by Cas Peace
His metasenses fully functioning now that the Firefield had gone, Robin felt the Hierarch reaching out to Sullyan through the breach in the spellsilver. His soothing flow of metaforce relieved the pain of her wounds as well as Rykan’s poison. With a sigh of relief, she slumped, dropping Rykan’s wrist. The Duke’s hand fell from the collar and Robin could clearly see where it had burned him.
Pharikian reached down and freed the collar from Sullyan’s throat. She gave an agonized cry as it dropped away. Her head fell forward and he had to support her to keep her from falling. Using a little more power, he halted the flow of her blood, but Robin knew she had already lost far more than she could afford.
Gradually, he saw her rally until she was able to support herself. She remained kneeling, though, lacking the strength to stand. The Hierarch stood looking at Rykan, whose mind was still not his own. The Duke’s yellow eyes glared hatefully back.
Pharikian raised his voice. “Rykan, Duke of Kymer, you have failed to resist my challenge and have yielded before witnesses. I hereby declare the Crown’s Champion to be the victor. In accordance with the terms of your agreement, your life is forfeit. I hereby grant it to Brynne Sullyan to do with as she will.”
There was another roar of approval from those loyal to Pharikian. Rykan glared venomously at Sullyan, but the Hierarch wasn’t finished. Once the noise abated, he continued.
“If you wish it, you may yet have a chance to redeem your life, although your rank and lands will still be forfeit to the Crown. Will you hear the terms?”
Sullyan glanced at the Hierarch and slightly shook her head. A sly look crept into Rykan’s eyes, and Robin guessed he had realized he might not be completely powerless. If the Hierarch was prepared to discuss terms, Rykan might yet have some leverage. He remained silent, however, pretending to consider.
Pharikian grew impatient. “Well?”
Through his pain, Rykan smiled. “I’ll hear your terms, Timar.”
Past caring about formalities, the Hierarch ignored the insult. “Your brutal and unforgivable abuse of the Lady Brynne has left a lethal legacy.”
Rykan’s gaze switched back to Sullyan and his eyes narrowed. She didn’t react, her eyes dark with the strain of holding him captive. Robin’s heart ached to hold her, to soothe that strain away.
Pharikian ignored the Duke’s speculative look. “You have the power to remedy the situation, and this is the means by which you could redeem your life. Make no mistake, Rykan, Brynne Sullyan doesn’t ask for this. She was ready to die if necessary and quite willing to take you with her. I have granted her your life, but if you agree to do this, she will agree to spare you.”
The momentary flash of anger in Sullyan’s eyes clearly stated her disapproval of this plea-bargaining. Robin’s heart sank. Rykan will milk this for all it’s worth, he thought. After all, he has nothing to lose.
“And what will my life be, Majesty, without the means for living?” snarled the Duke. “If my rank and lands are forfeit, what use is life to me?” Staring at Sullyan, he smiled nastily. “It might just be possible to persuade me to do this favor for you, but it will cost you more than my life!”
Sullyan’s eyes turned black and hot as she sent agonizing needles of pain deeper into Rykan’s skull. He screamed and cowered back.
Pharikian was furious. “How dare you bargain with me, Rykan? Those are the terms, accept or refuse. Your life for hers. That is what I offer. Give me your answer!”
Rykan gasped for breath, his burned fingers clawing the air. “I refuse!” he shrieked. “I wouldn’t give either of you the dirt from under my feet, let alone save her life. You can both go to Perdition for all I care, and I’ll be waiting for you! By the looks of her, I won’t have long to wait.”
He stared at them, chest rasping as he tried to laugh. The terrible sound tore through Robin’s heart as he struggled in Anjer’s arms. Tears poured down his face as his last hope for Sullyan disappeared. Slumping, spent and exhausted, he sobbed brokenly, arms clasped around his aching chest.
