A Time of Darkness (The Circle of Talia) (16 page)

The palace décor was macabre, with black-marble floors, tapestries on the walls that depicted violence and death, and sculptures twisted into surreal caricatures of people and animals sometimes both inhabiting the same body, Verity could not help but feel smothered by darkness. It was with relief she discovered the kitchen on the lower level. A gigantic room with several ovens, cream-colored flagstone floors, and three times more bench space than at Bayerlon, a plethora of cooks and their assistants labored at baking bread, chopping vegetables and seasoning stews. The aromas made her mouth water, and after she tentatively watched for a while, one of the head cooks, a plump woman with olive skin and almond-shaped, violet eyes, motioned her to come and taste something.

Outside the kitchen, in all other parts of the palace she had seen, Verity noticed that no one made eye contact—fear dictated everything. The kitchen seemed a safe haven where the staff saw her and tried to communicate. Even though they couldn’t speak the same language, they sometimes made themselves understood, and Verity felt safe for the first time since being kidnapped. She wondered what the people of Inkra thought about Leon and Tusklar’s coup.

Sitting on a stool, nibbling on a piece of freshly baked, crusty olive bread, Verity wondered how she could escape. The more of Leon she had seen, the more crazy he appeared. He had changed for the wors
e since coming here. The other night, when she had been introduced to the queen, looking into her cerulean eyes had been like looking through the sky into the Third Realm. Something dark dwelt just beyond sight, like an unseen hand ready to shoot out and grab an unsuspecting throat.

Verity knew by the meal being cooked that dinnertime neared. It was time for her to bathe and attend Leon and Tusklar in the dress that had been chosen for her. When the queen had laid it upon her bed this morning, Verity had been shocked at its lacy sheerness. The dress reached her feet; however, the delicate gaps in the black fabric allowed her skin to show through. It was scandalous. Her parents never would have allowed anyone to wear such a garment in their home.

She slid off the stool and waved goodbye to the closest thing she had to friends in this place and climbed three floors to her room. As she contemplated the humiliating garment on her bed, she suddenly feared it would be the last thing she ever wore. Since she had never been one for premonitions, Verity shook her head, banishing the thought. Grabbing her towel, she reluctantly made her way to the washroom.

***

To Verity’s relief, dinner was held in the great hall, but it remained empty save for the king and queen, servants, and Tusklar’s realmist, Orphael. Even with limited company, the young princess blushed through the entire dinner, finding her appetite diminished. While she was relieved the tight-fitting shame didn’t expose her nipples, there was enough pale skin and curves showing that she felt like a prostitute. She resisted the urge to fold her arms in front of her chest or undo her hair, which formed an elegant bun at the back of her head, to let it fall and provide some protection—she didn’t want them to gain any pleasure from her distress.

All through dinner, Queen Tusklar watched Verity with predatory eyes. Verity wished she wore looser clothes, something in which one could hide a knife. Verity felt like something was going to happen. No one spoke: unusual when small talk normally accompanied dinner. Leon seemed lost in his own thoughts, Orphael’s lips moved at times, like he was repeating something in order to remember it, and Tusklar alternated between staring into space and staring at Verity.

Tusklar broke the silence with barely a whisper. “It is time.”

Leon looked at Verity. “Our destiny awaits, Princess. Are you ready?”

“I’m not sure, Uncle. What’s going to happen? Will I have to do anything? Will others watch?”

“You will see. Trust me.”

Everyone stood, chairs squeaking on the black marble, sending shivers down Verity’s back. Leon led the way up three flights of stairs, past the level that contained the bedrooms, to the level that contained the library, and now to a level she had not explored. Fewer torches lined the walls, throwing heavy shadows in the wake of their passage. As they continued, Verity felt the cool air flow against the exposed parts of her skin; she shivered. Muffled, booted steps of the men and the clicking of the queen’s high heels the only sounds.

