by Jags, Chris
“I’m trying.”
“We will escape this situation if we manage to keep our heads. We will get away.” She stared wistfully at the single barred window at the end of the passage which allowed in three sad stripes of sunlight. “I will show you my homeland. You will like it, I think.”
We won’t, Simon thought, but he was grateful for her words, for what she was trying to do, and it calmed him slightly to think that they might have some sort of future together. If they stuck together long enough, might she even come to love him? Maybe he’d always be second best, Cihau’s phantom ever first in her heart, but it would mean the world to him. He clung to this new hope, daring to entertain it, focusing sharply upon it. A few moments later, he was surprised to discover his breathing leveling out and his agitation, however temporarily, receding. He felt sure his pent-up emotions would seek release eventually, but if he could just contain them until the right moment…
“It was a little farm that you wanted, correct?” Niu asked softly.
Simon nodded. “And children,” he mumbled. “A son and a daughter.”
“Keep that picture in your mind,” Niu told him. “Tell me about your farm.” She wasn’t encouraging his fantasy so much as containing his pain, but he was thankful all the same. Perhaps this was all of the life he’d pictured that they would ever share.
“By a lake,” he said, closing his eyes and concentrating. “The farm should be near a lake.”
“That sounds very pretty.”
“It is.” Simon could picture it. A very blue lake, clear to the bottom, rocky shores alternating with inviting stretches of sand. His father’s grave marker had been relocated to one such tranquil stretch of shoreline. Cows and sheep grazed nearby; his livestock. A pair of children played with a lively sheepdog. Did they look more like him or Niu? Simon focused in on them to discover that the girl resembled a miniature Niu, while the boy looked a lot like himself, but with his father’s crooked smile. There wasn’t a dragon or cursed sword in view; the scene was so serene and pastoral that when he opened his eyes and found himself in his cell, his heart nearly broke.
“Describe the lake,” Niu suggested.
Simon shook his head. “There’s no point. None of it will ever happen. But thanks for trying.”
“Stay strong, Simon.”
He smiled. “I like how you say my name.” It sounded awkward on his tongue, but he said it anyway.
She smiled back, but sadly, and did not respond.
She really feels nothing.
Depressed, Simon took to studying the stone back wall of his cage. Previous occupants had scratched their identities there. He couldn’t read, but suspected names, rude poetry, condemnations of state or enemies, perhaps a philosophical comment or two. He wondered if all the men and women who had attempted to leave some mark of their passage here were dead now: hanged, torched, or worse. Brooding now, he wished he’d learned how to write, if only to leave some indication of his existence on this wall of condemned lost souls. Not that he had any instrument to work with; the guards had confiscated their weapons. Well, except Sasha. Sasha was a weapon.
The door at the top of the stairs groaned open. All eyes turned to the widening sliver of light which spilled down the stairs. Three figures were framed there. Simon squinted; a woman of noble bearing, he thought, and two men. Visually, he could determine little more, but his pounding heart told him who had deigned to pay him a visit.
Leaving the door ajar, perhaps unnerved by the darkness, the woman descended with the men in tow. She lifted her skirts as she stepped delicately over filthy patches of straw, an overturned wooden platter which had been tossed from the cages by some previous inmate, and a dead rat. The creature was so desiccated that the smell wasn’t as unbearable as it might have been, but it clearly offended the woman. She muttered something about ‘provincials’, and in that moment Simon’s doubts faded.
“Princess Tiera,” he said dully.
“Oh, do you recognize me?” She stepped close enough to his cage that Simon could make out her features, callous and sneering. The last time he’d laid eyes on the princess, he’d thought her beautiful, in a remote, dangerous, untouchable way. He put that down to the awe of having been an unworldly peasant thrust into her royal presence, because he saw none of that beauty now. A twisted inner ugliness shone cold behind that porcelain flesh mask. Simon could hardly bear to meet her glittering, ice-shard eyes. “Is my face now suddenly worth your attention?”
“Of… of course, my lady. I am flattered,” he added boldly, “That you consider me worthy enough prey to hunt me personally.”
She smiled grimly. “Is that so, Simon Dragonslayer? Well, in the interest of keeping things personal,” that last word insinuated a terrifying world of threat, “You and I are going to have an interview upstairs.”
