by Jim Melvin
“I don’t want it,” Laylah said.
Bhacca did not respond.
Laylah walked over to the table and eyed the tray suspiciously. It was dominated by a large circular plate artfully dressed with cubes of cheese, spring berries, and round slices of marinated carrot. A smaller plate contained white biscuits drizzled with honey, and next to that was a clear crystal goblet half-filled with white wine.
Laylah felt an urge to pick up the platter and heave it out her window, watching it flash and glitter as it tumbled to the ground far below. Then she surprised herself by sitting down and eating. Everything was fresh and well-prepared, and the wine was excellent. Still, she took little pleasure in the food or drink, consuming it only for sustenance.
Bhacca’s eerie presence made the experience even more uncomfortable. A stench wafted off her, reminding Laylah of a stuffy attic that contained a long-dead animal rotting in the farthest corner.
When she finished eating, Laylah stared into Bhacca’s glazed eyes and searched for signs of life. “It’s my fault that you’re dead,” Laylah finally said. “You must hate me for it.”
“I don’t remember,” Bhacca said.
“What do you remember?”
“What I have been taught.”
“Which is?”
“How to serve. How to clean. How to walk and lie down.”
“That’s it?”
“My name is Bhacca. I remember that.”
“Do you remember any of your life before you died?”
“No . . . yes. I remember . . . your face.”
Laylah sighed. “Were you taught to obey me?”
Bhacca nodded. The motion caused a flake of skin to fall from the tip of her nose and spiral onto Laylah’s lap. Laylah brushed it away with the same disgust she would have given a cockroach. Then she glared at Bhacca and said in a loud voice: “Then obey me. Cast yourself out my window.”
Bhacca nodded again and started to turn, but then she quickly came about and glared back at Laylah, her eyes suddenly ablaze with crimson light. “Don’t be such an idiot. With Bhacca gone, it would be almost impossible for me to keep watch. Invictus is so obsessed with you being back, he’s barely paying attention to anything else but you. Let him have his way with you once or twice . . . just enough to be sure you get pregnant. Once you are, I’ll take care of the rest. The sooner it happens, the better for you and your precious wizard. The two of you will be playing footsies under the table again in no time.”
As quickly as the crimson glow arose, it blinked back out. Bhacca’s blank stare returned, and her corpse resumed its slow march toward the window.
“Wait . . . stop,” Laylah said, unsure what to do but needing more time to think about it. “Just take the tray and go. I want to be alone.”
After Bhacca departed, Laylah relieved herself in her private latrine, bathed herself with soap and water, and brushed her hair. Then she leaned out her window and gazed at the floor of the valley, which was so enshrouded by mist she couldn’t even see the sycamore tree.
She sat down and stared at clouds racing past her window. Her thoughts raced along with them, trying to make sense of Bhacca’s words, which so obviously mimicked Vedana, the being she hated second-most in the world. How sickeningly ironic it was that Bhacca’s dead body housed the undead spirit of its murderer. Still, the demon had been Laylah’s ally before, helping her to escape Avici and even arranging for her to meet Torg. Why she did these things remained a mystery, including why Vedana was so anxious for Laylah to become pregnant by Invictus.
Then again, did any of Laylah’s concerns really matter? Everything paled in comparison to the hope the demon had ignited in her heart. Was there really a chance—even a slight one—that Torg lived? That the horrific spell her brother had cast upon him was reversible? That she might see him again? Laylah realized that she would submit to a score of atrocities if it gave her the chance to be with her beloved just one last time.
In the late afternoon of a warm spring day, Invictus returned to her room.
Laylah heard the door swing slowly open and then close, but she continued to stare at the clouds, her mind concentrating intensely on their gentle movements. She barely resisted when Invictus flung her onto the bed and pulled up her robes. She closed her eyes and tried not to whimper. His resultant orgasm cast yellow fire throughout the room, incinerating her bed covers, mattress, and some of the surrounding furniture.
