Dark Hope of the Dragons Page 8

  Even with the completeness of the control she had over his physical body, Dephithus was visibly shaking with pain and humiliation by the time Rakas climaxed. She relinquished control of her companion then and he withdrew immediately. He did not bother pulling up his trousers before he slid down along one wall and buried his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. It might be with the usual tremors, though she suspected it was with silent sobs. It did not matter now. The deed was done.

  Amahna scowled at him and walked over to redress Dephithus. When she turned around again, Rakas was glaring at her. She could not remember when she had ever seen such hatred in her companion’s eyes. There was little time for it now, though. The powers she was using to keep Dephithus controlled were draining her and the daenox could not be replenished at this distance.

  Grabbing Dephithus by his shirt collar, she pulled him from the anvil, allowing him to crumple to the ground once he was clear of it. Tears streamed down his face unchecked and his pretty silver-green eyes glared death at her.

  “Now, now Dephithus,” she managed a thickly sweet tone, “you shouldn’t carry on so. You might learn to like this someday.”

  His eyes flashed with fury and his body trembled more violently as he renewed his struggle against her controls. Amahna laughed when a shudder shook Rakas, whose gaze was locked on Dephithus as if he could not believe what had happened. Perhaps he did not. The man looked almost as broken as their victim.

  There would be time later though to savor such things.

  “Pull yourself together by the time I get back,” she snapped.

  She dazed Dephithus as she had done to bring him to the shed and they moved cautiously back to his room in the palace. With a touch of extra power here and there, they avoided being seen and Amahna managed a bit more to put Dephithus to sleep.

  She smiled with false sweetness upon the sleeping dragon-child.

  “Within you is great power. You are the hope of Theruses now. Of all of us,” she whispered so as not to disturb the fragile sleep. So young and already he promised to be a great leader. What they had done to him would destroy that. The way they had done it, the physical and emotional trauma they had inflicted upon him, would make it that much easier for the seed to take hold and begin to change him. She smiled at Dephithus, watching his brow furrow in troubled sleep. “We have given you a special gift for your birthday. In you has been placed a daemon-seed. May it grow strong within you and free the daenox back into world.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The last of the daenox induced sleep wore off fast, leaving Dephithus to lie awake and search his mind for some way to make sense of what had happened. He curled about himself, but no matter how he twisted his body the only part that physically pained him felt exposed. For a time, he tried to convince himself he had suffered a nightmare, but the raw pain ultimately denied him that illusion. That effort having failed, he curled around a pillow, muffling his sobs in it. When the sobbing subsided, he realized that he should rise now if he wanted to avoid Myara and his family. They would sleep perhaps till noon after such a late night and he had no desire to see any of them.

  Despite the lethargy that tried to pin him to the bed, Dephithus forced himself to rise. He ripped off the clothes he was wearing, kicking them into a corner to be dealt with later.

  Had he done something wrong that he deserved such punishment?

  He could think of no time when he had mistreated anyone or anything. No time when he had lied or deceived anyone out of pure meanness. He shook himself, trying to toss away his thoughts with the force of the motion.

  Would Amahna and Rakas still be here?

  A violent tremor shook him and he fell onto knees already bruised from the prior night’s events, emptying his stomach on his discarded clothes.

  For a time, he stayed there on all fours, trembling. Then the sour stench struck him, and he rose on shaky legs to dress himself in a simple shirt and breeches. Breathing deeply to slow his shaking, he took hold of the cold, smooth door handle and stepped out of his room. A serving man was passing at that moment and stopped to bow to the now official heir to the throne. Dephithus could not look at the man. He nodded recognition in his vague direction. The man either did not notice the avoidance or pretended not to. The latter was more likely considering his station.

  “Some bath water has been warmed, my lord. Would you like your tub filled?”

  Dephithus hesitated. A bath would mean staying in the palace longer, but now nothing seemed as important as a bath to scrub away the filth. He caught the serving man’s patient gaze out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, please. Have the water brought, but I do not want an attendant.”

  “As my Lord wishes.” The serving man bowed deep again and departed to his duties.

  Dephithus let out his breath, though he had not realized until then that he had scarcely been able to breathe in the serving man’s presence. The need to weep filled him again and he fought it back fiercely, digging his fingernails into his palms to keep it at bay. He could not break down in the middle of the hall like a child with a skinned knee.

  He lingered like a thief in the shadows of a side-hall where he would be unlikely to encounter anyone until he figured it had been long enough. Then he went to the washroom adjacent to his bedchamber. The three young serving women were still there adding the last water to the tub. Their talking ceased and turned to giggling when he entered. Before finishing with the water, they acknowledged him with exaggerated curtsies and more giggling.

  Suppressing her giggles one flushed blond girl stepped forward. “Is it to your liking, my Lord?”

  He scowled and something in the expression made all three go suddenly silent, bowing their heads to hide their new uncertainty. “Leave me,” he growled.

  Their high spirits dampened by apparent failure, the girls curtsied again and shrunk from the room. Confused and frustrated, Dephithus simply stared at the tub, wishing there were some way he could go back and undo what he had just done. There was no reason for him to take his misery out on them. The worst thing was that he had been thinking that even before he snapped at the girls, but he did it anyway.

