The Arrows of the Heart Page 26

  Andromeda sighed, putting the Star away again, her image dimming. “I can’t keep you here much longer. All I can tell you is to remember your own tale and safeguard yourself against the witch. Whatever she tells you, ask yourself what purpose it might serve her for you to believe her.”

  “Even if I do those things, I can’t escape her,” I protested, feeling the panic rise again. “I’m trapped. This place is an isolated fortress. And I’m no fighter. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “There is.” Andromeda gazed at me fiercely. “Remember that. The choice is yours.”

  “But I don’t even know what choice you mean.”

  She faded into shadows, only the silver spheres of her eyes remaining, sliding together into a single full moon.

  “Remember.” The wind soughed her words in a thousand whispers. “The choice is yours.”

  ~ 22 ~

  I awoke to my darkened bedchamber. Outside my windows, the full moon sailed high and bright, filling the sky with silver radiance that illuminated the snow-capped peaks. One of the windows must’ve been left ajar, because chill wind whistled through it.

  Remember, it whispered.

  I sat bolt upright. The whole strange dream flooded back to me. It couldn’t have been real. Magic of that sort simply wasn’t possible. That full moon shining through my window, on top of all the wine at lunch, had given me flights of fancy. And a headache. My eyes felt gritty and my temples throbbed. What had possessed me to drink so much wine?

  That’s what had made me think I spoke with Queen Andromeda. Certainly it hadn’t been real. It had to have been a dream.

  “I never dream,” I said aloud, my voice hushed by the velvet-draped room. Remember, the wind whispered back. The choice is yours.

  The doors to my bedchamber flew open and golden torchlight flooded the room, banishing the moon’s silver glow. My handmaiden made an exclamation of dismay and hurried to the open window, shutting it firmly, and latching it—extinguishing the voice of the wind also.

  Just as well. I didn’t want the choice to be mine. I’d never asked for any of this. Jepp had said almost those very same words to me on that long-ago day in the Imperial Seraglio. It will be your choice. The freedom to decide. I wanted to burst into tears just as I had on that day.

  I shouldn’t have to make these choices. I’d done what was asked of me. I’d made one terrible decision. Wasn’t that enough?

  My handmaiden had been lighting all the torches and lanterns in the room, and now came to me, hands extended in invitation to rise. Because it was easier—and I needed the time to think—I went with her to the bathing chamber, where apparently I was meant to take a hot bath again. At least this time she pinned my hair up to keep it from getting wet. Otherwise, she soaped and oiled me with the same thoroughness as earlier in the day. And, in a further violation, she oiled my sex, too, using her fingers to push the unguent well inside of me, a clear indication of what lay ahead. I bore it all with apparent meekness, awaiting my opportunity.

  Layers of jasmine later, she dressed me in a gown of sheer white lace. Spun of translucent silk and worked in an open pattern it would take me years to learn, the lace revealed more of my body than it hid. I kept expecting more layers of overdress, but my handmaiden sat me in a chair, working assiduously with fire-warmed rods to iron my hair again into a smooth gleam, coaxing it into orderly waves.

  My habit of obedience had me sitting still for it, but I kept thinking about Zyr and how he’d liked the wildness of my hair. He’d liked all the spirit and disobedience in me, as no one else ever had. He must be prowling his bare cell, as best he could in those chains, wondering when I’d free him. Or if I’d free him.

  If he could think at all.

  I’d lost the will to fret about his captivity sometime during the long afternoon of wine and conversation. Though… maybe it hadn’t been a conversation at all. I mostly remembered the voice of the High Priestess, not even her words, but the melody of it, like listening to lovely music.

  Looking back at those hours, they seemed as if they’d happened to someone else. Like a tale I’d heard and vividly imagined. Except I recalled the taste of the wine and all the feelings the High Priestess had evoked in me. I’d been so happy. Happier than I’d ever been in my life. I’d belonged.

  And Andi had taken it away from me. She’d taken that sense of belonging and ripped it clean away. I could hate her for that.

