Chapter Nine
In the Palace of Xy
For Tassos, the worst part wasn’t the helplessness; he couldn’t stop the puking, the shitting, the shivers that shook the bed.
In the days, maybe weeks, that followed, he couldn’t even lift his head to drink the offered water.
Nora took care of all of that, briskly, without emotion.
No sympathy to be found in those dark eyes.
The worst part wasn’t even the pain. His body had clearly decided to punish him for every sip of letheon, every moment spent in an unmoving stupor on cold streets and damp alleys.
It was agony to breathe unless he took slow, shallow breaths.
His arms and legs were wracked with cramps and spasms of the worst kind.
Not to mention his headaches, which lashed out at the slightest tilt of his head.
No, the worst, the absolute worst was when, after cleaning his body, his bed, and the room, Nora left him alone, with a small candle flickering on the table nearby.
Alone with his thoughts and memories.
He’d close his eyes, seeking sleep, but the images came instead. Of the ruins of his village, of the mass grave under the withered old apple tree, the full moon making the branches look like clutching hands.
Of the night the Wyverns had come with their army, and had not asked, simply taken. At the first sign of protest, resistance, they’d killed and raped and burned the place to the ground. When he’d tried to protect his Mum, one of them had struck him in the head and everything had gone dark.
Until he’d awakened under bodies, buried shallow, and clawed his way up, to find no one and nothing.
He’d sworn revenge and found a way to mass power quickly and so very easily.
His Da had been the village butcher, in their small town on the border between baronies, and Tassos had learned the art, working his way to journeyman without really having to think of an alternative. That is what you did, learned from your folks and followed their footsteps.
He’d found power in the life blood of living creatures.
It took no time at all to acquire, to learn.
He found teachers, who’d taught him until they’d tried to kill him.
He coveted power, storing it within, learning and growing, until he learned to raise the dead: to create odium, the living undead, bound to his will.
After that, he intended to find the Wyverns, hunt each and every one, and kill them, and add them to his growing army.
It had seemed simple enough. Or so he had told himself. He was an idiot.
Tassos plucked at the blanket weakly, trying to pull it up, to blot the flashes of memories that flared against his inner eyelid.
The memory of the lass he’d taken, a maiden, just starting to wander the streets, still ripe and sweet and innocent. He’d caught her on the edge, acted as her first “protector,” offered food and a warm place to sleep, and all the wine she could drink.
She’d been so pitifully thankful as she drifted off; it had been so easy to slip her into the wagon, so easy to keep her drugged.
She’d curled in the sacking in the wagon bed, a gentle smile on her lovely face, smiling at him each time she roused and he offered her more drink.
His craving rose, deep and dark and hungry for letheon.
For the sweet comfort of oblivion. He could still taste it at the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard as a soft whine escaped him.
He longed for letheon’s sweetness, the glitter of its ruby color, the hint of plums underlying the smokiness of the aftertaste.
But he had no oblivion, no buffer, no distance. And when he closed his eyes, he saw Uncle Stancil’s face.
He’d made a crucial, bitter, terrible mistake. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be a danger to raising odium from your village’s—your families’—mass grave.
It never occurred to him that they would speak.
He’d gloried in his power, rejoicing as the sacrifice lay dead at his feet, as the spell flared.
As the dead rose, clawing their way from the depths of the earth, fabric and flesh tattered and rotted.
“I have raised you,” he announced. “And from beyond this grave we will avenge your deaths and grow into a vast army.”
Heads turned, revealing skulls not yet clean, shedding ragged and decayed flesh.
Tassos abruptly realized he had raised more than bodies. Imposed over the rotting corpses were faces, spirits, souls, of his friends and family, staring at him. The vast power that he had…was no longer his.
It was theirs.
“Tassos,” Uncle Stancil drew close, bearing the stench of rotting flesh and new-turned soil. He put his skeletal hands on Tassos’s shoulders. “What have you done?”
That disappointment, their rejection, rolled over his chest and wedged itself in his heart.
He tried to distract himself. Counting the stones in the walls, trying to estimate how long he had been here. Reciting old poems, lyrics to old songs…but inevitably his thoughts tumbled and he was back at the grave, trapped by disappointment, grief, and despair.
“At what cost, nephew? The taint on your own soul? All the blood on your hands?”
For a time, he argued with them, fueled by righteous anger and fury. He’d done it all for them, after all, all his striving, and yes, all the slaughter, taking the fastest, most direct path to power. Only to have them reject it.
Reject him.
It wasn’t right, wasn’t fair…they didn’t appreciate his sacrifice—
With that, the vision returned, showing him the dead girl in Uncle Stancil’s arms as he returned to the mass grave with all the others. Bitter bile rose in his throat. Another round of puking began.
