The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (6 page)

“The name's Salastin,”
the guard sneered. “For when you and your Dead God are ready.”
He turned and walked back up the stairs, calling over his shoulder,
“The Traitor lives!”

Aiul watched him go in blind
fury. He pulled at the edges of the eye slit as if he might peel the
metal back with his bare hands, howling his hatred through clenched
teeth, the muscles in his arms standing out like cords. For long
moments, he was transfixed, a demonic statue, teeth bared and
a-grind. Then he heard a sharp report from his left jaw, and it was
enough to bring him to his senses. The strange, familiar symbol
flashed in his vision again, then faded.

Mei, I've cracked a tooth!
This could get very bad for me indeed.

I would make an most
excellent murderer.
Rithard
smiled at the irony of the thought, now that he had set his mind to
just that.
But it is true. And I will get away with this.

Planning
was everything. So many fools killed on the spur of the moment,
passionately,
understandably.
Rithard was rarely consulted on such cases, due to the ease of
solving them. On the few occasions he had been, it was child's play
to work out motives, means, opportunity, and point the authorities
in the right direction.

Murder, in the end, was just another human behavior, albeit a
forbidden one. Men killed because they were angry, because they were
greedy, because they hated. Catching a murderer consisted largely of
working out which of the three applied, and finding who fit the
bill. Once one narrowed the list of possibles, the evidence was
usually all too easy to find.

Not
so, in this case.
There were damned few who could even fathom Rithard's motivation.
They would have to be clever enough to work out a masterful
deception that had confounded even him for quite some time. How
could anyone know he wanted her dead, when they have no idea what
she had done?

Nothing
much. She just engineered death and ruin on both sides of my family,
with me likely included on the list of victims.

Rithard paused in the bedroom outside Maralena's bath. She was
surely within, indulging her decadent tastes. He shook his head at
the expense of the silk sheets, the polished, intricately carved
headboard.
Such vanity. It's a wonder she didn't just have it all
made of gold and be done with it.

He removed a vial from his pocket and checked the contents. It held
a rarely used drug, one that only he or Aiul would possibly
recognize: a powerful sedative used for surgeries. In carefully
measured doses, it brought temporary oblivion and paralysis of most
muscles, a godsend for a surgeon and his patient. A massive
overdose, administered through the carafe of drinking water she kept
by her bed, would lead to unconsciousness and heart failure in just
a few minutes. It had no smell, no color, and no odd side effects
beyond those he desired.

Were there risks? Certainly. He had come here unobserved, but he
might be seen leaving, still. He had a clever lie, one that would
pass even his own mother's keen sense of truth: Maralena had
summoned him here, wanting information about Aiul's condition. There
might be some suspicion, but without motive, it would pass. Maralena
had plenty of enemies, some of them Meites. Bookish, dispassionate
Rithard would be forgotten in the storm of accusations.

And worst case, if he were caught, and she lived? The ultimate play
would be to tell her exactly what he had intended, and why. Of
course, he would also lay out in exacting detail what he had worked
out about her machinations, and that he had written all of this
down. Were he to suffer an “accident”, the document in
question would end up in the hands of his good friend Caelwen, as
well as his Matriarch Narelki and their family friend, Maranath
Aswan.

He had every base covered. He opened the vial and was about to pour
its contents into the carafe, then froze at the sound of the bath
door opening.

Rithard
almost dropped the vial in his shock, as he quickly spun to face the
newcomer, seeing only a vague figure within the cloud of steam that
came rushing from the bath.
I'll
strangle her. I've no choice, now. I can recover, if I have the
will.

“Oh, my,” the newcomer tittered, the voice decidedly
male. “What have we here?”

Rithard
clenched his jaw as the steam dissipated to reveal a tall, lean,
sharp featured man, draped in red and black robes. He flashed
Rithard a cruel, razor smile and cocked his head in amusement.
Well,
it would seem I am less competent at murder than I imagined. Still,
it's damnably bad luck.
“We
have similar, bad taste in women, I suppose.”

