Lord Darth surveyed his work critically and watched the eyes of his caste, analyzing their desires. What would thrill them more, her instant death, additional punishment, or a show of raw lust? Those of the shadow caste craved perversion in all its fathomable depth, and this show of brutality and the promised lust-fest afterward fed his caste like ambrosia. Darth was once again bored.
He had gutted the spirit of many stolen from their homes and terrorized into submission. Their fear nurtured his dark soul, but it wasn’t enough. He longed to devour a fighting spirit, a spirit who refused his dark advances, who would spit in his face with her dying breath knowing in the end she would be totally his no matter her protests. It was the battle that honed the evil within.
There was only one that honored him with that sort of courage, one that nearly brought him to his knees with her unrelenting fortitude and he had inadvertently killed her. He had bartered his soul to the Dark Master to secure the woman’s heart, and despite all her fight, he had her love. She couldn’t help it. The spell came from the fiend itself. The Dark Master, though, betrayed the bargain. Darth won the woman, but her mind shattered under his hellish torment. In turn, her death haunted him and enraged him simultaneously. Part of him wanted revenge. The rest of him wished another chance to draw the pain out slowly. He doubted he’d have that chance with any other. There was only one like her, and he had searched well.
He used to attend the nuptials every year and had purchased many girls. Few survived more than a couple of weeks, some only days. The peasants his minions confiscated barely made it a full night. This last girl was nearly gone and he hadn’t even spent his seed. He doubted she’d outlive the dalliance now. At this point the thought of plunging into her near-lifeless body repulsed him. Dropping the whip, he cued the servants to allow his guests to feast on her spirit.
There was a time even her small soul would have tasted sweet. Now the submission was barely worth the effort. Little was worth the effort anymore, not even acquiring souls for the fiend. No one noticed the lord’s melancholy. At six feet, nine inches tall and two hundred and fifty pounds of lean, raw muscle, Darth was the definition of evil. His onyx gaze, rimmed by kohl and devoid of light, could be changed to any shade with a willful blink. White-blond hair and death-pale flesh could equally be altered. Only his features remained the same, sharp and angular ones that boasted dark fascination. Many a lass surrendered to his haunting countenance. And all but one submitted more than her life.
Long blunt strides took Darth through the twists and turns of Shadow Manor, a fortress set high upon Spider-Wolf Mountain, so named for the amount of dens riddling the dense timberland that unraveled up the steep slopes. Spider-wolves didn’t look much different than any other canine breed, except their teeth were larger and like a spider they had the ability to create webs. Enormous webs that trapped victims for days, allowing the beasts to slowly absorb their blood.
From outside the manor, there appeared to be no entrance or drawbridge to span the surrounding abyss. From within, a huge archway opened to the outside world. Many a guest walked right into the invisible barrier. It used to amuse Darth, but that no longer prompted even a smidgen of elation.
The lord paused at the waist-high circular Well of Misery. It was the origin of shadows and a place of vaporous death. Set opposite the entrance of the great hall, it squatted beneath a wall etching of Darth baring sharp teeth as he tormented an innocent soul. Leaning over the well, he braced large palms upon the stone ledge surrounding the well as he stared into its fathomless depths. The layers of darkness mesmerized him and the unthinkable entered his mind. If he tumbled in would he find Hell? Or would there be nothing but endless darkness, endless emptiness? The latter wouldn’t be much worse than his current existence. Nothing amused him any longer. Nothing provided challenge. Not even the struggle to unleash shadows and claim the light. Everything remained status quo--an endless battle where each side lost and gained an equal measure of territory.
Few others could resist the luring whispers of the well, but Darth was immune to it and walked away with ease. He wasn’t ready to have his questions answered. Surely, this banal existence possessed some thrills. Surely, there was more.
"If only…." he whispered and deliberately entered the salon on his right to view the single adornment in the room, a painting of daunting beauty, a nearly life-like image of the woman he loved. "Aye," he said to the vision. "I did love you, despite the torment I inflicted, despite the rage I vented. I loved you as I could never love again." That distant love was the only light Darth had ever encountered and it tasted like cool, honey-water.
