Chapter 22

––––––––

Loren woke to darkness again. Dank, rotting straw matted against her face as she sat up. Something scurried across her hand. She felt tiny feet, a bit of tail, and jerked her hand off the floor. The stench of a dead animal rotting in the open air filled her lungs. Her breath stopped and a chill shook her, the thought entering her unwilling mind that the smell might be human.

“No,” she muttered, panic gripping her. “No, no it couldn’t be.”

She started to get up at the sound of scurrying feet, putting her hand out for support. Her fingers touched a wall and kept going through a layer of sticky muck. She recoiled from it, tripping over the hem of her gown in her haste. She fell forward, her hands scrapping against something brittle and round that snapped under her weight.

The terrible death-smell rose up, choking her. She moved sharply away, hitting the wall again. Something dropped from above, landing on her shoulder and crawled across her neck and chest.

Loren reeled, batting at the thing crawling on her and at the air, trying desperately to stand, but unable to get any balance in the dark. Panic locked into her mind, fear rampaging freely, over-powering everything else. When she fell again, stumbling, her head smacked against something pointed and angular. Her conscious mind joined the surrounding black. She lay still while the rats scurried.

Waking again was only to the same nightmare, caused this time by pain. Her eyes opened to sightless dark. As she moved, something bit into her hand. A rat dug into her hair. The swift sting of it biting her over her eye made her sit up, batting it away in the same motion. It didn’t come off, latched onto her, tugging on skin as it bit her again. She grabbed it this time and yanked it off. It squirmed and bit her hand. She threw it as hard as she could. Some distance from her, not far enough, it thudded into something and squealed.

The sound of rats moving near her prompted her to move, though she did so with more care this time. With her eyes opened wide, straining to see anything, she found it difficult to keep her balance. The movement made her head pound. She wanted to stand, but didn’t think she could. She passed a finger over her eyelids to make sure they were open. Her head hurt badly above her left eye and when she gently touched the area, sticky half-dried blood came off on her fingers. She sat for a moment, leaning on both hands, trying to steady herself. She became aware of other sounds. None very close, or in her immediate vicinity.

In other cells, the thought came grimly. She heard a moan and nearer in proximity, the cackling laughter of a mind gone insane. More horrifying, there came a distant, agonized scream as if someone was enduring unspeakable torture.

She felt her arms shaking, bringing her back to her own part of this void. The smell had lessened only a little. She couldn’t breathe deeply without feeling sickened. She wondered how long she’d been in what she guessed was a cell deep within the Telaerin Palace. She thought about the day that Dynan had told her what Kamien was doing with the families of loyal men and heard her breath stuttering through her teeth.

More scuffling sounds encroached and she felt the clawed feet of a rat crossing her hand. She turned, viciously kicking out in its direction. She heard a squeal and then a lot of scurrying.

The thought of losing consciousness again terrified her. She felt another rat clawing at her gown, kicked at it too, and scrabbled backward. Her head hit something hard. She ducked, hands rising reflexively. Her fingers met the edge of a wood table. The same table she had knocked herself out on, she thought, and she reached up.

There was something on her dress. She became aware of it climbing as she stood, using the table to pull herself up. She hit at the rat on her gown, knocking the animal to the floor. They were everywhere. She could hear them, feel them, as they moved under her gown.

Her hands moved frantically across the tabletop, finding a broken mug, or a container of some kind, and knocked it off. There were other items, but she didn’t stop to examine them, clearing the debris with quick sweeps. She tested the table’s strength and clambered up on it, gathering in her skirts so that nothing broke the edge. She held her breath, listening, waiting for the touch of claws. The scurrying continued below, mingling with other sounds.

Before she could stop it, she found herself crying, nearly hysterical. For a moment it controlled her, unchecked. She wept in fear and terror, for Dynan and for herself. She wondered if she would get out of this alive and how.

Her tears slowed, that sobering thought pulling the darkness closer. She shivered. It seemed likely, she thought, that she would die, killed as part of Maralt’s grisly plan. It frightened and horrified her to think she would be killed in front of Dynan. That had to be what Maralt intended.

