by JM Guillen
Orin’s feet.
Corpses would be piled before Orin’s feet. Not mine.
His strong mind fought to submerge me in him.
Yet he knew nothing of true strength. He had not been tempered in the Lady’s Crucible.
He did not know pain.
Not like I did. As a friend, a lover.
I would show him Rydia’s cleansing flame.
My pain for my Lady raged across our bond. Mirrored between our two linked souls, it quadrupled in my mind.
My legs nearly buckled.
Orin began to scream.
Sinking to his knees, his screams echoed off the walls. He possessed no understanding of what he was feeling, even though we had shared this link before.
“Keiri!” Sire Mattias now held back all five of the masked monstrosities. Backed against the wall, their success was inevitable. “End him, Keiri! Quickly!”
My Sire knew nothing of my current agony. Each breath echoed a silent scream. Orin writhed on the ground, but our pain showed no signs of slowing. As if its master had lost the reins, the pain he called ran free.
I took another step, grimacing. Blood flowed from my nose, but I couldn’t care.
Another step.
Then another.
I knelt next to Orin Devariis, the most dangerous man in Stormhaven. Every joint in my body stabbed and cut and burned.
“Orin.” My voice fell in a hoarse whisper.
He turned his head toward me.
I reached for the grinning silver mask and pulled it from his face.
“Keiri.” Pure hate. His breath came quickly in ragged bursts. His eyes lolled wildly in his head.
“Release me, Orin.” I could taste blood in my mouth.
“I—!” Cold fury burned in his eyes. He tried reaching for me but could not overcome the pain of his own magic.
“Handmaiden!” My Sire’s voice held the faintest touch of panic. If I didn’t dispatch Orin, the masked abominations would slaughter my Sire.
But I knew better than to kill someone while bonded. Orin might drag me into the darkness with him. My Sire would be safe, but I would be dead as certainly as Orin would.
Stalemate.
I reached in my mind for the Ouigiin sigil on my back. Before, I had only kissed Orin with its power.
Now I had something more permanent in mind.
Exactly as I had with Rand, I drank the power from Ouigiin, feeling it fade from my body as if it had never been.
Then I kissed Orin.
Rydia’s flame leapt to life inside of me. I felt Her lust turn to passion turn to bonds of love and duty. His emotion became tinder for the fires of my Goddess. His enmity, his desire for victory, everything of his will burned to ashes. All that remained was service and servitude, tempered in love that could not be bent.
I took him. I took him and destroyed everything he had been.
Orin Devariis was mine.
“Handmaiden.” His breathy whisper pleaded when I broke the kiss. His eyes, though clouded with pain, grew wide in worship and wonder.
“End the pain, Devariis.” I trembled from it, wracked with knives and cold.
“Yes, Handmaiden.” He whispered a word of darkness and bile that my mind refused to hear.
I gasped. The cessation of the agony brought rapture. For an eternal instant, my body shuddered in ecstasy.
I fell back to my knees. Orin—what used to be Orin—became my newest Devoted. Through our original bond, I sensed the roil of emotions draining from him. As if flinching away from filth, I severed passion’s bond between us.
I never wanted to feel the inside of Orin’s head again.
“Keiri!” The sound of my Sire’s voice seemed so far away.
“Stop your creations, Orin. They are unnatural.” My voice seemed distant as well. Tired. So tired. “Destroy them if you can. Give them rest.”
“Yes, Handmaiden.” Orin sounded ashamed, horrified that he could have ever created something I found distasteful. He pushed himself up, making a quick gesture with his left hand. He muttered quietly as he did, words that seemed made of darkness and spite.
The creatures halted in place, immobile. My Sire stood for a moment, his rod still held high in defense. For a long moment, he stared at them, uncertain if the leering creatures would continue their attack.
Then, slowly, they began to crumble into a fine, white dust. Their masks slipped and fell to the floor.
The room went dark beyond my Sire’s rod.
Orin’s darkness was quenched.
It was over.
21
Still, we had no time to waste. Orin might have acolytes still about.
“Is there another key to the inner gardens?” I asked.
Orin gazed up at me, fawning. “Around my neck.”
“Give it to me.”
Happily, eagerly, he pulled the chain from his neck and handed it to me. I turned and gave it to my Sire. Then I knelt back down to Orin. I whispered, thin and deadly, “Orin, you know I can’t let you go unpunished. Not after what you’ve done.”
Tears filled his eyes. “Yes, Handmaiden. I know.”
I thought back to the human-kin woman, hung to die in the gardens. “The Thae woman. How many of your blasphemous signs did you burn into her skin?”
Like a naughty child, his eyes fell from mine. “Over three thousand, Handmaiden. Three thousand and six.”
“Did she die from the cuts?”
He winced. “Mostly. A combination of the blood loss and slow starvation. The vessel cannot take food, or the rites are ruined.”
I differed to my Sire, but his gaze remained impassive. He knew I couldn’t take Orin back to the House of Pleasure and wanted to see what I would do.
“Your life will have to be the price, Orin.”
He nodded his head in agreement, tears running down his face. “Will that please you, Handmaiden? Will it atone for my sins?”
