Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

  “I will!” Aiul roared, slamming his fists against the door from his own side. “I'll bargain with Elgar if it means I taste your blood!”

  “The name's Salastin,” the guard sneered. “For when you and your Dead God are ready.” He turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “The Traitor lives!”

  Aiul watched him go in blind fury. He pulled at the edges of the eye slit as if he might peel the metal back with his bare hands, howling his hatred through clenched teeth, the muscles in his arms standing out like cords. For long moments, he was transfixed, a demonic statue, teeth bared and a-grind. Then he heard a sharp report from his left jaw, and it was enough to bring him to his senses. The strange, familiar symbol flashed in his vision again, then faded.

  Mei, I've cracked a tooth! This could get very bad for me indeed.

  I would make a most excellent murderer. Rithard smiled at the irony of the thought, now that he had set his mind to just that. But it is true. And I will get away with this.

  Planning was everything. So many fools killed on the spur of the moment, passionately, understandably. Rithard was rarely consulted on such cases, due to the ease of solving them. On the few occasions he had been, it was child's play to work out motives, means, opportunity, and point the authorities in the right direction.

  Murder, in the end, was just another human behavior, albeit a forbidden one. Men killed because they were angry, because they were greedy, because they hated. Catching a murderer consisted largely of working out which of the three applied, and finding who fit the bill. Once one narrowed the list of possibles, the evidence was usually all too easy to find.

  Not so, in this case. There were damned few who could even fathom Rithard's motivation. They would have to be clever enough to work out a masterful deception that had confounded even him for quite some time. How could anyone know he wanted her dead, when they have no idea what she had done?

  Nothing much. She just engineered death and ruin on both sides of my family, with me likely included on the list of victims.

  Rithard paused in the bedroom outside Maralena's bath. She was surely within, indulging her decadent tastes. He shook his head at the expense of the silk sheets, the polished, intricately carved headboard. Such vanity. It's a wonder she didn't just have it all made of gold and be done with it.

  He removed a vial from his pocket and checked the contents. It held a rarely used drug, one that only he or Aiul would possibly recognize: a powerful sedative used for surgeries. In carefully measured doses, it brought temporary oblivion and paralysis of most muscles, a godsend for both patient and surgeon. A massive overdose, administered through the carafe of drinking water she kept by her bed, would lead to unconsciousness and heart failure in just a few minutes. It had no smell, no color, and no odd side effects beyond those he desired.

  Were there risks? Certainly. He had come here unobserved, but he might be seen leaving, still. He had a clever lie, one that would pass even his own mother's keen sense of truth: Maralena had summoned him here, wanting information about Aiul's condition. There might be some suspicion, but without motive, it would pass. Maralena had plenty of enemies, some of them Meites. Bookish, dispassionate Rithard would be forgotten in the storm of accusations.

  And worst case, if he were caught, and she lived? The ultimate play would be to tell her exactly what he had intended, and why. Of course, he would also lay out in exacting detail what he had worked out about her machinations, and that he had written all of it down. Were he to suffer an ‘accident’, the document in question would end up in the hands of his good friend Caelwen, as well as his Matriarch Narelki and their family friend, Maranath Aswan.

  He had every base covered. He opened the vial and was about to pour its contents into the carafe, then froze at the sound of the bath door opening.

  Rithard almost dropped the vial in his shock. He quickly spun to face the newcomer, seeing only a vague figure within the cloud of steam that came rushing from the bath. I'll strangle her. I've no choice, now. I can recover, if I have the will.

  “Oh, my,” the newcomer tittered, the voice decidedly male. “What have we here?” The steam dissipated slowly to reveal a tall, sharp-featured man, draped in red and black robes. He flashed Rithard a razor smile and cocked his head in amusement.

  Rithard’s heart sank as he scrambled to find a believable lie. Well, it would seem I am less competent at murder than I imagined. Still, it's damnably bad luck. “We have similar, bad taste in women, I suppose.”

