by S. G. Night
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bleeding Secrets
I should confess that, as I write this, I’ve been wanting to lie.
There is something, or rather someone, a part of this story, who I’ve avoided mentioning until now. Avoided him because, honestly, his existence is a delicate matter. I haven’t been sure how to approach him — how best to reveal him to you, I should say. Not because he is difficult to describe, or anything like that. Nothing that simple.
Hell…I only wish it were that simple.
I’ve been avoiding him because…because I am afraid. That’s my reason. Fear.
I’m afraid that if you knew the truth about him — who he was then, and who he is now — then you would stop reading. Stop listening to me. I’m afraid that you’d slam this record shut. Shove it away in revulsion, scramble back from it in disgust. Toss it into your fireplace, and wash your hands to get the filthy taste out of your mouth.
I’m afraid you’ll wonder if every word I’ve said has been a lie. Wonder if I fabricated every event that I’ve recorded here to serve my own purposes. I’m afraid that you’ll question how you ever could have trusted me to tell this story.
And most of all, I’m afraid you won’t let me finish telling it.
It’s my fear that’s tempting me to lie to you. In the back of my mind, I’ve been arguing with myself about just how much of this person I should let you see. If I should display him in his honest entirety, or leave fractions of his character in shadow, where they belong. I’ve been tempted to warp this person, to distort the reality of who he is so that I could evade your condemnation. I’ve even entertained the thought of leaving him out all together.
But I can’t. I can’t, because omitting him would be like omitting the Day of Severance. Like omitting the entire city of Litoras. Like omitting Nelle, or even Racath himself.
And there’s another reason I can’t leave him out, too. Probably a more important reason, actually — if this story, Racath’s story, is to be my first act of penance, my baptism by fire, than I shall have to bear the heat of every flame. I do not have the luxury of picking and choosing what to reveal and what to hide. What good would my confessions be if I exclude the ones that shame me most? I must be wholly honest, or my efforts will count for nothing.
Truth, then. I will give you truth, in the hope that some of you might trust me long enough to listen on. It doesn’t erase my fear that you’ll question my right to tell this story, or cast this volume aside — I’m sure that many of you will. But nevertheless, I have to try.
The question you must be asking — who is this person, who could have such a profound impact on my legitimacy that his very presence might turn you against me?
Let us bring him in, let us call his cue and watch as he steps onto our stage. Let us turn our eyes onto him as he enters — he, the lynchpin, the axis upon which hinges the fate of Racath’s entire story. Look now upon the man…the Demon…the god…without whom, there would have been no War of Fire.
Me.
——
It was night. The clouds hid me from the stars. The surface of Dor’mon Bay rippled with a hundred-thousand pockmarks of heavy rain.
An isle arched up from the water like the shell of an ancient reptile. At the center of the fifteen-acre island-estate, a manor house rose five stories into the sky, dwarfing the thin ring of trees that encircled it. The mansion was wrought of great, grey stone, and was silhouetted black against the sky.
I stepped out onto the dock before the small ferry-boat could come to a full stop, my footsteps making no sound upon the sea-soaked wood. A pair of Arkûl guards armed with long pikes stood at the end of the pier, the rain giving their ugly, reddish-black faces a slick, waxy quality. I did not slow for them.
“Halt!” one Arkûl commanded, yellow teeth bared. “Entrance to the barony is by invitation only—”
I stopped and turned my head so that the light of a nearby lamp could reach underneath my hood. Dressed as I was, face shrouded from the rain, it wasn’t immediately obvious that I was a Demon; by shape and appearance, I could very easily be mistaken for a Human, or something of the like.
So, even after my face was illuminated, it took the Arkûl a moment of scrutiny before he reacted appropriately. I watched his dull yellow eyes examine my features: Human enough, at first glance. Except for my skin. My tar-black flesh — not simply dark-colored, like someone who spent too much time in the sun, but a pure, true black, like I’d been painted.
Then he saw my eyes, noticed that they too were of the deepest, truest black. No visible iris, white, or pupil to speak of. Glossy, like anthracite. The same color you’d see if you looked into an empty, infinite well. The color of night.
