Destiny (42 page)

Lauryn withdrew as far within herself as she could and cowered there. Pain had passed; now it was just the detestable feel of him against her, over her, that she must endure. And Xantia, laughing manically at her suffering.

She thought of Tor and felt strengthened that she had not capitulated to the monster’s demands, although several times when the fear of him threatened to overwhelm her it had been tempting—to link with her father; link with them all and let happen whatever was to be. But in the next second she had thought—through the pain, through the humiliation and the despair—of all those counting on her to protect their identity, their location.

The horror had begun three nights earlier. Somehow she had found the will to survive. Today, though, the fourth day, when he returned to take her again, she felt that resolve ebb. How many more times would he visit? How much longer could she resist his demands? They
were always the same: she was to call her father for help. But then, just a few moments ago, when her resilience was at its lowest and even the notion of his hurting Gidyon seemed almost fair to her in her terror, she had heard the voice.

I will save you from him. Be strong, Lauryn. Just a little longer.

And then the voice had disappeared. It sounded weak but it was there and it was making a promise. She could hear the determination and the fury within it before it disappeared again.

It was the voice of Orlac.

It was then that Lauryn realised the man who was hurting her was not the same one who had wooed her so carefully. This Orlac was different, both in voice and posture. Somehow, Orlac’s body had been overpowered and possessed by an impostor.

Her senses heightened by terror, Lauryn found her mind was open to Orlac’s. Perhaps he had been reaching for her since the terror began. Now he promised to rescue her. Curiously, it was relief she felt. Relief that this horrible thing was not, in fact, the Orlac who had spent so many evenings talking about everything and anything with her. They had shared so much in that time and in all those nights he had done no more than kiss her hand. It was as though he had been too shy to touch her. But the monster within him was not.

Lauryn could not be sure her presumption was correct, but she suspected her instincts served her well. And she recalled now that Juno and even Adongo had tried to warn her. Had they seen the impostor perhaps?

She would survive. She would let him do his horrible acts over and over but she would not be cowed by his threats or demands. As long as she did not call her father, he would have to keep her alive. She was as good as dead, Lauryn decided, if she so much as uttered Tor’s name. And so she hid his trace. Buried all pathways to him. He was the One. He must be protected by her. Orlac would save her and with that thought—as the beast who hurt her made his demands again—she sensed something new.

It was Xantia now. Xantia casting out! Could she follow that Link? Lauryn did not know if it was possible but she had to try. From her withdrawn self she focused…felt her Colours; kept them small and private and through her new and special self she sensed and was shocked to see her mother’s tormented face through a ring of flames—could even listen in on her mother’s thoughts. She believed she might scream for she sensed her brother’s and father’s presence and she pulled back instantly, running away from them, desperately hoping the thing which inhabited Orlac would not find her out.

Lauryn’s luck held. Dorgryl was lost to the pleasures of the flesh and in his ecstasy did not sense her casting out through Xantia. Lauryn withdrew herself again as he became still. He shoved her hard backwards. She heard Xantia’s horrible laugh but showed nothing. She scrambled aside, pulling up her knees to her chest; no longer caring to hide her shame in front of these two creatures.

She pretended to swoon. Xantia slapped her hard to see if Lauryn was faking but Lauryn felt it coming—she
steeled herself and went limp, allowing the sting of the slap to tingle across her face whilst her expression betrayed nothing but a slackness indicative of sleep.

They spoke in her apparently unconscious presence and she listened, not so much as twitching a muscle.

‘Thank you for giving me my freedom from the archalyt, Dorgryl,’ Xantia cooed.

Lauryn noted the name, cheered inwardly. It was not Orlac. Dorgryl! She hated its ugly sound in her head.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, seeming to turn on his charm. It did not work—the deep voice was still laced with scorn. ‘Use your freedom wisely, Xantia. Do anything stupid with it, like following your own mindless and petty hates, and I will take your life as easy as blinking.’

The words were uttered softly but there was no disguising the threat in his voice. Lauryn could sense Xantia shudder. The Witch was scared of him but she was helplessly attracted to his power.

