Destiny (11 page)

There was nothing more to say. ‘Time for you to leave, I suppose,’ Lauryn said, trying not to sound sad.

‘We will find him and reunite our three children,’ Alyssa replied, hugging her daughter close. ‘I shall miss you before I even get to know you, but I will think about you the whole time I’m gone.’

‘Me too.’

Alyssa shook her head, her grey-green eyes glittering. ‘No, Lauryn. I think you’ll have plenty to occupy your mind in my absence. Oh Light! We are of a size perhaps…you must take whichever gown you care to from my wardrobe. I’ll instruct Rolynd and my dresser, Tilly, before I leave. You have your choice—be sure you look utterly gorgeous at all the festivities!’

Lauryn realised her mother looked like a young girl when she acted so flirtatiously and could not help but grin.

‘Pale blue or softest green will do you justice. Take whatever you want.’

And with those carefree parting words, the King’s Mother, formerly and rather briefly the Queen of Tallinor, departed her exquisite chambers overlooking the beautiful walled garden which Lorys had built for her.

She would never see either again.

Orlac sat on his balcony and stared out across the immaculate gardens of the Ciprean palace. It was the early hours of the morning and the city was still. He sipped an exquisite sweetened wine made from grapes grown on the foothills of Neame whilst his other hand restlessly twirled the tassel on a parchment which had been delivered to the palace shortly before his own arrival. He had been fortunate to open it and had answered it immediately. He presumed his response would have already arrived. He looked now at the unique tassel which marked it as a regal document. The rich crimson of the interwoven satin threads matched the colour of the now-broken royal seal of Tallinor, the Kingdom from where this missive emanated. The special invitation suited his plans perfectly. He looked forward to leaving with some urgency.

He hoped that by now Goth would have already tracked down the Ciprean Princess who had outwitted
all of them…or at least that the one in black with the pocked, twitching face would be very close to having her in his clutches. Orlac believed the young woman who would be Queen was no longer any threat to him. With that consideration aside, he could concentrate on what really mattered to him.

A soft and sleepy moan from behind him, one which only his superior hearing might pick up, disturbed his thoughts. He turned at the sound and cast a glance over the naked woman sprawled in his bed. They had been inseparable since their first meeting although Orlac knew it was nothing akin to love or even companionship. He was not sure he even liked this woman. However, there was something compelling about Xantia. Her ferocity and passion in his bed more than made up for any lack of affection for him or indeed vice versa. And yet she seemed determined to be with him. He knew she did not love him but he felt her eyes burn with something when she turned those dark looks towards him.

Right now he felt sated. It had only been a week and yet he felt he had made up for a lifetime of erotic need during that short period since he had been introduced to this mysterious woman. She was beautiful— there was no mistaking that. And it seemed there was nothing she would not do to ensure his pleasure, but he sensed cruelty there.

Once, in her ardour, she had bitten him. The pain was intense and at the time tempered only by his need to reach his own climax, but now even several days later the bruise and soreness of that bite lingered on his otherwise flawless skin. Xantia was a ruthless woman, he decided. Despite his inexperience with females he sensed that
Xantia was no ordinary woman. She spoke to him about power and revenge. At first he believed she had somehow stumbled onto his own dark thoughts and needs but quickly realised these were her own burning desires.

She was a woman scorned. She was a woman who held a hatred for the Tallinese way of life—its hypocrisy as she called it—and how she wished she could kill the King who supported it. When Xantia spoke of her sentient abilities and how her powers had been separated from her, he had been surprised. He pressed her for more information and learned about the archalyt and the Academie at Caremboche. Orlac knew one touch to her forehead and he could release that clumsily attached gem which stifled her power…not just yet though, he would wait.

But now this document in his hand perhaps changed everything. It seemed Xantia’s desires had been answered and although she never would have the pleasure of killing Lorys, King of Tallinor, it seemed the gods had seen fit to do it themselves in answer to her prayers. He smiled. Tallinor would be easy for the taking now. A new King to be crowned. Perfect.

