Ivaar felt ill as he watched the undulations of the performers. There was no grace, no skill in their movements—only lewd gyrations performed without any real passion. Yet he seemed to be the only one not enjoying the display. The guests, from noble to soldier, whooped and applauded, standing up and sticking hands through the bars to fondle bare flesh.
Ivaar lowered his gaze to the meal in an attempt to distract himself from gazing with horrified fascination at the so-called entertainment. He found that he had lost interest in peacock stuffed with game hen, in rich sauces and seasoned vegetables. Course after course came. He ate a little of each, to not attract attention.
As plates of sliced fruits and bowls of cream were being passed at the meal’s end, Malken rose and went to the front of the table. The noises of idle conversation halted abruptly, and the musicians ceased their playing. The dancers stopped moving and stood still in their swaying cages, as if they were mechanical toys that had suddenly been turned off.
“My brothers and sisters in Sehkmaa, my friends and patrons, I bid you welcome. Those here tonight have been part of the most successful criminal operation in the history of Nova Vaasa. Donations pour in at an astounding rate. The orphanage is full of impressionable young minds; the temple is nearly complete. And we have all benefitted.
“However,” and he began pacing back and forth, his hands closing and unclosing, “there is a tainted thread marring this beautiful fabric.” He paused, and listened with a slight smile to the anxious murmuring that rippled through the crowd. “And we all suffer for it. Each one of you,” he stopped pacing and ran piercing eyes over the crowd, “has dealt with me on one level or another. But I’m not sure how well I can trust you.”
The crowd was definitely nervous, and Malken drank in their fear like nectar. His eyes wandered from face to face. Each guest, he could tell, thought Malken meant him or her; they were desperately searching their memories for mild infractions. Some recalled what they had done and quailed away from him. His heart was beating with excitement now, and it was with an effort that he restrained himself. Not yet; not quite yet.
“Is there anyone here who doubts that his heart is visible to me? That I know his thoughts and misdeeds, and that I shall punish those who have betrayed me? No? Then let us drink together and unmask, to seal this pledge of mutual trust.”
He raised his goblet, filled with nothing but the blood of the vine, and waited until all assembled copied his gesture. Then he brought the liquid to his mask’s lips, and again paused until his guests removed their masks and drained their own cups.
Now.
Malken tore off his death’s-head mask to expose a face far more frightening. He gulped his wine, careless of the red fluid spilling down his beautiful velvet doublet and ruining it. As he drank, he heard the cries and gasps of horror. For once, he didn’t mind that all were repulsed by his appearance. Soon enough, they wouldn’t care what he looked like.
Smacking his rubbery lips in exaggerated satisfaction, he drew a white sleeve across his mouth. Then the sounds and expressions of horror and abhorrence changed subtly, became more personal and intense. He watched, vastly amused, as the handsome, slightly arrogant faces of his guests melted like candle wax. The features changed, reformed. Pustules erupted and broke, pouring pus down suddenly scarred skin. Strong, slim limbs twisted, cracked; straight backs humped; delicate hands contorted into claws.
Malken laughed aloud. The magic brew he had given his guests was not permanent. When the self-satisfied, posturing fools who had thrown in their lot with him rose in the morning, the only marks they would see on their faces would be the ones they themselves had inflicted in their terror. But they didn’t know that now, and at this sweetest of all moments Malken, like one of his cats, could smell their panicked fear. He knew it was twofold—first, at the hideous changes wrought upon them, and second, that they now realized just how deeply mired they were in Malken’s machinations.
He glanced triumphantly down the table to see the reactions of his most honored guests. The regents, their pompous dignity crushed utterly, gibbered madly, tears of mindless terror mixing with the pus on their faces. But Ivaar was gone.
Malken turned his fury on Rozalia. “Where is Ivaar?”
“I—I don’t know, he—”
“Stop him!” Ivaar was not to leave the brotherhood of Sehkmaa, not if Malken had to tie him up to keep him. Ivaar was the best card he had in this vicious game he and Tristan played with one another, and Malken was not about to let his ace escape. Immediately Rozalia rose and hobbled out.
