Raesene’s lust to control the empire was what had led him to betray his halfbrothers, Haelyn and Roele, and sell himself to Azrai all those years ago.
The illegitimacy of his birth had denied him a place in the royal line of succession, despite being his father’s firstborn son, and his resentment and jealousy of his halfbrothers had twisted him and eventually grown into a burning hatred.
After the Battle of Mount Deismaar and the defeat of the Dark Lord, Raesene had fled to the far northern territories and remained there ever since, doubt 399 less brooding on his failure while he slowly built up his powers. Over the centuries, he had carved out his domain and established a stronghold at KalSaitharak, the castle fortress he had raised in a forested valley nestled high in the mountainous, rocky, and volcanic wasteland once known simply as the Crown. In time, the black stone castle became better known as Battlewaite, and the jagged cliffs and rocky escarpments that surrounded it came to be called the Gorgon’s Crown.
Much of Raesene’s history following his selfimposed exile in his remote domain was shrouded in myth and folklore, the accounts of the few travelers who had seen him so much embellished by the bards over the years that it was no longer possible to tell where truth ended and legend began. Most accounts at least agreed on a few basic points.
Raesene had brought an unspecified number of his followers from Deismaar to KalSaitharak, and this force had grown over the intervening years into an army composed of the dregs of Cerilia.
He numbered gnolls and goblins among his followers, as well as dwarves who had been cast out of their tribes, trolls from the surrounding mountains, and ogres from the southern regions. In addition to the demihumans, he also had the descendants of his human followers at Deismaar, as well as bandits, escaped criminals from the empire, and mercenaries so savage and depraved that they no longer cared for whom they fought, so long as they had a patron to support them.
A walled city had grown up around the castle, and that city was now known as KalSaitharak, while the castle itself was called Battlewaite.
Raesene never
400 ventured outside his domain, and according to some stories, his power would be diminished if he did, though Laera doubted that. He had gained his powers through bloodtheft, and blood abilities were not bound to the land. More likely, Raesene had reasons of his own for remaining in KalSaitharak, though what they might he was anybody’s guess. Perhaps the mutations in his body brought about by his powers rendered travel difficult, or he was dependent on the confluence of ley lines in his region for the energy required to increase his power. But whatever the reason may have been, it seemed to hold true for most of the awnsheghlien, who were rarely known to venture far from their domains.
By all accounts, Raesene did not look human anymore. He was said to be a massive, powerful giant with the head of a bull and the legs of a goat, which ended in sharp, diamond-hard hooves. His skin was described as dark and stony, and he was reputed to possess the power to slay with just his gaze, which could turn people to stone. At one time, Raesene was said to have been one of the greatest swordsman of Anuire, and he had instructed his younger halfbrothers, Haelyn and Roele, in the arts of combat.
Legend had it that in the centuries since, he had perfected his abilities with every weapon known to man and periodically held death matches to keep his skills honed.
The most recent account of a meeting with Raesene was over a hundred years old and was stored in the Imperial Library at Anuire. It was the report of a trader who had traveled to KalSaitharak and met with him.
This trader’s account had described the walled city as an armed camp, a rough-and-tumble
agglomeration of boisterous taverns, crooked gaming houses, and steamy fleshpots where the only law was whatever authority Raesene’s lieutenants chose to exert at any given time.
To walk the streets at night, the trader wrote, was to take one’s life into one’s own hands, even if well armed. KalSaitharak was a melting pot of races, most of which nursed age-old enmities, and battles in the streets were not uncommon. It was, perhaps, the main reason Raesene had not expanded his domain much farther than the Gorgon’s Crown. His army spent almost as much time fighting itself as raiding nearby territories.
The trader’s account had confirmed the stories about Raesene’s appearance, but disputed the claims that he had gone hopelessly insane.
He wrote that the Gorgon, perhaps hoping to encourage other traders to visit his domain, had received him warmly and that they had engaged in polite and interesting conversation in which his host had referred to himself as Prince Raesene and had seemed intelligent and in full possession of his faculties. However, that had been over a century ago, and popular belief now held that Raesene had lost all vestiges of his humanity and was little more than a wild beast.
Laera found that hard to credit. If it were true, it was doubtful Callador would have been able to negotiate with him and reach an agreement for his services. Aside from that, a wizard of Callador’s ability could have found another wealthy patron without a great deal of difficulty. He was too canny and had too strong a sense of self-preservation to sell his services to someone who had lost all sense of reason. If the Gorgon had gone mad, it was madness 40?
with a method that Callador could understand.
After her initial bout of panic, Laera had forced herself to calm down and think things through. She had followed Callador’s instructions and obtained a lock of hair from Derwyn, saying she wanted to keep it in a locket so that she would have a part of him to carry with her at all times. He had been charmed-it was so easy!-and had readily agreed to her request.
She had cut off a thick lock of his hair and kept a part of it to place inside a locket, in case he should request to see it. The rest she gave to Callador, who had used it to concoct a spell.
A week or so after her child had been delivered, Derwyn returned to share her bed. She did not think it prudent to put him off longer.
