He ignored the chanting voice in his head urging him to do the most heinous acts, added another prayer to Kiriah and Bellias that his mastery over the power wouldn’t fade in the face of Racin’s attack, and gritted his teeth, bowing his head as he focused.
Dimly he heard a voice calling his name; then Racin and the waves of red, pulsing pain were gone.
“Stop! You will bring the whole temple down upon us. Already the rocks at the base of the temple are cracking. Deo, control yourself. My lord Racin, there are surely more important matters claiming your time than chastising my son.” Dasa’s words, spoken with a lightness that was belied by the anger in her eyes, did their work nonetheless, for Racin gave in to the restraining hand on his arm, and took a step back.
“Your whelp thought to challenge me,” Racin snarled, his eyes narrowing on her. “Again.”
“He does it simply because he knows it bothers you,” Dasa told him, her gaze locked on the monster.
Deo, who once again had control of himself, felt his lip curl with disgust. The fact that his mother, the greatest warrior of the third age, and queen of the Starborn, could consort with such an abomination as Racin turned his stomach.
“He goes too far.” Racin all but spat the words at Dasa.
She didn’t react. Deo had to give her credit for that, although it bespoke a familiarity that did nothing to calm his unhappy belly. He wondered for a moment what his father would do when he heard of the queen’s perfidy and decided that he wanted to be there when Israel Langton was told.
“I will speak to him,” Dasa said, her voice weary with exasperation. She urged Racin from the cell. “My time will not be wasted as yours would be should you wish to lesson him. Again.”
Deo smiled. The only other time Racin had thought to teach him his place in Eris, Deo had destroyed not just the citadel within which he’d been imprisoned, but half the mountaintop city as well.
With that act came the deaths of innocents, though. His smiled faded at that memory.
The magic within him stirred, but remained quiet.
Racin continued protesting, throwing threats at Deo, but at last the queen had him out of the temple and on his way back to Skystead. Deo stood gazing out of the small window, his eyes on the valley spread out below him.
“Did you have to do that?”
Deo stiffened at the censure in his mother’s voice, then forced himself to relax. “As a matter of fact, I kept myself from killing him. Do you not wish to thank me for that?”
“Thank you?” Dasa strode into the small cell, grabbed his arm and spun him around to confront her ire. “For almost ruining everything we’ve worked for? I ought to smite you where you stand. It would cause me considerably less aggravation than trying to teach you to heed the common sense that you were evidently born without.”
“You would know,” he said, allowing an ironic little smile to play about his lips.
She looked as if she wanted to strike him, but managed to get her temper under control. “The issue of your upbringing under your father’s care aside, what did you hope to gain by challenging Racin? You know full well you can’t destroy him on your own. Are you as mad as the priests say you are?”
He was distracted by that thought. “I haven’t been mad since I left the Isle of Enoch. Not truly mad.”
“The priests report that you speak when no one is in your cell. You draw runes in the air that glow with the light of Kiriah Sunbringer, something no one has seen since the coming of the Harborym. They say you pace the cell endlessly for days, casting spells and summoning minions of death.”
“If I had the ability to summon minions, do you think I’d be here now?”
“What I think is that you have frightened the priests of this temple until there are only a handful remaining. Should those leave, Racin will be forced to take action.”
Deo rolled his eyes. “He could imprison me in Skystead again.”
“After what you did to the keep?” Dasa glared at him. “Deo, I know this inactivity is hard on you. Bellias knows I find it almost unendurable to have to pretend interest in a thousand mundane activities when I would much rather fetch a sword and smite our enemies, but your father and I had long ago determined that we could not let Racin follow the path of destruction he started upon, or all of Alba would be enslaved, crying out helplessly under his yoke. You agreed to our plan. So why do you now cast all that aside in order to satisfy your need for revenge?”
Deo sighed. He wanted to be angry with his mother, but he couldn’t. “It wasn’t me. It was the magic.”
