Second Kiss (10 page)

Pleas and Demands

F
or
a few moments Xemion felt a pang of regret for having given up the locket, but the feeling soon passed. Nor did he miss for long the painted sword that Montither had flung into the swamp. Even the urge to track down Montither and have at him one-on-one quickly faded. In fact, despite the ringing in his ears and the pain in his palm, he felt liberated and lighter with each step he took toward his quarters.

Soon he would see Saheli.

He had even forgotten the jealousy he had felt toward Torgee — or anyone else. She was
his
warrior beloved. She had chosen
him
with a kiss. He had no doubt. His ordeal was almost over and soon he would see her.

The night was settling in cool and quite foggy, but Xemion made his way through the narrow streets with the first bit of spring he'd had in his steps in a long time.

Not far from his quarters, a guttural voice spoke right behind him.

“I beg.”

Xemion turned around alarmed and saw that it was Musea's black dog, Bargest, who now began creeping along beside him. The dog had obviously encountered some mud on his journey, for his usual pink finery was wet, ragged, and filthy. He nudged Xemion's hand with his snout.

“Bargest. What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at the underdome?”

“I beg you, help me,” the dog implored with a look of loss so intense that Xemion couldn't help but feel compassion for the poor creature. He almost knelt to pat him but stopped, repelled by something disjointed in the dog's spell-crossed gaze.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I beg you. Ease my pain.”

“Bargest, I have nothing to ease your pain. I'm sorry. But, is it safe for an animal so affected by spellcraft like you to be loose out here?”

“I beg.”

“You should go back to the underdome, Bargest. I'm sorry.”

“I beg you to own me, Xemion. Even if just for—”

“I have no need of a dog. Especially not a spell-crossed dog. Besides, I'm leaving in the morning for a place where dogs may not go.”

“I could go if I were your war dog. Please, let me be the one who finds you bread when you are hungry.”

“Bargest, there are so many others here who would love to have a dog like you.”

“I beg. Let me be the one who shouts when you are voiceless.”

“No, I'm sorry, Bargest.” Xemion was trying to harden his heart to the animal's pleading, but it wasn't easy. There was something about him that reminded Xemion of Chiricoru, the spell-crossed bird he had been raised with and who had died on their journey to Ulde. Taking pity, he knelt and undid the clasps and ribbons that bound the muddy pink outfit to the dog's body. Perhaps this was a mistake, for it seemed to energize the dog's hopes and he began to leap about a bit as he begged.

“I beg you, lord. You would never need for a friend ever, ever, ever again, my friend.”

“No, sorry, Bargest.”

“Please.”

By now Xemion had reached his door. “I'm sorry, Bargest, but you cannot be my dog and you cannot come with me. I'll be leaving in the morning. I've made up my mind and nothing will change it.”

The moon shone down through the thickening fog, and the grief and yearning in the dog's heart was released as he lifted up his snout and emitted a long, pitiful howl. But Xemion was not to be deterred. “Go home!” he said as severely as he could. Though it was a hard thing to do, he closed the door behind him. A high-pitched crying continued outside the door.

“Please,” the dog whined, “I beg you.”

Xemion found he could not be as hard-hearted as he wished to be. He pulled open the door and patted the poor dog's head. “I'm really sorry, Bargest,” he said gently. “You are a wonderful dog, but I have to leave in the morning, and I can't take you with me.”

“I beg you.”

“Yes, but I am begging you, Bargest. Please return to the underdome.”

“But—”

“I beseech you, Bargest. They will be worried about you. They will be searching for you.”

“But—”

“I beg you, Bargest, go.”

Stymied by this reversal, Bargest looked up into Xemion's eyes and licked his hand before turning away. Xemion watched him plod along the cobblestones until he reached the street that led to the castle, at which point the dog turned his head and glanced back. In a heart-rending voice he called out: “But please do not try to keep me from serving you, from calling you master.”

Xemion waved him on.

“I will be calling you master anyway. I will be dreaming that you are master. I will be at your side even when I am not at your side.”

⚔

It took Xemion a long time to fall asleep. Pain throbbed up his arm from his palm, where Montither had struck him. But it was more than the pain that kept him awake. He was remembering that small sliver of the terror he'd felt at that moment. And just when he thought he'd never shake that feeling, it suddenly changed. Instead, Saheli's smiling, welcoming face hovered before him, beckoning him onward. That painful tingling he felt was her hand in his hand — the way it had been as they passed the Great Kone. Two more breaths and the tingling became the sword. Criss and cross, it sang in his grip. His last thought before he slipped into slumber was of Vallaine and the look in his eyes when he had spoken to Xemion outside the Great Kone.
What had he said?
“You have a great destiny and those who have great destinies have the least choice in the matter.”

