Chapter Eleven –
Possibilities of Some Truly Interesting Entertainment
Eight days had passed since Jaedin had gone to Lærelin, eight days had passed since he had kidnapped the princess Elowyn and brought her back to his dark kingdom in Sytherria, and still there had been no word from she who ruled the Black City, beyond the fiery mountains of Neldyr.
Jaedin had tired of waiting for his lady queen to do as her part of their bargain demanded long before those eight days were over; now, his greatest thought was in regard of how he might use his task to better himself, even if that was to prove rather difficult…
* * *
A great crowd of the Dark Lord's own court had gathered in the enormous coliseum that was within the black palace; so many people were in it that not a few had adjourned to the outer wings that surrounded the huge open space, there to meander and promenade as garishly as they might at court. But this today no court was being held – today, instead, they had all come to see a string of executions.
Rákkhed Dahk-Marr came to his master's seat, which was to be found at the very center of the crescent-shaped spectator area: a tall, daunting throne that seemed to loom, complete with its awning of black silk and gold hangings, over the coliseum's sandy floor. He had been attending to his other duties about the city, acting his part of captain of the guard and leader of the Antari, and now it was with reluctance that he made his way to his lord.
Sytherria was not without its occasional quirks of disquiet, and every now and then, some addle-headed ion-brain got the idea into his head that he ought to try and raise a rebellion. Ríth-Anstarinaor, living up to his dreaded name, caught each dissident neatly in the palm of his gloved hands each time, and dispensed with every one of those involved in a revolt almost with a seeming amusement. It was almost more of a social and entertaining event when an execution of whatever fools had tried to get out from under the Dark Lord's rule was staged, and that was why so many of those who belonged to the court of Dranthiris-Ankhar had flocked to the palace that day.
The Dark Lord was already at his throne, looking out over the area with a cool, detached aura to his gaze: violet-gray eyes scanning the crowds, the coliseum itself, and, namely, the row of stakes that had been set up in the center of the area.
He looked quite emotionless: merciless and brutal, in a Spartan way, in his shiny black leather tunic, gauntlets, and boots – his breeches and the long black cloak that he wore, casually spilling over one arm of his throne, the only more reserved parts to his garb. The quantity of unrelieved black made his pale skin seem even more stark, drawing attention to his shaved skull and proud features. Rákkhed could already see a throng of black-garbed ladies of the Sytherrian court twisted around him.
All vying for the attention that they will never get, knowing him, he thought, acerbically, as he shouldered his way through the crowd, which eventually began to part for him, standing back in respect to allow the captain of the Antari – their lord's most favored servants – pass through.
When he had reached the throne, Rákkhed took the hand that was extended to him from the depths of the seat and bowed low over it, sinking down on one knee, before rising when the hand withdrew and gestured for him to do so. From the heretofore silent, brooding figure in the throne, then, "And how did you leave our little captive this morning, Captain?"
Rákkhed straightened the rest of the way and stood to one side of the throne, locking his hands behind himself and looking out over the crowd with as impassive a look in his eyes as that that was in his master's. Behind those startling black diamonds, however, a very faint flame flickered, but only Rákkhed himself could have known that it was there.
"As disinterested and yet ill-humored as ever, milord."
Jaedin narrowed his eyes a bit, until he was looking through the quivering slits that his long eyelashes made in his vision, and pursed his full lips, sinking down a bit further in his chair. It had to be noted that the Dark Lord, however many hundreds of thousands of years old he happened to be, most often affected the behavior and posture of an arrogant seventeen-year-old.
"Well then…perhaps I ought to do something to make her otherwise. The ball tonight – Rákkhed," turning so that the shaven head and aesthetic face now looked up at him, "Do you think that, perhaps, we might extend her an invitation?"
Rákkhed let his expression become quite dry and sardonic.
"It might prove to be quite interesting, my lord," he replied, without allowing what his true thoughts and take on the matter were to be hidden.
Jaedin sent him a sharp, mock-wounded glare before turning back around in his seat, simultaneously waving off the courtier who approached him with an offering of a goblet filled with some indescribably dark liquid of who-knew-what.