  My handmaiden finished with my hair and applied more cosmetics. She did so artfully, but far more heavily than my mother would approve of. I looked more like a rekjabrel than a virginal maid and honorable wife.

  But then, the High Priestess had said the god would divest me of my virginity at midnight, hadn’t she? It seemed impossible that I’d greeted that news gladly. How did a god take a human woman to his bed?

  One thing was certain: I didn’t want to find out.

  The choice is yours.

  But how could it be my choice? I couldn’t break Zyr out of those chains or fight the mind magic of the High Priestess. It still made no sense to refuse to eat or drink. I’d die of thirst within days.

  And yet… wasn’t that a choice?

  Maybe I couldn’t fight, but I could choose not to cooperate. Don’t agree. Don’t offer gratitude. Don’t accept her gifts.

  Though she’d claimed she wasn’t, Andromeda must be a sorceress as powerful as the High Priestess the way she’d wiped my mind, heart, and soul clean of Deyrr’s influence so I could decide again with my eyes open. To give me a second chance. The choice is yours. Maybe the choice not to make the same mistakes again.

  My handmaiden tugged me to my feet, showing me my image in the mirror again. If I hadn’t become accustomed to going without clothing in the last days, my near nudity in the revealing gown would have scandalized me into paralysis. As it was, I could see that I looked beautiful, but not at all like myself.

  The tale I’d told them back in Annfwn had always been one of my favorites, mostly for the heroine and that one line—for beauty can be measured in many ways and no kind is better than any other.

  I’d never told anyone that was my favorite part. It had seemed silly and a minor piece of the tale. Even so, as much as I’d always loved those words, I hadn’t truly understood them until this moment. Now I could see how everything I knew about myself—and those parts of me I had yet to discover—could be measured in many ways. And while no quality in myself was better than any other, I could choose which I preferred. The choice is yours.

  I’d never really considered, either, how the heroine had died at the end. Zyr had been so incensed, insistent that the ending should be different. I’d always accepted that tragic endings were inevitable.

  Perhaps not.

  What if the tale had gone differently, and the youngest princess had outwitted the witch? She could’ve reclaimed her sisters’ minds, saved the kingdom and lived. Then she might’ve married for love and had children instead of perishing at the wolf’s teeth. That was Zyr’s point all along. You fight when you have to, so that you can have a normal life afterward.

  I’d chosen life back at the lake, when I foolishly—maybe innocently, as Zyr had called me—thought my greatest battle would be enduring Zyr’s sexual attentions. If only my eyes had been open then, we could’ve enjoyed each other. Instead, my eyes had been so focused on some happy ending for some ideal of myself that no longer existed that I’d lost the happiness I could’ve held in my hands right then.

  That was past and I couldn’t change it. I could change what I did next. I’d fight this battle, and whether I lived or died, I’d at least know I’d done it on my own terms.

  The choice is yours. So be it.

  “I’m not going,” I told the handmaiden, digging in my heels as she tugged me toward the door. She looked confused, then determined, and tugged at me again. “No.” I used my best regal command voice, feeling as strong-willed as Andi had named me. Never mind that I was almost naked. My will came from inside, not from r
ank someone gave me or the rich gowns I wore. Not from following the rules. “I will not go.”

  She looked afraid and spoke to me in a rush of pleading words. I felt bad for her, clearly a servant in thrall to the priests and priestesses of Deyrr, but I wouldn’t sacrifice myself to their god—and take Zyr down with me—to protect this girl. I couldn’t protect anyone if I gave my will over to them again.

  When she couldn’t move me, she gave up and left, closing the doors behind her. Feeling the crawl of disobedience, I slipped up to the doors and tested the handles. Locked. I don’t know what I would’ve done if they hadn’t been—there’d been guards posted outside before and I doubted that had changed—but it seemed like the first step in fighting this cage. How could I know how strong the bars were that held me until I measured my strength against theirs?

  Following that vein, I prowled through my chambers, checking the windows and other doors. The doors all led to closets, sitting rooms, and a servant’s room. The windows all opened easily enough—to a brutally cold wind and a sheer drop that even the bright moon didn’t illuminate. I listened for that voice in the wind, but it only howled of freezing death.

