Sinner (19 page)

No. No, I will not allow it.

You have no choice.

Worse still than that insistent voice was the distinct feeling of fire eating into the lining of her womb. New life. A magical daughter. Who? Who? Another Azhure? No. Another Azhure to birth another daughter to live out this hell all over again? No, no, no!

What could she do? Zenith tried to keep her thoughts private, tried to think what to do, but it was no use. All she could see was WolfStar leering into her face, and all she could feel was the thrust of his body.

T
hey stumbled towards the forest, Drago with one arm about Zenith, now constantly mumbling to herself, the other wrapped about his sack.

Drago didn’t know what to do. Zenith obviously couldn’t go much further – but where could he leave her? Who could he leave her
with?
Drago loved his sister, and was terrified for her, but he also knew that he was no help to her. She needed more powerful magic than his concern to evict this Niah creature.

Besides, there was a compulsion growing within him. Get south. Get south fast.

Where? Where? The Island of Mist and Memory? No. That didn’t feel right.

“Where?
Where?
” he muttered, tense with frustration and worry.

“What?” Zenith whispered, rousing slightly. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. Look, the forest is not far away. A few more minutes only.”

“The forest?” she said. “What forest?”

Drago stopped and wrapped his arm more securely about her. “Minstrelsea. Remember? You wanted to come here.”

“I did?” She struggled a little against his arm, but did not have the strength to break free.

“I’ll find help,” he said. But help against what? Niah? Or the shock of WolfStar’s rape?

“No, no,” Zenith whispered, again struggling feebly. “Not Minstrelsea. Not here…no…no…no…”

“It won’t hurt you, Zenith! Be still now, I can hardly hold you!”

Here is where Niah died!
Zenith wanted to scream at him, but her voice was no longer her own.
Here is where she is strongest! Not here! Not
–

Yes, here, Zenith. Here is where
you
die, at last.

She choked, and Drago stopped in alarm. “Zenith? Zenith?”

But she was no longer responding, and Drago, sure now that the only way to help her was to somehow get her deep into the forest, hauled her onward.

Minstrelsea loomed before them. There was no thin scattering of brush and seedling trees to blur the demarcation between plain and forest. Behind them and to the west lay leagues of rolling grass and grain land, while before them reared a wall of trees. The trees hummed, singing softly to themselves, and between their trunks peered the curious eyes of the strange, fey creatures that populated the forest.

Drago could not help a shiver of apprehension as the trees loomed above him. He’d been in Minstrelsea only once or twice previously, although Zenith and Caelum had visited regularly.

And Isfrael, of course, had come with Axis to meet with his mother Faraday.

No wonder Isfrael was so strange, Drago thought feverishly, to have a doe as a mother.

But even if Drago had hardly ever been here, and even if he no longer had the use of his Icarii powers, he knew
those trees were far more than they appeared. Each one was a living entity capable of anger or of love. Combined as the forest, the trees could wipe out an army if they wished, or midwife the birth of a butterfly.

He paused just before committing himself and his sister to the forest. Then, because he had nothing left to do, and nowhere else to go, he plunged into the trees as if he were running into a burning building.

As so many others had before him, Drago stopped in utter amazement within five or six paces.

Despite its forbidding aura, Minstrelsea was a pool of light and music. The trunks of the trees grew far apart, and sunlight filtered down through the green canopy at least a hundred paces above. Birds – strange birds – sang from the branches of the immense trees, and even stranger creatures gambolled about the glades, paths and in the rivulets that wound their way through the trees.

Peaceful. It was peaceful. Drago dared to take a deep breath and let his shoulders relax for the first time in days.

Even Zenith seemed to revive slightly, and Drago found he did not have to support so much of her weight.

They began to walk slowly down the forest track, Drago lost amid the beauty of the forest, Zenith lost in (
losing
) the battle in her mind.

This forest is so beautiful. I loved it when Azhure brought us here as a child.

No, no, no, no…

Look! There is a diamond-eyed bird! Remember how we loved to watch them flutter from branch to branch?

No, no, no, no…

You know where he is taking us, don’t you, Zenith? My grove. Poor girl, soon it will be your burial ground, not mine.

