The Outcast

by Louise Cooper

  The sight of the black steps winding up into utter darkness almost broke Cyllan’s resolve when at last she stood at the foot of the titanic Northern spire. She had seen the dim light glowing in the narrow window at the summit, and knew that Tarod must be there - but the thought of climbing those endless stairs, through dark so intense that it was almost tangible, was horrifying. She steeled herself-it had to be done. Drachea needed help, and she was his only ally.

  And if Tarod refused to aid her? She’d thought of little else as she crossed the courtyard, but amid all the doubt and confusion was a spark of hope. Despite what she knew, despite the terror she’d felt at their last meeting, she thought she had, in the library, at last recognised a shadow of Tarod as she had once known him, and she clung tightly to that. He had treated her kindly, giving the lie to those who had condemned him, and she prayed that, if she could touch that same chord again, he would help her now.

  Or was she being a fool again? In her mind she could hear Drachea’s voice condemning her for her gullibility, and hope gave way to uncertainty. If she was wrong …

  She drew breath, squaring her shoulders. If she was wrong, there was only one way to find out. She had to try.

  Determinedly ignoring the painful thumping of her heart, Cyllan set foot on the first stair.

  It seemed that the black spiral would never end. Cyllan had climbed and climbed, trying not to falter but every now and again forced to stop, to rest aching muscles and regain her breath. The stops grew more frequent; her legs felt as though they were on fire, and the long struggle through the terrible, unchanging dark took on the proportions of a nightmare. She couldn’t go back - she didn’t know how many steps lay behind her, but they must have numbered thousands; the thought of giving in now and turning to face them all again was more than she could bear. And yet, though she prayed to reach her goal, the stairs still wound on and on, ever upward, with no reprieve.

  Her foot slipped and she stumbled, sinking down on the cold black stone and sobbing with exhaustion. It couldn’t be much further - unless she had unwittingly strayed into some twist of dimensions, some evil jest at her expense, the stairs must surely end somewhere …

  She pulled herself upright, hands pressed against the unforgiving wall, and willed her limbs to obey her. She couldn’t falter now …

  And, unexpectedly, Cyllan found that the seventh step she climbed was the last.

  The unexpectedness of it shocked her out of her mesmerised state, and she reeled against the wall, having to exert all her remaining strength to keep her legs from buckling under her. She was on a dark, circular landing, and in the gloom could just discern the faint outlines of three doors. All were firmly closed, and Cyllan’s flagging confidence fell still further. If she were wrong, and Tarod wasn’t here … or if he refused to help her …

  She swallowed back the thoughts, and stumbled towards the nearest of the three doors. But before her hand could reach it, the furthest opened, and a chilly light spilled out, silhouetting a tall figure on the threshold.

  ‘Cyllan?’ Tarod’s voice was soft, faintly curious.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  She drew breath, but could hardly speak; the climb had finally taken its toll and she was exhausted.

  ‘Drachea …’ she whispered dazedly. ‘He’s ill… hurt … I came -I came for help …‘Suddenly she swayed, and Tarod stepped forward, taking her arm.

  ‘Drachea be damned -I think it’s you who are in need of succour! Come; in here.’

  She leaned against him, unable to support herself, and he led her gently through the door. The light, poor as it was, blinded Cyllan after the grim darkness on the stairs.

  Through its dazzle she had an impression of a small and overcrowded chamber, then Tarod was helping her to a couch, and gratefully she let her limbs give way until she was half sitting, half lying among its cushions. Gradually her vision adjusted, and her breath returned, until she was able to look at Tarod where he sat watching her.

  ‘Are you recovered?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes…yes, well enough.‘She met his gaze.‘Thank you.’

  He inclined his head slightly. ‘So Drachea is unwell, and you took it upon yourself to climb this great height to find me? You’re very loyal, Cyllan. I hope our young Heir Margrave appreciates his friends!’

  His tone stung her. ‘Anyone would have done the same,’ she said.

  ‘I doubt that. What ails him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know … I found him, lying on the main stairs. He was all but unconscious, and he - he was in a terrible condition! I don’t know what brought him to that pass, but he was - his eyes; his hands -‘ She struggled to find a way to explain, then stopped as she saw the expression on Tarod’s face. He showed no sign of surprise, or even interest; and a faint, wry smile curved the corners of his mouth.

