The Broken: A Dark Fantasy Romance, page 24
“Ah,” Devin drawled. “My wife’s beastly paramour. I do hope you’ve brought the little monster with you. I have missed her so.”
No. It is not a trap. He is just the same maniacal cunt he ever was. Cursa Dram signaled to Jaehen, who came forward.
Still grinning, Devin stood and held his wrists helpfully still as they were lashed together with rope. “You will take me to her, then? You will forgive my ardor, of course. You may understand one day, should you ever choose to marry, what a truly visceral force it can be, the love of one’s wife.”
“You may want to save some of that,” Cursa Dram answered calmly. “You’ve a long road ahead of you.”
Devin tilted his head lazily, white teeth shining. “The path to hell?” he recalled.
“Yes.” Cursa Dram swallowed the acid in his throat. “The path to hell.”
He lagged behind a little, as his friends ferreted the king out of the house. He turned to Mysta. Trapped, he thought again. Caged like Izzy was caged. Fighting all her life, as I have fought for all of mine. “Come with us,” he said to her.
The girl laughed. “Why? Are you building a harem?”
“No.” How do I make her understand? I don’t have enough time to make her understand. “There are no harems, among my people. We no longer have slaves of any kind, not for many years. Our women are free to do as they please, as the men are.”
“Sounds lovely,” Mysta teased. “But how do you suppose I would make a living, if I wasn’t whoring?”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about that. We take care of our own.”
“I am not one of your own.”
“You will be, if I say you are.”
She laughed again. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. You don’t even let anyone else learn your language.”
“It has happened before.”
“Has it now?” she challenged. “Who was the last person the Hesati adopted into their fold?”
“My wife,” said Therin, his heart wrapped painfully around the words.
“Your wife,” scoffed Mysta. “Your wife, the queen.”
“Yes.” She knew the whole time. Of course she did.
“Your wife, who can destroy armies at will.”
“Yes.”
“Do you not think she might be a special case?” the girl said, smiling sadly, though the sadness was not entirely for herself. Some of it, Cursa Dram realized with shame, was for him.
“We can take all of you,” he pressed. “Your sister, your mother. You will be taken care of. I will make sure of it.”
Mysta sighed. “I’m sorry. But we can’t. To go with you, we would have to trust you, and though you seem honorable enough, you are still men. If I have learned anything in my life, if any of us have, it is that it would be better to stay here and to trust no one at all. No one but each other.”
No one but each other.
“I understand,” answered Therin, “more than you’d think I would, anyway.” He noticed then that the girl was peering at him with a quizzical kind of amusement. “What is it?”
“You are different,” Mysta replied, “than I would have thought. Apart from anything else, you’re alarmingly pretty, for the angel of death.”
Cursa Dram felt a whisper of a laugh escape him.
“I suppose it is a comfort,” she went on, “to know that death that can be kind, when it wishes to be—that there is a chance that death, when it comes, can be gentle.”
“Yes,” he told her with a joyless smile. “There is a chance. But it is a very, very slim one.”
74
Isobel
Izzy focused on one point in the ceiling, the way that Therin taught her. Her head had finally stopped spinning, but she was still afraid to move it. The world was red and black and had been for days. Only one candle lit the room; it was all she could stand. Thankfully, there were no windows. Thrache kept telling her it was all because of the baby—the dizziness, the headaches, the burning in her eyes caused by even the gentlest of lights. The baby’s power was too great, and it would try to take her over. She had to grow her own magic, make it stronger, to survive. And she had been trying—really, she had. She’d worked for hours upon hours on every pitiful animal they’d put in front of her: half the time on the tiny, exacting details of death, the other half on messy, brutal, raw destruction. She’d drunk jug after jug of the blood they brought her, no matter that she felt as though it was choking her, no matter how she’d hated it. All she’d wanted, for weeks now, was Therin’s blood. Just one sip, a drop. She’d said as much to Thrache, a hundred times over.
