Daughter of Regals

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Again, he tried to say something.

  And I need to be cherished. You use me like I’m less interesting than your precious poolcue.”

  “It’s broken,” he said flatly.

  “I know it’s broken,” she said. “I don’t care. This is more important. I’m more important.”

  In the same tone, he said, “You said you loved me. You don’t love me anymore.”

  “God, you’re dense. Think about it. What on earth do you ever do to make me feel like you love me?”

  He shifted the bottle to his left hand again. “You’ve been sleeping around. You probably screw every sonofabitch you can get into the sack. That’s why you don’t love me anymore. They probably do all kinds of dirty things to you I don’t do. And you’re hooked on it. You’re bored with me because I’m just not exciting enough.”

  She dropped her arms onto the pillows beside her. “Creel, that’s sick. You’re sick.”

  Disturbed by her movement, the centipede crawled out between the pillows onto her left arm. It waved its poison claws while it tasted her skin with its antennae, looking for the best place to bite in.

  This time, she did scream. Wildly, she flung up her arm. The centipede was thrown into the air.

  It hit the ceiling and came down on her bare leg.

  It was angry now. Its thick legs swarmed to take hold of her and attack.

  With his free hand, he struck a backhand blow down the length of her leg that slapped the centipede off her.

  As the centipede hit the wall, he pitched his bottle at it, trying to smash it. But it had already vanished into the gloom around the bed. A shower of glass and tequila covered the bedspread.

  She bounced off the bed, hid behind him. “I can’t take any more of this. I’m leaving.”

  “It’s only a centipede,” he panted as he wrenched the brass frame off the foot of the bed. Holding the frame in one hand for a club, he braced his other arm under the bed and heaved it off its legs. He looked strong enough to crush one centipede. “What’re you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of the way your mind works.”

  As he turned the bed over, he knocked down one of the Tiffany lamps. The room became even darker.When he flipped on the overhead light, he couldn’t see the centipede anywhere.

  The whole room stank of tequila.

  The living room again.

  The sofa sits where Creel left it. The endtable lies on its side, surrounded by wilting flowers. The water from the vase has left a stain that looks like another shadow on the rug. But in other ways the room is unchanged. The lights are on. Their brightness emphasizes all the places they don’t reach.

  Creel and Vi are there. He sits in one of the armchairs and watches her while she rummages around in a large closet that opens into the room. She is hunting for things to take with her and a suitcase to carry them in. She is wearing a shapeless dress with no belt. For some reason, it makes her look younger. He seems more awkward than usual without a drink in his hands.

  “I get the impression you’re enjoying this,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “You’ve been right about everything else. Why shouldn’t you be right now? I haven’t had so much fun since I dislocated my knee in high school.”

  “How about our wedding night? That was one of the highlights of your life.”

  She stopped what she was doing to glare at him. “If you keep this up, I’m going to puke right here in front of you.”

  “You made me feel like a complete shit.”

  “Right again. You’re absolutely brilliant tonight.”

  “Well, you look like you’re enjoying yourself. I haven’t seen you this excited for years. You’ve probably been hunting for a chance to do this ever since you first started sleeping around.”

  She threw a vanity case across the room and went on rummaging through the closet.

  “I’m curious about that first time,” he said. “Did he seduce you? I bet you’re the one who seduced him. I bet you begged him into bed so he could teach you all the dirty tricks he knew.”

  “Shut up,” she muttered from inside the closet. “Just shut up. I’m not listening.”

  “Then you found out he was too normal for you. All he wanted was a straight screw. So you dropped the poor bastard and went looking for something fancier. By now, you must be pretty good at talking men into your panties.”

  She came out of the closet holding one of his old baseball bats. “Damn you, Creel. If you don’t stop this, so help me God, I’m going to beat your putrid brains out.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “You can’t do that. They don’t punish infidelity, but they’ll put you in jail for killing your husband.”

  Slamming the bat back into the closet, she returned to her search.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Every time she came out of the closet, he studied everything she did. After a while, he said, “You shouldn’t let a centipede upset you like this”

  She ignored him.

