Chapter Twenty-Seven –
Trust or Betrayal: You Must Choose
Neither of the two leaders of their party were speaking very much – either to one another, or to anyone else. In fact, it seemed almost as if they were avoiding even the slightest eye contact with one another. Jaedin wore a look unlike his perpetual observant, cool, and extremely cocky expression upon his face, and it made him appear to be even more forbidding and ascetic of aspect than ever before. Elowyn rode at his side, but she did not look at him, and her pretty young face was drawn with lines of concern.
And to think that they had all assumed that the Princess and the Dark Lord had come to some sort of peace-agreement between themselves.
Obviously, they had been quite mistaken.
This realization cast a pall over the remaining members of the little group, and they, after a while of stiff, awkward attempts at conversation, rode along in complete, dour silence. They had gone off-course in their escape from the Silver City, Jaedin had told them, pointing out their new position on a map that he somehow procured, by art of his own powers. Now, in order to regain lost time and avoid run-ins with other potential aggressors, he said, they would have to turn off of their original course—
And enter the fringes of Sytherria.
The faeries' consternation at this was understandable – few had entered that desert realm within the last several millennia and then emerged to tell happy tales about it.
It was, as Elowyn had seen that seeming lifetime before, when she had been the Dark Lord's captive, a truly desolate and arid land, which held only a beauty that dragons and its other natural inhabitants could comprehend. One day under the blinding, white-hot sun, in those deserts, they had been told – many a time – and they would find themselves wondering if they would ever see a green-leafed tree ever again.
But into Sytherria they had to, and did, go.
The horses seemed to become more open to the idea of long gallops then, which at first disconcerted their riders; then, Jaedin told them that the animals were not unknown to sense a lack of water and food before entering such a realm, and that they also, in all likeliness, could sense the presence of large predators nearby. Dragons were among the fiercer inhabitants of the Dark Lord's realm, but there were also other predators there that could just as easily frighten a horse.
At any rate – whatever the true reason behind this was – they were all soon flying along the amber-tinted dunes, scaling hills and then galloping down them, passing by ravines, under stone arches sculpted by the hands of the very elements themselves, and around pits of lava and tar that filled the air for a mile around with the stench of sulfur and flame.
Little did they suspect that what they would at first take to be a great treachery awaited them, near the end of that day…
* * *
The sun, which seemed even more enormous, even more like a colossal burning ember fallen from the heavens, began to drift into the western horizon, and stained the desert with the hues of chaos and blood. Robbie reined his mount in to a halt and called out to the black-cloaked figure who rode up ahead of him: the young prince's voice was hoarse and unsteady, so long had he gone without speaking and, even worse, water.
"Do you mean for us to ride through the night in this place? What of the creatures that you have told us dwell within these hills?"
Jaedin slowly reacted to this sally: first, his head turned beneath its cloak, swiveling with infinite, liquid lassitude until they could call catch a glimpse of the dying sun's light on his eyes. Then, he finally turned the upper half of his body, so that he faced three-quarters of the way towards his companions, who remained atop their mounts behind him. He relaxed his grip on the reins, idly toying with the leather straps as he replied to Robbie's question, seeming bored.
"We must move on. I am compelled to answer the questions of no man."
A great silence moved in to fill the void after he uttered those somewhat surprising words – oddly enough, they had been under the impression that his outright hostilities towards his forced guidance of their quest had come to an end. Robbie looked taken aback for a moment, but for only just that long; his expression of surprise and slight hurt very quickly and easily altered to one of narrow-eyed resentment.
"So – when it happens to be that the vampyre cannot stand the light of the sun, we are all expected to simply accept that fact, and whatever drawbacks that come alongside it…but when the tables are turned, and it is his companions who do not wish to endure the long darkness of a fell land, we must also endure his arrogance?" he hissed.
Jaedin's reaction to this was unseen beneath his overshadowing hood.
"I would mind the words you speak, young prince…" he said, in a very soft, very gentle, and unmistakably warning tone that made the fine hairs on the back of Elowyn's neck stand straight up, as if she had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
She had heard him speak in such a way before…!
Her hand shot straight to her sword; she yanked on the hilt of the weapon, heard the rasp of metal sliding against leather as she attempted to rally her thoughts together, to think of what she could possibly do; was there enough time—
All at once, however, she knew that any of her efforts would be for naught. It happened in the blink of an eye – one moment, they were together, there, with on their mounts, in the middle of the rapidly darkening desert, and the next, scores of black-garbed figures were materializing from all around them, converging on their dismayed party. One of those figures launched itself at Robbie, grabbing on – hard – to the dark-haired prince's leg.
Robbie was unprepared for the assault and was dragged out of the saddle; once on the ground, however, he fought like a wild cat, twisting and striking out against his opponent. To her left, Brendan clashed swords with the figure who seemed to be the leader of the party, who wore a sash of deep crimson about his waist and carried a long, truly deadly-looking scimitar: double-edged and lethally wielded. Sala was employing all her Amazon skills at handling her horse, and had already attracted the attention of more than five of their enemies, who alternately ran at her and then dodged the sharp, clipping hooves of her steed as she caused it to rear up in the air.
All this she saw in a split second: her friends battling against an army that seemed to have sprung up out of the sand – for then, in the next second, an arm, familiar and terrifying in its powerfulness, came around her from behind, reaching through the space between her arm and her side, the fingers of its gloved hand moving to clamp onto her neck.
An utterly cowing, furiously resonant voice rang through the tumult, in a bellow that bespoke of the uncontested authority that its owner held over those he commanded, and the battle ground to a screeching, horrible halt.
"Aran tahkvor! I command you – do not slay them!"
Then, suddenly, the arm that was around her tightened, until it almost cut off her breathing, and completely dispelled any thought that she might have had of struggling from her mind. She felt herself pulled backwards, almost yanked out of Orpheus' saddle, and then her backbone smacked up against someone's very hard and very merciless chest.
Gloved fingers moved to grip her chin, holding her head in place as the one who held her bent his own head, leaning around so that his lips were right next to her ear. She stiffened as waves of realization, horror, and betrayal washed over her.
"Now – did I not promise you, Princess, that I would await a better time for us to finish our discussion? And it appears that as of this very moment, until whenever I choose to end it, we shall have as much time to talk as I please. Tell your friends to relinquish their weapons, and I won't let them be hurt."
Elowyn fought against his touch, even though she knew that it would be futile. The arms that held her were simply too strong – and whatever she did, she knew that she would never be able to evade them for long. So, instead, she whispered hoarsely to him, as her vision swam with scalding tears, "You liar. You utter blackguard."
Her captor gave what a soft laugh, and did not release her.
"Elowyn, Elowyn…" he sighed, with mocking good-nature in his tone: managing to be patronizing, arrogant, and yet amused all at the same time, "You really must learn that calling me names is hardly the way to anger me. Now," and here his voice become cold and hard, like a sharp-faceted diamond, and relentless, "Tell them to give up their weapons, or I shall be forced to do something that I know both of us will rather regret later. You see how easy it would be for me…"
And he made an airy indication with his gauntleted hand, in the general direction of her friends, who stood with sword and spear points at their throats. They looked back at her, their eyes dark and pleading – No, don't listen to him; no, don't do it; don't do as he says, Elowyn, not for us; no, don't do it.
