Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (22 page)

D
jahr raised his glass to his lips, then stilled. There it was again. That glance. Intercepted between Talis and Khatrene.

Lae leant forward a moment and Djahr was forced to do likewise, that he might further observe the expression on Talis’s face.

Khatrene looked back at her plate, yet Talis continued to gaze at her with more attention than seemed fitting. Djahr hesitated to call the glance one of desire. More of sadness and something else.

Certainly, the interest was not returned. Khatrene desired only Djahr’s attention, which he gave her in lavish quantity during the day. The nights were a cruel disappointment to her, but Djahr could tell by her manner that she blamed herself for the inadequacies of their joining.

The refinements of the Shadow Woman’s torture were so sweet Djahr could barely wait for nightfall so that he could watch Khatrene’s innocence erode under the onslaught of thunderous muscle spasms devoid of any emotional content. How she ached for his touch, and this he would grant, sparingly, when they were in company. Once they were alone, however, he gave her nothing but his seed.

A week had passed in this fashion and Djahr’s appetite for destruction was barely awoken, yet already he sensed a withdrawal in her. Was there cause to fear that? Might she become discontented? Or even go so far as to attempt to make him jealous? Djahr glanced again at Talis who was now listening to Lae, yet he did not glance at her, and even as Djahr watched, the Guardian’s eyes strayed again to Khatrene.

Djahr pondered this and after the meal found occasion to speak to Talis alone. ‘Do you call Be’uccdha home now, Talis?’ he asked.

‘My Lord, I do,’ Talis replied, his manner showing deference. ‘And I long for the time when Lae and I shall be wed.’

Djahr thought to test him in this. ‘My daughter urges speed,’ he said. ‘I suspect she desires to lure you to her bed and wring babies from your loins.’

Talis smiled at this, but he looked unsure. ‘My Lord, The Dark … you told me once you did not wish Lae early with child. Her mother’s birthing difficulties …’

To which Djahr replied with a weary nod. ‘Yet she is now a woman and will not be denied,’ he said. ‘I fear I was foolish to believe I could hold back a surging tide with mere words. Therefore take my blessing.’ Djahr waited a moment, watching close before he said, ‘Does this not please you, Talis?’

‘My Lord, yes,’ he answered quickly, yet Djahr saw hesitation in his eyes.

‘Then ready yourself for feats of endurance,’ he said and stepped closer as conspirators do. ‘For a wife can sap the strength of a man from dusk till dawn if she is not restrained.’ Djahr’s smile was wide yet Talis looked away and struggled with a frown. ‘If it were not my solemn duty to fulfil The Light’s destiny,’ Djahr went on. ‘I swear I would ask for respite from the —’

‘My Lord, I have remembered a task uncompleted,’ Talis said, and with the scantest bow, excused himself and strode away, his shoulders stiffer than a day-old corpse.

‘Very well,’ Djahr called after him, ‘yet come to me in the Altar Caves in an hour and we will lay plans for your wedding.’

Talis did not acknowledge this command, from which Djahr concluded there was indeed substance to his growing suspicions. The Light’s Champion was in need of guidance before his affections strayed from their rightful recipient towards the woman who was Djahr’s alone. This would not be a difficult task for the Guardian was honourable. Had this not been the case, Djahr would not have gifted Lae to him in betrothal.

But a prodding would remind him where his duty lay. And Djahr had devised just such a lesson.

Before he left for his habitual solitary devotions in the Altar Caves, Djahr called on Khatrene to invite her to join him there for an intimate embrace. At first she hesitated to agree but she was soon swayed with a few soft words and the promise of more. The potent aphrodisiac Ghett continued to administer to her mistress had served Djahr well.

On reaching the caves he dismissed his spiritual assistants and led Khatrene to his pulpit — the balcony which could be seen from any section of the cavern. Behind them hung dripping spears created by the water falling from the ceiling, and as he laid her by his side he made much of comparing her hair to the sparkling droplets, and her eyes to the magic of the Sacred Pool. When she wanted to speak, Djahr silenced her with the briefest touch of his lips on hers. Her breath stilled in her chest and he marvelled at the power he held over her, power he now wielded to hold her patient while he waited for their audience to arrive.

The guard outside had previously been ordered to admit only Talis and soon enough, while feigning to study his wife’s lips in great detail, Djahr saw a shadow drift through the cavern entrance and knew the moment had arrived. Without further preliminaries, he startled Khatrene by pressing his lips to hers in a confident manner, as though a kiss was no stranger to their marriage.

Ignorant of their hidden audience, Khatrene fell easily to his will with a rapture that was as flattering as it was arousing. And in truth, the kiss was not unpleasant for Djahr who had, for many years, known only the kisses of the Shadow Woman. There was an innocence in Khatrene, a helplessness he found most stimulating. However, his greater pleasure was found in the knowledge that somewhere in the shadows stood a soul in silent pain.

Khatrene delivered a pleasing amount of noise, taking extravagant delight in the pleasures they shared, and to mark the occasion Djahr let himself be wanton, offering her intimacies he had so far denied. As though they were regular practice, he gave her the touch of his hands, his lips, and a tender smile when she lay quiet at last in his arms, the very model of a loving and devoted wife.

