In one swift move, the man picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Standing over an open grave, he whispered, “Open to me.” A faint blue line began to emerge in the dirt, and the radiance grew, shooting upward like a flower toward the light. In an instant, there appeared a glowing door. As her abductor stepped forward, Dagmar tried to cry out. She managed only a faint, forlorn gurgle deep in her throat before they were swallowed up by the magical glow.
“Enough donations have come in for us to complete the temple within the month,” said Ivaar excitedly to Malken and Rozalia. The three were standing on what was to become the temple’s main terrace. “And best of all, Prince Othmar has given us permission to establish a small sanctuary in Stonegard, near his own private quarters! Now the ruler of the land is only seconds away from the advice and counsel of Sehkmaa!”
Malken chucked behind his golden cat mask and Rozalia beamed happily. “That is wonderful news, Ivaar,” said Malken. “And don’t think I don’t know the reason for Othmar’s fondness for our faith is your efforts in spreading the word and catching his ear. You have done wonderful things for us.”
Ivaar fairly glowed under the praise, but said modestly, “It is you and Sehkmaa who have done wonderful things for me. For me and for all of Nova Vaasa. Malken, I once had no outlet for my desire for change, for helping people. Now I do. And for that, I am forever in Sehkmaa’s debt.” The cat around his ankles rubbed up against her friend and purred loudly.
“We’ll see you at the meeting in a few minutes?” asked Rozalia. Ivaar nodded.
“The blessing of Sehkmaa be upon you, young Ivaar,” said Malken, laying a hand on Ivaar’s head.
Ivaar closed his eyes, drinking in the blessing. “Thank you, Brother Malken.” He smiled, his eyes alight as Malken and Rozalia took their leave, descending into the cool stone interior of the temple.
“Idiot,” said Malken disgustedly to his companion the moment they were out of Ivaar’s hearing. Rozalia stifled a snort of amusement. “But he’s doing splendidly. I couldn’t have hoped for a better dupe. That news about Othmar is wonderful indeed. Now he’s little more than a breath away from me.”
“You’re sure we should tell Ivaar?” asked Rozalia.
“Oh, yes. A little fear never hurt anyone. We don’t want him to feel too confident in his position.”
They descended into Darkhaaven. Tonight’s “special meeting” was to be held not in the dining room but in a larger meeting area elsewhere in the labyrinthine underground. Like all other chambers in Malken’s sanctuary, save for a few meant for darker purposes, this room was lush and comfortable. Some of the Claws had already arrived, accompanied by their familiars. Malken encouraged the Claws to take their felines with them everywhere they went.
A few Claws knew about the realities of the cult. Others were about to learn. Those in on the secret had grown to value the same debased pleasures their master did, and lounged comfortably on the plump pillows strewn on the carpeted floor. Grinning, the young and old, male and female Claws of Sehkmaa awaited Malken’s arrival, relaxing and enjoying the offerings of fruit, wine, and pastry served by Malken’s slaves—unfortunates kidnapped from “above.”
“Greetings, Brother Malken,” they called out. The unenlightened stood uncomfortably until Malken waved them back down with a magnanimous gesture.
“Please, continue to enjoy yourselves, my brothers and sisters,” he said. “We are not yet all assembled.”
When Ivaar entered a few moments later, Kesh following like a fur-covered shadow, his face plainly showing his confusion. Staring, he took in the decadent surroundings, his eyes roaming from the food to the cushions to, at last and with fear, the captives.
What was Malken doing? he wondered. When had he constructed this underground temple to vice and corruption, and why? He started when Raphael touched him on the shoulder. The fair-haired youth looked completely at ease. Before Ivaar could question him about the bizarre rooms beneath the holy temple, Raphael said softly, “Thanks for saving my skin, Ivaar.”
Ivaar frowned at him. “I shouldn’t have had to do it. We are the Claws of Sehkmaa, Raphael, and we’re supposed to be above such temptation. What kind of example does that set for the rest of the people?”
