Dark God

by T C Southwell

  "You have her hair, her eyes, her brows. My chin, my nose. You could be my son." He looked at Mirra, who smiled.

  "He is your son."

  Again he studied Bane. "It all seems so bizarre. Yet you do look like her, and you have... your grandmother's skin. What month were you born, what year?"

  "I do not know."

  Mithran shook his head in wonder. "You look too old... But then, growing up down there..." He shuddered. "How did she die?"

  "I do not know. Arkonen told me that he had created me himself. I believed him, as I believed everything he told me. It was not until he betrayed me and left me to die that he admitted I had a mother. Before that, I did not even know I was human."

  Mithran bowed his head. "I pray to the Lady that she died quickly and painlessly. Perhaps she even held you." He looked at Bane again, just as the Demon Lord glanced away to hide the pain in his eyes. Mithran grimaced and rubbed his brow. "Of course, that's unlikely."

  "Do not try to imagine what might have happened to her."

  "No. No, I won't." Mithran looked down at the bloody cloth he held. "She's at peace now."

  "Yes, she is with the Lady."

  Mithran raised his eyes, and a hesitant smile tugged at his lips. "Could you really be my son, returned to me? The Demon Lord, no less. A mortal god? What does that even mean?"

  Bane looked embarrassed. "Just that I have a few... powers, I suppose you could call them."

  "Powers. That's hard to imagine." Mithran ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "I thought bandits had stolen her. I almost got myself killed tracking down the bastards, but when I told them what I was looking for, they let me go. All these years I've dreamt of finding her again, and the child she carried, now grown. I didn't know it was a son she bore. If only I had known, I would have come to you and stopped you from breaking the wards."

  Bane averted his eyes. "That would have been a mistake."

  Mithran waved a deprecating hand, aware that he had blundered into painful territory. "No matter, you're here now. This is incredible, a miracle. If only your mother was here."

  "Tell me about her."

  "She was beautiful. A tiny, fragile thing with a temper like a viper and a love as strong as the sea." Mithran reached out and stroked Bane's hair, his expression a mixture of wonder and grief. "You have her hair. She had a child's innocence and a warrior's courage. She was descended from gypsies, and she had mage blood too, as do I. When she was angry, she could beat me into a cowering fool. She threw pots at my head, and then she could make my heart sing with joy. Look here."

  He strode across the cabin and pointed to a dent in one of the logs. "She threw a pot at me, and missed. It would have brained me if it had landed. And she barely reached my armpit."

  Bane smiled.

  Mithran stared at him. "You have her smile. Like a ray of sunshine coming through a storm cloud. Goddess, how I miss her still. She was my life."

  He sank down on a surviving chair, his face drawn with grief. "How angry she used to get when she was carrying you. All my fault, she'd say, yet we planned you together. But she could no longer run through the woods like a deer, and yet she would hold her stomach and smile. Raysha. Her name was Raysha." He rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair again.

  Bane knelt before him. "Father."

  Mithran lowered his hands. "What did the Black Lord name you?"

  "Bane."

  His brows knotted. "I curse him, and his black soul!"

  "He will never rise again."

  Mithran picked up the cloth and wiped the blood off Bane's face again. "She wanted to call you Tavian, if you were a boy. Goddess, why are you still bleeding?"

  Mirra said, "Bane is a bleeder."

  Mithran nodded. "Like my grandfather, Torvane. That's where you got it from. He was a blue mage." He brushed the hair from his son's face and studied the red swellings on his mouth and cheek, the split brow and lip, and a bruise that was starting to close one eye. "Why did you make me do this to you? Why didn't you tell me straight away?"

  "I deserved it. I killed her."

  "No! You weren't even born. You might as well blame me, for making her pregnant."

  Bane nodded. "Still, she died because of me."

  Mithran looked up at Mirra. "Heal him, please."

  She reached out, but Bane drew back. "No, leave it."

  "If you're my son, you'll do as I say."

