‘No!’ a voice croaked from above them.
Breehan looked up at the high stone ceiling of the room and amid the deep shadows he discerned the shape of a naked man suspended there, his arms and legs spread, his head lolling down. The bones of his chest were clearly visible, covered only by a thin layer of skin. There was no fat on his body at all.
‘Father,’ Glimmer said, but Breehan shook his head.
‘This is not The Dark.’ He came forward to put his hands against the metal grille, gazing in horror at the pitiful wasted wretch whose stringy hair hid his face. ‘This is not the man who took my future with his knife.’
‘Why are you distressed?’ Glimmer asked. ‘You should find joy at his degradation.’
Breehan knew he should feel happiness to see his enemy so weakened but it wasn’t right. The Dark had been strong enough to kill Noorinya, the strongest among them. It didn’t seem fair that a mere boy could bring him to this state. ‘How has Hanjeel done this?’ he asked.
‘I stole his seed,’ the boy replied, and he moved to lie on the couch below his captive. Slowly, Hanjeel stretched his limbs and the effect on The Dark was immediate and profound. The Lord of Be’uccdha’s emaciated body stiffened, as though fighting the arousal that now hung heavily below him. ‘His desire is my weapon,’ Hanjeel said. ‘It has drained him of life.’
‘A drug saturates my father’s body,’ Glimmer explained with her usual dispassion. ‘It protects him from entrapment yet does not shield him from the glamour that is his undoing.’
‘You have sucked my soul,’ The Dark whispered and Hanjeel smiled as he reached for a bunch of cords to his side. He unwound them from their locking ring and let out a portion. A loud creak of the pulleys coincided with the body above dropping an arms-length lower down. Hanjeel secured the ropes at that position and went back to watching The Dark who was now more clearly lit by the candles below.
Breehan watched them both, fascinated by the boy he had known as quiet and shy who now gazed up at The Dark with assessing eyes. ‘You may dream of such things,’ Hanjeel told his captive, ‘yet your soul remains untouched by my lips.’
The Dark shuddered and his voice was hoarse. His fingers opened and closed into fists. ‘Speak of your lips again,’ he begged. ‘Lower me further. I would do anything to touch them with my own.’
Hanjeel continued to gaze at his ‘captive’, yet spoke to Breehan. ‘He invented this ceiling restraint to avoid pleasure. He prefers torment, and I oblige him. When he deserves it.’
The Dark sighed. ‘Is it foolishness to choose lingering torture over death?’ he said softly, his voice rough with a tenderness that sickened Breehan.
Hanjeel showed no such discomfort. ‘He speaks of torture, yet takes pleasure in his bondage,’ and as Breehan watched, Hanjeel stretched himself out on the couch and crossed his smooth wrists above his head. ‘I wonder how it would feel to be bound and helpless, at the mercy of one who desired me?’
His strange mesmerising gaze remained locked onto The Dark’s and soon a sound came from the Be’uccdha lord. His suspended body jerked and the thick fluid of desire discharged from his primed loins and splattered onto the couch at Hanjeel’s side. Breehan recognised the sickly scent he had first smelt on entering the chamber. His aged knuckles were white on the grille. ‘Come, Hanjeel. We must leave this place,’ he ordered, his voice ragged with disgust.
Hearing this, The Dark flailed weakly against his ropes. ‘Do not take him and leave me alive,’ he begged.
‘Are you ready to die?’ Hanjeel asked, tilting his head to observe his adorer more closely, a strange smile on his face. ‘Although, I am not sure if I have finished torturing you. The pleasure of it is quite addictive.’
‘No more,’ The Dark croaked. ‘I have done penance for my sins. I am ready to die.’
Hanjeel’s arms rose and he uncrossed his wrists, fingertips pointing as though to touch the body that was suspended above him. Djahr struggled to push down towards him but the distance was too great. Then Hanjeel lowered his hands to rest on his thighs. ‘You ate Plainsmen children. What penance rights that wrong?’
At the grille Breehan nodded, remembering Noorinya’s pain when her brother Preeshuz had been taken by The Dark’s men. The old women had read the fire and told her what fate had befallen her brother and such was Noorinya’s anger, she had not slept for two days.