Her eyes stung as more tears filled them. Fear clouded out thought. She curled up, making sure her gown was wrapped closely around her. The sounds of others’ misery kept her shaking. Weariness dragged at her, but the sounds of moans now close and then distant kept her from sleep. A broken cackle of laughter drowned out the other noises, echoing while she pressed her hands over her ears, wishing it would stop. The laughter continued, rising and falling in pitch, often sounding more like a shriek.

Finally, weariness overcame her. Her head hurt and she wanted to sleep, wanted to forget. She wanted to find a way out, but knew such a path didn’t exist. Eventually, her eyes closed, the noise droning on, and she drifted, spinning in the ever dark.

The fire burned steadily in the hearth of the study. This was one of many small rooms off the entry parlor sitting room, tucked back within the interior. It was the kind of room where secret meetings took place, or persons of some level of import were brought for brief audiences with the King. There were probably rooms more fitting for him to come to die, or at least more heavily trafficked, except that there weren’t any servants who came to the King’s quarters anymore.

Kamien set aside the pen, capped the inkbottle and threw the pages he’d made mistakes on into the flame. He waited impatiently for the ink to dry, aware how little time he had left. He didn’t pause to dwell on the fact that his life was now reduced to just minutes. He’d dwelled on it enough. He’d taken some recent actions that he hoped would have even a small positive outcome for those who would come behind him. Just today, he finished moving the rest of the Telaerin treasure out of the King’s tower and down into a hidden room in the tunnels, a dirty and almost fatal task since he accidentally caused a cave-in when he sealed all the tunnel entrances. It would have been somewhat ironic, he thought, if he ended up stuck down there and starved to death.

He remembered being trapped before with his brothers during what everyone thought was a Murian assault. Kamien only recently learned that Maralt had orchestrated that whole attack to test the Palace security system to discover its weaknesses. He then used that information to plan the attack that drove Dynan and Dain from the Palace. That night seemed a lifetime ago, but memory of it flashed through Kamien’s mind until he made himself stop.

He had also taken a trip to the roof the night before and using his limited knowledge of the laser battery control system, disabled the guns perched on the top of the Palace. He wasn’t sure the interference would work or not, but since maintenance schedules were so erratic, he hoped the error code wouldn’t be noticed. The fix for it wasn’t readily available, since he took all the chips that made the things swivel and aim. They could still fire, but only straight up.

All these redemptive activities were prompted by one inescapable fact.

Maralt was there.

In the Palace.

He had Dain with him.

There was someone else too, that they’d taken to the dungeons. No one Kamien trusted to ask knew who it was. There were too few of those people around any more.

Dain and Maralt at the Palace meant that time was over. Time to breathe. Time to attempt to fix the mistakes or change the course of his life. Done. The papers burned as a testament to how badly he was facing it all. His hands shook. The ink blotches joined the blackening flames, crumbling to ash before the remains lifted from the coals.

Paper made a particular sound when it burned, as if it was being crumpled into a ball instead of charred out of existence. A few pieces of ash blew out to settle inert on the hearth, but the rest floated with the updraft of heat, pulled up the chimney to the free air. He chose to think of his life that way, burned, but about to be free of its agony. Really, Dain was about to do him a big favor, maybe the only favor ever. Kamien tried to tell himself that anyway. He didn’t want to end up begging to be spared.

He took the final draft to the vault hidden behind a large portrait in his private parlor, entered the code, rolled the parchment, tied it and left it beside the glittering Crown for Dynan to find. Whether or not he ever would was a complete unknown. Kamien could only hope, though he had to wonder at himself for still having the capacity. He did hope. For more than one thing. He had to stop, he told himself, since he would never know.

By the time they came for him, he was back in the small study, pretending to read from a comboard some inane report the office still bothered to send him. The words were all a blur. A shadow crossed the door.

He wished for a drink of water, or a drink of anything, but it was too late. “Maralt.”

“Your Majesty,” he answered with the usual touch of sarcasm that Kamien never challenged before.

“Don’t,” Kamien said and stood. “Don’t bother with that.”

He turned to face his brother. He gasped at the sight of him, a sound that echoed loudly within his mind, but was hardly a noise at all. His breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t prepared. He expected to be met with hatred and the usual cocky defiance, but there was only a blank, glassy stare.

