Startled, she scrambled to her feet and looked up. Three faces were staring down at her, silhouetted against sunlight. “Hurry,” one said to her.
Lea wasted no time in making a clumsy knot in the thick rope and clung to it, her heart thumping hard as she was hauled out.
Bruised and breathless, she got to her feet and looked around. She was standing in a small clearing of sorts surrounded on all sides by towering stones and heaped boulders of a porous black rock unfamiliar to her. On all sides there were what seemed to be caves or overhangs of rock. Men—how many she could not count—concealed themselves well away from the thin sunlight shining through a scrim of cloud. Silent, motionless, like quiescent toads lying flat and concealed among the grass in a garden, they watched her with palpable hostility.
In all her life, she had never encountered such overwhelming, intense hatred. She steeled herself, aware that sevaisin with Shadrael had made her stronger and more knowledgeable of evil. She feared it no less, but it no longer possessed the power to completely disconcert her.
She heard no sound, save for the sighing whisper of wind through the rocks. The men said nothing to her. Their stares, coming at her from all directions, were no worse than the leers of the mercenaries.
Slowly Lea turned about. When no one came forward or spoke to her, she gathered her dirt-streaked skirts and headed for a pathway that seemed to lead out of this circle of stone.
Hissing came at her from all sides, but she did not falter or glance back. She climbed atop a stone, teetered there in her scuffed red boots, and stepped onto the pathway.
A man in the saffron-hued robes of a Vindicant appeared as though from thin air, blocking her way. He was tall, and seemed thin despite the bulk of his robes. A hood shaded his face too much for her to see it clearly.
“Lady Lea,” he said, and she recognized his deep, smug voice from the night Shadrael had abandoned her. Shadrael had called him Urmaeor. “Welcome to our temple.”
As he spoke, he gestured with patrici grace at the barren place of stone and dust. A glimpse of his hand showed her pale flesh mottled an angry red, as though he’d been burned, but he shook his wide sleeve over it and partially turned on the path.
“You will follow me.”
Lea thought about protesting and being difficult, but it seemed better to bide her time and wait for a true opportunity of escape. Antagonizing these former priests without a plan seemed as sensible as poking a nest of hornets for amusement.
“Sensible,” he said in approval.
Startled, she blinked at him and thought she saw him smile beneath his hood. She could not stop herself from drawing a sharp breath. Be careful. Be careful, she warned herself.
“Do as you’re told and you have nothing to fear,” Urmaeor said. “Come.”
He led her through strange formations of rock to a wide-mouthed cave partway up the hillside. She hesitated there, not wanting to enter such dank darkness.
“Come,” he said impatiently.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To meet my master.”
For a frightened instant she thought he was referring to Beloth, but then a measure of sense returned to her and she knew that could not be true.
“I thought you ruled here,” she said. “Who is your master?”
“Flattery, like your questions, is futile. I see I must teach you another lesson.”
“No—”
Magic flicked out from his fingertips, raking her with pain that stung and left her feeling numb. Doubling over, she gasped for breath and found herself trembling. Not so bad, she reassured herself although her heart was racing and skipping much too fast. Afraid that he would do much worse, however, she hurried into the cave, only to stop again, shivering.
“Better,” he said, “but not quite good enough.”
“Please!” she said involuntarily, gazing up at him with beseeching eyes.
He chuckled, the sound like a spider skittering across the back of her hand. “Lord Barthel has not been well of late, but I think you will amuse him, sister to Light Bringer.”
Lea raised her chin. “What ransom do you intend to ask for me? My brother will not—”
“Don’t negotiate!” Urmaeor said, his voice cracking like a whip. “You have nothing to bargain with, Lady Lea. Nothing!”
The force of his voice made the unlit torches along the walls burst into flame. Lea knew the priests were full of theatrical tricks, but she could not stop herself from jumping.
Even so, this time Urmaeor was not amused. He leaned toward her. “Too vital,” he murmured, pushing back his hood so that his dark, cold eyes glimmered in the gloom. “Too vivid. Too alive. Too much for Lord Barthel in his condition. Let me diminish you a little.”