  He saw her scrutiny, the dawning realisation in her eyes, and said evenly, ‘Drachea has a habit of bringing his own misfortunes on himself. And if he’s fool enough to steal what doesn’t belong to him, he should anticipate the consequences.’

  The gnawing suspicion flowered into sudden painful certainty in Cyllan’s mind. Tarod must have caught Drachea as he tried to return the incriminating documents to the High Initiate’s study … Slowly she got to her feet. ‘You …’ Her throat was constricted. ‘You did that to him … ‘

  Tarod looked back at her dispassionately. ‘Yes. I did.’

  A part of her had known; yet to hear Tarod admit the truth so carelessly was still shocking. Doubt and confusion were suddenly swept away, and in their place she felt only disgust.

  ‘Gods!’ She spat the word. ‘You are monstrous!’

  Tarod sighed. ‘Oh, indeed. A callous monster, wreaking havoc at will with the minds and bodies of innocent victims.’ There was a harsh light in his eyes. ‘You understand nothing!’

  ‘I understand,’ she retorted, her voice shaking. ‘I understand all too well what you are! To tell me, without qualm or conscience; to react as though it means nothing, to - to be proud of such a deed - ‘

  ‘Proud?’ He was on his feet so fast that she instinctively shrank back. ‘Very well - I’ll complete the picture for you, as you obviously know me so completely! I have no conscience, I have no ethic-I am what you see in your own mind, Cyllan. I like to bring torment to others for the pleasure it gives me; it’s my sole purpose for living!’ He took a grip on himself and added with tightly controlled ferocity, ‘Does that satisfy you?’

  He was challenging her, daring her to stand against him, and a sense of rebellion in Cyllan goaded her not to give way.

  ‘Yes!’ she flared back at him. ‘It satisfies me, Tarod; for it proves to me that Drachea was right and I was wrong! You are evil - and I know from where your evil springs!’ And she made the Sign of Aeoris, defiantly, in his face.

  Drachea had told her … Swift as a cat, Tarod’s hand came up and caught hold of her wrist. His own anger was rising, so rapidly that he was barely in control of it. She knew - and like all the others she had condemned out of hand, as he had known she must. Suddenly in his mind’s eye another face supplanted Cyllan’s; patrician, beautiful, limpid eyes hiding the calculating and self-centred heart beneath. He wanted to hurt the soul behind that face, take the retribution that was long overdue …

  His vision cleared and he saw instead Cyllan’s thin features and wide amber eyes. The beauty was gone; but not the pride. Cyllan had pride enough, but it was of a different order … and she had the courage to face him with what she knew, instead of wielding the blade from behind.

  She was motionless, watching him and wary, ready to spring free at the smallest opportunity. Tarod gave her no opportunity. His hold on her wrist tightened until the pain showed in her face, but she made no sound. He could have snapped her arm; he could have killed her with one flick of his fingers …

  ‘You think you know me,’ he whispered savagely.

  ‘But you’re wrong, Cyllan. You’re wrong!’

  She twis
ted, trying to break free; he held her effortlessly, but had to battle to stem the tide of sheer, raw emotion that was rising in him. ‘I’m not wrong!’ Her voice was edged with pain, breath coming sharply. ‘I know what you are!’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes! I saw the documents, Tarod - Drachea read them to me, and now I know why you took such a vicious retribution! You are a thing of Chaos!’

  A thing of Chaos… Her words drove home, and the barriers which had been holding back the tide broke.

  Tarod smiled again, and this time the smile made Cyllan feel sick with terror. She had gone too far … he’d kill her; and a paralysis of fear locked her muscles rigid as she anticipated the final, fatal strike.

  But it didn’t come. Instead Tarod laughed as though at some private joke. ‘Chaos,’ he said softly. ‘No, Cyllan; this time you’re not wrong.’ He drew her towards him, until her body pressed hard against him and he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. ‘But you are … misguided.’ His free hand rose, pushed back the pale hair from her face. Beads of sweat banded her brow and now he could feel her trembling. There was mayhem in his mind; he wanted to strike out, avenge himself; and yet there was more, far more, behind the compulsion.

