by Peace, Cas
The palace was largely deserted. Bordenn’s harsh winters routinely kept Lerric’s nobles away. It might make the process of government trickier, but at least it avoided the problem of awkward questions. The province, which produced mainly foodstuffs such as grain, cereals, vegetables, and meat, needed little in the way of attention through the unproductive winter months. Had it been otherwise, Reen’s rescue and concealment would not have been so manageable. As it was, Sofira completed her changes unhindered, and now the palace’s ground floor was a dark and gloomy place, inhabited only by Sofira, her scarecrow suitor, and his minions. And these arrangements suited Reen very well.
Lerric showed little interest in his daughter’s coming marriage. He had stated that his people, loyal though they were to Sofira and convinced of her innocence, would object to their Princess wedding a convicted traitor. Reen could not care less what the people of Bordenn thought, but Sofira herself came up with a solution to any possible objections.
“I told Father I intend to issue a proclamation, my love,” she said, stroking Reen’s brow. “I intend to show that Elias was manipulated by false witnesses, and that the conviction for treason should never have been passed. My father will append his seal to the decree, stating that he exonerates you of all taint of treason, and that he supports your inclusion into our family. Enough of our people were angry when Elias cast me off; the decree will come as no surprise.”
Maybe not, thought Reen, but his plans for the province might. Bordenn might have been willing to support their king when Lerric joined the rebellion against Elias’s father, King Kandaran, but they hadn’t been alone then. Three other provinces, all larger with mighty armed forces and strong leaders, acted as buffers between Bordenn and Elias’s wrath once Mathias Blaine defeated the rebel forces. It was only Lerric’s abjectly sworn statement pleading coercion by the other rebel leaders that saved his neck once the war was over. And now Lerric was under pain of death should he rebel again. Appending his name to a declaration such as Sofira planned was tantamount to signing his own death warrant. Yet Sofira was adamant Lerric would accede to her wishes, and Reen believed her. Her relationship with her father was one of the reasons Reen was here.
Tiring of her ministrations, Reen feigned weariness and bade her leave him to sleep. It was coming on to midnight and the men he had summoned earlier ought to return soon.
A shiver of evil pleasure shuddered through Reen’s flesh. He had been able to refresh himself from the same source once more without arousing suspicion, but he could not keep on that way. He needed servants who were whole, not half-devoured, and it was unsatisfying to restrain himself before he was fully sated.
He had sent his minions out with very specific instructions and told them not to return until they succeeded. He knew it would take them some while, but he also knew they would do as he bid them. They were aware of the consequences of failure, and they had no independent will of their own. And tonight he intended to feed to his heart’s content.
He watched Sofira depart with a stir of anticipation. The pleasurable fulfillment he would savor tonight was only one aspect of his new life. Soon, once he had full control and could relax his guard a little, he would sample once more the other pleasure, the darker pleasure, and he would have his fill.
He was fairly quivering with anticipation when the call finally came. He moved to the heavily secured door that led to the outer courtyard and slowly drew the iron bolts. Without opening the door, he stepped back. The night was clear; there would be starlight. It was not as hurtful as the glow of the moon, but he preferred to avoid it if he could.
In a voice saturated with displeasure at the long wait, he growled, “Come.”
The iron ring that worked the latch turned and the door swung slowly open. As he had instructed, they had two captives. Both were tightly bound, their mouths stopped with cloth and rope. They were fully conscious. Reen could tell this without the benefit of functioning eyes. He could taste the fear, smell the terror. Then his heart swelled. They had done it! They had fulfilled his request to the letter. Fighting down the urge to crow with unholy glee, Reen rasped, “Bring them in.”
The two men dragged their struggling captives into the abyssal gloom. Reen closed the door swiftly, the knowledge of what was to come enabling him to bear the feeble spark of starlight that prickled his withered skin. His servants jumped as the door closed; they hadn’t seen him move.
The younger of the two spoke in a dull, lifeless voice. “We have done as we were bid, master.”
“Yes,” rasped Reen, mounting excitement flooding his voice, “you have done well. Bring them through here.”
The scarecrow moved across the room and opened another door leading into a short corridor. At the end of this, in another small room, a muted flicker of firelight showed. Despite his unnatural condition, Reen still felt the cold, especially when he was weakened by hunger. Firelight was less painful than the light of sun or moon and he could endure its low glow with no great effort. After all, it had been Fire of a sort which was mainly responsible for his present condition.
His two servants, faces blank, said nothing, manhandling their captives down the corridor and into the small room.
“Secure them,” grated Reen, feeling sullen ruby points of light glow deep within his eyes.
Avoiding his demonic gaze, the two men deftly secured their whimpering prisoners to the iron rings set into the walls, retying the bonds so that each captive was fastened hand and foot to the rings and unable to move their limbs. The cloths in their mouths remained.
“Now get out.”
Without a backward glance, the men fled the dreadful room, closing the door soundlessly behind them. Reen dismissed them from his mind. He could easily recall them when the time came to clear way the debris of his feast. He moved slowly to stand before his two captives.