All in all, a masterful performance. Djahr could only hope that his audience appreciated the effort.

Talis stood drained of colour. Sick to death. Broken of heart. And yet he could not tear his eyes away from what he ached not to see. He felt battered, his soul bruised, his mind numbed.

To know that Khatrene gave her love to another was anguish enough, but to witness the act, to see the woman on whose heart he’d locked his own, wrapped in love’s embrace with another man was more mortal a wound than any blade could deliver. And to stand unseen and watch such flagrant intimacies without thought of shame at his own actions … Talis did not know himself. Everything within him was transposed as he watched The Dark rob him of his dreams and in defence, blind anger rose to protect him from despair.

Even if The Dark was her husband, Talis ached to kill him. Yet he knew he would not. For what would such a death serve? To hasten his own demise. To break her heart as she had broken his? For surely she loved her husband. Talis had only to look at the tenderness with which she stroked his face, the reverence of her kiss. These were the actions of sure devotion.

The very actions Talis dreamt of every night.

And what of his suspicions of Djahr, roused by the memory Talis had seen in her mind? Obviously founded on jealousy alone. For though fierce hatred burned in Talis, he could not deny that Djahr was a loving husband, and deserving of his respect.

Neither could he love Khatrene the less for her actions. But he could ache for the emptiness this hour had opened in his soul. Wide, yawning emptiness that scoured joy and burned away the memory of peace.

Duty, which had once saved him from grief, was a hollow memory. He walked on legs that felt no connection to his body, stopping at the edge of the battlements to look down onto the hungry rocks below. A bitter wind pushed him back yet he leant against it, staring down at his doom.

Not even the thought of his precious Guardian blood splattering in waste could rouse him from destruction. Then came a voice behind him.

‘Beloved.’

Talis turned, his action heavy with reluctance. Lae stood before him with Mooraz at her back.

‘Mooraz delivers me to your keeping,’ she said and smiled. ‘He leaves to seek after Plainsmen in the veiled mists.’

Talis nodded, but he could bring no expression to his face.

Lae’s smile faltered. ‘Are you well, beloved?’ she asked.

Talis simply looked at her, his soul suddenly so weary he could not perform the simple action of shifting his gaze.

‘I fear you are not well,’ Lae went on. ‘And I am no nurse to aid you. I can scarcely look after myself.’ She turned a nervous glance on Mooraz, ‘Do you think Talis is ill?’

Mooraz studied Talis, seemingly in great detail. ‘Your Champion requires the dry air of the Plains,’ he said at last. ‘I will take him with me.’

‘But …’ Lae looked from one to the other. ‘Who …’ She frowned and wrung her hands together.

‘The Dark has trebled the Castle guard,’ Mooraz told her, ‘You will be safe here till we return.’

Lae shook her head but did not argue, cast another quick glance at Talis then turned and walked quickly in the direction of her chambers.

Talis transferred his empty gaze to Mooraz, who considered him a moment before speaking.

‘Gather what you need to heal yourself, Guardian. We leave in an hour.’

Talis made no move to obey, and neither did he speak.

‘You are to wed my Lady of Be’uccdha,’ Mooraz said, no concession in his tone. ‘She needs you whole in body and spirit.’

At last Talis found he could speak. ‘I will not kill Noorinya,’ he said.

‘Best you kill no-one,’ Mooraz replied, and glanced to the parapet behind Talis. Then without further word or glance he departed, leaving only the sound of the waves far below and the beating of Talis’s own heart.

N
oorinya stalked the perimeter of her camp. It galled her that three of their women lay in childbirth, and for that reason they could not attack The Dark’s party which was currently camped half a day away near the foot of the Echo Mountains. The Dark’s men had been easily evaded in the mists, yet Noorinya would have preferred to raid their camp and steal enough supplies to see her people through the coming weeks. One day they would be strong enough to march on Be’uccdha and strike at The Dark himself and Noorinya would take much pleasure in destroying the miasma of evil which hung over the black castle, just as the castle itself hung over the Everlasting Ocean.

Sometimes at night she dreamt of Castle Be’uccdha falling into the ocean, breaking into pieces so small they could be held in her hands. In her dreams she had eaten those pieces — eaten his castle as he had eaten her brother.

Noorinya’s footfalls slowed. She must not think about that. Must not remember the small body falling, blood flowing from a dagger wound she knew would end his life. True to her training she had let him fall and had fought on, pausing only to help those who might live. Yet when the skirmish was over and the time for grieving upon them, Preeshuz’s body could not be found — taken by The Dark’s men, her lieutenant had said, as was another, uninjured child.

Noorinya had gone to the wise women who had read the flames to tell her the fate of her brother’s remains. She had not slept for three days after that, the anger had been so fierce inside her. Only once had she seen the face of The Dark, when she had secreted herself among a crowd of Cliffdwellers, but that fleeting glance had told her everything.