Ha!
he thought.

Xemion was awoken a few hours later by a loud knock on the door. When he opened it, thick fog, illumined by a tallow lamp, streamed in. Xemion didn't recognize the person who stood there, but he was huge — easily two feet taller than Xemion and twice as wide at the shoulders. The hood of a grey cloak hung over most of the upper portion of his face, but below it, a large jutting slab of stubbled chin and a tight mouth with crooked teeth remained in view. “Glittervein!” the figure growled, pointing with his thumb in the general direction of the castle.

“Who are you?” Xemion asked nervously.

The man reached into his cloak and showed Xemion a seal with a gorehorse embossed on it. “Glittervein,” he said, with exactly the same tone and jerk of thumb as before.

“I have to leave here early in the morning,” Xemion protested. He thought he'd encountered everyone in the colony but he had never met anyone as large as this man before. He was sure of it.

“Glittervein,” the man repeated, adding, perhaps for variety, “now.”

A chill of fear ran through Xemion as he threw on his clothes. Had Vallaine betrayed him? At first it hardly seemed possible, but then he remembered Saheli's mistrust of the man, and his suspicion began to deepen. On the way to the castle, the fog grew so dense that the hooded man sometimes had to find his way by running his hands along the walls or sweeping the way ahead with his staff.

When they arrived at the castle, a grumpy guard opened a broad wooden door to let them in. Xemion and his taciturn guide proceeded down a long hallway, which here and there was dimly lit with a candle or the red glow of embers in exhausted incense pots. Through foggy corridors they walked into a banquet hall, lavishly renovated by the Nains in the ancient Elphaerean style. Down the centre of the room ran a long marble table containing the remains of the previous night's supper. The floors were jewelled mosaics and great tapestries hung on the walls.

At the end of the hall, the man in the cloak, eyes still hidden behind his hood, pulled a small lever beside a closed door. Xemion heard the sound of a distant bell. Soon a little window in the door slid open and the prettier side of Glittervein's face peered out. He opened the door, and with the semblance of a friendly smile, his deep, booming voice rumbled, “Ah, yes, Xemion.”

“Yes, sir. What is it, sir?” Xemion asked nervously.

“Nothing to worry about. I just wanted to clear up some questions that have arisen.” Glittervein's words had a command hard to resist.

“Sir, I have to leave for Tiri Lighthammer's camp in the morning. I—”

“Yes, yes, I am aware. That is why I called you in tonight. This must be done before you go.”

“But—”

“Come along now. This won't take long. Lethir, bring along a torch for light.”

Examinations

L
ethir
had to hunch over as he lit their way through a low-ceilinged subterranean passage that led to an underground chamber hewn out of the solid rock of Phaer Point. Glittervein gestured to a stone chair and told Xemion to sit. It was shaped like any simple chair, all straight lines and right angles, unadorned except for the small crescent-shaped depression cut into the top of its high stone back. Xemion felt the bite of its coldness as he sat. Lethir placed the torch into a bracket on the wall and stood in front of Xemion with his arms folded across his chest. Beyond him, the light flickered against the darkness, causing shadows at its perimeter to dance and disappear. How far that darkness might extend was hinted at by the echo of each sound. Xemion had a strong sense that, somewhere in that darkness, someone was watching.

“Now don't be alarmed. This won't take long, I promise you.” Glittervein was clearly doing his best to subdue the more grating tones in his voice. “I have been hearing lately about your … voice.” As he said this, Glittervein kept the undamaged side of his face toward Xemion and allowed his long hair to hang over that mess of scarred ridges on the other side.

“My voice?”

“Yes. To be specific, your reading. I am told that you read aloud in quite a compelling manner.”

Xemion shrugged noncommittally.

“That is very unusual in our era. As you know, it is actually illegal.”

“Yes, but since we're not observing the Pathan laws here, I thought it would be dishonest to hide it,” Xemion answered curtly.

“I see. And who, may I ask, taught you?”

“My guardian. Her name was Anya Kuzelnika.”

“Who were your real parents?”

“Sir, I don't know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Anya said she found me living among the monkeys in the forest.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“That's the only story she would ever tell me. I used to ask her about it all the time, but she never gave me any other answer than that.”

“And why do you think she taught you to read?”

“She was a very old woman and her eyesight had failed her, and one day we found an old copy of the
Phaer Tales
.” Without even thinking about it, Xemion had nervously omitted any mention of the locket or the size of the books. “She said she wanted to hear them all one more time before she died, so she taught me to read.”

