Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Why don’t you just kill Stavros yourself? Why put Lucien and me through this?”

  Once more, the sigh came from Sibylline. “Believe me if I could, I would have slain that troublemaker long ago but unfortunately once a Revenant turns a human, he or she loses the ability to destroy them. A bit of a nuisance, actually, but just one of those annoying little loopholes our race was saddled with millennia ago.”

  Slamming the flat of her palm repeatedly upon the door, Khamsin called out to Lucien, to the guards—anyone who might hear her.

  “You are no longer in Modartha, dearling,” Sibylline told her and waved a hand.

  The door opened as silently as it had closed and Khamsin rushed out only to find herself in a large, vacant room surrounded by row after row of windows from floor to ceiling. Dark walls, dark marble upon the floor, shadows cast from the brilliant display of nature’s fury beyond the windows gave the room a decidedly evil and hopeless aura.

  “I call it my lunararium,” Sibylline comment as she came into the barren room. “Don’t you find it beautiful?”

  Lightning was flashing white death beyond the mullioned panes, streaking across the ebony skies like fiery stitching upon a swath of black silk. Thunder boomed repeatedly, underscoring the crack of the lightning and the windows shook beneath the onslaught.

  “Where are we?” Khamsin cried, her heart quivering in her chest.

  “Far beyond Modartha,” Sibylline replied. “Beyond any known place on your world. Where Lucien can never travel. No male has ever stepped foot in my keep and none ever will.”

  As lightning flared around her, washing stark white light over her pale features, Khamsin slumped to the floor, covering her face with her hands. She rocked there on her knees, a low keening sound trilling from her very soul.

  “This isn’t permanent, Khamsin,” Sibylline said with a hint of exasperation in her sultry voice. “You will rejoin him when he gets the job done.”

  Khamsin lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. “And what if he doesn’t? What if Stavros kills him?”

  Sibylline waved away the question. “Well, of course he won’t die, you silly chit! He is a powerful warrior. He is the heir apparent to my throne, my Chosen One. There is no way he can fail!”

  “There is a traitor at Mordartha,” Khamsin accused. “She…”

  “She reports only what I wish her to report and does so without even knowing she is doing it,” Sibylline interrupted. “Think you I would allow treachery to lay a hand to my heir?”

  “Lucien thinks she has betrayed him. The thrall…”

  “The thrall who manhandled you and earned for himself a fiery death at the stake?” Sibylline sneered. “Is that the thrall you mean?”

  A niggling memory tugged at Khamsin’s mind. There was a moment of squeezing pain around her breast and she put a hand to her chest. “No,” she whispered.

  “Aye, the thrall mauled you and paid for it with his worthless life. No great loss I assure you,” Sibylline supplied. “Why Lucien felt you did not need to know he avenged you is beyond my ken but such is his way.”

  The sound of flames crackling, an agonized scream that went on and on, and the stench of burning flesh—Khamsin shuddered.

  “Lucien Korvina has a brand on his left biceps. Do you know what it is?” Sibylline asked.

  Khamsin turned stricken eyes to the woman, confusion at her question and what it had to do with the situation crinkling her face.

  “He was marked from the caldron during a fire-festival ritual. It was one of the rare pagan ceremonies he embraced as a boy. Do you remember seeing the brand?”

  Shaking her head at the strange question, Khamsin scrubbed at her tearful face.

  “It is the Greek symbol called psi and it looks like this,” Sibylline said and outside a fiery Ψ appeared in the storm-ravaged sky. “Only those young men who had shown some kind of psychic ability were invited to join and those who decided to do so had to be careful around the old priest. Lucien took his Catholic religion very seriously back then but he had an ability he wanted to learn to control.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Khamsin asked.

  “It was a very secretive, exclusive sect to which Lucien was admitted,” Sibylline said as though she hadn’t heard Khamsin’s question. “There were some very powerful men in the sect. Lucien once told me he thought the man who was the Grand Master was a Druid. Apparently there were men from many countries who met somewhere on Mount Duáilce to convene with brothers who held the same powers as they.”

