Firebrand
Page 83
A natural glow emanated from the pale stone illuminating the chamber in an eerie wet pearlescence. Adding to the dreamlike quality of it all were the statues and white marble sculptures set about the chamber. Mostly they were of beautiful nudes. One he recognized as in the style of the late Second Age, Sacoridian. Some appeared to have stood in the chamber long enough that they were in turn coated in layers of dripstone, their beautiful forms turned into nightmarish visions.
A chest overflowed with gold and silver, and gem-encrusted jewelry. Large paintings leaned against one of the walls, but they were largely ruined by the damp and covered in mold. At one end of the cavern, dripstone had formed what looked like a frozen waterfall with a throne carved into it. A stone gryphon reclined beside it as though sleeping.
Zachary’s gaze finally settled on two women. One had the youthful look and perfect features of an Eletian. The other was human, perhaps a little older than Laren, with long gray hair. Both were pale in the manner of his tomb caretakers, but reedy in a pinched, starved way, and this was not the dry, well-appointed tombs made by the hand of man, but a rugged, naturally formed cave.
The women wore shapeless, undyed woolen shifts, and he remembered his own nakedness as they stared at him, but he figured that since they’d apparently gotten a good look at him already, there was no use in being modest now.
He stood unsteadily, leaning against a natural stone pillar as thick as a small tree. “Where am I?” he demanded of the women. “Who are you?”
The two exchanged glances, and then the Eletian stepped forward, the other woman clinging behind her.
“You are in the domain of the slee,” she said in her hushed voice.
Slee, the aureas slee, the ice elemental. It had struck again, but why had it snatched him and not Estora? He’d been led to believe that Estora was the one it had wanted. Perhaps the wards had protected her and the aureas slee had taken him in retaliation.
A violent wind gusted into the cavern. The women scurried from the chamber, and he was lifted by icy hands and thrown against the wall. All went dark again. When he blinked his eyes open to light once more, he found he’d slid to the ground and that his head throbbed. To his surprise, Estora stood before him with her hands on her hips, a frosty mist swirling around her. Strangely, she was wearing his trousers and oversized shirt.
He clambered to his feet, leaning against the wall to support himself. “My lady,” he said, “how is it that you’ve come to be here.”
In three long strides she stood right before him and appraised him critically up and down. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”
“Yes, yes, more than you know!”
“Only because you want me to take you home.”
He was confused. Could she do this, or was she now a captive of the aureas slee?
She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was ice cold. “I do not think it’s because you want me.”
“That is not—” He yelped when she raked his face with her nails.
He touched his fingertips to his stinging cheek. They came away bloody. Before he could demand what she meant by her action, she whirled away, and when she turned to face him again, she’d turned into Karigan. His heart skipped a beat. His shirt flowed off her shoulders and draped below her hips. No patch covered her eye. She was as he remembered, but for the coldness of her gaze, and her eyes an otherworldly winter blue. A nightmare this was.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I don’t know what magic this is, but I will not have it.”
“No? You think speaking like a king will get you what you want?”
“Whoever or whatever you are,” he growled, “you know nothing.”
“I know everything about you.” She stepped uncomfortably close to him, almost touching. Cold radiated off her.
He swallowed hard. This was not Karigan. This was not Karigan. This was not—
Her hand, as icy as Estora’s, wrapped around the back of his neck and violently pulled him into a kiss, a crushing kiss, she pressing against him. He tried to pull away, but she was unnaturally strong. He had dreamed of such a moment, but with Karigan, the real Karigan, with her physical and personal warmth, her sometimes tentative smile, her more gentle touch . . . The cold of contact with this false Karigan seeped through his skin, sending icy daggers of pain into his head.
When she finally released him, he gasped for breath, and found himself nose-to-nose with himself. Repulsed, Zachary pressed back against the cavern wall.
His other self laughed in his own voice. “Neither of them are yours. The first is mine. The second? We shall see. You have treated the Beautiful One without the adoration she deserves, but no matter. I will adore her, and your seed, the young she bears, will be mine as well.”
Zachary hurtled at his false self, and was easily thrown across the chamber. He crashed into one of the statues. It was solid. He groaned and shook his head, then climbed to his feet once more. He would be bruised, badly so.
“Your realm is now mine,” the other said, “and all it contains. You do not deserve it.”
It was, Zachary thought, like looking into a skewed mirror. He saw himself and heard his own voice, and yet, it was all wrong.
