Dockalfar

by Nunn, PL

  His spell on the girl had withered in his surprise. She was sobbing out loud again, still cowering where he had tumbled her. Whipping about in search of his attacker, Deigah gained his feet. At first he saw no one. They had fled or were hiding then. He flung out a net of telepathic radar, seeking the offender. He sensed nothing.

  “Knave!” he screamed in indignant fury, a tiny bit of unease creeping up to unnerve him. The girl was powerless, thanks to Azeral’s binding. It could not have been her. If that binding was slipping he trembled to think of the consequences.

  He turned back to the girl and suddenly stopped in shock as his eyes registered a man in his path. The colors blended so very well, green and browns of the garden behind him, that Deigah had overlooked his presence. It took only a second’s thought to register who blocked his path.

  Azeral’s Ciagenii. The soul stealer.

  Deigah might have lashed out at any other, save maybe Azeral himself, without thought. But the shadow assassin gave him pause. A Ciagenii was not one to trifle with. Had Azeral set him to guard this girl?

  “You dare to lay hand to a member of the high court?” Deigah growled. Magic would not touch the Ciagenii, but he had no magic of his own save his unnerving ability to kill. And to kill in such a way that the soul could never return to the lands of the living. To be trapped forever in the hellish regions of lower Annwn was a fate no sane being would tempt. At the moment, however, Deigah’s sanity was tempered by the demand of frustrated hormones and injured dignity.

  “Out of my way, soulless one,” he demanded. “Go to your master, if you wish and tell him the wench is in good company.”

  The Ciagenii did not move. He was uncloaked, apparently weaponless and half a head shorter than the high sidhe.

  “Leave the woman,” the whisper was as calm and cold as an icy breeze. The assassin’s green eyes did not waver. The audacity of the command was infuriating.

  That this servant of Azeral’s would dare to confront a sidhe of the highest order.

  Perhaps because the creature was Azeral’s and owed loyalty to Azeral’s cause and court, Deigah held the belief that he would hesitate to harm one of his master’s favorites. Deigah held no such restraints. The insult was too grave.

  He moved to brush past the Ciagenii, shoving with his shoulder to win forward.

  The assassin let him. Deigah’s fingers wrapped about the hilt of his dagger and turned in passing to pierce the Ciagenii’s back. Only Dusk was not there. He melted away like water parting around a rock. He slipped out of the blade’s path and all Deigah saw was a flash of hair and a sharp pain that quickly turned to numbness, then turned to no feeling at all.

  With a frantic desperation, Deigah realized something vital was slipping away from him. Something that had never been threatened before. He clutched after the immaterial with all his mental and magical power. It still trickled away.

  Deigah went with it. With the realization of that ultimate failure, he screamed. Not a physical scream. That was beyond him, but a pining mental one that reached every sensitive mind in the keep and into the land beyond.

