High on the northern shelf, a lookout mage recognized the magic and where it came from. He discharged a fireball in response. Kailen turned in time to see Nadrine disappear.
Nothing made sense after that. The world became a maelstrom of faces, body parts, and entities. He didn’t see, think, or feel. Kailen hacked and maimed creatures crossing his path. Voices called his name. He ignored their urgency. Only one thing mattered: to climb up the hill where Nadrine had once stood. Maybe, maybe he could reverse time, remind her of the danger, stop her. He reached the site on hands and knees. A charred area marked the spot where the beautiful sorceress had met her fate. He tore and scraped the ground, howling, digging for a cherished lover who’d never rise again. A chorus of plaintive howls answered back, and tears blurred his vision.
“Kailen.” A voice he hadn’t heard in years spoke to him. He looked up. Khnurn knelt at his side.
“Why? Why her?”
Khnurn touched Kailen’s forehead. He thought no more.
The crackle of burning logs broke through the hellish darkness in Kailen’s mind. He opened his eyes, and the scent of sweet incense and spices registered Khnurn’s ancient hut in his consciousness. The inside of his mouth felt as if he’d swallowed all the sand in the desert.
A young girl-child with the most striking features he’d ever seen—matte lavender irises, platinum braids, and ruby lips—studied him with obvious fascination. Leaning forward, she removed a cloth from his forehead.
“How do you feel?” Khnurn spoke at his side.
“I’m not sure. How long have I been out?”
“The madness fever broke last night. You were out five days straight.”
“Damn.” Kailen rubbed his whiskered cheek. His throat was on fire.
The girl offered him a small earthen jug. He took it. Propping himself on an elbow, he tipped it back without bothering to ask if it was safe to drink. When finished, he gave it back to the girl, fell back on his bed, and turned his head away. He wasn’t a bug to be studied.
“Fritiof released you to my care.” Khnurn took the jug from the curious girl’s hands. “I promised to send you back once you’d regained your strength and sanity.”
“Hmmm.”
“That’s it? Don’t you want to know how the battle ended? Aren’t you curious?”
“Not at all. I have zero interest in the outcome. In fact, I don’t think I want to return. I’ve had it with the universe, the struggle for supremacy, the sacrosanct rules some break with impunity, the clash for power between species. I don’t care about them, you, or your new girl apprentice.”
“For a sick male, that was some speech. What did you mean about breaking the rules with impunity?”
Kailen turned halfway. The mage studied him.
“Alain, the elf leader, traveled to the future. He brought advanced weapons to Svanetia.”
Khnurn stiffened. Scratching his beard, he glanced toward the shadows in his hut. “Alain is ambitious and sneaky. He pledges allegiance one day; the next, he breaks his word. As the years pass, keep this information in the back of your mind. You will need it.”
“Hmmm. None of that is my concern. My time has come to seek the sidhe mounds, retire with my people, and journey to Tir na nÓg.” He pulled the quilt up to his throat.
“Kailen. Enough of this. Whether you want to hear it or not, I will give you the truth. I read Nadrine’s runes, and I warned her not to go. Her fate balanced on the tip of a dagger.”
He didn’t respond. What could he say? It was over. Nadrine was gone. A wave of pain burned his insides. He pressed his lips together, containing his anger against the unfairness of the universe.
But Khnurn continued the torture. “I suppose you told her to leave before the battle. Am I right?”
The pain roiled harder, singeing his lungs, his inner tissues. Gods damn him. He should have forced her to leave.
He jerked his head in a nod.
“I understand.” Khnurn sighed and clasped his shoulder. “Grieving is an inescapable part of existence. You must mourn before you can heal. However, I will not allow you to dwell in guilt. Nadrine was stubborn. She lived life her way, according to her rules.”
“I could have told her, and I didn’t.” The words slid past his clenched teeth.
“Told her what? That you loved her? Is that what you mean?” The mage lowered his face. His golden irises flamed. “But you didn’t. Right? Why would you lie so you could feel better? Goodness, and I thought you were an honorable, grown-up male.” Khnurn stood and returned to his cushion. “Real love, the kind that moves mountains, still awaits, Danann. When Eros releases his arrow, you’ll fall like the rest of us.”
