The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2)

by Matt Gilbert

  Sadrik gave Kariana a reproachful look. “These Meites are powerful creatures, cousin. You would do well not to anger them.”

  Maklin regarded Sadrik with a snarky look, then shrugged and turned back to the wall. “Quite right.”

  Caelwen had managed to stop the flames from spreading, but the tapestry was a total loss. Kariana bit her lip in frustration, and resolved to say as little as possible. Maklin obviously enjoyed destroying her favorite things, so it would be best not to give him any more excuses.

  Maklin brushed the charred ruins of the tapestry aside to reveal the gaping hole in the plaster. He turned back to Kariana in shock. “You just left it here?”

  “It’s not as if I could lift it!” she shouted back in a shrill voice. Her promise to be quiet had lasted all of ten seconds, if that. Oh, well, it’s hardly the first time.

  Maklin chuckled softly and elbowed Sadrik. “Oh, she’s feisty!” He turned back to Kariana, the humor gone from his face as if it had never existed. “Tell me how this happened. Leave nothing out. And be aware I have not yet decided if you actually survived this encounter.”

  Caelwen grunted. “You’re late to the party, old man. Your friends already grilled us at length, though we’re none the wiser ourselves about what we’re mixed up in.”

  Maklin glared at him. “You assume much, boy! ‘Friends’ is the wrong word.” A chair rose from the mess on the floor, righted itself, and took up a position behind Caelwen. “Sit.”

  Caelwen made no move to do so. “My master has taught me much about will, too.”

  Maklin laughed out loud at this. “Oh, doubtless. But how many years do you think I have on you, eh? It gets harder to swing a sword as you age. Not so with my craft.” He accented the point with a jerking motion, and the chair slammed into the back of Caelwen’s legs. Caelwen fell to the seat with a huff. “‘Old man’ might be an insult for your type, but for me, it’s a compliment.” He turned to Kariana and grinned. “Do I really need to do this twice?”

  Kariana shook her head vigorously and sat down on the floor. Maybe I should clamp a hand over my mouth, just in case.

  Maklin nodded to himself, pleased. “Now. Let’s hear it. And leave nothing out!”

  For the third time, Kariana told the story in exacting detail while the old sorcerer grunted and groused. Caelwen refused to speak unless spoken too, proving once and for all that he was, in fact, smarter than her. When it was done, Maklin turned to Sadrik, worry etched on his face. “Why would they not have told me?”

  Sadrik shrugged and gave Maklin a sour look. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with you being completely uninterested in anything but your sketchbook and your laboratory? How are people supposed to know what’s important to you if you never speak to them?”

  Maklin stamped his foot. “Insolent upstart! It’s hardly that bad!”

  Kariana had a brief, terrified moment where she caught herself nodding in agreement with Sadrik. Fortunately, Sadrik himself seemed to have become increasingly stupid in the last few moments, and was currently the target of the Meite’s attention. Kariana tried to communicate with Sadrik via telepathy. Shut up, you idiot! He’s going to kill you!

  If Sadrik received her message, he gave no sign of heeding it. “Oh, I should say so! Why, if half the continent were to split off and fall into the ocean, you’d care not a whit as long as you were on the dry half.”

  To Kariana’s surprise, Maklin actually began to laugh at this. “Well, you have to admit, it would get rid of a hell of a lot of idiots.”

  Sadrik raised an eyebrow in appreciation of this point. “That it would.”

  Maklin grew crabby again, as if he had suddenly remembered he was annoyed with Sadrik. “Besides, who are you to talk? At least I apply my sorcery at practical things. What do you do with yours other than assassinating people and acting mysterious, hmm?”

  Sadrik’s eyebrows seemed to leap off the top of his head a moment. “Listen here, you! How is assassination not a practical matter?”

  Kariana felt her jaw lower of its own accord. She looked across at Caelwen to see him wearing a dumbfounded look that almost certainly was the mirror of her own. “Mei! Sadrik! You’re a Meite?” she cried.

