by Grace Draven
He left the remainder of the troop to ransack the hovel, inviting them to take whatever caught their fancy. The two scouts gazed longingly at the door where soldiers dragged out bedding, meager furniture, pottery and bits of clothing.
“You’ve forfeited the right to the loot,” Dradus said. “Get moving.”
Judging by the look of the cottage, there was little worth taking. He’d already scoured the few books the witch kept on a shelf near her keeping cupboard. They contained nothing of value for an adept of his skill, and his disappointment left him short-tempered. Niamh of Leids had once been a magic user of renown before she disappeared, and Dradus had hoped to find at least one grimoire of powerful spells he could learn and add to his repertoire. Recipes for herbal brews and incantations to counteract toe fungus were useless to him.
The two scouts waited for him near the grave site, a mound of rocks placed beneath the shade of a giant fir. A withered bunch of daffodils offered a splash of color and proof that someone had visited the grave days earlier to pay their respects. Most likely Varn’s daughter, who had vanished into thin air.
He paused for a moment, brought up short by the faintest touch of sorcery unlike any he’d ever encountered. The sensation hummed along his nerves in fits and starts, fickle as a firefly’s light. Just as his senses grasped its essence, it winked out only to tease him a moment later.
“Do you feel that?” he asked the two men with him. They glanced at each other and back at him before shaking their heads. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would you?” Doltish louts, the lot of them. They wouldn’t recognize magic if someone dumped a bucket of the stuff on their heads.
“Start digging,” he commanded. “I want to put a few leagues in before the sun goes down.”
“What do you want us to do once we open the grave?” The unfortunate recipient of the kiss from Dradus’s crop looked ready to bolt for the trees. Superstitions regarding the dead and their vengeance ran strong in most people, and this scout was no exception.
Dradus spotted a log nearby that made an adequate seat and settled onto it. He smiled at the two men, the smile widening as they paled. “Once you open the grave, I want you to get out of the way so Dame Niamh and I can have a little chat.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
He held her chin with a callused palm, no doubt toughened by fighting if his current dress and ease with weaponry was anything to go by. But the miracle of that first rough caress bewitched her. For the very first time in her memory, someone had touched her and lived to tell the tale.
Oh, she’d held Niamh’s hand through her gloves and embraced her amidst layers of protective clothing, but it wasn’t the same. Her wonder at that initial contact had been reflected in Cededa’s sublime features, in his awestruck declaration of dying.
They stood in that half embrace for several moments before he released her and put space between them. That white-washed stare consumed her, turning her knees to water. A sudden thought had sent a new fear jittering down her spine.
“I swear, I’m not lying.” She raised her gloved hands. “Were you a normal…” she flinched and corrected herself. “Were you any other man, you’d be dead.”
His mouth curved, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. "I believe you."
Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank the gods,” she said and exhaled a stuttering breath. “I really don’t want you to kill me.”
His soft laughter, free of the harsh bitterness she’d heard earlier, washed over her, as beguiling and seductive as his touch. “I doubt that me killing you is Niamh’s idea of repaying the debt I owe her.”
Imogen smiled at his teasing. “No, I’m sure it isn’t.” She abandoned the smile for a frown. “I didn’t really believe her when she said you could break my curse. I only came so you could remove the key. Is it possible you can help me?”
“The key is a small matter. It’s my magic that put it there. I can remove it just as easily. Your curse, however, is something different. I’ve never seen the like, and in my lifetime that’s saying something.”
He reached out to touch her once more. Again, she backed away, and he lowered his arm. “Forgive me,” she said. “I am unused to another's touch.”
He shrugged, his bland expression saying he took no insult from her retreat. “I have an idea how to lift a death touch, but it will take time, and you’ll have to stay with me in Tineroth until the summer solstice.”
Imogen chewed her lower lip. She hadn’t expected this. Caution and disappointment warred with longing. She’d come with only the thought of Cededa removing the key. He offered her a glimmer of hope for a normal life. But that hope came with a price and a measure of trust in a fabled king who ruled a dead city.