But she was helpless.
No – I won't be the cause for your deaths or torment!
The three faeries, seeing her, became as people who walked in a nightmare: their faces went blank, and they, without looking away from her and without words, dropped their weapons upon the sand. Elowyn felt her pent-up emotions – loneliness, fear, anger, and, most of all, grief – well up within her, until they became too painful for her to bear, like the point of an invisible arrow that had become lodged in her shoulder, and she let the floodgates burst open. She bowed her head, trying vainly to cover her face with her hands, and began to sob.
There was nothing else that she could do.
But her captor was even more heartless than she had ever yet imagined. Before she could stop him, he had taken her hands away from her face, locking them both within one of his own hands, and was swinging her with his free arm off of Orpheus' back, and onto that of his mount. She heard Robbie cry out in infuriated protest as he saw her treatment; glimpsed him as he broke away from his guards, and tried to run towards her; froze in horror as one of them came up from behind and hit him – hard – across the back of the head, with the flat of his weapon's blade. He slumped lifelessly to the sand, eyes slipping closed.
"Jaedin, you demon-spawn!" Sala's incensed voice shrieked, bouncing off of the sandstone walls of the canyon that surrounded them, but Elowyn's holder – arms securely closed around her – merely laughed, coldly and harshly.
"Hardly!" he called back, in a callous, triumphant taunt. "I am nothing but a Dark Lord, and the villain of your so-called faery tale; it should be obvious to you now, Lady Sala, that I cannot behave otherwise."
Then, he turned and spoke to the figures that stood about him. The Antari, Elowyn remembered, only too late. His personal elite guard.
Her mind was going numb.
"Bind them, and place the impetuous one on a litter," Jaedin commanded, without emotion or regard to her in his voice. "Then bring them along. Captain Dahk-Marr!"
And Elowyn saw the familiar figure of the captain of the guard come riding towards her; he made a bow to Jaedin, saluting him with a dark, inscrutable cast to his features. He did not even look at Elowyn.
Jaedin's smirk was apparent in his voice alone.
"I see that you received my message in full, despite the difficulties we had in corresponding," he said. Elowyn felt her mind reel, and her stomach twist within her. He had been planning to betray them? For how long? She wanted to be sick, right then and there, as she remembered the many hours she had spent conversing with him, only a short time ago – her premonitions had proven true, from all along; he really wasn't to be trusted.
And now it was too late.
Bright, whirling spots of light began to appear in the corners of her vision as she thought this over and over again – too late, too late too late too late…
Then Jaedin's arms were shifting on her; he was not going to let her fall, was not about to allow her to succumb to the blissful, thoughtless void of unconsciousness. Oh no, he had something much more sinister in mind, and he wanted her awake. Her head fell back against his supporting shoulder, and she found herself gazing into his cold gray eyes. He was glaring at her: a light of fiery, indomitable demand in his features. Her skin had broken out in an icy sweat; her tongue felt as if it were becoming numb, a sour taste filled her mouth, and her fingertips were beginning to tingle, she saw him through a haze.
"Ah, no, Princess," he told her, breathing the words softly and menacingly into her face, his icy breath whisking across her skin. "You mustn't leave me…"
He leaned further down, and suddenly, his fingers were pressed to her forehead. Her mind exploded, all at once, with a blast of white light and she felt her dizziness – and the urge to faint – go away; she saw, almost too late, that he had brought his head too, too close to hers, and knew instantly what he intended.
With a shriek, she tore both of her arms out of his grasp and brought them up to bear; the Dark Lord found himself shoved violently away from her, and then his elusive faery quarry was wriggling out of the saddle, almost falling to the ground. He was almost tempted to laugh, in that split second – she was actually trying to run from him!
His mirth, however, was short-lived, for she was dodging around the Antari who sought to detain her for their master, and dashing towards her friends.
This, he thought, was simply not acceptable.
A darkly feral snarl suddenly twisted his lips, and without another second's delay, he had plunged his heels into the sides of his mount, and was bearing down on her. He reached down and snatched at her, his arm hooking around her waist and lifting her off of the ground, but the princess was even more of a spitfire opponent when she was really angry than he had anticipated. She had tackled him once—
But absolutely nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
Swap!
There was a sound of skin colliding with skin, and – if one had the proper ears to listen for it – the noise of tearing flesh. Then, the Dark Lord instantaneously released the girl he held, reining his mount in hard, and clapped a hand to the side of his face and neck, grating out something in vampyric.
The Antari knew that tone of voice, and, hardened warriors as they were: souls forged in the very infernos of the worst battles, they trembled inwardly for the faery princess, now that she had enacted such a terrible offense against their master.
Elowyn had been able to gain no more than three steps in her flight when a grip of steel clamped, like the jaws of a vice, down onto her arm, just below her shoulder, with a force that hauled her back so quickly that she felt it might take her arm out of its socket. The dark figure that stood behind her gave what sounded like an animal snarl and whirled her around, slamming her into the dusty ground. She hit the sand, landing on her back, and for a moment, she could neither see, nor think, nor breathe.
Leave me alone; please just leave me alone; let me go, please leave me alone, she begged, hysterically, within her mind.
It is too late for that, Princess, his cold, hard voice reminded her.
And she opened her eyes.
Leaning over her, his hands imprisoning both of hers, was the Dark Lord of Sytherria – the greatest evil in her life, and the one person she had given her heart to.
Jaedin stared into her pallid, terrified face, unforgiving.
There were five long, deep lines of pure fire on the right side of his face now, and his neck: beginning almost at the sensitive skin of his shaved scalp, and ending just below his jaw line. And he did not deal well with that kind of pain.
As he pulled her to her feet, then swept one arm behind her legs and lifted her off of the ground, into his arms, securely imprisoning her against his chest, he spoke to her: authoritatively, menacingly, with an edge of ice to his tone that would have sliced through a harpy's tough skin – cutting deep into her soul.
"That was a rash decision you made, Elowyn. Perhaps you ought to rethink your further behavior, before my patience wears thin. I warn you, I have shown you a considerable deal of kindness thus far in our interactions with one another, but provoke me much further, and I cannot guarantee that my actions will be to your liking."
"Do what you like," she told him, bitterly, as he carried her back towards his horse, and the waiting ranks of the Antari. "You've always meant to make me nothing but your prisoner – your gold-painted queen in her bejeweled cage…so why should it now matter to me? Should I not simply resign myself to Fate?"
"Fate!"
He laughed, scornfully, still continuing to carry her; they had reached his horse, but Jaedin indicated some command to Rákkhed Dahk-Marr with a slight movement of his head, and instead, they walked on. Elowyn wondered, blackly, where they were now being conveyed – Dranthiris-Ankhar, from what she knew, was far from the fringes of Sytherria. Perhaps Jaedin had another fortress of choice…
"Princess, I learned long ago that Fate is a very unkind and fickle force – why would you give yourself over to such a power? No indeed: that would be even worse than handing the control of your existence over to one such as me. And so, it is apparent, to me, that I am your only alternative."