“But she put you at such great risk.”

“Sir, I knew that. But she was old and sick and not entirely in her right mind … and … I couldn't refuse her.”

“How often did you read to her?”

“Every night.”

“You must read very well.”

Xemion shrugged. “She always complained about my enunciation.”

“Well, I am a lover of poetry. Perhaps I can get you to read for me.”

Xemion nodded and Glittervein produced a large, gilt-edged volume of the
Phaer Tales
and held it open before the light, pointing to a text. Despite his growing suspicion of Vallaine, Xemion did not disregard his advice. He began to recite in as toneless a voice as possible:

Their horses' hooves come hammering down

On roads not of this Earth.

Nor do they know the pain of love,

Nor loss or savage birth.

They ride the wind ten million strong,

And longing is the spur

That pricks their flesh — Ride on! Ride on!

The Knights who never were.

When he finished, Glittervein eyed him skeptically. “Really, Xemion. Is this the best you can do?”

“Did I enunciate poorly?”

“Your enunciation is perfect. But are you reading now exactly the way you read to Mr. Sarabin's class?”

“Yes, the way I always read.”

“Perhaps you wouldn't mind reciting the poem again.”

“Certainly.”

“But this time I want you to take a big breath and speak louder and put some feeling into it. Gesture with your arms.”

Xemion breathed in deeply and, in an appreciably louder and more baritone voice, repeated the poem in exactly the same clipped, deadpan manner as before.

“And you are suggesting to me that this is you at your most eloquent?”

“Sir,” Xemion said with the same degree of earnestness he had often used when deliberately misinforming Anya about some of his more dangerous activities in the forest. “Sir, I think some of the Thralls who heard me read in Captain Sarabin's class may have attributed qualities to my voice that are actually qualities of the Phaer Tales themselves. They are so complete that I have never had any urge except to speak them clearly and without effect.”

“I see. Well, please, indulge me one more time?”

Xemion shrugged.

“But this time, fight that urge. Be more like an actor, if you will.”

“I will, but I warn you the story always ends the same way.” He grinned, trying to look at ease. Joking. In an even louder tone he repeated the verses, this time with numerous stiff gestures and barely less of a monotone than before.

“I see. Well, I do hope you're not hiding the fullness of your voice from me.”

“Of course not.”

“Because there's nothing to fear here. No one is going to punish you if it turns out that you can recite much more eloquently than that.”

“Sir, I've never really liked reading aloud. I only did it to please my guardian. I'm not hiding anything.”

Just then a scraping sounded from somewhere at the back of the chamber. Xemion squinted into the darkness and felt a surge of fear.

“May I?” asked a voice like ground glass. The coldness in the room, heightened by the dampness of the fog, began to penetrate.

“Most assuredly,” Glittervein answered. “I wish you would.”

Whoever had uttered that cold question now slid slowly forward and stepped into the circle of light. He was of medium size, head and body covered in a hooded grey cloak, face hidden behind a shining black oval with two slits for eyes.

“Greetings, Vihata,” Glittervein purred. For Xemion's benefit, he added, “a colleague of mine.” Glittervein removed a sizable pipe from his cloak and clacked it against his lower teeth as he prepared to light it.

“Greetings,” said Vihata, bending forward to look at Xemion more closely. Through the slits in the obsidian mask, Xemion caught the glint of two dark eyes and turned away.

“Look at me,” the crystalline voice commanded.

Despite himself, Xemion obeyed. Vihata extracted a large lens from his cloak, lifted his visor, and looked directly into Xemion's left eye. Xemion felt the magnified gaze go deep into him and became aware of a quaking feeling in his stomach. Vihata extended his index finger and lifted Xemion's eyelid a little higher. His finger was so cold it almost burned. He applied a little pressure on the orb of Xemion's eye. So much so that Xemion feared for a moment he might pop it out of his head.

“Hey!” he complained, lifting his arm to push Vihata's hand away.

At this Lethir rushed forward and grabbed his wrist in a grip of iron. In the process his hood was swept back onto his shoulders. For the first time Xemion saw the upper portion of his face and understood the source of his uncanny strength. At the centre of a thin band of brow, one large, round, aggressive eye looked back at him. He was a Cyclops. Xemion tried to twist his wrist out of Lethir's grip but the mighty hand just grasped it harder.

“Please remain still,” Vihata said sternly.

“What is this Cyclops doing here in Ulde?” Xemion shouted angrily.

