Master and Fool (15 page)

By all accounts
she had died horribly, at the hand of a Halcus raiding party, raped and dismembered,
her body wrapped in an Annis banner. No wonder Kylock was acting strangely: the
news must have upset him deeply. In less than a year he had lost both his
parents, and Catherine knew just how difficult a loss that was to bear. No. Her
new husband wasn't crazed or demented, he was simply a man who didn't know how
to deal with his grief.

Having come to
this conclusion, Catherine felt a lot better. It was her duty, as a wife, to
help her husband through this difficult time. She knew from experience that
whenever Blayze was worried about an upcoming fight, or angry with his brother;
that nothing took his mind off his troubles more than a night of fiery passion.

Whilst she was
thinking, Catherine had poured herself a third cup of wine. She took a hearty gulp
and then called out, "Kylock, my husband, your wife grows weary with the
wait." She listened for a moment, and then heard the sound of water
splashing from behind the screen. Her cry had obviously broken his trance.

Her smile was smug
as she glanced one last time toward the mirror: tonight was going to be
glorious. In her mind, she was already creating a fantasy where Kylock, weak
from many hours of glorious lovemaking, broke down and wept in her arms.

Passion first,
though, grief later. Crossing over to the bed, she blew out the surrounding
candles one by one until she was happy with the light. In one hand she held her
wine cup, in the other the jar of scented oil. Giggling, she began to sprinkle
the oil upon the bed. When that was done to her satisfaction, she finished the
last of her wine and slipped gaily between the sheets.

Encouraging sounds
came from behind the screen: sounds of footsteps and drying and dressing.

Catherine began
propping pillows up to support her neck and back. She tried several poses,
thrusting out her chest, squaring her shoulders, spreading her hair out like a
fan on the pillows. Nothing seemed quite right. She wanted to delight and
surprise Kylock when he emerged from his bath. Judging from the increased
activity behind the screen, she didn't have much longer to decide. If only her
head was a little clearer; she had drunk too much wine by far, much more than
was proper for a lady on her wedding night. Still, it made her feel so
delightfully uninhibited.

Sucking on her
thumb, Catherine came up with a plan: she would pose for him
under
the
covers. Above he would simply see her face looking maidenly and modest, whilst
below, she would be spread-eagled and waiting. It was perfect!

Smiling, Catherine
adjusted the covers and then waited, a little impatiently, for Kylock to
appear.

Kylock was not as
clean as he would have liked to be for Catherine. Even now, with his mother new
in the grave, he still couldn't rid himself of the stench of her. She clung to
him from whatever hell she had been damned to: the smell, the taint, the sin.
Queen Arinalda was a whore who had died a whore's death, and he would not allow
himself to be dragged down with her. Tonight he would finally be rid of
her-death alone was not nearly enough. He needed to be embraced by Catherine's
purity to banish the last traces of his mother's lust.

He was a bastard,
and that could never be changed, but his union with Catherine would give him
his own private legitimacy. He would be born anew in the sanctity of her womb.

Eager now, Kylock
ran the cloth over his hair, rubbing out the last of the wetness. On his
instructions, a clean robe had been laid out in the corner over a chair. He ran
the fabric between his scalded fingers. Good, it was silk.

In less than a
minute he was ready to face his new wife. He was anxious, excited, his breath
coming light and fast. Stepping out from behind the screen, he looked around
the room. Everything had changed: the light was dimmer, more intimate, the
cloying smell of perfume filled the air, and Catherine was no longer standing.
She was already in bed, waiting for him.

She smiled as he
approached. "Today you laid Halcus at my feet, my lord, and I haven't yet
repaid you."

Kylock started to
return the smile, then he noticed that Catherine herself had changed: her lips
and cheeks were painted red. Whore's red. He felt a tiny muscle beginning to
pump at his temple's edge. In all his dreams of rebirth Catherine had never
looked like this. He took a step closer. The smell of perfume grew stronger, and
underneath it was another smell: the smell of wine. The place stank like a
brothel. Slowly, Kylock began to shake his head. This was not right.

Catherine smiled
up at him, as brazen as a tavem wench. "Come now, husband," she said.
"Your wife is waiting to pleasure you."

