by J. L. Doty
With Malka and Marjinell caring for Olivia, Roland was free to look to Morgin. He stepped off the dais and stopped beside AnnaRail, who sat on the floor with Morgin’s head in her lap. Her own head hung bowed and motionless, while deep in trance she sought her son’s soul.
Wylow and Edtoall stormed into the room. Seeing the chaos, the Inetka leader demanded, “What happened here?”
Olivia moved for the first time. She looked up, and her eyes returned slowly from a great distance. She looked at Roland sorrowfully, and it was to him she spoke with a tremble in her voice. “He . . . became unyielding. I tried to . . . control him with my power, but he struck me, and I . . . I lost control.”
A cold wave of anticipation washed over Roland’s heart. “And you struck him back?”
She swallowed uncomfortably. “Yes.”
Roland looked down at AnnaRail’s bowed and motionless head. He said, “Wife?” and knew in that way he had of knowing that she’d heard him. After a long pause her head moved, though she was slow to look upward, and he had to look away to keep from falling into the depths of her eyes. Still in deep trance, her expressionless face looked to be no more than a death mask.
“He lives,” she said flatly. “And will continue to do so, unharmed. But just barely.”
She closed her eyes then, and bowed her head as if she had never moved, and Roland understood that when speaking, she had only been partly in this world.
He looked back at Olivia. “Thank the gods you had the presence of mind not to kill him, to at least hold something back.”
Olivia continued to stare at Morgin. “But I didn’t,” she whispered.
“What?” Malka asked.
“When he struck me . . .” the old woman said, “. . . I lost control. For the first time in my life I . . . completely lost control. I threw everything I had at him . . . I totally and completely lost control.”
“Impossible,” Wylow said, but his face held an odd, greedy look. “There isn’t a man in the lesser tribes that can survive the full force of your power.”
The Hall was still as everyone there waited for Olivia to speak. Her eyes refused to leave Morgin’s lifeless form, but then her lips curved slowly upward into a greedy smile. Her voice came out in a tiny, distant whisper, but silence hung so heavily in the Hall everyone there heard each word. “There is now.”
Roland demanded, “This marriage must be stopped.”
“No,” Edtoall shouted. He had the same greedy look as his kinsman Wylow. “The contracts are signed. What care we if children choose to act like children? The contracts were made in good faith on both sides. You cannot fault us that your AethonLaw turned out to be more than you thought, nor that our Rhianne turned out to be less.”
He pointed at Olivia and finished. “The contracts were made in honor. And in honor you cannot break them.”
Wylow, who still held that look of greedy delight, turned to Roland and said, “I must back my kinsman in this. And if you choose to default, that could mean clan war.”
Olivia stood with a flourish. “Very well. The wedding will take place. But now, not later. As soon as Morgin is conscious. We must not give these children the opportunity to fail us.”
Edtoall nodded his agreement. “Aye. When the boy is conscious, the girl will be ready.”
~~~
Morgin stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Below him lay the castle yard, enveloped in the swirling mists of early morning, and with the sun just beginning to rise over the distant mountains he watched as the Inetkas mounted up and began their long journey home. He watched the caravan snake its way out of the compound, and realized he had spent no time with Annaline. And since she was Inetka, as Rhianne was now Elhiyne, it would be a long time before he’d have the chance again.
After more than three days of unconsciousness he’d awakened with his mind immersed in a sea of confusion. He stumbled hazily through preparations for the wedding, a blur of sights and sounds and images, mostly disconnected and all incomprehensible. And then it all culminated in the ceremony, where he could remember Rhianne as if he’d been there himself. It took him a moment to remember that he had been there. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact. It was all so confusing.
He could remember standing there, surrounded by his family and Rhianne’s, oppressed by the pall that hung over the place. He could remember how lovely Rhianne had been, how beautiful and lifeless, like a doll dancing on invisible strings of magic, wooden and unresponsive in and of itself. He had watched as she crossed the room to stand beside him. Then, looking in his face, she suddenly become aware of her surroundings. She ran from the room in tears.
When she returned some time later even he, through his own haze, knew that she had been drugged. The wedding happened, Rhianne partially supported by two of her sisters, and the last thing he remembered was the look in JohnEngine’s eyes. It was a sad look, a sorrowful look, as if his brother mourned him.
His next memory was of awakening in the night, still dressed in his wedding finery. He had the most demanding erection he could ever remember having. And Rhianne lay beside him, sweet and soft, and now she was his wife.
He pulled back the covers to discover that they had made her ready for him. She had been undressed, and wrapped in a filmy, gauzy thing that he could tear off with his fingers if he chose. He could see her soft skin beneath it, with the nipples of her small breasts standing out. And in the moonlight that splashed through the window he could even see the dark shadow where her legs met. There lay his desire, his want, his need.
Only at the last moment, barely an instant before he ripped her nightgown to shreds, only then did he realize he was operating under one of Olivia’s spells. How like her, he thought, using her magic to insure that the marriage would be properly consummated, even with Rhianne drugged to unconsciousness, and he no more than a mindless zombie. How like the old witch.
