by John Marco
"Thank you, Captain Kelara," he said finally. "But you must return to your patrols."
"Yes, my lord, just as soon as we're ready. We'll take on some supplies and head back. I thought maybe we could rest a day, maybe take on some fresh crewmen from the other ships."
"Whatever you wish," replied Biagio absently.
Boatswain Dars stepped forward. "Sir," he asked. "I'd like to go back with the Swift. I'd like to take my revenge on those Lissen pigs in any way I can. With your permission . . ."
Count Biagio glanced up. "Revenge?" he said bitterly. "Certainly. Why not? If Kelara can find a place for you, you have my permission to go with him. Take all the revenge you want, crewman. Gorge yourself on it."
The two sailors bowed politely and left the chamber. Biagio listened sadly to the closing of the door. A powerful feeling of aloneness settled over him. He glanced at his sherry glass and found it empty. He looked absently out of the window and saw no one in his garden. Past the glass doors, there was only silence, not even the distant call of a bird. Winter was coming to Crote, walling them up.
"Why?" Biagio whispered. "Oh, my dear friend. Why did you do this?"
There were no answers. He had given Simon everything--including Eris. He had lavished his favorite friend with gifts and freedom, opulent clothing and jewelry galore, yet still Simon had betrayed him. Like so many fools before him, he had fallen for the spell of Richius Vantran. Biagio swatted the wine glass from his desk, sending it shattering against a wall, then rose from his chair, shoving it violently backward.
"How dare you do this to me!" he roared. "I am Count Renato Biagio!"
Near his bookcase he found the sherry bottle. In a rage he tipped it to his lips, swallowing down great gulps and spilling it over his satin shirt. He didn't care about being genteel anymore. He didn't care how he looked or what others thought of him. That game had been played-out long ago. Now he drank like one of Nicabar's sailors, ceaselessly and without a breath until almost all the bottle was drained. Then he threw the bottle against the wall, too, striking a priceless painting and splattering it with glass and wine stains.
"Oh, I'm not done with you, Simon," he rumbled. "I loved you. And you spurned me!"
His eyes darted around the room for something to smash. An ivory bust of Arkus was the nearest item. He stalked toward it, suddenly hating his old mentor, and with a grunt hefted the statue off its pedestal and tossed it through his garden doors. The glass shattered.
"Damn you, Arkus. You and Simon both!"
He was out of control and he knew it, and the sherry was burning a hole in his guts, snaking up toward his brain. It was a delicious madness, and the count did nothing to stop it. He was possessed with loathing and the sting of unrequited love. But the smashing and the screaming did nothing to ebb his growing pain. His mind flashed with pictures--of Elliann, the wife who had left him, and Arkus, the emperor who had died on him. But most of all he thought of Simon, and the image of the man burned him and tore at his heart. The great wall Biagio had erected around himself began to crumble, and with it went all his self-control.
"Hurt me?" he growled. "No, Simon. I will hurt you."
He raced from the room in a blind rage, and the servants in the halls gave him a wide berth as he thundered past them, shoving aside any who got in his way. Simon didn't have very much in Crote. He had possessions, of course, but they were meaningless because he was a Roshann agent and accustomed to being away from home. Biagio had thought of burning his clothes, of throwing all his trinkets into the ocean and forbidding his name ever to be spoken. But what harm would that do his treacherous friend? None at all, and Biagio wanted to do harm. He was in that nether-world between normality and madness, clear-headed enough to think but powerless to stop himself.
Abruptly he found himself outside his music room, its doors shut tightly closed. But he didn't stop. With a great howl he kicked open the doors. As expected, Eris was inside, stretching against the warmup bar. She jumped at his intrusion, frightened. Biagio saw her through a red veil.
"Master?" she asked. "What's wrong?"
Biagio stalked toward her. "You took him from me. You turned him against me!"
Eris backed up against the wall, terrified. The count's tall shadow fell over her face.
"Master, please!" she stammered. "What's happened to you?"
He seized her, clamping a hand around her windpipe. Eris screeched in fear and struggled against his icy fingers. Biagio's voice trembled.
