The Fall to Power (10 page)

             
And, more importantly, Invictus.

             
The room was dim, lit by a couple of steadily burning oil-lamps, one at each end of the room. Other beds were here too, though all unoccupied. A motif of a snake was carved on the wall, long and crimson, its tail in its own mouth and, as she breathed in once more the potent mixture of healing spices and herbs – Frostweed, Burnroot, she knew them all – it clicked where she was; the halls of the Blood Serpent, apothecaries to the Clans.

             
“She’s awake.”

             
A figure to her side, sat on a low stool. A wizened crone of a woman with dark wrinkled skin like a walnut and a toothless grin, put the back of her hand to her head to check for fever, the skin dry and cracking like old parchment.

             
“Well enough to question?”

             
Another figure moved out of the shadows and she started, not realising he was there. Memphias of the Khrdas looked down on her with impassive grey eyes. Instinctively she tried to summon forth the fury of the elements once more to strike him down, but the spirits failed to answer her call. She could feel them, jostling at the edge of her senses, but they were unable to reach her, no matter how much she implored.

             
Seeing her confusion, the master assassin smiled.

             
“You will find your sorcery quite… impotent, within these walls.” He pointed to the faint symbols inscribed on each and every stone, almost invisible to the naked eye, yet of potency very real in the spiritual world. “Save the King and those he chooses, none may call upon the spirits whilst awaiting his pleasure.”

             
She recognised the designs from her teaching, nearly retching at the lunacy that could have led someone to draw such forces into the world. At least now she understood why the Water Rune had failed in its task, drained of its power by the evil influence of the wards.

             
The Khrda turned his attention from the girl, speaking now to the old medicine woman.

             
“Is she well enough to be moved?”

             
“Oh yes,” the woman nodded, wide eyes milky with age. “She’s quite well, considering the shock she’s had.” She laughed at her own pun, putting Gwenna in mind of a cat ridding itself of a hairball.

             
Resigned that she was in no position to do anything at the moment, she asked Memphias.

             
“Where are you taking me?”

             
The Khrda’s eyes grew dark, as though he drew no pleasure from the answer.

             
“You are to be questioned.”

***

Full-bodied, deep, with subtle flavours of red-berries and a hint of vanilla. Smooth, rich, with an easy finish.

             
Ceceline nodded appreciatively as she set the crystal goblet down on the mahogany desk before her, licking her soft lips. Say what you like about the King, but he had fine tastes in wine. Actually, scratch that; saying what you like could get you killed, she laughed to herself. He was the Barbarian King, after all.

             
She must remember to thank him for this latest recommendation.

             
Many were the perks of being part of his Council. An immortal had great opportunity to sample the finer things in life; pleasures of the palate, pleasures of the flesh. But Ceceline enjoyed other, more sadistic pursuits as well.

             
A sharp rap at the heavy oak door to her chamber and she smiled.

             
One of which she would indulge presently.

             
“Enter.”

             
A burly Clansman strode in through the door, stopping a few paces in front of her, giving a deep and martial bow, his bearing and well-groomed appearance telling her that he was an officer, perhaps a demi-Marzban. She rose, the slit in the side of her form-fitting velvet gown revealing a long, shapely leg and she smiled as she felt the waves of strong desire and emotion radiating from the warrior. Was his topknot on straight? Did he have sufficient wax in his moustache?

             
She struggled to contain her amusement as he spoke.

             
“Prisoner for interrogation, milady.”

             
She nodded curtly and he clicked his fingers.

             
A duo of Clansmen marched in, holding between them a bound figure, diminutive and helpless looking beside their warrior forms.

             
“Release her, no need for bindings here.”

             
They did as she commanded, the captive rubbing her sore wrists as the ropes were freed, before the Marzban snapped to attention.

             
“Anything else, milady?”

             
“Not for now, warrior. Thank you. You may leave us.

             
A nod and the warriors departed, the heavy door slamming shut leaving the two women, the Seeress and the prisoner, alone in the chamber.

             
“Gwenna isn’t it? Please,” bade the Lady Council-member, her voice soft, silken, alluring. “Take a seat. Have a drink, this wine is quite lovely. You’ve been through quite the ordeal, I hear.” She motioned to a deep, soft-looking chair by the roaring fire in the hearth.

             
The prisoner stared at her, suspicious, but made her way over regardless, sitting and resting gratefully in the proffered seat. She didn’t touch the wine.

             
The Seeress moved slowly to her desk, retrieving her own goblet, taking her time as she regarded this new prisoner. The servant girl of a few days ago had been pretty, in an unassuming kind of way, but this new girl had something about her, something that drew the eye, and it was more than just her flaming auburn hair and creamy-pale skin. As Ceceline made her way, slowly, gracefully to take the seat opposite the girl, that was when she saw it; the green eyes exuded a strength and nobility, an unwavering resoluteness and willing to do her duty, as well as a latent and, currently restrained, spiritual power.

             
The Seeress smiled, butterflies of excitement in her breast as she settled back in the high-backed chair, the glow from the firelight illuminating her striking features; the next few minutes would be fun indeed.

She took a long sip of her drink, eyes half closed as she enjoyed the delicate flavours, before gesturing to its crystal twin that sat on the small table between them next to the decanter of wine.

              “Please,” she repeated, her tone sincere, “have some. It’s not poisoned, I promise you. You’ll get nothing so unsubtle from me.”

