Daughter of the Dark: Shadow Through Time 2

by Louise Cusack

  Which was as well for Breehan. He was still fearful that Kraal would blame him for the child’s death.

  Punishment for that sin was unimaginable.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘My Lady, your son walks.’

  Lae glanced up from the swathes of fabric on her lap and could not help but laugh. Lenid was teetering on one foot with Firde hovering nearby, her hands extended as though to prop him up. A second. Two. Lae watched as he righted himself and took two further halting steps before falling solidly on his rear.

  She clapped her hands in delight. ‘My sweet little king,’ she said, then held out her hands to take him when Firde swept him up and handed him over. ‘You are the cleverest child in all the kingdom.’

  Firde watched, shaking her head. ‘At least until his cousin arrives from Magoria,’ she said, then added, ‘And My Lady must stop calling him king.’

  ‘I know. My foolish tongue will let our secret slip one day.’ She looked to the older woman in concern. ‘Yet how much longer can we keep Lenid locked in here? His first lifeday approaches and people will expect us to celebrate.’

  ‘I have listened in the kitchens,’ Firde said. ‘There is no talk of disbelief. The lie stands us in good stead to keep him in darkened rooms.’

  ‘And with no Guardian to heal him of this imaginary eye ailment, there can be no cure,’ Lae added, trying unsuccessfully to keep her thoughts from Pagan and wondering when he would return.

  Yet just as she was beginning to feel sadness creep up on her, the plump fingers of a small hand caught her nose and she laughed despite her concerns. ‘You are a rascally king,’ she accused, catching his own nose and wiggling it. He returned the favour, rather more painfully than she had, but Lae still laughed. It was hard to feel dread when he was awake and playful. When she was alone, however, watching him in sleep, Lae felt sick with it. Her skin was Be’uccdha brown and his the pale skin that marked descendants of the Ancients. Despite Kert’s light colouring, no one would believe the child was theirs, even with his eyes shut. The snow hair was royal, no doubt about it.

  Yet it was not only the risk of discovery that haunted Lae. Though Kert discounted the midwife’s dying prophecy, Lae could not release it from her heart, and each day she used her powers of discernment to search Lenid’s aura for signs of illness. As yet there were none.

  ‘Did you choose a fabric for his winter clothes?’ Firde asked, lifting his small feet to retrieve the squares of cloth from Lae’s lap. Lenid laughed and began to dance on them, making it a game until Lae lifted him up and Firde snatched the rest from below his squirming legs. ‘I fear I do not favour the House symbol of your Lord Sh’hale.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Lae said, lowering Lenid to sit on her lap. ‘Mountain peaks dripping in blood are not suitable motifs for such a sweet and gentle soul.’ This last said while rubbing her nose against Lenid’s. Yet a moment later she was crying out as he pulled on her growing hair.

  Firde disengaged his fingers and put a sweet into them, which he greedily stuffed into his mouth. ‘Little villain,’ she scolded with a smile. ‘Bringing tears to your poor mother’s eyes.’

  Lae took his hand from Firde and kissed the fingers, smiling at the hairs caught between them. ‘Tears of joy,’ she said, loving to hear Firde call her Lenid’s mother. For though she had not borne him, Lae loved him as fiercely as any mother could. ‘If my son is a villain, his father is to blame,’ she said.

  Firde nodded sagely as she reached into her pocket for another sweet and handed it to Lenid. ‘How so strikingly handsome a man can be quite so contrarily natured is often a subject for discussion among the kitchen maids, My Lady,’ she said.

  A door slammed open in the next room and Lae’s fingers tightened on Lenid’s arms.

  ‘Speak of the father,’ Firde whispered, snatching the cloth hood from her pocket and quickly pulling it over her head.

  By the time the inner door slammed open, Lae had covered her son in her shawl. She looked anxiously behind Kert as he closed the door, but he had come alone.

  ‘Leave us,’ he snapped at Firde and Lae felt a chill premonition. Death lay in that voice and she could see from his swirling aura that violent thoughts dominated his mind.

