The World Without Sun was a beautiful place, just as vast and far more beautiful than the Bright World. For centuries Queen Savilla had ruled over its lightless halls and shadow caverns, its vast subterranean seas and darkling plains.
But like all rulers, she loved her palace best, for here all the good things in her world were distilled to their ultimate perfection. Here, in the Heart of Darkness, she tended the strands of her web of knowledge and power, patiently awaiting the day when the Tree of Night would bear that fruit whose harvest would prove so bitter to the Brightworlders.
Once — twice — the Endarkened had not been so patient, and He Who Is, their master, had chosen to teach them patience, allowing them to be defeated in their battles for mastery in the World Above. In the last battle — called in the Bright World the Great War — their defeat had been so profound and all-encompassing that they had been swept from their every stronghold in the World Above, forced back into their most secret strongholds, there to lie hidden, recovering their strength — and their numbers — for centuries.
But they had not been defeated. No. Let the haughty Elves, the foolish Centaurs, the arrogant Humans think that. Let them revel in their false victory and turn in their false Peacetime upon
each other, dissolving their ancient Alliance and retreating each to his own place. That suited Savilla's plans very well. From the very moment of the Endarkened's last retreat, while the wings of Dragons still blackened the sky and the music of the victory horns still sounded among the armies in the World Above, Savilla had begun to plan for the day that now, at last, seemed so near. Centuries had passed before she had first dared to send forth her agents into the Bright World once more, but she had waited patiently, and now her plans began their final, ever-accelerating plunge to fruition at last.
Did not the humans isolate themselves in their Golden City, certain that they were the masters of the world and that all lesser races must bow before them?
Did not the Elves retreat to their Forest of Flowers, too content with their own ways to look outside themselves and see how the world had changed?
Had not the Dragons vanished altogether, seen never by humans, seldom by others, and only at a distance?
Were not the other races so fragmented and harassed by the humans of the Golden City that it was far more likely that they would abandon the City to any enemy that should appear than to ever ally themselves with it?
So it was.
And ancient allies became present enemies — with the help of the Endarkened and their agents — insulated, isolated, each in his own petty world, each nursing exasperations and minor grievances to the exclusion of intelligence and common sense, each combating problems he was certain were his and his alone and were the most
important and terrible difficulties in the universe.
Each with misfortunes that could be solved by the other, did he only know it. And that was the beauty, the artistry of her plan — that Salvation should be within the grasp of each, and that they would turn a blind eye to it, choked by their own baseness and pride, until they died of it.
Savilla smiled, exposing long gleaming white fangs, as she reclined on her royal couch, prodding the quivering mass at her feet with one taloned foot, still preoccupied with her thoughts of the Endarkened victory to come.
It was wonderful to contemplate the suffering of her enemies, and still more delightful to know that none of them even suspected that the Endarkened were the architects of their quiet misery and diminution, moving against them even now. Nor would they suspect it, until it was far too late. This was the way to win a war. Not on the battlefield, with banners, bright swords, and brave words, but by weakening a foe until he destroyed himself. That was where the former ruler of the Endarkened, her predecessor, King Virulan, had made his fundamental errors; he had counted on brute force to ensure his conquest.
That was why he was the former ruler.
Perhaps she would even set her ancient enemies to warring with one another. It would not matter who won that war . . . the victor would be weak, exhausted by his battles, easy prey for her Endarkened legions and their subject-allies. Whoever triumphed would fall to her, and after the great city-states had gone down into defeat and shadows, then would fall their shattered exiles and former enemies. She would pick them off, one by one.
And then the world — both worlds — the World Without Sun and the Bright World — would belong to the Endarkened and to He Who Is.
Savilla regarded her surroundings with complacent approval before turning her attention to the treat before her. Work was done for now, and it was time for pleasure. To the Endarkened — those whom the Brightworlders in their bigoted ignorance called Demons — torture was the highest art, one requiring the most luxurious setting. Where a mortal or even an Elven ruler would have ornamented his throne room, libraries, or law courts with fine paintings and sculptures, the Endarkened lavished all such skills and embellishments on their torture chambers. The devices that could cause hideous pain and damage were crafted of precious metals, rare woods and ivories, inlaid with a jeweler's skill, and the walls of such chambers were lined with comfortable couches and divans, so that favored friends and confederates could come to spend a pleasant afternoon listening to screams of pain and whimpers for mercy and release as masters plied their most refined arts upon their victims.
Every Endarkened noble had a private torture chamber, but Queen Savilla's was the most beautiful of all, its painted and jeweled walls covered with detailed and elaborate depictions of agony, its vaulted dome crafted of black crystal mirror, and its lovely mosaic floor an intricate inlay of gold and polished skull-ivory, so that Savilla could walk upon the bones of vanished victims and cherish the memory of their deaths.
