Into a Dark Realm (24 page)

Suddenly Valko felt an odd choking sensation in his chest. “I know,” he said. “And why do I feel this…strange…pain inside…I don’t know what to call it, when I think of Aruke.”

“It’s called regret,” she said. “It is one of many feelings long lost to the Dasati.” She looked out of the window at the setting sun, glinting off the sea. “You asked to whom I prayed. We have no name for that force, save ‘the White.’ We do not even know if it’s a god or goddess.”

“I thought they all were destroyed by the Dark One in his rise.”

“So the Deathpriests would have you believe. It is the opposite of everything embodied by the Dark One.”

“So many questions…” began the young warrior.

“And we have time, but first there are things you must know to stay alive.

“The White is used as a children’s bedtime tale, to frighten and gull, to lure Dasati everywhere into thinking it a myth of no significance, something you outgrow. This serves to make most Dasati disbelievers, and this ploy is far more effective than simple denial.

“Long ago the Bloodwitch Sisterhood ranked equal to the Deathpriests in Dasati society. The Deathpriest served all the gods, not just His Darkness, and the Sisterhood was more concerned with nature and the forces of life. Blood is not just something seen when you spill it on the arena sand, or on the battlefield, but the very stuff of life, pulsing through your veins. It embodies all the things that stand in opposition to the cult of the Dark One, and when he achieved primacy among the gods, we became anathema and were banished.

“The Bloodwitch Sisterhood has existed in secret for centuries, my son. We have served as best we can to stem the Dark One’s might.”

“To me, it seems you failed.” He sat back on the chair. “I know I am young, Mother, but I remember many things you taught me during the Hiding, and now I realize that you’ve given me many pieces to a puzzle. When they were put together one way it seemed one picture, but put together another way…”

She nodded and said, “A sage insight for one so young. You are the one expected, Valko of the Camareen. For generations the Bloodwitch Sisterhood has been waiting for one such as you, for there is a prophecy, one which no one outside the Sisterhood knows fully. Those like your father and Hirea and Denob who serve the White, they only know part of it. You shall be the first outside the Sisterhood to know it all.” She paused, as if thinking of the best way to begin, then looked at her son and smiled briefly.

“In ages past a balance existed, and all things were as they were meant to be. But to sustain that balance, a struggle was required, for as with all struggles, the balance would shift from time to time.

“When the forces of the Dark One rose, they were opposed by those who worshiped gods and goddesses whose names are now lost to us, for even knowing their names is forbidden.

“At the time of the Great Purging, every Dasati was given the choice to worship the Dark One or die. Many chose death because they knew life under the Dark One’s supremacy would be a life of hopelessness and despair.”

Valko interrupted. “But the Dark One has always been supreme…” He hung his head. “I spoke rashly.”

“It is what you were taught. And there were things I could not share with you while you were in the Hiding, against the risk you might say something to another child. So ingrained are these beliefs there were mothers who would have sacrificed their own children to alert a Deathpriest to what is considered blasphemy.”

Valko stood and walked to the window, shaking his head.

“We have much to discuss and much for you to learn,” his mother said. “In a week’s time you must invite the whole of the Sadharin here to celebrate your ascendance as Lord of the Camareen. Between then
and now you must come to fully understand what it is you must do over the next few years. For you have an opportunity never afforded any Dasati since the dawn of our race.”

Valko looked away from the window, his expression troubled. “This prophecy you spoke of?”

“Yes, my son. I will give it to you in detail, that and many other things you must learn. For if the prophecy is true, and we believe it is, soon change will come to the Twelve Worlds and we must be ready. We know one will rise to challenge the Dark One, and he will be known as the Godkiller.”

Valko’s face drained of color. “Am I…”

“No, you are not the Godkiller, my son. But you must prepare the way for the Godkiller.”

“How am I to do that?”

“No one knows.” She rose and came to stand beside Valko as the sun sank behind dark clouds hovering over the horizon. “Today was a beautiful day, but I think it will rain tomorrow.”

“I think so, too.” He looked at her. “What shall I do until I know my task?”

“Play the role fate has given you, as Ruler of the Camareen. I have sent word and sisters of mine will be slowly making their way here, some young and beautiful, some with young and beautiful daughters. All will be wise and all will know more than any other woman you will meet.