Then, as a griping adolescent might, "It would most certainly prove interesting, to say the least, Captain Dahk-Marr – I would have thought that you of all people could find the wits within you to imagine some possibilities of truly interesting entertainment…but, now I digress – there are other matters at hand to be dealt with."
And with that, he rose from his seat and stood before the assembly, raising both hands for quiet. Within a moment, the dull roar of the crowd of those gathered had come to a halt, and all faces, or a great many at that, had turned towards him.
Rákkhed, however, turned to leave, not to listen, knowing that now what the crowd had deemed as worthy 'entertainment' – the execution of the latest band of revolutionaries, forty-odd Traktharrs, an odd race of people with the features of bats, but all the other outward characteristics of humans – was about to begin. He had witnessed far too many displays of his master's ultimate and uncontestable power to find any pleasure in them now.
And he had begun to wonder if he ever had.
* * *
The Antari, being an immortal race but not gifted with magic: their only powers of enchantment being those of the martial arts, had been with the Dark Lord from the very first moment that he had entered the realm of Sytherria. Over the countless millenniums that they had been there with him, they had all learnt well how to adapt to the scorching desert climate that had been the cause of death and destruction for so many.
Thus, the terrible heat of the midday sun and the ever-present threat of sudden sandstorms was hardly a matter of concern for Captain Rákkhed Dahk-Marr as he made his exeunt from one of the bastions that fronted the palace's towering, thick black walls, and went out onto the battlements. Archers and other members of the Dark Lord's forces were already there, patrolling the perimeter – as if there were really any need for them to do so, Rákkhed thought in hardly veiled scorn as he passed along the wall, sentries halting in their rounds to acknowledge him as he passed by.
Rákkhed had been Jaedin's most faithful and ardent servant from the first day that he could remember, a point in time that was so long ago that he himself could hardly remember it. In all truth, the Antari hardly knew anything of their own pasts, which was incredibly odd; everyone, surely, even the Dark Lord himself, had a past – but neither he nor his devoted servants could exactly name theirs. All the Antari knew was that they had suddenly one day been aware of the fact that they were living, and that they must serve, without failing, the one whose name had been taken from the god of night, and shadows: Jaedin. And what did the Dark Lord know of his own past? Well, whatever he knew, he was not telling.
But the thing that was troubling Rákkhed now, as he stood upon the outer wall of the palace of Dranthiris-Ankhar, looking out over the stretching sands of the Sytherrian desert, was a deep-rooted, soul-shaking doubt that had begun to gnaw away at his soul.
The Antari had a vow: they would serve their lord, and only him, no matter what, come what may. They called down a curse upon themselves and all of those like them if they ever turned against their lord – he knew this. But then why – why…? Why what?
Irritated, Rákkhed pushed himself forcefully away from the wall and began to pace again, the other beings on the ramparts moving out of his way as he strode past them.
Why, was the question. And it was a multi-faceted question indeed – why had he begun to doubt, and what exactly was his doubt? He would remain faithful to his lord to the very end…but there was something, something botched and wrong about everything…although he knew not what that something was. The Dark Lord was his master, may his sword turn against him if he ever turned against his master…
* * *
Night fell over Sytherria, and the thousands of members of the court that had, that day, attended the exclusive entertainment of a show in which the latest round of revolutionaries had been dispensed with by the Dark Lord, now flocked to Dranthiris-Ankhar's inner chambers. A great banquet and then revelries was to be held that night, and there was not many of that dark kingdom that fully desired to miss out on it.
In the Tower of Adamant, Elowyn stood at the window and looked out over the labyrinth in which she had been imprisoned, watching the sun begin to set in the horizon, falling slowly beneath the dark earth and turning the sky to a deep blood-red, and then purple-black. The desert winds still blew warm and humid against her cheek, stirring her pale golden curls, as the sands below her began to cool, and the walls of the labyrinth to turn to a chalky gray.
Far off in the distance, she could see a faint red glow coming from the place where she now knew her captor made his home: something was happening there tonight, she could tell, but what it was, she had no idea…
And really, she didn't give a care.
The sun dropped behind the horizon and evening further waned into night. Having nothing else to do now that the stars were each in their positions – composing constellations that she had never seen before, and did not remotely know, which told her just how far away she was from her home – she turned and went back inside of her prison, gazing at its black interior with a similar cast to her sea-green eyes.
