Reign of Shadows (40 page)

The
chief priest gestured at the guards. “Get him out of here. Quickly!”

The
guards dragged Caelan over to the fire spirit and released him with a shove. “Pass
through!”

The
fire was still blazing in the mouth. Caelan hesitated.

Another guard kicked him. “Do it or we’ll throw you on the
fire.”

The flames died down, and Caelan ducked through. As he did
so, he could feel the radiant heat from the coals beneath him. He hopped down
to the floor on the other side and found himself alone in a small, featureless
room. An open passageway led from it.

Surprised, Caelan stood there and glanced around. There was
nothing in here to fear or light.

Suddenly the walls seemed to till. He sank to his knees,
feeling nauseous with shame. If his father walked the spirit world and could
see him at this moment, he prayed Beva would understand the many failings of
his son.

Caelan ran his fingers down his throat until he vomited up
the blood.

Spitting and wiping his mouth, he moved to another, cleaner
corner and leaned back on his haunches, bracing his shoulder against the wall.
Bitterness lay sour in his mouth, and he found the old hatred rekindled in his
heart. Perhaps it was a mercy to die on the morrow. He would certainly rather
be dead than to continue like this.

But another part of him raged silently, demanding vengeance
for all the degradations that he had known. He had to find a way to battle free
of slavery. He had to live, and win, and survive.

The strange, frightening scent that he’d been unable to
identify earlier now returned to the air.

Startled, Caelan lifted his head and gazed at the
passageway. Only darkness lay inside it, a darkness he did not want to explore.

“Come,” whispered a voice. It was strange and mysterious,
raspy yet soft, and definitely female. “Come to me, man of violence, and let me
give you power to win on the morrow.”

The hair rose on the back of Caelan’s neck. Wide-eyed and
dry-mouthed, he stared at the passageway, trying to see
what spoke to him from the
shadows. He saw nothing, yet she was out there.

“Do
not fear,” she whispered. “I am given to you until the dawn.”

His
mind raced. A prostitute?

Everyone
knew a man lost his prowess by indulging himself the night before combat. Like
draining blood from men under the guise of initiation rites, this was another
trick designed to see that the trainees failed.

Angry,
Caelan jumped to his feet. “Go away,” he said curtly. “I don’t want you.”

“You
must come to me,” she whispered, her voice sultry and enticing. “I have power
to give you.”

“You
will steal my power,” he retorted. “Begone from
me!”

“You
are wrong.”

There
was silence for a moment, and he thought she’d left. The fire still blazed in
the mouth of the carving, cutting him off from leaving the way he’d entered.
From the larger chamber beyond came the sounds of the guards talking. The
priests filed out in silence, their footsteps walking in even cadence.

He
thought that as soon as everyone had gone, he would find a way to scatter the
fire or smother it. Then perhaps he could get out of this place.

A
scraping sound, as though something heavy were being dragged, came from the
passageway.

“I
can approach no closer,” she called softly, her voice sounding breathless and
strained. “I cannot enter the light. Come to me, and I will share wonderful
secrets with you. It will be a night to remember always. This I promise.”

“I’m
sure,” he said grimly. “But I’m not interested.”

“You
are gruff and fierce,” she replied as though amused. “But when does a man
refuse pleasure?”

“I
do,” he said, although the more she talked, the more uncomfortable and uneasy
he felt. “I said no.”

She
began to sing, softly and throatily. Despite his suspicions, life stirred in
his groin, He frowned and tried to block out the sound, but for once he could
not tune it out. Even an attempt to
sever
did not work, he could not say the sound was melodic
or pleasing, and yet it sent swift ripples of desire through his muscles. He
found himself turning in that direction, swaying in time with the song, his
breath rasping in his throat.

“Come,”
she sang. “Come, for I am given to you to make you happy, to make you forget
tomorrow. I am given to strengthen you and make you invincible. I am better
than wine. Come to me, Caelan E’non. Come.”

He
was afraid of the spell she was weaving over him, and yet into his mind came an
image of a woman with pale flowing hair. She was running naked through a meadow
of alpine flowers, laughing, her arms outstretched as though she were flying.
He wanted to run with her, to laugh with her, to catch her in his arms and
swing her to the ground.

Before
he realized it, he was walking across the small room, drawn by a force greater
than his own will. Through a haze he wondered how she knew his name. Through a
haze he wondered why she would not venture into the light. Through a haze he
thought of how this was a mistake.

Yet
what was one more mistake among a lifetime of them? He had no hope of success
in the arena anyway. Why shouldn’t he lake this opportunity to enjoy himself?

He
reached the mouth of the passageway and somehow managed to stop by clutching
the frame with his hands. His body swayed toward her, yet his fingers dug in
and held him in place.

“Come
to me,” she whispered.

Her
scent rolled over him again. He snorted against it, finding it cloyingly sweet,
exotic, and yet somehow rotten.

“What
are you?” he struggled to say. His lips felt wooden and thick.

“I
am a haggai,” she replied. “How strong you are. How suspicious. Do not fear me.
I am given to you. Come.”

He
took one step forward, his hands sliding down the wall and dragging free.

