by J. C. Owens
The mere thought of endless days stretching into eternity made him break out into a panicked sweat.
One month, and he was breaking entirely.
It would have taken much less than that, if his master had not given him the freedom to use the vast library. That alone had saved him. The books drew him like a magnet, and he often spent the day immersed in their pages, lost in a different world that did not contain pain, fear, and despair. It was at nighttime, if night it actually was in the true world, that he found himself sinking, unable to focus enough to read, awaiting his master’s will.
To his everlasting relief, Shaynith-una had not changed here, had not become the demon monster that lay within him. Being in this fortress, so close to his father’s essence, did not seem to bring out any difference in him. He was no more and no less than he had been before. Chill, implacable, and distant. But not cruel.
Brenaith could only be thankful, even as he struggled not to dwell on the whys and wherefores. His own curiosity seemed to be welling to the surface once more. Beaten and tortured into submission by Stratlin, curiosity had been torn from his personality until he had only been a drab, formless being in comparison to his former self.
Now, with better food, and no beatings, his mind came alive, something he completely feared. This, more than anything else, could bring back the demon god.
Something he still occasionally had nightmares about.
Each time he had awoken, crying out, disoriented, his master had gathered him in close, and with a single touch, sent the latent memories back into hiding. The following sense of peace and safety, even if false, would leave him pliant, perfectly willing to lie in those arms, held against that chill body.
Shaynith-una seemed to accept his presence in his bed with ease, seeming to find no hardship in holding him. It might have been Brenaith’s body heat, but somehow, it seemed more than that, as if the knight found the company almost—pleasant, something Brenaith would not have expected.
It made him wonder about his predecessor, the bloodservant he’d replaced.
“He begged for me to let him die.” Shaynith-una’s voice was sleepy, not the usual controlled tone at all.
Brenaith turned in the circle of his master’s arms, facing him, cautious, unsure if speaking about this would come under something Lutan would disapprove of.
“My father is busy elsewhere at this time. You need not worry.” The knight’s eyes were closed, long, thick, dark lashes lying over high-boned cheeks.
“Why did he wish to die?” Brenaith was only too certain he knew the answer, given his own situation.
One eye opened, viewing him with calm tolerance. “He had been with me for three thousand years. He said that no human was meant to live that long, that your minds cannot cope.”
Brenaith sucked in a breath, stunned. Three thousand years…
“He was given to you?” Sympathy ran through his thoughts, at that unknown man’s situation, so similar to his own.
“No. He came to me, asking to be blood bound.”
Brenaith blinked in disbelief. “He—came—to you? Willingly?”
Shaynith-una rolled to his back and stretched, displaying miles of perfect, taut skin that Brenaith could not help but eye.
The knight relaxed back into the softness of the bed.
“Hmm. He did. Claimed he cared for me. Loved me.” There was no indication that there was an understanding of what that had meant then, or now. Given what his master had said before, this only confirmed that he had not the slightest comprehension of emotional elements and how they drove other being’s actions.
In some ways, this could be an exploitable weakness for his enemies.
His master rolled back to face him, a frown gathering force on his brows.
“Weakness? It not weakness to have no emotion, it is strength. My father says so.”
Brenaith hesitated, but the intensity in the knight’s eyes told him that this would not be let go until he had explained sufficiently. He kept his tone carefully respectful. “If you have enemies who are emotional, and you do not understand such a thing, then you will never be able to predict their actions, their decisions. It leaves you a step behind in outmaneuvering them.”
Shaynith-una lay on his side, one hand propping up his head, rivers of black hair pooling over his shoulders and down upon the sheets.
He was silent for a few moments, no anger in his expression, only a hint of confusion. His eyes were blank, as they often were when he was internalizing some thought—or speaking with his god.
Brenaith shuddered, looking away and down, hoping he had not just brought more punishment upon himself.
The silence was stifling, but he bore it, unwilling to break his master’s concentration, or to interrupt if the god was listening.
The knight sat up, at ease with his nudity. His frown had deepened, and Brenaith cringed away, sure he had misstepped once more.
A long, fine finger, complete with deadly claw, came to trace his cheek and slide beneath his chin to tilt his face up to meet his eyes.
“It is good you have told me this. My father and I had not seen this lack of emotion as anything but a strength, but now, we see how this could be utilized against me. Lutan is all powerful—but…” His lips thinned. “We rule here, unopposed, yet there are other gods working against my father. We must be prepared, ready. There must be no exploitable weakness within me.” His tone was contemplative, interested in a way that startled Brenaith. “My father gives his permission for me to learn more, to understand the basics of what emotional beings think, feel. He says that I may understand it, but not live it. I must remain as removed as I presently am.”
He seemed to find nothing wrong in the words, and certainly, having lived this way all his life, his god’s words were law, even if they did not make sense.
Brenaith could not see how you could learn about emotions, while not undertaking them yourself, but he was not about to question the decision of his master’s sire. In a small, deeply buried part of his mind, he could not help but wonder what gods were powerful enough to stand against Lutan. He seemed beyond destruction to Brenaith, that was certain.