She reclined upon her satin couch — black, to enhance the deep warm scarlet of her skin — and stroked the arm lovingly. It was inlaid with a pure spiral of unicorn horn, harmless to her now with
the death of its owner. How well she remembered the wonderful months she had spent torturing the magnificent creature slowly to death, for the Endarkened did not rush their pleasures, and even the death of a magicless mortal could take a very long time. The Endarkened were master magicians, and all magic must be paid for. They gained their power through the pain and suffering of others, and there were so very many sorts of pain that could be inflicted, even before the first welt had been raised upon the skin.
Savilla looked around herself, regarding her courtiers complacently. Only a favored few had been invited to witness this very special day — those who stood high in her esteem . . . or those who needed a very special lesson in what it meant to lose her favor.
In the Courts of the Endarkened, it was often difficult to tell ally from enemy. Savilla knew. She made it her business to know. But those who had eagerly accepted the invitation to this particular treat could not, themselves, be certain why they had been invited, and that undercurrent of uncertainty only added to her pleasure. Mental cruelty, emotional suffering — there was a saying among the Endarkened: Each tear shed is Power gained.
Tanilak was far beyond tears.
Savilla looked down at the body lying on the velvet cushion at her feet, taking a deep breath of pure delight. She had taken the Endarkened noble as her lover over a year ago, knowing when she first welcomed him to her bed that the affair would end in the scene now playing out here. She had raised him high in her favor, plied him with honors, and then sent him into the Bright World to accomplish a small — but very difficult — task for her.
It would have been lovely had he been able to accomplish it to her satisfaction, and in fact he had done far better than Savilla had expected, for Tanilak had honestly wanted to please her. That was the beauty of it. The anguish of his failure, the terror of his punishment, the horror of going as her prey and victim to that place where he had gone so many times as a spectator, all were heady wine to her Endarkened senses. He might have hoped for mercy, for allies to engineer his rescue. But Tanilak had no friends at Court. She'd made sure of that as she'd engineered his downfall. By raising him high and encouraging arrogance, she had invoked jealousy and resentment in even those who once had allied with him. He'd left no grieving hearts behind to make trouble later.
When she'd had him seized, he'd done everything he could think of to save himself. For weeks she'd fed his hope, letting him think it was possible. She'd even engineered — and foiled — an escape attempt, tactics that would not have worked a few weeks before, but Tanilak was maddened with fear and hope, credulous as a child. When she'd come to him in his cell, he'd clung to her skirts and wept, clutching her barbed tail, kissing it and begging to be allowed to do something, anything, to prove himself, in the name of the love they'd shared.
Savilla smiled reminiscently at the memory, flexing her clawed toes in remembered ecstasy. How wonderful that moment had been, to see his yellow eyes well up with tears, their slitted pupils wide in the dimness, to see the moment when all hope died. She shivered with remembered delight, rubbing her hands over her bare gold-dusted arms.
But then, at last, it had been time to move on, to show him the engines that he knew so well, to explain what she would use on him, and how, and when, to savor his utter despair and feel his desperate search for a way to kill himself before she began. That, too, she frustrated.
And then, when he thought himself unable to feel anything more, Savilla proved him wrong again. Once more they were united in bonds of flesh and blood, until he yielded to her more completely than any lover possibly could.
And now, the last and sweetest consummation.
It was something impossible save with one of their own flesh, for, in the case of another Endarkened, when at last the victim had been reduced to a quivering mass of agonized protoplasm, the final outcome was to be absorbed completely by their torturer — to yield up everything — life, soul, spirit, memory — knowing at every moment what was happening, feeling the slow and inexorable death of the "self" as it was taken away to feed the life and power of the one it had come to hate and fear and worship.
Her skirts swishing about her slender ankles, Savilla rose gracefully to her feet and knelt beside the body before her, furling her delicate membranous wings tightly against her back.
Only its scarlet skin revealed that this had once been a noble of the Court. Horns, tail, ears, nose, teeth, eyes, fingers, and toes had all long since been removed, and all the rest reduced to a jelly-like consistency, held together only by the skin. The shapeless mass was far smaller than Tanilak had been in the days of his glory, but deep inside, what had once been Tanilak was still aware, was still himself. And now she was going to devour him.
Savilla leaned forward and placed her lips against his skin, biting down just enough to pierce the surface with her fangs. She began to suck gently. The taste of his essence filled her mouth, as warm and delightful as the taste of a fine brandy.
She sat back, sighing with pleasure. It had been too long since she had partaken of this particular delicacy. Her enjoyment was heightened by the sight of her Court favorites seated upon divans about her, watching her with greedy envy. It was rare that any of the Pure Blood transgressed so thoroughly as to render themselves prey for the rapacious appetites of their peers.
As she bent to sip again, her attention was caught by movement on the far side of the room, and she heard excited whispering among the Endarkened gathered here to watch her finish Tanilak.