I looked at him for a long moment. “I have no idea how much blood is on your hands, Orin. I have no way of saying what it would take for you to atone.” I placed my hand under his chin and made him meet my gaze. “But it will please me. Yes. Your death will please me.”
“Thank you.” He nuzzled himself at my leg, leaning on me as sobs wracked him. “Thank you for letting me die for you, Handmaiden. Thank you.” His words were a rush, merely babble.
“We will leave you here.” I made him meet my gaze. “To please me, you will stay in this very spot.” I pulled his knife from his belt. “When you are hungry, you may cut a piece of your own flesh to eat. You shall die in darkness, and be darkness consuming darkness.”
He nodded, still crying. “Yes, Handmaiden. Thank you.”
“When you have cut three-thousand and six pieces of your own flesh from your body, you will take no more. You will sit here in your own filth, in the black. You will die alone from the cuts and starvation.”
“Yes. Please, Handmaiden. Let me serve.”
“This pleases me, Orin. Show me.”
Trembling, he took his knife from my hands. He continually glanced to me, making certain he did as I wished.
At my nod, he began to pare away a small piece of his chest no larger than a copper gnot but enough. He winced and trembled as he did it, his face blanching.
Sire Mattias and I watched, unmoved.
Orin’s eyes met mine. At my slightest nod, he put the flesh in his mouth and began to chew.
“Three-thousand-five more times, Orin. Once done, sit and wait for death. When I think of you, I will be pleased.”
His words came out in a gush. “Yes, Handmaiden. For you. Anything.”
Sire Mattias placed his hand on the small of my back. I took a breath and one last look at Orin Devariis.
Then, we turned and looked no more.
As we left that place, we took our light with us. The last thing I knew of Orin Devariis, he whispered in that dark and lost place. The last thing I heard from him chilled me.
“F
or you, Handmaiden. Anything for you.”
Eventually we returned to the door, behind which Orin’s sigils glowed no more. The body of the Thae woman, once hanging there as a testament to blasphemy, was simply gone. I knew that whatever spirit the human-kin had possessed was now free from the cold darkness.
I buried my face in my Sire’s shoulder and wept.
22
We took Emlie with us when we left as we did not know who in Orin’s house might have known of her investigations. She was more than pleased to be quit of that place, and I knew that my Sire would reward her well. We made our way to the outer gates and passed the guards there unmolested. I did not know or care what they thought. Probably, they simply believed we were some of Orin’s guests.
I wondered then who they had been. Socialites and merchant princes? Probably. People who had become enamored of Orin’s power and had sought to share it by whatever means he required. What had Orin said?
“I did not slay these. They gave themselves to me. They asked, begged.”
That was the nature of sorcery, of course. It reduced people to less than slaves, merely cattle to be consumed.
I thought of him then, alone in the dark, feasting on his own corruption. He would spend his last days yearning for me, slicing away pieces of himself and swallowing his own darkness.
His fate was horrifying but fitting.
Brys was, as ever, exactly where we had bid him to await us. He helped me into the carriage, seeing my trembling hand. As always, he was there, ready to catch me before I even suspected I might fall.
My Sire and I did not speak on the way back to the House of Pleasure. He held me, and I all but fell asleep on his shoulder. For once, I felt at peace. The Lady’s Fire was little more than glowing coals inside me, and all I wanted was sleep.
I felt as if I could sleep for days.
In the end, Brys helped me to my room. He stripped me of my dirty, tattered clothing and tended to the gashes and cuts on my body with lavender unguent. He washed my body and soothed my heart, his every action full of reverence and worship. I smiled at him as he put me to bed.
“Thank you, Brys.”
He smiled in return.
I slept then. For the first night since I had forged the bond with Orin, I truly slept well.
When Sire Mattias slipped into the bed beside me, I cannot say. I awoke in the wee hours wrapped in his arms. I turned to face him and found him awake.
I slipped one hand up to cup his firm jaw and pulled his face down to mine.
“I love you,” I whispered, my lips brushing his.
He smiled. I felt it against my mouth and was amazed at the rush of happiness it gave me.
“And I love you.” Mattias’ voice made little more than a rumble that I felt more than heard.
He pressed his lips to mine, slowly, gently, letting our fire build. Gradually our chaste kiss became something more, something hot and passionate.
I relished that kiss, like thunder at dawn, but soon I pulled away. “What happens now?” I asked in a whisper.
He grinned wickedly in response.
I laughed. “Yes.” I pressed my lips to his, hard, a quick burst of passion. “But what then? How can we…?” I gestured all around us, encompassing the temple and everything it held. “Be what we are, here?”
“We will figure it out. Together.” He kissed me then, long and hard.
When he pulled away, my breathing came in ragged pants.
“You and me, together, with Rydia’s blessing are unstoppable,” he said. Joy danced in his silver eyes.
“You know Rydia approves?” I was startled.
He smiled at me and cupped my head in both hands. “I prayed for you,” he said. “I prayed so hard for you. And She answered.”
I pressed my forehead to his.
“I prayed for you, too.” My voice dropped to a harsh whisper, all I could manage.