Fearing he would mesmerize her, Lea looked away from his eyes. I am of the light, she thought. I am joined to harmony and I walk in unity with it.
“Not anymore,” Urmaeor said, reaching out toward her. She flinched, but his spell was already descending upon her, as though a dark veil smothered her hair and face. “You belong to shadow now, Lady Lea. You are ours, and ours you will stay.”
The hanging gardens of Bezhalmbra, even at the start of winter, held a beauty Shadrael had never seen equaled in all his travels. Shivering outdoors with no cloak to shield him from the biting wind, he stood gazing at paradise through the ornate metal gate. Magic had created the gardens long ago, carving terraces for them in the stony side of the mountain, and magic preserved them still. He did not believe the spell would permit him entry, but longing to see his mother’s beloved refuge one last time, he dared set his hand on the gate.
It swung open at his touch, inviting him in.
He hesitated, wary and unsure, then drew a deep breath and walked inside.
The barrier of magic raked across him, but it was no more painful than being snagged by a rose’s thorns. Past the gate, the air blew warm and fragrant against his cheeks, for he had left autumn behind at the gate. It was a relief that allowed him to straighten his hunched shoulders. He stood sheltered and untouched as a frosty gust of air swirled dead leaves along the paving stones on the other side of the gate. Then he turned and surveyed the loveliness before him.
Spring forever blessed these gardens. Year-round, storms never flattened them; lightning never split the trees or struck the fountain; frosts never killed the flowers. The beauty was a marvel to all who saw it, legendary in this desert province.
As a boy, Shadrael had pelted the sentries with ice balls and thrown himself into deep snowdrifts beside the stables until he was shaking with cold. Then he would run into the gardens to thaw out, shedding his cloak and fur-lined gloves as he went. Sometimes—when no servant was watching to disapprove—he would paddle and float in the warm waters of the fountain, laughing at the snowflakes that swirled in the air above the garden without ever falling on it.
High on Jawnuth, shaded by the summit from the harsh afternoon suns and wind, sheltered by stone walls, and watered by the gentle, misting rains that never reached the lower desert elevations, the garden paths meandered between lush plantings of slender sentinel cypress and red-blooming oletha bushes that should not have been able to grow this far above the tree line. The magnificent vines, their shaggy trunks as thick as his waist, sprawled over the terraces to hang, vibrant with cerise, white, and lavender racemes, over both garden and palace walls, even growing down the cliffs. Roses, fragrant with heavy blooms, brushed Shadrael’s shoulders with perfumed pink petals that showered the path in his wake. His boots crunched faintly on the raked gravel, now and then crushing creeping herbs that sent up a delightful spicy aroma to his nostrils.
The fabled gardens of Bezhalmbra, rumored to have been formed by Ancient Ones breathing magic over this mountain to create an oasis like no other. Gardens traditionally tended by nameids whispering magic into the plants to make them thrive. In this high place of stone and sky where even weeds clinging to cliff and precipice beyond the walls had to struggle against a
scourging wind, the juxtaposition of such astonishing beauty below ramparts bristling with defenses was beyond imagining.
Shadrael halted amidst intoxicating splendor and let himself drink it in. For years he would not let himself even think of Bezhalmbra, for it was not his, would never be his. He could not have borne the early days of army life and training, its brutality and the cruel shocks, if he’d allowed himself to be homesick. He could not have made the army his home, his family, if he had not renounced Bezhalmbra and its very memory.
But, gods, here he stood, where he’d never thought to return. And no matter what he suffered for all eternity, at least the final moments of his life would be spent in this small paradise.
It gave him no comfort.
Lea, he thought involuntarily, would have loved it here. It might have been created for her. He indulged himself a moment, imagining her skipping with delight along these paths, running from flower to flower to inhale the perfumes. A smile touched his lips briefly before it faded. For Lea, thanks to his betrayal, would never see any garden again.
Veiled in shadow, feeling sick to her stomach, Lea was led through dark passageways deep into the ground. Torches hanging in iron sconces burned along the tunnels, casting ruddy, uneven light difficult to see by under the best conditions. Whenever she stumbled or faltered, Urmaeor spoke a word that hurt her.