With a thought, he willed the drapery of webs that covered the painting like a curtain to part. The vivid illusion drew a person much like the Well of Misery did. Darth had woven a spell into the painting, and men from commoners to nobility had lost their sanity to the woman in it. She would become real to the victims and they’d instantly become lovesick. Men could not pull themselves away, and those who did, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, and wouldn’t move. He’d live out the remaining few days in a dream, a dream that ended in a nightmarish death. The same type of death that Darth felt every moment since the lass had lain shattered within his embrace.
"Milord, by your will, a moment?"
Darth turned, glaring at the youth who dared to interrupt his contemplation. A new member of the caste, he barely emitted a shadow, let alone comprehended his own talent. A more mature conjurer would have known to fetch a servant rather then risk his own hide for such a direct approach. Not that long ago, Darth would have smote the fool just for his audacity.
The idiot wasn’t worth the exertion. With a flick of his hand, the web-curtain closed, and Darth moved out of the salon with Slith on his heels. "What is it you will of me?"
"A tremendous favor," Slith said, his hiss-like tone reflective of the snake symbols he wore. "I depart for the nuptials in the morn and was wondering if you could help with my purchase. It is said you can see any girl’s soul and I wish to feed slowly and long on the one to be my mate, one that might even bear my line." Bowing his chin nearly to his chest, his voice became low, sketchy. "And it is known I lack experience in the art and as a lord. I would forever be in your debt if you could guide my choice."
"That you are in the caste and that I allow you to draw your next breath makes you obliged to me. However, I might cast a crumb your way if I still attended the nuptials. As of late, I find them exceedingly droll and devoid of worthy merchandise."
"Oh but my Lord, it is said the Seraglio has outdone itself. They have trained only the brightest and most lovely of the clans. Some are said to actually possess talent, and others have pure, untainted spirits. This will be a selection beyond all its predecessors. Even if you don’t guide me, it would be a shame to miss such a showing."
Darth had enough of this talk and would have left the lord in mid-sentence if the man hadn’t reached into his robe and snapped open the invitation. Within the parchment folds, an access arch evolved. Seraglio never spared the coin in its advertisements, but this time they outdid themselves with such a costly charm. Although it lacked voice, a quick showing of all the merchandise unfolded. Young women from every part of the kingdom appeared and disappeared in a continuous array of sparkling eyes, tempting forms and enticing smiles. None of them excited Darth. He was beyond the physical hook that prompted both men and lords to act like slobbering fools.
Darth was about to walk away for the second time when an angelic vision caught his gaze. Grabbing the invitation from Slith, he ordered a halt. It paused on the wrong lass. "Back one," he barked.
The charm obeyed. He stared for an endless moment, his pulse racing in a way it hadn’t in years. "Be gone!" he said to Slith.
Slith reached for the charm, but Darth clutched it within a white-knuckled grip and vanished in a spiral of smoke.
* * * *
"Venore!"
Kanith, regulator of the instruction chamber, spat the eunuch’s name
as if it were a threat. "The hierarchy will have you gutted if you destroy a prime lass just before nuptials!"
With a slew of curses that would make a ruffian blush, Venore yanked Violet roughly back onto solid footing, and then still holding her by the hair, he dragged her until they reached the instruction chamber.
The regulator eyed her with an elaborate sigh. "You will never learn, will you?"
Violet whimpered and hated herself for showing such weakness.
This wasn’t her first time in the chamber, and it probably wouldn’t be the last even this close to the nuptials. Although she doubted she’d have any company. In fact, it had been a month since any lass other than Violet had graced its dour walls.
Venore dropped the rope at Kanith’s feet at the same instant that he released Violet. "This was found outside the lass’s window. She actually cut away a stone, hid it in the open nook and replaced the stone. If we hadn’t had a tremor this last day, she might have actually kept it hidden. Instead, it fell free along with the stone which nearly bopped Sir Dankask on the noggin!"
