by Ellyn, Court
In a corner of his suite, bars of a small cage rattled. The cage was for transporting hounds, but this one contained something else. Fingers with frog-like pads curled around the iron. Bulging eyes watched Thorn without intelligence, and those eyes were red as blood. He had begun calling the creature Goblin.
The results of his test on the battlefield had pleased him. And yet, so much waste. The globes had smashed under the ogres’ feet, and most of the black liquid had seeped into the earth or evaporated into the air. He suspected the grass would refuse to grow there for years to come. If the ogres had worn shoes as they splashed about in it, the liquid might have been lost in vain. How much more effective if Thorn could devise a way for the liquid to rain from above.
A firm knock shook his door. Thorn set aside the globe and siphon, covered the table’s contents with a sheet, then unlocked the door.
“I don’t appreciate being summoned,” Daryon said, pushing his way into the vestibule.
That was amply clear; Thorn had sent for him nearly two hours ago. “Then view it as a request for your company.”
The egg-shaped sentry followed him into the room. The avedra glanced about, making no effort to hide his curiosity. He bent over the wax and sniffed, then raised up a corner of the sheet and peered at the ice-encrusted globes.
“Careful,” Thorn said.
Daryon retracted his hand, and his gaze swept over the gloves his host wore.
“Brandy?” Thorn made for the sideboard.
A wry half-grin tugged at Daryon’s mouth. “So civilized. I’d forgotten.”
Thorn passed him a snifter.
Daryon swirled the brandy clumsily, remembering the rhythm. “And yet you have ulterior motives.”
“Of course I do.” Thorn poured for himself and offered Daryon an armchair in a cool corner away from the hearth. The nights had become too warm for fires, but Thorn dared not open his window to permit a breeze. No telling who might be watching.
Daryon settled himself, but did not relax. Between inspections of his brandy, of the room, he glanced sideways at Thorn, as if expecting … what? For his host to initiate a battle of wits, will, or fire? Thorn did not attempt to pry into Daryon’s suspicions but left himself an open book. Was it wise? Unlikely. Would it establish trust? Maybe.
At length, Daryon said, “Look, I do apologize. For my remarks this afternoon. About your Lady. Offending one of our Avidan cousins was the least of my desires.” He shrugged. “I don’t play well with others. Ask Laral.”
As if Thorn needed testimonies concerning Daryon’s poor behavior. “Thus these contraptions?”
The sentry spun silently beside Daryon’s chair, its blades furled. “Wonderful, aren’t they.”
Thorn had to agree. As he watched the construct, he experienced a pang of envy. How did Daryon control it? If he’d heard right, there were many more waiting outside the castle walls. Thorn could move small things and slam doors with willpower alone, but this? To animate these bits of scrap metal, so many of them, for so many hours at a time, it defied understanding.
“They fight alongside you?”
“Fight for me, as often as not. Laral promised me material to make more. My payment for leaving Tánysmar.” A strange fee for a mercenary.
Thorn reached a finger toward the construct. It darted out of reach. “How ever did you learn this skill? You seem to have had too much time on your hands.”
Acid-green eyes bored a hole through Thorn. “More than you do.”
When this dynasty of kings is over… Thorn choked. Brandy burned his throat. Yes, a mistake to leave his mind exposed, damn it. And yet Daryon had known about Carah’s dream of the gate, too. Surely he was not privy to a person’s destiny. That would make him a confidante of the Mother-Father herself.
Goblin squawked, a piercing simian bark. Daryon leapt from his chair and stared at the thing as it preened its bulging eye with a dexterous little hand. He must’ve missed it on his initial inspection of the room. “What is that?”
“My familiar,” Thorn said.
Daryon turned to him in horror. After so long a life, there must be precious little that still surprised him. How delightful that Thorn owned one of them.
“I’m joking,” he said, rising. “That is my prototype, and it’s the reason I sent for you.”
Thorn explained his experiments and realized he owned two things that filled Daryon with wonder. He stared at the ice-encrusted globes with new respect. “An avedra channeling non-magic?”
