Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) Page 7

“Not those dreams, Rajinii.”

  The queen grew defensive, her lips pursing. “Don’t we have more important things to discuss? Military strategy, for one.”

  “It’s clear that General Navarese has everything under control.”

  “Navarese is brash and uncouth, but he serves a valuable purpose.”

  “In other words, he frees you from attending planning sessions.”

  “Of what use is planning? The druids will attack, most of them will die, a lot of us will die, and then we’ll wait for Mala to finish us off. It’s not nearly as complicated as Navarese would have us believe.”

  “Nor as simple as Bernard?”

  “Exactly!”

  “If you’re so convinced that Jivita will fall, why fight at all? You should gather your people—military and civilian—march to the ocean, and follow the coast to oblivion.”

  “I have ridden beyond the havens, beyond even the southern range of Kincara. There is nothing there but barren wastes more hostile than Barranca. As you well know, Torgon, escape is impossible. But I care naught. I welcome death. Ekadeva awaits with open arms.”

  “Tell me your dreams,” he repeated.

  “Are you asking if Ekadeva speaks to me while I sleep? Let me guess: You’ve been to Boulogne’s and met with Burly.”

  “You’ve always been clever.”

  “But not clever enough. Or beautiful enough. Or sexy enough.”

  “Why does everything always have to be about your shortcomings? I didn’t reject your overtures because you’re not worthy of me. I had my own reasons.”

  Rajinii leaned forward in her saddle. “Why do you ask about my dreams? Is my recent behavior unworthy of a queen?”

  “The times are dire, but pessimism is unlike you. You have changed. And I’m concerned that Invictus might be playing a role. I believe he watches the city—and especially you—from afar.”

  “Let me guess: You believe he does more than watch, that he has somehow poisoned my mind.”

  “I wish to lay my hands on you.”

  “Torgon, really! What kind of lady do you think I am?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I will not force you.”

  “Ahhh, too bad. I was hoping you would.”

  Torg’s expression remained stern.

  “Where’s your sense of humor, Torgon?” Rajinii finally said. “Has Laylah stolen it?”

  “Not Laylah . . . her brother.”

  “I see your point. All right, I’ll allow it. Where should this blessed event occur?”

  “Your chambers will do. But there’s something else you might not like. I want Laylah to be with us.”

  “To make sure that you and I don’t misbehave?”

  “She has formidable powers of her own.”

  “Hmmmm . . . If I’m to agree to this, I wish to choose a fourth.”

  “Manta?”

  “No. I want Sir Elu at my side.”

  Torg grunted. “There’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed. You’re always looking for ways to cause trouble.”

  BY THE TIME they had ridden back to the palace and summoned Laylah and Elu, it was almost midnight. The queen ordered her henchmen to leave the royal chambers, though they shuffled out suspiciously. Manta made a big show of distrust, questioning Torg’s intent. The queen finally lost her patience and shouted at the necromancer to mind her own business.

  Torg could see that Laylah was uncomfortable in the royal chambers, and Elu had been woken from sleep and was disheveled. With her keen eyes, Rajinii noted all of this—and was quick to comment.

  “Do you like my accommodations, Laylah?” the queen said slyly. “I designed them with The Torgon in mind. Everything’s larger than life.”

  “It’s the most beautiful bedroom I’ve ever seen,” Laylah said softly. “But it must be lonely in here, all by yourself. You should choose a husband to share it with you. There must be thousands of available bachelors in Jivita.”

  “Hmmph,” the queen said. “You’re no fun. How about you, Sir Elu? An important event is about to occur. Would it trouble you too much to rub the sleep from your eyes?”

  “Elu is sorry, your highness.”

  Then he yawned, causing Rajinii to giggle.

  “Maybe he’s the man to share my chambers,” she said.

  “You could do worse,” Laylah said.

  Before they began, there was a loud pounding on the door. All of them recognized the voice of General Navarese.

  “He is annoying, at times,” Rajinii said to the others. “But it’s difficult to find good help these days. Would you have me turn him away?”

  “Let him in,” Torg said. “But only him.”