  Sadrik and Maklin turned back from their conversation, both looking a little unfocused and sheepish. Maklin coughed and rubbed his nose. “It’s always polite to speak when spoken to, you know.”

  Sadrik shot him a withering glare. “Oh, let’s not pretend I was the one who let the cat out of the bag.”

  Maklin waved a hand in dismissal. “So they know. What are they going to do about it, hmm?”

  Kariana shouted again, “Sadrik!”

  Sadrik rolled his eyes. “You had no need to know, cousin. And I’m hardly the only one with secrets around here. You kept this thing with the Eye under wraps far too long! By now, Ariano and Maranath may damned well be assembling the thing!”

  Maklin waved a hand at her. “Just so!”

  Caelwen gave a shudder and groaned, the look of surprise on his face intense enough to make Kariana wonder if he had been stung by a bee. “Mei! Did you kill Maralena Prosin?”

  Maklin struck an accusatory pose, one eye closed and face twisted in mock fury, a gnarled finger pointed at Sadrik. He only held it for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Look how indignant he is!”

  Sadrik folded his arms and turned a face seemingly carved from stone toward Caelwen. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  Kariana felt as if her head were being crushed in a vise. “You said it was friends!”

  Maklin was choking between laughs at this point. Sadrik shook his head and gave him a clap on the back. “There, you see? If you ever want to kill him, you need only make him laugh until he dies. As for ‘friends’, I find I get on quite well with myself.”

  Kariana suddenly realized there was more to this tale than she preferred to come out. “Don’t you say it!”

  Sadrik boggled at her. “You just did, fool!”

  Maklin, now red faced, cackled in glee. “Mei!” he gasped. “It’s like that tapestry! Who’s fucking who, and who’ll end up pregnant? Shall I tell her about that too?”

  Sadrik answered with stony silence, and Maklin’s laughter ebbed, then subsided. The old man cleared his throat and turned back to the other two, somber now. “I suppose I needn’t mention this should stay between us?”

  Caelwen rose to his feet. “I shall have to inform my father.”

  Maklin made a scrunched face and mouthed Caelwen’s words in mockery. “I’ll tell him myself, boy. You’ll be with me. It’s where we’re going next. If Maranath and Ariano have gone rogue, I’ll want Polus and Davron behind us all the way. But this cannot leave the circle of elders. It’s too explosive. Am I understood?”

  Caelwen nodded assent. “We’ll let my father be the judge of it, then.”

  “Agreed.” Maklin looked at Sadrik. “We need to think about how to handle Prandil.”

  Kariana suddenly brightened. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll be any problem.”

  Sadrik looked at her with suspicion. “And what makes you think that?”

  Kariana shrugged and tried to look meek and compliant. “Just a feeling,” she squeaked.

  Maklin sighed. “Does it really matter? We’d best just leave him out of it. He might be with them, and then we’d have a mess.” He gestured to Caelwen and Sadrik. “You two, come with me.” He started toward the door, Caelwen and Sadrik in tow.

  Caelwen called over his shoulder as they departed, “Try not to do anything stupid until I get back, will you?”

  Kariana snatched a broken bottle from the floor and hurled it at him. She missed by a good three feet, and the missile shattered against a wall.

  She heard Maklin chuckle. “Feisty, indeed.”

  Prandil breathed in the night air. It was crisp and cool, enough to make a couple prefer to be close without being miserable. Narelki had chosen the spot well, the remains of an old brewery that had burned a yea
r before and had yet to be rebuilt. The roof was open to the air, but the cobblestone walls still stood. It was in a secluded enough area that passersby were unlikely, but if one were to happen along, he'd not notice them unless they were too loud.

  It had been some time since Prandil had entertained the foolish notions running through his head. He had long ago cast aside the notion of love as a fool's errand. Once, eons past, some version of him had believed in such fantastic notions as soul mates and true love, but that was someone else, a man who had died, not this one.

  And yet here he was, a century later, looking across at the one woman he had ever imagined his equal, his soul mate. She had come back to him after all this time, and the rushing in of old feelings, old beliefs cast aside, made his chest feel as if it would burst trying to contain them all.