The expression on Raphael’s face changed subtly, going from concern to confusion and then settling into a sort of smug half-grin. “Why, yes, of course,” he agreed, but Ivaar did not like his tone of voice. “Thanks to you and the grace of Sehkmaa, my errant brothers and I have been forgiven.” There was definitely a note of contempt in Raphael’s voice. Before Ivaar could pursue it, Malken swept up. He laid a strong hand on Raphael’s blond hair, smoothing it, and the youth went abruptly sober. Fear again played in his blue eyes.
“I am glad you could join us for the meeting,” purred Malken to Raphael.
“I thank my lord for his forgiveness and grace toward me. I will do what I may to prove my loyalty,” replied Raphael, his voice in a higher range.
“Yes, of course you will. Ivaar, my boy, you are about to be initiated into the upper echelons of the Claws of Sehkmaa. Sit and learn.”
Wordlessly Ivaar dropped into a pile of pillows. Kesh curled up at his feet. The scene was beyond his comprehension. This must be some kind of test, he decided. The depravities on display here were too outrageous, too open, as if Malken were flaunting his misdeeds. It had to be an act. Either that, or Malken had wandered further away from the teachings of Sehkmaa than Ivaar could possibly have imagined.
A clinking of metal drew his attention back to the slaves. Muscular young men and curvaceous women, clad only in the barest of coverings, their faces hidden by outlandish masks, were shackled to the walls. They moved without grace, slowly, like the dead. It was eerie, almost unreal, and Ivaar shivered violently. He returned his attention to Malken and noticed Sister Rozalia watching him closely.
Malken stood in front of the room. He carried a cane familiarly under his arm. “My brothers and sisters in Sehkmaa, I bid you welcome to Darkhaaven. Here is the true temple to our loving and merciful god, whom you have pleased so well.”
There came a few chuckles, and Ivaar glanced around, angry, to see Raphael among those laughing.
“Some among you know the truth; others have sensed it.” Malken straightened as best his twisted spine would let him. The effect was somehow ominous. His voice rose. It was no longer the pleasant, fraternal tone with which Ivaar was so familiar, but the commanding voice of a king to his vassals. “You, my so-called priests—your power is undiminished if I dub you truthfully not the Claws of Sehkmaa, but the Claws of Malken! Mine is the only voice heard in these halls! Mine is the only will that matters!”
Ivaar’s heart began to thud painfully in his chest. Shock shuddered through his body, and for an instant he felt faint.
Malken had gone quite mad.
Even in his horror, he realized that Rozalia was scrutinizing him. He’d seen his father play diplomat many times, and knew how to play the game himself. Summoning his will, Ivaar kept his face from betraying his true emotions, even forced a smile. Look excited, Ivaar, he told himself. Look excited or die.
“You share in my wealth,” continued Malken. He spread his arms, reaching with his cane to touch the cool brass head to the silky skin of a slave. She did not move as the metal caressed her flesh. “You share in my pleasures, too, eh?” He laughed a little, and the Claws joined in. “But some of you have gone too far. I reward—but I also punish.”
The laughter trailed into tense, unhappy silence.
“There is an order I have given all of you that has been disobeyed by one.”
The crowd was definitely nervous now. Ivaar felt sweat on his forehead.
“One thing I have asked, demanded, required from those trusted with the true knowledge of Sehkmaa. One thing! Sir Tristan Hiregaard is not to be harmed.”
Father? Ivaar thought, blinking idiotically. What does Father—
And then, as Malken raised the beautiful cane above
his head, Ivaar realized why the cane looked familiar. It was the same one he had given his father for Tristan’s birthday ten years past.
With a bizarre detachment, Ivaar recalled the event as Malken struck one of his followers. Raising the heavy brass head of his cane, Malken brought it brutally down in Raphael’s face. Blood, bone, and bits of brain spattered over the lounging Claws, who drew back, shrieking. Raphael toppled to the floor, dead at the single blow, but Malken did not stop. Wordless grunts and shrieks were accompanied by the sounds of bones breaking, both beneath the destructive blows of the cane and Malken’s feet trampling the corpse.
Malken’s inhuman snarls of pleasure were joined by the terrified cries of the Claws. Ivaar, still enveloped in his strange but ultimately protective detachment, noted with a certain satisfaction that the smug expressions on some of the faces had been completely obliterated by hysterical terror. They had just been reminded, forcibly, that no one was safe from Malken’s eyes—or anger.