‘When I am dead,’ The Dark replied faintly, ‘I would have you eat me.’
‘Devouring you would not be a punishment,’ Hanjeel said in his intimate voice and as Breehan watched, the pitiful form swayed and stiffened in desire.
He had seen enough and now turned away. ‘Kill him and be done with it. I cannot bear his suffering any longer.’
At his side Glimmer stirred. ‘You may kill him if you choose,’ she told Hanjeel. ‘We will be in the Altar Caves when you are ready to leave. I will remove your glamour then. Breehan? The rite.’ She turned and left the room with a soft swishing of fabric as though what happened behind her was of no consequence whatsoever. Breehan watched her disappear down the stairs, her glittering black dress highlighted against the deeper darkness around her.
It was a moment before he could accept her conclusion. But it was true. The Dark was no longer a threat to the Plainsmen, or to anyone for that matter. His demise had been more thorough and more degrading than any Breehan could have contrived. Kraal, evil though he had seemed, had honoured his vow to release Hanjeel and destroy The Dark. His earlier discussion with Glimmer about good and evil came back to haunt him.
Behind him, Hanjeel said, ‘Your time has come,’ and Breehan, with his back to the grille, heard the sound of the rope being lowered, a jerky creaking sound.
‘Hanjeel …’ The Dark’s voice was faint, full of longing and yet terror lurked deep within it. ‘If you touch me … yes, wet your lips. Soften the blow …’
Breehan felt sick.
‘Close your eyes,’ Hanjeel told his captive. ‘Imagine where the kiss will be.’
Breehan pushed away from the grille and his hands trembled as he grasped the doorjamb and pulled himself through. Behind himself he heard only silence, then the rattle of man taking his last gasp of air. ‘The breath of your lips …’ The Dark choked. ‘Breathe on me again …’
Breehan put a foot on the stairwell and forced his trembling legs on, searching out his footing in the dim light, his hand on the wall at his side for balance.
‘The kiss … of …’
A dreadful silence followed these words, as though The Dark had no breath left to speak. Breehan faltered, the hairs on the back of his arms raised, his mind full of the scene that was being enacted behind him. Then his enemy screamed and the guttural sound was so unearthly that Breehan felt his stomach lurch in shock.
It was over quickly, like a shout of exaltation silenced by abject terror, but the echo of it rang in Breehan’s ears like the sound of a falling body striking earth.
He stumbled blindly down the last few stairs that deposited him in a corridor where Glimmer waited.
‘His heart failed,’ she said. ‘The Dark is now dead.’
‘I know, but Hanjeel should not have … debased himself. He —’
‘He was under a spell and had no control over his actions. Yet your hated enemy has been wooed from his life,’ she said. ‘Slowly, painfully, degradingly. My observations of revenge tell me that this should satisfy you.’
Breehan tried to control his disgust. ‘You are right. It should satisfy me.’
‘The boy is safe. Come with me and anchor this castle, then we shall take him to his mother.’
‘No.’ Breehan knew he could not face Noola yet. ‘When my work is done. Send me to her then. Hanjeel must go ahead.’
‘As you wish,’ Glimmer replied, then gestured to the empty corridor before them. ‘Come, to the Altar Caves where we will perform the rite.’
Breehan nodded his acceptance and followed her towards the tunnels that would take them deep into the
cliff on which Castle Be’uccdha was built, down into the echoing caverns where The Dark had once held power. And perhaps his daughter would again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Lae sat quietly in her favourite chair. The books she had been studying to prepare for her future as The Dark lay still in her hands as she gazed at the drifting curtains in the window. Her heart was like those curtains, at one moment fluttering towards Pagan who was outside her family, and in the next sucked back hard when her son came into her thoughts. Kert was like the window that slammed to close her in: hard, unyielding and sure to be deadly if she tried to break free.