As if her exit were a cue, some of the guests stampeded for the doors. Their way was blocked by several Claws. They had been instructed to draw their scimitars and be prepared to use them.
They were. When a half-dozen bodies covered the floor, the guests realized just how trapped they were. Malken threw back his head and laughed.
Ivaar’s body shook convulsively as he stumbled along the dark hallways. The sight he had just witnessed had shaken him badly, though he himself had been careful only to pretend to drink. The ensuing chaos had given him something he had ceased to hope for—a chance to escape Darkhaaven.
Darkhaaven was vast and intricate. Some of the Claws swore that certain rooms appeared and vanished at the whim of their master. Malken never bothered to contradict these whisperings; sometimes it seemed as if it were the truth. Ivaar briefly wondered if he were dooming himself to wandering in this cold damp labyrinth forever, but continued. Even that fate was preferable to the wretched existence he’d been living for the last few days.
At last he came to a stairway that led up, and he began climbing. Time was distorted, and Ivaar couldn’t tell whether a month or a minute had passed when he found himself slowly, cautiously, opening a door.
He let go a sigh of relief that was almost a sob. He had found his way into the orphanage. The hallway was empty, its cool stone illuminated here and there by a torch. The doors, heavy wooden things with the head of a black cat painted on them, were all closed. Behind these doors slumbered the orphans. There was no sign of adult presence here. Ivaar was certain all the other Claws were down in Malken’s impromptu hell.
He paused as he entered the main foyer. To his left was the terrace and the first step to freedom, but he couldn’t get the thought of sleeping children out of his head. Ivaar glanced longingly toward his left, at the cool night that beckoned with ineffable sweetness, but instead retraced his steps. He couldn’t leave innocent children with that monster, now that he finally understood just what Malken was.
He eased open the door and gasped slightly. Dozens of glowing eyes peered up at him. He had forgotten that many cats slept beside the children. But the cats merely stared curiously. Malken, whatever he was, obviously had power over the creatures’ minds. Equally obvious was the fact that he had not instructed the cats to beware of Ivaar. For that, Ivaar was silently grateful. Ivaar woke the children gently, and they sat up, rubbing sleepy eyes.
“Brother Ivaar, what’s wrong?” asked a little girl named Leah. Her question was echoed by the others.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he soothed. “But you all need to come with me tonight.”
“But I don’t—”
“What about—”
“Shh, shh, I’ll answer your questions later, all right?”
The children were used to obeying those who wore the cloth-of-gold robes. Sleepy as they were, they dutifully rose and began dressing.
There came a loud meow, and something launched itself at Ivaar. It was Kesh, and she was angry. Hissing, she clawed, trying to reach his face. He managed to tear free of her and kick her hard. The wounded animal lay in a small heap, gasping for air. A pang of guilt came and went in Ivaar’s heart. He had loved the cat, but she had betrayed him. He owed her nothing.
“Kesh missed you after you left early. I thought I’d let her come find you,” came Rozalia’s voice. The Vistana woman leaned against the door frame. She was silhouetted by the flick
ering torchlight from the hall. The light was not kind to her, throwing her jutting cheekbones into sharp relief and emphasizing the leathery texture of her skin. She looked more like a mummy than a living being, something unnatural wreathed in desiccated flesh.
“Sister Rose!” cried the children, who hastened to their caretaker. Absently she let them cling to her, her stick-thin fingers caressing the hair of one little boy. Rozalia moved inside, closing the door behind her and leaning on it. She detached herself gently from the eager children and lit several candles.
“Are we going to play a game?” asked Leah happily. “Is that why you and Brother Ivaar came?”
“No, children, it’s not a game,” said Rozalia. She looked with feigned sorrow at Ivaar. “Poor Brother Ivaar has … fallen.”
The children gasped, horrified. They remembered Sister Evania’s fall. Someone had to be very, very bad to fall. Now they turned from Rozalia to gaze with horror and sorrow at Ivaar. “Poor Brother Ivaar,” said Leah softly. Her eyes filled with tears, and her pink mouth quivered.
“Yes,” echoed Rozalia in a fair imitation of true regret, “poor Brother Ivaar.”
