Post by Silver Shadow on Jul 28, 2011 21:49:33 GMT
The girl stood unmoving, her every muscle rigid and heart racing like a wild beast seeking to escape her chest. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the corner of the hallway, hidden behind the folds of a heavy burgundy curtain. Hardly daring to breath, she listened to the voices in the room beyond.
A loud, sonorous voice, belonging to someone important-looking, sounded above the others. “Your slaves are of the finest quality, Oboranis!” His eyes were shrewd and glinted with cruelty.
“Yes, yes,” nodded the Alchemist, eagerly acknowledging the compliment. “It’s hard to keep a good household these days.”
“It takes a heavy hand with the lash,” said another nobleman sagely.
“But not upon the women, oh, no.” Oboranis’ voice was pleasantly condescending. “The lash risks scarring them in places that would reduce their value. Only the rod for the females in my house, and they’re grateful to be spared!”
Riotous laughter sounded from the others in the room, and the girl found her face flushing with heat. The rod was applied across the back and shoulders, and felt no less painful than lashings appeared. Whether one was worse than the other, she could not herself say. She’d been young enough to escape most physical abuse until she’d come to this house. Very quickly, the girl had learned to do as she was told and therefore avoided most punishments.
“That serving girl accounts well for you,” commented the nobleman whose eyes were cruel. “Well mannered, too.”
Oboranis turned in surprise. “Old Ashela? You fancy that hag?”
“Of course not.” The other looked annoyed, almost dangerous. “The young one—the one who brought your wine.”
“Aah, you mean ‘Sassa.’ She is the best in the house. I taught her to scribe for me, and she says not a word in revolt. Quite the obedient dog, she is.”
The girl behind the curtain quivered at his words. Always before, she had prided herself upon her obedience, her perfection in avoiding rebuke. Whether it was scrubbing floors or copying her master’s formulas, she did as commanded without protest. And yet, some part of her soul, long-buried, burned hot as he spoke of her dog-like submission.
“She is almost grown,” continued the sly-eyed nobleman, carefully sipping his wine. “I take is she is unspoilt?”
“Another year or two, and she shall be ripened to perfection for my picking,” grinned Oboranis.
“I want her.”
Silence fell like a hammerstroke of sound. Oboranis stiffened, and the girl watching from the drapery felt her heart leap into her throat.
“I cannot sell her,” replied the Alchemist at last. The girl breathed a tiny, silent sigh of relief that ended in a strangled gasp as she saw the strange noble’s face become a mask of cold fury.
“You dare not deny me, Alchemist.” There was an icy edge to his voice as he sat poised like a viper who knows he need only strike once to kill. “I shall give you five hundred firths for her.”
The girl felt her blood run cold as every fiber of her being screamed with panic and shuddered with horror. She knew from the talking of the other servants what would befall her should she leave this house for that of a stranger. Oboranis was too busy with his experiments to molest the serving-women, save for a few favorites rarely called upon. Any manservant found bedding with a girl was severely flogged, for the Alchemist would tolerate nothing that distracted from the household work. A slave with child soon became all but worthless to him, and so he forbid dalliance.
In that, at least, she was quite safe as Oboranis’ slave.
Their voices seemed to blur as the Alchemist reluctantly agreed to the nobleman’s price, and the girl felt her head grow light. Dizzily, she staggered from behind the curtain and down the hall until she found her little alcove in a disused side-passage. Flinging herself upon the straw mattress, she buried her face in the rough yet clean blankets and trembled uncontrollably. A strange, metallic taste was in her mouth and she wondered if she might faint. Blackness swallowed the edges of her vision as she panted with swift, shallow breaths and felt the world spinning around her.
Suddenly, a great roaring was in her ears, like the thundering of a river or the snarl of some great beast. Without really knowing what she was doing, the girl snatched her little leather sack from beneath the mattress and stuffed it with a blanket, her battered shawl, and a small waterskin. She quietly made her way down the halls, and out through the servants’ door near the stables. She stopped only to fill her waterskin at the well and then slipped through a gap in the hedge. Climbing the gate, she landed awkwardly on the paving-stones below.
