She stood for a moment in the sterile room, staring at the gleaming white walls until her eyes watered. Just moments ago, Jorandil had been inside her, wanting her with such ferocity that he seemed barely able to contain himself. Her heart gave a little skip at the memory. And for just a moment, as her orgasm was easing off, she had opened her eyes to see the piercing, pure white light of his wings. Energy had gathered somehow to fill in the empty gap where they had been. Such potent, ethereal beauty, even though the real thing was absent from his body. How long would that residual power last once his wings had been destroyed?
Voices echoed in a nearby hall, but none that were Jorandil’s. Who was coming? Did they know she was even there? What would they do when they saw a stranger from Earth? She sucked in a breath, glancing this way and that. Then she turned and slipped back into the Beltane chamber, hoping that was not their destination.
***
Jorandil gripped the torch tight as he emerged from the fog right behind his quarry. He could not have been granted a more perfect position for the task ahead, and he gave a silent nod of thanks to the Fates for their precise work. He was facing his own wings, a rather disorienting view. They were still stained in a silken black color, and they were ruffled in annoyance, the sleek feathers bristling upward and the arch of the wings themselves somewhat skewed. Costeros was bent over a table, muttering to himself. The room held little aside from the large, rectangular table, which appeared skillfully hewn and crafted by hand. Gold-trimmed moldings lined the walls near the ceiling. Jorandil would not have taken even momentary notice of such details had there not been something familiar about the room, although he felt certain he had never been in it.
The god of Beltane raised the artifact, feeling the heat of the flame, staring at the wings and willing himself to do what was necessary before he was discovered.
Now, he told himself. You know what must happen.
He moved a fraction of an inch closer. Heat swelled around him, and his hand shook as he stood there with his arm out, his thoughts trying to spur him on.
Do it.
His wings, destroyed forever.
Hurry. Before it is too late.
He would lose the part of himself that gave him the most exhilarating freedom and made his appointment as the god of Beltane possible. Without them, what would be left of him?
“You can’t do it, can you?” Costeros whirled around, but in a smooth and slow movement that seemed far too casual for the threat behind him.
Jorandil stiffened.
Costeros eyed the artifact and shook his head. “A torch? I should rather think you would have brought a sword, make a foolish attempt to liberate the wings.”
A wave of his hands brought a mist, but not a diffuse, blinding fog. The mist lengthened in a long, narrow manner, settling into the wizard’s hands. When it cleared, a gleaming silver sword remained in his grip.
“Before you try anything rash, allow me to demonstrate,” he said.
His—Jorandil’s—wings spread out, and with a fierce grunt, Costeros lashed out and struck the tip of one with the blade. Jorandil started to yell “No!” but the word garbled and turned into an agonized cry.
Jorandil reeled back, feeling the sharp sear of pain off to one side, away from his body. Where the injured wing would have been had it still been attached.
“That’s right,” Costeros said, glancing over at the crimson slash that dripped onto the floor. “Every strike against these wings will affect you, not me. A handy side effect.”
He retracted the wings and met Jorandil’s gaze. “I confess myself a trifle disappointed that you did not heed my warning to remain in the other realm.”
“You knew I would do otherwise the moment you issued that warning.”
“Not true. I hoped you might be wiser than your father. Perhaps it was too much to ask that his seed might scatter far enough from his tree.”
His father.
Jorandil’s gaze jerked upward to the ornate moldings at the top of the room. They were custom made and featured shapes of antlers, tree branches, and leaves, dancing around walls painted in mottled grays, browns, and greens. He may not have recognized the room itself, but he knew its location. They were in his father’s home.
“Where is he?” he asked, turning a narrow gaze on the wizard. “What have you done with him?”
Costeros shrugged. “Herne is here, right where I put him. He is taking a moment for personal reflection on his failings and to no doubt wish he had put his affairs in better order.”
“You swore to me he would not be harmed.”
The wizard lifted his chin. “I swore that the contents of the message would cause no physical harm. And he is intact, if not a bit stunned that his own son delivered him into my hands.” He leaned forward with a crooked smile and whispered, “I do not think you are one of his favorites any longer.”
Jorandil frowned. “Return my wings. Our deal is done.”
“I think not. I find myself growing rather fond of these.” He rounded the table he’d been standing in front of and place a hand on the small box sitting on top of it. “Between the power of your wings and the contents inside this, I will be a force that even your fool of a father cannot reckon with.”
“But you have not controlled the Eye,” Jorandil said. “You have no idea how.”
The wizard cocked his head. “A temporary setback. But what do you know of it?”
“Nothing.”
“The Fates have told you its secrets.”
“No. They revealed only what the Eye does, not how to wield it.”
“Liar.”
With a wave of the sword, Jorandil was shoved back, not by the blade itself, but by the magical shock wave that blasted forth from the motion. Once again he found himself flying without wings. He hit a wall behind him, his head making sharp contact, and a flash of light accompanied the blow. He shook it off, but he was held against the wall by the neck. The torch flew from his hand to the floor a short distance away. The flame still burned, but as the floor was solid stone, there was little danger.
