Reign of Shadows

by Deborah Chester

The strange, frightening scent that he’d been unable to identify earlier now returned to the air.

  Startled, Caelan lifted his head and gazed at the passageway. Only darkness lay inside it, a darkness he did not want to explore.

  “Come,” whispered a voice. It was strange and mysterious, raspy yet soft, and definitely female. “Come to me, man of violence, and let me give you power to win on the morrow.”

  The hair rose on the back of Caelan’s neck. Wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, he stared at the passageway, trying to see what spoke to him from the shadows. He saw nothing, yet she was out there.

  “Do not fear,” she whispered. “I am given to you until the dawn.”

  His mind raced. A prostitute?

  Everyone knew a man lost his prowess by indulging himself the night before combat. Like draining blood from men under the guise of initiation rites, this was another trick designed to see that the trainees failed.

  Angry, Caelan jumped to his feet. “Go away,” he said curtly. “I don’t want you.”

  “You must come to me,” she whispered, her voice sultry and enticing. “I have power to give you.”

  “You will steal my power,” he retorted. “Begone fromme!”

  “You are wrong.”

  There was silence for a moment, and he thought she’d left. The fire still blazed in the mouth of the carving, cutting him off from leaving the way he’d entered. From the larger chamber beyond came the sounds of the guards talking. The priests filed out in silence, their footsteps walking in even cadence.

  He thought that as soon as everyone had gone, he would find a way to scatter the fire or smother it. Then perhaps he could get out of this place.

  A scraping sound, as though something heavy were being dragged, came from the passageway.

  “I can approach no closer,” she called softly, her voice sounding breathless and strained. “I cannot enter the light. Come to me, and I will share wonderful secrets with you. It will be a night to remember always. This I promise.”

  “I’m sure,” he said grimly. “But I’m not interested.”

  “You are gruff and fierce,” she replied as though amused. “But when does a man refuse pleasure?”

  “I do,” he said, although the more she talked, the more uncomfortable and uneasy he felt. “I said no.”

  She began to sing, softly and throatily. Despite his suspicions, life stirred in his groin, He frowned and tried to block out the sound, but for once he could not tune it out. Even an attempt to sever did not work, he could not say the sound was melodic or pleasing, and yet it sent swift ripples of desire through his muscles. He found himself turning in that direction, swaying in time with the song, his breath rasping in his throat.

  “Come,” she sang. “Come, for I am given to you to make you happy, to make you forget tomorrow. I am given to strengthen you and make you invincible. I am better than wine. Come to me, Caelan E’non. Come.”

  He was afraid of the spell she was weaving over him, and yet into his mind came an image of a woman with pale flowing hair. She was running naked through a meadow of alpine flowers, laughing, her arms outstretched as though she were flying. He wanted to run with her, to laugh with her, to catch her in his arms and swing her to the ground.

  Before he realized it, he was walking across the small room, drawn by a force greater than his own will. Through a haze he wondered how she knew his name. Through a haze he wondered why she would not venture into the light. Through a haze he thought of how this was a mistake.

  Yet what was one more mistake among a lifetime of them? He had no hope of success in the arena anyway. Why shouldn’t he lake this opportunity to enjoy himself?

  He reached the mouth of the passageway and somehow managed to stop by clutching the frame with his hands. His body swayed toward her, yet his fingers dug in and held him in place.

  “Come to me,” she whispered.

  Her scent rolled over him again. He snorted against it, finding it cloyingly sweet, exotic, and yet somehow rotten.

  “What are you?” he struggled to say. His lips felt wooden and thick.

  “I am a haggai,” she replied. “How strong you are. How suspicious. Do not fear me. I am given to you. Come.”

  He took one step forward, his hands sliding down the wall and dragging free.

  At that angle, with the firelight shining behind him to cast faint illumination into the mouth of the passageway, he saw her. Just a vague outline—the long mass of curling hair springing up and blowing as though in a breeze, the liquid gleam of her eyes watching him from the darkness, the pale curve of her ripe breasts. She seemed to be sitting on the floor, and yet the height was wrong for such a position.