  Bane looked startled, then inclined his head and allowed Mirra to heal him, the cuts and bruises vanishing at her touch. She sensed a deep satisfaction within him, a sense of coming home, and realised that he was delighted to be bullied by his father. No one had ever cared enough for him to do that before, and he enjoyed Mithran's concern. All his life he had missed that protective form of parental love that drives children to distraction. Mirra remembered her childhood antics and the healers' horror at her penchant for climbing trees and playing with wolves in the forest. Their concern had galled her at the time, curtailing her fun, but she knew that it had stemmed from their love for her.

  Bane gazed at Mithran with a strange expression, which she found difficult to name. It was a mixture of uncertainty and wonder, perhaps, or sadness and admiration, she could not be certain. He remained on his knees before Mithran's chair, studying the older man with intense eyes. Somehow, Mithran's words seemed to have stirred something within him, and he appeared to be once again confused by the strange emotions that a man whom he did not know had evoked.

  Mithran regarded his son broodingly. "Your mother would have..." He sighed. "She would have loved you so much. But she'd have walloped the stuffing out of you if you'd given her any back-chat. I can just see her chasing us both around the house with a broom." He smiled, his eyes distant.

  Mirra got a vivid impression of a tiny blizzard of a woman, brimming with quick emotions and actions. One so strong-willed that she could cow a big man like Mithran, yet in a way that made him love her to distraction. Bane had inherited her temper along with her hair and eyes.

  "How I wish she was here, to see you now," Mithran continued. "She'd be so proud."

  Bane stood up and pulled Mirra to his side. "Father, this is Mirra, who saved me from the Black Lord."

  Mithran smiled at her. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude for saving my son, healer. May the Goddess always smile upon you."

  Mithran gazed up at his son, looking stunned, yet jubilant, as if he still could not quite believe his luck, and expected to wake from this happy dream at any moment. Bane, on the other hand, seemed more relaxed and at peace than she had ever seen him. Since they appeared to be at a loss for words, Mirra broke the silence.

  "Shall I make some tea?"

  Mithran nodded, then leapt up. "Go and wash your face, lad. I'll start a fire."

  In the tiny washroom, Bane found a basin of water and a cake of soap, and scrubbed the dried blood off his face, then went outside to help his father carry wood. Mithran glared at him when he tried to relieve him of his load.

  "I'm not senile, lad, I'm only forty-two years old, ye know."

  Bane looked around as Mithran brushed past him, spotting Grem grooming the horses in the open shed. The grey-eyed warrior grinned and shook his head, indicating that he had already tried to help, and also been rejected. Bane realised his shirt was still open and pulled it closed, starting to do up the one surviving button. Mithran appeared in front of him, his burden gone, surprising Bane with the speed with which he had accomplished his task. He pulled Bane's hands away and inspected the runes, frowning.

  "He did this to you?"

  Bane nodded.

  "I'd like to cut his heart out."

  "He does not have one."

  "How old were you?"

  "Sixteen."

  Mithran shook his head. "Don't feel ashamed, lad. None of this is your fault. Your mother wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

  "I wish I had known her."

  Mithran met his eyes with sad grey ones. "So do I. She'd have
liked Mirra, too. Am I right to think that you're smitten with the lass?"

  "Is it that obvious?"

  Mithran chuckled. "Indeed it is. You plan to wed her?"

  Bane nodded. "If she will have me."

  "Oh, she'll have you, don't doubt it. I can see the way she looks at you, and what girl wouldn't fall for you? Just remember, if she throws a pot at you, duck, or hide under the table. That's what I used to do."

  "Mirra is very gentle."

  His father snorted, smiling. "Don't you believe it, she's got a glint in her eye much like your mother had." Without warning, he pulled Bane into a fierce embrace. "Goddess! I'm so glad you found me. Raysha lives on in you. Now I have something of hers again."

  Bane returned his father's embrace awkwardly. Mithran thumped him on the back and held him away. "I've got something to show you." He led Bane through the house to a sunny room at the back.

  A carved cradle stood in the corner, overflowing with baby clothes. Bright curtains framed the windows and woollen rugs were scattered on the floor. The room was warm and cheery, the sort of room in which a child would be happy and secure. It radiated a mother's love, from the embroidered flowers on the tiny clothes to the paintings of fairies and animals on the walls. A faint patina of dust covered everything.

