by Melvin, Jim
In reality, boredom was his greatest foe. Not even acts of torture and sexual perversion, which he performed on an almost daily basis to keep his mind alert, would interest him forever. He was a god, after all. And gods are easily distracted.
Blessedly, a few things still engrossed him—his obsession with Laylah being one. Everything about his sister amazed him. Her beauty and vitality were unrivaled. Her magic was far more powerful than she realized. And then there was the matter of the efrit that Vedana had so cleverly planted in her belly. How exquisite! An obstacle he couldn’t overcome? Marvelous! But, he had to admit, also frustrating. It had prevented him from achieving the one goal that inspired him beyond all others: an heir . . . a son. Someone so much like him that no one would be able to tell them apart.
Invictus had to admit that the Death-Knower also enticed him. There was something about the wizard’s smugness. The Torgon had dared to call Invictus a “spoiled and wicked child.” Was it true? Invictus wasn’t sure—and not being sure was interesting.
Now the Death-Knower wandered in the wilderness with Laylah, wreaking all kinds of havoc. It must have been the wizard and his sister who’d killed the Mahanta pEpa. Few other beings, besides him, wielded that kind of power.
Invictus had sensed the Great Evil’s demise, but it would have been obvious to him anyway. The Daasa he himself had imprisoned in Avici had also been released from the Mahanta pEpa’s sway, and they had gone on a rampage that had taken several days to quell. Invictus could only imagine what must have happened to the slave traders in Duccarita. The dracools he had sent to investigate still hadn’t returned. And for reasons he did not comprehend, his attempts to magically peer within the walls also had met with failure. Was Vedana so strong that she could veil an entire city?
To make matters even more annoying, Invictus had surmised that Vedana’s special efrit wasn’t designed to harm Laylah if she actually enjoyed it—which meant, of course, that his sister and the Death-Knower were destined to become lovers during the course of their adventures. The pesky wizard would be just her type: a moralistic do-gooder . . . ha! The absurdity of it tantalized Invictus.
Regardless, he was intent on recapturing Laylah. It wasn’t that he really loved her or even cared about her. But he was concerned that she might get herself killed, which would seriously hinder his quest for an heir. The wilds contained many dangers, not all of which were under his immediate sway. None were any threat to him, of course, but Laylah remained vulnerable.
During the days that followed her second—and far more recent—escape from Avici, Invictus had attempted to locate Laylah with the art of scrying. He was convinced he had come close several times, but when he tried to focus on a specific location, the vision blurred and vanished. One time he seized on the image of a waterfall, and behind it, a small cavern containing several shadowy shapes. But that, too, fizzled away.
Still, the Warlish witch had supplied him with valuable information, making him aware that his grandmother was playing a role in his inability to pinpoint Laylah’s whereabouts. But why? Was it simply Vedana’s unquenchable thirst for revenge? Surely she knew that harming him, in any permanent manner, was beyond her—or anyone.
He was forced to acknowledge, though, that his failure to perfect the art of scrying proved one thing: He actually had weaknesses. Unlike his grandmother, who existed more in the world of the ethereal than the physical, he could not travel great distances without the help of a Sampati or dracool, his spirit remaining trapped within his flesh. In time, he would find ways to overcome this, but it would take longer than a mere century. He was, after all, still very young.
Also, there was that nagging incident involving the eclipse. In his entire life, even as a toddler, Invictus had never felt so vulnerable. Immediately, his scientists had gone to work on the problem, and they promised the sorcerer that another eclipse of the sun wouldn’t occur in the skies of Avici for several hundred years. During that time, there would be frequent lunar eclipses, but these would have little effect on him.
It was a good thing that none of his enemies had known about the solar eclipse. Otherwise, they could have killed him then and there. If not for Mala, he might have died, anyway. Dear Mala. The ruined snow giant was the most loyal of all his servants, even more so than the Mogols.
Invictus’ thoughts returned to Jākita and her plan.
