The other obliged, “I am the voice of Béarn Castle.”
The response puzzled Baltraine, not at all what he expected. “You’re not the staves? Nor one who controls them?”
The other hesitated, apparently as confused by Baltraine’s statement as the prime minister had been by his answer. “I am part of a staff. Yes.” He spoke hesitantly, as if revealing the knowledge to self rather than Baltraine.
Baltraine’s eyes finally grew accustomed to the darkness, or so he believed. His perceptions seemed bodiless. He had lost track of flesh as well as pain. Nevertheless, he could make out the form in the darkness. Though man-shaped, it towered over him. He could not define its features without light. “I can see you. You’re a being.”
“A being. A being, yes,” the voice returned hesitantly. “But what being?”
Baltraine stared, scarcely believing what he heard. “Don’t you know?”
It paused, silent for several moments. “I believe I do.” Then it blasted Baltraine with a rumbling laugh, powerful as an avalanche. “I believe I do.”
Terror ground through Baltraine at the sound. The voice remained the same, but its intensity changed. An inhuman confidence radiated with every word, and panic scattered Baltraine’s thoughts. Had he legs, he would have bolted, but his bodiless form could accomplish nothing more than a horrified stare.
Baltraine could not see the other’s eyes, but he felt pinned by them. It took a step toward him, and the urge to flee grew into obsession. “Prime Minister Baltraine, Demekiah’s son, why did you come here?”
Baltraine squeaked out the answer he had forestalled earlier. “Lord, please, I came to rescue Béarn from ruin and to stand against those who would destroy her.”
The being’s hot breath burned Baltraine’s flesh. He recoiled as the other spoke. “You turned against Béarn when she most needed you. You destroyed her most faithful and tried to sabotage efforts to rescue the kingdom you claim to love and serve.”
“No!” Baltraine shouted defensively, then amended. “No, Lord, no. I have not always chosen wisely, but I have always worked in Béarn’s best interests.”
The other snorted. “You defined your own interests as Béarn’s and rationalized everything you wanted.”
“No!” Baltraine screamed again. The being’s stare seemed to flay him open, exposing his entrails to the boiling steam of its breath. Thoughts he had buried in the deepest corners of memory paraded before him, justifications and self-deceptions stripped from them now. He stood at King Kohleran’s bedside, the rancid odor of disease roiling his stomach, the jaundiced, wrinkled skin and sunken eyes stark contrast to the robust man the king had once been. The immense Béarnide had symbolized justice and balance, a king beloved and deeply respected. Baltraine relived the awe that he had always felt in Kohleran’s presence despite his innocent simplicity. Baltraine had all but forgotten the feeling which had withered to revulsion as illness claimed Kohleran.
Thoughts hammered Baltraine with the speed of a runaway cart careening downhill. He could not stop seeing himself studying King Kohleran’s medications and their effects, selecting ones that made the king tractable. He watched himself manipulating the ruler he claimed to follow with blind loyalty into pronouncing a sentence of death upon Knight-Captain Kedrin, a peerless leader whose only crime had been irritating Prime Minister Baltraine. Guilt thrashed him, leaving a bruised and battered hulk of shame and humiliation; but the judgment did not cease there. A myriad of mistakes flashed through Baltraine’s mind. The being tore aside his defenses, opening Baltraine to the greed simmering beneath his every action. Measures once justified, above reproach, stood revealed for the indefensible cruelties they truly represented.
Baltraine howled, the agony of these revelations surpassing the pain he had once believed beyond bearing. The being showed him no mercy. Instead, it drew him to a feast and forced him to view every person there. Again, Baltraine confronted ministers dead for weeks: old Abran with his head cocked sideways, habitually lacing the fingers of his paper-thin hands; homely Limrinial with her wavy, uncontrollable hair and the clump that always trailed down her forehead; Weslin with the paler features and lighter bone structure that revealed Pudarian contamination in his ancestry. These, Baltraine faced, and others as well. They flashed into his mind in a parade he desperately wished to end. Each had died of poisoning, and he bore the lead weight of every death upon his soul. “Forgive me,” Baltraine whispered as each passed through his memory. “Forgive me, please.”
