Desire's Sirocco (11 page)

Dagan’s shirt was plastered to his back, unknown filth turning his flesh cold and causing him to squirm beneath the despicable feel of it against his body. His arms were stretched wide, high above his head, his wrists manacled to the wall and the toes of his booted feet—though barely touching the floor—were beginning to experience wetness through the fine leather. His ankles were likewise chained to the wall so pulling his feet up was out of the question. Something cold ran down his hand and under the cuff of his cambric shirt. He was as uncomfortable as he could ever remember being in his entire life.

“May the Prophet deny you Paradise when you leave this world, Hagan Kiel,” he spat and pulled against his bonds, hissing loudly when there was no give to the restriction.

Only once before had he known the humiliation of being imprisoned, the terrible loneliness of being buried in the bowels of some despot’s dungeon, but then he had known Hagan would send someone to release him. It hadn’t taken his brother long to arrange his release, his rescuer paying the demanded ransom with one hand while plunging a sword into his abductor’s gut with the other.

“No man dares assault the brother of the Grand Master and live to reap his ill-gotten gain!” Brother Lexa declared a moment before lopping his enemy’s head from its dying body.

Only the Grand Master can assault his brother with impunity, Dagan thought, and who was there amongst the Brothers who would dare gainsay him?

Miserable, cold, and shuddering from the slime running down his raised arms, Dagan groaned. There would be no rescue from this situation unless he agreed to Hagan’s terms and that was something he could not do.

For Jameela’s sake, he dared not accept her to wife.

But why not, Dagan?
His inner voice cried out.

“The Law!” Dagan shouted. “The Conclave’s damnable law!”

The threat of tears stung Dagan’s eyes and he flung his head from side to side to keep them at bay. What good were tears against the might of the Conclave?

Memories slipped unbidden into his mind there in the darkness and though he tried with all his might, he could not keep those brutal memories from invading. They were always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to spring upon him when he knew a brief moment or two of happiness. They were forever popping up to remind him of his hateful past and the man who had robbed him of his manhood.

* * * * *

Tristan Kiel was the seventh Grand Master to ascend the gilded throne of Akhkharu. The seventh son of a seventh daughter as well as the seventh son of a seventh son he inherited the mystical powers of his mother and father and was sent to train as a Mage at the Monastery of Akhkharu when he was four years old, a situation unheard of until then. While he was at the Monastery, his uncles—including the Grand Master at that time—his father, and all six of his brothers before him were slain in the Great War at Menini. At the tender age of eight and too young to have fought in the war, Tristan had, by default, become the new Grand Master. He took to the authority of his position with a vengeance that startled his enemies and worried his supporters.

At twelve, he took his first woman. At fourteen, he killed his first man in hand-to-hand combat. By sixteen, he began actively seeking a woman for his chosen.

“She must be a virgin, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and her beauty must be unequaled!” he demanded of his Chancellor. “I will pay a kingly ransom for such a lady!”

Though his generals feared the task was impossible, they sent emissaries throughout the nine kingdoms, searching for a girl who fit the Grand Master’s desire. In the miniscule principality of Kabal, they found what they were seeking.

Invernise Bejhena was fourteen years old, a nun at the priory in Kabal. It was her Prioress, the head of her Order, who sent word to the emissary that the woman he sought was housed there.

“The monies from the ransom will do much good for the Sisters,” the Prioress was heard to chortle.

Despite the heavy scarlet robe that covered her from neck to toe, the wimple over her head to hide the glorious blonde hair, around the neck to hide that swan-like beauty, and over her shell-like ears, her exotic beauty stunned the emissary. One look into her warm blue eyes—the color of the summer sky—took the man’s breath away.

Though the young girl screamed and fought, she was taken against her will to Lalssu Keep and there she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she despised.

“Give me a son and I will let you go back to your precious nunnery,” Tristan vowed.

It was said Invernise wished the demons upon Tristan Kiel and prayed nightly that his soul burn forever in the Pit. When—after four miserable years as the Grand Master’s Lady-wife—she discovered she was with child, she thought the end was in sight. She would thrust the son of the fiend from her body then leave Lalssu Keep forever.

She did not count on loving the babes that came from her womb or having a great desire to protect the second born from his father’s insane wrath.

“Twins!” Tristan shouted with displeasure. “I asked for one son, not two! What will I do with the other?”

The Bishops of the Order were consulted for never had there been a dual birth in the history of Lalssu. The Law was firm in regard to the order of siblings, the firstborn son of the royal family of Kiel was given the throne of Grand Master; younger sons were made Lords and given regiments of their own and vast holdings of property, but no real power within the Conclave. On this, the Brothers of the Conclave were adamant. Female children were handed over to whomever could afford their bride price then promptly forgotten.

It was decided amongst the Bishops that the second son must be slain. To allow him to come to maturity, to possibly make an attempt to wrest the throne from his brother, the rightful heir, would be unwise. Had that not been the cause of the Great War at Menini? Had not Grand Master Tristan’s own father rose up against his brother and tried to take the throne?

“Treachery runs in the Kiel family,” the Bishops proclaimed. “We can not allow another war.”

Upon hearing the Bishop’s verdict Invernise was beside herself with terror. She flew to her husband’s throne room and there prostrated herself before the great man. With tearful entreaty—her beauty even more pronounced in her grief—she pleaded with him to spare their child, promising Tristan she would see that the boy never vied for the throne.

“You can not make such a promise,” Tristan sneered. “And if not him, then a child of his body could make an attempt to take what is Hagan’s!”

“Send him to a monastery then but let him live!” she begged.