He at last set her down, and she felt jarred by her reconnection with the earth's surface. She threw her head back and looked at him, defiantly.
"And what does that mean for me, Dark Lord?" she queried at him. "A déjà vu of our previous escapades in your realm here – or something much worse?"
He eyed her, his gaze raking her up and down.
"That, I think, is for us to decide."
Those words did it; she didn't care what he did now, all she wanted to do was slap him. Her hand shot up from her side, stiffening for action, but he caught her with lightning fast reaction to her movement; his hand clamped down over her wrist, twisting it to the side until she knew that he could have put her in pain if he had wanted to. Indeed, with the slightest exertion of strength on his part…
His gray eyes stared down into hers, as he sent her a look that would have stopped a behemoth in its tracks.
"I would not do that, if I were you, Princess," he told her, his voice full of silk and deadliness. As she tried – foolishly – to twist away from him, he tightened his grip on her, and continued, "Now, let's not get our evening off to a bad start, shall we? I'd hate to ruin our dinner engagement…"
And then Elowyn – and the rest of her friends, including a groggy but conscious Robbie – heard a rumbling, metallic roar of some gigantic object that was slowly coming up on them. Jaedin turned, pulling Elowyn backwards into his chest so that she moved with him, to look up into the sky. Above them, hovering a mere hundred feet over the ground, was the most enormous Sytherrian glider-ship ever created: dubbed the Apocalypse by its makers, many thousands of years before, when it had been built for the Dark Lord. It was his personal warship.
It was truly amazing. The faeries had seen many unparalleled sights before in their lives, but this rivaled even the wonders that Brendan had seen.
Resting atop a pair of sharply angled wings that almost resembled those of a falcon – only these of the ship were composed entirely of metal – was the main bulk of the vessel, a vast structure that held surely more than a hundred different rooms. They could only imagine the far-advanced technology that would allow it to float above the ground in such a manner.
Jaedin now turned a mocking, cruel little smirk on Elowyn.
"And now, Princess…" he said, drawling out the words with cutting coldness, "Escape that – if you can."
* * *
This whole escapade was really beginning to wear on him. No matter what he looked like, Jaedin was over five hundred thousand years old, and he was beginning to sicken of the ways of the world. It contained all too many rules, too many limitations, hatreds, prejudices, and not nearly enough blasted hot water…
"Dhea'Rin! Now!" he snapped out, giving the former half of the order in vampyric.
Then, he settled back against the side of the black onyx tub and closed his eyes, listening to the faint thrum of the Apocalypse's titanic engines, deep in the bowels of the enormous vessel. It was such a relief to finally be able to indulge in some private thought to himself, and the addition of his own personal quarters and a long bath wasn't bad either…
Of course, now he'd made a royal mess of things; irritably, he swept a vial of some sort of scented oil that had been left on the ledge of the tub off of its place, and was rewarded with the sound of shattering black crystal. He winced.
It couldn't be helped, what he had been forced to do, he tried reasoning with himself. After all, he hadn't directly broken his promise to her – when it really came down to the quick of things, he hadn't broken his promise at all. They were still on course. Regrettably, he had had to allow her nephew to be…taken care of…by his men, but a real scrabble between his forces and the friends of the princess could not have been risked; the Queen would have taken note of that, and then they would all be…
Well, to have said that they would have all been up to their necks in some very, very hot – try burning – oil would have been a gross understatement.
Jaedin shifted position, rolling his shoulders a bit, and tried to work out the kinks in his muscles. Oh yes, he was undoubtedly feeling his age now.
But…hopefully, by the end of that evening, his existence would have gone from agonizingly stressful to merely convoluted.
He could only hope.
It was with a growl of annoyance that he realized that he wasn't going to be getting any warmer water anytime soon – at least at this point in the evening – and so he reached for the thick, dark red towel that he had left thrown beside the tub previous to entering it.
This had been an indulgence for him.
Not having any hair of which to speak on his head, he had no excuse to spend any real amount of time making himself presentable. He had, in his days as the Dark Lord and commander over the Ebony Queen's forces, considered this a convenience, that he did not have to concern himself with the combing out of matted locks, or with any sort of flora and fauna that had made the decision to take up a comfortable abode in his scalp. But…still…he knew that having a shaved head made him stand out all the more.
This thought made him frown, as he drew his dark blue and black robe around himself, replacing the towel that he had wrapped around his waist, as he went back into the incense-tainted air of his bed chamber. He let his thoughts flow freely as he reached into his towering wardrobe, in search of new raiment.
And the places those thoughts took him…
He had often felt Elowyn's attraction to him, and had wondered at it – that she, the princess of a people famed for their great beauty and grace, had found something that intrigued her in his features. There was that blasted scar on his lip: a present from his first bout in the fencing grounds with the Queen's most favored Skullex lieutenant, Golthaur; for which he had repaid the skeleton-faced, yellow-eyed general blow-for-blow, resulting in marks that would last them both for a lifetime, and possibly beyond.
Then there was his regrettably, to him, prominent nose – it had been broken at least, what? Once? Twice? Whatever the number, he knew that it wasn't exactly the paragon of male beauty. His family's given bone-structure had taken care of that for him.
He had never considered himself exceptionally attractive – females seemed to fall for him by the scores, but he hadn't ever given that much heed, before this time. It had seemed that they were all more interested in the others aspects of him: his power, his charisma, the satisfaction that they would receive upon breaking through his icy, contemptuous, and arrogant exterior mien to possess the heart that lay beating with him. It certainly wasn't because they desired true love of him – nor did he desire such a thing of them.
And now, to his chagrin, it appeared that he was verging on the disaster of losing, for all of time, the one woman whom he really wished to give his love to.
If he could but convince Elowyn of Avalennon to see him as a person, as her potential lover and not her opposite: the darkness that stood against her and the light…then would not simply everything be as he wished it? He had told himself, again and again, not to think so, and yet the thought remained. What if he couldn't convince her, win her over?
What if he couldn't make her love him?
The frown that had creased the space between the Dark Lord's curving eyebrows now deepened, and his eyes took on the look of an approaching thunderstorm. 'Ware now, to the one who approached him as a foe.
Putting those thoughts out of his mind – knowing that he would have to deal with them, in full, soon enough – he selected his attire and dressed for the evening's events.
Curses, I have much explaining to do…
* * *
When Elowyn, Robbie, Sala, and Brendan had been transported – blindfolded, every one of them – onto the waiting glider-ship, they had fully expected to be met with none other than the Ebony Queen herself. They had, they all assumed, fallen neatly into the Dark Lord's cunning trap, and now their quest was over. They'd been defeated.
Imaginable, then, was their surprise when they found themselves ushered through the hallways of the vessel, through numerous doorways, and at last had their blindfolds removed. Each stared about himself and herself in wonder.