“I speak truth,” Jorandil forced through his throat, which was being constricted by an unseen force. “The Fates would not see the Eye used by anyone. They do not even trust me with its secrets.”
The squeezing agony released his windpipe, and he sucked in a ragged breath.
Costeros raised his hand, pointing his fingers in the direction of the torch. “Perhaps that is true. Meanwhile, let us extinguish that torch before someone burns the house down.”
A ripple of energy shot forth from his outstretched fingertips, but it bounced harmlessly off the fire. The flames undulated as they might in a soft breeze, but they did not waver.
The wizard tried again to no effect. His eyebrows drew close together. “I sensed that was no ordinary torch. What manner of magic is this?”
Jorandil pushed himself away from the wall and eyed the torch, which was too far out of reach. “One that lies beyond your understanding.”
“And you are certain that you have no idea how to control the Eye?”
“I doubt the Fates would ever willingly part with such information.”
“There is a legend that suggests the Fates are forced to share one eye, popping it in and out of their empty eye sockets in order to see the future.”
“I have heard of it.”
Costeros moved back to the box. “That, of course, is not the case. The Fates each may see the future with their own eyes using various means. But manipulating what they see, that is quite different. Altering the course requires the Eye of Fate.”
Jorandil glanced at the box. Even if he could get to it, the wizard was out of his torch’s reach. And leaving him in possession of his wings was still granting him too much power.
Costeros laid the sword on the table and opened the box. “It is a curious thing to be so close to what you want most and yet not be able to attain it. Something I am sure you are familiar with.”
He
used his hand to levitate the Eye from the box. The orb arose, floating in midair. It was facing Costeros, giving Jorandil a disturbing view of the object the Fates so desperately wanted returned. The Eye was not round and smooth, but elongated slightly in the rear. Tendrils hung from the back, giving it the appearance of a shaggy hump. The tendrils moved, floating on an invisible breeze much the way the Fates’ mists did. The longest dropped down a good several inches and stretched out, seeking purchase like a thin, writhing earthworm.
The Eye swiveled all of a sudden, spinning around as if to regard Jorandil. The pupil was wide and seemed fathomless, and there was a narrow ring of red iris around it. It stared at Jorandil, then the orb swiveled down tow see the sword lying beneath. Then it flicked back up at Jorandil once more before turning back to Costeros.
“I have made several attempts to use the Eye,” Costeros said. “Including the most unpleasant option of following the legend.”
“You tried to replace your own eye?” Jorandil asked.
“By magic, of course. A procedure not unlike the one that divided you from your wings. As many legends are at least partly based in fact, I thought it might work.”
Jorandil stared at Costeros, suppressing a shiver. His right eye, while quite functional, was bloodshot and red-rimmed. The man was willing to rip out his own eye, if only temporarily using his magic, in order to control fate.
He needed to be stopped.
Jorandil glanced at the torch, but he looked up to find Costeros shaking his head. “I need not be a mind reader to know your thoughts,” he said. “Do not bother trying to prevent this. Think, son of Herne. Fate brought you to me. It is the will of the universe that I should have the Eye.”
On the contrary, the Fates had tried to stop Jorandil. It was his own will that had caused this disastrous turn of events.
While Costeros seemed at a loss for how to control the power he sought, the Fates had been certain he was near to unlocking the secret. Whatever he had already tried, he must be on the right track. Jorandil had to make a move quickly.
Careful not to let a wayward glance give away his plan, he tensed, took in a silent breath, and sprang forward. He lunged for the sword on the desk, his jaw tightening in determination when he felt the reassuring weight of the hilt in his hand. He raised the blade, slashed out, and a concussion wave struck. The sword vanished into a puff of fog while he felt his chest compressed inward, but not before the blade sliced across the wizard’s hand.
He cried out, yanking back his damaged palm, and the force he’d been shooting at Jorandil stopped. Blood dripped down on his robes. The Eye began quivering, and the long tendril whipped out, targeting the deep cut on Costeros’s hand.
“Stop!” Costeros exclaimed. “Or you’ll be ended here and now.
He produced an energy ball with his other hand, and it sat there, purple and gold energies swirling like a lightning storm, on his upturned palm.
Jorandil froze. The Eye was clearly agitated, stirred up by the sight of blood perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
Costeros had also noticed the orb’s quivering excitement, and he moved his wounded hand closer. The long tendril strained toward it.
“A sacrifice of blood, not magic,” Costeros whispered in awe. “That is what I was missing.”
He drew close to the Eye, and the tendril plunged into the wound. Costeros hissed and called out in pain, but the orb gained purchase, pulling itself inward, settling into position until it gazed out dispassionately from the wizard’s hand.
“I must thank you,” Costeros said. “You not only gave me my freedom, but you have solved the puzzle of how to control the Eye.” He stretched his palm forth, and the Eye stared with a dizzying intensity. “It is only fitting that you should be the first one I control.”
The Eye stared, Costeros stared, and Jorandil stood there, waiting. Nothing happened, but judging from the way the wizard stretched out his hand, then pushed it forward again, something should have been.
You will be immune.
Jorandil remembered the Fates’ words. He alone would be immune to the Eye. An advantage which he might not wish Costeros to be made aware of yet. He should play along. But how? What was the wizard trying to do to him?