Which brought Nora back to his side, a lovely distraction, until again Tassos was alone with the darkness and the candle.
And the truth.
As the letheon’s poison leeched from him, the truth wormed itself inside.
It didn’t crash over him, oh no. It trickled in, like a leak in a roof you didn’t notice until one day the damp, sodden reeds fall in and the mud-waddle walls collapse.
And the beaten floor turns to mud, and everything you own is soaking wet and ruined.
His worthless life, ruined by his own hand.
A dead girl in Uncle Stancil’s arms, bitter bile in Tassos’s throat, another round of puking, followed by Nora, until again he was alone with the darkness and the candle.
Endless rounds in the dark room, endless days and nights. If it was possible to hate the Wyverns more, he would. But in his heart he knew the truth.
The hatred was for himself.
Then, one time, during what had to be morning, Tassos found himself staring at four Bondmaidens, standing around the bed, considering him like a particularly difficult chore that no one wanted doing.
Four women, who if rumor were right, were as deadly as they were beautiful.
He resisted shifting in the bed under their gaze. He did tug the blanket higher.
“Riven has been keeping down broth.” Nora spoke as if he wasn’t in the room. “And using the chamber pot.”
Riven, Tassos reminded himself. That was his name now; he’d not share his true name here.
One of the others nodded. Her face was plumper, kinder than the others. “The worst of it should be over, but now we need to build up his strength.”
She, at least, seemed encouraging. He cleared his throat. “May I know your name, lady?”
“No,” Nora said.
“Nora,” the other scolded. “I am Mira,” she said, her cheeks dimpling with her smile. She gestured to the others. “Caris and Avice. We are the Queen’s handmaidens.”
“Bondmaidens,” he whispered. He had glimpsed the bond marks on the inside of their wrists. What kind of spell did it take to bind all five, he wondered. “Where is the other?”
He recognized his mistake the instant the tall one, Avice, stiffened. “How did you know that?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
“Aren’t there five of you? There was talk,” he gestured vaguely, trying to indicate general gossip, other people. He didn’t want to start a discussion about his abilities just yet.
“How do we know he’s safe to be around?” Caris asked, her face neutral, her tone mild.
Nora snorted. “I have to hold the chamber pot,” she said.
Riven nodded weakly.
“You are a valuable guest of Her Majesty, Queen Satia of Xy,” Avice said firmly. “She has rescued you and seen to your care, and will continue to do so until you are fully recovered. There is a task that she wishes you to perform for her.” She paused. “Do not abuse Her Majesty’s hospitality.”
“I will not,” Riven croaked out. “Please offer her my thanks when next you see her.”
Avice stared at him for a moment, gave a sharp nod and left, with Caris following.
“Soft foods, at first.” Mira said. “We need to get his bowels working again.”
Nora frowned at her, clearly displeased.
“Bonded’s command,” Mira’s apology was clear in her shrug. “I will do what I can, but
my duties—”
“It’s fine,” Nora grumbled. “I can do this, at least until Witless arrives.”
Mira smiled, her dimples deepening, and left.
Nora started at Riven and folded her arms across her chest. “Porridge.” she said. “And you’d best keep it down.”
Riven nodded.
She turned on her heel and left, closing the door firmly behind her.
Riven let out his breath ever so slowly.
That had been a mistake, almost letting it slip that he could use mage sight.
But it was hard not to be distracted by the golden, glittering webbing that held them, all of them, in the bond.
Or the sparkling drops of red that showed the blood-taint of the power used.
Or the threads that stretched out behind them, linking them to the Bonded and each other.
And the fifth thread that wound around them, fainter than the others, trailing off behind them.
He’d need more care. Give them no more knowledge than they needed.
Guest, he snorted. If that was the polite pretense, he’d take it, but he doubted he could just get up and walk out.
Assuming he could walk yet.
Riven held up his hand, staring at the thin wrist, the bony fingers, and the blood vessels that pulsed weakly under thin, white skin.
The one with the healing skills, Mira, had told him that it was known that letheon addicts would forget to eat, starving to death even as they drank. He’d heard that. He hadn’t believed it.
His hand started to shake and he let it drop to his chest.
He supposed that he should be grateful to be alive. If they hadn’t…rescued…his sorry ass, he’d no doubt be dead.
But death wasn’t the balm he’d thought it was. No peace, no rest, no panacea. The darkness of his worthlessness swept over him, reminding him—
The craving rose in response, hot and bold, and he gasped at the weight of it. He wanted the drink so badly, oblivion in a bottle, so that he could forget and sink into—
Nora came in, tray in hand. “Let’s see if you can manage to feed yourself.”