Violet winced, but only because she liked Sir Dankask. It would have been awful if he had gotten hurt because of her actions.
"What do you have to say for yourself, lass?" Venore demanded.
Violet massaged her scalp and mewed softly. The one good thing about pain was that it always felt so wonderful when it stopped. "I’m sorry?"
Venore sighed. "It is useless. It might just be worth the gutting to have the pleasure of silencing her."
"Aye, but look at her. What she lacks in sense and obedience she makes up for in beauty and light. You know how the dark caste are drawn to those of the light."
"Aye," Venore returned. "But once they look at her record, they will throw her to the wolves."
Violet suppressed a smile. She had been in the forest enough times to know she could survive the wolves, even the spider-wolves. In fact, she had learned their ways and could safely nestle herself in a den without harm. She actually used to play with the beasts until the Seraglio realized how easily she escaped and adapted to the wilds. Since then, they had kept her imprisoned.
It was the dark conjurers that terrified her, and that is what the Seraglio had planned for her. They had honed her to be the wife of a dark lord. Not that it meant a lord of light might not claim her, but she didn’t want to be married to just anyone who had the coin. She wanted to be free, free to choose, free to love, free to find the one that invaded her dreams. He probably didn’t exist. He was nothing more than mist and wish, and she was a fool to think it could be anything more. Still, she’d rather have the dream than her reality. Somehow she had to escape-- she couldn’t allow herself to be purchased like chattel.
"The nuptials are only days away. Do not mark her," Venore said, ripping away her flimsy garment with a single motion.
Kanith shook his head at the fresh slew of bruises decorating her back. "Looks like you already took care of that."
Venore winced, then stared directly into Violet’s eyes. "There is not one, not a solitary one, who has ever enraged me so thoroughly this close to the nuptials."
A toothy grin spread across Kanith’s face. "Then you have a short memory, Venore. There was one, don’t you remember?"
Rolling his eyes, Venore’s fists clenched and unclenched. "I try not to remember."
"Must be the color of the eyes. She had the same eyes."
"Of course she did. It’s a family trait."
"My family has blue and gray eyes," Violet interjected, feeling as if something dark had invaded the chamber. "My coloring is just a fluke that can’t be explained."
"You don’t know, do you?" Venore said with a satisfied edge to his tone.
"Know what?"
"You have your mother’s eyes."
"Nay, she had blue eyes like my father."
"That is what your clan told you."
"It is the truth."
"Have you ever seen a painting of her, or a window charm?"
"I was conceived upon the nuptial night and she died at my birth. There hadn’t been time to contract a painter or mage to construct a window."
"They had window charms. After all, your father was a renowned mage in his time. He created our charm windows. That is when he first saw her, and amassed a small fortune so he could purchase her. They didn’t tell you her eye color, for if you mentioned it once, all would know of her and relate the tale. Since your family intended to send you here, they didn’t want you to seek out the truth while in training. Your family didn’t wish you to be even more disruptive than you are. After all, they had had been shamed enough by your mother’s betrayal."
"What betrayal?"
"She deserted your father for a shadow lord."
Chapter Two
Daniore paced before the throne, his haunted gaze defying the King’s glare. "You may be King of the Illumi, but you no longer have authority over your son."
"He joined the caste to make certain of it, but mage or not, he still owes the kingdom and I will have an heir."
Daniore paused and turned, feet braced apart, one hand on the hilt of a sword, the other upon a stiletto. "Myith has produced numerous heirs."
King Pathros sprang upright and mirrored Daniore’s stance. "Myith is a twit who has married a twit. I will not pass the kingdom on to a brood of twits."
If the situation weren’t so grave Daniore would have smiled. He couldn’t fault the King’s logic. Myith was indeed a twit, a sweet, muddled, brainless twit that you couldn’t help adore, but equally couldn’t depend upon. It wouldn’t have been so horrid if she had married a somber wise man. Instead, she chose the court jester, literally!
