The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2) (12 page)

Nish and Colm drew their weapons. Flydd kept his knife in
its sheath; the faintest glow limned the fingers of his right hand. As they
entered, the whistling became shrill, painful; a monstrous green-black flame
flared spans high from an altar in the centre of the room. They stopped,
staring at it. Colm was breathing heavily.

They were in a vast, magnificent chamber with polished stone
walls and splendidly barbaric murals. Flydd continued and the flame drew down
to a flicker, the whistle dying to a gassy hiss. All fell into shadow save for
the greenstone altar through which the flame issued. Its circular top was a
thick, ornamented disc, several spans across, with the flame hole in the centre
and a pair of curved projections running out from opposite sides to form the
tips of a stubby two-armed spiral whose grooves continued into the centre of
the disc.

‘That’s odd,’ Flydd said quietly.

‘What is?’ Colm was moving his blade slowly from left to
right.

‘I’ve been here many times over the past nine years, trying
to find traces of the portal, and the flame hasn’t changed by so much as a
flicker. Someone’s made it change.’

‘Vivimord must be using it,’ said Nish, suddenly feeling
cold, though the room was warm. The unhealed parts of his hand throbbed
mercilessly, while where the new skin and flesh had grown he felt those
prickling clusters of needles. What if Flydd was right and the blood did link
him to Vivimord?

‘I’m afraid he is. It’s time for desperate measures.’ Flydd
raised his hand, grunting with the strain, and yellow light burst forth from
his crystal, reflecting dazzlingly off a thousand polished surfaces.

The barbaric splendour of the chamber imprinted itself on
Nish’s inner eye, then the abyssal flame was drawn below the aperture from
which it issued and the yellow light radiating from Flydd’s crystal was driven
back into it. He groaned, clenched his fist around the crystal and shook it
furiously. Momentarily the blood was visible flowing in his fingers, but the
crystal went out and the chamber grew dark.

‘Can you hear that?’ hissed Flydd.

Nish made out distant heavy footsteps, as of a squad of
soldiers running up a long stair, though they had an echoing, unreal quality.
Flydd grunted and his fingers flushed pink for a second, then the light went
out and he could not force another glimmer from the crystal.

‘It’s Father’s army coming up from the rainforest. They’ve
found a way into the base of the mountain.’

‘Are they close?’ said Colm.

‘I can’t tell,’ said Flydd. ‘Wait! No, I don’t think so.
Those sounds are being sent here, to panic us. Back to the door!’

As he moved away, Nish caught a faint whiff of smoke –
no, incense, with a sweet, spicy odour. His head spun; he shook it and it
cleared, but the needle pricks in his hand grew so painful that he couldn’t
think straight.

‘What about Maelys –?’ began Colm, somewhere to Nish’s
right.

‘We can’t help her if we’re caught.’ Flydd’s voice seemed to
come from a distance. ‘This way.’

Nish headed back towards the doors through which they had
entered, holding his rapier low, but soon began to doubt that he was going in
the right direction.

‘Xervish, where are you?’

‘Here!’ Flydd hissed.

His voice came from even further away; to Nish’s left now,
he thought. How could he have made such a mistake? He turned in the direction
he thought Flydd’s voice was coming from, hurried forwards then, whack.

He hit the floor and the rapier clattered away. Nish rolled
to one side, thinking he’d been attacked, but his groping right hand came down
on carved stone which had a circular shape. He stood up, feeling his way around
it. He’d run headfirst into the altar.

What was he doing in the middle of the room? He rubbed his
forehead and caught a stronger whiff of incense, though it didn’t make his head
spin this time; it seemed to clear it. His hand prickled again, and now it felt
as though someone had taken hold of it and was leading him to safety. He jerked
back and felt around but there was nothing in front of him.

‘Xervish?’

He did not reply, though a pale shape wisped by off to
Nish’s right. Stumbling backwards, he trod on the hilt of the rapier and
grabbed it, never more glad to have a weapon in his hand.

‘Colm?’

He didn’t reply either. Nish shivered; he felt even colder
now, and really afraid. ‘Xervish!’

It was as if he’d shouted into an amphitheatre full of mud,
which absorbed every sound. How had Vivimord separated them so easily?