Thorn tucked his gloved hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Yes, it’s not exactly healthy. It’s the most difficult balance I’ve ever had to fight for. And it’s caused me to reevaluate a few things. Namely, that I do actually value my gift. To some extent.”
Daryon nodded slowly, craftily. “It is rare that I meet an equal. You might suffice. Though I believe that lovely niece of yours will surpass you, if she can conquer doubt.”
“Can’t argue there.”
“And your proposal is?”
Thorn glanced at the bobbing whirligig, hoping the temptation was enough for Daryon to overcome any principles he might have about ogres being a necessary part of any balance. “That you build things, m’ lord. Build many things.”
~~~~
8
Remember who you are. You are a king. You are the Black Falcon. You are… Are you? Valryk pressed his back to the wall of his cell, to anchor himself in the dark. It was vital that he remain anchored to the stone, to the bars, to something, or the dark would trick him and nudge him off his feet. It stalked him, the dark. It seeped inside him like loneliness and spilled out of him like tears, set his bones to rattling and his teeth to chattering. But that was only when it was being especially greedy. Other times it was gentle, cocooning him, snuggling tight against his skin. But it was never quite warm, never quite companionable enough that Valryk wrapped his arms around it and possessed it in return.
The dark was flawless. A completeness in itself, uncompromised. Often Valryk could not tell when his eyes were open or shut. He had to raise a hand to feel his lashes fluttering. Sometimes he woke, not realizing when he had closed his eyes and fallen asleep. He slept frequently because in his dreams he was not alone. Ogres groped at him with large gnarled hands; Lothiar taunted him with vile laughter. His mother told him, “I wish you’d never been born,” and his father sat on a decrepit throne, watching him with empty eye sockets.
These nightmares kept him company.
When he was awake, his eyes became desperate for some object to settle on and created visions of their own, smudges somehow darker than the dark, starbursts that gave the impression of approaching light. Together, these cast the illusion that phantoms shared the cell with him, seething, scintillating in the dark.
He had lost the count of days. He never really had it to begin with. He tried to remember if it had been daytime when Lothiar delivered him to this abyssal gullet. When Paggon dragged him kicking and wailing into the dark, had sunlight slanted through the windows of the tower upstairs, or had it been moonlight? It seemed terribly important to remember, but it wasn’t. Time meant nothing down here. The minutes were as ageless as the bedrock itself.
Water dripped somewhere. Irregular, spontaneous, sometimes on cue, often not, as if the seeping spring rebelled against its own monotony. Knowing that something moved, changed, helped moor Valryk’s rational mind. Without an anchor, his consciousness was a vessel drifting erratically in this immortal sea of blackness. He came to cherish that delicate, tinkling sound. And resent it. The water was escaping somehow. Else each drip would add to a flood that would rise up his ankles, up his chest, over his head and drown him. Where was the water going? What secret way did it know?
Remember yourself … a king, a king with soldiers nigh, sheathe your sword and eat the pie. Where had he heard that rhyme before? Children laughing in the sun, clapping on the street corner. … a king, a king with crown so bright, right the wrong and bask in …
�
�King” had no more meaning down here than time. Down here he was less than a man. Rats squeezed into the cell from some dank hole, coming to sniff at his fingers to determine if he still lived or was ripe for gnawing. These rats had more autonomy, more sovereignty over their deplorable realm than he did. He had not the option to scuttle between stones, sniffing out morsels to feast upon. He was the foolish rat caught in the trap. How delectable the bait had been. He’d taken a big bite, only to find that the crumb was nothing but air.
Remember who you are. King. King Rat. King Rat in a trap smells the cheese and bars go snap. Sit up straight! Princes don’t slouch.
If he sat very still, he dissolved and became a shadow, immaterial, twin to the dark, and he knew he was close to grasping how the dark oozed through the bars in the door. Any moment he would drift loose and press between them and rise up the spiraling stair into the light. But then his ears would detect a thumping, soft and rhythmic; his heartbeat reminded him that he was still flesh and bone and had yet to die.