When he finished, he lay there next to her, cooing and apologizing. She did not respond, but neither did she cry. This calmed him even more and he slept, even as bits of fabric continued to pop and sizzle. She pretended to sleep.
At dusk he rose quietly and paced at the side of the bed. Then he said, “I’ll be back in the morning. Make sure you’ve eaten and are properly bathed. I’ll send Bhacca to attend you.”
Afterward, Bhacca entered the room. A dozen newborn chambermaids who appeared to be quite alive accompanied her. The mistress of the robes gave orders in a monotone voice, and the girls complied, though they stayed as far from Bhacca as possible. They swept up the ashes and replaced the damaged mattress and covers. They filled Laylah’s marble tub with warm water from a spigot that must have been imbued with some sort of magic, so powerfully did the water flow. The chambermaids stripped Laylah and scrubbed her head to foot before drying her off, dressing her in silk pajamas as translucent as Vedana’s robes, and then combing her long hair. When they were finished grooming her, they brought her poached eggs, salted pork, dried fruit, crusty bread, and cool water flavored with lemon juice and honey.
By the time they finally left her, it was late evening. Laylah couldn’t see it from her window, but she sensed the quarter moon rising in the east, and it renewed her strength. She didn’t know how many more episodes she could bear, but she would do her best.
Anything to be with Torg again. Anything to keep a semblance of hope alive.
Laylah sat there all through the night. Every time she blinked, strange warmth bathed her eyeballs. “I’m so exhausted, it even hurts to blink,” she whispered out loud.
When she closed her eyes again, she found that blue-green light almost blinded her. This startled her, and her eyes sprang open. She looked around, expecting to see that her room was aflame. Instead, there was only darkness, the reflected rays of the moon creating scant illumination. She closed her eyes again, this time slowly, and encountered another blaze of light, amazingly bright but somehow comforting. Finally, she understood. The marks Torg had burned onto the inside of her eyelids were aglow.
“Beloved,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe. “Do you live?”
Then she closed her eyes and kept them closed, smiling even when Invictus returned at dawn to torment her again. The second rape was no less despicable than the first, but Laylah’s newfound emotional strength made it seem so. When she closed her eyes, she could see Torg’s glowing essence, enabling her to focus on what really mattered: Her beloved lived! Because of that, there was reason for her to live. Not even the Sun God could poison love of this caliber.
Unaware of her thoughts, Invictus slept beside her until almost noon, snoring lightly, the stench of his breath mixing with the stench of burned fabric, reminding her of cold embers. He awoke in an excellent mood, laughing and teasing good-naturedly before departing.
When he returned in midafternoon. Laylah steeled herself for more abuse. But instead of casting himself upon her, he gently poised the palm of his hand over her abdomen and held it there with uncanny steadiness. A yellow glow sprang from his palm and danced on the robes that covered her belly, spewing sparks like struck flint. Her brother smiled, giggled, then removed his hand and began to prance about the room.
“Yes . . . yes yes yes . . . Yes!” he screamed. “I’ve done it . . . we’ve done it!”
Then, just as quickly, his mood changed, and he loomed over her, his face suddenly gone stern. When he spoke, the threatening tone in his voice frightened her as much as any rape. “You will n
ot leave this room . . . for any reason. Am I understood? Everything you need will be provided. My son will be born here.”
When he departed, Laylah was left alone to ponder this latest development. So, she was pregnant. This would have filled most women with joy. But Laylah felt only a dismal kind of relief.
Bhacca and the chambermaids entered with food and drink. They also gave her special liquid potions Invictus’s scientists had brewed to enhance her vitality. Laylah consumed everything without resistance, figuring that no one wanted her healthy more than her brother. Certainly, he would do nothing to harm her now, as long as she cooperated.
Afterward, she was bathed and groomed, though this time not left entirely alone. Bhacca stood just inside her closed door, while the chambermaids sat on the floor along the far wall, looking nervous and uncomfortable.
