Destiny (16 page)

She did not know him yet—had not even made eye contact, but he was now bonded to her and would not leave her side if he could help it.

With Juno’s help he had manipulated himself into the service of Orlac. It was unnerving to be in his presence again but Juno had warned him of this and he had taken care not to show anything in his face. She, fortunately, had come back in a youthful form and thus unrecognisable to Orlac, but Adongo had returned with the same appearance and so with Juno’s assistance they had set about changing it.

His long hair had been shaved. Now his darkish skin was oiled, his head shiny. And he had grown a moustache and beard, both kept trimmed short, but the transformation was so dramatic that even he could not recognise himself. It was no Moruk chieftain staring back at him from the glass. Juno had giggled, warning that they could not use magic around Orlac; he would sense it in an instant. This would do. He would never recognise the Fifth of the Paladin.

And Orlac had not. Nor had Dorgryl, who was infinitely more suspicious. Adongo had passed the test and been accepted as Titus, who was now climbing onto the back of his horse. He had not seen Orlac throw an invisible burden across the back of the third horse, but he did think it strange that his master insisted on attaching the reins of the spare horse to his own, rather than his servant’s.

At the guardhouse, Orlac turned on the charm. ‘Can’t
sleep. I’ve got my man with me…thought we’d go into Tal and see what action is afoot.’ He winked.

‘Is that why you need the third horse?’ the guard said, smiling.

‘Well, you never know your luck,’ Orlac played along, flashing a grin. ‘Actually, I thought if I picked up some gifts for the ladies of the court of Cipres at your famous night markets, I might need help carrying them back to the palace.’

‘It won’t be enough. Women always want more, sir,’ the guard replied, shaking his head. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘We will,’ Orlac said over his shoulder as he cast one last glance towards the palace. ‘Sleep tight, King Gyl,’ he offered silently. ‘I shall enjoy taunting you before I erase your Kingdom from this world.’

It was later—at dawn—several hours’ ride from the capital and deep into the countryside of Tallinor’s northwest, that Orlac cast aside the invisibility glamour and revealed the body of Lauryn slumped across the third horse.

Adongo’s sound of despair escaped him before he could prevent it.

Orlac seemed unperturbed, gracefully dismounting and then coming around his horse to lock stares with the man from the Exotic Isles.

‘I’m afraid I shall have to kill you, Titus, now that you know my secret.’

Adongo knelt. He had to react swiftly now and somehow keep Lauryn safe. Finally he understood the
strange sensation that she was near he had carried with him all these hours.

‘My lord, you are the one!’ he cried.

‘What?’ asked Orlac, faintly amused.

‘I saw you in a dream. I watched you descend from the heavens and alight in this world. I was told I was to be your servant…that I must follow you.’

Orlac felt himself chill at the man’s words. ‘Who told you this?’

Adongo had to be very careful now. ‘I did not see who spoke. But I saw you. That’s why I came to Cipres to find you, my lord. I had no choice. We Moruks are spiritual people and my destiny was shaped. I had to find you and be your servant. I have been waiting for a sign of your powers. And now you have revealed them, I am in awe of you. You do not have to kill me. I am already enslaved to you and will do your bidding obediently.’

I told you he watched us knowingly. He could be useful,
Dorgryl whispered.

I thought you didn’t appreciate witnesses.

Well, when she wakes up, there’s going to be a lot of commotion, I can assure you. He can help. Let him win her trust and then through him we can make her cooperate…as far as Cipres anyway. He can even promise to help her escape but all the while have our ear.

You never fail to surprise me, Dorgryl.

I have my uses,
the elder god said.

‘Stand,’ Orlac commanded.

Adongo felt the relief loosen his tensed body. Orlac had accepted him. He arranged his expression to one of awe and supplication. Now he must protect Lauryn as best he could. It would not be easy for her. It did not take
much to conclude that she now faced an emotional and probably physical challenge which she must survive. He must guide her through both challenges and help her heal both types of scar until the true One came for her.

As he humbly stood to meet the violet gaze of the god, he took a risk and cast out strongly towards the Heartwood…where Torkyn Gynt would hear his plea for help. He prayed the Heartwood, with its special magics, might somehow cloak his message.

Dorgryl shimmered.
What was that!

I sensed it but could not make out the content
, Orlac admitted. He addressed his manservant.
You are sentient?

I am, oh great one. I cast out my thanks to the gods who watch over me and brought me to you.
He knew it meant certain death if Orlac did not accept his story.

