The Outcast
Page 12
Abruptly furious with herself for making such comparisons, she swung round, clenching her fists in sheer bitter frustration. She couldn’t stay in this room, like some fragile flower awaiting rescue by her paramour - the idea, when applied to herself, made her want to laugh aloud. Drachea might choose to study books as an answer to their plight; she needed more direct and active means. And immediately she thought of the vault, and the silver door with its mystery.
That place had chilled her, and yet it had fascinated her, too. Caution had thus far made her resist the lure of returning, but the lure was there all the same. As if something called, something that lay behind the door, waiting …
She shivered. She had been enticed by such feelings before, and wouldn’t care to repeat the experiences they’d brought. But she had to do something … and her frustration was strong enough to overcome fear.
Suddenly decisive, Cyllan slipped out of her room into the gloomy passage. Drachea’s door was firmly shut, and as she passed it she paused, listening; but no sound came from within. Silent as a cat, Cyllan hurried away towards the stairs.
Strangely, she felt none of the nervousness she had anticipated as she descended the long flight of stairs to the library vault. Rather, she had a sense of returning home; an inexplicable tightness that baffled her. The vault was dark, the small door in the alcove as they had left it: cautiously she pushed it open, then stepped into the sloping passage. Her bare feet made no sound, and the only thing to break the utter quiet was the soft hush of her own breathing.
The silver door awaited her, glowing, but the glow seemed somehow softened. Quite why she had come to stand before it again Cyllan didn’t know; it was locked, she couldn’t enter the chamber beyond … yet it had seemed the right, the only, thing to do. And now her instinct was at work again, urging her to touch, to try, to dare …
Remembering the shock Drachea had received, Cyllan was reluctant to touch the peculiar metal surface; but knew she couldn’t merely stand and stare. Slowly, she reached out …
There was no shock. Her palm came to rest on the door and it felt warm; unyielding, but almost alive. She drew breath, exerted a gentle strength, pushed -
Her head snapped back with a stunned reflex as an instantaneous and blinding flash of light slammed against her inner vision. A star - a seven-rayed star - then it was gone as shockingly as it had come, and she stared in astonishment as the silver door began, slowly and silently, to swing open.
There was light, an eerie, nebulous coruscation of mist, shifting and shimmering and deceiving the eye.
Through it Cyllan thought she could see slender pillars that reached to an invisible ceiling, but they too seemed to move and change with the ever changing light. It was as though she had opened a door on to a fable-world, a place of miraculous strangeness and soul-tearing beauty; and she bit her lip hard against an irrational surge of emotion. Slowly, not knowing if she dared advance or if her presence would sully this silent perfection, she moved forward a pace, then another, until the mists enveloped her, their light playing on her skin and transforming her into some denizen of their own strange dimension.
The Marble Hall … This could be no other place!
Awed, Cyllan advanced, gazing in wonderment at the vast chamber which seemed to have no boundaries, at the fascinating patterns of the jewel-hued mosaic floor.
It was a masterpiece, surpassing anything she could have imagined - surely, she told herself, surely it could not have been created by human hands!
She was so entranced by the undreamed-of beauties of this magical place that all else was forgotten - until, through the shimmering curtains of light, she saw something that jarred with the Hall’s serenity. It loomed black, angular and ugly out of the mist, and as she drew nearer she saw that it was a great block of wood, roughly the length and breadth of a man, that stood waist-high like some crude altar. Pitted, scarred, clearly very ancient, it was cruelly out of place among such beauty, and something about it made Cyllan recoil. It seemed to reek of decay and death and despair, and she skirted widely round it, not wanting to move too close lest its aura should touch her too.
And it was in changing her direction to avoid the black block that she came face to face with the statues.
‘Aeoris!’ The oath was out before she could prevent it, and Cyllan made the Sign before her heart in hasty apology for such irreverence. Her eyes widened, barely able to take in the sight that confronted her.
