Chaos (2 page)

It rushed the source of the sound and pain only to strike against an enormous, dying tree. Friedrich struck again with the whip, over and over, keeping it disoriented, angry, and in pain. Then he began to murmur words of magic, the power thrumming through him.

But it felt different. Hot. Almost too hot, as though he had thrust his hand into a fire. Friedrich recoiled from the rush, struggling to break free of the vision, but he was trapped in it, trapped in the past as he witnessed, firsthand, the killing of the Sentinel.

The Sentinel shrieked as the spell struck, a sound like hundreds of nails scraping glass. Friedrich's mind screamed in helpless agony, but the body in which he was trapped showed no reaction. He simply coiled his whip and put it away, then drew his sword and rushed the writhing, suffering beast.

Friedrich plunged the sword into the creature's eye, all the way down to the hilt. The body thrashed and shuddered, then lay still. Bracing his foot on the Sentinel's snout, Friedrich yanked his sword out and cleaned it in the snow. He sheathed it, then checked over the Sentinel, removing a leather glove to place his hand on the beast and assure himself directly that it breathed no more.

Light gleamed in the dark, a small rainbow on the man's right ring finger. Friedrich stared at it and his world exploded in a painful assault of colors and countless fates.

Friedrich screamed in agony. Stumbling back from the pool, he fell over and cracked his head, but still the assault would not stop. He sobbed in agony as the light and colors washed over him, drowned him, threatening to break his mind entirely—

Beloved, hold fast to me.

Drache, Drache,
Friedrich said desperately, clinging to that dread voice he could not live without.
Save me, Drache.

I will always save you, beloved. Come to me.

Whimpering, sobbing, Friedrich let Drache have his way and slumped unconscious on the obsidian floor of the Hall of Vision.

"Fritz."

Friedrich opened his eyes, shaking with relief when he no longer saw the Hall of Vision or that terrible cascade of endless possibilities. Instead, he saw only the familiar place where he always visited Drache. A dream, only a dream, but more home to him than the walls in which he lived.

It was a temple, or something like that, with beautiful white marble for the floor and roof. Four pillars were all that held it up. There were no walls, just open space allowing him to look down at the ground far below and stare out for miles at the bright, beautiful landscape beyond. A soft breeze carried the sweet scent of flowers and fresh air.

He wore dark violet robes, though they were not the heavy, ornate robes of the High Seer, but a bed robe loosely tied with a silver cord. Friedrich sat up in bed and stared at the man who stood at the far edge of the large room, staring down at something far below.

Like Friedrich, his skin was dark, the rich gold-brown of topaz. But he was taller than Friedrich, more slender, and instead of a smooth, shaved head, he had bright gold hair bound in a braid that fell to the floor. His chest was bare, and he wore a loose wrap around his hips, the rich dusty lavender color of the fabric complimenting his skin.

The man turned. His features were beautiful with the barest touch of delicate prettiness to them. He smiled warmly. "You haven't come to see me in a long time, Fritz. I've missed you."

"Pardon me if I prefer to avoid these more detailed conversations with the voice in my head," Fritz groused and moved to the edge of the bed.

"You know I'm more than that," Drache chided.

Fritz shook his head. "I don't know what you are, except a problem. If anyone finds out I hear a voice in my head, they'll throw me out and replace me."

"Would that be such a bad thing? High Seer hardly makes you happy."

"I was born to See," Fritz said stiffly. "I like Seeing." When he didn't have to See someone die, when the visions didn't make him sick, didn't depress him. He wished more happy fates came to his Sight.

Drache wandered over to him and planted his hands on his hips, long braid falling sinuously over one shoulder as he stared down at Fritz. "I said High Seer hardly makes you happy, not that Seeing does."

"I don't hate it, I just hate the sorrow," Fritz said. "So much sorrow should be tempered. But I can only See what fate gives me." He looked up at Drache, drinking in the vision he made, the beauty and the warmth of him.