His new skin tingled and he rubbed at it absently. He had to
find the door; Flydd and Colm must be waiting there. Nish put his back to the
altar and, trailing the rapier’s tip on the floor, walked directly away from
the altar. When he came to the wall he would follow it along to the double
doors.

The smell of incense grew stronger with every step. He was
halfway across the chamber, as near as he could judge, when someone whispered
his name. He stopped, squinting into the dark until his eyes ached, but could
not see a thing.

He couldn’t hear anything either, save his breathing. Those
pounding footsteps had stopped when he’d hit his head, which surely proved that
they had been sent to panic him.

‘Nish?’ It was louder this time – a woman’s voice
– though it also came from a long way away. It might have been Maelys; he
could not be sure. Clearsight, I’ve never needed you more – show me the
way. But his clearsight, though it had been enhanced by the kiss of Reaper,
told him nothing.

He bumped into a column supporting the roof, felt his way
around it and kept going, swinging the rapier back and forth like a blind man’s
cane. Shortly it scraped on something hard. He reached out but it swung
silently away from him – it was just a normal-sized door, not either of
the pair of huge double doors they’d come through a few minutes ago. From
beyond he made out a faint music of pipes and drums, notes that stirred the
senses and set them on fire.

He shook the feelings off – they had to be an
enchantment sent by Vivimord or Jal-Nish to ensnare him, and he wasn’t going to
be taken in. Suddenly his burned hand throbbed like a warning of greater pain
to come; the effects of the cursed flame were wearing off.

He tried to ignore the pain and the head-spinning incense;
he had to think clearly now. Left or right? There was no way to tell. He caught
another whiff of incense; it was stronger, richer and more perfumed this time,
and again his head spun. Nish rubbed his face with his free hand, struggling to
think straight, then turned left, but heard the voice again, coming through the
door. A throaty woman’s voice – a nerve-achingly familiar one.

‘Nish?’

It couldn’t be, for Irisis was ten years dead and he wasn’t
going down that path again. Only madness lay that way, and he’d nearly
succumbed before, when Jal-Nish had offered him what he most wanted in all the
world. Nish had managed to resist the temptation and was all the stronger for
it.

Nonetheless, he pushed the door open; he had to satisfy
himself that it wasn’t her; that it was a trick. The stirring music grew
stronger, an overpowering waft of incense seared his nasal passages, and he saw
that he was in the boudoir of some potentate of olden times. It was pleasantly
warm but dimly lit; all he could see was a magnificent bed, dark, costly
curtains and bed coverings, turned down on one side, and the flames guttering
in their wall brackets.

And the buxom young woman on the bed. It wasn’t Irisis, but
a smaller version of her, for the shoulder-length golden hair was exactly the
colour Irisis’s hair had been. He couldn’t see the woman’s face, just the curve
of a cheek, one bare, soft shoulder and the outline of her figure beneath the
covers.

Nish swallowed, the incense swirling through him like a drug
that muddied the mind and enfeebled the will, the music driving his pulse and
quickening his desire. The last time he’d lain with a woman – with Irisis
– had been ten and a half years ago.

A vague unease stirred, though he couldn’t remember why.
Something didn’t seem right but he could no longer tell; his mind felt like
mush. He tried to fight the urge to go to the bed, but it proved too strong
– he was led there by that ghostly compulsion, again tugging his burned
hand. Nish no longer cared about anything else; both Vivimord and his father
had vanished from his mind. He could only think of the woman on the bed and his
flaming desire for her.

 
TEN

Maelys lay in the bed, unable to focus on a single
thought. The drugged incense and mesmerising music had eaten away her will and
she wasn’t strong enough to break free. Neither the fate of her family, nor of
Flydd, Nish and Colm, mattered. She was no longer afraid of Vivimord; she felt
a sense of lazy, drifting peace.

As she’d emerged from her bath, fully clothed, a touch of
Vivimord’s fingers had left her dazed and compliant. With hand gestures he’d
transformed her garments to a diaphanous bed gown, painted her nails and lips,
and converted her shaggy black hair to golden-blonde locks that caressed her
bare shoulders. He artfully arranged her in the bed and she could do nothing
about it. Had he sent her underneath to face the octopede she would not have
been able to disobey, for he was far more powerful than when she had first met
him.

