by Susan Faw
“Place your right hand flat against my hand. That’s it.” She placed her other hand against his cheek. “Now reach out to me with the bond, Cayden. Merge our minds. Keep your eyes on mine. Do not close them. I must be able to see through the windows of your soul.”
Cayden locked his eyes on hers (a tough thing to do with so much flesh available for viewing) and reached out for her soul with his. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Now that he had really seen her, all of her, it was all he could do to concentrate on her instructions. He wanted to forget the war and where they were. He could almost ignore the danger they were in. He wanted her so badly. Yet the constant throb in his temple warned him that time was short. He stamped down on his longings and concentrated on her instructions. They merged with a tingling sensation, and then he heard her voice in his head.
Hi, there, she whispered softly. Now, I am going to transfer the magic of the rune along our bond. When it is complete, you will bear an identical rune on your palm. It will burn, but do not pull away until the transfer is complete.
I understand, he whispered back as his temple throbbed painfully, but hurry!
The link flared and magic coursed along the ethereal connection, like steam on ice or lava on snow. The ice smoothed the path and the lava burned, his palm burned, skin to skin, until he wondered how she did not flinch away. It took every ounce of focus for him to remain locked in the transfer, but he held himself rigidly and did not move.
Someone moved him.
With a jerk and an inaudible screech, he was flung backward onto the bed and his mind snapped, as the haze of possession rose within him with a sickening lurch. His vision blurred, and Ziona vanished behind a white haze of pain. Cayden jerked upright and walked toward the door, knocking once. The door was flung open and the guard standing in the light of the open door leered at the sight of a naked Ziona before Cayden blocked his view. Squeezing out a last act of defiance, he grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut behind him, smacking the guard’s nose as he leaned around him for a better view.
The guard snarled and clouted Cayden across the back of the head in a glancing blow. Cayden grunted and stumbled forward. He did not pause. He could not pause. His will was not his own. He stumbled toward Alcina at her command.
A sensation like a whip slashed across his torso. He cried out, his back arching in pain. His feet sped up, and the guard behind him chuckled at his jerking, faltering jog, amused to see him dance on hidden strings.
Cayden stopped resisting, and the pressure lightened until he could walk normally. The scenery around him was blurry as though he peered through infected eyes. But this time, he felt Ziona, nestled in the corner of his soul, her heart beating alongside his. Their merged souls kept him grounded and kept him sane. His will was not his own—Alcina controlled that—but his heart belonged to Ziona. It would have to be enough until help could come. It will have to be enough.
He was pulled along, past tents of guards and legionnaires, past tents dedicated to the kitchen and medics, past smithy and farrier. No one approached him. No one guarded him. Yet he could not flee. He could not turn from the path his feet trod.
His legs carried him once again to the entrance of Alcina’s tent. He bent, pushing aside the flap of canvas serving as a door. His feet carried him to the carpet in front of her grand chair, and his knees sank onto the medallion as they had the night before, the first time he had visited this tent. His head bowed, and he panted with the exertion of running and resisting. A lock of hair fell into his eyes, and he didn’t bother to swipe it away. He stared at the carpet, trying to make sense of the pattern in shades of crimson and periwinkle.
A slender hand with red-enameled nails reached down and gripped his chin, tilting it upward.
“I trust you had an enjoyable evening?” she purred, searching his eyes. “Every condemned prisoner should have one last pleasure before facing the ferryman. Don’t you agree?”
Cayden stared at her, consumed by an overwhelming desire to please her. The command seeped into his head, and he found his lips moving. “Yes, mistress.” He licked his dry lips. The words caught in his throat.
“She is going to die…but not quite yet. I sense that you need more incentive to do my bidding. She may have a use yet. If you are a good puppet, I will keep her alive. I might even allow you to visit her again. You now know of her charms. It would be a fitting reward, yes?” She dragged the forefinger of her right hand down his cheek, and it made a rasping sound under her nail. “You are quite pretty with a day’s growth of stubble.” She dragged her nail down his cheek once more, but this time it curved under his chin and across his throat. Cayden swallowed as the sharp nail scratched across his bobbing Adam’s apple.
“But, if you disappoint me, I will end your life and hers by personally cutting both of your throats. You will watch each other die, spilling your life’s blood onto each other. That is a promise, my puppet.”
“Yes, mistress,” Cayden rasped as she dropped his chin and straightened.
“Now, I have a task for you.” She bent down and placed her lips against his ear, whispering her instructions.
Cayden’s eyes glazed over. The next thing he knew, he was no longer in Alcina’s tent. The fog lifted from his brain, and he was startled to see he was standing outside of Ziona’s door. There were no guards present. Alarmed, he shoved open the door and stumbled into the room. “Ziona!” he screamed, eyes frantically searching the room. He found her bent over her satchel, packing her few possessions into its depths and then tugging the leather thongs tight to close it. She straightened at his sudden appearance and smiled. Relief flooded through Cayden.
