Immortal Defiance

by Laura Maybrooke

  A slow smile spread across his face. “And may that never change.”

  She dropped her gaze in sudden confusion. Heat flushed her body.

  Krath tilted his head to consider her. “Why are you embarrassed?”

  “I- I don’t know.” The words got caught in her throat. “Can we not discuss it?”

  The vampire shrugged, but a corner of his mouth remained tugged upward. “All these centuries later, the Netherworld remains as much a mystery to me as it ever was. My skill to traverse it is unique. It is difficult to explain how it works, but it imitates the ghosts’ ability to pass between this world and the next. I have not always known how to do it, but I learned.”

  She frowned. “It sounds like… you bent the rules of space.”

  “Why, you catch on quick, my lady. I am impressed.”

  They were silent for another long moment until an irresistible opportunity presented itself again.

  “I have been meaning to ask you about your mirror image,” she said. “Why does it… look like that?”

  “Why does anything in this world take a certain appearance? I am no more qualified to analyze that to you than I am to explain my mirror image.” He sounded calm, unfazed. “A curse, perhaps? Or maybe an inner darkness that hates the light? The hungry spirit that animates the flesh eats it for nourishment? An image reflecting the emptiness inside me? It makes no difference, whatever it is.”

  She gulped. “I wonder if you might you be amenable to… stepping in front of the mirror for me?”

  “Yes, why not?” He nodded. “You needn’t fear. Whatever the mirror contains, it cannot harm you.”

  Dulcea got up. She did not wait for him, feeling self-conscious. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped in front of the mirror. Her image looked poised on its surface, despite the turmoil of her mind. Behind her a shadow slid into the pane, and although she had known to expect it, it still startled her. It looked strange, like a thick coat of ink splashed on the mirror’s surface, and yet it showed only where her own form did not hide it.

  “May I touch you?” Krath asked, his voice neutral despite the intimacy of the words.

  “W-why?” Dulcea’s cheeks pinked, but she kept her eyes fixed on his dark silhouette.

  “To show you what it looks like in the mirror.”

  She gave him her consent. The vampire moved a step closer, cool fingers pressing against her back. A shiver ran down her spine. Dulcea had not her elven chain mail on at the moment and was wearing only a tight piece of deerskin armor. His fingers burned through it like fire. Her body felt alert, responding to his touch with a heightened sense she had never experienced before.

  His hands traveled to her shoulders, and the shadow in the mirror devoured the tops of them in the glass. She had no time to consider it, however, for in the next moment his fingers slid to her throat. For the briefest of seconds, Dulcea had the absurd notion and fear of her head being severed from her body. Krath bent her head backward, against his shoulder. His lips landed on her neck, which she did not think a part of the agreement, but she found it difficult to think straight. She parted her lips in breathless wonder. He raised his head, leaning in closer to murmur something in her ear when the visitor bell sounded at the entrance to her tent. A few heartbeats later, a caller stepped in.

  The three-paned mirror stood in plain view, between the private and public areas of her tent. A visitor at the door had only to turn his head to see her. Because of this, Dulcea did her vanity in the cramped little room next to the cubicle where she slept, hidden from view by a row of wooden screens.

  Her distraction cost her. Precious seconds ticked by. Only her generals could enter her tent without invitation, and even they only when a crisis or an emergency had occurred. Otherwise they, too, were to wait. Her stomach twisted. Something must have gone wrong.

  “My lady, I—” Myoden trailed off, his posture stiffening as he noticed the stranger by Dulcea’s side. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had… company.”

  “Ah. The devoted friend, I presume?” Krath raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

  Dulcea blushed, more irritated than embarrassed, and stepped away from him.

  “Come in, general. My other visitor was just leaving,” she said, glancing at Krath.

  He made no move to leave, and the priest stood in the doorway unwavering like a statue until she agreed to introduce them to one another.

  “Myoden, this is Lord Krath. He is a local castle lord and an acquaintance of mine,” Dulcea said. “Lord Krath, this is my second-in-command: Myoden Eifhanonquel. He is a warrior high priest and the head of the healers at this camp.”