He knew then that I wasn’t Human. That I wasn’t a Majiski, or even a fabled Elf. I was a Demon. His superior.
Both guards snapped to attention. “Sire!” the Arkûl saluted. “Forgive me. Welcome to Territh Umbra. Is the Baron Monger expecting you?”
I frowned. I knew they didn’t recognize me. Very few non-Demons were privy to the true nature of the Mnogo Pantheon. And I doubt that anyone ever looked closely enough at the faces of the Church’s idols to draw the connection. To these Arkûl, I was just a visitor. Just another Demon — one that could pass for a hooded Human, save for his midnight skin and colorless eyes.
“No.” I brushed past them before they could say another word.
The path that led away from the docks snaked around the perimeter of the island, meandering aimlessly for a while before finally curving toward the manor house. Obscenely inconvenient. I ignored the path and cut across the lawn, ripping up the sod where my heels dug into the muddy ground. The lack of light did not bother me — I was at home in the dark.
Another pair of Arkûl guards flanked the front entrance of the manor house. I took no notice of them either. Unceremoniously, I walked right up to the massive double doors and pushed them open, barely slowing my stride.
The golden light of a thousand lamps and candles reflected across the marble floors and walls of the grandiose, highfaluting antechamber. Several gaudy, crystal chandeliers, each the size of a small boat, dangled from the vaulted ceiling.
A capacious amount of clutter festooned the nooks and crannies. Tawdry tapestries and oversized paintings (which, for the most part, were artlessly erotic or visceral in nature) occupied the wall space. Small tables sat pressed up against walls, too inconveniently shaped to serve any useful function other than vase-holder. A scattering of servants (in a way, they were decorations, too) trundled about from door to door — mostly Humans with a few Arkûl mixed in.
As I entered, a thin man of roughly middling age jumped and scurried over to where I stood carelessly dripping rainwater onto the polished floor.
“Oh, good evening, sire!” the Human squeaked, dropping into an overzealous bow. “How might I assist you? Might I take your…um….” He fumbled as he looked me up and down, and realized that I wasn’t in fact wearing a cloak, but rather a suit of snug, coal-black armor, cloth, and light chainmail with a hood rising from the neck.
This was Tayran’s manservant. I couldn’t quite remember his name — nor did I care to. Rodgers, I think. But I did recall that, out of all the staff here at Territh Umbra, he was the only Human who was informed as to the true nature of the Mnogo Pantheon. And, in addition to that, he was the only one who knew that the owner of this estate, the Baron Monger of the lesser Demonic gentry, was in reality, Tayran, the Mnogo god of war, Lord Commander of the Dominion, and Duke of Dor’mon.
As such, when I pulled off my hood, Rodgers went stiff with recognition and made a face like he’d just been kicked between the legs. His eyes glanced shakily from me, to the floor, to the other servants nearby, to me again. Like he felt obligated to drop on his face and grovel at my feet, but was worried about spoiling the gods’ little secret to the other, ignorant Humans. He shuffled closer to me and began speaking in an obnoxiously breathy whisper, so that only I could hear.
“I’m sure,” I replied dryly, not looking at him as shook out my matted hair. “Where’s Hikshaa?”
“Umm…I believe that Master Hikshaa is running an errand for the Baron in town.”
“Of course he is.”
“But I would be happy to be of assistance in his stead!” the insipid man chirped enthusiastically.
I rolled my eyes. “Marvelous.”
The manservant hurried to shut the doors behind me. “Good gracious, it’s really coming down out there, isn’t it? Now, how may I serve the Hand of the Imperator this evening? Am I correct in assuming that Your Lordship is here to see the Baron Monger?”
I glared at him. “I’m here to see Tayran. In his actual capacity.”
The manservant cowed a bit at my rebuke. “Of course, Lord-Master Saccarri, of course, but I’m afraid he is unavailable at the moment. He instructed me to hold all callers here until he says otherwise. Can I offer Your Lordship a seat by the fire while you wait? And perhaps something warm to drink?”
