The Malmillard Codex

by K. G. McAbee

  Madryn had dreams of his mouth, his arms, his body against hers…and she knew that the reality was always far more intense that those images of a fevered brain. Now, as many times before, passion overcame her—a passion so formidable, a hunger so consuming, that she shook with the need to assuage it. That voracious force raced through her veins, took over her mind and soul. She returned Valaren's kisses, her desire driving her to the very edge of madness.

  Valaren drew back, laughing at her eagerness.

  Almost…to the edge of madness…

  At that instant, as her weakling body cried out for fulfillment, her mind clamored for satisfaction, her very soul cried out for release, Madryn opened her eyes—and caught a single glimpse of Lord Valaren's face.

  His voluptuous lips were stretched into a contemptuous, sneer of a smile, mocking her and her weakening, dying will.

  "No!"

  The smell of roses, sweet as sin, filled the room.

  "No," Madryn repeated, softer this time, but with infinitely more determination.

  She stepped away from Valaren Starseeker. Those two steps were the most difficult she'd ever taken, but step away she did.

  Her sword, forgotten in one hand until that moment, spoke with the cold, clean voice of steel. A fresh wind blew off its shining surface, dissipating the florid, choking fumes and swirling cool draughts of bracing, immaculate air. The sword rose, almost of its own volition, over her head.

  Lord Valaren looked up, disbelief turning his cold, evil, beautiful face into a snarling mask.

  But it was the beauty that was the mask. Madryn knew that at last. This was his real face—vicious, hideous and cruel.

  The sword, as if animated by some distant force and not her own strong right arm, made one swift and accurate sweep—a surgeon's scalpel slicing away diseased flesh, to allow health to return at last.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Val sat up, his mind ripped screaming from sleep by the vision, yet again, of the death of Lord Valaren Starseeker.

  But this time, it had been different. This time, he had seen inside Madryn's heart, her very soul, as he never had before in any of his previous dreams.

  And what he had seen there had astounded him. Amazed him. Delighted him.

  Madryn did not love—had never loved Valaren Starseeker. His heart sang within him, the hideous dream images fading to insignificance, leaving him with that single, wonderful, uncontested fact.

  The cool early morning of the desert—quiet, serene, soft, before the ravening sun appeared to blaze down and destroy all comfort and ease—caressed Val's naked body as he panted and shivered, fighting against the images in his dreams that still half possessed him.

  Madryn did not love Valaren. She had never loved him. Valaren had wielded his corrupt power over her, making her want him, desire him…but never, never had she loved him.

  Never.

  Val looked around, blinking in the rosy light. Beside him, on her pallet of blankets, Madryn lay curled on her side, asleep. Her thin short robe had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the honey-colored skin of her back. The scars that Val had seen, just before the shipwreck, were paler stripes, crisscrossing the creamy flesh.

  Val had wondered, thousands of times, if his dream were somehow real. Were these images that appeared to him each and every night actual events, lost in time yet still in some way accessible to him, and him alone? Or were they instead some maddening chimeras, sent from unknown, unknowable sources to torment him and make him doubt his feelings, his very existence?

  No. No longer. Now Val knew that the dreams were actual events. Now he could understand some small parts of the mystery that was Madryn. Not all, by any means. He still had no idea of where she was going, or why.

  That her journey must have some connection with Valaren Starseeker, he had suspected well before now. But even the dreams had never given him proof, absolute and total.

  Val shook his head slowly. It made not the slightest bit of difference to him. He knew he would follow Madryn wherever she led him, if only to someday have the chance, the single opportunity, to wipe the evil that was Valaren from her mind—and replace it with his love.

  Madryn turned over. Her arm brushed against Val's naked leg. Val watched her eyes crack open, then widen at the sight of his naked body so close to her, outlined by the fading starlight.

  "Val," she murmured, holding out her arms, all her wariness defeated at the sight of him. "Val."

