Immortal Defiance Read online

  Yes, I know who you are, child. I have watched you since you spirited away the Adeganethar from the halls of your fellow enchanters. I know your every thought and your every motive.

  “Then you must know I seek no glory of my own. My only wish is for the people, not for myself.”

  You believe this; I know. Amparo’s tone was a little patronizing.

  “With everything I got, and I won’t hesitate to tell it to any you call kin.”

  I speak for all who matter, and we all agree you have done a brave thing by taking the stone from its dusty, forgotten grave. Foolish, yes, but brave. You know courage.

  “Are you… are you the leader of your clan, Amparo Darksun?”

  That I am. The Adegan Clan has looked to me to lead them for nigh on two hundred years now. The stone was long unclaimed. Only a few of us remain who knew Tarim, the last Golden Dragonlord King of Sraeyn, but we remember valor. History recalls men who have held the dragonstone without ever realizing its worth. This is because past clan leaders deemed them dishonorable masters; something that you are not. Your intentions are pure. You called, mortal, and now we have answered.

  Her voice cracked a little. “And your kind, do you mean to help me?”

  No, was the immediate reply, cold and dead certain in its chilling intensity. We do not.

  ---

  Neros glanced down at her. His lips curled into a pitying smile, and he raised a puzzled eyebrow at her. Just then a steel blade emerged from his chest, and all the response he managed was a surprised choked-up sound. His blood splattered all over the altar. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the sword point sticking out of him. Then the blade withdrew, and he fell forward, collapsing sideways over Dulcea.

  She gasped, trying to shove his corpse away with her manacled hands and feet. Screams, shouts, and curses erupted everywhere in the temple hall. The priests all charged at something, but Dulcea could not say what it was. She saw something black and man-shaped moving among the crazed servants of Asherac. It was so fast, however, and seemed to vanish only to appear somewhere else in the next instant, that it was difficult to focus her eyes on it. She saw the flash of a sword as the stranger cut an effortless path through the priests. Their curse casting seemed to have no effect on him.

  In a matter of moments, the temple was silent again. The last priest fell to the floor, leaving a single figure standing upright. He had his back to Dulcea, and all she could see of him was black clothing and raven hair, but he seemed calm and unharmed. His movements revealed he was wiping his sword clean and then sliding it back into its sheath. Dulcea shuddered in breathless, disgusted awe in the face of this slaughter.

  What manner of creature was he? Dulcea stared at his tall figure with trepidation. The stranger turned toward her, came over, and pulled Neros’s dead body off her, dropping it on the floor.

  He looked as normal as any of her human generals, and Dulcea’s fear and confusion deepened. This man, handsome even by elven standards, calling himself a beast? She swallowed back the nervous lump in her throat and watched him as he untied her wrists and ankles with deft hands. Dulcea sat up as soon as she was free, keeping her eyes fixed on him. He leaned his hands against the bloodied altar, gazing at her with a hint of a smile on his lips. He had the most peculiar, captivating eyes. They were pale turquoise, like light shining from under ice, and there was something hypnotizing about the way he looked at her.

  It was difficult to turn away from his gaze.

  “So, out of two evils you have chosen me…” His tone was almost conversational.

  Despite the intensity of the battle only a moment ago, he did not appear injured or out of breath. He seemed relaxed, as if he had already forgotten about the piles of corpses lying on the bloodied ground all around them. Despite her earlier suspicion, Dulcea was now certain of who this man was not. Even Asherac would not murder his servants like that.

  “Why? Are you evil?” He had killed people to free her, and his words made her worry he had enjoyed it.

  “I certainly mean you no good.”

  Dulcea gulped. “What do you mean to do with me then?”

  “Amuse myself, perhaps. We shall see. Like I said, I have not decided yet.”

  “I will not stand for being your plaything!” Her voice did not waver, but fear froze her heart. There was nothing she could do to stop him. Deprived of her powers, she was defenseless against him.

