“Arran, while your timing is impeccable, would you mind explaining to me why this abomination is still standing?” Daratus asked as the Enforcer gave him a slight bow, pushing his hood back. Merciless hazel eyes focused on her, and the familiarity struck her again before the feeling of having her energy pulled blurred her vision and took what little strength remained in her body. Eleanor collapsed, vaguely aware that Conlan had caught her and lowered her to the floor. She whimpered as Arran tugged at her tiny spark of energy, then he pushed into her head. Frightened, Eleanor tried to push him out, but he flooded her mind with agony. She experienced pain upon pain, an agony that made everything else she had so far experienced seem like the imitation of pain in comparison. While her mind twisted and writhed in torment, her body thrashed in unison. As distractions went, it was effective. She was unable to form a coherent thought, let alone kick the intruder out. He looted her head as she struggled, unable to stop herself screaming. Then the agony was gone, leaving her fighting for consciousness. Her muscles twitched spasmodically and her right arm was trapped painfully underneath her. She had no strength to move or even open her eyes. She felt violated, weak and pathetic; she had been unable to protect her thoughts and feelings from being known by the black-robed figure in front of her. She wanted to cry but lacked even the strength for that. Arran spoke, his voice as empty and emotionless as his master’s.
“The Avatar of Earth is constantly connected to its energy source, so it recovers quickly. The Avatar of Air should also have this faster recovery time. I left it originally with barely enough energy to continue breathing. It should not have been capable of putting up a fight, my Lord.”
“So why is it attacking my guards?” Daratus asked.
“Love, my Lord.” The Enforcer spoke the word with distaste. “Its mind is complicated but its love for him…” a finger pointed accusingly at Conlan, “… is very clear. It is pushing itself beyond its limits to protect him.”
Daratus laughed humourlessly and Eleanor shivered as ice-cold terror washed over her.
“Do you love it in return?” he asked. Conlan said nothing. As her consciousness started to fade, Eleanor heard the running feet of more Protectors. Rough hands pulled her up, her head rolling forward wrenching her neck. The pain helped her fight off the impending darkness. A cold, firm hand grabbed her chin.
“This one is resilient, strong. I shall enjoy breaking it,” Daratus said.
Eleanor heard the sounds of a struggle, of fists hitting flesh. Conlan. She wanted to reassure him she was not afraid. She pushed an energy string out to him, feeling for his shield; she ran the string out over its surface, pretending she was caressing his face, wishing she could talk in his head. She knew he could feel it. The struggling stopped, but the sounds of violence continued.
“Stop!” Daratus ordered. “I want him conscious to witness the demise of his creations.” Eleanor’s faltering mind gave a start, trying to understand what she had just felt. At Daratus’s words she had felt Conlan’s shield fade slightly.
“You were always a disappointment, but you have also caused me a lot of trouble, Conlan; your actions have reduced my standing with the Central Tower. I intend to take that out on your abominations. Every blow, every pain I deliver will be your fault. I want you to remember that point as their dying screams fill your head. This futile stupidity is over, and I will take their lives in slow, agonising torture – because they believed in you.”
Daratus’s voice was finally carrying some emotion – a deep, seething hate. Eleanor felt Conlan’s shield fade further, and an avalanche of information poured into her head as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Alaric had crawled into the earth, beaten and battle-weary. He gave up. Eleanor remembered her brief struggle to live after she had been shot, as it had become too hard. I gave up. Conlan had told her about having to wait for ‘defences’ to drop. He had not spoken in her head until after she had given up. The shield was a natural defence. Maybe it existed to stop people’s emotions leaking out or to stop their energy being pulled from them, or perhaps it acted as their mind’s defence from intrusion. In the end, the purpose it served was irrelevant; to get rid of it, she had to get Conlan to give up, to let go of his will to live. His father’s words were having some effect, but could she continue? Would she get the chance? Can I hurt him so much that he would want to die?
To get the connection working, she was going to have to destroy him.