  A high sidhe had died the final death.

  ~~~

  The steps of the servant’s stair were not made for comfort or ease. They were steep and narrow and harsh on short legs.

  Going down was considerably easier than rushing up. The sweat was glistening on Bashru’s skin by the time he slammed into the hidden door and burst out into the more austere hall of the Opal Wing. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, a great dread trickling through his veins. He felt it deep down in the center of his soul. In his moment of panic, in his thoughtless decision to oppose Sidhe will, catastrophe would follow. He had never been one for intuition or prophesy, but sure as he breathed foul things would come of his actions.

  He padded down the hall to the garden, each breath a pain in his chest. In the doorway he stumbled to an ungainly halt just in time to see the lifeless body of the high sidhe crumple to the garden path.

  He took in the scene with watering, narrowed eyes. The girl a huddled mass in the midst of broken foliage. The assassin standing over an unmoving Deigah, who Bashru desperately hoped was not a dead Deigah. Then the despairing thought descended. How much chance was there of a Ciagenii striking and ‘not’ killing?

  Damn little.

  The spriggan scrambled across the garden, pushing past the assassin to crouch by the body. The eyes were wide and staring, an expression of exquisite surprise in their too clear depths. Most definitely dead. Bashru groaned. He cast a glare up to Dusk.

  “Idiot! You’ve killed a high sidhe. Azeral’ll have all our hides.”

  Dusk looked past Bashru to the girl, then back to the body. There was little regret in his hooded eyes. Did a Ciagenii ever regret? Bashru cursed loudly and inventively, grabbed a handful of Deigah’s tunic and started to haul the body towards the stone balcony. The sidhe, despite his height, was not more than the spriggans wiry muscles could handle.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he growled at Dusk. “They’ll be here soon. Get the girl out of here.”

  The assassin hesitated, the first sign of uncertainty crossing his features. For a creature whose main purpose in life was to kill, covering up a death, or the need to, was not a natural reflex. When he killed it was to send a message or avenge a slight to his master. Bashru thought it was suddenly occurring to him that this death would not be appreciated by Azeral. The spriggan felt no pity over the dilemma.

  “I’ll take care of it. Get her out of sight!” he practically screamed the last, whipping an arm out to indicate the direction of the door in case Dusk had forgotten in the excitement. The assassin stood for a moment longer, then whirled and scooped up the girl in one fluid motion. She half fought him, her eyes unreasoning. There was blood on her face.

  Bashru took no more time to examine her. He trusted the assassin to spirit her out of the area with no one the wiser. His job was harder. The other sidhe would know of this one’s death. They would be rushing to find him even now. The spriggan hefted the limp form up to the top of the balcony, then pushed it over the other side. He did not wait to see it fall, but immediately stepped back and began to kick with all his might at the crumbling stone. Pieces at the top broke off, spilling to the garden path, splintering over the outer edge. Frantically he put more effort into the destruction, until larger chunks of masonry tore out of place. A block fell, accompanied by a shower of stone powder. What may have been a large enough opening for a body to fall though, gaped.

  Spriggan ears picked up the sound of hurrying footsteps. He looked about frantically, then dashed to the thickness of the garden, scurrying up the thickest, tallest tree until his fingers could grasp the lower edge of the decorate balcony above.

  He pulled himself up and flattened himself to the keep wall.

  Sidhe burst into the garden, looked about and spotted the crumbled balcony. They rushed to it, peering over the side.

  They must have seen the spot of color far below, for one let out a keen wail of dismay. The other gasped in shock and turned and gestured as others ran into the garden. Bashru closed his eyes and tried to make himself as small as possible. He called in every favor fate might owe him and wished that no one of them chanced to look up, or scan the area mentally for sign of a perpetrator.

  But they were too caught up in their grief. They milled about and cried, holding each other or peering down at the body that was bound to have dashed itself on the rocks far below. More came, until the spriggan thought half the court must have crowded onto the small garden balcony and finally, amid wails and speculation, Azeral himself cut through their ranks like a stallion though a herd of milling mares.

  Bashru shrank down to his haunches, as deep in the shadow of the overhang as his small body could fit. His mind frantically ran through all the things he might say if they discovered him. He would blame it on the assassin and the girl. He would plead for a quick death. Oh please, a quick death. He would say he tried to stop it an
d when he could not, hid out of panic. It would not quite be a lie.

  They might not be able to see through it to the fact that he had brought this all to be with his summons of Dusk. He could not be held responsible for the death of a high sidhe.

  ~~~

  She did not recall the journey back to her room. She hardly recalled how she had come to be safe and out of the grasp of Deigah. She was finding it difficult to put together rational thought. But at the moment, if not comfortable, she felt marginally secure. She came to that realization as she was being lowered to the pillows of her bed. There were arms about her and a gentle solidity that she did not wish to abandon. She held on, closing her eyes and pressing her face against a soft weave of cloth and a warm body underneath it. An attempt was made to disentangle her arms, and in a panic she clutched at material and flesh. She did not wish to be left alone. She did not wish for the safe presence to leave her side.

  “God. Please, please don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

  “Lady.” She knew the silken tones of the return whisper down to her soul. “I have to.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and held on. She could not quell the tremors that cursed her body. Bile threatened to rise. He was safety, he was her protector. There was nothing, she thought in her panic, that could get past him to torment her. She could not let him leave her. Not now.

