What she was attempting was something that none had dared do since early in the Second Age. It was dark knowledge that had been buried deep in some of the most ancient Books of Time, kept in the mountain fortress of Ka’i-Nur in the heart of the great wastelands to the west. It was guarded by the seventh of the ancient orders. Unlike the other six, it had fallen from grace long ages ago. Few, even among the other orders, even remembered it. Only a handful of the curious or unlucky were foolhardy enough to try and cross the wastelands to find it. Fewer still ever returned.
Syr-Nagath had been born there. While she had been raised as a warrior, she had spent many an hour poring over the ancient tomes and pulling secrets from the tongues of the keepers. Vast riches of powerful knowledge were to be found. Much of it was dark, forbidden to the world beyond Ka’i-Nur’s walls. In past times, many had sought to destroy those Books of Time, which is why the surviving texts and keepers had been cloistered away in the ancient fortress.
Her mother had been the high priestess, although the title rang hollow. Unlike the other six orders, the Crystal of Souls that had once belonged to Ka’i-Nur had disappeared. None knew the fate that had befallen it. Without it, none who followed the order’s ancient ways could ever inherit the crystal’s special powers, as did the priesthoods of the other orders.
Syr-Nagath had been born of a Ka’i-Nur mother, but her father had been an Outsider, a pilgrim from the far southern lands of Ural-Murir on a quest for knowledge. He had met the fate of all but a few unfortunate enough to reach Ka’i-Nur: he had never been allowed to leave. The high priestess, on a whim, had taken him as a lover, and Syr-Nagath had been the product of the forced union. He had died in an attempt to escape soon thereafter.
When Syr-Nagath had been born, she had created something of a stir, for in appearance she was like the outsiders. This had given her mother the opportunity to attempt something that she and her forebears for generations had sought, the destruction of the outsiders.
Born of Ka’i-Nur, trained in combat and steeped in their ancient form of the Way, Syr-Nagath was sent out into the world of outsiders to wreak havoc.
And so she had.
With dawning horror, the acolyte began to snap his torso back and forth, desperately trying to throw her off.
She bared her fangs, an expression of humor, at his pathetic attempts to escape.
Using his own twisting motion against him, she easily flipped him over on his stomach before slamming a fist against the back of his head, stunning him. Then she removed the ring binding the stump of his third braid and carefully began weaving in her own hair.
When she was done, she drew a talon across her right palm, dripping the blood across the hair she had just weaved into his. Then she wrapped her hand around the splice, gripping it tight as the acolyte moaned beneath her. The binding grew warm, hot under her palm, just as her own body warmed, aroused by the young warrior pinned beneath her. Her breathing quickened as she anticipated the next part of the ritual, which demanded a more energetic consummation of their union.
The heat under her palm peaked, then began to cool. Removing her hand, she saw that her hair had been fused to his. She brushed away the blood, which was now dried. It flaked away. The hair she had spliced in had multiplied, and it continued to do so, growing longer, as well, before her eyes.
In but a few moments, his hair appeared normal under even the closest inspection.
And now she could sense him, as clearly as if she were looking in a mirror of her own feelings. She sat up, straddling his back, and shivered at the sensations of pain and despair that welled up from his heart. She could not sense the others of the Desh-Ka bloodline, for that had not been her intention. In fact, she did not desire such a union. Not yet. This ritual bound him to her alone, made him a slave to her will.
But the true test was not in what she could sense from him. Releasing him from his bindings, she rolled him over on his back before she straddled his waist, her heart beating quickly with anticipation.
His good eye flickered open, and he looked up at her, an expression of unutterable misery on his face.
“Tell me your name,” she asked again.
“Ria-Ka’luhr.” He closed his eye in shame.
“Love me,” she commanded, knowing that it was the most loathsome thing she could demand of him.
He tried to resist, but could not.
Reaching up with trembling hands, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her down to lay on top of him, his lips parting to kiss her.
