"He will be wounded."
Her angry face relaxed. "But not killed?"
"To slay him prematurely would deny you your chance. In order for the ci'biote to be transferred to you as the next in the bloodline, he must die empowered. Then you will have the legacy that should have been yours."
Megwyn nibbled her lip in thought. "But what if he chooses not to revive it?"
Xavier snorted. "Then what danger is he?" he asked sensibly, with a calm finality. "He has seen how defenseless he really is."
She arched an eyebrow as comprehension of his intention dawned. "And now he needs to call it back to shield himself against us."
"Exactly. Since you and I found a common ground, I have thought these things through most carefully." The sorcerer paused, then asked, as if seeking her approval. "Are you not satisfied?"
"I am…pleased…with your…maneuverings," she answered carefully. "Either way, he will be a fine sacrifice to the greater glory of the Dragon."
"If you fear him…"
"I have no fear of Morgan," she snarled.
A self-satisfied grin split his lips. "Good," he repeated approvingly. Very good.
More than her beauty, what intrigued him most about this woman was that she held nothing back. She was always quick to speak her mind, no matter how harsh or unpleasant her words. She had a tongue like a dirk and did not hesitate to hone it on anyone who incurred her displeasure. She also had a great deal of steel in her spine--she was not to be cowed, nor would she back off until she had achieved the results she desired. In many ways she was much tougher than her twin; certainly, she did not seem to have inherited the conscience that bedeviled him.
She tilted up her chin in dismissal before offering a dazzling smile. "Forgive my doubts and questions. Any thought of my brother always angers me."
"Then think not of him," said the sorcerer. "He has done some harm, but that shall soon be remedied." He held out his hand. "Come to me, beloved."
Suddenly docile, Megwyn glided toward him, her small, lean body undulating female grace. There seemed a little glimmering and stirring in the air as she moved, a special electricity she alone generated; she appeared to gather all light about her then scatter it in a rainbow of dazzling effulgence.
Kneeling at his good hand, she offered her own small one and raised enormous, sparkling eyes. Xavier took it, bent and kissed it in a reverent gesture.
"I am pleased you came."
Though he could not see clearly, her image filled his mind's screen. Megwyn was a captivating woman--slender, petite, finely boned. She was the female version of her darker twin and just as capricious as he, if not more so.
Megwyn lowered her eyes, yielding gracefully to his touch.
"I am here to serve, Lord." She lifted her head and fluttered her lashes. "I didn't mean to criticize you so harshly. I truly recognize my brother's betrayals and do not condone the error of his ways."
Xavier considered her words in silence for a moment then nodded his approval. Skilled in detecting a body's physical betrayals, he found no tension in her touch, no false stiffness to indicate discomfort in his presence.
How much dare I trust her? he wondered. Like the snake, if I keep her in my sight, she can't bite. If her heart and mind are true, she will be very valuable to me. If not, she will rue the day…I suspect she despises me as much as she despises her brother.
As Morgan, however, was currently in an uncooperative mood to help her attain her ambitions, she had turned to her brother's enemy. Megwyn hungered for power. When she failed to find it through the Council of Witches, she was quick to consider other paths.
He knew he was no more than a disagreeable option, but one she nevertheless turned to because she recognized the benefits of joining two factions into a single force. Though defeated in the dark war, he had rebuilt his decimated legion; and to many, he remained a powerful ally.
Morgan, although once powerful, was a poor one. Unreliable. He was too unpredictable, too unstable in his self-destructive ways. The assassin had the potential for true power in Sclyd, but he feared the madness gnawing at him.
His only will to do battle is with his own mind. He renounced his legacy after murdering Nisidia…and the child she would have borne him. The deed pushed him to the edge of insanity. He doesn't trust his own thoughts anymore. The headaches have eaten him up. Still, he can be dangerous. I must have care.
"Think only of our plans," he finally said, dismissing his faint misgivings. He drew a symbol in the air, one of acceptance and protection.
Megwyn cast him another coy smile. "I wish nothing to interfere with our joining."
