The Goddess of the Underworld: The Chronicles of Arianthem VIII

by Samantha Sabian

  The stars above her shifted dramatically, as if she had traveled an enormous distance between worlds. And then they settled into familiar patterns and constellations, giving Raine her location, the time of year, a sense of direction, and so many other comforting orientations that, false or not, she felt a sense of peace settle over her that she had not felt since she left the mortal realm. She lay on her back staring up at the stars for hours, and the handmaidens all commented on her dreamy smile, and the violet of her eyes that was almost as dark as the night sky.

  Chapter 16

  The focus of the Tavinter was total, and Idonea was impressed.

  Skye had entered her magical training relatively late in her young life, and less than enthusiastically, thinking herself untalented. Even upon learning that she was from Isleif’s line, she still preferred her bow and sword. But Raine’s capture and Talan’s disappearance had instilled in her a resolve and determination that was astonishing. Skye’s power, and more importantly, her control of that power, was growing every day. Right now, she had made a large portion of the garden invisible, and an even larger part of it ephemeral, all the while balancing an orb of light on her palm that frosted the air around it with its frigid temperature.

  “Good,” Idonea said. “Your ability to sustain multiple spells is improving.”

  It was a complete understatement. Skye was sustaining multiple spells that no one else could even cast. But when your great-grandfather was the greatest wizard Arianthem had ever known, your instructor was the most powerful mage in Arianthem, your lover an indomitable sorceress, and your mentor a revered elven seer who was master of the natural world, extraordinary accomplishment felt expected and routine. Skye’s modesty added to the lack of fanfare, and Idonea was thankful for that humility, for she had seen far less skilled mages corrupted by far less power.

  Skye released all of the spells and the garden reappeared. She was careful to ensure that no one would be affected by the return of the ephemeral objects. Someone could walk into an invisible object, for it was still present, but would walk right through one that was ephemeral. This could be dangerous if the object materialized while they were occupying the same space. She meant to speak with Idonea about the possibility of using this quirk as a weapon.

  “You should rest for a bit,” Idonea said. She nodded to Lifa, who was strolling into the garden with Ama and Freya, priestesses on her staff, in tow. Lifa waved to Skye and approached Y’arren, who sat on a bench near the opening of her tent. Skye watched curiously as Lifa spoke with the ancient elf, and saw Y’arren smile. The matriarch gestured to her attendant, who disappeared through the flap of the tent, then returned bearing a scroll and a quill. Y’arren wrote something very carefully on the scroll, blessed it, waited for it to dry, then handed it to Lifa with great gravity. Lifa hugged the scroll to her chest, thanked Y’arren, and started toward Skye.

  Skye wiped the sweat from her brow and returned the embroidered handkerchief to her pocket.

  “Hello, my love,” Lifa said, beaming. She kissed Skye firmly on the mouth, a kiss Skye fully returned. The Tavinter then kneeled almost reverently before her and kissed the unborn child. She caressed the swollen belly for a moment, then rose to her feet once more.

  “What was that about?” Skye asked, nodding towards the scroll.

  “This contains the name of my daughter.”

  This brought smiles all around, even to the somber Skye. “Your daughter? But how does Y’arren know the name of your daughter?”

  “I wanted to honor Raine,” Lifa said, “so I asked her the name of Raine’s mother.”

  This brought a touch of sadness to Skye’s smile, but only a touch because it was a wonderful idea.

  “And so what will be the name of your daughter?” she asked.

  “It is fabulous,” Lifa said, unrolling the scroll and gazing at the name that could not have been more perfect.

  “Her name will be Serene.”

  Chapter 17

  Kiren chewed her lip, something she did when she was deep in thought, and also when she was on the verge of discovery. Both of those situations were in play at the moment. She had been working feverishly on translating the final line of the prophecy and felt very close to the solution. The Lady Jorden, one of the few humans Maeva called friend, had recently provided a key manunscript, one “borrowed” by her very talented lover Syn, a master thief. This relic was proving a bridge between eras.

