Amana
Page 3
Unworthy?
Forward through time he lunged, seeing himself as others regarded him: selfish, arrogant, proud, malicious, callous, miserly, ruthless, relentless. Taking pleasure wherever he found it and from whom, heedless of their discomfort or pain. What did it matter? He was Thane, or would be.
Such was his thinking at the time. Elfric recoiled in horror from the monster he’d been, a beast wrapped in handsome, human flesh and princely garb.
Unworthy?
No more, no more, he begged the voice, but Amana was unremitting.
Unworthy, Thane Elfric? Who is the most unworthy?
Comprehension dawned rapidly upon him. Foreseeing what was coming, he fought it, straining with every fiber and nerve. His efforts were uselessly expended. Through the eyes of another—Amana’s?—he watched with sick dread as that horrendous conceit, contempt for others, and lust for power caused him to perpetrate the worst crime of all. Patricide. Murder. That of his own sire. He saw his hands preparing the poison, tilting the vial into the old Thane’s flagon. Saw the tiny smile quirk his lips as his father choked, breathed his last, collapsed.
“Murderer, murderer!” screamed his slumbering conscience, wakened for the first time in years by the white hot fires of guilt and Amana’s gentle, persistent, Unworthy, Thane Elfric? Who is the most unworthy?
Had she said it? Had her lips even moved? Or was it but the writhing of his tortured senses?
No, he must defy this. “B—Bors, Bors,” he gargled. Was not Bors equally evil?
In his mind’s eye there flashed an image of Bors upon his bed, eyes open but not in sight. The man’s sweaty, twisted nightshirt and rumpled bedding gave testament to his final agonies. The terror stamped upon his pale face, the bulging, sightless eyes, the protruding tongue—all cried loudly to a horrifically painful, nasty death. And yet, no hand or blade marred him. Telltale signs of only one assassin’s skill: Amana.
“Yes,” she exhaled, ebony eyes glowing with the queer power rending his brain. “Your steward was the first to admit his guilt, to profit from our bargain. And you, Thane Elfric. Shall you be next?”
The heat sprinted through his bones, lapping at his blood. An inferno consumed his skull. His conscience shrieked and foamed.
Unworthy, Thane Elfric? Unworthy?
The more vigorous his struggles, the more brutal his pain. Weeping, Elfric succumbed; anything to stop the pain.
“It is me, I am the most unworthy!” he sobbed.
“Then by your own testimony, Thane, you are condemned.” Amana lifted her delicate, fragile scribe’s hand. “Let the unworthy one meet his fate,” Elfric heard her pronounce. And then, heard no more.
The flames consumed him.
***
Deep in slumber, Tishelle dreamed a peculiar dream. A woman, one of the two strangers invading her brother’s Midautumn Eve address earlier, stood at the foot of her bed. Confidence and strength radiated from posture and carriage. Deadliness lurked in her eyes, the dark eyes of the slender scribe. Her straight, dark hair was loosed, spilling about her shoulders like a cloak. Behind her stood the other woman, the giant warrior, her gaze subserviently downcast.
Tishelle tried to decipher the thing, but the stranger was speaking. She strained to make out the soft words.
“Dragorhold is yours,” said the woman, voice slow and cool. “Rule wisely and rule well, for the unworthy will perish.”
With that, she was gone, vanishing like smoke in the wind, leaving Tishelle to squirm sleepily in bed. “What a queer dream,” she mumbled into her pillow.
***
Deep in slumber, Frenyc dreamed a peculiar dream. A woman stood at the foot of his bed. Confidence and strength radiated from posture and carriage. Deadliness lurked in her dark eyes, and her straight, dark hair spilled about her shoulders like a cloak. Frenyc tried to decipher the thing, but the stranger was speaking. He strained to make out the soft words.
“The unworthy, Lord Frenyc, have perished. Your foes have fallen to trouble you no more.”
Frenyc’s brow knitted. Then, his features relaxed into a smile as recognition emerged. Blinking away sleep, he opened his eyes and saw the figure of a tiny, slight woman silhouetted against the backdrop of his tent. The warrior, her guardian, stood without, watching the night. Again, the small woman had breached the defenses of his camp, silent, trackless, and noiseless as a spirit. This should concern him…but, oddly, did not. Rather, the warrior’s smile deepened as he stretched out a bare arm in blatant invitation.
“Amana,” he said.
The still figure before him moved, navigating the shadows with graceful ease. When she was close enough, those strong, bare arms caught her up, bore her down on his bed.
“Frenyc,” she whispered, nestling against him.
***
Without the tent, all was silent. The realm had rest.
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Amana