It took every bit of will he had to replace the covers, walk across the room, and sit in a chair to masturbate, to relieve the tension of the old woman’s spell. And after that he refused to return to bed for fear that she might cast another. If he could fight her in no other way, he would fight her in this.
Since then he had been standing before the window, waiting for the sun to rise. He’d watched the Inetkas leave, and as the sun climbed into the sky, he now watched the castle awake. He watched, and he waited, and finally, hearing a gasp from behind him and the rustle of covers, he turned to behold his wife.
Awake now, she sat up in bed, pulled the sheets high about her neck. Her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings. To her unasked question he answered, “Good morning, wife.”
She gasped. Then, realizing where she lay, she ran one hand quickly over her body to discover its nakedness, while the other hand still held the sheets tight about her neck. And in response to the fear on her face and her frantic actions, he said, “Don’t worry, wife. You are untouched, unsoiled. You needn’t fear bearing the seed of the whoreson. I’ll touch no woman if she is unwilling.” His words turned into a snarl. “And since my mere presence seems to repulse you so, I’ll be taking apartments elsewhere in the castle. We are wed, you and I, and I cannot change that. But from this day on, the less our paths cross, the better.”
He walked to the door and opened it, but paused at the threshold. “Oh! One more thing. You may take lovers if you wish. I fully intend to myself. But be discrete, and don’t ever again humiliate me as you did last night.”
He could see in her face that she understood the depth of his anger, his hatred. She would heed his warning, for she feared him now. It tore at his heart. He had never expected to see her face turned to him in fear.
He looked at her one last time and let her see the anger he felt. Then he closed the door softly and was gone.
Chapter 11: The Magic of Power
France waited patiently outside Olivia’s audience chamber. She had summoned him, which was a rare but not unheard of occurrence. And a
s usual the old witch made him wait, sitting patiently, hoping the audience would not last long. He had no doubt she did so intentionally, a not so subtle reminder of who she was, and who he wasn’t.
He saw her three or four times a year this way, and each time they played the same game. He would be summoned, told to report without delay, then instructed to wait, sometimes for hours. And when he finally did see her, she would want to know every detail of Morgin’s training. France would tell her what he could, sometimes making a recommendation or two, and then she would finish by asking for details of the lad’s private life, about which France would feign ignorance.
“The Lady Olivia will see you now.”
Avis’ words brought France out of his reverie. He stood, and as Avis opened the door he stepped into Olivia’s sanctum. Instantly, he realized this time would be different.
The old witch sat among cushions on her couch wearing a hooded gown, floor length, with billowing sleeves and simple lines. As always she had chosen a dark color. Today her mood had gone to a green that was almost black. She reclined comfortably, one arm resting casually on the back of the couch, the hood thrown back over her shoulders. Hwatok Tulalane stood behind her, and in front, to one side, stood old Beckett.
France took a place beside the old weapons master. He bowed deeply. “You wish to see me, milady?”
“Yes, France,” she said pleasantly. “And you no doubt are aware of what I wish to discuss.”
“I assume you wish to speak of Lord Morgin, milady.”
“Exactly, swordsman. How does his training progress?”
“Slowly, madam. But steadily. He improves regularly now. No miracles, mind you, but each week he is a little better than the week before.”
“Is he finally becoming a swordsman then?”
“Yes, madam, in the sense that he can fight and defend himself he is becoming quite proficient. But let me caution you that he is not a duelist, and never will be. It’s not in him to think like one.”
“Then how does he think?”
France considered that carefully before answering. “I can only guess, madam, but I would say he thinks in terms of survival.”
“His only concern then is for his own skin? He is a coward?”
“No, your ladyship. I didn’t say that. He is as brave as the next man. And the survival he chooses might be yours, at the cost of his own life. But where his brother JohnEngine will almost foolishly seek honor, Morgin avoids conflict to begin with.”
The Tulalane spoke. “Sounds like a coward to me.”
France was careful to disguise his dislike for the wizard. “Forgive me for disagreeing, Lord Hwatok, but Morgin is no coward. He merely thinks first of defense. He is a survivor.”
Olivia’s lips tightened. “Does he never take the offensive?”
“Occasionally, madam, when forced.”
“And do you ever force him?”
“I have, madam. One must see both sides of a coin.”
The Tulalane leaned forward. “And how do you force him?”
France looked at the wizard. Their eyes met, and while they said nothing openly, it was obvious their dislike was mutual. France chose not to answer the wizard.
Olivia said flatly, “Answer the Tulalane, swordsman.”
France spoke carefully. “If he is challenged, prodded into doing so, then he will take the offensive. But it must be done carefully. He must not attack in anger. Combat should be a decision, not an emotion.”
“But if you wanted to,” she asked carefully, “could you make him attack in anger?”
France shook his head and lied. “No, madam. I could not.” He could see in her eyes that she knew it for a lie.
Old Beckett spoke for the first time. “My lady. I must agree with France.”