‘Stay with me, Dorgryl. Don’t let Orlac come back. I will serve you with a loyalty like no other,’ Xantia begged.

‘He is as much at my mercy as she is,’ he said, looking over at Lauryn.

She held her breath.

‘Do you think she will call her father?’

‘She cannot take much more of this and I have plenty to give.’ He laughed harshly. ‘She will call him. A day or two more, no longer.’

‘Why can’t you just go and finish him yourself? I think we can all guess where he hides.’

‘Because I want him to come to me!’ Dorgryl shouted. There was no warning in his manner or his speech that his anger would ignite with such terrifying speed or burn
quite so brightly. ‘I want him begging for the life of his daughter. I know him. He loves others more than the power he owns; more than what he is or who he could be. He worships the woman you hate and the children she birthed. They are his weakness. He will come.’

They left Lauryn finally but not before Xantia had thrown a jug of chilled water over her and promised they would return later. Just before she pulled away, Xantia whispered to her.

‘I gave your mother a little insight into what you get up to in Cipres, you wicked child.’

Lauryn noticed, for the first time, that Xantia no longer wore the disk of blue archalyt on her forehead, though it had probably been removed for days. It did not scare her to realise that this woman was reconnected to her powers. She rolled back to face the Witch and somehow found the courage to give the leering face a look of scorn.

‘That was stupid. Now she can trace you, she’ll destroy you.’

‘Light be praised!’ Cyrus said. ‘He’s still here.’

They were standing at the docks of Caradoon having travelled at speed from Ildagarth. The soldier was impressed with how quickly they had covered such ground. Although the great northern city and this relative backwater were close in terms of the size of the Kingdom of Tallinor, he recalled such a journey would normally take two, possibly three, days. They had made it in the course of a day.

Did you have anything to do with how fleet of foot our horses were?

Rubyn only barely smiled. It was answer enough.

‘How can you know?’ Sarel asked.

Cyrus looked away from Rubyn’s smug expression to the Queen. ‘Because only when the sovereign is aboard can a ship fly that pennant…or so it was in my day,’ he replied.

‘Do we just stride up then and present ourselves?’ It was Hela. ‘Because we look very conspicuous right now and it’s a matter of moments, I’m sure, before soldiers ask us to move on.’

She saw Cyrus’s normally serious expression change to one of amusement. He scratched gently at his closelyshaved beard.

‘I think I’ve just spotted our way into an audience,’ he said softly. ‘Follow me.’

They did as told, trailing his long stride a few steps behind. Hela felt a tingle of pride on his behalf. He’s magnificent, she could not help but privately admit, as she watched the confident—and indeed arrogant—walk of Kyt Cyrus.

The ship was clearly being readied to sail and if Cyrus’s still sharp eyesight served him well, frantic activity was underway which seemed to be under the command of a civilian. Perhaps he was the captain— this was no royal vessel and certainly no warship. The only ships which left from this port were pirate craft…usually slavers.

A look of distaste crossed his face. He had always hoped to do something about Caradoon and yet it had been his idea to leave it alone. He had finally decided
that to monitor it closely—have spies even —would be a more subtle way to control it. Lorys had not been keen but he had appreciated the good sense of his Prime who argued it would be best to keep potential troublemakers in sight. Heavy handling would only send them all scurrying to new regions, the Prime had assured, adding that as long as the problem did not spill south—could be kept contained within Caradoon—then it was as good as controlled. Lorys had finally agreed, and so as much as it galled him to leave the town of scoundrels alone, Cyrus had bided his time, infiltrating the pirating community with two or three men who lived amongst the Caradoons for many years, reporting back cautiously but frequently once they knew they had been accepted.

He looked again at the man in charge. He seemed awfully young to command his own ship. Cyrus checked the name—
The Raven—
and his thoughts moved swiftly, racing back amongst his memories to bring to mind the name of the owner of this ship.

‘Janus Quist,’ he murmured. The others looked at him and he explained. ‘But that’s not Quist. He was distinctive to say the least.’

Rubyn’s much keener eyesight focused on Locklyn Gylbyt, barking orders. ‘He’s about the same age as I am, perhaps younger.’