+ + + + +
Pharikian stared at the rebel lord and at the small, slight figure on her knees. Sullyan was holding herself stiffly upright by might of will alone. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Forgive me, Brynne, I had to try. If you still think you can do it, if you still have the strength, use it now with my blessing. Do with him as you will.”
Turning away, he came back to stand beside Robin.
From where he half-lay on the bloody ground, Rykan stared into Sullyan’s face, his eyes filled with loathing. He was clearly expecting a swift, knifelike thrust into his brain, followed by oblivion. She could sense him preparing for it. She didn’t oblige. Meeting the hate in his eyes, she allowed the pressure of her grip to slacken. Immediately, he shot out a probe to test her control.
She easily countered this sally. “Oh no, my Lord, you will not be released. Not yet, anyway.”
Infuriated by her hesitation, he frowned. “Are you playing with me, witch? My life is yours. Have you the courage to take it or not?”
She cocked her head. “Ah, you were expecting me to kill you. Well, you may believe me or not as you choose, but I care very little whether you live or die. Killing you is not my purpose. I have claimed your life because I require utter and ultimate power over you and all that you possess.”
His frown deepened, not understanding the distinction. She held his gaze, deliberately silent, while she began the process she had been planning. Gradually, almost gently, she insinuated her mind deep into his, gathering, stealing, working her way toward the intimate seat of his power. His psyche and the sum of his metaforce, right down to his spirit and ultimate essence; this was what she intended to suck from him, what she prepared to take into herself.
Suddenly realizing what she was doing, he shrieked, “NO!” and tried to clamp down his shield. Yet he couldn’t force her out. She had twined her psyche around his innermost soul and was inextricably linked to him now. With the pain of her violation wringing a hoarse scream from his throat, he almost passed out.
Grimly, Sullyan held on to his consciousness. Denied the release of oblivion, Rykan began to struggle physically, as if that could help him. She let him use his strength, knowing he could hurt her no more.
Feeling the continuing leach of his powers, he cried, “But you can’t do that! I’m not willing! I refuse to surrender my power! You can’t do it!”
“Oh, but my Lord,” she hissed, “I believe you will find that I can.”
“How?” he groaned, the terrible pain growing as his inner being slowly tore apart. “How is this possible?”
She gazed at him, all the while drawing out the heart and core of his power, filament by agonized filament.
“Do you really not know? Why do you think I laid claim to your life instead of just the sum of your power? I knew you would never help me willingly, and your metaforce alone would not suffice if you refused the Hierarch’s terms. No, my Lord, I need your very soul for this task, and it was you who gave me the means to take it. Do not think to complain. You would have been spared this pain had you acceded to the Hierarch’s request, but it is too late now. Do you not remember the words of the ancient bargain?”
“Bargain?” he rasped. “What bargain?”
“I will explain. When someone willingly gives their essence to another as a gift freely given, they also give influence over their psyche. You are a Master-elite, my Lord. Surely you have heard this?”
“What are you talking about?” He was almost screaming. “I gave you no gifts, freely or otherwise!”
“Oh, but you did, my Lord. On four brutal occasions, as I recall. Count Marik even watched you. Surely you remember?”
His eyes bulged as understanding crashed upon him.
Her gaze was hot and vengeful, her voice a hiss. “By the power of your seed within me, seed that you gave with such savage pleasure, you gave me your essence. With it I was able to work past your spellsilver, and with it I
am able to reach within you now and take what you would deny me.”
She extracted another strand of his soul, causing him to gibber in horror and pain. The import of her words and the agony of this appalling rape sent shockwaves through Rykan. He trembled violently like a dog with ague. The consequences of her actions clearly terrified him, and with good reason. His body might not immediately die without its soul, but his mind would suffer irreparable damage. He would become a husk—a helpless, drooling, mindless husk—and she knew that to a vital, virile man like Rykan, this was a fate far worse than death. A swift, clean death by either sword or metaforce he could have borne, but to linger on for days, maybe months if she chose, as an object of scorn or pity to his enemies? No, that he could not bear.
