“The mark is Cydrich’s. Turn him over,” Denua said.
Guards complied. When they rolled his body, a filthy arm slapped unchecked against the white marble floor.
“Oh,” Denua said.
Oh, how sad! Simone could see that beneath the dirt and privation, he was lovely. He bore a striking resemblance to a man she once loved, a soldier who died beside her while fighting an ogre invasion in the North.
Sorcelers were thoughtlessly cruel. Cydrich had intended him to get here alive but obviously had forgotten to allow him to stop anywhere for rest or food on the way. That pig.
The queen said, “Bring him. We will clean him and tend to his health.”
He isn’t dead? “Your Majesty! You’ve already risked your person by touching him and the charm. Please let us send him to an infirmary in the city. You shouldn’t have contact with him.”
Denua’s eyebrows knitted. “But I would hear Cydrich’s message. The messenger fainted as I entered the room.”
“There may be no further information. This might be a trick from some other sorceler.”
“I have my shield. I will hear the message. That is all, Captain.”
Chapter Sixteen
Cydrich hung Gareth in his workroom like a naked work of art. Manacles at hands, biceps, and feet held Gareth’s limbs outstretched, securing him to the collection table, a vertically inclined disk of wood with a system of channels to direct the flow of blood.
Cydrich slipped on his viewing mask. He raised a hand before his face, and the mask reacted. Its intricate system of lenses on thin metal arms moved until the proper set slipped into place and Cydrich’s eyes could focus on the tiny courses of spark—life energy—that traced his hand and flowed through his veins. He looked at Gareth, and the lenses moved again. Lines of spark blurred together, shrouding Gareth’s body in a glow of power. A great reservoir of it.
Today’s work would be long and rather tedious, but very delicate and intricate. Cydrich’s hands were steady and sure despite his age, but human fingers were too clumsy to work on the scale necessary to gather much spark at one time. In order to capture every miniscule trace, Cydrich would use a harvester. The device, an ensorceled cabinet with a thicket of delicate tool arms, had been developed long ago in order to capture spark quickly, before the sources died.
He found it interesting to note that Gareth could sweat and breathe rapidly as he hung strapped to the collection table, seeing the implements glinting at the tips of the harvester’s tool arms. He wasn’t crying or begging like most, but his physical fear reactions were otherwise perfectly human.
Cydrich slipped his hands into the gauntlets made of interleaved, spindly metal rods that protruded from the side of the harvester. He moved his fingers, and the jointed arms sprang to life, waving and whirling, making metallic tapping sounds. Gareth screamed as the instruments darted in, dipping into his flesh like toes in soft mud, and spread him open for others to tear and probe and pull.
Blood spray didn’t stick to Cydrich’s mask, leaving him free to lean in close to the wounds. The viewing mask’s lenses slid and rotated into place one after the next as he studied the currents of spark flowing along nerves and exposed blood vessels.
Blood, crackling with its own spark, collected in channels cut into the wooden disk. A long mirror in a thick frame lay beneath, and the blood fell there to gather in a pool, covering the mirror glass, to complete its ensorcelment and attune it.
When he was exhausted from screaming, Gareth whimpered and groaned. Cydrich worked his darting and pulling instruments, urging greater ecstasies of torment and coaxing spark to flow into the other receptacle, a lozenge of amethyst that began to glow with purple light as power filtered in. Working the chittering metal arms quickly, he used some instruments to stretch and separate tissues into long strands, then razored along them with other tools to chase and gather the filaments of power. After harvesting what he could from each part of the body, he laid the tissues back into place, allowing each wound to close and heal as he moved on to the next.
Pain generated the greatest flow of spark. That flow stopped each time Gareth lost consciousness, so Cydrich had to pause his work until Gareth signaled awareness by resuming the struggle to tear free of his bonds.
During one such pause, Cydrich removed his hands from the gauntlets and turned the mirror over, letting the pool of blood drain away through grates in the chamber floor. He replaced it under the disk to allow the dry side to collect fresh blood. Then he returned to his work.
As he operated the delicate machinery that would take what he needed from Gareth and improve it, Cydrich thought of the delightful symmetry between this moment and the time, so many years ago, when he had done similar blood work on a captured troll, preparing her to be impregnated with his seed. How the troll-bitch had shrieked and struggled as he stripped her flesh down and placed the necessary devices into her womb! It was exhilarating. Such good work too, which made possible this boy, this moment, and the triumph soon to follow.
Decades had passed since he found a page of an ancient manuscript, the Grimoire Curieuse, which set him on the quest for which he needed one like Gareth. These last years, waiting for his offspring to mature and for Gareth to emerge as the useful one, had been the most difficult. But the work was good, the result was good, and soon Cydrich would have recompense for all his toil and patience.
Gareth twisted his body, trying to escape Cydrich’s tools.
During the long hours while his body was flayed and rebuilt, bled and flensed, Gareth moaned and screamed, cried and cursed, spat out teeth broken from clenching his jaw.
But Cydrich could not help feeling a touch of pride. Through it all, his son refused to beg.