“You will father many sons, Valko, and know there are other sons of the Sisterhood who are rising to rule in their fathers’ stead, and when the time is at hand, when the Godkiller appears, we of the Sisterhood, and the men we love, we shall all rise up and destroy the Deathpriests and the TeKarana and his twelve Karanas and we shall free the Dasati people.”

Valko felt overwhelmed. His mind could barely encompass such a concept, let alone embrace how it could be achieved. The boy fresh from the Hiding, the child within, knew the TeKarana was supreme among mortals, blessed by His Darkness, and his armies ruled the
Twelve Worlds, and had crushed a dozen more over the centuries. This Empire had existed for more than a thousand years…

He put his arm against the wall and rested his forehead on it for a moment. “It is all too much.”

“Then we shall go slowly, my son. We shall dine and speak after supper, and then have a good night’s sleep.”

Valko took a deep breath and his head came up and he looked at his mother. “There is one thing I would like to know now, Mother.”

“What is that?”

With an odd sheen in his eyes, Valko said, “Tell me about my father.”

G
randy laughed.

The Prince of Roldem was drunk. It was the first celebration of any sort at which he had been permitted to eat and drink like his elders. And for a boy of fourteen a little ale went a long way.

The others were all two to three years his elder and the three boys from Sorcerer’s Isle had been drinking like men for nearly two years. So they, along with Servan and Godfrey, watched the young prince with thinly veiled amusement. Grandy had been safe from most of the conflict that afternoon, but Servan’s order for him to guard the fleeing wounded had given him a sense of participation far in excess of his real contribution, with as much gusto as the most battle-hardened soldier in the army.

They sat around a campfire a short stroll from the General’s tent, listening to the stories being told by the veterans of the short assault on the old fortress. The commander of the Holdfast Brigade saw the inevitable before him after the first flight of stones from the trebuchet collapsed one of his key defensive positions, and sued for surrender. As was the case with such quick and relatively easy victories, the stories got funnier as the night wore on and the ale and wine flowed. Eventually, the last of the veterans got up, leaving the boys to amuse themselves.

Kaspar had helped General Bertrand negotiate the terms of the surrender, and the defeated invaders were now camped a half-mile up the road under guard. They would begin the long march home, without weapons or anything else the victorious soldiers could liberate from them, and their officers would be held for ransom to defray the cost of defending Aranor.

Roldem’s newest province had long historical ties to Roldem, the principality having been part of the Kingdom before in ages past, but the speed of response had taken the invaders by surprise. Kaspar knew Bertrand, for he had served under the current Knight-Marshal in Opardum, Quentin Havrevulen, a man Kaspar had handpicked to run the army when he had ruled Olasko.

Kaspar came out of the General’s tent and walked over to sit down on a log next to Servan. “Quite the little feast you’ve got going here,” he observed.

Jommy laughed, obviously intoxicated. “The provisioner brought along enough food for a month, Kaspar. He didn’t want to lug it all back to Opardum, I guess, so he’s cooking everything.”

“Just as well,” said the former duke. “Much of this would be simply thrown out back—” He was about to say “home,” as the capital of Olasko had been his home all his life, but it hadn’t been for nearly three years, so instead he said, “There.”

Kaspar looked at the six boys from university. “You lads did well, today,” he said. “Those bastards that hit you were a bunch of strays in a bad mood and looking to punish someone before they got run
back across the border. You killed six of them, wounded another half-dozen, and took the fight out of them.” He smiled at Servan. “And the best part is you didn’t lose a man. You’ve got two more with light wounds than you did before, but otherwise, it was a capital job.”

Jommy said, “That was Servan. He organized everything, on the spot, like he’d been doing it all his life, Kaspar.”

Servan said, “Everyone did their part. They jumped right to it and stood firm.”

“Well, it’s good, because we’re going to have need of field commanders and soon.”

“Why?” asked Godfrey. “Is Roldem going to war with Bardic’s?”

Kaspar shook his head. “No, my young friend.” He looked out into the darkness and there was a sadness in his eyes. “Soon everyone will be going to war.”

Godfrey looked as if he were going to ask another question, but a warning look from Jommy made him fall silent. Kaspar said, “When I was a boy, my father brought me here to hunt. I’ve been back several times.”

“It must be strange to return,” said Tad. “I mean, with you not being Duke anymore.”