  The general’s youthful face was as red as a dragon scale. “Your highness, with all due respect, I question your decision to allow these outsiders into your chambers without escort. As leader of the military, it’s my duty to protect the queen.”

  “You’re saying, general, that Sir Elu does not suffice?”

  “Were he ten times his size, he would still be an outsider.”

  “You’re welcome to remain,” Torg said. “We have nothing to hide.”

  “Perhaps I should have brought armored guards with me,” Navarese said. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if you planned to dispose of me.”

  The queen laughed. “General, you’re too young to comprehend the full extent of The Torgon’s mind. He is not nearly as overt as you fear. He murders slowly and patiently.”

  Torg put his hand on the general’s shoulder. Then he whispered, “Niddaayahi.” Instantly Navarese collapsed into a deep sleep. Torg caught him and laid him on a velvet couch.

  “Ohhhhh, Torgon, the general’s not going to like this,” Rajinii said. “You’ll be charged with treason.”

  “I can make it so that he does not remember.”

  “How clever,” the queen said. “Sir Elu, do me a favor and cover the general’s face with a pillow. I know he’s asleep, but it still feels like he’s watching me.”

  Elu obeyed.

  “So, Torgon,” Rajinii said, licking her lips in another blatant attempt to make Laylah jealous. “Where do you want me?”

  “Lie on your back on the bed,” Torg said.

  “Oh, my. And should I remove my clothing? It will make it easier for you to ‘lay your hands on me.’”

  “That won’t be necessary. But bring your staff and place it beside you on the bed. It might also be infected.”

  The Svakaran looked worried. “Does she have a disease?”

  Rajinii snorted. “Don’t worry, Sir Elu. I don’t think I have anything catching.”

  Then the queen did as she was told, lying on her back on the luxurious bed with the staff at her side. In a slow, overly dramatic manner, she arched seductively and pulled back her V-necked tunic to expose her cleavage.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Rajinii purred.

  “Laylah, dim the lamps,” Torg said, “and Elu, blow out all the candles but the one nearest the bed.”

  “Ooooh, I’m liking this more and more,” the queen said, but Torg believed he could sense trepidation in her voice. Meanwhile, Navarese slept soundlessly on the couch, the pillow obscuring his face.

  “I know this is going to be difficult for you, Rajinii, but I want you to stop talking until I say otherwise,” Torg said. “Please lie still and breathe slowly.”

  “Is this going to hurt?” she said, still trying to joke but now clearly anxious.

  “If it does, it will be worth it.”

  “You make a woman feel so safe.”

  “Shhhhhh . . .”

  “Maybe you should put me to sleep, like you did Navarese.”

  “Shhhhhhhh . . .”

  “I’m not used to being so compromised.”

  “Shhhhhhhhhhh . . .”

  “Oh, very well.” She closed her eyes and grew quiet.

  In the now-darkened room, Torg held Obhasa in his right hand and w
aved the ivory staff above the queen’s breasts in circular motions. Blue energy imbued with green flecks glowed seductively on the rounded head, casting sprinkles onto the queen’s chest that caused her to moan. Torg swept the staff down along her torso and gently pressed it against the thin fabric above her navel. The blue-green glow crept from the staff and spread across her abdomen, then lanced down her thighs and up past her breasts at the same time.

  Rajinii moaned again.

  Other than the queen’s slow writhing, nothing unusual had yet occurred. This puzzled Torg. He touched the queen’s oaken staff with Obhasa. Again there was no reaction. If Invictus possessed her, it should have been obvious by now. There was only one thing left to do. Torg gently placed the head of Obhasa on the bridge of Rajinii’s nose. In response, the queen’s eyes sprang open, their pale gray transformed to violent yellow, and when she opened her mouth, a cloud of golden vapor gushed out, engulfing first Obhasa and then Torg.

  This forced him backward, and he stumbled.

  Instantly the queen leapt up and fell upon him, wrapping her slim fingers around his neck.

  TO LAYLAH IT was all a blur. One moment everything was peaceful and sensual; even she found Torg’s hypnotic movements seductive—as much or more so than the queen. But as the wizard moved the staff up toward Rajinii’s face, a jolt of wrongness caused her flesh to tingle. Even before the queen’s eyes sprang open, Laylah knew they were in trouble, recognizing Invictus’ presence as surely as a familiar but unpleasant odor.