His ribs, cracked under the abuse of Lothiar’s boot, had ached for a long time. The bruise remained deep, but he moved with little trouble now. His feet were another matter. He couldn’t stand on them long before the bones began to press against the fire-ravaged flesh. The mint-smelling balm had worn off many darknesses ago, but Valryk wore the swaddling now to pad the bottoms of his feet against the cruel hard stone. He unwound the linen on occasion and tested the blisters and the deeper burns. Some had healed to smooth scars. Others still seeped and secreted a foul odor. These were feverish and tender to the touch.
Didn’t rats in cages chew off their own feet? King Valryk the Footless, that’s how the bards would sing of him.
Something with too many legs skittered across his neck. He slapped it, caught it between his fingers and squeezed to pop the life out of it, then shoved it into his mouth. He didn’t want to know what the creature had been. Food—watery oats in a cup—was delivered at irregular intervals, whenever someone remembered him. Either he was growing hungrier, or the intervals were growing longer. Would Lothiar forget about him altogether and let him starve?
At first, Valryk could tell time by the slosh in the shit bucket, but lately he didn’t have much in him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a piss.
The plush velvet of his doublet was matted with grime and damp from the walls, filth from his own body. He scratched his chin, fearing lice. His beard had grown out, itchy and intolerable. Restless fingers plucked at the hairs until he cleared a smooth patch of cheek.
Were his eyes open? He dreamed of water so hot that it steamed, and bubbles fragrant with perfume and light.
… a king, a king with soldiers nigh … Were his soldiers near? Yes, yes, they must be. He could see them vividly against the dark. Kethlyn’s banners were staked outside Bramoran’s gate, and his archers camped in long rows of tents, and arrows arched over the battlements.
Surely enough time had passed for Kethlyn to march across Evaronna, across Aralorr, and lay siege to the city. Surely enough time had passed for Kethlyn to breach the gate and begin searching for him.
His cousin had to find him before his feet rotted off his legs. Oh, please…
A whimper broke the dripping silence. Valryk lowered his forehead to his knees and sobbed. The sob edged toward a growl. Where the fuck was Kethlyn? How long ago had Valryk risked everything to tell his cousin the truth and order him to bring his army east? He had to be outside the walls, right now, had to be…
But if Lothiar’s ogres repelled him…? Kethlyn might never break in.
Oh, Goddess, he was going to die in here.
No one will come for you. Lothiar taunted him from the dark. Who would bother?
He was their king, damn it! Did that mean nothing? Rage tightened Valryk’s fists, and he slammed them against the floor. The meaty smack of flesh on stone made for a pathetic protest. But the dark trembled with an echo. Far overhead, the rusted iron door clanged.
Someone was coming! Food? Yes, it had been a long, long time.
In fierce gratitude, Valryk laid his head back against the wall and exhaled to separate himself from the dark. Slowly, cautiously nudging it aside, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook under the strain.
He reached out—the angle, the height never changed—and found the bars on his door. He clasped them firmly, so the dark didn’t drag him off, and turned an ear to the long corridor beyond.
Footsteps on the spiral stair, a trace of ruddy light. The step was a whisper sweeping aside the weight of dank silence, not the crushing, rasping step of an ogre’s clawed foot. He’d been found!
“Down here!” His voice raked from his throat, scored and bruised from screaming at the dark. Still, it boomed, and the dark took offense. “Kethlyn? Somebody? I’m down here!”
The ruddy light grew and rounded the last corner, as blinding as the rising sun. Valryk ducked his face, eyes tearing.
The light step stopped outside his door. A soft gasp. A woman’s gasp. “I didn’t know he had locked you down here. Goddess help me, I didn’t know. The ogre on guard duty … he told me.”
For a moment, Valryk was sure he had fallen asleep again and was dreaming. He raised his face and the light pierced his eyelids, too bright for dreams. Gradually, he squinted them open. A small glowing orb, like a will-o-wisp, danced at Lasharia’s shoulder, illuminating one half of her face. How clean and soft and beautiful. She and the light both.
