by John Marco
‘And I am your wife,’ she whispered. There was no dread in her eyes, only a kind of easy acceptance.
‘Dyana,’ he breathed. ‘I am afraid.’
‘Do not be,’ she crooned, taking his hand. ‘Nothing will hurt you. No more pain, my husband.’
He sat down on the bed and watched her, wide-eyed in the candlelight. She took a light step back and smiled at him, then pulled the straps of her gown over her shoulders. Tharn felt a dizzying rush at the sight of the smooth flesh. His mouth dried up, and in the moonbeams she was something holy, the light of heaven visiting earth. Her gown dropped to the floor and she stood before him in exquisite nakedness, beautiful and electrifying and perfectly crushing to his fragile self-image.
‘We will be together tonight,’ she whispered. ‘And I will thank you for taking such care of me.’
But when she came to him and began removing his robe, Tharn panicked.
‘No,’ he pleaded, clutching for her hands and pulling them away. ‘Dyana, I . . . I am afraid.’
‘Be still,’ she said gently. ‘I will not hurt you.’
‘No, no,’ he repeated desperately. ‘You have not seen me. I am a horror to look at, a monster . . .’
‘You are no monster,’ said Dyana. Again she put her hands to his shoulders and gingerly started working down the robe. Tharn closed his eyes and felt the fabric being pulled down around his chest and arms. In a moment he was exposed to her, all his boils and ravaged flesh, and he dared not open his eyes for the stricken look he was sure he would discover. But Dyana did not gasp, nor did he hear her turn away. Instead he felt her warm palm press his naked chest. When he opened his eyes she was still with him, her expression as soft as the candlelight.
‘Husband,’ she said through a smile. ‘You have been very good to me. You were with me when Shani was born, and I have not forgotten that kindness. Let me do this thing for you.’
Tharn smiled back at her. ‘There is not much for you to do, Dyana. I am hardly a man at all.’
‘Then lie with me,’ she said. ‘Share my bed and let me hold you. You are so alone, my husband. I can see it in you.’
Tharn barely stifled a sob. ‘Oh, yes,’ he groaned. ‘I hurt, Dyana. My body . . .’
‘Shhh,’ she directed, wrapping her arms around him. With the lightest touch, she placed his head on her shoulders. Tharn began to weep, sickened by what he was. He felt her hand brush his back and heard her gasp.
‘They tortured me,’ he explained. ‘They broke my knees . . .’
‘Easy,’ Dyana crooned. ‘Easy.’
‘And now look at me,’ Tharn went on. ‘I am in such pain, Dyana. Why has this been done to me?’
‘I do not know,’ Dyana answered. ‘But tonight you are a man, my husband. A whole man.’
‘I am not,’ said Tharn. ‘I can never be again. I have done unspeakable things. I have so much blood on me, and I am damned.’
‘You are a savior, husband,’ said Dyana, stroking his oily hair. ‘You are touched by heaven. Lorris knows your mission. Have faith in him.’
Tharn wanted to scream. He had loved his patron once, so much that he had used his gifts for death. And yet the touch in him was a curse, a dark, purposeless ability he knew he could never use again. Richius was right. He could end the war with a thought. But how much more pain could heaven punish him with? How much could he endure before madness conquered his sanity? He could rule the world with his gifts if he wanted to, he could think of stopping Arkus’ black heart just as he had the Daegog’s. But he had done that once, and the price had been this tortuous body. If he did it again, he was certain the price would be his soul.
‘Dyana,’ he said sadly. ‘I love you.’
The silence he had expected followed. But he was not angry with her. He knew that tonight she was loving him in the only way she could.
Thirty-five
On a grim, gray morning, Richius and Dyana followed Voris out of Falindar. They had Shani with them, and less than a dozen of the warlord’s warriors to protect them. No one of consequence bid them farewell, not even Tharn, for the cunning-man had already left to begin his own arduous journey.