  Finding no comfort in his own deliberations he sighed and slipped out of his clothes.

  Dephithus scrubbed himself with a violent fervor until his skin was bright pink, though he knew that no amount of cleaning would ever be enough.

  Maybe he had wanted what they had done to him. Why else would he have been unable to fight back? Neither Amahna nor Rakas had tied him in any way or threatened his life. So why had he been so helpless, like he could not do anything to stop them? Could he have drunk more than he realized? He did not remember returning to his room, so perhaps he had been drunk enough to pass out. Otherwise, there was simply no way that they could have had the power over him that they seemed to have last night. It was not possible. But he did not remember feeling drunk. So, it led to reason that he must not have wanted to fight. Or perhaps he was too much of a coward.

  Dephithus closed his eyes, letting the steam of the tub wash over his face as he tried to clear his mind. Turmoil filled him, and the ongoing pain would not let him escape it. Revulsion, confusion, and rage all vied for his attention, but he could not decide how he should feel. Angry with himself for not knowing what to think or do, he rose abruptly, spilling no small amount of water on the floor. Stepping out he scrubbed dry and dressed himself, then took a few deep breaths before leaving the solace of his chambers.

  Somehow, the architecture of the palace made him uncomfortable as he hastened through its halls. Rather than encouraging and comforting him, the elegance mocked him with its attentions. The walls swept in around him, calling out to any who might see, Here is Dephithus, see his shame. He broke into a run down the last two hallways and burst out one of the back doors. Cool, moist morning air nipped at him ominously with the promise of a spring rain. Ignoring that promise, he ran from the palace toward the refuge of the woods. It was early still, so the grounds between were
empty of anyone who might be inclined to question him.

  His route took him close enough to the stables that he heard the blacksmith shaping a shoe against his anvil. The sound brought up a barrage of memories of the dark storage shed so vivid he gagged again on the overwhelming stench of oils, metal, and dust. He stumbled, the sense of helpless horror coming back in a debilitating wave, and hit the ground with enough force that the impact sent a shot of pain through his neck. His limbs went weak, refusing to support him, and he fell again almost before he had finished standing. Resting on one bruised knee, Dephithus dug his fingers into the soft ground and waited for his breathing to slow. As soon as he could stand, he took off again, though he had to keep his pace down to an easy lope to avoid another fall.

  Once he entered the cover of the forest, he slowed to an exhausted walk. He was different somehow. It was not just the horror and confusion of what had happened, not just the lingering pain, but an unfamiliar bitterness. A welling of directionless anger he could not remember ever feeling before. Certainly, there were others who had endured such unspeakable things, but the problem was exactly that. They were unspeakable, and nobles did not talk of such things. Did anyone? Who was he supposed to turn to? Or was he supposed to keep it inside and hope it got easier with time?

  The latter option seemed the most sensible. Such things did not happen to someone of his standing and no one would believe that the pride of the Imperious Legion had been used in such a way by a court lady and her frail companion.

  The first drops of rain found Dephithus sitting high up in a tree deep in the woods. Not the Mother Tree. Someone might think to look for him there. This was far away from that tree.

  He figured it to be about noon, but the cloud cover made it hard to be sure. For a time, the tree branches offered some shelter, then the rain increased, and the soon saturated trees dropped almost as much water on him as the open sky would have. When evening drifted in he was soaked to the bone and his muscles had grown fatigued from prolonged shivering. Some time ago he had begun to feel weak and nauseous. Even so, he still did not go back to the palace. He could think of no way to face his family and Myara. Somehow, they would know, and they would give him pity and sympathy, but their eyes would ask the questions he could not answer. How could this have happened to him? Why did he let it happen?

  He stayed in the tree in the rain.

  It was not until dark had settled in and he was shivering so violently from the cold and wet that he could barely keep his perch that Dephithus finally dropped from the tree. Upon landing he slipped in the mud and slammed down hard on his side. His drenched hair clung to his face in thick wet strands. He curled up under the tree until he could control his shaking enough to get up again then began walking toward home.

  He stumbled along in the dark, vision blurred by rain and a new dizziness that had come along with the nausea. Not far from the tree he had perched in, he tripped over an exposed root and landed amidst a cluster of berry brambles. The thorns took hold of him and the mere possibility of being trapped made him thrash in panic. For a short time, he flailed about violently until a sane thought finally broke through the panic and he made himself stop moving. Though the spinning of the world around him and his wretched trembling made it hard to think, he finally worked an arm down to his belt and pulled out his knife. He cut at the vines until he was free, but one snagged his hand as he stood ripping the knife from his hand.

  Dephithus growled in distracted frustration and left the knife in the brambles.

  The Elysium palace seemed much further away now that he was cold and drenched and feeling sick. He emerged from the trees and tried to focus on the lights of the grand structure. Through the rain and dark he peered, but his eyes would not focus. The world was spinning faster than before. The fever that now rushed through him dissolved his thoughts faster than he could form them. He was shaking so badly that he stumbled again, and his arms crumpled under his own weight, leaving him to land face down on the cold wet grass. The rain pelted him with the same stinging force that it did the ground around him. Struggling, he managed to get up to his hands and knees before his stomach turned against him. His body heaved so hard it felt like his very guts might come up. Nothing came though, for, despite the best efforts of his body, he hadn’t eaten or drank all day and there was simply nothing there.