  "This was your room, all ready for you. Your mother made those clothes herself, every one."

  Mithran went over to the cot and picked up a minuscule shirt covered with embroidered horses and rabbits. Bane gazed at the room, starting to understand the pain his father had suffered. A pang went through him; a surge of pity and empathy for a man whom he barely knew, who fondled the shirt he had never worn. What anguish he must have suffered, to lose the young wife he loved so much, and his unborn child.

  Bane remembered the dark, foetid chamber in which he had been raised, the stink of urine on wet sheets, the Underworld forms of insects, snakes and rat-like creatures that had crawled over him in the dark, making him cry in helpless, infant terror. He resolved never to add to his father's burden of grief and guilt by telling him anything of the Underworld, or the life he had led there.

  Turning away from the bright room in which he should have been raised, he went back to the lounge, where Mirra was setting out the teacups. His father followed, closing the door.

  "Bane? What's wrong?"

  Bane shook his head. "Nothing. Everything. I wish he had not chosen me."

  Mithran put an arm around his shoulders. "So do I. But you're home now, and that's the main thing. I shouldn't have shown you the room; I'll clear all that stuff out tomorrow. I only kept it to... well, at first it was hope, that I'd find her, you know. Then I couldn't bear to put away all the lovely things she made." He grinned. "But I doubt you'll fit into those clothes now."

  Bane smiled, the gloom lifting off him as suddenly as it had fallen. "I do not think so."

  Grem came in, and smiled at the quaint tableau. Mirra had swept the table's remains into a corner by the fire, and they sat around the kitchen table, which Bane carried into the lounge. A fire burnt in the grate, and the cabin grew warm and snug. Mithran still looked stunned, and his gaze seldom strayed from Bane. Expressions chased each other across his face, ranging from joy to utter anguish.

  Mirra wondered how Mithran would cope with being the Demon Lord's father, but he seemed to be a strong man, and able to withstand the alienation that would result. He was a loner, anyway, but perhaps it would be better for all of them if they moved somewhere where no one knew them. At least Mithran was young, so he still had many years to spend with Bane.

  "I think I know why the Black Lord chose you," Mithran muttered into a short silence, and Bane glanced at him.

  "Why?"

  "The mage blood. You have it on both sides of your family. My grandfather was a blue mage, and my great grandfather before him. Your mother's grandmother was the daughter of the black mage Emmeron, who was the grandson of Gordall, also a black mage. Your mother's mother was a lay witch, a seeress. You've probably got more mage blood in you than anyone, good and bad. It runs in the family."

  Bane frowned at his tea. "I thought mages lived for hundreds of years."

  "They do, but your ancestors are all dead. They only sired offspring towards the end of their lives."

  "I suppose that makes sense."

  Mithran leant over the table. "Could you... show me something?"

  "What?"

  "You know... a trick. A power."

  Mirra smiled, shooting Bane an amused glance, and he looked embarrassed when she picked up a teaspoon and handed it to him. He fiddled with it as if reluctant to oblige, and she realised that he found it awkward to be asked to show his power, and wondered why.

  Mithran seemed to divine the reason for his reluctance, however, and reached out to clasp Bane's forearm, stilling his fidgeting. "It's all right if you don't want to. It's... I'm just curious, that's all. It makes no difference to me if you had come here a beggar in rags or a prince. You're my son. That's all that counts."

  Bane lifted the teaspoon, and Mirra caught her breath as the metal shimmered, appearing to flow around the spoon as if it had become liquid. It turned to gold, and Mithran gaped at it, taking it when Bane held it out and examining it.

  "It's gold."

  "Yes."

  "Amazing. We could be rich." He grinned, then sobered at Bane's sombre expression. "What's wrong?"

  "You are my father, and as such, I am bound to you. I am also bound to obey you. To disobey you would dishonour me, but... do not use me, Father."

  Mithran frowned at the teaspoon, then nodded and handed it back. "Change it back."

  Bane did so, and Mirra glanced from one to the other, biting her lip at the sudden tension. Mithran stared into his teacup.

