Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (15 page)

AFTER THE PRIVY Council, Torg called for a carriage and rode with Laylah to
Boulogne’s
. By then it was near dusk and time for another meal, but neither had much of an appetite. Accompanied by sadness and dread, they sat side by side and drank Tugarian nectar. The other customers—Tugars mostly—kept their distance. Even the gregarious Burly left them alone.

To Laylah, it felt as if she and Torg had fallen off a cliff. For a few more moments they would be alive together, but inevitably they would strike the ground. Though riddled with strife, their brief time together had been lovely, nonetheless. Now the approaching storm, which until then had been just rumbles in the distance, was clearly visible on the horizon. They could ignore it no longer. Doom was upon them.

“If we’re to run, it needs to happen now,” Torg said, his barely audible words seeming to come out of nowhere.

In response, Laylah emptied her goblet with several robust swallows and then refilled both hers and the wizard’s. “It is not in your nature to abandon your people or your friends,” she whispered back. “The Tugars and Jivitans need you here. You are their only hope. Besides, we both know that running would be futile. Sooner or later Invictus would find us, even if we sailed across the ocean.”

“If we fled far enough away, it might take him years to find us. At least we would be together until then.”

“If we performed such a selfish deed, we would no longer be who we are. You would be racked by guilt, and I would be ashamed that I forced it upon you. No matter the stakes, we cannot run—even if it costs us everything.”

“You say this now, and I agree,” Torg said. “But how will we feel if he enslaves you again?”

“If you still live, I will wait for you, regardless of what he does to me. If you do not, then I will take my own life. Perhaps we will meet again in a better place than this. Peta has indicated as much.”

Torg’s eyes filled with tears. “I want you now
 . . .
”

Laylah also began to weep. “I know, beloved
 . . .
but what can we do?”

Suddenly, Burly was standing between their chairs, as if he had been eavesdropping all along. “I could take you both to Kincara,” the enchanter said. “There are places to hide in my forest that even Invictus would find difficult to uncover.”

Torg sighed. “As Laylah said, we have responsibilities here that transcend our own well-being. I am a king and cannot abandon my people. And as far as I’m concerned, Laylah is their queen.”

Laylah wiped her eyes with a cloth and then drank more wine. She felt herself becoming despairingly drunk, but at least it dulled the pain.

“Let me take Laylah, then,” Burly said. “The Gillygaloos will protect her as if she were
our
queen.”

“No!”
Laylah said in a voice so powerful it shook the heavy wooden table, casting cups, bowls, and spoons onto the floor and shocking the rest of the room into silence. Then her voice returned to a whisper. “Where Torg goes, I go. If Torg stays, I stay. My mind is set—and
nothing
will change it.”

Ukkutīka was next to make a surprise appearance. He took Laylah’s hand and kissed it. Then he turned to Torg and bowed. “Lord, let it be known that the Tugars will defend Queen Laylah to the death. If she is taken, it will not be before the rest of us have fallen.”

Laylah blushed, but Torg’s face grew grim. “Do not voice such words again,” the wizard said. “You will do as I order
 . . .
nothing more, nothing less.”

“My apologies,” Ukkutīka said. Then he bowed again and left the room.

With lingering anger, Torg watched him depart.

“Beloved, he meant well,” Laylah said, stroking his cheek with her hand.

“I must lose you and my people?”

“Nothing is guaranteed,” Burly said. “The queen and her white horsemen are strong. You and the Tugars are strong. And you are not without allies. Though we are outnumbered, we are not yet defeated.”

Now it was Laylah’s turn to sigh. “Mala’s army is great, but it is Invictus we fear the most. As long as he exists, all living beings on Triken are in peril.”

“And perhaps beyond Triken,” Torg said.

Burly held up his magic wand, which was about the same length as the wizard’s middle finger. “Wait until Invictus tastes the fury of this,” he said, waving the wand above his head. Multicolored sparkles burst in the air between Laylah and Torg.

“Remind you of something?” the enchanter said with a wink. Then he added, “Deep beneath
Boulogne’s
, encased in cement as thick as bedrock, is a small room where I usually keep the oldest and most extravagant of my wines. Earlier today I ordered all but one of the casks removed and a large straw mattress put in their place. The room isn’t what you would call luxurious, but I believe it was built well enough to withstand an earthquake—several earthquakes—if you get my meaning.”

Laylah smiled at the charming little man, then leaned way down and kissed him lightly on his full, red lips. “Lead us, if you would. And could we bring some cheese and wafers with us?”

“A basket of food awaits you,” Burly chirped. “Didn’t I already say so?”

With torch in hand, the enchanter led them down a narrow stairway that curved as it descended. Burly hopped from step to step as deftly as a cat. How deeply they delved, more than two hundred paces, amazed Laylah. Who had built this? When and why? She had no idea.

At the bottom of the stairs they came to a stout wooden door. Torg swung it open, revealing a room that was small and dank but to Laylah, more luxurious than her chambers in Queen Rajinii’s palace. Besides the food and wine, Burly had arranged for several dozen candles to be artfully placed on the floor surrounding the mattress.

“If I can’t provide you a lifetime of safety, at least I can give you one last night to yourselves,” Burly said. “In the far corner is an even smaller room with a covered chamber pot.” He pointed toward the door. “Once you lower the bar, you will have privacy for as long as you like. The Tugars have already assured me that no one will bother you here.”

“Thank you
 . . .
so much,” Laylah said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Just being
The Torgon
’s friend—and
your
friend—is enough payment for a dozen lifetimes,” Burly said. Then he turned and scampered up the stairs without saying goodbye.