The man snorted laughter. “You're standing there over her
water, pouring something in, and I'm supposed to believe you're her
bed mate?” He shook his head, still laughing, and touched a
finger to his lip in mirth. “A jilted lover, here for revenge,
is that about the shape of it? Ridiculous.” He chuckled again,
this time with a darker, malevolent undertone. “This is
terribly embarrassing, friend, but it seems I may have eaten your
lunch.”

“What have you done?”

“The same thing you intended, I'd wager, only with panache.
Really, poison? Longing for a part in a penny dreadful, are we?”

Rithard felt his jaw clench, but he offered the man only a placid,
blank regard. “I'm afraid I don't know your name.”

The man's demeanor shifted from humorous to threatening in an
instant. Rithard felt himself begin to sweat, and knew full well it
was not from nerves. The room was hot like a furnace now, in the
space of moments. “Count that as a blessing. We could end this
with neither of us knowing names, and both walking away alive, eh?”

“A Meite assassin,” Rithard muttered, more to himself
than as a reply. “Who could have predicted that?”

“Maralena, had she the sense to think things through.”
The Meite glared at Rithard. “Will you stand aside or no?”

Rithard
paused a moment, then slipped the vial back into his pocket.
I
have what I wanted, it seems.
“I never saw you.”

The Meite smiled again, and the temperature of the room dropped back
to normal in an instant. “Nor I you.” With a wink and an
impish grin, he turned to depart, then seemed to reconsider. He
turned back, his nose wrinkled in annoyance as if he smelled
something foul. “Mei! I can't do it that way! Not when you've
looked me in the eye. It would be pure cowardice.” He locked
eyes with Rithard and announced imperiously, “My name is
Sadrik Tasinal.”

Rithard maintained eye contact as he considered. “I am Healer
Rithard of House Amrath,” he answered after a moment.

Sadrik nodded in appreciation. “I know that name. You have
courage, Rithard. Will you keep my secret, if I keep yours?”

“I will. I've no quarrel with you.”

“Nor I, you. And now that I know what sort of man you are, we
might even be friends in the future.”

Rithard nodded and said, “It is good to have friends.”

Shirini stirred her
soup again, smiling at the perfect silence in her kitchen. Young
hens did indeed learn, it seemed. Not that it mattered much, in that
the master and his lady 'friend' were making no effort at all to be
discreet. They sat at Davron's table, cold fury so chilling the air
between them that Shirini almost expected snow.

Davron glared across
at the mystery woman, hands clenched into fists, his face dark with
anger. “I will not ask again, witch! Where is it?”

Parala cringed as
she mixed dough. Cyndi laid a heavy beef roast on the counter and
hissed, “What's he talking about? I missed it in the larder!”

“Shh!”
Shirini answered, waving her spoon.

Parala answered
softly, “He thinks she's stolen his father's sword.”

Cyndi's eyes grew
wide in appreciation. “Did she?”

Shirini stirred her soup furiously and muttered, “If you'd
shut up we might find out!”

Cyndi mimed a sewing
motion on her lips, then reached for a tenderizing mallet. Shirini
gave her a look that must have communicated exactly how stupid a
thing that would be, because Cyndi changed course and reached for
the salt and pepper instead.

Some young hens
learn slower than others, I guess.

Other than rolling
her eyes, the dark-haired woman (whom Shirini had named “The
Bitch”) had not responded, and Davron had grown even more
incensed. “Answer me!”

The Bitch fluttered
her eyelashes in feigned shock. “How dare you accuse me of
theft!”

Davron grunted at
this. “Oh, I doubt you're the thief. You had someone else do
your dirty work for you, no doubt. Isn't that how you Prosin weasels
do things? Dead drops, cut-out agents, plausible deniability?”

Shirini and her two
underlings stared back and forth at one another in shock.
The
Bitch is House Prosin!

The Prosin Bitch
threw back her shoulders and inclined her head. “I work in
information. I do favors for people, they tell me things. Other
people do me favors and I tell them things. That doesn't make me a
thief.”