They were both male, as he had specified, and both were relatively young. They appeared strong and healthy, and he recognized the fire of resistance in their eyes as well as the fear of the unknown. They weren’t tall—Roamerlings never were—and they had the tanned, swarthy skin of their race, their dark eyes made darker still by the absence of whites. Reen amused himself for a moment trying to guess which one of them was gifted, which of these unnatural creatures from beyond the Veils held the knowledge he intended to absorb.
He stepped closer to the one on his left and extended a hand. The dark, terrified eyes watched him. He was not hiding his true aspect as he did with Sofira, and the trembling Roamerling flinched in horror as the withered, claw-like hand grasped his shirt and violently ripped the fabric away, baring the dark skin of his chest. Reen heard the growl of anger and fear which was the only sound the man could make.
Almost gently, he laid his hand on the man’s skin, over his laboring heart. Yes, his guess was correct. It was the other, slightly older man who possessed the power Reen so desired. But it didn’t matter which was the vessel. Both would provide him with strength, and the fact the gifted one was older only meant he should have more experience, more control, which suited Reen’s needs very well. His servants had exceeded his expectations with this first haul. It was almost a pity, for they were unlikely to do as well next time.
He spared a glance for the second captive and was pleased to see he couldn’t take his terror-widened eyes from the scene beside him. Reen grinned. He would give the creature something to watch. Something to soften him up, weaken his resistance.
Closing his eyes, he grasped the gnarled cane. The desiccated flesh of his hand seemed to fuse with the strange gray wood. He raised the cane and brought the dimly-glowing tip toward his victim’s bared chest. The Roamerling watched it come, terror and confusion bulging his eyes. The cane’s glow brightened as it sensed the warmth of the man’s sweat, and Reen pressed it to the flesh, centering it over the frantically beating heart.
Terror and pain swamped Reen, and he flailed within the Roamerling’s horror. But these extreme emotions were what the scarecrow c
raved, and he drank avidly of the man’s panic. The sensations faded as he drained the outlander of strength, and Reen once again felt himself swell with youth, potent with energy, and reveled in the triumph of his renewal.
The captive’s throat strained to scream; tendons stood out starkly and blood flecked his face where small veins had burst with the force of his agony. But he was denied release, and a strangled whimper was all his comrade heard. The older captive watched in horror as his friend’s contorted body subsided and hung limp, all resistance gone. But the eyes held intelligence still. Reen was not yet ready to take the final step, to absorb the final gift.
He emerged from his feeding frenzy and stared into the face of the second man. His lips stretched into a horrible smile. Never taking his eyes from the second man’s face, Reen leaned harder on the livid wood of his cane.
The flesh beneath its tip was ripped and ruined. It had erupted the moment the cane’s heel touched, but now it boiled. A charnel reek filled the air as flesh crisped and spat. Reen once more plunged his senses into the helpless captive and saw his route was open. Hungrily, he surrounded the Roamerling’s life force and dragged it out, absorbing, devouring. The body gave one final heave at this most fundamental of violations, and was still. The life light went out of the dark eyes, snuffed and absorbed, secreted within the swelling husk that stood before it.
Reen flung his head back and laughed. The strength he felt was incredible! His body seemed young, his muscles supple, his flesh strong and firm. It felt so good after days of weakness, and he knew now that he would never have to suffer that again. This had been an experiment, a double experiment that was only partially concluded. But now he was sure. If this Roamerling’s physical strength was compatible with Reen’s ruined body, then he had no doubt the gifts of the other would be too. He would take the strength of this second man, but it was not his physical power Reen craved now. Oh, he would show them—he would show her! He would grow more powerful than she could ever imagine and she would be helpless against him. And once he had that final power, the control he craved the most, then he would take his revenge and she would be unable to counter him. She would be destroyed, rendered weak and useless, and he would win.
His face stretched into a grimace of evil triumph as he ripped the shirt from his second captive. Reveling in the man’s terror, he gleefully absorbed the powers of the Roamerling Artesan.
Chapter Six
The atmosphere within the main room of the healer suite was tense with strain and effort. There was no sound but the labored breathing of the two occupants, although they sat as still as stone. The air was charged with grim determination and it was building toward an overload. Suddenly, inevitably, it snapped.
“Oh, I can’t do this, love. I’m nowhere near breaking through. It’s too hard.”
Robin’s handsome face was white from his efforts and sweat ran freely over his body. His every muscle trembled and he could hardly keep his hands still. His breathing was ragged and harsh and his heart pounded fit to burst.
“Try again, Robin, do not give up yet.”
The voice of his life mate was, if anything, even more strained than his own. Her golden eyes were closed, her face pasty, and her brow furrowed. She too was covered in sweat, although the air in the healer suite was chill. There were currently no patients within its quiet confines and the two Artesans had no need of braziers or the warm air of the under floor furnace to regulate their temperatures.
Brynne Sullyan was at the pinnacle of her powers, a Senior Master in rank and the highest ranking Artesan in Albia. Indeed, she was one of the highest in all the five realms. She was certainly the most powerful Artesan Albia had ever known.
