His wife, his Leviana, the one who had stood beside him as he sought to bring the world to its knees in homage to him, had died in his arms. This woman, Jalcina, was barely capable of understanding the love binding their souls together with the magic they found. Yet she was vessel of his beloved, the one who was losing herself to the growing power. He had seen it when she had awaken, disoriented, only to faint away from the exertion. The confusion in her dark eyes as she tried to make sense of the world going on while she slept was painful. Did he truly have the right to rip away her life in this way? Fate had given him a second chance and yet he found himself wondering. Now that he was so close to achieving his goal, did he truly have the right to do this to her?
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thinking. He turned on heel to see his second, Navar, who had stopped in the doorway.
“Time, my lord,” he said with a suppressed amusement. The soldier had seemed on the verge of laughter all day; even when servants brought the accessories and began to prepare the king to once more take a wife. Navar had taken no vows. Nor did it seem he ever would. He, like Vad’Alvarn, was wedded first to war.
“Is she prepared?”
“Romkita says the girl is as ready as she can be. The guests await.”
Vad’Alvarn was not in his armor, but rather a modified habit of an adherent of Ancel, the god of War. This was a true wedding of the Burning Island, one requiring living sacrifices and the circle of fire the pair would stand in as they spoke their vows. The fire was meant to symbolize their care for one another and its ability to preserve them against any oncoming threat. The sacrifices were their enemies slain together. All that was good in the eyes of Ancel. Perhaps this would once again awaken Leviana, bringing back the fighter’s heart residing in the shared body. However, he could not think much on it, following his second along as they moved through the palace halls toward the place where this would all happen.
Stepping out of his chambers with Navar, he did not expect Curcula to appear at his elbow, snatching at his arm. She should have been at the women’s palace still preparing to come with his wife’s wedding party.
“Curcula?”
Black thread held her cheek closed and bandages wound up her left arm from wrist to elbow.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to be beside you, my lord.”
Navar looked away, then stepped past her down the hall.
“You are out of place, Princess.” Vad’Alvarn’s face darkened as she reached for him. Roughly, he pushed her hand away. “Go now and it may be forgiven.”
“Do you not see? I would go to war for you if you allow. Not this girl who does not care for you. Vad’Alvarn, please.”
“Go now or forfeit your head.” This time he pushed her away and she took two steps back. The darkness in Vad’Alvarn’s face brought Navar and he put his hand on Curcula’s arm. The touch drew her attention away from Vad’Alvarn sharply, she startled at it.
“Come,” Navar hissed in her ear. “Please.”
Curcula did not resist as he pulled her away to set her on the path back to where she was expected to be. Vad’Alvarn watched, eyes dark, anger welling up beneath the mask. However, by the time Navar returned, his eyes were once again calm.
37
Lecern had made it to the capital city of the Burning Island only the night before. All around him, preparations for the wedding bustled and even beyond that, it was the Spring Festival, when more children were born and dedicated to the service of the chief God of their people, Ancel, the God of War. He found lodging and made ready to do what he knew would be madness.
“I have to recover Jalcina.” Over and over again, he said those words, as a mantra. He had no choice but to try and protect his beloved. She was not going to become the bride of the usurper king, not if there was anything he could do to save her. Even if the only thing he could do for her was slit her throat and allow her the peace of death.
The capital city of the Burning Island was full of those who had been trained as warriors. Each and every citizen wore and could use some weapons. It was a given they would try to protect their king from any kind of assault. So Lecern thought it would be best to sneak Jalcina out of the palace under the nose of all assembled. It was a mad plan, but it was the only one with any chance of success. An all out assault would only end in him being slaughtered. Easier to sneak into the palace under the guise of a servant brought in for the festivities than as a soldier attempting to avenge an act of war. The livery of servants was easy enough to get. Of course, he was made to wash before he could work, but it only helped to add to his credibility. As he moved about the festivities, he kept his head out waiting for his chance.
Romkita walked with Jalcina, escorting her out into the garden where the ritual would take place. There in a clearing before a pavilion torches had been staked in a ring around an altar where a priest stood, his deep red garb made ghastly by the firelight. Staring at him, she had to look away, which only brought her to the men who stood chained off to the side. Each of them was dressed only from the waist down, heavy chains about their necks and wrists.
“What’s going on?” Her eyes were wide and she couldn’t draw them away from the assembled. They were, to a man, gaunt with hollow, sunken, shadowed eyes. Dirt coated their skin.
“Those men are the Master’s enemies. They will stand as sacrifices to seal his vows to you in blood and fire as they must be in order to be seen as good in the eyes of Ancel.” The servant woman passed her eyes over them without a pause. Taking the bride by the hand, she continued on through the trees to the ring of torches, finding a spot outside of them for the two of them to stand.
“Sacrifices?” Jalcina turned to glance back, weaving her head from one side to another to get a better sight of the men. “You cannot mean…”
“Yes, of course,” Rom said, the first hint of confusion showing in her features. “He is a king, so his must be the best sacrifices. Were he some village boy, it would be a cow.”