‘Never do that again or I will kill you.’

Adongo bowed, covering his smile.
No, we will kill you, Orlac,
he thought. ‘Humblest of apologies, my lord.’

They heard Lauryn groan loudly as she sat up, terrified. Her terror snapped to anger as her memory brought back what had happened.

‘You’ll not get away with this, Sylc.’

Orlac laughed. ‘I already have.’

‘The King will follow…and he will kill you.’

‘Well…he may try.’

She dropped from her horse to her feet, feeling the tempting surge of Colours but pushing them back. Her father had once advised her not to strike out with her powers until she knew exactly what she was dealing with. She took his advice now. She would bide her time and for now would allow her anger to do the talking.

‘Whatever it is that you want, I’ll not give it. Not ever. You might as well kill me now.’

King Gyl had just received the grave news that the Lady Lauryn was not answering her door because she was no longer in her room. Nor was Regent Sylc…but they had found the body of the messenger, Ypek, his throat slashed, his corpse rolled in a carpet on the floor of Sylc’s room.

‘Search the grounds! And bring me the guard who allowed Regent Sylc to depart the palace during the night.’

Gyl felt his own throat close. The first official day of his reign was destined to be a bad one.

And so it was.

Goth was feeling inspired. Being back on Tallinese soil with a dozen or more armed men behind him gave a sense of the old days when he had led raids into villages and struck the fear of torture and reprisals into the sentient ones. It was different now, of course, but he felt the old thrill of the chase and it rejuvenated him as no drug could.

He could almost smell Sarel and her bitch maid. With Garth’s information it had not taken long to establish that a ship called
The Raven
had left the Ciprean harbour under cloak of night on the same evening the royal and her servant had fled the palace. He presumed that as they were on foot they carried very little in the way of belongings. He also assumed they were well-pursed for their journey.

Goth dug back into his mind and it did not let him down. He recalled that Quist had married a whore; made her a brothel owner. She was young —originally from
Hatten—and had turned the tavern and its brothel into the most successful operation of its kind in the northern region of the Kingdom. Quist was regarded by the Caradoons—and it seemed the Cipreans were of the same opinion—as an honourable pirate, if there could be such a thing. It was Quist’s much admired brother-by-marriage who had risked the Kiss of the Silver Maiden. How the wheels turn, Goth thought. As he brought more and more of the Quist story together in his mind and paths began to cross, Torkyn Gynt came sharply into focus for him. Gynt and Quist knew each other, or certainly
of
each other. He knew this because it was Gynt who had saved Locklyn Gylbyt from certain death when
The Wasp
sank.

What was the connection here? What was he missing?

Quist had offered the runaway Queen safe passage into Tallinor…why? Money might encourage a less well-heeled captain to risk the dangers of pulling out into the famously turbulent and unpredictable waters off the Ciprean mainland at night. He accepted this…money talked. But Goth’s mind was always one to look beyond the neat answer; the obvious, the most sensible option. Quist was already wealthy. He need not involve himself in such a risky adventure.

What if Quist had not helped Sarel for money? What could his other motives be?

As one of the soldiers handed him the reins of his new horse and they prepared to ride from the harbour into Caradoon proper, he began to ask himself what might encourage a wealthy man to take such unnecessary risk. There was but a single scenario that his clever mind would permit, but it was such a foreign notion that he
dismissed it at first. Could loyalty really be the reason? Was a pirate loyal to anything or anyone but himself and his potential booty? And to whom was Quist loyal…Sarel? Surely not. The maid? Highly unlikely. Which left only Queen Sylven. Why would Quist feel an obligation to protect Sylven’s child? He was not even Ciprean.

Goth could not make the connection and although his mind swerved close, it never would hit on the real reason—which was that Quist was loyal to his wife, Eryn. And that dedication had begun a series of complex, seemingly unrelated events which had eventually led to Hela’s explaining everything to the pirate, because she trusted Gynt—and so did Quist, because Eryn did. That was enough to oblige the pirate to help this young woman who pursued Torkyn Gynt and safety.

It mattered little to the former chief inquisitor that he could not find a satisfying answer. For Goth it was simply entertainment…something to puzzle at to while away the days of the sea crossing. In truth, all he wanted now was Quist’s head rolling in the dirt, and perhaps a clue as to where Sarel might be and who her protectors were in Tallinor. He would not let his new master down; perish the thought of what might occur if he did.

