Prince Lestat
Page 105
Not a warrior, no, never. He’d only sinned against his Christian god because he couldn’t see the harm in loving passion. And the satisfaction of his rampant desires had always been easy, harmonious, pleasant.
A deep chill passed through Rhosh. Perhaps he had done the very wrong thing bringing Benedict here, but was he not infinitely more vulnerable miles away, even in the crypt, to some trickery on the part of the Voice?
Well, there was no time to go over a plan now, not when Maharet was returning to her fortress and when she might, with those preternatural ears, hear what she could not hear telepathically.
“Put on your shoes, we’re going now.”
Finally, they stood like dark shadows in the open window. Not a single mortal eye saw them ascend.
And only moments passed before they came down silently into the jungles surrounding Maharet’s compound.
“Ah, you are here and not a moment too soon,” said the Voice, fearlessly inside Rhosh’s head. “And she is here. She comes and she leaves the gates open behind her. Hurry before she presses all her magical electric buttons and closes me off in this prison!”
He stepped inside the great wire-mesh enclosure, and walked quietly towards the lighted archway.
“The machetes. Do you see them?” said the Voice. “They are against the wall. They are sharp.”
Rhosh was tempted to say, If you don’t shut up, you’re going to drive me mad, but he didn’t. He clenched his teeth, lifted his chin slightly.
And yes, he did see the long wooden-handled machete lying on the wooden bench among the pots of orchids. He did see the blade glinting in the light from the arch, though it was caked with mud.
“She dreams of Pacaya,” said the Voice. “She sees its boiling crater. She sees white steam rising to the dark sky. She sees lava flowing down the mountain in fiery fingers of light. She thinks nothing can live in that inferno, not her, not her sister—.”
Oh, if he could only shut out the Voice.
“And I dare not seek to deter her for I am what she fears above all things!”
There was a dark shape to his left. He saw it just as he picked up the machete and watched the caked mud fall off the blade.
Slowly he raised his eyes to see the figure of one of the twins staring at him—one, but which one?
He was petrified, holding the machete in his hand. Those blue eyes were fixed on him in a kind of dreamy indifference, the light from the doorway slicing out the edge of the smooth expressionless face. The eyes moved on away from him indifferently.
“That is Mekare,” the Voice whispered. “That is my prison. Move on! Move on as if you know where you are going! Do you know where you are going?”
A soft brokenhearted crying reached his ears. It was coming from the lighted room beyond the archway.
He made his way forward on the soft earthen path, clutching the machete in his right hand, fingers massaging the rough wooden handle. Strong, heavy handle. Monstrous blade. Two feet in length perhaps. A powerful cleaver. He could smell the steel blade, smell the dried mud, and smell the moist earth all around him.
He reached the doorway.
Maharet sat in a dark brown rattan chair with her face in her hands, her body clothed in a long robe of dark rose cotton. Long sleeves covered her arms, and her fingers as white as her face were dripping with the delicate blood of her tears, her long copper hair tossed behind her, covering her bent back. She was barefoot.
She cried softly.
“Khayman,” she said softly in an agonized voice. And slowly she sat back turning to face him wearily.
With a start she saw him there in the doorway.
She didn’t know who he was. She couldn’t pick his name suddenly from all the years, all the many years.
“Kill her,” said the Voice. “Get rid of her now.”
“Benedict!” he said loudly, distinctly, most certainly loud enough for his companion to hear, and at once he heard the boy coming through the garden.
“What is it you want of me?” asked the woman facing him. The blood made two fine strokes down her cheeks like the painted tears of a French clown with a china face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her eyebrows gleaming golden.
“Ah, so it’s brought you here, has it?” she said. She rose to her feet in one swift movement, the chair thrown back and over behind her.
Some five feet stood between them.
Behind him, Benedict stood, waiting. He could hear Benedict’s breath.
“Don’t speak to her!” cried the Voice inside his head. “Don’t believe what she says to you.”
“What right have you to be here?” she demanded. It was the ancient tongue now.
He kept his face a mask. He gave not the slightest indication that he understood her.
Her face changed, her features knotting, her mouth twisting, and he felt the blast hit him full force.
Back he hurled it against her. She staggered and fell over the chair.
Again, she hit him with it full force to drive him back and away.
“Benedict!” he cried.
And this time he sent the Fire Gift at her with all his power, lunging for her as he did so, the machete raised.
She screamed. She screamed like a helpless village woman in a war, a powerless and frantic being, but as she reached for her chest with both hands, she sent the Fire Gift against him and he felt the intolerable heat just as she was feeling it, felt his body burning in unspeakable pain.
He denied the pain. He refused to be defeated, refused to freeze in panic.
He heard Benedict shouting as he sought to drive her back, Benedict’s left hand on his back. It was an ugly battle cry, and he heard the same coming from his own lips.
Again, he mustered his power and aimed it at her heart, as he brought down the machete with all his physical strength sinking the blade deep into her neck.
A dreadful roar rose from her. Blood shot up out of her mouth in a horrid fountain.
“Khayman!” she roared, the blood bubbling from her lips. “Mekare!” Suddenly a whole litany of names broke from her, names of all she’d known and loved, and the great choking wail, “I am dying. I am murdered!”
Her head was falling back, her neck twisting desperately, her hands reaching up to steady her own head, the blood splashing all over her cotton robe, all over her hands, splashing on him.
He grabbed the machete with both hands and slammed it into her neck again with all his force, and this time, the head came off and flew through the air and landed on the moist earthen floor of the room.