They stood in what appeared to be a rounded chamber, which was decorated all in stark black and white. An immense ruby- and black diamond-hung chandelier loomed above their heads, and doors to four chambers were before them. Their escorts – the grim and forebodingly silent Antari – bowed respectfully and left them with the assurances that soon, all would be revealed, and that they were to make full use of the rooms within.
It was then, and only then, that they all noticed that each door had the first letter of their individual names inscribed in the frame above the door itself. They were now quite alone; the Antari had disappeared, leaving them to do the further bidding of their master.
Well, the faeries were in a quandary now – Jaedin had just seemingly betrayed them: had them attacked by his elite guard, taken captive, and brought on board his warship. However, none of them had been directly harmed, aside from Robbie, who only had a nasty bump on the back of his head as a result of springing to Elowyn's defense, and a smarting headache. And, as of yet, Jaedin had given no outright indication that they were to be mistreated in any way.
There was only one thing to do, it seemed.
And so they all entered the first room – the room that resided behind the door with the letter 'R' on it.
The chamber that they now saw before them was a finely made-up bedchamber, complete with a lavish sitting area, washroom accommodations, and a spectacular view of the Sytherrian desert – at night – as the glider ship zoomed over it. Everything was decorated in bold, regal colours of red, black and gold.
The room that connected to it, which bore the letter 'B' on its door, was unquestionably Brendan-themed – it greatly resembled a large study, with rows and rows of all the most famous and celebrated literature, globes that showed Evyrworld's girth as a whole, a writing desk, and a wing-back chair. The canopy bed was not nearly as large as the one in Robbie's room, fitting in perfectly, nevertheless, with the understated, intellectual grandeur of the room and its stately dark blue, evergreen, topaz, and wine-red tones.
They walked across the black-and-white room, which was the antechamber to their quartet of suites, they saw, and entered the room marked with an 'E' on the door. Elowyn froze as soon as she had looked into it, her eyes the only parts of her to move.
Jaedin, it appeared, knew her frighteningly well.
Everything had been made to look as if it were a forest – the walls had been expertly painted with a mural of a thick, verdant wood, and the carpet: soft and springy beneath her feet, was of the exact same shade as real blades of grass. There were even tiny white flowers scattered here and there within it, which gave off a subtle fragrance of their sweet, musky perfume into the air. The ceiling was vaulted and high, and even as they looked at it, it seemed to stir like branches at the touch of the wind. The bed was hung with curtains that greatly resembled the fall of curtains of ivy, and underneath the evergreen coverlet of satin peeked smooth white sheets.
If the Dark Lord was trying to indicate something with the level of beauty, comfort, and finery of their rooms, he was beginning to succeed.
As they left Elowyn's room and passed through the antechamber once more to enter the last chamber – that belonging to Sala – the faeries were unaware of the fact that they were being observed. The seemingly opaque, pearl-toned dome of the ceiling there was really a glass bubble that allowed whomever stood in the level above it on the ship to see down into the room. As of the moment, Jaedin and Rákkhed Dahk-Marr stood at the iron frame that separated the rest of the room from the glass, looking on.
Jaedin's eyes flickered, with an almost incandescent gray light, as he took note of Elowyn's figure, walking across the floor beneath him.
"Look at her, Rákkhed," he murmured to the tanned, dark-haired and dark-eyed, muscular Antari who stood beside him, also observing the people below. "Look at her. Is she not the most beautiful creature that your eyes have ever beheld? She is…she is like a goddess, among so many mortals."
Then he turned away from the view below, as they walked into Sala's room. There, he knew, they would find a majestic apartment of rich violet hues, accented with mother-of-pearl and jade, but nowhere near as impressive as Elowyn's suite. Rákkhed followed him, remaining a profoundly respectful step behind his master as Jaedin left the viewing area and swept down a long, winding corkscrew stairway, dragging his hand along its railing.
When he had reached its bottom, he paused.
"You think me foolish and impulsive, for this, my latest course of action," he said, without emotion or preamble – almost grouchily.
Then he looked up.
"Say it."
Rákkhed, if he was surprised at his lord's change in manner – normally, if Jaedin suspected his underlings of thought against him, his dangerous anger was clearly displayed – did not react. He blinked, once, and spoke slowly and thoughtfully.
"If my lord indeed finds the princess of the faeries as beautiful," he replied, "Then she must be perilously so. For it seems that he has lost his heart."
Jaedin averted his eyes. That was, more or less, an affirmative answer to his second question. He resumed his walk again, at a much slower pace this time, and Rákkhed's booted footsteps told him that the Antari followed behind.
"Indeed, it will soon be known to all, to everyone within the dread desert realm of Sytherria, that I have; although whether it will be before or after the impending war, I have no idea."
And now they had come out of the shadowy inner chambers that they had just been within, and were stepping into a long, wide-open stairway of glossy black metal. Jaedin held out his hand to the captain of the guard, his face devoid of its usual darkness and instead easily read, and, it might have been observed, earnest.
"I am glad that I have your loyalty, in the face of all things, Captain," he said.
It was well known that a smile from the captain of the immortal, stern Antari was something that happened with even lesser frequency than the legendary blue moon; and when it did, it was something to be greatly marveled at. And not only did Rákkhed crack a tiny bit of a smile – he grinned widely, and reached out to grasp his companion's forearm, as Jaedin did the same.
Here, now, were the much-honoured master – who would lead millions of men into battle, to have them follow him with all their hearts, even to their deaths – and his most faithful and trusted servant.
"The Antari will never cease to give that loyalty, Jaedin DragonMaster," Rákkhed replied, using Jaedin's fabled surname for what was the first time in ages. "Even when you behave so badly that you really don't deserve it."
"And I shall give you an answer for that, Captain, when I return for a report on our progress to the Dark Gate later this evening."
Jaedin returned the grin, almost mischievously, and moved off down the hall, twisting his wrist so that he could give a short, saluting wave over his shoulder to the figure behind him. Rákkhed returned the gesture.
"I'm certain that you will, my lord."
"Don't think that I wouldn't…" echoed back Jaedin's voice. Then, he was gone.
* * *
In Brendan's given quarters, all four of the captured – or so they thought – faeries sat 'round in a circle, alternately discussing and then ruminating silently over their impending fates. It seemed that the two males of their party had given themselves over to the thought that the Dark Lord meant one thing for having brought them to this imposing black fortress of metal: a purpose that included killing them, one by one, at his leisure. Or handing them all over to his Lady, who would do with them as she pleased.
Sala and Elowyn, however, had been gifted at birth with what was widely known and respected as women's intuition; they had both come to the inward decision, between the two of them, that Jaedin's purpose in bringing them to his warship did not include a plan to slay them all. That overrode sense, they argued. Both Robbie and Brendan knew, as well as both Sala and Elowyn did, that the Dark Lord had not yet broken his promise to them, and whatever other deadly maneuvers he was capable of, lying to Elowyn herself was not one of them. There had to be another reason, they said.
