The arrival of the Gray Man had been his salvation. He had leased the mysterious stranger the lands of the Crescent against ten years of taxation. It should have been enough to allow Aric freedom from debt. And it would have been had he not accepted Ruall’s wager of forty thousand gold pieces on a single horse race. Aric had been delighted, for though the two horses were evenly matched, Aric had already paid a stable boy to feed Ruall’s thoroughbred a potion that would seriously affect its stamina. The potion had worked better than expected, and the horse had died during the night. Ruall had substituted another racing mount, and Aric could not object. The new horse had beaten Aric’s racer by half a length.
The memory still galled and was made only slightly less bitter by the recollection of Ruall’s death: the look of surprise as the black sword sliced into him and the expression of dreadful agony as life fled from him.
Aric recalled the night Eldicar Manushan had appeared at his door, the beautiful child beside him. It had been almost midnight. Aric had been mildly drunk, and his head had been pounding. He had sworn at the servant who announced the visitors, hurling his goblet at the man and missing him by a yard. The black-bearded magicker had strolled into the long room, bowed once, then approached the bleary-eyed noble. “I see that you are suffering, my lord,” he had said. “Let us remove that head pain.” He had reached out and touched Aric on the brow. It was as if a cooling breeze were flowing inside Aric’s head. He felt wonderful, better than he had in years.
The boy had fallen asleep on a couch, and he and Eldicar had talked long into the night.
It was around dawn when the magicker first mentioned immortality. Aric was skeptical. Who would not be? Eldicar leaned forward and asked him if he wanted proof.
“If you can supply it, of course.”
“The servant you threw the goblet at, is he valuable to you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Would it distress you were he to die?”
“Die? Why would he die?”
“He is not a young man. He will die when I steal what remains of his life and give it to you,” said Eldicar. “You are jesting, surely.”
“Not at all, Lord Aric. I can make you young and strong in a matter of minutes. But the life force I will give you must come from somewhere.”
Looking back, Aric could not remember why he had hesitated. What possible difference could the death of a servant make to the world? And yet, he recalled, he had wondered if the man had a family. Baffling. As the dawn came up, Eldicar moved to a cabinet and took a small, ornately embellished mirror. He approached Aric, holding the mirror before the nobleman’s face. “Look at yourself. See what is.” Aric saw the sagging face, the hooded eyes, all the signs of age and a life of mild debauchery. “Now see what could be,” Eldicar said softly. The image in the mirror shimmered and changed. Aric sighed with genuine regret as he looked upon the man he had once been, hawkishly handsome and clear-eyed. “Is the servant important to you?” whispered Eldicar.
“No.” An hour later the youth and vitality he had been promised had become a reality. The servant died in his bed.
“He did not have a great deal of life left,” said Eldicar. “We will need to find someone else soon.”
Aric was too delighted to care about such matters.
The carriage trundled on, turning right into Merchants Square. Aric saw the sign for the Starlight Tavern, a brightly painted shield showing a woman’s head surrounded by stars. He remembered his first meeting with Rena there. She had served him his food and curtseyed prettily. Not a very bright woman, he recalled, but she had been warm in bed, and she had loved him. He had taken her on as the housekeeper of a comfortable villa he owned just outside Carlis, on the shores of Willow Lake. She had borne him a daughter, a delightful child, curly-haired and precocious. She would perch on Aric’s lap and demand stories of olden times, of fairies and magic.
The carriage slowed as it climbed the hill. The driver cracked his whip, and the two horses lurched into the traces. Aric settled back into the deep, horsehair-filled leather seat.
