“Eh? Oh, yes, of course. I wish I could have done more. If I had been here sooner, I could have saved at least two more.”
Caelwen shrugged. “The situation is as it is. You did what you could, and I am grateful.” He reached a bloody hand to Aiul.
Aiul accepted the help, rising on shaky legs. “And exactly what is the ‘situation’?”
Caelwen stared down at Aiul with emotionless, pale blue eyes and placid face. “That is a matter of state security, on a need to know basis. You do not need to know.”
“I know a sword wound when I see one!”
“I recommend you not speak of that knowledge, surgeon. I recommend it most highly.”
“Or what? What will you do?”
Caelwen shook his head and sighed. “I will follow my orders and obey the law.” He gently placed a hand on Aiul’s shoulder. It left a mark, but there were so many others, it hardly mattered. “Listen to me. I am not your enemy.”
Aiul stiffened at Caelwen’s touch and stepped away. Don’t touch me, you thug. This blood is all your fault. “I want to speak to her.”
Caelwen seemed confused for a moment, then nodded as he grasped Aiul’s meaning. “Tasinalta? I doubt she will see you. She is in bed.”
“Why do you think she called my name in her time of trouble? She will see me. Tell her.”
Caelwen nodded. “You should clean up.” He cocked his head to the side, considering, and shrugged. “Then again, perhaps not. She has odd tastes.”
For the second time that night, Kariana found herself in the unusual situation of having a gentleman visitor in her private chambers. Not that she didn’t have many a visitor there for various debaucheries, but typically they were slaves and commoners. Most of the Housed men seemed to take little interest in her, no doubt because her power intimidated them.
This one, however, was special in any number of ways. Unlike Caelwen, the cold, cruel creature, Aiul was warm and inviting, kind, funny, appreciative. He was, in fact, everything a woman might want, save for obedient. What a pity. If he did as he was told, he could be the consort of an Empress. But, then, he had always resented authority. Perhaps that was what had always drawn her to him. He was safe, and yet there was the sense that if he was pushed too far, he was capable of almost anything.
“Aiul,” she said softly as he entered and closed the door behind him. “It’s been a long time.” She let her eyes hover on him. She had always liked his body, but his hands were magical, a surgeon’s hands, sensitive, dexterous, and strong. She couldn’t help but smile at the traces of blood still on them. She found it quite erotic.
He smiled and ducked his head sheepishly. “It has. It’s good to see you again, Kariana. I’m sorry it’s under such dire circumstances.”
“Oh, the situation you’ve dealt with is minor. We can always find more guards.” The smile left his face as quickly as it had come. Why was he so damned mercurial?
“I suppose that’s true enough.”
“I have a bigger problem.” She turned her face away and angled her shoulder, offering him a view down the front of her nightgown, but he was oblivious. He always had been, the fool. “I’ve captured a scouting party of Southlanders.”
Aiul looked confused for a moment, then gaped as he made the connection. “Mei! Are you serious?”
She looked at him, carefully forming her expression into a mask of solemnity, hoping her eyes appeared as wide and doe-like as possible. “They are fearsome brutes.”
“Aye. I’ve just seen their handiwork. What will you do with them?”
She said nothing for a moment, drawing things out, letting his curiosity peak before feeding it. “I must know their true intentions. And I will need your help.”
Again, it took him a moment to put it together, but when he did, his face darkened with anger, and he shook his head vehemently. “I’ll have no part of that! I am a healer!”
“And I want you to heal.”
“To keep men alive while you torture them! I won’t do it.”
He was so terribly sexy when he was moralizing, and yet she knew his weaknesses, as well. Hero, healer, the need to dry tears and ease pain, these were his soft spots. She had long ago learned to cry whenever she liked. She wept for him, and he came to her, took her in his arms as she knew he would. She buried her face against his chest and delivered an admirably believable series of sobs.
“I have no choice, Aiul!” she said at last. “You saw what those monsters can do!”
