Secrets of the Night Special Edition (72 page)

"See that you do, and be quick about it."

"Yes, madam." She rushed from the room as if only too happy to get away. Serve the girl right if she got sick, too, Aradia thought, sneering.

A few minutes later, Maudina returned and set the wine and a plate of bread on the bedside table, all but dropping them in her haste. Aradia was tempted to grab her wrist, but the girl dashed back.

"Will there be anything else, madam?"

"No. Now get out."

"Yes, madam." Maudina rushed for the door, then opened and closed it as if a pack of wolves pursued her.

Aradia snickered. She tried to reach for the glass of wine, tried and failed. Panting, she fell back on the bed. If only she could sleep . . .

Hours later, Midac banged the door back and strode into the room, waking her from a sound sleep. "Curse Talmora! Have you lain in bed all day?" He frowned, his bushy eyebrows meeting across his forehead, his small, dark eyes focused on her. "What ails you, woman?" Torchlights from the hall lit the room, and even that small bit of illumination hurt her eyes, intensifying her headache.

"A backache," she improvised. Well, it was partly the truth. Her mouth and throat felt as dry as the parched grass outside, every word an effort. "Bent over the wrong way when I opened my dresser drawer. I'll recover by tomorrow."

"You'd better." Scowling, he stood by the bed, hands on his hips, his scar livid even in the faint light. "Don't forget a delegation of merchants is coming for dinner tomorrow. Tax complaints," he said, his scowl deepening.

"I haven't forgotten." But would she be recovered enough by then to entertain their guests?

He rocked on his heels. "I'm going out for awhile. Don't know when I'll be back."

To another woman? She couldn't care less where he went, what he did. She breathed a long sigh of relief when he shut the door behind him and cut off the light. Closing her eyes again, she sought sleep.

Much later, she awoke, her head pounding, her body hotter than ever. She touched her head--and gasped. Pustules blotted her face. She ran trembling fingers along her hands and arms. Large black pustules everywhere! Frantic thoughts raged through her head. What could she do? Midac must not learn of her illness. She must conceal her condition from him, but how?

A restless night of pain and worry provided no answer.

Midac returned as the morning sun tinted the western sky a light coral, and palace sounds resumed again--guards talking outside her door, servants hustling to and fro. She pulled the blanket up past her face and said a silent prayer to the demoness that he'd leave her alone.

"You still in bed? In Endora’s name, what's the matter with you?" He strode toward the bed and whisked the blanket back. He stared at her, a look of fear twisting his features. "You have the plague!" With frenzied movements, he rubbed his hands up and down his tunic. "Get out of this room, curse you!"

She moaned, shoving sweaty hair from her cheeks. "No, Midac. I'm too sick to move. Go to another room. Let me stay here."

"Oh, no, you don't. You're not even staying in the palace." He jerked his thumb. "I want you out of here, now!"

Tears flowed down her pustule-marred face. "Midac, I can't move. I'm too sick."

"You'll feel even sicker if I get the guards to throw you out. I'd grab you myself, except that I don't dare touch you."

An inspiration lightened her mood. If she could shift to her jackal state . . . "Leave me now. I promise I'll get out of the palace." She smiled with false optimism. "Give me but a few minutes."

His face registered surprise. Apparently, he hadn't expected her easy acquiescence. "A few minutes, no more." He turned on his heel and strode from the room, his heavy tread shaking a vase on a table.

Aradia sighed with relief, mulling over her plan. Since jackals were night creatures, could she change to a jackal body now, this time of the morning? Would her illness prevent the shift? And if she did shift, would her black fever disappear? She had to try; she saw no choice.

Wracked with pain, she forced herself from the bed, each movement an agony. On her feet now, she grasped the bed post, the room spinning around her. She waited long moments as she strove for balance and composure. She needed all her faculties, every bit of concentration, to make the change. Resolved to ignore the hideous blots on her body, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her task. A crackling sound, a realignment of bones, revealed the shift was working. She dropped to all fours, greatly satisfied when fur splotches appeared on her body . . . appeared, then stopped. She waited, her heart thudding, every muscle tense.