  ‘I’m no demon … ‘ he told her with soft menace.

  ‘I’m man enough.’ And before she could twist away, he bent his face to hers and kissed her. It was a vicious kiss, a taking and not an asking; and she fought back with a strength that surprised him, writhing and clawing in his grip. She was as lithe and sinuous as a cat, and her ferocious determination struck an answering chord in Tarod. His mouth found hers again, this time more sensuously. He was reeling from the sensations that were swamping him - vengeance was eclipsed by something far stronger and more urgent, and all thoughts of Sashka were forgotten.

  She broke free, breathless, and their gazes locked briefly. Cyllan’s amber eyes blazed - and then, so fast that she almost caught Tarod unawares, she whipped a dagger from her belt and brought it shearing up in a vicious arc.

  Acting on a reflex, Tarod swung her off balance as she struck, and the blade flashed by an inch from his shoulder. His left hand locked on her right wrist and twisted it until she choked out an involuntary cry; he pressed once, with his thumb, and the knife spun from her grasp.

  She glared at him, breath rasping in her throat. She might be afraid, but she wasn’t cowed; at the slightest provocation he knew she’d fight him like a wild animal, and the knowledge raised his adrenalin.

  ‘You use a knife well,’ he said, the words clipped by the suffocating pounding of his heart. ‘But I’ve been fighting longer than you - and I know how to defend myself!’ He smiled, showing his teeth. ‘Do you give me best, Cyllan?’

  She shook her head fiercely. ‘No!’

  The green eyes that gazed into hers suddenly seemed to take fire, and Cyllan felt her will draining away before Tarod’s implacable stare. She tried to resist, but she was weakening - an inner voice reminded her that she was battling no ordinary mortal, and the fear came surging back … but mingled with it was an echo of the old feelings which she had thought banished, an overwhelming desire …

  ‘Cyllan … ‘ Tarod’s voice was sibilant, persuasive, smashing through her defences. ‘Have I no warmth? No life?’

  She tried to deny it, but the words wouldn’t form. His hands on her skin were real, physical; and a long-dormant need within her answered with a power she couldn’t combat. She gasped as his teeth grazed her shoulder and the shirt, already torn, fell away to expose her pale skin.

  Tarod … no - please, no … ‘ The protest was cut off as she staggered back under a gentle but irresistible pressure. She stumbled against the couch, fell; felt the weight and the strength of Tarod’s body as he crushed her. This time when he kissed her she couldn’t stop herself from responding. Terror was giving way to longing, and she could no longer fight him; no longer wished to fight him.

  Tarod raised his head. The wild light in his eyes was suddenly muted by a look that Cyllan didn’t dare try to interpret, and he shook his head, brushing a strand of his unruly black hair away from his face. The gesture was so human that confusion filled her again - whatever the Circle might say, whatever he might have done, he was surely no demon …

  ‘You’re brave,’ he said softly, ‘And you’re honest…

  you fight fairly. I could defeat you easily, Cyllan, and you couldn’t stand against my desire … but I won’t. I still have some sense of honour … and you don’t want to deny me. Do you?’ His hands were light and cool on her skin, pushing aside the encumbering garments. ‘Do you?’

  Against her will Cyllan’s body was responding to him, racking her with a long-suppressed, aching longing that made her want to cry and scream, to thrust him away and yet hold him to her, all at once. A moan broke from her throat, and involuntarily her lips formed a single word.

  ‘No …’

  She cried out at his hungry violence when he took her, but he silenced her with his mouth on hers, making her yield in spite of herself. And after the first resistance there was pleasure as well as pain; a fierce, shuddering release as her bare arms locked tightly around him, her head thrown back and teeth drawing blood from her lower lip. Once she fought him again; he quieted her and she became pliant beneath him once more.

  At last, all desire satiated, Tarod let his hands move slowly and gently over Cyllan’s body, tracing the slight curve of her breasts. She lay passive in his arms and her eyes were tight shut, as though she was trying to deny the truth. Tears that she stubbornly refused to shed sparkled on her dark lashes, and a feeling that might have been remorse awoke in Tarod.