She eyed the runes on his harness, touching one of them with the tip of a finger, immediately snatching her hand back and shaking it. “Blessed Bellias, how can you bear such heat?”
He shrugged. “It is part of me. Just as the maddening urge to kill Racin is also in me.”
“Well, tell that part to be quiet,” Dasa snapped.
“Do you bring me any news?” he asked, changing the subject. He knew from experience of the last eleven months that arguing with his mother would only leave them irritated and annoyed to the point where one or both of them might be driven to violence.
“No.” Dasa breathed heavily for a minute, then laid her hand on Deo’s chest, on a spot not covered by the harness. To his surprise, she tipped her head back and smiled up at him. “You enrage me with your wild ways, Deo, but there is pleasure in the knowledge that my blood clearly rules you. You are indeed a fitting warrior of my house, and a fine reflection of your Starborn ancestors.”
He was momentarily silenced by the words of praise, having seldom heard them. He felt an unwelcome desire to preen in front of her and stifled it immediately. Although she might think he took after her, he had too much of his father’s sagacity to believe he was anything but what he was—a man tormented, one who had sacrificed much in order to fulfill the role to which he had been born. “Your words are pleasant, but they would be pleasanter still if you had something to tell me of Racin’s studies.”
She sighed and made a face before turning to the window. “The people dragged before him are subjected to his…studies…as you call them. The lucky ones die instantly. Those who survive the transformation usually die within days, most by their own hands, but some go berserk and attack the others.”
Deo was silent considering this. “I don’t understand.”
“Why he is decimating the population of Eris?” Dasa asked.
“No.” Absently, he rubbed his thumb along the line of runes on the wrist band of his other hand. “Why, he has so little control over his magic. Once I had mastered the magic, it took me a relatively short time to find a dosage that my Banes of Eris could take without killing—or consuming them, and yet he’s been attempting to do the same since we drove him back to Eris. Why?”
Dasa shrugged, turning back toward him, leaning against the wall. “It’s magic. It is unstable.”
Deo mused that his magic was unstable…but the chaos magic that he had first used was not. Powerful, yes, at times fighting for control, but it was only since he’d traveled to Eris that his magic had become unstable and uncontrolled. “It makes little sense. He seeks to duplicate the creation of my Banes, and yet he has an army of Harborym at his disposal.”
“Made up of soldiers who are easily defeated by you,” Dasa said smoothly, moving to stand next to him. “He fears you, my son. He doesn’t want to admit it even to himself, but he knows that you have done something to his magic that leaves him vulnerable. You pose a threat to him that he can’t tolerate, one that drives him to experiment upon the Shadowborn to find out just what you have done, so that he can find a way to best it…or unmake it completely. That fear drives him to the point where soon there will be no Shadowborn left untainted in all of Eris.”
“Since when do you have a fondness for the Shadowborn?” Deo asked, momentarily amused by her apparent concern. He
was under no illusion that his mother put her people’s welfare first and foremost in her life…even above that of her son.
“I have never condoned the slaughter of innocents,” she murmured.
He glanced at her, the words echoing with his own oath. “So I must continue to fester here?” He made an aborted gesture of frustration, wanting to vent his anger and impatience, but knew it would stir the chaos within him. “I remain an impotent prisoner, unable even to defend myself against the monster’s attacks?”
“You defended yourself to the point where you almost brought the temple down upon your head,” Dasa replied acidly, giving his arm a pat as she moved past him to the door. Outside it, the Priests of the Blood Hand stood at silent attention, their pale flesh and luminous, large eyes reminding Deo of frightened rabbits. Dangerous frightened rabbits. “Have patience, Deo. The moment Racin reveals a weakness that we can exploit, we will destroy him, and make all of Alba safe.”
“That could take decades,” Deo growled, his hands fisted. “Or centuries. I will go mad if I have to stay captive here.”