             
The prisoner hesitated, but thirst overrode her caution and she reached for the glass, taking a long draught, taken aback, despite herself, by the fine flavours that ran riot on her tongue.

Long moments passed in silence, as the red-haired girl sat, acutely aware of the scrutiny of this raven-haired beauty that sat opposite, knowing that despite her appearance, despite her pleasant manner, this was the woman she had heard so much about; the King’s right-hand witch, seductive yet merciless. Beautiful yet deadly. But those eyes, bright and blue, so inviting, couldn’t hide to Gwenna’s keen senses the cold, calculating evil that lay simmering, just beneath the surface.

              “So,” began the Seeress, at long last breaking the silence, “we are both grown women, both intelligent, so let me dispense with formalities. You are accused of conducting spirit-craft in the kingdom, sorcery aimed at none other than our beloved ruler.” She paused, allowing the accusation to sink in, gazing into the eyes of her audience in an effort to discern any reaction to the words. “What say you to that?”

             
The girl, to her credit, failed to rise to the provocation, in no rush to defend her actions or rebuke the accusations.

             
“I don’t see much point in trying to deny it; the loss of six of your Khrdas alone is testament to my profession.”

             
She smiled faintly, as though somewhat proud of the taking of their lives, a confidence in her that Ceceline wouldn’t have expected. The girl was perhaps the same age as Ceceline – in appearance only, of course – but had courage that belied her years. Respectable.

             
Yet perhaps also it would be her undoing.

             
“So, you admit to being a shaman. Good. That makes things a little easier. But as you’re already aware, within these walls you have no power; it is I who hold the key to your life or death.” The Seeress smiled, yet there was no warmth behind it. “So, please, choose your next words carefully. What is the point of your little plot? Why did your friend die to simply place a Runestone beneath our King’s pillow?”

             
Gwenna took a deep breath, unwilling to give in to intimidation, no matter how little bluff there was to it.

             
“Now that, I’m afraid, I cannot say.”

             
Again, Ceceline smiled. Things were about to get interesting.

             
“Very well, my dear. Then you leave me no choice.”

             
The air in the warm room grew cold, prickly and Gwenna looked about her with unease as the greasy static feel of sorcery began to envelop the two women, surrounding them in a bubble of power. A bubble that was cold, ruthless. A sphere that had the pure and unadulterated feel of one personality in the room.

             
Ceceline sat, ever-smiling, as her cold blue eyes bored into the green orbs of her victim. Lesser practitioners would have to physically touch their prey to rip apart their soul and devour their secrets. But Ceceline was beyond such as they, for she was no mere shaman.

             
She was the Seeress.

             
Gwenna gasped, involuntarily, as she felt the icy tendrils of a cold and ancient soul forcing their way into her mind, grasping the thick, wooden arms of her chair in fright as she realised what the witch-queen was about to do. Fright, tempered with determination. For this girl was not as fragile as she might seem, and, with a confidence born of long training for just such an encounter as this, she steeled her will. And fought back.

             
The Seeress’ eyes widened in confusion, yet also excitement, for rarely had she come upon a victim so determined, so willing to fight back; most of her subjects crumbling under her mental assault after seconds, reducing down to gibbering wrecks as she sifted with glee through the treasure-house of their memories. So, it was a rare pleasure to have to work for the fruits of her labour.

She smiled, ever wider, as the two souls met, mind against mind, will against will, in a fight for knowledge, a fight on the most intimate of battlegrounds where thoughts were swords, emotions were shields, where probing tentacles of assault were hacked down through force of will, thrust parried and met with counter-thrust, each woman seeking to undo the other.

The girl was spirited, her training exquisite, and, as sweat began to bead on her brow and her breast that heaved with exertion, Ceceline had to marvel; for what kind of master could have taught her to wield her soul with such subtlety, with such grace? There was surely none such alive today, not with the Hunt ravaging the land. Even during their occasional bouts of lovemaking, when the whim had taken Invictus, and Ceceline had, for the fun of it, deigned to attempt to enter the labyrinth of his mind, the King himself had never shown such fluidity in his thoughts, relying instead on the pure brute force of his indomitable will to cast her out with the grinning pleasure of an apex predator that knew himself invincible.

A lance of thought spiked through her mind, catching her unawares, driving deep into intimate and forbidden areas of her memories, causing her to shudder with an almost erotic sense of violation. With no choice, facing such unexpected mental might, the Seeress rose, unsteady to her feet, legs weak with the mix of pleasure and pain that wracked her physical body as much as her soul, making her way past the small table to kneel before the girl who still sat, wide eyed and trembling with the exertion of the duel.

Raising her slender fingers, the Seeress drew near to the girl and grasped her gently about the head, fingers lost in the soft curls of red hair, the physical connection between them  a conduit, allowing Ceceline to at last unleash the full power of a hundred years of sorcerous growth.

Gwenna lolled in helpless penetration, drawing little of the ecstasy from the exchange that the pleasure-seeking Seeress clearly was, as this fresh wave of assault blasted clean through her defences, smashing them asunder and finally allowing the witch full and unfettered access to her memories.

“Who are you, my darling,” whispered the Seeress, as one would to a lover on a cold and stormy winter’s night. “What is it you seek to accomplish? Who are you working with?”