“Why?” he’d asked. “Why do you want it so badly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can it really be any different, my lady? I believe all this must be in your mind. If I brought you his blood now, this moment, do you truly think you would know the difference?”
“Yes.”
“How, my lady? Does it taste different?”
“Yes.”
“What does it taste like? Perhaps we can alter the supply we have to suit you, to be more similar to his.”
Like home. It tastes like home. Like sitting in your favorite room, next to a fire, as a storm rages outside. Like the storm itself. The room, the window, the storm—they are all part of the same thing, aren’t they? Aren’t all of those things your home?
“I don’t know,” Izzy said. “I don’t know what it tastes like.”
She didn’t know how long it had been since she’d told that lie to Thrache. She had been losing time, sometimes a few seconds, and sometimes big chunks. It sped up, and it slowed down, and sped up again. Isobel did not know when it was that she’d come to this place, and she did not know when it was now. What season was it, even? There were no trees in the Hollow City. Not even one. She looked down at the back of her hand, spread out her fingers, to make sure that she had not suddenly become an old woman. But she saw no brown spots, no wrinkles. The skin was smooth and white as it had ever been. Her fingers were not even over-thin, as they had been some other time, in some other place … What was that place? Where had she gone? Where had she been?
The door to her room creaked open, and her heart set to racing as the dark figure moved toward her. Unwisely, she shot to her feet and was predictably overcome by yet another bout of dizziness. She would have fallen, but there were hands on her body, sudden and strong. As her vision stilled, so did the face before her.
“Therin.” Her voice cracked, and she was overtaken by a fit of simultaneous tears and laughter, as she threw her arms around his neck and sagged against him. Therin said nothing, but held her upright until her hysterics finally ceased and she looked up into his eyes. “Where have you been? Did you find Devin?”
“Yes. I found him,” he answered, before pressing a hard, feral kiss to her mouth.
Izzy’s throat burned at the thought of the bright red fluid rushing just beneath her husband’s skin. She pushed away from him. “Please,” she said. “Please, I need to drink.”
“Is Thrache not providing for that?” Therin returned flatly.
Isobel shook her head. “No, he is. But it’s not the same. It’s not the same as yours.”
“You cannot drink my blood, Isobel. Thrache has advised against it.”
Izzy’s stomach turned leaden. “Therin, how can you say that? I need you. You know that. Why were you gone so long? Where did you go?”
“It is not your concern where I went.” He kissed her again. Again, she pushed away from him.
“Why are you being like this? Why won’t you talk to me?”
Therin reached for her waist and began to tug at the knot that held her dress in place. “I did not come here to talk.”
“Therin, I don’t understand …”
“Isobel, I said stop talking,” he commanded, and despite herself, Izzy was struck speechless.
“Good,” said Therin. “Now, take off your gown.”
75
Cursa Dram
There were two tables in the room, and Cursa Dram sat on the edge of one of them. He was admiring Deros’s work—the long, fine welts, and the even finer cuts, the placement, and the restrained depth. It was not nearly enough to kill the king, not for a long time yet, not if there was no infection. Not if he was cared for. Cursa Dram watched patiently as the woman finished her work, kneeling behind his victim, gingerly and thoroughly washing each injury clean. When she finally did dismiss herself, he was looking down at a still defiant Devin, a man not yet broken. Good.
“She was quite pretty, that one,” the king taunted, “but I’ll admit I was rather hoping you would have had Isobel in to look after me. She would have done a much better job of it, and she is my wife, after all. And let us not forget, demon, I did afford you her services, when the roles were reversed.”
“You will not see her again,” said Cursa Dram.
“Can you be so sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“Does she even know about this? What you’re doing to me?”
“Yes.”
Devin laughed, seemingly genuinely pleased. “My ravenous little monster. Always up for bloodshed.”
“We mustn’t disappoint her, then.”