  “I don’t see…”

  “Be still and you will!” Sibylline snapped, her eyes blazing.

  The storm grew louder and the crack of lightning streaked across the firmament. Somewhere a bolt struck a tree and the sound of the wood splitting, the heavy timber falling made Khamsin reached up to slap her hands over her ears. Even through the obstruction of her fingers, she could hear Sibylline’s voice as though the woman was inside her head.

  “The Old Ones, the Ancients, met on Mount Duáilce to pass their knowledge onto the next generations. These were powerful men, educated men, men who had honed their abilities for decades. They chose their initiates very carefully and it was an honor to be chosen to become a part of that influential group of men. It was a tribute to Lucien—as a future leader of his people—that he was selected to be a member of the sect.”

  Sibylline walked to the long row of tall windows and opened one. Wind whipped her long red hair to froth around her head and her shimmering gown of gold cloth pressed tightly to her thighs and legs. Mists of rain washed over her as she stood there, seemingly reveling in the cold.

  “I was here,” the older woman said, “when I first became aware of Lucien Korvina. I could feel him somewhere out there in the barrenness of time and space. I sensed the integrity of the man, the honor in him, and that was something I had never experienced with a male before.”

  The windows rattled as a boom of thunder shook the ground and reverberated for nearly a minute. Fiery stitches of light whipped across the black velvet sky, sewing scalloped clouds together.

  “Respected,” Sibylline said in an awed tone. “Lucien was respected by his people, loved by them. Had the need ever arisen, he would have led them gallantly and fairly.”

  “But the Manticores invaded,” Khamsin said.

  “Aye, the beasts,” her companion agreed, “those vile creatures who consumed the flesh of human and animal alike. Evil and despicable, those things fell upon Lucien’s village and destroyed all in their path save him.”

  “He would have preferred they had killed him, too.”

  “It had been many a century since I had left Croì Cloiche,” Sibylline said, reaching up to wipe away a sheen of rain from her face. “I had locked myself in this vast keep and had no intention of ever leaving. My mate, my husband, was in the Great Castle at Cumhacht with his hordes of whores and sycophants. There was no one to gainsay me and I took flight, searching out Lucien Korvina for his call was like a siren song to me.”

  Khamsin frowned. “He called you? But I thought…”

  “The power he had been born with was one they have since termed telepathy. He could commune with animals, people like himself, but he was very careful with the gift. He did not abuse it—did not overuse it. No one—not even Petros—close to him knew he possessed such a talent. Had the old priest known, Lucien might well have been burned at the stake for heresy.”

  Sibylline moved away from the window. Her face was shiny with moisture, the front of her gown wet from bodice to hem.

  “He was dying and had lost his reason. Some would have called him mad, insane, and that might well have been true. When I heard him, he was cursing his God for having allowed such a terrible thing to happen. The deaths of his wife and child—witnessing those atrocities—had broken his spirit, his will to live, as the Manticores and Sagittary had broken his body. As he lay there unable to move, staring up at the sky, he made one final cry to the V
oid and it was that cry that brought me—not the smell of blood as he believes—to his side.”

  “What did he say?” Khamsin asked, her heart aching for Lucien.

  “He knew he was dying, would soon be dead. He was so weak from loss of blood, he could no longer speak, but his mind—that mystical mind with which he had been born—sent out a message to anyone, anything, who might be listening. He begged to be allowed to come back and avenge his loved ones’ murders. He didn’t care if he came back Eidolon or Daemon so long as he returned to set right the wrong.”

  Khamsin pushed up from the floor. The storm had grown even worse, and she was becoming frightened by the savagery lighting up the dark sky. “He doesn’t remember calling you, does he?”

  Sibylline shook her head. “I wiped that memory from his mind for I feared it would weigh too heavy on his soul.”

  “You turned him.”