However, she had no fear of Derwyn’s discovering her relationship with the wizard who once served his father. When the misty tunnel started to appear inside their bedchambers, Derwyn would fall into a deep trance, a sleep from which no amount of noise or jostling would wake him. Laera would then pass through the tunnel and emerge in Callador’s sanctum deep in the bowels of Battlewaite, where he would school her in the mystic arts.
She never saw any part of KalSaitharak beyond the windowless stone walls of Callador’s retreat, and she never encountered anyone but him.
Each night, she would spend several hours studying under his patient tutelage, then pass back through the tunnel once again and return to bed with Derwyn none the wiser. He would awake refreshed each morning, suspecting nothing, and the sleep that Laera lost each night she made up with naps in the afternoon.
She had made rapid progress in her studies, much to her surprise, and Callador took pride in her accomplishments, saying she possessed an uncommon natural aptitude for magic. Still, it was not a discipline that came easily to anyone. It required diligent study and concentration. She took care never to bring any materials back with her, because no matter how well she might hide them, they might still be discovered, and she was anxious to avoid suspicion. Callador shared her sense of caution. He was pleased with her efforts, but he never allowed her to forget she must refrain from practicing any magic out of his presence until he gave his approval.
And he would not allow her to progress any farther in her studies than he deemed prudent. Magic, he reminded her, could be very dangerous, and mastering even relatively simple spells required patience.
Laera did not chafe under these restrictions, nor was she bored with the long hours of poring over ancient scrolls, committing spells and rituals to memory. If that aspect of her training lacked the fascination of the exercises she performed under Callador’s watchful direction, she never minded because she knew that all those hours of painstaking study would result in her ability to gain power over others -one man in particular.
The day of reckoning would come, and when it did, Aedan Dosiere would face not just a princess, but also a sorceress.
Meanwhile, Laera continued her campaign to build up Derwyn’s ambitions for his son, Aerin. He still wanted another son to ensure the continuation of his name, and she used that, along with his desire for her, to lead him subtly in the direction she chose.
Callador had provided her with a plentiful supply of the preparation to control her own fertility, and it wasn’t long before she had learned to concoct it for herself. She would never again have a child unless she chose to, and she would make that choice only as a last resort. So long as Derwyn had only one son, he would pin all his hopes on him and continue to be driven by his desire to produce another. And that would help her keep her hold on him.
She went to temple every day, where she always made sure the priests knew she was praying for the birth of a new son. She always expressed a fervent desire to please Derwyn and become pregnant once again, stressing that it had to be her fault she could not conceive; surely there could be nothing lacking in his potency. Yet by raising the subject, she nevertheless planted a tiny seed of doubt in his mind, which she could use to good advantage as it grew.
As Derwyn slowly came to fear the loss of his masculinity, he grew even more tractable and docile, which made him more vulnerable to suggestion.
Slowly and carefully, Laera played on his affections for her and Aerin, building up an idea in his mind that someday, if the right circumstances would prevail, his son might sit upon the Iron Throne and found a new dynasty bearing his name. When it was announced throughout the empire that Michael had married and an heir to the House of Roele would soon be forthcoming, Laera was not deterred. While expressing a feigned joy over the union and her brother’s happiness, she kept reminding Derwyn of his son’s importance in the scheme of things.
“When the prince is born,” she told Derwyn, “Aerin will still occupy a vital role in the succession.
He will not only stand to inherit your title and your 405 lands, and grow up to be the most important vassal to the future emperor, but as the firstborn scion of both the houses of Roele and Boeruine, Aerin would be the next in line should any tragedy befall the prince-may the gods prevent it. Your father’s claim to the succession may have been disputed, but as the firstborn of a princess of the empire and the Duke of Boeruine, none would question Aerin’s birthright.”
Aerin’s birthright. It was a phrase she used judiciously, but often enough to start Derwyn thinking of his son’s future in those terms.
His right by birth to sit upon the Iron Throne. And once that possibility was firmly implanted in his mind, the next step was lo manipulate him into a desire to do something to increase the probability of its coming to pass. It would require time, for she would have to proceed slowly, allowing Derwyn to think it was his own idea. However, it would not be very difficult. Derwyn was much weaker than his father had been, and her long experience with manipulating men made it simple.
He thrived on her affections, and if she withheld them, he would bend over backward to regain her favor, assuming the blame for having done something to displease her. And so long as he still wanted a second son, he doted on her and catered to her slightest whim. Nor was he the only one at Seaharrow whom she had enthralled.
It took a while for her to pick out the right one, for she wanted to ensure that there would absolutely be no mistakes. However, after a few weeks at Seaharrow, carefully evaluating all the possibilities, she had settled on young Viscount Rodric, eldest son of Count Basil of Norcross, whose small holding lay to 4o6 the north of Seaharrow, near the Black River and the border of Talinie.
Rodric, in the time-honored tradition of vassalage, had been sent by Count Basil to the court of Seaharrow to serve as a squire to his father’s lord. At the next Summer Court, he was due to be elevated to knighthood. His father was getting on in years, and Rodric stood to inherit the estate. He was seventeen, and he had a promising future.
