“No more, both of you!” It was uncertain for a moment just who Morannus was more furious with, Nermesa or Wulfrim. The other Gunderman bowed his head and stepped away from the prisoner.
With Orena’s bodyguard leading the way, they ventured into the garden. Almost immediately, it was as if a true forest had engulfed them. Nermesa heard the sound of wind, but the noises of Tarantia had utterly ceased.
“The artisans who created this were truly gifted,” commented Morannus. “The founders of House Lenaro wanted complete privacy, and that is what they got.”
Nermesa noticed that although the wind blew, in the garden he could hear no birds or insects. It was as if both shunned this place.
The Gundermen carried with them only a single oil lamp that one of them had procured on the way out. It did little to give detail to the garden, although Nermesa did make out some large, flowering plants of a type with which he was not familiar. However, what little he could see of them left him with a chill, for their silhouettes reminded him of some sort of vampiric thing with multiple heads.
Then a low glow ahead tore his attention from Orena’s macabre flora. It was faint, and its ghostly shading reminded the knight of moonlight. As he focused on it, that which surrounded the glow took on substance.
It was the height of a man, twice that in length and width, and built entirely of black stone. The back had a triangular shape ending in a sharp point. To each side, small, sloping walls thrust forward, giving the structure some resemblance to a high-backed chair . . . or throne, perhaps.
In the forefront, and from where the glow originated, stood what at first Nermesa took for a vast, stone bench about waist high. Only as he neared it did he see that the top was slightly angled, with the center point the peak. There, a white, multifaceted stone had been set and from it somehow emanated the light.
There were words and symbols carved on the front of the blocklike piece. Squinting, Nermesa made out one of the symbols first.
It was a bird. To be exact, a heron. In one set of talons, it wielded a sword.
The symbol of House Sibelio.
“The wizard Set-Anubis left little enough to bury,” Morannus abruptly whispered in his ear. “But she insisted on this monument anyway . . .”
The Gunderman holding the lamp brought it forward so that the entire front was at last visible. Now Nermesa saw the words and read the name. It was indeed, as Morannus had indicated, a memorial to the late Baron Antonus Sibelio.
“Chain him to the top,” commanded the leader of the group. “Just as in the crypt.”
Nermesa struggled but to no avail. They set him so that he was bent over the glowing stone. The angle of the top forced his back into an uncomfortable position, but his captors hardly cared. They made his pain worse by stretching his arms and legs to the point of breaking.
“I regret this, I really do, my lord. It’s unnecessary for the potion, but it keeps her happy.”
“Shall I go fetch her?” asked Wulfrim.
Morannus nodded. “Yes. And remember how to act.”
“I will.”
As Wulfrim strode off, the other Gunderman looked down at Nermesa. “The mistress provides us with not only perfect cover, but also a perfect place from which to coordinate our efforts. In return, I feed her vanity.”
Nermesa tried to speak, but the cloth garbled his words.
Morannus shook his head. “As I said, Master Nermesa, it was supposed to be the great Sir Prospero, the king’s right-hand man, who would do the deed. It was all planned so meticulously, so patiently, just as everything else has been planned, all these many years. If one path failed, we had others to follow. All that mattered was the final outcome.”
“She comes!” muttered another of the band.
Their leader glanced back to the house. Even from his vantage point, Nermesa could see the faint glow of another oil lamp. The glow grew as it neared the area of the shrine.
Orena had her long, luxurious hair swept up in a regal design. Instead of the silver dress, she now wore a robe that to the knight looked too much like one that might have adorned a priestess. Nermesa wondered if he was to be sacrificed, after all.
“I am here, Morannus,” she announced.
“Yes, mistress,” he returned with a bow. The other Gundermen followed suit.
“You have it with you?”
“It has never left my side since it arrived from Koth.”
The baroness nodded approvingly. “A wise thing, considering the sum it cost.” She stretched forth a perfect, alabaster hand. “You may give it to me, then.”
As the others, including the Black Dragon, watched, Morannus retrieved from a pouch at his belt a tiny, round vial made of black glass. This he gave to Orena, who cradled it in her hand as if it were some beloved infant.