But to this, Robbie shot to his feet: pale and livid with anger. As he spoke, Elowyn felt a faint ripple of awareness shoot through her, like waves in a stretch of still water after a pebble had been tossed into it.
She felt they were being listened to.
"And what other reason could that be?" Robbie burst out. "He lied to us – he lied to all of us, even Elowyn! He never meant to bring us to the Dark Gate, and he would have never taken us there and then let us get away with destroying everything that he has for so long represented. He is a part of that darkness; he will always be a part of it."
"Peace, Robbie; peace," murmured Sala, putting a hand on her friend's arm and pulling on it – with gentle but firm insistence – compelling him to take a seat. Then she looked back around at the circle of her friends as they sat around her, all deadened and despairing in one way or another by this seemingly devastating turn of events.
"Neither of you can predict the future," she said, evenly, "And neither of you have the sense of things that Elowyn and I do possess. There are ulterior motives here, and if the situation that is sitting plunk in front of your noses doesn't serve to tell you something about that, I'd seriously question why you thought to come along on this quest at all."
Robbie and Brendan both looked, at turns, even more exceedingly dour at that comment, but said nothing, and so she went on.
Elowyn, meanwhile, had risen to her feet and was now crossing out of the center of the room. She looked as if she was trying to listen very hard – her head cocked to one side, and her eyes were narrowed, ever so slightly. There was something…something, very faint and very nearly intangible, niggling at the back of her mind, and, try as she might, she could not get a firm lock on what that something was.
"For one thing, if he had wanted to kill us, he could have done it in an instant when we were out there, in the desert of his own realm. He knows the land here, and knows it well – it wouldn't have been hard for him to simply make an end of us. The way that those…those warriors, whatever they were, just seemed to spring out of the sand certainly does suggest something, but…"
Robbie gave a snort, and retorted, "It doesn't just suggest something, Sala – it almost quite literally comes up and bites you in the face. He'd planned it, somewhere along the line. He gave them orders to meet him here, and take us prisoner."
"He could have had us killed then…"
Now Brendan took his turn at musing. He still looked quite cynical about the whole scenario before them, however.
"He could have easily done it, especially when Robbie…"
The crown prince of Lærelin began to turn his head, ice blue eyes narrowing, and Brendan forsook that comment to lead on another train of conversation.
"Anyways, he could have had us killed then, or before."
"But he didn't – and he's not taken away our powers either, or even sapped them, or blocked them. He could have easily done that before now, and yet he has not."
"Which doesn't count out the odds of him doing it sooner or later," Robbie insinuated, darkly. Or more towards grumpily. Whatever the chances had been, however remote, of him finally making a sort of amicable bond with the Dark Lord of Sytherria, they were now utterly shattered. Robbie did not take betrayal well.
But then…who did…? Or could?
Sala and Brendan continued their verbal tennis match conversation.
"You don't think he's brought us here to kill us, then?" Brendan questioned, a faint sardonic edge to his tone. He was inclined, at the moment, to be very disbelieving of anything he saw or heard, and with at least somewhat good reason. "Or to wait a while, and then hand us over to the Queen?"
The look in Sala's hazel eyes was distant and thoughtful as she leaned back against the cushions that she sat upon.
"It would seem impossible that he would do such a thing; it appeared that he had made a sort of break with her, before we ever set out on this quest of ours," she reminded him. "And his reaction to his restored memories…he must have…"
And then she looked at Elowyn.
The golden-haired faery princess had now gone to stand beside the window, across the room from them, and she seemed as if she had somehow been transported to a totally different world. At any rate, she was completely unaware of them all now, and they could easily see it. Sala shook her head, unable to speculate any further.
"He told her something…" she murmured. "He must have. There was no one else – certainly not one of us, and between them…"
She shook her head.
Brendan watched Elowyn's still figure as well, silent for a long moment.
"Strange how you begin to doubt yourself just when everything goes wrong," he said, then. "Up until that moment, even though you might have been through any number of smaller battles, struggles, before, you were able to be completely confident in your own words and say, 'Don't worry; everything will be in the right, when it all comes to an end.' Or," he added, somewhat ruefully, with a wry, self-deprecating half-smile, " 'Don't worry; a dark lord will never break his promise. We may take him on his word.' "
"And then he turns around and has us all taken prisoner. So much for the poetic romanticism of all the ancient legends." Robbie cut in, sarcastically.
Sala turned a sympathetic glance upon him, smiling softly, and put an arm briefly around his shoulders.
"Don't be a wet blanket, Rob," she told him. "Count the good things in life while you can – he could have had us all separated, and then locked up in some horrid row of prison cells, the likes of which cannot be described. Or we could be dead. As I was saying, the situation does at least somewhat point to a desire for us to be alive, and not dead. I mean, why else would he have gone to all these things to procure not only accommodating but luxurious to the nth degree rooming for us? No, my friends," she said, shaking her head, "My infallible woman's intuition tells me that we are yet to see another surprisingly, albeit most likely strange, turn in this little game of ours."
"I can be a wet blanket if I want," grumbled Robbie, even though they sensed that he was giving in to her words. "After all, I was the one who got walloped on the head – not you. You haven't got a right to have a bad attitude about this whole affair."
Sala and Brendan glanced at one another, and shook their heads.
It seemed, for the moment, that they could only wait. Whatever the Dark Lord's purposes were for bringing them here, under a heavy guard, it was hard to imagine, and somehow they knew that their guesses would probably not come even remotely close to the truth.
Guessing, then, was only a waste of time.
Elowyn had heard everything that they had said, and knew that Sala was, once again, able to read her only too well. Her cousin had sensed that Jaedin had told her something, and was even now getting nearer and nearer to the discovery of the…of the connection, that Elowyn knew she had with the Dark Lord. No matter what things looked like, she somehow knew that Jaedin had not broken his promise to her.
When she closed her eyes, she could see visual memory of that moment in the stone room, when Jaedin had taken her hand, with the dagger in it, and brought it down upon his own skin…
She inhaled: a sharp, shuddering gasp of air, and opened her eyes.
The scenery of Sytherria met her gaze then, majestic and seemingly without boundary as she looked upon its rolling dunes and the sphere of sky above them. The sand appeared to sparkle in the light of the moon, as the glider ship sped along on its course – on its course to a destination that she could not fathom.
She continued to gaze downwards, watching the shadow of the immense vessel that they had now been brought aboard and given quarters in slip over the sand.
No: she knew it in her heart now – Jaedin had not broken his promise. Yes, perhaps he had made it look as if he had, but somehow, she sensed that they had not turned aside from their approach to the Dark Gate, and that he still desired her confidence in him. But then she thought of how he had grabbed onto her, earlier than evening – her arm still ached with the memory of his gloved fingers closing down over her tender skin, and her head whirled when she recalled the whisking iciness of his breath on her face. He had kept her from fainting, but he had also chased her down, like an animal.
Her breath felt short in her chest again, and her heart ached.
Jaedin, Jaedin, Jaedin…will I ever be able to trust you? Will my fear of you ever ebb? Will you ever come out of the shadows, and let me love you?