Eventually the passageway opened into an underground chamber fitted with assorted chairs with high backs, fine cushions now as soiled and tattered as her gown, a table of fine inlaid-wood marquetry that was scratched and dented, and a stack of battered traveling chests spilling pieces of tapestry and silk hangings as though no one had packed them properly. Torchlight flickered and smoked, making the air hot and unpleasant. Symbols of Beloth had been painted on one wall. It hurt Lea’s eyes to even look at them. She could smell blood, old and rotted, and saw a dark stain upon a crudely fashioned altar stone. The altar held dented bronze bowls and a chalice purloined of its jewels. The empty settings looked like wounds in the scratched and dented metal. Even so, dark steam curled from inside it, as though fire burned and smoked within the cup.
Fearing they meant to pour some perversion down her throat by force, Lea found her mouth too dry to swallow. Swiftly she averted her gaze, trying not to think, trying not to let fear overwhelm her.
Sounds whispered through some of the passageways, echoing so that it was impossible to tell their direction. She heard voices and snatches of chanting as soft and furtive as sin.
Urmaeor pointed. “Wait there. Do not speak or move, by my command.”
Coerced by the spell he’d laid on her, she could do little save obey him. Through the dark scrim of his magic, she found her vision blurred, the torchlight dim, and her hearing muffled. Do not fight it, she told herself. Perhaps it is a mercy.
But in her heart she did not believe that Urmaeor understood the concept of mercy.
A pair of men in brown robes emerged through a low doorway cut into one wall of the chamber. They stared at Lea suspiciously, muttering questions to Urmaeor too softly for her to hear. He replied, his voice deep and assured.
Glowering, they reluctantly stood aside, and Urmaeor turned to her.
“Lord Barthel will receive you, Lady Lea.” His voice abruptly hardened. “Go inside.”
Her ears roared and she could hardly catch her breath, yet she was moving obediently, compelled to do what he said. The interior of the next chamber was dim and murky. It contained a cushioned platform. Reclining on it was a grotesquely fat figure draped in the ornate stole of a chief priest. Lea had never seen a man so obese. His body overflowed the platform, huge rolls of flesh quivering beneath capacious robes of fine silk. In the quiet, she could hear him wheezing for breath. His eyes, small and almost lost in folds of skin, glittered at her. They were as yellow as the eyes of a snake, rheumy and rimmed with red, with puffy flesh sagging beneath them.
He studied her with those inhuman, yellow eyes, his breath wheezing and laboring. One of his hands, almost as small and dainty as hers, waved in excitement. “Closer!” he commanded. “Closer!”
“Be careful, Master,” Urmaeor cautioned. “She has not yet been fully conditioned.”
“Closer!” Lord Barthel hissed.
Urmaeor pointed. “Go to him.”
Lea tried to resist, but the spell pushed her forward. She stopped within touching distance and despite her impaired vision she could see that the silk robes were grimy. A peculiar stench—doughy and repugnantly sweet—wafted out from Lord Barthel’s person. Lea tried not to inhale it.
A heavy weight pressed down on her shoulders. Determined not to bow, Lea struggled until she felt perspiration bead along her hairline. Yet despite her efforts she was pushed to her knees. She felt raw humiliation at having to honor this vile creature.
“Stop!” Lord Barthel commanded.
The pressure crushing her abruptly vanished. Lea gulped in a breath of relief, her muscles trembling with exhaustion.
“You are governing her too much,” Lord Barthel said, his voice reedy and high-pitched. It was an ill-tempered voice, cross and impatient. “And why do you keep her en-spelled? I cannot see her properly. Is she pretty? I was told she was pretty.”
“Lady Lea is dangerous,” Urmaeor replied, coming up beside her. “I have muted her for your protection.”
“Bah! I am ill, but far from a weakling. Do you think I am afraid of a maiden like this?”
Urmaeor bowed again in silence.
“Girl! Look at me!” Lord Barthel commanded.
Lea turned her gaze in his direction, and felt another wave of revulsion shudder through her.