  He let out a short, good-humored laugh. “My lady, if it wasn’t for me, you would be on your way to Asherac’s arms by now. You begged for my intervention, and I intervened.” He reached out to touch her chin with the tips of his fingers. “Your life is mine, now.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He shrugged. “Death is the fate of all mortals.”

  Dulcea nodded, accepting this, although his callousness chilled her to the bone. If he did not mean to kill her right away, perhaps she could bargain with him.

  “How did you get in here? This temple must have wards put up against invisible intruders.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Enough questions,” he said. “I am done with this place, and you will come with me to my house.”

  He stepped back and offered her his hand to help her off the altar. Dulcea hesitated, biting her lip. Her upbringing was that of a noble lady, however, so she took his hand and slid her feet onto the ground. His skin felt cold to touch. Despite the chill of the stone slab and her near nakedness, her body burned with more warmth than the stranger’s in his dark brocade clothes. She staggered a little, put off balance for her missing footwear, and he caught her arms to steady her.

  She frowned, wondering how he meant to get them unnoticed through the Sarusean base. “How far away is your house?”

  “Not that far,” he said. Then added after a pause, “I beg you not to alarm yourself now, my lady.”

  He pulled her to him. Dulcea startled back on instinct, but he pressed their bodies together and held her tight. No one had ever embraced her like that before, and her breath caught in her throat from the sheer audacity of his actions.

  The world around them twisted and sunk into shadows. Dulcea trembled. Where was this? There were strange echoes of footsteps and distant wails. It was cold, and the foggy air was difficult to breathe. A suffocating, dizzy spell washed over her. Dead faces loomed in the darkness. Everything here was dead, displaced, still, cold, and distorted. Dulcea clung to the stranger with vehemence, desperate for any shelter from the nightmarish surroundings. Was this where he lived? Was this where she was to spend the rest of her life? She could not bear it. She screamed, but no sound came from her throat. Her knees buckled under her.

  The real world returned. Walls of black stone and natural granite formed around her. Moist, warm air caressed her skin, and there were real fires burning in the lanterns hanging on the walls. The stranger released his iron grip on her, and Dulcea stumbled back, unable to take her eyes off him. Her hands sought purchase in the surrounding space, but everything was farther away than it seemed. Her fingers grasped at nothing. The world spun, and she was falling. The stranger reached out again and caught her.

  He wrapped an arm around her, snaking the other under her legs, and picked her up in his arms. She gasped, her fingers curling around a piece of the smooth, dark fabric of his jacket. Dulcea let her head loll against his shoulder, her eyes closing of their own accord. A rush of embarrassment colored her cheeks, but she felt distant from it, like she had slipped into a dream. The ire she tried to muster at allowing herself to show such weakness fizzled out, vaporizing like raindrops on parched desert sand.

  He carried her somewhere. Dulcea did not know where, but so long as she did not have to go back to that nightmare world, it was all the same to her.

  ---

  The world came back into focus. Dulcea awakened to the sound of water dripping into a pool in a cavern. She furrowed her brow, her lips parted in wonder. Had she fainted? She had no recollection of arriving wh
erever this was. Dulcea sat up, finding herself atop a stone bench. The moist air smelled of clean mineral spring water, moss, and wet stone.

  It was dim in the cavern. The only light came from a handful of wall sconces and the chain of lanterns in the ceiling, but the darkness was not threatening. The shadows here held no malice. Dulcea got to her feet, looking around herself in confusion. The natural rock wall implied that she was underground.

  The stranger stood nearby, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

  She was more intrigued than scared. “What is this place?”

  “Castle Gwyndoorn, my lady,” he said. “These are the baths.”

  “Oh.” She looked around again.

  “I’ll leave you to your bath. We will speak again afterward.”

  Dulcea nodded. “All right.”

  The opportunity was appealing. She was half naked, her long silver hair was a tangled mess, and there were bloodstains on her skin. A little luxury would go a long way in restoring her confidence.