Syr-Nagath sighed with pleasure as their bodies became one, knowing that she now had the key that would help her destroy the Desh-Ka and upset the balance of power forever.
* * *
“You are bound to me now.”
Syr-Nagath’s whispered words burned Ria-Ka’luhr’s soul like acid, and he flinched as he felt her graceful talons drag gently down the skin of his chest in the aftermath of their union, the final consummation of the ritual she had performed. He could feel the hair of his third braid like a parasite on his skull, its teeth biting into his flesh, into his soul. His will was no longer his own.
He cursed the misfortune that had landed him here. He had been on his way from the lands of the far north, of eternal snow and ice, after fulfilling the last quest Ayan-Dar had set before him. He had been tasked with reaching a temple to the ancient gods that stood upon the tallest mountain at the top of the world. It was the greatest physical and mental challenge Ria-Ka’luhr had ever faced, and Ayan-Dar had warned him that few of the acolytes sent upon this particular challenge survived.
Undeterred, Ria-Ka’luhr set out on his mission, traveling north from the Desh-Ka temple. It took him over four months to reach the mountain on which the temple stood. There, he was forced to turn his magtheps free and continue alone, on foot.
After braving the frigid winds and climbing the seven thousand steps to the top of the great mountain, Ria-Ka’luhr finally reached the temple. Every moment of the four days it took him to climb to the top, the wind howled, spearing him with tiny daggers of ice as the cold sapped the life from this body. The air was so thin that he wheezed and gasped for every breath as he dug his feet and the talons of his hands into the frozen snow, forcing himself onward.
Freezing and near death, he reached the summit. There stood the temple, shrouded in blowing snow. Staggering to the white-crusted doorway, he had to use the handle of his sword to hammer the ice from the hinges and latch of the door. Just as he was about to give up, he was finally able to pry it open and crawl inside. With the last of his strength, he managed to close the door behind him, locking out the shrieking wind.
His skin blackened and frozen, he lay on the frost-rimed stone floor, shivering uncontrollably. The temple was little more than a circular room topped by a domed crystal ceiling that let in the milky light of the fading day. Ancient runes that he could not decipher were carved into the stone of the walls in orderly rows. Between them were faded frescoes depicting what he thought must be the gods of old.
But those were all things he noted subconsciously as he stared at what was in the center of the room. On a raised stone dais lay a sword that was the object of his quest.
“In the temple,” Ayan-Dar had told him, “you shall find a sword. Take it, and leave your own in its stead. Do this, and you will survive.”
With a groan, Ria-Ka’luhr had pulled himself along the floor, digging his scratched and frayed talons into the stone for purchase. The temple was small, perhaps four or five warriors heel to toe, but crossing the distance to reach the dais seemed as difficult as the climb up the mountain.
His sword was already in his hand from hammering the ice from the door. But it took some effort to free it, as it had frozen to his gauntlet.
Levering himself up on one elbow, he shoved his sword upon the dais before taking the other one.
Then he collapsed.
When he awoke, the temple was no longer freezing. It was warmed by glowing coals in a hearth that
ran all the way around the base of the wall.
On the dais, the sword was gone, replaced by fresh meat, water, and a large flask of ale.
Peeling off his gauntlets, he looked at his hands. The flesh was no longer blackened by frostbite. Running his fingers over his face, his skin felt normal. On further reflection, after taking inventory of his body, he realized that his injuries had been healed.
At his side was the sword he had taken from the dais, the true object of his quest. There was nothing sacred about it, save that it had been left here by Ayan-Dar as a token of success, and as a reward. It was a fine sword, one crafted by the master armorer of the temple, a prize worthy of the hardships endured to take it.
He meditated on these things as he ate and drank, wondering how long he had been in the temple before he had awakened.
After one more night’s sleep, he began the perilous descent. While it was terribly difficult, he knew that he was stronger now, that he would make it home.