  Val leaned over, his mouth seeking the warmth that had been denied it for so long. His hands ripped aside the fragile cloth that draped her lean, strong body. His tongue plunged like a rapier into her eager mouth, plunged again and again as her own thrust back in this, the oldest of duels. Val gathered her to him, no long able to still his need for her. Arms and legs in a glorious, sweaty tangle, their bodies surged as one toward equal and ultimate fulfillment.

  This was the only thing that Val had wanted from the day he had met her, all those long days and weeks ago; he now knew he'd wanted this utter possession, physical and mental, for all his life.

  Their bodies fell into a rhythm, the ancient rhythm of lovers from the beginning of the world. Thrusting, surging, caressing, tasting, smelling, all senses involved as if one. Tiny cries, muffled against each other's flesh, spoke in tongues unknown but all knowing, as they grappled in tender violence, tried to blend into one single being. Val ran his tongue across her taut belly, tasted the flavor of the skin around her small firm breasts, and plunged repeatedly into her inviting mouth. Madryn returned his passion with even greater fervor, as she arched and strained to encompass him within her body.

  At last, at the same instant, the ache that each had carried for so long was assuaged. They fell, arms and legs still entangled, back down to the earth, panting and spent.

  A cool breeze, the last fresh breath of the dying night, washed over their sweaty bodies. Overhead, the stars were closing their eyes in sleep.

  Madryn threw Val's arms off and sat up. She seized the voluminous robes that they all wore for protection from the day's burning heat, and slid into it. Groping blindly, she found her soft riding boots and pulled them on. Then, reaching up, she took great handfuls of her tawny hair and twisted them into a hasty, untidy braid.

  "Madryn," Val murmured. It was enough, at this moment, just to say her name. It was all he needed, now and forever, to make him complete. He reached out a slow hand, brushed sated fingers across her arm.

  Madryn looked down at his face, the rising sun beginning to pick out the features. "I tried not to allow this to happen, Val," she said. The sounds of the awakening camp rose about them, squawks and complaints and shouts. Madryn sighed. "But now that it has…it changes nothing. Do you understand?"

  Val reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, encircling it in the loving manacles of flesh. He pulled her towards him, captured her mouth with his own. Already hungry for her again, he felt her answering hunger and rejoiced.

  But after a glorious instant, Madryn pushed him away. "It changed nothing, Val," she repeated. "There is something I must do, something I must find out and, if it is so, do all that I can to rectify it."

  "But afterward?" Val pleaded with lips and hands and eyes. "I will help you, you know that. I am yours to command, as I promised, whatever it is, whatever we must accomplish. But afterwards?"

  "Afterwards, Val? Afterwards, I fear I die."

  Madryn scrambled to her feet and stalked off towards the corral of horses.

  Val ran a tongue over his lips, savoring the taste of Madryn that still lingered there. He didn't know what she meant. He had no idea what her quest might be, why they were heading south, what their destination was. But one thing he did know. Madryn was not going to die.

  Not if he had anything to do with it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Val watched Madryn walk away from him, he decided that he had to tell her of his dreams. Somehow, he must make her understand that he knew of the horrors she harbored with
in, the events that had blighted her memories in the same way that his brief time with Lady Alysa had blighted his own.

  Today, he promised himself. Surely he could snatch a bit of time today to tell her. And if not this day, then tonight.

  But all that endless day, Madryn rode far away from Val. And that night, it was their turn to be on watch, to ride single circuits on the outskirts of the great caravan, keeping eyes and ears open for signs of the bandits that, they were assured, were just biding their time before attacking.

  Val had no opportunity to speak to Madryn that night, and the next morning her lack of sleep made her sharp and short with him, when he tried to talk to her. At last, he left his tired horse in the communal corral, to snatch a bite of grain and a drink of water before its morning journey began, and left in search of Garet.

  They had not seen their servant boy in the last two days or nights. Not that Val had missed the lad. But now he needed to talk to someone, and the garrulous boy was his only choice.

  "It's not natural, I tell you," Master Aubry was telling a group of hungry guards and caravan members; he tore off great hunks of fried bread and stuffed them into his mouth between words. The caravan master offered Val a nod and motioned toward the wide tin trays overflowing with their morning meal.