"He was dear to me, girl," he hissed. From beneath his cape he produced his Roshann dagger. "Now I will take what is dear to you"
Twenty slaves heard Eris scream. Not one of them dared to help her.
Dyana had spent most of the afternoon in her private chambers, far removed from the slave quarters. It was a quiet area of the mansion, and since she had already eaten her midday meal, she sat undisturbed as she read through volumes from Biagio's library, practicing the Naren language. She could speak it almost flawlessly now. But she still had trouble reading the Naren tongue and making the strange symbols on paper, and as she read she studied everything with careful clarity, sometimes reading aloud to be sure her interpretations were correct.
Because she had very few acquaintances on Crote, Dyana kept mainly to her chambers. Since the incident with Savros, she took great pains to avoid the other Narens. Except for Eris, she hardly spoke to anyone, and Eris had a daily ritual of practice that kept her busy. Today, Dyana had decided not to disturb her friend. They would be returning to Nar soon, Eris had said, and she needed to practice diligently to perform at her peak. She would be the toast of the Black City. Biagio had told her so. Dyana looked up from her book, grinning at the thought. She and Eris weren't so far apart in age, but the dancer had an innocence that made her seem vastly younger. No matter what Biagio did, she refused to see him as anything but her master.
A glance out the window told Dyana it was getting late. She realized suddenly that she was hungry again. The midday meal had passed hours ago, and soon it would be time to sup. Since she always took her supper with Eris, she decided to go find her friend. At this time of day, Eris would still be in the music room, endlessly practicing to make herself perfect.
Dyana set her book aside and left her chambers, going down the soundless hallways toward the more populated parts of the mansion. The first thing she noticed were the long faces of the servants she passed. Each of them avoided her eyes and had a vacant look about them. Dyana spied them suspiciously. Biagio's home was full of unintended surprises. But when at last she approached the music room, she noticed that a crowd had gathered near the doors. Among them was Kyla, Dyana's bodyservant. Dyana paused before going any closer, studying the mournful throng. A few of the women were crying.
"Kyla?" Dyana called. "What is wrong?"
"Oh, Dyana," sighed Kyla, hurrying up to her mistress. "It's Eris. The Master has hurt her."
The words were jolting. "What happened?" asked Dyana desperately. She looked over Kyla's shoulder toward the milling servants. "Where is Eris? Is she all right?"
"No, Lady Dyana, she's not. She's hurt. Master Biagio . . ." The girl broke down into sobs. Dyana grabbed hold of her shoulders.
"Kyla, tell me what is wrong!" she demanded. She was in a panic and needed answers. "Where is Eris? What has happened to her?"
"She's in her rooms," replied Kyla. She was shaking, almost incoherent. "The others took her there, bandaged her. God, there was so much blood."
Dyana didn't wait another second. She flew from the hall, heading straight for Eris' rooms. Her mind raced with black possibilities. Had Biagio raped her? Beaten her? He was a taskmaster when it came to his teachings. Dyana grit her teeth as she ran. If he had hurt her . . .
Outside Eris' room, Dyana found another crowd of women. They were silent, as if holding a vigil. The door to the dancer's chamber was closed. Dyana shouldered her way through the crowd.
"What happened?" she asked. "Is she all right?"
&nb
sp; An older woman with blood on her clothes shook her head ruefully. Her name was Bethia. "The Master took a knife to her," she said. "She's in great pain. I've given her something to help her sleep, but--"
"A knife?" blurted Dyana. "My God, he stabbed her?"
Bethia put a calming hand on Dyana's shoulder. "He cut her," she said gently. "Her foot."
Dyana blinked. "I do not understand," she stammered. "Why did he do that?"
"To punish her," replied the woman. She went on to explain how Biagio had gotten news from Liss, and how Simon Darquis had betrayed the count. He was with Dyana's husband, the woman explained, helping the Lissens.
Dyana couldn't believe her ears.
"Simon is alive?" she asked. "What about--"
"Your child is with him," said Bethia. There was a wide, sad smile on her face. "Shani's alive, Dyana."
Dyana wept. Without shame, she let the tears run down her face. Shani was alive! And safe with Richius. There could be no happier news. Except. . .