Desperation entered his eyes and he pleaded with her. “I beg you, Lady, don’t do this!”
“Oh, is it ‘Lady’ now, my Lord? Is it begging?” Her eyes were hot with remembered pain and shame. “I seem to remember begging you when you forced yourself upon me time and time again! My voice went hoarse with pleading, but what good did it do me? What mercy did you show?”
Rykan stared at her, seeing no remorse and knowing he was doomed. She had all but sucked him dry and he had no resistance left, no defenses against her taking that last fundamental spark of psyche that made him who he was.
Suddenly, her expression softened.
“Yet I will have mercy on you, my Lord. For I am not like you, and even now, after all you have done, I will not become like you. I will not leave you naked, helpless, and torn, the way you left me, to die shivering and terrified in the dark.”
Slowly, gently, causing him no further pain, she extracted the final thread of his psyche. She knew that the watchers around the arena had no indication of the dreadful suffering she had to endure in order to absorb his soul. It was alien, strange, it did not fit anywhere inside her, and it made her feel foul. She wished she could cast it from her but she needed it, at least for a while.
Weakly, her left arm hanging by her side, she staggered to her feet. Rykan still lay half-slumped on the ground, his features slack, his eyes dull and staring. There was still a spark of intelligence there—she had left him a shred of his mind—but the shock of her violation rendered him numb.
She walked unsteadily to where her sword had come to rest.
“Now you understand how it feels, my Lord.”
Reaching down, she took the blade into her right hand and approached him once more.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his dull eyes unmoving.
Furious that he had the gall to repent after all he had done, she hissed, “How dare you! It is too late for rue, my Lord, far too late!”
Standing before him, she stared down at her father’s blade, its bright edge stained with Rykan’s blood.
“No,” she murmured, “I will not dishonor this blade with yet more Andaryan blood.”
Rykan’s eyes flashed briefly as his terror resurfaced. He understood she was going to kill him and welcomed it, but this refusal to use her sword panicked him anew.
She laid the blade awkwardly on the grass and reached instead for Rykan’s heavier weapon. She pulled him to his knees, his head hanging, his eyes closed. There was no resistance, no defiance or fight left in him. She had stripped him of everything.
Groaning with pain, she brought her left hand round, using her right to clasp the charred fingers around Rykan’s sword hilt. She held them there by covering them with her other hand. Without a thought she damped the agony of shattered wrist bones, and raised the heavy sword high past her right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she gathered what little strength she had left.
+ + + + +
At that precise moment, Taran was lying bound and gagged over his horse’s withers, a knife of spellsilver thrust through the ropes against his skin. He saw nothing.
Had he seen it, he would have recognized the stroke Sullyan used to sever Rykan’s head. It was the same stroke he had used to kill Jaskin. He would have approved of the way she handled it and the neat, efficient job it made of striking off the defeated lord’s head.
But he didn’t see it, and he had no idea how the contest had ended.
He didn’t see the Hierarch, along with Robin, now freed from Anjer’s arms, run to catch the exhausted woman who collapsed, shaking, in the gory aftermath of Rykan’s killing. He didn’t see her anguish as the two men supported her in their arms. He didn’t hear the cry she gave as she summed up Rykan’s power, the power that should have been equal to hers, the power that should have been sufficient to remove the poison eating into her soul.
“It is not enough, Timar, it is not enough! I took all he had to give, but it is not enough!”
He did not see her, defeated and despairing, sink into hopeless oblivion.
The End
of Book Two
Chapter One
The horse’s jolting shook Taran’s very bones, the sensation making him nauseous. He struggled to calm his heaving stomach, but it was impossible with his head bumping against the horse’s shoulder. There was a gag across his mouth, so being sick could well prove fatal, and he was in enough discomfort already without choking on his own vomit.
He dangled helplessly, his hands tied tightly behind him. A peculiar buzzing invaded his brain and sapped his strength. It came from the spellsilver knife thrust through the ropes against his skin, cutting him off from his power. He hardly knew how to bear it, so he hung on and endured as best he could, trying not to groan.
