Wyldelock had finished his meal and stretched beside the fire to drink the honeyed wine they shared. He listened as Dietrick continued the lesson, drawing comparisons to their allegiance, laughing at how, if they had been born another time, fought with the great Spartan army, that they would be the source of legend. Fleetingly, it struck Wyldelock that his friend alluded to passion between them, and dismissed it again without consideration. They had touched, clasping each other in victory, extolling the other with embraces, but beyond this there was no intimacy. Yet, there was a glimmer in Dietrick’s eye when he peered at Wyldelock, something tainted with more than respect, admiration, friendship. There was a tinge of uncharted need for experimentation. When the fire had begun to fade, Dietrick sighed, as though ready to share a secret, one which had enough significance to change the course of their lives. But Wyldelock had accepted fatigue and closed his lids to sleep.
The stone beneath him was damp. The smell reminded him of awakening in the pit. Mold. Decay. Small organisms that preyed on all that was solid, slowly eating away majesty. “I should have talked to you that night,” Wyldelock uttered, as though his friend still listened, as though the warming fire still crackled, lighting the handsome face that glowed with more than comradeship. “I knew then, but I said nothing.” He crawled over the stone, over decay, toward the cellar’s hidden compartment that held the medicines. “If we had talked, worked out these feelings, this would not be happening.” Wyldelock shuddered with a constriction of grief. He had dealt with the uncomfortable sensation of a man’s love mistakenly. In ignorance he had let it pass.
The Von Der Weilde family welcomed the return of their only son. They welcomed Wyldelock with similar jubilance. There was much rejoicing. Music, feasting, dancing, and wine flowed as water. Dietrick dressed with pride of the wealth he had accumulated from wages of successful battle. His sister, Sophia, had taken great lengths in preparing his hair, adjusting the lace on his doublet, clearing spots from his boots. She danced with the returning hero. They were a graceful couple and then her eyes turned to Wyldelock as he drank at the table, the one saved for honored guests. He returned her smiles with thoughts of lust. The voluptuous figure denoted fine foods, her dress told all she was a prized beauty, and her long straight hair adorned with flowers hinted at purity. The smiles between them had not gone unnoticed. Dietrick leaned into his sister’s ear and whispered. Her smile dimmed; her eyes lowered in embarrassment. She crept back to her maids and refused to turn again to meet Wyldelock’s quiet invitations of union.
Candles in the small compartment flickered at his command. Wyldelock rested, for the simplest of demands drained him of energy. Dust-covered, corked bottles dotted the shelves. He squinted to the one he needed. “Come to my hand.” It shivered, but did not move beyond its station. He moaned. Frustration. Muscles paralyzed by weakness were alien, unwelcome. How he hated falling subject to limitation. He was Wyldelock Talan De Croft. Frailty meant impotence and he was not impotent.
His cup was never permitted to be empty. Wyldelock had consumed much wine, but Dietrick had drunk beyond capacity to retain reason. The festivities carried on to the early morning hours, and finally Wyldelock decided to part from his gracious hosts and seek out Sophia. She had departed with her maids, and he was certain he knew which corridor led to her chamber. The wine had disrupted his inhibitions. His goal was to conclude the evening by tasting her sweetness. She had hinted her desire, for as she departed her eyes sought him and she pursed her lips in a short kiss. Swaying hips hinted joining together. He flushed in excitement and stole from the lit hall to honor her request.
Sweat streamed from his forehead as he made good the attempt to stand, reach for the bottle. Lungs like useless sacks, he gasped for air, the smallest of exertions so difficult. Blinking away a tremor that threatened to reduce him to ultimate failing he summoned control and grabbed at the black bottle. It tipped, as he did, and fell with a clatter beside his wilted form on the stone floor. The cork had popped out, the bottle’s lip cracked. Precious white power had spilled.
“Where do you go, brother?” Dietrick had asked, stumbling on wine drenched limbs. “You cannot leave the festivities so soon.”