She spent each long day convincing herself that Kert was her husband, yet every night at dinner she lost her heart to Pagan. It did not matter that he had admitted he would kill her son if called to do so, she loved him. With all of her heart and all her soul. Not the reckless, foolish love she’d felt when he’d kissed her all those years ago. This was the sort of love that spoke to her heart of tenderness and family. She ached for Pagan to see Lenid, to share her joy in caring for him. And more, she wanted to have a child grow within her own belly. Pagan’s child.
But she could not hug these thoughts to her heart without Kert intruding, and try though she might, she could not block him out. His love for Lenid was as deep as her own and twice as fierce. This she knew. But it was his feelings for her that she struggled to cope with. If Pagan had not come she may have accepted his offer and found herself in his bed. It was not inconceivable then. Now it was an appalling thought, and Kert could see that change in her, the withdrawal that Pagan’s presence had caused.
‘If only Glimmer would come,’ she whispered. But even that arrival would not solve their problems. Mihale’s son was the king by law, yet before they put Lenid on the throne they must know that Glimmer didn’t covet his place. And how could they discover that without revealing their hand?
A soft thump like a door closing came from the nursery and Lae wondered if Firde had dropped something. She set aside her books and rose to check on Lenid, dissatisfied that she had found no explanation for why the scythe of death no longer visited their lands. Was it the coming of the Maelstrom? Or had The Catalyst’s power held the blackness at bay? Khatter’s explanation of moons moving over the face of the sun seemed less likely with each passing day, for never in the history of Ennae had there been three years with no sudden night to terrify them.
It might be prudent to speak to Pagan on the topic, if she could do so without rousing Kert’s anger. Perhaps there was something in Guardian lore to explain it.
She limped across her morning room to the nursery door. Lenid’s afternoon naps had grown shorter and she knew that soon he would not need them, but while they lasted they were a welcome break from his constant chattering. While he was growing she had longed to be able to understand him better. Now she had too much information, and in truth it was difficult to stop him from describing his every waking moment.
‘Firde?’ she called softly as she opened the door and limped in, not wanting to startle the maid by coming on her unexpectedly. Lenid slept lightly and a cry of surprise would surely wake him if the other sound had not. His toys were neatly stacked beneath the window but Firde was not in her usual chair. Lae frowned. Then what had made the sound? She limped forward and pulled back the thin curtain that separated his play area from the bedchamber, still expecting to find Firde. ‘I just came —’ Her whisper stopped cold, as did her heart, frozen in shock.
Her beloved son lay on the floor of the chamber in the furthest corner, his body twisted and still, his dear head lying in a pool of bright royal blood. Lae could do nothing but stare at first, then her eyes swept the room and found a sleeve torn off his jacket attached to the shelf far above him. The shelf where Firde hid the sweets. He had pushed a chair below it and put a stool on the chair. Both now lay on the floor beside him.
He will not live to rule. The midwife’s words were a poison in her heart.
She staggered forward and fell on her knees at his side. ‘Lenid …’ She touched his hair, but his eyes were open and sightless. She knew.
A sound came from behind her. ‘My Lady, I’m sorry I was absent but —’
Lae turned to look at Firde, who was taking off her hood and staring at Lenid with all the horror and fear on her face that Lae knew she should feel, but somehow wasn’t. ‘He’s dead,’ she told the maid, and her voice was so normal she knew she must be going mad. ‘My son is dead.’
‘I will fetch My Lord Sh’hale,’ Firde whispered, backing out. ‘He will know —’
At the mention of Kert’s name, Lae’s mind suddenly came alive. ‘No. Get the Guardian. Pagan can revive our king.’ Fool. She should have thought of that immediately.
Firde’s dazed eyes cleared. She turned and ran.
Lae pulled her son into her trembling arms and held him fiercely, still warm against her breast. ‘You will live,’ she promised him, her teeth chattering now that her heart had thawed and her fear was emerging. ‘Pagan will save you.’ But Lenid’s head lolled against her arm and his small pink mouth was slack and pale. Lae’s memories of Mihale’s death and Khatrene’s desperation to save her brother filled her mind. By the time a Guardian had been found it had been too late for Lenid’s father. The last traces of life that clung to the mind had faded into oblivion. She could only pray that it wasn’t too late for the son.
*
‘My Lady’s son is hurt. Come now. Hurry!’