Ivaar had somewhat recovered his wits. The cats still seemed disinterested in him, but Rozalia had blocked the doorway. Keeping his eyes on her, Ivaar made a mental note of the layout of the room. His back was flat against one of the walls. The chamber, located on the ground floor, was spacious, with several large windows lining the wall on his left. Twelve of the twenty beds were placed under the windows. The other eight were lined up on the opposite wall, where the only door was located. Toys were piled at the far end.
He now knew the children were lost. They had been too completely indoctrinated by the Claws, fed so many lies that they thought them truths. Maybe if someone heard the noise—
It was a fool’s dream and he knew it, but he had to try. He leapt onto the nearest bed and sprang for a window. Covering his head with his arms, he dived partway through. The sharp fragments of glass sliced his forearms. He would have made it through had not a few of the children seized his belt. Ivaar was pulled off balance.
“Ivaar is a blasphemer!” Rozalia shrieked. “He says Malken is cruel! He says Sehkmaa does not exist! Kill him!”
The children obeyed without hesitation. Ivaar was not a big man, but any one of them, any five of them, he could have beaten off. Twenty, however, subdued him entirely. They pummeled him with their tiny fists, digging sharp nails into his flesh and clawing. Their faces, contorted with righteous fury, showed no sign of mercy. They clawed and bit and scratched, reaching for his eyes. Leah drove fingers into his eye sockets, and Ivaar shrieked as the world went dark.
In that terrified darkness, the army of children came with more weapons. They beat him with hard, cast-iron toy soldiers, lacerating his skin with miniature swords. One little girl pressed a fragment of a broken doll’s head deep into his abdomen.
As Ivaar died, torn to shreds by children who were convinced they were doing their god’s work, he thought of his friends. Theogar, devoured by cats, and Raphael, bludgeoned by Malken, had had easier deaths. His final thought as he fainted from loss of blood was of his mother. Somehow, he thought he could hear her crying.
“You did what?”
Malken’s voice was laced with the fury that had propelled him earlier.
Rozalia’s smirk faded. “You asked me to stop him.”
Malken was silent, eyes blazing. Rozalia licked her lips. His unmasked face always disturbed her.
“He was trying to leave, trying to take the children with him—what was I to do, let him walk out the door?”
“I told you,” and Malken’s voice was no longer piercing but silky smooth, “to stop him. I did not tell you to kill him.” He rose and strode to where Rozalia sat by the fire in the receiving room. One strong hand closed on her neck. Her eyes went wide. Malken knew she had poison on her fingernails, but she made no attempt to claw him. Smart girl. “I have had enough of this from you. Push me no farther, Vistana girl, or else you, too, might fall from Sehkmaa’s grace.”
He released her, and she fell backward onto the pile of soft fur, gasping for air and rubbing her bruised throat. The linked necklace she wore had cut into her flesh from the pressure, and there were small cuts on her neck as well. She watched him with venom in her eyes as he strode from the room, his back toward her.
Malken had had the children removed from the room in which they killed Ivaar. The corpse lay in a puddle of blood. There were small red foot- and handprints all over the room. Malken stared down at Ivaar, sighed, and shook his head.
“You really were more use to me alive than dead,” he said regretfully. “Your papa was beginning to get pesky, but I didn’t think he’d go too far as long as I had you in my corner. Now, I’ve got to figure out what to do with you.” He paused, and a slow smile began to spread across his brutish features. “You may yet be of some use.”
He picked up the mangled body and turned toward the door. He sent a silent command, and mist materialized out of nowhere. It floated upward from the crack beneath the closed door, hiding the heavy wood from view. The mist began to glow, as if from an inner light. When its ghostly gray tendrils reached the top of the door frame, Malken strode through the portal he had created.
He was surrounded by pulsating gray. The evil powers responsible for his creation, bless them, had enabled him to travel through the mists. Openings in the misty walls showed him various locales. All he needed to do was step through, and he would be there. He smiled a little to himself as he located the brothel where Tristan awoke beside a dead girl, and the alley where Tristan awoke hung over. No, those wouldn’t do for the trick he planned to play on Tristan tonight. He kept searching until he found the place he wanted. Malken’s smile became a grin. Carrying his grisly burden, he stepped through the portal.