  “I can take care of it,” he went on. “I’ve never let anything hurt you. I know I keep missing it. I’ve let you down. But I’ll take care of it. I’ll call an exterminator in the morning. Hell, I’ll call ten exterminators. You don’t have to go.”

  She continued ignoring him.

  For a minute, he covered his face with his hands. Then he dropped them into his lap. His expression changed.

  “Or we can keep it for a pet. We can train it to wake us up in the morning. Bring in the paper. Make coffee. We won’t need an alarm clock anymore.”

  She lugged a large suitcase out of the closet. Swinging it onto the sofa, she opened it and began stuffing things into it.

  He said, “We can call him Baudelaire.”

  She looked nauseated.

  “Baudelaire the Butler. He can meet people at the door for us. Answer the phone. Make the beds. As long as we don’t let him get the wrong idea, he can probably help you choose what you’re going to wear.

  “No, I’ve got a better idea. You can wear him. Put him around your neck and use him for a ruff. He’ll be the latest thing in sexy clothes. Then you’ll be able to get fucked as much as you want.”

  Biting her lip to keep from crying. Vi went back into the closet to get a sweater off one of the upper shelves.

  When she pulled the sweater down from the shelf, the centipede landed on the top of her head.

  Her instinctive flinch carried her out into the room. Creel had a perfect view of what was happening as the centipede dropped to her shoulder and squirmed inside the collar of her dress.

  She froze. All the blood drained out of her face. Her eyes stared wildly.

  “Creel,” she breathed. “Oh my God. Help me.” The shape of the centipede showed through her dress as it crawled over her breasts.

  “Creel.”

  At the sight, he heaved himself out of his armchair and sprang toward her. Then he jerked to a stop.

  “I can’t hit it,” he said. “I’ll hurt you. It’ll sting you. If I try to lift your dress to get at it, it might sting you.”

  She couldn’t speak. The sensation of the centipede creeping across her skin paralyzed her.

  For a moment, he looked completely helpless. “I don’t know what to do.” His hands were empty.

  Suddenly, his face lit up.

  “I’ll get a knife.”

  Turning, he ran out of the room toward the kitchen.

  Vi squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. Whimpering sounds came between her lips, but she didn’t move.

  Slowly, the centipede crossed her belly. Its antennae explored her navel. All the rest of her body flinched, but she kept the muscles of her stomach rigid.

  Then the centipede found the warm place between her legs.

  For some reason, it didn’t stop. It crawled onto her left thigh and continued downward.

  She opened her eyes and watched as the centipede showed itself below the hem of her dress.

  Searching her
skin every inch of the way, the centipede crept down her shin to her ankle. There it stopped until she looked like she wasn’t going to be able to keep herself from screaming. Then it moved again.

  As soon as it reached the floor, she jumped away from it. She let herself scream, but she didn’t let that slow her down. As fast as she could, she dashed to the front door, threw it open, and left the house.

  The centipede was in no hurry. It looked ready and confident as its thick legs carried it under the sofa.

  A second later, Creel came back from the kitchen. He carried a carving knife with a long, wicked blade.

  “Vi?” he shouted. “Vi?”

  Then he saw the open door.

  At once, a snarl twisted his face. “You bastard,” he whispered. “Oh you bastard. Now you’ve done it to me.”

  He dropped into a crouch. His eyes searched the rug. He held the knife poised in front of him.

  “I’m going to get you for this. I’m going to find you. You can bet I’m going to find you. And when I do, I’m going to cut you to pieces. I’m going to cut you into little, tiny pieces. I’m going to cut all your legs off, one at a time. Then I’m going to flush you down the disposal.”

  Stalking around behind the sofa, he reached the place where the end table lay on its side, surrounded by dead flowers.

  “You utter bastard. She was my wife.”

  But he didn’t see the centipede. It was hiding in the dark waterstain beside the vase. He nearly stepped on it.

