‘Take it, if it’s of use to you,’ Tarod said.
She glared at him, and let the dagger lie where it had fallen, turning and walking towards the door. Hand halfway to the latch, she paused.
‘Will it open?’ she asked icily. ‘Or do you have some further sport in mind?
Tarod sighed, and the door swung noiselessly open before Cyllan could touch it. She ignored a wild, irrational pang of hurt that he was prepared to let her go so easily, and stepped out on to the dark landing. Then she turned, looked back.
Tarod still watched her. ‘It’s a long way down to the courtyard,’ he said. ‘I could make the descent easier.
For answer, Cyllan spat deliberately on the floor. ‘I want nothing from you!’ she retorted ferociously. And she was gone, her pale figure swallowed by the darkness of the stairs.
She heard the echoing crash as the door above her slammed, and the sound of it goaded her on, until she was taking the stairs precariously fast, wanting only to get away and not caring that she might fall and break her neck. Suddenly the walls to either side of her warped; the steps beneath her feet seemed to give way to a dizzying emptiness, and she cried out involuntarily as the blackness inverted into a dazzling white brilliance. It lasted only the space of a single heartbeat - then she was reeling against hard stone, and staring, shocked, through the open door at the spire’s foot.
Cyllan stumbled out into the Castle courtyard. Damn Tarod - he’d had the last word, and she wished she could have taken the knife again, struck him, stabbed him, torn him apart …
But she had had her chance, and she’d failed. And what he took from her, she had given of her own volition.
She shut her eyes against the memory, pressing clenched fists to temples in a fruitless effort to blot out the small inner voice which accused her of being a hypocrite as well as a fool. Tarod had awoken a fundamental, animal need within her - she’d known it since their first meeting on the cliffs of West High Land, and though since then she had tried to deny and suppress it, it had never truly died. That echo of the past had finally proved strong enough to conquer the horrors of Tarod’s true nature, and she had gone to him, yielded to him, like an infatuated child.
She wanted to kill him. However great a fool she had been, he had manipulated and preyed on her. If by destroying him she could free herself from guilt and self-torment and recrimination, then, she told herself, she would have no qualms. Drachea had known from the beginning how dangerous Tarod was; he had warned her -
Drachea. Cyllan came back to reality with a jolt, and realised with a cold fear that she had utterly forgotten Drachea in the mayhem of all that had happened. She had failed him; and he still lay in his bed, mortally ill, perhaps dying …
She began to run, racing towards the Castle’s main doors and taking the shallow steps two at a time. If Drachea were to die - no, don’t think of that! He had to live - she needed him, needed his determination now as never before, to keep the turmoil of her confusion at bay, and to help the clear, cold rage that she struggled to nurture shine through. Together they could defeat Tarod; they must defeat him, see justice done - he was evil, a creature of Chaos - he must be thwarted!
Cyllan repeated the silent litany in her head as she ran up the broad staircase to the Castle’s living quarters.
Heart pounding, she raced towards Drachea’s room, flung herself against the door, and burst in.
Drachea was sitting on the bed. One of the swords which she had left on the landing lay at his feet; the other was gripped in his right hand, while his left moved slowly, almost hypnotically, up and down the length of the blade, polishing it with one of his sea-drenched and discarded garments.
Cyllan’s heart turned over with relief, and she rushed forward. ‘Drachea! Oh, you’ve recovered! Aeoris be thanked; I thought -
He sprang to his feet, swinging the blade up in a wild, defensive gesture. Then the terror in his face gave way first to recognition, then to anger, and he snapped viciously, ‘Where in all the Seven Hells have you been?
Cyllan stared at him, astonished and chagrined.
Drachea’s face was dead white, and an obsessive, unhealthy light burned in his eyes. The hand that held the sword was trembling as he hissed again, ‘I said, where have you been! You should have been here - I woke, and I was afraid, and I needed help, and you were gone! You abandoned me …
‘Abandoned you?’ The accusation took her breath away, and her happiness at seeing him restored crumbled. ‘I found you, Drachea - I found you on the stairs, unconscious, and I brought you here to sanctuary!