“Unveil her,” Lord Barthel said. “Quickly. Quickly!”
“Master—”
The chief priest snarled something, and little sparks of fire blazed around Urmaeor before fading with a stink of decay and ashes. Urmaeor gestured at Lea, and the dark gauzy feeling of being half-smothered fell away from her.
The room remained poorly lit, but it was not as murky as she’d first thought. Her hearing came back in full. She smelled damp and sickness and the filth of rats. The jaiethqual here was nothing but depravity and fear permeating the very stones.
Lea turned her gaze on the chief priest. “Why do you not seek treatment for your shadow sickness? Aren’t you aware that chewing est-weed induces dreamy lassitude only for a short while before its effects cease to work? You would do better sending for a healer who understands the proper nature of medicinal herbs.”
A terrible, spasmatic wheezing alarmed her before she realized that Lord Barthel was laughing. His delicate, fine-boned fingers wriggled in delight. “And are you a trained healer, Lady Lea?” he asked.
“My father was,” she replied, forcing herself to meet those yellow eyes. One had started watering copiously, seeping pus at the corner. She tried to ignore it. “Of course, perhaps you are burning est-weed more than you chew it, but the effect—”
“Silence!” Lord Barthel commanded.
Lea cut off her sentence.
Lord Barthel stared at her avidly, his mouth hanging open a little while he struggled to breathe. His fingers wriggled and fluttered. For a moment it seemed he would reach out and actually take her hand in his. Instinctively she shrank back.
“Don’t rise, Lady Lea,” Urmaeor said. He held no spell over her now, but the authority in his voice kept her still. “Give him your hand.”
Lea could not do it. Wheezing, Lord Barthel shifted his massive body enough to lean forward, reaching out. His skin was flaking from a half-healed rash. A shudder rippled through Lea. If he touches me, she thought, I shall . . . I shall . . .
His fingers nearly brushed the back of her hand, but at the last moment he flinched, abruptly drawing back.
Lea saw that he was shaking, his fat rippling under the tawdry silk robes. His face drained of color to an even more pronounced pallor.
Relief flashed through her. He dares not touch me, she thought gratefully.
“Too vital. Too vivid,” he murmured, much as Urmaeor had done earlier. His gaze flashed up, caught her staring at his trembling hands, and narrowed. “An excellent candidate, Urmaeor,” he said in a stronger voice. “I must have this. I must!”
“Then shall I begin the task of conditioning her, Master?” Urmaeor asked.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Lord Barthel licked his dry, crusty lips. “Make her ready. Hurry!”
Urmaeor uttered a sharp word, and pain lanced through her. Lea cried out, dropping to her knees. He spoke again, and it was as though a thousand red-hot needles pierced her flesh. She writhed on the ground, struggling to breathe, her heart nearly bursting.
Then the agony was gone, leaving her limp and spent on the cold ground. She drew in shaky breaths, grateful the attack was over, and dared not think what might be coming next.
Urmaeor crouched beside her, his robes rustling faintly like a serpent’s scales sliding over dead leaves. Fearing that he meant to punish her further, Lea tried to shift away, but he pinned her with his hand and bent down, his face next to hers. Swiftly he inhaled one of her breaths, holding it in his mouth before blowing it into what looked like a chunk of crystal that clouded swiftly. Then he bent, and stole another of her breaths, blowing it into a second piece of crystal that clouded as rapidly as the first.
Only then did he release her and back away.
Uneasily, Lea pulled herself to a sitting position. She felt light-headed and tired, as though he’d taken more from her than her breath.
“Get up,” Urmaeor said. His voice was as hard as stone.
While she struggled up, swaying on her feet, he handed the crystals to Lord Barthel’s attendant. The chief priest was whimpering eagerly, stretching out his hands to clutch the crystals.
Lea was glad to leave. As she followed Urmaeor from the oppressive room, she said, “I cannot help that man. And if you have convinced him otherwise, you do him no service.”
Urmaeor’s thin face smiled in satisfaction. “Are you so without mercy, Lady Lea, that you cannot spare your breath to an ill man?”
The Crown Page 13