Valryk had dreamed, often deliberately, of strangling the life out of her, of killing her one scrap of flesh at a time. But he was so relieved to see her, to hear her voice, that his hatred for her faded to a ghost of itself.
“Kitty-kitty,” he drawled. “Caught your rat good. Come to toy a bit?”
Her hand rose to cover her nose against what must be a nauseating reek. “No toying. No orders.” She lowered her hand. “Lothiar thinks I’m in Evaronna. It will be some time before he finds out I’m gone.”
“Gone?” Lasharia didn’t say such things. Valryk was still asleep, after all, wasn’t he?
“He’s stooped to things … we’re trying to save our people, but he’d rather destroy them first. I can’t be a part of it anymore.”
“But you told me you’d follow him to the death, even if you didn’t believe in his ideals.” Valryk read the disillusionment on her face and broke into grating laughter. How good it felt to see her certainty, her arrogance, her cause crumble under her. He grew dizzy with delight, then flush with rage. “Half my life I’ve been your thrall. It would’ve been convenient if you had realized this years ago and saved me a crippling.”
“I can’t make up for the past, Valryk, but I can get you out of here.” Keys clinked. The ancient lock rattled, and the heavy iron door squealed. The shards of light slicing through the bars unfurled like a blanket and covered him head to toe.
The light skittered over Lasharia’s armor, the pommel of her sword, the fine silver-gold filaments of her hair. Could he forgive her so easily? She had duped him, used him. Yet she defied Lothiar at last, at last, and came back for him.
Valryk stepped into the corridor. His head spun with the freedom of movement, and he reeled into the wall. Lasharia gripped him by the arm and helped him sit.
“Take it slow,” she said. “We have time.”
He held the sides of his head until the spinning stopped. “How are we to get out of the city?” He knew of many tunnels snaking under Bramoran’s streets and castle complex but none that led beyond the walls.
“I’ll port you out, don’t worry.”
“Sounds like you’re not coming with me.”
She hesitated before answering. “I’m going home. To throw myself on the mercy of the Elders and whoever the new Lady might be.”
“Home? Lothiar will find you.”
“I don’t think he’ll look for me there. In truth, I probably have more to fear from the Elders. Maybe they’ll let me trade information for my life.”
Scr
abbling up the wall, Valryk hauled himself to his feet. “Come with me!”
She smiled sweetly, touched by his concern. “No. You might’ve been a nice boy had I not come along, but you are only a human, after all.”
Then why risk her life to free him? To ease her conscience? Was that all?
She beckoned him to follow. “Come. I need room to open the—” She stopped abruptly, glanced toward the spiraling stair, and pressed a finger to her lips.
Valryk tensed.
A boot scuffed on the steps, crushing grit. A figure eased into the corridor. The jaunty swagger of a human. Kethlyn? No, this man was older, thinning hair, more angular in the shoulders. Dashka. “I thought you might sneak back, Lieutenant,” he said, thumbs hooked in his belt.
Lasharia’s jaw clenched. At her sides, her hands remained unnaturally still. “You worm.”
“Worm? Me? I am not the traitor.” His boney frame barricaded the path to the stair. Troubled pale eyes raked over Valryk. “Look at him. He’s not worth losing everything. Listen, Lieutenant, I won’t tell the Captain what you’ve done if you give me the keys. We’ll post a new ogre outside the door to replace the one you slew. The king goes back to his cell, you go back to Evaronna. Lothiar won’t know the difference.”
Lasharia cocked her head and smiled. “This could be your chance to escape too.”
Dashka nodded. “I considered that. But I have nothing to go back to. Here I am of some use. So I think you should take my offer.”
Lasharia’s glance slid toward Valryk. “Go back to your cell.”
“What?” Valryk cried. “No! Open your portal, let’s get out of here.”
Lasharia sighed. “On your own head, then. Na sha.” The orb of light at her shoulder snuffed like a soul fleeing through a dying man’s eyes, and the dark lunged hungrily and swallowed them.