Havenstar

by Glenda Larke

  She turned away and was spectacularly sick.

  ‘Stop that,’ Davron said, without a trace of sympathy. ‘We’ve got to get him out of here.’

  ‘Better he died—’

  ‘That’s not for you to decide.’

  She opened her mouth to say she did not know what, and closed it again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a stranger stood before them, with his arm around Baraine’s shoulders, and the sight of him took her breath away.

  A man— No, not a man. A god. Tall, naked, spectacular. Large. Large in body, large in personality. Large elsewhere too; ‘well-hung’ was the phrase she’d heard her brother and his friends bandy about. He exuded musk and sexual tension; sweat glistened across his skin. He was gorgeous. And totally evil.

  She wanted to close her eyes, to refuse to see, because she knew who he was.

  He was Carasma the Unmaker.

  ~~~~~~~

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Carasma exists in true Chaos at the heart of ley, for there, power is to be found. To extend his realm must he subvert Humankind to his bidding. Blessed are the ley-lit who resist his blandishments, damned are they who obey his behest.

  —The Rending XII: 23: 7-9

  It never occurred to Keris that it was ever possible to see the Unmaker. He was a figure of horror tales, a nebulous, fabulous being akin to—although less than—the Maker, and one didn’t expect to meet Him. Carasma the Unmaker was portrayed in the holy writings as taking on human dimensions when he tried to pervert the holy knights of the past, but appearing to living people in present times? To her? She knew he often subverted the ley-lit into being his Minions, but she had imagined this was achieved by some cosmic struggle within the mind of those who were tempted. She had not expected a personal appearance.

  And yet she never doubted that it was him, not for a moment. No human man could have exuded such power, could have shimmered with something so manifestly bad, could have glowed with such a seductive light, could have pierced her with such a look to see her weaknesses... No ordinary man could have reduced her to a mass of sexual urges and revulsion just by looking at her.

  Davron stood beside her, unmoving, with surprising passivity. He seemed neither worried nor pleased—just accepting, as if he acknowledged there was no way any ordinary mortal could run from the Unmaker.

  When he spoke, though, she knew him well enough now to hear the thread of urgency underlying his words, even as his tone was measured and calm. She knew him well enough to recognise that he chose every word with care and she would do well to listen with equal care. I must stay calm. I must listen.

  ‘Remember, the Unmaker is governed by the laws of the Universe,’ he said, stumbling over the words as he spoke too quickly. ‘He cannot kill us directly, he can only subvert us, or unmake us.’

  Obliterate them, he meant, as if they had never existed. Erase them from being, so that their souls died as well, and the memory of them disappeared from all who had ever known them.

  She shuddered.

  ‘You have the Maker within you,’ Davron rushed on, ‘and therefore cannot be unmade unless you agree to it. Nor can you be enslaved unless you go to him of your own free will.’

  He did not need to warn her that the Unmaker had a hundred different ways to make a person succumb to his suggestions of servitude. Nor did he have to warn her that Carasma could send the Wild after her, or his Minions, or use the power of the ley line—and all of them could kill without waiting for the victim’s permission. Torture, bribes, seduction, threats, tricks, traps. Carasma the Unmaker used them all directly or indirectly on occasion, and probably sometimes all at once.

  ‘Right,’ she said. Her tone was dry but her voice wobbled. ‘I guess Baraine didn’t listen to your warning.’

  The Unmaker smiled. ‘Baraine is mine now. We’ve struck our bargain, and it is sealed.’ He looked down at the man beside him, and bestowed on him an obscene smile of proud possession. ‘Baraine liked the idea of eternal youth. He has such a splendid body and he could not bear to think of it rotting into old age...’

  Carasma fingered the silver pendant he was wearing around his neck. The pendant was the x cross inside the diamond, the one adornment to his nakedness. He touched it with his hands and took from it a replica, pulling it out of the original with just the touch of his fingers. This he dropped over Baraine’s head. It dangled for a moment, then melded to the Trician’s chest, fused to his skin. Keris gave an involuntary glance to Davron’s amulet. The sigil was identical. She bit back her nausea. She was standing in front of the Unmaker, in the presence of two of his Minions.