Her gaze abruptly shifted to Nermesa and in the light of the lamp, it was terrible to behold. Orena’s eyes stared unblinking into his own. “All the shame, all the dishonor . . . it shall be righted at last! And in the process . . . I will become
queen
of Aquilonia!”
There was a gesture from Morannus that Orena did not catch but that Nermesa noted. As one all the other Gundermen save he knelt in the direction of the baroness.
Telaria’s sister acknowledged their kneeling as if it was perfectly appropriate. Then her expression hardened again as she continued, “It galled me to have to play to you and yours as if I should be
grateful
to keep my own home after you had everything else stripped from me! At your insistence, that Cimmerian thief even so magnanimously let me keep the name and title I had taken, a name and title that you made certain was reviled publicly . . .”
Orena had twisted around everything that Nermesa had done for her into something designed to further torment her life. It astounded the knight just how she had let it direct her very existence. He knew that he was guilty of having never truly been agreeable to their betrothal, but his reasons for breaking it off had been, in his eyes, good ones.
But none of that mattered to Baroness Sibelio. She stepped toward Nermesa, holding the vial for him to see.
“So little, but costing so much. Worth all, though, for what it can do.” Orena reached down with her free hand to pull the cloth from the knight’s mouth.
Morannus placed his hand atop hers. “No, mistress. Remember, he need only absorb its scent.”
“I want to be certain!”
As if placating a child, the Gunderman explained, “It is all but scent, anyway. The moment the lotus oil touches the air, it will dissipate to mist. You must open the bottle near his nose. The rest will take care of itself.”
Orena looked not quite convinced, but at last she nodded. With eagerness, the baroness brought the vial near Nermesa’s nostrils. As she worked the stopper, she murmured, “I knew much more about Antonus’s plans than you ever understood, my
love
. Enough so that when he died, I was able to keep many of those contacts active. That was how we procured this.”
Her hand pulled free the stopper . . . and a smell that to Nermesa was reminiscent of dried, decaying lotus blossoms filled his nose. He tried to keep from inhaling it, but the cloth across his mouth left him only one way to breathe.
“Keep it very close,” urged Morannus. “And now speak his name clearly to him. He must hear your voice.”
Orena did as he said. Her lips came close to Nermesa’s ear. “Nermesa . . . dear Nermesa . . .”
Satisfied, she pulled back just enough for Morannus to lean forward. The Gunderman nodded to the captive. “Master Nermesa.”
Wulfrim appeared next to his comrade. He, too, spoke the Aquilonian’s name. All the while, the rest of the party kept absolutely silent.
Orena kept the bottle close. The Black Dragon waited for the scent to cause him to black out or perhaps imagine things, but
nothing
happened. Nermesa felt no more response than if he had accidentally smelled the perfume of some woman passing nearby. The scent came . . . then vanished, just like that.
His thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for Orena gave a throaty laugh, and said, “You will see . . .”
She handed the empty bottle back to Morannus, who returned it to the pouch. The lead Gunderman snapped his fingers, and two of his underlings went to work on the bonds holding the captive.
Nermesa did not know why their mysterious potion had failed on him, but he was more than ready to take advantage of the situation. He saw only one chance, that of taking a prisoner. Not Orena, though, not after what the knight had seen in Morannus’s eyes. At some point, the baroness would prove expendable. She believed her bodyguard worked to make her the queen her husband’s death had prevented, but evidently Morannus had some secret master who would instead take the throne.
No, if Nermesa hoped to escape, he had to take the lead Gunderman himself.
One man undid the wrists while the other the ankles. Morannus stood not that far away from Nermesa, the Aquilonian’s traitorous friend seeming to take special interest in the proceedings.
Nermesa finally saw his chance. As the one Gunderman finished releasing the captive’s other wrist, the Black Dragon twisted around and seized the dagger in his belt. He then shoved the guard away and threw himself at Morannus.
Morannus reacted far more slowly than Nermesa could have even hoped for. The lead Gunderman stood all but motionless as the knight seized him by the collar and brought the dagger to his throat.
“No one moves, or he dies!”
Morannus was oddly calm. “You wish to leave here, my lord?”
“Play no games! You know I do! But if I must die here, it’ll be with you,
old
friend!”
The Gunderman cocked his head. “We’ve every intention of you departing tomorrow, my lord. Even sending you off to join his majesty, the king, on the field of combat.”
