Destiny of the Light: Shadow Through Time 1 (12 page)

M
ihale lowered his sword and grinned. ‘You trifle with me, Sh’hale,’ he accused, then wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm, never taking his eyes from his opponent.

‘My Lord, no,’ Kert replied, and feigned a strike.

Mihale dropped his arm and countered with the sword in his right hand. The grip was slick in his hands, but just such conditions might be experienced on the Plains and for that reason he had ordered the practice room heated. A huge fire roared at one end, and as far away from it as they could position themselves, the men of his private guard stood wilting near the door.

‘My Lord’s tutelage under the Guardian Laroque bears fruit,’ Kert said, although this compliment was undermined by the ease with which he worked his King back towards the fire.

Mihale struggled to break through this advance but could find no opportunity. Kert’s attack was impenetrable, his swordsmanship as dazzling as it was deadly. Soon heat roared at Mihale’s back, dizzying his mind. Sweat poured into his eyes and slicked his body beneath the thickly quilted battle jacket.

Finally, Kert gave him an opening. ‘Would My Lord care to break for the evening meal?’ he asked, effortlessly parrying two of Mihale’s attacking blows.

The heat of the fire behind him all but overwhelmed Mihale and he knew he could not win, and clearly, neither would Kert press his advantage. They would merely continue until Mihale collapsed of exhaustion. ‘Cease!’ he called, and they bowed, Mihale all but staggering as he straightened and stepped away from the fire. One of his guard jumped forward to take his weapons, another with a goblet of blessedly cool water which Mihale drank with a trembling hand. A great hissing came from behind as the fire was dashed and steam billowed across the room, dampening the pale timber walls and floor which were pitted from many strikes with the blade.

Still trembling, Mihale raised his head to address his opponent. ‘You are a harder task-master than Laroque,’ he told Kert when he had breath to speak.

Sh’hale bowed, ‘My Lord, I take that as a compliment.’

‘I don’t know that it is,’ Mihale admitted, wiping his face with a towel and loosening his jacket. ‘Laroque, at least, does not try to send his Lord and King to Haddash without the benefit of due ceremony.’

Kert laughed. ‘My Lord, it was your idea to light the fire.’

‘And a foolish one at that.’ Although it had distracted him for a brief time from wondering if Talis had been successful on the Plains. The waiting was intolerable. ‘Dine with me tonight, Sh’hale,’ he said, to distract himself further, ‘and tell me how I can improve my arm.’

Kert bowed, a smile still touching his lips. ‘My Lord, with pleasure.’

They parted then and Mihale returned to his royal chambers to luxuriate in his marbled bathing pool, going over the details of the fight in his mind. Sh’hale was the better swordsman and certainly cut a dashing figure, but in defence of his own performance, Mihale admitted that Kert was twice his age and did not have the concerns of a kingdom to steal into his practice time. Indeed, now no lord of a great House was required to concern himself with anything other than running his own estates.

Disbanding the Royal Council had been a bold move, and one Mihale would never have undertaken had The Dark not been insistent that The Balance would benefit from the action. Harder still had been claiming authorship for the idea rather than revealing its source. Yet some time after the pronouncement, exactly as The Dark had predicted, the Lords began to look upon their King with fresh eyes, seeing not the boy of tender years who needed constant advice, but a king who knew best what his Kingdom required.

It was true that some had taken the change badly, the Elder Sh’hale among them, yet time would heal these wounds, so said The Dark, and Mihale trusted that his good service to Ennae would overcome their doubts.

Some wounds, however, defied time’s healing balm. The loss of Khatrene whom Mihale had loved deeply would not be reconciled. He simply could not find a way to live without her. When their father had been killed, Mihale had sworn to himself that he would take no queen, but would rule Ennae with his twin sister at his side, their bond of love strengthening each other, her wisdom balancing his reckless courage, her humour gentling his moods.

Yet just when he’d needed her most, war had cruelly separated them. The last time Mihale remembered seeing his sister was when he stepped into the Sacred Pool behind his mother, with Khatrene to follow them into exile. The next instant, or so it seemed, he was reaching out to clasp Talis’s arm. A year had elapsed; a year of which he had no recollection, but during which time his form had changed from that of a child to a young man.