“Not me,” he muttered. “Pleasure of the flesh is one thing. The body requires carnal play, and compatible appetites are entertaining…but love? No, Khnurn. Nadrine was the closest I came to that tender emotion. She took it with her. That door will never open again.”
Khnurn laughed.
CASTLE TENEBRARIUM…
Lord Astarot’s exile dimension. Twenty-first century.
The thump of military boots on the floor reverberated down the cavernous corridor. Startled out of her reading, Brysys clutched her book against her chest and rose from her reclining chair. A lieutenant of the horde strode her way. She had to act now. If he saw the items she’d managed to conjure and gather, he’d realize she’d found ways to go around the containment spell. That would earn her a severe punishment and a brand-new—fortified to the max—restrictive spell. Neither option was acceptable.
Snapping her fingers, she sent everything that had provided comfort throughout her lengthy imprisonment to a subdimension. A reasonable gamble on her part. Most wizards ignored that particular minor space—a gap formed eons ago during the creation process— because it was considered too small to hold anything of power and value. Unlike the well-known spatial prison zones housing the two surviving Gorgons, the Graeae, a few lesser monsters, magical relics, and forbidden grimoires.
She grasped the metal bars of her cell, wondering which of the remaining lieutenants of the horde would visit her today.
According to the old stories, Astarot and Dubtach, his prime mage, had begun conjuring lieutenants—a powerful new breed, sentient, and loyal to their creators—to command minion hordes and to dispatch on special missions to the earthly plane. Unexpectedly, in the midst of their work, the essential evil magic ceased flowing. A total of twenty lieutenants had been completed. Five were lost in the Caucasus uprising. Fifteen remained.
Throughout her unending boredom, Brysys had found ways to name the lieutenants by position and physical appearance. Even though they dressed identically, each one had a distinctive characteristic.
A set of weaker steps counterpointed the heavier footfalls. Another visitor was coming to see her.
Moments later, a muscular, seven-foot-tall male holding a lantern turned into the corridor leading to her cell. The strangest aspect of her captivity was the antediluvian conditions she lived in. In her limited clandestine escapades, she’d seen the progress humanity had achieved throughout the centuries. Specifically, the twenty-first century had taken the mortal and immortal worlds by storm with technological advances and conveniences. Unfortunately for her, Astarot clung to antiquity. She had no electricity. The scant light illuminating her cell came during the day thanks to a high barred window and lit pillar candles at night. A small wood-burning hearth offered enough heat to survive. Brysys counted her blessings. At least the building was concrete, not stone, and water didn’t drip down the walls.
The lieutenant approached. Light from his lantern washed his angular features and the deep gash from forehead to lips that he displayed like a badge of honor. She’d named this male Arche, loosely meaning first in ancient Greek. The word had several concepts and definitions depending on one’s point of view. For her, it was clear. He reminded her of Julius Caesar’s imperious attitude when he landed at Pegwell Bay on the Isle of Thanet. Another minute pass
ed, and she caught a glimpse of a second, much smaller male, following Arche.
She gasped when the visitor moved around the warrior. She’d tangled with this arrogant elf before. He tied his pure white tresses in a high ponytail, ensuring that the diamond stud in his right lobe sparkled at every opportunity. An open sign of disdain for his race’s preference for modesty and restraint in clothing and jewelry.
“Nylham!” Brysys covered her mouth. “What are you—”
“Hush, woman. Don’t soil my name with your words.” Nylham turned to the lieutenant. “You, obey Astarot’s orders.”
Arche growled. Glancing at her feet, Brysys smiled. Nylham was all ego. He lacked mental agility. Much like his older brother, Midrin, he didn’t have an ounce of imagination nor was he capable of forming a thought requiring brain cells. Despite the passing of centuries, and his service in the Elf Court, the fool hadn’t learned a thing. He didn’t suspect how close he was to losing his head. Lieutenants of the horde operated outside protocol and customs.