“I did.” He swallowed, hard. She was getting to him.
“Can you imagine an army of them tearing through our streets? Can you imagine them having their way with your new wife? We must find out what they know!”
She felt him nod against her. “Very well, then. I will help you.” She smiled against his chest, knowing he could not see. He was hers, at least for this matter. And before long, perhaps in all respects, and his new wife be damned.
“Will you stay with me tonight, Aiul?” she whispered.
He shifted uncomfortably against her. “I am married now, Kariana.”
A stab of anger and jealousy ripped through her. He should have been hers! The child his commoner bitch wife carried should have been in her belly instead. Was it not proper that Amrath and Tasinal should be together? Was it not what was always supposed to be, since they were children? He was hers! She had seen him first!
“What of it?” she whispered, not quite able to keep the acid from her voice. “Who pays attention to such things?”
“I do.”
Of course, the hero did, the surgeon, the good and decent fool. “Then tell her I commanded it. I have that right.”
Aiul was motionless for long moments. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Then command me.”
Kariana ground her teeth in rage. Not by his will, then. Not yet, anyway. “I command you,” she whispered. “Stay.”
Chapter 5
Machination
It was well past two in the morning when Aiul made his way through darkened, misty streets toward the prison, medical bag in tow, his thin frame huddled in a long, black robe. Frozen breath poured from beneath his hood as he half walked, half ran, his long legs not carrying him fast enough for his comfort. His boots clicked on the cobblestones, seeming loud in his ears, the only other sound besides his steady breathing.
The route was indirect, taking him through several seedier areas of the undercity, but he had been instructed to adhere to it specifically, to avoid attracting attention. The streetlamps along the way were all conveniently unlit, which only added to his discomfort. The few people he might encounter were likely to be both hostile and emboldened by the darkness. The first time he had made the journey, nearly a week before, he had been unarmed and had it not been for his skill in running, it might well have been his last. The following night, he had fetched his old mace, the one he had used for training as a youth when he fancied that he might someday become a warrior. That dream was long gone, but the skill remained, and the second trip had been unhealthy for several would-be muggers. Since then, they had given the tall, hooded figure a wide berth when he passed.
The one advantage of making this journey at night was that Caelwen was long gone by the time he arrived at the prison. The Commander knew well what was going on, and though he said not a word in objection, Aiul knew all the same that Caelwen was furious that his promises to the Southlanders had been overruled. He would follow the law, as he always did, so Aiul had no fear of being attacked. It was just that stare, that cold, blue gaze of unswerving, uncompromising judgment. It was like ice growing over his heart. Anything to avoid it was preferable.
So much for doing no harm. He cursed silently as he walked on, furious at having been fool enough to let himself become involved in this misadventure. Kariana was rapidly approaching madness due to sleep deprivation and substance abuse. There were pills to sleep, pills to prevent sleep, pills to be happy, pills to heighten sexual pleasure, the list went on and on. And she wonde
red why he would never have considered her for a wife!
When she was not jamming sharp instruments into the prisoner, she was jamming them into herself, injecting Mei knew what sort of noxious potions. At other times she wept uncontrollably, demanding he stay with her and console her. This, perhaps, was more troubling than all the rest. She was simply not the same woman he had known in his youth. Where in Mei’s name had she learned to torture? More importantly, why? She had always been indulgent and impulsive. Her wild abandon was half the reason Aiul had been fond of her in the past. But now, she was cruel as well, and frightened, paranoid. She was not Kariana anymore. The crown had changed her. She was Tasinalta, now, and his pity for her had changed, as well. It had become genuine fear.
He had, perhaps wrongly, kept things from Lara, feeling it would simply upset her for no good reason. Commoners took sexual fidelity quite seriously in marriage. And yet, Kariana had the right to command him. It was a tradition centuries old. There was nothing he or Lara could say or do about it without making themselves look terribly backward. And yet, the secret weighted upon him. He could barely look Lara in the eye. She knew something was wrong, that he left every night, and yet she demanded no answers. Yet.