None forgave, and the agony built to a feverish crescendo. Regret and shame filled Baltraine’s conscience until it stretched to its capacity and beyond. Death beckoned, an escape from the agony his waking mind could never jettison. As the procession continued, he doubted even the ultimate end could leave his soul at peace. One acceptance, one exoneration would allow him that solace, yet not one of the spirits could give him that reprieve.
“Never,” the nameless being whispered over the visions. “Never in the centuries of judging have I met one so unworthy.”
The last word stabbed Baltraine. His conscience shattered, hurling shards like glass through every part of him. He found himself back in his body, lying on the staff room floor. Physical agony again joined the suffering of mind and spirit. The torch had ignited his clothing, burning away vast tracts of flesh. He howled, fumbling at his face with nerveless hands. Hair scratched his cheeks, matted with clumps of blood that smeared, warm and sticky, across his features. Screams ripped from his throat. Moment flowed into anguished moment, each passing like a tortured week. Unconsciousness refused to claim him.
* * *
Exhaustion swaddled Kevral like a blanket, and she bobbed, directionless, on the Southern Sea. Clouds, spray, and waves disoriented her. Dehydration weakened her further. The sea seemed to siphon fluids from her, and she could find nothing to replace her needs. The taste of salt became a hatred that swiftly grew obsessive. Odors mingled indecipherably, the whole coming to symbolize the ocean she despised. On the second day, the smell had disappeared into a familiarity her nose ceased to register. Now, on the third day since the demon’s attack, the reek of bracken returned, overwhelming her senses and spawning nausea. Alternately, she cursed and blessed the cloudy dampness. It stole her bearings, but it soothed her stinging eyes and parched skin. The strains and bruises from the battle bothered her less.
Peace settled over Kevral at length. The sea rocked her like a cradle, and the splash of waves and calls of gulls became a lullaby. She rolled onto her back, arms overworked beyond weakness and legs too fatigued to churn water any longer. Her eyes drooped shut.
Suddenly, wind howled, slamming Kevral’s cheek like a giant’s fist. Kevral’s lids jerked open just as the clouds opened up. Rain pounded her face, driving it below the ocean. Sputtering, she clawed to the surface. Water spilled from the heavens in impossibly wide sheets. How? Kevral did not ponder for long. She opened her mouth, catching as much fresh water as she could, cupping her palms to gather more. The droplets pelted her tongue and palate, stinging; but the pain disappeared in the wake of this godsend. She gulped and swallowed, letting the gale drive her where it would. For now, only the water mattered.
Liquid soothed the inferno of eyes and mouth, and the downpour supplied more solace than Kevral would have believed possible. Rain barrels took months to fill, and it seemed inconceivable for one storm to supply so much. She had surely stumbled into something unnatural: an instantaneous gale saturated beyond anything she’d ever experienced. God-sent? She could find no other answer. She tried to shout supplications, but the wind lashed rain down her throat, choking her. Wind and wave battered Kevral. Only as her desperate need for water slackened to natural thirst did she realize she was spinning in crazy circles, water crashing against flesh without the power to leave bruises.
Kevral gathered strength to fight the waves, thrashing a frenzied path in a random direction. Vitality drained swiftly. Exhaustion had already pressed her dangerously close to s
leep, and frantic, directionless swimming threatened the second wind that new threat had gained her. Conserving her energy, she struggled only to keep her head above the surface, letting the winds carry her where they would.
Clouds blotted the sun, leaving Kevral in a blackness as thick and unfathomable as moonless night. The tempest funneled her into chaotic zigzags and spirals that left her without a clue to even comparative position. Blinded by dark and deafened by the ceaseless howl of wind, she concentrated on Renshai meditation techniques to rebuild her reserves. So long as she kept her head above water and swallowed as much fresh rain as the clouds yielded, the storm could only help, not harm her. The pain of its thrashing seemed minuscule in the wake of the blades and poison she had survived over the last few months. Tempest and ocean would not have her.