Goth had deliberately plied his companions with liquor, ensuring they were certainly intoxicated, if not drunk, by the time of their arrival at the Caradoon docks. His aim was to ensure their inhibitions would be relaxed; that they might be rougher, less tolerant of reason. He had also craftily steered the conversation during the last hours of the voyage towards scarlet women. The combination of liquor and visions of
brothels had achieved the right level of belligerence and aggression together with sexual need. At his encouragement, and with the promise of a hefty pay increase to each soldier, his men fell upon Madame Eryna’s tavern, rousing a predominantly sleeping brothel in the very early hours before dawn. It must have been a quiet night’s business, for only a few men had stayed the night and their token resistance was quickly beaten back. Eryna’s paid bodyguards put up a much better fight, killing three Cipreans and wounding four, but her protectors, seriously outnumbered, soon felt the end of a blade.

Goth allowed the men to have their way. He had told them these were wicked women of Caradoon; outcasts of Tallinese society and of no consequence. The shrieks of the girls pleased Goth no end. He went in search of Sarel, Hela or Quist. He found none of the trio he sought but he did find Quist’s woman.

‘She’s mine,’ he warned, licking his rubbery lips, giving the impression of lustful intentions, which was so far from the truth he found it amusing.

All he wanted from this woman was information. He had her gagged, bound and thrown into a storecupboard whilst the Ciprean soldiers did whatever they chose to do with the whores. Much later, in the diffused light of near-dawn, the same men gathered outside the brothel. They were chagrined; many a little disgusted by their own behaviour as the effects of liquor wore off their clouded minds. Nevertheless, Goth, always eloquent, managed to fire up their sense of duty once again and through the haze of their shame, their headaches and fatigue, he reminded them of what they
had come here to do and why. His effeminate voice carried through the bracing morning air, explaining that it was every man’s duty to rescue his Queen from the Tallinese and prevent her from being thrown into the clutches of the murderous Torkyn Gynt.

He ordered the girls out, and a now-motley group of formerly lovely young women were ushered to stand in front of him, holding their arms around themselves against the chill. The bruises and cuts they had sustained trying to fight off the men were now starkly visible in the lightening day; their nightgowns ripped and tattered. Some of the women wept, others swore at Goth. Many of the soldiers studied their boots, probably thinking of their own women back in Cipres…even of their own daughters; perhaps eventually justifying their behaviour with the self-serving notion that the violated women were whores anyway and so it mattered little.

‘Bring out Madame Eryna,’ Goth said, loving the sound of his voice issuing orders again.

They waited as one of the men disappeared into the brothel, the silence broken only by a few coughs, a groan or two from girls hurting. It was still too early for many of the Caradoons to be up and about but a couple of passers-by stopped, shocked by what they saw. The silence lengthened, interrupted momentarily by the sudden intense shriek of a small flock of wrens which had been disturbed.

The noise was ominous in the quiet which was then shattered by the voice of Madame Eryna cursing her captor in such a vicious manner it brought a genuine shadow of a smile to Goth’s wretched face. He was
going to enjoy this one—there was nothing quite like feistiness to heighten his enjoyment of a woman’s pain.

The girls began to wail as they saw their madam, largely untouched, thrown to the ground before Goth’s feet.

Eryn scrambled to her bare feet, ripping her soft nightgown as she did so but not caring. She spat the dust from her mouth, ensuring what issued landed neatly on Goth’s boots. No one missed that proud message and somehow everyone gathered there, including herself, understood she would pay heavily for such defiance. She held her head high, eyes blazing as she stared into the warped and ugly face before her.

Goth did not want this woman to steal his show and well understood the seductive power that courage could generate, so he decided to take the lead and allow no further time for his men to find some grudging respect for the prostitute’s pride.

‘Where is your husband, whore?’

Incredibly, and so unexpectedly, she smiled. Eryn wiped the back of her hand across her face to remove more of the dust. ‘I remember you. They call you the Leper don’t they?’ she said, ensuring her voice carried.

Goth kept his calm. ‘People call me many things.’

‘How about the cockless butcher? Have you heard that one? I certainly heard you were no longer a man where it counted. I’m amazed you’d set foot in a brothel. There’s nothing for you here, Leper —my girls like whole men…real men.’

He felt his anger rise but did not allow it to show on his face, though he could have cursed the tic near his eye which seemed to have intensified.

She laughed now when she saw his affliction. ‘Ah, wait…I remember another one. Twitching Fu—’ Eryn did not finish.