  Blinking against the haze in his brain, Caelan took another step forward, staggered, and bumped into the wall. Feeling dizzy and strange, he twisted to put his back against the wall.

  As he did so, the faint firelight gleamed off something shiny and smooth coiled around her. She was sitting on it, but . . .

  She leaned forward, reaching out her arms. “Caelan, come. I am here to give you ecstasy such as you have never known.”

  When she moved, he realized she wasn’t sitting on the coils. Instead, they were a part of her. The lower half of her body wasn’t human at all, but rather eellike and a sickly mottled gray color. Her hair wasn’t hair either. There was no breeze blowing here to stir the tendrils on her head. Instead, a thick mass of tentacles grew from her scalp, stretching and reaching, constantly moving with life of their own.

  Horrified, he stood frozen, his mouth agape.

  “Caelan, I want you,” she sang.

  Even more to his horror, he felt himself moving forward, obeying the spell of her summons. Revulsion burned his throat, and with all his will he tried to fight, but it was asthough his feel belonged to another. They would not obey him.

  He walked right up to her, raging inside, lighting the spell she’d cast over him. She was a monster, something demonic and evil. He couldn’t couple with that.

  Her fingers stroked his arm. With shock he realized he was suddenly close to her. She ducked her head and brushed his chest with the tentacles. They felt soft and warm, squirming against his flesh.

  Desperately, he shut his eyes and reached for severance. With a snap, he was freezing cold as though he’d entered an ice cave.

  She cried out something, but her voice was too far away to hear. She reached for him, but he stepped back slowly, oh so very slowly, feeling as though he were moving under water. Yet her grasp missed him and he was free, still stepping backward while she called and called his name.

  When he came to his senses he was running for his life along the sandy jogging track, arms and legs pumping, his breath a desperate rattle in his throat. Something unnameable was chasing him. He could sense it, although dusk had fallen and he couldn’t see much in the starlight.

  Then he realized those were hoofbeats behind him. He heard the horse snorting and the oaths of the rider. Exhaustion plunged through Caelan. His legs were burning, and his heart was hammering out of control.

  He stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees, dragging in deep, gulping breaths of air. Shudders ran through him, and he had no idea how he’d gotten out here.

  The horse reined up beside him, and its rider jumped down.

  “Traulander?” It was Orlo’s voice, half exasperated and half afraid.

  Caelan dragged in more air, lifting his hands to wipe the sweat drenching his face. “Yes, master.”

  “Great Gault above, are you mad?” Orlo shouted. “What in the name of hell are you doing out here? How did you get past the guards? How did you get out of the arena? What are you doing running like this? You crazy fool, you can’t escape the compound.”

  “I wasn’t trying.” Still panting, Caelan found unwanted memories washing over him. He could not shut them out. “That thing in there—the haggai—” His voice broke on him, and he shuddered.

  “I see,” Orlo said at last. “You fool, you destroyed the ini
tiation rites and risked the wrath of the gods, and now you run from the arms of ecstasy. Truly, you are mad.”

  “I wish I were,” Caelan muttered, closing his eyes. “That thing—the sight of it—what in the name of the gods is it?”

  “You saw a haggai?” Orlo sounded disbelieving.

  Caelan nodded. “I didn’t want to go into the passageway when she—when it called to me. I figured I should preserve my strength the night before combat. But she—it cast some kind of spell on me. When I got close enough, I saw what it was.”

  Orlo sighed. “That’s the whole point. You aren’t supposed to see them. Men would go mad, which is what happened to you. Am I right?”

  Caelan remembered the order forbidding him to sever. “Yes,” he lied. “I went mad.” And perhaps it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t like losing himself this way. It was why he’d resisted severance at Rieschelhold, resisted those lost gaps of time spent doing the bidding of the masters with little or no recollection afterward of what he’d done.