"Ah," he said, smiling. "You still wish to proceed?"
"Most decidedly." Standing, she stroked his hairless brow.
"Good," he replied, his single eye narrowing and his solemn features hardening formidably. "When I am wholly restored, I look forward to initiating you as my mate and first high priestess."
She twitched her shoulders; her loose hair moved smoothly on them. She tossed it back with an impatient hand. "To prove my loyalty, I'm willing to go through with the first rites toward my confirmation."
"Excellent. The ceremonial rooms will be made ready for your investiture."
"I look forward to it. I'll wear the mark of Ouroborous with much pride."
"We must work closely together. The only good associated with Morgan's return is that the three worlds are again in alignment. We are free to enter into the mortal world at our leisure. Two hundred and fifty years I have waited for the day to come. The hunt begins, and we'll need to take many mortal souls to maintain the legion's strength. Our walk will not be an easy one."
"But it will be a successful one."
Xavier bent close to the woman. In a way, he could hardly believe this captivating female had agreed to become his second wife. She was even more beautiful than Nisidia, certainly more compelling. She harbored a very dark soul, much like his.
Did the members of the council yet suspect how close he and Megwyn had become? Surely, they did not. Nor did they yet realize it was not only Xavier who conspired against them. Megwyn, too, planned to bring down the very entities who had put her in power.
He so dreamt of having revenge upon the remaining eleven who had judged him so unfairly. I defied them, he thought smugly, and survived. And now…now their ard-corrym is to become my bride.
She was his trophy, his triumph. The only impediment would seem to be her twin, but even that was no longer a major bother.
Morgan is no more than a gnat buzzing in my ear, soon to be swatted. He will not last long with so many wanting to claim the bounty on his head.
He smiled a secret gleeful grin, though not a muscle moved on his flaccid face. His mind found a new passage to stroll--Megwyn.
She's a conniving bitch, every bit the cold killer her brother is, however surreptitious she keeps her schemes. Morgan, too must be dealt with, and quickly. She is determined to succeed him, hold his capabilities at any cost. She'll be my greatest weapon against him. Her own ambitions are a seething snake's nest. She may yet destroy them both…and that would be most pleasing.
"I believe the Dragon has shown me a path that will restore me," he confided. "Help me, and I swear I will hand you the legacy that would be better served in your hands. Then, we can join bloodlines. It's right we bring together both. It is destiny's plan, I believe. We can stand together as one, as it was before the dark war divided us."
"I agree we would be even stronger," she said. "My resources are yours, and I have brought the healer you need." Rising, she turned to one of the eunuchs guarding the entrance and clapped her hands. "Bring him!"
The eunuch ushered in a small, wizened Chinese man, who skittered without raising his eyes to kneel before the sorcerer. Bent and very old, he was dressed in the style of his ancient people, a conical hat, simple trousers, tunic and sandals. Out of respect, he touched his forehead to the floor.
In his thin, claw-like hands he carried a sma
ll chest carved of sandalwood. Its lid bore the seal of his ancestors fashioned in amber.
Duk-cho was not alone. He was accompanied by a tall, cadaverous man who lingered in the background, well away from the others. Of dark skin and short hair, the being was considered an undesirable. His flesh reeked of the grave he'd so recently risen from. An Undead, he was a spirit creature whose survival depended upon inhabiting bodies of the recently deceased. His abilities were many, but his power was limited. Presently, he served Megwyn, as did Duk-cho. Naylor, as the nosferatu called himself, served as the eyes and ears of the witch. He was her familiar.
Ilya bent over and whispered in the sorcerer's ear, quickly telling him everything she saw.
"Duk-cho," Xavier said, "your lady is very gracious to offer healing."
He did not address or acknowledge Naylor's presence. To do so would be beneath him. Instead, he let the black man do what he was there to do, watch and listen.
The apothecary shook his head and tugged at his sparse whiskers. His shriveled face crinkled sadly.
"I serve her will." He spoke in the simplest Quarayan, not because he did not know the common language but because it was expected of one of his caste.