“You’re safe!” He strode over to her and dragged her into his arms and kissed her, hard. Suddenly, realizing what he had done, he pushed away and mumbled, “Sorry,” as colour crept up his neck.
Ziona laughed, eyes sparkling. “Will you ever stop blushing around me?”
The colour crept higher still.
“I have been released. Do you have anything to gather?” Her smile wilted, seeing his surprise. “They told me that you had been released too. Alcina has pardoned both of us. You know nothing of this, do you?”
Cayden shook his head.
“Alcina said all we had to do was swear allegiance, and we could leave. She indicated you already had.”
Cayden frowned. “I do not know. I was kneeling in front of her on the carpet and…I don’t know. Perhaps I did and I don’t remember it?” He shifted, looking around the chamber as though something there would jar his memory.
“Well,” Ziona brow wrinkled into a worried frown “you must have convinced her somehow. We are now free. Let’s get out of here before she changes her mind.”
Ziona took his hand and led him out of the tent and down to the horse lines where they found their horses saddled and awaiting them.
“Wait till Mordecai sees us! He will be so surprised!” Ziona swung into her saddle.
Cayden mirrored her movements then shifted in his saddle as he gathered his reins. Something did not feel right, but damned if he could figure out what it was.
With a slap of reins, they trotted away from the legion encampment.
From high on the hill under the arch of canvas of her tent, the queen watched their departure, an amused smile on her lips.
Chapter 28
Love Lost
THE BOULDER-STREWN VALLEY was filled with Primordial warriors, their tents dotting the ground between the rocks. A clear space like an invisible barrier curved around the entrance to her temple, Artio was glad to see. With a snarl, she left the mountain pass and entered the valley and a wave of Primordials prostrated themselves, arms straight and extended as she passed. Mutterings reached her ears, prayers offered to the gods mixed with an occasional sob, so soft only her ears would have heard it.
She ignored the warriors, her focus on her temple and the High Priests gathered at its entrance. They bowed as one and offered her trays of succulent bl
ueberries, strips of salmon, and a shining goblet of crystal clear water in welcome.
Artio strode past them and into the temple, and they followed. She mounted her throne and sat, motioning the priests to place the food on a table at her right side. Picking up a plump pink slice of salmon, she tossed it into her mouth and chewed.
“Well?”
The High Priests shuffled their feet, uneasy and puzzled by the question. No one wanted to be the first one to answer such a vague question, lest they be in error. The silence stretched.
“What is happening? Where is the girl? Do not tell me you are not spying on the Spirit Clans. Has she taken the temple?” Artio roared in her celestial voice.
The priests fell to their knees, and Arthmael raised his head, lips trembling. “Yes, Holy One, the girl known as Avery has taken the temple. Our spies report that she has left Faylea where she was imprisoned after taking the temple. They say she escaped.”
Artio popped another slice of salmon and a handful of blueberries into her mouth and chewed, considering. She picked up the goblet and drank half of the icy water then placed it back on the table, swiping her arm across her mouth.
“Where is she going?”
Arthmael gulped. “Holiness, she is headed toward us. She is coming this way. I do not know her destination. She is followed by the High Priestess of Faylea and a guard. One of the seekers travels with her.”
“I know where she is headed. You will give orders to break camp in the morning. Your warriors now serve me and me alone,” Artio rumbled. “Leave me!”
Arthmael bowed low and backed away with the other priests and left the temple to pass along the orders to their recently assembled camp.
Artio stood and walked back into her rooms. There is only one thing my sister could be seeking…and it belongs to me…but first I need to eliminate those who follow. This false High Priestess chases a prize to which she has no right. It is time to deal with the temple puppet priestess, so that I can confront the true one.
And then there is Helga.
She frowned, perplexed at her sister’s reactions when she visited her in the grotto. She may believe she is the master of the mortals on earth, seeing as Alfreda, Caerwyn, and I have been absent for so long. But Helga is not in control of events. She has not considered the heat of my anger. Artio wandered over to the chest and flipped back the lid. Her eye fell on a velvety bag of softest deerskin, a bag that had once contained a box. That box had carried her hopes and dreams. Dreams she had shared with the image of a man, taller than she, with ebony hair touching his sun-heated flesh, corded muscles straining against a massive stone. Genii.
Shock froze her to the spot, her body locking as realization flooded through her. She remembered the fleeting shadow that had watched her depart. Helga has Genii! White hot anger surged within her, unlocking her limbs. She struck out at the chest, pounding it with her fists. She did not feel the pain, for it was overshadowed by the pain searing a hole in her chest, in her heart. The heat of the betrayal burned along her nerve endings, raw and searing. Helga will also pay, she snarled. I will slay them all. This I swear on the soul of my lost love, Genii.
Artio spoke the name aloud as the name floated to the tip of her tongue. Memories long buried resurfaced and with it the anguish of a pure love lost for not simply for a lifetime but for eternity. Images flashed into her mind of a former time, of hands clasped and knees touching, bodies cradled in the soft grass of the sacred clearing, minds blended, souls touching, bodies uniting. And then a searing, wrenching pain as her soul was torn from his—then the empty nothingness of space.