  He threw himself at Orlo’s feet, all pride gone. “Don’t make me go back to that creature. In the name of the gods, have mercy on me.”

  “Hush.” Orlo kicked him back, sending him sprawling. “I’d rather have you stiff-backed and causing trouble than sniveling like this. Do you have regrets now for what you’ve done? The priests cursed you, do you understand?”

  “Yes, master.” Caelan pulled himself to his feet, trying to regain his composure. “I didn’t like the blasphemous service they forced on us.”

  “And who asked you whether your approval was needed? Gault above, you are more trouble than a ring full of Madrun prisoners of war. Aren’t you afraid now of tomorrow?”

  “No more than before.”

  “But you face the chance of death without the protection of the gods. You cannot enter the afterlife without—”

  Orlo broke off his sentence as though realizing he was sounding too concerned. He cleared his throat and gave Caelan a shove. “Move! I’ve a dozen duties ahead of me tonight. No time to mess about with a superstitious Traulander who won’t take a night of pleasant forgetfulness with a haggai witch.”

  Caelan faced him. “I will not go back to such a creature. If I am to be whipped for disobedience, then do so, because I will not—”

  “Careful,” Orlo warned him. “You are an insolent dog, but it is a privilege, a generous gift, that is provided to condemned men, not an obligation.”

  Some of the tension faded from Caelan. He let out a breath of relief.

  “I do not bargain with slaves,” Orlo said. “Do you understand me? I do not bargain. But if you will not tell anyone that you saw a haggai, no matter what tales of pleasure are shared with you on the morrow, then I will quarter you with the veterans where they do not venture.”

  Caelan was grateful but also surprised. “The veterans don’t—”

  “I didn’t say that!” Orlo broke in irritably. “The veterans have their favorites. They go down deep into the catacombs when they wish, but it is by their choice. The haggai do not seduce or lure them. Only the new fighters, for the first time.”

  Caelan had more questions, but instinct told him he had pressed his luck far enough. “I am grateful for your mercy, master.”

  “Walk,” Orlo said gruffly. “As stupid as you are, you’ll be dead by the first round. Just mind that when you are killed, you do not choose to haunt me. Gault’s mercy!” He made a swift gesture of supplication and glared at Caelan. “You should have taken the night of pleasure.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ELANDRA DID NOT know exactly how long she had remained blind among the Penestrican women, but she guessed approximately a month had passed.

  It was a hard, silent time of loneliness and self-doubt. She had always heard that to be blind was to be in the dark, as though one’s eyes could not open. But she saw no darkness. Only the unending, featureless, glaring white of Hecati’s revenge. It was more disorienting than Elandra could have imagined; worse, she thought, than actual darkness. At least the dark was a familiar place. But this was not.

  The Penestricans had been kind but aloof, making no effort to treat her. She had been given a room to herself, very small. Eight paces in both directions. That hardly mattered; she was used to nothing else. The walls were stone but rough. She had explored them by touch and knew they were natural rock, not dressed blocks. She suspected she was in a cave. It was very dry and warm, however. A small hole—too small to crawl through—cut high in one wall brought her fresh air from outside.

  Thus, she could smell damp and know if it was raining outside. Warm, sun-freshened air meant daytime. Cool air meant evening.

  She had a stool and small table, a narrow cot, and a shelf to hold a lamp she did not need. No one ever came to light it. Her only contact with other human beings was three times a day, when food and fresh water were brought and her necessity pail taken away for cleaning.

  Everything was clean.

  Three times a week, she was led down a narrow passageway, placed in a corner, and doused with water. Her attendant would then swathe her in a rough towel and dry her while she shivered and gasped. She would be led back to her cell. Nothing was ever said to her, even if she asked questions.

  Her clothes had been taken away, reminding her strangely of her dream where she had kissed the mysterious lover and Hecati had walked in her dream. She had no dreams now, only her thoughts chasing endlessly around and around in her brain.