  Firde curtsied obediently, a stiff movement of her long angular body, and made her way from the room, her arms outstretched to guide her, for nothing could be clearly discerned through the hood Kert had designed, certainly not the colouring of a child. The day of Lenid’s birth Lae had discerned Firde’s loyalty from her aura, and it had taken her little time to trust the maid with their secret. Kert, of course, did not know the meaning of the word trust.

  ‘Your father’s Guard Captain is outside the gate,’ he said the moment Firde was gone.

  Lae simply stared at him, unable to comprehend. ‘Mooraz?’ she asked at last.

  ‘I killed your Champion,’ Kert reminded her. ‘This is some other. Tulak, who comes looking for me, naming me Mihale’s murderer and asking if the king had fathered a child. How would he know that?’

  This was said accusingly, and though thoughts of sadness for Mooraz’s obvious fate were large in her mind, Lae had anger enough within her to bring a harsh reply. ‘And how is it that this Tulak is still alive?’ she asked. ‘His lord killed our king. Your first thoughts should be of revenge —’

  Kert snatched Lenid from her arms before she realised what was happening. He stepped away. ‘My first thought is to the safety of my current king,’ he said, and Lae watched in astonishment and horror as he took the frowning child into the nursery chamber and returned a moment later to lock the door. ‘I will guard him here,’ Kert said, ‘and you will be removed from his presence until the threat from Be’uccdha is gone.’

  ‘Threat?’ Lae saw the swirl of fear in his aura now. ‘He cannot know of Lenid’s existence. And surely you do not imagine that I am a danger to my own son?’

  Kert simply stared at her, his back to the door from within which there now came plaintive wailing. Lenid could hear their raised voices. He was alone and afraid.

  Lae tried to concentrate on Kert, to discern why he suddenly saw her as a threat. ‘Why have you not killed this Tulak?’ she repeated. ‘And how did he forge a passage past the sieging Northmen to the gate?’

  ‘The barbarians allowed them passage,’ he said, and Lae looked at him afresh. Her father must be allied to their enemies. Little wonder Kert was roused to fury. ‘They hide beneath the Northman shield and call questions at the gatekeeper.’

  Lae nodded. The Northmen had constructed a thick shield of timber and earth to protect them from arrows as they worked on cutting an entry in the main gate. ‘The boiling oil?’

  ‘Ran off this shield onto the ground.’

  The Northmen were growing clever. ‘Winch a heavy stone above the gate and drop that on their shield. Crush it.’

  Kert gazed at her a moment, considering. ‘You are as merciless as your father,’ he said.

  ‘I will not hurt my son,’ she replied, defying Kert to say she was not Lenid’s mother. ‘I love him.’

  ‘More than your father?’

  Lae tried to remain calm and rational. Clearly Kert was unable to. ‘I have told you on many occasions that I hate my father. I would kill him myself to save Lenid’s life.’

  ‘And what of the Guardian Pagan? Could you kill him to save our king?’

  Lae hesitated. It was an impossible question. Pagan would never be disloyal to the throne.

  Kert seized on her indecision. ‘What if The Light’s child covets the throne? Your Guardian is his Champion. He may kill Lenid to serve his charge’s destiny.’

  Lae couldn’t speak. The possibility was too frightening to be considered. ‘He would never kill a royal child,’ she whispered, but there was no conviction in her voice. Many years had passed on Magoria, and perhaps many more would pass before her love returned. The Pagan she had known would be changed irrevocably. He had been reckless as a youth. It was not implausible that he would be
ruthless as a man.

  Kert watched her, nodding. ‘You know I am right. He cannot be trusted, just as I cannot trust you.’

  Lae dragged her mind back to the problem at hand. ‘Because my father’s men are at the gate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would I aid them?’ she asked, trying to offer reason where emotion had failed. ‘What is there at Be’uccdha that I do not have here?’ she demanded. ‘What possible incentive would lure me away from the one I love more than life itself.’

  Kert blinked, said nothing for a moment, then, ‘Lenid.’

  ‘Yes Lenid,’ she snapped. ‘Who else would you think I meant?’