Instinct drove her into the shadows of a side-alley and she rushed along it. She’d seldom been in Nardis by night, and never alone. Fear set her heart to throbbing and her lungs racing as she thought of what might be awaiting her in the darkness. Her nerves were so strained that they ached with phantoms sensation, as though anticipating the pain they expected at any moment.
Gasping for breath, she finally staggered to a halt. As her heart and breathing calmed, she listened to the darkness. She heard the scurrying of rats, the rumble of distant carriages, the neigh of an overworked horse—yet nothing seemed to threaten her. Despite the grim danger of her surroundings, she gradually calmed, and exhaustion seized her in its unbreakable hold.
Sliding down the wall until she slumped against the ground, the girl slept.
†`†`†
Moonlight caressed the whispering breeze and frosted her dark hair with silver. She gazed upon a broad vista of glittering stars, dancing across the heavens to her will.
“My Lady,” said a voice, and she turned. Her eyes were wells of terrible beauty, bright as stars and dark as midnight.
The speaker bowed before her, ebon form dappled with pale argent. “My Lady, I have done as you commanded. The one you have chosen as DarkBane is now free upon the streets of Nardis.”
“Very good, Lúnasen,” answered the Lady. “Now for her NightPanther.”
The Lady’s Sky-Panther padded to her side with light and graceful steps and together they looked into a pool of moon-touched water, mirror-calm and clear as glass.
“She is alone now,” said Lúnasen as he gazed within it at a small black shape.
“Yet not for much longer,” replied the Lady. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, mingled dark and silver strands floating effortless upon the gentle wind. “It must be MoonSilver’s kin,” she went on. “MoonSilver was one of our most loyal before the time of Darkness. Her descendant shall be the one to make my chosen the DarkBane of Prophecy.”
“I understand why the DarkBane requires a NightPanther as Bond,” Lúnasen replied. “But how shall they resist the call of Darkness that afflicts their race?”
“You must help them in this, Lúnasen. Watch over them, quell the bloodlust that will stalk them because of their Bonding. Their hearts are open to my Light, and they will in time embrace it.”
“Who else will aid them?” Lúnasen asked, luminous kit-blue eyes upon his Lady. “For surely, they cannot do this alone?”
The Lady’s smile was the cold caress of moonlight, and her beauty made the heavens shudder, the stars shimmer with joy. “The third and final player in this tale is also on his way. The DeadOne sends a a twisted soul upon his heels, but he will escape to aid the DarkBane.”
“Truly, My Lady,” purred Lúnasen with deep respect, “there is none more wise, nor more beautiful than thee.”
‡`‡`‡
“He knows I poisoned Rekeltis,” said a cold, cruel voice.
The man listening through the chink in the stone wall felt his eyes widen. I should have guessed, he thought, cursing himself for his foolishness in not realizing it before.
“But Sire, how could he threaten you?” asked another voice. “He abdicated his throne.”
“In word,” sneered the other. “There is no denying the proof of his blood. How long before he seeks to claim the throne as his?”
“You are right, of course, Sire. What, in your wisdom, would you have me do?”
The listener immediately supplied the answer in his mind. Kill me, he thought.
“Poison him, stab him, strangle him—I don’t care. But I want him dead before morning.”
“Yes, Sire. I shall do as you command.”
Footsteps sounded across the stone floor, and the man—the Prince of Tellura—pulled away from his spyhole. It was one more secret his father had left to him, and not the murderer pretending to hold his throne. Casting about, he stuffed the scrap of cloth back in the chink and then moved to peer around the doorway. It wasn’t at all surprising that his uncle wanted him dead; he was the only one who knew the truth, and with that knowledge, could threaten his position upon the throne of Tellura. He had to escape the palace, or he was certain the secret would die with him.
I’m sorry, father, he thought. If I hadn’t… he trailed away, interrupting himself. Best to hurry before the assassin found him missing from his rooms. Striding quickly through the long corridors of the palace, he made his way ever downward. He found the hidden latch that allowed him to open the vaults without a key, and stepped within, closing the door firmly behind him. He was safe for a time; this was the last place they would think to find him. Lighting a torch from the flint he kept in his pocket, he held it before him.