Simon’s heart began to hammer crazily. Perhaps there was a way out of this mess after all. Tiera no doubt planned to have him tortured and killed, but if he was away from his friends, he would be free to focus on his negative feelings, to channel the curse of the parasite, and put an end to this twisted hunt without harming Niu. “Is that so?”
“This is the peasant who has you all in a tizzy?” asked one of the men standing behind Tiera, rather informally for a guardsman or servant, Simon thought. He looked closer. The man was tall and rangy. An effeminate wealth of hair spilled in waves from his hood; a golden beard jutted at an odd angle from his pointed chin. Most strikingly, he wore a metal mask which covered his entire face save for his mouth and chin, and contemplated Simon from behind rectangular slits.
“Yes, this is the worm,” Tiera acknowledged. “The insect who spat in the face of a goddess.”
Simon might once have felt mortified by this speech, but now he just thought the princess was laying it on a little thick. He had no patience with her pettiness.
“Well, I see why you’re so obsessed. He reminds me of Huntsmaster Aphridion,” the masked man remarked lazily. “To look at, I mean, not in spirit.”
Simon could tell by the sudden shock in Tiera’s eyes that her strange, overly familiar companion had touched a nerve. The princess looked as though she’d tasted some sort of realization and had found it bitter.
“Sergeant,” she said gruffly but imperiously. “Take the peasant upstairs and secure him. I would interview him.”
The second man stepped forward, keys jingling, as Tiera’s stormy gaze swept across the other cells. Her eyes lingered on Niu. “The handmaiden,” she spat, placing one hand on the masked man’s shoulder, “Is all yours. But don’t kill her quickly. Ruin her.”
Niu groaned. The hooded apparition turned to consider his gift. It was a strange, unnatural motion, a full-body turn, his head stiffly aligned with his torso. Apparently he liked what he saw, as his next words were: “Oh, indeed. Delicious. I have never plucked the fruit of Jynn.”
“No!” Simon yelled, panic welling as he fought to calm himself. Whoever – whatever, his gut told him - Tiera’s strange companion was, he couldn’t allow him – it – to lay hands on Niu. “No! Leave Niu alone! I…”
Then he caught Niu’s eye. Her gaze flickered briefly across to Sasha, who was watching the scene unfold with detached interest.
Oh. Right. They don’t know what Sasha is. Fine, let this monster open that cell. He’s in for a bit of a shock.
The door to his own cage was wrenched open. The burly sergeant marched Simon out and forced him toward the stairs at swordpoint. He didn’t resist. He needed to get away from his companions so he could do his thing, and hopefully, Sasha would do hers. The bruxa was hard to predict, but she did like Niu, and if all else failed, she was hungry.
Besides, Simon thought, he might conceivably deal with Tiera swiftly enough to assist his companions. The princess was going to be sorry for her persecution. She had absolutely no idea what he was capable of.
More men waited at the top of the stairs, two of whom fell in behind Simon and his escort as he was led through a small
, untidy office and up a second stairway, through a heavy iron door, and into the small chamber in which he was to be ‘interviewed’. This consisted of a table, bolted to the floor; two chairs, one of which bristled with chains, and a wall rack of very unpleasant looking implements. Simon recognized such common instruments of pain as flails, thumbscrews, and unpleasantly stained knives, but he was baffled as to the use of some of the more complex and outlandish equipment and hoped he wasn’t about to receive an education in their usage.
The guards marched him to the chair and forced him to sit, following which they clamped manacles about his wrists and ankles. Despite disheartening traces of blood on the manacles, Simon didn’t fight them. He had no clear plan of escape. His hopes rested almost entirely on Sasha going on a rampage. He himself, however, was going to deal with the damn princess.
After the guards cleared out, Simon settled back, listening hard for sounds of conflict in the cells below. Unfortunately, the walls and floor were solid stone and the door was very thick. He wondered whether Tiera would let him sweat or whether she would prefer to visit her revenge upon him promptly. His speculation ended momentarily as the princess swept into the interrogation room, her eyes alight with predatory eagerness.