Laylah swung open the door, curious to see if Bhacca might protest and also wanting to know who was in the hallway. The mistress of the robes made no attempt to stop her, and when Laylah opened the door she saw why. Two dozen armored newborns were arranged in orderly formation in the hallway, along with a pair of vampires and six Warlish hags.
Escape would be difficult, to say the least. Even worse, when she attempted to peer out for a closer look, her face pressed against an invisible shield that blocked the entryway. Invictus’s magic never ceased to dismay her. He had managed to design a warding spell that permitted everyone but herself from entering and departing—no simple task, even for a Sun God.
Invictus visited her again at dusk, but instead of treating her like a sex slave, he now acted as if she were a fragile patient in need of constant care. He placed the palm of his hand on her forehead to make sure she wasn’t feverish, spoon-fed her gruel and stewed vegetables, and insisted she drink enormous amounts of water.
“No more wine until after the boy is born,” he said sternly.
“Are you sure it’s a boy?”
“It’s a boy, exactly like me,” he said and then left her.
Though Invictus came and went, Bhacca never departed, standing by the door like a dusty wax statue. To pass the time, Laylah took her accustomed place by the window. The floor of the valley still was covered with mist, and Laylah imagined that she heard strange growls coming from far below.
Chambermaids frequently entered the room, but there were times when Laylah and Bhacca were alone, making Laylah especially uncomfortable. The quarter moon rose just after midnight, but it wasn’t until a bell before dawn that Laylah could see it out her only window, which faced to the northwest. The reflected light bathed her with warmth and strength. Surprisingly, she felt a twinge in her abdomen, and she told herself that it had to be her imagination. Then she felt a presence over her left shoulder and turned with a start. Bhacca was standing there, her eyes glowing crimson.
“When it happens, you’ll weaken too,” the Bhacca/Vedana incarnation said. “Don’t try to escape. You’ll only harm yourself. Lie down on the bed and wait here until Torg and the Faerie find you. It’s your only chance.”
“When what happens?”
“You’ll know.”
“Why should I believe anything you say?”
“Because I’m your only chance—and you know it. If my plan works as expected, you’ll be free in just a few days.”
Laylah lowered her head, speaking in a near whisper. “Compared to Invictus, I’m helpless. But not compared to you. I’ll give you this one chance to prove yourself, but if you fail, I will find a way to destroy you.”
“Please . . . don’t be so boorish. My grandson hasn’t found a way, much less a weakling like you.” Then without warning, the corpse returned to her station and resumed her motionless pose, eyes gone dim.
The next day was more of the same. Laylah was coddled like a wealthy invalid. Invictus visited half a dozen times, cooing to her gently while demanding all kinds of absurdities.
“Don’t I need some exercise?” she once dared to say.
“You need what I tell you—and nothing else,” he said, his voice again dark and dangerous. “After you betrayed me the last time, do you think I will ever allow you to walk freely on the grounds again?”
“I’m sorry . . .” she said timidly.
“This is a big room,” he said, his anger only slightly diminished. “You want exercise? Walk in circles.”
Laylah stayed awake all that night and did indeed walk in circles, while Bhacca watched emotionlessly—with no reappearances of Vedana. The following day, Laylah slept for long stretches, dreaming of Torg crashing through her door and coming to her rescue.
That evening, a nasty storm pounded Avici. Laylah sat in her chair and allowed the heavy raindrops to soak her. The tempest lasted through most of the night, obscuring the moon and stars. Laylah relished it. The air smelled so clean.
Near dawn, Bhacca spoke again. “Not this morning, but the next.”
To Laylah’s dismay, the corpse said no more.
60
IF INVICTUS HAD not been so obsessed over birthing “his heir,” as he so often and annoyingly put it, he might well have discovered Vedana’s hiding place inside Bhacca’s diseased and pleasantly disgusting ear hole. The occasional buzzing fly, as it came and went, might have made him suspicious. But her grandson was obsessed. And more importantly, he was supremely confident in his invulnerability, enabling the demon to observe the proceedings from a place of relative safety.