Sarel squinted into the distance. ‘It’s Locky!’ she suddenly squealed.

Hela admonished her for the loud voice although none of the busy soldiers seemed to take any notice.

It was Hela’s turn to narrow her gaze towards the young man. ‘I think Sarel’s right. His brother—well,
brother by marriage —is Quist. The captain was exceptionally generous towards us. He helped us to escape from Cipres when we fled.’

‘Good news. He might be useful,’ Cyrus said. ‘But he’s too far away right now to do us any good,’ he added, nodding towards the three soldiers approaching them.

‘Ho, you people,’ the youngest one said. ‘What do you want down here? This wharf is a protected area until that ship sets sail.’

Cyrus smiled disarmingly. ‘And you are?’

‘A soldier of his majesty’s Shield and not answerable to you, sir,’ he replied. ‘We must ask you to leave.’

‘Is the King on board?’ Cyrus continued, ignoring the young man and turning towards the eldest one in the trio. Cyrus did not recognise him but he hoped the man was old enough to have a long memory.

‘What’s it to you, may we ask?’ the older man said.

The first soldier bristled at being ignored as he was obviously of superior rank and Cyrus could not help but smile as the older man gently raised his hand. It was not the act of a subordinate but it was not confrontational and his younger superior wisely held his tongue.

‘The King will be interested to meet me.’

‘Your name?’ the same man now asked.

‘Cyrus.’

A uncommon name but certainly not rare. The man nodded.

Cyrus could see the younger fellow was about to explode into a tirade of orders, presumably along the lines of asking them to leave, so he cut across him before a sound came out.

‘It’s Kyt Cyrus,’ he said firmly, his piercing look narrowing and hardening as he impaled the eldest soldier with a look once legendary amongst the King’s Guard.

The older man’s attention was equally riveted now. He frowned. ‘Very familiar although forgotten by most. I never knew him, of course, so I am not the one who can verify the face that goes with such a memorable name.’

‘But he can,’ Cyrus said, nodding towards a very senior ranking soldier coming down the gangplank of
The Raven
.

They looked over. ‘Now look here,’ the young guard said. ‘If you think I am bringing him into this conversation, you are sadly mistaken. He is not disturbed happily by trite requests from strangers.’

‘I am no stranger to him, boy, and there is nothing trite about my coming here.’ Cyrus’s voice had an edge. ‘Fetch him.’

The soldier could take the insult of being ignored but being referred to as some sort of snivelling lad was an indignity he would not abide.

‘You and your friends can either leave of your own accord or I shall have you forcibly escorted from this wharf. Make a decision.’

Hela had to smile to herself. Cyrus was so calm. He seemed to pour more scorn with his eyes than any words could. She saw that he simply looked beyond the officer giving orders and addressed the elder subordinate.

‘Fetch Herek.’ It was no polite request.

The older man nodded and stepped away.

‘You will do no such thing,’ the officer commanded. ‘I am in charge here,’ he said, realising it was already too
late. His superiority had been calmly and brilliantly undermined as the older soldier shrugged and continued to approach Prime Herek.

‘Guards!’ the younger man yelled to some men loading goods onto a cart.

‘Oh be still!’ Cyrus cut in, his voice hard and commanding.

Sarel and Hela had to stop themselves laughing at the poor speechless soldier. Rubyn looked away, knowing how humiliating this would be for a young man in front of women and himself.

The guards ran up but the officer could already see it was useless. Herek was looking over—he was squinting towards their group and then beckoned.

‘Thank you,’ Cyrus said to the officer. His words were polite. The tone was not.

The others silently followed Cyrus as he walked towards where the Prime of Tallinor stood and watched them approach. He had his captains nearby. They also stopped their activity as the group arrived. The Prime of Tallinor stared. It was as though all the frenzied activity of the wharf was muted as he stood there in obvious shock; his ruddy complexion paling to waxy.

‘Herek,’ Cyrus spoke very softly and they could hear the catch in his voice too. ‘It’s good to see you, man.’

The Prime’s mouth opened and closed. He shook his head.