  “I’m scared,” she whimpered.

  His efforts at retreat subsided, and he knelt at the side of her bed and let her hold on to him. Where his hands touched her flesh he shifted them. He made no move to break her embrace, but he also made no efforts to return the comfort. Perhaps it was out of consideration. She had just been ravished by a man and he feared to frighten her more by his touch. She knew it not to be true, deep down. She knew it was merely because ‘he’ did not want or need the touch of a human woman. That ‘he’ was beyond such things. She knew he was repulsed by her, her memory was that good at least, all things considered. But at the moment, she did not care, for his physical presence gave relief and she was too shaken and covetous of her own comfort to give thought to his.

  “He’s gone,” he said softly, hesitantly. How he hated to speak to her.

  She kept her face pressed into the soft wool of his tunic, her head tucked under his chin. She wondered at the implications of that. She could not quite remember how he had come to be with her instead of that monster, Deigah. She remembered very well the terror and the humiliating magic that stilled her screams and left her mutely helpless to the attack. She did not think the rape had been carried out to the fullest.

  She did become vaguely aware of the disarray of her dress. It was that realization that made her let him go. She shifted her hand to her bodice, pulling the gaping rip together. Her other hand slid off of him and she sat back on the pillows, touching a bruise on her face, tasting blood in her mouth.

  He remained where he was, kneeling at her side, eye to eye with her. For a moment, she met his stare and thought she saw some glimmer of compassion before he broke it in rising. His colors were muted, tinged with hints of her own shading.

  “You saved me,” she stated in a tiny, trembling voice. “Is he dead?”

  A nod of the head. He wanted to flee.

  She could sense it. She pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them to her. The quakes tormented her body in wave after wave. The hurt was just beginning to register. She would be in pain later.

  “Why?” The question was blunt and edged with tears. “After what I did, why?”

  He faded to the point she had to peer to make him out. He was one with the colors of her room. He edged towards her door.

  “You did not deserve it.” A faint whisper that she only just caught.

  “Will you get in trouble?” She called.

  He was at the portal, wood colored now and not looking at her at all.

  “Yes.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Part Sixteen

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The ogres were at the foot of the keep, treading among the sharp rocks of the sheer mountain drop to recover the broken body of Deigah. They were tiny, black shapes against the dull gray of the stone ground. The twisted form of Deigah was the only splotch of color amid the jumbled keep foot. Azeral chose not to use his mind’s eye to discover the details. He leaned over a stable section of balcony and watched the activity with narrowed eyes.

  Foolish, foolish Deigah, to let himself be taken in such a manner. For a high sidhe to die was tragedy enough, but to die in such a graceless manner was unspeakable. He deserved that fate if he was inept enough to allow it to take him.

  The wailing had stopped. And the screams of anguish. Azeral had put a stop that that soon after his arrival. Those High Sidhe that remained on the garden terrace milled about in quiet, shocked little groups. Their whispers, both vocal and mental drifted through the cool air. Azeral heard splashes of conversation. Memories of Deigah, sobbing denials, regrets, speculation. Disdain that he had died such a lowly death. Neferia huddled on a stone bench, red-eyed and sobbing. Her hysteria had been one of the worst. It had taken a sound mental slap to bring her out of it.

  Azeral could not abide loss of control. It brought disorder and chaos. Those were not things he welcomed under his rule. But he supposed she, being female and more prone to emotional display, had reason to mourn. She had come to this court with Deigah from the court of a Northern lord.

  They had always been close. Where he regretted the loss, but not the companionship, she had lost a close confidante. He would tolerate some degree of mourning.

  “Tragic, hmmm?” The Mistress of the Hunt stood behind him. Her gaze lingered on the tiny figures below. Her eyes held the same careful serenity they always held. No bouts of hysteria from Lady Tyra.

  “Foolish,” he amended.

  “Hmmm.” Tyra arched a thin brow, a wry expression of affirmation in her eyes. “One almost wonders.”

  He pushed himself away from the edge and met her gaze. “Does one? At what?”