  “Yes, Lordanys’s chosen.” Krath bowed, although Dulcea was sure he only did it to mock Myoden. “I believe your lady has told me about you.”

  “Funny I’ve not heard about you.” Myoden’s face contorted, but he bowed all the same.

  The vampire shrugged. “Then I suppose you and your lady will have an interesting talk tonight.”

  Krath took her hand then, and before she could react, raised it to his lips.

  “Enjoy your evening, Lady Dulcea, and may the night of the Summer Solstice bring you good fortune. I will see you soon again.”

  The vampire turned, and to her intense relief he rather walked out of her tent than took the Netherworld exit. Myoden glanced at her with a dismayed expression.

  “Who was that man? What was he doing with his hands about you like that?” He sounded shocked. “It looked like he was… Oh, I don’t even know what that looked like! All I know is you were in danger of something.”

  “I am not having this conversation with you, general.” Dulcea sat down in her chair and waited him to take the seat vacated by Krath less than ten minutes earlier.

  The priest scowled. “I advise you caution, my lady. There are rogues among the nobility, too.”

  “Yes.” Dulcea raised her chin. “Wasn’t the greatest of them a man of our own racial lineage?”

  Taken aback by her icy, unfamiliar tone, Myoden stuttered a confused apology. Dulcea swallowed. Ashamed by her cross manner, she reached across the table and took his hand in hers. He started at it at first, but his bemusement soon melted away, and he flashed her a bright smile. He patted her hand with his free one.

  Dulcea sighed. “Forgive me, I am a little out of sorts today… Let us discuss my visitor some other time. I believe you must have had something urgent to tell me? Please do not keep me in suspense.”

  “Oh, right!” Myoden blanched, his eyes widening. He gasped for breath and withdrew his hands, rubbing his face. “I saw Nian just now. There’s… there’s a disaster brewing!”

  Her heart jumped in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  Why had Amparo not contacted her? A sudden memory of Krath’s hard body pressed against hers intruded on her thoughts. Dulcea pressed a hand to her chest, paling. It made no sense—unless it was she who had ignored the dragon, distracted by a vampire’s shadow on her mirror. Cold sweat broke out on her brow.

  “You remember Amorra? The little farming community that Hai’Mezene’s Hunters first suspected of hiding Delbin and his runaway accomplices?”

  “Yes.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Why? What happened?”

  “A local farmer, passing through Amorra on his way to do business with us, found his neighboring town in ruins.” Myoden’s voice cracked. “He found… nothing but death.”

  Her stomach twisted. “… What?”

  “He found not a soul alive.”

  “Plague?” There had not been one in a while.

  The priest shook his head. “No, murder. Women, children… everyone killed.”

  “That’s awful.” Dulcea’s clamped a hand over her mouth. “How could the Saruseans—”

  “No, my lady.” Myoden looked stricken. “They were ours. Our men.”

  Chapter 25

  The Truth Revealed

  It was what she had feared, deep in the dark recesses of her mind. One day the
war would overwhelm her.

  A sense of despondency had replaced the initial anger. Disappointment rather than outrage simmered in her blood. War was brutal, but until that Summer Solstice’s night, Dulcea had imagined the Caerynian rebel army a head and shoulders above the moral injustice the Saruseans so often showed.

  Soldiers sometimes plundered and pillaged on enemy soil, securing provisions for the army. That was how it had always worked. Dulcea hung her head and looked away in ashamed acceptance of such mercenary tactics, but she tolerated no crime. Violence against civilians was an extreme offense and often led to public flogging. Dulcea’s attitude and strict intolerance for any war crimes had kept the army-perpetrated violence to a minimum for many years.

  Apart from the infrequent floggings, temporary imprisonment, the stoppage of privileges, and the giving of unpleasant tasks were the most the generals ever had to deal out in punishments.

  Over a day later, the massacre at Amorra remained a complete mystery. There was no one left alive to tell the tale. Half of the village’s houses had suffered fire damage, although the Caerynian investigation team had discovered no one dead by burning inside the houses. Dulcea had visited Amorra in the morning, a sickening feeling in her stomach at sighting the ripped remains of a Caerynian war banner trampled to the ground. Among the deceased in the corpse pile there had also been soldiers from West Ford.

