Page 25

Alaric

W e fall into a kind of routine in the days that follow.

We wake every morning—or what passes for morning in Nocturna—and have breakfast that the invisible servants prepared for us.

Then we generally go into the training room so that Sylvanna can help me work on my magic reservoir.

We break at midday for lunch and take a stroll in her gardens, which is very pleasant.

Then more training and then supper. I also manage to work in some sword-practice as well—I don’t want to get rusty, though at this point I don’t know when I’ll get back to my knightly duties for the GodKing.

After supper we bathe together. Sometimes Sylvanna bathes me but I prefer it when she lets me bathe her—I love touching her everywhere.

After that we go to bed. I’m allowed to hold her for some time but then I must sleep at her feet.

I wish she’d let me hold her all night, but she’s very firm about keeping a line between us—I am her Blood-servant, not her lover as she has reminded me more than once.

Sometimes I’m allowed to come before bed but most times I’m not. If I’ve done especially well during my training she’ll sit on my face—an erotic delight I never fucking tire of. I think I’m growing addicted to her scent and taste.

I grow used to being caged and tied, trained and teased and I have to admit, I don’t mind it. In fact, to my shame, I find that I’m coming to crave it.

Of course, I keep telling myself that I’m only allowing Sylvanna to “train” me in order to get to The Heart of the Eclipse, but it’s getting harder to believe that as I give myself more and more over to her.

I keep asking her when we’ll go to the City of Night and she keeps telling me not yet—I’m not quite ready.

But I wonder if it’s she who isn’t quite ready.

There seems to be some secret pain in her past associated with the City.

I wish I knew what it was—she’s very guarded about her time there though I know she lived in the palace of the Queen of Nocturna for three years.

Then comes the day when we hear a timid knocking at the door of her tower. Sylvanna descends the steps to answer it and I follow along, ready to defend her if whoever is outside means her harm. No one is going to touch a hair of her head while I’m near her!

But there’s no fierce warrior outside her door—just a humble peasant with frightened eyes. He’s twisting the ragged cloth of his tunic and shifting from foot-to-foot as he looks up at us.

“Please, my Lady Sorceress,” he says in a voice shaking with emotion. “I never asked you for nothing before and my wife says you’ll probably kill me for asking but I have to try.”

“I do not kill anyone for making requests of me,” Sylvanna says. “Tell me, what is your trouble?”

“It’s Jacobin—my oldest boy,” the peasant says. “A fever came upon him sudden-like and he’s near death. I’ve heard that you hold the power of life and death in your hands, my Lady and I beg you—if there’s any way you can take my life and give it to my son, I’d do anything—pay anything!”

Sylvanna’s eyes go soft and compassionate—I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same expression she wore when she woke me from my nightmare and fed me healing nectar from her breasts while she stroked me. It’s still a memory I treasure.

“I cannot trade one life for another, but I’ll come to see your son,” she tells the peasant. “Maybe I can heal him. Just let me get my grimoire and some supplies.”

She disappears up the spiral stairs for a moment and then comes back down in a hurry, carrying a huge, heavy book bound in blood-red leather and a satchel full of supplies.

“Here, Mistress—let me take those.” I take the satchel and book, noticing that it seems to hum in my hands as I do. Then I follow Sylvanna out of the tower and the peasant nods to us.

“It’s this way, my Lady,” he says pointing. “About half a day’s walk in that direction.”

“Half a day’s walk? We’ve no time for that!” Sylvanna pulls a crystal from her satchel and looks at me. “I may need to draw on some of your stored power, Alaric. Transporting three people by magic is no easy task and I’ll need to save my own magic for healing the boy.”

“I’m yours to command, my Mistress,” I tell her. “But can you really take the three of us so far by magic?”

She nods.

“This is a traveling gem,” she says, nodding at the deep blue crystal she holds in her palm. It’s as long as my middle finger and pointed at both ends—as sharp as a needle.

The peasant looks frightened but says nothing at the idea of the three of us being whisked across the countryside by magical means. I believe that Sylvanna can do it—I have a feeling I’ve only seen a small part of her magic so far.

She beckons for me and I lean down to her.

She places her hand on my collar and I feel something flowing out of me and into her.

Could it be the power that’s been overflowing during our training sessions?

I know my personal reservoir remains full—I’ve learned to feel it and see it in my mind’s eye whenever I want to now.