Their destination was a set of curved double doors at the end of the hall. The heavy black doors were tattooed with crimson symbols—it looked to Verity like blood written in the night sky. Orphael placed his palms on both doors and, in a flat voice that sounded to Verity devoid of life, intoned,
“Ishten abouklir fenemas kline.”
He removed his hands from the doors, and the symbols oscillated before Verity heard a loud hiss and the doors swung slowly inward.

Orphael’s dark robe fluttered behind him as he entered. Verity followed Leon and Tusklar in, two almost-invisible guards behind her. The vast, round room reminded Verity of the observatory in Bayerlon. She marveled at ornate columns, runes scratched into their surface, and the domed glass roof. In the center stood a circular table of russet marble, attached to the floor by a single, wide leg—like a flower growing out of stone, it appeared to sprout out of the floor. A thick book, covered in finely woven, golden threads, sat on the table, flanked by a ruby-encrusted dagger, three bowls, unlit candles, and the most grotesque skull Verity had ever seen.

Orphael lit the candles with an arrogant click of his fingers. As he leafed through the heavy tome, Verity scanned the room, noticing empty chairs in the shadows lining the walls. On the northern perimeter, two thrones hulked in the darkness—the princess caught intermittent glints, which suggested gold or jewels set in the timber.

Orphael looked up. “It is time, my king.”

The lanky-haired realmist raised his hands to shoulder-height and rapidly clapped his hands twice in a gesture that in other circumstances would have had Verity laughing in a heap on the floor. Wall torches flared to life, and the shadows to the right of Verity disappeared as fire suddenly filled the previously unseen fireplace. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the mantel above the fireplace, which held the two crystal crowns from Leon’s boudoir.

“King Leon, Queen Tusklar, please approach the table.”

Leon took his wife’s hand, and together they stood next to the table and faced the fire. With no warning, Verity was grabbed from behind, her wrists bound tight before she could move. “Uncle, help me!”

Turning his head towards her, his expression nonchalant, he smiled. “It’s for your own good, my child.”

“What? What’s happening?” Verity struggled but it made no difference. The black-clad men seated her in one of the vacant thrones and tied her to it, looping rope around her waist to be knotted at the back of the chair. And what did Leon mean by “my child?” He had never called her that before, and the way he said it bothered her. It was almost as if he was insinuating that he was her father.
How ridiculous,
she thought.
He really is mad.
She tried to force her wrists free, but the rope didn’t give. Orphael’s chanting broke through her thoughts, and she looked up, mesmerized and terrified by what she saw.

The realmist held Leon’s hand and sliced Leon’s wrist, blood flowing freely into one bowl. Orphael then took Tusklar’s hand and did the same. When both bowls were full, the black-clad sentries cauterized the flesh with an iron brand already heated in the fire. Leon groaned through clenched teeth, and Tusklar screamed. Within moments, the stench slithered to Verity. She coughed and gagged, doubly wishing her hands were free so she could cover her mouth and nose.

Orphael took both bowls to the fireplace. Leon and Tusklar followed, stopping behind him. The realmist raised both bowls above his head.
“Verthist arkrolmin chandar.
I summon the darkest spirit from the Forgotten Realm.”

He threw both bowls into the flames.

Both crystal crowns, attached by an ethereal chord of silver, floated above their stands and sailed to Leon and Tusklar, hovering for a moment before alighting on their heads. The air around them darkened, and the pressure in the room dropped. Scalding power, sucked from somewhere Verity couldn’t see, swarmed into the crystal. The crowns melted into the monarchs’ heads. The air thickened, expanding with heat. A fissure, cracking like a graveyard of bones breaking one by one, rent the roof as if it were a thin sheet of ice.

Orphael ran, taking cover under the table. Leon and Tusklar were trapped in the sphere of darkness as deadly shards rained down, glancing off their near-invisible barrier and smashing on the stone floor. Verity, seated against the wall, escaped the worst of it but for one icicle-shaped spike, which impaled her foot through her flimsy slipper. She cried out and closed her eyes, but not for long. A roaring filled the void above, sounding to Verity like thousands of tortured spirits moaning, shrieking—a call from evil incarnate.