What should have been a happy homecoming was drowned in anguish when neither his mother nor sister could be summoned through the Sacred Pool. Physical sickness from the journey between the worlds was replaced by hollow disappointment when he’d been forced to return to the Volcastle and rule alone. Everywhere there had been reminders of Khatrene: the garden where they’d made patterns on the paths with their mother’s precious ahroce petals, the sky platform they’d lain on after each year’s Air Ceremony, gazing upwards in the hope of a glimpse of Atheyre, the Volcastle furnace mouth where they’d thrown their father’s best shoes, the better to protect his feet should he die unaware and be called to Haddash instead of Atheyre.

Memories of their joyful companionship ached inside him and though two years had passed since his return from exile, he felt no lessening of the pain. This last journey onto the Plains carried his hopes and his heart. But if Talis should fail …

T
he Princess stood under the scalloped arch through which they had entered the Deep Sanctum an hour before. Still wrapped in her Champion’s cloak, she gazed outwards, her glittering royal-hued hair dancing on the wind that echoed through the hollow stone chambers with an eerie moan.

Behind her, Pagan sharpened the blades, more from a need to keep busy than from necessity, as his gaze strayed more often to the Princess than his work. Talis had left them an hour ago and tired though he knew her to be, Pagan could not convince his Princess to rest.

‘Will he be long, do you think?’ she asked and started to turn towards him.

Quickly, Pagan dropped his gaze to his knife, waiting until he was sure her glance rested on him before he raised his head. ‘I do not know, My Lady. Hours perhaps,’ he replied, as though drawn from contemplation of his task.

‘I hope he’s all right.’

Her frown of worry touched Pagan’s heart, and he thought his cousin lucky to have so singular a beauty as the Princess concerned for his safety. If Pagan had cause to hope she would tend him so carefully, he would take a wound himself.

‘I still don’t understand why we couldn’t go with him,’ she said, moving out of the moonlit doorway and into the shadowed light of the crackling fire Pagan had laid in the hearth. Around them the walls danced with frescoes depicting the Forest of Desire. So far, the Princess had not noticed them and Pagan was grateful for this. Their lurid depictions stirred Pagan even as they repulsed him.

‘There is danger in the forest,’ Pagan said, ‘that only a trained Guardian can survive.’

‘What sort of danger? You said there were no animals.’

Pagan dropped his gaze to his work. ‘Danger cannot always be seen,’ he said, not daring to look into her eyes lest she see there was more to the tale than he was telling her. ‘For some distance around the forest the land is taboo. To walk its paths and to take shelter in its sanctum is to risk the call to madness.’

‘Madness?’

The fear in her voice forced him to look at her. ‘You are in no danger here, My Lady. At this distance from the forest, my presence and the warding my cousin has given me protects us both.’

She waved his words away. ‘I’m not worried about me. You pair do enough of that.’ Then she surprised Pagan by moving to sit beside him, her back against the wall beside his, her head tilted to face him. ‘But I am worried about Talis.’ She held Pagan’s gaze a moment. ‘I think he might … There’s some sort of sacrifice. I don’t know.’ She shook her head, the snowy hair spilling forward as she pressed her cheek into the shoulder of her Champion’s cloak. Pagan watched as she breathed in its scent. ‘I just hope he’s all right,’ she said. ‘If anything happens to him …’

Pagan heard her tone and dragged his thoughts away from wishing it was his cloak she wore and drew such comfort from, to reassure his Princess. ‘Your Champion uses his powers to draw strength from the forest,’ he said, repeating his cousin’s words yet finding no sense in them for himself. ‘There has been no Guardian born with the power your Champion possesses. So my father says.’

The Princess smiled at this. Not even you, Pagan?’

He shook his head, sharing her smile. ‘It pains me to admit as much, My Lady, but it’s true. This was the reason he was chosen to aid your family into exile and return you when Ennae was safe again. My father may be the elder Guardian, yet Talis’s strength is the greater. You need not fear for his safety.’

She nodded. ‘I’m probably imagining danger where there is none.’

Such is the way of Magoria, My Lady,’ Pagan said, ‘where you lived an imaginary life.’ He rose to tend the fire which had begun to smoulder, stoking it with more of the funguswood he had gathered along their journey. It was damp and smelt faintly acrid, but without any sea-ash there was little he could do to sweeten the smoke for his Princess. ‘It is not our way to imagine danger where none exists,’ he went on, touching his palm to the pale firestone above the hearth, where he snatched a spark and tossed it into the fire.

Behind him the Princess gasped, then said, ‘What was
that
?’

He turned, frowning.

