Megwyn crossed her arms over her breasts, sinking to her knees.
"I seek knowledge of the Dragon." She steeled herself against the blasphemy she was committing, a necessary thing. I agreed to go through with the rite and pledge myself to Ouroborous. There is no backing out.
"Dost thou come before me now with an open heart, willing to accept Ouroborous as your chosen god?"
Megwyn bowed her head again in reverent obedience. "I come with a seeking heart, Lord."
She leaned forward, touching her forehead to the cold floor at Xavier's feet.
Degrading, she thought, a woman of my rank groveling at his feet like a mere worshipper. Yet she held her tongue, said nothing that would reveal her motives to be less than honest. She had a plan. There would be no deviations.
She sat upright and let her hands rest across her bent legs.
"As I gaze upon the truth of the Dragon," she continued, "so may he gaze upon me and smile at my offering of flesh, blood and bone."
The sorcerer put his uninjured hand on the crown of her bowed head. Megwyn felt her pulse twitch as he touched the downy softness of her hair. She was intensely aware of her position of supplication. His very presence disgusted her.
"Then by the power vested in me, I grant purpose and true knowledge to this woman, that her eyes be opened and she see the truth of the Dragon and His ways." Xavier took his hand from her head. "Forevermore shall you bear the mark."
One of the worshippers broke from the circle; in his hands he carried a tray. On it were strange instruments: a sharp ceremonial spike and two small clay bowls, one filled with black ash, the second with a medicinal wash.
Ilya took up the tattooing pike and began to etch a small design above Megwyn's left breast. It was where she had chosen to wear her mark.
Megwyn gritted her teeth. The mark means nothing, she reminded herself. I pledge myself to the Dragon only as a ruse, to lull Xavier into believing I stand as an ally beside him.
When the design was complete, Ilya used a soft cloth to wash away the blood oozing from the small wound. When the flow ceased, she rubbed black ash deeply into the design, coloring it. The sudden wrench of pain caused Megwyn to bite her lower lip. Beads of sweat rose on her skin, but she did not cry out or flinch. To do so would be beneath her.
At last, the great pain ceased; the tattoo was complete.
Megwyn raised her head. The two women helped her to her feet and redressed her, this time in the plain gray robes of a first adept. About her throat was hung an amulet fashioned of green jade, the eye of the dragon. Thus clothed and adorned, she was led up three stone steps to the altar. Now, she must make her offering.
All within the chamber watched as two priests kindled the ritual fire that would purify her, building the flames within a huge iron cauldron whose base rested on the heads of four writhing lizards. Xavier picked up a ceremonial dirk and offered the blade to her.
"Pledge yourself in blood."
She cut deeply. As her blood welled, Xavier took a silver tankard from the altar and held it under her hand. She let her blood drip into the cup to mingle with the red wine it contained.
Xavier passed the goblet over the ritual fire, then lifted it to his lips. "As I partake of you, so does the Dragon."
He drank deeply, smacked his lips and lowered the cup back. "Your body, your mind, your soul belong to the Dragon, His for the taking. Why should He not claim your life now?"
"I beg that I be allowed to offer sacrifice to prove my worthiness."
"And what shall you offer?"
"A child, Lord. From the mortal world."
Xavier smiled, pleased. "This night."
"It will be as you wish." Megwyn smiled and bowed again. She would prove her worth, but not before she paid a visit to her twin.
Chapter Ten
Morgan woke with a start.
One moment his mind was enveloped in the gentle embrace of dreamless nonexistence. And then came a jab that propelled him back toward consciousness, rousing him from the death-like trance that had held him for days.
He fought the coming of light, trying to will himself back to the darkness. Going into the illumination would mean returning to the thing he did not want. Yet as his spirit fought re-emergence, the instincts of his physical body betrayed him. Where no pulse had beaten now came the flow of blood. Breath moved his chest as his lungs took in air. The cycle of healing had ended; and he was, again, among the living.
