by Cebelius
Carnival of the Soul
Celestine Chronicles Book IV
Cebelius
Contents
1. Prada's Wager
2. Mila's Invitation
3. Carnival
4. Class is in Session
5. Until It Sleeps
6. Vlad the Dreamer
7. Destined for Greatness
8. Perspective
9. Rule of Law
10. Pit of the Dreamer
11. The Price of Pride
12. Fear and Loathing in the Wildervast
13. Rakshasa
14. Done Dirt Cheap
15. Chicken-Legged Hut
16. True Lies
17. Establishing Boundaries
18. Should I Stay or Should I Go
19. Answers
20. Amazing Lace
21. Tiger by the Tail
22. Playmate
23. Talk is Cheap
24. The Tiger and the Snake
25. Two-Faced
26. The Easy Way or the Witch's Way
27. One and One Make Eleven
28. Murderer
29. Night Rider
30. Stone Steppes
31. Climax
32. Croatoan
33. Oni for You
34. Blind Eyes
Afterword
1
Prada's Wager
Terry bared his teeth as he caught Yuri's sword coming in and deflected it — bringing his own weapon in line with the tiger man's throat as he did so — then he thrust.
The move was counter-intuitive.
Terry wielded a worn, double-bladed lumbering ax with a blood-stained haft. It was meant for slashing, not stabbing, but over the course of the last week he had made amazing strides in learning how to wield it effectively. Just like the hand-to-hand combat that was his speciality, he now had a firm enough grasp of the rules to know when to break them.
Of course, he'd have never been able to master a weapon so quickly on his own. As Yuri's eyes widened and he jerked aside while checking his sword's momentum to reverse the swing, Terry felt Prada's presence in his mind. She was watching through his eyes, and was intimately connected to every part of his body. She was accelerating the learning process, enhancing his muscle memory. As a consequence, after a mere week of dedicated practice and training, the ax in his hand had essentially become an extension of his will. He no longer thought of what he should do. Instead, he chose the result he wanted, and let his combat reflexes accomplish his objective for him.
Yuri's sword came in from Terry's left in a level slash, and Terry's ax was in his right hand and at near full extension. Yuri's weapon was a bit shorter than Terry's and Yuri was stepping in, but because Terry was already extended past Yuri's head he couldn't capitalize on his reach advantage to keep the other man at bay.
So instead, Terry whirled, pulling the haft of his ax down to guard against the slash as he too stepped in, reaching out with his open left hand to catch Yuri's right wrist as he completed his turn and bowed, cocking his hip into the other man's middle as the head of his ax hooked neatly around the back of Yuri's neck to help pull him along.
Yuri yowled as he found himself upside down in the air over his opponent, sailing gracelessly toward the mats. Terry locked the haft of his ax against Yuri's sword and kept hold of his wrist to control his fall, ensuring that the other man's head didn't land badly as the rest of him slammed down.
Once he'd landed, Terry tapped Yuri's throat lightly with the head of his ax, then stepped around to offer his friend a hand up.
After a long moment spent waiting for his lungs to start working again, Yuri reached out and let Terry haul him back to his feet. He then dropped his sword and crouched, supporting himself with his hands on his knees. While they were technically only sparring, they were doing so using real weapons, and over the course of the last week both of them had sustained life-threatening injuries. Healing magic and minotress milk meant there was little point in half measures. Having the wind knocked out was, therefore, comparatively mild.
"You are a born fighter, Boss," Yuri gasped. "I have never seen anyone pick up a weapon so fast."
Terry grinned and said, "Thanks, but I can't take all the credit. I've got great teachers, and Prada's helping my body learn the habits it needs."
Yuri nodded as he straightened and said, "Take every advantage. Given what little I have seen of your life, I know you will need them all. I think we are done for today."
"How do I measure up?" Terry asked, pressing the bloody-hafted lumbering ax into the knot of the deceptive red silk sash at his waist. Prada accepted the weapon and held it for him.
Yuri's ears flickered backward, then forward again as he gave the question serious consideration. Then he shrugged and said, "You have little to fear from typical swordsmen, and you might defeat a master given the many unorthodox tactics you bring to a fight, provided you end it quickly. That said, if I were to face you to the death ... mmm while it would no longer be a sure thing, I like my chances."
He gave Terry a feral grin. "Keep practicing."
Terry grinned and the two bumped fists, something Terry had taught him over the course of the last week. He watched Yuri pick up his sword and leave the training gym as his grin faded.
He knew he couldn't stay here much longer. Euryale was out there somewhere, and Terry needed to find her. The only reason he'd been able to justify waiting even this long was the fact that they had decided to release the women Theseus had kept trapped in the Labyrinth with him to go their own way. Terry hadn't wanted to be around when that happened, knowing that their behavior toward him would be unpredictable and potentially deadly. Halla had told him that while many of his bonds had hated or resented him, many more had practically worshipped Theseus as a god. His death might well drive some mad.