Impolite to share the true nature of his quest, Wyldelock bowed in relinquishment. “The cock has already crowed to light. I wish to rest.”
They were alone in the corridor. “Talan,” Dietrick murmured, tittering to drunkenness. “Know that you are more than a brother to me.”
Ashamed for his friend’s lucidity, Wyldelock flushed. “Perhaps you, too, should consider retiring,” he said with care.
“I will, if you come with me.” Unfocused eyes slowly lifted. His cheek twisted with a secret that was soon to be confessed.
“You have had too much drink, brother. I fear you speak without concern, as a woman.”
Dietrick stumbled as he puffed a short laugh and Wyldelock had reached out to prevent him from tumbling. “No woman could speak of affection to you as I.”
Before Wyldelock took opportunity to answer, Dietrick kissed him.
Shocked, Wyldelock froze in momentary submission, allowing the kiss to flourish. It was not completely unpleasant. It was, however, a prelude to an act Wyldelock could not offer. Compassion whelmed in his chest as he held Dietrick at bay. “You are drunk,” he whispered the excuse, if the incident recalled later. An excuse that would bear no ill feelings.
“I am drunk,” Dietrick answered, his voice drenched with more than the effects of alcohol. “I am drunk with love for you. Tell me you feel the same.”
Wyldelock dipped his finger into the tear that wet his cheek and tapped the spilled powder. His finger trembled as he coated parched lips, swollen tongue catching some of the drug. It soothed the trembling, took away the pain, and Wyldelock succumbed to temporary bliss. He would need more, much more, but for now he rested and the memories continued to seize his mind.
He had escorted Dietrick back into the great hall. Then Wyldelock snuck away, racing through the corridors to Sophia. Outside her door, he struggled, finding it impossible to shake off the sensation of his brother’s uninvited attentions. Yet, he stirred with the confusion of attraction, actually relishing in the thrill of what could be a new and exciting experience.
He had prided himself in the ability to tap into thought, understand what another was plotting, for his magic had grown into the ability to perceive another’s motives. How had he not seen this? How had he not recognized the longing in his brother’s eyes? Perhaps they were too close, too similar. An object far from reach is easier to bring into focus. Now that he heard with his own ears of Dietrick’s deepest affection, he stood bewildered, saddened and most definitely angered. Angered because there was a growing flicker of pleasure burning in his soul, a soul fully capable of love.
Slowly he pushed open the door and glided quickly within. Sophia peered at him from beneath the covers of her bed. He refused to move, his back against the closed door, his mind racing with a surge of lust that had consumed his senses. Were they real? Did they dance for her?
He accepted her invitation to crawl beneath the covers. Passion burst with an energy he had never experienced. He stole her innocence, luxuriated that he was the one who broke her virginity, spending hours enjoying the white, soft flesh she gladly offered. He had to prove to himself that only a woman’s form could initiate such pleasure. She wept when he finally left her bed, begging him to stay. He could not. He dressed, saddled his steed and rode off.
Sophia was left with child and Wyldelock sold his power to love, so the emotion could never cause his mind to fog with confusion ever again.
“I think that he loved you as I do.”
“Olivia?” Wyldelock searched the darkened corners of the compartment. Pain had melted from muscle and he drifted, memories fading. One lingered.
“Why do you seek solace, Talan, away from the warming fires of my family home?”
Wyldelock hesitated, his thoughts consumed with the dastardly journe
y to the Underworld that he had taken, the trick he had fallen for, that love was stolen, not given. It was a place of mockery and he had been sorely mocked. “I wish only to meditate. I need solitude for this.”
“Brother,” Dietrick said sadly, kneeling beside him. “My actions have brought you to misery. I beg forgiveness.”
“No, Dietrick, there is no need for remorse. Your spirit was defiled by drink. I bear no ill will.”
He was relieved, slumping in exoneration. “Why then? Why can you not join my family’s company?”
Wyldelock opened the pouch he had fondled, tipping the contents into his palm. Thirteen rubies. All pure. Priceless gems. He showed them to Dietrick.