She looked back at her friends.
They still seemed to be deep in their discussion, and from the looks of it, they were all talking about what the Dark Lord could have possibly meant by bringing them onto his warship. Elowyn really didn't want to discuss it – she simply wanted to know.
As she thought of this, the idea of just crossing the room, going to the door, and stepping out into the hallway beyond occurred to her.
If only the door there did not happen to be locked – what would stop her from going out into the corridors of the structure, and searching out someone who could answer her questions? If not Jaedin, then surely someone else would be able to…
But just as she was debating this in her mind, the sense that someone had been listening to their discussions, and – even more unnervingly – her thoughts, intensified: blasting into her mind so that she almost clapped her hands onto her head to keep her every thought from being dragged out into the open air of the room. And at the same moment, there was a knock on the door.
They all froze, her friends looking at one another, and then to her.
Realizing that they waited upon her yea or nay to react, she gave a nod: open the door, she told Brendan with her eyes. This her uncle did, and when he had, they found themselves all looking at the newcomer, who was none other than one of the stern, black-garbed figures whom they had seen in the desert earlier that evening.
He bowed to them, deeply and with what appeared to be sincere respect. Then he turned his eyes upon Elowyn, and bowed again, with even more reverence. She remained where she was, and acknowledged his presence as he straightened.
"I am Trasdan," he told them. "And I have come on official orders of my master, Jaedin of Sytherria. He wishes to convey his apologies, both for your…rough treatment, previous to being brought here, and for his delay in making some necessary explanations to you. It is his desire that you know immediately that you are not to be held prisoner here, nor are you to have concern for your lives. They are in no danger."
The Antari's lips held a flicker of a smile as he said this, as did his eyes. Elowyn continued to look at him: incisive and unrelenting. If he were here to speak to them, then he had better be speaking the truth. And, somehow, she sensed that he was.
So she cleared her throat and stepped forward to address him.
"Then tell us, if you will, Master Trasdan – will we soon learn of what your master did intend for us here, if it is not death or imprisonment? I am curious."
Again, the Antari bowed to her, and gave his seemingly mysterious smile.
"My lord knows this, and he intends to reveal all, fair princess," he told her. "He will answer all of your questions, in time, but first, he has sent me with his message – the pleasure of your company is requested in the banquet hall."
Elowyn alone had been prepared for this. She had sensed that that was what Jaedin had been up to, and now she smiled, wryly and a bit grim. Before her friends could make a reply to the invitation and before they could stop her from doing so, she spoke.
"We accept, then. Give your master my regards."
Trasdan bowed once again, and promised that he would. Then, after telling them that they would be escorted to the dining hall in a little more than an hour, he left: closing the doors behind him. Then Elowyn's friends rounded on her.
"What the bloody underworlds did you mean by that? You actually want us to go have dinner with that – that infuriating, domineering, arrogant blackguard of a warlord?" Robbie burst out, unable to control his frustration any longer. "Elowyn, I saw how he treated you this evening; I know what he's done to you! We all do! How can you be so willing to put up with the insults he heaps upon you?"
"Because it may be the only way to save us, Robbie," she told him, catching his wildly gesticulating hands in her own and making him look at her. Her jade green eyes stared up into his, serious and quite calm. "It may be the only way to save our world. And if I stop now, before I've learnt all of the story, I could miss the very most important parts of all – the climax and the end. No matter what he's done to me before, Robbie…it's not unforgivable. I can live with it."
"But could you live with being haunted, for the rest of your life?" he questioned back, calming slightly.
She only shook her head.
"The question of whether I will be haunted or not yet remains to be answered. I intend to find out, and soon, if the story will end with a yes or a no. Apparently, our quest is to continue; we've not been utterly betrayed."
We are not lost.
But Elowyn knew, as they all went their separate ways to prepare for the evening – buckling down the hatches and putting on their individual armor of self-restraint, reserve, and cordial openness to explanation and discussion – that she was speaking this way to put them all at ease. She could sense that they had not been betrayed, as she had said to them, but she was not as confident about everything else, within her soul.
She would not tell them, but she was afraid.
The thought of meeting up with Jaedin now, once more in his own element: as a warlord who commanded surely hundreds, if thousands, of warriors upon this mammoth vessel, in his own realm…it frightened her. Something in her soul shied away from the inevitable meeting that she was now preparing herself for.
She had once thought of Jaedin as bi-polar – she now saw that their relationship was composed of much of the same mettle. One moment, they would rear back and bare their claws and fangs for verbal combat; the next, he would be soft and gentle and persuasive, and she would melt in his hands, at the touch of his caressing voice. In a second, she would flail desperately within the net of her own emotions to escape – to forget – the way that her heartstrings pulled at her whenever she looked at him, and try to make herself remember that they could never be as one.
The light and the darkness…two such entities could never exist, side by side.
Never, even in a world where nothing was impossible.
She feared him; she despised him; he amused her, he annoyed her, he perplexed and intrigued her, and he drew her to him like no one else ever had. She had had kisses before she had ever come into the grasp of the Dark Lord of Sytherria, and she had experienced many a caress. But never before had she fallen so deeply, and in such a way, as she had when she had first looked into those silvery gray eyes of the Ebony Queen's black knight.
Had it been when she had first seen him, lying asleep with his arm around her waist to keep her from escaping, from running, that every atom of her being had begun to slowly pull her towards attraction to him? Or had it been later, when they had had their first caustic war of the words? She knew of one – no, two – clear moments that she had actually been cognizant of her feelings for him, when they had been in Sytherria.
Ah, Jaedin! You confuse me so greatly; I do not know whether I ought to hate you or love you, whether I ought to be trying to pitch you off of a cliff or allowing you to take me in your arms whenever you want, for I shall always respond well to it!
You silly vampyre.
Perhaps tonight he would show her what her heart truly felt. Of course, that would only come to pass if she fell under his spell again, or searched out the answer on her own. But a part of her asked, as she began to brush onto her eyelids the dark, cobalt blue eye-makeup that had been provided for her in her room, on her dressing table—
What are you walking yourself into, Elowyn of Avalennon?
Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, the Big Bad Wolf…
* * *
True to their word, a detachment of nine Antari guardsmen arrived within a little more than an hour to escort the quartet of faeries through the hallways of the Sytherrian warship to the banquet hall. On their way to this place, the faeries quickly saw why – the inner structure of the vessel was enough to boggle even a highly imaginative mind. They could have easily seen themselves getting lost somewhere within it.
Meanwhile, Jaedin awaited them at the helm of the Apocalypse: a huge, equipment-filled chamber that was the nucleus of the ship, where its movements and functions were controlled.
A wide half-circle of a walkway was around part of the room, and a wall of diamond-glass windows was on the other, allowing everyone within the place access to an unparalleled view of the ship's progress over the terrain. A doorway opened onto the walkway level, leading across to a stairwell that brought whomever stepped upon it down into the main portion of the room, where Jaedin's command seat and the operational controls were also located.
