Wings of Light Special Edition

by Lloyd Baron

  “How long until I can do public speeches?” She asks dryly, clearly unhappy with her look than she would want the boy to know.

  “About two weeks,” Dymphia replies in her normally clipped tone. “The swelling will be gone by tonight, but the bruises will darken over the next few days.”

  “Wonderful,” the Queen mutters. She sighs again before sitting up and patting Lisle on the hand. “I can cover it up with powder. It will start a trend amongst the ladies of the court, but when they see I have switched back they will too.” She turns from the boy and bows her head to Dymphia. “Thank you, healer.”

  “Your Majesty,” Dymphia says politely and bows her head just enough for proper respect between a healer and a sovereign.

  Narmada walks past the boy and pulls open the door. She steps through it, but stops and without looking back asks them both to join her gathering tonight after the meal. “It will be a good opportunity for you to introduce yourselves.” Without another word she glides down the hall.

  Lisle smiles cheekily at Dymphia before bolting for the door. He is too slow and the short but strong healer grabs him by the neck. She forces him to sit on the bed and slams the door with her heel.

  “Now tell me, Lisle Da’cention,” she spits the name out with disgust. “How did the Queen really hurt her nose?”

  The boy gulps but tries his best to keep a calm face. His only mistake is to look at the door. The healer’s hand smacks him around the side of the head and he tumbles across the bed. She can imagine how his head must be spinning.

  “Ow!” he protests. “I thought healers were meant to cure pain, not dish it out?”

  “Do you want another slap?” she asks sternly. When he remains silent she continues. “I will take this matter no further. If the Queen is happy with this version of events then I guess that I must be also. But hear me, boy, we will be traveling together tomorrow. I have business with the Dark Clan, and as you are heading that way with a small party I am going to tag along. Safety in numbers and all that. Besides, with you around they will need a healer. I hear there will be a young woman with us. Stay away from her. We do not want you to trip on her gown, now do we?”

  “Huh?” Lisle says confused. “You can drop the act. The Queen has gone.”

  “A healer must always act in a certain way, young Lisle. You will learn this over the next few days’ ride east. Now, get out of my sight!”

  The young lord does not wait for her to change her mind or hit him again. The door closes loudly behind him and Dymphia allows herself a small and pleased smile.

  ***

  Aasta Acacia strolls across the large but sparsely furnished bedroom and opens a window. The cool fresh air startles her and she quickly closes it again. The day has gone from boring to very boring. What had started as a great adventure in the capital city has turned into imprisonment. Twice already she has put her hand upon the door handle, but both times removed it without attempting to see if it is unlocked.

  “Oh I’m bored,” she mutters to herself as she stares out of the window. The view is not particularly interesting. The palace roof stretches all the way to her left and blocks the view of the city. Below her, about nine floors down, is a courtyard of grey slabs where a man cleans rugs with a beat stick. To the right is open space which she muses must be the private riding field for the Princess. The weather has been clear for most of the day, but now heavy grey clouds drift over. Rain will surely follow.

  She moves away from the dull view and drops down on the bed, letting out a sigh. When will this day end?

  Over an hour ago a maid had come with news that the meal had been put back due to the Queen having need of a healer for a minor injury. The news should have made her worry about the Queen. This morning she would have done, but after being locked in this room all day the only thought that ran through her mind was “how much longer?”

  A sudden rush of boredom washes over her and she leaps to her feet and runs to the door. Her hand touches the cold brass, but she lets it go with a shriek of frustration. Why can’t she just get the courage to pull the door open?

  In the fury at her own weakness she flings herself into the window seat.

  Click.

  The window swings open. For a single moment she does not move even though there is nothing behind her. She reaches out a hand to grab the frame, but the momentum of her body sends her sprawling backwards. Cold wind whips around her, filling her white gown like a feast day balloon and lifting her from the ledge.

  The sight of her room from the outside is the last thing she sees as the world drops away from under her. She plummets fast towards the grey courtyard. A piecing scream escapes her throat. Oddly, she fixes her sight on a colorful rug below, and she calms slightly. She closes her eyes and waits for her death to come.

  Brilliant white light flashes behind her eyelids. She hits the ground and lets out a new scream. No pain enters her body, and she opens her eyes to see the white ceiling of her room.

  Aasta is in her bed, sprawled on top of her covers. She must have fallen asleep. She sits up and shivers as cold air pours in through the open window.

  She rushes over to it and pulls it closed. Relief floods through her and she lowers herself to the marble and cries. She has to get out of this room before she goes insane.

  Brychan panics and turns back towards the darkened passage. He cannot think of anything, but surviving in that moment and he runs blindly up the slope. Something is right behind him. Fetid air fills his nostrils as he climbs. No-one has been in these halls for many suns. He looks down at the thin layer of dust covering the ground and then a quick glance behind. He cannot see beyond the last turn only a few feet away, but he can clearly make out the set of footprints he has left in the dust.

  He curses under his breath and takes another step into the hallway. His mind begins to whirl as thought after thought fall over one another in an attempt to find a solution. He cannot keep running while leaving tracks. The solution would be to hide somewhere where no tracks can be made; but everywhere he looks the floor is covered in dust.