“Alone at last, dragonslayer,” she said. Her hands were trembling with obscene excitement. Closing the door behind her, she made a motion to seat herself then appeared to think better of it and began to prowl about the chamber. The wall of torture implements clearly fascinated her. Trailing her fingers along what looked like some manner of bladed clamp, she eyed Simon speculatively. “How unfortunate that you chose to meet me here rather than my bedchamber.”
Simon said nothing.
“You led my men a merry chase,” she admitted. “I have no idea how you got past their barricades. I heard stories of your visiting some manner of horrible creature upon them in Brand. I admit I’m impressed.”
For the first time, Simon noticed the sheath tucked into her sash. Was that…? His heart began to pump. It was: Tiera carried the parasite blade. Had she then acquired the same abilities he had? Did she know? His ability to defeat her might hinge upon his ability to lose control of his stronger emotions before she could.
Fortunately, Tiera seemed hell-bent on giving him ammunition. “Brand,” she mused, focusing her attention on some other nightmarishly outlandish torture contraption. “That was where your father lived, was it not?”
“Why are you persecuting me?” Simon grated. Anger swelled easily within him. “What did my father have to do with your petty little vendetta?”
“I could have your tongue pulled with this.” Tiera hefted a tool reminiscent of a hooked pair of pliers and clicked them ominously. “But then I couldn’t hear you begging for mercy.”
“I did nothing to harm you.”
Her eyes flashed. She jabbed the torture implement in his direction. “You, who was born amongst cows and sheep, who should never have aspired to higher than shoveling their shit, spat in the face of the Princess of Cannevish! Did you think I would leave such an insult unattended?”
“I never meant to insult you.”
“And following this little session, you never will again,” Tiera snarled. Her bleached cheeks flamed with building fury. Simon’s heart experienced a tremor – no more than a hiccup, but he began to panic. Fairly or unfairly, Tiera was angrier than he currently was. How to calm her while his own fury built? He cast about for a topic to distract her.
“You think us so different,” he said. “And yet, we almost certainly have common ground.”
She sneered. “Is that so?”
Simon considered for a moment. “We both lost our mothers young.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Tiera’s eyes ballooned then shuttered, and she slammed both hands down on the table.
“My mother was a queen,” she hissed. “Yours was likely a goat.”
Simon’s hatred of the woman spiked. Tiera’s eyes flickered in surprise; she raised one hand partway to her breast, gasping, then dropped it again as her sudden discomfort lessened.
Not nearly enough fuel, thought Simon. Out loud, he said, “Have you not persecuted me enough? I’ve been on the run for…” He wasn’t sure how long anymore. It felt like an age. “I’ve had to deal with your men, with the undead, with…”
Tiera frowned, sinking down in her chair. “The undead? Explain.”
Slipped up, thought Simon. Shouldn’t have said that. Can’t risk warning these people about Sasha until it’s too late for them to stop her.
“In a cabin. I was trying to take shelter there. I went down into the basement. There was an… I don’t know. An undead cannibal which hounded me. The same one which annihilated your troops at Brand.” Simon excised his own abilities from his narrative.
Tiera considered, then laughed. “So. We have both lost our mothers. We have both stumbled upon undead in the basement. We have even shared the same handmaiden.” Despite himself, Simon felt unaccountably gratified that the princess assumed he’d managed to bed Niu. “Perhaps we are not so different after all.”
Hope blossomed; anger receded. Perhaps there could be a different resolution to this conflict? Could he find some way appeal to the humanity lurking beneath the mad destructive insecurity and narcissism?
He snuffed the spark of optimism at once. Perhaps, yes, if Tiera’s men hadn’t stolen me only family from me.
“Except that your men murdered my father,” he snapped, emotions coiling tight.
A glimmer of pain flitted across Tiera’s face. “We have both also lost our fathers,” she said after a beat.
Taken aback, Simon stared blankly. “The king… the king is dead?”
“Thanks to you.” Rage simmered behind the princess’ cold eyes. She didn’t even look like she believed herself. Simon had simply become the avatar of everything terrible in her life.
“I did not harm the king.”
Tiera sprang to her feet so violently that her chair overturned. “This is all thanks to you! You… you made a mockery of me! In refusing our union, you spat on the most desirable hand in the land. You brought your father’s death upon yourself!”