  The golden cloud expanded rapidly, first encasing Obhasa and Torg and then the rest of the room. The light grew so bright Laylah had to shield her eyes, and she barely saw when the queen leapt from the bed and pounced upon Torg, attempting to strangle him. Though it appeared Rajinii was attacking Torg, Laylah knew it wasn’t the queen who directed the assault. Somehow Invictus controlled her body from afar.

  Elu was the first to react. The tough little Svakaran jumped onto the queen’s shoulders, grabbed her chin with both hands, and yanked back her head. In order to fight him off, the queen was forced to release Torg’s neck. With the wild strength of the possessed, she reached behind her back, grabbed Elu’s shoulders, and hurled him over her head. He thudded onto the floor and slid hard into the far wall.

  By now, Laylah had reached the queen. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her thin but powerful arms around Rajinii’s waist from behind. Her own white energy flared outward, doing battle with gold. At first Laylah felt that she easily would be overwhelmed, but then Torg sat up and embraced both of them. Blue-green joined the battle, causing the queen’s body to go into spasm. Rajinii vomited a bucketful of yellow liquid that sizzled on the marble floor, only to be devoured by the blue-green-white conflagration. Soon after, all went still—and the dueling powers winked out . . . green last.

  While the three of them remained on the floor, curled together like mating snakes, Elu stood groggily and then stumbled around the room, extinguishing several small fires with a blanket. Meanwhile, a series of booms shook the barred doors from without. To Laylah’s surprise, the queen managed to sit up.

  “Desist!” she shouted toward her quivering portal, with as much strength as she could muster. “I am in no danger. Desist!”

  The pounding stopped. Eerie silence followed.

  Rajinii looked down wearily at Torg and Laylah, who still lay on the floor.

  “At least I am no longer in danger,” she whispered to them both. “Welcome, Torgon . . . and Laylah . . . to the White City. For the first time since your arrival, you are speaking to the true queen of Jivita.”

  The Svakaran stood next to her, tugging on the sleeve of her tunic. “Does this mean I’m no longer Sir Elu?”

  Torg, Laylah, and Rajinii laughed so loudly, it caused Navarese to groan in his spell-induced sleep.

  INVICTUS STOOD and straightened his robes.

  “How interesting,” he said. And then he screamed, “How innnnnnnteresting!”

  When he finally taught Torg the lesson he deserved, it would be so much fun. But an instant death would not do. Invictus had to figure out a way to prolong the wizard’s misery for months, even years. Immediately he began to search the vaults of his amazing mind for just the right spell. He looked out a window at the valley far below. In the darkness, Laylah’s sycamore seemed to glow, as if challenging his odds for success.

  FROM THE SECOND floor of the ziggurat, Vedana let out a sigh of relief.

  “Whew! That was close,” she said out loud, though there was no one to hear.

  She had watched helplessly as Torg and Laylah battled her grandson. Close to panic, she could think of no way to intrude. In retrospect, the only thing that saved them was Invictus’ relative inexperience with scrying.

  “One crisis averted. Time for another,” she said, again out loud. “Now I’d better go back and check on Peta. And after that, I’ve got something even more important to do. There’s no rest for the weary . . .”

  2

  SISTER TATHAGATA had lived for three thousand years and had spent millions of hours in meditation, her peaceful quest for Abhisambodhi (high enlightenment) enriching her mind as well as nourishing her body. Had it not been for her intense spiritual training, she would not have lived much longer than an ordinary human, perhaps even less than a century. But despite her impressive resumé, she had thus far failed in her quest to gain eternal liberation from suffering.

  The High Nun often asked herself why she could not attain her goal. Certainly it was not from lack of effort, sincerity or experience. Yet she had failed where others of her kind succeeded, witnessing three noble ones achieve enlightenment during her lifetime, their endless string of births exhausted.