Whoever, whatever, Drache was, he made the aches and the pains go away. He soothed something in Fritz, made the world bearable again. But only in the recesses of Fritz's mind—recesses so deep that even dreams could not reach.

Though in the waking world Drache drove him mad—someday, he feared it would be quite literally—in the safety of his own mind, Drache soothed away the pain. Drache knelt before him and settled between his legs, arms braced on Fritz's thighs as he tilted his head up. "What did you see, beloved, that almost broke you?"

"Chaos," Fritz said softly, shuddering at the word. "Too much, too many, impossible to see all, impossible to see just one. I didn't know what to do, couldn't stop it, couldn't control it."

"No, chaos cannot be controlled, only guided by fate. Night and day, life and death, chaos and order. One does not exist without the other, and neither should be greater than the other."

Fritz stared at him in horror, fear running through his veins. "Blasphemy."

"Truth," Drache said. "You saw chaos for yourself."

"It was out of control, in need of taming. People need to know—"

"People need to choose," Drache cut him off. "But you did not come to me to argue, beloved. You came here to heal. Let me soothe you, ease you, restore you."

Fritz sighed softly and let his fingers slide into Drache's soft, gold hair as Drache leaned up far enough to bring their mouths together. He smelled like sunshine on one of the rare clear days that Schatten enjoyed and the wildflowers that grew along the bank of an icy brook. He smelled like the home Fritz had not seen in twenty-odd years and tasted like a hundred memories from that same lost place.

He clung to Drache, going easily when Drache rose and pushed him back onto the bed, that warm mouth gliding along his skin with a familiarity that spoke of having done it a thousand times. Drache knew every place to nuzzle, to lick, to bite down hard or to nip lightly. He pushed Fritz's clothes away with the ease of a thought, his own wrap discarded even more quickly.

Their bodies fit together easily as he pressed Fritz deeper into the bedding. His braid tumbled to one side. Fritz wrapped it around his hand, tugging lightly and drawing Drache down into a long kiss that allowed him to explore every crevice of Drache's mouth, losing himself in the feel and flavor of his imagined lover.

It was for the best that being a priest generally meant a lonely life and that being High Seer guaranteed it. What real lover could ever compare to Drache, who was everything he needed and craved.

Fritz slid his mouth from Drache's delectable lips, tasting the skin of his jaw, his throat, before Drache pulled away to put his own mouth to work down the length of Fritz's broad body. "Relax," he whispered against Fritz's chest, looking up at him through lashes as golden as his hair, his eyes a rich, royal purple. "I said I would take care of you. Let me."

"I don't think it's possible to relax when you're doing that," Fritz said, but he lay back on the bed, hands resting on the blankets on either side of his head, and gave up doing anything beyond surrendering all the noises and pleading words that Drache wanted, groaning loudly when that hot, knowing mouth slid over his cock and took him deep, rendering him incapable of doing anything, but losing himself to Drache.

No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, no matter how much he drank to drown it out, the voice that had whispered to him since he was a child got through to him, pulled him under over and over. An invisible friend as a child, a dream lover once he was old enough for such things.

He could not live with Drache in his head, but he would rather die than go a day without him.

Fritz thrust up into Drache's mouth, crying Drache's name as he came. He whimpered softly when Drache took his mouth and pushed slick fingers inside him. When Drache finally pushed inside him, the fear and panic that had driven Fritz into the dark of his mind in search of peace finally washed completely away. His world narrowed to the soft bedding stuck to his back with sweat, the warmth of the skin beneath his fingers, and the fluid movement of the muscles beneath. They smelled of wildflowers and sex, and nothing felt more natural than the way he rose to meet every thrust, the way Drache pushed in deep, the sting of his biting kiss as Drache came and drove Fritz over the edge once more.

He woke with a cry, choking on a name he dare not speak lest someone ask questions. Friedrich lay in bed, cold, trembling, aching. His hand was bandaged and the uncomfortable fog of medicine clouded his mind.