  “How many bathers would you like to have?” he asked her.

  “Bathers?” She frowned.

  “Yes, my lady. Maids who will help you bathe. Or would you prefer to bathe alone?”

  “I will bathe alone. I… I am not accustomed to bathers.”

  “As you say.” He pointed at a small unadorned silver bell on a nearby stone table. “Ring this when you are ready. The maids will come and help you dress, and then they will bring you to me. I would like to have the pleasure of your conversation.”

  He gave her a polite bow and left her alone. Dulcea yanked off her one boot. She wandered the baths for a while, examining the pools. There were several in different sizes, each with a different water temperature. The castle looked like it sat on natural hot springs.

  Gwyndoorn. The name of the castle sounded familiar, but she could not remember where she had heard it. It was an Usvameerian name though, so she must still be in Usvameer, and the names here all sounded alike to her.

  Dulcea stripped off her remaining clothing and left them in a heap on the floor. She felt better at once. She chose the hottest pool of water still comfortable to her and climbed in, submerging a few times before leaning back against the rim and closing her eyes. Was this even real? She had expected some unspeakable horrors, and instead she got this.

  But perhaps the horrors would only follow later…

  The hot water felt good on her bruised body, and it was liberating to wash off the blood and dirt from her skin. Arranged on the rim of the pool were brushes, sponges, fragrant oils, and soap powders. Dulcea scrubbed her skin clean and then washed and oiled her hair with care. Her balance was still unsteady, but her hands no longer shook, and little by little she was feeling stronger again.

  She would have to find out who this man was, and what he wanted. Perhaps she could persuade him to let her go. She needed to find out what became of her Golden Staff of the Suns, and she would have to find her way back to camp to expose Delbin’s treason.

  So long as she was alive, there was hope.

  Rejuvenated by her bath, Dulcea climbed out of the pool. She did not see any towels, so still dripping wet she went to ring the bell the stranger had pointed out to her. The sound it made was clear but quiet, and she wondered if anyone could hear her. After a moment, there came the echo of footsteps, and three young women entered the baths. One of them was carrying a bundle of fabric; the second one brought towels. A slight silver tinkle followed their steps, and Dulcea wondered about it until she realized the last maid had another silver bell in her apron pocket. She smiled, understanding dawning on her. An enchantment bound the two bells together; one rang when the other did.

  The young women were human. Two of them had northern features and blond hair, and one had the dark tresses and bronze skin of the Avarean desert people. Dulcea was not sure what she had expected when the stranger had mentioned maids, but nothing as normal as these girls, at least. They dried Dulcea with deft and reverent hands and then helped her into her new clothes. They dressed her like an Usvameerian noble: white linen pantalets, a corset, a lace petticoat, and over them a long, cream-colored dress. The dress had an elaborate green vine embroidery around the neckline, the sleeves, and the hem, and came with elegant little slippers of pearl-white deerskin. The maids dried and combed Dulcea’s hair with great care and arranged it up with golden pins engraved to resemble leaves.

  “What are your names?” Dulcea asked the women as they were tending to her. “Why are you in Gwyndoorn?”

  “Your pardon, milady, but we must not speak with you.”

  It made sense: her host would not want them discussing the situation behind his back. Dulcea let the maids work in silence. She did not wish to get them in trouble should they accidentally tell her something forbidden. When they had finished dressing her, the dark-haired young woman asked her to follow.

  She led Dulcea through various halls, and up some impressive staircases, before showing her to a small dining room.

  “Please wait, milady,” the maid said. “Milord will be here soon.”

  The maid withdrew. Dulcea ran her gaze around her surroundings. The bronze-skinned girl had rushed her through the castle, as if afraid to let her stop, but her keen eyes had roamed the surfaces. The walls were unusual black stone, and most of the furniture and ornaments were so old and exotic she could not place them. Other than that, however, everything seemed normal. She had expected something ominous and terrifying, but Gwyndoorn so far seemed nothing but well-organized, clean, and peaceful. The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, and outside she could hear birds singing.

