by John Marco
Biagio was silent. Dyana sighed.
‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘This drug will kill you someday. It is not natural’
The count gave a black laugh. ‘Not natural? Ah, then it’s perfect for me. For I’m not natural and never have been. Archbishop Herrith could tell you that.’ He turned and sneered at her. ‘Don’t you know what I am, woman? Or is that why you feel so safe with me? Because you know I’ll never take you to my bed?’
‘I know what you are,’ said Dyana. ‘And I am not afraid of you.’
‘Well, you should be. I’m a monster.’
He turned his back on her, resting his elbows on the keyboard and burying his face in his hands. Dyana didn’t know if it was a signal to leave, but she remained in the chamber, waiting for Biagio’s gloomy mood to pass. Eris was right. The drugs had made him insane. Yet Dyana didn’t fear him. Something inside her told her to stay, to try and coax enough humanity out of the count to make him see his mistakes. And maybe, to save Richius’ life.
‘It does not have to be this way,’ she said softly. ‘I have heard things about you. And not just from my husband. I can even see it myself.’
‘See what?’ Biagio growled.
‘The drugs, what they have done to you. People say you were not always this way. They say you were different when you were younger.’
Biagio lifted his head and stared at her. ‘Eris has been very naughty, hasn’t she?’
‘Do not blame Eris,’ said Dyana. ‘She only told me what I asked. And it is obvious, anyway.’
‘What is?’
‘That you are insane. Like Arkus.’
‘How dare you!’
‘It is the drug,’ Dyana insisted. ‘It had made you mad. Anyone can see that just by looking at you.’
‘Fool,’ scoffed Biagio. ‘You’re only seeing the treatment. I’m not always like I am tonight. The drug keeps my body young. I am better than I ever was. Stronger and smarter.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his slack wrist. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear, woman. If you were a Roshann agent, you would know better.’
‘I know what I know,’ said Dyana. She knelt down beside him. ‘All of this, everything you have done – it is all for revenge. But if you let me go, if you send me to Liss on a ship, I will tell Richius not to invade. He will listen to me, and then you can both end this madness.’
‘I don’t want to end it. Haven’t you been listening? I want Liss to invade!’
‘Why?’
Biagio slammed a fist down on the keys. ‘You think I’m going to tell you that? Suffice it to say, I have my reasons.’
‘Madness,’ said Dyana softly. ‘That is all this is. And you are so insane you cannot even see it. The drug—’
‘The drug keeps me alive,’ spat the count. ‘It keeps me beautiful’ He took her wrist again, forcing her to look into his hypnotic eyes, holding her and not letting go. ‘Look at me. Am I not beautiful?’
Dyana was afraid to answer. He was beautiful, but he was also inhuman, and in those lovely, blazing eyes she saw madness. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You are beautiful. But not beautiful enough.’ She pulled free of him. ‘I still see you as a monster. And not because of the way you look.’ Carefully she reached out a finger and tapped his chest. ‘It is what is inside you that is diseased.’
‘You are wrong, Lady Vantran. The drug makes me strong. I would not be able to tame the Empire without it.’
‘And that is all that matters? You arrogant man. Maybe Arkus was right about not giving you the Empire. Maybe he saw how mad you were. He never—’
Biagio’s hand shot out, slapping Dyana hard across the face. She fell back, startled by the blow. Biagio towered over her, his face twisting.
‘Don’t you ever speak his name to me again,’ he seethed. ‘You wretched bitch. Arkus loved me! I was like a son to him.’
Dyana put a hand to her cheek. ‘Mad,’ she said again. ‘That is what you are.’
She turned and left the chamber. Biagio called after her but she darted down the hall, desperate to be away from him. Her face stung but that was hardly a concern. What hurt far worse was her pride. Like a fool she had tried to reason with him. And for a moment, she had even thought it was working.
Stupid, stupid woman, she chastised herself as she hurried from the count’s wing. Her soft shoes echoed with her eagerness, but she didn’t care who heard her now. She was irate, not only with Biagio but with herself. If Richius had seen her beg, he would have been appalled.