  The afternoon’s roll call found fifteen people missing from camp. They were a strange, misfit group of seven Silver Elves, one Wild Elf, two Mist Elves, and five Usvameerians with no clear connections to one another. The public consensus declared the deserters traitors, and the generals confiscated their remaining belongings to the army’s common use.

  The atmosphere at camp was volatile. Never had the Caerynian army leaders imagined such crime existed. The news about the slaughter spread through camp like wildfire, and soon no one was without an opinion. The people called for the capture and execution of the perpetrators.

  Dulcea shivered. The investigation, despite its distasteful nature, relieved her from Myoden’s inquisitiveness. She was unsure what the scene in her tent had been, and before she had made peace with it herself, she had no intention of discussing it with the priest.

  She knew Krath’s presence in her tent had shocked Myoden, and Dulcea could not blame him. Like she had told the vampire on his first visit: she did not entertain male guests in her tent, and Lordanys’s high priest knew that. His suspicion was understandable.

  From an unbiased point of view, Myoden’s concern was proper and even expected. He would not have been a good general otherwise. Dulcea blushed. She could not blame him, whatever he thought he had interrupted. The memory of Krath’s lips touching her neck, his breath cool against her ear as he bent her head against his shoulder… She could not forget it with ease.

  “I was not sure I would have you for myself tonight,” Krath said, sitting down opposite of her.

  “It has been a long day.” Dulcea looked up from her notes.

  “You must tell me if you consider me interrupting. I just wanted to see how you were.”

  She shook her head. “Tired. Irritated. Disappointed. Why must I—”

  He did not wait for her to finish. She wondered if she was that transparent.

  “Because you are the only one who can. You are their superior. Anyone lesser playing judge on their lives would only meet the people’s disdain. You cannot shirk your responsibilities. You must be strict.”

  Dulcea sighed, dropping her face in her hands.

  “I understand that. Disobedience, if disregarded, can transform into mutiny.”

  Krath’s tone was merciless. “… You should have expected it.”

  Dulcea rubbed her forehead. “How do you expect something like that?”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You read people, my lady. Nothing more mysterious than that.”

  They talked of quaint, trivial things—steering clear of the war. Krath’s company pleased her: it allowed her relief from the headache and heartache that was Amorra. The strange, captivating look in his eyes made her forget herself. Nervousness tickled her stomach. Dulcea yearned to ask him what he had been about to say to her the previous day, before that awkward interruption in her tent. She flushed and stammered but could not force the words out of her mouth.

  Something else came to mind. “Do you still recall your looks?”

  “What I would look like in the mirror, you mean?”

  “Yes. How do you hold on to a sense of self when there is nothing to gaze upon but a dark shadow?” she said. “I do not say that to sound vain, but it is the truth, isn’t it? How we look to our own eyes is a big part of how we see ourselves.”

  He smirked. “Well, why don’t you describe to me what you see—and I will tell you if it is as I remember.”

  Dulcea blushed, realizing she had talked herself into a corner.

  She scoffed. “I am sure you do not need me to tell you how handsome you are.”

  “No.” He grinned, the smile baring his fangs. “That is more to do with your own preferences than how I look.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that, Dulcea said nothing. Krath looked so different from Myoden. The vampire lacked the poise, finesse, and ethereal grace that were the epitomes of elven beauty. The warrior priest of Lordanys was the most handsome man of her acquaintance. He was everything an elven girl should have swooned over, and yet his good looks did nothing to heat her blood.

  Where Myoden projected more the image of a kind and gallant man, despite how flawlessly he could wield a pair of swords, Krath was all raw strength and carnality. She could not deny his attractiveness from a mere physical point of view, but it was his sharp wit and humor she valued. He challenged her intellect like no one else.

  Dulcea crossed her arms. “I recall now. This is how I have always looked; it is what you said, isn’t it?” She pursed her lips. “How can you be sure, by what means?”