  Baraine looked at Davron and her with a mixture of arrogance and defiance. Davron ignored him and she tried to do the same.

  ‘So,’ the Unmaker said, switching his attention wholly to the guide, ‘we meet again, Master Storre.’

  ‘Yes.’ Davron remained apparently imperturbable.

  As well he might—he is dedicated to the service of Carasma, of Chaos...

  ‘It was inevitable, as we both know.’

  Carasma inclined his head. ‘As you say. But it is not you I deal with today. Your time for service has not yet come, Master Guide. I await the moment that will bring the greatest grief to all... No, today I deal with the woman at your side.’

  Davron raised an eyebrow just a fraction. ‘Her?’ he asked, and the word contained a slur of contempt. ‘She is worthy of your attention?’ He turned to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he gave the faintest of shrugs, as if to say he couldn’t understand, but well, if that’s the way you feel, go ahead...

  The Unmaker seemed amused. And then she lost sight of Davron and of Baraine. And of Quirk, still lying at their feet, and of the animal they had killed. They all slipped away and it was just the Unmaker and her, facing one another across a kaleidoscope of sliding colours.

  ‘You were made to serve me,’ he said.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Her mouth had dried out. Her tongue was glued to the insides of her cheeks.

  ‘Master Storre serves me,’ he said. ‘Do not look for help there. What are your greatest desires, Keris Kaylen of Kibbleberry? I can make them come true, in return for your pledge of service. I can give you eternal life and youth as well. Just name what it is you want...’

  ‘There is nothing for which I would surrender my immortal soul. Nothing.’

  ‘Not this?’ he asked, and gestured with his hand.

  She was looking at a shop. There was a sign swinging over the door and on it she read: Kaylen’s Maps and Charts. She walked towards it, opened the door and went in. It was exactly as she had pictured it in daydreams, even after she’d known it was an impossibility: the shop she would one day own. The shop where she would sell her maps. There were the master charts, there the drawing boards, there the rows of paint and ink pots, the leads and brushes and pens. The walls were covered with charts. Her charts. She reached out and took up one of the master skins, rolled it out on to the counter top. It was good, and it was signed with her name. She released it and it curled back up, hiding its secrets.

  Through an open door she glimpsed another room, filled with surveying and camping equipment. She turned her head and saw through into the parlour. A man was standing, with his back to her, warming his hands beside a fire. She felt a wash of love and knew that this unknown man was her husband. At his feet a child played, wobbling on baby legs. Her son; she knew that too. She wanted to walk into that room, to speak, to make that man turn so she could see his face. Instead, her feet took her the other way, out through the back door of the shop into the yard. It was clean, neat and spacious. There were stables, carts, and fine crossings-horses. All hers. A stableboy was brushing down a riding hack. Hers.

  She turned and tried to re-enter the shop.

  And it was gone. There was only Carasma and herself once more.

  ‘You can have it all,’ he purred. ‘That’s my promise, and I cannot lie to strike a bargain or the bargain is invalid. All your dreams can
come true, Keris. All. For six months in every year you can live in a stability and serve only yourself and your dreams; for six months you can roam the Unstable to make your maps and serve me. Everything you ever dreamed of, and for such a little price. As Baraine has said so aptly, of what use is an immortal soul if you can be bodily immortal? Imagine Keris, all you ever wanted...’

  She forced herself to speak. ‘Not all, I think. It’s not plain maps I wish to make, Lord Carasma. Not anymore. I want the secret of trompleri map-making—and that is the one thing I think you cannot dare to give, because a trompleri map would help humankind to thwart the Unstable. Fellowships and traders could find the weakest parts of ley to cross. They could see the presence of your Minions and the Wild and avoid them. There would be few deaths in the Unstable then, and more people would come to weaken you. There would be less of the ley-unlit tainted, less of the ley-lit made into Minions. People would see where the ley is strong. They would know where not to go, they would see it there, on their maps—’ She was babbling, too frightened even to know if she was making sense, too terrified to know if she was saying things that would be wiser unsaid.