“What service have you sold to be rewarded with such wealth?” Dietrick was amazed. His mouth gaped at the beauty of the stones.
“Not service,” Wyldelock whispered. “I have sold my heart.”
“I do not understand, friend.”
“My blood will forever remain warm. I have been granted life beyond the borders of mortality. These rubies are all that is left of love I once harbored.”
Dietrick frowned. “What darkness has seduced you, Talan? Pray, tell me I am not the reason for your magic to blacken?”
“I can never love as you do. Speak not of it again.”
“So, I am the cause of this. Oh, dearest brother. What have I done?”
Wyldelock took three gems, the three largest, the first three drops that had spilled from his opened chest as love was snatched from his heart, the blood that had hardened to jewel. “This is all that I can give you. Take them, and bid me farewell.”
Dietrick’s gaze hardened, turning cold. He snatched the rubies and scoffed. “You are a fool. Do I repulse you this much that you fear even trying to adorn me with affection? This is my payment for loyalty all these years?”
“My sins are many, my transgressions great. Know you are my brother, our blood always entwined. I will never forget you.”
Dietrick leapt to his feet. “If you leave I shall follow.”
“No, you cannot follow me. Your mortality will not allow pursuit.”
“I will find a way.”
Wyldelock lifted his eyes to ones filled with resolve. The flame of vengeance had already begun to feed on the decay of a slighted emotion.
“Good-bye, brother. Peace be with you.”
“Such intense hatred is born of jealousy. You snubbed him and he couldn’t bear it.”
“Olivia.” Wyldelock said her name, the only sweetness within the dampened dungeon. He had to explain, even though he knew he was alone in this prison. “I took away what he wanted, and now he has done the same to me.”
Convinced she was stolen, convinced he was condemned again to sleep, convinced all was lost, Wyldelock watched the candles dim.
The blanket of blackness slowly closed in over Wyldelock and he fell into unconsciousness, no longer struggling to hold onto the light of life.
* * * *
The smell of battle filled the turret. Not only smoke, which was familiar to her, but another scent--one she had never known--the choking odor of lost hope.
“William? Where are you?”
The rug was singed, a circle where he had been ensnared by Dietrick’s fire. A sword, without stain, lay across the damaged rug, where it had fallen. She knelt, to hold the weapon in her hand, to feel the surge of battle for herself. Its weight was extreme, the muscle in her arm protested. Regardless of Dietrick’s dominion, William still had such courage. But she would have to find more. She had to learn what it meant to hold firm the sword, even though she had chosen the cup.
The cup. Darting quick glances she was relieved to find it still there, partially hidden beneath the bed. She dropped the sword and took hold of her treasured weapon, one that took no effort to wield. The stench of failure evaporated. She breathed deeply of renewal. With it she would find enough courage to pull them both through whatever evil reared up.
“William, cling to hope as I do. Do not let go. Feel me near.”
A faint heartbeat tapped. It told her he was alive. With life was hope.
She had seen the place where life failed, where hope no longer guided the soul. It was a place where no forgiveness could ease suffering. Only despair prevailed and it demanded company, others to share damnation. It fed on goodness, corrupting it to misery. The enemy sought the same--to steal from William any chance to regain freedom, to doom him as he was doomed. She was William’s keeper. She would not allow the darkness of revenge to swallow him. She would not!
Olivia picked up the cup and held it close to her heart. “William,” she whispered. “I will not forsake you.”
“Mother. Do not forsake me here.”
Of course! Poor pathetic creature. It smelled her blood, knew she was of Von Der Weilde descent, understood the mark because it was his mark, the one he had demanded flourish on countless generations until its father rose again. Dagaz. Reduced to living death, tormented with unheard cries of repentance, until light might touch that horrid lost soul again. It called her mother for the same reasons that Dietrick called her sister. She meant liberation for one, demise for the other. No wonder Dietrick had tried to woo her to his side: keep Dagaz embalmed, damn William, and reduce her to slavery. She was the one small candle that glowed in the darkness, the one they all fluttered to, but which would flutter too close? Which would burn before the flame extinguished?