“You think me
a fool, that I can't make the connection in timing? Really, Teretha,
I expected a better lie than this.”

In the kitchen, the
two younger girls were doing small victory dances and Shirini tasted
the soup, feeling very satisfied indeed.
Teretha Prosin. Now we
know your name.

Teretha looked
genuinely offended at this.
“
Really
,
Davron,” she sneered, mocking his tone. “Is there anyone
you
haven't
pissed off these last few months?”

Davron dismissed her charge with a wave. “Do you have it or
not?”

“
I
could acquire it, for a price. Provided
you
meet
my
price.”

Davron's nostrils flared and his jaw bulged as he mulled this over.
At last, he asked, “What are your terms, snake?”

“What do you
think?” she shouted. “I want you to protect my son from
this madness you've instigated!”

Davron darkened at
this, but nodded, less an agreement than an acknowledgment. “There
are no guarantees in such matters. I can only promise to do my best.
And such things have a way of coming back if politics shift. It's
the work of a lifetime. At what point have I done a good enough job
to close the deal?”

It was Teretha's
turn to appreciate the new wrinkle. “Fair enough. Then you
will promise to do your best as long as you live. And you will give
me another son, to insure against the possible loss of the one you
have risked.”

Davron burst into
sincere laughter at this. “Shall I pull one from my pocket?”

Teretha rolled her
eyes again, then pointed at Davron's crotch. “From your
trousers, fool, or do you still not know how babies are made? You
risked my son in Amrath. You will give me the heir to Noril. When he
is born, I will return your father's blade. It will be his by rights
anyway.”

In the kitchen,
Parala had both hands clamped over her mouth, eyes bulging, while
Cyndi held up a fist in triumph. Shirini gave her an approving nod.

Davron, mortified,
leapt to his feet, his face red with fury. “And what of my
wife
, witch
?”
His fist rose into the air as if it were not entirely under his
control.

Teretha glanced at
his threatening gesture and smiled, showing no sign of being
intimidated. “Please. How will beating me help your position?
It could only help mine.”

“I should
enjoy it, though!”

“You might
enjoy my counteroffer as well, if you weren't so stubborn. You said
you liked women.” She reached to grab his fist and brought it
to her breast, Davron seeming helpless to resist her. His hand
relaxed, then tightened again, kneading her flesh with relish. “Here
is a fine specimen, a comely one at that. Don't pretend it wouldn't
please you.”

Davron took a deep,
shuddering breath and pulled his hand back, grabbing it with his
left as if to restrain an unruly child. “What do you prove
with this? That I'm a man? I'd be a liar to say I have no appetite
for what you propose, but I will never betray my wife.”

“Betray? You
are an elder of Nihlos without issue. I doubt even your wife would
count it as treachery if you were up front with her about your
intentions. You needn't marry me. Just claim the child.”

Davron looked her up
and down, still restraining his offending hand as he considered. “A
fine specimen, to be certain. But I am not fond of the taste of
defeat.”

“Then choose
not to taste it as defeat. Choose to see it as a mutually beneficial
and
pleasant
alliance.” She reached again for his hand,
drawing it toward her crotch, but Davron jerked it back as if he had
been burned.

“Not here, not
now. I must speak with my wife, first. I will not betray her.”

Teretha smiled coyly
and sipped her wine. “Of course.”

In the kitchen,
Shirini raised her eyebrows suggestively over a tin cup of port, and
the other two sipped at theirs, barely stifling giggles. “This,
young'uns, is how we cook.”

In the end, it was neither the
solitude nor the nightmares that broke Aiul's will. It was the
shattered tooth. Such terrible nightmares plagued him, visions of
Lara’s body being stabbed over and over, his unborn child
knowing the kiss of steel before it knew the sweet taste of air in
its lungs, blood running in rivers. Sleep itself had became an
enemy, one that stole upon him at his weakest moments and tormented
him beyond the limits imposed by the reality of the waking world.