Aisling dipped behind a tent, trying to find a path that would carry her far, far away from Verity and her present lecture. It was always the mornings after where it started to catch up to her, the sick feeling of what she was doing, how she was being used—
“Ah, ah, ah,” Verity said, appearing in front of her from out of the shroud of an invisibility spell. “Where are you off to?”
Aisling bit back the first reply of “Wherever I damned well please” before it left her lips, but she did not bother hiding the fury that sprung upon her features. “I’m walking.”
“So you are,” Verity said and reached out with her slow, ungainly hand, calloused and hard and unlike a spell caster’s, and wrapped it around Aisling’s upper arm. Aisling, for her part, let the wizard have the illusion of control in the matter. It wouldn’t be too difficult to remove the hand if she truly desired—in one way or another. “But I have a different destination in mind for you.”
“Naturally,” Aisling said, resigned.
Verity, for her part, drew in close. The light of the return spell glistened around them as they began to fade, the camp of Sanctuary disappearing around them. “You mustn’t ever get the idea that you’re in charge,” Verity said as the spell's light consumed them, “else you might start to think things that will simply be the end of you …”
19.
Terian
“You shouldn’t do that,” Terian said to the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar.
Even in the dim light of the throne room, Terian could see Yartraak’s eyes go a ruby red, bright and hot with his fury at being challenged. “You question my will? Pray tell, why not?” the God of Darkness asked.
Terian stared at the spectacle before him. Malpravus stood to his left, a little ways back, as usual seeking to distance himself from possibly unfavorable association with Terian. My insolence keeps saving me, at least for now. Malpravus doesn’t want to walk that particular razor’s edge, though, and I can’t blame him. Smarter to stay off the blade entirely. Unfortunately for him, you can’t be near Yartraak without some element of risk. To wit … He looked up at the figure clenched in the Sovereign’s hand, long, clawed fingers wrapped around a blue neck that was darkening from the blood pooling in the man’s head. J’anda, you’re an idiot for coming here, for throwing yourself on the Sovereign’s mercy, elusive at best.
“Dear boy, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Malpravus hissed at his side.
“So do I,” Terian said, stepping forward to leave Malpravus behind. You come to answer for a simple failure in battle and pretty soon you’re up to your eyeballs in monster-infested waters. “We were just defeated in battle by Sanctuary on the Northern front. It was an utter rout, and they destroyed our army beyond the capacity for easy regroup.”
The Sovereign’s eyes almost looked like they were coals in a fire, glowing in the dark. “Why should this make me less disposed toward tearing this one’s head off?”
“Everyone has a use,” Terian said, “even if it’s something as humble as becoming fertilizer for the mushrooms.”
Yartraak was silent for a long moment. “What would you have him do?”
Terian bowed his head in deference. “I offer only a suggestion—ask him what he is willing to do to make good on the betrayals you have suffered from him.”
Yartraak considered this for a moment and then clawed hand drifted toward the ground and released J’anda, who fell limp to the floor. Yartraak extended one of the long, pointed fingers to touch the enchanter on the head, and a light glowed in the darkness. J’anda stirred, coughing as though he were about to vomit, his throat crackling as he gagged for air. Terian stood silently for a minute, then two, as J’anda massaged the neck that had just come within millimeters of being crushed. “You wish to repay me?” Yartraak asked.
Terian held his breath. This is the moment of truth. J’anda looks like he’s about half a second from giving up and dying right here on the floor. If he answers wrong, then my pleas for mercy for him are not only about to go unanswered, they’re going to damage my own case rather heavily.
“I will do as you wish,” J’anda said in a scratchy voice. Terian felt a little exultation in his heart, and tried to keep from sighing in relief. “Whatever you wish.”
Yartraak glanced at Terian, glowing eyes showing a brief hint of … pleasure? “You are still a member of the Council of Sanctuary, yes?”
J’anda nodded slowly. “I informed them of my intent to make things right with you before leaving, but I am still a member of the Council, yes.”
“You will spy on them for me,” Yartraak said, long fingers stroking the area where his lower jaw sat flatly against the bottom of his face. He had no chin to speak of, the structure of his skull was so dramatically different from any other living being Terian had ever met. Except Mortus, Terian thought, but he’s a far cry from even Mortus.
“V-very well,” J’anda said, voice whisper-quiet. “I will spy upon them for you.”
“I will know if you are lying to me,” Yartraak said, “if you are betraying me.”
“Of—of course,” J’anda said, fingers still clutched around his throat.
“Get him out of my sight,” Yartraak said, waving a hand at Terian. “And reconstitute your army, fools. Fix your failures.”
“As you wish, my Sovereign,” Terian said, starting forward. He was at J’anda’s side before the enchanter laid eyes on him, pulling the man to his feet and throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“T—Terian?” J’anda asked, eyes fluttering. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your life,” Terian said, boots clicking on the wood floor as he carried the weary enchanter along. He took care not to impale the man’s arm on his pauldrons. Malpravus waited, looking at Terian with a certain cunning.
“J’anda,” Malpravus said, falling in next to Terian as he rejoined them on their path to the door, “so good to see you again, though I must say you’ve looked better.”