  She shrugged, her shoulders thick with the padding of light leather armor. She had been practicing or riding when word reached her. “At the lack of grace. Most unworthy.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  They both glanced aside at Neferia, who stood glaring. “Deigah is worthy of more than you’ll ever know, Huntress. He’s dead… the final death, and you slander him. How dare you?”

  Tyra merely returned the angry gaze, expressionless. She was almost as old as Azeral. Almost as powerful. Neferia was nothing to her.

  “We slander the method. Not necessarily the man,” Azeral stated. “It was an ungainly way to die.”

  “It could not have been his fault!”

  Neferia cried in frustration. Her fists balled in the material of her gown. “He would not have fallen!”

  “Pray tell, why not?” Azeral inquired, curious at her almost desperate insistence.

  She opened her mouth, then shut it, tears welling once more in the corners of her eyes. There was something there.

  Something she kept to herself. “Because he was better than that,” she finally said.

  “He was better.”

  With a swirl of cloth she spun and fled. Azeral exchanged looks with his Mistress of the Hunt. She shrugged again, noncommittally, and he turned back with a frown to gaze over the edge of the balcony. Behind him, Tyra wandered along the garden path. She paused at the edge of a curving path and stared into the undergrowth. Then she crouched and retrieved something shiny and long. It glinted silver in the morning light. She stared at it for a heartbeat, then wedged it in her belt, under the cover of her armor.

  There was a slight smile on her lips.

  ~~~

  The spriggan came bursting into Victoria’s room, out of breath and wild-eyed. He slammed the thick wooden door behind him and pressed his back to it, as if holding off pursuers. Victoria forced her breathing back to normal, tried unsuccessfully to relax her tense muscles and stared at hi
m from her curled position on her bed of pillows. She had done nothing since Dusk’s departure other than shed her ripped and bloodied dress, pull on a robe and fall into the softness of her nest to cry. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen even now. She wished the spriggan elsewhere. He was not the comfort she needed. But he was insistent in his presence.

  He scrambled over, breath hissing between his sharp, yellowed teeth. He smelled of strong sweat and other foul things. She hugged a pillow to her breast and stared at him expectantly.

  “We’re in for it,” he gasped at her, almost accusingly. “By the Four, we’re in for it now! Where’s the damn Ciagenii?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. Her throat was raw from sobs. Her chest hurt terribly and the skin under her eyes felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

  Her other bodily aches were dull reminders of the attack.

  The spriggan threw up his hands in disgust. “Don’t know!! Well damn me to Annwn and back! They found the damn sidhe’s knife. Lady Huntress found it. I saw it with me own eyes. They’ll put together that it was foul play that brought about their brethren’s end. Then they’ll piece together who.”

  Victoria stared at him, uncomprehending. “But he attacked me. He deserved whatever happened. You and Dusk were only protecting me.”

  “High sidhe’s dead,” Bashru snapped at her. “Dead! Don’t matter why. None of us’re high sidhe. None of us can be excused.”

  She pressed her face into the pillow. “I don’t want to talk about this. Please just go away.”

  Rough spriggan hands gripped her shoulder. She flinched from the touch. It brought back the memory of other rough touches.

  “If they come to you, you don’t know nothing. You been in this room all day. You tell them that, if you value your life. And mine. And the damned assassin’s. Got that?”

  She nodded, miserably. Unfortunately, she understood.

  His heavy, shuffling footsteps receded. The door shut with a gentleness that surprised her. That he was sensitive to her nerves and her trauma was not something she would have expected of him. She lay alone and wallowed in her misery. She wanted arms about her. The logical choice was Alex, but he was not the man she knew anymore. She wondered if he would even care that she had almost been raped. Without her consent, she thought of Dusk, and his sinewy strength as he held her. She berated herself for it, but her mind kept returning to the comfort he had unwillingly offered. She squeezed her lids shut, moaning for a different reason. The last thing she needed, the very last, was to develop feelings for the dark servant of the man responsible for bringing her here. But try as she might, she could not wipe the image of him from her mind.