"The news pleases me. You can see I've not been fortunate. There's much damage to my hand." Xavier held it out. "And my eye! I fear I will never see clearly again. But sight is inconsequential to what the Dragon has revealed to my mind. I am close, very close, to finding my power again."
Megwyn laughed.
"Duk-cho keeps his thoughts to himself, but his expression says much. He thinks that we live in past glories, unable to accept the defeat of the present." She addressed the old man directly. "You're only a humble healer. Do not mock or question the ways of the gods who put such as we in power."
Wordlessly, Duk-cho nodded. He set down his beautifully designed chest and opened its lid; the healing scent of strange herbs wafted into the air.
The old man carefully prepared an incense burner. A mixture of opium, powdered citrus rinds and a pinch of musk was lit to create a heavy smoke. Inhaled, the incense would relax and clear the senses. With careful hands, Duk-cho next removed a leather pouch. Spreading out its contents, he picked up a pair of delicately crafted tweezers from among medical implements unchanged in their design for centuries.
"This will be painful," the old man warned, bending over the sorcerer's damaged hand.
Xavier steeled himself. "Just make the hand work."
"Yes," Megwyn said, "Xavier must be restored. Do what you can, so my end of our bargain is upheld."
Duk-cho studied a strip of scorched skin taken from the index finger--no blood came when the dead flesh was lifted away. Although a painful procedure, it was necessary to remove the charred skin to prevent poisoning of the blood.
When the old man had thoroughly cleaned the entire hand down to bare bones, he saturated the fingers in a potion meant to give strength and movement to the appendage. He wrapped each finger mummy-like in thick strips of cloth before sewing on a tight-fitting leather glove and attaching it to the living skin circling Xavier's wrist.
"This is good," Xavier grunted, testing the hand. His fingers were stiff, but he fancied he could feel sensation in them. He balled the hand into a fist. "You see, I can be re-formed. Your brother so undervalues his regenerative system."
Megwyn rolled her eyes and shook her head in exasperation.
"Morgan has never valued anything the occult granted us," she sneered, crinkling the edges of her piercing eyes. "He has mocked and thrown aside every gift of his legacy, drowned himself in ale. How can he not see godhood is at our fingertips? Why is he so blind?"
"Not all can be gods, my lady," Xavier said, assuming a paternal tone. His voice was soothing, gentle and mesmerizing. "Only we who realize, accept and use our abilities will be the great ones."
"My brother has never accepted." Megwyn clasped her hands in front of her and looked at Duk-cho, who hesitated to begin in his next treatment. "What're you waiting for, old one?" she snapped harshly. "Continue your work!"
Nodding, the old man next removed the patch of cloth covering Xavier's facial damage. His right eye was only an empty socket. His left eye was intact, swollen almost shut by the long puffy laceration running from the bridge of his nose to his temple. The skin around the edges were yellowed with putrefaction.
Duk-cho gently lifted the lid and exposed the left eye. It was bloodshot but seemed to be intact. The pupil was unnaturally dilated.
"The eye is not damaged," the old healer announced. "It's possible to fully restore his sight. The dead skin underneath the eye must be cut away and then re-stitched." He shook his head, as if eschewing the inadequate care Xavier had received.
"I must see fully again."
Duk-cho nodded and administered a potent anesthetic to numb the delicate area. Then, with a steadiness belying his age, he took up a scalpel. One tiny error, and Xavier would lose his sight.
Megwyn dug her fingers deeply into the old man's bony shoulder.
"Do not blind him, idiot!" she warned, frowning. "If you fail, you shall lose your life."
Chapter Seven
A strange, distorted face swam out of the darkness. Swollen, sightless eyes stared, empty and unblinking, out of wide sockets. Taut lips were drawn back over yellowed, broken teeth bared in a bestial snarl.
Julienne screeched, a high, wild shriek of anguish. Rigid fingers tangled in her hair. Heavy arms and legs weighed her down. A foul odor washed over her, the smell of death, of putrefaction. It latched onto her, dragging her into the very abyss of purgatory, where corpulent, wriggling maggots would infest her flesh and rabid red-eyed jackals would tear out her soft guts to gnaw on her splintered bones.