“Lock them up, I am already late for dinner. I will deal with them tomorrow,” Daratus ordered. “Lock them up together. I want Conlan to look into their eyes as he contemplates what I shall unleash on them.”
Eleanor felt Conlan’s shield fade again, confirmation, if it were needed, of what she had to do. As they were dragged to the cells she concentrated on pushing her love for Conlan, her compassion and her mercy, deep inside her. Then she focused on all the dark, hateful things she had absorbed, feeling anger rise and the slow, small increase in her energy as it did so. She nurtured it, letting all the hurtful, bitter and unpleasant things Conlan had said to her run through her mind. She remembered what it had felt like when he rejected her, how helpless she had felt when he had stuck his sword into her chin and her misery and anger when he had hit her. She took all the dark, bitter emotions, all the pain he had inflicted on her, and focused on it, allowing it to grow into a seething mass of rage.
Her body was dropped onto a cold stone floor and she heard a cell door slam with finality. Eleanor took her fear and added it to the seething mass. It’s getting easier to keep myself conscious, she thought as she forced herself to open her eyes. Maybe I’m getting used to the lower energy levels. The cell was an eight foot by eight foot bare, empty space lit by several lanterns. It made little impression. I’ve met the dragon, so it was only a matter of time before the dungeons turned up, she thought grimly as she tried to force her tired mind to concentrate on what she had to do. The move had woken Will; he was struggling to pull himself up so he could reach a still unconscious Amelia. Freddie had a haunted expression on his face, but he managed to smile at her weakly as she glanced at him. Conlan was sitting against the cell wall, his head in his hands. She felt something dark and hateful strain inside of her at the sight of him. He was the reason they were in this situation. Rage giving her strength, Eleanor pulled herself to her feet. Surprised, Conlan staggered painfully upright and stepped towards her. Moving with more speed then she thought she had, she marched towards him and shoved him roughly backwards using both hands.
“I trusted you, believed in you and now I’m going to pay for that with my life. You started this, brought us here and let us believe that we could make a difference. Why?” she snarled. Conlan stared at her, speechless. She shoved him again, his back hitting the cell wall. His legs collapsed out from underneath him and he slid down in front of her, his eyes still searching hers for some explanation. Eleanor felt his shield fade further – it was working. She forced herself to continue.
“We’re going to die, Conlan. Your father is going to take great delight in tearing us apart. Will you enjoy that, too? Is that what this has been about? Do you enjoy watching people suffer? You’ve certainly gone out of your way to make sure I’ve suffered.”
Conlan stared at her with uncomprehending distress. She buried her feelings deeper and narrowed her eyes. Sneering, she continued. “What possible motivation did you have? It was never some noble cause; you’re far too selfish for that. This was about you, wasn’t it? It’s always been about you! Your father disowned you, took away all your fancy things and your power, so you created a mission for yourself and made yourself feel important again, but it’s no fun without people to lord it over, is it? So you created us, a captive audience you could torture to your heart’s content.” She slapped him hard in the face, her hand making contact with a sharp crack against the bruises Daratus had left. The already bloody lip started seeping again. His eyes came back to hers filled with raw, naked pain. Will was at her side. One look at
the misery in his expression and she nearly faltered.
“Eleanor, don’t…” he whispered. She glared at him for a moment while pushing an energy string into his head.
Trust me, she pleaded. You promised.
She pulled her string back; she could not afford to get into a debate with Will about what she was doing.
Her voice took on a cold, remorseless tone. “I know you didn’t want to tell him how we felt, Will, but I’m not going quietly to my death. You might be able to suffer in silence for him, but I’m not!” Eleanor could see the indecision on Will’s face – he had promised that he would trust her, no questions, no discussion, when she asked for it, but Eleanor suspected he had not thought he would have to watch her tear his best friend to pieces to honour the promise. His expression changed and he looked at her thoughtfully. He nodded once and then moved away, a pained look on his face, letting Eleanor finish what she had started. She saw the hope of rescue die in Conlan’s eyes and pounced on it.