  After several minutes of dry heaving the revolt stopped and Dephithus fell to the side, resting his face against the cool ground. His arms lay limp before him, rivulets of water running along the lines of tensed shaking muscles. The shirt he wore was ripped in many places and blood from his battle with the thorny brambles mingled with the water where several deep gouges marked him. Even though it had happened only moments ago he remembered stumbling into the thorny brambles in the woods as if it had been a dream. Unable to face the dark blurry landscape without feeling nauseous he gave up and closed his eyes. Water splashed up from the impact of the rain on the saturated ground hitting his eyelids and lips.

  Dephithus lay there for some time, wondering where he was and where he might be going. Was anyone looking for him?

  After a time, those thoughts became too disjointed to follow and he simply lay there shivering until someone did find him. He struggled for the strength to open his eyes while someone rolled him onto his back and slipped their arms under his armpits. Another pair of arms lifted his legs. His eyes finally opened and through the blur of rain and fever he saw Myara.

  No, it was Amahna.

  Terror added a violent jerk to his shivering and the person at his legs lost their hold. His legs smacked to the ground and the person behind him fell to their knees but managed to keep hold of him. The hold was both gentle and firm. Myara bent down to lift his legs again and it looked like she was crying, or maybe it was just the rain. His eyes slipped shut and Dephithus drifted off.

  He did not really wake for some time. He was aware of being dry and warm, and also conscious of the tremors that still ran through him. He knew Myara and Avaline were with him much of the time as he sometimes heard their voices, but he could not concentrate on what they were saying. All the food that had been spooned into him had come back up, leaving him weaker still. Yet, emotionally he was more at peace. His physical misery was such that he could not hold a thought for long, which meant he could not dwell on Amahna or Rakas and what they had done to him. What he must have wanted them to do to him. The freedom from such thoughts allowed him to drift in a disconnected peace that moved beyond his body’s trials.

  Then his body gave in to the daenox seed and the tremors subsided along with the fever. Completely drained of energy, Dephithus fell into a deep and very sound sleep then. He was only faintly aware of a gentle hand feeling his forehead as he drifted into delicious oblivion.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Amahna could remember how Rakas had been once, when she first met him. His long black hair the very image of dark elegance and his eyes pools of seductive midnight, promising the secret pleasures of the daenox. His body had been lithe and muscular then, his skin warm and smooth. They had been energetic lovers for a time. Every moment filled with some teasing glance or hidden caress. Their energy for one another without limits.

  It was not that he had really changed that much, though his body’s growing intolerance to the heavy concentration of daenox in the cave had left shadows in his cheeks and under his eyes and given a strange coolness to his now pallid skin. He looked tired much of the time because the trembling was often bad enough to keep him awake at night.

  People responded to the presence of so much daenox in one of two ways. Some got very sick for a short period, as she had. Then they would die or suddenly recover and be fine. Others had no immediate reaction, as with Rakas, but the daenox would begin to affect them more and more adversely over many years. Despite the changes the daenox had wrought in him, Rakas was still very pleasant to look upon, but her desires had long ago turned to the intimidating and powerful lord of the daenox, Theruses.

&nbs
p; If the truth were to be told, power had always aroused her, and the power she had been attracted to in Rakas was nothing compared to what Theruses had in him. She had not known such magnificence existed and she never doubted Theruses when he told her that one day he would be free of the cave. Several hundred years ago he had been imprisoned there with the daenox, at the same time the dragons had been trapped in their stone cells. It did seem ironic that two so opposite things, the daenox with Theruses its lord, and the dragons, should have the same desperate need, to be free. When Theruses was free, she would reap the rewards of her loyalty. She knew he would not give her everything she wanted simply for having the right smile and a pleasing body, but he did provide for those who served him well. Could anyone say they had served him better than she had?

  Rakas rode quiet beside her now. After he took them the first part of the trip, from Imperious to Kuilen, using the dragon web, he no longer had the energy to cover the next leg of the journey. Amahna’s abilities were also depleted because of the power she had used controlling him and Dephithus, so they made an unspoken agreement not to linger and continued the journey at the speed their mounts could take them. Rakas had been sullen and irritable most of the trip, choosing to keep his own council rather than converse with her. Judging by his inward gaze now he was deep in contemplation, deep enough that she could probably startle him with a word.

  “Lovely hills,” she said, a little louder than necessary, and Rakas snapped from his reverie with a jerk. Amahna smiled to herself. “Don’t you agree?”

  Rakas answered with a scowl that might scare a roving daemon, then turned to the front again to resume his sulking.

  “Guilt does not become you, Rakas. You really should give up all this sulking and rejoice in a job well done.”

  She stared at him as she spoke, fascinated by the contortions in his face as he struggled to control his temper. Almost every tortured emotion could be read clearly as it fought for control of his features. She was impressed when a cold, bitter glower finally won.