The body of her brother had not been burned. His ashes had not flown on the wind. Thus his soul had not ascended to the High Plain. Instead he had passed through the body of The Dark to emerge as stinking nightsoil, to be disposed of with distaste. Of all the endings which might befall a Plainsman, this was more villainous than any Noorinya could have imagined, and her blood boiled for revenge.

To see the Guardian Talis hunting with The Dark’s guard only enraged Noorinya further. No child grew within her as a result of their joining and neither would there be soft feelings for him while such hatred lived in her heart. The death of her brother and her own craving for a child had filled Noorinya with an emptiness no amount of battle-practice could fill.

Despite numerous consultations with the old women of the tribe, Noorinya had yet to find a suitable mate. Yet on this night, she knew she must join with someone, if only to burn the anger from her heart into the heat of two bodies at battle. So it was that she found herself once again on a path towards the old women’s telling circle.

Striding through the camp, she signalled with rapid finger movements for two of the fire guard to take the perimeter watch. They rose silently to do her bidding and she continued past the shelters to the circle of women who sat around a low-burning fire.

‘I come for a telling,’ she said, standing a respectful distance behind the eldest of their group. ‘The memory stone speaks to me of a child,’ she told them as she had many times, clutching the leader’s talisman in her palm, careful not to weaken the thong which held it to her throat. ‘I had thought the Guardian Talis —’

‘The child you saw was not your own,’ a voice intoned from across the circle and murmurs rose around her. ‘Another’s child.’ ‘A sacred child.’ ‘A child of light.’

The dark mist of pre-dawn swelled around them and again the faceless crone spoke. ‘The child comes to you for protection, and this you must give.’

Noorinya shook her head and instinctively raised the heel of her hand in denial. ‘I could not save my own brother,’ she said bitterly. What chance would she have of protecting another’s child? Yet the wisdom of the old women could not be ignored. ‘How will I know this child? Is it one of my kin?’ Noorinya’s own sister Noola was one of those birthing. Did this mean there would be problems? That her sister would die?

‘It comes to you unborn, and not of our kind.’

Not of our kind?
Noorinya gazed at the circle, a large shadow comprised of smaller shifting shadows. ‘We will take in an outsider?’ Her thoughts were at once with the Guardian, and she knew then that despite her anger she still held soft feelings for him. ‘Will there be danger to the tribe?’ she asked.

‘Many will die,’ the voice replied ominously. ‘Yet if the child lives, all will not be lost.’

Noorinya shook her head, the meaning of these words too great a burden for her to carry. The safety of her people was responsibility enough, but to extend that protection to an outsider, at the risk of the tribe …

‘Go now and take a mate,’ the crone’s voice instructed. ‘And do not dwell on these matters, for they are the future.’

‘I honour your telling,’ Noorinya replied respectfully, and bowed with upraised palms extended.

Yet as she backed away the voice added, ‘The last of your choices shall be as the first.’

She blinked, then left them to their murmuring. The last of her choices? Did they mean her choice of mate? She paused to ponder this riddle. The last man she would choose as a warrior’s father would be Breehan the storyteller. Thin, awkward, yet he had the look of an older Preeshuz, and his eyes when they touched hers stayed respectfully on her face and did not stray to her body as did those of the other men with whom she might join.

Could this be the answer to the old woman’s riddle? Noorinya would test it. Straight to the shelter of Breehan she marched, and though it was courtesy to lay a hand on the soft fabric and beg entry, Noorinya found no humility within herself to beg. Instead she snatched back the flap and entered to crouch before a sleepy-eyed Breehan.

He, who had suffered injury and insult at her hands at battle practice, now rubbed at his eyes and looked at his visitor, then jerked rapidly awake. ‘Does battle come?’ he asked, eyes searching out the sword he had no talent to wield.

Noorinya shook her head. ‘There is no enemy.’

‘Then why do you come to wake …’ Breehan trailed off, his eyes wide as Noorinya stripped the coils of cloth from her body.

‘Battle comes,’ she told him, ‘Yet I am no enemy.’

Breehan nodded, unable on this occasion to keep his attention on her eyes. ‘And I am no warrior to best you in single combat.’

‘My strength is greater,’ she agreed, ‘Yet you have that within you which may conquer me yet.’

Breehan smiled at this and shrugged out of his shirt, said, ‘Then please, let us begin, for I am eager to best someone in this life.’

Noorinya found she could laugh, even as the heat of joining grew within her at the sight of his bared flesh. This would be a good bedding, she was sure of it. And not their last. She would thank the mothers on the morrow for the gift of their insight.

‘I ask only one boon before we begin,’ Breehan said, and Noorinya paused, having just pressed him back onto his blankets. ‘Stay with me until morning and join with me as often as I am able.’

Noorinya frowned at these odd words. ‘More than once?’ she asked.

Breehan reached between them and touched her between her legs. She jerked in surprise and then stared at him wide-eyed as his hand moved on her.

‘Storytellers may be of little use in battle,’ he said, smiling at her reaction, ‘but they keep safe the lore of the tribe. In joining there is much which can be learned.’

Noorinya closed her eyes as a groan of pleasure worked its way up her throat. ‘I will … stay,’ she said. And apart from cries which woke much of the camp, that was all she said for many hours.