Sprawled facedown on the floor, he shivered, feeling hard stone beneath his body. Every fiber of his being protested when he lifted himself onto his elbows and rolled over. The effort of movement forced a gasp from his lips. He lay on his back, panting, the chill creeping through his body. Sweat drenched him, though his pallid flesh was frigid. The pain in his head was unbearable, throbbing in time to a lingering beat that hovered on the edge of his hearing. Even his eyeballs ached, the sensation akin to a thousand tiny needles being driven into the nerve. He was suffering the worse part of regenerative catatonia, the waking up.
Opening his eyes, he blinked several times to clear away the film blurring his vision. His sight seemed oddly streaked. Realizing what it was, he lifted his hand and slicked his bangs off his damp forehead. He could not help but notice that the sleeve of his shirt was stiff, coated with rusty stains. He knew too well what it was. Blood.
His hand dropped limply to his chest. He could feel the crackling of the dirty material beneath his palm. It was never a good omen to wake up wearing blood.
He groaned as a burning sensation settled into his gut.
How long have I been unconscious?
The words echoed in his mind, a specter that haunted him. He was not sure where he was. He was not sure what he'd done. When the pain ravaged him, it stripped away rational thought and action. What he was capable of then was appalling and frightening. Even worse was that he possessed absolutely no control over the events--his reckoning was in the aftermath. Not necessarily because of what he might have inflicted on himself, but what he might have done to others. Was the blood his own, or had he committed murder without conscience?
"Get up! You're lying around like a sack of dirt." A small foot administering a second prod to his guts followed the oddly pitched words.
What the hell!
Morgan rolled his head toward the source of his new agony. As his eyes focused anew, he realized he was in his own asylum. And, except for an elf kicking him, he was out of danger. It took him a minute to recognize that the words that sounded like gibberish were the common Qurayan dialect most Sclydian inhabitants spoke. Clarification of the language allowed a few hazy memories of the recent past to come to the forefront of his mental haze.
At first the pieces were haphazard, like a bizarre jigsaw puzzle. He vaguely recalled the elf from Xavier's dungeon.
Another stout jab to his ribs jarred his reverie.
"You're not ready for the grave yet!" The little elf thrust his chin out in defiance, determined not to be ignored.
Morgan raked his dry tongue over sandpapery teeth.
"An early grave is the last of my worries!" he rasped, sure his mouth was stuffed with shredded parchment. He lifted his hands to cover his eyes, bringing a blissful darkness when he closed them. Perhaps the Danarran would go away if ignored. He just didn't feel like getting up. Could the elf not see he was in misery? "Go away and leave me be."
There followed a few seconds of welcome silence. Then he heard the beads in the elf's hair rattle as it knelt and began to pry at his fingers. He felt the warmth of small hands against his own chilled skin.
"Get up," the little being demanded. "You're near useless as it is."
Morgan released a heavy sigh. He was cold and uncomfortable in his present position. He lowered his hands in defeat and opened his eyes. "I will get no peace with you around, will I?"
Straightening first one arm and then the other, he managed to lift himself upright. He shifted his body into a more acceptable position, drawing up a l
eg to his chest and clasping his knee. The floor was hard, and new sensations of distress flared with every movement.
"What happened?" He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, his lips pressing into a taut, thin line. The headache should be over, not lingering. Certainly beating his head against the wall would be more pleasurable. Something was wrong inside. It had never been this bad before.
It was seldom that he allowed such lapses to disturb him. This disturbed him. What had happened, how it had happened, he could not recall with exact clarity. Bits and pieces rose from the black pool of his memory, juxtaposed in a blurry collage of images. Wounded, hurting… By the gods, where the hell was his mind?
Sensing his mental quagmire, the elf prompted, "The tall one stabbed you through the heart."
The tall one…Azoroath…a blade sliding between the bones of his rib cage, penetrating soft tissue…
Morgan's gaze followed as the elf pointed to the dagger. It lay on the floor, its blade crusty with dried blood. As if disbelieving the elf's words, he placed his open palm on his chest. Aside from an ache deep inside his body, he had suffered no permanent damage. He was, again, whole.