Black, black – all was black.
She'd tried not to think about her parents, her family, her home, and friends in those last few days, knowing inherently that her dark enemy would try to use that longing against her if he could. He seemed bent on tormenting her until her mind cracked and she went insane.
But she wouldn't think about him – not now; not when, for once, he wasn't there with her, in spirit or in person.
Well, going to bed seemed as if it was as good as a choice as she might get right at the moment. It was either stay up and try to find a new way of whiling away her solitary hours in the tower, or go to sleep – and she didn't feel like considering just what her captor and his Queen's plans might be for her. He had mentioned them several times, but only very vaguely, which bothered her…
Then…
"My lady." a slightly accented, clear voice said from behind her, suddenly.
Elowyn froze where she stood.
After a moment, the voice continued, speaking quickly and tersely, as if in extreme haste, "Making one's way out of this labyrinth was made to be impossible, Child of the Faeries, but I have come to tell you that there is a way for you to make your escape from this dark place. Listen carefully now – tonight, your captor intends to have you join him at his palace, for a banquet is to be held there. His emissaries—"
And somehow, from the way that last word was spoken, Elowyn could tell that whatever people her jailer was sending wouldn't be any typical messengers. Oh Fates…
"They will be arriving shortly to ready you for the revelries. Do as they tell you, and go with him to the palace, Dranthiris-Ankhar. There, when the lights go out, run as if there is no tomorrow – for there may not be a tomorrow for you if you do not take this chance tonight."
"And how will I get out of this palace that you speak of?" she asked. Her head was whirling with a thousand thoughts. Could this be a trap? No…oh, I pray not! But who is this person? "How am I supposed to escape such a fortress?"
"We will help you." the voice came back.
We?
"We will allow you to escape, but we can only do this after you have made it out of the palace itself. Once you are in the city, we can help you. Look for your old friend, the winged stallion, whom my master has kept in his stables since shortly after you arrived here – he will come for you, once we have released him."
Elowyn felt herself assailed by a thousand and one emotions – doubts, questions, and other thoughts flooded into her mind, threatening to burst her head. Who was this person, and why did he – or rather, they – want to help her? Wasn't she a prisoner of their master, and they his faithful servants? Was this all some trick of her captor?
Then she did turn around, narrowing her eyes, and sent out a mental probe for dark magic in the air, the trace of evil power that she had learned would warn her of her captor's presence – but could find no such thing. Unless he has learnt to transcend that, and truly make himself invisible to anyone's eyes, even those of magic – which is almost unthinkable…
"Who are you, and how can I trust you?" she called out.
A stern, commanding figure in black robes materialized out of the shadows that were beyond the doorway that led down the flight of steps of the tower, and she found herself looking into a strange new face: that of an impassively attractive man, who wore a large, silvery pendant with a blood-red stone at its center and a long, curving sword at his side, and who had two identical, swirling black tattoos upon his cheekbones, just below his eyes.
They regarded one another in silence for a moment, and Elowyn at last realized that this man, whomever he was, was totally without any trace of magic. Completely untouched by it: he was not faery, not Elven, and certainly not giant or dwarf, but he was not mortal either. In fact, she couldn't tell what he was, but she could almost see the traces of magic that were in the air falling away from him, as if they were dust, and he had some invisible shield about him.
Strange…
Then this meant, she suddenly realized, that she could trust him. This was no phantom, no specter or product of enchantment, this man standing before her. This person, this figure, was simply, and inexplicably, without a doubt, real. Real, however, in a way that she could hardly comprehend: for in his eyes she could see the knowledge and memories of millenniums, and yet she could see neither age nor enchantment upon him – but real.
He spoke.
"I am Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, and I am of the Antari, who serve the lord of Sytherria: the one who has kept you these eight days in duress while awaiting the coming of his lady, the Ebony Queen, to his fortress. But we have no time – you must choose now whether you wish to trust the word of the Antari, and take your chance to escape…or not."
Elowyn looked at him for a long moment then, trying to process all of this.
