The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (35 page)

Aiul decided it would be a
kindness to give Logrus a rest, and walked on without asking any
more questions. In some ways, simply moving made the time pass more
quickly. Perhaps Logrus had some good ideas after all.

Aiul realized they were back
upon the battlefield when he literally tripped over a corpse buried
in the snow.

Logrus looked back at him.
“What condition is it in?”

Aiul did a quick survey of the
body. “Another stabbing, it seems. The limbs are intact.”

“Good. We will start with
that one. I do not relish rooting through this snow any more than we
must.” He slogged back through the drift to join Aiul. “You
will try, yes?”

Aiul nodded, suddenly feeling a
bit squeamish.
Mei, as if
you’ve never handled a corpse before!
“Yes.
What must I do?”

“Do as I did.”
Logrus held out his hand, fingers splayed, to demonstrate. “Then,
in your mind, go to Elgar. Connect to him, let him flow through you.
Once you do this, you can command the flesh to rise.”

Aiul scooped snow from the
ground, enough so that he had a place to kneel over the corpse. He
held out his hand over the chest, looking to Logrus. Logrus nodded.
So far so good.

“Now,” Logrus said.
“Reach out to Elgar.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Close your eyes. Think
back to when you first felt Elgar’s touch. That is where you
two connect. You must feel those feelings, relive them.”

Aiul, eyes closed, let his mind
drift to the dream of Elgar, the sound of the voice in his cell.
What had he felt then? Agony, misery, despair, and hopelessness.
Were those things the path? It seemed wrong.

He tried anyway. It was no
difficult task to feel miserable. All he had to do was lower the
barriers he had built of late. The pain would come, and come it did.
He watched Kariana stabbing Lara over and over in his mind, let it
build in him until it was a tidal wave of grief, then opened his
eyes. “Rise,” he whispered.

Logrus shot him a glare. “And
forget!”

Aiul nodded and wiped at a tear
with his free hand. “Rise and forget.”

He waited long anxious moments,
but the corpse remained motionless. “Something is wrong.”

Logrus scratched at his beard
as he considered. “You have not touched Elgar, I think. Did
you feel the connection?”

Aiul grunted. “How should
I know?”

“You would know. There
would be no doubt.”

Aiul heaved a sigh of
frustration and sat back on his heels. “Perhaps you’re
simply mistaken, and I don’t have the ability.”

Logrus shook his head in
denial. “No. I do not think so. Tell me, what did you think of
when you tried to reach Elgar?”

“What you told me, the
things I felt when he first came to me. Grief, despair, defeat.”

Logrus looked at him with an
odd gaze. “That cannot be correct. Those things are not of
Elgar.”

“I can only go by what
you told me.”

“No. I think you are
wrong.” Logrus stared at Aiul for long moments, then said,
“Will you trust me? I think I know the answer.”

Aiul felt uncertain. Such a
request seemed to foreshadow a nasty surprise. “I suppose,”
he said.

Logrus leapt toward him and
hammered a fist into his face. Aiul, caught off guard, fell over
backward in shock, howling in pain.

Logrus was not done. He
followed up with a savage kick to Aiul’s ribs that felt as if
it came within inches of breaking bone.

“Dog!” Logrus
cried. “Get up and fight!”

Aiul heaved himself over onto
hands and knees and scrambled away, frantic. “You’re
mad!”

“Mad, am I?” Logrus
roared. “I will kill you for that insult!” He slammed
his boot into Aiul’s backside, knocking Aiul face first into
the snow.

Aiul could see his vision
narrowing, growing red. He rolled over on to his back and tried to
rise, but Logrus stopped him with a boot to the chest. As Aiul cried
out again, Logrus ground his foot into Aiul’s throat.

“Why are you doing this?”
Aiul choked out, struggling for air. Bright flashes, like lightning,
burst behind his eyes.

Logrus stared down at him and
laughed, a cruel, hacking sound. “Why? Because your suffering
pleases me! Because I am cruel and wicked! What other reason do I
need?”

