Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (24 page)

‘O
nly a brother could know me so well,’ Mihale’s lover said, her voice husky with desire.

Mihale, poised above her, felt his strength grow. ‘Khatrene,’ he groaned, and blindfolded, searched out her lips that he might kiss her hard and wipe from his mind any doubt that this was his sister who lay beneath him. The voice was so close a match that small differences in softness and stature could not convince him that this was any other than Khatrene to whom he clung.

‘I ached for your arms in Magoria,’ she said, and touched him with such intimate knowledge that he knew they were meant to be together.

‘Do not speak, but kiss me, sister,’ he said, and finding her lips again, he savoured the sweet taste of her tongue which wove around his in a dance of such blatant desire he struggled within himself to decide which welcoming cavern held the greater pleasure. Her hands on his body were strong and then delicate, teasing him with bursts of pleasure that seemed to rush him towards glory, then slowed to prolong the exquisite agony.

Mihale had never known such bliss, and neither had he known such self-deception. Yet having tasted its fruits, he would not give it up. Such feelings she awoke in him. Such passion. Such madness. Barely an hour ago, a courtier had mentioned The Light’s child, and hearing her name spoken in conjunction with The Dark, Mihale had found such jealousy within him, he had straight away fled to his chambers where
she
waited, to satisfy him that his sister joined only with her King.

‘Touch my hair. Is it not pale?’ she whispered, and he fingered the soft strands, careful not to dislodge the cap, as he had once done to both their disappointments.

‘Paler than my own and twice as soft,’ he breathed. His blindfold was a saviour and a curse.

‘Love me now and do not speak,’ she said, her breath warm and redolent with the nesdai that she loved. Moulding her lithe body to his own, she whispered words of tenderness and admiration that hastened the glory he had only newly discovered; first, and clumsily with a kitchen maid Sh’hale had procured, and now, with her whom he loved above all others. The one who had taken his torment and made it joy.

‘Mihale … brother …’

He felt her own tender bliss, and in the moment that she clutched him and trembled tightly against him, he felt the bursting of his own passions, and groaned against her lips as the out-flowing robbed him of strength.

‘How does my royal brother feel?’ she crooned before her warm lips found his own. His hands moved on her nape as the pleasure warmed within him again. ‘We two are one, and there can be no better joining,’ she whispered.

‘Stay with me always,’ he said, when he could speak.

‘I will obey my King,’ she replied in his sister’s voice, pressing closer to his body as though to stave off the moment when she must become someone else.

Mihale shook his head. ‘Khatrene …’ he said, tears in his eyes.

‘Shhh. I will bring you a calming drink,’ she told him, and he reluctantly opened his hands. Ghett saw that they were trembling and wondered if doubling the quantity of the stimulant prescribed by her master had harmed the King.

She slid from his arms and his bed and went to his dressing chamber where she had secreted the potent aphrodisiac The Dark had given her to administer to both The Light and her brother the King. Particularly in the King’s case, Ghett had been careful to ensure he only ever received it on retiring, which guaranteed that evidence of its presence would be gone before a Guardian could detect it. This was easier now that she shared his bed.

Having successfully poisoned the Elder Sh’hale and left his son to believe it was his plan, and not her Lord The Dark’s, Ghett had not demurred when her Be’uccdha Lord again requested her services. A blend of herbs ground with strands of The Dark’s own hair created a potion which made him irresistible to his bride-to-be. Ghett had been giving Mihale these same herbs ground with a strand of Khatrene’s hair since the day of his sister’s betrothal. Exactly as The Dark had predicted, the King’s infatuation with his sister had become an obsession, which in turn had pushed Khatrene more firmly towards her new husband.

Now that The Dark’s objective had been obtained — his child growing within The Light — Ghett was not required to drug the King further. Yet on her return to the Volcastle she had resumed administering the aphrodisiac for her own purposes.

Though The Dark’s esteem of her had grown and she would have received a just reward for her services, Ghett wanted more. As a lowly born servant, she could not aspire to marry a lord, yet there was a way for her to live as a lady. If she could remain in the King’s bed long enough to find his child in her belly, her future would be assured. The mother of an heir to the throne would be given servants of her own, gowns, jewels. Yet with Mihale’s heart now fixed solely on his sister, there was only one way for Ghett to achieve her goal. She must be that sister. The reward would be great, yet along this path lay danger.

Though none on Ennae had the gift of discernment to see the evil in her Lord, Ghett knew he desired the throne of Ennae and an heir to that throne would thwart his plans. Her own plans must be hidden most carefully.

Ghett stirred the potion and poured it into a goblet then paused to confront her reflection. ‘Khatrene,’ she addressed it, in the voice she had studied so carefully. Then she lifted her bleached fibre wig and peered beneath it. ‘Or is that you, Ghett?’ she said with a mock frown.

