The King Of Hel (3 page)

Castil stretched out her arm, tracing a line along the hard edges of the statue's robes with one finger. “My friend,” she whispered, “how I miss you.” A small draft, cold and sweetened with sea rose, buffeted her gently, blowing strands of her hair across her face with a light caress.

She smiled, feeling as if the companion of her youth hovered near her, glad for her company. “Again you find me here, pestering your sleep with the dull details of my day.” A faint faraway laughter echoed back to her. “I visited your son moments ago. Joris is a beautiful child, Kareena. I see you in his small features.” A mournful sigh replaced the laughter, and Castil knew for certain she was not alone among the monuments of the voiceless dead.

Such knowledge didn't frighten her. She found comfort in knowing something of her friend lingered here, not yet beyond the reach of the living. That comfort was mixed with no small guilt, and Castil dropped her hand to her side, bowing her head.

"I have been here two months now. The ships return in two more, bringing their goods to trade for the Helenese purple. I return home then.” Again, that melancholy whisper drifted to her ear, and she shivered. “'Tis a good thing, for I must confess my weakness to you.” Her chest felt heavy with remorse, and it grew more difficult to speak without stuttering. “I have fallen in love with the king, Kareena."

Somehow she expected a bitter howling, an angry blast of frigid air that would spin her off her feet. But her statement was met with silence, a deepening quiet that waited for her next words. “He is a...” She spread her hands, palms up. “...a man like no other.” She sensed a light humor at her words and smiled in return. “Beyond the obvious, of course.” Her smile faded. “He consoled me when the news of your death nearly brought me to my knees, opened his library to me as a way to distract me from my grief, allowed me to hold your sweet son and visit you here."

The brush of her gown against the floor sounded loud in the vault as Castil began to pace. “I have confessed to you my indiscretion at the temple. I did our friendship a disservice. But this is worse, far worse.” She faced the statue again. “I think of him incessantly, look forward to his company when he joins me in the library. He is a hard man, Kareena, but kind beneath that cold exterior. I have seen him with Joris, and he is a proud, loving father."

The scent of sea rose teased her nostrils once more. “I will miss you when I return home, but it has been hard to resist his allure, and I long for the ships and the peace of my dull existence at home."

The silence gathered around her and Castil sighed, wiping at the tears trickling down her cheeks. “I am so sorry, Kareena. I have been no friend to you, dear one. He was yours.” She turned away from the effigy, her steps dragging as she made her way to the stairs, so lost within her thoughts that she didn't hear the soft, ethereal whisper behind her.

"And now he is yours, my dearest friend."

Castil made her way back to the upper levels of the fortress, feeling both relieved and troubled by her confession. It felt right to say aloud what had weighed heavily in her thoughts—an acknowledgement of her feelings for Doranis. Such feelings changed little. In a few weeks she would board a trading vessel bound for Caskadan, and forget her time here with the pale, magus king.

The corridors leading to her room felt almost temperate compared to the temperatures of the vault. Her cheeks were numb with cold as she hurried to her chambers, eager to change into heavier clothing and linger by a roaring fire. She passed one of the closed chambers lining the cloister, pausing at the sound of familiar voices and the ring of metal on metal.

"Come, old man. I could match you in my sleep.” Doranis's deep tones reverberated through the wood, causing Castil's hands to curl in reaction. Again the sound of steel striking steel echoed, and she could picture the scene, having once stumbled upon it when she first arrived in Helenrisia.

The king engaged in swordplay with his weapons master. Her mouth had fallen open the first time she witnessed Doranis sparring with Etane. Both were stripped to the waist, skin glistening with sweat as they circled each other like wary cats, the curving blades of their swords flashing in the torchlight as they came together in a mock dance of death.

Castil paid no attention to Etane, her eyes riveted to the arresting sight of a semi-nude Doranis. Though tall and slim, he was a study in hard muscle and sinew, his wide chest and abdomen flexing as he dodged the swinging arc of his opponent's blade or attacked with his own. Silvery lines of perspiration streamed off his pale skin, and his white hair lay tangled on his shoulders.