Aiul struggled to raise
Logrus’s boot, but he was pinned and in a difficult position.
“You’re killing me!” he gasped.

“Yes! Die!”

More lightning. Red, pulsing
like blood. And then a flash, the symbol burning into his vision
like molten lava. Strength poured into him, hot, furious,
irresistible. With a roar of fury, he seized the boot at his neck
and hurled Logrus aside.

“Now!” Logrus
cried. “Try it now!”

Aiul heard the words, far away
through a crimson fog. What was he doing. Killing Logrus, of course.
But there had been something else, hadn’t there, something
important? He cast about, looking for a weapon to bash his enemy
with, when his eye seized upon the corpse.

Oh. That.

His hand rose of its own
accord, high overhead, fingers dangling like a puppeteer’s. He
would kill Logrus later. This was something he needed to do
immediately!

“Rise!” he shouted,
his voice resonating with power and fury. “Rise and serve me!”

“And forget!”
Logrus cried.

“Yes, yes, forget!”

For a moment, it seemed nothing
would happen again. Then, the corpse twitched, and quickly began to
move. It rose slowly and stood, weaving like a drunken sailor.

Aiul’s rage at Logrus
fled from his mind as he marveled at the thing standing before him.
“Mei!” he whispered as he examined it, trying to
understand the forces in play. It was plainly impossible, and yet
still true.

He heard a soft moan. It took
him a moment to realize it was coming not from the zombie, but from
Logrus. Aiul turned from the zombie to see his companion still lying
on the ground, mouth agape, eyes staring wildly, his face so pale it
barely stood out against the snow.

“Great Elgar! Never
before have I seen this!”

Aiul continued to stare at
Logrus, uncomprehending. Logrus raised a shaking hand and pointed
past Aiul, and Aiul spun, expecting…what? Something so
horrific that even Logrus was unable to shrug it off?

Aiul sucked in a great gasp at
what he saw. All over the snowy field, zombies stood wavering. Some
were relatively whole, while other, partial corpses were barely able
to stand at all. “Can these things fight?” he asked
after several moments.

Logrus was on his feet now, his
shock passed. “A little. Hard to destroy, though, except with
fire. It balances out.”

“Then maybe we have a
chance.”

Logrus nodded. “Elgar is
with us. Have faith.”

In Torium, there was a
hierarchy, established long before, through events and rites that
were all but forgotten, even by the Torians themselves. In truth,
they had no wish to remember, and for the Torians, a wish was reason
enough to make something true. Still, it had been so long that, even
were it otherwise, they might still have forgotten.

There was no word for their
kind. They were not men, though, at some point, they might have
been. That, too, they had forgotten, for similar reasons. They
simply
were
. They justified their own existence. They did not
extend the same justification to others.

In the center of the ancient,
decayed city, a hideous, deformed mockery of a man, a
thing
crouched in near darkness above a black, viscous pool, humming to
itself. It dipped a long, razor edged claw into the liquid and
brought it to its swollen, purple lips. Its tongue, blackened by
eons of such indulgence, slithered over rows of jagged, stained
teeth, lapping at the oily substance. The thing smiled, exposing a
maw that could engulf a man’s head, and had before, on
numerous occasions. It was pleased, as always, with the nectar of a
god.

Another thing entered, smaller,
subservient, and knelt, trembling, before its master.

“Why do you disturb me?”
the master asked, its voice a lower toned version of fingernails on
slate.

“Forgive me, master,”
the servant answered ritually. “Enemies come. Servants of
Elgar.”

“Yes,” the master
hissed, drawing out the ‘s’ like a snake, and ending
with a malevolent chuckle. “The Dead God comes to reclaim that
which we took.”

“Do we let them pass?”

“Pass?” the master
asked, as if it found the concept both bizarre and amusing. It
dipped its claw into the pool again and licked the black fluid as it
considered.

“Rend them,” it
said at last. “Make them into art. The Dead god must not send
playthings to reclaim his property. He must come himself, and reward
us.”

“Will he not be angered
if we rend his servants?”