It was not a fine day for traveling. The perfect weather that had so blessed them had receded, leaving in its stead a gray drizzle that had them each soaked by the time they reached the bottom of Falindar’s wondrous mountain. Only Dyana and Shani were spared the misery of the climate. They traveled together in a small carriage that had once been the conveyance of the Daegog’s wife. Despite the carriage’s diminutive size, it had ample room inside its cab for Dyana and the baby, and it offered the privacy a woman with an infant needed. It kept them both warm and dry, even as their driver endured the inclemency outside.
The fog was murky on the hillsides that morning, and Richius watched it roll across the terrain with a genuine sadness. He was leaving behind the vastness of Tatterak for the claustrophobic forests of Dring, and his guide was a man who had once sworn to kill him. Less than a year had passed since he had left that place, swearing never to return, and there were still times when the nightmares were fresh and as vivid as yesterday’s memories. Enduring it again would be an effort. He would have to remember that there was a stake involved.
All that first day Dyana did not open the sliding door to her litter. She remained inside, even when the rain slackened enough for her to enjoy some air, choosing the solitude of her own thoughts instead of the subdued chatter of her fellow travelers. It was as Tharn had said: she had become distant. Only when the caravan finally stopped for the evening did she emerge, relieving herself quickly in the woods and accepting some food from Voris. She thanked the warlord briefly, then returned quietly to the wagon. She didn’t even spare a glance to Richius, who ate alone that night with only his horse for companionship, and who slept apart from Voris and his warriors beneath a muddied blanket and a steady, melancholy drizzle.
That night, amid the buzz of crickets and the patter of rain, Richius could hear his daughter’s faint cries behind the thin walls of the wagon. He rested his head on the filthy earth and watched from afar as Dyana’s lithe silhouette lifted Shani to her breast. In the dark he was contented by her shadow, and his loneliness ebbed a little.
On the second and third days the rain deepened, and by the fourth day it seemed that the narrow road would become a swamp. They were near the border of the Dring Valley, in a region known as Agar Forest. The forest, Richius knew, was the infamous tract of land Kronin and Voris had clashed over for years, and he wasn’t surprised at all to see the warlord’s face clench as they rode through it. For Richius, it was the only source of amusement there had been since leaving Falindar. He had endured Voris’ gruff orders for him to keep up, and he was weary from lack of sleep. Lightning, who had twice the breeding of any of the other horses, kept pace with the caravan easily, never missing a step even as Voris’ own horse struggled with the dubious roadway.
Each night the same, tedious ritual took place. They would camp and light a cooking fire, and the warriors would prepare a simple meal. Dyana would stay alone in her coach, sometimes cracking the door enough for some fresh air but never speaking to anyone but Voris. Richius would gather up a plate of whatever unappetizing fare was offered, then sit alone with Lightning as the warlord and his men caroused and laughed and generally ignored him. And all the while Richius chanced glances toward the wagon, hoping for a signal from Dyana and never getting one. It was an irritation he found unsettling, and by the fifth day he had had enough.
That day the sun finally made an appearance. Agar Forest was behind them, and the general attitude of the caravan was good. Dyana had at last opened the small door to her coach, letting in the sunlight. They were in the Dring Valley now, and Tatterak’s jagged, open spaces had become a fond memory. Another two days and they would reach Castle Dring. Richius decided to make his move.
Voris and the other warriors were ahead of Dyana’s carriage. The warlord was talking and gesturing to the surrounding ter
rain. His audience was enamored by whatever tall tale he was telling, and even the coach driver seemed to be listening. A good time to slip in close, reasoned Richius, and coaxed Lightning to the side of the coach. He stared straight ahead and cleared his throat. Dyana was reclining with Shani in her arms, but when she saw Richius she leaned slightly out the open door.
‘Richius,’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Me?’ he asked coyly, not taking his eyes from the road. ‘I could ask the same of you.’
The driver heard him and turned to look. Richius smiled at him. The man turned back around.
‘You shouldn’t be talking to me,’ warned Dyana. ‘Voris may see you.’
‘So let him. You’re supposed to be teaching me to speak Triin, aren’t you? He knows that.’
Dyana was contemplative. ‘Not now,’ she said after a moment. ‘Maybe when we reach Dring. When we can be alone.’