  Andromeda, if she had indeed ever been present in my mind, had left entirely. I was on my own. I’d known that—had known it since that moment I broke all the rules and requested that annulment—but now I embraced that truth. The High Priestess had seen the gaping hole in me, had felt the wind of loneliness in me, and used that to offer the first of her gifts that I’d accepted. I’d been bought for the offer of belonging. And it had made me happy, for those short few hours, but it hadn’t been real. I couldn’t blame Andromeda for taking it from me. That happiness, that feeling of kinship, had been yet another veil over my eyes, just as my marriage to Kral had been.

  None of that had been real. I supposed Jepp had seen that, had tried to explain it to me. I’d seen it, too, in that brief moment of clarity.

  Oddly enough, the only parts of my life that seemed vividly real were those moments with Zyr. Flying on his back—even in my terror, I’d been wholly myself. Arguing with him. Laughing at his mischief. Kissing him.

  I checked the drawers and wardrobes, looking for more clothes, not surprised to find nothing. Dasnarian to the core, the High Priestess employed the same familiar tricks. Deprive your captive of outdoor clothing in a harsh climate and she’s as good as chained.

  But not chained in actuality, not like Zyr. I needed to remember that.

  The doors flew open and, as I’d expected, the High Priestess strode in. She wore a flowing golden gown, opulent and ornate, with matching jewelry, and an equally elaborate expression of concern. The teardrop pendant, a deep amber color like the Star, nestled at the hollow of her throat.

  Rushing up to me, she took my hands, studying my face with her lightless eyes.

  I had to leave just enough for her to believe she has you in her power still, Andromeda had said. That meant I should pretend to be as I was before. A dangerous line to dance, as agreeing too much with her would open the door to losing my will to her again. I didn’t kid myself that I had the ability to keep her out. I’d fallen easily before and I could again.

  So I smiled back, tremulously, letting her see my fear.

  “Your maid says you refused to leave your bedchamber. Is that true?”

  Don’t agree. Now that Andromeda had cleared my mind, I could feel the snaky tendrils of the High Priestess’s magic caressing my thoughts, testing them as I’d tested the bars on the doors. “I’m afraid of this ceremony,” I told her. Absolutely true.

  “Oh, no, there’s nothing to fear, my friend. You know I only want the best for you, yes?” She squeezed my hands, the sticky web of her control sliding over my skin, climbing to the inky band of talons, making them constrict. With effort, I hid my reaction, dropping my gaze. How had I not felt it before? A great gift Andi had given me, this sensitivity, but I suspected it wouldn’t last long under the onslaught of Deyrr’s cloying touch. With my eyes lowered, I studied the topaz pendant dangling from the delicate gold chain around her swanlike throat. The key to the barriers between me and Zyr’s cell. It took everything I had not to grab it and yank it from her neck.

  “I think I’m not ready for the god’s touch,” I replied carefully, my mental feet firmly in my own truth, and pulled my hands out of her grasp, making a pretense of fussing with my hair.

  “Yes, you are,” the High Priestess replied firmly, the command in her voice bubbling through my blood, seeking a grip in my will. It slid away again, but I realized that refusing her would reveal my independence. Curse it all. I stared at her blankly. She smiled warmly, then slipped her arm through mine. “Come with me, Karyn. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  The way she spoke my name evoked how Andromeda had called me through sleep and dreams to speak with her. No wonder the old tales spoke of the power of names and how practitioners of black magic could use your name to command you. I shivered at the thought—and at the clammy feel of the High Priestess’s body touching mine—and she patted my hand. Fortunately she seemed confident in her power over my will, because those seeking threads of magic withdrew as I walked obediently along with her. For the first time, it occurred to me that she might be physically dead. That would explain her unchanging youth, her apparent immortality, and the relative chill of her body. She wasn’t cold, exactly, but rather the same temperature as everything around us, utterly lacking the warmth of a living body.

  Only the dead never age, we said in Dasnaria, and I fully understood the truth of that now. Was this what they planned for me, an eternal, living death?