“Are you mad?” the young woman asked. “We cannot kill someone for a wedding.” The breeze caused the torches to flicker as one and Jalcina found herself distracted by the movement of the flames. Peeking away to see them like strangely unbalanced stars, eyes and mind full of the feeling she was watching the souls of those men who would give their lives for this false wedding. Again, stronger this time, the flames leaned down as if reaching for her and she could no longer fight it, the urge to flee. Ripping herself from Romkita’s grip, she ran from the ring of fire, trying to find some way out of the garden before her pursuit could follow.
Lecern was in the garden, his position as a servant making him nearly invisible to those above his station, everyone truthfully. He saw her as she broke away from the woman leading her, flying back toward the exit he marked to insure he could find his way back. He was there just as she ran right into Navar.
“NO! Let me go.”
“Be easy, Princess.” Navar’s hands closed around her arms, holding her from escaping for a moment before Vad’Alvarn could take her from him.
“Jalcina, what has you such a state?” Vad’Alvarn wrapped her gently with one arm.
“You’re going to kill those men!”
“Yes. You wanted a real wedding, my dear, now you have it. One can only truly seal vows in blood.” She could remember when he thought this was what she wanted, a real wedding. She had demanded he release her because she remembered agreeing to no vows. Now she would be the reason these men died.
“No, you cannot do this. I will not let you. You cannot.”
He caressed her face then shook his head.
“Come. It will be over quickly.”
He led her back the way she had come by the hand and if she did not come, she would be dragged.
Lecern could only fade into the shadows in hopes of being missed as they passed him, eyes down. Close enough to touch, he perhaps could have attacked then, but he would have been cut down without delay. A sin
gle man against two soldiers and Jalcina would have been forced to stand by and watch him as it happened. This was not the final moment he had in mind for the relationship between himself and his dearest. He wanted to take her home to Sartol, marry her, and give her a family. If only he could do these things for her. He spoke her name in a low voice.
The priest waited inside the ring of torches as the group returned to him. His gaunt features were devoid of any emotion as he watched the two before him. Only Vad’Alvarn and Jalcina entered the circle with him, the pair seeking Ancel’s blessing upon their union.
“You have come to seek his favor,” the priest began the expected ritual. “In blood and fire are all true bonds forged. It is only with these things the bonds could be considered sacred.” His eyes reflected the torch light back at them. A breeze flicked his robes and the torches with a strange life, drawing Jalcina’s eyes from the priest. She searched for ghosts to explain the way the fire became long and dissatisfied seeming. The flames wanted to consume her and she did not wish to be consumed by them. She curled in closer to Vad’Alvarn, her sight finding its way back to the man who spoke to them both, continuing his instruction of a proper union under the God of War. The faces outside the circle were shadowed then brought into stark relief when she stared to them. His other wives were gathered outside of the circle, vultures waiting for this fresh kill to be left by the lion, so they could land and finish it. Squabbling over the scraps of her like the animals they were. The feeling of Vad’Alvarn wrapping his arm around her waist made her glance up at him, his eyes were on her. Then he pressed a blade into her hand.
“You have to take the first life, love.”
It was horrible, the slight weight of the ceremonial dagger. Yet her hand formed around the hilt as if it was her own and the first of the sacrifices was dragged before the priest. An old man, white haired and starry eyed, knelt before the priest, head back to expose his throat. He made no attempt to move, simply settled there like a leaf waiting to be crushed by some errant foot, except this was no accident. It was deliberate; his life would dew the grass in red to honor a God who favored such things.
“Do you remember how?”
Remember how? Jalcina had never taken a life, nor did she wish to. Yet as he moved, she watched him with nearly hidden eyes, feeling the creeping sensation of the other coming forward again. The one who stole time from her and did things she could never truly allow. Her grip on the dagger increased, but she forced it to relax. This was still her body; it had to follow her wishes. The blade dropped to the grass with a thud. “No.”
“Leviana,” he called not her name, but the spirit’s name, the one who bathed in light.
“No,” she said it again, this time louder, as if the strength of her conviction could be carried through by her tone. “I refuse.” Her body shook, setting a musical jangle through the chain she wore. “I do not want this.”
Everyone watched; she could feel their eyes crawling across her skin, but most of all she felt Vad’Alvarn watching her, feel his unhappiness as it mounted, heaping upon her shoulders. She backed away only to have him grab her by the wrist. Though the touch of his skin on her own burned, she kept her eyes turned away. Never again, she was never going to be caught by those eyes again. “I refuse,” she said it again, as if by virtue of the repetition he would allow her to have her way.
“Leviana, you cannot refuse.” Jalcina’s name was forgotten in his confusion. He studied the line of her neck, longed to draw her close and comfort her so she would not know the horrid confusion he was certain weighted her limbs and clouded her mind just as it tried to cloud his. This was what was right and proper. Yet she tried to pull back from it, it had to be the taint of the other girl. Oil attempting to mix with purest water. They could not coexist peaceably. One had to come out the victor. Let it be his beloved. Without letting go, he stooped to pick up the blade from the grass keeping watch on her for any motion she might try to flee him. Then he pressed the blade against her closed hand, relieved when her fingers opened to close around the hilt. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles.