He was allowed to conduct the first lesson at the table, away from the bed. It made him feel more at ease, enough to ask the question that had been burning inside him. Shaynith-una had not brought the matter up, even though it must be glaringly obvious in Brenaith’s mind.
When they were both seated, the knight sitting rigid and intent, in a manner that was strangely endearing, Brenaith could at last begin.
“You said your last servant begged for death? Who gave it to him?”
The knight tilted his head and blinked. “I did. He was my servant, it was my duty to give him his death.”
“Why did you accede to his wishes? You could have kept him alive indefinitely, correct?”
“I could have kept him alive as long as I chose.” Shaynith-una frowned. “As to why, it seemed important to him. He was—in pain—in a way that I did not enjoy. It made his blood sour.”
Brenaith licked his lips, hoping he was not going to have Lutan monitoring his words.
“Was it only that? The blood? Or was it that you did not like his pain?”
The knight considered, his expression intent as he scoured his own thoughts and memories. “His emotions created an energy that I did not like. It filled my rooms, and made me not wish to return to them. It was unpleasant.” The look on his face indicated a bit of frustration, as though he knew the words were not quite accurate, but had no way of finding others to describe the experience.
Brenaith felt a pang of sympathy. Whatever else he may be, this being, this creature of legend, was crippled in the most basic of ways.
The knight looked at him, the frown deepening. “I am not—crippled. Am I? I do not see the point of this exercise, beyond strengthening my ability to anticipate an enemy’s actions. But to declare this to be physically disabling makes no sense.”
“Not phy
sical. Mental.” Brenaith wished he was better equipped to speak of such issues, but all he had was his own experiences and what he had seen in others. He felt far too young to be able to explain anything to this shadow knight who had lived so unbelievably long.
“My mind contains no disabilities.” Shaynith-una looked momentarily blank, as though he searched himself for proof.
“In my world, in my race, we consider someone who does not feel emotions to be—wrong—to be crippled in some way.”
“Ah. Human. That is all right then. Humans do not understand their own weaknesses. This I can accept. Nor would you understand my thought processes. This is fine then. I merely want you to explain emotions so that I may understand them in warfare.”
Brenaith shuddered, fists clenching. Was this what he was doing? Giving an enemy an edge against his own people? Why had he ever started this nonsense?
“I could just take your own memories and analyze them myself. Would this be easier?” The question held no threat, just calm consideration.
“No,” Brenaith sucked in a deep breath. “We will go back to your bloodservant. You killed him because he begged you too. And yet, that makes no sense in your world. What does it matter that he was not happy, that he created negative energies. It should not have affected you, right?”
The knight nodded, leaning forward now, something perilously close to curiosity in his eyes.
“You killed him because you felt something for him. He was suffering, and you did not want him to suffer. That was, at the lowest end, pity and mercy. At the highest end, you could have loved him.”
The knight was silent, staring at him. The shadows in the corners froze, their constant low-level humming ceasing abruptly.
Brenaith shifted uneasily. He should have just kept his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself. Perhaps this was just a step too far for his new master. Something that would again bring the demon to the surface, bring pain back into his life…
“Love. That is what you spoke of before, what I felt in your mind for your mother?” Brenaith’s insipient panic came to an abrupt halt as the question derailed him.
“Yes. That is love. Deep caring, which can be deep and all-consuming, or lesser, where you want the best for that person, and the love is closer to friendship.”
“Friendship is less, love is deep and consumes.” Shaynith-una nodded, his intensity undiminished. Brenaith was beginning to realize that somewhere deep inside, this shadow knight was as interested in learning and knowledge as Brenaith himself. Now it made sense, the long hours poring over books. He had been focusing on the warrior, the killer, when there was something else, something that could point to the elven blood, the artistic soul of his mother’s people.
“These elves, they are powerful I have heard. But I did not know about this art you speak of. They like books as I do?”
“I know very little about them,” Brenaith had to admit. “We did not believe they really existed, even as we did not believe in demons—until the invasion.” It was hard to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but it certainly existed in his thoughts.
His master merely watched him. Perhaps he did not even understand bitterness or…
Brenaith shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts on track.
“Am I allowed to speak of your mother’s people? Or is this something to be avoided?” Brenaith had no desire to find himself on the wrong side of Lutan once more.
Shaynith-una leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand, eyes more alive than Brenaith could recall seeing. The shadows resumed sound and motion, several of them creeping closer, swirling about the knight’s feet with what might almost be called affection.
“Lutan is not in communication with me at the moment, but he told me to get information enough to mend this weakness. If this is part of it, then I must understand.”
“All I know is through books and legends, that the elves are masters of many crafts, of music and art, of songs and storytelling. They are able to create things that humans can only dream of. I have never seen anything of their making, so really, it is only hearsay on my part.”