Despite his firm intention, the tearful pleading of his Lady-wife moved Tristan. Her beauty struck such a chord in his black heart, strummed such a delicious melody on his libido, he relented and made a decision that would come back to haunt him many times over.

“Will you be content if I let him live but make sure he will never have a child of his loins to rise up against Hagan?” he asked.

Unsure of her husband’s meaning but relieved to see he might relent she eagerly nodded. “Aye, Milord. I will do whatever you say if you will but let my Dagan live!”

And so it was that Dagan Kiel suffered for his father’s paranoid fears.

And Tristan Kiel suffered for his foolishness for in the thirteenth year of his favorite son’s life, the boy’s fall from his horse ended the Grand Master’s majestic dreams. While the ignored son grew into a strong, vibrant, lethal warrior, the favored son kept to his bed or was paraded about in his rolling chair—an invalid for the world to pity. As Dagan matured into a man the Brothers admired and trusted, Hagan was barely tolerated and even then reluctantly by men who looked to Dagan for leadership.

* * * * *

“For what good it did me, Father,” Dagan said aloud, pulling on his bonds once more.

There was no doubt in Dagan’s mind that his father—frying in the Pit to which his mother had no doubt consigned him—regretted his decision before his painful, lingering death. A month before his demise, he had called his younger son to his bedside and had spent hours on end teaching him the Magic he had learned at the Monastery of Akhkharu, thinking he was passing on ancient secrets to a son whose seven by seven by seven birthright had already instilled in him knowledge far beyond his father’s ken.

Though Tristan Kiel never uttered an apology to his son, his last words had helped to blunt the hatred Dagan bore his father.

“You are the true ruler of the Conclave, Dagan. It is your brawn and sword hand the Brothers will follow. Never forget that,” Tristan whispered then laid still, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his sunken face.

“He sees the fire,” Invernise stated with a secret smile. “Soon he will feel its embrace.”

With that said, Dagan’s mother turned and walked from the room. Within the hour, she would be on her way to the Priory and the life she had left behind twenty years earlier. Never once did she doubt her eldest son would allow her to leave Lalssu Keep.

Hagan had been the only one to weep over his father’s cooling body. The new Grand Master would keep a silent vigil while those around him planned the grand state funeral that would lay the seventh Grand Master to rest. Now and again, he would look to his twin, needing the support Dagan always had at the ready.

“You are my right hand,” Hagan broke his silence to say. “I am going to need your help, little brother.”

“I will do whatever you tell me to, Milord,” Dagan agreed.

Thinking back now on that conversation, Dagan sighed heavily. His word had always been his bond and he had prided himself in never going back on a promise. He squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the anxiety pumping through his heart.

The scrape of metal against the stone floor made Dagan open his eyes. He heard heavy footsteps coming down the steep steps that led to his cell and breathed a sign of relief. It couldn’t be Brother Qutaybah coming to gloat. No doubt it was the Master Executioner Verial coming for his answer.

As harsh lantern light blinded him, Dagan looked away from the brightness, squinting.

“Have you reached a decision, Lord Dagan?” the Master Executioner barked in his gruff, bass voice.

Dagan looked around, still squinting and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man who had put the fear of the Prophet in many a prisoner’s soul. Verial was holding the lantern up beside his large, round face and the shadows cast that scarred visage into a nightmarish apparition.

“What did His Grace tell you?” Dagan asked.

Verial shrugged. “If you do not agree to His Grace’s orders, I am to take you to the post,” he said flatly. “I would regret having to do so but I will lash you until you agree to do as you were bid.”

Dagan shuddered—more from the thought of being whipped with Verial’s cat-’o-nine than from the slime that oozed into his armpit.

“And if I should die while you’re whipping me, Verial?” he had to ask.

The Master Executioner sighed deeply. “I would regret that even more but orders are orders and I follow mine, Lord Dagan.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “So, what’s it to be?”

Dagan knew his decision had been made long before the guards had brought him to this vile place. He knew Hagan understood that, as well. It had simply been a lesson in who was the true Grand Master and who the servant.

“Tell him I agree,” he said, then quickly added, “but under protest.”

Verial nodded. “I don’t know what you’re agreeing to, Lord Dagan, but it’s good that you did. I would not like to strip the flesh from your back.” He lowered the lantern and turned to go.

“Wait!” Dagan called out. “Aren’t you going to unchain me?”

Verial never looked around. “No, Lord Dagan. I was told to let you stew until an hour before His Grace’s Joining then I was to take you to the baths and let the stewards dress you.”

“How soon to the Joining?” Dagan yelled for Verial was already out of sight.

“Three hours, Milord,” Verial yelled back as he banged the door behind him.

“Three hours?” Dagan whispered, shocked. He slumped in his bonds. “Three hours,” he repeated.

The sound of Hagan’s laughter drifted through his mind.

Chapter Seven

Jameela’s tears had ceased but the blood from her hands still oozed as she tiredly struck the door behind which she was locked. Brother Qutaybah’s sneering face was emblazoned in her mind’s eye as she pummeled the door again, smearing scarlet upon the wooden panel.

“Because of you he is being lashed and may well die, slut!” the Grand Master’s Chancellor had gloated when he had come to tell her of Dagan’s arrest and removal to the dungeon.

“Let me go to the Grand Master!” she had pleaded. “Let me explain!”

“There is nothing you can do, bitch!” Brother Qutaybah sneered. “The die has been cast.”

Sinking to her knees, she crouched beside the door, her forehead dropped to her raised knees. Her fists were buried in the fabric of her robe, her long hair spilling like silk to the floor. In her heart, she knew if Dagan Kiel’s life were forfeit because of her, she would follow him soon to the arms of the Gatherer.