  There was no direct line from this ancient language to present languages, so she had to trace meanings and nuances from one tongue, find their equivalent in another, then trace that to a third. She continued this leap from language to language through centuries, always mindful that her interpretation was as accurate as possible. Much like the mathematics of archery, a small deviation at the source would result in wild inaccuracy over a great distance.

  The lip suffered from her absorption once more, and she pulled a dusty tome from the stack that teetered precariously to her right. She eyed it as it threatened to topple, then swayed back into an unsteady compromise with gravity. She turned her attention back to the tome set before her. She opened the fragile pages carefully, then began tracing her finger down the graceful symbols and marks.

  The finger slowed, then stopped. A frown curved the corners of her mouth and her brow furrowed. Kiren stared down at the symbols in front of her, reading, then re-reading the phrase before her. She pulled another tome from her left, opened it to a bookmarked page, and compared the two. She repeated this process with a third, and then a fourth, cross-referencing her discovery. She then returned to the dusty tome, staring down, her eyes filled with an enigmatic and uncharacteristic darkness.

  The teetering stack of books lost its battle with gravity and fell over with a crash, causing Kiren to jump. An elven guard leaned into the room to check on her.

  “Is everything alright?”

  Kiren gathered herself. She pulled a sheet of parchment to her and dipped a quill in ink.

  “Yes,” she said, writing in a flurry. “I need to send a message to Y’arren.”

  Chapter 18

  Raine sat at the side of the Goddess, looking out over the assembly with a vacant stare. Any boost she had received from killing Orso’a had dissipated. Fenrir’s visit had left her morose, lethargic, and those feelings returned once the thrill of her battle with the demon had waned. Every hour she did not spend with Hel, she spent walking in the garden, trying to generate energy and trying to ignore the beckoning darkness that surrounded her. She exercised, moved boulders about, pulled herself up into the trees, performed sword drills with branches, and generally provided much entertainment for Hel’s handmaidens, who loved to watch her move. These periods of activity ended when the Goddess arrived, for she, too, liked to watch Raine move, and her desire would rise, the handmaidens would be dismissed, and any energy Raine expended would be in bed.

  But now Raine sat lethargic once more, her disinterest in the proceedings pronounced. Hel did not care. It was only necessary for the Arlanian to sit at her side obediently. She did, however, feel a small trace of victory when she caught the slight tilt of Raine’s chin that betrayed interest in something occurring. The gladiatorial contests were beginning, and it seemed the one thing to which her captive was attentive. Of course, Orso’a was no longer competing, which did not make them any less entertaining, but did cause many in the audience to glance up at the mortal, remembering her effortless defeat of the previous champion.

  The contests were brutal, the combatants fighting for revenge, retaliation, honor, and Raine would have competed in them for no reason at all, given the chance. But it was clear her one foray into combat was over. Hel would not allow Raine to leave her side, and certainly would not allow any weapons back into her hands.

  So Raine watched the combatants, mentally critiquing their style, analyzing their technique, cataloguing everything should she ever wind up
fighting a similar opponent. She inwardly crafted defenses, counter attacks, strategies for defeating them one at a time, or even for fighting them all at once. It was far more entertaining for her than anything else she experienced in the Underworld, and it was one of the few things that could engross her enough so she forgot where she was.

  As Raine watched the competition, Feray watched her. The evolution of the relationship between this mortal and the Goddess was fascinating. Feray began to notice a difference in Hel. The Goddess was no less arrogant or imperious in her treatment of her underlings, but she was less mercurial. In judgment, Hel was no more merciful, but she was more just. And it was not merely Feray who noticed the changes in Hel. Many in the court noted the subtle alterations in the behavior of the Goddess, and silently began to welcome the presence of the Arlanian, despite its involuntary nature.

  The competition ended, and Raine escorted the Goddess from the throne room as required. Raine sought to escape into the garden, but she was stopped by Hel’s voice.

  “I have not dismissed you.”