No, no, no, no…

But Zenith was now very, very tired of saying “no”. She thought it would be good to lie down. Rest a while. Perhaps just to let Niah have her way for a few days, a week at the most. Then, once she had rested…

You go to sleep now, dear. You have been good. Go to sleep…

And Zenith tottered along by Drago’s side, losing the strength to maintain her grip on life.

They walked for an hour or more, deep into the forest, Drago unaware of, and Zenith ignoring, the thousand fey eyes that watched their passing from the shadows.

It was only when they approached a large grove that Zenith’s head whipped up and she stopped, aware at last, her eyes wide. “No!”

Drago turned wearily to her. “Zenith, we need to rest, and this grove has sunlit spaces we can warm ourselves in. Come on now, we’re almost there.”

He pulled her forward.

The instant they stepped into the grove, Zenith felt Niah
lunge
within her. She screamed in terror – Niah was too strong here! Ah!
Stars!
Niah was penetrating and invading her soul, tearing it apart, a rape more painful, more humiliating than WolfStar’s invasion of her body.

And she could do nothing to stop Niah – she was so powerful, so vigorous, so certain!

“Zenith!” Drago tried to hold her, but she wrenched away from him, falling against a tree.

“Zenith!” Again Drago reached for her, but recoiled in horror as his sister convulsed.

Her hands beat frantically at her bare breasts where the cloak had fallen away, and she whimpered. “Help me! Oh, Stars,
help me!
” Her voice ended on a thin wail of terror.

Drago tried to grab his sister to him, but she kept rolling out of his arms. What was going on?

“Oh Gods, it hurts, it
hurts!
” Zenith’s hands were now patting at her head, now her abdomen, now clasped about her shoulders. “Put it out, please…put it out! It
hurts!
”

Drago stared wildly about, desperate for help, taking in the large grove ringed by nine trees and covered in Moonwildflowers, Azhure’s mark.

A coldness overwhelmed him as he realised where they were. What had he done? He’d led Zenith right into Niah’s Grove, the place where Azhure’s mother had burned to death – when this site had once been the village of Smyrton – and the place where her body lay buried.

“Oh Stars!” he cried. “What have I done?”

Zenith no longer spoke or cried out, but her eyes and mouth were circles of horror reflecting the agony that the Niah within was visiting upon her.

Suddenly Drago was very, very angry.
Damn their parents into every eternity of unhappiness for visiting such pain on their children!

He finally managed to grab Zenith to him, trying as best he could to give her some reassurance, trying to touch her mind, to break the horror that had consumed –
was consuming
– her.

The sack fell to one side, but Drago ignored it. “Zenith,” he murmured. “Zenith!”

Zenith was no longer aware of him. She writhed and struggled, and was now gasping and choking so much that Drago thought she would, in truth, die.

I wish Niah’s soul would stay in its damned After Life!
Drago thought, and then cursed aloud, panicked that he could do nothing to help Zenith.

“’Tis no use getting so angry, my boy,” said a voice firmly to one side. “It will not help your sister.”

Startled, Drago looked up, and Zenith almost rolled out of his grip. He managed to hold on to her, then
continued to watch the other side of the grove warily. A peasant woman had stepped forth, rubbing her hands anxiously above her large belly. She was in her midthirties, with roughened skin and thick limbs. She was clean and well-kept, but she was dressed simply in a worsted dress and enveloping black apron, and her expression was that of a simpleton.

“Who are you?” he snapped. “Stay away!” His arms tightened about Zenith.

The woman ignored him and advanced a little more. Drago wondered if she was indeed dim-witted, or if she used that expression to mask more dangerous thoughts. Stars knew what mad creatures these woods contained! “Stay away! I –”

“You need help, m’lad.” And ignoring his angry expression she sank down on the other side of the still-writhing Zenith. “Tell me what’s wrong with her.”

Drago had no intention of telling her. What? This peasant woman who at best knew how to curdle milk? No! He wasn’t going to –

The woman raised her eyes from Zenith and stared at Drago.

Drago may have had no residual Icarii power himself, but he had lived his life among Enchanters and Gods, and he recognised power when he saw it.

This woman’s eyes blazed with it, although it was such power that Drago had never seen before.