‘And then you left me to wake alone -
‘I was afraid you might die!’ Cyllan told him savagely.
‘I tried to find a way of helping you”!
Drachea’s gaze raked her with a mingling of contempt and suspicion, then his mouth twisted into a travesty of a smile. ‘Helping me - and what skills do you have that could combat what he did to my mind?
Tarod … ?’ Her stomach tightened.
‘Yes, Tarod!’ Drachea turned and stalked away from her. ‘While you were safely occupied elsewhere, he - attacked me. I didn’t provoke him, but he turned on me and - ‘ He put a hand to his mouth, bit the knuckles.
‘Gods, those nightmares … he conjured them out of nothing, he sent them against me, and I -I couldn’t fight back. Not against that … Scum!’ He drew a deep, heaving breath. ‘He’ll pay for it. I’ll see him annihilated!
Cyllan crossed the room to stand behind him, and tentatively reached out a hand. She was struggling to recapture the feelings she had clung to as she ran to find Drachea, the sense of comradeship, of fighting a holy war together; but it was slipping away from her grip.
Drachea’s outburst had broken the spell; by turning on her instead of welcoming her, he had struck her certainty and confidence a hard blow.
But, she told herself, he couldn’t be held to blame.
She knew what Tarod was capable of, and she knew Drachea’s weaknesses. His ordeal must have been far worse than her own; enough to unhinge the strongest will. She had to help him, match his resolve with hers - it was the only hope for them both.
She let her fingers come to rest on his arm; he shook her off.
‘I don’t want your sympathy!’ His tone was angrily hostile.
Cyllan bit back a retort, willed herself to be patient.
‘I’m not offering sympathy, Drachea. I’m offering to stand beside you against Tarod.’ She smiled bitterly.
Tor what little it might be worth.
Drachea looked over his shoulder at her, suspicion mingling with a sullen resentment in his look. ‘Yes …
he said. ‘I don’t know what your loyalty’s worth, do I? I don’t know anything any more … how do I know that I can trust you?’ He swung round suddenly. ‘You say you went to find help - how do I know it’s the truth? Where is this help? What have you done for me?
Cyllan gave a bark of harsh laughter, and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Done for you?’ she echoed. ‘Drachea, if you knew - if you knew what I tried to do, what happened - ‘ She took a grip on herself, her eyes alight with all the anger and shame of the memory. ‘I failed. Tarod … would not help me.
‘You went to him?’ Drachea’s jaw dropped, and for a moment she thought he’d launch himself at her in sheer rage. Then, breathing hard, he hissed between his clenched teeth, ‘You treacherous bitch! So now you consort behind my back with the very demon who almost killed me!
Astounded by such wanton injustice, Cyllan fired back without stopping to consider her words. ‘How dare you say such a thing! Gods, when I think what I’ve been through for your sake - you’re not the only one to have suffered at Tarod’s hands!
Drachea’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘You, suffer? You can’t imagine what the word means! While you were telling pretty stories to your demon friend, I was helpless here, on the verge of death! Traitor!
For a long, long moment Cyllan stared back at him,
her face dead-white and every muscle rigid. Then she reached to her throat and pulled aside the ripped shirt, so that her neck and the swell of her breasts were revealed.
‘Look at me, Drachea,’ she said, her voice dangerously steady. ‘Look closely, and you’ll see what Tarod did to me. Maybe he didn’t choose to assault my mind, not directly … but my body was a different matter!
Drachea’s angry gaze flickered to her pale skin. There were bruises, the marks of fingers, a livid red crescent where she had been bitten in the heat of passion … He moved closer, slowly … then his hand shot out and he hit her with all his strength across the face.
Unprepared for such an attack, Cyllan went down, and before she could scramble to her feet Drachea lashed out with one foot and kicked her as though she were a dog that had displeased its master.
‘Slut!’ he roared, hysterical. ‘Lying, filthy, demon-spawned whore!