Dorgryl’s mind unexpectedly touched his. Orlac squirmed. The older god had been silent for a day or more. In their most recent argument Orlac had banished him from his presence, hating his uncle for joining in with his sexual activities. There were moments when Orlac was not sure whether it was he or Dorgryl moving above Xantia and making her moan. His fury had worked. Dorgryl had retreated, giving his nephew the space he demanded for his own private pleasures. The senior god’s whining that he too needed the release of a
woman’s touch did not wash with Orlac. His nephew had ranted that he would go so far as to kill himself if Dorgryl did not withdraw. That did not suit Dorgryl, of course, and his nephew understood this. His uncle’s plans would be fatally injured if he did not have the body of a god in which to seek retribution from his brother, Darganoth. He could enter a mortal, but that would be a hollow victory for he sought a far loftier body to inhabit. As a god, his pride demanded a god’s body for his own. And only the most superior of the gods’ bodies would appease him now. He wanted his brother’s body. He would be King of the Host.

Orlac turned back from Xantia to resume his view across the city.

Congratulations. I think you have found our Queen, nephew,
Dorgryl offered.

Orlac sighed. He would have to talk to him.
What do you mean?

Just that she’s perfect as your puppet. It solves the problem for the Cipreans. You can keep your promise and give them a queen. She’ll do anything you ask…already does, in fact, I see.

Orlac ignored this last comment.
Yes, the same thought had occurred to me.

The plot thickens, though.
He heard his uncle chuckle in his head.
You do not know who Xantia is, of course.

Should I?

Well, you were a little busy overthrowing that stupid group of Paladin but I was paying attention.

Are you going to enlighten me?

You’ll really enjoy this,
Dorgryl said. Orlac could
picture him licking his lips.
Xantia, as she has explained, is a former member of the Academie at Caremboche. She’s told you all about that place and what it stood for so I need not go over that.

Orlac hated the self-importance of Dorgryl. The senior god relished every opportunity to tell a story, particularly if only he was privy to its details. He pushed back the wave of despair he felt at having this thing inside him.

Go on.

Guess who her best friend used to be at the Academie?

I’m afraid my mind is blank. You’ll have to tell me.
He tried to keep the impatient edge from his voice. He realised this could be an important tale and he would have to indulge Dorgryl’s need to lengthen its telling.

Her best friend used to be Alyssandra Qyn…the one and only Alyssa.

Orlac refused to respond to his uncle with the surprise he had hoped for.
Why ‘used to be’?

Oh, but this is the good bit.
The red mist shimmered inside him.
Their initial falling out occurred because of competition for the role of Elder. Completely unimportant to us,
Dorgryl admitted and dismissed that part of his story
. But Xantia’s real hate was fired because of competition for a particular man’s attentions. I wonder if you can guess who?

Is this a joke?

I would never jest about something as wonderfully ironic as this. Torkyn Gynt won the heart of Xantia but cast it aside when he rediscovered his beloved Alyssa at Caremboche. And as for that ill-favoured wretch with the gored face…

Goth?

Yes, him. Well, he was trying to kill Gynt at the time. Almost got him too but Gynt used a very clever trick to vanish himself and his lover somewhere. I imagine to the Heartwood.

What happened?

I cannot tell you about the Heartwood. I cannot see into it. It is closed to me. Even in the Bleak I could only perceive what happened around it.

Well, what can you tell me, then?

Only this. Both of them failed in their designs on Gynt. Xantia and indeed Goth harbour a great deal of hate for him and Alyssa. We can make very good use of it. Xantia will do anything for you if you dangle the carrot of these two people—of course she believes Gynt is dead. Goth just loves to persecute, maim, kill. Give him men and a free rein, as you recently did, and he will be loyal…well, as loyal as such a man could be. His need to end Gynt’s life and torture Alyssa is all consuming.

Orlac considered all of what he just learned. His despised uncle had his uses, he grudgingly admitted.
Where do you suppose Gynt gets his power from?

The red mist shimmered.
I am not enlightened on this. I would guess, like Xantia and Alyssa, he has the wild magic. He does seem far more powerful than he should be, I grant you. But there is no other form of magic in this world. Only few possess it and it is mostly of such a tame variety, it might only curdle the milk—if you understand me.

Orlac nodded.
But surely there’s more to Gynt than we are giving him credit for. Why, for instance, do the Paladin gather around him?