Rena had been crying about something on that final day. Aric could not remember what. She had taken to crying a lot in the last few months. Women, thought Aric, could be so selfish. She should have realized that with his new youth and vigor he would need other outlets. The plump, docile Rena had been entirely adequate for the tired, middle-aged man he had been, but she was not equipped to dance the night away in gowns of satin or to attend the various banquets and functions Aric now gloried in. She was, after all, merely a lowborn housekeeper. Then he remembered why she had been crying. Yes, he had tried to explain this to her. She had prattled on about his promise of marriage. She should have realized that such a promise from an aging, poverty-stricken noble should not have been held against the young and powerful man he had become. A different man had made that promise. But she had not had the wit to understand and had begun to wail. He had warned her to be quiet. She had taken no notice. So he had strangled her. It was a most satisfying experience, he recalled. Looking back, he wished he had made it last a little longer.
Under different circumstances Aric would have raised the child himself, but with the need to plan for the duke’s assassination he had no time. Anyway, Eldicar Manushan had pointed out that the girl’s life force would prove far more efficacious than that of the servant whose death had provided Aric with his first taste of immortality. “Being of your own blood, she will supply years of youth and health.”
Aric had had no doubt that it was true. He stood in the child’s bedroom as she lay sleeping and felt the tremendous surge of vitality that flowed into him as she died.
The carriage came to a halt, and Aric climbed out. He strode to the front door, which was opened by a large middle-aged woman. She curtseyed and led him through to a beautifully furnished room. Lalitia, wearing a simple dress of green silk, was sitting beneath a lantern, reading.
“Wine for our guest,” she told the fat woman. Aric strolled across the room, kissed Lalitia’s hand, then seated himself on a couch opposite her.
As he looked at her, noting the whiteness of her neck and the beautiful curve of her breasts, he suddenly found himself thinking of how it would feel to slide a dagger through that green dress. He pictured it flowering with blood.
Eldicar should have let him see the Chiatze being tortured. He had been thinking about the music of screams all day.
And he had no more use for Lalitia, and so there was no reason why he should not kill her.
“You seem in good humor, my lord,” said Lalitia.
“I am, my sweet. I feel … immortal.”
There was something in Aric’s manner that caused a tremor of fear in Lalitia. She could not quite pin down the reason. He seemed relaxed, but his eyes were glittering strangely.
“It was a great relief to me that you survived the massacre,” she said. “It must have been terrifying.”
“No,” he said. “It was exhilarating to see so many enemies die at one time. I wish I could do it again.”
Now the fear was really growing. “So you will be the new duke,” said Lalitia.
“For a while,” he said, rising and drawing his dagger.
Lalitia sat very still.
“I am so bored, Red,” he said conversationally. “So little seems to pique my interest of late. Would you scream for me?”
“Not for you or any man,” she said. Aric moved in closer. Lalitia rolled away from him, her hand dipping down behind a satin cushion and emerging holding a thin-bladed knife.
“Ah, Red, you always were such a delight!” said Aric. “I am not bored at all now.”
“Come any closer and you’ll never be bored again,” she told him.
The door behind Lalitia opened, and the Source priest Chardyn entered. Aric smiled as he saw him. “So this is where you’ve been hiding, priest. Who would have thought it? My men have searched the houses of your congregation. They didn’t think to check the homes of local whores.�
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The burly priest stood very quietly for a moment. “What has become of you, Aric?” he asked.
“Become of me? What a ridiculous question. I am younger, stronger, and immortal.”
“Last year I visited you at Willow Lake. You seemed content. You were playing with a child, I recall.”
“My daughter. A sweet creature.”
“I was not aware you had a daughter. Where is she now?”
“She died.”
“Did you grieve?” asked Chardyn, his voice low and compelling.
“Grieve? I suppose that I must have.”
“Did you grieve?” Chardyn asked again.
Aric blinked. The man’s voice was almost hypnotic. “How dare you question me?” he blustered. “You are a hunted … criminal. Yes, a traitor!”
“Why did you not grieve, Aric?”
“Stop this!” shouted the noble, stepping back.
“What have they done to you, my boy? I saw you with that child. You clearly loved her.”
“Loved?” For a moment Aric was nonplussed. He turned away, his dagger forgotten. “Yes, I … seem to remember that I felt …”
“What did you feel?”
