The kitchen boy had pushed a long wire through the grate and hooked up the locket, much to the kitchen maid’s relief, and later gratitude. At the time of hearing the story Barrion had been more interested in the kisses the kitchen boy had won from her. But it was the image of the locket that had stuck in his memory, and even as he thought of it now. Barrion knew it meant something.
‘Clear the kitchens.’ he said. ‘Bring something to get that grate off.’
His men flowed off the walls and into action, Barrion in their midst as he strode down familiar corridors, the cool water-scent from the loch above permeating the carved rock centuries of Verdan’s lords had strode upon.
Guards had raced ahead and when Barrion reached the kitchens they were empty. He nodded for his captain to remove the grate and in the end they had to chisel it off. Then the well was exposed and Barrion had his men lower him into it, secured by ropes which they held tightly, unsure of the consequences of putting their lord in the loch’s embrace.
At the first touch of the water on his ankles Barrion closed his eyes, intent on concealing the loch’s effect on him from his men who continued to lower him. The water rose up his shins, like a great warm tongue licking his skin, plucking at his nerves with sensual abandon. Barrion felt himself panting, trying to hold back the swell of sensation. It rose up his thighs and he bellowed. ‘Stop!’
The ropes jerked and he hung suspended in the well, the water of the loch pulsing around him, a handsbreadth from where such pleasure would have him howling in release. And as he felt the loch teasing him Barrion wasn’t sure he could hold back that pleasure even without submerging the parts of him which now ached for the loch’s touch.
This was the ecstasy that had driven his father to madness, to accusing The Dark of treachery. Little wonder The Dark had ordered him sacrificed to maintain The Balance. Barrion had always considered himself a stronger man than his father, yet now that he had felt the loch’s power, he realised how easy it would be to simply let that power control you. If Barrion did not have Ellega’s safety at the front of his mind, he might be tempted himself.
‘My Lord, are you … safe?’ the Guard Captain asked.
Barrion tried to smile as he looked up. ‘I am not in pain,’ he said, and a few of his guard smiled at this. Embarrassed smiles, as they knew they should not be in his presence while he communed with the loch.
All knew that the loch was to be feared. Just as the Forest of Desire could entrap the unwary within its grasp, the lords of the loch, those of the pure Verdan line, could be pleasured unto madness. His guardsmen could imagine what their lord was enduring, and some would even envy him, for it could never be their lot. Their accidental contact with the loch would cause fierce pain as long as the contact lasted.
The Spirit of the Loch exhibited no malevolence towards Barrion’s people. The pain was simply a warning. Towards the Northmen, however, the loch was particularly unforgiving, adding death to its penalty of pain. For this, Barrion was most grateful.
‘Give me a moment,’ Barrion said.
‘My Lord,’ came the reply, and when he glanced above Barrion found that they had turned their backs on him, offering the only privacy that they could in the circumstances. Their dark uniforms blocked the firelight and Barrion tried not to be afraid, yet the fear dwelt within him. To fortify his mind he thought of Ellega and the danger she may be in. Though pleasure still teased his loins, he felt his courage to be the greater force.
‘I offer my gratitude for your service to our cause,’ he said, and felt the loch tighten against his legs. Flickering images of dead Northmen on the bed of the loch came into his mind and he nodded. ‘Yet you do not control the air and our castle will soon become a coffin if we cannot escape.’
The loch tugged on his legs and Barrion felt himself dip. The wash of sensation against his groin was excruciating and he almost cried out, so close did he come to gratification.
‘My Lord!’ his Guard Captain called from above. ‘Should we hoist you up?’
‘No,’ Barrion called back, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own pleasure. He feared now that to allow himself the madness of that volcanic release would be to distract himself forever from his cause. Might he not order his men to release him to the well and remain there until he died, uncaring that his people died around him so long as the pleasure continued?
‘Tell me how to rescue my people,’ he said through gritted teeth, and in the next moment his jaw was slack as the sensations of pleasure flicked away. Barrion looked down and saw that the loch had formed an open pocket of air around him. He blinked and then called to his captain who shared his amazement.
‘My Lord, what does this mean?’