Ghett smiled at her reflection and spoke then in her own voice.

‘Little King. Little heart.

Sister tore it all apart.

Then fled to wed an evil man

and bear a child to rule the land.

Yet some will burn and some will drown.

But one child lives to wear the crown …’

So saying, Ghett rested a hand over her flat belly and her smile grew wider to reveal the sharp white teeth within.

T
alis strode towards the far corner of the castle where the Hightower entrance must be found, toward the place where he had seen The Light’s aura. No arguments rose against this wayward action. He simply followed his heart.

Unfamiliar corridors led him finally to the foot of the Hightower stairs, where the stones were of a coarser make and the floors bare. Even the lighting was of an inferior design. Thick, stunted candles dripped wax and spluttered noisily. There was a strange feeling to this part of the castle, an abandoned air that reminded Talis of the Volcastle dungeons.

Slowly, not knowing what he would find, Talis ascended the square stairwell on silent feet. Intermittent slots in the outer wall admitted feeble shafts of light, scant illumination for the dark stones underfoot. Near the top he heard a faint sound and became still, listening to the breathing of a man above him. He estimated the distance between them, and an echo told him it was most likely a guard outside a closed wooden door.

The Light kept apart in a guarded room? Talis frowned. For how long? And why? Was he not her Champion, sworn to protect her? Surely The Dark did not suspect him of ill intentions towards his charge? Unless …

Talis lowered his head, remembering the stilted conversation he had held with The Dark a bare hour before he had witnessed in anguish their joining in the Altar Caves. Did the husband of The Light suspect that which lay within her Champion’s heart? Was this the reason he had been cut from her life?

Despair ate Talis’s soul as he imagined a life without her. Yet what of Khatrene? Was she to suffer for her Champion’s sins?

That must not happen, Talis resolved. If The Dark wanted to keep her from being adored he must punish the criminal, and not the victim.

With this thought in mind, Talis turned to descend the stairs, intent on finding his host and begging leave to return to duty in the Volcastle. The Light would be well guarded by Mooraz until she chose another Champion. He would depart and her husband’s affection would return to her. Surely she craved this above all else.

Nearer to the bottom of the stairwell, Talis increased his pace and was almost to the corridor below when he was confronted by an armed guard.

‘You!’ the guard said and drew his sword, confirming Talis’s suspicions as to the motive for The Light’s confinement.

‘Do not speak,’ Talis said hastily, touching a palm to his assailant’s forehead before his raised voice alerted the guard above. In front of him, the man became still and stood awaiting Talis’s orders.

Orders Talis was not allowed to give if he was to honour the Guardian code.

A vision of Laroque came to him then, instructing his nephew that he must not control the minds of others lest the Guardians be suspected of leading the throne, a fate which would surely mean their death. Yet here Talis used the forbidden power deliberately.

‘You did not see me,’ he whispered, looking directly into the vacant eyes of the guard, trusting that his duty towards The Light justified any action. The guard nodded in reply, yet Talis felt unsure. Never before had he used this power, and to ensure all trace of his discovery at the Hightower was removed, he searched within the guard’s mind for remnant memories.

Once inside, his apprehension grew. Within this guard’s mind lay memories of The Dark and a heavily cloaked woman visiting The Light. Fear lay in the guard’s memories of this woman, yet Talis imagined she must be a healer brought to care for the health of The Light and her precious child. Outside the closed door, the guard heard nothing of what they said, yet after these visitations, The Light was heard to cry so wretchedly that even the guard was moved to pity.

Hearing this, Talis felt a renewed conviction that he must remove himself from The Light’s presence, thus ensuring the return of the happiness she had shared with the husband she loved.

‘You did not see me on this stairwell,’ he repeated to the guard, who nodded slowly. Then, when he should have taken his leave, a reckless longing caused Talis to add, ‘Though if I should come to take the watch from you tonight, you will speak of it to no-one and make as though you held the guard yourself.’

Again the guard nodded. ‘I will obey,’ he said, his voice as empty as his eyes.

Talis nodded and withdrew his hand, gazing at the silent guard, wishing his own heart would obey him as readily.

T
he Elder Sh’hale had ordered his sick bed moved into his courtyard garden, yet even the heady fragrance of his beloved lorthen flowers could not extinguish the stench of approaching death that hung upon him.

Kert would not come. A secret petition had been sent to him at the Volcastle and a decline had been returned. It galled the Elder that he must die without his firstborn present, yet what retribution could he bring upon his son that would not harm his House? Neither was there any advance to be made in the area of the throne. The Elder’s dreams would be unrealised, for though Kert had inherited his viciousness, the boy was without ambition and appeared content to Champion a throne he could have possessed.