  The darkness before him shifts and a figure rushes towards him. He cannot make out any features but the thing is huge. It towers a head above him. He raises his hands to defend himself, but he is knocked from his feet with such force that he cartwheels through the air. He strikes a door and it falls open. He lands on the corner of a dirty old bed, the wind knocked from his lungs. Dust billows into the air and he chokes. His vision is blurred, making it even harder to see in the dark. He listens but can longer hear the thing moving. Slowly, with his whole being shaking from terror he gets to his feet. Pain flares up in his side and he feels wetness soaking through his shirt. He grunts with the effort to move but he manages to make his way across the room to the open doorway. Whatever had hit him had not stopped. He can hear quiet footsteps echoing from further down the hall.

  Brychan presses himself to the wall to support him and begins to stagger as fast as he can back down the hall. He trips suddenly over a crack in the marble and falls headlong into a table. The old wood splinters and cracks as he puts his weight onto it and finally crashes to the ground.

  The footsteps change direction and begin to move back towards him. Wincing through the pain, Brychan claws his way up the wall and begins to run. He stumbles around the final corner and hurtles into a huge figure. He screams and lashes out with his fists but finds that both of his arms are restrained. He drops to the floor and clenches his eyes shut.

  A howl erupts just behind him and he ducks his head. His hands are released and he rolls out of the way as a huge dog bursts from the darkness. A silver flash cuts across his vision and the limp body of the beast drops beside him.

  A hand comes into view and he follows it up the arm until he sees who it belongs to. Fia Sharphorn pants slightly but seems unharmed and not at all bothered by what has just happened. Brychan takes his hand and allows the big man to haul him into the air.

  “Thank you,” he breathes.
>
  “I have been looking for that thing for weeks. Two Mages found it in the halls and have been practicing dark summons magic upon it. They both became aware that they could not control it and so they tried to kill it. It got loose.”

  “I think they are dead,” Brychan mutters as he is lifted onto the big Man’s broad back.

  “Yes. I killed them. They were dark worshippers.”

  Brychan settles his face on Fia’s shoulder and lets his weariness envelop him. He is all too conscious of the blood running freely down his side. He tries to speak but he cannot find the energy. He is safe now and that is all that matters. He can sleep and he’ll be alright in the morning.

  Sabastian Lovefelt enters the ballroom at the top of the sweeping stairs and surveys the room. He watches as Katilena approaches the Queen. She wears a flowing cerise gown in the northern style, low curved neckline, loose white sleeves fitted at the elbow and draping almost to the marble floor. The bodice is tight into her slight waist and the lower half of the gown is a flood of folded pink and black lace. The corset is black with pink flowers and vines embroidery. She drops a curtsey and kisses the Sovereign’s hand. He chuckles to himself. If only the Queen knew who she was talking to. If only she knew that her dear friend King Garnock was in pieces over the deaths of many of his household and the loss of the Kingdom’s children.

  Messages for support had been sent out to all countries begging for assistance in their time of need. Of course, he intercepted all of them and personally burned them. He had taken extreme pleasure in the knowledge that the once great and proud Kingdom of Common was falling apart and it was all due to him and Katilena.

  He goes to take his first step down when a group of young men enter the hall from the far side. His breath leaves him and he feels his heart shudder. One of the men is strikingly beautiful with short black hair, features sculpted from stone and a body bursting from his short sleeved shirt and jacket. He snorts to himself at the fashion of the young man but he is indeed the most wonderful thing he has ever seen.

  With his mind made up, he strolls down the flight of stairs and enters the press of bodies. He has a talent for bending people’s will to do the things he wants them to—a skill he uses to weave his many evil plots and the reason he and Katilena have found their way into this private function. However, it is a skill he employs more to bed the ones he desires. As the thought crosses his mind he flicks his eyes to the couple standing at the far side of the room. A grotesquely fat woman perches on a chair that he is sure should not hold her weight, while her skinny companion stands behind her. The man stares at the back of her head with a disgusted snarl, and she keeps her eyes lowered.

  Once, she had made eye contact with him and she had looked on the verge of crumpling into tears. Sabastian has to fight with himself not to laugh. He had made the two of them do the most revolting sexual acts to each other while he watched. When they were in the thrall of each other’s passion he had snapped shut the lid of his power and let the two of them realize what they were doing to each other. He really enjoyed messing with siblings.

  He stops in the very centre of the room. A quick glance around to make sure there are no spectators to his act and he begins. His right hand reaches out and he visualizes that he is holding a key between his thumb and finger. He slips it into a lock and begins to turn. He stops when he sees a lord and lady staring at him with confused expressions.

  “Fell from my horse,” he says and flexes his fingers. They nod as one and turn away. He grabs the key again and turns it quickly. He takes a deep breath, smells his scent as it spreads out into the crowds massing to hear the Queen.