Malken looked up from his murder. His robe was splattered with gore, and his golden cat mask had flecks of ruby red droplets. “Are you with me?” he cried. A murmur of frightened, hushed assent trembled through the room. “Are you with me? Do you follow me, my Claws of Malken?”
“Yes!” The response was louder, more fervent.
Malken laughed. “And I shall be with you! My eyes are everywhere, and I shall reward and punish!”
Ivaar sat and pretended to listen for the next hour as the “meeting” continued over Raphael’s brutalized body. Malken said something about donations, and contributions, and celebrations, and pleasure, and it all fell on Ivaar’s ears without his truly understanding it.
His mind raced. What has Malken done to Father? Is he all right? I must warn him, let him know—
Ivaar’s eyes fell upon the large, tawny cat curled up at his feet. Feeling his gaze, Kesh opened her large eyes and regarded him with frightening steadiness.
My eyes are everywhere.
And Ivaar suddenly knew with sickening certainty that he could never warn his father. Kesh was Malken’s eyes, and Malken would watch Tristan’s son like—well, like a cat at a mouse hole. Kesh yawned and stretched, flexing her sharp claws. Ivaar realized what a beautiful and deadly thing a cat was.
My eyes are everywhere.
Oh, Father, what have I done?
Fifteen miles to the northeast, Giles Guillaume paused as he passed Ivaar’s former bedchamber. He thought he heard a woman crying—crying as though her heart would break. For a moment, he thought about opening the door, but decided against it. If his imagination had the right of it, he didn’t want to know.
Inside her son’s room, Ailsa hovered a foot off the bed, sobbing bitterly for her only child, trapped alone and afraid in the house of his enemies.
When Sigfrid learned that Renfred had been murdered and Dagmar had disappeared, he was furious—and frantic. Next to Tristan, Dagmar was the closest thing Sigfrid had to a real friend, and the thought that he might have inadvertently sent her to her death, as well as Renfred, tore at his heart.
Tristan had not specifically told Sigfrid to cease investigating so, armed with new knowledge that must as yet remain solely his own, Sigfrid decided he would hunt for Dagmar—or her murderer—on his own.
That night, as he and Tristan had done many times before, Sigfrid selected a tavern in a rough part of Kantora. He lingered several hours. Just as he was ready to drain his beer and head home, one of the Claws entered the Red Horse tavern.
Sigfrid’s heart began to beat faster as he noticed, in addition to the three claw marks that marred the faces of every Claw of Sehkmaa, the priest who entered the Red Horse sported a jagged fourth scar that crisscrossed the rest. The sharp features and restless eyes also matched the description of the Claw who had come to see the now-dead child—and, perhaps, the man who had killed Renfred and possibly Dagmar. Sigfrid watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye. The man did nothing unusual; merely sat down, drank a pint of ale, then left. A few moments later, Sigfrid did likewise.
Fighting his excitement, he stepped out of the Red Horse into the cool night air. His quarry was a few yards away, the cloth-of-gold garb bright in the torchlight that faintly illuminated the main street. There was a rustle of movement ahead, and Sigfrid spotted a small form darting from an alley and carrying a large bundle. Quickly, with polished efficiency, the priest took the bundle, a large sack, and a nondescript gray cape. A rapid whirl, and the concealing garment effectively hid any trace of telltale cloth-of-gold. The movement also revealed something to Sigfrid. The priest naturally wore his trademark scimitar, but as he adjusted his cape, his sleeves fell back. The alley was bright enough to show that the so-called priest wore a pair of throwing daggers strapped to his arms.
The gray cape stirred a vague memory in Sigfrid, but he couldn’t call it to mind immediately. He concentrated on following the priest as the latter suddenly slipped around a corner.
In Kantora, as Sigfrid knew all too well, one could go from opulent storefronts to trash-littered squalor with one wrong turn. They were in an unsavory area now, the backs of homey pubs and inns that turned a clean and welcoming face to customers. The contents of various chamber pots made vile-scented puddles that gleamed in the scant moonlight filtering past the buildings. Worn wooden shutters and dingy doors opened onto this alleyway. As Sigfrid watched, taking care to keep well out of sight, the cloaked figure went up to the first door and knocked softly. A shutter opened quickly, and a small bag was tossed into the street. It landed with a clinking sound in a puddle of filth, and the priest swore as he bent to retrieve it.