"Those children have lineage, Sire. I am certain one will prove wise enough to--"
"Silence!" the King commanded, his voice even more authoritative than his looks.
Despite his simple attire of leather jerkins and tunic, a corded belt, and a hand-honed sword, King Pathros reeked of royalty from the wealth of dark locks to jade-green eyes. No one would ever mistake him for anything but the monarch. In contrast, Daniore wore court fancy with a long burgundy waistcoat, pale leggings, a striped ascot, and a cocked hat. The attire drew unwanted attention to his bulky frame while the delicate purple hat, perched on his wheat colored hair made him look like a buffoon. The mage had told him this was the proper dress for the encounter. He now knew that he had been played a fool, and would get his own back. It was a game between friends, but he never expected it during such a serious assignment.
"You will tell my son I command him to attend the nuptials to purchase a spouse and produce an heir. At a suitable age, the first born male will take his place here and learn the ways of leadership like my son should have done."
Daniore lifted a well-formed brow, not at all perturbed by the King’s show of authority. "He had no choice but to follow his calling," Daniore casually returned. "The talent was too obvious to hide."
Pathros sunk back into the throne and sighed. "Aye, he had no choice, but if there had been any way at all, I would have kept him by my side. It is not easy keeping the balance, but we cannot allow the darkness to encroach on any of our territory. If only the legend was true. If only there was, indeed, one to be born who’d sweep the darkness into the bowels of Hell from whence it came. Then there would be no need for this constant vigilance."
The weariness in Pathros gaze, the deep worry lines bracketing his mouth, softened Daniore’s heart. Would it be so horrible for his friend to purchase a mate? True, the mage already had someone he preferred, but that someone was totally unattainable. And he never made time for any other sort of dalliance. Alas, he didn’t even make the time for this interview and asked Daniore to go in his place.
Daniore’s large hand clenched into a fist and he slammed it against his heart as his heels clicked. "As you will, Milord. I will convey your wishes and make certain they are followed fully."
Pathros nodded and waved Daniore away. Another salute followed but Daniore�
�s heavy steps betrayed his misgivings. He should never have put himself in the middle of father and son. There were only two outcomes, and Daniore would end up infuriating either his king or his friend.
* * * *
Eyes the color of coal, skin bronzed from the sun, small, delicate body molded to perfection, and features refined as if by an artisan, Amlet was the most valuable product that the Seraglio had to offer. It wasn’t just her looks. It was the sweet submissive quality that drew coin. She would bend her will to any man be he of the light or of the shadows. She’d break herself for his longings and forfeit her life for his needs. In total opposition to Violet’s obstinacy, she was a tonic to Venore’s frayed nerves. "Fetch me an ale," he ordered the girl.
A sweet smile tilted apricot-tinted lips. "Of course, Milord, it is an honor to serve you."
Vernore sighed. Aye, this was exactly what he needed. Next he’d have her massage his tired muscles with warm oil. He could just see commanding such of Violet. She’d probably pour the ale over his head and use boiling oil as an ointment.
"It pains me to see you so troubled, sir," Amlet said in her gentle tone as she handed him cool ale in his favorite horn. "If there is any way at all that I can soothe your worries, please let me know."
Indeed the girl was a treasure. He truly hated putting her on the plank, but he kept her as long as he dared and it was time to reap the profit of such careful training. "A massage, sweet."
She undressed him with such precise, expert movements that it was nearly as if the clothes vanished. Her hands pressed just enough, eliciting moans of pleasure as she released each knot of tension in turn. If he was not a eunuch, this was the mate he would have chosen for life. Only death would have separated them. Of course, it was the only way to divorce oneself of a wife and it kept the women docile, compliant, and even eager to serve, for there was no casting off or separation. A purchased wife’s only escape was through death. Violet wouldn’t last very long as a wife. It saddened him somehow.
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