With a touch of his meaty finger, the fierce-looking male released the locking mechanism. The door slid open on its track.
“Out.” He waved the lantern toward the passageway.
“You fool, she’s a witch. You must restrain her!” Nylham exclaimed, coming even nearer to having his head separated from the rest of his body.
Lowering his massive torso, Arche came level with Nylham’s eyes. Blinking, the elf reared back. Maybe now he understood how dangerously stupid his comments and attitude were. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.
Brysys snickered under her breath. A discreet yet oh so wonderful snicker. She hadn’t been this entertained in ages.
“A spell already binds her,” Arche growled.
Eyes lowered, Nylham moved out of the way.
Hands folded in front, she walked after Arche.
Nylham stepped behind her. “I don’t understand Lord Astarot’s gullibility. I’d have you bound in chains and your hands gloved.”
“That’s because your level of knowledge is pitiful. Sophistication and finesse shoot past your dumb head.” She used her sweetest tone. “The containment spell is quite targeted and limiting. I’ll leave it at that, rather than test your comprehension skills.”
The elf grunted a series of incomprehensible words. She didn’t bother with a retort.
“Then why close the door to your cell?” Nylham couldn’t help himself. Her silence had set him off. He had to come back for more.
“Keeps me in one place. My guess is Astarot doesn’t want me roaming around his castle without an escort. I could discover a secret plot or something.”
“No talking.” Arche’s tone brooked no dissent. Brysys held up her open palms. She exaggerated the gesture mostly for Nylham’s benefit and some for hers. One, if the elf didn’t listen to Arche’s command, elf blood could run, and two, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with any messy carnage.
Their little group continued in silence as they entered a huge open salon.
Brysys had passed through this very room after she was captured in 20 AD. On that afternoon, rows of glittering weapons and armor had decorated every inch of these massive walls—the only shiny spot Astarot allowed in all Tenebrarium—Tiberius Caesar Augustus had been emperor of Rome, and Graeme, Eachann’s devious blood brother, had betrayed her. Much had changed since that day: Tiberius Caesar had departed for the Elysian Fields to his final rest, a lieutenant of the horde had stabbed Graeme in the chest, and daemons had been ignominiously defeated at Svanetia, their weapons stripped, their power diminished.
Only one matter remained unchanged: Eachann’s mortal hatred of her. Limited by her captivity, she could do nothing to fix it or tell him the truth.
Arche continued past the salon, leading her and Nylham through a tall doorway with carved geometric patterns embellishing the sides and high, rounded top. He stopped at the base of a circular staircase. “We climb now. The steps are narrow. Elf, you go first. I take the rear to block a fall.”
Nylham mumbled again. Forgetting who had the upper hand, he glared at the beast holding the lantern. Then he saw her taunting expression and did a quick turnabout. He clutched the handrail. “How far up?”
The huge daemon’s expression didn’t change. “To the end.”
She covered her mouth not to laugh.
Four full circles later, the stairway ended at a wide landing that connected to a thick wooden door. When Nylham stopped, her courage failed. Astarot, and the gods knew who else, awaited on the other side.
“Knock. The master will answer when ready,” Arche directed.
“Come in. Door is open.” A voice she didn’t recognize answered Nylham’s knock.
Inhaling a deep breath, she steeled her fraying nerves. However long this summons would last, she’d be tested every second. Astarot was dangerously mercurial. One wrong glance or word, and her fate would be sealed.
Entering his chambers was like stepping back in time to the dark ages and even earlier, to the mysterious caves where her ancestors, the first druids, lived. The daemon lord was allergic to anything bright. The darkest mahogany wood available had been used to build shelves covering the walls of this study-cum-laboratory. Two windows, one on each side of the room, allowed light to pass despite layers of accumulated dirt on the glass. A rusty iron lantern hung from one corner of the room. Groupings of white pillar candles in several stages of consumption sat atop dusty credenzas, desks, and lecterns.
The most incongruous presence in the room was an elegant white-haired elf she’d never seen before. A luminous creature when compared to the lugubrious atmosphere and overall grime. Head bent in thought, arms folded over his chest, he paced the floor.