  Her words echoed in the silent room and Kert simply stared at her. Lae opened her mouth, closed it again. In the next room her child had grown silent and she could only assume he had cried himself to sleep. Lae wanted to cry herself. ‘You have treated me despicably,’ she said, her voice low and deliberate. ‘You broke my foot to keep me from escaping and sent no healer to bind it straight. You cut my hair to shame and humiliate me.’ A lump rose in her throat and she fought it down. ‘You have treated me with a violence I have never known, nor knew I could survive, and you dare to assume that I might love you?’

  ‘I assume nothing of the sort,’ Kert said, but his aura had darkened along with his cheeks.

  ‘Apart from my father, you are the man I hate most in the world.’

  They stared at each other and Kert simply nodded. ‘Then our marriage is equally balanced,’ he said. ‘For apart from your father, I hate no mortal more than you.’

  ‘I do not call that sham of a ceremony marriage.’ Lae said, ‘and when my beloved comes to me from Magoria I will tell him that I am yet a maid and ready to be his wife.’

  Kert shook his head, slowly, deliberately. ‘You will not marry another while I live,’ he told her, snatching her arm and dragging her back through her reception room and into her bedchamber where he pushed her away from him. ‘And while your father’s men stand at the gate you will be a prisoner in your rooms. I do not care to trust you any more than you trust me.’

  ‘And there you are wrong,’ Lae said, speaking to his back as he turned away from her. ‘I may hate you with all of my soul, but I trust my son’s life in your hands.’

  Kert’s hand hesitated on the door she knew he would soon lock.

  ‘Kill my father’s men and let no word of my presence return to Be’uccdha,’ she demanded.

  ‘Mindless revenge does not suit my purpose,’ he said, turning back. ‘I will not kill those I may use as messengers.’

  This was a different Kert from the one who had sought vengeance at the cost of his king’s life. ‘What message?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘Formal declaration of war. The Dark will not rule as regent while I live.’

  Lae nodded, relief sweeping through her. For a moment she had feared that Kert planned to barter her in exchange for the Volcastle’s safety. ‘I will not attempt to escape or otherwise distract you,’ she promised, ‘if you assure me you will tend Lenid carefully.’

  Kert turned back to face her and the sneer which usually marred his features was gone. The heat of anger had fled his eyes and Lae saw a lightening in his aura that spoke of tenderness, the same hue she had seen swirling around him while he played with Lenid. He simply looked at her for a time, at her shoulder-length black hair covered in its customary gold-mesh cap, the stiff folds of her pale brocade gown beneath her darker clasped hands. Then his attention returned to her eyes, now filled with apprehension. ‘I will take no chances with my king’s life,’ he said softly. ‘And though I fear to trust you now, I will not let you go.’

  Lae nodded. The timbre of his voice frightened her because it made her look past her hatred and into his heart. A heart she had wanted to dismiss as shallow yet no longer could, ‘I will wait to be returned to my son,’ she said.

  They gazed at each other a moment longer, and then he left. The key turned in the lock and Lae closed her eyes. In the darkness of her mind Pagan waited, but the carefree smile she habitually visualised was overlaid by Kert’s stern expression.

  Two men championing royal charges. One she loved passionately, yet whose loyalties may no longer be clear. The other she trusted implicitly with the life of her son.

  The day would come when she must choose between them, and she prayed that the choice would be clear. Until then, she could only wait and wonder.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Djahr stood at the top of his Hightower stairwell, outside the chamber where his siren languished. He was waiting for the magoria weed to take effect. Under his physician’s supervision, Djahr had been experimenting, adding other medicaments to prolong the shielding effect of the drug, but no matter how high the dose, he could feel it fading within half an hour. And he wanted more.

  Tonight’s was the most dangerous quantity he had attempted, ‘a reckless amount’ his physician had dared to say. Djahr had quelled the outburst with a glance, but he had silently agreed. It was a reckless act, yet such was the nature of his hunger for the boy’s company that by comparison, the risk to his life seemed paltry. That should have frightened him, but instead it fired his passions.