“Then return to Aryia,” Dasa said in a similar growl, clearly having had enough of Deo’s attitude. “I did not ask you to come here.”
“But you knew it was inevitable,” he stated, rounding on her.
She was silent a moment, her gaze on his face before it dropped to her hands. “No. I thought someone else—oh, it matters not. Do nothing that will endanger my plans, Deo, or I will have you removed to Aryia myself.”
She strode out of the cell before Deo could respond that he’d like to see her try that, but the mocking laughter that filled his head did little to soothe his frustration.
“My lord, if you please…” The soft voice came from one of the serving women who attended to the temple and its priests…and prisoners. This one had coppery red hair, and the bronzed skin that told Deo she had been born since the coming of the Harborym. The woman placed fresh bedding on the cot that sat in the corner of the cell before bringing in a jug of water, and a small, cracked bowl. She hesitated, her gaze moving from Deo to the door. Two priests stood outside, their heads together as they spoke so softly Deo could not hear them.
“My lord, you will forgive me, but I must speak. I can stand your suffering no longer.”
Deo, who was deep in abstracted thought about ways to force Racin to show his weaknesses—assuming he had them—frowned at the woman who plucked at his arm.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
She turned so that her back was to the door and smoothed out the bedlinens. “Today is a holy day for the priests. They will hold a great feast tonight to celebrate. There will only be one guard, and with my help, you can escape—”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, his frown deepening.
The woman—he remembered her name was Mayam—looked momentarily startled, her dark eyes flashing confusion at him before her gaze dropped to the floor. “You must—you are a prisoner here.”
“So?”
Irritation flickered across her expression. “You are a great warrior. The priests say you defeated the Speaker and his Harborym. Such a man as you cannot wish to stay here, trapped in a small cell.”
Deo smiled a grim smile, one that he felt said it all. But just in case the maidservant didn’t appreciate the grimness of his gesture, he said, as he gently pushed her out the door, “You have no idea what sort of a man I really am.”
Chapter 4
“By Kiriah’s breath, will this blizzard never end?”
Israel Langton, lord of the Fireborn, slid a glance toward the man who rode next to him, one so covered in furs and thick woolen garments that if he didn’t know better, he’d assume it was a bear instead of his faithful Marston. He fervently hoped that the snow upon the steep cliffs that seemed to choke out the sullen white sky didn’t give way and collapse, because given the four layers of clothing that he’d donned in order to resist the bite of the cold, he doubted if he could even dismount from his horse, let alone flee an avalanche. “Ilam is not far ahead, old friend. We will have respite from the snow and winds there,” he answered, his voice muffled behind the thick woolen cloth wound around the lower part of his face.
His horse stumbled, the droop of the beast’s head showing just how hard the journey to the High Lands had been. Israel cursed the need to come at this time of year, when the pass between the home of the Tribe of Jalas and the rest of Aryia was beset by snow and high winds, but there was no help for it—the journey would be twice as long if he had come by sea. And he had little time to waste.
He needed to do what Hallow could not.
The horse stumbled again, almost going down on one knee. Israel raised his hand, pulling down the wool cloth to call out an order to halt. He dismounted awkwardly, looking back at the score of men who traveled with him. They all looked as numbly miserable as he felt. “We will rest as best we can,” he ordered, leading his horse over to a sharp overhang of rock. The narrow neck of land that connected Poronne to Aryia was infamous for its rock slides and avalanches, but at that moment, Israel cared little about its reputation. He had pushed his men and horses to the breaking point and knew he would lose both to the cold if he didn’t give them some respite.
There wasn’t much they could do other than kick drifts of snow and use hands numb and red despite many layers of leather and wool to carve out a spot for the horses to rest away from the wind. He covered his horse with his own blanket, strapping on a feed bag with fingers that felt as if they belonged to someone else.
There was not enough shelter to even start a fire, so the men huddled together, snow-covered effigies that pressed themselves to the black stone wall beneath the overhang. A few men slumped against the wall, all but their eyes hidden beneath layers of clothing.