“Did you think Will would stop me? Will feels exactly the same way! Your actions are not just going to destroy him, they’re going to destroy Amelia as well. He’s going to watch the woman he loves tortured to death in front of him. Have you any idea what that will feel like? No, of course you don’t. You have no idea what love is, do you?” she hissed.
“I’m sorry…” Conlan whispered, devastation filling his face.
Eleanor slapped him again, this time hard enough to make her hand throb. He put up no resistance as his head jerked to the side. She would not give him the chance to speak further, knowing that if he interrupted her monologue she would crack, and she was only going to get one chance. The moment he guessed she was not one hundred per cent for real, it would stop having its effect. Eleanor could feel the shield fading rapidly but it was not enough, she had to keep going. She slapped him again, with all the strength she could muster, the sharp sound echoing round the cell. The tormented despair in his eyes as he brought them back to hers emptied her mind of thought. She glared at him, thinking fast.
“Now you decide to say you’re sorry?! I didn’t think you even had that word in your vocabulary! Don’t you dare speak, nothing you utter is worth listening to,” she screamed. He stared at her, tears welling up. Eleanor felt her resolve start to crumble and wanted to reach for him, to beg his forgiveness, but his shield was so thin now. Her gaze drilling into him, she imagined she was burning a hole right through his heart with her hate and fury, steeling herself for what she knew she must do. She dug her nails into her hands and the pain pushed the exhaustion back a little. When she spoke again her voice was cold, bitter thunder.
“We’re going to die. Slow, bloody, agonising deaths. We gave you everything, is it enough? Are you going to grieve for us as you watch our bodies broken and torn? This is just another game to you, isn’t it? You’ve betrayed us to our deaths, just like you did your mother!”
Please let that be enough!
Conlan recoiled from her words like he had been bitten by a snake. She struggled to keep the bitter hatred in her look as he stared at her, totally wrecked, tears trickling slowly down his face. His shield was so thin. She could feel all his pain. All his shame. All his guilt. He truly believed what she was saying, believed she hated him. The shield was going to disappear, she knew it. She just had to get him to let go of life.
“Conlan, this is the end. I’m going to take your life,” she lied, her words razor-sharp. “I know Will would like the satisfaction of watching you die, and if you’re not around to witness it, perhaps your father will make our deaths easier.”
“End it,” he whispered.
Eleanor forced herself to snarl at him. “Not nearly good enough. Beg for your death, as no doubt we will end up begging for ours.” Eleanor watched his pride drain from him; defenceless, stricken, he stared at her and nodded slowly, his face blank, his eyes deep pits of agony, fear and self-loathing.
“Please, Eleanor,” his voice catching at her name. “If it will help you in any way, I’m begging you, take my life.” He closed his eyes, waiting for the killing blow, tears running. Eleanor wondered where he thought she had got the energy from to blast at him. He took a slow, deep, shuddering breath.
He thinks it’s his last, Eleanor realised, her heart shattering as she felt his shield finally collapse in on itself, disappearing completely. She dropped to her knees and gently placed her hand against the angry, red imprint she had left on his face. She tenderly rubbed her thumb across his cheek, pulling away the tears. He opened his eyes to stare dully at her.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor,” he whispered again, his distress crashing over her and swamping her mind. Without warning, her consciousness was swept up into the chaotic maelstrom in his head. Conlan’s mind felt like a tornado was moving through it – thoughts, feelings, fears, spun around her in dizzying confusion and battered against her, threatening to tear away her sanity at any moment.
It was a mistake! His horror-filled thought stabbed through her mind and heart over and over, reverberating through her as he used it to rip at his soul. There was no antechamber, no quiet place they could talk. If she wanted to understand, she was going to have to talk directly to his mind.
I guess the shield was his mind’s only defence, like Arran. Avatars are different, our defences are on the inside.
