Shadow’s Lure (8 page)

“The scion.”

Her bosom heaved as the words echoed across the ethers between life and death. Upon granting his boon, she had required one task of her servant. That he kill one man. A very dangerous man.

“Did you slay him as well?” she asked.

Mumbled words whispered from the portal.

“Levictus! Did you slay the scion?”

“He was defeated.”

Sybelle released the breath she had been holding.
Thanks be to the Mother Dark
—

“But something … interfered. I die.
Shinae
…”

Sybelle hissed between parted lips.
Shinae
was a dark metal native to the Shadowlands. She had gifted the sorcerer with a pair of
shinae
knives during his visit to Eregoth, years ago, but what was he talking about? She needed more answers. Yet he was fading before her eyes. She reached out to take hold of the spirit directly and wring the truth from its spectral voice, but it slipped through her psychic grasp. She lunged after him, but the withered shade of Het Xenai reappeared, gazing at her with vacant holes.

“Bring him back!” she demanded. “I was not finished.”

The ancient warrior’s sigh was a gust of wind over a cold desert plain. “The shade has passed beyond my sight.”

Invectives flew from her lips. The warrior’s spirit wavered and departed, back to its eternal sleep. She brushed the charnel dust from her hands and arose.

This was unforeseen. For almost two decades she had been assembling her power. Levictus was supposed to blaze the trail. Now her plans were unraveled, and her Master was unforgiving. She threw the sheet back over the sarcophagus, its paleness reminding her of the snowfields on the day she emerged from the gateway to step onto these cursed lands. Her father—her liege—had stood before her under the alien blue sky that burned her eyes, and lifted up his hand.

“From this land,” he said, “we shall forge a new empire.”

Despair had welled up inside Sybelle as she gazed out upon the blankness of the bare ice and stone and the foul light rising in the east. They were exiles, outcasts in a world that was but a hollow reflection of the one they had left behind.

She reached out to catch her father’s arm. “We should go back. We could make peace—”

He struck her, and she fell upon the icy ground. She lay there, feeling the sting of his hand, which she knew and hated.

“No,” he said. “We must make our destiny in this world now, or be crushed by it.”

His fist closed, and there was a terrible crash. Sybelle looked back to see the path behind them swallowed into an icy crevasse. The gateway was gone. They were marooned here.

Sybelle pulled her gaze away from the covered sarcophagus. That had been a long time ago, but the pain was still fresh. She had left behind a life of luxury and privilege, and in return been given only hardship and an endless litany of demands. Nothing in this world had been able to assuage the betrayal, not even the birth of her son, Soloroth, who had never seen the onyx skies of Shadow, nor walked upon the pallid shores of its midnight seas.

Steadying herself against a stone pillar, Sybelle went to an alcove in the wall. She took down an elaborate orichalcum box and opened the lid. A bed of fine golden powder lay inside. She took a pinch between her fingers and held it up to her nose. Inhaling the sweet powder, she was instantly rejuvenated. She took another pinch before putting the container back.

Sweeping a curtain aside, she traveled down a narrow passage of dressed stone to a doorway. The beat of pounding drums echoed from beyond the portal. Splinters of ruddy light throbbed in time with the rhythm.

She emerged into a vast hall filled with a throng of sweating, writhing, groaning bodies. The sweet heat of their passion seeped into her flesh and warmed her chilled bones. The smells of blood and sex swept the dusty attar from her lungs. Sybelle closed her eyes and let the energy of the ritual fill her. Since coming to these lands, she had tried to civilize its savage inhabitants. For four years she had worked to eradicate all traces of the True Church. She was shocked to find so many men—and even women, who should have known better—willing to die for their idols. Yet once she and Erric took the city and exterminated the Light-worshipping cult, Sybelle had had a change of heart. Why deny the people an outlet for their baser natures? So she’d devised a new sect to venerate the Dark, with herself as the earthly incarnation of Mother Night. Those who came to worship here gave of their blood and their bodies, infusing the temple with a power that lapped at her soul like an ocean of ambrosia.

Glowing braziers sat along the walls. A company of men and women in various stages of undress cavorted under the lurid light. A haze of blue smoke from a forest of water-pipes clouded the air. Golden bowls filled with ruby wine were placed about the chamber, from which the people dipped their cups and drank or poured the contents over their lovers. Grunts and sighs echoed from the vaulted ceiling while blind musicians played. Near to her entrance, a black basalt throne sat upon a raised platform. Two smaller thrones were placed before the platform. In one of them, the Duke of Liovard slouched, puffing on the end of a water-pipe while a lithe slip of a girl hunched over his lap. Her golden locks rose and fell in time with the music.

Sybelle took her place beside the duke and shooed away the vixen servicing him. The pipe slipped from Erric’s lips. Then he relaxed as she took his manhood in hand. While coaxing him onward, Sybelle observed a knot of glistening bodies on the floor. Amid the tangle of graceful limbs, two rugged men lay upon their backs, drinking from silver cups as they enjoyed the comforts provided by a flock of young beauties.

“How fare our guests from Warmond?” she asked.

The duke made a final groan and slumped in his chair. Sybelle pressed herself against him as she wiped her hands on his pant leg.

He took a deep breath and let it out, deflated. “They seem satisfied. Although they mentioned a need for assurances about the firmness of my control over the clans. Something about rumors that have reached the ears of their liege.”

“Just as I told you.” She traced a tiny scar running down the cleft of his chin. “The death of the thanes was not enough. You must move quickly to consolidate your gains.”

He caught her hand and nipped at her fingertips. “We agreed to wait for Arion’s return. His report will tell us how go the activities along the border.”

Sybelle pulled away. “I grow tired of waiting.”