  The High Priestess chatted amiably as we went through the winding halls, speaking of my future and how I’d be. Instructing me, I realized. I did my best not to listen, the magic in her musical voice palpable now.

  That was a choice, too. I didn’t have to listen to her. Instead, I thought furiously of how to escape, focusing all my attention on that. There had to be a way in, which meant a way out. Zyr could fly and I could ride him. I’d worry about freezing later. Getting us out was all that mattered.

  The High Priestess led me into a temple that made my heart stutter and drop chill and already lifeless in my chest. I’d never seen a Temple of Deyrr, of course, but I would’ve recognized it regardless.

  Made entirely of gold, every surface gleamed with metallic light. Shuttered lanterns of gold scattered candlelight through pinprick holes, and flaming torches reeked of some scented oil that reminded me of old blood. Images chased each other over the walls—gaunt figures fleeing through bare and wintry forests, skeletons scattered over the ground, and towering over them all, the giant figure of Deyrr. The god had been rendered in loving detail, robust and with a gentle smile as his great hands reached down to scoop up the people.

  A basket hung over his arm, spilling with food and coins, traditional symbols of Dasnarian plenty. Behind him, people danced, these figures silvery, their eyes picked out with glittering black stone. I nearly laughed at that, wondering if the practitioners of Deyrr believed that lie, too, that they didn’t see their own gazes looked as dead as the rotting corpses they disdained.

  I couldn’t laugh, or point this out to the gathered priests and priestesses, not only for fear of revealing I again possessed my own will—but because the sight of the statue of Deyrr filled me with such nauseating terror that it stole all laughter away. To think I’d been afraid of flying. Truly I had been innocent, not to understand the world held things far more worthy of my fear.

  Garbed in golden robes, the priests and priestesses formed a narrowing path to the idol. Formed of gold, larger than even the biggest Dasnarian man, the god appeared to sit in a chair, grinning with sharp teeth, arms held wide as if to embrace his followers. Or a reluctant bride, as between his spread and massive thighs an enormous, rampant, metal cock reared up from his groin. A bowl situated beneath his artistically rendered scrotum, also exaggerated in size—or so I believed, from what little I knew of male gen
italia—seemed perfectly placed to capture my virgin blood.

  They might be disappointed there as my country-girl life of climbing trees and riding horses had likely left little of my hymen intact. Dasnarians relied far more on a protective family ensuring the chastity of their daughters, rather than something as prosaic as wedding-night blood. Though the size of the thing might do it. And as the smiling High Priestess led me closer to my leering, inanimate bridegroom, I perceived that the god’s metal cock had been shaped with sharp edges that would draw copious blood indeed.

  It made me wonder why my maidservant had bothered with the oil. Surely I wouldn’t survive such a sundering. Or perhaps I wasn’t meant to. I could be intended to bleed to death in the god’s cold embrace, awaking again forever young and eternal in my clammy waking death.

  I balked. I couldn’t help it, my feet stumbling in the sheer horror of the prospect ahead of me. I’d waited too long. I should’ve escaped when I could, for there was no avoiding this fate. The High Priestess gripped my arm with her unnatural strength, crooning reassurance. At least my fear didn’t seem unexpected, even if she believed me still under her spell.

  Briefly, I wished I was. With the veil of false happiness and belonging, I might’ve gone to this lethal bedding with joy in my heart. It would have been a lie, but a restful one. I supposed most lies were meant to be soothing, so much easier than brutal truth.

  Restful lies were a luxury of someone without the burden of choice, however. I’d spent too much of my life taking comfort in numb acceptance and easy obedience.

  Though I still had no idea how I’d escape this fate. I wasn’t Jepp to quickly draw hidden daggers and slice my way free in a whirlwind of merciless vengeance. Nor could I shapeshift to escape like Zynda would, or work magic like the Tala sorceresses. I had nothing, not even my bow and arrows. I’d been an easy bynd to take in Deyrr’s game with more powerful pieces, and from what Andromeda had said, I’d be used to topple them.