Kaspar smiled. “Life has a habit of making changes without consulting you, Tad.” He looked from face to face. “We make plans, but fate doesn’t always listen to what we want.” He stood up, and looked at the beaming face of the young prince. “And you, young sir, are going to have a very rough morning tomorrow if you don’t stop drinking ale. May I suggest you drink some water before retiring?” Without waiting to hear the Prince’s answer, Kaspar returned to the General’s tent.

Jommy yawned and said, “Well, we should probably bed down, as we’ll be up early and on the march.”

Godfrey watched Kaspar disappear into the General’s tent. “I wonder what he meant, ‘everyone will be going to war’?”

Zane looked at Tad, who in turn looked at Jommy. Jommy
shrugged, and suddenly it was silent, with Grandy sitting with a grin, looking up at companions suddenly gone quiet with concern. His grin faded, and finally Jommy looked down, put his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, and said, “Let’s get some water in you, youngster. Kaspar’s right. You’re going to be a sick puppy come morning if we don’t.”

Without any further conversation, the other boys bedded down as best they could around the campfire while Jommy led Grandy off in search of a large bucket of drinking water.

Valko stood at the head of the table while the Riders of the Sadharin pounded their gloved fists on the ancient wood, shouting their approval. The new Lord of the Camareen had invited the other leaders of his society to a feast commemorating his rise to power.

Narueen had been very precise in instructing her son on the proper order of things once his father’s body had been placed in the vault of his ancestors. A formal message was sent to the Karana in Kosridi City announcing his ascension to the mantle of the Camareen and begging acknowledgment, which she assured him was a formality only. Then messages had to go to every blood relative listed in the Hall of Ancestors, again a formality, and then the invitation to the Sadharin, which she made clear was far more than a formality. For the brotherhood of the Sadharin was more than mere family: it was a battle society that could influence imperial policy, even shift the balance of power between factions, in the Langradin, topple clans, and destroy families. Narueen had already named four riders who had daughters who would make favorable matches. This very night Valko had to choose one to bear him his first child. Narueen had whispered in the darkness, before the morning sun arose, and the plans were now in motion. The Bloodwitch Sisterhood had arts unlike any other, and she would determine if there were sons or daughters born to the young Camareen lord. Two sons, she had told them, within a month would be conceived, then two daughters.

Their Hiding would be unlike any known in the history of the Dasati, for special arrangements had been made to include sympa
thetic Attenders, Bloodwitch sisters, and a few trusted warriors, which would ensure that the location of this Hiding was never discovered, never purged. Within twenty years, a dozen strong sons and daughters would present themselves at Castle Camareen, and Valko’s ascendancy would begin.

Valko rose and shouted, “Long live the Sadharin!”

The fifty lords of the Sadharin pounded the table even harder, hooting their war chant. Lord Andarin of the Kabeskoo shouted, “Long live Lord Valko!”

Valko picked up his flagon of wine and drained it. His mother had made sure it was heavily watered, for while every other lord of the Sadharin was falling drunk, she wanted her son to keep his wits about him.

At the tables below the massive wooden board that served the lords of the Sadharin, the wives and daughters sat observing their men with amused interest. More than one daughter tried to catch the eye of the young lord.

But Valko had eyes only for his mother, as she moved gracefully among her guests, ensuring that each was well cared for. She paused behind Lord Makara’s daughter, and let her hand fall to the girl’s shoulder. Valko betrayed nothing, but he knew that this was his mother’s clear instruction as to who he would bed tonight. He considered the girl. She was comely and regarded him with blatant hunger; he knew that she would rejoice should he allow her to declare. Her father would welcome becoming more closely allied with the rising young lord, for he would think of Valko as his client, though soon enough he would realize that the reverse was the case.

Valko looked around the room and smiled. The diners were becoming more raucous by the minute. He drank in their approbation and rejoiced in his own youthful strength. Much of what his mother had taught him began to fade as his Dasati nature asserted itself, and he took a long drink from his flagon. He wanted wine!

As he turned to order another pitcher brought to the table, a gentle hand on his wrist restrained him. Somehow his mother had read
his mood and anticipated his lost focus. “It’s time for the entertainment, my son,” she said in tones soft enough that none but he could hear.

Valko gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. “My lords!” he shouted. “For your amusement!”

