice to her because she was sick in her mind.
Typically of earthy Alia, she reflected sardonically, Well, if that’s the case, they certainly shouldn’t have given me a loaded gun.
The thought made her smile, though it was a small and sour smile, and she looked down quickly.
“Alia . . .”
His hypnotic voice again, and Alia’s head snapped up. He was smiling at her, and an idiotic, squeaky little voice in Alia’s head gibbered, What big teeth you have, Grandma . . .
A frown, vicious and full of malice, darkened Tor’s face.
Alia was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She stopped breathing and started choking. She could get no air into her lungs, into her nose, down into her chest, and she was going to die right here, right now.
“Stop,” Tor said quietly, calmly.
Alia swallowed and gasped for air.
He watched her impassively. Luca and Minden still watched Tor.
Alia was nauseated with fear. “I—I’m not well. I’m—please forgive me, Count von Eisenhalt,” she said hoarsely. “Will you excuse me?”
“Nonsense,” he said. His voice had returned to its usual commanding tone, and he looked handsome, elegant, coolly concerned again. “Fetzen, bring a bottle of my father’s special stock. I’m certain it will make Commissar Silverthorne feel better.” He didn’t turn around to address the servant. His dark hawk’s eyes were steady on Alia’s face.
Now she felt desperate. She didn’t want any more to drink; she felt ill, sick to her stomach already, for Alia rarely drank any alcohol. The food, though plain, had been heavy. But she sat, mute and unmoving, until Fetzen brought in a misshapen bottle with no label and four wine glasses.
“This is burgundy of a very old vintage,” Tor said, pouring a generous amount into a glass. Then he rose and handed it to Alia. “Drink it, My Commissar,” he said softly, with a caressing quality to his voice that Alia had never heard before. Alia was looking down into the wine glass, and it was a very good thing that she was, for if she had seen the murderous envy on Minden Lauer’s face, she might have left Halle Eisenhalt on foot at a dead run.
Alia was sure that it was just the candlelight that made the wine look so black. Burgundy is darkly colored, she told herself. But it wasn’t the quality of the light that made it so thick. As she swirled it lightly, it clung to the sides of the graceful glass in dark arcs that barely moved as they dribbled back down. Putting the glass to her lips, she smelled the wine; it smelled sour, as wine does, but with a peculiar scent underneath, an acerbic hint of something familiar.
She drank, her eyes closed.
The first taste of the wine was rich, mellow, as a good burgundy should be, but the undertaste and the hidden scent were of salt.
Immediately after she swallowed the thick brew, Alia felt relaxed, at peace, and at the same time fully in control of herself. It was not a physical sensation, as a heady drink of wine can give, but instead a mental and emotional change from turmoil to tranquillity. She opened her eyes and smiled at Minden, who was watching her with narrowed eyes.
Tor took his seat at the head of the table and sipped his own glass of wine. The others did the same. The four sat in silence for a while. Minden, Luca, and Alia were staring blankly, with a kind of inward vision, as if they were seeing things painted on the surface of their eyes. Tor watched them.
Finally he said in a low voice, “I chose you.”
He seemed to be speaking to them generally, but each of the three was certain he was speaking only to him or her.
“I chose you,” he repeated deliberately. “Never forget it.”
“I could never,” Minden whispered.
Tor didn’t acknowledge her; he was staring down into his wine glass, swirling the thick black liquid around and around. The four concentric circles of the ring on his forefinger glittered silvery bright, twinkling, alive. “Let us talk, then, of loyalty,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Many of my men of war have sworn oaths of fealty to the House of Eisenhalt—and to me personally. But before they did, I asked them—each of them personally—one very important question.” He looked up, mildly expectant, clinically curious.
Alia felt the barest fringes of the remembrance of dread—what terrible price would this man, this mysterious, compelling, truly dreadful man, ask of them?
Tor almost, but not quite, smiled at her. His eyes seemed to soften a little, as if to reassure her.
He turned to Minden. Before he could say a word, she whispered breathlessly, “Anything . . .”
He seemed pleased. “All I want to know, Minden, is—what do you want?”
Her blue eyes flared as if they had been set aflame. “You, my lord. Just to please you. I’ll do anything, be anything, you ask.”
He stared at her hard, then nodded. “I believe you, Minden. You have spoken well and truly.” His eyes, like a great searching spotlight, slowly swiveled to Luca Therion, who seemed to be in a trance.
Luca guiltily, shamefully, let his gaze slip toward Minden. Before he could recover, Tor muttered in a low growl, “Luca, never lie to me—and never lie to yourself. You want more than that. You are more than that. You can have everything, anything you want— if you will join me. I chose you, Luca. But you must now choose.”
As if Tor had struck him, Luca drew back, flinching. Then he sat up ramrod-straight, his face stricken and pale. He stared into Tor’s searing gaze for a long, long time. Then he murmured, “You, sir, have saved my life, my mind, even my soul. I will die for you.”
Tor nodded, then said curtly, “No need for such dramatics, Luca, Minden. And we are all friends here. Let us speak frankly. You, Minden, I know what you long for, what you burn with desire for, what you dream of . . . You want to be loved, to be admired, to be the most beautiful and desired woman on this earth. I tell you now that this will be
so. Your dreams will all come true, my dear Minden . . .
“And you, Luca, I know you have visions. You see days of glory, of honor—of power. You know that the breadth of your intellect and the depth of your passion far outstrip those of other puny men who surround you. You, Luca, will have power you never dreamed of. Power that you cannot conceive. I promise you this, in return for the loyalty that you’ve sworn to me.”
Alia was spellbound. No longer did she experience fear, dread, or the discordant feeling that the universe was out of joint and time was out of sync. This man, Tor von Eisenhalt, literally radiated power. The air was thick with it. They were drunk with it.
All three of them slowly turned to look at Alia. She felt exhilarated, poised to run, to shout, as adrenaline pumped through her body. Licking her lips, she stared at Tor, her eyes burning as if she were looking into the naked sun.
“And you, Alia . . . my fierce little shieldmaiden. What say you, soldier?”
“I—I don’t know what—good I am—could be to you—sir,” she said raggedly. “But I—want to swear my oath of fealty to you, Count Tor von Eisenhalt, my oath as a soldier.”
“Do you?” he commented with casual interest, though his eyes on her felt like needles pricking her skin. “It is a grave thing, a serious matter of honor—unto the death—for a soldier to swear an oath of loyalty, Alia.”
She tried to swallow, then tried again, but the burning in her throat would not go away. Her hands shaking, she took another drink of the thick wine. “I—wasn’t—certain before,” she said, and her voice trembled shamefully. “But—but I am now. You—you chose me.”
He nodded, understanding. Turning to address Minden and Luca, he said, “You see, Alia has never wanted physical beauty, and she’s never wanted the love of men . . . All she’s ever wanted is to be the best. All the desire she’s ever had, all the strength she’s ever had, has been directed to achieving that one goal, that one shining, bright, unreachable goal . . .”
Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters Page 16