  He stared at her, and the triumph in him died as he somehow reached out with his mind to test the truth of what she said. The look he gave her then was pure rage. For a moment she expected to die, sure he would strike her, universal laws or not, but he reined in the passion, bridled it with a colder hate.

  ‘Will you turn down this?’ he hissed, and made another gesture with his hand. She was back in the shop. This time there was someone behind the counter: Sheyli. Her mother as Keris had known her before she was ill, smiling, full of strength and vigour. Sheyli, somehow well and whole.

  ‘My mother is dead,’ she said coldly. ‘Even you cannot bring back the dead.’

  ‘You left her for dead,’ he corrected. ‘But that was only a few days ago. She lied when she told you she was so close to death. She lives still, weaker, but she does live. My word on it.’

  She drew in breath sharply. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The same way I know your name and your dreams. Ley gives me the power. I may not be able to create havoc in a stability, but I can see into it. And I could do good there. I could give your mother back her health.’

  ‘If—?’

  ‘If you will but serve me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think on it.’

  And she did. Sheyli could live. Be healthy again. And she, Keris, could hold herself straight again, free of the guilt she’d felt ever since she had ridden away from Kibbleberry. It would all be so easy. She could have it all. And it wouldn’t be such a terrible sin, would it? She would be doing it for Sheyli—

  No.

  Sheyli would not want life at such a price.

  ‘No,’ she said to Carasma. ‘No. Not even for that. Not even for trompleri skills. Not even if you could bring back my father again. Never, at any price.’ But inside she wept. Forgive me, Mother—

  She expected to die. Carasma had two Minions right there somewhere at his disposal. He had the forces of the ley line he could turn on her. He could whistle up some of the Wild... She waited for death. Instead he stripped her naked. One moment she was clothed, the next, the clothes had gone. He knew she’d never revealed herself to any man; he knew how vulnerable she would be, bared to him like that. She willed herself not to move her hands, not to try to cover her nakedness. She tried to stand proud, but felt shamed nonetheless as he let his eyes wander over her body and his penis swelled to taunt her.

  ‘No, no, not me, little Keris,’ he mocked as she shrank away. ‘Let me give you what you really want.’

  And he was gone.

  She was standing beside Davron once more. Of Baraine and Quirk there was no sign. Davron was as naked as she was. He was staring at her, and his expression was appalled, then yearning, then sickened. His skin glistened, and he moaned. She was in no better state. She felt she’d been stimulated beyond endurance, although she had no memory of such happening, and the lack of memory was worse than remembering would have been. She was wet between the legs, desperately wanting something more and not quite sure what it was, but longing to find out. She was taut all over, turgid—even her nipples stood up like pinnacles—she was on the brink of something miraculous, but unable to plunge over the rim and find out what it was.

  She yearned to reach out and pull Davron to her. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. She wanted him to kiss her, to do things to her that she could not detail because she lacked the experience of them, but knew they would feel good. She was just an inch away from something wonderful—

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Keris, no.’ He was willing her not to touch him and there was horror on his face. And something else too: the wolfish craving of a man who had been denied too long and had just been offered a feast.

  Her hand froze as it reached out to him. She deliberately dropped her eyes to his amulet, searching for a way to kill her desire. She moved her lips, spat out a word at him, packing it full of loathing and contempt. ‘Minion!’ It was as much to save her own integrity as to scorn him, because in her heart she knew the truth; the Unmaker may have stirred her passions by some abnormal means, but he had not directed them. She had done that all by herself. Just as she had peopled the dream-shop with a husband who would have worn Davron’s face had he turned.