The doors to the hall were opened and a dozen servants hurried in, bearing a huge earthenware pot. A struggling youth was carried in, bound hand and foot. Valko grinned as he announced, “This youth sought to reach his father’s castle, to challenge for a place within his household, and was caught last night in a vadoon snare!”

This announcement brought gales of laughter, for the stupid herbivore was easily caught—its primary value was as a source for fur, and its destruction of fruit trees was a nuisance for orchard owners. The youth would have to have been very inattentive or very stupid to blunder into such a snare.

“Let me go!” he shouted as he was placed within the pot. He was ready to fight with his bare hands and feet if given the chance, but servants forced him downward, so that his knees were folded up under his chin. As hard as he might struggle, it was a position impossible to change without help, help no one was going to offer.

Valko shouted. “You are an animal! Too stupid even to fight for your place among men. You will die like an animal!”

The youth began shouting, a series of enraged snarls and inarticulate screams. The guests at the feast laughed, for his frustration and rage was comical in its impotence. Valko signaled, and servants began pouring buckets of water over the youth’s head. He spat and bellowed, and the laughter in the room mounted.

“In olden times,” said Valko, “it was considered amusing to place a weakling in cold water, then slowly bring it to a boil.

“Now we need no fire, for there are agents that will do the same without heat.” He motioned and two servants emptied the contents of the two bags into the water and stepped back.

The reagents began to react and the water began to bubble. The defiant youth’s shouts quickly turned from rage to agony. Some of
the mixture splashed onto a servant standing too close, and he clawed at his eyes in pain.

The guests began to laugh uncontrollably. The louder the prisoner screamed, the more the guests became lost in paroxysms of hilarity. The lad splashed liquid up on his own shoulders, neck, and face and blisters and reddish-orange wounds began to form.

The screaming lasted nearly a quarter of an hour, and when the prisoner neared death, Valko could see the guests rising from their seats, staring with avid hunger. The women were ready, Valko could see, many of them running hands up and down their own bodies, and many of the men were showing obvious signs of lust.

His mother had been right. A single death, arranged at the proper moment, was more effective than the random slaughters usually orchestrated for these events. Watching half a dozen Lessers trampled by animals or eaten by starving zarkis caused too much distraction, but one death, artfully done, brought intense focus.

Valko signaled to a servant. “Ask Lord Makara’s daughter if she would join me.” The servant ran over to the indicated girl and whispered to her. Her head came around and her eyes were alight with hunger as her hands clutched at the fabric of her dress. Valko knew that if he wished, she would let him take her right now in front of the assembled company.

Several of the lords of the Sadharin had left the head table and were standing close to females they would bed tonight. Valko considered a great number of declarations would occur, and in years to come, many sons would arrive at castles as a result of tonight’s mating. Only Valko, his mother, and a handful of the Riders of the Sadharin knew that every match was orchestrated by the Bloodwitches, and that every child born of tonight’s mating who survived their Hidings would become servants of the White.

Thoughts of the White were difficult to entertain while caught up in the blood and lust of the moment. Valko smiled as the youth’s last breath left his body and declared, “Weakling.”

His mother whispered, “He did not seek to cross Camareen
lands, my son. He sought to come to this castle. He was Aruke’s son. He was your brother.”

Valko felt an odd chill rise up within and his head snapped around. He locked eyes with his mother and at that moment his feelings were so confused he didn’t know if he could keep from striking her. Yet her soft touch made him focus. “Had you done anything other than what you did, you would have appeared fatally weak to your guests: you would have shown everyone that you are not worthy to rule the Camareen. Just know the price of what you do. You have just begun the struggle, my son, and the pain you now feel will return, many times, in the years to come.” She caressed his cheek as she had when he was a baby. “Go now,” she whispered. “Put aside all thoughts of pain and suffering, blood and death. Go, make a powerful son this night.”

Valko forced his confusion aside, left the table, and found the girl waiting for him at the door leading from the hall to his quarters. He put his arm around her waist and embraced her, violently, hungrily, and without tenderness. Then he took her hand and led her to his bedchamber.

The dinner was strange. Pug sat at the head of the table, Martuch across from him. Ipiliacs dressed in odd clothing moved silently around him, placing dishes and removing them, filling flagons and cups without a word.

Martuch insisted they dine this way every night for a week before leaving, for it was, he said, the best way in which they might become more attuned to all things Dasati.