There were seven of them, towering figures which rose out of the mist like something from a nightmare.
They were shaped like men, but gigantic; and the deceptive light playing and shifting over them gave a terrible illusion of movement. They might at any moment have stepped down from their stone plinths and advanced, like giants, towards her.
But it was an illusion … they were statues, nothing more. And yet, though she couldn’t see them clearly, Cyllan felt a deep thrill of awed recognition. Seven statues … seven gods … this, then, was the most sacred sanctum, the Circle’s own temple to Aeoris …
Fearing to commit a sacrilege by daring to look more closely at such holy artefacts, Cyllan was yet unable to resist moving nearer to the statues. Throughout the land she had seen many religious celebrations, bowed before many images of the White Lords; but never before had she been privileged to gaze upon the face of Aeoris in such an exalted place. She drew closer to the towering figures, staring up through the mists like a transfixed child, to see the carven features of the seven gods.
Disappointment filled her as she saw that the statues had no faces. The features of each one had been thoroughly and systematically hacked away until no detail remained, and the sight of such desecration shocked Cyllan to the core. But the statues were incredibly ancient - the black stone was worn and pitted with the ravages of countless centuries, and she realised suddenly that this sacrilege might have taken place even before the first Initiates made the Castle their stronghold.
Astounded by her discovery, she peered up again at the towering figures -
And she stumbled back with a cry of shock.
Slowly, superimposed on the ruined and jagged stone, faces were forming, manifesting fully even as she looked. Those faces gazed impassively down on her, serene and immortal. But the serenity was shot through with malevolence; the features, though beautiful as only gods could be, sharp-etched and cruel; the eyes ice-cold and filled with a proud evil. These were not the faces of Aeoris and his holy brethren! These were the antithesis of Light, bringers of darkness and mayhem … and she knew them!
Cyllan’s heart pounded agonisingly in her breast as she stared at the nearest of the statues - and she remembered a moment in Shu-Nhadek, just before the Warp had come shrieking through the town to snatch her and Drachea, when she had stared in fascinated horror at the grim, gaunt figure that beckoned like a nemesis from the street, outlined against the insane sky. That face - she could never forget that face!
Stunned by shock, yet unable to find the compulsion to turn her head, she looked at the second figure which stood beside the first. And what she saw made her slam a fist against her mouth to stop herself from crying out aloud. If the first face had been familiar to her, then the second was infinitely more so - and in one horrifying instant it confirmed everything the High Initiate’s testimony had revealed, and swept away all possible doubt.
Cyllan turned, almost losing balance in her haste, and ran towards the silver door, now barely visible in the coruscating mist. Reaching it, she flung herself through and raced, sobbing for breath, up the steep slope to the vault. The vault door crashed behind her; she didn’t hesitate, but stumbled over the scattered books towards the stairs -
In the gloom a dark shape moved, materialising out of the shadows. Powerful hands grasped her wrists, spun her around - and Cyllan came face to face with Tarod.
‘No!’ The word was a full-throated scream and, with the strength of panic, she twisted free and plunged towards the door. She had almost reached it when it sl
ammed shut, and she cannoned into the unyielding wood with tremendous force. Tarod caught her as she reeled back, stunned, and Cyllan knew that she couldn’t escape him. Sick with the dizzy aftermath of her collision, she could offer no further resistance as Tarod swung her to face him. Her back was pinned against the door now, and all she could do was turn her head aside, every muscle in her body rigid.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.
He didn’t reply; neither did his grip slacken. Cyllan shut her eyes, not knowing what he’d do to her and aware that she was powerless to fight him. Fear and hate surged in her, but she was impotent.
‘Cyllan … ‘ Tarod’s voice was soft with menace.
‘You will answer me, and you’ll tell me the truth. Where have you been?
She bit her lip until a bead of blood formed, shaking her head violently. She expected him to hurt her, but he didn’t. Although the pressure of his fingers increased, he only said, almost gently, ‘Tell me, Cyllan.