“My lord…” Marston, Israel’s friend and lieutenant, approached, his eyelashes and eyebrows coated with ice and snow.
“I know,” Israel said, feeling more tired than he had in all the long centuries of his life. Part of him wanted to rouse the men and continue on, but another part, a deep, primal part, reacted to the insidious creeping fingers of cold that slowed his brain, and lured him into the desire to just sit down for a little bit, so he could rest…and sleep…
A vision rose in his mind’s eye, one that seemed to waver along with the flurries of snow. He had a presentiment of danger, of a dark, sliding threat coiled around something most dear to him, leaving it…her…at the risk of being destroyed…and then a fresh blast of frosty wind hit him dead in the face, and he was shocked back to reality.
“Dasa.” The word was out through his bloodless lips before the name had even formed in his mind. She was in danger. He knew that just as he knew that unless he did something, he and his men would die there. And what would happen to Dasa and Deo if he died so needlessly? He shook his head, pushing down the desire for the peace that sleep would bring. With an effort, he peeled off the protective layers of wool and fur covering his frozen hands and reached into the saddlebag for a small tapestry bag. He stroked a finger over the embroidery worked on the thick cloth, tracing out the star and moons of Bellias that Dasa had stitched as part of a present to him.
His lips were too stiff and frozen to smile at the memory of just how inappropriate she knew the gift was, since it was intended to store the tools he used to practice the grace of Kiriah.
It took him three tries before he was able to bring from the bag the two small shards of polished antler, a collection of dried herbs, and a piece of bark the size of a man’s hand which he had plucked from an obliging willow before setting out on the journey. He laid the items onto the bark and set it on the snow before him, which rose almost to his knees. His arms and hands pricked painfully in the wind, the bite of it sufficiently stinging to pull his attention from where it should be. It took a few moments of concentration before he could focus,
but at last he did, casting wide his arms and tipping his head back to look up into the angry white sky, speaking the invocation to Kiriah that would bring him either her grace…or her rejection. If he was to die there, at least he would have done everything possible.
“Stone, earth, bone, and tree.
Sunbringer, shed your light upon me.
Your songs I have sung,
Your light I have shone,
Your grace I have shared,
But your children are cold and alone.”
The snow and wind whipped around him with a violence that almost toppled him, but that was nothing compared to the despair that gripped him with the painful knowledge that he had failed. He’d failed his son just as he’d failed Dasa, not to mention all the people of Aryia who looked to him for protection. But the vision he’d had of Dasa in dire peril drove him back onto his feet. He pulled on the dregs of his strength in order to conduct one last invocation.
As the last words were spoken, he held his breath, waiting to see if the goddess would hear his plea…or if she would doom him and the ones he loved the most. His shoulders slumped when there was no answering rush of power, no sense of the goddess blessing him…until he became aware of a dull sensation of warmth bathing his frozen head. The wind dropped suddenly, taking with it the snow. His skin tingled, chapped by the harsh weather, but Israel welcomed the pain as he looked upward. The dull whiteness that was the sky had started to change; hints of pale blue peeping between the dense clouds, as slowly, they began to tear apart and evaporate. He sent up a humble prayer of thanks to Kiriah for blessing the Fireborn with the grace of Alba, then turned to Marston. “Are there any spirits left?”
“Aye,” the lieutenant answered, and actually smiled when he, too, looked upward. Pale rays of sunlight pricked through the remaining clouds, the warmth of Kiriah’s touch bringing new life to the company.
The men stirred themselves when Marston passed amongst them with a couple of skins bearing the fiery alcohol known colloquially as Kiriah’s Essence. Even the horses perked up when Israel ordered their saddles and wet blankets removed, so that they could feel the warmth of the sun on their hard-worked bodies. Snow melted around them, not completely, but enough that a couple of fires could be started on some exposed rock, and water heated.
Starborn Page 5