Astarot and his high mage, Dubtach, studying a scrying dish propped on a chest-high tripod, ignored the pacing elf and her arrival. Once Arche left, she stood at the entrance waiting to be called in. Nylham moved around her. Joining the unfamiliar elf, he spoke at his ear. The elegant elf squinted at her with some curiosity, then turned his attention to Nylham. They continued speaking in hushed voices.
She couldn’t imagine what in hell any of these males would want with her. She didn’t have long to wait. Both Astarot and Dubtach stopped their scrying.
“There she is.” Dubtach’s oily voice and expression didn’t fail to give her the creeps. “Brysys, my dear. Just in time. We’ve encountered a problem.”
Curling his meaty lips, Lord Astarot sneered at her. He despised her and showed his feelings without reservation. A privilege, she guessed, that came with power and authority.
Dubtach’s come-here gesture prompted her onward. Astarot stepped toward the elves as she approached the tripod. He couldn’t even stand being near her.
Dubtach waved at the dish. “Closer, Brysys. Look into the water. What do you see?”
Her fortes were conjuring spells and creating items out of the ether. When not in containment, her weapons and lightning bolts were deadly. In optimum conditions, she could disappear for a minute or so. Her divination skills, however, were poor.
She peered into the bottomless dark liquid. “Hmm.”
“I allow you some liberties.” Dubtach’s murmur made every hair on her body stand. His breath brushed her earlobe, then swept down her cheek. “I disregard your little peccadilloes. But my lord Astarot doesn’t approve of my easygoing nature. Imagine. Your life with us could be so…unpleasant. The least you can do is make an effort. Try harder.”
His meaning struck hard. Brysys sent all her mental abilities into the stubborn liquid. Urged it, more like begged it, to release its secrets… An image coalesced. She squinted, urged again. Finally, an outline took shape.
“I’m doing my best. Divination isn’t easy for me. The image is weak. I think it’s a woman. Yes. It’s coming together.” She turned to Dubtach. “I don’t understand. Why do you want me to see when you’re ten times more powerful?”
Dubtach straightened to his full height. Green irises as clear a
s emeralds stared into hers. “I suspect my deadliest foe, Khnurn, is protecting this sorceress. His spell is solid, tailor-made against me. I can’t break through. I need another pair of eyes.” He touched her shoulder. She bristled in disgust.
“Her name is Talaith. We learned Gustaf had requested the aid of a powerful witch. Sadly…the famous Brysys couldn’t be found.” He grinned. “What a shame. So Khnurn sent this new witch to Alsvåg. He must’ve kept her in hiding, because she’s unfamiliar to all of us. Our spy tells us she teleported with Roald a day after her arrival in Sweden. He can’t ask why she left or where she went without raising suspicions.”
“Is that where I come in?”
“Exactly.”
Shuddering, Brysys returned to the face in the water. The features had grown a little more distinct. Colors hadn’t surfaced, though.
“The image is still coming up. I need more time. She’s unfamiliar to me too. What do you know about her?”
“She’s an unknown element in our struggle against the Titanian race. Check the periphery for telltale symbols. Sometimes those images come out stronger first and offer the best clues.” Dubtach gathered the edges of his white cotton cloak around his body. He walked to his desk, where an oversized leather-bound tome lay open.
Settled in a sitting arrangement before a continuous line of wall-to-wall glass cabinets, Astarot and the two elves were engaged in a hushed, yet agitated, conversation. The strange elf spoke with his hands. His gestures clearly irritated Astarot. The daemon noticed her interest and narrowed his hostile dark eyes at her.
Quickly, she looked away and focused on the water.
“Dubtach, if memory serves, wormwood is helpful in scrying. Do you have any?”
“Silly question.” Dubtach stopped flipping pages. “Of course I have wormwood, and the best, no less.”
He walked to a large shelf packed with glass jars and white apothecary canisters, pulled down a container from the top, and sniffed the contents. “This is it.” Pinching a small amount, he dropped the powder on an incense-burning dish and lit the votive candle underneath it.
The Last Danann (Titanian Chronicles, #2) Page 4