The knight stood abruptly, startling Brenaith into cringing back, but his master strode away from him, toward the library, running long fingers over the spines of the books as he went down the rows, speaking in low tones to himself. At last, near the back of the great collection, he withdrew a volume, opening it and scanning its pages with a look of increasing interest.
After several moments of perusal, he turned on his heel and returned to the table, carefully setting down the book and turning it so Brenaith could see the pages.
“This is a book describing many races. Would this be correct?” There was more animation in Shaynith-una’s tone than Brenaith had ever heard, and he wondered whether this had been something long buried in the knight’s thoughts, information on his mother’s people. While the god may be his father, elven blood ran in his veins as well.
“I had wondered,” the shadow knight murmured, “but there seemed no reason to look into it. Now, there is a legitimate need for such an action.”
Brenaith pulled the volume toward him, marveling at the ornate illustrations, the fine calligraphy that seemed too perfect to be real. It was in a language he could not read, but still…
He remembered the beautiful tone of the words Shaynith-una and his brothers had been speaking occasionally.
“This is an elven book. You actually understand this. You speak elven.” His voice was soft with wonder. He, himself, had actually heard the language, the beautiful, song-like quality of its speech. Was he the only human now alive who had?
“My bearer taught me, before I was taken away to begin my training. I spoke it before I spoke demon apparently, something my father was not pleased about.”
“Do you remember being with her?” Surely something remained, surely that child had held some bond with the one who had given him birth. She had taught him her language, something that did not suggest rejecting him for his demonic blood. Brenaith felt a swell of sympathy rise within him, for this woman, so beautiful and fine, so much part of an almost mystical people, trapped here, forced to bear half blood children that would grow to hate, and perhaps even kill, her own people. How strong must she be, to have endured all this? How could she not be completely mad after what she had experienced? Brenaith felt weak in comparison, suddenly very, very glad to be male.
“Perhaps. There are faint memories, but nothing of import. Why would I wish to remember? I am no longer a child, and that has no impact upon me.” The knight watched him, that faint furrow of confusion so very evident on his brow whenever they spoke of his past.
There simply was no comprehension to work with.
Brenaith leafed through the book with reverent awe. “This is so beautiful. This is art, master. Your bearer, have you ever asked her about her people? Your people?”
“They are not my people,” the tone chilled. “I am demon and nothing else. My father bred me to be what I am for him. For his will. And that is what I am. His child, his avatar to do his will here upon the earth. He said that he used an elf, because no other race would be strong enough to bring his seed to fruition. When she succeeded with me, he bred her to a demon lord, and hence, I have brothers. There is no link between her and I.”
Brenaith managed to stifle his disbelief at least enough that the knight did not seem to pick it up.
“If you wish to understand the emotions of elves, as well as humans, you would have to ask her, as I know nothing of her people. She would be the best source of information for you.” Brenaith could not help hoping that he would meet her as well. To actually speak to an elf…
Shaynith-una watched him for a long moment, as though considering his words, judging whether they held merit or not. At last, he nodded, short and sharp.
“I will have her brought here and she will help you teach me what I need to know, for this emotional weakness to be fixed.”
He got to his feet with that ee
rie grace that Brenaith now knew was something elven, and strode for the door, pulling it open and speaking with someone outside, perhaps a guard.
Brenaith wondered, with a pang of worry, if he had just made the poor woman’s life more miserable. Perhaps she wanted nothing to do with the son she had borne. It seemed likely that his conception had been little more than rape. What did she really feel for Shaynith-una?
Perhaps bringing her here was a terrible mistake.
* * *
They ate lunch while the knight asked question after question, grilling Brenaith unmercifully as he attempted to understand emotional nuances. The young man found himself floundering, finding it difficult to put into words what really could only be felt, experienced. Shaynith-una was becoming frustrated with his faltering explanations, and Brenaith grew afraid he would be punished.
The knock on the door interrupted the rising tension, and as Shaynith-una went to answer it, Brenaith heaved a quivering sigh of relief.
The relief was momentary, as he saw two of the honor guard, the knight’s brothers, push the elf woman into the room, looming behind her.
Brenaith rose to his feet in a show of respect that he had been taught since birth.
Here, in some form, was royalty. It shone from her, made the room suddenly warmer, brighter, as though her mere presence was enough to push back the gloom of the fortress, the oppressive power of Lutan. She was breathtaking.
Now, he was able to see her more clearly, to realize that there was a form of light around her, almost glowing, making her utterly ethereal. Almost as tall as Shaynith-una himself, she towered over Brenaith, making him feel even smaller than usual. He was used to demons looming over him, but now this new race seemed just as large.
She was slender, almost willowy, a long boned elegance in every inch. Lustrous waves of golden hair tumbled down to her thighs, even tied back as it was. Unbound, it would touch her knees. Slanted, gray eyes viewed the room with calm, dispassionate interest, until her gaze came to rest upon Brenaith himself.
Then the stare sharpened ever so slightly, before she blinked, and the look was gone, the calm distance once more evident.