This is true and I admire your adept thoughts.
It was a rare compliment for Orlac from a thing from which he mostly sensed disdain. His uncle continued.
What else have they got? They are desperate and have locked onto one last-ditch effort, you might say. This Gynt is clearly highly empowered. And they have found him. Merkhud spent several lifetimes seeking someone who might challenge you. It is a vain attempt. But try they must. With the Paladin’s strengths and magics he is stronger but it is obvious he is still weak by comparison to you.

Is it obvious? Is he weak compared to me?

Orlac heard his uncle chuckle. The disdain was back.

All of it made sense to him and yet Orlac finally voiced a small and gnawing thought he had been chewing like old gristle since his mind had first linked with Gynt’s.
What if he too is a god?

This amused Dorgryl enormously. It seemed as though his bellow of laughter must wake Xantia but of course no one could hear inside Orlac’s head.

I think you are unduly frightening yourself.

I am not frightened of him.

Apologies, nephew. Let me rephrase that. I think you credit him with far more than he deserves. He is the son of a poor country scribe. I watched him as a lad. He is nothing more than a peasant in guise of some saviour of the Land. Even he doubts himself. A god?
Dorgryl’s thoughts disintegrated in high amusement once again.

Why not?

How?
Dorgryl demanded, irritated now by Orlac’s persistence.

The same way I came here?

Why?

To prevent me doing what I intend.

Dorgryl chuckled again.
Well, it’s a novel thought, nephew.

And at those words, the red mist that was Dorgryl shimmered but this time with a chill such as he had not felt in many centuries. Orlac was talking to him but he did not hear. His mind raced. No, surely not? Surely not! The other child? Darganoth was not capable of such a courageous decision. Evagora would never have countenanced such sacrifice.

And then parts of the puzzle began to snap into place.

Orlac was talking again.
Hush, let me think!
Dorgryl spat at his host.

It was Orlac’s turn to fall silent, subdued by the vehemence of the rebuke. He waited.

Dorgryl’s mind began to examine the facts, not daring to believe the audacious suggestion of his nephew that another god had been sent. And each time he refuted the idea he returned to the same thought: Lys. Her protection of Tor and Alyssa was overwhelming. It was possible. More than possible. Darganoth and Lys had pulled off a masterstroke.

Well, well,
was all Orlac heard from the senior god. More silence. More waiting.
An ingenious plan. Congratulations, Lys…far, far cleverer than I gave any of the Host credit for.
He tsk-tsked in Orlac’s head and even barked a harsh laugh at one point.
A move even I would feel proud of.

Are you going to explain?
Orlac finally asked.

It’s brilliant; quite breathtaking in its simplicity if it is true. There was indeed another child I have overlooked. It was not yet born when I was still whole. What if the
Host did sacrifice what was arguably its second most precious possession?…Perhaps even its most prized since the theft of its heir to the throne of the gods.

Who? Who was this child?

Not a child really; not even an infant as you were. It would have been a newborn. Must have been taken from its mother still steaming,
he said, his voice laced with hatred as he tied together the threads unravelling from his mind.

He ignored Orlac, spoke aloud his thoughts as they came flooding now.
Delivered to its mortal parents. By whom I wonder? It couldn’t travel alone without a carer.
There was a long pause. And then:
Of course, my old friend, Lys, would surely have done the deed. She delivered the newborn to be doted on within a humble but loving household. He was raised like you as a mortal and remained none the wiser to his identity —other than the possession of curious and immensely powerful magics.

Dorgryl spoke softly now, mentally ticking off the points in his mind as he recalled the events he had witnessed from the Bleak.

The child was passed off as simply sentient and was well schooled by wary parents to keep his talents to himself to avoid the attentions of Goth and his band of inquisitors. Along comes Merkhud, searching for centuries for this very individual. And he finds the child, now a lad of fifteen or so summers. He contrives to bring the youngster to the palace where he can keep a watch over this enormously precious person. He manipulates the life of the lad until the boy can take it no more and breaks free. Merkhud wisely lets him go but uses other
methods of spying on him and all the while is plotting the young man’s death for his own ends.

Orlac was lost in the telling of the story. He hardly understood the thread but he grasped some of Dorgryl’s mesmerising tale. Certainly his uncle seemed to know where it was headed. He allowed him to continue.