She knew if she opened the door, a similar sight would again greet her, and Doranis would smile in that smug way when he caught her ogling him. An abrupt hiss of pain, followed by Etane's superior response of, “Old man, am I?,” made her lips twitch in amusement, and she continued on her way.

Her maid awaited her, clucking with disapproval as she helped Castil remove her thin cloak and dress. “Down in the vaults again, I see. If you insist on lingering there, you should at least dress for it."

Castil smiled at the admonishment. “I didn't think I would be so long."

The maid, a young girl named Thesla, shook her head. “That is the coldest place within the fortress. You would be warmer standing out in the courtyard in your shift.” She stripped Castil down to a thin chemise, tossing her a fur pelt to wrap around herself. Castil huddled within it, standing as close to the hearth fire as was safe to stay warm.

Thesla gazed at her, a mischievous glitter entering her dark eyes. “Do you know the way to the mineral baths?"

Castil stared back, puzzled. There were several natural hot springs dotting the landscape, most dangerous because of the boiling temperatures of the water. There were a few; however, that were no hotter than bath water. Two were just outside the fortress and the Helenese were fond of frolicking in them on days when the weather was clear. This wasn't one of those days. “That holds no temptation for me today, Thesla. The wind outside would freeze armor.

The maid laughed and shook her head. “No, not the common baths.” She raised the lid of the chest at the end of Castil's bed, pulling out a thick cloth and one of her heaviest tunics. “There is a small spring here, in the depths of the fortress, like the vaults. But it is warmer there. The royal family uses it."

The idea of relaxing in a pool of heated water not exposed to the outside elements had its appeal, especially now as she continued to shiver beneath the fur pelt. Still, Thesla said it belonged to the royal family, and she was not one of its members.

"I think not. I don't wish to cause offense by intruding where I don't belong.” She held out a hand for the tunic. “It would be best if I just dressed."

Thesla held the garment out of her reach. “You are a guest of the king, madam. The springs are open to you.” Her voice turned coaxing. “Try them. You have been here several weeks and never experienced the baths. Trust me. It is something not to be missed."

A little more cajoling from the maid and Castil soon found herself back out in the corridors, her dry cloth and tunic in hand. Following Thesla's directions, she found the chamber housing the spring.

The cloister wound downward and back, cutting deep into the heart of the mountain. Her path was lit by green witchfire flickering in the torches lining the walls, giving the hall a ghostly, iridescent glow. This was the product of magic, and the light gave off no heat as she paused, passing her hand over one of the emerald flames.

She had seen such things in her time here in Helenrisia. The country bordered the Waste, its warped magic an awesome, living thing felt by all the denizens of the north. Nearly everyone she met could perform some small enchantment as the residual effects of ancient forces bled across the forbidden borders, touching upon anyone living nearby. Hel's king was the most obvious recipient of its power.

Unlike her own people, the Helenese didn't find his appearance so strange or frightening. Castil had wondered at that until a few weeks among them and a few conversations enlightened her. It was Thesla who revealed the cause of Doranis's mark and his skill with the many enchantments he could perform.

"His mother was taken, you know.” She worked with Castil to fold back the bed linens and run the warming pan across the cold sheets.

Castil gazed at her in question. “Taken? How so?"

"Kidnapped by the Bahauran when she carried his Majesty in her belly. My mother says the old king went nearly mad with rage."

Bahauran. Castil had heard of the dwellers of the Waste. Descendents of the vanished Elders, they lived in the frozen, ruined cities, surrounded by the magic that twisted their bodies over eons of time. But where it took, it also gave back. There were tales told in scrolls and around campfires as far south as the Sedbar islands, of the great sorcerers who lived in the ancient and forbidden Wastelands.

"Why would they kidnap the queen?"

The girl shrugged. “No one knows. She was returned four days later, her memory of her time among them gone. But you see what that sojourn did?"

Castil nodded, her brow knitted. The prince had been marked before his birth by his mother's capture. He was a magus king, like and yet unlike the Bahauran. Leeched of all color as they were, with the power of the Waste coming easily to him, he was neither misshapen nor mad. His people, who lived within the shadow of the forbidden lands, accepted him easily enough. It was only outside their borders that the fear rose, the uneasiness at gazing upon a man so obviously graced with an ancient and mysterious force.