Surrounded by an unnatural hush and decrepit palaces and shrines etched in moonlight, she wondered how difficult it might be to live within the confines of Tineroth’s decaying beauty. She looked to Cededa. His face revealed nothing of his thoughts. “How would I live? I’ve not seen nor heard any animals to hunt or fresh water to drink. My water supply is only enough to last another day.”
“There’s plenty of fresh water in Tineroth. I’ll show you where it can be found, and the wild life of the surrounding woods thrives. There’s more than enough to feed one small woman. You just have to know where to hunt. And there are those unseen who still serve me and this city.”
That last enigmatic statement didn’t ease her worry. Solstice was a good four months off, but what did she have to return to? Niamh’s frail body rested within the earth she loved. The cottage stood empty, no longer a home but a shell containing memories that made Imogen’s throat tighten with tears. Nothing and no one demanded her immediate presence, no home or family anxiously awaited her return.
“I’ll stay until the solstice.” A subtle shift in Cededa’s expression revealed his satisfaction at her answer. “However,” and she raised her chin, “I don’t have the means to repay your hospitality.”
His deep chuckle puzzled her. “Believe me, girl. If this works as I hope, you will have repaid me in wealth beyond price. The debt I owe Niamh will be nothing compared to the one I will owe her daughter.”
She didn’t get a chance to question his odd remarks. He bade her follow him through the city to the royal palace or what was left of it. They traveled through a maze of narrow streets lit by a hunter’s moon and silent as crypts. Eyeless windows allowed glimpses into buildings swelling with a stygian darkness. Only the silver-gilt streets and the pale corona of light at Imogen’s feet kept them from being swallowed by deep night. Cededa’s fair hair shone like a beacon as she followed him deeper into the city’s heart.
Tineroth was a vast maze of avenues and courtyards, crumbling buildings and abandoned temples. After walking for nearly an hour, they came upon a high wall of smooth stone, cut so perfectly and stacked so tightly, Imogen didn’t think a sliver of human hair would fit through the spaces between the stones. They passed beneath an arch that led into another of the vast courtyards. Here a procession of statues encircled the yard, copies of those she’d passed on the bridge. Behind them, a broken palace rose, its roof topped by a coronet of spires, hints of their once graceful lines degraded by time and decay to jagged teeth that pierced the sky.
Sadness engulfed her at the sight. What had Tineroth been like in its glory? She imagined it in daylight, the grand structures whole and new, people moving to and fro on her now deserted streets. Imogen had lived a life of isolation with only a rare visit or two to the nearby townships. The crush of people on market day had made her break out in a sweat every time, but she’d been enamored by the life and bustle around her, so different from the quiet solitude of the cottage. How fantastic must this city have been so long ago.
A pair of iron gates, cast in a delicate filigree design that reminded Imogen of the enchanted pendant, hung skewed on twisted hinges. A gap between them allowed her and Cededa to pass through easily into the palace’s interior. Inside, a syrupy blackness
snuffed out all light, including the pool of radiance beneath her. That prickling feeling of being watched intensified.
“Sire?” Her softly spoken call boomed in the suffocating stillness. She yelped at the sudden ghostly touch on her arm.
“Peace, Imogen. I’m here.”
As if his words broke a sleeping spell, flames erupted from torches lining lime-washed walls. The light beat back a hovering gloom to reveal a vast presentation chamber fallen to disuse. Dust blanketed every surface in a thick shroud. Tables and chairs lay overturned and scattered throughout the hall, as if a great brawl had erupted and the fighters used the furniture as weaponry. A grand throne, perched atop a pyramid of narrow stairs resided over the ruin. High above, the swoop of an arched ceiling, buttressed by massive wood beams, flickered and faded in the dance of shadows. Where the glass of tall windows once filtered light, only open sills remained, revealing the drift of gray clouds across the night sky.
“This was your home?”
“It is still my home.”