The priest continued on, repeating the knock at the next door. Again, a shutter was opened and a pouch tossed out. The third door was, Sigfrid knew, the back door of the Red Horse. As the door opened to the Claw’s soft knock, Sigfrid caught a quick glimpse of the innkeeper’s wife as she handed over her pouch. “There’s yer money,” she hissed, defiance flashing out despite the evident fear on her face.
Sigfrid remembered the large bag of coins Ivaar had “donated” to Othmar at the banquet honoring the priests of Sehkmaa. Conceivably, the priest could be collecting voluntary donations, but that idea was so farfetched Sigfrid dismissed it at once. These people “donating” in secret were clearly terrified.
Over the next three-quarters of an hour, the priest of Sehkmaa wandered through the alleyways of the quarter. Only once did Sigfrid see him come away empty-handed. At one house, when the priest knocked, there came a muffled reply. Sigfrid could not catch the words, but there was anxiety in the man’s voice. Sigfrid did, however, hear the priest’s response: “I’m sure we can arrange something. Let me in and we’ll discuss it.” There was a pause, and then the door was opened from within. The cloaked figure slipped inside.
Sigfrid wanted to simply arrest the man on suspicion of murder and have done with it. He knew, however, that he would learn more about the Claw’s activities by following him rather than capturing him, and that information might lead to Dagmar and the downfall of the whole corrupt Sehkmaa cult. Sig waited impatiently, fidgeting in the shadows, wishing he could creep closer but forcing himself to keep his distance in case the priest came out without warning. After a few moments, the scarred man emerged. He was not carrying a small pouch as he had been before. When he continued on his way, Sigfrid followed with a curious glance at the closed door.
Despite his skill at tracking, Sigfrid lost his quarry near the temple. The figure stepped into a particularly dark shadow and, so it seemed to Sigfrid, simply vanished. Rage began to build in Sigfrid. He had the man, and had let him slip through his fingers! His hands unconsciously clenched into fists. He tried to take comfort in the fact that he had at least discovered something—what, exactly, he didn’t know, but he would write yet another note to Tristan about it. He hoped Tristan would emerge from this self-imposed exile soon. If he didn’t, Sigfrid wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait.
Rozalia stared disinterested
ly at the new slave. Malken assured her the woman had been pretty, even beautiful, once. Her golden hair was still lovely, and her body firm and shapely. Still, bound at arms, wrists, and throat, the woman before her now bore a face that no sane man would ever again find attractive.
The eleven cats responsible for the progressive damage to the slave’s features sat just out of the tormented woman’s reach. Obsessed with cleanliness, they groomed one another and themselves, licking the slave’s blood from their claws and mouths. The Vistana prodded the captive with her toe. The woman stirred and raised her hideous, bleeding wreck of a face. Her eyes, per Malken’s orders, had been untouched. They stared now at Rozalia.
“Dagmar Valdisdottir, Sergeant, City Guard,” she mumbled. At least, Rozalia assumed that was what she said. The former soldier’s lips had been shredded in the latest attack by the cats. Dagmar had been tortured since Malken had brought her in last night, but all she would say was her name, rank, and unit.
“Honey,” said Rozalia, trying a new tactic, “all women are sisters here, whether they entertain or are entertained. Malken just wants you to dance for him. Then he’ll call off the cats. You don’t like them eating away your face, do you?”
For a moment, there was silence, and then Dagmar emitted a low, soul-shaken groan. Rozalia hid a smile.
“So, will you dance for him at the banquet?”
Dagmar was silent. Then her lips moved. “Dagmar Valdisdottir, Sergeant, City—”
Rozalia slapped the woman hard. The stinging blow against her lacerated flesh wrung a shriek of pain from Dagmar. Savagely, Rozalia smeared healing ointment into the bleeding, oozing wounds left by claws and teeth. It wouldn’t do for the new slave to become infected.
The Enemy Within Page 21