  The man snorted laughter. “You're standing there, pouring something into her water, and I'm supposed to believe you're her bed mate?” He shook his head, still laughing, and touched a finger to his lip in mirth. “A jilted lover, here for revenge, is that about the shape of it? Ridiculous.” He laughed again, this time with a darker, malevolent undertone. “This is terribly embarrassing, friend, but it seems I may have eaten your lunch.”

  “What have you done?”

  “The same thing you intended, I'd wager, only with panache. Really, poison? Longing for a part in a penny dreadful, are we?”

  Rithard felt his jaw clench, but he offered the man only a placid, blank regard. “I'm afraid I don't know your name.”

  The man's demeanor shifted from humorous to threatening in an instant. Rithard felt himself begin to sweat, and knew full well it was not from nerves. The room was hot like a furnace now, in the space of moments. “Count that as a blessing. We could end this with neither of us knowing names, and both walking away alive, eh?”

  “A Meite assassin,” Rithard muttered, more to himself than as a reply. “Who could have predicted that?”

  “Maralena, had she the sense to think things through.” The Meite glared at Rithard. “Do you intend to be difficult about this?”

  Rithard paused a moment, then slipped the vial back into his pocket. I have what I wanted, it seems. “I never saw you.”

  The Meite’s smile beamed, and the room cooled in an instant. “Nor I you.” With a wink and an impish grin, he turned to depart, then seemed to reconsider. He turned back, his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. “Mei! I can't do it that way! Not when you've looked me in the eye. It would be pure cowardice.” He locked eyes with Rithard and announced imperiously, “My name is Sadrik Tasinal.”

  Rithard maintained eye contact as he considered. “I am Healer Rithard of House Amrath,” he answered after a moment.

  Sadrik nodded in appreciation. “I know that name. You have courage, Rithard. Will you keep my secret, if I keep yours?”

  “I will. I've no quarrel with you.”

  “Nor I, you. And now that I know what sort of man you are, we might even be friends someday.”

  Rithard nodded and said, “It is good to have friends.”

  Shirini stirred her soup again, smiling at the perfect silence in her kitchen. Young hens did indeed learn, it seemed. Not that it mattered much, in that the master and his lady 'friend' were making no effort at all to be discreet. They sat at Davron's table, cold fury so chilling the air between them that Shirini almost expected snow.

  Davron glared across at the mystery woman, hands clenched into fists, his face dark with anger. “I will not ask again, witch! Where is it?”

  Parala cringed as she mixed dough. Cyndi laid a heavy beef roast on the counter and hissed, “What's he talking about? I missed it in the larder!”

  “Shh!” Shirini waved her spoon for silence.

  Parala answered softly, “He thinks she's stolen his father's sword.”

  Cyndi's eyes widened in appreciation. “Did she?”

  Shirini stirred her soup furiously and muttered, “If you'd shut up we might find out!”

  Cyndi mimed a sewing motion on her lips, then reached for a tenderizing mallet. Shirini gave her a look that must have communicated exactly how stupid a thing that would be, because Cyndi changed course and reached for the salt and pepper instead.

  Some young hens learn slower than others, I guess.

  O
ther than rolling her eyes, the dark-haired woman (whom Shirini had named “The Bitch”) did not respond, and Davron grew even more incensed. “Answer me!”

  The Bitch fluttered her eyelashes in feigned shock. “How dare you accuse me of theft!”

  “Oh, I doubt you're the thief,” Davron replied. “You had someone else do your dirty work for you, no doubt. Isn't that how you Prosin weasels do things? Dead drops, cut-out agents, plausible deniability?”

  Shirini and her two underlings stared back and forth at one another in shock. The Bitch is House Prosin!

  The Prosin Bitch threw back her shoulders and inclined her head. “I work in information. I do favors for people, they tell me things. Other people do me favors and I tell them things. That doesn't make me a thief.”