  The dining room was candlelit, with the table set with polished silver plates for two. They were to have breakfast, then. A moment later a door opened, and the stranger joined her in the room.

  He nodded his head at her. “You look… ravishing, my lady.”

  Dulcea hid an inward smile. She already knew she looked alluring. More than that, she was in control of herself again. She noticed he, too, had changed clothes, and he no longer wore the sword belt on his hip. He looked like the nobles she had glimpsed in the portraits on the castle walls: dressed in white linen, ruffle, and rich, dark brocade. He was handsome; she could not deny that.

  She ignored his flattery. “I have some questions, my lord.”

  “As I expect you would.” He held a chair for her. “Come. Please sit. I would be a poor host if I did not offer you a bite to eat.”

  “Am I to be your guest now?” she asked, sitting down. “I thought I was your prisoner.”

  “It pleases me to have your company,” he said. “It has been a long time since I last had a noble lady for a visitor.”

  As soon as they were both seated, servants came in through a hidden entrance in the wall. They brought bowls full of bread, honey, jellies, and dried fruits, and placed them in front of Dulcea. They were about to pour her wine, but she asked if they could bring her water instead, and they hastened to obey. Her host accepted no food, but held his silver goblet up, and a servant poured him wine. Afterward, the stranger waved for the servants to leave.

  He gestured that she should eat, and Dulcea complied. The bread was fresh-baked, and the jellies and the other things tasted excellent. Dulcea found that she was hungrier than she had thought and ate with a hearty appetite. Her host watched her with his wine goblet in hand. He did not smile, but Dulcea did not think him displeased.

  “Are you not hungry, my lord?” she asked him, observing that he was only having a sip or two of his drink and not touching any food.

  “I fed earlier,” he said. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “No, I do not mind,” Dulcea said, thinking to herself that feeding was a peculiar word to use.

  “What is your name, my lord? I do not know what I should call you.”

  He straightened up in his chair.

  “Indeed. Pardon me. It has taken me far too long to introduce myself, my lady. My name is Krath.”

&nbs
p; “Krath. Is that a common name in Usvameer?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all, no. It is an old name.”

  “And you are the lord of this castle?”

  “This castle and some acres of land around it, yes.”

  “As I thought. Your way of speaking tells me you are of noble origin. What is the name of your House, Lord Krath?”

  A small smile came upon his lips.

  “You wonder about my connection to the Usvameerian nobility, I believe? We are not of kin. Yes, this castle lies in the Kingdom of Usvameer, but I owe no allegiance to the king or the Sarusean commander who ruled in place of the king. My existence here is unknown to them. You are correct in assuming I was born a nobleman, but it is of no consequence. Said House existed in another land, in another time, and even the memories of it have long since faded away. I am its last representative.”

  Dulcea paled, chilled by his words. Such isolation hinted that the Lord of Gwyndoorn had something to hide.

  “Forgive my choice of words, my lord, but… what manner of creature are you? You look human to my eyes, but your abilities… I cannot explain them. The way you brought me here was an unusual one. That place… it was the Netherworld, wasn’t it? Lady Sarosha’s, the Goddess of Death’s realm?”

  “Correct.” He grinned. “And I do not mind your choice of words, my lady. On the contrary: I am interested in your thoughts and would appreciate it if you were direct with me. Humor me. What would you say I am?”

  Dulcea gave him a long, contemplative look.

  There was nothing in his appearance indicating anything else than human origin. He was perhaps a little pale, but even her own skin looked different in the soft half-light of the room. He wore his straight shoulder length hair free of any binds, with a few wispy black strands falling on his face. His pale turquoise eyes bore into hers. Dulcea blushed, dropping her gaze. She had noted his tall, imposing frame before, and the way his clothes fit him bespoke of a body shaped by physical exercise. Sword practice, she supposed, for she had seen what impressive feats he performed with a sword.