Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness Read online

  Aisling hesitated, speeding along the path of her thoughts, playing the probabilities to their inevitable ends. Better to be coy and give him a glimpse of her playful, insolent wit—which he expected at some point, no doubt—or play loyal and risk him thinking her false? That was a simple enough answer. “The entirety of the future of the Sovereignty hangs upon Cyrus Davidon’s armored cod, no doubt,” she said, putting just enough of long-suffering resentment into the statement to make it ring true.

  “Girl!” Shrawn said sharply and rapped her across the cheek with his staff, just hard enough to ring her skull but not enough to leave a mark. “Your impudence does you no favor.”

  “No one does me favors,” Aisling said, holding her stinging face, “I have to do all the favors, it would seem.”

  “And you will continue to,” Shrawn said and turned his staff toward the door, hitting it twice with a knock that echoed through the air.

  “I—” Aisling began, but the doors snapped open and stopped her mid-thought.

  A small parade of people made their way into the parlor, a spectacle she had half-expected. He has to re-assert his authority, to kick me back into line. There is no way to do that but to hang the threat over me, once more, for the first time in over a year.

  Two guards brought forth a dark elven man in tattered rags, manacles binding his hands and feet. Their chain mail rattled with motion, their swords were sheathed with no threat in sight. With practiced hands they shoved their prisoner into the room, and then to his knees, with an air of theatricality, a showcase for the cruelty of the house in which she stood.

  Aisling let her carefully concealed expression break through with genuine horror. It was not hard to summon. “Norenn,” she whispered, as though the whole theatrical exercise was a very great surprise to her, unexpected in every way and deeply disquieting in the ones that mattered to her host. She kept her eyes off Shrawn, focusing them on Norenn, even though she did not want to look upon him. Not like this.

  She dropped to her knees, not having to work hard to summon up the desire to do what a lover would do for the man she cared for. His face bore fresh bruises, and she suspected that Shrawn had long planned for this moment, for her insolence. Freshly clotted blood hung in dark blue patches under his eyes and nose, and as she brushed his face with delicate fingers he flinched, squinting at her through a badly swollen eye. “… Ais?”

  “It’s me,” she said, letting fright and joy shoot through her words as she knelt and touched him for the first time in over year.

  “Oh gods, Ais,” he said, breathing hard, as though the simple act of movement were a labor, “I thought you were dead. You were gone so long …”

  “Not dead,” she said. “Just away for a while. I wouldn’t … wouldn’t leave you here …”

  Norenn’s swollen eye darkened. “You should. You should le—”

  A hard whack to the back of the neck with Shrawn’s staff crumpled Norenn, and Aisling let an automatic “No-o!” escape her with little effort. She felt it inside, truly, but on a deeper, more complicated level. She let only the horror and fear shine through, now, keeping the relief that he was still alive hidden within—along with her satisfaction that she’d judged Shrawn correctly and that other trifling emotion.

  “This is the carrot and the stick,” Shrawn said, brandishing his staff. “Faithful service and success will be rewarded, insolence and failure punished.” He jutted the end of the stave in her face. “Cyrus Davidon. You will write me a full report and give it to Verity, a full disclosure of your entire year away and all that happened, with as much excruciating detail as you can recall. Make it a diary, plausibly denied in case it is discovered, something frilly and heartfelt, but lacking not a whit of even trivial detail.”

  “Yes,” Aisling said, letting herself sound suitably cowed. “I’ll do what you want. Exactly what you want. Just … please …”

  “I see you remember your place,” Shrawn said, nodding. “See that you do not forget it again, lest I am forced to remind you in a harsher and more permanent way.” He snapped his fingers. “Sareea: Have him healed.”

  Bastard, Aisling thought, letting the tears fall freely as she let the hard wood floor bite into her knees with its unyielding hardness. You beat him before you came in. You were going to showboat him in front of me even if I’d been perfectly submissive and well behaved.