“All will be answered in good time.” Glittervein said in his sweetest voice, pressing his own hands gently but firmly on Xemion's shoulders as he puffed on his pipe. “Now, may I ask you to please rest your arms with your palms down on the arms of the chair?”

Xemion tried to stand but Lethir pushed him roughly back down and pinned one wrist to the flat top of the armrest while Glittervein clicked a lever at the back of the chair. With that a metal loop slid into place over Xemion's wrist. Moving quickly, the Cyclops snagged Xemion's other flailing arm out of the air and likewise pinned it down so that soon both wrists were bound.

“What is this?” Xemion shouted, struggling against the bonds as Lethir's one big eye blinked impassively back at him.

“I'm sorry,” Glittervein chuckled. “It's a necessary precaution during examinations.”

“What do you mean examinations?” Xemion shouted.

“If you had come in by the western gate as you were told,” Glittervein assured him, “you would have been examined then and we could have avoided this. Now please co-operate, and let's get this over with.” Glittervein punctuated his exasperation by expelling a quick burst of smoke.

“Mr. Glittervein,” Xemion protested. “If I am to be questioned like this, why is Veneetha Azucena not here?”

“It will be over soon, I promise you,” Glittervein purred. He exhaled another long stream of grey smoke, which disappeared into the darkness.

“Show me your throat,” Vihata demanded. When Xemion didn't respond, he moved the lens out of the way so that Xemion could at last see his naked, unmagnified features. Xemion gasped despite himself. The face was Pathan, almost lizard-like in shape and appearance, but instead of scales the flesh was a multiplicity of facets as though entirely made of tiny shattered green diamonds. The brightest were the thin flat-line stars in the centre of the lozenge-shaped eyes, which now held his. The Pathan managed a small, tight smile, revealing a row of pointed teeth.

“I said show me your throat,” he ordered.

Xemion felt a surge of rage. “Glittervein,” he insisted loudly, “I am not sworn to obey Pathan masters. I am under instruction from Veneetha Azucena herself, and she said to say so. Now let me go.”

“Mr. Vihata may be a Pathan, but he's on our side and he is our expert when it comes to detecting spellbinders,” Glittervein replied sweetly.

“I am not a spellbinder!”

“Well you may not know what you are or what you may be. It is more your capabilities — your tendencies — that we are trying to determine here. So let's not delay this any longer. I know you need to get away in the morning.”

Thus persuaded, Xemion reluctantly opened his mouth. The Pathan brought the lens back into place and through it peered into Xemion's throat.

“He certainly has the vocal cords and palate of a spellbinder,” Vihata said. “But I can't be sure.”

“But it is obvious,” Glittervein shot back at him, obviously frustrated. “I could see it from the moment I set eyes on him.” He puffed furiously on his pipe, sending billows of grey smoke in Lethir's direction, causing his eye to blink with irritation.

“Of course you could,” Vihata said testily, “but it's not your money that's being spent, is it?”

Glittervein nodded and sucked so hard at his pipe the embers glowed and sputtered. “Of course.”

“I want to hear him read. Really read.”

“I can't help it if he resists!”

“I did not resist!” Xemion shouted.

“Well, I have something to fix that,” Vihata said, ignoring Xemion.

Glittervein shrugged. “By all means then.”

“A little libation, shall we say, that lets out whatever is held in.” Vihata's glass face shifted its facets into the Pathan version of a smile.

“Mr. Glittervein,” Xemion bellowed, “I insist I be released.”

“I will just need a little blood,” Vihata said. In a flash he drew a small blade and brought it to the middle of Xemion's forehead, where he made an incision. Xemion screamed, more in rage than pain, and yanked at his bonds so fiercely that they cut into his wrists. Behind him, Lethir bore down on his shoulders while Glittervein stood before him, ready to intervene if necessary. Smiling, the Pathan held a tiny golden cube against Xemion's forehead and allowed several drops of blood to absorb into it.

“Why the blood?” Glittervein asked.

“It helps the action of the potion. Something we learned in Arthenow.”

That chill that had bitten into Xemion's blood at the first sight of the Pathan's face was now burrowing down into his marrow as though desperately trying to hide. Blood and Arthenow meant only one thing — necromancy.

But necromancy should have no power on this side of the western ocean. Still, he couldn't help but fear it. He watched in horror as the Pathan produced a small corked bottle from his cloak and dropped the bloodied cube into it. There followed some hissing and a plume of dark red steam. The Pathan held the goblet under his nostrils and took a quick sniff. He nodded to Lethir and suddenly Xemion felt himself grabbed from behind by the hair and tugged back so that his neck was wedged into that crescent-shaped groove in the back of the chair.