“We are better servants,”
the master declared. “Let him be angered. Will he not, in the
end, love us more for our audacity?”

“Perhaps he will rend
us
,” said the servant.

“Perhaps,” the
master acknowledged, dipping its claw again. “But it will draw
him here. I wrote his book. I have learned many things. If he will
not accept us….” He trailed off in a hiss, and chuckled
again.

“Yes,” the servant
hissed back, eager to demonstrate its approval. It touched its head
to the floor, rose, and left.

Black liquid dripped to from
the thing’s claw to the stone floor. Where it fell, it bubbled
and hissed as it ate away at the rock. The thing licked at the claw
again, and smiled.

It would be good to have new
art.

Kariana stood outside Prandil’s
private quarters, ear pressed to the door. She heard nothing, so it
was difficult to tell if he were asleep or awake.

She fingered the brass door
knob, still feeling a bit uncertain. This was a very Plan A, Plan B
situation, and she really had no idea how it would go. She thought
of Narelki's shattered body, a woman who had terrified her, and
considered backing out, but she was committed.

Things had begun to unravel in
her mind very quickly after Narelki's unexpected death. Well, to be
entirely honest, things had never been entirely raveled to begin
with. The plan had been fairly rough after the ‘do whatever
Narelki and Teretha tell me’ part, something along the lines
of ‘and then we will be in charge and the Meites will have to
listen'. After that, there wasn’t really any plan at all
beyond improvising as she was now.

She turned the knob and let the
door open quietly.

Prandil was obviously very fond
of books. Flickering candle light played over hundreds of volumes.
They were everywhere, in great shelves that lined the walls from
marble-tiled floor to arched, beamed ceiling.

And one more, held in front of
Prandil’s face. He lounged in his bed, propped up on pillows
in a sitting position, regarding her with a bewildered look.

“How did you get in
here?” he asked, his annoyance growing as he considered the
situation.

Kariana offered him a catty,
sexy grin that she thought was something near ninety percent
genuine. “I lied to your slaves and told them we had plans.
They didn't seem to find spiriting a young, pretty woman up to your
private quarters as anything unusual.”

Prandil raised an eyebrow at
this, then folded his book and placed it on his polished mahogany
nightstand. “So that's the shape of things, is it?”

Kariana gave no answer but her
grin.

“Oh, by all means. And do
lock the door behind, won’t you?”

Kariana did so, then moved
forward and took at seat at the foot of his bed. She said nothing,
simply waited, taking in the aroma of the place. The smell of oiled
wood and leather was strong, tinged just slightly by an undertone of
tobacco. It was much like Prandil himself, older but not ancient,
powerful and vigorous still.

Prandil looked her up and down,
nodding with approval. “I would have come to you, eventually,
you know.”

“Does it bother you? The
role reversal?”

“Not at all. I find it
rather refreshing.”

“You’re very
certain of yourself.”

Prandil chuckled softly. “My
dear, you have no idea. You’ve shown quite a bit of mettle of
late, but not nearly enough flesh for my tastes.”

Kariana stretched her arms high
and yawned, giving him a nice view of her breasts. “You might
have joined one of my orgies.”

Prandil laughed out loud at
this. “Do I look like a juvenile to you? I am a man of taste
and discretion. You should try it sometime. It might suit you.”

Kariana stuck out her tongue at
him, pleased that the gesture could be taken any of several ways.
“Maybe you’re too reserved. Are you sure you're ready
for my brash, classless youth?”

Prandil shrugged and gave her a
patronizing look. “I’ve had more women in my life than
you’ve had men, I’ll wager. Women are like wine: age
adds things, even as it takes others away. Perhaps if you’d
experience with men of actual ability instead of boy toys, you’d
appreciate that.”

Kariana tittered at this. “I
could have one of them right now, and instead I’m here. What
does that tell you?”

“That perhaps you are
smarter than you seem.”

Kariana leaned forward and
crawled to the head of the bed. She propped her head up with an arm
as she locked eyes with Prandil. “It’s nice to be given
some credit now and then.”