  The dark knight Sareea stepped into the room and over to Aisling, sliding both her daggers back into her scabbards, unasked. That done, she grasped Norenn by the upper arm, half-dragging him out of the parlor, the guards following behind as the dark knight did her cruel job. Norenn, for his part, struggled to keep up with the woman in armor. The only sound was the shuffling of Norenn’s shoeless feet as his manacles clanked and he tried to keep his balance. There was a soft thump as he ricocheted slowly off the wall. “Stupid shite,” Sareea Scyros said, loud enough to be heard as she dragged hard on Norenn’s arm and produced a yelp.

  “Are you clear on what needs to happen next?” Shrawn asked, clasping his staff in front of him like a ward.

  “I will go to Cyrus Davidon this very night,” Aisling said, bleeding all life out of her tone. He wants absolute submission, and I can give him at least the appearance of that. “I will seduce him and enter his trust, and never let go of him until ordered otherwise by you.” She gave her voice the inflection of a broken thing. It was something she had perfected in Luukessia, listening to the voice of the Baroness Cattrine in moments of absolute desperation. A new tool that Shrawn hadn’t heard from her before.

  “Very good,” Shrawn said, sounding only mildly satisfied. “Verity … take her forth.”

  “No,” Aisling whispered, already reconciled to much worse than this. “I … just a moment with Norenn, please …” She threw out the plea knowing that it would almost certainly go unheeded. He’ll be fine, she knew.

  “His death will not be swift if you do not obey,” Shrawn said, expression darkening. And so he asserts his authority once more.

  “I know,” she said, switching to pleading. “He is … broken of mind. He knows not what he says, what he faces … but I do. I do.” She nodded swiftly, for emphasis. “You have been … truthful in all your dealings with me, and I know you will honor our pact.” To this she added hope, though from where she drew it within, she did not know.

  “I will honor our pact when your task is done,” Shrawn agreed, with just a moment more hesitation than he should have had.

  “I will go,” Aisling said, her head hanging, as Verity stepped to stand next to her. “I will do as you have asked immediately.” She made herself sound hopeless, will-less, and the wizard wrapped an arm through Aisling’s own, as though they were going to skip merrily together through a field.

  “Do not leave me room for doubt in this matter,” Shrawn said, “for it would be costly to your friend, whose life and well-being I know you value.”

  She nodded, calculating that saying nothing was better than any feeble words added to the fire at this point. Verity, for her part, raised her staff and muttered something under her breath as the swirls of magical energy began to roil around them.

  This was the hardest part, Aisling knew, watching the magic rise, knowing she was set to disappear but keeping her head firmly down, her last emotion tight within her while Shrawn was watching, while Verity could see her. She did this thing, though, stiffening the muscles in her neck so that she could not look up without pain. The storm raged within her as the magic passed before her eyes, striking the vision of Shrawn out of her sight and replacing it with the fields of Perdamun, with a vision of Sanctuary, glistening, a tower of light in the distance.

  Aisling stood there next to the wizard—the spy—with her head still bowed for a long moment after their arrival, not trusting herself to give a performance worthy of what she needed to accomplish. No, not yet. Not until it passes, until I contain it. I haven’t had to hide it, not like this … not in a long time.

  “You have a jo
b to do,” Verity said stiffly, but still, Aisling kept her head down, and did not say anything.

  Let her think I’m mourning my lost freedom. Let her think I’m cowed into inaction. Let her think anything, anything … until I can …

  She pictured the pit in her mind, saw herself at the edge, in a fight. There she stood, on the very lip of an abyss, warring with her quarry, a wild, furious one, hissing, angry, spitting and thrashing. She pictured herself putting a dagger in her foe’s belly, stabbing it over and over until the fight bled out of it and she could move the arms out of the way. Then she drove her blade into its heart, over and over, until the eyes glassed over, and the rage died, along with the rest of her enemy.

  She saw the furious purple eyes fade, and knew them to be her own. Shrawn is not my enemy, she thought.