"He almost killed you."
"Almost," he repeated dully, rubbing his eyes hard with a thumb and forefinger. "To me, it feels like he did."
"There's life in you yet," the elf said.
Morgan frowned. "What the hell are you even doing here?"
At his sharp words, consternation rippled across the Danarran's features.
"I meant not to save you," he snapped. "I came only for treasure--" The words escaped before he could check them. He clamped his hands over his mouth and looked guilty.
Morgan eyed the tiny being from head to toe, as if seeing him for the first time. It took only seconds to assess the situation. "Ah, so you wanted the dagger to enhance your fortune. A pox 'pon your thievery. Take what you want and find another place to go!"
He shooed the elf aside with a clumsy swipe of his hand. He was losing patience with the inane conversation. He was not of the mind to argue further with someone three feet tall. Why in Hades did the elf persist in hanging around?
I can sit on the floor and rot, or get myself up, he decided. Stay here, and this babbling elf will end up with his tongue cut out.
"Ciire commands I serve you to repay my debt." The elf tapped his forehead three times in reverence. "I'll follow the wish of the mother goddess. You granted my freedom. Remember?"
"At this point, not all of it." He frowned. Some pieces of recent events were still distressingly absent. "If we had an exchange, you owe me nothing. You can face your goddess with a clear conscience when you leave here."
Uncertain in his balance, he got up off the floor. He cursed, almost fell, but managed to catch himself.
A poke at his leg brought his attention down.
"What?" His voice was harsh.
"I don't think I should leave just now. I'm a good healer. You need much care."
"What ails me you can not heal, mynghadde!" Thief.
"Not 'thief,'" the elf argued, planting his little feet stubbornly. "My name is Lynar."
"Lynar. Like I care." Morgan turned away. What he saw brought him to an immediate halt. As far as he could recall, the secret door had been open. Now it was closed.
He glanced down. "Was there an open door?" He made a vague gesture, all he could manage at the moment. "Over there."
The elf looked from him to the seemingly solid wall, then back to him. "There is no other door."
His answer made sense. One had to know the layout of the chamber to be aware the door existed.
"Surely, I did not..." A maddening sense of indecision began to gnaw at his mind. Had voices really spoken to him from within its depths? Or had he just imagined them because he wanted it back so badly? The alternative--that he was truly bordering on insanity--was unacceptable.
His heavy footfalls as he moved toward the hidden portal echoed the pounding beat of his heart. The longer he fought it, the longer it would harass him. He depressed the lever keeping it shut. It slid inward on silent hinges, unmasking the tunnel that led into the catacombs.
I have to face this or it will never leave me in peace.
He crossed the threshold--compelled to answer the siren's call from below. To travel the long tunnels, he needed no light. He knew exactly their layout.
Welcome to the next level.
Entering the chambers, he paused to inhale the bromidic air, tilt his head to listen to its sounds. He could hear the steady flow of water in the underground stream that filled the reservoirs. Beneath the rushing of the water, though, was a second noise, a barely detectable hum. Something was close.
In the space of a very few minutes, the hum grew louder, leveling out at an uncomfortable frequency. The air in the chamber quickened, and an odd prickling sensation crawled over his skin. He felt rather than saw the subtle distortions as the physical dimensions of the room shifted, existing in neither space nor time, encompassing everything. An invisible something suddenly gave him a ferocious shove from behind, dropping him to his knees. Without doubt a grievous element had entered.
"And so the prodigal son returns to the womb of his creation." A familiar female voice cut the inky gloom.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Morgan climbed to his feet, needing the support of the nearby wall to regain his bearings. He stood, swaying, fighting to keep his wits about him. He was shaking, as frigid inside as the chill permeating the damp underground. How strange to be back in these sepulchers after vehemently swearing never return to them. Why, then, was he letting himself be drawn back into this engulfing abyss?