At
that angle, with the firelight shining behind him to cast faint illumination
into the mouth of the passageway, he saw her. Just a vague outline—the long
mass of curling hair springing up and blowing as though in a breeze, the liquid
gleam of her eyes watching him from the darkness, the pale curve of her ripe
breasts. She seemed to be sitting on the floor, and yet the height was wrong
for such a position.

Blinking
against the haze in his brain, Caelan took another step forward, staggered, and
bumped into the wall. Feeling dizzy and strange, he twisted to put his back
against the wall.

As
he did so, the faint firelight gleamed off something shiny and smooth coiled
around her. She was sitting on it, but . . .

She
leaned forward, reaching out her arms. “Caelan, come. I am here to give you
ecstasy such as you have never known.”

When
she moved, he realized she wasn’t sitting on the coils. Instead, they were a
part of her. The lower half of her body wasn’t human at all, but rather eellike
and a sickly mottled gray color. Her hair wasn’t hair either. There was no
breeze blowing here to stir the tendrils on her head. Instead, a thick mass of
tentacles grew from her scalp, stretching and reaching, constantly moving with
life of their own.

Horrified,
he stood frozen, his mouth agape.

“Caelan,
I want you,” she sang.

Even
more to his horror, he felt himself moving forward, obeying the spell of her
summons. Revulsion burned his throat, and with all his will he tried to fight,
but it was as
though his feel belonged to another. They would not obey
him.

He
walked right up to her, raging inside, lighting the spell she’d cast over him.
She was a monster, something demonic and evil. He couldn’t couple with
that.

Her
fingers stroked his arm. With shock he realized he was suddenly close to her.
She ducked her head and brushed his chest with the tentacles. They felt soft
and warm, squirming against his flesh.

Desperately,
he shut his eyes and reached for
severance.
With a snap, he was freezing cold as though he’d
entered an ice cave.

She
cried out something, but her voice was too far away to hear. She reached for
him, but he stepped back slowly, oh so very slowly, feeling as though he were moving
under water. Yet her grasp missed him and he was free, still stepping backward
while she called and called his name.

When
he came to his senses he was running for his life along the sandy jogging
track, arms and legs pumping, his breath a desperate rattle in his throat.
Something unnameable was chasing him. He could sense it, although dusk had
fallen and he couldn’t see much in the starlight.

Then
he realized those were hoofbeats behind him. He heard the horse snorting and
the oaths of the rider. Exhaustion plunged through Caelan. His legs were
burning, and his heart was hammering out of control.

He
stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees, dragging in deep, gulping breaths of
air. Shudders ran through him, and he had no idea how he’d gotten out here.

The
horse reined up beside him, and its rider jumped down.

“Traulander?”
It was Orlo’s voice, half exasperated and half afraid.

Caelan
dragged in more air, lifting his hands to wipe the sweat drenching his face. “Yes,
master.”

“Great
Gault above, are you mad?” Orlo shouted. “What in the name of hell are you
doing out here? How did you get past the guards? How did you get out of the
arena? What are you doing running like this? You crazy fool, you can’t escape
the compound.”

“I
wasn’t trying.” Still panting, Caelan found unwanted memories washing over him.
He could not shut them out. “That thing in there—the haggai—” His voice broke
on him, and he shuddered.

“I
see,” Orlo said at last. “You fool, you destroyed the initiation rites and
risked the wrath of the gods, and now you run from the arms of ecstasy. Truly,
you are mad.”

“I
wish I were,” Caelan muttered, closing his eyes. “That thing—the sight of
it—what in the name of the gods is it?”

“You
saw a haggai?” Orlo sounded disbelieving.

Caelan
nodded. “I didn’t want to go into the passageway when she—when it called to me.
I figured I should preserve my strength the night before combat. But she—it
cast some kind of spell on me. When I got close enough, I saw what it was.”

Orlo
sighed. “That’s the whole point. You aren’t supposed to see them. Men would go
mad, which is what happened to you. Am I right?”

Caelan
remembered the order forbidding him to
sever.
“Yes,” he lied. “I went mad.” And perhaps it wasn’t a
lie. He didn’t like losing himself this way. It was why he’d resisted
severance
at Rieschelhold, resisted
those lost gaps of time spent doing the bidding of the masters with little or
no recollection afterward of what he’d done.

He
threw himself at Orlo’s feet, all pride gone. “Don’t make me go back to that creature.
In the name of the gods, have mercy on me.”

“Hush.”
Orlo kicked him back, sending him sprawling. “I’d rather have you stiff-backed
and causing trouble than sniveling like this. Do you have regrets now for what
you’ve done? The priests cursed you, do you understand?”

“Yes,
master.” Caelan pulled himself to his feet, trying to regain his composure. “I
didn’t like the blasphemous service they forced on us.”

“And
who asked you whether your approval was needed? Gault above, you are more
trouble than a ring full of Madrun prisoners of war. Aren’t you afraid now of
tomorrow?”

“No
more than before.”

“But
you face the chance of death without the protection of the gods. You cannot
enter the afterlife without—”

Orlo
broke off his sentence as though realizing he was sounding too concerned. He
cleared his throat and gave Caelan a shove. “Move! I’ve a dozen duties ahead of
me tonight. No time to mess about with a superstitious Traulander who won’t
take a night of pleasant forgetfulness with a haggai witch.”