* * *
Long after the torment was over, Gareth lay curled in a shaking, naked heap in the corner of the workshop. Alone. He didn’t remember how he got free from the disk or when it ended. It had happened to someone else, he was sure. That was why. He lifted a hand before his face and studied both sides for marks left by the razors, but the hand was perfect, smooth, and clean. He closed his eyes. It happened to someone else.
Later, he heard people moving about in the tower and knew when someone—who didn’t walk like Cydrich—climbed up to the workroom. One of the servants. He didn’t roll over to look. The door opened, and the servant paused at the threshold, taking a shuddering breath before edging into the room. Gareth smelled meat pie, fruit, and the servant’s sweat.
He didn’t hear the door close.
He considered trying to escape, but the servant’s fear… What were they expecting?
It’s a trick.
The servant laid the food near Gareth’s head and fled without saying a word.
Gareth opened his eyes briefly as Cydrich came into the room, wearing his firegloves, and busied himself with objects on the worktables. He closed his eyes again, wanting to shut Cydrich out forever.
“You should eat, my boy.” The torturer’s voice was so pleasant now. Kind.
Gingerly, Gareth unknotted his body. Relief filled him when he found there were no wounds and no pain. As his fear of more agony evaporated, he was left with a ravenous hunger. He wanted to refuse the food. He didn’t want to take anything the madman offered, but couldn’t control himself. He picked up one of the meat pies on the tray, and before he knew it, he had devoured them all. He found himself resting on his knees, shoveling the last of the food into his mouth.
Cydrich was watching him now. “You truly are a marvelous creature, my child.”
The word creature echoed in Gareth’s ears. He turned away from the old man and lay back down.
“Certainly the greatest of your kind.” The news that he was of a kind, that there were others like him, startled Gareth. Cydrich must have seen, because he continued, “Oh yes, boy, there have been others. Your failed brothers and sisters. The ones who were too mundane. The ones who slew their caretakers before they were old enough to speak. The ones who ate entire v
illages before I could arrive. The imbeciles…”
Don’t listen.
“The other one just like you. Strong, intelligent, with the same exquisite balance of courage and caution. I thought he was the one.”
I have a brother?
“I see now why I couldn’t control him, why I had to destroy him before I could use him.”
Just like me…
“His caretakers kept him too well concealed. I see that mistake now. And to think of the families I slew because I thought the parents weren’t keeping hidden well enough! If only poor Loïc had found a lover to defend, my work could have been done last year.”
Gareth squeezed shut his eyes. It was just another form of torment. Best to ignore the madman until he went away.
“Ah well, that’s life. I was sure that with enough trials, one of you would work out. And here you are, no? The most marvelous one.”
He went back to his work. For a while, the only sounds came from sifting powders and clinking vials.
“Gareth, I have seen how you glance at my hands whenever I enter the room. You are very smart.” Cydrich put down the objects he was working with and approached. “I am very smart too, and I know you hope to catch me without my firegloves one day. You think you can destroy me and save your little friend.”
The heat of shame washed over Gareth’s face and body. He had been too obvious—stupid!—and now he’d never get his chance.
“I need you to understand something, boy. I’m going to tell you now, and I will burn you a little if I think you aren’t listening. So give me your attention. The thing we did today: It was necessary. I took something from you to ensure that you cannot destroy me. Do you believe me, Gareth? You cannot destroy me.”
Gareth heard a slight slipping sound, and something soft plopped beside his head. And again. The firegloves.
“You can try to harm me if you wish, but of course I’ll be angry. Whatever you try to do to me, I will remember it. And I will go to your little friend.” The sorceler’s ungloved hand grazed his shoulder, moved up toward his face. “And I will do exactly the same to him. So if you require proof, you might want to start by nipping off the end of a finger.” Naked fingers ran over his lips, one of them pressing in, swirling around, stroking his teeth. “Go ahead. Won’t you still adore this boy if he’s missing one little finger?”
Gareth rolled over and turned his face to the floor.
The sorceler retrieved the firegloves and stood. “Ah well. I should have a servant bring clothing for you.” He walked a short distance away but paused before leaving the room. “Tomorrow I will introduce you to a man named Devinyeau. You can easily kill him, if you wish, but again, your friend will suffer for it. Devinyeau’s purpose is to finish training you as a soldier while I prepare other things. You will obey him as you obey me. He must be pleased with your efforts.”
Chapter Seventeen
Denua waited as her sorcelers examined five women through great, handheld lenses of glass. It was one of the final steps in an elaborate security ritual that started with Uliette’s guards inspecting this room and the approaches to it.
Denua had dismissed Uliette and her people before this latest group arrived. Four guardswomen flanked another young woman. Two of the guards held the girl by her arms. When the sorcelers were satisfied, they withdrew and the guards brought the girl before Denua.
The girl hadn’t been carried or dragged in. She walked with the guards under her own power. Yet her movements were careful, her face bloodless and tense, her eyes wide and alert.
She didn’t wait for permission to speak. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty, please. There’s been a mistake.”
Denua used a hand on the girl’s chin to turn her head from side to side. She had a strong profile. The delicate shells of her ears were small and pretty.