Aric swung back. “I don’t want to talk about this, priest. Look, leave now and I will not report that I have seen you. Just go. I need to … to talk with Red.”
“You need to talk with me, Aric,” said Chardyn. Aric stared at the powerfully built priest and found himself looking into the man’s deep, dark eyes. He could not look away. Chardyn’s gaze seemed to hold him trapped. “Tell me about the child. Why did you not grieve?”
“I … don’t know how,” admitted Aric. “I asked Eldicar … on the night of the killings. I couldn’t understand why I reacted in the way that I did. I felt … nothing. I asked if I had lost something when he gave me my … my youth.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I had lost nothing. No, that’s not quite right. He said I had lost nothing that would be of value to Kuan Hador.”
“And now you want to kill Lalitia?”
“Yes. It would amuse me.”
“Think back, Aric. Think of the man sitting with his child by that lake. Would it have amused him to kill Lalitia?”
Aric tore his gaze away from the priest and sat down, staring at the dagger in his hand. “You are confusing me, Chardyn,” he said, and became aware of a pounding pain in his head. Placing the dagger on the table before him, he began to rub his temples.
“What was your daughter’s name?”
“Zarea.”
“Where is her mother?”
“She died, too.”
“How did she die?”
“I strangled her. She would not stop crying, you see.”
“Did you kill your daughter, too?”
“No. Eldicar did that. Her life force was very strong. It gave me greater youth and strength. Surely you can see how good I look.”
“I see far more than that,” said Chardyn.
Aric looked up and saw Lalitia staring at him, an expression of revulsion on her face.
Chardyn came closer, sitting alongside Aric on the couch. “You once told me that Aldania had been kind to you. Do you remember?”
“Yes. My mother had died, and she invited me to the castle in Masyn. She sat and hugged me as I wept.”
“Why did you weep?”
“My mother had died.”
“Your daughter died. Did you weep?”
“No.”
“Do you remember how you felt when your mother died?” asked Chardyn.
Aric looked inside himself. He could see the man he had once been and watch the tears flow, but he no longer had an inkling why the man was crying. It was most peculiar.
“You were right, Aric,” Chardyn said softly. “You did lose something. Or, rather, Eldicar Manushan stole it from you. You have lost all understanding of humanity, compassion, kindness, and love. You are no longer human. You have murdered a woman who loved you and agreed to the killing of a child you adored. You have taken part in an unholy massacre that saw the brutal slaying of Aldania, who was kind to you.”
“I … I am immortal now,” said Aric. “That is what is important.”
“Yes, you are immortal. Immortal and bored. You were not bored that day by the lake. You were laughing. It was a good sound. You were happy. No one had to die to bring you amusement. Can you not see how they have tricked you? They have given you longer life and yet removed all the emotions you needed to enjoy that greater life.”
Aric’s head was bursting. He pressed his hands to his temples. “Stop this, Chardyn. It is killing me! My head is on fire.”
“I want you to think of Zarea and that day by the lake,” said Chardyn. “I want you to hold onto it, to feel her tiny arms around your neck, the sound of happy childish laughter ringing in your ears. Can you hear it, Aric? Can you?”
“I can hear it.”
“Just before we all went inside, she was cuddling you. She said something to you. You remember?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Say it, Aric.”
“She said: ‘I love you, papa!’ ”
“And what did you reply?”
“I told her I loved her, too.” Aric gave a groan and fell back, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t think … the pain!”
“It is the spell upon you, Aric. It is fighting to stop you from remembering. Do you want to remember how it felt to be human?”
“Yes!”
Chardyn opened his collar and lifted clear the golden necklet he wore. A talisman hung from it, a piece of jade in the shape of a teardrop. Runes had been cut into the surface. “This was blessed by Abbot Dardalion,” said Chardyn. “It is said to ward off spells and cure disease. I do not in truth know if it carries magic or is merely a trinket. But if you are willing, I will place it around your neck.”