  “I lifted him into my arms and held him as he took his last breath,” Sibylline replied. “But he was too handsome, too virile-looking to have his body ravaged by death.” There was a faraway, dreamy look on the older woman’s face as she put a hand to her cheek. “I could not allow such a travesty to take place so I put my fangs to his throat and injected him with the venom that slithers through my blood. I fed him life and I gave him breath—from my mouth to his—and in the doing lost a part of my heart to Lucien Korvina.”

  “Then why hurt him?” Khamsin asked, taking a step toward Sibylline. “You must know he will suffer because you took me from him.”

  “It is his destiny to slay Stavros Constantine. Why I made that man a Revenant escapes me at the moment but it is a decision I regret having made.” Sibylline came to Khamsin and reached out to take her arm. “Best we move into the keep for the storm is rabid this night.”

  Khamsin allowed the Revenant queen to lead her out of the lunararium and through a wide set of double oaken doors. The highly polished knobs and pull plates stood out in high relief as a strobe of lightning lit up the room and the doors opened as though by unseen hands.

  The hall into which Sibylline led Khamsin was breathtaking. Overhead thousands of candles burst into life in intricately fashioned wrought iron chandeliers and the light shone down on the most beautiful oak furniture Khamsin could ever have imagined. A large oblong table banked by fourteen richly upholstered chairs sat in the middle of the room, four gleaming gold candelabras lighting gorgeous china, crystal and golden tableware on its lace-covered top. A ten-foot-long sideboard held crystal decanters of spirits and golden chafing dishes. Sitting along one wall was a monstrosity of a china closet with shelves loaded to overflowing with exquisite china. On three velvet-papered walls, row after row of life-size portraits of exceptionally handsome men hung in elaborate frames—twenty-four of them in all.

  “Lucien is there,” Sibylline said, pointing.

  Khamsin moved as in a trance to stand before the striking painting of her lover. So real had the artist accomplished his task, it seemed as though Lucien would step down from the painting at any moment.

  “His name is Caspar D’Roggula and he is a maestro at his craft, don’t you agree?”

  Nodding absently, Khamsin reached up to touch the painting with trembling fingers. “Does Lucien know of this painting?”

  “None of them do,” Sibylline said. She arced her hand over the paintings. “Caspar has visited his subjects many times over the centuries, bidding his time until he had the male perfectly remembered in his mind’s eye before going back to his world to paint the portraits.”

  “His world,” Khamsin repeated.

  “Did you think the Earth was the only planet in the megaverse, dearling?” Sibylline asked. “I assure you it is not. There are thousands of planets out here.”

  Shaking her head at the enormity of what she was learning, Khamsin caressed the painting. “Who are the other men?”

  “The one to Lucien’s left is Gideon O’Rourke. You have heard of him?”

  “The Irish prince.”

  “Aye and what a wonderful specimen of Celtic beauty,” Sibylline said with a sigh. “On Lucien’s right is Francisco Chavez. Not as handsome as Lucien and Gideon but a handsome rogue in his own right.”

  “Where is Stavros?”

  Sibylline frowned. “I destroyed that painting long ago,” she snapped. “Just as I took great delight in destroying the painting of my evil husband, Macmillan.”

  Khamsin reluctantly turned away from the imposing portrait of Lucien and looked at her companion. “Why aren’t you with your husband?”

  Sibylline’s lovely face turned hard and her mouth bitter, nostrils flaring as though a horrid stench had invaded the room.

  “He cheated on me,” Sibylline stated. “Not with one whore but with many, but I pretended to overlook his peccadilloes until he brought one of those sluts into our home and kicked me out to install her on the throne in my stead.” Her eyes flared with fire. “Kicked me out of my own home!”

  “Did he send you here?”

  “I built this keep with my own powers!” Sibylline shouted. “With the blood, and sweat and tears of my humiliation. With the hatred bubbling inside me like poison brewing in a caldron. I fashioned Croì Cloiche with my needs, my future in mind. Do you know what Croì Cloiche means? No? Well, it means Heart of Stone and that is what this place is—my heart turned to stone. No man has ever stepped foot inside it and no man ever will!” She narrowed her eyes. “Let them try and they will die a death so horrible, so vile they will scream in agony for all eternity!”