She watched the shadow around her uncle and his wife coalescing. As it did, the king and queen swelled and twisted, metamorphosing into an atrocity Verity could never have imagined. She shrank into her chair, tears falling unbidden. Absorbing the black atmosphere around it as it grew, the creature became as one; all traces of Leon and Tusklar were gone. When the noise ceased, the monstrosity stood at full height: twice as tall as a dragon.

Thick, pustulated, green skin, slick and dripping with a slimy membrane as if it had just hatched, covered the creature, from its thorny tail to its too-long, snouted face. Deep-set eyes, as red as a nightmare cliché, glowed under a flat forehead brimming with spikes. The creature appeared confused for a time before it focused on Orphael, who, head barely visible, peered out from under the table.

In a voice that whistled eerily, like the last breath escaping a dying man, a hint of Leon and Tusklar’s voices overlaid a deeper, more sinister presence. “Orphael, stand and face us.”

The realmist scrambled from under the table and bowed before standing to look up at the creature’s face. “M . . . m . . . my king?”

“That’s right. Your queen is here too, and we have a guest with us. But only for a short time.” The creature—an amalgamation of a gormon, Leon, and Tusklar—looked at Verity. “Ah, there she is: right where we left her.” Dizziness overcame Verity as she sat pinioned under its scrutiny.

“Orphael, bring her here, and we will bless her with a gift from our gormon brothers and sisters.”

Upon reaching the princess, Orphael noticed her injured foot. Mumbling an incantation, the glass dissolved into sand, which soon turned red as the tide of her blood seeped out. The realmist untied her hands, sensing she was too stunned to fight. Verity remained in the chair and held onto its arms so he couldn’t drag her away, her pleading eyes begging him to help her.

“Come now, Princess. Your destiny cannot be avoided. It is a great destiny, to be sure.” He grabbed her arm, pulling until her fingers tore loose of the throne.

“No, no. Please, no.”

“Stop it. That is no way for royalty to act. Pull yourself together!”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook. Dazed, and seeing no sympathy in his eyes, she looked to the
thing
that used to be her uncle and swallowed against the bile in her throat.
If that happened to them, what in the Third Realm is about to happen to me?

Orphael half
-dragged Verity to stand on the opposite side of the table to where the creature stood. He addressed it. “What should I call you, masters?”

“The coming of us has been foretold in gormon legend. We are infused with the spirit of the most powerful gormon priest ever to have lived. His knowledge, his experience
… his power—all ours. You will call us Kwaad.” Kwaad reached down and, ever so lightly, touched the end of its claw to the priest’s cheek. Blood emerged, sliding to his jaw. Kwaad leaned over the realmist and licked the morsel with a rough, acidic tongue. Orphael screamed as the saliva burnt his skin. “Mmm, tasty.”

Kwaad laughed.

“And now it’s time for High Priest Zuk to transform our lovely Verity.” Kwaad’s red eyes bored into Verity as if a mere look could move her to action against the very core of her being. “Take the skull in your hand.”

Verity fought the terror that compelled her to obey. The skull had changed from when she had first seen it. A green light radiated from the long-empty eye sockets, reaching through the ruins of the roof to the night sky beyond. She didn’t know what would happen when she touched the skull, but she knew it wouldn’t be pretty. Caught between wanting to scream and disappear, she heard her dress rip as she fell to her knees. Fragments of glass sliced her hands and knees as she crawled frantically, trying to get away, blood smearing across the floor. Had her brain been capable of rational thought, she would have known she never could have escaped.

She felt, rather than heard, the creature. As Kwaad’s rasping breath descended behind her, Verity’s voice broke forth. She screamed.

The Isle of the Dead Souls came into muffled view—a shadowed shape in the still, dark night.
Bronwyn sat in a rowboat with Sinjenasta, Avruellen, and an oarsman. Sheltered bays were a scarcity on the island, and because of a lack of visitors, the only inhabitants of the island, the monks of the Sacred Realm, deemed wharves a low priority. The ship stayed anchored beyond the shallows.