Aric stared at the jade. A part of him wanted to push it away, to ram his dagger into the bearded throat of the priest. Another part wanted to remember how he felt when his daughter told him she loved him. He sat very still, and then he looked into Chardyn’s eyes. “Help me!” he said. Chardyn looped the necklet over Aric’s head.
Nothing happened. The pain came again, almost blinding him, and he cried out. He felt Chardyn take his hand and lift it to the jade teardrop. “Hold onto it,” said the priest. “And think of Zarea.”
I love you, papa!
From deep below the pain came a rush of emotion, swamping Aric’s mind. He felt again his daughter’s arms around his neck, her soft hair rubbing on his cheek. For a moment pure joy filled him. Then he saw himself standing by the little girl’s bed, reveling in the theft of her life force. He cried out and began to sob. Lalitia and Chardyn sat silently as the nobleman wept. Slowly the sobbing faded away. Aric gave a groan and suddenly snatched up the dagger, turning the point toward his own throat. Chardyn’s hand swept up, grabbing Aric’s wrist.
“No!” shouted the priest. “Not this way, Aric! You were weak, yes, to desire such gifts. But you did not kill your woman. Not the real you. You were under a spell. Don’t you see? They used you.”
“I stood and laughed as Aldania died,” said Aric, his voice trembling. “I joyed in the butchery. And I killed Rena and Zarea.”
“Not you, Aric,” repeated Chardyn. “The magicker is the real evil. Put down the dagger and help us find a way to destroy him.”
Aric relaxed, and Chardyn released his hand. The lord of Kilraith rose slowly to his feet and turned to Lalitia. “I am so sorry, Red,” he told her. “At least I can apologize to you. I can never ask forgiveness from the others.” He swung to Chardyn. “I thank you, priest, for returning to me that which was stolen from me. I cannot help you, though. The guilt is too great.” Chardyn was about to speak, but Aric held up his hand. “I hear what you say about Eldicar, and there is truth in it. But I made the choice. I allowed him to kill a man to feed my vanity.
Had I been stronger, my Rena and little Zarea would still be alive. I cannot live like this.”
Moving past them, he went to the door and opened it. Without a backward glance he strolled out into the night. Climbing into his carriage, he bade the driver take him to Willow Lake.
Once there he dismissed the man and walked past the deserted villa and out to the moonlit shores. He sat down by the jetty and pictured again the glorious day when he and his daughter had laughed and played in the sunshine.
Then he cut his throat.
Lord Panagyn had always believed himself to be immune to fear. He had fought battles and faced enemies all his adult life. Fear was for lesser men. Thus it was that he did not at first recognize the trembling in his belly or the first tugs of panic pulling at his mind.
He ran headlong through the forest, his arms thrashing aside the overhanging vegetation, ignoring the twigs and thin branches that snapped back against his face. He stopped by a gnarled oak to catch his breath. Sweat had soaked his face, and his closely cropped iron-gray hair lay damp against his skull. Looking around, he was no longer sure where he was in relation to the trail. But that no longer mattered. Staying alive was all that counted. Unused to running, his legs were cramped and painful, and he sank to his haunches. His scabbard caught against a tree root, ramming the hilt of his cavalry saber against his ribs. Panagyn grunted with pain and shifted to his left, lifting the scabbard clear.
A cool breeze filtered through the trees. He wondered if any of his men had survived. He had seen some of them run, throwing aside their crossbows and trying to make it back to the cliffs. Surely Waylander could not have killed them all! It was not humanly possible. One man could not slay twelve skilled fighting men.
“Do not treat this man lightly,” Eldicar Manushan had warned him. “He is a skilled killer. According to Matze Chai, he is the finest assassin this world has seen.”
“You want him brought in alive or dead?” Panagyn had asked.
“Just kill him,” Eldicar had said. “Be advised that there is a woman with him gifted with far sight. I shall surround you and your men with a cloak spell that will prevent her from sensing you. But this will not prevent Waylander or any of the others from seeing you with their eyes. You understand?”
Hero in the Shadows Page 34