  Although Raine stopped, Feray noted her stubborn posture and faded into the background, motioning for the handmaidens to do the same. This was a pattern she recognized well. The Arlanian would begin to chafe beneath her invisible bonds, Hel’s irritation would grow, the mortal would rebel, and it would end explosively, usually in violence or bed, or most of the time, in both.

  “Might I go into the garden?” Raine said, clenching her teeth.

  “No,” Hel said, “you may not.”

  The indignity of being refused was even greater than that of having to ask. Raine struggled with herself, then lost the battle. She took a step toward the garden.

  “I said no,” Hel said, her emerald eyes furious. She raised her hand, stopping Raine instantly. Raine fought against the sensation, but could not move. She still did not understand the power of the gods, and every muscle in her body strained against some invisible force. Her forearms corded, the muscles in her thighs bunched, and she struggled to move to no avail.

  The fact that she even tried angered Hel further. With a wave of her hand, she snatched Raine forward like a rag doll, dragging her across the room until she stood before her. With another toss of her hand, Raine was on her back in the bed, and a wave of Hel’s wrist ripped the clothing from her body. Hel stalked over to her, staring down at that magnificent form, trying to control her wrath. She knew that the mortal pushed her on purpose, preferred that she would hurt her instead of bring her pleasure, and for exactly those reasons Hel would not. But she could do other things.

  The Membrane floated in from the garden, and the handmaidens, who all hovered in the alcoves, could not look away. It would be glorious to watch the monstrosity pleasure the Arlanian, for the Membrane would not harm one it so evidently craved. Raine felt her body temperature drop precipitously, still unable to move under Hel’s restraint. The amalgam of limbs and breasts and lips hovered over her, fairly shivering in delight. The creature fluttered, nipples hardened about its surface, a phallus grew erect, a pair of lips lowered to settle between her legs, and Raine turned her head away, closing her eyes in misery.

  Hel banished the creature. She stood gazing down at her captive until those eyes reopened, then removed her robes so that the eyes would turn violet for her. Hel lowered herself gently onto Raine, who still could barely move and whose skin was so deliciously cold. The violet eyes stared up in despair.

  “You have no idea the plans I have for you,” Hel said, still angry, “the glories I will offer you.”

  “I want nothing from you,” Raine said.

  “What you want,” Hel said, biting off the words, “does not matter.”

  A black, smoky tendril appeared behind Hel and snaked its way over her shoulder. Raine tried to pull away but still could not. She eyed it as it trailed down Hel’s torso, then settled on her own. It was soft, possessing a presence and substance that real smoke did not. It caressed Raine, tracing her rib cage to her breast, then feathering the nipple which hardened in response. A second tendril curled down over Hel’s other shoulder, also stroking Raine’s skin, then settling on the other breast and provoking the same physical reaction. Raine tried to push Hel away as more tendrils appeared, snaking around her body from every direction, and Hel merely laughed and leaned down to kiss her. The Goddess probed her mouth with her tongue as the dark wisps probed Raine’s body, gliding over her skin in delighted exploration. It was as if the blackness in Hel had manifested in perverse form and now sought to please them both, for the dark tendrils were masturbatory in their exploration of the Goddess. She sighed in pleasure as one penetrated her and began a gentle thrusting that caused her to bury her tongue in the Arlanian’s mouth and grind against the hard body beneath her.

  Feray watched from the alcove, having had every intention of leaving, but now unable to look away. The mortal fought to resist the onslaught, but it was clear by the arms that came up around the Goddess, freed from Hel’s paralysis, that the mortal lost the battle as she had every time before. Hel laughed in delight as the strong legs wrapped around her, the kiss was passionately returned, and the hips moved in response to the stroking of the black smoke that so perfectly coordinated their rhythms into one. Feray felt her own control crumble as everything between her legs became alive and tingled, a wetness flowed into her undergarments, and her nipples strained against her robes. For once, the servility of Hel’s creations was a blessing, for when the carnal creature crouching next to Feray in the alcove tugged at the hem of her robe, a questioning look in her eyes, Feray did not hesitate. She swept the robes to the side and grabbed the woman’s head, and the hungry mouth latched onto the wetness between her legs in an explosion of sensation. Feray rode the lips and tongue, her back against the stone wall of the alcove, clutching the head as if to never let it go. Her only regret, as she erupted into the handmaiden’s mouth, was that she could no longer see Hel or the Arlanian, for they were engulfed in a writhing swarm of complete and total darkness.