Her silvery hair draped from her head, nearly touching the floor. Demoness, no! What had happened to her shift? She looked at her paws on the rug . . . and saw hands with fingers, long and tapered, part fur and part skin, tipped with claws. Her head throbbed with pain, her body burning up. She was too sick to complete the shift!

Shaking with fright, she padded over to her dresser and grabbed her mirror, awkwardly holding the looking glass in her furry hand, bracing her other hand against the dresser for balance. No! She jumped back and fell flat with a hard thud. The mirror shattered, and excruciating pain gripped every bone, every muscle of her body. Pain exploded in her head. She forced herself to rise, a long, torturous process that sent her falling back twice again before she could stand. Refusing to believe what she'd seen, she stared in the broken mirror once more. A monster, half-human, half-jackal, covered with black pustules and dotted with fur, stared back at her.

Wait
.
Only wait
. She must give the shift more time, she lamented, forced to realize she should never have tried the change during the day. Yes, that was it; as usual, she must learn patience. And what about her sickness? Damn it! That alone was enough to prevent the alteration. Aradia waited and looked again. Ah, no! She cried, tears flowing down her furry face, her hairy shoulders shaking. Why had she tried to change her body now? Why hadn't she told Midac to give her until tonight? Or was her illness the hindrance? Too sick to leave the room, she pondered how she could depart the palace. Tears dampened her face, plastering the fur to her cheeks and forehead. In the name of the demoness, what could she do?

The door jerked open and Midac burst inside. "I thought I told you to--" His eyes widened with horror. "No!" He stepped backwards, banging up against the wall, making helpless sounds in his throat. He screamed, a wail of fear and terror.

A sentry dashed into the room. "Sire, what is--" A look of horror flashed across his face. "What-is-it?"

Balor cocked his head in Aradia's direction. "Kill it!"

Aradia braced herself for the lethal strike. She had nowhere to go, no place to hide. She cringed against the wall, her paws pressed close to her chest, her heart pounding with fear. Her last thought was that she'd miss the princess's impalement.

Chapter Twenty-six

Swept along on a floodtide of euphoria, Keriam soared above the city, the many shops and buildings shining below, as though it were daylight. Ah, freedom! Drifting ever westward, she reached the meadow and the Plain of Sorrows beyond. Catching movement below her, she drifted down and stopped under a rowan tree.

On the vast plain, ghostly soldiers fought again, throwing javelins, their swords hacking at arms and legs. Cringing, she saw headless bodies toppling to the ground. The stench of blood made her gag.

Clad in a long purple robe, King Malachy approached, as if he'd been waiting for her. Long gray hair fell to his shoulders, his face tracked with wrinkles. He bowed low in welcome. "Ah, Princess Keriam!"

"Princess no longer!" she exclaimed, surprised as always that she could speak in her spirit form. "Haven't you heard that Balor has usurped the throne?"

He nodded, his face set in grief. "But you are still a princess, and rightfully the queen!"

“If only I were the queen! If only that usurper, Balor, didn’t sit on the throne. Ah, King Malachy, he has caused nothing but trouble and heartache in the kingdom!” But wishes would get her nowhere now. She jerked her head in the direction of the soldiers. "How can they fight in the dark?"

"Madam, there is no darkness in the Otherworld. We occupy the same space as you, but in a different dimension."

"But how long will they continue to fight?" Her glance covered the ghostly warriors, and she saw the slow movements of swords, saw men falling to the blood-slick ground. Moans, groans, and curses reverberated around her, as if the soldiers fought in the real world, the world of the here and now. She wrung her hands as mixed emotions collided in her mind. Immensely happy to be free of her cell and fearing to return, still she wanted to escape this nightmare battle scene, this slashing of arms and heads, of blood-staining tunics, the awful reality of death. She threw a desperate look at Malachy. “How long?”