Stunned, she couldn’t even begin to protest before he kicked at her again. This time she had the presence of mind to roll clear, and Drachea snatched up the sword, brandishing it over her head. His eyes were starting out of their sockets, and Cyllan knew beyond all shadow of doubt that he’d lost his reason. Driven to the brink of madness by Tarod’s sorcery, he sought an enemy on whom to avenge himself, and no power in the world could make him listen or understand.
She hunched into a tight ball against the wall, unable to escape, and appalled by the mania in Drachea’s voice as he demanded savagely, ‘How many times have you gone to his bed, harlot? How long have you been plotting with him against me? Serpent!’ As he shrieked the last word his arm swung wildly and the sword blade came hurtling down, to strike the floor inches from her head with a shuddering clash of metal.
‘Drachea!’ She screamed his name, trying to break through the insane rage but knowing she stood no chance of reaching him. He had regained his balance and now held the sword in both hands, swaying. The tip of the blade swung mesmerically before her; she tried to hunch further back but the wall blocked her way.
‘Serpent!’ Drachea yelled again, his voice cracking.
‘Demon! You’ve been in league with him all along! You ensnared me, you lured me into this nightmare - damn you! I’ll kill you, you white-faced monstrosity!
He raised his arms high, and the crimson light that pervaded through the window seemed to drench the sword blade in blood. Eyes widening with the hideous foreknowledge of her own death, Cyllan flung herself frantically to one side as the sword sheared down. The breath burst from her lungs as she sprawled on the floor, then she jack-knifed her body and made a convulsive grab for the door. It was ajar; her momentum forced it open and she rolled, trying to gain her feet before Drachea could reach her. She heard a bellow like a maddened, insensate bull, saw the blade whistling like a giant fang, light stabbing along its length, tried to throw herself clear - and pain exploded in her ribs as the point of the sword bit through clothing and flesh.
She gave an animal shriek, eclipsing Drachea’s triumphant howl. The sword came free with a fresh shock of agony and she clasped a hand to her side, knowing there must be blood and trying to stem it, but driven only by a blind, terrified will to escape. Drachea bore down on her again - she sensed rather than saw him - and, rolling on to her back, she kicked out savagely with both feet. By sheer fortuity the kick connected; she heard a grunt and a thud, didn’t stop to see what effect the assault had had, but dragged herself to her feet and ran.
Before her lay the stairs, swimming and swaying through a grey fog of pain and shock. She knew she was weaving from side to side, wasting a valuable advantage, but she couldn’t run in a straight line. Warm stickiness flowed over her hand, pulsing rhythmically with the pounding of her heart, and she tried to laugh aloud. She couldn’t die - there was no Time here; her life couldn’t bleed away without Time to help it …
Lucidity came back and she realised she was leaning heavily on the rail above the stair-well, laughing like a madwoman. A soft ticking sounded from the floor at her feet. Her blood, dripping from the wound Drachea had inflicted, sapping her strength …
‘Demon bitch!’ She heard the mad shouting behind her, echoed by the thud of running feet, and the shock brought her fully back to reality. She plunged on, reaching the stairs and almost pitching headlong down them before she could stop herself. A wild grab at the banister rail saved her, then she was half staggering and half falling towards the double doors that led to the courtyard. Drachea was behind her, and closing - she could hear his voice yelling for her to stop, and the sound of it goaded her on. Part of her mind, which seemed to observe from a misty distance, told her that flight was useless; that she’d merely prolong the inevitable. She could run only so far before she dropped from loss of blood. And then he’d move in, to finish her …
Cyllan forced the thought away and grimly stumbled on. The double doors lurched giddily before her, and as she ran out she lost her footing and fell down the steps into the courtyard. Struggling painfully to her feet she saw the crimson smears marring the stone behind her, leaving a trail that a child could follow, and desperation brought a wild hope.
Tarod … if she could reach Tarod …
Savagely she ignored the inner voice. Not Tarod, never Tarod … she couldn’t, wouldn’t …
A crash told her that Drachea had reached the doors, and she heard him laughing, certain of his success.
