Dream of Darkness and Dominion

by Hilary Thompson

  Amden turned her back to them, moving on to another body. “I’ll join you at the mansion in a little bit. I need to keep going.”

  Nik marveled at her fortitude. He certainly hadn’t taken her for someone that might be so concerned. Glancing back at her, he followed the others up the hill toward the General’s mansion.

  He’d seen plenty of death, even mass death, but still, never on this scale. All day, he’d tried to block it out, treating the bodies as a task to complete rather than a reminder of what could have happened to Sy without his knowledge. Still, each body he rolled face up had borne Sy’s face for a split second.

  Nik knew his sanity was shorter than his time. He could last a week in the city, he hoped, but not a moment longer than the few days they’d allotted.

  Here in this sleeping city of dead men, Nik knew every dark being from his past would find him.

  IN THE CRAGGY BLACK towers of Rurok, the Brujok began to gather. The few who had lived to sail home from Riata were placed at the head of table, next to GrandScream, who had appointed herself leader immediately after Mara’s desertion.

  So far, none had challenged her. They knew she had been closest to the Queen, and they all knew her connection to the darkness was strong.

  Of all the Brujok who dreamed of dominion over the lands, GrandScream was the fiercest because she was the most patient. Witches could live and wait a long, long time, and few had waited as long as she.

  Stomping her thick-booted heel against the floor for attention, she began. “The time for a full attack on Riata is here. The Heart pulses with desire for new life and it needs more. Our lives will depend on it.”

  “We are ill-prepared,” warned one of the warrior witches who had fought the shifter girl and survived only by fleeing into the water. It was a shameful action, but Grand had pardoned the survivors for returning without a victory. The Brujok’s numbers were not as strong as the southern Sulit, and they would need every Brujok to win.

  Patience was not a weakness, and haste was not a strength, no matter what some of her sisters might demand.

  “We will remedy our skills quickly. I have fought the Vespa girl. I know her weaknesses,” Grand added, her eyes mere slits of ebony in her dark face.

  “But Mara is gone,” WarWind said, her voice barely above a whine. Grand snarled at her. Stupid pet. The only wind she’d ever made was the sighs from her ugly lips.

  “We wanted her gone,” StrikeShadow jeered. “She never meant to give us an equal place in her kingdom; we knew that. Our alliance always had an expiration date. Be happy, sister. That shifter wench just did your work for you.”

  “If Mara returns, we’ll fix her fate then,” Grand agreed.

  “She’s good as dead without Aram,” SmokeFist added.

  “And he’s as good as dead without his magic.” StrikeShadow cackled back.

  “True, true,” Grand said, silencing them. She alone knew some of what Mara had traded for her power, as well as the sort of weaknesses such sacrifice entailed. She suspected Mara had sunk her hopes into darker power than anyone knew. But she was not yet ready to share all of this with her sisters.

  BloodChaser finally spoke up. “And what of the southern fools, then? I say we get them first, conscript them to our armies. Hold their children to give them something to fight for. When we have all of Sulit on our side, we’ll be unstoppable, even against those Weshen rebels. There are too few of them to be a real threat. With our southern sisters finally on our side, we can cut the noose of Riata.”

  “Unstoppable? Tell that to our fallen sisters!” War tapped her black nails on the table. “One shifter killed three of our own, and the soldiers captured two more. The girl is not to be underestimated.”

  “No, but we sent too few,” answered another surviving warrior. “We will not make that mistake again. GrandScream will make sure of it. The soldiers, though...” She licked her lips, smacking them together. “They were so young and green, like tender leaves to munch and crunch.”

  “They have the Lord,” Smoke pointed out, barely containing her giggle.

  Strike hissed. “Useless sack of skin, like all men.”

  “I’d like to strip his flesh and fry it up as chips!” Smoke howled, and shrieks of laughter and further insults to the former Lord of Witches echoed around the stone room, drifting out the open windows.