Startled by the tone she looked at him - and saw the iron-hardness in his green eyes. He had no need to harm her physically. He could destroy her sanity with a flick of his fingers if he chose to, and they both knew it. She struggled with her tongue, knowing she was defeated but striving not to show weakness.
‘I - ‘ The words came at last. ‘Through the corridor … the silver door …
To the Marble Hall?
‘Yes ‘And then?
The green eyes still held hers, and she didn’t dare lie. ‘I’d thought the door was locked, but … it opened.
Tarod ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip. ‘Yes,
he said softly, almost to himself, ‘I thought so … ‘ To Cyllan’s surprise he released her arms and turned away, walking slowly across the vault towards the alcove.
Watching him, she began to edge one hand towards the latch of the door at her back. If she could open it silently, she might -
‘The door won’t open,’ Tarod said, without looking at her. ‘It will stay closed until I release it.
Her cheeks were afire with shame at her own naivety when he turned to face her again. For a long moment he regarded her with detached interest, then he said, ‘Why are you so afraid to answer my questions?
‘I’m not afraid.’ She couldn’t look at him; the memory of the statue’s carved face was too strong.
‘Ah, but you are. Why? Do you fear reprisal?’ He smiled, though it wasn’t a kindly smile. ‘I could hurt you, if it suited me to do so, or perhaps if you angered me.
But I’d prefer otherwise.
The utter certainty that he could do precisely as he chose with her snapped Cyllan’s self-control. She knew what he was; knew that she had nothing to lose, and something awoke in her that made her fatalistically careless. If she was damned, then let the damnation be complete - she could at least hold to what little pride she had left.
Her voice suddenly stronger, she spat back defiantly, ‘Would you? I doubt that!’ She took a step towards him, shaking. ‘Why don’t you destroy me, Tarod? I’m nothing to you - I’m of no value!’ One hand went to the collar of the shirt she wore, and in a single, violent movement she tore it, exposing her throat and the slight, pale swell of her breasts. ‘Isn’t this how a sacrifice should be prepared? You care nothing for human life-kill me!
Tarod didn’t move. Instead, the cool expression on his face gave way to another smile, but this time there was a faint trace of warmth in it. Quietly, he said, ‘You’re very courageous, Cyllan. But your courage is misplaced. I don’t intend to harm you; it would be pointless, and I’ve no desire for it. So perhaps I care a little more for human life than you think.’ He came towards her, and she stood rigid as he laid a hand lightly on her breast where the shirt was ripped. ‘I ask only one thing of you - that you tell me what you found in the Marble Hall.
His touch was cool, but physical, human … Cyllan suddenly felt confused as warring impressions clashed in her head. She feared his wrath if he should discover what she had seen - but fear of what he still might do if she kept silent was stronger, and she whispered, ‘The statues …
‘Ah … the statues.’ Tarod nodded. ‘Yes. And what else?
‘There was a block of wood - a great black slab. I - it was a repellent thing.’ Her fear was receding now; he seemed unmoved by the fact that she had seen those sculptured monstrosities, and though his lack of reaction puzzled her she was grateful for it. She had the temerity to look up at him, and saw that his eyes were narrowed and his expression set, as though mention of the block had revived some dark thought.
‘Repellent,’ he repeated speculatively. ‘I’m a little surprised at your choice of words, but … they’re apt enough. And was there anything more?
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nothing.
A pause. ‘You’re certain of that?
She remembered the stone, and Drachea’s theory that it was hidden somewhere in the Marble Hall. She’d seen no sign of it …
She nodded. ‘Yes. I’m certain.
Tarod tilted her face up, studied it intently, then relaxed. ‘Very well; I see you’re telling me the truth.
For some reason which Cyllan couldn’t begin to guess at, he seemed gratified by the fact, though it would have been easy enough for him to wring the answer out of her had she lied. He stood motionless a little longer, then his hand moved from her breast to the torn fabric of her shirt, and he folded it gently back over her.