Right now, both the Dark Lord and his captain of the guard were present: Jaedin, seated, in his casual, complacent way, and Rákkhed standing at attention behind his right shoulder.
The vampyre's liquid mercury eyes scanned over the landscape beyond the windows with an eerie intensity. Whatever was out there, he knew of it, and – without a shadow of a doubt – he had seen it.
At length, he sat back and relaxed a bit, although his eyes never moved from those windows.
"They will be here soon?"
Normally, when the Dark Lord was expecting guests, he would have said those words as a direct statement, and not a question. Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, however, was completely accustomed to his lord's sudden and erratic changes in temperament and behavior, and he had learned very well how to conceal whatever surprise he might have had at Jaedin's alterations. Or he simply wasn't surprised at all.
He nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
Jaedin did not react to this; but if anyone had looked at him at that very moment, they would have taken note of the Dark Lord's air.
His habit, when seated, was to recline casually and nonchalantly: long legs stretched out in front of him, sometimes crossed over his booted ankles, with his arms draped over the armrests, fingers idly drumming in the air to a rhythm that only he knew of. Not now, however; now, he was sitting back in the chair, leaning forward so that he was almost hunched over, one elbow placed on the armrest, the other on his upper leg, his hand hanging loosely at the wrist. It was easy to tell, upon close enough scrutiny, that he had an aura of tension about him.
And well that he did.
The vampyre Dark Lord knew full well just what the consequences of his most recent actions might indeed bring to him. He had tread the line between obedience and treachery before, and only too closely – that time, it had resulted in his alienation from the one whom he had once served, and eventually, he had turned against her entirely. Day to day, ever since then, he had lived with its results. Remaining optimistic about his even being able to get into the Black City, in order to prevent a dire attack on his life essence from happening…well, it was becoming more and more difficult. Yet because he was arrogant and self-assured, a result of the many hundreds of thousands of years he had lived upon the earth, he clung to that hope.
He did not know if Elowyn and her friends would be able to forgive him, even if he did explain his motivations for bringing them onto his warship, flanked by the Antari, and even if he did attempt to prove that his purpose was honorable. The Queen had angered at his disobedience, his testing of her, and she had become his enemy; Elowyn and the faeries that were ever with her might do the same thing.
Perhaps he had tested them too far.
Perhaps they would no longer desire any contact with him whatsoever, even if it meant that they would have to find their way to the Dark Gate alone.
Something in him shuddered and withdrew from the severity of that thought. He sat back, fingers clenching into a fist, as his jaw tensed up.
To never see Elowyn again? He would not think of it.
Fingers making a steeple, as he reclined in the chair with the slowly unfolding grace of a panther, he raised his voice a little louder than normal and inquired to his helmsman how they were holding to their course. They were making steady progress, was the reply; they traveled at about fifty miles to an hour, which was relatively slow for the Apocalypse, but not an objectionable pace. They would cross over the border between Elvendome and Sytherria again sometime the next day, most likely near mid-morning.
Jaedin nodded to this news, apparently satisfied; then, the doors above the stairway at the head of the room opened, and a black-robed Antari came down the stairs, stepping over to quickly speak in a low voice to Rákkhed.
The captain of the guard, when their brief conversation had come to an end, turned to his master and informed him, "The Princess and her companions will be in the reception room in a moment, my lord."
Jaedin stood, and the stiffness in his shoulders could be noted.
"Very well," he replied to those words. "We shall go meet them, then."
And with a sweeping of his trailing, full-cut black velvet cloak, the Dark Lord left the immediate vicinity of the command chamber and ascended the steps that led up from it. The pair of Antari who waited before the doors that led out of the room stood at attention at his approach and reached to open the doors at Rákkhed Dahk-Marr's one-handed gesture.
Jaedin, already focusing on what must be done in the evening ahead, walked past them and came to a halt just beyond the doorway.
The escort that he had ordered was already there: all nine of the Antari, who stood in a ring around their charges. He was faintly pleased to see that Elowyn and her friends had chosen to dress accordingly for the banquet that was to be held that evening.
Brendan wore a silver-edged tunic of sage green, with a long hem that came about halfway to his knees and full sleeves that became tight just below the elbow; his breeches were a rich caramel shade, making a vivid contrast to his dark brown boots. Robbie had donned a finely tailored tunic and breeches of sapphire-blue, and boots of a colour that was nearly black. The shoulders on the tunic came out sharply, and the tunic itself was stiff down its front with a heavy embellishment of scrolling, vine-like silver embroidery. Sala was arrayed magnificently in a long, sleek gown of violet-hued velvet, with a graceful V-shaped neckline, which gathered at its center and was accented with circular-cut diamonds and pearls. Its sleeves were cut so that they only just covered her shoulders, and fluttered when she moved.
But Elowyn, by far, drew his attention as she stood there, in the center of the room, surrounded by her friends and the guards.
She'd chosen the gown that he had – secretly – hoped she would, and somehow, as he looked at her, completely riveted by her exotic, feminine beauty, he knew that she had guessed at this, and was pleased in some way by his reaction.
Her gown was of a crepe-like midnight blue satin, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, which plunged down to a tapered waist that clung smoothly to her body with the aid of its laced-up back. The waistline itself was slung low on her hips, detailed with much gold and jewel-studded embroidery work. Of course, the flaring skirt was no less intricate. Sapphires, amethysts, topaz, and chains of gold were everywhere upon it: lining the waist, the bodice, hanging upon the skirt. Harlequin-like diamond shapes of orange-gold satin broke the dark blue void upon the bodice, while material of that same colour had been draped about the skirt on its front and sides.
On her neck, arms, and fingers, and in her ears, she wore jewelry that matched perfectly with her attire – the only thing that was reminiscent of her former look was the chain of silver and its pendant of milky white crystal, the gift from her long-deceased birth parents.
Reminding him…
She had pulled her hair back, away from her face, allowing her elegantly dark accenting makeup to be seen; the part of that hair that she had up, she had pinned halfway back on her head with an elaborate headpiece of gold, its wing-like tips wrapping around her scalp to hold it securely in place. The remaining curtain of her pale, wavy locks fell freely down past her shoulders, onto her back, almost reaching her knees, with threads of gold and gems of sapphire glinting in it here and there.
Her whole look was confident and strong, like a queen who was in complete control of everything that surrounded her…and yet she also seemed as if she was only a very young girl, who was innocent and pure: hardly naïve, but untouched by the world of darkness around her. She was a child of Spring, as he had once called her – a fair white lily, sprung in the midst of a forest as the snows of winter had just begun to melt from their cascades around her.
Oh yes, she was cold: cold and stern and unbending in her regard of him. Yet he knew that, once that outward veneer of ice had been penetrated, the soul of a princess who dreamed of all that could be lay, waiting to be stirred and warmed by the touch of him who would love her for all of eternity. It was obvious to anyone in the room at that moment – the Dark Lord was completely riveted by the fair young princess before him, her mermaid's eyes averted from his.