“No. I suppose we mustn’t.” The king flashed his teeth again, and Cursa Dram recognized how dangerous it was, this biting back and forth at each other, how far it could go. He will try to make you kill him. He will try to make you kill him quickly.
Cursa Dram pivoted in another direction, away from the subject of his wife. “I want you to tell me where you have been, since the Macerai invaded Draena. I want you to tell me how you managed to find or create dreag, and how many more there are. There is no way out of this for you, either the pain or the death. But you may be able to afford yourself a few days’ less misery, depending on what you tell me, and how well I believe you.”
Devin’s eyes darkened. He was peering at Cursa Dram as if he was, in fact, the stupidest man who’d ever lived. “Dreag,” he spat. “Stars, the woman has actually driven you mad, hasn’t she? There have been no dreag in Medarrha, nor anywhere near it, for almost two hundred years. I know you haven’t necessarily had the finest of educations, but this is generally common knowledge, I thought, even amongst savages.”
Cursa Dram continued, evenly. “I will explain only once, king, that it will not serve you to lie to me. You thought yourself man enough to send the dead after Isobel, carrying a letter in your own hand. At least make a show of having a backbone now, and admit to your sins.”
“What in hell are you on about? What fucking letter? I never sent that bitch any letter.”
Cursa Dram found that he had lifted the king from his knees, by the back of his neck, and slammed the man’s face into the second table.
Blood pooled on the wood, and Devin struggled to spit out two teeth, his face still crushed to the surface. “I said I didn’t send her any letter,” he heaved, as Cursa Dram’s hand tightened, involuntarily, around his spine. Therin realized then, with horror, that he could not touch the bastard. If he continued to touch him, he was going to kill him. And it would be over far too soon. He called for Jaehen, and Jaehen appeared. Devin was bent over the table and strapped to it, stripped of what remained of his clothing. Jaehen stepped behind him, readying himself.
Cursa Dram leaned down towards Devin. “You know what’s about to happen, don’t you,” he said quietly, “if you do not stop lying.” He glanced up briefly at Jaehen before he went on. “Well, it’s going to happen, anyway, if I’m honest. The only thing you can change is how many times it happens, and how long it goes on. As it stands, only three men in this camp are in any way aware of the way you treated their queen. If word were to spread to the rest of us … I’m afraid there is very little chance you would be allowed to die from anything other than … overuse.”
“I told you, you brainless dog,” Devin gritted through his remaining teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t send anyone after her. I did not send her any letter.”
Cursa Dram moved his hand slightly, imperceptibly, and Jaehen proceeded. Devin’s cries were mostly of rage at first. He spewed vitriol at the both of them, not feeling even shame enough to look away from Cursa Dram’s gaze. It was not until Jaehen curved over the man and sunk his sharpened teeth deep into the king’s shoulder, that sounds of true pain were heard. Cursa Dram allowed himself only a few seconds more after that, of the red streams issuing from the wound, of the mangled flesh and the beautiful screaming, before he turned his back on the scene and left.
76
Cursa Dram
A hollow place indeed, thought Therin, as he entered the stronghold of the High Macerai. There were few enough people to be seen, three or four, perhaps, along all of the streets he rode through. None of them spoke, or smiled, nor even acknowledged his presence. There were no animals, and no plants, nor even any soil underfoot. There was not even dust, not a speck to be found in the place, where everything was made of stone, too smooth, and too cold. It was older than old; but not in the comforting way of the deep ground, the loam, and the wisdom of trees, the roots running through it. Those things were infinite in the way they were temporary, a cycle eternal. But the Hollow City was everlasting in a way that was frozen, never-changing, never-living. It was not a place for Izzy. It was not a place for anyone with a heartbeat.
Thrache was not immediately available, he was told, when he reached the tower at the center of the city, but the two women he encountered at the threshold seemed to know quite well who Cursa Dram was, and even to be expecting him. He breathed an inward sigh of relief, to see that there were women in the place, as he was led to his wife’s rooms.