  I am my enemy. Control yourself. Control your fury.

  She lifted her head, the hot anger turned to cold and dropped unceremoniously in the pit with all the other feelings she could not allow. She knew it lived, though, growing more frigid by the day, hiding in her belly, waiting to strike.

  “You should be going,” Verity said, tapping her foot in the dirt with impatience.

  “Yes,” Aisling said quietly, under control at last. She took a step toward the guildhall and made it look like it was the hardest thing she had ever done. The heat had subsided from her face, and her breaths came slow and resigned now as she let the weariness of days of battle wash over her, take her over.

  “You won’t seduce anyone looking like that,” Verity said at her back.

  “I’ll be ready when I get there,” Aisling said, trudging back toward the towers in the distance, toward the curtain wall with its dark gaps in the places where it had been broken open. “I’ll have to be. I’ll make myself.”

  “Glad I’m not in your boots,” Verity scoffed, walking a dozen paces behind her.

  “They’d be tight on you,” Aisling said, devoid of almost any feeling. She heard a slight grunt behind her and allowed the hint of a smile. If she were seen, it would be expected after such a snippy comment.

  And I can only allow what is expected, for now. Because … Shrawn is not my enemy.

  Fury is my enemy.

  And I will beat my fury, mask it, bury it, let it grow cold with the rest of my anger.

  Because Shrawn is not enemy.

  Shrawn is a dead man.

  And only my raging, indignant fury can defeat me in this endeavor.

  The smile she allowed herself was sincere. She thought carefully about the death of her hot, raging fury, and the colder, calmer form of it settled in instead, awaiting the moment where she could release it to do its work, satisfying that desire for vengeance that had been growing, unfettered, in that pit in her mind for years.

  6.

  Terian

  The carriage rattled away from the portico covering the Grand Palace of Saekaj’s main entry, Terian’s mind racing far faster than the giant spiders that pulled his coach. I just landed myself another chance with the Sovereign—should I be thrilled or disgusted about that? He wavered, thinking it over, and ultimately landed somewhere between the two, a practiced cynicism washing back over him.

  “You did well,” Malpravus said, a surprisingly soothing quality in his voice. He leaned against the hard wood seat. “I was not certain you would be able to pull yourself out of the jaws of death, and yet you managed. I suppose I should not have underestimated your facility with making yourself sound different than the courtiers and suck-ups that the Sovereign is accustomed to.”

  “Yes, it’s surprising how little anyone tells the God of Darkness the honest truth of things,” Terian said. “It’s as though they want him to grow like a mushroom in the dark.”

  “I wouldn’t go too far in airing these opinions of yours,” Malpravus said, putting his fingers together. “There is certainly a limit to how far total honesty will get you in Yartraak’s estimation, to say nothing of the others in power in Saekaj.”

  “Well, as I’m apparently the only one exercising it in his presence,” Terian said, “I think it’s my best interest to remain as close to the truth with him as possible, lest I lose all value.”

  “I would be cautious if I were you; better to lose value than your head.”

  “I suspect that my loss of value would be followed by the loss of my head.”

  “A precarious position,” Malpravus said, “but at least you realize it.”

  “Yes,” Terian agreed, “I’m dancing on the edge of a blade, and if I fall, I’ll split asunder. What fun. Serving a Sovereign whose generals have led him into a series of defeats that are …” he paused, looking at Malpravus. “How bad are they? With tonight’s loss in the plains considered?”

  Malpravus looked at him shrewdly before answering. “Untenable.”

  “Define ‘untenable,’” Terian said, a ripple of anxiety running through his chest, leaving his breath feeling as though it stuck in him. “Do we have enough soldiers under arms to maintain our current conquests, or will we have to surrender territory?”

  Malpravus focused his dark eyes ahead, toward the wooden wall of the carriage. He considered his answer for a space before saying, “If our current manpower levels remain the same, we will not be able to hold the line to the River Perda or continue our advance on Reikonos.”