The room was dark, but thin beams of light snuck in through the edges of the tapestry over the window. The smell of wax and smoke was sharp:  a candle must have recently gone out. Friedrich threw back the blankets, damp with his sweat, and strode to the tapestry, pulling it away to let in dull, gray morning light. At least, it seemed like morning, but he supposed it might be evening. Without the sun and Citadel bells, it was hard to say.

Leaving the window, he went to his wardrobe and pulled out fresh clothes. Someone had filled the pitcher at his wash stand, and Friedrich poured the water into the bowl along with a sliver of rough, gray-ish colored soap.

When he was scrubbed clean and felt reasonably awake and aware, he dressed:  small clothes followed by a black wool under robe over which he pulled the heavier, dark purple robe embroidered with geometric designs in white, silver, gold, and light purple thread at the cuffs, along the bottom, and around the edge of the hood.

He folded the right flap of the robe over the left, small, hidden hooks holding the fabric in place. He cinched it with a belt of heavy purple and gold fabric. Into a hidden pocket went the master keys and around his neck went a circle of prayer beads carved from amethyst and onyx. Pulling on sturdy black ankle-boots, he finally felt ready to face the questions he knew were waiting. The visions that caused him to pass out never failed to garner interest and cause his priests concern, even if it was a not uncommon occurrence.

He opened his door and was not surprised to find his way blocked by a guard—one of about thirty sorcerers kept at the temple for security reasons since not everyone was able to hear and accept their fates with grace. Every priest bore the scars of the anguished and enraged. Friedrich had been punched, kicked, bitten, shoved, and on three occasions, stabbed or slashed with his own knife. People could be alarmingly quick when they were in a panic.

"High Seer," the guard greeted, turning to face him. He sheathed his sword and bowed, deferentially touching his forehead, which bore a black diamond. The mark of sorcerers; it appeared when a person came of age and had the strength to wield magic. "I am happy to see you are well."

"Thank you," Friedrich said. "Where are the men who came to see me?"

"They were given quarters and await your summons."

"Summon them, then, and bid them come to me in the library. The Master Seer, as well," Fritz said and walked off after the guard had bowed.

The great library of Unheilvol was enormous, taking up the entire back half of the temple, with the archives extending into special rooms below the temple. He trailed through the stacks until he came to the section he wanted, touching the mark on his forehead and then the symbol carved into the archway that prevented any but he from passing.

With a soft shimmer of permission, the protective seal let him pass, and Friedrich wandered the shelves of restricted religious texts. Only the High Seer, the High Sorcerer, and those of greatest and deepest devotion could read the blasphemous texts upon the shelves. Books written by nonbelievers, by those corrupted by the whispers and lies of chaos.

Chaos led only to tragedy, for people were not capable of shaping their own lives. Fate was necessary for the good of all, and fate was a matter for the gods. Anyone who said otherwise was blasphemous and not to be tolerated.

Fate should be tempered by chaos, and chaos should be tempered by fate,
Drache said.

If you cannot say something reasonable then be quiet.

It is not that I need to watch what I say; it is that you need to learn to listen.

Shut it.
Friedrich yanked a book from one of the shelves, an old book of Seeing that had some useful points despite its flaws.

Agreeing with me is never a flaw.

Yes, it is,
Friedrich retorted.

He read through the chapter he sought, then read sections of five other books before he gave up, resigned that he had seen exactly what he feared. The sound of footsteps followed by that of someone clearing his throat drew his attention, and Friedrich slowly left the restricted area to join the sorcerers and Karl.

"High Seer," Karl greeted. "I am glad you are all right. You slept a day and a night. We feared you would not recover."

"I've slept longer," Friedrich dismissed, though those instances had been when he was still an acolyte. "Unfortunately, I have no good news to share. You will take my words to the High Sorcerer at once. A stranger in our land slew the Sentinel and I Sense he will continue to kill them, though I did not See why. What I did see was chaos—"