‘Cover yourself,’ he said. ‘And I’ll hear no more talk of sacrifice. Go back to Drachea, and tell him what you’ve discovered.
She frowned. Tell him? But -
Tarod laughed, a harsh sound that contrasted sharply with his previous manner. ‘Then tell him or not, as you please - it makes no difference to me! Drachea may like to play his childish games, but he’s no threat. If he were, he’d no longer be alive.
The words were casual enough, their meaning all too clear. Cyllan had no answer; she merely nodded and turned away. This time the door opened at a touch; beyond, the long flight of stairs led up towards the courtyard.
‘I’ll see you again,’ Tarod said quietly as she set her foot on the first step. Whether or not his words implied a threat Cyllan didn’t know, and didn’t care to speculate.
When Cyllan was gone, Tarod stood staring down at the scattered books around his feet. He felt sure that Drachea had raided the library for a second time, but neither knew nor cared what the young man might have unearthed in his searches. Even the greatest rituals were of little use in the hands of an amateur; Drachea was irrelevant - and Tarod had other matters on his mind.
He walked towards the narrow door set in its alcove, and quietly opened it. The comparatively brilliant light from the passage beyond flowed over him, giving a ghastly tinge to his already pale face, and though he was tempted to tread the familiar way to the Marble Hall once more, he resisted the temptation. He could gain nothing by it - the Hall was, as always, barred to him.
Yet Cyllan had been able to enter …
It was what Tarod had suspected and, in one sense, it was a hope fulfilled. Somewhere in that place - on the physical plane or not, he didn’t know - lay the single clear jewel that was the focus of everything; and now he knew that he could use Cyllan, as he had intended, to find it and restore it to him. Yet the knowledge brought only a desolate satisfaction. With the stone, he would be again what Fate had made him; a being whose origins lay not with humanity, but with Chaos. The ancient powers would be restored; no man could gainsay him; and he could, if he chose, abandon all pretence of mortality to rise again to the heights which he had once, in immortal form, commanded.
Since the moment when he had broken through the final astral barrier to halt the Pendulum of Time, he had never once questioned that desire. It had been in him like a banked fire, only waiting for an opportunity to burst into flame. But now it seemed distant and unreal.
The goal, suddenly so close, had lost its meaning.
He had pledged himself to destroy it, even if it meant his own destruction, and when the Circle turned against him he’d fought them, sublimating his loyalty as an Initiate to the greater loyalty he owed to Aeoris and the White Lords. Since losing the stone, and his humanity with it, he had forgotten that desperate pledge, but it was haunting him now where by rights it should be dead and buried.
For the first time since his final defeat of the Circle, Tarod was beginning to question himself and his motives. He believed he had lost his humanity … but human emotions, far in the past and, he’d thought, unattainable, were calling to him again. Memories clamoured in his mind where there had been only cold intellect; a sensation that he recognised as pain constricted him. It was as though a window had opened, allowing him to look back on a bright, once treasured world that he could no longer reach, and for the first time those memories hurt.
He closed the door again, troubled and unsure whether the feeling within him was anger or sorrow.
Briefly, when she had stood defiantly before him and challenged him to kill her, he had wanted to trust Cyllan with the full truth - but the old, ingrained cynicism held him back as he remembered Sashka, who had so manipulated his trust for her own purposes. Cyllan wasn’t Sashka - the drover-girl, by comparison, was as transparent as a child, and even if she should prove duplicious she would still be no threat; yet a deep-rooted desire not to make the same mistake twice had stayed his tongue.
That, and the certain knowledge that, were she to realise his true nature, she would turn against him as surely and as violently as the Circle had done. Though he refused to explore his reasons, he didn’t want to count Cyllan as an enemy.
Tarod was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, but now he felt adrift. Feelings were moving him where previously there had been nothing; his path no longer seemed clear. For the first time he doubted his own motivation … and the doubt gave birth to the first faint stirrings of fear.