The green light brightened as Castil neared a door surrounded by numerous small torches. The hinges squeaked in protest as she opened it and stepped inside. Her gasp of delight echoed in the chamber as she gazed upon a large bubbling spring, half hidden within tendrils of steam drifting off the water. Narrow steps were cut into the floor, disappearing into the pool.

She would have liked to linger and enjoy the luxury of endless hot water. Still, it felt somewhat improper to be here. No matter Thesla's reasoning, she was not a part of the royal household, and this felt something like intrusion.

The room surrounding the spring was vast, with sloping tunnels that disappeared farther into the belly of the mountain. A skilled painter had depicted scenes of Helenese life on some of the smoother walls, and heavy tapestries covered portions of the floor to cushion one's feet. It was a sumptuous place, especially among the more austere surroundings of the Frozen Maiden.

Castil placed her dry cloth, tunic and shoes in a neat pile on one of the rugs before shrugging out of her robe and chemise. Without the protection of the garments, the room felt cold, and her nipples hardened painfully as she rubbed the chills on her arm. The water looked very inviting, and she dipped her toe in to test its warmth. It was hot, but not so much as to scald, and the effervescent bubbling tickled her feet. Her pleased sigh echoed loud in the quiet room as she descended the steps and sank into the water.

Her assumption that she was alone was quickly shattered by an amused, throaty voice. “That certainly took you long enough."

Castil yelped, startled by the unexpected sound. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sank lower into the water, watching as Doranis swam lazily toward her, his white skin flushed a pale rose from the heat. His light eyes were narrowed with laughter and something else as he drew closer to her.

"You-you-your Majesty,” she stammered, “you frightened me. I thought I was alone."

He smiled, circling her in a lazy motion that exposed his muscled back and arms as he slid through the water. “Forgive me, Castil. It was not my intention to frighten you."

She followed his movements, turning on a heel so as to always face him. The water was cloudy, but she had no doubt it offered little modesty. And he certainly got an eyeful when she undressed, unaware that he lurked in the pool, watching. His eyes, lit with a faint, mocking humor, assured her of that particular truth. “You should have spoken sooner.” She admonished him, her voice severe. “Sire,” she added in grudging tones.

Doranis laughed, swimming ever closer to her in diminishing circles. “Indeed? And why is that? I was treated to the most beautiful sight. A lovely woman descending into a bath is a blessing of the gods, Castil il Veras."

A hard ache settled beneath her ribs at his words. She knew her strengths. Intelligent, quick-witted, and easy to friend; these were all the things given to her at birth, traits of which she was proud. But beauty was not among them. “Plain as an unfinished door,” some of her less sensitive relatives had said, and she had come to accept that a lack of beauty combined with a lack of wealth would leave her locked from the marriage market. For who among the boyars would want a homely, dowerless scribeswoman? Such a future had never bothered her. Until now.

She cast her eyes to the water, her voice tense. “Why do you say these things?” She felt the water still as he ceased his swimming and came to stand close behind her.

Small waves lapped gently against her as he came close, nearly touching her back with his chest. Tendrils of long pale hair drifted in the water, sliding over her collarbones and across her throat in a caress as sensual as the touch of his fingers would have been. A roiling flutter of heat erupted in her belly, spreading to her thighs as he placed his hands on her shoulders, sliding one up to her neck to stroke her nape.

"I say them because they are true. You are the grace of all women. I have wanted you since you first translated my insignia.” His hands dripped water into her hair, and she felt the wetness of his cheek as he bent to kiss the soft skin at her temple. “I watch you, dream of you. Shall I tell you of my dreams? How I awake in the night, covered in sweat, my thighs wet with my own seed because I was lost in the illusion of thrusting between your sweet thighs? Tasting your skin?"

The slide of his tongue along the curve of her ear sent heat sizzling through her blood, and Castil jerked forward, an involuntary response to the heated caress. Doranis snaked an arm around her waist, splaying long fingers across her belly to steady her. She stared downward, hypnotized by the sight of the narrow white hand resting against her skin.