Prandil eyed her with lust. “I
think I should prefer to withhold true judgment on the meal until
after dessert.”

It was, she had to admit, a
very fine dessert indeed. Prandil had skills that her wretched
little toys couldn’t even dream of. When it was finished, he
lit his pipe and smoked, looking up at the ceiling, and she lay
there in the afterglow, looking at his regal profile, feeling as if
she had, at long last, found a truth, a home, a path.

The words came out before she
had even fully considered them, but then again, she was improvising.
This was right. “Will you teach me?”

Prandil turned to her,
confusion on his face. “Teach you? I doubt it. I’m
fairly impressed with your skills, actually. Much more than I
expected.”

Kariana felt herself blush with
his praise. “That's not what I meant.”

Prandil waited a moment for her
to continue, then prodded. “What did you mean?”

Suddenly, she felt shy,
embarrassed even. And yet she had to plow forward. People have to
ask for what they want, after all, or they never get it. “Teach
me to be a Meite.”

Prandil’s eyes grew wide
with shock, which was to be expected. But his peals of laughter came
as a painful surprise. He went on for several moments, completely
overcome. At last, he wiped tears from his eyes with the edge of the
bed sheet and chuckled, “Oh, my dear, you
are
ambitious, aren’t you? So here’s the bill for the
evening’s entertainment?” He took a pull at his pipe and
blew out the smoke, his humor fading. He regarded her with cold,
cruel eyes. “Seriously, you? Preposterous.”

Kariana felt the warm glow
around her fall away, replaced by a chill wind of anger and
humiliation. “Why not me?” she asked, her voice husky
with rage.

Prandil rolled his eyes. “Oh,
please, don’t tear up about it.”

The fool thought she was about
to cry? Was he truly that oblivious? Of course he was. It was all a
sham, his perception. He had no insight at all. He was simply strong
enough of personality to persuade people that his ideas were
correct.

She asked him again,
punctuating each word with a pause. “Why…not…me?”

Prandil’s face grew dark
and angry now. “You would hear truth? Why not you? Mei!
Because you’re weak, pathetic, and foolish. You've come here
with the notion of replacing a woman you could never match, and it
offends
me
! What ever
made you think being a good fuck qualified you to be a Meite?”

Kariana ground her teeth,
trying to show as little emotion as possible as she reached for her
clothes on the floor. She felt Sadrik’s knife brush against
her fingers as she retrieved her blouse, and she took it into her
hand almost by instinct.

Mei! Why did Prandil react so?
She had started with little skill, surely, but she had learned
quickly. She had defeated Maralena and even backed Davron down,
powerful enemies. She had
earned
his respect!

She let the blouse fall to the
floor again, then turned back to Prandil, slipping the dagger
beneath her pillow as she did. He had retrieved his book and was
again reading from it. She looked him in the eye, holding his gaze
without flinching. “So I’m just not good enough to be
one of you?”

Prandil sighed and set the book
on the pillow. “You needn’t take it personally.”
He raised the book again and gave her a pointed look. “I do
have things to do, you know.”

Kariana blinked at him in
shock. “Now you dismiss me like a common whore?”

Prandil folded the book and
gave her a look of annoyance. “There’s nothing common
about you. That’s a compliment, you know.” He opened his
book again and began reading. “But, yes, you are dismissed.”

Plan B it is, then.

Kariana could feel her muscles
twitching. She was, she realized, literally trembling with rage.
“Well, I suppose I should regard it as a lesson. I’m
learning all the time, you know.”

Prandil turned again from his
book and sighed. “Oh? And what, pray tell, have you learned
from events of late?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

Kariana moved with the speed of
a lioness. Her arm shot from beneath the pillow, the dagger glinting
in the candlelight. Prandil’s eyes flew open in shock, but
there was no time for him to react. She buried the blade to the hilt
in his left eye socket.

Prandil’s body convulsed
briefly, then lay still.

“I learned that if you
want someone dead, you should do it yourself.”

END BOOK 2