I glared at him.
Rodgers floundered to recover. “I-I think a tray is headed up to his chamber from the kitchens shortly. If you wish, I can leave a message on it, informing him of Your Lordship’s arrival…?” His voice curled upward when he said the last, making it a hesitant, unassuming question. “I’m sure that he wouldn’t keep the God of Night waiting for too long.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I kept walking toward the enormous, carpeted staircase that dominated the back end of the antechamber.
“Err…Your Lordship?” The manservant came scuttling after me. “Forgive my rudeness, Your Lordship,” he stammered, as if the act of walking and talking at the same time was proving immensely difficult for him. “B-but Baron Monger — excuse me, the…Duke,” he whispered the last word conspiratorially. “is…occupied at the moment. He instructed me to hold all callers until he—”
“I heard you the first time.”
When I didn’t stop, he hastened to try again. “But…uh, he is really…very busy, Your Lordship,” he said, bobbing his head emphatically. “He does not wish to be disturbed. I’m afraid he was rather…insistent.”
I reached the steps and started my ascent. “You say this like I should care.”
“B-but…but he insist—”
“I don’t care,” I clarified, reaching the landing.
Rodgers blubbered for a moment, frozen on the second step, like some intangible barrier was preventing him from climbing any higher after me.
“No, no, don’t worry about seeing me upstairs,” I dismissed him dryly, as though he had actually offered to escort me. “I’ll show myself in. I’m sure the Baron won’t mind.”
I continued on up the second flight, leaving the flabbergasted manservant speechless on the step.
It was another four flights up to the top story. Every floor was just as extraneously oversized and over-decorated as the antechamber. What could Tayran possibly do with all this extra space? It seemed rather impractical to me — why would you put the ballroom and the banquet hall two floors away from each other? The only real difference between the two was that the banquet hall had tables, and those could be moved. For that matter, why would you have a banquet hall or a ballroom at all? Who needs a ballroom?
Territh Umbra wasn’t even the largest of Dor’mon’s island-estates — Tayran had placed his false persona right in the middle of the lesser Demonic gentry to avoid suspicion…which meant that there were mansions even bigger and gaudier than this one. Ridiculous. Why sacrifice convenience for luxury?
The top floor was merely a short hallway ending in large door. On the other side of the door were Tayran’s chambers, which occupied the entire upper level. I approached the door and gripped the knob. Then I thought twice about it and released the knob.
I made the Eye. Through the Magick, I saw the world as a spider web of light, each strand its own individual culture of energy and matter. I sifted through the mess of tangled lights, pausing only briefly to identify each tendril. Hydrogen…carbon…wood compounds. Come on, where are you…aha!
I found a strand of golden energy that pulsed fitfully amidst its multicolored fellows. Following its path, I traced it back until I discovered where it wrapped another pair of lights: the lock, and an claxon Magick.
Just as I thought — Tayran had placed a ward on the door, set so that if anyone without the proper key attempted to open it, it would lock solidly shut and raise a magic-based alarm. Maybe the bastard wasn’t half as stupid as I thought.
I’d just begun to contemplate how best to circumvent the ward when I heard a noise coming from inside the chambers, muffled by the door. I listened again, closer this time. There it was again: voices, whispers, rustling fabric, and frenetic giggles.
Oh faul, he’s doing it again.
I took a step back. Examined the door. Shadow…I needed shadow…there, the keyhole — its interior was plenty dark. It would be a tight fit, but I could make it work. Being a Shadowmancer has its rewards. Being the God of Night was even better.
I released the Eye and made Shadow-step. I felt my entire body compress, evanesce, and become one with the darkness inside the keyhole. And then, in a blink, I was out the other side, fully formed again and standing in Tayran’s chambers.
I didn’t bother to take in the full extent of the room; my attention was focused on the spasming tangle of sheets on the oversized bed. There were more flailing limbs involved than two people could account for.
“Ahem.”