He went with his first instinct. He clutched his head and reeled, then gritted his teeth as though he were in pain.
“Stop,” he pleaded.
The wizard frowned. “I don’t understand. You should be frozen in place.”
Damn. He had guessed wrong.
Jorandil played along. “Must...fight it.”
“You cannot.” The palm stretched closer.
Jorandil feigned his muscles being systematically restrained, and he squelched the urge to lash out when Costeros came around the table and stood before him.
“I dare say your father would probably have enjoyed using the Eye himself to see you this way,” he said. “I do not think he would go easy on you for your betrayal.”
Words of rebuttal sprang to his throat, but he wasn’t certain whether his “freezing” included restraint of his tongue. He pretended to try and speak, then give up.
“Stay there for now,” Costeros said. “I require time to decide on a fitting way to deal with you. Your father, on the other hand...” he let out a chilling laugh that filled the room with an unnatural echo. Then his expression turned to ice. “I have had far too long to consider his punishment.”
Costeros moved off to the side, and Jorandil risked a quick peek from the corner of his eye to watch as the wizard tried to levitate the torch. It would not move. When Costeros reached out to take it in hand, the flame burst forth, surrounding the handle. The wizard yelped and yanked his hand back. The god of Beltane barely managed to suppress a smile before Costeros spun around.
“A most curious artifact,” he spat. “Even with my power, even by the Eye’s command, I cannot retrieve it.”
Jorandil stood, silent, giving thanks for one small mercy. Only the keeper of the sabbat could ignite and wield the Beltane torch.
“No matter,” Costeros went on. “As you are in no position to reclaim it yourself, I think the two of you will keep just fine while I finish my long-awaited business.” He sucked in a deep breath and drew himself up. “You can stand by and hear his screams for mercy, and he will be made aware that you are right under his roof, doing nothing to stop me. I think I like this last-minute addition to my revenge fantasy. Until later, son of Herne. When next you see me, prepare for a less civil encounter.”
With another laugh, he raised his arms with a flourish. A wave of fog blasted up from the floor, and when it cleared, the wizard was gone.
Jorandil made certain Costeros was nowhere in sight before he moved. Then he dove for the torch, headed for the door, and yanked it open to find himself at the top of a dark hall. The torch illuminated a narrow, spiral staircase that he remembered. He knew why the room seemed familiar, for he had been in it as a boy. At the time, it had been filled with canvases, rags, and the pungent, sweet scent of paints and solvents. But his father’s art studio was no more. Either Herne had moved it elsewhere or no longer catered to flashes of creative inspiration.
He crept downstairs, the torch’s flame hissing softly as bits of the stairwell shone with its golden glow. He tread in a practiced manner that came back to him now, avoiding creaking boards by keeping to the edges the way he had done late at night, when sleep evaded him and he would sneak up to the art studio to observe his father at work. The god painted by candlelight, using the same strong arm and broad strokes on his canvas that he swept across his entire life, not to mention that of his offspring. His actions were hypnotic, the results most striking, even startling at times. What had become of those paintings?
Near the bottom of the staircase, Jorandil paused to listen. After a moment, the cackle of a madman sounded from somewhere below and to the left. It had been some time since he’d been in his father’s house, and he called up memories of where things were situated. He was
about to come out onto the upper level. Sleeping quarters. Another, grander staircase descended from there to the main floor, with its living, study, and reflection rooms. And below that...
He clenched his jaw and made greater haste as he stepped out onto the soft, red carpet along the upper main hall. Paintings hung along the gallery, answering the question of where his father’s work had gone. Jorandil found the staircase, pausing momentarily to make certain he was undetected.
His hand slid along the cool, alabaster rail as he headed down. No need to avoid creaking boards here, for the stairs were fashioned of large, flat-hewn agate, the thick slices ringed with swirls of brown and cream. The stone caught the echo of his steps underfoot, so he kept a light tread until he reached the bottom. The main entry gleamed in bright, pale cream marble, though the rest of the home was done in the rich golds, greens, and browns befitting a god of the forest. Off the entryway, a carved door that normally remained locked stood partly ajar. The door led down to an area Jorandil had seen only once, and then only because his father had neglected to lock it behind himself.
Even before he heard voices, he knew that was where Costeros would keep his enemy.
He slipped through the door, taking care not to bump it and cause the hinges to squeak. The voices were clearer now, and he stiffened when he heard his father.
“You do not frighten me, Costeros, no matter what wizard’s trick you conjure.”
“You were always a stubborn fool, Herne, but even you have a care for your offspring. Especially certain sons you have placed on pedestals too high for children of your defective loins to aspire to.”
There was a pause.
“What have you done to him?”
“He did it to himself. Oh, how he has betrayed you.”
“Jorandil was somehow tricked into helping you. He would never have done this of his own volition.”
“On the contrary, he came to me fully of his own free will. He begged me to help him do what you would not. He gave up his wings voluntarily, partnered with me against you to save some pretty little earth creature. He is here even now, you know. Jorandil waits in his father’s home, standing by idly while I take my revenge on his father. And he will not lift a finger to help.”
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 10