“You will have none of it,” he said.
The other laughed. “You are but mortal and fragile.”
A blast of wind hurled Zachary back into the statue and he found himself on the ground again. An inhalation proved painful and he wondered if he’d broken ribs.
A chest overflowed with gold and silver, and gem-encrusted jewelry. Large paintings leaned against one of the walls, but they were largely ruined by the damp and covered in mold. At one end of the cavern, dripstone had formed what looked like a frozen waterfall with a throne carved into it. A stone gryphon reclined beside it as though sleeping.
Zachary’s gaze finally settled on two women. One had the youthful look and perfect features of an Eletian. The other was human, perhaps a little older than Laren, with long gray hair. Both were pale in the manner of his tomb caretakers, but reedy in a pinched, starved way, and this was not the dry, well-appointed tombs made by the hand of man, but a rugged, naturally formed cave.
The women wore shapeless, undyed woolen shifts, and he remembered his own nakedness as they stared at him, but he figured that since they’d apparently gotten a good look at him already, there was no use in being modest now.
He stood unsteadily, leaning against a natural stone pillar as thick as a small tree. “Where am I?” he demanded of the women. “Who are you?”
The two exchanged glances, and then the Eletian stepped forward, the other woman clinging behind her.
“You are in the domain of the slee,” she said in her hushed voice.
Slee, the aureas slee, the ice elemental. It had struck again, but why had it snatched him and not Estora? He’d been led to believe that Estora was the one it had wanted. Perhaps the wards had protected her and the aureas slee had taken him in retaliation.
A violent wind gusted into the cavern. The women scurried from the chamber, and he was lifted by icy hands and thrown against the wall. All went dark again. When he blinked his eyes open to light once more, he found he’d slid to the ground and that his head throbbed. To his surprise, Estora stood before him with her hands on her hips, a frosty mist swirling around her. Strangely, she was wearing his trousers and oversized shirt.
He clambered to his feet, leaning against the wall to support himself. “My lady,” he said, “how is it that you’ve come to be here.”
In three long strides she stood right before him and appraised him critically up and down. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”
“Yes, yes, more than you know!”
“Only because you want me to take you home.”
He was confused. Could she do this, or was she now a captive of the aureas slee?
She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was ice cold. “I do not think it’s because you want me.”
“That is not—” He yelped when she raked his face with her nails.
He touched his fingertips to his stinging cheek. They came away bloody. Before he could demand what she meant by her action, she whirled away, and when she turned to face him again, she’d turned into Karigan. His heart skipped a beat. His shirt flowed off her shoulders and draped below her hips. No patch covered her eye. She was as he remembered, but for the coldness of her gaze, and her eyes an otherworldly winter blue. A nightmare this was.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” she asked.
“I don’t know what magic this is, but I will not have it.”
“No? You think speaking like a king will get you what you want?”
“Whoever or whatever you are,” he growled, “you know nothing.”
“I know everything about you.” She stepped uncomfortably close to him, almost touching. Cold radiated off her.
He swallowed hard. This was not Karigan. This was not Karigan. This was not—
Her hand, as icy as Estora’s, wrapped around the back of his neck and violently pulled him into a kiss, a crushing kiss, she pressing against him. He tried to pull away, but she was unnaturally strong. He had dreamed of such a moment, but with Karigan, the real Karigan, with her physical and personal warmth, her sometimes tentative smile, her more gentle touch . . . The cold of contact with this false Karigan seeped through his skin, sending icy daggers of pain into his head.
When she finally released him, he gasped for breath, and found himself nose-to-nose with himself. Repulsed, Zachary pressed back against the cavern wall.
His other self laughed in his own voice. “Neither of them are yours. The first is mine. The second? We shall see. You have treated the Beautiful One without the adoration she deserves, but no matter. I will adore her, and your seed, the young she bears, will be mine as well.”
Zachary hurtled at his false self, and was easily thrown across the chamber. He crashed into one of the statues. It was solid. He groaned and shook his head, then climbed to his feet once more. He would be bruised, badly so.
“Your realm is now mine,” the other said, “and all it contains. You do not deserve it.”
It was, Zachary thought, like looking into a skewed mirror. He saw himself and heard his own voice, and yet, it was all wrong.
“You will have none of it,” he said.
The other laughed. “You are but mortal and fragile.”
A blast of wind hurled Zachary back into the statue and he found himself on the ground again. An inhalation proved painful and he wondered if he’d broken ribs.