  Mei, this is the true purpose of life, is it not? To dream, to fight, to love. To heal.

  It was a thought he dared not speak. It was like wishing for the dead to return to life. There was no known case of anyone recovering from a fall. It was simply impossible to rethread a soul once its tapestry came unraveled. The irony of being a Meite was knowing this truth, and still having the arrogance to believe he could change it, that he could do what no one else could, defeat the invincible.

  I can bring her back.

  He was missing so much of what she was saying, sipping at his glass of wine, doubtlessly very expensive, tasting nothing. He was lost, looking into her eyes. They were clear again, where they had been clouded. Was it the moonlight? No, it was real. She was still in there, passion blazing away.

  “ – my son!” she finished.

  Now I've done it. She's caught me with my pants down, almost literally. “I'm sorry, my love. I was lost in your beauty. I'm afraid I missed what you were saying.”

  Narelki's normally placid face grew pinched in annoyance, and Prandil marveled at this, too. Everything about her was truly amazing, even her anger at his distraction. My ice princess, come back to me for my fire at long last.

  “I'm sorry, Prandil,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Don't be. It was both of us. We—”

  He saw the flash of her hand just before the impact. He was slow, so very, very slow. It can't be true. But it was. The heavy bottle of wine smashed into his temple, and his head filled with light, pain and the sound of shattering glass.

  She seems to have taken my distraction considerably harder than I would have expected.

  Moments later, he felt a blade penetrate deep into his back, cold, steel violation, surely every bit as traumatic as any rape. He screamed in horror, in agony, in pure rage at having been so artfully gulled, so indescribably stupid.

  “Elgar take you, traitor!” she roared at him. The blade bit deep into him again, and the knowledge in his mind bit deeper still. Mei, she didn't bring me here for a romantic dinner. She brought me here to murder me.

  The realization of that truth was almost enough to make him lie down and accept it. He was already on his knees, his face in the dirt, humiliated and blind. The roaring in his head was almost too loud to hear her cursing him as she wound up for another strike. It was difficult to remember who he was even fighting.

  One hundred eighty seven and still vigorous enough to thrash a strapping young lad like you! He heard his own words to Thrun echo in his mind, and felt a surge of strength. The pain drew back a bit, enough for him to find a handhold on the world. I've been a blind fool, but I'll not die today. Not if I can help it.

  He swept his hand backward, brushing at a gnat. He felt the impact, knew at once it was too much, too hard, even as he heard the crunch of bone and felt his target fold like a rag doll and take to the air.

  What have I done?

  For long, maddening moments, he was not permitted to know. The world resisted him, refused to conform to his will. He remained on his knees, keening in agony, guilt, and fear, yet she did not speak, nor did she strike. What other conclusion was there to draw?

  Mei! What have I done?

  His vision slowly returned, because it had to, even if his eyes were full of blood and glass. His internal organs, pierced or not, continued to function because he needed them to, if for no other reason than to live long enough to know the gravity of his crime, the depths of his ignorance and shame.

  Perhaps, when he was certain, he would keel over dead. But for now, he had to know.

  He rose slowly to his feet, his blood-soaked tunic cold and clinging to his skin. He winced at the rapidly fading pain, dashed blood and glass from his vision, and faced what he already knew he would see.

  Narelki lay in a broken heap against one of the cobblestone walls, a smear of blood marking where she had impacted and then slowly sank down the wall, a marionette with her strings suddenly and permanently cut.

  The face he had only moments before been dreaming of was now streaked with blood and gore, but her eyes were still open, still dimly aware. Perhaps there's still hope. But no, he could hear the labored, rattling sound of her breathing, see the flattened, bloody mass of the back of her head. No hope, then. Not unless she can help herself.

  He knelt before her and bowed his head, unable to find any words. His vision was going again, this time from tears he could not hold back, even though he knew he should try to put on a brave face.

  For long moments, she simply breathed in ragged, wet gasps, but finally she managed to speak. “I didn't hesitate that time, did I, you bastard?” she choked out, blood bubbling at the edges of her lips.