“What did you do to him?” The words came out as a whisper of sound.

Maralt stepped aside, folding his arms, the mechanical hand clicking as it moved and he leaned against the doorframe.

“Dain, go greet your brother,” he said.

Blue eyes lifted then, on command, but the vacant look didn’t change as Dain moved into the study, except he blinked. Once he was beyond Maralt, his eyes shifted, looking to the line of books behind the chair.

“Dain.” Kamien breathed again. He’d grown since he was seventeen, the last time Kamien had seen him. He was as tall now and as broad across the shoulder. There were scars on his wrists and around his neck.

He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed as if he was waking from a dream, but that changed the next instant. The moment of animation left him. He looked down to his hand and what was in it.

Kamien nodded when he saw the emeralds flashing on the handle of the dagger. He remembered when their father gave him the weapon. Dynan had a matching one of sapphires. The moment flashed through his mind, followed by other, happier times when they forgot to act like they didn’t like one another. There weren’t many of those after about the age of eight when Kamien had taken Dynan in a fit of jealous insecurity, and held him out over the lip of the pool, threatening to drop him in. He cried until he wet himself. That was the day Dain started to hate him.

“The Gods forgive me,” he said and Maralt laughed.

That was the last thing he heard. Dain moved. His hand raised, darting forward and back.

Kamien fell, tumbling back into the chair, before he realized the dagger was still in his chest, surprised at how little it hurt. The aim was good. The last thing he saw was Dain’s hand, balled into a fist. It was shaking.

Fear and sorrow slipped away as welcome darkness rose. It was a relief, the eternal night. Kamien turned to it, or started to. He was stopped. He felt again. A rending sensation, as if he was being torn in two, shook him and shattered the hope for peace. It didn’t exist for him. He should have known that too. In fact, he did.

Maralt was there. The last thing Kamien felt in this world was the malignant life force inside him, gripping his soul. In the instant before it was wrenched free of its host, he knew. The next world, the next horror awaited.

“When will he be here?” Dain asked, looking over at Maralt, who sat sipping a glass of wine at the small table.

“Soon, I would imagine.” He watched while Dain sharpened his sword. They were in a dungeon cell, one cleaned and furnished. Arlon stood outside the open door. “We’ll know in plenty of time. You needn’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” Dain said easily. He shrugged. “I was just wondering.”

“Would you do mine?” Maralt asked, indicating his sword.

“Sure.” Dain smiled, reaching for the weapon. He finished his own, set it aside, and took Maralt’s in hand. He weighed the weapon briefly, checked its balance and make, nodding as he set to honing the edge. He frowned after a moment. “Do you think I’ll be ... upset when I kill him?”

Maralt started at the question, but covered it. “Why would you be? You hate him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Dain said. “But we grew up together, whether we hate each other or not, and he is my brother. I just thought it might be smart to be prepared for the possibility.”

“Were you grieved at all when you killed Kamien?” Maralt asked, smiling at the memory.

“No,” Dain said easily. “He and I never got along. He was only my half-brother. It doesn’t matter, I suppose.” He looked at Maralt. “Won’t you feel even a little sorrow when you kill Carryn?”

Maralt considered the question, though the conversation troubled him. “I don’t know, Dain. Possibly. I’ll be certain to give it some thought before the occasion arises.”

Maralt watched him as he nodded, frowning internally over the topic. Controlling the mind was a complex undertaking. Controlling emotion and instinct were different and difficult. Memory was linked inextricably to emotion. Some memories recalled different feelings. Maralt hadn’t been able to control or change all the variations. Here was one he hadn’t touched; the idea that Dain would grieve at the death of a brother he knew he once loved but now hated.

His eyes narrowed. It was decidedly too late to discover this plan wouldn’t work. Maralt questioned again if Dain would do what he’d been told to, even under the influence of the ramping drugs he’d been given. He guessed that some control would have to be extended. As long as he could stay away from Carryn long enough that control could be established and maintained.

He smiled. There was a test he thought of, that might tell him how far Dain could be forced to go. No matter the outcome of the experiment Maralt was certain that Dynan would believe completely that his brother hated him, even if he had to control Dain’s every word and action.

“I brought you something of a gift,” he said.