“And Malpravus as well,” J’anda said, and Terian could tell the man was holding something back by the tautness of his body. “Such interesting times.”
“Indeed,” Terian said as he passed into the foyer of the Grand Palace of Saekaj, supporting a man he fully knew was betraying the Sovereign even now. And if we’re very lucky, they won’t get so interesting as to result in our spectacular deaths.
20.
Aisling
Aisling was blindfolded and led around like a child playing a game. She focused on the senses she could still use, absent her sight. There was cold cave air, which she’d known all along, since Verity’s spell had brought them right to Shrawn’s house. They walked for quite a while, and she could tell by her balance which turns they had her take. She’d probably only gone a thousand feet at most, unless they’d gone in a slow circle, one too subtle for her to take notice. She didn’t think that had happened, though.
The scent of wood smoke was in the air here, but that simply meant she was in Saekaj, still. She’d heard the rumble of gears and levers at a couple points, as though gates were being opened for her. The sound was wrong, though, the mechanism sliding sideways rather than up, like a portcullis. Secret passages, then, carefully oiled to open with relative quiet.
She felt the tingle run along her flesh, waiting for Dagonath Shrawn. It had to be Shrawn, after all, unless she was meeting some secret interrogator. That was a thought not worth dwelling on for very long.
She sniffed again, and now she could smell something distinctly oily in the air. Faint traces of the scent lingered around her, and she tried not to make too much of a show of getting a good whiff of it. Verity’s hands were on her back, pushing her. It was a disconcerting feeling, being utterly at someone else’s mercy. She was used to it by now, though.
“I bring you a gift.” Shrawn’s voice echoed in the darkness. She could see hints of light beyond the blindfold, like torches burning in the night.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have,”
Aisling said, channeling the words that a sarcastic, lower-class thief would have used on just such an occasion. As for what the girl she’d been before that would have said … she couldn’t even be sure anymore.
Verity hit her in the back, hard, driving her right to her knees. The pain radiated out in a spasm, blunted by her leather armor. The emotional snap Aisling took and ignored, throwing it in the pit as well. She summoned up fear and tossed it out to the front of her mind, let herself show the pain, show the concern that even worse things might be on the horizon for her. It came out with a cringe, a whimper, and coldly she added another mark against Verity in her head, then tossed that down into the pit to be brought up at a more fitting time.
“As you can see,” Shrawn said, “she shows spirit. A failing, I know, but one that has been of some advantage to us in her assignment.”
He’s talking to someone else, Aisling realized, putting the pieces together. His tone is conciliatory, subordinate.
Gods. I’m in front of the Sovereign.
That calculation caused no small amount of surprise in her, but she kept it all back for later use, if or when the blindfold came off. Let them think I’m dumb, that I’m cowed, that they have nothing to fear from me.
“She has done well thus far,” the Sovereign rumbled. Aisling feigned confusion, turning her head as though to discern the source of the mysterious voice. She’d already honed in on his exact position, though; roughly twelve feet in front of her, about thirty degrees left of her true north. I still have my blades, but even being mystical, they’ll do nearly no damage against the skin of a god.
“Uh, thank you?” She threw out her reply as a careful, confused and thoroughly humbled thief wondering at the source of her compliment. If I sound appropriately pitiful, perhaps they’ll let their guard down and I can get through this performance with a little enlightenment.
“Take off the blindfold,” the Sovereign said, his voice high and cold. “Let her see whose presence she stands in.”
“As you wish,” Shrawn said, but it was Verity who took the blindfold off her. Aisling raised her eyes slowly, peering into the darkness. When her eyes met the Lord of Darkness’s own, she let out a shudder of revulsion and horror that was not even close to her genuine reaction. He was a strange looking creature, that was certain, with his grey skin and bizarrely shaped body with sticklike limbs, but he was no more horrifying to her than Mortus had been.
No, in truth she took him in with an analytical eye behind the facade of the frightened thief. She saw his neck, thin for his massive size, and wondered how many good saws across it it’d take to open the artery she saw there. Probably ten, she decided, if Mortus’s skin was any guide.
“Uh … huh … uh,” she said, little choked breaths of horror with just a hint of shame mixed in for the god’s ego. She bowed her head and refused to look up again. In her mind she was studying a picture of what she’d just seen, looking for additional vulnerabilities. The thin limbs would be promising weak points if she had something as strong as Cyrus’s sword in her hand, but her daggers would make hobbling the God of Darkness problematic at best.
“Now you see me,” Yartraak said, hissing into the quiet dark. The throne room around them was lit with sconces that shed silent light, more than would be easily found in the rest of the God of Darkness’s own city. Then again, she’d seen his inner sanctum in his own realm, lit like a sun was hanging overhead at midday, and knew that there was more to him that met the eye. Darkness is his shroud, but he doesn’t fear the light, at least not in private.
“I see what you wish me to see,” she answered in a fearful tone, though she spoke truth through and through. She had seen him, all right, had seen of him what he wanted her to see—but she was also considering him in a way that he doubtless did not want her to, already wondering at how she could exact revenge on him for his part in orchestrating her servitude.