‘Let us see,’ Barrion replied. ‘Lower me to submersion.’
‘My Lord,’ the Guard Captain replied dutifully but Barrion heard the concern in his voice.
Yet before the lord could be lowered, the water of the loch rose in the well of its own accord, until Barrion was enclosed in a bubble of air with water all around him. He raised his head and gazed up at the horror on his men’s faces, distorted by the thick water above him. For himself, Barrion could only feel wonder, and exhilaration. Soon he was smiling and eventually he laughed out loud. ‘We are saved!’ he called, and gestured for them to pull him out. The water fell away to open air and when Barrion stood again among them he felt like a man reborn.
‘We will traverse this tunnel in bubbles of air,’ he told his men, ‘and exit the castle through the loch. Once on dry land we must simply work our enemy back towards our saviour’s watery embrace.’ He slapped his Guard Captain on the back. ‘Then we will make for the Volcastle post-haste, there to find my sister and help our king secure the safety of the realm.’
His Guardsmen cheered and Barrion felt the fierce pleasure of leadership burn in his heart. No physical pleasure from the loch could match the exaltation of guiding his people to safety, and so his fear of its siren touch faded. Instead Barrion set his thoughts on Ellega, anticipating the joy of holding her again in his arms and knowing her safety was assured.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘And be careful of the beer,’ Sarah said over her shoulder as she leant down onto the pram to adjust Glimmer’s sun bonnet. ‘It’s alcohol. Do you have alcohol on Ennae?’
‘Yes,’ Pagan replied patiently. ‘I am conversant with intoxicants. A Guardian can distil them from his blood.’ This was Sarah’s sixth warning on their way to the barbecue: a Magorian social ritual that had made Pagan nervous, and Sarah almost hysterical.
‘So you can drink all you want and not get drunk?’
‘Correct.’
‘We could have some fun with that.’ She straightened and looked Pagan over: new checked shirt, jeans, boots. She had costumed him according to the local fashion in the hope of ‘blending him in’. The warrior plaits were gone, much to his affront as it had taken him years to earn them, and instead his hair was restrained in a Plainsman tail. Her instructions on barbecue etiquette had been lengthy and detailed.
‘Am I suitable?’ he asked her.
She met his eye. ‘You’ll be covered in single women faster than you can say “widower”. Just remember to look mournful. You’re still grieving.’ She glanced down the street towards where they had parked the truck and said, ‘We can’t get out of this,’ for the tenth time that day.
‘Nor should we,’ Pagan replied, ‘for we have reached our host’s front garden.’ They could both hear the sound of music and conversation nearby. ‘I am sure he would notice our departure —’
‘Snugglepot McGuire!’ a voice bellowed from behind them. ‘Get your backside over here and bring that little baby with you.’
Pagan frowned at Sarah who now wore a pained expression. ‘Am I uninvited?’ he asked quietly.
She shook her head. ‘Reg will be happy to meet you. He’s just got a thing about babies. One cuddle,’ she promised.
‘Very well.’ Pagan knew he would have to
follow Sarah’s lead.
They turned to find a stout barrel of a man standing on his low front verandah, a small brown bottle clutched in one hand and his other waving them over. ‘Came on you pair,’ he said. ‘You’re as slow as a wet weekend.’
Sarah took a deep breath and somehow managed to conjure a smile. She strode forward to embrace Reg and kiss his cheek. ‘You noisy old coot,’ she said. ‘Happy birthday.’ Then stepped back and patted his protruding stomach. ‘Potbelly not getting any smaller.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I be knitting you booties?’
‘Your day’ll come, Snug,’ he said and winked at Pagan. ‘Knit ’em for yourself.’
‘Right.’ Sarah appeared lost for words temporarily and so Pagan stepped forward and extended his hand, as Sarah had shown him.
‘Pagan Ofennae,’ he said, using the family name they had settled on.
Reg grasped his hand firmly and shook it. ‘Pagan, eh?’ He smiled. ‘Won’t see you at mass on Sunday then, will we?’ He laughed at this and Pagan smiled back, having no idea what the jest had been.
‘Pagan’s Russian Orthodox,’ Sarah cut in.