  Chapter 19

  The cage of light glowed a sinister red, the bars sparking with energy, the structure humming with power. Y’arren watched Idonea carefully, making sure that the mage did not lose control or that the strain was not too much for her. The dragon’s daughter was under great duress, that much was apparent, but she appeared capable of maintaining the spell.

  Skye sat on a bench nearby, fingering the filigreed edge of its marble surface. She brushed her hair from her eyes, her expression pensive as she watched Idonea.

  “That will not hold Hel.”

  Skye turned in surprise to the woman sitting next to her, the sorceress who had appeared out of thin air. Ingrid often used enchanted artifacts to open portals to cut through Nifelheim, for her soul was dark enough to attract little attention from the evil that thrived there, and she was not enough of a threat to warrant any of Hel’s attention. And the sorceress was keeping a much more fluid schedule than they had agreed upon, showing up really whenever the mood struck her. She only demanded blood upon the full moon, but sex was something she required more often, a condition that did not bother Skye in the least.

  Skye’s surprise, therefore, was not that Ingrid had appeared, but that she had instantly deduced both the spell and its purpose, something that was closely guarded from all save the handful of people present. The Tavinter was uncertain how to feel about this breach in security, mirroring the uncertainty she felt about the sorceress in general.

  The dark presence of the sorceress imprinted upon Y’arren instantly, and she, too, gazed at the woman with reservation. No one knew the extent of Ingrid’s role in Raine’s capture, but Y’arren sensed it was significant. Only Y’arren’s deep intuition kept her from banishing the woman from the garden. The elven seer sensed regret intertwined with the secret the sorceress held so tight, and the search for redemption could be a powerful motivating force.

  Ingrid examined t
he symbols drawn in the air, recognizing many of the ancient glyphs from her own research. It was a marvelous contraption, she had to admit, drawn from some malevolent imagination to be sure.

  Idonea was also aware of Ingrid’s arrival, but her focus was entirely on the magical trap. The slightest waver in her concentration could be treacherous, for the spell was so dark there was no telling what would happen if she lost control of it. It had to be ended in a methodical and orderly manner, which she did so now, deconstructing the trap glyph-by-glyph until the cage itself winked out of existence, leaving only a crackling in the air behind. She relaxed once the crackling ceased.

  Her admiration for the spell and the dragon’s daughter irritated Ingrid. The raven-haired mage had battled her as none other, drawing from the deep well of dark magic that ran through her blood. The fact that the mage was so much younger than Ingrid and had trained with Isleif as his protégé made the involuntary admiration all the more unpalatable. Although Ingrid cared little about Skye’s sexual partners, when the girl revealed, upon Ingrid’s interrogation, that she had not slept with the mage, Ingrid was greatly relieved. Although, the sorceress mused, examining the breasts that spilled forth from Idonea’s plunging bodice, she would probably fuck her if given the chance.

  “That will not hold Hel,” Ingrid repeated, louder this time.

  “I am aware of that,” Idonea said, too fatigued to respond with her usual sarcasm. “It will not even hold Fenrir at the moment.”

  This was of interest to Ingrid, and gave her possible insight as to where Idonea had obtained the spell. She had long-wondered at the relationship between the Scinterian and the wolf god. Rumor held that the warrior had saved him from a magical trap. Ingrid now wondered if Idonea was seeking to replicate that trap.

  Skye felt a profound unease at the silent musings of the woman next to her, and cast a troubled glance Y’arren’s way. Ingrid had sided with the Goddess once. Skye’s arrangement with the sorceress had satisfied her lust for pleasure, but her lust for power was unabated. Another deal with the Goddess might satisfy that hunger.