He was taken aback by the darkness of the chamber, the lack of windows, the lone burning candle. For a moment, he couldn’t quite locate Izzy, until he saw her little feet strolling toward him over the gleaming black floor. Therin’s heart swelled and pounded, and he could feel a broad, helpless smile breaking free. But just as quickly, his face fell, as soon as Izzy’s could clearly be seen. She was physically well, as far as he could make out. Her hair was as silky and shining as ever. Her cheeks were full—she’d regained the weight she’d lost after killing the dreag. Therin could even make out a reassuring rounding of her stomach, underneath the draping of her skirts. And yet, her face was still somehow drawn and lifeless. She displayed no emotion at his presence. What, exactly, had he expected, though? You expected her to be happy to see you. You expected that she’d missed you.
“Isobel,” he began gently, reaching out for her arms, which she did not uncross. “What’s the matter?”
Izzy looked up at him, scowling in confusion. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
Therin was at a loss. “Because I have not seen you for weeks and weeks, and now that I have … you are standing there, looking as if you don’t know me at all, as if I am a stranger—which I suppose I may as well be, if you find my concern unusual.”
One side of Isobel’s face ticked up in a joyless smirk. “Oh, I see. Is this the game we’re playing today, then?”
“What are you talking about, Izzy? What game? I have lied to you before—I admit that freely. I have hurt you, and I have lied to you, but never without purpose. I do not play games with you; I never have.”
Isobel laughed. “You are concerned for me? You haven’t seen me, Therin? What purpose does that serve?” She broke out of his grip. She walked away from him.
“Saura Mae, please. I do not understand. Why are you angry with me? What have I done? Tell me what I’ve done.”
“It makes no difference, what you have done or what you have not done—nor what you will do. Do as you please. I have made my peace with it.” She walked back to him, then, and began unfastening his armor.
“Saura Mae, what are you doing?” he said, stopping her hands with his own. “Why will you not talk to me?”
Isobel looked at him with something more than anger … hatred, almost. “You did not come here to talk, Therin.” She pulled her hands out of his and continued trying to undress him.
He stepped away from her. Izzy responded by once again crossing her arms and glaring at him coldly. Therin thought of the day after she’d destroyed Lord Edden’s army, the way she’d behaved when she finally woke. He’d given into her then, hadn’t he, and it had brought her back. It brought her back to him.
Slowly, he removed all his clothing, his wife’s eyes ever on him, oscillating between puzzlement and apathy. As he finished, she made to take off her dress, but he held out a hand to stop her. “Wait,” he said softly. “Just … wait.”
Therin placed his hand on Isobel’s neck, his thumb brushing over the center of her throat. He grazed her lips with his own—once, twice. Her face changed a little—not offended, exactly, but rather as though she did not understand his behavior. He then untied her dress, which fell away as he pushed it from her shoulders. Then, he began to trace his fingers along her skin. He began at her collarbones, the tops of her arms, before moving downwards to her breasts. They were the lightest of touches, and slow. Deliberate. The sweeps became longer, but he applied no more pressure, down over her swollen stomach, along her hips. He repeated the motion, starting again at her shoulders and moving down. Gradually, Isobel began to thaw. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded. Therin kissed her again, and this time, she responded. He pulled her against his body, and his hardened cock twitched at the sudden contact with her skin. He kissed her harder, and he was finally rewarded with the smallest of whimpers, a sound that sent relief tumbling through every inch of him. His fingers made their cautious way between Isobel’s thighs, where she was wet, and warm, and everything he’d longed for since he saw her last. It was grace untold, after so many days, to finally feel her hunger again, and her thirst. He found her hand and brought it to his chest, pressing her ring into his flesh. Isobel’s heartbeat grew so fast and hard that he could hear it, and yet she did not put her mouth to the wound.