So he had taken the time to do something he desperately needed to do: train.
In the morning, he worked with the Rod of the Heart. He spent two hours in meditation with the staff, then used it to enhance simple spells that he derived from Volai Hart's books, translating their effects into English. After a week of diligent practice, the staff no longer accused him when he picked it up, but the burning pain it thrust upon him was always the same. Prada had told him it was likely that pain would not go away until the staff accepted him completely as its master. Shy said that her staff had full conversations with her, but the Rod of the Heart was not talkative. It had stopped calling him a murderer, but it would not speak to him otherwise. As far as Terry was concerned, that was just fine. While he had decided not to try 'formatting' the staff for fear that he would undo not only its personality, but its magic, he was completely happy to have it as a simple tool, rather than another complication in his already overly complicated life.
Terry was a theurge, a blood mage, and the magic he wielded had two principle applications: enhancing or changing some element of his body, or ritual casting, which required him to use his blood to draw a circle and — for the more complicated spells — a diagram involving the words of the spell itself. That requirement meant more complicated spells required more blood, and though Terry could replenish his blood and power with minotress milk and sex, he remained uncomfortable with the unmistakably satanic vibe that came along with that kind of work. The only reason he practiced the ritual elements of his magic at all was that — in theory — he could use them to summon his bonds to him. Right now that was his best bet for getting Euryale back.
In the evening, he practiced with weapons. He had given the sword he had found in the Labyrinth to Yuri, who had accepted with a pleased grin. Mila had analyzed its properties and told him that the enchantment on it was simple, but effective. The gray aura it presented to Ter
ry's bond-enhanced sight indicated the enchantment on it was derived from the Order affinity, and did nothing more or less than keep the blade in whatever condition it had been in when enchanted.
In other words, it would never chip, break, rust, or lose its edge.
The training room had everything: a large sparring area, full set of free-weights, a calisthenics area with bars of all types, another area set aside with mats and heavy bags, the works. The Corona Borealis had created what Terry understood to be a pocket dimension, and within it, the wearer of the crown had complete control of the space and was able to conjure up anything they wanted through an act of will.
Terry had taken the crown from Ariadne and given it to the dragon woman Asturial, who had used his memories to conjure up a mansion for them, and much else besides.
Asturial had then given the Corona Borealis to Marcus, and Ariadne — the crown's former owner — was working diligently with him to teach him the finer points of its use. Though the crown bequeathed knowledge of its use when worn, that apparently came in the form of a mind-dump that wasn't immediately consciously understood. Asturial, being both a dragon and a very advanced magus, had been able to intuit and absorb much of that information almost immediately, but Marcus was no mage. While he had a great deal of mental discipline, turning his mind to arcane arts was never something he'd planned on.
That he had accepted the crown had surprised Terry at first, until he'd seen the way Ariadne had then fawned over him. It made him smile that — stoic as he was — Marcus may very well have agreed to become one of the world's twelve Powers so he could impress a girl. It was obvious at a glance he was head over heels for Ariadne.
Or head over hooves, as the case may be.
Marcus Mayweather was a minotaur, barrel-chested and huge, just as Yuri Kolenko was a tiger man, with all the feline strength and grace of a jungle cat packed onto a humanoid frame.
Terry shook his head in mild disbelief as he thought about his bonds and companions. Shy Willow was a dryad, Laina Lowe a minotress. Then there was Euryale, one of the immortal gorgons and sister to the legendary Medusa. Mila was a tiger woman and Yuri's sister, and Asturial was a dragon 'proxy.' Once a full dragon, her true body had been destroyed, trapping her in a humanoid form. Halla was a giant. Then there was Prada, a blood devil doppelgänger who spent most of her time literally infused within Terry's body, her only outward expression a ruby-red sash.
Aside from Ariadne, the former Power of the Lost, and Thomas, the Dust Lord, Terrence Mack was the only human being he knew of living on Celestine.
Just because they were human though didn't mean they were relatable. Thomas had been exiled to Celestine over two thousand years ago and for his own reasons had vowed to destroy the world. Ariadne was even older than that. Given what little he could remember of her legend, Terry thought she was at least four thousand years old.
Ariadne had called Celestine 'Tartarus,' and explained that it was where Zeus and the Olympians had sent the Titans after their defeat. It was obviously more than that though. In his travels, Terry had encountered things that he was sure weren't originally Greek. At one point, he had faced a woman with her face slit open that Yuri had called Kuchisake-onna. He wasn't sure what the word actually meant, but it sounded Asian. As well, once she had his bond, Halla — previously a cyclops — had become something called an oni.
As far as Terry could tell, Celestine was a dumping ground for myths and legends.
Myths, legends ... and me.
'You could do worse for company, Husband.'
Prada's voice was both sensual and vaguely reproachful inside his mind. 'Though now that you are sparing us a thought, I should remind you that training is not the only responsibility you have.'
