Nathema. Even the sound of the world's name left an unpleasant sensation lingering in Acann's mind, as if trying to remember something his greater consciousness would have preferred to leave mercifully forgotten.
Or maybe that was simply echoes of memory: he'd always known when Thexan went to visit Vaylin. Echoes of wrongness emanated from wherever his twin was, as if examining Arcann by extension, following the threads that connected the two of them.
The actuality of that blighted place was worse, like a hole in the Force, a gaping mouth endlessly sucking, desperately trying to drain the rest of the galaxy dry to fill its own emptiness. It was a place that could twist and distort all but the strongest, most resolute of wills. He could feel it tugging at him, little fingers and tendrils trying to find his chinks, trying to get a foothold to wedge him apart.
His father sent his sister to this hellworld? Sadly believable.
But now it was time to bring her back, time to bring her home.
The place was storm-whipped, but even the sound of the leaves crashing, the speed at which lightning flashed, seemed somehow slowed, as if time itself had warped. That was just silly, but it left him in a bristling bad humor, much in contrast to the Knights with him: they were afraid. He could feel it, a sour tang emanating from all of them, the unpleasant mouth-feel of too much liquor the morning after.
The Curator was a malformed, alien-looking creature. Or maybe his kind all looked like that; it was hard to tell sometimes with aliens. "Your Highness," the bow was more like a cringe.
'He's a nasty little weasel, with a wheedling way that'll set your teeth on edge,' Thexan cautioned, distaste etching every word. 'He liked to pull wings off butterflies as a child.'
That meant this was someone who needed to be periodically squeezed.
"It is time for Vaylin to come home," Arcann said flatly. "You will conduct me to her immediately." For good measure, he glared at the… whatever the Curator was. He wondered about the mask obscuring the man's mouth and nose. Was it because his species wasn't adapted to a regular nitrogen/oxygen mix, or was it correcting some health issue?
"Of course, Your Highness. I believe the Immortal Emperor will be most pleased—"
"What you believe is irrelevant. Where is she?" Something about the way the man spoke struck him as just plain sleazy. Thexan was right: he would need to remind himself periodically—for a variety of reasons—not to kill this fool.
The Curator recoiled as if struck, then set off at a brisk walk that had too much of someone scurrying for cover.
Good. This was a bad place; Arcann felt it in his bones. He agreed with his father that Vaylin needed help. He agreed with Thexan that this didn't look remotely helpful.
Finally, in the heart of the facility, the Curator stopped at a heavy, reinforced door. "Vaylin?" the man called softly. "You've got a visitor."
Arcann felt it, like a heavy spotlight switching on to catch him in its beam. The sense of being investigated by a creature in a cave left his skin crawling. Thank goodness he left the handmaids on the ship: no doubt the silly women would be fainting with terror by this point.
The Curator opened the heavy door.
The room beyond was dark, which struck Arcann as being wrong. She shouldn't have been kept in a dark room: she was a—the—Princess of Zakuul. The Spartan room was wrong, too: just because he and Thexan could make do with rough living conditions when training (and, someday, real life) required it didn't mean she ought to.
Vaylin sat tailor fashion toward the back of the room, just beyond the range of the light pouring in from the hallway, a darker patch of darkness. "Hello, Arcann." Her voice was soft, hoarse, wary.
"Hello, Vaylin."
"It's normally Thexan who visits." There was a sour tone, as if asking why she was dealing with him and not Thexan.
He wouldn't admit the truth: he and Thexan both hated Vaylin's cage, but while Thexan could compartmentalize, Arcann found himself wanting to raze the place to nothing. This was a place that should not be. If he listened, he could hear something like a reversed echo—
It was best not to focus on that.
"I'm not here to visit. I'm here to bring you home."
A flash of amber eyes in the darkness, a coiling in the air of wariness. "Home?"
"That's right."
"To Father." A dark note in her voice made Arcann tense. It was there for anyone with ears: a clawing desire to commit a protracted, bloody murder. But she didn't move, except to smile in a sweet fashion at odds with her tone and the suggestion of her eyes. "I'm so looking forward to it."
Arcann's stomach clenched reflexively, but he pushed the uncomfortable sensation aside, taking the cloak proffered by one of the Knights as if nothing troubled him. Vaylin's silent stillness as he draped it around her, then settled the hood on her head, unnerved him further.
"There, that should be enough for out of doors." It was a bit of a walk, and Vaylin's raggedly thin clothes were barely suitable for being indoors.
Her expression flickered, as if this evidence of concern for her wellbeing was something that attracted and repulsed her. She didn't seem to decide which she felt more strongly; she simply reached up, tugging the hood as far forward as she could. "I don't like a lot of lights," she said quietly, with mulish sullenness.
"That should go away with time." He had no idea if it would, but for a moment the façade had cracked.
Sending her here hadn't fixed the problem. It simply shattered her, then compressed her like a spring. The question was what would happen when the pressure on her released.