Goth’s blow was so fast, so hard, she heard ringing in her ears, and her eyes were suddenly stinging from fresh tears she could hardly feel running down her cheek. She knew instantly serious damage had been done, having felt the sharp pain of fragile bones breaking.

‘Stand!’ her tormentor shrieked.

Eryn could hear the soft weeping of her girls and she hated these people being able to do this to her. She stood, with a little more difficulty this time, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing him how much her face suddenly throbbed.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered through her pain.

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Goth responded sweetly this time. ‘You might as well tell me and make it easier on yourself and all these once-pretty girls here.’

Eryn looked around; the rays of sunrise, now sharp, highlighted a grim scene. For the first time since being brought outside she noticed the state of ruin her girls were in. Some of them were so battered it would be weeks before they could look after a client again. She tried not to think that far ahead. Concentrate on now, on survival, she told herself. She did remember this man. His name was Goth, which had formerly been a name to strike fear into the sentients of Tallinor, but that was history. She felt sure he had died in the King’s prison; but obviously not—for here he was asking her about Janus. Eryn realised now as she gazed around that she
was surrounded by Cipreans—the distinctive billowing shirts of the guards; their neatly trimmed beards and moustaches; those swarthy complexions. These were men from the Exotic Isles. So they had come for their Queen. Chasing her down to kill her?

Janus had arrived a day or two earlier and stunned her by bringing home more than his usual booty from the voyage. Two gorgeous women— one young enough to make Locky’s heart beat at least three times as fast as it should. Naturally Eryn had taken the women in, but Hela had assured them that she and the Queen would not be safe until they could get to the Great Forest. Eryn had heard the full story of their flight from Cipres from the lips of Sarel’s maid and could hardly believe the tale. She liked Hela; recognised a lot of herself in the plucky woman who had sworn to keep the young Queen safe.

Eryn had questioned the older woman as to why they needed to go to the Forest—there was nothing there. Surely they were safer here?

Hela had seemed surprisingly sure when she said: ‘Because Torkyn Gynt will protect us.’

At the mention of her lover’s name, Eryn’s breath had caught in her throat. More careful questions revealed Tor was familiar with both Ciprean women yet not intimate with either. She permitted herself to feel a sense of relief at learning this, though she hated the envy she felt for the olive-skinned exotic beauties who sat across from her. She jealously wondered, just fleetingly, how Tor could resist them…her information was that he had bedded virtually every beauty in Tallinor. And then Hela began to relate an extraordinary tale of the former queen’s death
and Tor’s supposed involvement. Hela assured Eryn it was not true and that, in fact, the Queen had been in love with Tor, had hoped to make a special life with him as her consort. Eryn bit back again at the resentment she felt that Tor was loved and desired by so many, including herself. The tale grew more preposterous as Hela spoke of a dreamspeaker; a woman who had told her to flee with Sarel; to find their way to Tor who would protect them from certain death at the hands of a usurper called Orlac. A dozen objections fell from Eryn’s mouth at once and yet Hela was resolute. They would go to Tor.

‘But how will you find him? We have no idea where he is now,’ she had responded, frustrated by the determined set of Hela’s face.

‘I know where to go,’ Locky had piped up. ‘I was with Tor and Saxon the last time they headed to the Forest, remember?’

She did remember.

Quist had taken her hand and squeezed it. ‘Let the boy take them,’ he had said in the unruffled, unfailingly gentle way he had with her.

‘Alone?’

Quist had nodded.

‘No, I will not permit it, Janus. Locky is a boy.’

She had seen her brother bristle visibly at this and she regretted her choice of words, but she had been worried. This was madness. A Queen from foreign lands on the run in Tallinor, apparently being pursued by some enchanted person who made buildings fall down and people bleed. Ridiculous! More importantly, Locky was swooning over the young Queen and the journey was fraught with dangers because of this.

‘You believe all this magical stuff?’ she had asked her husband, a tone of exasperation creeping into her voice.

‘I keep an open mind, my love,’ he had said gently. ‘I have seen many strange things in my lifetime and I have learned not to disregard something because it sounds unreasonable or unfathomable.’

Janus had sensed Eryn’s famous temper smouldering. He had kissed her hand, which he held in his big, scarred pirate’s hands. ‘We must help these people, my love. This child’s mother was murdered. She was a queen. And now this young woman is the ruling monarch of Cipres. It is our duty to help her whilst others usurp her throne.’

She had known her husband was right. He was usually right about everything. And she had finally nodded.