He knew. He was summoned by a force stronger than his present will. He was aware who had come for him.
"The gods must hate me," he grated. There was no flow of kindred warmth.
"I wondered if you'd dare show your face here." Her words echoed around the chamber as if she'd not decided where to settle. "Dare I note you don't do it by any light?"
"You are the one who moves in the light," he snarled. "Why not show yourself?"
"Of course," she agreed, her tone biting in its accommodation. "Cur raad da me." Allow me.
A piercing glow exploded like the birth of a star. He shielded his face from the glare--a flash of dazzling color, an aura of sparkling illumination. Blinking hard against its intensity, he slowly drew down his hand. When his eyes adjusted, he could see Megwyn's petite figure.
Her loveliness was breathtaking to behold; he could only stare at her transfixed. She radiated youth and vitality. Tendrils of vapor played around her body, appearing to caress her before dissipating entirely. She had traveled effortlessly upon it as a bird in flight. The orb of light floated above her cupped palms, bathing her in myriad hues, offering gentle warmth to the frigid atmosphere.
Gliding more than walking, she approached the altar. There, she spoke soothing words and deposited the orb into the outstretched hands of the waiting goddesses. The globe hovered inches above their circle.
He watched her reach out to stroke the light. It shifted color from soft yellow to a soothing peach, giving her skin the illusion of radiance. He wondered if she was, indeed, present or just a figment of his desperate imagination. Pain could do odd things to a man's thinking.
His headache, rather than fading, was growing again in intensity. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The pounding pain kept a perfect rhythm with the blood beating through his veins. When in the grip of a migraine, he couldn't stand light. The incandescent illumination was beginning to stupefy and confuse his senses.
"Megwyn." Despite his ugly words, he swallowed hard to suppress the hitch that rose in his throat. Here, before him, stood the twin who'd shared his stone birthing. With her, he had a past, a history. Their relationship was one of love…and hate. He did not want to see her, have her here, but he was too weak to send her away.
She scanned his bedraggled figure. Her face was a mask. She appraised him coolly, and her gaze d
id not waver. "You knew I would come."
"Why? There is nothing to say." He knew how her mind worked, what she was thinking. To her eyes he appeared as beaten in body as he was in spirit.
She corrected him. "There is much to say, Morgan."
Not entirely trusting her presence, he continued, "Is it true, the council and the legion are at peace?"
"Yes."
"You must have a lot of fleas from sleeping with the dogs."
"It was not a move easily made." Her lips drew down in a tight grimace of frustration. She cursed under her breath, words he could not quite hear. As if chilled, she rubbed her arms with both hands. "The council agreed to an alliance only because we wish to save our people. You are a blind fool if you do not see the famine."
He regarded her through suspicious eyes. "Smooingaghtyn ooasle, lathair." Noble sentiments, indeed.
Megwyn, a scornful look withering her countenance, said heavily and with vicious emphasis, "More noble, I believe, than the actions of one who turns away from his eiraght, his heritage, and his people." Her tone was reproachful.
Stung by her sharp words, he inwardly recoiled. A bolt of pain lashed through his brain, dizzying him with its intensity. His vision dimmed. For a terrifying second he believed he was going to faint.
I am going right into another spell.
Resisting the urge to press his hands to his forehead, he balled them into fists and fought numbing exhaustion. He was exerting himself when he should be at rest.
"You judge me, I know, for walking away," he said tiredly, "but I do not care anymore." A shadow of regret deepened his voice.
She spread her hands in silent entreaty, giving him a look that mingled sadness and dismay.
"I can offer forgiveness." She flitted across the chamber to stand in front of him. Her gaze challenged his, daring him to send her away. They stood, almost for a full minute, blue eyes meeting black ones. She was testing his will, seeking his weaknesses, shoring up her own. A silent agreement finally passed between them. He gave an assenting nod. Her hands rose to part the material of his stained shirt. At first he shied back, uncertain about accepting her touch.
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