  She stumbled away, revolted, back towards where she’d left Ygraine and Tousson. Weak with reaction, she shuddered with self-loathing and unfilled longing and trembled with fear. She expected to die. She expected the ley line to erupt under her, she expected Davron’s knife in her back. Part of her had even given up caring.

  By the time she reached the edge of the ley line safely, she was sobbing uncontrollably. She stumbled to where Tousson stood patiently waiting, her tears wetting her face and blurring her vision. With tired and shaking fingers she untied one of the bundles and took out another set of clothing. She dressed and was just putting on her spare pair of boots when Davron arrived.

  She shrank back against the flank of her pack horse, but he barely looked at her. ‘Here,’ he said and threw her knife on the ground at her feet. He had also brought back her bow and quiver, as well as his own knives. ‘Sorry, couldn’t find our clothes,’ he added. It didn’t seem to worry him that he was still naked. His lack of clothing enabled her to note that he was no longer obviously aroused and she felt a momentary relief.

  He went to get more clothing for himself, but when he reached his pack horse he simply leant, face down, arms spread, against the pack on the horse’s back. His shoulders heaved, shuddering, but with what emotion she couldn’t tell. She had to quell the absurd desire she had to mother him. Mother him? A Minion of Carasma, for Chaos’ sake? Am I tainted mad?

  She slid down the side of her horse until she was seated on the ground, then rested her head on her arms. She was mad. She should have got on her horse and fled. But she didn’t have the energy to go anywhere. Her legs were weak, her hands shook. Wiping away the last of her tears, she took several deep, calming breaths. A while later she became aware that Davron was rummaging in his pack for his clothing and for something to dress the cuts on his chest. They looked nasty, the skin slashed open on a background of raised welts.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked finally, not knowing whether she cared.

  He gave her a weary look. He was pale, she noted. In fact he looked sick, with none of a Minion’s triumphant arrogance as she had seen in Baraine. ‘You’re in no danger now,’ he said. ‘What the Unmaker wanted to do he has already done. Tomorrow he may have other ideas, but today you are safe.’

  ‘He wanted me dead,’ she said. ‘For a moment there I’m sure he wanted me dead. You could have killed me for him. Yet you didn’t. Why not?’

  ‘Because he never got around to asking me to.’ A stark answer, with the ring of truth to it. Its corollary was chilling: had the Unmaker desired it, Davron would have killed her, without question.

  ‘He did w
ant us to—to—’ She couldn’t put it into words. ‘You didn’t do that either.’

  He gave the slightest of cold smiles. ‘If he’d ordered it, it would have been done. He assumed it would happen, that’s all, and his assumption underestimated us both. Fortunately. You would have found it a painful experience.’

  She stood there helplessly, and wondered what she should do. He was clumsily bandaging himself, too proud to ask her to help, and she made no move to offer it. He was a Minion of Chaos, a servant of the Unmaker, one of the evil ones who killed and tortured and raped at Lord Carasma’s whim. And she was alone with him.

  No, not quite alone. It was only then that she noticed Quirk was still with them. Someone, Baraine perhaps, had laid him, still unconscious, on the ground behind Baraine’s horse and mule. Davron saw him at the same time and bit off an exclamation. ‘I was looking for him everywhere! I thought he was still in the line—’ He went to kneel by the tainted man, and then glanced around, taking stock. His own pack horse was still there. His mount had wandered back, and seemed quite unruffled by its experience; crossing-horses were used to the vagaries of ley. They had lost Baraine’s second pack animal and Quirk’s packs with it, and Quirk’s mount was nowhere to be seen either. ‘We’ll use Baraine’s tent for Quirk,’ Davron said. ‘I’m not going to take him across the line again just now. Come on, Kaylen, snap out of it. You’re wandering around like a two-year-old who’s lost her mother. Help me—we need to get Quirk comfortable and warm. He’s in shock.’