“I’m apprenticed to be a trainer, my queen. I’m to be promoted soon!”
Her hair was too dark, but that was a minor detail. She looked enough like Denua, and the differences were pleasing so far. “Remove her robe.”
“No,” the girl said. Her voice squeaked, and color came to her face along with the first of her tears. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
The girls always enjoyed the pleasures Denua offered them at the College of Handmaidens. They received the best food and greater comfort than their peasant families would ever know. Athletic training and the attentions of sorcelers and healers ensured physical perfection. Girls like this one had the longest potential life spans of anyone in the kingdom. Which was, of course, the point. Daily education taught them that they were priceless treasures. They would ensure the peace and safety of the kingdom and enable the queen to protect their families forever.
The girls always enjoyed the pleasures, yet so few were ever glad to repay their debt.
These guards were also from the college. They knew how to handle strong, struggling women firmly but gently enough to avoid harm. They disrobed the girl immediately and turned her, displaying every part of her body to Denua. She was exquisite, naturally. The college wouldn’t have recommended her otherwise. Younger than usual. She met all the ordinary requirements, but this time there was one more.
“And her passions? Is she vigorous?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” one of the guardswomen said. “Florione is very popular among the handmaidens and trainers. Many will miss her at the college.”
“No no.” The girl shook her head. Perhaps she thought she was denying a crime.
Some of Denua’s laws made use of her peasants’ religious superstitions, so the people would gladly give their children over to Denua’s judges as punishment for sin. It ensured a steady supply of sacrifices to keep Denua’s sorcelers productive.
But none of the morality laws applied at the college. Denua was pleased to hear of this one’s wantonness.
It was all because of the messenger, the young man Cydrich sent to her. The instant she saw him, even covered in dirt and sweat, she recognized his resemblance to Mueric, her lover from long ago. In that flash of recognition, she remembered Mueric’s face, also bathed in sweat, grimacing as he drove into her, filling her, using her sex savagely as the climaxes ripped through her body again and again.
The dirty peasant messenger, lying unconscious at her feet, woke something within her that had been asleep for years.
The girl said, “No, Your Majesty, please, it’s a mistake.” As the guards turned her toward the table at the chamber’s center, she struggled to remain standing before the queen.
She fought against them truly, screaming, “No no!” It took all four to strap her onto the table. Above, in the chamber’s ceiling, a great polished crystal, seemingly filled with red smoke, looked down on them all. A dispassionate eye.
“Noooooo!”
Denua thought of the messenger as the guards finished securing the girl. Though his body lay wasted and filthy, his masculine beauty shone through. Maybe it was due to his resemblance to Mueric, but she thought not. When he was restored—and it was necessary to restore him, to learn Cydrich’s message—he would likely be more handsome than Mueric. He also seemed to be at the age of peak virility. Barely a man, but fully a man.
She would have him.
“Please, Your Majesty!”
It had been a while since she had taken a lover. She had lived long enough to recognize cycles in her life, the times when some natural drives faded away, sometimes for years, until a youthful new servant or guard appeared to catch her fancy and reawaken her body. It didn’t happen often. She ruled the most powerful kingdom from the richest, most beautiful city in the world, which was surely filled with lusty young men. But she only left the palace’s security on the rarest of occasions. They could be dancing naked in the streets—if that wouldn’t get them turned over to the sorcelers—and she’d never know. When a man arrived to waken a new cycle of desire, she welcomed and acted on the change.
The girl descended into incoherent begging and weeping. Her face was red, puffy,
and wet. Neither drugs nor a compulsion charm could be used to prevent the changes distress caused in the girl’s body. They might taint the Renewal.
Denua possessed devices to slow aging and preserve her health and body. She used them daily, but Renewal was necessary every few years. It wasn’t truly time yet, but she had decided to do it early in order to fully enjoy the new cycle of desire. She wanted to be ready for the peasant youth if he recovered.
And if he didn’t, or if he proved to lack the drive and stamina she hoped for, he could be given to the sorcelers and she’d take someone else. Uliette’s second, Abel, perhaps. He would certainly be vigorous enough. So really there was no harm in Renewing early.
The girl continued to weep, but she had given up begging. The last of the guards and sorcelers filed out, and Denua sealed the chamber’s door. She and the girl were alone, and the chamber’s sorcelrous locks would prevent any possible entry.
Denua used her own lens to make one last examination. She inspected the entirety of the chamber, including the girl, the table, and the final item in the chamber: a glass-walled box. Its base was ringed by a thick band of gold, an early version of the shield she herself wore but too large to be carried on a person. The box contained nothing but a thickly padded chair with straps and hand and armrests. Inset in one of those rests was a lozenge of cut diamond, the chamber crystal’s companion. Its focus.
The box was shielded to separate the vast energies of the crystal and the focus, and to protect Denua personally during Renewal. In order to receive energies from the focus, she would have to remove her personal shield.
To extend her life, she would have to permit the possibility of assassination.
So she used her lens to examine the box very thoroughly before entering.
The girl seemed to have recovered her composure. “Mercy, Your Majesty. I—”
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