Something heavy bashed into Kevral’s side, bowling her over. Water closed over her head again, and she tumbled through waves that slapped mercilessly at every part exposed. She regained her bearings, slashing savagely to the surface. Her foot hooked something soft. She kicked to dislodge it, which only entwined her further. Swearing, she groped through the darkness. Her hands tangled in something gossamer. Cloth? She followed its weave to a solid object, apparently a body. Excitement stabbed through her, and she lunged for the other.
Warning pressed Kevral’s thoughts even as she moved. Likely, she had discovered one of her companions, but the body’s stillness did not bode well. Alternatively, the storm might have churned up an ancient corpse better left undisturbed. Death did not frighten Kevral, but the idea of handling ancient remains sent a chill along her spine. In daylight, on land, it would not bother her. Now, a creepy, buzzing feeling stole through her. Steeling herself for the dead friend she might have uncovered, she explored her find.
Kevral’s fingers roved along a well-muscled forearm to a thick shoulder speckled with gooseflesh. The face sported pliant stubble, not yet stiff. The solid chin, straight fine nose, and square cut face revealed a comeliness even darkness could not hide. Ra-khir. Kevral gasped, loss slamming her with the power of the gale. Survival had consumed her thoughts for the past few days. Now, grief seemed to punch a hole through her chest where her heart had once beat. She gathered him into her arms, his bulk buoyed by the sea, and his hair tickled her face. Beneath the vile stench of the sea, she caught a whiff of his familiar scent. He felt warm and solid against her.
“Modi!” Kevral finally shouted. Physical pain had not elicited a need for the wrath the call would bring her, yet emotional agony had. “MODI!” Only then, details seeped fully into her consciousness. Dead flesh did not grow bumpy with cold nor could it share warmth. Alive? Kevral’s heart fluttered. She had become so certain of his death, the possibility seemed ludicrous. She berated her stupidity. Why not alive? I’m alive. She shifted his face so that his mouth touched her cheek, and warm breath huffed through the tempest’s ice. “Hold on,” she whispered. “We’ll get through this.”
Ra-khir gave no reply, limp in Kevral’s grip.
Kevral unwrapped his tunic from her foot. Battling the storm became more difficult with her burden, but the presence of a loved one and the task of saving him became a rallying goal. She fought to keep both heads above water, riding a channel that drew them inexorably in a single direction. Abruptly, sand grated against her toes. She struggled to plant her feet firmly on the ground. Before she could do so, a wave overbalanced her. Clinging to Ra-khir, she could not protect herself. The water dragged her up the shore, sand shredding her sodden tunic and tearing at face, chest, and abdomen. She clawed farther from the water that plucked at her feet as if to reclaim them. At length, she flopped to the beach, exhaustion threatening consciousness. Only then, she realized she could see. Wind, rain, and waves no longer hammered her.
After the constant shrill of the wind, the quiet seemed deafening. Gradually, her ears picked up a stray sound on the wind. Soft chanting formed a solid beat, a musical voice droning melody atop it. For a moment, she reveled in the sound. Then realization intruded, and she jerked her head upward. She lay on a familiar beach hemmed in by trees whose trunks sported concentric circles of thickened bark. Elves lined the shoal, glazed eyes studying the castaways. Beside Kevral, Ra-khir moaned, coughing up a thin trickle of water.
Kevral leaped to a crouch, though dizziness hampered her balance. Sword or none, she would fight to the death against their enemies. Shielding Ra-khir, she glared at the elves. They remained in place, making no movement toward her. Their mental communications filled her mind, but Kevral trained her concentration on her own equilibrium instead. She would give this battle her all, as any Renshai must. She thanked the gods for this chance to die in glorious combat and find Valhalla rather than drowning like a coward in the sea.
The chanting resumed, steady as a drumbeat. Calm settled over Kevral, wresting away the burdens adversity had placed there. Too late, she recognized the elves’ sleep spell, and her thoughts folded quietly into darkness.