Death was ugly.
Death was decay.
She didn't want to die.
"No! Please!"
Her cry faded into a strained, hoarse wail. No more coherent than a raving idiot, her mindless howling was that of a lost soul. Scratching at skin and cloth, she clawed to free herself from the fumbling, burdensome weight.
A stiff, cold object struck her in the face. Her brain detonated in an inferno of agony, and she fought to keep from sinking back into unconsciousness, instinct warning her that to go into the dark void would be extinction.
Sobbing with pain, fright and frustration, she kicked and twisted to escape the crushing mass. Somehow, she pushed the heavy thing off. Desperate to escape her new attacker, she tried to stand, but her ankle violently twisted beneath her; she reeled and fell. Clenching her teeth in blind pain, she scrambled on hands and knees across the stone floor, stopping only when a wall impeded her. Sure she was trapped, that she was about to be attacked again, she spun around and pressed her back against the wall, determined to fight or die trying. Dread was an invisible but tangible force, quivering like a butterfly caught in the silvery strands of a black widow spider's web.
Nothing came after her. Lancing through the grayness, she saw only the ghosts of her own fear pursuing her.
Julienne blinked several times and wiped sweat off her forehead. She strained her eyes to pierce the murk. Her gaze darted from side to side, seeing all but, at first, comprehending nothing.
She was in a cavernous room. Torches black with caked pitch lined its perimeter, casting shadowy, pallid light. She had been placed among a pile of lifeless men. A few skeletons littered the floor, but most were simply dead bodies left to decay quietly. They existed with a curious sort of finality. They just were.
She had been lying beneath four corpses, one dressed in the coarse trousers and boots and vest of a Raider warrior. Her breath lodged in her throat as tiny fingers began to squeeze her windpipe. Seeing him brought a sudden flash of horror; then the vague memories closed in, and she recalled her would-be rapist dragging her into the tunnels and tossing her into the charnel room. She shuddered. More bodies had followed hers--this place was brimming with people whose lives meant little.
Terrified by this new discovery, s
he covered her mouth with her hands to contain a whimper, utter shock blossoming inside her breast, her mind, and shutting down her senses. She lay, face hot from exertion as her heart beat wildly, threatening to pound out of her chest. The fear twisted her guts, sent the tang of acrid bile to the back of her throat. For a wild moment she wished to be stricken blind, to never see such an abomination again. Save for her abrasive panting, the chamber around her was silent.
Hysterical laughter mixed with the sobs in her throat. A fierce churning sensation rose in her stomach, and she knew she was going to be very ill. Barely able to bend over, she vomited rancid green bile mixed with clots of blood, barely managing to catch her breath before another spasm overtook her. Dropping to her hands and knees, she continued to purge the contents of her stomach. With gut-twisting spasms, she gagged until dry heaves told her nothing remained.
Her head bobbed on a weak neck, and her knees felt like jelly. She gulped, trying to keep from falling into a dead faint. Tiny black dots floated before her eyes, threatening to merge into one large black void.
I can't be unconscious again, she warned herself. I have to stay awake.
When the spasms ceased, she used the hem of her filthy skirt to wipe her mouth. Dizziness overwhelmed her; her stomach lurched once more. Nothing came up.
Every movement brought new pain. The heavy atmosphere in the chamber was oppressive, foul and reeking. She drew oxygen into her lungs, hardly able to bear the fetid stench.
She slumped on the floor with a deep sigh, cowering, shivering violently. A deep moan only the dead could hear slipped between her numb lips. She bent her head and covered her face with shaking hands, closing her eyes.
The pain and stiffness in her face reminded her of what Xavier had done. She refused to explore the ravaged skin, refused to dwell on how hideous she must look. She was incredibly exhausted and unbearably cold. She licked cracked lips, trying to give herself some relief. Thirst clawed at her raw, scratchy throat. The desire to lie down and drift into a final cold sleep was almost too hard to resist.
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