  “You think me a fool, that I can't make the connection in timing? Really, Teretha, I expected a better lie than this.”

  In the kitchen, the two younger girls were bobbing and swaying in silent victory dances. Shirini tasted the soup, feeling very satisfied indeed. Teretha Prosin. Now we know your name.

  Teretha looked genuinely offended at this. “Really, Davron,” she sneered, mocking his tone. “Is there anyone you haven't pissed off these last few months?”

  Davron dismissed her charge with a wave. “Do you have it or not?”

  “I could acquire it, for a price. Provided you meet my price.”

  Davron's nostrils flared and his jaw bulged as he mulled this over. At last, he asked, “What are your terms, snake?”

  “What do you think?” she shouted. “I want you to protect my son from this madness you've instigated!”

  Davron darkened at this, but nodded, less an agreement than an acknowledgment. “There are no guarantees in such matters. I can only promise to do my best. And such things have a way of coming back if politics shift. It's the work of a lifetime. At what point have I done a good enough job to close the deal?”

  “Fair enough. Then you will promise to do your best as long as you live. And you will give me another son, to insure against the possible loss of the one you have risked.”

  Davron burst into sincere laughter at this. “Shall I pull one from my pocket?”

  Teretha rolled her eyes again, then pointed at Davron's crotch. “From your trousers, fool, or do you still not know how babies are made? You risked my son in Amrath. You will give me the heir to Noril. When he is born, I will return your father's blade. It will be his by rights anyway.”

  In the kitchen, Parala had both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes bulging, and Cyndi held up a fist in triumph. Shirini gave her an approving nod.

  Davron, mortified, leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. “And what of my wife, witch?” His fist rose into the air as if it were not entirely under his control.

  Teretha glanced at his threatening gesture and smiled, showing no sign of being intimidated. “Please. How will beating me help your position? It could only help mine.”

  “I should enjoy it, though!”

  “You might enjoy my counteroffer as well, if you weren't so stubborn. You said you liked women.” She grabbed his fist and brought it to her breast, Davron seeming helpless to resist her. His hand relaxed, then tightened again, kneading her flesh with relish. Teretha’s voice was almost a purr as she said, “Here is a fine specimen, a comely one at that. Don't pretend it wouldn't please you.”

  Davron took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled his hand back, grabbing it with his other as if to restrain an unruly child. “What do you prove with this? That I'm a man? I'd be a liar to say I have no appetite for what you propose, but I will never betray my wife.”

  “Betray? You are an elder of Nihlos without issue. I doubt even your wife would count it as treachery if you were up front with her about your intentions. You needn't marry me. Just claim the child.”

  Davron looked her up and down, still restraining his offending hand as he considered. “A fine specimen, to be certain. But I am not fond of the taste of defeat.”

  “Then choose not to taste it as defeat. Choose to see it as a mutually beneficial and pleasant alliance.” She reached again for his hand, drawing it toward her crotch, but Davron jerked it back as if he had been burned.

  “Not here, not now. I must speak with my wife, first. I will not betray her.”

  Teretha smiled coyly and sipped her wine. “Of course.”

  In the kitchen, Shirini raised her eyebrows suggestively over a tin cup of port, and the other two sipped at theirs, barely stifling giggles. “This, young'uns, is how we cook.”

  In the end, it was neither the solitude nor the nightmares that broke Aiul's will. It was the shattered tooth. Such terrible nightmares plagued him, visions of Lara’s body being stabbed over and over, his unborn child knowing the kiss of steel before it knew the sweet taste of air in its lungs, blood running from Kariana’s blade. Sleep itself had become an enemy, one that stole upon him at his weakest moments and tormented him beyond the limits imposed by the reality of the waking world.

  Ironically, he had found the tooth something of a comfort for a while. As the infection entered, he could taste the rot, and then came the throbbing. The pain drove the memories from his mind and held back sleep. But then it grew worse, and he could not sleep at all. At best, he dozed for a few minutes at a time before awaking to sheer misery again. His captors offered him no relief. Salastin took great joy in his agony, and told him to pray harder.