CHAPTER 5
Elf-Captured
All I want is to hear the savage bell of swordplay, to feel the excitement that turns blood to fire in the veins.
—Anonymous, attributed to Colbey Calistinsson
After what seemed an eternity, the door to the Room of Staves swung open. Dh’arlo’mé and another elf Baltraine did not bother to identify stood framed against the hallway torchlight. While Baltraine struggled against an agony that pervaded every part of his body, gathering words, the elves studied him in silence. Their gazes flicked over his person, coming to rest on objects on the floor near either hand. Dh’arlo’mé shook his head, lips pursed and features stalwart. Normally Baltraine found the elf’s expressions impossible to read. Now, disgust settled on the alien face, as obvious as any human.
“Help me,” Baltraine managed to whisper.
Dh’arlo’mé inclined his head slightly. Responding to some silent address, the other elf hefted the bag and wrapped it around one of the staves. Handing the package to Dh’arlo’mé, he removed his tunic and wrapped the other staff inside it.
“Help me,” Baltraine forced again. “Please, help me.”
*There’s nothing I can do for you.* Concept accompanied Dh’arlo’mé’s sending. Elves never sickened, so they knew little of the healing arts; but even an elf could see Baltraine would die no matter his tending.
“You can kill me,” Baltraine returned. “Please. Take away the pain.”
Dh’arlo’mé remained in place, wrapped staff clutched in one hand, only the twitching of his fingers revealing any thought at all. As the other elf drew to his side, Dh’arlo’mé called khohlar to Baltraine once more, expressing idea without the need for words. Anger raged beyond outward calm. Baltraine’s stupidity and vanity had lost Dh’arlo’mé his puppet. *Die in agony,* he sent. *It’s all you deserve.*
Dh’arlo’mé closed the door on Baltraine’s desperate pleas.
* * *
Kevral awakened to the damp, musty aroma of moss. She sprang to a crouch, assailed by a curtain of swirling, white pinpoints. Nausea roiled through her gut. She clung to control, of her stomach and her balance. Gradually, the spots faded and the queasiness subsided. She stared through a wall composed of mesh triangles into an empty corridor. Light flooded through a gaping hole in the ceiling, and hunks of wood and mortar lay in frenetic piles beyond her cell. That conclusively identified the elves’ prison. Attempting to free Griff, Tae had hacked an opening from above. The strange, elfin creation, gleaned more from observation of finished human buildings than construction in progress, lacked the proper supports. The roof had collapsed beneath him, spilling Tae into the prison.
“Are you well?” Ra-khir’s voice wafted softly from behind Kevral.
Kevral rescued herself from stiffening and casually turned to face her companion. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had startled her. “I’m fine,” Kevral answered routinely, though the words sounded ludicrous. Crusted salt stung the wounds the sand had scratched into her fac
e, and she felt bruised all over. Her clothes hung in tatters, tunic torn open in front where the waves had plowed her across the shore. The fabric left her breasts and abdomen exposed.
Wedded to his honor, Ra-khir fixed his green stare on Kevral’s face and never strayed. Wind and wave had whipped his fine, red-blond locks into a snarl that detracted little from his stately features. “What happened?”
Kevral shook her head, as if that might help her sort the memories rushing suddenly in at once. The battles seemed endless: first the demon; then the ocean; finally the tempest. All of those she had won. Yet the most important one of all, the one for which she had trained since birth, had beaten her before it began. The Renshai training centered most on war, glorious battle against armies and death in the glory and honor of the fight. The elves had bested her without a single strike in return. Had they chosen killing rather than imprisonment, she would have died a broken, unworthy craven.
For too long, grief had haunted Kevral, and the seemingly endless struggle that chance tossed into her path grew tedious. Driven beyond sorrow, she glared at the only target for her rising anger. “Damn it, Ra-khir. Look at me.”
Ra-khir blinked. His brows beetled. Either her hostility or her words confused him. He leaned back against a stone wall painted with stripes to appear like wood paneling and shuffled a foot through the moss-carpeted floor. “I am looking at you.”
Prince of Demons Page 10