  In a flash, it shot onto his shoe and disappeared up the leg of his pants.

  He didn’t know the centipede had him until he felt it climb over his knee.

  Looking down, he saw the long bulge in his pants work its way toward his groin.

  Before he realized what he was doing…

  THE PROSPECT OF A TALE FROM SER VISAL DREW us as a flame draws moths, though only the most timid goodwoman—or the most rigorous Templeman—would claim that there was any danger in stories. And we were young, the Sons of men of station throughout the region. Naturally, we scoffed at danger. The thought that we might hear something profane or even blasphemous—something that would never cross our hearing in the Temple or in the bosoms of our generally cautious families—only made the attraction more compelling. When the inns reopened between nones and vespers, we gathered, as eager as boys, in the public room of the Hound and Whip and opened our purses to provide Ser Visal with the lubrication his tongue required. The keeper of the Hound and Whip had the particular virtue of being as deaf as iron; he responded only to the vibrations he felt when we stamped our boots upon the boards, and he served us whatever wines God or inattention advised. For our part, we made certain that there were no tattlers among us in the public room before we urged Ser Visal to begin.

  “Disorderly louts!” he responded, glaring around at us with a vexation which we knew to be feigned. He relished our enthusiasm for his stories. “Our God is a God of order. Confusion is abominable. Good King Traktus himself worships in the Temple of God. Twice a day he meets with High Templeman Crossus Hught to study and pray, that Heaven may defend us from evil. Have you nothing better to do with your time than to gaggle around me like puppies and loosen a fat old man’s tongue with wine?”

  One of our fellows giggled unfortunately at this brief jape of the Temple’s teachings. But an elbow in the ribs silenced him before Ser Visal was diverted into a lecture on piety. He was prone to such digressions, perhaps thinking that they would whet our attention for his stories— and we dared not interrupt him, for fear that he would grow vexed in truth and refuse to continue. He demanded a rapt audience, and we sought to satisfy him.

  Ser Quest Visal was indeed a fat old man—as fat as a porker, with eyes squeezed almost to popping in the heavy flesh of his face, arms that appeared to stuff his sleeves like sausages, and fingers as thick and pale as pastries. His grizzled hair straggled like a beldame’s. Careless shaving left his jowls speckled with whiskers. Though he sat in the-corner of the hearth—the warmest spot in the Hound and Whip—he wore two robes over his clothing, with the result that sweat ran from his brows as from an over-lathered horse. Yet every gesture of his hands beyond his frilled cuffs held us, and every word he uttered was remembered. We were familiar with his storytelling.

  He had returned to town after an absence of some days. In fact, it was rumored that he had fled to his estates immediately following the unprecedented—and unexplained—turmoil which had resulted from the most recent sitting of the judica. It was known to all that the judica had assembled to pass judgment upon a suspected witch, but no judgment had been announced. The disruption of the sitting had been followed by a rough and bitter search of the town, such as only the Templemen had the power and determination to pursue. Since then, the mood had been one of anger. Men who did not like the implied distrust of the search were further irked by the righteous frustration of the searchers. And finally—a development piquant to us all—no accounts of the judica, no high condemnations of witchcraft, no exhortations to shun for our souls the fires of damnation had been issued from the pulpits of the Temple. Instead, we had heard read out for the first time in our lives a writ of excommunication.

  Its object had been Dom Sen Peralt.

  You are cut off, the Templemen had thundered or crowed, according to their natures, cut off root and trunk, branch and leaf cut off from God and Temple, Heaven and hope. You are shunned by all men, blighted by all love. The sun will not warm your face. Shade will not cool your brow. Water and food will give you no sustenance. You are cursed in your mind and in your heart, in your blood and in your loins. Your loves will die, and your offspring will wither, and all that you have touched will be destroyed. This is the will of God.

  We knew that Ser Visal—like every other man of his rank—had attended the judica. And we prayed that he would reveal what had happened.