Pagan looked up at the white-faced maid who had barged into his rooms and the irritation he had felt at her intrusion disappeared in an eyeblink. ‘Lae’s son?’ he asked, but he was already out of the chair, dropping his book to the floor and following her out the door. They ran down endless corridors, Pagan pounding ahead of the maid who was too breathless to say more than, ‘My Lady’s chambers.’
At last they were at her door and Pagan shoved it aside, entering the sanctum he knew few had entered, the home of a child who could not bear the light. Another door was open across the room and he ran to it, shouting, ‘Lae. Where are you?’
‘Here!’ she called urgently, and he followed her voice through a large airy room which was surprisingly well lit, past a gauze curtain and into a sleeping chamber. Lae sat in the corner, with a child in her arms. Sunlight from the open window illuminated them both, and as Pagan skidded to a stop at their side his heart slammed into his chest. The child in her arms was royal. Not Sh’hale’s.
‘My son is dead.’ She held out her arms and Pagan instinctively crouched and took the small bundle into his own, transferring his gaze away from her stricken face to the chubby white-haired child whose royal-hued eyes now gazed at nothing. ‘He fell,’ she said, her voice trembling now. ‘My child …’
Pagan sat with the child in his lap and laid a hand over the wide pale forehead. His mind was full of questions, about Lae, about Kert, about the origins of this royal child, but he must rid himself of them if he was to serve his duty to the throne. He closed his eyes and sought calm within, using his Guardian power to clear his mind. And was rewarded with instant emptiness. As though he had practised it a great many times, the clearing ritual worked instantly. Obviously he had used his powers often in Magoria.
‘Come, My Lady,’ the maid said, and Pagan sensed motion in front of him but he ignored it, placing his focus now on the child whose lifeless body may yet be reanimated. Using his Guardian powers, he searched within the small body for some spark that could be reignited. At last he found it deep within the boy’s mind and Pagan held fast to that small morsel of mortality. Drawing the power of his own body into his mind, he sent it through his hand and into the fragile form that lay still against his legs, slowly, carefully, pouring his strength into the systems that must be reanimated: blood, breathing, mind. When he was sure he had saturated the child with his own Guardian power, he spoke the words of the Rite of Revival, words he had been taught by his father and his cousin, words he had never used before.
‘With
draw now from death, and seek no further harm,
From my own blood take a life-giving balm
Thus do I give thee the life thou hath lost.
With a part of my own do I barter the cost.’
A powerful movement surged through Pagan’s mind and he slumped, weakened far more than he had expected. But below his hand he felt the unmistakable beating of blood, and when he opened his eyes he found royal-hued eyes gazing up at him fearfully.
‘Mumma?’ the child whispered, his eyes searching right and left. Pagan removed his hand and when he was no longer restrained, the boy slid out of his arms and scurried to his feet, running straight to Lae who was sitting on the floor a distance away. He buried himself in her arms and wailed. Lae cried with him, holding him close, her restless hands moving over him, back, arms, legs, as though to reassure herself that he was whole and well.
‘You are alive,’ she said, over and over.
Pagan leant back against the wall and watched them, love filling the emptiness the ritual had caused. Though her brown cheeks were streaked with tears and her lips trembled in lamentation, Lae had never seemed more beautiful to Pagan. Seeing her with her child was a revelation, and tenderness such as he had not known he possessed overwhelmed him. He struggled to his feet and went to them, his limbs trembling. Soon he must perform a ritual of self-healing, but he could not bear to leave Lae yet.
‘The child needs rest,’ he said, crouching before her.
She looked up, her eyes damp and unseeing for moment. ‘He is alive,’ she said, repeating the phrase as though to convince herself of what her eyes and her hands had already assured her.
Pagan nodded patiently. ‘He is alive,’ he agreed. ‘And he will continue to live; however, the experience has tired him.’ Pagan nodded at her shoulder where the wailing child had gone silent and now slept.
‘His bed is here,’ she said, her voice trembling, as though the effort of making normal conversation was almost too much for her.
Daughter of the Dark: Shadow Through Time 2 Page 43