Laylah and Torg removed their clothing and placed them at the foot of the stairs. As soon as Torg barred the door, Laylah burst into tears. The enchanter’s generosity was in stark contrast to the peril she faced, and it opened in her a well of sorrow. Laylah almost collapsed, but the wizard caught her in his arms and lowered her onto the mattress. Then he held her for a long time, cooing and stroking her hair.

Though Laylah was already inebriated, she guzzled more wine. What did she have to lose? Torg drank even more than she, his furnace-like metabolism able to tolerate almost anything. When she told him that she was feeling dizzy and a little nauseated, he ran Obhasa over her torso and willed blue-green energy into her abdomen, evaporating the bloated pool of alcohol in her stomach. Instantly, she felt better, though it caused her to burp loudly on several occasions, emitting tiny clouds of blue-green gas each time. Both started to giggle.

Giggling led to tickling.

Tickling to hugging.

Hugging to kissing.

Kissing to
 . . .

The room was indeed well built, and it withstood several massive jolts, with just a few cracks to show for it. But the straw mattress, candles, cask of wine, and basket of food did not fare so well. By morning, Laylah and Torg lay fast asleep on the bare cement floor, their naked bodies entwined.

THERE WAS NOTHING left of Bard. Even his ashes had blown away. All that remained was a charred patch of grass next to the angry river.

“Barrrrrrrrrrd!” the crossbreed screamed. “I loves ya, I does! And I misses ya. My life will never be the same again.”

Ugga had never felt so alone. He sat cross-legged beneath the quarter moon and sobbed for a long time.

When he finally stood, how old he felt amazed him. Though he was still strong, his body hurt in a dozen places. His knees were the worst, but almost every joint seemed to ache, and the simple act of wriggling his fingers made him moan. The crossbreed wished the big battle would happen soon; otherwise, he might not be able to put up much of a fight. Elu and the others were depending on him. He would do his best not to let them down. Would his best be good enough?

Ugga shouted for Jord, hoping she would appear out of the darkness and make him feel better, as she had countless times before. But there was no response to his calls. No comfort would come tonight, from any source. Like the relentless march of time, the river roared by, showing little regard for the crossbreed’s peculiar brand of pain and despair.

Eventually, he slept beneath the stars, though his dreams remained troubled.

IN JIVITA, THERE was no lack of places to pray. More than one hundred cathedrals, a few of which were capable of seating ten thousand worshippers at a single service, were scattered throughout the White City. The
One God
deserved no less.

Among the most devout of
Ekadeva
’s followers was Queen Rajinii. She rarely went more than a day without attending a service somewhere within her realm. However, when she was most in need of her god’s strength and guidance, she preferred to eschew the pageantry of the massive churches and retire to a small chapel just down the hall from her royal chambers. Though barely the size of one of her closets, it nonetheless was her favorite place in the world. Even after she had been infected with Invictus’s sorcery, she had found comfort in the chapel. It was as if the Sun God’s magic could not reach her there.

Now that she was cured, her faith had grown stronger.

At the same time that Burly was leading Torg and Laylah down the stairway, Rajinii sat on a cushioned pew that faced a small round window filled with green glass. Beneath the window was an altar bearing a wooden cross mounted on a silver base. The cross was flanked by a pair of silver candelabrums each containing three white candles: one for courage, one for mercy, one for devotion. Otherwise the chapel was bare.

As was her wont, Rajinii whispered her prayers out loud.

“My God, though I am but a humble servant, I beg you to listen to my words. I do not pray for my own welfare. I care only for my people. There is grave danger ahead, and the white horsemen are in need of your assistance. Without your help we cannot prevail against the evil that marches our way. And if we do not prevail, many innocents will die
 . . .
or worse.”

Rajinii lowered her head and sat in silence, her silky black hair tumbling about her beautiful pale face. Her faith was strong, but it harbored shreds of doubt. Why had
Ekadeva
permitted Invictus to infect her? Had she strayed so far from his grace? And why did he allow the sorcerer’s army to plunder and cannibalize Nissaya? It was true that the defenders of the fortress were blind to the truth of
Ekadeva
, but they were not evil. And even if the black knights deserved punishment, surely
her
people did not. The
One God
could strike down Invictus and his army with a wave of his hand. Why not do it?

Rajinii knew what Archbishop Bernard would say: The will of God was beyond mortal comprehension. He—and only he—knew what was best for his servants. Besides, what were a few moments of suffering on Triken when compared to an eternity of paradise in heaven?

“Still,” she whispered out loud, “the children, the weak, the helpless. If we fall, they too will perish
 . . .
at the hands of monsters. If I possessed just a fraction of your strength, I would strike down our enemy—
thine
enemy—and bring peace to the world. Will you not give me a sign?”

Rajinii also knew what
The Torgon
would say: Their predicament was nothing more than a confluence of karma with a yet-to-be-determined resolution. Death would come to them all, painful or otherwise, regardless of the circumstances. Rebirth would follow, unless enlightenment was achieved.

“I prefer my beliefs,” she whispered. Then in her best impersonation of Torg’s voice, she said, “What does belief have to do with it? I have died
 . . .
and returned.”

Though she remained in the chapel until almost dawn, she received no sign from her god—at least none she could discern. When she finally departed, she felt sad and lonely. Henchmen came to her and bowed, but she waved them away. Surprisingly, she found herself wandering the hallways and eventually stopping in front of Elu’s door. Rajinii let herself in.

The Svakaran slept soundly in his large bed.

She slipped out of her robes and nestled in beside him. When Elu awoke, his eyes sprang open. “Shhhhhhhh,” Rajinii purred. “Shhhhhhh. Just hold me.
Please
 . . .
”

Long a widow, Rajinii had not lain with a man for many years. Now, on the eve of doom, she found that she needed the comfort only a man could provide her. Torg wasn’t available, so Elu would have to do. His body was small, but she discovered—much to her eventual delight—that not every part of him was diminutive.