Dain looked at him, surprised. “What is it?”

“Soft and warm.” Maralt chuckled. “It used to belong to your brother, or I should say, she used to. A delightful girl, actually. She may put up a bit of a struggle, but I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade her to provide something you haven’t experienced in quite a while.”

Dain didn’t speak for a moment, but looked as though he didn’t quite believe him. “A woman?”

“Yes. And it is my wish that you take her, willing or not. Wouldn’t that please you, to have something that was once your brother’s?”

“Yes.” Dain smiled, his eyes slightly dilated, reacting to Maralt’s command. “I would like that very much.”

“Good,” Maralt said, rising to reach for his finished sword. “I’ll bring her to you this evening, after dinner.”

Dain rose with him. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Maralt laughed as he left the cell. He locked the door behind him, nodding to Arlon as he left.

He departed that level of the dungeons, pausing briefly at the stairs, listening to the sounds of suffering that came hollowly to his ears. As he continued, he passed guards just coming on duty, none of whom dared to even look at him. He smiled, passing up beyond the interrogation cells, which were mostly empty. Beyond the last guard station, he climbed a flight of stairs to the outer door at a trot.

As he left the dungeons, he glanced down the stairs leading to the Palace Medic Center. It spanned several sub-floors, held thousands of beds, and employed twice that in personnel, but more recently, over half of the staff had departed for less tumultuous posts. The greatest loss had been in surgical physicians. Most of the center had long been abandoned. Maralt thought the remaining staff would be up to their necks in it very soon.

He reached the main hall. The King’s office and Throne Room were located on this floor, as well as the Queen’s office. On either side of the hall, doors stood closed, rooms that hadn’t been used or occupied in years, dust gathering on desks and bookshelves. Most notably the large Grand Dining Hall on the right of the main entrance behind the Queen’s offices had seen better days.

Signs of wear were most visible on the tapestries hung in the hall, some torn, all filled with dust. Statues stood covered with cobwebs, going unpolished, some having broken pieces lying on the floor. Too many servants had disappeared. Quite a few of them now resided in the dungeons, sent there for some meaningless infraction, or caught trying to escape.

Maralt’s footsteps echoed down the long hall. Only a few guards stood at attention as he passed. It was quiet, too quiet for a place that was usually filled with people, coming and going, conducting what business they had at the Palace.

Maralt frowned at a lone figure departing one of the offices, but shrugged. There were still some few necessary personnel staying on. He trusted that his men, who commanded the guard, wouldn’t allow any but essential staff inside. Everyone else was turned away. He saw the man turn to look back, eyes narrowing as he tried to see. It was a natural thing for anyone to do, turning at the only other sound in a place so large and silent, except Maralt felt the man looked too long.

As he passed a door to his left, it opened and a commander stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. Maralt watched one of the large main doors open, then ponderously close. He frowned.

“Who was that, Commander?” he asked.

Commander Embrin Morlin glanced at the closing door, then at him. “My son, my Lord.”

“And his business here?” Maralt asked icily, not liking the man’s tone.

“Delivering a message, actually a request. From my wife. She asked if I could pick up a few items she forgot at the market before it closes for the day.”

“This hardly seems the kind of business that need be conducted here, sir.”

“Yes, that’s true, but time is always of import. My son won’t be dining at home this evening, but with nearby friends.”

“Who?”

Commander Morlin paused briefly. “I believe Lord and Lady Gwendarel. He’s courting their daughter, I think. Not too much success, but at least they invite him back. So, you see, he won’t have time to go to market before he’s expected for dinner. Therefore I must do the deed if I want to eat this evening.”

Maralt shook his head, determining that he would speak to his men again about who was allowed in the Palace, when he shouldn’t need to. It wasn’t entirely Morlin’s fault, since the normal communication system that people used to enjoy was all but shut down.

“In the future, Commander, such messages should be better arranged.”

“I’ll endeavor to impress that on my wife.” He nodded. “Good day, my Lord.”

Maralt watched him go and felt a sense of unease work inside him. While he felt certain Commander Morlin hadn’t lied to him, he would have known it if he had, there was something there that he couldn’t quite place, and spent much of the remainder of the day pondering what that could be.