  He shrugged. “Mirrors are not the only surfaces on which one may see themselves.”

  “… I suppose you mean paintings?”

  “Yes. Looking at the paintings of a talented artist is akin to finding yourself in a mirror. The image they show is flawed, though. It is an imperfect you. Like the mirror shows a reverse view, most portraits paint an idealistic vision.” He snorted. “Many artists seem to possess an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate: to paint what they think their clients want.”

  “These artworks that depict you… Do you think them much close to the truth?”

  “Some more than others. I have known some exceptional painters,” Krath said. “One of them once served at many a king’s court. He could flatter with every brush stroke but also paint the absolute truth.”

  “What was he called?”

  Many a great artwork had vanished in the wake of the Sarusean invasion—centuries of history painted on canvas destroyed, but some had survived. From what she had seen, many castles in Usvameer still housed sizable collections of exquisite paintings. Perhaps Krath, too, had once sat model for the same master.

  “He painted under many false names. He was a son of mine, you see. His brothers and I, we called him Mennova, as was his given name. The courts of Sraeyn, Avarea, Lavea, and Usvameer remember him by a different name. One decade it was this, another century that. Cosnell, Folturk, Grebrush, Migorn…”

  Dulcea smiled. “Migorn. That sounds familiar. I think they had some of his paintings at the castle of Yarnfall. Lord Erthann seemed proud of them.”

  “Yes. Mennova was much contracted there.” The vampire laughed. “Kind of ironic. Zedech, once the lord-to-be of that castle, was also one of my sons.”

  She bit her lip. “How many companions did you have? Any… females? Or just sons?”

  “Sons, seven of them.” He frowned. “No, pardon me. Eight. They were but seven when the demon had them killed, but it is eight in total I have sired.”

  “Were you all of a similar age?”

  “No, we were
a medley.” Krath shook his head. “There were a few of us around thirty. One who was not yet twenty, and Mennova was already in his fifties around that time. Then there were also two who because of their arcane studies and distant elven heritage looked younger than their years.”

  He fixed her with an almost audacious stare then—half sardonic and half provocative.

  “… I used to think it would be impossible to find a woman whose company the centuries would not dull.” His gaze was intense. “I no longer think so. You are exceptional. You have broken free from the norms that hold ladies like you. Maybe your example will embolden others, encouraging them to rise from the shadow of their husbands and other male relatives. However, none of it would ever have happened without a strong female leader. I have known thousands of women in my time. Some of them have been High Queens with some measure of independence, but most are just housewives, noble ladies, servants, or harlots.”

  She nodded. “It takes existing outside the norms of society to accomplish a break from it.”

  “That it does. Had you never gone to the White Tower in Sraeyn, you might never have seen the injustice in being a mere aristocratic wife.”

  “I always aspired to reach for the stars, but yes…” Her brow furrowed. “I think you might be right.”

  ---

  Something was different. At first, Dulcea thought nothing of it, despite Myoden and Nemnyan calling on her with flimsy excuses for a visit. It was only during the third subsequent evening as the situation repeated with even less subtlety, that Dulcea became suspicious. She was being watched.

  Her generals’ behavior was inexcusable, but there were more pressing concerns to mind. General Hai’Mezene’s Hunters had caught a deserter, sending West Ford into turmoil. The Silver Elf prisoner, traumatized by his part in the massacre and fearful of the hostile atmosphere at camp, could only tell a fractured story from the night Amorra fell.

  One of the missing men had seen a familiar figure accepting a letter from an unknown courier not long before Dulcea’s return to camp. That figure had been Delbin. The man had told the same story to The Hunters; Dulcea remembered him now. One of Nemnyan’s men, Dumark. She understood the smith’s recent agitation better now. The prisoner Mandriss, to his great indignation, had later overheard the truth about Delbin’s betrayal. The lie had incensed him, but it was the news from his cousin Farrach that led him to act. One night, after a few too many rounds of moonshine, Farrach had enlightened those gathered around the fire about his own eavesdropped secret. He had told his cousin and their mutual friends that someone had sighted the runaway elven captain in Amorra.