  Grand let them jest at Jyesh’s expense a while longer. His presence had been the worst of Mara’s ideas, and all of the Brujok were waiting for a turn to repay him in kind for the thousands of insults he had stupidly hurled at them over the years.

  Their eyes glittered with the thought.

  “Sisters,” she called finally, bringing them back to order. “If Mara returns, we can wait and work for her end, as we have done for many years. She will be proud that we’ve continued the plan, and we will be rewarded. She may mourn the loss of her pet, but men are plentiful in Riata, even Weshen ones now. We can get her a new lap dog, one that doesn’t bite us. But...” She paused to stare each of them down, ready to offer them what they really wanted. “If she does not return, we’ll be glad that we leaped at our chance. Now is the time to act, sisters. Before the Weshen retrieve more of their magic or more of their people. Before the southern Sulit regroup and heal and rally. Before Shadow grows impatient.”

  In turn around the table, each began to nod her agreement. None of them wanted to fight three enemies at once.

  “So, we take the initiative. Take them on their ground again but with a much bigger force. And more planning,” Smoke suggested, sliding a glance to the two surviving witches.

  Grand sighed. The last attack had been little more than an ill-planned reconnaissance mission - a gruesome failure on her part. She hadn’t expected the soldiers to spot the witches’ treachery so quickly and easily. Mara’s boat should have been welcomed with a parade, not an attack. The Weshen girl must have convinced them well that Mara was not returning.

  “It seems the girl has all of Riata eating from her claws already,” Grand murmured. “But we yet hold something very dear to her.”

  “What is it?” Strike grinned.

  Grand answered with a toothy smile. “Somewhere deep in the south, her twin siblings hide with a seer. It will be difficult to sneak around the witch, but one little southern seer shouldn’t be much fight once we get there.”

  “I’ll ask the crowen to help us,” War suggested, and Grand nodded to her. It was a decent idea. Their loyalty wasn’t always true, but they flew fast enough and were common enough to stay beyond notice.

  “Yes. Have the crowen searching for the children. We must ready our forces. Let’s push three-fourths into the southern forests, offering conscription or death. We may have a few takers.” Her grin widened as she savored the thought of making her arrogant southern sisters bow.

  “And the last fourth?” Blood asked, rubbing her palms together in anticipation.

  “You may lead them straight to StarsHelm and quickly. Your objective is to take out any of the four Weshen now holding court in StarsHelm - even the brother with no magic.”

  Blood cackled in delight. It was the sort of mission she lived for. “That will send a message.”

  Smoke looked up, catching Grand’s eye. “We should send a message even before that. One of fear.”

  “Was not the attack on the palace a message?” War asked, sniffing at the perceived slight of the attack she had tried to lead.

  “It obviously was not received well, if our sisters died giving it,” Grand snapped, nodding to Smoke to continue.

  “We must send a message in the ways we have always known. Show them where our allies truly lie.”

  The witches each began to grin and nod. “The old ways,” Grand agreed, and all the witches began to speak at once.

  “The forest?”

  “No, the maze!”

  “We could fill their waterways with vines and burst every pipe.”

  “Turn the trees to smoke.”

  Gran
d thumped her heel again. “Quiet, sisters. I will accept the maze.”

  Strike smiled smugly as her idea was chosen.

  “Though I do like the smoke idea...” Grand continued, thinking.

  Smoke turned a flash of teeth on her sister.

  Grand nodded. “Yes, let’s set the maze aflame with the colors of Sulit. As the smoke rises, Blood will gather her warriors in the trees. The soldiers will be lost and confused, unable to see or find their way out of their own palace. Their pitiful bodies will shake with fear of our power.”

  The witches stood as one, their cries of thanks to the Sulit Mother filling the room.

  Grand smiled at her fierce sisters. It would not be long now.

  Chapter 13

  THE NIGHT WAS LIQUID blackness when Sy woke. Even outside the window of the shared bedroom, there was no moon or stars. Everything was covered in shadows.

