Fathoms of Forgiveness (Sacred Breath, Book 2) (28 page)

“Oh, dear,” Aazuria remarked. “She is enjoying this.”

“I didn’t know she was such a stellar actress,” Trevain said, obviously impressed.

“It is a tad bit overstated and vulgar, don’t you think?”

Queen Amabie approached the couple to add her opinion. “How authentic!”

Vachlan could not sleep. He had pretended for several hours, while listening closely to his wife’s tranquil breathing. At some point, he had turned to face her, and he was surprised at the content expression on her face. Her shackled hands were folded close to her chest, and there was even something of a smile on her face. He frowned. She had won. She had taken everything that he had thrown at her, and she had not broken. He could not throw anything more, because somehow, torturing her was torturing him much more. He had never experienced this psychological rebound before—she was a perfect mirror. Every injury he caused her was reflected into his own mind and magnified. He was not strong enough to continue doing this.

Three words echoed in Vachlan’s consciousness like an annoying tune he could not shake away.
Kill the Girl.
It would not be a difficult task, and he knew that it was necessary; it was time. It was the prudent thing to do. His employer had requested it.
Kill the Girl.
He had dozens of compelling personal and professional reasons to carry out the order.

Just why did she have to look exactly the same? No one had hair as red and wild as fire. It was impossible. Even while she was sleeping, quietly dormant due to her body’s need to heal the damage he had inflicted upon her, her hair still announced her indomitable life-force. It was completely unviable for Visola to ever look peaceful, or shy, or anything resembling demure. She had probably been born fierce, maybe wailing out a battle cry and pounding her newborn chest. Even then, covered in placenta and gore, he imagined that she had been gosh-darn pretty. Being covered in blood had never taken away from her beauty. It was a look that not many women could pull off—and not many women ever tried, especially in Elizabethan England. Vachlan found that he had risen to rest on his elbow to better examine her. He also found that he was lifting himself off the ground and moving closer to her.

Just why did she have to smell exactly the same? Her natural scent blanketed him like a familiar place—like a garden he had walked in as a child. He had very much enjoyed strolling through gardens. He observed the gentle curve of her lips, wondering if she could possibly be comfortable when her body was broken in a dozen different ways. Was she really relaxed, and possibly amused?

Yes, she was. It was part of what had made life with her so easy and enjoyable. Nothing fazed her—not really. Even if it did, she quickly overcame it, pushing it down to a place where she could watch her woes from a distance, and deal with them on a higher, unaffected level. People considered her carefree due to the seemingly frivolous way she responded to even the worst of situations, but he knew this was not true. He knew that she felt things as deeply as those who were overwhelmed, but unlike them, she was able to function perfectly under duress.

Just why did her lips have to tempt him so? She was deeply asleep, and perhaps she would hardly notice if he… no. His instructions had been clear.
Kill the girl.
He did possess a tiny slice of respect for his employer. He had
zero
respect for Visola, the woman who had betrayed him! Zero. His head nodded to emphasize the thought. This, of course, was what he had been trying to convince himself for centuries. The truth was that he had more respect for Visola than anyone else who breathed. The
utmost
respect; he held her above anyone who walked the earth or swam the waves. No one lived each day with more honor, and no one held their head with more pride. In protest for her sister’s life, he had watched her rip her guts out, and he had loved her a little more.

Her bold defiance only rendered her more endearing. How could it be that she had betrayed him? His Visola—his beloved wife who he knew to possess the most undying, unconditional loyalty possible—how had
she
stooped to do what she had done? There must be some reasonable explanation. All he needed was that explanation, so he could finally forgive her. Had she been threatened? Had she been forced? Had King Kyrosed leveraged her sister’s safety over her head, just as Vachlan himself had done? It was no great secret that Sionna was the general’s weakness. Anyone with a twin could be easily controlled by virtue of that umbilical attachment.

Why did she refuse to tell him the truth? What horrible secret was she keeping? Did she not know that if the situation had been beyond her control, he would pardon her? He just needed to know. His eyes had not left her lips. They were slightly parted in sleep, and he watched them thirstily, begging for a stray word to escape. He could have stared at her lips forever, just waiting for an accidental crumb. There would eventually be some leak in her resolve, right? She could not maintain complete control of her body at all times, and surely she would make a mistake and utter a word in her sleep. Had she ever spoken in her sleep? He strained the channels of his thought, trying to remember. It had been so long. Usually, they had fallen asleep together once they had exhausted each other. They had always been competitive in every aspect of their lives—who could stay awake the longest? Who could love the longest? Now, apparently, she was being competitive again. She had made the rules of the game inside her head, and as long as she did not speak, she was winning.

It drove him crazy not to hear the sound of her voice. How did she know precisely what would disturb him the most? For he was disturbed. He was angry. The bitch had cheated on him. She had been his whole world. Visola Ramaris had been the one good thing in his entire existence. She was his Firebird; the choice that he had been proudest of making. She was the one woman alive who was not terrified of him, and of the things he had done. Instead, she admired him, and she was intrigued by him. She respected him as much as he respected her. She should have known that her actions would destroy him, and send him back into the dark madness in which he had always existed. She should not have disgraced him! She had made him into his personal laughingstock—had inspired myriad monologues of relentless self-loathing. She had done the unthinkable; she had allowed their
enemy
to lie with her. She should be groveling. She should have spent every minute of these past few weeks groveling. Was she not ashamed or remorseful? She had ruined him, and now she lay there sleeping blissfully with a smile on her face! How dare she not grovel?