Just another name on the list, another mark on the wall. Though this one is a much bigger mark than the others. Harder.
“I have heard of your good works in our service,” Yartraak said, “of the spying you have done for us upon Cyrus Davidon and his ilk.”
“I seek only to serve,” she said. “To repay my debt. To earn back what I had justly taken from me. To do whatever you require of—”
“Yes, yes,” Yartraak said, brushing her platitudes off. He probably doesn’t know exactly how empty they are, though. “And you do well at it.” He leaned down. “Tell me of this battle in which you fought last eve.”
This could be a sticky business, reporting directly to the Sovereign. She glanced back at Verity, making it look like she was seeking permission, and received a nod from the wizard that carried with it an evil smile. I can’t speak a word of falsehood or she’ll have me on the torture racks in a half-heartbeat. “Ah-uhm,” Aisling said, licking her lips, “it was … a dismal affair for our side, with catastrophic losses …”
“I see,” the Sovereign said quietly, “and how did it happen? Was your army larger?”
“No,” Aisling said, struggling to find the way to approach it easily, “Cyrus Davidon—”
“Your lover,” the Sovereign snapped, interrupting her.
“By your order, yes,” Aisling replied, giving a nervous look that wasn’t at all feigned. The Sovereign’s ire was obvious, his eyes burning brighter. “Were it down to me, I would not have such an association with the man.”
“Indeed?” The Sovereign studied her carefully. “Go on, then.”
He hates Cyrus. Good to know. “Davidon planned and executed a strategy designed to fight the superior odds arrayed against him. He is fair at these things,” Aisling said.
“He would be,” the Sovereign said, with more than a little irritation still evident in the snap of his voice, “he is the favored of the God of War, after all.”
Favored of a god? Aisling did not react to this in a discernible way, her mind racing with the information nonetheless. That would be handy. “Favored … how?”
“You do not need to know,” Shrawn snapped at her, and then made a gesture with his hand. Verity cuffed her hard behind the ear, drawing a flinch.
“Come now, Shrawn,” Yartraak said, looking sidelong at his servant, “she is in a precarious position at our prompting. If you were trapped against your will with such a barbarian as Cyrus Davidon as your consort, you would want all the weapons at your disposal, as the girl does. Knowledge is a weapon, and to leave her unarmed against the predations of this brute would be to fail to protect our investment of time and effort placing her there.”
Shrawn looked as though he wanted to argue with that, but it passed in a flicker and was followed by only the mildest question as criticism. “But how could this be of use to her, your grace?”
“Bellarum is infinitely difficult, chaotic, treacherous,” Yartraak said. “His proxy will be much the same, filled with guile and cunning and careless of the cost of lives in his battles.” I’m choking on the irony, Aisling thought. Does he even hear his own words? “She should know about him, if she has not discerned it for herself.”
I may have underestimated his hatred of Cyrus earlier. “I will be ever on my guard for his treachery,” Aisling said, nodding. “What would you have me do, my Sovereign?”
“You will tell me in exacting detail every move of this battle,” Yartraak said, settling himself upon his massive throne, “and then you will return to your duty anew, keeping careful watch on Cyrus Davidon, leaking his secrets judiciously, keeping his ear and remaining closer to our enemy than he could possibly imagine. The fate of this war rests on Cyrus Davidon, and he has landed upon the wrong side.” Yartraak’s teeth were bared in a grin that made Aisling feel uncomfortable. “A day may come soon when you will be able to leave this duty behind and return home. You must merely wait for that time.”
She nodded at him, but her mind swirled all the while with the possibility. He has no one else as close to Cyrus as I am, does he? She kept her thoughts carefully
concealed, as ever. Why would he give up that strategic advantage unless … She blinked, as small a reaction as she could allow given the gravity of what she was thinking in the wake of this revelation.
… unless he’s planning to have me kill Cyrus.
21.
J’anda
Malpravus parted ways with them out of the gate of the Grand Palace of Saekaj. Walking had become less of a chore for J’anda now, the strength gradually returning to his legs after the hard throttling that the God of Darkness had levied upon his throat. It felt pinched and bruised, and it scratched when he tried to speak or, indeed, even breathe, and thus he kept silent. He found it suited him to some extent, since, after the necromancer had left them behind on the street, J’anda hadn’t truly known what to even say to Terian Lepos.
Terian seemed to have his own course in mind, though, walking J’anda carefully toward the first gate to the immediate left of the Sovereign’s palace. He could see the manor beyond, a beautifully carved stone house with wooden accents to the facade. He tried to remember who had possessed it when last he’d been in Saekaj and failed. Someone important, that was sure. It was, after all, directly across the street from the House of Shrawn, which had been in Dagonath Shrawn’s possession for hundreds of years, possibly even thousands by now.
“Come on,” Terian said quietly, surprisingly careful about his placement of J’anda’s arm. When J’anda had seen the dark knight in the throne room when he’d regained consciousness, he had been virtually certain that he’d been killed and was now in some dream after death. Then the sensory details of the throne room came flooding back in, the grain of the wood floor against his hand, the oily scent of the Sovereign’s own musk, and the darkness only broken by the light of the wall sconces.
Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness Page 12