‘Why are you ignoring me?’ asked Richius flatly. He liked the cold preciseness of the question, the way it made Dyana flush. She toyed with the baby, feigning surprise.
‘I am not,’ she said.
‘Yes, you are. I haven’t seen you for days. How come?’ Now Voris heard them. The warlord tossed a warning scowl over his shoulder, which Richius blithely ignored. ‘Are you angry with me?’
‘No,’ said Dyana quickly. ‘Not angry. Please, I cannot explain.’
‘Is it about Tharn? Are you angry with him?’
No answer. Richius grinned.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re worried about him. He told me you wouldn’t speak to him.’
Dyana scowled at him. Her voice was ice as she said, ‘You men are all so smart.’ Then she reached for the door and slid it closed.
Dumbfounded, Richius let the carriage pass.
But he was determined to get an answer, and that night, when the moon rose and a fog settled down and all the others were asleep, he twisted silently out of his bedroll and stalked toward Dyana’s coach, avoiding the dying light of the fire. The warrior who had driven the coach was asleep against a tree, his jaw slung open in exhaustion. Richius moved past him silently, then past the sleeping Voris, masking his footfalls beneath the warlord’s copious snores. He reached the coach and sneaked around to the side, well hidden from any restless eyes, and pressed his ear to the wall. What sounded like a baby’s breath reached him through the cloth. But there was no movement. He peeked around the front of the coach, satisfied that Voris and his men were asleep, then moved back to the door and put his mouth to it.
‘Dyana,’ he whispered. ‘Dyana, wake up.’
He held his breath and listened. Nothing.
‘Dyana, it’s me, Richius. If you can hear me, open up.’
Now Shani started to stir, awakened by his voice. She let out a disgruntled whimper. Richius smiled. Good girl. Wake up Mother. He scratched at the door with his fingers, hoping Dyana would see the fabric bulge. Shani’s whimper grew to an irritated cry. Richius could hear Dyana starting to wake.
‘Dyana.’
There was a short, panicked gasp, followed by a stretch of confused silence. The shadow of Dyana’s head bobbed as she strained to see past the cloth door. Richius tapped on the white fabric.
‘Dyana, it’s me,’ he said. ‘It’s Richius.’
‘Richius?’ she answered unsteadily. ‘What do you want?’
‘Let me in, I have to talk to you.’
The door slid open quickly and Dyana peeked outside. She looked at him, then past him. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’
Richius put up his palms to quiet her. ‘I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. I just need to speak to you.’
She blinked. ‘Now?’
‘Yes,’ said Richius. He squeezed his head and shoulders into the cab, looking about for some empty space. There was precious little, but he flashed Dyana an ingratiating smile and asked, ‘Can I come in?’
Dyana pulled her blanket closer. ‘Richius, what do you want? It is very late.’
‘I want to talk to you. Please. No one will see us.’
‘We will be at Castle Dring soon,’ said Dyana, shooing him away. ‘We can talk then.’
Insistently Richius pushed himself farther into the cramped cabin, his foot missing the cranky Shani by inches. Dyana snatched up the baby and stared at Richius in disbelief.
‘I don’t want to wait until we get to the castle,’ said Richius sternly, pulling the door closed behind him. ‘We must talk.’
‘Why?’
‘Dyana, I don’t understand this. What’s the matter with you? You haven’t spoken to me since we left Falindar. Why are you avoiding me?’
Dyana turned away from him. She began fussing with the baby, adjusting her swaddling and rocking her to silence. Richius reached out for her, lightly tracing the skin of her hand. She flinched at his touch.
‘Dyana, what is it? Tell me, please. You’re frightening me.’
‘How can you not know?’ asked Dyana. ‘It should be plain to you. We are together now, Richius. Without Tharn.’
Richius shrugged. ‘We’ll be all right without him.’
‘No. Do you not see? Look what he has done to us. He has left you alone with me. You are free from him now.’
‘Is that why you’re afraid?’ asked Richius, instantly offended. ‘Lord, Dyana, how could you think such a thing? Don’t you know I would never harm you?’