‘Russian?’ Reg raised an eyebrow, then he looked closer, at Pagan’s lips. ‘They chew tobacco where you’re from?’
‘Suntanning tablets,’ Pagan replied, as Sarah had instructed. ‘I consumed too many and the effect was permanent.’
‘Drug companies,’ Reg said, nodding. ‘Only interested in profits. Using us all as guinea pigs.’
‘So would you like to meet Glimmer?’ Sarah cut in, and though Pagan was apprehensive about the idea of a stranger handling his charge, he admitted relief when the old man pushed his bottle into Sarah’s hands and smacked his own together.
‘Now we’re talking,’ he said. The interrogation phase of the afternoon appeared to be over.
Pagan lifted Glimmer carefully out of the pram and after only a moment’s hesitation, he placed her into Reg’s sturdy arms. Sarah had promised that only Reg would touch her and then only for a short time.
‘I won’t hurt the little darlin’,’ Reg said, smiling down into Glimmer’s solemn eyes. Then he appeared to remember himself and said to Pagan. ‘Although I can understand you being cautious with her, son. You lose your wife and … well,’ he nodded, his old eyes saddened a moment before he turned back to Glimmer. ‘But you’ve got something to remember her by,’ he said, and found his smile again, a gnarled old finger brushing Glimmer’s plump cheek.
Pagan glanced at Sarah who was smiling fondly at Reg in spite of the derogatory remarks she’d made about him.
Then Reg turned back to Pagan. ‘Why isn’t she smiling?’ he asked.
‘She’s tired,’ Sarah said pointedly, ‘and you need to get back to your guests.’ She nodded at the pram. ‘There’ll be other days.’
Reg frowned for a moment then said, ‘Oh all right,’ giving Glimmer a last tender kiss on the forehead before carefully handing her back to Pagan. ‘But you come and see me at the store and bring her with you,’ he said. He retrieved his brown bottle from Sarah. ‘The usual mob are out the back, with the usual jokes,’ he warned.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said and then more quietly to Pagan, ‘Thank God Melissa’s husband is keeping her home. If I have to watch her drunken limbo one more time I think I’ll throw up myself.’ Reg led them around the side of his house, Sarah walking at Pagan’s side while he pushed the pram. Around them were trees dropping yellow puff-ball flowers that smelt so sweet Pagan’s mouth watered. Sarah followed his gaze. ‘Wattle,’ she said softly, ‘and no, you can’t eat it.’
Pagan sighed. The abundance of Ennae was nearly all edible, and he was used to many meals a day — what Sarah called ‘snacking’. Yet Magorian flora was often poisonous. He must ask Sarah later if this was the reason they ate flesh.
‘Here we are.’ Reg said when they rounded the corner and came upon a party of forty or more gathered around a smoking brick platform.
Pagan stopped the pram and crouched before it, pretending to adjust the hood. ‘Sleep now, Glimmer,’ he whispered and her wide green eyes closed instantly.
‘Well if it isn’t McGuire the mortician,’ a man called out and Pagan swore he could see the hairs on Sarah’s arms rise in agitation. ‘You ever find that missing coffin?’
Loud male laughter followed this remark and Pagan straightened, stepping instinctively closer to Sarah. Five men, some larger than him but none wearing weapons, stood to the side of the main group. All five had brown bottles in their hands.
‘I can’t wait to desecrate his corpse,’ Sarah said softly under her breath then lifted her chin and called back, ‘The one that bubonic victim travelled in? No I didn’t. But I hope whoever took it doesn’t open it.’ She shook her head in mock concern as the men fell quiet, glancing at one another. ‘Come on,’ she said to Pagan, ‘it’s time you drank these bastards under the table.’
And at Sarah’s instruction, that’s exactly what Pagan did. One after another, the rowdy males who had taunted her fell into a stupor as Pagan matched them drink for drink. The ‘beer’ they consumed was pleasant tasting enough, the colour reminding Pagan of the Everlasting Ocean. Its intoxicants were easily purged from his bloodstream.
By the evening’s end Pagan was surrounded by a circle of admiring women. The only other male conscious was Reg. Barely.