  He spoke her name, and her eyes opened, reflecting a mixture of uncertainty and accusation and shame. He wanted to say more, but suddenly couldn’t. Instead, he raised his hand and made a gesture over her.

  Her eyes closed again and her breathing relaxed into the light, even rhythm of sleep. He wanted no recrimina—

  tions, not now … when her body relaxed and he knew that her consciousness had slipped away, Tarod drew her limp form towards him and kissed her, lightly, on one pale cheek. Then he reluctantly released her, rose and crossed the room to the narrow window, forcing back the thoughts that threatened to take hold and break through the barriers he had raised against their onslaught.

  Chapter 8

  Cyllan woke to sense the uneven contours of the couch beneath her, and the rough texture of something that felt like an animal pelt covering her naked skin. Her body was filled with a devastating, fiery ache; her mouth felt bruised … and her stomach contracted as the realisation came home to her: it hadn’t been a dream…

  Apprehensively, she opened her eyes.

  There was barely any light in the room, but in the dimness she could see Tarod seated in a chair. He had dressed, and a heavy black cloak was flung around his shoulders as though to keep out the cold. The high collar shadowed his features, but she thought that he was staring out of the window.

  Cyllan’s limbs began to shake as the full implications of what had happened went through her like a knife.

  Slowly, cautiously, she started to sit up, thinking to reach for the crumpled clothes that lay among the debris on the floor -

  Tarod’s head turned, and she froze. Mingled emotions tumbled through her mind as they looked at one another; then she saw the coldness in his green eyes, and her reactions coalesced into an icy rush of bitter shame.

  Tarod’s passion was gone, as though it had never been; the barriers between them were up again, and his face was like stone. She had let him seduce her as though she were a simpleton … and all she had earned was his contempt.

  Self-loathing swamped her, and with it a sick revulsion as she remembered what he was. But she still had a vestige of pride, and it came to her aid. Tossing her head back, she pushed away the blanket that covered her-it was fur, and rich fur, but she hardly noticed - and stood up. Tarod rose too, and Cyllan took a step back.

  ‘Don’t, Tarod.’ Her vo
ice was harsh. ‘Don’t come near me!’

  He hesitated, then made a gesture towards the floor which she interpreted as careless. ‘As you wish. But you might have need of your clothing.’

  ‘It hardly matters now, does it?’ She squared her thin shoulders, facing him defiantly. ‘You’ve seen me, you’ve touched me; you’ve taken what you wanted from me. What have I left to hide from you?’ To her fury, her voice was shaking with poorly suppressed emotion, and she knew she was on the verge of losing control.

  Tarod said calmly, ‘I took nothing that you were unwilling to give.’

  ‘Ohh … ‘ She turned away, hating him because he’d spoken no less than the truth. ‘Damn you! I came to you for help, and you - you - ‘ She couldn’t say any more; her voice broke and it took every last ounce of her will power not to burst into tears. Crying, she told herself ferociously, was for children; she had learned long ago to suppress such emotion, and wouldn’t allow it to best her now; especially not in the presence of a creature like Tarod. She covered her face with her hands, fighting the reaction with all her strength.

  Tarod slipped his coat off and cast it round her shoulders. She didn’t protest, but nor would she face him, only shook her head violently when he tried to turn her around. He watched her reflectively as she struggled to bring herself under control. Aware of her origins, he hadn’t expected her to be virgin, and the knowledge that no man had ever lain with her before had disconcerted him. Yet she had chosen to give herself-and however bitterly she might regret it now, nothing could change that.

  Cyllan had calmed at last, and savagely pushed her hair back out of her eyes. She stepped away from Tarod, then deliberately shrugged the cloak aside and let it fall.

  It was hard for her to gather her torn clothes and dress with any dignity, and he moved back to the window, gazing out across the courtyard to give her what grace he could. She tugged the ruined shirt across her breasts and hesitated, looking at him. His face was an inscrutable mask, eyes hooded and brooding, and any thought Cyllan might have had of making a move towards him died within her. She stared down at the knife he had wrested from her hand …