He sighed and looked their way, then turned back to her. "Until they realize that they have won, that good has overcome evil."

"Will that day ever come?" She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Will good ever overcome evil?”

Malachy smiled. "Let us hope it comes soon."

"And do they fight here every night? When I saw them last, it was during the day--in my world--when a fog hung over the meadow."

"Not every night, madam." He shook his head. "Who can say why they fight when they do? All I know is that I must accompany them, try to convince them the battle is over. It is won."

"And the evil wizards still won't admit that they lost the battle?"

He shook his head. "I fear they never will."

A thought flashed through her head. "My father--"

"He is happy with your mother now, madam. He speaks lovingly of you all the time. Perhaps someday soon he may visit you, too."

"Oh, yes!" Even in her spirit, tears flooded her eyes, and she brushed them away. "Please tell my parents I miss them so much."

"You will see them both some day, in a land where there is no sorrow."

Birds sang in the trees, a bluish gray tinge coloring the western horizon. Not time to go back, already!

His look was filled with sadness. "Madam, I fear dawn will arrive soon."

"No! King Malachy, I won't go back!" She never wanted to return, not to the fate that awaited her.
Ah, Goddess, save me!

"Madam, nothing would make me happier than for you to stay with me. But your soul must not remain separated from your body. You must go back, go back, back . . . ."

No
! Keriam moaned. She awoke, her face wet with tears. Wrenched back to the real world, she stared around at the cold stone floor and barred windows of her cell. After long moments, she tossed her dirty blanket aside and struggled to her feet, then trudged over to her barred window. She gripped the bars while anger, fright, and despair roiled inside her, a powerful blending that shook the iron bars, then bent them. One of the bars snapped in her hands, but even if she broke all of them, it would gain her nothing. High up on the third story of the Magistrate's Hall, it was a far drop to the bottom, with sentries warding the area. She gazed out on the city, its splendid greenery, its many fine shops, the spires that reached to the heavens. She looked again--

And saw the steel stake. Recently erected, it thrust up from the city square, like a malevolent beast. Raw terror flooded her brain.

With a sharp cry, she turned away, clutching her stomach. Sobbing brokenly, she fell on her knees to her straw-filled sleeping mat and rocked back and forth. Talmora, she prayed, give me the strength to bear it. Tomorrow she must face death without flinching, must hold her head high as the guards led her to the execution site. She must act like a princess. But she knew she would scream and beg for mercy, would try to tear loose, try to escape.

Goddess, please help me!
Slowly, she shifted to a sitting position and eased over to the wall, then leaned against its slimy surface. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and rested her head in her hands. She reached for the dirty prison blanket and wrapped it around her, shivering in the cold air that blew in through the barred window. If only she had someone to talk to these last few hours before her death . . . Her mind overflowed with recollections of Roric, and how she had misjudged him. Regret swamped her, and despite her efforts, fresh tears streamed down her face. To see him once again, to touch him, hear his dear voice, ah, that would be happiness. Too late, she realized how much he meant to her. She recalled their every meeting, playing each encounter in her mind, his every word, every gesture, every expression.

A movement by the window caught her attention. A raven sat on the window ledge, tilting its head, tapping its beak against the bars, as if it wanted to remove that barrier and free her. Its beady eyes moved back and forth, finally resting on her.

"Well!" Keriam tossed the blanket aside and stood as more ravens landed next to the first, filling up the entire space. No sooner did those fly away than others took their place, or are they all the same ones? Did they want to tell her something, or had they merely come to visit? If only they could talk . . .

Moments later, the birds flew away, and Keriam, too, turned from the window. She paced the cell, this stinking, dirty room that had been her home since her arrest. Her stomach knotted as she thought of all the people she'd miss, like Maudina, and she wondered if her devoted maid still dwelled at the palace, or if she, too, had escaped. And Radegunda, the dearest friend she'd ever had.Zinerva came to mind, that endearing fairy.