The Elder’s daughters, married off quickly to rid him of their presence, would happily come to fawn over him, dabbing perfumed kerchiefs to their noses as they smiled prettily and strove to curry his favour. Yet he would not have them.

Better to die in honest loneliness than to fill that void with false love.

Friends? He had none. Acquaintances?

Barrion of Verdan would come and not show him a false face. Perhaps he would even offer some jest to ease his passing. A dry, trembling smile touched the Elder’s lips as he remembered offering Verdan his youngest daughter in marriage. How that barrel chest had resonated with laughter. ‘I am too young,’ he had cried, though he was twice Kert’s age at the time.

‘My Lord, a man comes.’ His steward’s voice broke this idle reverie and the Elder struggled to open his eyes. ‘He bears himself like an old friend, and comes —’

A guttural cry cut this speech short, followed by the sound of a body falling. It was a noise the Elder knew well.

‘Friend or foe?’ he called softly, his fading vision of less use than his sharp ears.

Footsteps to his right, a step into the soft earth of the garden, perhaps skirting the body, then a crunch onto the pebbled walk. The Elder saw only a garden full of shadows, one of them moving.

‘Which would you have me be?’ the intruder asked, his voice deep and tantalisingly familiar. ‘I am yours for the naming.’

‘Executioner, I surmise,’ the Elder replied, feeling relief at this visitation. A quick end would, after all, be a welcome respite from pain. And his death must be so near that a day earlier would make little difference.

‘Yet questions will be asked, and answers given,’ the voice said, and again pebbles crunched underfoot.

The Elder fought to move his head yet lethargy still gripped him.

‘I am known to you,’ the deep voice went on. ‘We have shared the battle brotherhood.’

A warrior then, voice strong from shouting across the battlefield. Older than Kert yet younger than himself. Some accent to the speech, an inflection. Its shape was familiar, yet the Elder could find no recollection to match it.

‘Are we not friends if we have bled together?’ the Elder asked.

‘You have no friends, Sh’hale,’ the warrior replied. ‘You have drowned their love in bitter dregs.’

‘Yet you come to me,’ the Elder, countered. ‘You come to honour my passing.’

The pebbles crunched again. Closer. ‘I come to attend your passing.’

‘This and more, I’ll warrant.’

‘There is a reckoning to be made,’ the warrior allowed.

‘I am on my death bed, and you come to punish me for past misdeeds.’ The Elder coughed, to give evidence of his pitiful state, and then wished he hadn’t. Sharp pain stabbed him low and he could not halt the moan of pain that bubbled from his lips, foaming the blood his spasm had ejected. Its sharp, metallic taste scoured his tongue.

‘If you are the one I seek, there is not time enough to punish you for what you have done,’ the warrior said, and for the first time the Elder heard malice in his voice. ‘Yet the length of your ailment consoles me. You have suffered much.’

‘Indeed, I still suffer,’ the Elder replied.

‘I wish that I could prolong your suffering,’ his executioner said. ‘But I fear it is at an end. Still, before you die you will admit your guilt to me.’

‘In what matter?’ the Elder replied. ‘There have been so many evils committed.’ He grimaced a smile, knowing it would be full of rotting teeth and blood.

‘Kill a king and steal his throne,’ the voice said, closer now and yet still a blur without details the Elder could discern.

‘You have found me out,’ the Elder whispered, even his voice failing him now. ‘For the good of Ennae I wanted to take his throne —’

‘And for that you will die …’ the warrior said.

The Elder felt cool air as his adversary flipped up the quilt and uncovered his naked form. Even then he could find no will to move. Death was upon him and he would face it with courage.

‘No more will you conspire with our enemies in the north,’ his executioner hissed.

The Elder’s resolve faltered. ‘Northmen?’ he said, confused. He had conspired to put Kert on the throne to
protect
Ennae from the barbarians at the north. Not to ally with them.

Cold steel pressed against his throat and with a final effort of will, he focused on the large blur above him. A face loomed near and in that moment, clarity of vision came to his eyes. ‘You!’ he croaked, and flailed on the soft bed. Yet to no purpose. There was no escape from the strong arm that wielded that sword, and with the turning of a wrist, his attacker opened the Elder’s neck. The sting of that wound barely penetrated the Elder’s pain, yet he felt the warmth flooding his chest, sapping the final remnants of his mortality. ‘You … were … dead …’ he gasped.

Roeg shook his head. ‘Not while vengeance lives in me, Sh’hale,’ he said, gazing down at him with hatred. ‘And now that I know who the true villain is, I will not rest until your House is destroyed.’