‘How did you do that? Show me your hands.’ She scrambled to her feet.

He opened both palms, then turned them over for her to inspect the backs.

‘How did you make that spark you put into the fire?’

Pagan glanced at the fire which had begun to burn steadily again, then back to his Princess. ‘From the firestone,’ he said simply and repeated the gesture. Again a spark flew from his palm into the fire and the damp wood in that corner burst into flame.

The Princess started, much alarm on her face. ‘Show me your hand,’ she demanded again.

Pagan held both out for her careful inspection, soft fingers running over his palms and sliding deliciously between his fingers. He was just beginning to enjoy himself when she dropped them and gazed at him expectantly. ‘Was it magic?’ she asked.

‘It is just a firestone,’ he said, and taking her palm, laid it flat on the pale stone, then quickly snatched it back and flicked it towards the now blazing fire. A spark fell in and the Princess jumped backwards, almost losing her balance and falling onto him.

‘Ohmygod.’
She inspected her hand then looked to Pagan with eyes of wonder. ‘I did that? I made that spark?’

Pagan nodded. He was taking great pleasure in the close proximity her antics had allowed. ‘The firestone is quarried in the Echo Mountains and taken wherever sparks are required,’ he replied.

‘So … the stone makes the fire?’

‘And we do but harvest it,’ he replied.

‘You’re telling me there’s fire inside the stone, and when I put my hand on it —’

Pagan was momentarily distracted from his thoughts of seduction to frown at her. ‘I hear disbelief in your voice, Princess,’ he said. ‘Why is that, when you have used the stone yourself?’

‘I know I did it, but …’ She seemed not to understand herself.

‘Your time spent on Magoria makes you believe this is an illusion.’ Pagan nodded wisely, pleased with his insights. ‘That is why Magoria is aptly named an illusion world.’

The Princess gazed at him for some time, as though deep in thought. At last she nodded. ‘You’re right, Pagan. The people of Magoria wouldn’t believe in a firestone even if they could see it. Even if they had proof. They’d say it was friction, or static electricity, or a carnival trick.’ She said nothing for a moment and her gaze became distant. ‘And because they refuse to believe, the reality ceases to exist for them. By denying reality, they … live in an illusion.’

Her strange words confused Pagan, yet he knew she spoke the truth.

The Princess reached past him and touched the firestone again, then flicked her hand, releasing the spark into the fire. Straightaway she touched that hand to her cheek, ‘It’s not even hot,’ she said and looked at Pagan again, ‘but it’s real. Magic is real.’

He smiled. ‘My Lady, you sound amazed, but fire from a stone is like fruit from a tree. It is part of the natural world.’

‘That will take some getting used to,’ she replied. Then he saw her yawn, her hand rising to cover her mouth, her tired eyes closing a moment.

Though Pagan would stand close to her all night, and closer if he could, the wretched honour his father had instilled in him bade him say, ‘My Lady needs rest,’ to which he added a pointed glance at the dried grasses he had laid on the floor for her comfort.

She patted his arm and said, ‘I am tired now. Will you tell me some battle stories, Pagan?’

‘Indeed.’ Pagan was ready to do that. ‘The thirty day war is a stirring tale, My Lady.’ He turned to stoke the fire quickly, while considering how best to begin. At the first blade-strike? Or earlier, when a Northern scout had been found and tortured? Yet just when he had the tale clear in his mind and the fire blazing steadily, he turned to find that the Princess was already asleep.

Biting back disappointment, Pagan returned to sharpening his blades, settling himself to wait for his cousin. Yet as time passed he found himself watching the Princess as she slept, smiling when she murmured or wriggled on her thin bed. Though he had not had the training of a Champion, in those quiet moments he felt strongly the satisfaction his cousin lived for, the sure knowledge that the life he protected was safe in his care.

Soon enough Talis would return and take back the duty he had temporarily given to his kin, and that was as it should be. Pagan was a born warrior. He ate the battle, and leading a life like his cousin’s would make the hours creep like shadows. Yet, he still envied Talis. To be near to the Princess every day of his life was a valuable reward for boredom. Although, if Pagan were to become a Champion, his ill-luck would likely see him guarding the dreaded Lae of Be’uccdha. Would he then feel such sweet satisfaction to be trapped for eternity at the side of a disrespectful shrew?

A shudder passed over him and he returned to his blades, sharpening them with renewed purpose as he lost himself in dreams of bloody battles and glorious triumphs, and anything that took his mind from the memory of Lae’s scathing insults and thin, scornful lips.