Imogen winced. Damn her and her careless tongue! She wasn’t used to conversing with others besides Niamh, and it showed. She bowed. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” He touched her arm again, and this time she didn’t automatically jerk away. “Follow me. There’s a chamber upstairs you can use while you’re here.”
He led her through the hall and up a spiral of stairs to a long gallery still roofed. Faded murals of landscapes and people decorated the walls. Torches flared to life as they passed, lit by unseen hands, and Imogen wondered how easy it was to get lost in the king’s palace. They finally stopped before a set of ornately carved doors that opened silently at Cededa’s touch.
More torches lit, and Imogen gasped at the neglected splendor before her. More murals and chipped gilt decorated the walls and wood molding. Scenes of palace life captured the eye, chief among them scenes of a wedding between a royal bride and a Tineroth king, a grand marriage of state attended by thousands. Time had not been kind to the mural, nor had the human hand. The king's face had been obliterated by the harsh battering of a chisel. The queen's features, still lovely despite the faded paint, remained untouched.
A large bed, its frame rotted and collapsed on one side stood against the far wall. The mattress had disintegrated, chewed away by nesting mice. A single chair, still intact, occupied space near the cold hearth. The musty smell blanketing the chamber lightened with the cooling breeze drifting in from two broken windows.
Imogen didn’t care about the neglect. She’d been prepared to sleep outside on the ground. Now, she had shelter—a roof over her head and some measure of protection from the elements. As it was, she was so tired from her journey and the shock of actually finding the Undying King, she’d happily sleep on the floor, wrapped in her cloak.
Cededa gestured toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll return with fresh water to drink and more to wash off the road dirt.” He looked to the pack tied to her back. “Do you still have rations? If not, I can hunt.”
She leaned her walking stick against one wall and shrugged the pack off drooping shoulders. Exhaustion set in, and she squinted at Cededa with blurry eyes. Sleep, more than hunger, called to her now. "I have enough for two more days, thank you, but the wash water would be most welcome.”
He left her to get comfortable, promising to return with the water. Imogen used the brief solitude to explore the solar. She eyed the mural that ran from one corner of the room to the other. A great wedding. An elegant bride. A crowned king with long blond hair and a ruined face, his pride and hauteur evident in his erect carriage, even in the flat rendition of his likeness on the limed wall.
She drew closer to the mural. Her fingers traced light patterns over the scarred stone where the king’s face had once been painted. Like the statue on the bridge, this had been purposefully defaced and with such violence she shivered and pulled away. The chair by the hearth beckoned, and she sank into it, relieved the fragile wood held under her weight. Her feet throbbed, and her back hurt. Teased by the air drifting in from the window, she picked at her heavy clothing before shedding the cloak, hat and gloves. Her skirts and shift still stuck to her, but at least the draft cooled her hot skin.
She leaned her head back against the chair’s top rail and waited for Cededa. Exhaustion settled in. Days of travel and sleepless nights spent outside in the cold had taken their toll. The chair felt wondrous, as luxurious as a plump mattress. She settled deeper into the seat and closed her eyes. Just a moment or two. That’s all she needed; then she would explore the room more thoroughly. Just a moment...
CHAPTER NINE
Still reeling inwardly at his first taste of mortality in more than a hundred lifetimes, Cededa leaned against the door frame and watched his guest slumber. Darkness, thick as blood and headier than poison-laced mead had rushed through him in a black wave when he pressed his fingers to Imogen's smooth skin. The sensation had almost brought him to his knees.
He'd lost count of the times he prayed for death. But gods long vanished didn't hear his entreaties; the vengeful ghosts who kept company with him in the silent city did, and their spectral mockery held no mercy. Yet something heard—and answered. The proof sat slumped in a chair, snoring softly, unaware of his scrutiny.