Yet she was not one to be content with her own achievements. She was well aware that her vast powers needed exercise if they were to stay honed and sharp. Even as with her weapons skills, she trained regularly in order to stay in control.
Robin and Mathias Blaine, with whom she trained most often, were both of Master rank, although Robin was nearing the level of skill and strength necessary to support being raised to Master-elite. He was working on the element of Air, the most capricious of all the elements and the most awkward to control. To be raised to Master-elite, he only had to influence Air, not master it, but he was finding the task extremely difficult. This was not, however, what he was currently engaged in.
Sullyan, knowing there were Artesans in the distant past who had reached the rank of Supreme Master, was not quite ready to explore what she was convinced would be necessary to attain that final achievement. There were those who believed Spirit, the so-called “fifth element,” was purely mythical, but Sullyan’s experiences during her twenty-seven years of life had convinced her it was real. The question of whether it could be influenced, however, was another matter entirely and one she would explore only when she felt the time was right.
Instead, she had decided to tackle a problem which had exercised her mind for the past few years. There existed a substance, a naturally occurring metallic ore, which could affect an Artesan’s metaforce and psyche. Commonly called spellsilver, the activated metal ore could, when it came into contact with the skin, either block or enhance the flow of power through the psyche, depending on the silver’s polarity. Having experienced its dreadful numbing effects more than once in her life, Sullyan was determined to see whether the phenomenon could be circumvented.
She had already succeeded in breaching the debilitating void around her powers while wearing spellsilver, and had called out to those who had the power to hear her. She had also accessed the psyche of her unborn son whilst surrounded by spellsilver, and had used his embryo pattern to save herself and Prince Aeyron from death. But the circumstances under which she had done these things were extreme. In both cases she had labored under severe duress, and she was convinced the peril of her situation had contributed to her astonishing achievement. Yet the fact remained she had done it, and so a pathway must exist, a method of negating the ore’s effects.
This was what she and Robin were currently trying to find.
Her life mate, encouraged to one final effort by her words, gasped in pain. “It’s no use. I just don’t have the strength.”
Robin could no longer even keep hold of the tiny fragment of dull gray metal in his palm. His hands trembled violently and his face was tinged with green. He dropped the ore as if it burned him and bowed his head over his arms as he wrapped them around his chest. He took a long, shuddering breath.
“Ah, Robin, do not be so hard on yourself. Remember, I was Master-elite when I breached the spellsilver, and I was also desperate beyond measure.”
Robin glanced at his love where she sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. She laid aside her own sliver of ore. Her tone was distant, her eyes clouded, looking back into the past at that fearful memory. She knew her words triggered a recollection in Robin’s mind also. He, too, had experienced the kind of desperation that had caused his beloved life mate to so seriously consider taking her own life, and this was what had lent her the strength to breach the silver. He had also attempted the ending of his existence, but, unlike Sullyan, it was lack of courage that prevented him rather than the love of his friends.
She sensed his guilt and saw his face flush at this false thought. It was actually his foreknowledge of Tad’s inevitable grief that had stayed Robin’s knife—the thought of what his suicide would do to the boy who worshipped him as his hero.
But there was no opportunity for Sullyan to reassure Robin. She knew well the scars that terrible time had left, and by mutual agreement they never referred to them. She and Robin were closer now than ever, and that was all that mattered.
There came a light tap on the door and Sullyan glanced up as Tad entered the room. Relief showed on his face to find them unoccupied, although worry shadowed his eyes at their disheveled state.
“Are you all right?”
Sullyan smiled, brushing stray tawny hairs from her damp face. “We are well, Tad, ju
st exhausted. What can we do for you?”
“General Blaine’s asked for your attendance, Colonel. He’s had a message from the King.”
Sullyan rose at once. “Is it urgent, or do I have time to wash?”
“I think he’d like you to come straight away,” Tad said.
Sullyan smiled at him. He was so very young—only seventeen—and yet he was already a valued member of her company. He was a skilled swordsman and a gifted horseman; he could fight as well from the back of a warhorse as any of them. He was an Artesan-Journeyman and it was Sullyan’s opinion that the rank of Adept would be within his grasp in no more than a year. He was as diligent in his metaphysical training as his military. She and Robin were trying hard to include him in their circle of close friends—Taran, Cal, Rienne, Bull, and Dexter—but Tad still felt awkward and deferential, too young and too aware of the high status of his two heroes. Tad could never forget it.
“Very well, Tad, Mathias will have to forgive my state. Did he give you any indication as to the message’s import?”
Tad replied in the negative and they left together, leaving Robin to pick up the fragments of spellsilver and return them to their polished granite box.
When she reached his office, General Blaine answered her knock and waved her to a chair. She took in his preoccupied air, a shiver of premonition running down her spine.
“What has happened, Mathias? Is the King well?”
Blaine shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with Elias, not in the way you mean. But he’s had an unsettling message and he wants you to hear it. Taran’s standing by with the details.”
Sullyan raised her brows but wasted no more time on questions. She reached within for the complexities of her powerful psyche and held the pattern belonging to Taran before her mind’s eye. She had hardly quested for contact before she felt him respond.