  If he had only had the most basic of tools, just a simple knife or an awl, he could have extracted it, perhaps, but since his last outburst, they no longer even gave him eating utensils, just a metal bowl.

  In a state akin to a living nightmare, Aiul lost track first of time, and then reality. He had moments of lucidity, but they came less frequently as the days and nights passed. It seemed to him that at times, he was back in the cell where he had watched Lara die, and at others he was here again, with Salastin pounding the door, asking if he had died and spared them both any more misery.

  Aiul had gone beyond caring. As strong as his will had been, the passing months of deprivation and misery ate at him like acid, burned away his resolve until there was little left of him but a shell. He no longer prayed for salvation, merely death. It was not in him to take his own life, not with the pride and the lust for vengeance that raged within him, but he would have welcomed that burden be lifted from him by some merciful accident of injury or disease.

  It will come soon enough. The infection will spread. I'm doomed. It will be a hard death, but the pain will eventually stop. That's all that matters, now. The realization was comforting.

  It was then, as Aiul lay waiting for the end, drowning in despair and disorientation, that the voice first spoke to him.

  It was no mortal sound that assaulted his ears. The words were horror shaped into words, meaning imposed upon a thousand screams, the dripping of blood, the scurry of hungry insects over corpses. His nightmares paled to insignificance compared to the fear that gripped him at its sound.

  “How long will you suffer here, child?” it asked, only that. Then silence.

  Aiul curled into a fetal position, gripped with a terror he could not explain. For long hours he lay, motionless, afraid even to move, scanning the dim corners of his cell, looking for the source of the voice. He tried to tell himself that it was simply a delusion brought on by a brain infection, but he could not quite convince himself that his rational explanation was the truth. At last, he fell into an exhausted sleep. The nightmares still played in his head, but they were weak things now. The images were the same, but whatever had chilled his soul with those few words had, it seemed, numbed his capacity for horror. The visions of Lara were just images now, meaningless against the backdrop of raw, primal fear he had experienced. Even the agony of his rotting tooth seemed dulled, grayed out, insignificant compared to the voice.

  When he awoke, confused, trying to decide if he were truly awake or in a fever dream, the voice struck again, this time playing on all of his sense
s. The prickly, burning snap of the hangman’s noose going taught, the reek of rotting flesh, the taste of ash and bitter poison, the stomach-twisting betrayal of a brother, all poured over and into him, a tide of corruption and depravity that threatened to drag his mind into its depths with its undertow.

  “Blood calls for blood,” said the voice.

  Aiul screamed. He screamed again, and again, and again. He did not stop until at last Salastin burst in and beat him into unconsciousness.

  There was no escaping into dreams, this time.

  Aiul found himself on a barren plain that extended in all directions as far as he could see. Cold, gray light, its source invisible, filtered through dark clouds overhead, illuminating a scorched wasteland. There were no plants or animals, only dirt and rock, dust and wind, and all about, blackened areas where fire had scoured the surface of color. It was gray and lifeless, a world of ash.

  He scanned the horizon, searching for something, anything that might serve as a sign of life, but saw nothing but more of the same rubble.

  He heard a laugh and felt his heart quicken as the fear filled him. It was the voice! He was certain of it! It was weaker, but it still chilled him to the depths of his soul. “Who are you?” he shouted to the gray sky, looking about frantically. “What do you want of me?”

  “You called to me,” the voice answered. The words had the same strength as before, and he felt the terror rising in him again, the urge to scream and bury himself in the earth as the sensations of horror, grief, and madness bored into his soul.

  “I can’t bear it!” he cried out. “Leave me alone!”

  “You called to me,” the voice repeated, “And I am come.”

  Aiul covered his ears struggled to anchor himself against the storm. “Who are you?” he cried out again.