“Honor him, my love, sacrifices are held high by the God when they come willingly.”
So lambs, which walked to the slaughter as though it was no more than a summer holiday, were the ones taken care of in the beyond. The pale woman shook even as she brought the blade forward, testing its edge against the skin of the man’s throat. Paper thin, the blue of the veins like mountain marble, his skin seemed to barely hold his life within. All unbidden, her hand moved and the rush of red sprayed forward, crawling up her arm like a rash and painting the front of her dress. The sacrifice sputtered and fell to one side, his blood slowing as his heart pumped his life out onto the grass. Bringing her hands to her lips, she choked back a sob. What darkness was this she had come into? The stink of blood was in her nostrils, the blade still caught in her fist, Jalcina appeared as if she would bolt again, her eyes rolling to their whites. The first was dragged away while she stood there, eyes lost in her head. When they returned, they were not the same eyes, but rather the sapphire blue of Leviana’s eyes and the second sacrifice went cleanly to his death without a moment’s hesitation. Three were killed by the bride, a signal of her commitment to protect herself, her husband, and her home. Then came the three Vad’Alvarn would dispatch with similar quickness. Each death proclaimed before Ancel as a commitment to the union forged upon them. Not a pact made or kept lightly. Now for the final one, the seventh, the one they had to do together.
Blood dried in streaks down her face like grotesque red tears the color of Vad’Alvarn’s eyes. Yet she gazed up into those garnet eyes and brought the blade up between them, a barrier of steel. He wrapped his hand around hers, dwarfing it in his grip. They knelt to either side of the final victim who laid prone upon the ground. They would drive the blade into his heart together. In this, they would be together. In this, things would be sealed. Once more an affirmation of their pact to remain together until they finished what they had come forth in life to do.
“Will you stay with me as I conquer the world?” The question seemed out of place then, yet it was the same one he had asked ages before when they had begun the walk of madness still holding their souls in check. Creeping darkness moved across his skin and down his arm to the blade, coiling around it. Her own answered, chains of light, each link fuzzy and indistinct with its glow, crept down to the blade and added their blessing.
“Forever, Vadian, my love.”
As the two plunged the dagger into the heart of the final sacrifice, there was not one grain of hesitation. Together, they buried the dagger to the hilt in the chest of a man who should have never laid down his arms in the homes of his enemies. Rising, he drew her to him, forcing her to step across the body and kissed her soundly. There was no applause.
Lecern slipped out of the garden. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was so much blood. To see Jalcina spill blood so easily. He spit to one side. His going was unmarked; one more servant moving around in preparation of the feast to come.
The reception hall of the king’s palace was aflood with light, lamps and torches abounding to throw shadows every which way. If one did not know better, it would be easy to believe the monster inside Vad’Alvarn lurked there waiting to snap out and devour those who dallied overlong. Men and boys bustled back and forth with trays of fish, women with pitchers of watered wine, serving the multitude come to pay homage to the nine times married King of the Burning Island and all its holdings. Lecern waited patiently, feeling time ticking against him, hoping and praying for a moment when Jalcina would leave the table alone and he could orchestrate their escape. Suddenly, there was yelling from one end of the hall and the entire buzzing affair stopped.
Princess Curcula of the Burning Island stood at the far end of the hall and had yelled for the attention of the assembled. Dancers scattered before her as she came with deliberate step further into the room. The royal couple watched her come.
The woman stopped out of reach of the table, her eyes hard on Vad’Alvarn and Leviana.
“I beg the Queen’s indulgence,” Curcula said. “I have a dispute I must settle.”
Leviana tilted her head to one side. Beside her, Vad’Alvarn rested his chin on his fist, waiting to hear what his wife would have to say.
“You may speak,” Leviana said.
“I would settle a dispute with my husband.”
Around them, whispering began. The princess was challenging the king to combat.
Navar, seated at Vad’Alvarn’s right, started to rise, but the king put a hand out to stop him.
“My king?”
“What say you, my queen?” Vad’Alvarn asked. “Will her grievance be heard?”
Leviana rose to stand.
“Your fight is not with him, but with me.”
“I have no grievance against you.” Curcula’s face did not change save when she glanced at Vad’Alvarn, there was something there which drew her jaw long.
“Sit down, my love.”
“Vadian.” Leviana did as she was bid, resting on her heels.
“Will her grievance be answered?” he asked again.
“I do not trust this.”
“It is not for you to trust, only to decide. I will meet her, if you will allow.”
“Let Navar rise in your stead. It is his place.”
“No, I will settle this myself. It is my choice as king.”
“And as your queen, I do not think this grievance should be heard.”
“Then deny it. It is your choice.”
Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Page 24