There were horses all around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cal’s mount. The young Apprentice was lying over its neck, similarly bound and gagged. Taran sympathized. The men who had taken them clearly knew they were Artesans, so Cal would also be suffering the effects of the spellsilver. Despite his fear at their situation, Taran couldn’t suppress his guilty relief at Cal’s presence.
The swordsmen talked as they rode, making crude jokes punctuated by rough laughter. The buzzing in Taran’s skull prevented him from hearing clearly, and the blood rushing through his ears due to hanging upside down only added to the fog in his brain. Yet, as he listened, he gleaned enough to know that this group’s commander was a man named Heron, and that they anticipated a rich reward for capturing Taran and Cal.
He tried not to guess the reason for their capture, but when he heard mention of fighting in Albia, he wondered if these men had been involved in the demon invasion. Then he cursed himself for slow thinking. Of course they had, they were Rykan’s men. He knew Rykan had set up the invasion in order to get Sullyan sent to Count Marik, so it should hardly surprise him that this group had taken part. Yet knowing this brought him no nearer to understanding why he had been taken.
Serious though his predicament was, Taran couldn’t help worrying about Bull and Rienne. He hadn’t seen them when he was hustled off the hill, and he couldn’t see them now. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? It could mean they were still free—which seemed unlikely—or it could mean they had been killed. They might be somewhere behind him. He had no way of knowing, and speculation was futile. It probably wouldn’t be long before he found out, though. Someone had targeted him and Cal, and he very much feared this meant Sullyan was dead. He had seen Rykan defeat her, and the vengeful Duke would hardly allow her to live, even if losing her powers meant she was no longer a threat. She would still be capable of wielding a blade, and Taran knew Rykan would never take the chance that she, or one of her friends, might come after him one day. Taran could only hope her death had been swift, not brutally drawn out to feed Rykan’s lust.
He thrust that thought away, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him under the gag.
Taran felt the ground level out and knew they were clear of the hill. As the swordsmen set their mounts to a canter, the jolting grew worse. Taran was thrown violently about, and it was all he could do not to lose consciousness. A moan escaped him, muffled by the gag, but no one took any notice. He was in no danger of falling, tied securely
to the saddle, but he was thoroughly battered and bruised by the time the horses slowed once more.
Breathing heavily around the gag, he tried to calm his spinning brain. As his horse halted the sound of voices grew, but Taran was in no state to understand the words. He only vaguely registered someone approach him, looking him over. Then a hand grasped his chin and roughly raised his head.
“Yes, this looks like the one. He fits the General’s description.”
The hand let go, and Taran’s nose connected painfully with the horse’s shoulder, making him moan. He felt someone tug at his bonds and thought they were going to release him, but they were only checking the knife. They knew what they were doing, his captors, and they knew not to let him access his powers. Sick and sore, he closed his eyes.
“Why are there two of them?”
The voice came indistinctly to Taran, as though muffled by wool. The speaker was clearly unhappy, and Taran struggled to hear the reply. He now knew that he was the target, not Cal. Anything he learned might help him. He strained his ears as men crowded around him.
The answer came from a gruff voice. “There were four of them on the hill, Commander. They weren’t keeping watch and they didn’t see us. We ignored the other two. One was an older man, the other a woman. But these two were standing together, so we couldn’t take just one without alerting the other. If we had killed him, the other two would have seen. We thought bringing both was the best way. If the dark one’s not wanted, we can always leave him on the battlefield. Cut his throat or stick him in the back. One more corpse won’t make any difference.”
Taran heard movement followed by the sound of Cal groaning. He guessed the Commander was looking Cal over now. He prayed they wouldn’t kill him. He couldn’t bear it if his Apprentice died just because he had been standing too close to Taran. Of all the failures in Taran’s life, that would be the worst. His heart trembled as he waited for the decision.