Now Vivimord entered and made a mirror in the air in front
of her, to show her what she’d become, and her appearance so shocked her that
the enchantment he’d laid on her cracked and she felt the blood flooding to her
face.

Her upbringing had been modest, and had become puritanical
after her father had fled from Jal-Nish. She had never worn lip paint, nor
clothes that were the least revealing, but now she might as well have been
wearing air.

‘You’ve turned me into a slut!’ Jerking the covers up to her
chin, she scrubbed at her lips with the back of one hand, smearing crimson lip
paint across her face. Her voice was deeper, more throaty and sensual, and she
didn’t like that either. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘I’ve transformed you into a temptress, to trap Nish,’ he
said, removing the smears with a snap of his fingers. ‘No easy feat, given the
base materials I had to start with.’

She ignored the insult; Maelys was used to them by now.
Vivimord’s plan didn’t make sense; why did he need her to trap Nish? ‘Why me?
You once thought I was completely unsuitable for Nish.’

‘I’ve changed my mind about you,’ he said cryptically.
‘Besides, the need is urgent now, and I have no one else.’

She had to get out of here. She wasn’t going to do his
depraved bidding. Maelys tried to get out the other side of the bed without
revealing any more of herself, no easy thing in the gossamer gown.

Vivimord dragged her back by the ankle. ‘Either you obey my
commands,’ he said icily, ‘or you will suffer retribution for what you’ve done
to Phrune and me.’

‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.

‘Once Phrune has taken your skin, I’ll feed your shrieking
remains to the octopede.’

He touched her on the forehead, restoring the charm, and she
fell back on the pillows, unable to resist as he arranged her limbs as before
and pushed up her breasts until they were bursting out the bodice of the gown.
He brushed his hand over her eyes and Maelys felt herself drifting off to
sleep. She tried to resist it but his lips brushed her ear as he spoke in a
language she did not know; sleep claimed her.

Time passed and she woke, so listless that she could barely
move, drifting, dreaming, the music reinforcing Vivimord’s enchantment with
every beat, the incense dulling her wits with every breath. She was unable to
think two connected thoughts; her mind kept wandering into waking dreams no
matter how hard she tried to concentrate.

She managed to turn her head and noticed the three platinum
stubs on the bed head. Hadn’t there been a fourth? She had a feeling that
Vivimord had hidden it from her. She tried to reach up but her arm had no
strength.

Later, the door opened and Nish appeared there, looking
around dazedly. He seemed taller, younger and more handsome than before, though
she knew that was also Vivimord’s enchantment.

She wasn’t drowsy now and suddenly Maelys understood what
was going on. Vivimord wanted her to get pregnant by Nish and would use his
Arts to make sure she did; then Vivimord, by keeping the child, would be able
to control both Nish and his father.

Yet in her dazed state, it felt right. If she could only
sink back and accept Nish, it would make her lie to Jal-Nish into truth, one he
could never disprove, and once she was pregnant her family would be safe for as
long as he lived. Why not? She could not stop Vivimord, so what was the point
of resisting? It would save her from Phrune too, and the octopede.

Nish was staring at her so hard that it burned, though
Maelys knew he was seeing the Irisis look-alike Vivimord had made of her. She
refused to meet his eyes or encourage him in any way. Give him nothing of
yourself, she thought laboriously. Expect nothing from him and you won’t get
hurt. Lie with him; save your family, and your life. Get it over with. It won’t
be so bad.

Unfortunately, Maelys had always been a romantic and this
was the very opposite of how she had imagined her first time with a man would
be. But Nish looked very handsome now, and his robes befitted a prince. Perhaps
he did care, a little.

He pushed the door closed and began to walk towards her. His
eyes were glazed, the pupils dilated, and his breathing was fast and shallow.
He was also being controlled by Vivimord; he did not want her at all. The
realisation made another crack in the enchantment, though when she thought of
little Fyllis in the hands of Jal-Nish’s torturers, Maelys knew that lying with
Nish was a small price to pay.