Finally, he snarled, deep and full of rage. “I fear nothing!”
With a look of disgust, he tossed her across the room.
Amahna could not help crying out when her hip struck the cold stone floor. At least she was further away from him for now. For several seconds, as she lay on the knot that was already forming in her hip, the edges of her vision turned red and she wanted nothing more than to turn on him. To attack him with teeth and claws like some savage beast. Then she got control again and rage was replaced by horror at the realization of how such defiance would end. She shoved those thoughts away, pushing them down deep, and searched her mind for any way to appease him before she got more than a bruised hip out of the encounter.
“It is I who fear, my lord. I fear not being able to please you. I fear failing you.” She dared to look up through the hair that had fallen over her face.
Theruses still looked irritable, but already a touch calmer than seconds ago. He stared sullenly out the doorway into the dark chambers and passages beyond.
“Something has been overlooked.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible, but she could hear him clearly in her mind. He wanted her to hear. Only her. There is more to the dragons’ plan than this dragon-child. Their prisons have not been weakened at all by his mere existence. There must be something else they need. Another piece to the puzzle.
“Then we will find out what it is.” She sat up to speak and her voice was a surprise even to her. Strong. Determined.
Theruses looked down at her. For the first time since they had come together he looked uncertain. It was almost as if he did question her loyalty now. She had seen a hint of weakness in him, of vulnerability. Could he still trust her?
Even she was not sure how to answer that question in that moment. She held her silence and met his gaze, almost daring him to show his wrath again.
Theruses smiled. It was a bitter expression. “Your strength is what has always drawn me to you. You will find out what the dragons are doing, what they need, and you will return to me as soon as you know the answer. Take that slinking worm with you, I don’t want him here.”
“Rakas?”
His snort was answer enough.
She stood as smoothly as she could, grimacing at the resistance in her hip. “Might I take Kara as well?”
Theruses shook his head. “No. Your pet stays with me. I will watch over her.”
Amahna longed to argue with him, to curse him for denying her this. What might he do to the young woman in her absence? Would she come back to a broken creature?
She gave a reluctant nod. There was nothing she could do about it. He had made his decision. Perhaps he sought to guarantee her return by keeping Kara here. If so, he sorely misjudged her. Everyone was expendable if they got in her way. For Amahna there was only one thing that guaranteed her return now. It was something she had only just discovered. In some way, she had power over Theruses, for she was the only one who could bring him to show his emotions, good or bad, so completely. Something in her intrigued him and that gave her some of the control in their strange relationship. That was all she needed to know. If he could be unbalanced by her then he was vulnerable, if only a little, and vulnerability could be exploited.
Amahna watched him as she waited to be dismissed. She refused to kneel this time. Perhaps he would assume her injury hindered her. Or he might at least tell himself that to make himself feel better about not making her kneel.
She regarded him in the silence that hung heavy between them. He was every bit as magnificent as she remembered him being the first time they met. Knowing that he had emotions she could perhaps use to her advantage did not change the fact that he could kill her with a touch and would probably feel no significant remorse.
Almost as if it were an afterthought, he walked up to her and kissed her. A deep, suffocating kiss full of hatred and desire. Despite her anger with him, she melted into the kiss and was reminded of her own weaknesses. Even before he moved away she knew that he would not satisfy the desire he had set to burning. Turning his back on her, he ordered her to go.
Would he use Kara to sate his desire when she was gone?
Amahna inclined her head in a slight bow and strode from the room, keeping her steps swift but graceful and proud. Ignoring her pain.
Rakas was easy to find. He often wandered to a chamber they called The Sentinel Room when he was upset, as she knew he was. A single towering stalagmite in the center gave the chamber its name. Rakas sat at the foot of the tower staring into the floor. When Amahna entered the room with purpose in her stride he stood and waited for her next to the massive tower. She walked right up to him and redirected all the desire and rage Theruses had ignited in her into kissing him. Rakas gave into the kiss easily as she had known he would, but his eyes brimmed over with suspicion when she pulled away.
“Come along, we are leaving now.”
“You’re angry.”
She barked out a laugh. “Yes, well, I probably would not have kissed you otherwise.”
Rather than reacting with offense as she had expected him to, Rakas cracked a grin. Perhaps the most genuine grin she had seen on his face in years. “I know. You should get angry like that more often.”
He waited a moment, watching her to see if she would respond.
Amahna only shook her head and smiled faintly before turning back the way she had come.
Rakas followed dutifully. “We’re being sent on another quest? I believe that hired heroes used to make a substantial profit for fulfilling their missions. Maybe we should start charging him.”
Amahna glanced back at him, eyes wide with warning, though she could not hide the hint of a smile. “Watch yourself, Rakas. I do wish to leave here alive. It makes these trips so much easier.”
While they turned to gathering the few supplies they needed, she noticed that the boy’s ring that Rakas had worn since that night in Ithkan was nowhere to be seen. It was not on the band around his neck or on his finger. She stopped what she was doing. “Your ring, did you lose it?”