The Prince stepped briskly among the piled treasures, gleaming armor, and chests of gold and jewels. Worthless, all of it. He stooped and snatched a small leather bag of golden firths and silver roundels, then another. It was all he needed, and all he could safely conceal. It all belonged to him, anyway, he decided when an uneasy pang of guilt shivered along his spine.
He moved further along the room, but paused when something caught his eye. Turning, he saw the black-sheathed sword propped upon a shelf, point-down and fine-wrought basket hilt gleaming in the light of his torch. He meant to walk past it—he had his own sword already—but something urged him to take it. Its edge, when he half-drew it, was as wickedly sharp as he remembered, and no rust marred the surface of the long-neglected blade. It shone with silver despite the golden glow of firelight, and he felt a half-remembered whisper brush against his mind. Shaking his head, he sheathed it, pinned it under his arm, and continued to the far side of the chamber.
He selected a series of scrolls from their pigeonholes on the wall and slid them into oiled-wood tubes. Then the Prince grabbed a length of oiled leather and wrapped them well, tying them securely with rawhide laces. He carefully packed it all into a pair of burlap sacks and carried them through the secret exit. Once he was in the passage beyond, he sealed the hidden door. Gathering it all up, the Prince headed toward the stables near the edge of Lake Astir.
Within an hour, he was racing on horseback across the Golden Fields, away from the palace and toward the land beyond.
¤`¤`¤
“That celestial Baitch is plotting anew.”
Long, dark tatters of cloth swirled through the fetid air as the massive figure of the DeadRuler turned from the pool of liquid fire. Thick, hard features set in cruel lines were shadowed grim by firelight; sunken eyes of burning red glared forth. “And I want to know what it is.”
“My Lord, it is the Chosen,” answered another voice, a high, squealing whine. “The Night-Lady is calling forth the DarkBane of her Accursed Prophecy.”
Whirling, the DeadOne struck his pet with a black-clawed hand, sending the rat tumbling across the floor to slam against the jagged wall. “Never utter that name here!” he roared. Fire rose around his shadow-cloaked form, washing the chamber in blood-red light.
“I am sorry, My Lord,” cringed the rat, righting itself and pressing against the wall as it gazed at its master. Beyond him, shriveled figures screamed in pain and writhed within the flames that flared with the DeadOne’s wrath. The cries of their tortured souls filled the air like soothing music. Breathing deeply of sulfur and smoke, the imposing figure turned, seemingly appeased.
“Zarkûr,” he said, deep, deep voice resounding with a thousand unholy echoes. “It is time to hunt once more.”
“What of the man, the princeling?” whined the rat, slinking forward again. “He escaped thy mortal servant, the one you placed upon Tellura’s throne. He is fleeing now, far from the palace. Might he not interrupt thy plans?”
“It matters not,” replied the DeadRuler. “The Prince alone can do nothing. It is with that celestial Baitch’s ‘DarkBane’ that she hopes to undo us.”
“But can she, Master?” The rat pulled itself up, horrid countenance seemingly worried. “Can she fulfill her light-cursed Prophecy with a baitch-slave and a disgraced Panther?” It twitched a forked and broken tail, rough and scarred.
“For what do I keep thee, cringing beast?” roared the One Below with suddenly renewed wrath. “Canst thou accomplish nothing? Stir all Darkness against them. Rouse the kin of Night and set them on this ‘DarkBane’s’ trail. Destroy them!”
Thunder roared and the parched earth shook with the DeadOne’s wrath. The rat flinched, bare skin trembling and matted fur pressed flat. He raised a hideous, horned head and whispered, “Yes, My Lord. I do as thou commands. The DarkBane will not live to fulfill the Prophecy.”
“Thou shouldst hope so, for thy sake,” rumbled the terrible figure of fire and darkness. “Now go from my presence, and kill.”
With another low bow, the massive, deformed rat scurried from the chamber—and up, always up, racing toward the unsuspecting world beyond.
Attachments:
Beautiful. 