Aiul arrived at the prison and descended the long flight of stairs into its deepest levels, beyond the sections where the stone walls were composed of actual blocks, and into the area that had been tunneled into the native granite, fully fifty feet beneath the streets above. It was a dismal place, the final destination of damned souls. The aesthetics had been carefully considered when Tasinal had commissioned it eons ago. Amrath himself had contributed greatly to the project, both as architect and consultant on the psychological effects. The design was insidious. From the seamless walls of unyielding stone; to the arrangement of sewers for maximum stench; to the deliberate acoustics that shaped and channeled sound so that screams echoed on and on; it was carefully calculated to douse the fire in a man’s heart, crush the life from his soul, and leave him a pliable husk, a wretch for whom even death would be a blessing. Just being here, even as a free man, was enough to make Aiul feel ill. He could only imagine what it would be like to be an occupant.
At the bottom of the long stairs, he entered the guard post. It was a small area, more of a bulge in the corridor than an actual room, with a single, heavy iron door in the far wall. Still, it was large enough to hold a table and a few chairs, and leave enough room to allow the normal complement of six guards to fight, if need be. Aiul doubted that there had ever been reason for them to do so, certainly not in his lifetime. Most who found themselves here were generally not in a condition to ever give anyone any trouble again.
The guards ignored him, as they did every time came, continuing their card games and conversations as if he did not exist. He took a key from the wall and unlocked the heavy door, then walked through and closed it behind him. As he entered the cell block, he heard the click of the mechanism as the guards secured the door, and felt a chill run through him at the thought of being locked away in that pit of despair.
There were no bars here, because bars allowed in light, and light was hope. The cells were little more than holes blocked with the same heavy iron doors that separated the cell block from the guard post. The prisoners spent most of their lives in darkness and filth, rarely seeing another living creature. Aiul ground his teeth as he passed, steeling himself against revulsion at the sheer inhumanity of the place. He was grateful that he could not actually see the horrors that lay behind the doors, but he could still smell the stench, and hear the occasional cough, moan, or sob from the unseen wretches, and it moved him in ways he could not truly explain. He only knew he did not want to be moved in such a manner, and so he hurried,
He made his way down the block, at last reaching the interrogation room. It, too, had a door of iron, and he used his key to let himself into the large room beyond. It was little different from the other cells, its walls all seamless granite. In the center of the place stood a table stocked with various implements of torture.
Kariana, her black tresses pulled back into a tight bun beneath a tiara, stood nearby, tiny, pale, and haughty, her violet eyes locked on her victim and smoldering with barely contained rage. In her long, milk-white fingers, she held a bloody, metallic instrument, and was applying it to the prisoner’s chest with great vigor. Aiul felt ill at the sight. How had they come to this?
The prisoner hung in chains, teeth bared in struggle, silent but for the occasional gasp. Blood and spittle dripped from his chin. His muscles rippled as he strained against his bonds, resolute even in the face of impossible odds. It had been nearly a week of nightly torture for him. The bright red welts on his dark skin vied for attention against the purple bruises left by clubs and boots. But still, he resisted. For all her effort, Kariana had yet to even draw a true cry of agony from him, much less any information.
“It’s good you have arrived,” she said to Aiul, not bothering to face him as she spoke, instead, keeping her eyes locked with her prisoner’s. Hatred radiated from both tormentor and prisoner like heat. Aiul could almost see the air between them warp with the blistering emotion.
“I should have a look at him now,” Aiul said.
Kariana gave the prisoner a cuff to the head, sending sweat and blood flying, and stepped back, bowing in mock deference for Aiul to come closer. “By all means.”
Aiul approached the prisoner, refusing to meet the man’s baleful stare as he busied himself examining the various wounds Kariana had inflicted. He struggled to keep his hands from trembling, trying to summon the steadiness he had so often taken pride in, had used to execute the most meticulous of surgeries so many times before. But that was to heal. This perversion of his skills, this preserving of life to prolong torture seemed a misuse of his gifts, a blasphemy that his hands recognized, and they refused to cooperate.