  "I understand, Son. You don't know me, and now you're wondering what kind of man I am. Rest assured, I won't ever ask you to use your powers to do something you don't wish to. In all other respects, I'll treat you as a son, but when it comes to your powers, I want no say over them. What you do with them is your decision alone."

  Bane smiled and held out his hand to Mithran, who clasped it. "I will be a dutiful son, and you may ask of me what you will. Just do not order me to move mountains to improve the view."

  Mithran gazed at him. "What it must be to have such power."

  "A burden, mostly. I plan to dwell in obscurity, and hope that people will forget who I am."

  "All I want from you is to be your father."

  "Then it is agreed." Bane released Mithran's hand and leant back.

  A short silence fell, until Grem put down his cup with a clatter and cleared his throat. "Well, I could use a few coppers turned to gold from time to time."

  Bane smiled. "And you shall have them."

  Mithran stood up and vanished into another room, returning with a picture, which he handed to Bane. The Demon Lord studied the tiny painting of a smiling young girl with a blue shimmer on her raven hair and a pink blush in her pale cheeks. Sparkling blue eyes gazed out from under fine, arched brows.

  Mithran nodded when Bane looked up at him. "Your mother, lad. I had that done for our wedding."

  Bane stared at the picture for a long time, memorising the face of the mother he had never known. "Do I really look like her?"

  Mithran frowned. "Goddess, lad! You've only to look in a mirror."

  "When I tried to look in one, it broke."

  Mirra giggled, causing Bane to glance at her with a raised brow. She stifled it and looked down at her tea.

  His father looked puzzled. "It broke?"

  "Yes, the Elder Mother at the abbey said that the dark power broke it."

  "Ah, well, you've no more fear of that, have you?"

  "No."

  "Good, come."

  Bane rose and followed his father into a tidy, spotlessly clean room furnished with a dainty dressing table and a bed covered with a patchwork quilt. Printed floral curtains draped the windows, and a few cheap ornaments stood on a narrow shelf
. Mithran gestured to a mirror that hung over the dressing table.

  "See for yourself."

  Bane bent and examined his reflection, relieved when the mirror remained intact. Now he saw the resemblance to the portrait he held, and straightened to smile at his father.

  "I do look like her."

  Mithran nodded. "Aye, lad, there's no doubt you're her son."

  Bane replaced the portrait on the table, and they returned to the lounge, where Mirra grinned at him.

  "Did you break it?"

  He smiled. "No."

  Chapter Twenty

  The Rune

  Bane lay stretched out on the soft leaves, his hands under his head, dozing. The fishing rod was propped by his feet, almost forgotten as he slipped towards sleep. The lakeshore slumbered in the late afternoon sun. Only birdsong and the faint humming of busy insects broke the silence. It had been an exhausting day, cutting and dressing logs for the new cabin he and his father were building. Grem was a great help, but Mithran was the only woodsman. They had moved to this peaceful valley several months ago, leaving the people of Mithran's village, and their hatred, behind. Now they travelled to the nearest village every month or so for supplies, and no one knew who Bane was.

  In the past months he had relaxed considerably. At times, he was almost able to forget his past life, although it did return to haunt him in dreams. Then his cries would bring Mirra or his father to shake him awake. His skin had acquired a healthy tan, and he had grown stronger with all the labour of felling trees and building. Already they had constructed one cabin, which they all shared, but it was a little cramped. The new one was for him and Mirra.

  Bane snapped awake at the sound of soft footfalls, and he smiled inwardly when he recognised Mirra's cautious tread. If she thought she could sneak up on him, she had much to learn.

  Mirra held her breath as she gazed at Bane asleep on the bank, long legs stretched towards the water, which almost lapped his boots. He wore a dark brown suede jacket she had made for him, at a cost of many pricked fingers and aching thumbs, for she was no seamstress. Still, he claimed to like it and wore it often, so much so that a couple of the seams were frayed. His white shirt was tucked into a pair of hardy brown workmen's trousers, the knees patched with suede. Although he had lost the unnatural enhancement of his power, she thought him even handsomer without it. He found the fact that dirt now stuck to him somewhat annoying, however, and bathed every day, unlike Grem and Mithran, who stuck to weekly washes.