“It just might work,” he said out loud, causing the magic liquid to ripple. “Pisaaca is an especially nice touch. I will make sure that grandmother is unaware of Pisaaca’s role.”
Providing the Warlish whore with protection from Vedana had been simple. Now he would sit back and wait for the witch to deliver. He looked into the basin, saw Jākita soaring over the Gap of Gamana on the back of a dracool, saw Urbana flying alongside her—queen of the witches and queen of the vampires, together. How interesting!
Then the liquid momentarily clouded, and when its clarity returned, a new vision appeared. Invictus stared into the wrinkled face of King Henepola X. The old man was searching for him again, believing himself strong enough to spy on a Sun God. This was too easy. If Invictus weren’t such a “spoiled and wicked child,” he might have felt sorry for the fool.
Wicked Deception
25
ON THE SAME day that Jākita and Invictus met on the rooftop of Uccheda, Lucius and his companions fled the City of Thieves. Now the general of a newly formed army of Daasa, Lucius was both pleased and disturbed by the effectiveness of his soldiers: their ability to change rapidly into “meanies,” as Ugga had begun to call it, pleased Lucius, while their bloodthirstiness once they transformed disturbed him. With the destruction of the Mahanta pEpa, the Daasa had been freed from their psychic imprisonment. But it had been a grievous experience to watch gentle creatures become ruthless monsters.
Lucius and the others had gathered their weapons, packed what clothing and supplies they could find, and departed Duccarita through a crevice in the western wall with Bonny in the lead. Torg and Elu had gone ahead to scout, leaving Lucius and the others with ten thousand odd, but charming, companions.
Each of the Daasa had two purple eyes, a squat nose, and a wide mouth, which gave their facial features a human-like appearance. Their bodies, however, resembled pigs more than people, and they walked on four legs. Their spongy pink skin looked as tender as a baby’s bottom. Imagining such wondrous animals being maimed, tortured, cooked, and eaten was a blow to Lucius’ heart.
Endlessly curious and easily distracted, the Daasa took from noon until late afternoon just to get through the crevice and into the rugged terrain on the far side of the towering wall. About a dozen ruined Daasa, those unable to transform back to their original selves, remained in the city, watching with tormented eyes as their brothers and sisters left them behind. Apparently, they were unwelcome among the main group, destined to roam the deserted streets of Duccarita until their deaths.
“Why won’t they come with us?” Ugga said to Lucius.
“The other Daasa would kill them if they tried to follow,” Bonny said. “They do not like the path the few have taken.”
“How do you know this?” Lucius said.
“I know a lot about them,” the pirate woman said. Then she added, “I lived in Duccarita a long time.”
They walked until dusk. Then Lucius gathered his “troops,” planning to attempt a short speech to test their understanding and compliance. He stood on top of a hillock, his recently healed arm still throbbing, and cleared his throat.
The Daasa packed in as close as possible, seemingly fascinated by anything Lucius might do.
He started to say, “My good friends . . .” But a blast of blue-green fire flared into the sky a short distance away and interrupted him.
A moment later, Torg and Elu came running out of a stand of trees, with a large band of Mogols and black mountain wolves in pursuit. Ugga snarled and started down the hillock. Bard would have followed, but he was still too weak from the effects of the dart. Lucius t
urned back to the Daasa, fearing a slaughter, but instead of seeing ten thousand frightened pink faces, he found himself looking into the eyes of a slavering host of monsters.
The Daasa had transformed instantly, their fangs clapping in unison, and they stampeded past Lucius like a herd of nightmarish Buffelo, their ferocity permitting neither pity nor remorse. In a short time the Mogols and wolves were reduced to a pile of shredded flesh and fur.
Tears streamed down Laylah’s cheeks. Rathburt bent over and vomited. Lucius could tell that the extent of the violence dismayed even Torg. But when the Daasa returned to the hillock, they transformed just as quickly to their original selves, except for the blood still dripping from their whiskers. Otherwise, they seemed as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“The meanies killed them all,” Ugga said with a kind of awe.