The candles cast
their light on Kylock's back, sending his shadow out before him. Catherine fell
under it as he walked toward the bed.

Throwing the
covers from her body, she whispered, "I am ready, my lord. Take me
now."

Kylock looked down
upon his bride. She lay openlegged upon the bed, her back arching upwards, her
hips thrust toward him.

The world began to
dim for Kylock. The pressure point on his temple stretched across his forehead,
becoming a tight band of pain. His vision blurred. His breathing stopped.

His body became as
rigid as a board. Terrible pressure built within his skull: something was
pressing against his brain. Catherine paled. She said, "My lord, what is
wrong?" Kylock's stomach churned bile into his throat. He gazed upon Catherine's
naked body. The nipples were grotesquely bright, redder even than her lips.

He took a deep
breath. "No," he murmured. "No." And then he saw her sex.
It was smeared with the same foul redness. She had prepared herself like a
trollop. She was no blushing, inexperienced maiden. She was a craven,
licentious whore.

Just like his
mother.

Kylock snapped.
His tenuous link with sanity was severed in an instant. Catherine screamed. He
punched her in the mouth to quiet her. Her head went reeling back into the
pillows. Kylock sprang onto the bed. Everything smelled of her: the awful
cloying stench of decay. He had to be rid of it. Catherine reached up with her
hand, raking her nails across his cheek. Dark, terrible anger rose within
Kylock, and he took Catherine's neck in his hand. Blood ran from her nose. It
was the same color as her lips, her nipples,
her
sex.

He slammed her
neck back against the headboard. Something cracked. Catherine's body stiffened
for an instant and then slumped back against the sheets. Kylock dropped his
hold and her head fell against the pillow at an unnatural angle. There was
blood on the headboard, and blood seeping on either side of the pillow.

The pressure in
Kylock's head was too much for him to bear. He felt a sickening contraction in
his stomach. His bride lay still beneath him. "No!" he screamed. And
as the word left his lips something real and metal to the taste came with it.

Baralis was in his
chambers when he felt it. He was massaging oil into his hands when he felt a
wave of warm air that stopped him dead.
Sorcery!
Here, within the
palace. He shot from his chair. Every hair on his body prickled a warning, all
his senses were intent upon perceiving the source. The salty glaze upon his
eyes evaporated in an instant, causing him to blink repeatedly to water them
once more. His tongue rested in the base of his mouth, and as he inhaled he
drew in the aftertaste of the force. It was known and yet unknown to him.
Familiar to a point and then entirely alien.

It was something
new. Something dangerous. And it made Baralis afraid.

"Grope,"
he called. "Grope!"

As he waited for
his servant to appear, Baralis paced around the room, a hound on the scent. The
waves were coming from the east of him-that meant the nobles' quarters . . .
"Borc, no," he whispered under his breath. It meant Catherine's
chamber, as well.

Crope entered the
room. "Come with me," Baralis ordered, making his way to the door. A
cold feeling of dread settled within his stomach. There was no time to lose; he
had to know what had happened. Down corridors he sped, robe flapping behind
him, Crope padding at his heels. The waves of the drawing grew stronger with
every step. They led him straight to Catherine's door. The two guards who
watched the hallway crossed their spears as Baralis approached.

Baralis had no
time to deal with them. He shaped a compulsion, part soporific, part delusion.
A deep instinct within warned him not to use too much of himself. Borc only
knew what he might find behind the door. The faces of both guards slackened,
muscles falling limp. Crape came forward, grabbed both guards, and guided them
toward the floor. Baralis nodded to him. "Good." The huge servant
came and stood by his side, and together they stepped toward the doorway.

Never in his life
had Baralis been so afraid; every fiber of his soul screamed out that something
was terribly wrong. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The aftermath from
the drawing lapped over his body in waves. The light was dim, very dim. The
room reeked of exotic fragrances. Dampness filled the air. The only movement
came from the base of the bed. Kylock was kneeling on the floor, his hands
resting on the bed. He appeared to be stroking something. Baralis didn't want
to step forward, didn't want to see, didn't want to know what had happened, but
he knew he must. Above all he was a shaper of destinies and his work was as
much about dealing with catastrophe as it was about creation.