Rakas scowled and she could see in his eyes that the emotion waiting to be unleased on that subject was deep and dark. “Theruses apparently got weary of my messing with it. He made it a little more permanent.” Rakas opened his shirt to reveal a ring-shaped scar over his heart with a small circular lump underneath. “He used daenox to burn it through my skin and said I would have to dig it out if I wanted to touch it again.”
Amahna shivered. Perhaps there still were some advantages to being in favor with Theruses. She would have to fall a long way before their lord would inflict such a torture on her. Rakas tried to fasten his shirt, but the shake in his hands caused him to fumble several times. After a few failed attempts, she walked over and pushed his hands aside, doing up the shirt for him.
“Thank you.” He placed his cool, trembling hands on hers and squeezed them gently. “I won’t be coming back here with you when you return.”
She looked deep into the black pits of his eyes and he lowered his gaze. She knew that part of him hated her, just as much as part of her hated him. Freeing one hand, she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him to her and he returned the embrace.
Then there was the other part of each of them.
“I know,” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Dephithus contemplated the daemons and the daenox often. Every time he went to the archives now, the daemon-cat was there. He took to calling it Prophet since one prophet or another wrote so many of the books in there. The cat took little interest in its name, but it did not object either. It seemed content, much like any other cat, with the simple pursuits of frequent bathing and lying next to him to take advantage of his warmth while he read. It was allowed many opportunities to engage in the latter pursuit as Dephithus spent an ever-increasing amount of time in the once forbidding room. The more time he spent there, the more he began to take comfort in its seclusion and the odd companionship of the daemon-cat.
> In the book of daemons, he read that the second level of daemon was very similar to the first. It took a maggot-like form and burrowed into the ears of its victims. Once inside it would infect the mind and cause some physical changes including darkened fur, matte gray eyes, and occasional physical deformation. This level also amplified aggression more than the viral form did in the creatures it infected. Like the viral form, this form also seemed unable to affect larger animals and humans. If not for that, he might wonder if he had been infected. Instead, it seemed he was just broken. Broken because he was not strong enough to fight his aunt and her feeble companion. Broken because he was not strong enough to cope with what they had done to him. Perhaps it was inevitable. His birth, his markings, had been considered an ill omen by many. The good life he had known was destined to fall apart.
News trickled in from surrounding areas of incidents involving other attacks by diseased animals with gray eyes since the one that had lunged at him and Avaline in Nunich. Only three days past, a rat had been found attacking an infant in a nearby village. The creature had gray eyes and a fifth leg protruding from its side. It would not be long before the next stage of daemon would show itself. Still, he said nothing to anyone about the things he read in the archives, especially since he was not supposed to be in there in the first place, and the occurrences were attributed to an outbreak of some illness, which was not entirely incorrect. The daenox spoken of in the books was never mentioned in these incidents, but Dephithus saw fear behind people’s eyes and heard the nervous edge in their laughs. The more he read, the more he believed that the daenox was real and it was returning to the world they knew. These minor daemons were only the beginning.
He was starting to accept that he was somehow a part of the bad things happening in the region. The cat in the library, Prophet, had convinced him of that. At first it had been upsetting, but it was out of his control. Now he was almost fascinated to find out what would come next. It was like a study of the people he lived among. To see how they lied to themselves and pretended nothing was wrong. Before long, his position here would be in jeopardy, if it was not already, but he could not get that upset over it. He was a curse.
People talked about him more frequently. They spoke of how his presence was causing things to go wrong and how he was succumbing to his corrupt nature. Larina’s death and his recent disinterest in the Legion were brought out repeatedly as proof of his decline. People needed someone to blame. It only made sense that they should blame the guilty.
The more they talked about him, the less he cared.
It was a cool morning. A hint of drizzle misted the air as he walked toward the distant practice arena. He hoped that the exertion and calm of the walk would burn away some of his energy and help him keep his anger in check. As much as he loved riding Hydra, it got him too charged up. His energy and the stallion’s energy worked to build each other up and he needed calm if he was going to get through a full practice without losing his fragile temper.
He had missed part or all of practice too often of late, finding ways to avoid people so he did not have to worry about his fits of temper. He had even been late for guard tower duty numerous times in the past several weeks. The only thing he made a point of showing up for consistently was his training sessions with Darkin—that release of pent up anger was the only thing that kept him from lashing out constantly at everyone else.
If he was not in the archives, it was often because he was out wandering the woods on Hydra or practicing with Darkin. He felt safe around the other youth because it was all right to hate him and occasionally try to kill him in their duels. Though he always held back. If he succeeded in killing Darkin, his outlet would be gone.
His poor attendance was already drawing attention. Commander Vicor had threatened only yesterday to put him on stall cleaning duty if he did not improve his attitude.
By the time Dephithus entered the practice arena, he was chilled with the damp and ready to warm up with Kota. The big man beat him less often the more they practiced, which meant he was getting better at balancing his agility and speed against the senior soldier’s experience and size.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence. On time even.”