  “What about Goliath?” Terian asked. “Can’t you—”

  “We have our hands full at the moment,” Malpravus said with uncharacteristic sharpness. “We are the bulk of the magical army that keeps the ‘Big Three’ in check on the Reikonos front. I remain uncertain how long we can maintain our strategic edge in that location given our losses.” His lips stretched into a smile. “Though I do have an idea of how to, shall we say, allay some of those concerns.” The smile faded. “There are, however, elements I have yet to work out in the execution of this plan.”

  “It appears you were in error; I’ve returned to a land where hope is near lost.” Terian shook his head. “Sovar is on the brink of uprising, yes?” He waited for Malpravus’s nod. “More battles than we can fight, more territory than we can hold, and an army that I’m guessing has dragooned more people into service than Saekaj and Sovar can safely afford to give.”

  “To say nothing of the lack of provisions,” Malpravus added lightly. “Expect a starvation diet to begin soon, with the winter at its end but no significant level of outside crops to reach us this year.” He paused and looked to Terian. “Last year we liberally raided the Plains of Perdamun for their goods to answer our need. This year, no such source exists.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Terian said, the weight settling on his shoulders like he’d put on eight pairs of pauldrons. “If Sovar starves while we’re feeding our army, that spark you’re looking to extinguish is going to light up pretty damned fast.”

  “I am all too aware, my boy,” Malpravus said. “I am in constant consideration of the problem, I assure you. This defeat at Sanctuary is perhaps the tinder upon which the fire will begin that will consume us all.”

  “Not enough spell-casters to conjure bread?” Terian said, and Malpravus shook his head. “The Great Sea—”

  “The Sea is dying,” Malpravus said. “Surface farms are producing more, but the bulk goes to Saekaj and little falls through the cracks to Sovar; even the bones of animals are being handed off to the servants in Saekaj for their families. With no new conquests since our gains last year, the flood of treasure and supply has slowed to a bare trickle.”

  “Well,” Terian said as the carriage rattled to a halt, “‘untenable’ was the right word, then.”

  “Cheer up, dear boy,” Malpravus said without expression, “more is still ahead of you.”

  “Why is that cause for cheer?” Terian asked.

  “Look out your window,” Malpravus said, and Terian did, catching sight of a squat building, only just inside the gates, carved out of the rock with little ornamentation.

  “We’re in the front of the city,” Terian said, sh
rugging, “where the least favored perch. Why—” He froze, the cold reality crashing in on him. “Here?”

  “Here,” Malpravus agreed. “This is your family home now.”

  “Lucky me,” Terian muttered. “Then my mother—”

  “Lives here, yes,” Malpravus said coolly.

  “By herself?” Terian asked. “Because this sort of residence wouldn’t suggest much in the way of help—”

  “There is another,” Malpravus said, waving at the building, which housed probably four apartments in its walls, “but you should see this for yourself.”

  Another? Terian wondered, his eyebrow inadvertently rising. Is it … Kahlee? Why would she leave her family?

  “Go on,” Malpravus said, using a nearly limp, bony hand to wave him away. “We will talk more tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to … settle in.” He looked straight ahead, but that smile pursed his thin lips once more.

  “All right,” Terian said, a cloud of suspicion resting on him like a smoky fog on Sovar during the days of chimney clogs. “I suppose I’ll see you on the morrow, then.”

  “Yes,” Malpravus agreed as Terian closed the door behind him. “Good evening.” With a tap against the wood, he stirred the driver into motion, lashing the big spiders that pulled the carriage. Terian watched them go, disappearing under the phosphorescent cave ceiling’s dim light. The carriage turned a corner out of sight, and Terian surveyed the building before him with disgust.

  How far we have fallen, he thought, eyeing the common door that gave access to the building. It was built up on a stoop, hinting that there might even be a basement, which would be the least favorable housing within. Whoever lives there is scant days from losing all grip on Saekaj and their citizenry therein; they could be in Sovar tomorrow even without committing any error at all.