  Everything except Sy’s mind, which was filled with sharp, bright bursts of pain so intense he fought not to cry out and wake Coren next to him on the bed, or Resh, who was tucked at the foot of the bed on a pallet of blankets.

  Sy tried to breathe through the pain, but it felt as though a vise were squeezing the very breath from his lungs.

  He was beginning to feel lightheaded when the pressure simply stopped as suddenly as it had started. He wished for even a single candle to tell him if he was still alone, but he had nothing.

  Then he heard the faintest echo of a chuckling laugh, and he knew. It was Graeme’s brothers. Their golden light cast a constant, flickering shadow in his mind, but night seemed to be their favorite time to play.

  “I know you’re there,” he whispered. A quick glance at Coren showed she slept soundly, her chest rising and falling in steady measures.

  “Always,” came the whispered answer. The vibration was deep in his ear, as though coming from inside of him rather than without. “Always here, our tender, new, younger brother.”

  The King’s curse. He knew it, and he already hated it with all of his being.

  It had been only a handful of days since accepting this burden in exchange for revenge against the Restless King, and now, with such pain coursing through his limbs, Sy wondered if his choice had been the right one. Perhaps he’d acted too rashly.

  But none of those thoughts mattered now. He was here, and the curse was here.

  All that was left was to bear it and break it.

  The squeezing pain began again, like someone flexing a muscle over and over, just because they could. It was as though the spirits knew just how far to go before his bones broke or his sanity snapped.

  “Will you ever let me leave?” he whispered. He could never return to Nik like this.

  His chest loosened again, and he breathed deeply of the stale air. Sy rubbed at his ribs, easing the cramps from his stomach until his fingers began to burn with the effort.

  “You could never run fast enough to leave us behind,” the voice answered. “We are with you until your end.” Then the low laughter began again, and Sy looked down at his hand, which he could suddenly see.

  No. He cursed, jumping off the bed and rushing toward the pitcher of water on the dresser. His fingers were truly burning, the pain like a white light cleaving his mind. His flesh sizzled as he dunked his hands into the water.

  A low, pleased moan sounded from somewhere close behind him, and Sy felt sick at the sort of soul that would take pleasure in someone else’s unwanted pain. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

  Somehow, Coren and Resh still slept undisturbed, and Sy wondered if that were part of the magic as well.

  “We’ll tell you the secret now. Right now. You can know right now what it took little Zorander Graeme years upon years to learn.”

  Sy didn’t trust the voice, but the burning on his skin had slithered in thin strips from his hands up his arms, and it was threatening his neck. Even the water wasn’t quenching the silvery, magical flames. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out before screaming.

  “What price?” he gritted, splashing water on his arms, drenching his shirt to staunch the heat. There was always a price for such knowledge.

  He focused his shifting on smoothing the sources of his skin, even as they crinkled beneath the dry, golden flame. It did nothing for the pain, and it never stopped their magic. All he could do was heal himself from their gruesome games.

  Laughter bounced off the walls, a ball above his head, taunting him like the childhood game of keep-from.

  “No price,” it whispered, the words tickling his ear. The burning lessened to warmth as a ghostly face appeared much too close to his. He startled, knocking his head against the painted column of the wooden bed. A grin sliced through the head before him, yellow mist trailing off both sides, so the smile seemed to split the head completely open.

  “No price,” the terrible mouth repeated. “We want to watch you resist and resist, and resist until you cannot. Then we crave to watch your fall into darkness.”

  A new sear of pain ripped a sudden roar from Sy’s lips. He glanced at Coren, but she still slept, the brothers’ magic closing him off from the world.

  “Tell me,” he bit out, clamping his mouth shut after the words. Once he knew the goal of the spirits, he and Resh could work more successfully to break the curse. All knowledge would be helpful, price or not.

  “Blood,” the face whispered. Then it wavered and wisped away, blessedly taking the flames with it. “Blood,” the voice called, stronger now. “Blood!” it screeched, filling the room.