Of all his bonds, Prada was easily the most intimate. She shared his mental space most of the time, though they had not fully melded again. Doing that had fundamentally changed who they were, and neither was entirely comfortable with the results. The irony was that both of them had opposite interpretations of the same problem. Terry had been horrified at the sense of absolute confidence in their decisions, while Prada had not enjoyed feeling obligated to some abstract yet absolute morality.
Terry knew he needed help, that he had to have other opinions informing his decisions. He considered it essential that he keep an open mind, and needed look no further than Asturial or Prada herself for examples of what he could easily become otherwise. Had he not loved and respected Laina as much as he did, he would have voluntarily become what this world was constantly pushing him to be: a monster.
Prada — on the other hand — was perfectly comfortable being a monster. Even her love for him was based completely in selfish wants and desires. She wanted the best for him because in the transactional relationship they had, he gave at least as much as he got from her perspective. As long as that was true, she would do literally anything for him.
Their understanding of one another was complete, and each accepted the other on their own terms. But they were very different people, and that would never change. Now that they had experienced it, neither wanted to fuse again. They would if they had to ... but only then.
Speaking aloud rather than in his mind, he said, "If you're feeling neglected, you could always get out here and go a few rounds with me."
He felt her shift, and then he shuddered as he felt her slipping out of him. The tail of his ruby-red sash arched and then began pooling into a rising column next to him as more and more of her substance left his body.
The sanguine column began filling out, gaining definition, and changing color, until she stood next to him as a complete copy of a woman he'd only ever seen in an old movie.
She looked like Charlotte 'Charlie' Blackwood from Top Gun, complete with big blonde hair and entrancing blue eyes. She could have picked any woman from his memories to emulate, but she chose Charlie because she was the first woman he'd seen on-screen that had done more than give him a physical thrill. Something about her presence just ... did it for him. She knew that, and took advantage.
She was also naked.
He quirked a brow at her. "Really? Come on, Prada. Be subtle."
A blood-red one-piece began forming over Prada's skin, and watching it appear was like seeing plastic melt in reverse. When it was done it looked like a work of art on its own, flowing down over her breasts and connecting to the lower half in a sensual curve that exposed most of her belly and right side, leaving her arms and lower legs bare as it clung to her everywhere else with fidelity that would have embarrassed anyone not in possession of a literally perfect body.
"Okay, that was cool," he admitted when it was done, and she smirked, her blue eyes glimmering with mischief.
"Shall we place a wager?" she asked as she circled him, trailing her fingers across the breadth of his shoulders.
He laughed. "Why don't I just skip to asking you what you want? You know I can't beat you in a stand-up fight."
It was true. She was a doppelgänger. That meant — among other things — that she had not only all his physical skill, but all his memories of the skills of other people he had fought, or even seen fight. She knew all his tricks, his habits, his timing, everything. She was also capable of changing her shape whenever she pleased. She couldn't be grappled, and it would take more force than even he, with the vastly enhanced strength and speed he had acquired through his bonds, could bring to bear to do her any harm. Her only real weaknesses were temperature extremes. Cold made her increasingly lethargic to the point of catalepsy, and she was very vulnerable to fire.
She smiled brilliantly at him and said, "We don't skip steps because then it would be no fun. How about this? I will limit myself to your own physical capabilities in every detail save my overall shape. If you can land a disabling strike, or execute a successful grapple, you win."
"Uh huh, and what do you want if you win?" he asked. The question had two aims. First, that she wanted something she felt she had to wager for made him curious, but sec
ond and more importantly, once she told him what she wanted he would know how seriously she would take the contest. If it was something he felt she really did want, then he was in for a rough time.
"If I win, you'll owe me a girl of my choosing," she said.
At his quizzical look, she clarified. "If at some point in the future we encounter a girl that I want, you will do your best to include her in your harem. That means if she wants you, you accept her. If she doesn't, then you are bound to seduce her if you can."
He frowned, then shook his head and said, "I'm not going to-"
"Relax, Husband. I'm not asking you to compel her. She will always have the option, and if she refuses you on three separate occasions then your obligation is fulfilled. Until then, you are bound to make your best effort, without being a douche about it."
That made him laugh, but he shook his head and said, "I'm still inclined not to take the bet ... but what do I get if I win? If it's something really good, then I might be willing to give it a shot."
Prada's expression turned speculative, and she looked at him for a long moment. He knew she was searching his memories, looking for something to tempt him with. He was curious what she'd come up with, because at this point she was already bound to obey him. It was in their wedding vows, which in Prada's case constituted a binding covenant.
For both of us really. Breaking my word isn't something I do.
"Put it this way," she said at last. "I know of something you want, but you do not know you want it. Defeat me, and it is yours. I would never withhold something from you that would make you more effective or increase your odds of survival, but this? This is something only I can give. The question now becomes, do you trust me?"