Dyana looked at him pleadingly. ‘You misunderstand me.’
And then suddenly he did understand. He could hardly speak or even breathe. He reached out for her again, and this time she did not shrink away.
‘I am thinking of the baby,’ she said. ‘Voris will kill you if he thinks you have dishonored me.’
Richius chuckled. ‘He will not, Dyana. He’s Tharn’s friend, and Tharn told him to work with me.’
‘No, you do not understand. Voris came to me, Richius. On the night of the council. He warned me not to disgrace Tharn. He said he would kill you if I let you touch me.’
‘When were you going to tell me this, Dyana? I should have known sooner.’
‘I was trying to avoid you,’ she said with annoyance. ‘But you are so stubborn. He must not suspect anything from us. He will kill you. And maybe me. He thinks I am bad for Tharn. He will take the baby from me . . .’
‘No harm will come to Shani,’ said Richius. ‘Or to us.’
‘Tharn loves me so much, Richius. He is sick for me. Voris knows that. And . . .’ Dyana’s eyes filled with confession. ‘I spent the night with Tharn.’
‘You did?’ Richius said, not hiding his astonishment. ‘How?’
‘He came to me, the night before he left. He was so sad, and he wanted me, wanted to be cared for. He shared my bed. And I felt nothing for him but pity.’
‘Tharn is miles away, Dyana. He cannot harm us.’
Dyana shook her head. ‘No. Voris will tell him. He must never see us together, Richius. Never. Please . . .’
‘Easy,’ crooned Richius. ‘Don’t be afraid. I will not come to you again on the ride. But when we reach the castle –’
‘No, not even there. Nowhere, Richius.’
Richius sighed. ‘Tharn told you to teach me,’ he said. ‘So teach me. That way we can be together without making Voris suspicious.’
‘Can we?’
‘I can be strong. We can still talk and see each other. You can teach me your language. Let Voris be suspicious. He won’t have any proof. We won’t give him any.’
Dyana bit her lip. ‘The baby . . .’
‘Shani will be safe. We won’t betray Tharn. I promise you that. But I cannot be away from you.’
‘Nor I you.’
Richius beamed. He kissed his finger, then put it to her lips. ‘Until the castle, then,’ he said, and didn’t wait for her reply before silently opening the coach’s door and springing out. He waved at her and she nodded, then closed the door.
Richius skirted around the coach and surveyed the campsit
e. The first thing he noticed was the silence. Voris’ incessant snoring had stopped. He peered through the darkness to where the warlord slept, but he could not see the man’s face clearly, only the steady rise and fall of his chest. Richius eased past him, never once taking his eyes from the man. When he was barely ten feet away he noticed the flashing of eye whites. Voris was staring at him. Richius froze.
Unsure what to do, Richius did nothing. The warlord’s face contorted into a disapproving grimace. And then, remarkably, Voris shut his eyes and rolled over.
Thirty-six
The Black City, as Nar had long been called, earned its name from the constant clouds of ash and smoke that drifted eternally above the city. It was an apt name, and particularly suited the place on warm spring days, when the wind was impotent against the heavy pollution choked up by the incinerators. On such days the sunlight struggled to reach the earth, and the shadows of the labyrinthine skyscrapers were rich and dark. There was a mood to the city on these days, a colorless depression shared by all in the ancient capital. It struck both the beggars in the streets and the royal fops in their posh apartments, for it was an ailment of the mind and crushing to the human spirit. Those with means escaped the city on these days, taking horse or carriage or boat to a place where the air was more natural. There were many places in the Empire a man could go to find clean skies. Count Renato Biagio had seen almost all of them. But he always considered himself lucky when he came home again, back to the bizarre city he adored. Nar was his truest love, more so even than Crote, and every time he saw its jagged silhouette he swooned.
Yet today, as he raced through the corridors of the black palace, he hardly noticed the splendor of his home. He had been called back to Nar unexpectedly, and the shock of it had jarred him. Biagio was afraid. For the first time he could remember, something valuable to him was at mortal risk, something more dear to him than Nar itself.