  “Blood?” Sy asked, desperate to understand, but a pop echoed against the walls.

  A shout sounded from behind him. Coren scrambled to untangle herself from the blanket, calling his name and Resh’s.

  “What do you mean, blood?” Sy called again into the empty darkness.

  The voice filled his mind, edged with laughter. “When you kill the innocent, we are sated. So, kill.”

  With those final words, every touch and torture of his body vanished. The spirits had gone, and things would have been silent except for Coren’s panic to find a light and Resh’s knees knocking against the bed.

  “What was that?” Resh demanded as the light of a candle flickered into existence.

  Sy rubbed at his forehead, which was dripping with sweat. He slid down the column of the bed, his limbs going limp. His skin felt impossibly tight and tender. Unable to even form a sentence, he held his arms out to Resh like a child asking for an embrace.

  Resh cursed viciously as Coren’s light swerved close enough to see the puckered, blistered skin.

  “Burn ointment,” he said, grasping for his pack.

  Coren rushed around the room, lighting several more candles until most of the room was visible. Resh had located the ointment and began smearing it gently on Sy’s hands.

  Sy felt tears leak down his cheeks, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was so weakened, in body and spirit, impossibly drained of his magic.

  So, the monsters that lived inside him clamored for blood offerings.

  No wonder Zorander Graeme had killed every rebel he got his hands on.

  Sy watched his brother and his friend tend to his wounds, feeling closed off and nearly absent, as though he were simply seeing their actions through a window. He would not become a murderer. He’d have to find another way.

  “That was the curse?” Coren asked, her eyes wide and shadowed in the flickering candlelight. Sy managed a nod. She slipped Resh a frightened look, and his face grew grim.

  “We will find a way to break this,” Resh said, screwing the top back on the jar of medicine.

  “Perhaps Giddon knows something. It seems like something worse than Sulit magic,” Coren said.

  “Umbren,” Sy whispered, struggling to stand. Each of them grasped him beneath one of his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He allowed them to help, pushing away his pride. They led him around the edge of the bed and helped him settle back into the pillows.

&nb
sp; “What were you shouting about blood?” Resh asked when Sy was better situated.

  “The spirits said that when I kill innocents, their lust for blood is sated. Otherwise, I guess they seek their blood from me.”

  “They can speak to you?” Coren asked, her voice trembling.

  “I see them sometimes, too. Like candlelight, if it moves quickly. Or yellowish mist. Or smoke.”

  “Just like my dreams,” she said, glancing between the brothers. “I thought they were coming for me.”

  “They may well have been,” Resh said. “You would have killed Graeme if his relationship to you hadn’t been revealed.”

  “They should have come for me. That should be my curse to bear,” she whispered, and Sy jerked a hand toward her.

  “No, Coren. I chose this. I can bear it.”

  “And we can break it,” Resh added, tucking the blanket close around Sy again.

  He grimaced as he rested his arms on the soft blankets. He hoped he could sleep the rest of the night. Surely, they wouldn’t come again.

  “Try to rest,” Coren said, her voice small. “We’ll begin our inquiries first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes, my Queen,” Sy said, a whisper of a smile on his lips, trying to tease her out of her guilt. She scowled at him.

  “If you weren’t already in pain, I might box you for that.”

  He closed his eyes, his mouth still in a loose smile. Whatever happened, she couldn’t be allowed to blame herself for this. After a few moments of silence, Sy heard them both move to the window. Their murmured words drifted toward him, but he didn’t struggle to understand. His brain begged for rest. So, he let go of his fears and pride and sunk swiftly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  COREN WAS GIVEN NO time to research the curse the next morning, though, as the debate over a new Queen rose to a head. Thanks to the Brujok attack and Jyesh’s speech, none in the palace wanted to wait another day to decide leadership.

  “I want to speak with Jyesh first,” she told Dain when he arrived to escort her to the throne room. He frowned in protest, but she ignored it, pushing out of the bedroom and across the hall. She needed to let her brother know a few things.