The Antari… She had read about them, been taught about them in her history lessons, although most of her knowledge had actually come from Gavin and her other brothers, who were interested in the ancient legends and stories of war and conquest. But now this – she had never expected to meet one of them! They were the race of beings that served the Dark Lord of Sytherria, above all others: his elite guard, a people who neither had magic, nor could be affected by it. Timeless they were, without age, and the fiercest of combatants in confrontations, feared for ages by the other peoples of the earth.
And they wanted to help her escape.
"Why?" she asked him. "Why are you doing this – why do you want to help me, against the will of your dread Lord?"
The Dark Lord of Sytherria – her captor!
Rákkhed regarded her with his solemn, black diamond eyes.
"We serve Jaedin, Lord of Sytherria, and him alone," he told her; then, with a flicker of a smile upon his lips, he added, "And sometimes, fair princess, this means that we must also protect him from himself." And with that, he bowed to her and then stepped backwards, into the shadows: seeming to become one himself. His words floated back to her from the darkness.
"Go with him to the palace, and make your move to escape when all of the lights go out – that is your signal from me, telling you that it is safe for you to run, for no one will be able to see in such immense darkness…"
"And I can only imagine the chaos." Elowyn remarked, a slight grim curve etching onto her lips. Then, there was only silence, and she knew he had gone.
So, as suddenly as her kidnapping had happened, a way for her to finally escape – escape! How she had dreamed of it! – had come to her, and from a most unexpected source. The Antari were fanatically, everlastingly devoted to their Lord…but sometimes, as the one who had spoken to her had revealed, this meant that they must also protect him from himself.
But she had no time to wonder on this.
Orpheus was here, and she would make her escape with him. Now, as she thought about it, she knew that the poor creature had likely gone just about out of his mind when the panic waves caused by her kidnapping had reached the Avalennon stables, and he had somehow managed to follow her here, to Sytherria.
Sytherria: the desert kingdom across the sea from Lærelin and the other countries that she knew best. Sytherria, the arid land that stretched into the ether of the earth just beyond Elvendome! Sytherria, the domain of Jaedin, S'ríth-Anstarinaor.
The Antari would help her escape, but only after she had made it out of the Dark Lord's palace, this Dranthiris-Ankhar. She prayed to the Fates, each of the Seven Powers of the World, and to the Three Themselves that she would be able to do this.
For she did not know what awaited her otherwise.
Escape.
I'm going home, and soon this will all be no more than a bad dream…
Won't it?
* * *
Less than a quarter of an hour after she had had her meeting with the Captain of the Antari in the darkened tower, Elowyn was alerted by her powers of enchantment – however weakened they now were by the Dark Lord's spells on her prison – that someone was approaching. It turned out to be a group of eight someone's, actually: eight exotic, black-veiled houris, all of whom entered the tower bearing various burdens in their arms, and all of whom sent her dagger-like glares from their almond-shaped eyes of sparkling amber.
Jaedin had sent them, several ladies of his court, to attend the princess whom he had captured and held prisoner at his Lady's behest in his tower. They had been given orders to prepare her for the banquet and revelries that were to be held at Dranthiris-Ankhar that night, and to prepare her well, for the Dark Lord himself would be keeping her at his side all through the festivities, as his consort.
His consort! The Sytherrian ladies' rage and jealousy knew no bounds. This slender, sharp-tongued little shrew, this pale, green-eyed faery bratling, had suddenly captivated the Dark Lord – whose attentions that they had been vying for over the past who-knew how many years! Every one of them looked at Elowyn: standing before them in all her sublime, light-filled radiance and innocence, so different from their evil-tainted charms, and seethed inside, barely hiding her loathing for the girl.
How could it be that the Dark Lord could find her so entrancing, so utterly irresistible? Was not each of them ten times lovelier than any faery? Were they not each the most peerless beauties of the Dark Realm?
But they had their orders, and they could not very well refuse or disobey the Dark Lord without some threat of retribution from he whom they so desired.
And so now they went to work.