A pink Daasa came up and rubbed tenderly against the crossbreed’s leg.
Lucius watched Rathburt vomit again.
HE KNEW WHAT they were thinking: Cowardly ol’ Rathburt, afraid of everything, can’t even stop from vomiting when there’s a little bloodshed. But they didn’t know what he was thinking.
Rathburt could sense it in every shred of his being. When the Daasa transformed into monsters, pain consumed them—not ordinary pain, but an agony that transcended any Rathburt had previously experienced. They were not like the Warlish witches, who seemed equally comfortable in beauty or hideousness. At their core, the Daasa truly were good-natured beings, as gentle and benign as snow giants, but their violent conversions came with a price. Somewhere in their distant past, the Daasa had chosen to pay this price rather than perish as a species. In the forest beyond the ocean, evil also existed, and the Daasa had no other way to combat it but to change.
The pain fueled their anger.
Their strength.
Their guiltlessness.
But when they returned to their true selves, their memories of the agony were blessedly erased. Only in their ruined state did they remember. Only in their ruined state did they scream.
Why was he alone in knowing this? Lucius was their master; it should have been clear to him as well. Torg seemed to know everything . . . why now was he ignorant?
They were asking the Daasa to do more than just fight. They were asking them to endure unimaginable suffering by becoming something contrary to their nature.
Why am I the only one who can see it?
When Torg touched him, Rathburt almost swooned.
TORG APPROACHED Rathburt cautiously, sensing discomfort in his demeanor that went beyond ordinary disgust. It seemed obvious to him that his fellow Death-Knower was experiencing something the others were not. Torg placed his hand on Rathburt’s shoulder and willed a surge of healing energy into the gristle at the base of his neck.
Rather than take comfort, though, Rathburt cried out and spun away.
“What is it?” Torg said. “What do you see?”
Rathburt’s eyes were wide with fright, but he did not respond. Elu ran over and hugged his leg. At the same time, Bonny approached and patted Rathburt on the back.
“I feel like puking myself, after what I just saw,” she said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Rathburt grunted. “It’s just me being me. I feel better now. There are more important things to worry about than my occasional bouts of nausea. Shouldn’t we be moving on? Surely there are more of them”—he nodded toward the shredded remains of the enemy—“nearby. We made enough of a ruckus to attract attention all the way to Avici.”
Torg eyed Rathburt quizzically for a moment, then turned to Lucius. “He’s right. We should get as far from here as we can. But now that the Daasa are with us, we have less need for stealth than before.”
“Can we rest just a little whiles, Master Hah-nah?” Ugga said. “Me dear Bard is still weak from the poisons. I could carry him, but I’m tired, too.”
“I’m feeling better,” Bard said in a tone that betrayed his words. “Anyways, it’s easier to walk than fight.”
“Let’s go,” Rathburt said. “The Daasa move slow enough, as is. For all we know, they might decide to wander off. What’s to keep them with us, now that the Great Evil has been slain?”
“I know I’m going to sound like Torg when I say this,” Lucius said, grinning at Rathburt, “but something inside me believes they will stay with us until I release them. They are grateful and loyal—and will fight to the death to defend us. They’ve proven that already, wouldn’t you say?”
“I agree,” Bonny said.
AS IT TURNED OUT, Bonny knew the foothills near Duccarita as well as Elu knew those near Kamupadana. After a long march, the pirate woman guided their large company into a hollow guarded by massive stacks of stone laced with natural shelters. The pink-skinned Daasa crawled into a myriad of crevices and huddled together, falling fast asleep. Apparently, even they needed rest. As for sustenance, Laylah had no idea how they would manage to feed so many, but they would have to face that problem in the morning.
From Laylah’s perspective, Bonny had turned out to be an invaluable addition to their company. But it wasn’t her skill in the wilds that was most attractive. Instead, it was the pirate’s obsession with Lucius that pleased Laylah. Bonny rarely left the firstborn’s side, constantly touching him and whispering in his ear; Lucius seemed to enjoy the attention, which drew his jealousy away from Laylah, much to her relief.