Tristan awoke alert and ready for whatever terrible place Malken might have left him this time. He was surprised to find that the fiend let him awaken in his own bedroom. Remembering the dead girl he had found himself next to once before, he whirled to his other side. Blessedly, he was alone in his bed. Tristan closed his eyes in relief. He rose, bathed his face, and turned to ring for Guillaume.
His eye fell on the portrait of his wife, and he groaned aloud. Malken had vandalized Ailsa’s picture. Slowly, Tristan walked to it. The canvas was sliced three times—the ritual cuts of the Claws of Sehkmaa—and splotched with dark red paint as though Ailsa were bleeding from the cuts. He reached to touch the paint, and his fears were confirmed. It wasn’t really paint. He hadn’t truly thought so. His eyes dropped to the journal. Malken had scrawled in the now-dried blood: HE HAZ HIS MUTHERS FACE, EH TRIS?
Tristan went cold. He grabbed his robe and fled the room, hastening through the drafty hallways and taking the stairs of the Master’s Tower two at a time. He grasped the doorknob, realized he had neglected to bring the key, and opened the lock with an incantation instead. Flinging the door open, he stumbled inside.
Tristan fell to his knees on the hard stone floor. His eyes were transfixed by the horror he beheld.
His son lay on the table in a grotesque parody of a corpse laid out in a coffin. Ivaar’s body was a mass of small but fatal wounds. What skin that was still whole was pale, all the blood having escaped through the hundred small gouges and tears. Stumbling, in a daze, Tristan made his way to the table.
He saw that Ivaar’s eyes had been gouged out, his nose removed, his lips and ears.… Malken had left his sadistic signature on the body of his enemy’s son.
Something inside Tristan broke with a cold shattering. Crying incoherently, he tore the blood-drenched remnants of the cloth-of-gold robe from his child’s corpse and flung the tatters of fabric away. When the body before him lay naked, purged of Malken’s corruption, Tristan gathered it to him. Now that it was too late, he embraced Ivaar and called him son, sobbing into the lacerated neck.
“My boy, my boy,” he wept, “Ivaar, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.…�
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There came a faint sound from under the table. Through the tears that blurred his vision, Tristan glanced down to see Ivaar’s small pet, Kesh, peering up at him. Anger sliced through Tristan’s grief. In one movement, he had lain Ivaar’s body back down on the table, dropped to his knees, seized the cat, and snapped its neck. He threw the limp, furry body hard against the wall. Bones cracked, and Tristan found the sound immensely satisfying.
Breathing heavily, he turned his attention back to Ivaar. His eyes widened. Ailsa had materialized and was floating beside the table. Amazingly, her face was tranquil, even smiling. She reached an insubstantial hand toward the body of her son and tentatively ran it over the mangled flesh. She began to hum. Tristan recognized the tune as a lullaby she had sung for Ivaar when the child had still been in his cradle.
“Ailsa, I don’t—”
The ghost put a finger to her lips. “Hush, sweetheart. Little Ivaar’s finally sleeping, and I’d hate to wake him.” She smiled at him. “Everything’s all right now. He’s finally home.” She resumed her humming.
Tristan watched in mournful revulsion as his dead wife, held fast in the grip of the madness that had followed her beyond the grave, sang to the mutilated remains of what had once been their only child. At last, she shimmered and faded slowly, and he knew he would not see her again. He bowed his head and let the tears come.
Tristan asked Guillaume to help him bury Ivaar, but the old servant refused. Guillaume’s face looked like a death’s-head, growing even paler as he looked at the body of the young master. He said a prayer and made a sign across his body—not the hooked finger blessing of the cult of Sehkmaa, but a gesture far older and long forgotten by most in Nova Vaasa.
“Master Tristan, my family has served you for generations. Faerhaaven was more than a place of employment for us—it was our home. Now, my family is gone. I am all that remains. This place is no longer a home—not for me, not for you, not for anyone.
The Enemy Within Page 25