Blindly she staggered towards the fountain, clinging to a crazed idea that she might be able to break off some delicate piece of the stone tracery and wield it as a weapon against him. She cannoned into the fountain basin, and the pain of colliding with solid stone took her breath away so that she collapsed, clutching at an impassive carved fish as she fell. The running footsteps at her back thudded closer, dinning in her ears; she twisted, striking out with a rapidly weakening arm, spitting and cursing a stream of drover’s oaths in the face of her nemesis, but knowing she was lost.
White light blazed beyond her tight-shut eyelids, and hands gripped her. She screamed defiance, trying to beat them off -
‘Cyllan!
He was going to slaughter her, and she fought him with all her fast-waning strength, trying to kick, bite, battle to the last.
‘Cyllan!’ The voice wasn’t Drachea’s - shocked, her eyes snapped open and her body went rigid.
The grey fog clouded her vision still, but through it she could see the raven’s-wing shadow of his black hair, the sharp-etched features, the green of his eyes. Cool fingers touched her burning face and she heard Tarod say softly, as though from a great distance, ‘It’s all right. You’re safe … he can’t reach you, he can’t touch you. You’re safe with me, Cyllan …
She tried to speak, but only choked as the pain within her redoubled and swelled to a crescendo. Her hand clawed convulsively and tangled in his hair; he clasped it tightly, and his voice was more gentle than she had believed possible.
‘Peace, Cyllan. No more harm can come to you. Sleep … I’ll heal you. Sleep, now …
The words were a balm, and she clung to them. His hand still held hers, and she felt the throb of the pain fading, fading, her senses like a hot tide receding away, until a quiet, engulfing darkness overcame all else.
*****
‘Drachea … No!
The words broke in harsh confusion from Cyllan’s lips. She’d been dreaming, and in the dream Drachea had turned on her with the face of a devil, lunging towards her with a blade that glittered like molten silver against a blood-crimson background. She twisted convulsively and heard the soft thud of a cushion falling to the floor … then a powerful hand gripped her shoulder, pressing her back and gently yet firmly forcing her to quiescence. The knowledge that she wasn’t alone with the nightmare eased her, and she felt her muscles slowly relaxing.
‘Cyllan. The dream’s gone. It’s over; there’s nothing to fear.
In her half-waking state she’d expected Drachea’s voice, and the unexpected yet familiar tone made her open her eyes in qui
ck alarm.
She was in the room at the top of the spire, lying on the long couch. Tarod sat beside her, and his hand had moved to her brow, tracing lightly across her skin. She raised her own hand to clasp his fingers, a mute gesture of gratitude that brought a faint smile to his lips; then, still confused, tried to form words.
‘I thought I was - ‘ Recollection came back then, and she drew in a violently sharp breath. ‘Oh, Gods; Drachea -
‘Drachea tried to kill you,’ Tarod told her, and the gentleness of his tone was belied by the cold anger in his eyes. ‘It was fortunate that I found you before he could complete what he’d begun.
The memory was crowding back, and she began to feel sick. ‘Then the light - ‘ she whispered. ‘It was you … ‘ She looked down at her own body. There was no pain now - she had only just realised the fact - and nor was there any trace of blood. The wound Drachea had inflicted had vanished as though it had never existed.
Quickly she raised her gaze to meet Tarod’s once more, uncomprehending, and he said quietly but wryly, ‘Yes, it’s more than any healer could have done. There are occasions when power such as mine has advantages.
Cyllan swallowed, hard. ‘Thank you …
Tarod’s instinct was to dismiss her thanks carelessly, but he checked himself. Such a reaction could easily be misconstrued, and he was anxious not to alienate her now. Instead he reached behind him to a table and picked up a cup, holding it out to her.
‘Drink this,’ he said, and smiled again, this time with a touch of humour. ‘It won’t fortify you, in a place where food and drink are irrelevant - but it’ll warm you. And I imagine you’ve not tasted good wine since the High Initiate’s inauguration!
He was reminding her of their second meeting, when he had championed her against a cheating wine-seller, and tears sprang to Cyllan’s eyes. She blinked them back, angry with herself for being moved, and took the cup. Over its rim, as she sipped, her amber eyes regarded him uncertainly, and at last she asked, ‘Why did you save me?
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