  “Disorderly louts,” he repeated, wiping wine from his chins. “Impious lovers of freedom and romance, which seduce souls to perdition.” If his words were to be believed, he had always been one of the staunchest supporters of the Templemen. And surely none of us had ever heard him accused of courage. Yet we did not take his admonitions seriously. His voice had a special quaver which he used only to protest his devotion, and his eyes appeared to bulge with astonishment at what he heard himself say. “Well, attend me for your hope of Heaven. I will instruct you.”

  We settled ourselves on the long wooden benches of the Hound and Whip, hunched over the wide, planked tables, and listened.

  “Boys are fools all,” he began, and his fat fingers waggled at us. “I include you, every one. Fools! Lovers of dreams and freedom. And I count every man who has not set aside such toys a boy, whatever his age. You will learn better from me. I will lesson you in order and justice, in the folly of human passion against God’s Temple and God’s judgment. Your fathers will thank me for it.” Without looking at any of us in particular, he remarked. “My flagon is empty.”

  Several of us stamped our feet. The son of Dom Tahl scattered coins onto the table. In response, the keeper brought a small cask of an unusually drinkable canary wine and left it for us to deal with as we saw fit.

  Refreshed by a long draught, Ser Visal set down his flagon-and sighed. “Boys and fools,” he said, “surely none will deny that life has been much improved since good King Traktus became concerned for his salvation and turned to the Temple of God—and to High Templeman Crossus Hught—for spiritual assistance. The Templemen have become the right hand of the King as wd as of God, and our lives are cleansed and straitened and made wiser thereby. Consider our prior state. Young whelp. such as yourselves, Domsons and Sersons all, spent their lives riotously while their sires plotted for advantage or land. Farmers priced their produce as they chose and grew fat. Merchants wandered from town to town, spreading gossip and dissension with their wares. Gypsies and carnivals flourished upon credulity wherever it was found. The poor lined the streets as beggars, and when they died they were not lef
t in the mud as they deserved, but were rather buried at public expense. Minstrels purveyed lies of heroism and great deeds, of thrones to be won in faraway lands, of adventures and dreams. Goodwomen who should have tended hearths and spinning left their homes to command shops and crops and men. And there were witches— “The Temple has taught us that there are witches. We have learned to see the evil of a flashing glance”—Ser Visal rolled his eyes in mimicry—”the touch of a white hand; the smile of an unveiled face. We have learned that some women possess power to disorder men’s minds as they disorder life, doing things which cannot be done and imposing their wills on those around them, weaving damnation and all foul perversion. For this reason we have the judica, to hunt that evil and root it out. So, good louts, you will hardly credit that there was once a time when some men and perhaps a few goodwomen did not believe in witches.

  “Yet witches there were.” He rubbed his hands through the sweat on his brow, then flicked his fingers negligently, as though aping a holy sign for our silent amusement. “This is excellent canary.” The candles of the inn were new and bright because there were no windows, and the dancing flames made his eyes appear to stare from his face. “Witches, indeed. They lived quietly among the dark woods, or secretly in barrows which few could find beneath the hedgerows, or openly with the gypsies and the minstrels. And woe to any man who went near them with his heart unguarded by righteousness, for they were strange and powerful and lovely as only evil can be, and that man would never again look upon his own goodwoman or his promised maid with quite the same—shall we say, quite the same enthusiasm?”

  On the word, his plump lips twisted into a sardonic expression. But before we could laugh, he raised his gaze to the smoke-stained ceiling and went on devoutly, “Praise the Temple of God that the danger is no longer what it was! Oh, sonic witches yet live. Some have fled where men cannot follow. And some have learned to pass in covert among us, concealing their powers. But forewarned is forearmed. And most witches have gone to judgment and the hot iron of the judica, destroyed by Temple zealotry. Many of them, you puppies—more than you imagine. So many, it is astonishing that we are able to live without them—gone to feed the cauldron with their bones and their sins and their terrible cries. And”—he lowered his voice portentously—”not one of them innocent. Not one. The judica has condemned every creature with a slim leg and a pert breast which the Templemen have brought for judgment.”