As he fumbled through his examination, he felt fear rise within him. Six days, this man had endured Kariana’s depredations, and yet he had not broken. Aiul could not conceive of the sort of resolve, the well of inner strength that would carry a man through such a nightmare.
“Look at me,” the prisoner rasped through cracked, bloody lips.
Kariana’s ears perked up at the sound of the prisoner’s voice. Aiul said nothing, fearful that he would upset some plan she had.
“I said look at me!” the prisoner shouted. “I would see the face of my enemy!”
Aiul looked toward Kariana, and she nodded. He lowered his hood and let his long, pale blond hair fall on his shoulders. He stared sadly into the proud, dark eyes of his patient, trying to say without words that this was not his will.
“You are a coward,” the prisoner growled.
Kariana folded her arms across her chest and smiled. “So you would speak, now, dog?”
“Tell her,” the prisoner said.
Aiul looked at Kariana, and shook his head. The prisoner was dying, and there was nothing he could do.
“So you would confess, and die easily?” she asked, magnanimous in victory.
The prisoner laughed, then coughed and spit blood. “Call it what you like,” he said. “I prefer to think of it as taking your comfort with me as I depart to join Ilaweh.”
“Enough games.” Kariana pushed Aiul aside and stood before the prisoner again. “Who are you and why have you come?”
“You think it will change, somehow, if you ask again? I am Yazid Valerian, servant of Ilaweh, soldier of the Xanthian Empire, and herald of your doom,” he said with a ghastly, bloody-toothed grin.
Kariana’s face grew dark with rage, and she gave the man another cuff to the head, but his grin remained.
“You fear me, bitch,” he said. “As you should.”
Kariana’s clutched the steel blade, momentarily speechless. Aiul could see her losing control, and considered speaking up, but thought the better of it. Six days had taken their toll on her, as well, and Aiul had no intention of making himself a target.
Kariana’s
face twisted in uncontrolled rage, and her voice cracked as she shrieked, “How dare you speak to me so! I am the blood of Tasinal!”
The prisoner’s eyes widened briefly, but he quickly mastered himself, hiding his emotion behind a mask of contempt. “Then it is you we have come to destroy,” he spat.
Kariana’s eyes bulged as she struggled to master her emotion. She, too, realized she had lost the initiative. She was no longer in control of the situation.
“I can make it infinitely worse, if I don’t need to worry about your survival,” she said in a low, husky voice. “As I said before, you might die an easier death if you cooperate.”
“Aye,” Yazid replied. “I might die an old man in my bed, too, full of regret. Life is sharp and painful. It’s not something a cringing lapdog like you can ever understand.”
“You’re a fool,” Kariana hissed. “A madman, a talking ape with delusions of grandeur. Even a beast fears death!”
The prisoner snorted at this. “I see, now. You, too, are a slave. Slave to fear, slave to birth, slave to tradition and public opinion. There was never a moment in your life not planned out for you, was there?”
“I do as I will!” she shouted. “I am Empress!”
“You want me dead, yet you cringe in fear that killing me without breaking me would be unseemly. You lack even the freedom to choose to spare me. You dare not. It would make you seem weak. No choices for you at all, just decorum and precedent.”
“Sophistry!” she cried.
“Yours. Not mine.”
Kariana’s eyes flared with madness, and she surged toward the prisoner, an incoherent shriek of fury on her lips. Steel glinted in the torchlight buried her blade in the prisoner’s throat. Blood gushed and sprayed from the wound as the Southlander vented a gurgling, bloody wheeze that Aiul realized, to his horror, was laughter. The Southlander grinned at Kariana, pleased with his victory, which only drove her to new heights of rage. She stabbed at him over and over, until Aiul could bear it no longer. “Kariana, please! It’s over!”
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