He had to end her. She was still unhealthy for him. If he forced himself to remember all the horrible events he had squirreled away to the back of his mind, he would gain the gall to do it. He used to brag about having the testicles of dragons, and he was sure he could find them again. Vachlan closed his eyes in meditation.

The outline of the man that caused all this began to etch itself into his mental canvas. The majestic long white hair and beard, typical of the monarchs of the undersea, began to materialize. The brilliant azure eyes were framed by an abundance of wrinkles from undeserved laughter. Kyrosed Vellamo had been an imposing fellow to look upon, and Vachlan often wished that he had never done so. Even greater was the mistake of listening to the king’s honeyed lies, so perfected to a mathematical precision, like the arts he had encouraged his daughters to learn. Those lies had coaxed him halfway across the world.

“When was the last time you were with her?” King Kyrosed asked.

Vachlan frowned. “Why do you ask that?”

“I’m sorry. I guess that was too personal. I was just wondering.”

The king toyed with the royal ring on his finger in a gesture of mock nervousness. Vachlan glared at the king’s hands, and fantasized about chopping those fingers off. Visola had hated Kyrosed Vellamo more than anyone. Yet she had chosen to be with him? How had this happened? Why had this happened?

“You were just wondering about the last time that I slept with my wife?” Vachlan asked.

“Yes… well, it’s just…” Kyrosed paused, and seemed to be thinking of how to phrase things most eloquently. His royal shoulders raised in a delicate shrug. “She only recently discovered her pregnancy, and you were away in India for several months, so naturally I wondered…”

“You wondered what?” Vachlan asked, approaching the king. He stared into the man’s sickeningly blue eyes. “You wondered what!”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

She had been carrying another man’s child. There was no doubt about it. Everyone had been insinuating it. The whispers and looks of pity were too much to bear. With Visola away, leading her own campaign, she was not there to speak with personally. There was only a message she had left with Naclana saying that she wished to meet him in Zimovia. What did she need to tell him?

“Well, you know they’ve been fighting recently,” Naclana said, sipping on his drink.

“Fighting?” Vachlan exclaimed. “Viso and Zuri have been fighting? What on earth would get between those two?”

“King Kyrosed, of course,” Naclana said. “I don’t really know the details, but I heard his name coming up a lot. Princess Aazuria kept mentioning a matter of honor, and Visola kept saying that she couldn’t face the truth…”

His mind had filled in the blanks, twisting everything into the shape he least wanted to see. Every night he had seen it in his nightmares, over and over: Visola betraying him, Visola laughing at him, Visola taunting him. Now, King Kyrosed stood before him as clear as day. The older man arched his white eyebrows and fixed Vachlan with a smug smile. “Sorry, lad,” the king said. “When you have true power, you get used to taking what you want. You don’t think about the consequences. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Vachlan shook his head, not wanting to respond out loud to the phantasm of his nemesis.

“Are you afraid that she looks like me?” King Kyrosed asked mockingly. “Is that why you have never seen her? You’re only half a man, Vachlan. You ran—you ran like a scared little mouse.”

He glared at the ghost. He knew the truth! He had seen it in every inch of Kyrosed’s haughty expressions. He had heard the hints in every syllable, in every morpheme, and in every silence. He turned away from Kyrosed’s apparition to look back to his wife. Vachlan knew that he would be wise to kill her now. He observed her lying on his cot, completely vulnerable. It was not his style to kill someone when they were at their most vulnerable, but perhaps it would be merciful for Visola to die in her sleep, with the trace of a smile on her face. She would never see it coming, and she would not have a chance to hate him. He would do as Prince Zalcan had ordered. He would kill her.

“That’s right,” King Kyrosed whispered in his ear. “You always knew it would come to this. We have to punish women when they’re unfaithful. Teach them the ultimate lesson and show them who they’re dealing with. You and I were never forgiving men, were we?”

When Kyrosed placed a hand on Vachlan’s shoulder, he shrugged it off angrily.
I am nothing like you!
His thoughts were racing. He knew that Kyrosed was not really behind him, and he closed his eyes tightly to wish the specter into oblivion.

“Look at her! She’s not even remorseful,” the king continued. “She thinks she’s better than you. She’s superior, and the rules don’t apply to her. She’s a woman, and she can do whatever she likes—she can hurt you if she likes. You brainless clown. Quit delaying and do what needs to be done.”

Vachlan found himself reaching for his sword, which lay on a pile of cloth and blankets. When he saw the blankets, he could not help wondering if Visola was cold, and considered covering her with one. The thought happened before he could control it, and with his sword clutched tightly in his hand, he reached for a blanket. He lovingly arranged it over his wife, tucking the corners around her with trembling fingers. He mentally insisted to himself that this was his final humane, sentimental act. He returned both hands to the hilt of his sword.

While torturing her, he had used odd and unconventional instruments, but this was different. She deserved an honorable and swift end. He swallowed, lifting his sword.
She doesn’t even deserve that,
King Kyrosed’s voice sneered in his mind.
She cuckolded you. Visola doesn’t deserve a kind quick end—why don’t you wake her up and let her watch? Do it slowly and have some fun?
Vachlan shook his head to clear the voice away. He hated that voice, and had no idea why it would not leave him alone. He would behead Visola, and he would do it cleanly. It would be over, and it would stop haunting him. He could forget her, and forget all hope of forgiving her, and he could live the remaining centuries of his life in peace.