  For weeks he had thought of nothing but the boy, and all of his waking time was devoted to planning the half-hour each day he spent in his Hightower with Hanjeel. His physician thought he was going mad but Djahr was immune to anyone’s emotions save his own. And Hanjeel’s. Always Hanjeel’s.

  ‘My Lord, are you well?’ asked the physician at his side and Djahr nodded in the same moment that the drug took hold of him. The last sound of the physician’s question, ell, echoed inside his mind like a deeply tolling bell, and though Djahr’s eyes were open they became clouded. Time passed while he navigated the belly of the drug, scouring visceral corners before he found his way back to the stairwell in which he stood.

  ‘… time,’ the physician said, his lips moving so slowly Djahr had difficulty fathoming the word. He was far deeper in the drug than he had ever been before, yet this caused him no fear. Conversely, pleasure sang through him as the door was opened before him and he entered the luxurious room where his plaything, Hanjeel, was sequestered.

  Light from many candles glinted off the wire mesh wall before him, and as was his habit, Djahr stepped forward to place his hands on the cool metal.

  The click of the door closing behind him echoed for only a moment and Djahr realised that although he was deeply in the drug’s thrall, his responses were not as lethargic as they had been in the past. He could feel his body and make it function even while his mind lazed in a hammock of half-consciousness. An absent thought passed through his mind, a curiosity to know if he had indeed overdosed himself.

  Though there were plentiful supplies of the forbidden drug, long hoarded and hidden by Tulak’s deceitful family, the consequences of overuse could be fatal. Yet Djahr cared for nothing but the moment of bliss when he stood in his siren’s presence.

  ‘Hanjeel,’ he called, loving the sound of the name rolling off his tongue. ‘Come, siren, and speak to me.’

  ‘Is that all you wish?’ a voice asked from behind a curtain. ‘Or are we to touch this night?’

  Djahr tried to quieten the thundering of his heart as he waited for the boy to appear. ‘I do not lie with men. I will not touch you,’ he said, although in truth he was drawn to Hanjeel as he had never been drawn to a woman, not even his ethereal Shadow Woman who had assumed many pleasing shapes.

  The gold-thread curtain moved and through the mesh screen that was between them Djahr watched Hanjeel step out of the shadows to stand in the flickering candlelight. His breath caught in his throat even as his heart pounded. ‘So beautiful,’ he whispered, gazing at the skin whose fine hairs waved like seaweed on the ocean floor, giving Hanjeel a quality of restless sensuality even while he remained perfectly still. A thin golden wrap covered Hanjeel’s loins but Djahr kept his attention higher, telling himself that his obsession with the boy was not
sexual. It was merely a response to his beauty, his perfection. ‘Your chest has grown,’ he said, caressing the pale expanse of it with his eyes, pausing to admire the small but perfectly shaped nipples that seemed to strain towards his glance.

  ‘I am growing into a man,’ Hanjeel replied, his voice tuned so acutely to Djahr’s responses that it seemed able to penetrate his skin and soak into his heart. ‘I have been pleasured, but I have never shared that pleasure with another.’

  ‘Would you?’ Djahr asked, then was surprised when he held his breath waiting for the reply.

  ‘You would die of it,’ the boy said.

  Djahr closed his eyes, imaging that death. ‘I will not lie with you,’ Djahr repeated, ‘but I would watch you with another.’

  ‘Could you?’ Hanjeel asked and stepped closer.

  Djahr’s gaze rose to meet his eyes and the breath left his chest. ‘No, I could not,’ he whispered, mesmerised by the lack of emotion, by the pure physicality of that gaze. ‘I will let no one touch you, nor even look upon you.’

  ‘Then I am not to be a weapon?’ The last word hung between them as Hanjeel’s hands rose to the metal grille and Djahr had the presence of mind to remove his fingers before they were touched. The boy’s hair, which slithered over his shoulders like dark soft fingers, now rose to twine through the barrier between them and strain towards Djahr, caressing the air between them, tempting Djahr to step forward and have it caress his face.

  ‘You are too much a temptation,’ he said, barely remembering his original intentions towards his captive. The boy’s glamour had bewitched him and he was a willing slave to the pleasure he found in this room.