He had just emerged from the mountains, leaving behind the bitter cold, when he came upon a group of unfortunates, victims of a raid by honorless ones. He stopped to render what aid he could, not realizing until it was too late that he had been deceived.
The young female warrior he had knelt down to tend to reached out to hold his hand and thank him. One of her talons grazed his skin, and he instantly felt a numbness that quickly began to spread.
She had smeared some venom from a small predator on her talon. In sufficient quantity, the venom quickly killed. Used in just the right amount, it would merely paralyze.
Ria-Ka’luhr realized that he had been baited into a trap. He fought as long as he could, and killed over ten of them before the venom overcame him.
Still conscious, he could only scream in his mind as they stripped him of his armor and took the sword, the precious sword. They bound him in chains, hand and foot, and forced a device into his throat that would prevent him from swallowing his tongue.
They cut the third braid from his hair, severing his emotional tie to his bloodline. It was a cruel, horrible act that left a sudden stillness in his soul. The emotional song of the others of his bloodline had been with him since birth, and to have it suddenly cut off was like being rendered deaf.
That was when he realized why they had done it. With the link severed, he would have simply disappeared, his own emotional song would have stopped in the perceptions of others. Ayan-Dar and the others of the priesthood would likely think him dead.
They tossed him into a wagon and covered him with a fetid tarp. And that is how they delivered him to the queen’s First.
With a groan, Ria-Ka’luhr pushed the shame of his capture from his mind.
Beside him, Syr-Nagath propped herself up on one elbow, tracing circles on his chest with her index finger, the talon scoring the skin deep enough to draw a thin thread of crimson.
“Your cares will soon fall away, acolyte of the Desh-Ka.” She smiled, fresh blood staining her teeth from having bitten him in her passion. Her face was still covered in the blood of the opponent she killed earlier that day. “Soon you shall know my will. You will live for that, and nothing else. And what others shall sense of your heart, your emotions, shall be what I will.” She leaned toward him, and her lips brushed his ears as she whispered, “I shall sing the song of your blood, and your soul will be linked to the Afterlife only through me.”
He raised a hand to her, willing it to claw out her eyes, but he could not. His body was no longer his to command.
She reached out and closed his fingers with her own and pressed his hand back to his chest.
He stared up at her, his heart pounding. What she had done to him was so alien, so unspeakable, that he could not comprehend it. Syr-Nagath was nearly the same age as he, but she seemed so much older, an evil relic from some long-ago age. And should the Desh-Ka or any of the other orders learn of what she had done, they would descend upon her like a raging pack of genoths, great dragons that would destroy her, body and soul. The ancient orders had isolated themselves from the affairs of the race beyond the temples and the training grounds of the kazhas, but for an abomination against the Way such as this, they would act.
If only they could be warned.
* * *
Finished with Ria-Ka’luhr, Syr-Nagath got to her feet and poured herself a mug of ale. The dark blue skin of her body glowed in the fading light of the sun that shone through the opening of the pavilion that overlooked her newest city.
Her First appeared in the entryway to the chamber, kneeling and rendering a salute.
“Take him to the healers, then the armorers.” Syr-Nagath gestured at Ria-Ka’luhr. “Once he is cleaned up, provide him with a mount and sufficient pack animals to reach the Desh-Ka temple. Then release him.”
The First glanced up, surprised, before she remembered her place and returned her eyes to the floor. “Yes, my mistress.” She turned to beckon the guards.
“They will not be necessary.” She looked at Ria-Ka’luhr. “Will they?”
“No…my mistress.” He rose unsteadily to his feet. Turning to her, he lowered his head and saluted, his body moving in jerky motions as if controlled by an invisible puppet master.
Nodding in approval, Syr-Nagath turned away as the acolyte followed the First from the room.