Her headless body sank down to the ground, its hands reaching up desperately, and as it fell forward on its breasts, the hands clawed at the earth, clawed like talons.
A deep chill passed through Rhosh. Perhaps he had done the very wrong thing bringing Benedict here, but was he not infinitely more vulnerable miles away, even in the crypt, to some trickery on the part of the Voice?
Well, there was no time to go over a plan now, not when Maharet was returning to her fortress and when she might, with those preternatural ears, hear what she could not hear telepathically.
“Put on your shoes, we’re going now.”
Finally, they stood like dark shadows in the open window. Not a single mortal eye saw them ascend.
And only moments passed before they came down silently into the jungles surrounding Maharet’s compound.
“Ah, you are here and not a moment too soon,” said the Voice, fearlessly inside Rhosh’s head. “And she is here. She comes and she leaves the gates open behind her. Hurry before she presses all her magical electric buttons and closes me off in this prison!”
He stepped inside the great wire-mesh enclosure, and walked quietly towards the lighted archway.
“The machetes. Do you see them?” said the Voice. “They are against the wall. They are sharp.”
Rhosh was tempted to say, If you don’t shut up, you’re going to drive me mad, but he didn’t. He clenched his teeth, lifted his chin slightly.
And yes, he did see the long wooden-handled machete lying on the wooden bench among the pots of orchids. He did see the blade glinting in the light from the arch, though it was caked with mud.
“She dreams of Pacaya,” said the Voice. “She sees its boiling crater. She sees white steam rising to the dark sky. She sees lava flowing down the mountain in fiery fingers of light. She thinks nothing can live in that inferno, not her, not her sister—.”
Oh, if he could only shut out the Voice.
“And I dare not seek to deter her for I am what she fears above all things!”
There was a dark shape to his left. He saw it just as he picked up the machete and watched the caked mud fall off the blade.
Slowly he raised his eyes to see the figure of one of the twins staring at him—one, but which one?
He was petrified, holding the machete in his hand. Those blue eyes were fixed on him in a kind of dreamy indifference, the light from the doorway slicing out the edge of the smooth expressionless face. The eyes moved on away from him indifferently.
“That is Mekare,” the Voice whispered. “That is my prison. Move on! Move on as if you know where you are going! Do you know where you are going?”
A soft brokenhearted crying reached his ears. It was coming from the lighted room beyond the archway.
He made his way forward on the soft earthen path, clutching the machete in his right hand, fingers massaging the rough wooden handle. Strong, heavy handle. Monstrous blade. Two feet in length perhaps. A powerful cleaver. He could smell the steel blade, smell the dried mud, and smell the moist earth all around him.
He reached the doorway.
Maharet sat in a dark brown rattan chair with her face in her hands, her body clothed in a long robe of dark rose cotton. Long sleeves covered her arms, and her fingers as white as her face were dripping with the delicate blood of her tears, her long copper hair tossed behind her, covering her bent back. She was barefoot.
She cried softly.
“Khayman,” she said softly in an agonized voice. And slowly she sat back turning to face him wearily.
With a start she saw him there in the doorway.
She didn’t know who he was. She couldn’t pick his name suddenly from all the years, all the many years.
“Kill her,” said the Voice. “Get rid of her now.”
“Benedict!” he said loudly, distinctly, most certainly loud enough for his companion to hear, and at once he heard the boy coming through the garden.
“What is it you want of me?” asked the woman facing him. The blood made two fine strokes down her cheeks like the painted tears of a French clown with a china face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her eyebrows gleaming golden.
“Ah, so it’s brought you here, has it?” she said. She rose to her feet in one swift movement, the chair thrown back and over behind her.
Some five feet stood between them.
Behind him, Benedict stood, waiting. He could hear Benedict’s breath.
“Don’t speak to her!” cried the Voice inside his head. “Don’t believe what she says to you.”
“What right have you to be here?” she demanded. It was the ancient tongue now.
He kept his face a mask. He gave not the slightest indication that he understood her.
Her face changed, her features knotting, her mouth twisting, and he felt the blast hit him full force.
Back he hurled it against her. She staggered and fell over the chair.
Again, she hit him with it full force to drive him back and away.
“Benedict!” he cried.
And this time he sent the Fire Gift at her with all his power, lunging for her as he did so, the machete raised.
She screamed. She screamed like a helpless village woman in a war, a powerless and frantic being, but as she reached for her chest with both hands, she sent the Fire Gift against him and he felt the intolerable heat just as she was feeling it, felt his body burning in unspeakable pain.
He denied the pain. He refused to be defeated, refused to freeze in panic.
He heard Benedict shouting as he sought to drive her back, Benedict’s left hand on his back. It was an ugly battle cry, and he heard the same coming from his own lips.
Again, he mustered his power and aimed it at her heart, as he brought down the machete with all his physical strength sinking the blade deep into her neck.
A dreadful roar rose from her. Blood shot up out of her mouth in a horrid fountain.
“Khayman!” she roared, the blood bubbling from her lips. “Mekare!” Suddenly a whole litany of names broke from her, names of all she’d known and loved, and the great choking wail, “I am dying. I am murdered!”
Her head was falling back, her neck twisting desperately, her hands reaching up to steady her own head, the blood splashing all over her cotton robe, all over her hands, splashing on him.
He grabbed the machete with both hands and slammed it into her neck again with all his force, and this time, the head came off and flew through the air and landed on the moist earthen floor of the room.
Her headless body sank down to the ground, its hands reaching up desperately, and as it fell forward on its breasts, the hands clawed at the earth, clawed like talons.