  “No, my love,” Prandil sighed. “Not for an instant.” He put a hand to her face, and she took it in her own.

  “Going now,” she sighed, clutching at his hand. “Very soon. I can feel it. I can't see anything.” She paused a moment to catch her breath, then sighed, “Stay with me.”

  “I will,” he said softly. “But wouldn't it be so much better if you stayed with me?”

  “I'll wait for you, if there's anything beyond,” she said. “It won't be so long.” She gave a weak chuckle. “He'll kill you all when you go against him. And then the world. I care so much less what will happen, knowing I won't be here.”

  “Stay and watch the fight, then! Whatever the outcome, it will be glorious! Perhaps we'll see Ariano get hers, at least!”

  “I would so like to have seen that,” she said, then coughed again and winced. “I've been afraid for so long, Prandil,” she whispered, smiling. “Now, finally, I'm not anymore.” She closed her eyes and murmured, “I feel like...me again.” The breath of her last words ran out of her and her eyes closed. She did not take another.

  “Goodbye, Narelki,” Prandil whispered.

  Slat watched the sky of Nihlos lighten from mottled orange to yellow to near white, his old bones aching from his vigil. It was time to follow his orders.

  “If I am not back by sunup, go to my desk. You'll find your instructions there.” Narelki had told him nothing beyond that, but she had given him a genuine smile, just for a moment, before she turned and departed. She had been, for the first time in ages, beautiful again. The bitterness she had worn like a cloak for so long was gone, her clouded eyes full of life and vigor like they had been when she was a child. He had wanted too much to believe it was a good thing, though he had known better.

  She would have come to me, if she had returned at all. Still, it fell to him to make certain. It was just possible that she had been too tired, or too busy with her own thoughts. Perhaps she forgot. They forget, when they're excited.

  He knew he was lying to himself, even as he rose and shuffled quietly to her room, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house. He could not deal with the questions. He could barely hold himself together. The hours ticking by had taken their toll on him, as each passing second made it less likely he would ever see her again.

  She never told him what was on her mind, neither last night nor ever. He had always been able to work it out from her manner, though, and last night had been no different. She was going to a battle.
That was why she shone so brightly.

  Her room was empty, as he had known it would be. Everything was in place, her silk sheets tucked with crisp corners, her cosmetics and personal items all arranged neatly. She never planned on coming back. She put everything as she wanted it.

  Slat made his way downstairs, looking in various rooms as he passed, but it was pointless. There was only one other place she might be.

  He stood before the great doors of the library, suddenly filled with the belief that she would be here, must be here. He had worried all night for nothing. He would find her in her chair, cold, arrogant, busy writing, or perhaps pouring over one of the many books of The Law. He was so convinced of it that he sighed with relief as he opened the doors.

  His face fell as he saw the room was empty, the hearth cold and dead. He spied the packet on her desk, just as she had told him, and felt the full weight of his years settle once again on his shoulders.

  Three generations I have raised in this House, and each has come to a terrible end. He had been barely twenty when he had been assigned to Lothrian as his personal slave. He had bathed and cleaned the boy dutifully, done his best to guide him, but somewhere things had gone wrong. They never told Slat exactly what had happened to Lothrian, but the old slave had not been fooled by the official lie. Tasinalt had not the power to slay Lothrian. No one did, as far as Slat knew. Lothrian had been a titan, the undisputed master of his order.

  Narelki had kept Slat on in the position of authority Lothrian had given him. She had never known a time when House Amrath was not run by Slat, and that was how she wanted things to remain. He had tended her son as he had tended her and her father before, whipped the boy when it was needed, and watched him grow into a fine young man, a strong, willful heir who would lead House Amrath well.

  And then he, too, fell, and now his mother followed.

  Was it my failure? Perhaps. But surely the Meite madness bore the greater responsibility. It had destroyed Lothrian and his daughter. And try as she might to shield Aiul, forbidding he ever be instructed in sorcery, it seemed his fate had found him still.