Artio sank to her knees, bloodied hands clasped in her lap. She threw back her head and roared at the heavens. Her bellow of anguish brought the camp to a complete standstill, and silence fell. After a moment of frozen silence, they crept back into action, resuming their tasks, but they walked with the softest of tread, lest they bring the full fury of Artio down on them all.
***
Artio did not leave her chambers, nor was she seen at all, for the remainder of the day. The food brought by the priests remained untouched. They tiptoed in and tiptoed out, not wishing to disturb their goddess when she was angry.
Instead, they oversaw the packing up of their potions and instruments and gathered together the supplies for their dolls. They would not leave behind anything to fall into the hands of the Spirit Clans, should they rediscover the Bear Clan temple.
Just before dark, Artio summoned Arthmael, and he entered the temple on trembling knees. They gave out just as he reached her presence. He let them carry him to the floor, kneeling with his bald head lowered.
Artio was seated in her throne, absently turning over a deerskin bag in her hand. She did not seem to notice his presence.
He remained silent. Artio looked up from the bag, and her eyes fastened on him.
“How many dolls can you make, and how quickly can this be done?” she demanded.
“Highness, we can make as many as you want. We can make about fifty a day if we concentrate all of our people on the task. Forgive me, but may I ask what you intend to do with them? I might be able to provide some guidance as to their use.” He bobbed his head, lowering his eyes.
She studied him for a moment, and then her voice boomed, echoing strangely in the throne room, “I wish to control a large group of people. Can this be done?”
Arthmael bobbed his head once again. “The dolls work by the trigger of a binding object, usually something of the person you wish to bind. The soul binding works between the doll containing the object and the person it belonged to. But to bind a large group of people, you would need a very special object of great personal value to them all. It would then have the strength to bind all those sworn to the possessor.”
“An object of great personal value,” she rumbled, considering the trembling priest. “Bring to me the swiftest and stealthiest person in the camp. There is a service I require.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Right away!” He stood up and, still bowing, backed to the entrance and left.
Chapter 29
The Sacred Slopes
CYRUS STEPPED OUT from behind the rock watching the dust plume drift away, a cloud of dirt borne on lazy winds as the last of the Primordial force dropped below the horizon.
Marea was leading him directly to the primordial, blindly assuming that she was the only one interested in Avery’s whereabouts. They did not check their back trail, a mistake they would soon regret. Cyrus was outnumbered three to one, but his elite force was more than capable of handling the rabble of Primordials.
Ahead the mountains of the Highland Spine stretched toothily toward the heavens, a wreath of dark clouds obscuring the summit. Shadows slid down the face of the peak, as though a mountain giant stood blocking the sun. A rumble of what he took to be thunder reached his ears. The giant frowned down at him, angry at their encroachment on its sacred slopes. Cyrus shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed, then looked at the mountain again. The shadows were only shadows once more. Stop giving into Primordial fancies! You are allowing them to bewitch your mind!
“Do not look at the mountain!” Cyrus commanded his force as they joined him, leading their horses. “The Primordials are laying their lures and traps. If we are not careful, we will ride off after an illusion. Everyone take a partner, who will ride by your side. If you see anyone acting strangely, it is your responsibility to stop them before they get into trouble. Count off!”
The men divided themselves into pairs and mounted up. Cyrus swung into the saddle, and Fullmer took his place beside him, eyes averted from the mountain.
“Follow the trail, but ignore the mountain.” Fullmer put heel to horse, and his mount broke into a fast walk. An eagle soared overhead, circling on updrafts. They crested the ridge, the trail sloping gently down toward a break in the dense evergreen forest that hugged the base of the mountain. As they rode, the path of their quarry narrowed as the brush became shrubs and the shrubs were swallowed by the t
rees. The dirt track became stony, and the boughs overhead blocked out the sunshine. As they entered the forest, the sound of birds vanished and the woods were silent. The soft needles underfoot deadened the sound of their mounts. Nothing stirred.
The forest holds its breath, waiting to see if violence will be done this day. The grim thought floated through Cyrus’s mind. Out of the corner of his eye, a face slid behind a tree trunk. He stared at the spot, and out of the corner of his other eye, the figure reappeared, only to vanish before he could swing his head back around.
Fullmer swiped a hand down his arm, then slapped at it. The sound cracked the silence.
“Stop that,” Cyrus commanded.
“Ants! There are ants under my shirt sleeve.” Fullmer hauled up his sleeve, but there was nothing there.
Cyrus glanced back at the other men and then reined in sharply.
The men were gone. Not a track showed that they had entered the forest.
Fullmer’s eyes widened in shock. “My lord! Where have the men gone?” He swung his horse about and started back down the trail but Cyrus’s hand shot out and halted him.
“Stop!” he commanded. “Do not move!”
Fullmer froze, eyes darting frantically to locate the missing men. His horse stood placidly, tail swishing, and reached out its nose to snuffle at…nothing.
“Close your eyes, and slowly open them,” commanded Cyrus.