  The cook tent, an awning that spread out from the side of the huge wagon, where simmered and sizzled great pots all through the day and night, was the common meeting place for the guards before the beginning of each day's travel. It was also, Val knew, Garet's favorite place; the boy could spend his time cadging treats from the cooks while they strove to make him do small chores for them in return.

  "I've traveled this route for eleven years, and I've seen bandits each and every time; even on the short runs, I've seen them. This year, though…" Master Aubry shook his head, his greasy red plaits standing upright like tiny soldiers." "This year…" he repeated in wondering tones, "…there's something about this year that's not natural."

  The guards scrambled to snatch extra bits of food as the cooks removed the trays, in preparation for the caravan's morning departure. Soon, the long train of conveyances and people and animals would begin its morning lurch, like an arthritic snake, towards the distant mountains—not so distant as they were, and beginning to be faintly visible across the southern horizon. The track that the caravan followed wound away before the weary travelers, daring them to follow into the dim and fearful distance.

  Val walked away from the cook tent, looking in likely places for Garet. Almost at once, he spied a skinny form behind two camels; the beasts were on their knees, and their riders were just settling themselves into padded saddles.

  "Garet," Val called, motioning for the boy.

  Garet looked up, his mouth working busily. His hands were full of his favorite delicacy, greasy bread stuffed with whatever the cooks had handy.

  The boy scampered towards Val. "Master, I know that I was supposed to be at our camp this morning to pack up your blankets and load them on the donkey, but the mistress said that I might attend the dancing at the tent of Allar bir Shan, so I did, and then there was food, and I'm afraid I went to sleep and I'm terribly sorry and…"

  Val waited patiently, knowing that Garet would finally run out of breath and he would be able to get in a word or two before the boy resumed his description of his adventures.

  At last Garet was forced to pause for breath, and Val said, "Come along with me and I'll give you a ride this morning."

  Garet's face lit up at the idea of this special treat; the boy's greatest love, after large amounts of food, was a horse. The permission to ride one, even behind Val's saddle, always exhilarated him.

  Garet pattered along with Val, dodging the wagons and carts as they threaded their way towards the horses set aside for the caravan guards. The smells and sounds of the camp preparing to move were overwhelming in a morning that was already growing hot. Jingling harnesses, crying babies, shouting men, screaming women, all these sounds and more heralded each day.

  Garet sneered at a boy, only slightly smaller than he, as the youth struggled to clamber onto a shaky cart already overloaded with too many other children.

  "Child, watch out for that infant there," he shouted, motioning towards a baby that threatened to tumble out of the cart.

  With a satisfied smirk at the boy's answering scowl, Garet followed Val towards the horses. "Did you sleep well, master?" he asked as they skirted a recalcitrant camel that refused to rise, despite repeated blows from its owner.

  Ignoring the boy's question as best he could, while the hot blood rose in his cheeks, Val asked, "Where is this caravan going, boy?"

  Garet gazed up the long expanse of Val in bemused wonderment. "Your pardon, sir…but you're traveling in it, and you don't know where we're going?"

  Val slowed his stride to allow the shorter legs of the boy to keep up. "I'm traveling with Madryn, as you well know," he said, his voice dropping as he mentioned her name. "She is on her way to some particular destination, but I'm not sure just where or why. How many stops does the caravan make?"

  Garet gave a sage nod. "I thought, sir, that anyone with any sort of knowledge at all could clearly see that the mistress is going to Malmillard," he said, his very tone a sneer.

  Val already knew that Garet had no appreciation for anyone who did not belong to the ancient sect of Llar Zhan, as both Madryn and the boy did. Val, to Garet, was merely someone who accompanied the two most important members of the caravan on their journey—Garet and Madryn.

  "Malmillard," Val rolled the strange name over his tongue. "Where is that?"

  "It's not a where, you great fo—master, sir," Garet said, "it's a what. Or," he stroked his chin with a grimy hand, "a who, perhaps."

  Val reached down and grabbed the skinny boy by the back of his ragged robe and lifted him high above the ground; scrawny legs dangled over dusty ground. Val was not in the mood for Garet's obscure answers. Not today.