“Your distaste for my son does not sit well with me, Sybelle.”

She bit her tongue before she said what she really thought of his son. Antagonizing her paramour would only make him less biddable.

“I think only of your future. I helped you secure the greatest city of the north. Will you not trust me to guide you to your rightful place?”

He grunted and reached for a cup beside his chair. Sloshing the wine on his stain-riddled shirt, he took a sip.

“My soldiers are overextended as it stands now, love. It will take months to raise a new levy and train them, and weeks more to relocate them.”

“Then use the mercenaries I have secured for you.”

“I don’t trust them. Their commanders show me no respect.”

“They respect only strength, my lord. Show it to them—send them out to do your bidding—and they will give you the honor you deserve. The honor due to a king.”

He eyed her with a peculiar expression, like a man woken from a disturbing dream. He blinked and the look faded, replaced by his usual jaded gleam.

“Still, I would rather wait for Arion. When I know all is well in the south, I will feel more agreeable to do as you suggest.”

Sybelle stared at the duke, debating how hard to press him, but the sweet ecstasy of the temple chamber made her unable to sustain any true ire toward him. Against her better judgment, she let the matter pass.

She stood up. “As you will, my lord.”

“Where are you going?”

The sorrowfulness in his voice was like a knife down her spine.

“Stay and enjoy the fete.” She bent down to kiss him. “I shall join you later.”

Sybelle turned away as Erric reached for his pipe and signaled a servant to fire up another cube of kafir resin. She wasn’t thinking of the duke, or even the emissaries she had invited to forge a pact that would eventually unite the Northlands under Erric’s banner. Her thoughts were focused on a man who had thwarted her designs in another direction, a man who should be dead, and the plans intended to remedy the situation.

J
osey twisted the ring around her finger as she stood outside the ballroom doors. The imperial palace had three ballrooms, but this one—the largest—was reserved for state occasions. The strains of the orchestra tugged at the pain in her temples. She had cancelled her audiences again today, taken a ride through the imperial grounds, and even tried her foster father’s remedy of ground fennel root mixed in diluted wine, but nothing had relieved the headache. And now she had to contend with this infernal pageant.

Forty-two days. This morning when she woke up, she had been seized by a stranglehold of panic when she tried to conjure an image of Caim in her head and found herself grasping for details. It was the little things that she couldn’t remember, like the pattern of scars on his hands, and the smell of his sweat. She’d spent the morning locked in her bedchamber and called off the ball at least four times, and each time relented.

Josey took a deep breath that threatened to burst the seams of her bodice.
Might as well get it over with
.

At her nod, two footmen opened the doors. A wave of sound and light washed over her. Dozens of lords and ladies in elegant attire promenaded about the room. Crystal mirrors reflected the light of a thousand candles, and their soft glow lent the ball an air of otherworldliness. For a moment she forgot her anxiety and let the music carry her inside.

Everyone stopped and bowed at her entrance. The musicians stopped their song and began to play the imperial anthem. Josey smiled to everyone as she swept through the room.
This isn’t so bad
.
Why was I so concerned
?

Hubert came over to stroll beside her. “Put your hand down,” he whispered below the level of the music.

She nodded to an older lady in a purple-and-white gown that resembled the plumage of a strange bird. “Why?”

“Because.” Hubert inclined his head to a pair of older men in military uniforms. “You look like a farm girl on her first trip to the big city.”

Awkward warmth crept into Josey’s cheeks as she lowered her hand. “I’m a little nervous, all right?”

“No need to be. You look enchanting.”

She brushed her hands down the panels of her gown, chartreuse in tabaret with a lace décolleté. “Well, thank you, Your Grace, but I don’t feel it. My head hurts, these shoes are killing my feet already, and maybe I would know what to do if you had been around today to coach me.”

“I was working hard on the behalf of your empire.” Hubert nodded to an aged duchess of some middling territory. “I have written to your rambunctious nobles, but I don’t expect a reply for some days. Perhaps longer, as they weigh their options.”

“Send another message. Command them to appear and answer for their offenses.”

“Yes, Majesty. And there is something else. I believe I have an answer to the Akeshian problem.”

“Really?”

“You’ve read the reports about food shortages across the realm. Last year’s harvest was abysmally meager, and with anarchy running rampant through the central provinces and the troubles on the border—”

“I understand, but how does this tie to Akesh—?” She grinned at him. “You want to offer the Akeshians a trade agreement. Food in exchange for peace. Very clever, Lord Chancellor.”

“Actually, Lord Parmian devised it. His plan makes perfect sense. Akeshia is swimming in grain, so they get rid of their surplus for a hefty profit. We receive the food we need and a chance at building a new relationship. Everyone benefits.”

“Except for the Church.”

“True. The hierarchs will not be pleased to see an end to the eastern crusades. There is also the matter of convincing enough ministers to support it, and then where to obtain the funds to pay for the grain.”

Josey took a cleansing breath. “I’m sure you and Lord Parmian will work out the details. Thank you, Hubert. This is the best news I’ve had in weeks.”

She hesitated before asking about the thing plaguing her mind, but then plunged into it regardless. “Any word from—?”

“No.” He dropped voice even lower. “Nothing yet. I have sent additional riders north, but none have returned so far. I will come to you the moment I hear anything.”

She hadn’t expected more than that. Still, she could not help but be a little depressed. “Thank you, Hubert.”

He started to bow, but his gaze wandered away to focus on something behind her. Josey turned and laughed in delight.

“’Stasia!”

Josey met her friend with an embrace. Pulling back, she admired Anastasia’s lavender gown, which fitted her slender frame like a second skin. Waves of golden curls framed her doll-like face.