She made her way past the slave quarters toward her own rooms far removed from Biagio. Only when she saw her chambers did she breathe a little easier. But her relief was short when she noticed her door slightly ajar. She took a careful step forward and listened at the door. Hearing nothing, she pushed the portal open and peered into her rooms. All seemed just as she’d left it. The chamber was dark, but a paralyzing moonlight froze the furniture in its rays. Without a sound she took a cautious step inside, then, emboldened, took another. She heard the wind outside but nothing else. Shadows danced on the walls, reflecting the moonlight. Dyana frowned, sure that her imagination was getting the better of her. No doubt she had forgotten to close the door on her way out.
‘I need sleep,’ she said softly. Sleep would take her mind off things.
She went to her bedchamber and found it dark. The shades were drawn over the glass doors. Dyana stared at the doors uncertainly. And then she felt afraid.
‘I left those open,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I know I—’
From out of the darkness a hand shot over her mouth. Arms wrapped themselves around her, enormously strong.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ came a voice. Its tone was high, like a hissing snake. Not Biagio. Worse. Dyana tried to scream but the cold hand muffled her sounds. She tasted chemicals on the flesh. Savros the Mind Bender leaned forward and put his cheek against hers. ‘Pretty thing,’ he cooed. ‘Pretty, pretty thing.’
He was breathing fast and lustily. Dyana fought to break free. She kicked and twisted against his lanky arms, amazed at his iron grip. Savros giggled at her struggles.
‘Oooh, please, save your strength,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t fight me so. Save your vigor for the chains.’
No! Again Dyana tried to scream and heard only a feeble gurgle. Savros tightened his coiling arms. She could see him smile from the corner of her eyes.
‘I’ve watched you so long,’ he moaned. ‘You’re so beautiful. Your skin, like a flower. I have to take you, pretty Dyana.’
He parted his lips and let his ruby tongue dart out, lapping at her cheek. Dyana hit a wall of nausea. She drove an elbow into his ribs, but Savros’ reedy body was made of stone, and he absorbed the blows too easily for a normal man. His arm came up in retaliation, snaking around her neck and tightening until she thought she’d black out.
‘I have a place,’ he said. ‘Downstairs. I’ve prepared it just for you. Yes, yes, just for you.’
He was gibbering, overcome with perverted lust. Dyana could feel the unnatural heat pouring off his cold skin. He began dragging her backward toward the door. Still she fought against the pain and blackness, but her acrobatics only delighted Savros the more.
‘Yes, yes!’ he chimed. ‘Dance for me, pretty thing. You will dance for me.’
He pulled her out of the bedroom and into the main chamber. Dyana could barely breathe now. She was exhausting quickly, but knew she had to break away before he got her down into his dungeon. Fear exploded in her brain, an awful mix of pain and bloody visions. Amazingly, Eris’ voice came to her out of the fog, telling her to watch out for Savros.
The Mind Bender hadn’t even broken a sweat. Like it had to Biagio, the drug had given him preternatural strength. He forced her out into the hallway, pushing open the door with his shoulders as he kept a hand over her mouth and a steel arm around her neck. Dyana was about to suffocate when another figure cast a shadow across the corridor. Savros stopped, and his solid arms weakened to water. Down the hallway s
tood Biagio, pausing in mid-step when he saw them.
‘Savros,’ he exclaimed. ‘What is this?’
The Mind Bender’s hands fell away. Dyana tore free of him, darting toward Biagio. But Biagio was already racing forward, his two hands reaching out for Savros. He blazed past Dyana and fixed his hands around the torturer’s throat.
‘How dare you defy me!’ he cried as his fingers tightened. Savros was gasping, taking great gulps of air and begging for mercy.
‘Master, please . . . !’
Biagio heard none of it. He was in a rage, lifting Savros off the floor and pinning him against the wall. ‘You little beast! I’ll kill you!’