By the side of a fronded Handwood, Talis stood gazing across the sea of undulating leaves that was the Forest of Desire. Men despairing of love were known to walk into its depths and never return. The youngest of their warriors were taught to fear its entrapment. Yet Talis entered the forest this night of his own free will, trusting his Guardian powers to control the passions that would be awoken and divert them towards his betrothed, to whom they rightfully belonged.

There would be risks. The Princess’s resuscitation at the Sacred Pool and his own recent wound conspired to weaken his powers, but the memory of her hands on his flesh still burned him, and a battle such as Talis had never before waged roared inside him. Even as he’d told her to wait with Pagan at the Sanctum, her concern had not moved him. His eyes had seen only that her gaze lingered on his, that her lower lip was caught between her teeth, a gentle scoring that in his recklessness he imagined soothing with a tender kiss.

Yet beside this tenderness, like a restless bedfellow, dwelt jealous passion. When there was talk of her marriage, or she glanced at another, even his cousin whom she herself called ‘boy’, Talis felt a stirring of such violence that he feared for his sanity. And that such emotions should bedevil him was worry enough, but to feel and think such things about the person of a Princess Royal filled him with anguish and self-loathing. No choice remained but to rid himself of the misplaced longing or stand aside and let another serve her.

‘Talissssssss,’ the leaves seemed to whisper, rubbing against each other. It was time. Before his resolve deserted him, he unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it to the ground, his clothing and boots falling after it. Naked now, he stepped to the edge of the Forest and the sea of vegetation undulated towards him, straining to claim him. The air around him pulsed with the promise of what was to come.

‘Lae of Be’uccdha,’ he said, creating the vision of his betrothed inside his mind, altering the image to bring womanhood to the girl. ‘This is the wife of my choosing,’ he said, his voice strong. ‘This is the woman whose bed I will claim.’

Holding fast to the image of her, Talis took three steps forward, girding himself against loathsome dread as the Forest closed around him, dragging him down. Soft, pulsing plants enveloped his body, sliding over his tingling skin, welcoming him into their clinging embrace. The pleasure of it took his breath away, but with a singleness of purpose honed over years of Guardianship, he thought only of Lae, seeing her dance for him in the private bridal ceremony that would follow their wedding, her lithe arms raised above her head, hands undulating seductively, breasts swaying to entice him.

Ignored by his mind, the plants moved over his body and he strengthened to their touch. Lae danced closer, her velvet brown skin glowing, the jewels that were her only adornment glittering in the burnished light of their bridal chamber. The scent of her heated skin came to him as her lips brushed his own; a fleeting touch that did nothing to satisfy him.

The ever-bond he would construct with Lae could only be forged amid the terrible joy of two bodies joined. His father, a Guardian before him, had taught him this way of strengthening the marriage vows by focusing his powers, and he had planned that happy duty for his own wedding night. As matters stood, Talis knew he must create the bond now.

In his mind, he reached a hand to his dancing wife, her swaying body made more alluring to him by the curves of womanhood, curves he deliberately imagined fuller than —

A strange light flooded his vision just as his hand closed over the arm of the woman who was his by right of marriage. In his mind, Talis blinked, then found the arm he grasped was slender and pale.

Horror coiled though him. ‘No,’ he groaned, spreading his fingers wide as though to release the vision. But to mock his pain, the Forest took his hands, small sucking leaves on his palms, between his fingers. His strength grew and he struggled for Lae, but the hair that fell around this woman’s shoulders was white and the eyes that held him entranced were of royal hue.

I am the wife of your heart
, she said in a voice that bewitched his ears. Talis fought to still the vision, yet as she touched soft lips to his, resolve melted within him. His breath came hot as she pressed herself against him, the scent of her hair and her skin a dizzying elixir.
Your destiny is mine
, she whispered, close to his hungry mouth, and with a last effort of will he held himself back from her. But she would have his soul yet. Her pale arms twining round his neck, she pressed her own hungry lips to his and tasted the heat of his desire.

Talis was lost.

The hands that rose to touch her were a husband’s hands, and they took all that a husband would claim. In an agony of bliss, he felt each touch, each kiss, as though it was real, and in that illusion of nuptial rapture, Khatrene of Ennae returned his ardour with a passion that scorched his soul. Frenzy fed on itself and his mind reeled even as his body shuddered towards exquisite delight.