‘Your blood’s worth bottling, boy.’ Reg slapped him on the arm, unbalancing himself so that Pagan had to grab his shoulders to support him. Reg wasn’t concerned in the slightest. ‘He might be a russki but he’s my china plate …’ he declared proudly. Pagan turned to Sarah.
‘His mate,’ she explained. ‘A friend.’
‘I see.’ By concentrating on drinking, Pagan had avoided a confrontation over the steaks Reg wanted him to try, and whenever a difficult question had been posed Pagan had simply excused himself to visit the bathroom, an understandable consequence of drinking twenty-four bottles of beer.
‘And his billy lid …’ Reg’s clumsy hand patted the side of the pram. ‘She’s bonza.’
‘Reg,’ Sarah said, trying to catch his attention.
‘Pretty little … cherub.’ Spittle sprayed the front of Pagan’s shirt and though Sarah closed her eyes in disgust. Pagan found Reg’s blathering to be quite endearing. Though he was only half the size, Reg reminded Pagan of Barrion of Verdan. Now there was a man who could drink ale!
‘Reg.’ Sarah tried again, but their host’s eyes had glazed over. ‘Talk about maudlin,’ she said. ‘Next he’ll be going on about his struggle and strife. His wife,’ she explained before Pagan could ask. ‘Can you help him to bed?’
‘We’ll sort him out. Sarah,’ Reg’s sister said, and his two nieces stepped forward to support him, each taking an arm. ‘You get the baby home to bed.’
‘Thanks, Merle.’ Sarah gave the older woman a hug while Pagan turned the pram around and with a few goodbyes exchanged they were leaving. At the corner of the house Sarah called back over her shoulder, ‘And if anybody dies of alcohol poisoning I don’t want to know!’
Laughter sounded behind them and then they were alone, Pagan pushing the pram across the dewy grass while Sarah walked companionably at his side.
‘You did good tonight,’ she said softly. ‘Nothing went wrong, and they like you. You fit in.’
He glanced at her. ‘I have never been anyone’s china plate before.’
Sarah laughed. ‘You’re more than a mate. You’ll be Reg’s hero now. Anyone who can drink his stinky nephews under the table deserves a medal.’
She was quiet then and Pagan glanced at her again. ‘Yet despite the success of our outing you seem sad.’
‘Not sad. Just … well it was weird the way those Saunders girls were looking at you. I hope that’s not going to be trouble.’
‘They appeared to be seeking suitors.’ Pagan replied. ‘But as a newly bereft husband I am not available to seek a wife. Nor will I be while I am on Magoria.’ Perhaps h
e should have clarified this with Sarah sooner. ‘I would not jeopardise Glimmer’s safety in such a foolish way, and neither would I besmirch my vow to Lae.’
‘I don’t think they had marriage in mind,’ Sarah said dryly.
Pagan nodded and steered the pram out of Reg’s property and onto the road where Sarah had parked.
In truth, he had been flattered by the women’s attention but he could see now how foolhardy that had been. Though he had not deliberately encouraged them, he had done little to discourage them and now Sarah was worried. In comparing rituals, Pagan had realised that the women of this world were more aggressive in their mating practices than those of Ennae, yet once again he had let pride take precedence over caution.
Talis would be disappointed. And Pagan was disappointed in himself, as no doubt Sarah was. ‘Is there anything you can suggest that would remedy the situation,’ he asked her as they stopped beside her truck.
‘You could grow suddenly ugly,’ she said and unlocked the passenger door for him. Then she straightened and looked him in the eye. ‘Or we could pretend that you and —’ Her mouth remained open for a moment, then she closed it. Pagan waited but she said nothing more and finally shook her head. ‘No. Let’s stick with grief. I think that’s safer in the short-term.’
‘And later?’ he asked. ‘A man does not grieve for ten years.’
‘Reg will,’ she said, and held his eye. Then she turned away and said nothing more for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ellega woke to the murmur of voices and in her slumberous state she imagined that all she had thought was real and frightening had been nothing but an unpleasant dream.
Daughter of the Dark: Shadow Through Time 2 Page 16