  The fat woman in the corner sniffs the air and instantly her features soften. She stands and takes a step forwards, but a restraining hand grabs hold of her shoulder. The pieces are falling together. Last night’s fun with the brother and sister were mere tests. He had to know how far he could push them to do what he wanted. Firstly they had added his and Katilena’s names to the guest list. He was lord Lovefelt and she was Lady Grei, siblings from the north lands of Dinthiv, beyond the frozen lands and across the northern Sive Ocean. They had traveled far to attend the Feast of Lights and were greatly disappointed to have missed it. This was a small private gathering of the Queen’s close friends and members of the houses. The sad story of their long and tiresome voyage had pulled the right strings of the Queen’s heart, and she had given her blessing.

  He pushes more of his musk into the room, wincing slightly as he gets a whiff of his own smell. It always amazes him how others fall under his spell just by smelling this foul stench. The Master had informed him that your own smell is always repulsive to yourself. He would know as well. He used to be a professor of biology back when the Earth’s soul was sleeping.

  A few people turn in his direction, sniffing the air but he pushes his consciousness towards them and tells them that there is nothing important in his direction. He sweeps the room with his mind and makes sure everyone is under his control before continuing with his plan. He is surprised to find that there are still a few people not with him. He smiles. It does not happen often, but when it does he likes to find out why.

  The room is still buzzing with conversation, unaware that a part of their brain has been altered, as he wants but soon enough the fat woman will rush the Queen and plunge a dagger into her chest. Normally the guards would stop her and that is why he has put the small spell over the room. The people are programmed to react verbally but nobody will try to stop the attack.

  He catches sight of the handsome man and can’t help the stirring within his breaches. He is more stunning close up. He is also one of the few people not under his power. It could be the man’s race, he ponders. By the looks of him he is from the north. His wide shoulders and square features are common of those from B’ret and even further north in the icy wastes, but his eyes are brown and he has never seen a northerner with brown eyes.

  The man turns away from a frumpy woman with a fierce face and strolls to the back of the room away from everyone. He studies the artworks as he walks and seems genuinely interested in what he is seeing. The frumpy woman huffs at his rudeness of leaving her side and goes to follow. Before Sabastian has time to think he has intercepted her and has his arm around her shoulder, guiding her into the heart of the room.

  She shrugs out of his grasp and rounds on him, pushing a finger into his chest. He nudges at her with his power yet is shocked to find that a shield has gone up across her skin. An expertly precise move, yet how had she known he was using against her? She glares at him and steps forwards. Her mouth moves but his mind is working on the shield and he isn’t listening. Then he feels it. A slick of darkness shifts across the woman’s shield. It touches him and he backs away, fear coursing through his frame.

  It is not a shield at all, but the woman’s aura. The power which surrounds all living things and determines what emotional state you are in. Most people have a white or grey aura which means they are pure or are not virgins but not bad either. Then there are the ones who have red or green auras: these people are angry or violent but have never taken a life. The ones he likes the most are the browns and purples. These are the worst people you can find upon this world. His aura would be dark brown as he has raped, murdered and tormented innocents for a good six thousand suns.

  She steps up again and he jumps backwards this time, fearing the rotten touch of the dead from this woman’s aura. She stops and with a satisfied smirk turns away. He follows her with his eyes until she vanishes from view. Katilena looks in his direction and frowns. He hadn’t realized that he had called out to her mind for help. Embarrassment replaces the fear and he shakes his head. The woman narrows her eyes before returning to her conversation with the Queen.

  He mentally shakes himself and searches the room for the pretty man. He spots him sitting in the corner, alone. Perfect. A quick scan for the frumpy woman reveals she has left the room. Safe in the knowledge that she will not just pop up in front of him, he
strides over to the sitting man.

  “It’s a Rynota,” he says as he takes the seat beside the man. He notices the bulge in the man’s breaches and has to cross his legs to stop his manhood from becoming excited; his mind on the other hand races away and it takes a couple of deep breaths to calm himself.

  He turns his face towards the man and he stops breathing. Those dark eyes dig into his and rummage around in his mind. He swallows, but his mouth is so dry that nothing happens. He coughs and the man smiles.

  “I thought I was shy,” he says in a deep whisper.

  Shy! Sabastian chuckles to himself. He has not acted this way since the night of his twenty-first birthday. The memory turns bitter in his mind and he shudders. Old pain and grief bubble up into his throat.

  “I am sorry,” the man says. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t you. I just have not been called shy since I was a young lad, bad memories. You were not to know.”

  The man smiles and then looks away. Sabastian instantly wants those eyes back on him. He reaches out and touches the man’s arm. His stomach flutters with excitement and his heart begins to beat erratically, palms become sweaty and his throat closes up.

  What is wrong with him?

  He has slaughtered hundreds of men, woman, children and, once, even an Angel. He has ruined villages and helped bring about the end of three ages which killed millions upon millions of souls. Just that morning he had burned a young girl to death for the heck of it just because he could and because she had looked at him.

  Why then did this quiet man make him so nervous?

  “I never heard of Rynota,” the man says suddenly. “I have never really seen art like this before. A lady in the village where I grew up used to paint, but hers were never any good. Her portraits always looked a bit...” He cocks his head to the side and smiles to himself, “…melted.” He laughs a deep throaty sound which makes Sabastian smile and then laugh himself.