“It is the power of the Mother,” the woman said, and now her voice had dropped its simple brogue and throbbed with power as well. “Come to help your sister, if it can. Now, be still.”

She dropped her eyes back to Zenith, and patted at her arm with one work-roughened hand.

Suddenly Drago knew who this woman was; not only had his mother talked of her, but she was a legend among
the Icarii and Avar. She was Goodwife Renkin, the peasant woman who had helped Faraday plant Minstrelsea, and the woman who also acted as a conduit for the voice and power of the Mother, the being who personified the power of the earth and nature. When Faraday had completed her planting, the Goodwife had wandered off into the forest, never to be seen again.

Not by human eyes, anyway.

Now here she was. Sitting before him, patting Zenith’s arm and singing a trifling lullaby to her.

Much good that was doing, Drago thought. He trusted no-one, and certainly not this odd woman before him now.

“She is in great pain,” the Goodwife said, her voice still carrying its power. “Why is that, older brother?” She raised her eyes back to Drago.

He considered again if he should tell her or not, then found to his amazement that the words were flooding out of him. “She battles the reborn soul of Niah within her,” he said. “It is a trouble she should not have to bear, for she is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Unlike you,” the Goodwife observed.

Drago’s mouth twisted. “Have the tales of my misdeeds penetrated even this green haven?”

“All know your story, Drago. You betrayed your brother for your own gain.”

“So I have been
told
,” Drago said, angry beyond measure. “And to be perfectly frank with you, Goodwife, I wish I had been more successful at it! Maybe then I could have saved Zenith this pain!”

Her head jerked up. “Do you still covet your brother’s place?” she asked softly. “Would
you
like to sit the Throne of the Stars?”

He stared at her, frightened, because suddenly that
was
what he wanted – very much. What
would
it have been like to have been born first? To have been born heir?

“It is not good to covet your brother’s place,” the woman said, babbling again in peasantish brogue rather than the power of the Mother, and with her eyes focused on something other than Drago. “Is it, m’Lady?”

Drago looked over his shoulder where the woman was gazing and froze.

A doe stepped from the far side of the grove, her russet skin trembling with apprehension, her great, dark eyes flickering from the tableau before her to the forest. Drago was unsure whether she’d stay or flee.

“Come, come, m’Lady,” the woman said. “This child here needs your help. I find I can do little for her.”

Drago glanced at the woman. Not even with
your
power? he thought. But just then the doe took a hesitant step forward, and Drago’s eyes flew back to her.

Again he knew who this was. Faraday. Once Queen of Achar, now trapped in animal form.

All of us betrayed in one way or another, Drago thought suddenly. All of us trapped in flesh we don’t want.

“Nay,” the Goodwife said quietly before him, her brogue again gone. “This girlie before me is betrayed, surely, and Faraday has betrayal branded into her very bones, but you are a betrayer. It is what you were born to. You have
sin
branded into your bones.”

Appalled and hurt rather than angry, Drago stared at her. “No, no…”

There was a quiet movement at his shoulder. The doe had crept up to them, and was now standing a pace away from the sack, staring at it.

She was trembling almost uncontrollably. Slowly she raised her great eyes from the sack and stared at Drago.

And he understood with that look that she knew what it contained.

“The girlie,” the Goodwife said gently to the doe. “She needs your help.”

For a heartbeat longer the doe continued to stare at Drago, then she broke the stare and edged about him to Zenith. She lowered her head and nuzzled the woman’s face with her nose, then sank gracefully down at her head.

Drago could not take his eyes from her. He had never seen the doe – Faraday – before. The tale of this woman was so legendary, so lovely, that even Drago had found himself touched by it.

Particularly because Faraday had been so betrayed by his father, and yet still she had died for him.

Drago could not imagine loving anyone that much. Was her agony worth it? Surely she must now regret her devotion to Axis. Surely?

The doe raised her eyes from her contemplation of Zenith and stared briefly at Drago.

It was only a brief look, but in that moment Drago saw something that took his breath away.

As the doe had raised her head he had seen in the curve of the animal throat the grace of a beautiful woman’s neck, and he had seen in the rough reddish hair of the doe’s coat the gleam of tangled chestnut hair, and for an instant he had seen a tortured woman’s soul behind the creature’s dark eyes.