  Khamsin shuddered at the ferocity blazing at her like a roaring conflagration. “That is why you didn’t bring Lucien here when he lay dying,” she said.

  Sibylline abruptly smiled. “Are you hungry?” she asked and moved toward the long banquet table upon which food suddenly appeared from the thin air. “I’m hungry and I’m sure our other guest must be hungry, too.”

  A frown moved over Khamsin’s face. “Other guest?” she repeated.

  The room filled with delicious smells as steam rose from the many dishes lining the table.

  “There will be only the three of us dining. Please, take a seat,” Sibylline said as she pulled out her chair from the head of the long table.

  Khamsin stood where she was, amazed at the transition of companion from Fury to jovial hostess. The woman’s mercurial personality was a bit overwhelming and not a little unsettling.

  “Ah, there you are, dearling!” Sibylline said, looking past Khamsin. “Come and join us! We were just about to eat.”

  Khamsin turned to see Christina walking into the room. The healer’s footsteps were slow and awkward. She put a hand to her head as though she was dizzy. Paler than usual, Christina seemed disoriented and stopped a few feet from the table, surveying the scene with eyes squinted and forehead creased.

  “The tenerse takes awhile to wear off but once it does, you will be just fine, Tina.”

  Christina’s eyes widened. “You gave me tenerse?”

  “Not enough to be of any problem to you,” Sibylline said. “There’s no need to worry about becoming addicted to it unless you like the sensations you are experiencing.”

  Shaking her head as though to rid herself of the dazed feeling, Christina stumbled and had to reach out to grab a chair. Khamsin hurried to her and put a steadying arm around her.

  “What the hell is that bitch doing?” Christina whispered as Khamsin helped her to sit down.

  “Causing Lucien pain,” Khamsin said through clenched teeth.

  “Why am I here?” Christina seemed to be having trouble focusing her eyes. “Why are you?”

  “Lucien thinks you betrayed him to Stavros,” Khamsin answered.

  Christina flinched. “Never,” she stated. “Not on my life would I do such a thing.”

  “But he’ll think you were the one who took me from him and he’ll think you took me to Stavros.”

  Lifting her head to glare down the table at their hostess, Christina skinned her lips back from her
teeth. “You insane bitch! Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Be careful what you say, Tina,” Sibylline warned. “I don’t have to return you to Modartha, you know.”

  “She planned this so Lucien would go after Stavros and kill him,” Khamsin said.

  “And he will,” Christina stated. “There is no denying that.”

  “Once I have what I want, you two can go back to that dreary keep beneath Mount Duáilce and continue on until the world ends, for all I care,” Sibylline commented, ladling her plate with food though she never lifted a hand to do so. Bowls hovered around her and utensils were moved by unseen hands. “You should be happy Stavros will no longer be in the picture, Tina.”

  Narrowing her eyes at the older woman, Christina pushed aside the plate before her. “There is more to this than ridding yourself of Stavros, Sibylline. What other nefarious purpose do you have?”

  Khamsin looked from Revenant to Revenant queen. There was a smile on Sibylline’s face and a caustic frown on Christina’s.

  “I only want what is due me,” Sibylline answered. She poked her fork toward her guests. “Now, eat while it’s hot. The pâté is excellent.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Christina snapped.

  “Nor am I,” Khamsin agreed.

  “Suit yourselves, but you don’t know what you’re missing!”

  “Why are you punishing Lucien?” Christina asked. “Is it because he now has a woman he loves?”

  Sibylline waved a hand in dismissal. “My goodness, no! I found her for him, didn’t I?”

  “And took her away from him,” Christina pointed out. “Why give with one hand and take away with the other?”

  Sibylline laid her fork down, took up the snow-white linen napkin she had placed in her lap and delicately wiped her lips. “Because—” she said, replacing the napkin “—he owes me.”

  “Owes you what?” Christina queried.

  “A child of his loins.”