“Spare me your jests,” growled Nermesa, not liking Morannus’s continually complacent attitude.
“Very well.” The Gunderman cleared his throat. “Put down the dagger, my lord.”
And to Nermesa’s horror, the hand wielding the blade—
his
hand—obediently lowered. Worse, no sooner had it done that, than the fingers opened, letting the knight’s last hope drop to the ground.
“The scent of the Gray Lotus works as promised, mistress,” Morannus declared.
“Wonderful . . .” murmured Orena, her eyes glittering evilly in the lamplight. “Glorious . . .”
Wulfrim was not as satisfied as either of them. “But for how long? It will need to be for quite some time.”
“More than long enough, brother. More than long enough for him to do the deed, then die because of it.”
“But he will experience it all, struggle in vain against it, yes?” asked the baroness.
“He’ll suffer every moment until his life is ended,” Morannus promised. “Every moment.”
Wulfrim shook his head. “He should still be watched.”
“And he will be. You and I will escort him. Who would suspect us, after all?”
This caused not only Wulfrim, but the rest of the Gundermen to chuckle.
Throughout the conversation, Nermesa attempted to move his limbs, to speak out against his captors . . . but all for naught. The concoction that Orena had used upon him had entirely robbed the Black Dragon of his will. He now existed only to obey those around him. That his mind still functioned independently did not matter.
And obviously they planned for him some dark deed.
“Take him back to the crypt, Wulfrim. Come the morning, we shall prepare the Sword of the Lion for his greatest task.”
“Wait.” Orena walked around Nermesa, inspecting him as a lioness might its meal. “Leave us for a time, Morannus.”
“Mistress—”
She suddenly glared down her nose at the bodyguard. “You heard me! Obey, or I shall have you whipped!”
A frown briefly escaped Morannus, but he buried it before Orena—but not Nermesa—could notice it. “As you like. Wulfrim, you come with me. The rest of you, return to your duties. Tomorrow, things come to a head.”
In perfect order, the Gundermen departed the garden grove, Morannus and Wulfrim last. Wulfrim left his lamp atop the memorial in order to provide the baroness with more light. Orena watched the men leave, then turned back to the frozen Nermesa.
“Kneel before me, my
love
.”
The knight’s body obeyed without hesitation, going down on one knee directly in front of the baroness. The outer edges of Orena’s full lips twitched upward in amusement.
“Proclaim my beauty to me.”
Nermesa fought to keep his mouth shut, but words flowed forth despite his best efforts. “You are beautiful, Orena.”
This declaration did not satisfy her. “Again. Use more flourish. Tell me that I am the envy of all women, the desire of all men.”
“No woman is your equal, and their jealousy is great. All men wish to make you theirs.” Each word was to the Black Dragon like venom in his mouth. Still, he felt some small triumph. He had not actually embellished on his original remark, simply repeated what the baroness had said in a different way.
She, evidently, saw that, too. Her smile turned to a frown, then, with some clear malice, leaned down so that her face was only inches from Nermesa’s. “Tell me that you desire me more than Telaria! Tell me that she is a hag, plain and shapeless, wanted by no one save perhaps beggars in the streets!”
Inwardly, Nermesa fought as hard as ever to bite back his response, yet, once again he failed. Almost word for word, he said what she asked of him. Even though Bolontes’ son knew that he merely repeated Orena, that nothing he said was true, he burned inside.
Baroness Sibelio stepped back. “Tomorrow, your downfall and the downfall of all that you hold dear begins, my love. You will utterly fail your king, you will be a pariah to those who once believed in you . . . you will at last feel
my
humiliation.” Orena scowled. “When I think how much I had to play up to that little brat of a sister! Cooing and being protective and comforting, then, in turn, acting grateful when Telaria sought to comfort me in turn! Pfah! I wanted to spit in her face and slap her to the ground!” She paused, then added, “Yes, you will be humiliated . . . and you will also die knowing that
I
will rule Aquilonia! That harem trash who sits on the throne will be executed the moment the word comes that her barbarian is dead . . . and, after that, dear Telaria will be punished for her part, too.” Orena clapped her hands in delight. “And all will finally be as it should be! All wrongs will be righted!”