The Dark Queen thought of the life that she sensed growing in her womb, and reflexively brought a hand to her belly. Having a child had also been part of her plan, but she had been forced to wait, for not just any male would do. How surprised Kunan-Lohr would be, she thought, showing her fangs in a wicked smile, to know that he had sired the child that would lead their civilization to its undoing?
The fire that lit the sky as the sun fell toward the horizon blended into the Dark Queen’s vision as she imagined her world, the Settlements, her entire ancient race roiling in flame, to be remade by her own hands.
* * *
Ria-Ka’luhr rode the magthep along the ancient road that led west. Behind him, the three pack animals plodded along, occasionally bleating in complaint at their lot in life.
A part of his mind that seemed to think on its own, as if his head was now occupied by two brains, was focused on how to explain his extended absence.
Perhaps, he thought, the best lie would be one founded on the truth. He would tell Ayan-Dar that he had been captured by honorless ones and taken to the east, for what purpose he could not discern, and that he had escaped. It was a rare thing, but had been recorded in the Books of Time. Ayan-Dar would no doubt welcome him with open arms and praise him for escaping an unworthy fate. The newly cleaned armor and his fresh mounts could be easily explained away, for even the smallest village of T’lar-Gol would provide whatever was needed to an acolyte of the Desh-Ka.
He clenched his hands so tightly that his talons pierced his palms, drawing blood. While his body had been healed and cleansed, and his armor and clothing made new, he felt unutterably soiled and wretched. He was worse than a traitor to his honor. He was a parasite the Dark Queen was injecting into the temple, the carrier of her plague of hatred. His only hope was that the priesthood would be able to recognize him for what he was and kill him quickly, before he could carry out her will.
Before he could become a priest.
He leaned over, spewing vomit to the ground as he thought of the evil that Syr-Nagath could do through him. His becoming a priest was only a question of when, not if. He knew that Ayan-Dar would almost certainly consider his final quest successful, even if based only on Ria-Ka’luhr’s word. Beyond that, only the formalities had to be observed. As the temple’s senior acolyte, he would soon face the cyan fire of the ancient crystal that was the heart of their order. If he survived that final trial, he would be a member of the priesthood.
Then, all would be lost. And he was utterly powerless to save himself or those he held most dear.
He brought his magthep to a halt and turned around to look back the way he had come. Night had fallen and the stars now reigned
supreme in the sky, the great moon not yet having risen. He could see the flickering torches of the pavilion and the glow of fires in the valley beyond from the Dark Queen’s army, a pox rapidly spreading across the lands of T’lar-Gol. He imagined the world opening up, a great maw that would swallow whole the Dark Queen and her dreadful ambitions.
For the thousandth time since he had lain with her, he brought his claws to his throat, desperately seeking Death’s embrace and release from whatever the evil harlot might have in store for him and his temple.
And for the thousandth time, he could not. He could sense her will like a serpent coiled in his mind, an undeniable force that was devouring him. He could not even speak of the horror he carried within him, even to himself. He could give no warning of what he had become. It was as if his soul had been torn in two, with his true self locked into a rapidly shrinking cage, while the other part, the Dark Queen’s puppet, roamed free and grew ever stronger.
He threw his head back and screamed, a soul-wrenching cry of anguish that tore the stillness of the night.
* * *
Ayan-Dar’s eyes snapped open. He had been in a state of deep meditation, his mind’s eye cast far away, when a tremor of such pain and dread echoed through his blood that it broke even his tremendous concentration.
It had been three weeks since he had encountered the group of honorless ones and had heard the young warrior’s troubling words about the Dark Queen. The thought worried him, but it did not occupy his full attention.
That was reserved for his search for the child. Each night had brought him closer to her, and he knew that he was close now, very close. He would have found the child long before, were it not for the epic tides of pain and fear, of agony and ecstasy roiling the waters of the bloodline from the Dark Queen’s campaign to the east.
In Her Name: The First Empress: Book 01 - From Chaos Born Page 5