it was him at first sight. Like a long-forgotten memory, his essence came back to her and stirred powerful feelings. She hadn’t been prepared for that. For battle, surely, but not for the volatile combination of resentment and doubt that flooded her mind when they came face-to-face. She had seen him only once before, years ago when he was just a boy. That seemed like another lifetime. Perhaps it had been.
The scion’s presence here, though unexpected, was not apocalyptic. Where was he now? Sybelle leaned over her scrying pool and cast forth her vision into the waters. She had tasted a morsel of his essence in those moments they stood eye-to-eye, not enough to wither him with a curse, but sufficient to find him anywhere in this realm. She stirred the waters, but they remained dark. Then she remembered Soloroth’s words, how he had been unable to track the scion.
The shadows won’t hunt…
Sybelle grasped the edge of the pool as a spell of vertigo crashed over her. What was this? She felt… distanced from the Shadow, cut off. The sensation only lasted a moment, not even the interval from the release of one breath and the inhalation of the next, but it left her shaken. Never before had she-
No. She had felt such a thing before, when she passed through the Barrier to this world. Almost twenty years ago, and now again today. She did not believe in coincidence. She needed an augury. She was consulting her charts of the astral houses when a cymbal chimed in a niche beyond the pool.
Sybelle dug her fingers into her skirt. It was Erric. She toyed with the idea of putting him off. Hunger gnawed at her innards, and she glanced to the passageway leading to the nave. Better for him if she waited until she had assuaged her appetites. But then the cymbal rang again and made up her mind for her. Fine. If he wished to see her now, then so be it. And if he had a trollop draped across his lap when she found him, she would strike them both with a curse to make the gods of this feeble realm tremble.
Sybelle opened a portal in the air and stepped through. Another tremor of light-headedness overcame her as she arrived in the unadorned room at the top of the castle. This was a mistake. She should have fed first. Arrogance, her father called it whenever she overtaxed her abilities. Sometimes she still heard his voice in her head, chiding her for this choice or that, but she paid it less mind than a cockroach scurrying underfoot. She was her own mistress now.
Are you truly?
Sybelle thrust the voice out of her thoughts as she descended the long stairs. She arrived at the great hall to find the duke alone, slouched in his throne, dressed in full regalia with the gold crown settled upon his brow. Despite his sloppy posture, he cut a regal figure. She would make of him a king in truth, if only he stayed out of her way. Like most men, he was willing to be guided by the nose, or the cock, but he had the irritating trait of intruding in her works when he was least wanted. Still, she was… fond of him. Another word came to mind, but she shoved it away. The Queen of the Night did not know love. Affection, yes. Fondness, surely. But love was as far from her essence as starlight from the day.
Sybelle kept her features neutral as she approached his throne, unwilling to grant him a smile. A petty gesture, perhaps, but no more than he deserved after summoning her like a common servant. Now, if he apologized with sufficient enthusiasm, she might see her way to suggesting a more interesting way to renew her energy. With these thoughts tumbling in her head, she stopped just short of his reach. Her lover’s mouth was turned down in a sour grimace. His eyes, though open, looked into the distance as if he did not see her, which brought back her fury all over again. She started to address him and then stopped herself, intent that he should acknowledge her presence first. He tested her patience as the heartbeats stretched into a minute, and then another. He spoke just before she opened her mouth to scathe him.
“The ambassadors from Uthenor and Warmond have left the city.” His voice was thick with lethargy.
“What of it?”
The duke looked up, finally meeting her gaze. “First, the mercenaries leave, and now the ambassadors. Who will be the next to abandon me? You?”
She forced a laugh from her throat. It was a small thing, but it took all of her self-control to make it. “Are you mad? After all I have done in this country, for you, for us, you think I would leave now? Don’t be a bigger fool than needs be. I will not leave you, and neither have the ambassadors.”
“No? Then why did they depart at night without so much as a by-your-fucking-leave?”
She swallowed her anger and sat on the arm of his throne. “They have been recalled to other fronts.” He started to ask, but she cut him off before he could get it out. “Do not inquire into these matters. Be assured that you still enjoy the benefits of our Master’s aegis, and that our plans will go forward without delay. In fact, I want you to-”
He slammed his fist down on the other arm. “No, Sybelle. No more orders. This is my realm, and you will do as I say.”
Sybelle ran her fingers through his hair. “Is that so?”
He croaked in outrage as she yanked his head back. He started to reach for her, but she placed her mouth over his. She poured all her rage into the kiss, white-cold like the northern winds, bitter as the sun that hovered over this dreadful world. His body stiffened beneath her. Sybelle pulled back and looked into his eyes, which darted back and forth over her face. He was in terrible agony as her sorcery crawled through his veins. She felt herself becoming excited at the thought.
“You do not command here,” she said. “You are a tool. A pampered one, but in the end just a tool. You can either do as I say and enjoy a long and pleasurable reign.” She traced a finger along his unshaven chin and watched him tremble. “Or I can find someone else to take your place.”
Sybelle leaned closer, enjoying the play of terror and agony in his eyes. He was so weak, she could kill him with nothing more than a gesture. Sometimes she found it endearing, but today it made her want to grind him under her thumb.
Steel slithered over leather as a sword was drawn. The tendons in the duke’s neck stood out like taut cables. Sybelle’s smile widened as the blood drained from his face.
“Come in, Arion,” she said. “We were just speaking of you.”
The voice of the duke’s son called from the hall entrance.
“Release him, Sybelle. Now.”
The chamber echoed with the sound of her amusement.
Arion scowled as he barreled through the keep’s narrow corridors on his way to the great hall. His father needed to hear the truth from someone, and he was angry enough not to care about the consequences.
He had just left the infirmary, where half of his bodyguards were laid up after an extended march through the western hills behind the witch’s hell-spawn son and his pack of wolf-men. Davom and Brustus would mend, but Okin might never be the same again. The doctors called it a brain fever brought on by battlefield vapors, but he knew better. Okin had seen things no man should have to see on this side of the grave. They all had. It was a wonder none of them had deserted on the trek back to Liovard. The gods knew he wouldn’t have blamed them.
Sybelle.
This was all her doing. She used men like pieces on a game board. Expendable. But this time he was going to have it out with his father once and for all. The Duke of Liovard would have to choose between his son and his concubine.
Arion paused at the south entrance to the great hall. Voices carried across the stone chamber. His father and Sybelle were arguing. Arion smiled as he inched forward. Perhaps his task would be easier than he anticipated. He might even convince his father to send the witch away. Then something happened. The argument turned quiet.
Arion leaned through the entranceway. His father sat in the ancestral throne of their clan with the witch on his arm. They kissed, and then his father jerked as if he had been struck. Arion’s breath hissed between his teeth. Sorcery, it had to be, for his father did not move.
Drawing his sword, Arion hurried across the flagstones. His gaze focused on the witch. In his mind he saw himself plunging his steel into her breast. She looked up, and her eyes glowed, full of malice.
“Come in, Arion,” she said. “We were just speaking of you.”
Her greeting set his hands to trembling. His tongue felt like it had swelled to thrice its normal size. “Release him, Sybelle. Now.”
Her laughter sliced into him like a flensing knife. The clatter of moving metal echoed through the chamber.