His anger ignited like dry hay put to flame. Dephithus turned to face the commander who was walking into the arena behind him. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists by his sides. This, this constant rage he lived with now that was always a comment away from bursting into a wildfire, was why he had not been showing up at practice on time of late. Sometimes not at all. The rage simmering always beneath the surface had too much power over him. He was its victim. Just like he had been Rakas and Amahna’s victim that night.
You wanted it. How else could they have done that to you?
His fingernails dug into his palms.
Vicor sneered. “Feeling all right, young lord?”
To say that the commander appeared to be taking a disliking to him would have been grossly understating the situation. Vicor took every missed minute of practice as a personal affront and, no matter how Dephithus tried to convince himself to do better next time, whenever he was there he rose to the occasion in all the wrongs ways, fueling Vicor’s loathing of him with snide comments and callous disrespect for the man’s station. He knew he should fix things, but the part of him that wanted to try was crushed beneath his own self-loathing and the self-destructive spiral it swept him into. He could see it happening time and time again but could not seem to stop it. Sometimes he did not want to stop it. Sometimes he exalted in the chaos he caused. Other times he hated himself more for it and wanted it to stop. Today he had gone out with the intention of doing better, but today would not be any different. The hatred was unleashed.
He put his hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt and smirked. “I was hoping I could spar with you today, Commander.” He managed to spit out the title like it was the vilest of insults.
Vicor’s eyes narrowed, the heat of anger reddening his neck, and one hand drifted closer to the sword he wore. Dephithus tensed, hoping the man would finally snap and come at him, give him someplace to release the toxic hate. Then Vicor clenched his teeth and moved his hand away from the weapon.
“Kota is on a special training project for me today. Working with another soldier who is worthy of his time. I hope you can keep your temper in check well enough to spar with someone more suited to your novice skills.”
“I’m well past novice,” Dephithus growled.
“Battering someone over with your freakish strength and speed isn’t a skill,” Vicor countered.
Perhaps it was time to leave, before someone got hurt. Dephithus shifted his weight, ready to turn and walk away. Except…if he walked away now he would be giving Vicor exactly what he wanted. To drive his problem student away and focus on the others, giving them all the training and attention. Dephithus was not going to let the man win that easily.
He stood his ground and met the commander’s hard gaze.
Vicor gave a curt nod. “Fine. You can spar with Jath.”
He walked away and Dephithus shifted his gaze, focusing in on a lanky youth standing near the edge of the arena. Jath was tall and lean. He had good reach and good speed, but he was a decidedly mediocre fighter. What did Vicor hope to accomplish by pairing them up? Was this some kind of veiled insult?
Jath gave him a nod that he did not return and they both walked over to retrieve practice swords. They moved to an open spot in the arena and squared off. Jath lunged and Dephithus evaded him easily. He smacked away the attack that followed and lunged into the opening, striking Jath a solid blow to the shoulder that made him cry out. The other youth backed off, rubbing his shoulder, sulking for a few seconds.
This was not a veiled insult. It was a bold, glaring affront.
Pure rage flooded Dephithus, bringing with it the reckless urge to teach Vicor a lesson. He would learn not to match one of his most skilled students with such an unworthy opponent.
&nbs
p; Mustering his confidence, Jath readied his stance again and lunged, his swing coming in high and fast. Dephithus embraced his “freakish” strength and speed, dodging in under the swing and spinning around with a full power strike to the back of Jath’s elbow. He aimed well, striking where there was an opening for the movement of the joint in the practice armor. The force of the blow was enough to break bone. A loud crack resounded through the arena. There was a second of silence when everyone stopped what they were doing to look, then Jath hit the ground, howling in pain and grabbing for the destroyed appendage.
Dephithus backed away, horror at what he had done seeping in around the edges of his anger. Vicor was there in seconds, he looked at Dephithus once with murder in his eyes, then knelt next to the wounded youth. Dephithus did not wait to find out what came next. In the midst of the sudden bustle of soldiers moving in to try to help or gape, he backed away, discarding his practice sword in the dirt and sprinting from the arena the moment he was clear of the crowd.
He had not quite reached the cover of the trees when someone came rushing up behind him. He spun, grabbing for his dagger and Darkin sprang back out of range, putting his hands up.
“Easy boy. I have no interest in joining the ranks falling at your feet.”
Dephithus gave a snort and turned away, sheathing the dagger while he continued his retreat into the woods. He could hear Darkin following him.
“Don’t you have something better to do?”
Darkin chuckled. “That is as fun as tormenting you? Not at the moment.”
He could outright kill the other youth. They spent a lot of time out in the woods practicing. An accident could happen. He would get in trouble for engaging in unsupervised practice as a newly raised Legion soldier, but that was not a big deal given how much trouble he was already getting himself into lately. Of course, another soldier falling at his feet, even one as delinquent as Darkin was in his own duties, would force them to start questioning the incident at Dalynay. Then it would not matter if Darkin was silenced. Even worse, he would lose the outlet for his increasing rage.
Dark Hope of the Dragons (Elysium's Fall Book 1) Page 19