In other words, he had a lot to lose.
It hadn’t taken long at all. At first, she had merely noticed him, making sure he noticed her noticing him. Then it was a simple matter of eye contact, looking at him and then quickly averting her gaze, as if in embarrassment, whenever he noticed her attention. After that, whenever their eyes met, she had started hesitating before she looked away, allowing a fleeting but meaningful contact. To this, she gradually added subtle variations. A nervous swallow whenever their eyes met, a moistening of the lips, a few deep breaths to draw his attention to her bosom, then lingering sidelong glances, and finally, when she was sure no one else would notice, smoldering stares.
He started to find excuses to run into her around the castle and on the grounds. She studied his routine and made sure there were opportunities for them to encounter one another, as if by coincidence.
When they spoke, it was with formal politeness, but he was always very attentive and solicitous. He started to take extra care of his appearance. The next step was brief physical contact. She would brush against him, as if by accident, and when they encountered one another in the garden, they would sit 407 and chat for a short while, their thighs or knees or shoulders touching slightly. He had the fervor and impatience of youth, which made things even easier.
When he took her hand and brushed it with his lips, lingering just a bit too long, Laera would increase her breathing and open her mouth slightly, gazing at him with a dreamy stare. And when he kissed her for the first time, he probably thought he was being astonishingly bold and reckless.
She made him believe she could not resist him, no matter how hard she tried. Her whispered protestations were punctuated by soft moans of encouragement, and soon thereafter, she “surrendered” to him, as if no longer able to hold her feelings in check.
Then, as with Derwyn, she slowly began to tighten the noose.
By the time the emperor’s marriage was celebrated in Anuire, she had Rodric eating out of her hand. She was conducting a torrid affair right under her husband’s very nose, and Derwyn did not suspect a thing.
However, with Rodric, she did not make the same mistake she made with Aedan. She had learned that lesson long ago. She curbed her appetite and always left him wanting more, carefully controlling the frequency of their assignations, allowing his hunger for her to grow.
She complained of Derwyn’s inattentiveness and told Rodric her husband only pretended to love her, that when they were alone together, he was brusque and even cruel on occasion. While Rodric held her in his arms, she speculated wistfully on what it would be like if they could run away together, adding that of course that would be impossible because it would ruin both their lives. Yet, if only she were free….
One more phase of her plan fell into place quite by accident, thanks to Rodric. Knowing the “miserable isolation of her existence,” he took it upon himself to provide her regular reports of the goings-on in the town and its vicinity. He was a natural gossip, and most of his stories she found interminably boring, but one in particular piqued her interest.
A young teenaged girl in town, a thief and prostitute, had been arrested for stabbing a merchant. He had survived, but as he was an influential member of the community, the girl had been sentenced to hang. Privately, Laera thought it a fitting punishment. The lower classes had to be reminded of their place every now and then to keep them in line and properly respectful. But when she went to Derwyn, claiming to have heard about the incident from one of her ladies-in-waiting, she pleaded for him to intercede and save the poor girl’s life. Surely, she said, this girl had been trapped in a life of hopeless misery, and only desperation had driven her to do the deed.
She at least deserved a second chance.
Laera offered to take the girl into her service, saying she was sure she could reach past the bitterness and the hardships she had suffered.
And, she added, it would be a wonderful opportunity for Derwyn to display compassion and demonstrate to the people of
Boeruine that he was merciful and truly cared about their welfare.
Derwyn had some reservations, but she wore him down, and soon the girl was brought from the tollhouse in the town to Seaharrow. She was proud and haughty, but not so foolish that she did not realize she owed her life to Laera. Her name was Gella. She was fifteen years old, a peasant through and through,
who had been orphaned at an early age and had learned to survive by her wits. There was a spark of stubborn wilfulness in her gaze, and Laera saw in her a kindred soul that could be molded to her pur-It poses.
She told her other ladies she wished to be left alone with Gella, and when they had left, marveling at the compassion of the duchess to take a fallen girl under her wing, she confronted Gella severely.
“Well, let’s have a look at you,” she said, circling around her as if taking her full measure. “Hmmm. A bath and some clean clothes and you might even be presentable.”
Suddenly, she reached out quickly and snipped off a lock of Gella’s hair. The girl brought her hand up to the spot, startled, but said nothing as Laera came around in front of her, holding the lock of dirty, oily dark hair in her hand. “It could do with a trimming,” she said, surreptitiously making a cut in her own palm as she spoke. “Let me see your hands.”
Obediently, Gella held them out for her inspection. Laera took her left hand in hers, as if to examine it. “Rough, coarse, and dirty,” she said. “But then, I suppose that’s only to be expected.”
With an abrupt motion, she seized Gella’s wrist and sliced her palm.
Gella cried out in alarm and tried to jerk away, but Laera moved with her, maintaining her grip. She dropped the little scissors and slapped the lock of hair onto Gella’s palm, then covered it with her own. No blood oath was necessary; that was only ritual. The actual spell had been prepared in advance, as Callador had done, too.
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