"What happened to Eris? Why did he hurt her?"
The woman shrugged. "I don't know, child. He meant to punish her, I suppose, for what Simon has done. But it's cruelly unfair. He's killed her, that's what he's done. He's taken off half her foot."
"Oh, no," Dyana moaned. "Oh, Eris."
She had to go to her. None of the servants protested as she moved toward the door. Dyana mustered up her courage and pushed the door open without knocking. A dark room with drawn shades enveloped her.
"Eris?" she called lightly. "It is Dyana."
"Dyana, go away," came Eris' pleading voice. "God, don't look at me like this."
Dyana saw her through the darkness, lying across a bed on the far side of the room. There were blankets over most of her body, but her wounded foot stuck out of the coverings, swathed in bandages. Hot tears outlined her red eyes, and when she saw Dyana she turned away. Dyana ignored Eris' pleas for her to go. She slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. The darkness grew with the door's closing. Carefully, she picked her way through the blackness, approaching the bed as her eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark.
"Eris, do not send me away," she said gently. "I want to help you."
"No one can help me. Look what he did to me, Dyana. Look what he did. . . ."
Dyana could barely see the ruined appendage in the darkness. But she knew what Bethia had meant. In a sense, Biagio had killed Eris.
"Why did he do it?" sobbed Eris. "I never harmed him."
"Oh, Eris," sighed Dyana. "I am so sorry."
"I'll never dance again. Never. He's taken that from me. Why?"
There was no answer for the agonizing question. Biagio was mad. It was the only suitable excuse. Dyana knelt down at Eris' bedside, reaching under the blankets to grab her hand. The fingers were lifeless. Two eyes stared at her blindly.
"Eris, be strong," Dyana begged. "Please. For me. I need you here with me. You are all I have."
"I can't, Dyana," whispered Eris. "I'm lost. He's taken my life away. There's nothing else for me. I'll die."
"You will not die," insisted Dyana. "I will not let you. And there is more than dancing to live for. Simon is alive, Eris."
The girl nodded. "I know. That's why the Master did this to me." She turned her face away. "And Simon couldn't love me now. I'm a cripple, a freak."
"Eris . . ."
"Go, Dyana, please," cried Eris. "Please just leave me alone."
Dyana rose and hovered over the bed. She wanted to comfort Eris, but there were no words to soothe the pain, or ease the enormous loss. Eris was a dancer, body and soul. Now she was nothing, and it was like a wraith had come to replace her.
"I will look in on you later," said Dyana. "Rest now."
Eris didn't reply. She merely lay there in the bed, unmoving. Dyana bent down and kissed her forehead, then turned and left the chamber.
This time, though, she wasn't going back to her own rooms.
"Where is Biagio?" she barked at the slaves. They milled like sheep, afraid to answer. "Tell me!" said Dyana. She whirled on the old woman who had greeted her. "Bethia, where is he? Do you know?"
"Dyana, don't go to him. He'll only get more angry."
"Do not protect that monster," rumbled Dyana. "Just tell me where he is."
"I don't know," said Bethia.
"I know," a small voice interjected. A servant girl stepped forward. "I saw him go out the southern gates, toward the beach."
Dyana didn't thank the girl. She just stormed off toward the south side of the mansion. Bethia called after her, but Dyana ignored the old woman's pleas. She was enraged, and wanted to face Biagio while she still had the courage.
There were two guardians near the southern gate. Dyana braced herself for a confrontation, but was surprised to see them step aside. Sunlight struck her face as she exited the mansion. Down the beach, she sighted Biagio sitting in the sand, staring blankly at the warships on the horizon. He looked remote and contemplative, far worse than he had that night she had seen him taking his drugs. Dyana quelled her trepidation and strode toward him. The wind had picked up and the surf smashed against the shore, spraying Biagio where he sat. It was frightfully cold. Without a coat, Dyana shivered.
I'm not afraid, she told herself.
"Biagio!" she called across the beach.
When he heard her voice, he merely shook his head. Dyana came up to him, staring down at him. His hair was wind-blown and damp with sea spray, and wine stains splattered his shirt. When he finally looked up at her, she saw how red his eyes were, inflamed from weeping. His face was an insane mask.