‘No, Master!’ pleaded Savros, his voice barely a rasp. He fought like a wildcat, trying to pry loose Biagio’s determined fingers. His feet kicked at the air. Dyana fell back against the wall, horrified. Her own breath was returning and she tried to steady herself, shocked at what she was seeing. Savros’ face turned a ruddy purple. His blue eyes bulged, threatening to burst. And still Biagio kept up his throttling, banging the Naren’s head against the wall and cracking the plaster.
‘Die, you wretched pig! Die!’
There was the rattling of breath and the popping of bone. Savros’ gangly body trembled in the air, hanging there in a moment of rigidity. Biagio’s hands tightened still more, until the neck between them cracked. The Mind Bender’s body suddenly went limp. Biagio held it for a second, then flung it to the floor in disgust.
‘I warned you,’ he spat at the corpse. ‘Don’t tell me I didn’t!’
Then he turned on Dyana, stalking toward her. She could see the struggle on his face for control.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
Dyana shook her head, unable to speak. The count went to her and gave her a swift inspection. He took her hand with a reassuring squeeze.
‘This is an outrage,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’
Finally, Dyana found her voice. ‘I am all right,’ she said. ‘I think . . .’
‘You look uninjured,’ observed Biagio. ‘I was coming to speak to you. To . . .’ He shrugged, looking away. Amazingly, he seemed to have forgotten the corpse on the floor.
‘What?’ Dyana probed. She kept hold of his frozen hand, hoping vainly to thaw it.
‘I should not have struck you as I did,’ the count managed. ‘I apologize. I do not want us to be enemies, Dyana Vantran. That’s not what you’re here for. And this . . .’ He gestured to the dead Savros. ‘This brutalization wasn’t what I wanted for you.’
He was such a contradiction, Dyana couldn’t fathom him. In mere seconds he had gone from a madman to something almost human. She closed her eyes, suddenly overcome. The night had overwhelmed her and her knees began to buckle. Only Biagio’s hand kept her upright.
‘You are not all right,’ he insisted. ‘Come, you need rest.’
‘I need air,’ said Dyana. She still felt Savros’ arm around her throat, choking her. And the blow across the face Biagio had given her wasn’t helping. ‘Please, just let me sit.’
Without a word he swept her up in his arms and took her back into her chambers, ignoring the dead Savros. He went straight to her bedchamber, then laid her down on the mattress. Dyana’s head was swimming. The bruise he had given her was starting to swell, and the struggle with Savros had taken all her strength. Biagio hovered over her bed, watching her. He looked strange in the moonlight, glowing with an amber aura.
‘I’ll fetch Kyla for you,’ he said. ‘And get rid of that disgusting thing outside your door.’
Dyana nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me, woman. It was my stupidity that caused all this. Savros would not have attacked you if I had been more vigilant. It won’t happen again.’
‘No,’ Dyana agreed. ‘I suppose not.’
They stared at each other in awkward silence. Biagio’s expression was pained.
‘I am not mad,’ he said softly. ‘You are wrong about me.’
Dyana tried to smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she said gently. ‘And perhaps you are wrong about Richius.’
Biagio grimaced. ‘Unlikely.’ He left her bedside and went to the door. But he paused there for a moment before crossing the threshold. ‘Though I suppose anything is possible.’
And with that remarkable admission, he left her alone in the dark. Dyana stared at the place where he had been, hardly believing her ears.
Thirty-Five
Gifts
Two days before the great holy day of Eestrii, Nar City waited beneath a blanket of penance. The streets far below the Cathedral of the Martyrs had been swept clean of acrobats and menageries, and pilgrims had begun pouring into the city, ready to bend their knees to God and beg His forgiveness. In all the city, hardly a hint of the festival of Sethkin remained. On Eestrii, the vast square outside the cathedral would swell with people, a great mass of the faithful, ready to receive the word of God through His servant, Herrith. It was a time of reflection, the day when the lords of the Empire looked inward and decided if their souls were clean or unclean. They would listen to Herrith, and he would tell them what the year would bring, and if the angels in Heaven were pleased with what they saw below. And after his speech, Herrith would go down among the people and perform the sacrament of Absolution. He would spend the rest of the day touching foreheads and doling out forgiveness, and all for the good of Nar’s rotten soul.