“Thank you, Beckett,” she said stonily. “Your opinion is valued here. But it is I who must decide what is best for my grandson. And I would like to see how he performs when on the offensive. Can you arrange such a demonstration, swordsman?”
“With all due respect, you ladyship, I’ll not goad him into anger.”
Olivia brushed his words aside impatiently. “I did not ask you to.”
“Very well, madam. Tomorrow, after the class workout, I’ll be tutoring him privately. If you observe from the sidelines you’ll see what you wish. But it must be done carefully, and I must not be rushed.”
“As you wish.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “You may go now.”
She looked at Beckett. “You too may go.”
They left, and once gone the Tulalane said softly, “I don’t like that man.”
Olivia smiled. “And it’s obvious he doesn’t like you.”
“He’s rude and disrespectful.”
“Yes he is. But I have use for him, and my grandson needs him, so you stay away from him. If I ever want him dead, you’ll be the first to know, but for now leave him alone. Is that clear?”
The Tulalane nodded reluctantly. “Aye, milady.”
“Good. But I’m still concerned about Morgin. It’s been two years since he and Rhianne were wed, and he has yet to come around. He’s surly, uncivil, and ill-humored. He does nothing but brood. The winter has been long and his temper short. Is it true he lives with the young bachelors and has never slept with Rhianne?”
“Aye, milady. Since the first morning after the wedding.”
“And is it true that he now spends most of his free time in the village, drinking and wenching?”
“Aye, milady.”
“Blast and damnation!” she cursed. “And he still shows no magic. Will that boy never do as I wish?”
“He does show magic,” the Tulalane said.
“I know he does. The shadows. And his defense against my power. But that’s all passive magic. I wonder if Roland is right, if perhaps that is the boy’s limitation, that his magic is purely defensive.”
“Perhaps,” the Tulalane said. “Then again, perhaps the boy is simply a coward.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” she said. “But I fear you may be right. Blast! I would give anything to see how that boy reacts when pushed to the limit. I must know what we have in him. I must find out. But how?”
The Tulalane grinned slyly. “The boy seems to respond readily to fear or anger. Tomorrow, during the swordsman’s demonstration, if the boy could be induced to attack because of one of those emotions, we might learn a lot.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yes. But the swordsman made it clear he would not goad the boy so.”
The Tulalane’s grin broadened. “Yes, milady. The swordsman will not do so, but perhaps there is a way around the swordsman, a way to induce both fear and anger in the boy.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Perhaps, milady. But it must be arranged carefully.”
“Tell me,” she said. She looked up at the wizard standing over her. “I want to know.”
His grin broadened and he said, “It won’t be pleasant.”
~~~
Morgin sat in the shade of the porch watching the Tulalane’s back recede as he walked casually across the practice yard. For just a moment he wished he had the nerve to bury his sword in that back, to bury it to the hilt and watch the bastard slump to the ground. He would take great pleasure in doing that. But then the twoname would probably hear him approaching and it would be Morgin who would die, not the bastard Tulalane.
Morgin grimaced, shook his head. It had been a strange, angry day, as if his magic was out of control, and thinking of murder that way only fueled his anger. The day had begun and progressed as many others: a day of work followed by sword practice in the late afternoon. But where France usually condescended to act as old Beckett’s assistant, this day he had been called away to some business of Olivia’s. And shortly after he’d gone the Tulalane had arrived, pleading that he’d been idle lately and needed exercise.
The lesson began in the usual fashion, the young men pairing off with partners of roughly the same
skill, old Beckett and the Tulalane walking among them, offering advice, and occasionally a demonstration. But early on the Tulalane had focused on Morgin as a subject for his demonstrations, and Morgin was no match for the wizard swordsman. Each time he was made to appear more stupid, foolish, and inept. The demonstrations frequently ended with Morgin face down in the dirt, his head spinning, the Tulalane standing over him with a boot buried in the small of his back, making some witty comment that brought chuckles from his friends. The Tulalane had even cut him several times, shallow cuts that produced only a drop or two of blood, then dried quickly in the mixed dirt and sweat on Morgin’s chest and arms. It required great skill to make such cuts with the tip of a sword, and not cut deeply, and Morgin did not doubt that the Tulalane had done it intentionally. But with his relative lack of skill he’d been powerless to defend himself against the wizard, powerless, frustrated, and angry; an anger that grew with each cut, each bruise, each insult, jibe, and witty remark.
Morgin’s head thundered painfully. His stomach churned. Even sitting still he felt ill. He’d spent the previous night in the village drinking and whoring, and as usual he’d done too much of both.
“Well, slacker,” France called as he walked across the yard. “How goes it?”
Morgin looked up, said nothing.
“Come on, lad,” France said. “Up with you. We have some practicin’ to do.”
“I don’t feel like practicing,” Morgin growled. Nevertheless he picked himself up off the porch.
“Ah, lad! Payin’ the price of yer evil ways, eh? Well you’ll not use that as an excuse fer gettin’ out of yer lessons.”
Morgin stood reluctantly, followed the swordsman to the center of the yard, trying desperately to hold down his anger as well as the contents of his stomach.