"I knew you'd come," he sneered, half laughing. "Will you scold me now?"
"You bastard," Dyana boiled. "How could you do it?"
"Count Biagio does what he wants, woman. He doesn't ask permission."
Without thinking, she reached out and slapped his arrogant face. A stunned silence rose up between them. Dyana took a step back, sure she had doomed herself. But Biagio didn't fly into one of his rages. Instead he put a hand to his bruised cheek and, remarkably, looked chastened.
"Talk," Dyana demanded. "Do not ignore me. I am not one of your slaves. And I am not afraid of you."
"Then you are like your husband, woman. Afraid of nothing." The count paused. "Do you know what has happened?"
"I think I do. Simon is alive."
"He's on Liss."
"That is no reason to savage Eris. My God, you butchered her."
"He betrayed me!" Biagio flared. "After I gave him everything. He's on those cursed islands with your husband, even now. I merely took from him what he took from me."
"You had no right--"
"I had every right!" he cried. He was shaking, sick with rage. "I am Count Renato Biagio! Eris is mine to do with as I wish. Everything on this island is mine!" Then he looked away again and began babbling to himself. "Soon the whole Empire will belong to me. Things will be like they should have been. I'll sit on the Iron Throne. I'll bring back the Black Renaissance. My grand design will work!"
He was almost beyond coherence. Dyana didn't know whether to stay or go. But Biagio's guards had let her pass for a reason. She knew the madman wanted her here.
"You are not telling me everything," said Dyana. "Your guards let me pass. Why?"
Biagio shrugged. "You already heard the news."
"What news?"
"About Simon. And your child."
"Shani? What about her?"
Biagio shook his head in exasperation. "Why are you so dense? Your child is alive. I thought you should know. That's all."
The incredible admission left Dyana speechless. "You wanted to tell me that?" she asked softly. "That is why you let me come out to you?"
"Yes," said Biagio flatly. "Now you may go. Goodbye."
"I am not leaving," said Dyana. "Not yet." She sank down into the sand next to him, close enough to feel his breath. He was horrible-looking. All the golden beauty had left him in a flood of tears. But when she came close
to him he flinched, turning his face away.
"I don't want you here," he said. "Go away."
Dyana tried to smile. Progress with this madman was painfully slow, but she was sure she was making some. "You destroyed her," she said. "Do you not know how terrible that is?"
"What I did to Eris was my right," he seethed. "I own her, woman. And I own you, whether you know it or not."
"No one owns me," said Dyana. "I am a free woman."
Biagio gave a wicked chuckle. "You're my prisoner. Unless you can swim back to Lucel-Lor, I own you. And do not think me so gentle, woman. Today has given me more reason than ever to hate you and your husband. If you don't fear me, you're a fool."
Dyana was resolute. "I do not fear you. Not anymore. Look at you, weeping for someone you love. I had never thought that possible before, but now I see what you really are. Oh, you can say that you are something special, but you are not. You are just a man."
"I am not just a man," said Biagio, insulted. "Soon I will be the emperor. And then you'll treat me with the respect I deserve, and you won't presume to speak to me like this." He leered at her. "I am taking you back with me to the Black City, Dyana Vantran. Do not doubt that for a moment."
Dyana shook her head. "No matter how I try, you will not listen, will you? You are so full of hate."
"With good reason. Your husband keeps taking from me. Taking, taking, taking! First Arkus. And the Empire. Now . . ." Biagio stopped himself. "Well, I will take from him this time. You will be my lure. And when he comes to rescue you, I will have him. I'll make him linger, I promise."
"You are insane," said Dyana. She rose from the sand, realizing all her efforts were wasted. "And you are right. I am a fool. I thought I could convince you how wrong you are. I thought I could get through all your madness, make you hear me. But I cannot. No one can." She sighed miserably. "If you're going to take me to Nar, then go ahead and do it. But I will not live in fear of you, Biagio. You will never own me."
Biagio smiled. "I'm still sane enough to remember our bargain, Dyana Vantran. And I will never seek out your child again. I don't have to with you here. Remember that."