There was a pair of startled, feminine squeals. Their owners nearly jumped out of the bed in surprise. Two Human women — one blond, the other dark — surfaced from the satin, their hair askew as they scrambled and fought over the sheets, trying to cover themselves. Between them, a Demon shot bolt upright, his hard, chiseled features wrinkled with anger.
“What the faul!” the Demon thundered, sitting up. “Did I not say I was to be — Oh. It’s you.”
Tayran looked about as pleased to see me as I was to be there. The Demonic god of war was of the Incubus archetype, and so he resembled a Human in general shape and proportion — the only difference being his gargantuan size. The muscles of his arms, shoulders and chest, rippling like slabs of granite, glistening with sweat. His beard and mane of shoulder-length hair matched the red of his infernal eyes. Plainly naked, he made no attempt to cover himself as the two girls did.
I crossed my arms. “Oh, it’s me.”
Recovering from their little scare, Tayran’s consorts nuzzled themselves under the huge Demon’s arms. The blond one began to kiss Tayran’s bulging chest, shoulders, and neck, pointedly ignoring me.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord,” the brunette cooed with a lustful smile. “But the Baron is—”
“Indisposed?” I guessed. “Yeah, that’s what the obsequious little weasel downstairs told me.”
Under the Tayran’s arms, the brunette looked at her yellow-haired friend. “What’s obsequious mean?” she whispered.
Tayran grinned at me mischievously. He leaned back against the headboard, the picture of ease. I knew what this was — it was Tayran’s attempt at asserting his dominance over me through this some boorish display of masculinity.
It wasn’t going to work. I ignored Tayran’s toys and glared at him, unimpressed.
“My apologies for my unpleasant welcome,” Tayran said, his tone anything but apologetic. “You know I’ll gladly make time for the Imperator’s lapdog whenever he decides to pop in, but really, you should have made an appointment. Perhaps for a more suitable time?” He winked at me.
“I don’t make appointments,” I said. “And being suitable so that you can have playtime with your Human whores doesn’t interest me.”
The brunette huffed indignantly and
joined her friend in shamelessly tonguing Tayran’s neck.
“Call them what you will,” Tayran grinned. “But you can’t deny that Human women are by far the most…how do you say…eager to please?” His grin became malicious. “You know something about that yourself, now don’t you, Vorture?”
A flicker of memories danced across my mind, both in response to the insinuation Tayran had made, and the name he had called me. I suddenly felt sick, but I didn’t let it show.
The blond perked up, flashing a salacious grin at me. “Oh, does he? Maybe he could join us, then! You know,” she stretched out languorously, allowing the sheets to slide back and reveal a scandalous amount of calf. “Make it a round number.”
“Oh, I doubt you could convince him,” Tayran leered. “He’s quite the prude, this one.”
“And you’re quite the idiot,” I responded. “So I guess we’re on even ground.”
Tayran made a mockingly friendly face at me. “Aww, come now, Vorture—”
“Do not call me that.”
“ — you need to loosen up. Let yourself have a little more fun!”
“I didn’t come here to have fun,” I informed him sharply. “Nor did I come here to see you naked.”
Tayran made a tsking sound, shaking his head. “Pity.” He leaned his head back and his voice became bored. “Why are you here, then?”
Finally, to business. “You got the letter from Unin Tangaree a few months back, right?”
“The one rambling about how there’s a cult of Majiski assassins out for our blood?” he laughed. “Yes, I got that one. Funny as hell. Best laugh I had in a long while. Honestly, the piss Tangaree calls intelligence…such a tiresome little mortal. Never liked him.”
“You’re in luck then. He’s dead.”
Tayran’s expression remained determinately uncaring, but his eyes turned cold even as the two Humans sucked on his face like leeches. “Is that so?”
I nodded grimly. “It is. Along with Felsted in Milonok, his agent Zayne, and — presumably — the informant that Zayne was in contact with. You need to get your head out from under the sheets, Tayran. The Majiski are real, they are alive, and they are active. They were probably the ones behind the uprising in the Burrows back in Deach. And worse, they’ve probably found out about the Nineteen.”