  Why not Tathagata? They called her the Perfect One. But they really should have called her the Flawed One. Surely there was something in her makeup that prevented her from achieving enlightenment. Perhaps it was because she was so attached to the beauty of rain.

  Normally before she slept, the High Nun lay flat on her back and meditated, watching the frequency of her breath reduce to as few as one inhale and exhale per minute. Finally she would allow herself to sleep for three hundred of these breaths, and during that time she rarely if ever moved, other than the barely discernible rise and fall of her bony chest. But as she lay inside the crowded tent alongside four other nuns, this night was different. Her breath came in gasps, as if she were fending off suffocation in a nearly airless void. And she tossed and turned, bumping into her nearest bedmates. When she did manage to sleep, she dreamed of rain, rain, rain. She stood naked in a thunderous storm, her head tilted backward so that she could engorge herself with water, but no matter how much she drank, her thirst was not quenched. And sometime during the dream, the rain turned crimson and became blood, and she drank that too.

  When she woke, her mouth was dry, but her skinny body was sheathed in sweat, as if in the throes of a deadly fever. It was then that the smell inside the tent intensified. At first she thought it was just her own sweat or the sweat of the others. But finally she realized it was something else entirely. Like a predator within easy reach of its prey, Sister Tathagata smelled food.

  In some distant region of her mind, she heard herself giving a lecture in the temple of Dibbu-Loka: “Thought leads to action. Action leads to habit. Habit leads to character.” Now a wicked desire to bite and rend consumed her thoughts. Lick and slurp, chew and swallow. If she allowed her thoughts to become action, what then? A portion of her was disgusted by the mere possibility, but another part was tantalized.

  Tathagata heard a growling sound, low and sinister. She sat up and looked around, attempting to discern its location. It took her a few moments to realize that it came from her own throat. She ran her tongue along her teeth. Where they had once been small and flat, they now were large and jagged. She put her hands to her face. Her lips were grotesquely swollen, and her eyes were bulging from their sockets. She sensed strength in her arms far greater than she had ever experienced. And neve
r had she felt so hungry. Her thirst for water was gone. She wanted to eat—juicy meat. The blood-soaked flesh would quench her thirst as well as her desire.

  She heard another growl, this time clearly not her own. There were screams, feminine in timbre, from a faraway tent. The sound enraged her and spurred her into action. She buried her teeth into the neck of Sister Kilisatti and bit down hard. The flesh tore away as easily as moist parchment. Blood splattered Tathagata’s face. She drank it like the blood in her dreams.

  Soon after, she ran.

  THOUGH ASĒKHA-Tāseti’s long journey with the noble ones from the hidden Tugarian haven to the desert city Anna was only in its early stages, the powerful warrior already felt exhausted. She woke from a troubled sleep and crawled out of her small tent. Though the sun had barely begun its slow rise, the day was unseasonably warm. Tāseti took a moment to do some stretching and then packed up her tent and other supplies. She wanted the company to reach the western border of Barranca by noon, where they would find shelter beneath the numerous rock overhangs and rest until evening. After that, they would march only in darkness. Though Barranca was a difficult stretch of land, it was safer to traverse at night than the mesa they had left behind.

  Tāseti noted an unusual disturbance among the camels, as if they sensed nearby predators. Were Lyons in the vicinity? Suddenly a scream pierced the air, high-pitched and wrought with terror. The warrior sprinted toward its source. What she saw in the dim light stopped her dead. A nun was backing slowly away from a hideous creature, human in size but distorted in shape. The monster held its arms straight out in front of its face, elbows locked and fingers squirming. Tāseti shook off her torpor and sprang forward, but Rati, a fellow Asēkha, beat her there, appearing from nowhere and decapitating the monster with a single stroke of his uttara. Blood as dark as kohl burst from the creature’s severed neck. When Tāseti came near, she could see that the viscous liquid pooling on the ground swarmed with wriggling worms.

  Off to her left, Tāseti heard another shout. She turned to witness a tent, designed to contain five monks, seem to come to life and tear itself from the ground. Another of the monsters clawed its way from within the jumble of hide, and Tāseti realized with horror that the creature she now beheld had once been a monk. The truth struck her all at once in wave upon wave of revelation.