One step was
enough to reveal the naked body of Catherine. She was lying on a heap of sheets
and pillows. Her head was bent impossibly far back from her body, and there was
blood on the pillows to either side of her face. Kylock knelt over her,
muttering words to himself whilst gently stroking her feet.

The headboard had
been completely destroyed. Not burnt, but rather blasted away. All the glass
and the metal in the room was hot to the touch, some of it glowing. A mist of
water vapor hung in the air like a pall.

Baralis recognized
the signs of an unfocused drawing: hot metal, evaporated water, mild unspecific
destruction. Despite the formidable suppressing powers of ivysh, Kylock had
drawn power from within. Crude, yes. Unfocused, certainly-but the sorcery was
there all the same. Baralis shuddered. What sort of man could draw so strongly
that he broke through ivysh's restraint? It should not have been possible.
Still, violent emotion could work strange effects upon a man's body and mind.

Baralis shook his
head, purposely dispelling all possible implications from his thoughts. He
could not afford to dwell on them now. He had more immediate problems to deal
with. He gestured to Crope to close the door and walked toward the bed.

Kylock did not
acknowledge Baralis' presence; he simply continued stroking his dead wife's
feet.

Reaching up,
Baralis touched Catherine's neck with his fingertips. She was already growing
cold. There was no pulse. He slid his hand behind her neck; her spinal cord had
been broken. Lifting his hand up, he cupped the back of her head; her skull had
been cracked near the base. Nodding softly, Baralis withdrew, pausing to wipe
the blood on his robe.

He stood there,
looking down upon the newly deceased duchess of Bren, and began to formulate a
plan. Catherine's body took on the look of a corpse as he thought. A minute,
perhaps two at the most, passed; then turning to Crope, Baralis gave his
instructions.

An hour later he
was ready. Crope had brought him potions, drugs, herbs, and props. A subtle
compulsion had ensured that no one would mark the huge servant's passing. Crape
was now busy replacing the destroyed headboard with a similar one from Baralis'
own chamber.

Kylock had to be
dealt with first. Baralis knelt beside him at the foot of the bed and very
gently guided his hands away from Catherine's feet. "Ssh," he
murmured as he brought the cup to Kylock's lips. "Drink this, my lord.
Drink it now." Like an obedient child, Kylock drank his medicine. It was a
special strain of sleeping draft used by warriors from beyond the Northern
Ranges to dispel battle-terror and weariness on the field. In less than an hour
Kylock would wake refreshed, strengthened, clear of mind and sound of body. At
least that was what Baralis hoped--the alternative didn't bear thinking about.

"Crape,"
he called. "Take Kylock and lay him to rest behind the screen." The
drug worked quickly, and by the time Crope moved from the head of the bed,
Kylock's eyes were already closed.

Baralis turned his
attention to the room. The shutters had been pulled back to enable the water
vapor from the bath to escape. Crope had brought fresh linens for the bed and a
bowl of warm water to wash the blood from Kylock's hands and Catherine's hair.
Moving around the room, Baralis checked all glass and metal items. The
candlesticks surrounding the bed were the only things that needed discarding:
the metal had grown so hot that it had melted, running thickly to the base.
Candle wax formed grotesque shapes over the metal. Crope would have to bring
new holders and candles.

At the time of the
drawing the wine jar had been stoppered, so there were still a few drops
remaining in the bottom. Baralis took his flask and filled Catherine's jar one
cup short of the brim. Next he turned to her cup. It was a thing of unusual
beauty: smoothly carved silkwood with parchment-thin sides and a goodly weight
at the base. It was perfect in every way.

"Crope,"
said Baralis, "when you've finished with the headboard, I want you to take
your sharpest knife and carve two circles in the base of this cup. One inside
the other."

Crope was excited.
"Like the knight's circles, master?" Baralis smiled, his first of the
evening. "Yes, exactly like the knight's circles." He thought for a
moment, then added, "Oh, and be sure to carve a line that cuts through the
circles dead center." Exactly like one particular knight, who would find
himself wanted for murder come the morning. Baralis turned his attention back
to Crope. "Once that's done, go to my chambers and fetch me some candles
and holders."