“Without you the fire will consume him.”
The gull perched on the windowsill. “What if I fail, Guide? What if I make a wrong choice?”
Without answer it flapped to the corner and squawked. A panel disturbed, she went closer to investigate. The heartbeat grew louder.
A blast of air circled throughout the room. Olivia cried out to its velocity. It attempted to suck the cup from her hands. The gull screeched and flew off. Walls rattled as the wind increased, deep within the roar came rage.
“Surrender!”
“Never.” Olivia clasped the cup tightly. Without looking back she wiggled through the broken paneling, groping for substance to lead her way through increasing darkness. The air was stagnant, the steps narrow and cold. One palm on the wall she picked her way down, treading with care so as to not release the cup. The wind shook the wall behind her but did not dare to follow. No longer a distraction she focused on the beating heart that was not her own. William was near.
The blackness was heavy, oppressive, like water. It hindered her movement, lulling her to slumber within its density. If she succumbed to its call, allowed it to immobilize her, she was certain she would be lost to time. She would sleep, dreamlessly, unaware of the passage of life above, where the world was bright and real. She would be reduced, as William had once been reduced, to nothingness, waiting for another’s call to awaken. It seduced her to close her eyes, relinquish her spirit, and sink into the sticky pit of failure.
“Light,” she said. “I need light.”
The cup glowed yellow at her request and she held it as a torch, guiding her passage through the dank corridor. This crypt would not flourish over her will to survive, nor would it rob her of her longing to find William. Her senses acute, she smelled rot. None more so than the rot that threatened flesh.
William was lying on his side, a bottle in his motionless fingers, a splotch of white powder, browned with stain around the edges, near where his cheek rested. He had sought relief from physical torment but it had not been enough. Unconscious, yet his eyes half open, glazed, seeing only what the numbing powder wished him to see.
Olivia choked back the fear of uncertainty. She knelt, placing the cup on the stone, illuminating a veil of black hair that clung to the damp floor, his only pillow. She shivered, for his face was twisted to decomposition--lips dried, a thin line of purple circled his mouth, his cheek blackened and sunken with the poison that crept through his features. One vein in his neck protruded with a heartbeat that struggled to continue, no matter how weak, clinging to life. A rasping breath st
artled her and she stared in shock. “What must I do?” she said weakly, pushing panic into the dense blackness that peered at him without concern from over her shoulder.
She brushed his hair away from his face, examining with horror what this enemy within had reduced him to. She tried not to think of it, for surely her scream would mean nothing, except allowing frenzy to overpower her reactions when she needed fortitude, clear thinking. He needed her help desperately, but she was caught in a habilitating web of the unknown. “What must I do?”
He was so vulnerable, so ill, so devoid of all the magnificence she had known him to brandish. His continued existence depended on her action but which recourse? There was no Guide to whisper in her ear, no small voice of wisdom rising from her heart. She was as empty as the unblinking eyes that continued to wait immediate assistance.
A rattle, exhaled past the arid lips, told her a constriction tightened in his throat. She had to do something soon, or wither in loss. He would perish within a living death and then she would be left with regret that her powers meant nothing when needed the most. The madness of such failure would burn her soul. The darkness swirled, inching closer. It, too, saw her failing and had already begun to consume them both.
Instinct. The one characteristic of the cup. Poison could be drained. He had done just that when he discovered she carried it. He had slashed the veins in her legs to staunch its flow. He had sucked out the venom, which was why he suffered now. His mouth had dried to it, and it crept through his mind, rendering him into a trance. And it was slowly curling through the major artery in his neck, progressing to his heart which, once found, would turn his blood to dust. He was dehydrating.
The cup glowed. Inside, water boiled up, frothing over the rim.
She scooped the precious liquid in her palm and dabbed his lips. He responded, a swollen tongue protruding for more. She gently eased his head to lift and scooped more, so some could get inside, where the replenishing magic could take effect.
The Sorcerers Mark Page 17