Her curse offered him the hope of salvation, of a true and everlasting sleep, where Tineroth's constant voice would be forever silenced and the Living Waters finally ran dry in his veins. The prideful part of him wanted to assure her he could indeed rid her of her burden and the burden of his own immortality. He was, after all, the Undying King. A mage, a great warrior. Powerful. Eternal. Instead, he'd offered a sliver of hope—the "might" in his answer and a time frame of four months. If he couldn’t break the curse by then, he’d admit defeat and send her home before the city once again vanished between time and worlds, his debt to Niamh still outstanding.
Cededa's hard gaze swept the chamber. His second consort’s solar must seem grand beyond imagining to a village girl raised in solitude by her hedgewitch mother. He'd followed the path of her wide-eyed admiration, remembering the chamber as it once was when Helena held court here, her beauty the stuff of song and legend.
She’d been his favorite wife, and he had loved her as much as his shriveled, avaricious heart allowed. It hadn’t been enough. He turned away from the mural, refusing to think on a wife now no more than dust.
The sinuous mist greeting Imogen at the bridge curled around his ankles, caressing his calves and knees. It had followed him into the chamber, spreading across the floor until it flooded the space in a shallow sea.
“Make it livable for our guest,” he ordered, and the mist obeyed. Vaporous bindweeds slithered across the bed, sparking spectral lights of indigo and green as they curled over split wood. In their wake, the wood gleamed, as if newly made and polished. Where only broken slats once lay in disarray, a plump feather tick filled the middle space, complete with silk pillows and bedding woven of finely spun thread. Curtains hung from the canopy, and nearby a table bearing a pitcher and basin brimming with water appeared, followed by a stack of drying cloths and a goblet.
The mist gathered itself and slid along the walls as if to repair the faded murals. “Leave it.” Cededa’s sharp command halted its movements before it rolled back toward the door.
Imogen didn’t stir at his voice. Cededa trod on silent feet until he stood directly in front of her. Death’s handmaiden was a girl of banal looks—pretty but not extraordinarily so. She didn’t compare to Helena or even the vibrant Niamh. Still, he admired her smooth skin and long plait of dark hair with its hints of red. She’d removed her gloves, and he caught his breath.
She had stunning hands. Finely sculpted fingers and narrow palms, they rested limply in her lap, reminding him strangely of swans. Those delicate hands carried an atavistic, malignant power that quite possibly held the key to his freedom.
He murmured a quiet spell. She sank further into the chair, her breathing d
eepening. Drawn by the promise of her darkness surging through him once more, he circled her slender neck with his fingers and traced the pattern of scars that stretched across her collarbones. As if awakened by his touch, the raised pattern bled out from under her skin, curling around his fingers in ashen wisps that solidified into silver tendrils. They writhed across his hand, gathering in his palm until he once again held the pendant he’d given to Niamh almost thirty years earlier.
The silver glinted in the torchlight as he lifted the chain and slipped it over his head. He sighed as it sank into his chest, marking the skin in glowing etchings that spread from shoulder to shoulder and partway up his throat, twin to those tattooed on the back of his right hand. A jolt of lightning shot through him, and he stiffened. His nostrils flared at the renewal of senses he’d thought long dead—desire, smell, taste—all the things mortal men took for granted, and ones he thought never to feel again. His thoughts whirled, and he touched his chest where the pendant had disappeared. Imogen and her curse. The pendant was tainted with it, and once more Cededa tasted the intoxicating elixir of mortality.
He stared at his unexpected guest, slumbering so innocently in his dead wife’s solar. “We will consume each other, girl. I think it’s inevitable.”
CHAPTER TEN
Imogen awoke to a chamber vastly transformed from the night before. She no longer slumped in the chair but lay across a soft mattress, covered in an embroidered blanket. Somewhere, between the chair and the bed, she’d lost her clothes except for her shift, and the feel of fine linen and silk on her skin made her sigh and loll deeper in the bed for a moment.
Cededa must have carried her from the chair to the bed. She frowned. The idea made her uneasy. Despite that first terrifying meeting, when he’d greeted her with a blade against her throat, he’d been hospitable. Still, he unnerved her, and she admonished herself for not being more alert.