When Laylah went to fill her goatskin over a bubbling springhead near the center of the hollow, Bonny came and knelt beside her, pretending to fill her own skin. After a period of uncomfortable silence, the pirate finally said, “Can I ask you a question, woman to woman?”
“Is it about Lucius?”
Bonny blushed, then smiled, revealing crooked teeth that somehow made her round face look even prettier. “Is it that easy to see, missus?”
Laylah giggled. “To be honest . . . yes. But first things first. Please call me Laylah. And may I call you Bonny?”
“Of course, missus. Er . . . Laylah, I mean.” She sighed and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Well, my question is, does Lucius have any ties to you? It’s easy to see the great wizard favors you, but what about Lucius? Am I intruding?”
Unexpectedly, Laylah’s eyes welled with tears.
Bonny drew back, startled. “Missus . . . Laylah . . . I’m sorry if I upset you. If you want me to stay away from him . . .”
Amid her tears, Laylah began to giggle again. Then she gave Bonny a hug. “No . . . no. Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not crying out of hurt or jealousy. It’s just that in the short time you’ve been with us, Lucius seems happier than I’ve ever seen him. I care about Lucius, but not in that way. I consider him a dear friend and want only the best for him. From what I can tell, you are exactly what he needs. It’s almost as if the two of you were born to be together.”
In reaction to Laylah’s words, the pirate woman stepped back and smiled. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Bonny said, a little too loudly.
“Oh, yes,” Laylah said. “I most certainly do.”
TORG HAD NO time for sleep, so he found a high vantage point, sat cross-legged on a ledge, and meditated. From centuries of practice, he quickly was able to focus his awareness on the rim of his nostrils and slow the rate of his breathing to nearly indiscernible levels. Assaasa-passaaso rasso. Assaasa-passaaso majjhim. Assaasa-passaaso diggho. (Short breath. Medium breath. Long breath.) He watched them all with utmost concentration, engorging his body with placidity. A short period of meditation revitalized him almost as much as a full night’s sleep.
A vision of a blue sky with drifting clouds entered his awareness. Like his worries and concerns, the clouds came and went, as impermanent as existence. As the meditation progressed, Torg came to realize that he again was capable of attempting Sammaasamaadhi, the supreme concentration of mind that resulted in temporary suicide. He noted this thought—and then returned to the breath.
Inhale . . .
Exh
ale . . .
Inhale . . .
Exhale . . .
Torg detected her presence before acknowledging it. Her slow climb up the rock face had been just one more point of concentration for him. Though Laylah had approached with a graceful silence rivaling that of a Tugar, he could sense her standing a few paces behind him. His love and lust for her swelled. He noted these emotions—and then returned to the breath.
When she sat down beside him, he still didn’t move, but her sweet scent entered his awareness. He had known her for such a short time, but already it felt like forever. Kittakaani jiivitaani samosaritva puna samaagachaama? (How many lifetimes have we spent together?) This was only the latest incarnation of their love. Torg noted these thoughts—and then returned to the breath.
After another moment of silence, she spoke. “Will you teach me?”
His eyes opened immediately. Meditation was not like sleep, which most often required a period of awakening. The meditator remained supremely alert.
“I will, if you desire.”
She slowly lowered her head until it rested against his bicep. “Where do we go from here?” she said.
“The sooner we reach Jivita, the better.”
“Will I be safe there?”
“Safe?”
“Will you be able to protect me from him?”
“I will try.”
She began to cry, softly at first, but then more violently, until she seemed to convulse. He let her sob, just holding her, loving her.
“And if you fail?” she finally said.
“We shall see what we shall see.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him seductively on the mouth. He felt her tears against his own cheeks. Obhasa, which lay by Torg’s side, began to glow. But the Silver Sword remained cold.