“I would have given everything up for you,” he continued, “but now I know She approves. And She has a plan for us.”
That must have been true. Otherwise, surely Her gifts would have failed us.
I nodded, my forehead sliding against his. “She does. And we’ll find out what it is and go forth in Her Name, together.”
His tender smile kindled a fire in my heart.
“Together,” he said.
I slid my arms around my Sire’s neck and kissed him.
As he wrapped his arms around me, I could feel residual heat on my back, flaring with Rydia’s approval.
I slept, knowing I would awaken in a different world.
###
Notes on the work
People are often divided regarding Keiri, but she’s a very important part of the whole. Aelthien, her world, bears many secrets, and the sorcery in her city will lead her on a long and dangerous road.
Eventually, the destiny of several worlds will rest in her hands.
The important connection here is the Liber Noctiis. The pages that Orin was studying have been seen before.
By Tommy Maple, of course.
Every shadow is a gateway into the vast dead city. Dead? No. The light that shines across it from strange unknown stars makes it seem dead, but this is Lith, the city where death only dreams. Here there are more people than ever lived in my own world, madly scrawling lost sigils and glyphs to write histories that never were. They write with flesh, they write with blood, they write with the screams of the lost. The Liber Noctiis itself was born here, an abortion of a book written with the mad cacophony of entire worlds—
This is not the last time we will see this book.
In the meantime, we have one last cornerstone to place, again in a realm far from our own. This world, Cæstre, knows the touch of outer darkness in a way our own never has.
Yet.
The Red Marquis
Year 607 of the Forsaken Aetas Month of Nighharvest
Shrouded week, Sundering
Second Bell, Dusking
I stepped into the shadows, watching the building through the rain. Yellow light shone through the windows, and I could hear raucous laughter. This was dangerous. More than dangerous, this was mad.
If, by the end of the night, I had been skinned alive in an alley or was drowned in the Er’meander, it would be my own damn fault.
“We need to be ready.” I looked at my girl, giving her a nod.
My partner stepped closer, looked back, and cocked her head. She said nothing.
Together, we slipped through the stormy night. Stepping through shadows, we drew closer to the Scarlet Cellar and the man we sought.
As with many powerful men, Santiago Il Ladren had many names. There were those who called him “the Red Marquis” or “the Blood Jackal,” and he had well-earned the titles. One wouldn’t guess his repute just by sight. He was a young Esperan man, as his deep black hair and piercing eyes attested. He had an easy laugh and a languid manner. On the surface, he seemed a typical citizen.
He was anything but typical.
Santiago was the guildmaster of the Red Hand, one of the most influential guilds this side of the city. Under his rule, the Red Hand had prospered. He knew a thing or three about public appearance, and wielded reputation and rumor like weapons. The man was well-dressed and articulate, a fixture at city social gatherings. Santiago was charming with women and friendly to children. In the eyes of the world, he was a solid citizen.
Unless one began to look deeply.
As guildmaster, Santiago commanded over one hundred guildmen. They were cutpurses, muggers, and assassins. These merciless men would do as he said without question, thought, or remorse. In every way, his guildmen were a tool in Santiago’s hand, bearing his brands and tattoos on their hands and bodies. There weren’t many guilds here in the Warrens, but the Red Hand was well known.
Known and feared.
Even these things, however, weren’t that uncommon. Many guilds were similar. No, in the end, it was the stories about Santiago himself that chilled the
blood.
Last winter, a man had been found wandering the streets of the Warrens. His eyes and tongue had been removed, and he had been deafened with iron nails in his ears. Every finger had been cut from him.
He was still alive. It was just that he had no way to tell anyone what had happened to him. The man made screaming, bleating noises that might have been something like words, but no sense could be made from him. Ultimately, he had been taken in by Wil, my fellow judicar, and I. We had requisitioned the paperwork and sent the man to the ‘sylums, where the Vigilant could watch over him.
His screams had been worse than death.
Of course, there was more to the story. The man was one of Santiago’s rivals, a merchant who had aims of starting a guild of his own. His idea had been to hire out strongmen to businesses in the Warrens that needed “protection” from organizations like the Red Hand. Of course, the guild writs had never actually been drawn up. There had been no time. Santiago had seen to the man before he became a problem.
So the stories went.
No one would say that it was Santiago who ordered the man maimed, but the streets cannot keep secrets. The streets whisper to anyone who will listen, and most of the whisperings that surrounded Santiago Il Ladren were dark, terrifying things.
There was once a man who was trying to leave the Red Hand. Red hot iron spheres had been placed in his knee and elbow joints, and then his limbs had been bound around them. Of course the man was the worst kind of cripple afterward, but he had lived.
They didn’t all live. Another time, it was said that Santiago Il Ladren had a man partially flayed and then left him chained to a rooftop to die of thirst. The man was rambling and covered in black flies before he begged for death.
It wasn’t only Santiago, of course, who had whisperings about him. It was also dangerous work for his Red Hands. Only a few weeks ago, I had tended to one of Santiago’s men, a fellow by the name of Isaac Whiin. The young man had his tongue removed. Partially flayed, he had been nailed to the door of a local inn, one of the haunts of the Red Hand.