In the days of Arkus, Eestrii was always a time for pride. But now the archbishop ruled Nar, and no one knew for certain how this had changed Heaven’s view of things.
For years, Herrith had made the same annual trip to his balcony, raising his hands to the masses and imparting his wisdom. It was a perilously brief moment, and Herrith always tried his hardest to come up with something special for the day. Usually, he locked himself in his chambers for days before the event, carefully writing a speech and praying for divine inspiration.
Usually.
But not this year.
This year, Archbishop Herrith had other matters occupying him, and though he still locked himself in his chambers, so alone that not even Lorla came to see him, he was not busy with a speech or prayer. He was in the early throes of a violent withdrawal, and not even God could save him this time.
The shades of his window were pulled wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight. Herrith sat at his ornate desk, his hands trembling as he stared at the tiny vial. A blue residue barely coated the interior of the vial. It was the last of the drug Biagio had given him, hardly enough to blend into a potion. Every few days, he had been mixing a few drops of the potent stuff with water, making the elixir that kept him ageless. Just as Nicabar had claimed, Bovadin had made this batch powerfully strong – strong enough to have lasted Herrith for weeks. But now it was gone. Only the faint blue residue remained.
Herrith let out a whimper. His bones ached and his eyes burned. The withdrawal had seized him two days ago, squeezing the life out of him like a constrictor, and since then he had puzzled over his nearly empty bottle, mourning its loss, and trying to devise the best way to ingest what little of the life-giving drug remained. He knew the dangers of mixing so little with water. To do so might kill him. And he worried that he might mix the solution so weak as to have no effect on him at all. That was unthinkable, because that meant enduring more withdrawal and, quite possibly, madness. He set the vial down and ran his hands over his head. He had already gone through the hellish withdrawal once. He couldn’t face it again.
‘Merciful Heaven,’ he whispered. ‘What shall I do?’
He needed more of the drug, enough to sustain him just a little while longer, just long enough to think of a way out. Bovadin couldn’t wait forever on Biagio’s island. Herrith was certain the midget would someday return to Nar, but Herrith had been unable to think of a way to coax him back. He had even hoped himself free of the drug, a theory Biagio’s gift had plainly proven wrong. Worse, Vorto had tried to warn him. The bishop grit his teeth against the pain, the thought of the general
assailing him.
Vorto. He had always been the strongest. Herrith knew the general had more faith than anyone, even himself. He hadn’t even flinched when he’d seen Biagio’s gift.
I should have listened to him. I should have resisted the urge. Now look at me.
Herrith slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Enough! No more whining.’ He picked up the vial with his shaking hands. ‘I will take you,’ he said softly. ‘And if you kill me, you will simply send me to God.’
There was a pitcher of water on the desk beside him. Herrith picked it up, spilling some, and poured the liquid into the drug vial, filling it halfway. Then he put down the pitcher and stopped up the vial with his thumb, giving it a shake to wash all the precious blue liquid from its sides. He looked at his concoction in the sunlight. A hint of azure tinged the water. Herrith felt a dreadful quiver in his stomach. He thought of just swallowing it down, but that would be suicide. For reasons no one really knew, the drug needed to be introduced directly into the bloodstream, or it would not work at all. The bishop stared at the vial uncertainly. He was a faithless fool. He realized that now. But he was tired, so very tired. And the drug meant strength and vigor. It owned him. Herrith surrendered to it.
‘I fear you’re the one power greater than Heaven,’ he said. ‘We should both be damned forever.’
So he went to the place where he kept his apparatus, and blithely administered the last of the drug.
He awoke with his head on the floor, realizing that hours had passed.
His tear-stained eyes opened warily to the stabbing sunlight. He had vague memories of sickness. In his guts moved a strange burning. Herrith took a breath to test the life in him. Except for a cramping in his bowels, he felt strangely satisfied, without the marrow-chewing pain of earlier.
‘Dear God,’ he whispered, lifting his head and examining himself. ‘It’s worked. I’m all right again.’