  To be kept naked at first had seemed the greatest un- kindness of all. She felt totally vulnerable and dependent, and she had hated them for treating her with this silent indifference.

  In retaliation she had trained herself not to cringe or try to cover herself whenever someone came to her room. Finally indifference became a habit, not a pose. She stopped caring, almost, and it ceased to be a torture. After all, she was in a place entirely of women. There were never any male voices, never any male scents. Sometimes, in the stillness of what she assumed was night, she could hear far- distant chanting echoing through the passageways.

  It was always faint, but some element in it disturbed her and made her restless. She would get up and pace, back and forth, counting her steps so as not to bump into the walls, until the chanting would finally fade away altogether.

  Idleness and boredom were the hardest elements to endure. She found herself wishing Bixia would visit, even if only once, to tell her she’d not been forgotten. But it was a stupid wish, an absurd wish. Elandra was angry at herself for even hoping for something like that. Bixia was busy being trained and prepared. She probably had no time for anything else. Even so, Elandra knew Bixia was too selfish to come even if she had the opportunity.

  Elandra tried to stay grateful to the Penestricans for notturning her out as a cripple. After all, she could not be married like this.

  As always, Hecati had defeated her.

  All her life Elandra had tried to bury her own dreams and ambitions, to never allow herself high expectations under the guise of being practical. Without expectations, disappointments hurt less. But for a few short days during her journey here, she had allowed herself to dream of what life might bring her. Never had she imagined this fate.

  The shock in her lingered deep.

  She had never been an introspective person, but her confinement forced herself to explore her own mind. She examined the kind of person she had been until now. She thought about the kind of person she was becoming.

  Not a self-pitier. She still had enough pride to hold herself together.

  Weakness and dependence were abhorrent to her. She wanted to ask the Penestricans to train her in some task she could do, to give her anything that had purpose again. But that chance had not yet come.

  A sound at her door disturbed her thoughts. Ever wary, Elandra rose from her stool and faced the door. It was not yet time for food. She had had a bath yesterday. Trapped in the whiteness, she strained with her ears and her sense of smell to determine who was there.


  The door swung open, creaking slightly on its hinges. Hope lifted in her. Was this a visitor? Would at last she have someone to talk to?

  “Yes?” she asked eagerly. “Why have you come? Who is there?”

  The woman entered the room without answering. Her footsteps were soft on the stone floor. Bare feet, Elandra thought. But unlike the usual attendant who hobbled as though old and who puffed when she walked, this person moved gracefully with a low, distinctive jingle of earrings.

  With her came a scent of herbs and musk, very faint but pleasing. There was something familiar yet elusive about her that teased at Elandra’s mind. How maddening not to recognize what her senses seemed to be telling her.

  In silence, the visitor took Elandra’s hand and tugged.

  Elandra resisted. “Where are you taking me?”

  Not answering, the visitor tugged again.

  Anger tangled with frustration inside Elandra. “I don’t understand why I am treated so. Why won’t you answer my questions? Must I be punished for having been spell- burned?”

  The visitor tugged harder, pulling her forward.

  Elandra gave up the useless questions and stumbled along. Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She wasn’t going to let anyone see her hurt and confusion. Blind or not, she was still the daughter of Albain. She wouldn’t beg for their mercy.

  There were fourteen steps from Elandra’s door left along a passageway, then a turn to the right and thirty-nine steps to the bathing room.

  Today, however, they turned left twice. Suddenly Elandra was lost and disoriented.

  She slowed down, using her free hand to feel along the wall. The woman leading her kept tugging at her to go faster. Elandra’s uncertainty grew, and with it came fear.

  Quickly she squelched that emotion. She must not let them think she was scared. If anything, she must bide her time until she could figure out a way to get word to her father. No doubt the Penestricans had concealed her fate, fearing Albain’s blame in the matter. But Elandra did not intend to stay here imprisoned and forgotten like some charity case, if she could help it.