Wordless and hostile, frosty in their irritation, they closed in around her and began the process of transforming her into a courtier worthy of joining in on their dark fête: transforming her into one of them. The simple black gown that she'd worn for the past several days of her confinement was whisked away; her hair was let down from its braid and brushed out, and through it, someone ran fingers coated with a strange pomade: the fragrance of which reminded her of sandalwood. Perfumed oils and other sorts of balms, smelling of mysterious, alluring substances – frangipani, tuberose, jasmine, and bergamot – were slathered all over her body, until her skin glowed a strange new bronze, smooth and flawless.
While her hair was twisted and styled atop her head, with jewels strung into its masses and a veil cascading down her swan-like, fine-boned neck, down her straight shoulders, down her lissome and slender back, her gown was prepared.
A gown – another gown. Bloody underworlds.
Her face looked frightening, she thought, when she looked into the mirror. Some sort of thick, black kohl had been used to rim her eyes, making her lids and eyelashes stand out even more than they usually did: a vivid contrast to her jade-coloured eyes. They had dusted her skin with a perfumed powder as well, which sparkled and glowed at turns when the light touched upon it, and a deep, dark gloss had been painted onto her lips, setting off the whiteness of her even teeth.
Then, at the very last, they encased her in the gown: a revolting affair of dark jewels, gold, silks and veils, exposing her skin to the warm nighttime air of Sytherria, with heavy, gem-ridden jewelry to accompany it. Finally, Elowyn was allowed to see herself fully, marking now the change that had been wreaked upon her.
Oh yes, the handmaids of the Dark Lord had done their job—
And done it well.
She was as dark as any one of them – she looked as if she were just another contemptible jewel of the Dark Lord's court: one of his retinue, tainted with his loathsome, inescapable, compelling evil…but beneath the painted face, beneath the silks and gold-ridden straps, she was Elowyn: Princess of Faeries, who would never succumb to the darkness.
Do as you please, S'ríth-Anstarinaor n'et Sytherria. I will escape you.
* * *
Shortly after that, the eight ladies left her, disappearing into the night.
Elowyn was left in the silky shadows to await the coming of her despised escort, the Dark Lord himself. As she stood at her small balcony and looked out over the sands of the Sytherrian desert, glimmering a silvery white under the moon's beaming face, she immersed herself within new thoughts – for she now had much more to think about.
How odd, she thought, that she hadn't had the presence of mind to figure out for herself who her dark captor really was. He had referred to the fact that he ruled a realm and the fact that he served a Queen often enough, and that alone should have tipped her off. She knew the ancient faery history well; it was shocking to her that she hadn't seen the truth before. Perhaps he had weakened her powers even more than she'd thought – or her wits were simply beginning to rust and decay horribly in her dark prison-tower.
The Dark Lord of Sytherria had always been knight to the Ebony Queen, who was a purportedly beautiful but mysterious and evil sorceress, whose origins were a mystery to everyone. The Dark Lord himself seemed to have no past whatsoever but that in which he had served the Queen.
Of course, it was rumored – in legend and in the history tomes – that there was a tie of some sort between them, but even the best and most learned of historians could only guess what that was. All anyone knew for sure was that the Dark Lord had been with her for more than five hundred thousand years, and that he would serve the will of none other.
Now, the Queen had not always been the predominant figure in the Dark Realm that she had grown to be since the Battle for Avalennon, which had seen the crowning of Orandor Raven-Helm as the ruler of the entire faery race. No, there had been a time when there was no such ruler among the heads of that malevolent place; instead, several different figures had held sway of the court and all of the creatures and beings there, and they had been the most powerful of their kinds. In the days since the Dark Realm's greatest defeat, it seemed that the Queen had slowly won over all to her will, making devoted subjects of every last living or undead creature of evil, and only recently, since her uncle Brendan's last return from his sojourns, had they learned of her rise to power.
They had thought it was over. They had thought that the Queen was a distant, weakened power, like all of the other rulers of the Dark Realm. They had thought that he – that Jaedin, the Dark Lord – was gone.
Gone? Ha!
Not while hidden plans, prophecies of imminent doom, and wraiths remained. And now, here she was – here rested the world, with war fast sweeping down upon it…
* * *
A/N: Ah, but don't expect to be alone for long, Elowyn! Your escort will soon arrive to sweep you off to his dark palace, and what awaits you there?
Cast list:
Rakkhed Dahk-Marr: Oded Fehr