Eleanor concentrated on the images spinning and flashing in front of her, trying to block out the thoughts Conlan was using to beat himself up with. It was too much, he was going into overload. She needed to focus and inhabit one memory so she could pull herself together. In desperation she yelled into the chaos.
Your mother… show me your mother.
The image of a beautiful green-eyed woman swam into view and solidified, the memory expanding and pulling Eleanor in until she felt a part of it, seeing it all through Conlan’s eyes. Around her was the garden she had visited, Conlan’s mother’s garden; it was better kept, but still the riot of glorious colour she remembered, the wonderful heady smell of flowers in bloom filled her consciousness. It was a warm summer’s day, and she saw his mother’s smiling face as she held him in her arms. He reached a hand to stroke the smooth, petal-soft skin of her face, a tiny hand – he could have been no more than one or two. He was warm, comfortable and blissfully happy, the smell of the flowers and the drone of the occasional insect were lulling him to sleep.
“My beloved,” his mother whispered to him, her voice musical, the growling language a kitten’s purr on her tongue. “My special boy, one day you will be a great leader and I will be so proud. I love you, with all my heart, but I know that I do not deserve you.” She leant over him, kissing his forehead, and Eleanor felt the child’s unconditional love.
The scene changed, another took its place – a well-worn track of thoughts, Eleanor realised. Conlan had played these memories back to himself many times. Underneath the thoughts that were embedded within the scene, Eleanor became aware of the thoughts that had been added over time. She felt his vow to his mother as he got older that he would make her proud, would atone for her death in any way he could.
The next scene showed winter. Conlan was older and standing tall. He would be four or five maybe. He watched his mother walking through the dead flowers as his breath made clouds in the still, frosty air. His mother held her hand out over a frost-bitten plant and Conlan gasped in awe as the flower regenerated before his eyes, growing strong, vibrant and beautiful once more.
“It is a secret, beloved, not to be told,” she whispered, serious green eyes holding his. The child nodded, feeling pride at being trusted with a secret.
Magic… Conlan’s mother was a natural, connected to the earth.
The image changed again. A room, Gregor’s library, a child’s hand held over dying flowers in a vase. Concentration. If his mother could do it, perhaps he could learn, too. Was that leaf a lighter shade of green? Wonder. Then a feeling of being watched. The child turned his head. A servant, not one he liked, stood in the doorway staring at him
with calculating eyes. The only feeling at the time had been fear; but over the years Conlan had added layers of self-loathing and regret to this memory. This was where it had happened. This was where he had unknowingly betrayed his mother.
Gregor’s study faded and a new memory solidified. This time there was a lot more detail. This memory had been obsessed over and played so many times that it stood out sharply in contrast to the slightly faded quality of the other memories. Around her was the hallway of a great house, Gregor’s, Eleanor assumed. Heavy wooden front doors shuddered under repeated blows, the crashing noise and angry yelling muffled from the other side of the door.
“Open for the representatives of the Lords of Mydren!”
His mother stood, beautiful even in her terror, at the foot of a large sweeping staircase that disappeared into darkness. Conlan knew that Merl and his grandfather were away on business, knew the servants would not get involved, so he had run to protect her, placing his small frame between her and the danger. The doors gave way with a creaking crash and men wielding swords, Protectors, swarmed in. One of the men marched up to them, grabbing Conlan’s arm roughly.
“Conlan, son of Lord Daratus and Helena Baydon, you are accused of practicing magic. You will come with us!” he snapped.
No! The child thought stubbornly, fear pulsing in his veins. With all his might he kicked the man, who let go of his arm, yelping in surprise. He may have only been a child, but Conlan had been trained in the best places to apply his strength. He punched and kicked with all the force of his fear, but the man was stronger and slammed a meaty fist into the side of Conlan’s face, lifting him off his feet. He landed, stunned, the force knocking the wind from him. His mother ran forward, holding a tiny, delicate hand out, as if this would fend them off.
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