Whatever it is, Sylvanna seems to get enough after a moment because she nods at me and then presses the point of her finger to the needle-sharp tip of the traveling gem.

A single drop of blood wells from her fingertip…

and then is sucked into the crystal which turns from bright blue to a cloudy purple. At the same time, Sylvanna is chanting.

“Take us where we need to go

Speed in haste, do not be slow.”

No sooner has she finished speaking than everything around me seems to whirl away. It’s like I mounted the fasted horse in the world and he’s traveling at a breakneck pace while I cling to his back and the world spins around me.

It’s a dizzying sensation and not just for me. The moment we come to an abrupt stop, the peasant falls to his knees, retching in the grass. Sylvanna is swaying as well. I catch her before she stumbles.

“Thank you, my Paladin.” She looks up at me gratefully. “I haven’t traveled this way in some time. I had forgotten how fatiguing it can be.”

In fact, she looks pale—even paler than usual, which is saying something. I’m fucking worried about her and I look down at her anxiously.

“Mistress? Are you sure you’re up to this?” I ask.

She nods firmly and straightens up, shaking my hand off her arm.

“I’m fine, Alaric—thank you. I just needed a moment to recover my composure.”

The peasant seems to be taking a moment too but eventually he staggers to his feet and gasps,

“My abode is this way, my Lady.” He points to a small cottage with a thatched roof not far from us.

“Very good—lead the way,” Sylvanna commands him.

Like me, he doesn’t question her. We follow him to the hut and he pushes inside, calling for his wife.

She comes at once—a Nocturna woman with a pale face and red eyes—it’s clear she’s been weeping.

“I’ve brought the Sorceress—the great lady is here to see our Jacobin!” he tells her but she shakes her head.

“I fear it might be too late. He barely breathes and his fever is so high. He’s burning like kindling!”

“Let me see him,” Sylvanna orders and the peasant woman gives her a frightened look and drops half a curtsey.

“Of course, my Lady. This way and thank you for coming,” she mumbles.

She leads us into the only other room in the cottage, which is smaller and more cramped than the first one. On a straw palate is a lad of perhaps eight or nine. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, his cheeks are burning red with fever and his breathing is so shallow I can barely make it out.

Heedless of the dirt floor and her fine lace dress, Sylvanna drops to her knees to examine the boy. Her slim, pale hand hovers over his forehead and she closes her eyes and murmurs something I can’t hear. When she looks up, her face is grave.

“He is very near to the other side—almost across the border of the Shadowlands,” she says. “I have a medicine that will help the fever, but then I must coax is soul back into his body.”

I have a sharp pang of misgiving.

“Is that safe?” I demand, kneeling beside her. “For you , I mean, Mistress.”

“I must try.” Her lips are set in a determined curve. “My mother took life after life from these people. I have vowed to save them when I can. The debt is heavy—I must repay it.”

“But—” I begin, but she’s already reaching for the leather satchel and rummaging in it.

“Here,” she says, drawing out a small crystal vial with a silver top. “Essence of moon-flowers, feverfew, and cooling mint. Sealed with a healing spell, this will bring his body back from the brink. Help me get it down his throat.”

I hold the boy’s jaws open—his skin is nearly as hot as mine gets when the Holy Fire rises within me—and she pours the pale blue healing potion into his mouth.

He chokes for a moment, then swallows instinctively.

As he does, Sylvanna is murmuring over him, talking in the Archaic Tongue which is the language of most magic.

She’s tried to teach it to me but I catch only a few words—one of them, though, is “sacrifice.” That concerns me but I don’t think I could stop her even if I tried—she’s wholly fixated on healing the peasant lad.

At last she sits back and nods to herself.

“Touch him now,” she tells his mother, who’s been hovering in the doorway, twisting her apron anxiously in both hands.

The mother stoops beside me and puts a hand on the boy’s forehead.

“Oh! He’s much cooler than he was!” she exclaims and pats his cheek. “Jacobin, my love! Please—come back to me!”

“He cannot hear you—his soul is lost,” Sylvanna tells her. “But fear not—I will find it.”

She produces a long, silver pin from somewhere in her gown and uses it to prick her finger. She lets a single drop of ruby blood fall onto the heavy grimoire which I placed beside her satchel.

At once the book gives out a low groan and the edges of its pages begin to bleed black blood. It’s an alarming sight and the peasant and his wife draw back with gasps of fear.