Simon’s chest tightened. “You didn’t want to marry me.”
Tiera snarled. Literally. Simon heard her growl, deep in her throat. “Of course not. I would not have you bring your farmland filth into my bedchamber. But…” She left the rest unsaid, but he felt it nonetheless. Her ego was hardly less fragile than pottery.
“Princess,” Simon began quietly as his heart seemed to seize. It fought valiantly to beat, besieged into unnerving irregularity in the face of Tiera’s fury. Pain clutched his chest like a dragon’s claw. Still, he might almost have felt sorry for his adversary, this woman in the process of murdering him, had she not been responsible for his father’s death.
“No!” Tiera shouted, leaning across the table. He felt her hot breath in his face, flecks of spittle dotting his cheeks as she vented her ire. “I am going to kill you, Simon Dragonslayer. I am going to break your heart.” Her wrath was such now that Simon could feel his heart stutter and falter. Spasms of pain stabbed his chest, each more excruciating than the last. He fought not to black out as he concentrated on his own rage, but Tiera had the upper hand. Her hatred was deeper. He’d lost.
“One more thing we share,” he gasped, slumping toward the tabletop.
“We share nothing!” she yelled. A red mist clouded Simon’s eyes. His heart protested every agonized, reluctant, infrequent beat. “This idiocy ends now, peasant! I have killed you, if you are not too stupid to know it, and my brother will kill your beloved handmaiden bitch.” She reached across and cupped Simon’s chin, tilting his head, forcing him to look into her eyes, though truthfully he could no longer see more than a shivering blur. “He will tear out her throat and drink her blood. Then he will defile her body! Let that be your last thought.”
Simon laughed mirthlessly. In her moment of triumph, Tiera had made a terrible mistake. His pen
t-up fear, anger, and loss swirled into a blazing storm of wrath. He seemed almost to see his unleashed turmoil as a writhing nest of crimson tendrils which lashed out toward his tormentor and plunged into her chest, stabbing viciously at her heart. He could not see Tiera’s expression through the cloud of life-extinguishing pain, but he saw her jerk back in shock. She understood, too late, that her precious sword had two owners.
Moments later, unable to endure that consuming red maelstrom of hatred, two hearts exploded as one.
XVIII
The masked man seemed in no hurry to open Niu’s cell. He prowled outside, lithe like a cat, studying her but paying Sasha scant attention.
“Yes,” he said at length, molesting Niu with leering, predatory eyes. “Yes, you’re a fine morsel. I will take pleasure in this. I will also take my time.”
“You will not touch me,” Niu told him, more bravely than she felt. She felt passably certain that was true, if only Sasha would snap out of her catatonia.
“Don’t you be touchin’ her!” Oswald added gruffly, rattling the bars of his own cell.
“You,” Mask told the giant disinterestedly, “Can rot in there. I expect you’d taste of rank lard and stale sweat. Ah, but you.” He returned his eyes to Niu. “Savory blood and tender meat, but in such a lovely package, a magnificently-prepared meal from a master chef.”
“Open the door, then,” Niu said challengingly. She glanced at Sasha, resisting an urge to nudge her. “If you dare.”
Mask laughed. “And spirited too! Like a ladling of one of those flavorful spiced sauces from southern kingdoms over the dish. Very well. If you are in a hurry to feed me, it would not be gentlemanly to keep you waiting.” He reached out, twisted a key in the lock.
Simon, Niu wondered anxiously, retreating as the door swung open. Are you still alive? That Tiera meant to kill him was certain. Mercy was a foreign concept to the princess: Tiera was a mental child, petulant and cruel, and Niu had the scars to prove it.
Tiera would feel the need to torment Simon before she killed him, so with any luck Simon’s curse would activate in time to save him. This was the hope Niu clung to. She couldn’t bear the thought of the good-natured youth dying at the hands of that psychotic pallid witch. As frustratingly naïve and incompetent as he could be, Niu was fond of the poor lovesick pup. She couldn’t return his affections - her heart belonged forever to Cihau – but if Tiera succeeded in fulfilling her murderous objectives, Niu would kill the princess herself.