The Antari looked to their master, expecting him to speak, to give a command, to say something, but their shock was destined to grow, for Jaedin remained motionless: his eyes locked on her. However, this lasted for only a moment; then, the vampyre came out of his trance-like daze and stood back, assuming a cordial and affable stance.
"Greetings, milords and miladies!" he said, his voice immediately resonant and arresting in the echoing silence of that room.
They all began to breathe and think again: the spell of the quietness broken. He paced forward, eyeing them all with a look that might have either been considered that of a predator: stealthy and aware and scheming, or that of one who was putting some sort of test before his guests. They could not guess.
"I must convey to you my most heartfelt apologies for your treatment thus far this evening," he added, and explained, "But I hope that, perhaps, you will be able to overlook such a failing. And now, if I may have the pleasure of showing you the way to the dining room? Our long-delayed repast awaits us."
And he turned his most magnetic, charming smile upon Elowyn, who had still not yet looked up at him. He stopped directly in front of her and offered her his arm.
Now she finally met his gaze with hers, and, to his surprise and secret delight, she did not show even the slightest wavering of fear. Or, if she did, she simply hid it very well. Whatever her true reaction, she laid her fingertips along the flat of his arm, and then let him take her hand and draw her own arm through his.
Brendan, Robbie, and Sala must have had some sort of objection to this, but none of them said or did anything – possibly, she thought, this was because they were still surrounded by a host of heavily-armed Antari guards, who would not likely give a second thought to wielding those razor-sharp and many-bladed scimitars that hung at their sides, in defense of their master.
As if Jaedin even needed help when it came to defending himself against them.
They passed through more hallways, rooms, and doors than she had even yet seen during their progress to place that the Dark Lord had designated as their meeting point, and then they had come into a huge, long room that could have only been the dining room.
Within it was a scarlet- and gold-hung table, at least five feet wide and more than sixty feet long, or so she estimated. A set of five tall, heavy-looking, and exceedingly ornate chairs had been placed at its furthest end, and it was to these that Jaedin guided them.
Elowyn he seated first, in the chair that was to the right of the head of the table – the head of the table, she knew, was where he was to sit. Sala went to his left, with Brendan and then Robbie beyond her.
At a gesture from Jaedin, the Antari disappeared from the room, and what would eventually turn out to be a slightly grim dinner party commenced.
They were soon impressed by the level of opulence that he seemed determined to bedazzle them with – the décor and accents of the room were all of the finest craftsmanship that any of them had ever yet seen, of such a caliber. Everything that they saw around them, from the walls to the floor to the table, chairs, and whatever else that had been left in between, was done in either scarlet, gold, white, or black; their various silverware, goblets, and plates were all entire composed of gold and crystal and black onyx.
The banquet itself was sumptuous and decadent, almost to a level of guilt-inducement. In between the platters of fire-seared vegetable dishes, perfectly done soufflés and pastries and breads, flavorful meats and condiments, were towers of sugar-crusted fruit: sparkling beneath the light of the chandeliers above their heads. No less than three different wines were they treated to – a dark, sharp-tasting merlot, a sweet red, and a shimmering, effervescent pear-tainted champagne among them – and the dessert course would have been enough, Elowyn thought, to reduce even the most self-denying minimalist to bliss.
As they ate, she also took note of Jaedin's observation of them: her friends did not make a single overture to speak to him all the while, even when he attempted to solicit conversation every now and again. She herself did most of the talking to him, when they did talk at all, and never once was it about what was going to happen now, in their quest. Odd, that they would have all sat around together in Brendan's room, and discussed all of the questions that they now had for the Dark Lord, and then, when he had invited them to dinner, so that they might ask him their questions, simply refuse to say anything at all.
She looked at him carefully out of the corner of her eye, as she dipped her spoon into the mound of brown sugar-encrusted yam soufflé that she had on her plate.
The vampyre sat at the head of the table, directly next to her, with one hand resting beside his own plate, near to his glass of wine. It was, again, a deep red colour that reminded her almost of blood, and she found that she had to look away whenever he took a sip of it. He had eaten relatively little in the duration of the drawn-out eight-course banquet, and she found herself wondering why. He seemed intent, instead, on watching them all.
The way that he was looking at them made her slightly nervous; she didn't really want to know what thoughts were going through his head, and that was what made her realize why they hadn't asked him anything – it was fear. Each one of them knew very well just what he could do to them now, if they crossed his temper, and none of them wanted to risk it.
Better to remain silent, they thought, and let him do as he pleases, and release us eventually, than to bring his anger down upon our heads.
Again, she looked at him.
Jaedin, she could tell, was slightly frustrated at their seeming ignoring of him. He had invited them to dinner, expecting a barrage of their questions and accusations, and instead they said nothing. Nothing at all. She sensed the faint, dark ripples of anger coming from within his soul, and restrained her urge to shudder.
Tonight, he seemed different – he remained a Dark Lord, but she could not see him as their captor, or rather, her captor. Her friends surely saw differently. Something was going on here, and she did not know what it was, but she could feel it. He even looked different.
In all the time that she had known him, seen him, Jaedin had been the master of shadows, a figure perpetually garbed in the colours of nighttime and fire, like a dragon. But now he wore a tunic and breeches of – shockingly enough – pure white velvet. Its collar came up, as usual, high around his unusually graceful neck, and the main bulk of the tunic was tailored sleekly to his chest and waist. The sleeves were like Brendan's: full-cut until the elbows, and from there down, composed of black velvet. Along the sides of his legs ran a braid of gold – of course not silver – the pattern of which was mirrored in the belt he wore about his waist, which drew attention to the attractive slimness of it.
And, predictably enough, he also wore yet another black velvet cloak, with a golden chain to hold it on: this cloak was not hooded, but had a crest-like collar that swept back to frame his face and neck. Even his boots were not black – they were a warm brown leather.
Elowyn was perplexed by all of this.
For how long had Jaedin fought against anything that had to do with the light, having served the forces of darkness for many hundreds of thousands of years? And now, suddenly, it seemed as if he no longer sought to utterly destroy them; even in the face of the fact that he could have done so, and easily, at that, he did not strike out against them. Then there was the whole deal of his strangely modified behavior, his change in garb, and the banquet…he certainly wasn't treating them as a dark lord might.
He turned his head suddenly and caught her looking at him.
Elowyn fought to tear her eyes away, fought the urge to get up and run from the room, and – more importantly – from him. She ought not to have read so much into these new 'changes'.
For in the depths of those silvery gray eyes, she still saw the soul of a hunter, a predator who had stalked long and hard after her.
He had not given up.
And she feared him.
* * *
A/N: Jaedin! Bad! Oh well – we still love him. And he may not be as wicked here as he's making himself out to be. The things we do out of necessity…but will Elowyn and her companions be able to forgive him for this latest apparent travesty? Read on to find out…
But before you do, Kates has some news – a few months ago, my aunt took several of my illustrations and the first three chapters of the first tale in this series, Wings of the Heart, with her after a visit. She works with a publishing company, and will hopefully soon be presenting what I gave her to the guy who heads it up. In short: I may be getting published!
(Cross your fingers with me, will you…)