Vedana was ecstatic, all things considered. The long-awaited conclusion to her scheme was less than a day away. And Invictus still seemed blind to it. If the sorcerer had suspected what was going to happen, he could have put an end to it with relative ease. But he was too cocksure—now, there was an appropriate description of her grandson—to even entertain the thought that any conspiracy could truly threaten him.
Well, he was about to pay for his arrogance with his existence. And when he was gone, Vedana again would be at the top of the food chain. Not even Bhayatupa would be around to threaten her anymore, and the Death-Knower had proven to be nothing more than a human version of milquetoast.
The little bitch was cooperating too: eating when she was supposed to eat, sleeping when she was supposed to sleep. If Laylah managed to keep that up, then the plan was almost certain to succeed, especially with the ghost-child and the Faerie so motivated to hold up their ends of the bargain. With one of her tiny wings, Vedana patted herself on the thorax.
“Vedana, you’re a genius,” she murmured.
Laylah raised her head off her pillow and said to Bhacca, “What?”
“It is nothing, young princess,” Vedana willed Bhacca to say.
Then Laylah said, “I hear strange noises at the base of Uccheda.”
“Go back to sleep,” Bhacca/Vedana said. “You need your rest. Tomorrow will be a big day, and you’ll need all your strength.”
Return to Nissaya
61
IN THE EARLY morning of a crisp, clear day, Yama-Deva knelt on the northern shore of Lake Hadaya and drank joyfully. He could not remember the last time he had enjoyed the taste of water. While psychically entrapped in the madness of Mala, he had satisfied his hunger and thirst with flesh and blood.
Deva’s guilt over the atrocities he had committed as Invictus’s servant burned in his stomach like fire. No matter how much water he drank, the fire continued to crackle.
Finally Deva stood up, his muscled belly bloated. He burped loudly, which made him feel a little better. In his peripheral vision he could detect the subtle approach of the desert warrior. Considering there were so few places to hide in the plains, the man who had been tracking him had been unerringly clever. Deva doubted that anyone but a snow giant would have noted the Asēkha’s movements. Suddenly Deva felt an urge to talk to the warrior. How pleasant it would be to have a conversation with a sane being. Perhaps it would be the first step toward the return of his own sanity.
“Asēkha, I see you,” he shouted. “Come forth . . . I mean you no harm. I am no longer your enemy.�
�� And then he added, “The chain is broken.”
Still distrustful, the desert warrior remained hidden.
Deva shrugged and then walked waist-deep into the water to take a long-needed bath. Minnows nibbled at his toes as he scrubbed himself with huge handfuls of sand from the lake’s bottom. When he finally turned to emerge from Hadaya, the Asēkha was standing in the open about a stone’s throw from the water’s edge, holding his sling to the ready.
Deva halted in knee-deep water. “I am searching my memories but do not recognize your face,” he said. “Before, when I was Mala, I thought I had seen all the Asēkhas. How can it be that I do not know you?”
“I am recently ascended.”
“Aaaaaaah . . . now I understand. I would congratulate you, but I doubt that you seek such adoration.” Then he pointed at the sling with the only index finger that remained to him. “I see that you are armed. Would you consider it bravado if I told you that I cannot be harmed by such a weapon?”
“I have no desire to harm you, only to defend myself.”
Deva smiled. “An eloquent response, Kantaara Yodha. You remind me of your king, whom I loved more than you might believe.” Deva bowed until his broad forehead touched the surface of the lake. Then he said, “I request permission to come ashore.”
“I am too meager a being to grant such permission. But I will not attempt to thwart you.”
Deva strode onto the sandy bank, water dripping from his thick eyebrows and fleecy mane. “If you have no desire to harm me, then why do you follow?”
“I have been commanded.”
“I see. Tell me then, what do you know about snow giants?”