  "Listen, boy," Val said, his face so close he could smell the dates on the boy's breath. "I need to know everything you do. Understand?"

  Garet snickered, not at all put out by his present location. "I fear that would take years and years, master," he pointed out with an infectious giggle; his logic was, to Garet's mind at least, inescapable. "But I will be delighted to tell you all that I know of the ancient order of Malmillard, if you wish it."

  Val gave a grim chuckle at the boy's generous offer. "And what will it cost me?"

  Garet smiled. "Well, as you know well, master, I don't really enjoy traveling on a cart or, worse yet, on my feet." He wriggled like a fish hanging from a line. "But if I were to find someone who would offer me a ride, say you, for example…oh, sir, I could tell you many things. Things that would amaze and delight you."

  "I'm sure they would," agreed Val. "I'm sure they would."

  ***

  "The adepts of Malmillard are a most ancient sect," began Garet, his scrawny arms linked tight about Val's waist as their mount cantered towards the front of the line; the dust rose up from beneath trotting hooves and settled on them in a thick coat. "A sect of powerful mages, if you understand what that is, sir."

  Val snorted, and Garet hastily resumed.

  "So powerful are the Malmillard that, it is said, they can hide their vast cities in plain sight of all, and yet no one will see them unless the adepts themselves allow it."

  "Then how does anyone ever know that they're there?" Val asked, and with some logic, he thought. "How can Madryn be going to this Mallow-place, if no one can see it or even knows if it exists?"

  Garet released his grip about Val's waist just long enough to box him lightly on one ear. "Pay attention, you great huge lummox," he commanded in his high-pitched voice, "or you'll never learn anything."

  Val, secretly amused at this demotion from 'master' to 'great lummox', kept silent.

  "Now," Garet resumed in a smug tone, clearly surprised that he wasn't to be punished for laying hands on Val, "the Malmillard, as I h
ave so carefully pointed out to you, are a sect of powerful adepts. Adepts are, as we all know, possessors of magical powers; these powers, by their very nature, are forbidden to you common folk. Therefore, the Malmillard hide themselves for just that reason."

  "And what reason is that, oh teacher?"

  "Why, you great blundering booby, because they have powers," Garet repeated. "This means that-they-are-powerful. And if they are powerful, then that power can be used for a great many things. And likewise if—I say if, mind you—someone, some ordinary person, could manage to gain ascendancy over a being with these aforementioned great powers, then the adept could possibly be forced to serve this ordinary person and do her or his bidding."

  Garet peered around Val's bulk, to make sure he was paying attention. "Now, you may well ask, how could any such ordinary person—like as it might be yourself, for instance—gain ascendancy…" Garet liked this word so much he repeated it, "ascendancy over a powerful magic worker?"

  Val was silent. Garet punched him in the ribs with a skinny elbow.

  "How, oh teacher?" Val asked agreeably.

  "Well you may ask," Garet replied with a satisfied nod. "Well you may ask. It has been said that one can gain mastery of a Malmillard by only two methods."

  "Those methods being?" Val asked hurriedly, to prevent another assault on his ribs.

  "Those methods being, one: trickery. Two: treachery. And no other way."

  Val waited for more, but Garet had apparently shared all he thought necessary.

  "Very interesting," Val said, "but it tells me nothing at all. I know no more about our destination that I did at the beginning. Why do you think that Madryn is going to this Malmillard at all?"

  Garet snorted in disgust. "Because, you hulking imbecile, Zamorna is the destination of the caravan. Zamorna, the dreaming city, is the only place in all the lands where one may actually see and speak with a Malmillard adept."

  "Very interesting, to be sure," Val agreed. His sleepy brain was not making any sense of these meanderings, and he wondered if Garet were simply taking advantage of his condition with clever stories, so the boy could ride in state and sneer at the other servants as they stumbled in the dust. "Very interesting. But this does not, oh teacher, tell me why Madryn might be going there—if she indeed is. I have neither seen nor heard any connection between her and these legendary invisible witches of yours. In fact, I believe you've just made them up, to entertain me."