Prince Zyperis had entered the Heart of Darkness, but he was not here to observe his mother's pleasure — or not entirely. Zyperis had brought a companion with him — a human.
The Prince towered over the human, and his scarlet skin made the human look as pale as a glistening grub. Zyperis was a truly beautiful creature, with waist-length hair as black as Savilla's own, curving golden horns, an elegant barbed tail, and large graceful ribbed wings — a mark of his noble blood. He was dressed all in white and gold, from his elegant sandals to his flowing silk trousers, gilded codpiece, and diaphanous jeweled sleeves. A large pearl-drop glowed in one ear, and his hair was held back from his face with a set of matching pearl combs.
His companion, Savilla was pleased to see, was clean and well-fed and dressed in the most opulent of human finery. Zyperis had a fine touch with the Art, and would ensure that his own offering to
the Art lasted a very long time. For now, the human's every physical need was being fully met, while Prince Zyperis played upon his mind and nerves. Bringing him here today was only the first step in the campaign that the Prince would wage upon those citadels, Savilla thought proudly. Zyperis would extract every ounce of torment possible from the human's fear and uncertainty before moving on to the first taste of physical pain.
She bent forward and let Tanilak's essence fill her mouth again, drinking in his memories, his long-buried desires.
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Prince Zyperis regarded the human beside him with pleasure and interest. Henamor Lear had been of little use in the fashion he had sworn he could be, but the man would yet have his opportunity to repair that insult — and provide Zyperis great entertainment into the bargain.
"If you will only give me another chance, Exalted One," Henamor whimpered desperately. He was barely able to keep his attention upon the Prince, for Henamor Lear had never seen so many of the Demonkind in one place together, and certainly he had never before been so deep within their realm. He only hoped he could still escape alive — for if he did, this was the end of his dealing with Demons!
Zyperis smiled, knowing full well the direction and content of his captive's thoughts. Yes, let the man still hope for a reprieve . . . for a time . . . even though his fate was irrevocably sealed. There were so many humans, after all, each willing to exchange freedom and safety for the powers of Darkness. With so many eager to take Henamor's place, the human was entirely
disposable.
"But why should I do that, when you failed so dreadfully on your last attempt? You assured me it would be so simple, so possible, to find a Dragon and bond with it through your spells, oh great magician," Zyperis said playfully.
"But it is — it will be!" The human whispered, shrinking in upon himself, as one of the nearest Endarkened turned her gaze away from the Queen and rested it upon the human. "Only let me draw near to it, and it will fall prey to my spells — then you will have all its power — and mine — for your own, to use as you choose!"
"But I already have you, and all your power, Henamor," Zyperis pointed out with mock-obliviousness. "How could I possibly be greedy enough to wish for anything more?"
"Only let me try again," Henamor begged. "It must have detected me somehow, hidden itself before I could discover its den. I have done all that you asked, Exalted One — for years I have been your eyes and ears in the Bright World, doing all that you asked of me, growing in your power, working your Dark Arts. I have given you many slaves, even my own wife and children—"
"But you promised me a dragon," Zyperis said in jesting sing-song tones. "And you didn't give me a dragon. Now why should I give you a second chance to fail at what you didn't manage to accomplish once? I really don't think another failure would be at all good for you, my Henamor. Now come. You have always been curious about our secrets. Let me show you the heart of our power."
He put an arm around the human's shoulders, and drew him close to his side, savoring the shudders of fear that Henamor tried hard
to suppress, drawing ever-so-delicately upon that anguish. Zyperis directed his agent's attention to the wall-paintings, as if to praise their beauty, knowing the man would only see their subject, the endless and exquisite ways that the Endarkened had devised for their victims to die, and think of his own fate. He summoned a servant — one of the Lesser Endarkened, its hoofed and scaled form such that the Brightworlders found especially hideous — and pressed wine upon his guest, before directing his attention to a pair of golden boots. They stood upon a long wooden rack beside several other sets of oddly-shaped footwear, all metal.
"Are they not lovely? Rather bulky, I'm afraid, but that is because there are hollows built into the outer shell that can be filled with boiling oil. And the wonder of it is that even filled, they are light enough to dance in. Imagine!" Zyperis smiled proudly at his guest. The Court ladies in attendance upon the Queen giggled approvingly, flirting their jeweled fans as they tried to catch the young Prince's eye. "Have you ever seen such craftsmanship, such cunning?"
"A— Amazing," Henamor whispered. He gazed pleadingly at the prince, begging silently for mercy. Zyperis pretended not to see.
"It is a wonderful thing to have a creature entirely at your mercy — but I need hardly tell you that, my friend," Zyperis said. "You, too, have accomplished great things in your time."
"And I will do more, if you will permit me, Master," Henamor gasped, seizing the opening. "I know I have failed you —"
"Now, now — what are two old friends such as we to talk of failure?" Zyperis said chidingly. "Still, I should so very much have liked to have had a dragon . . . . But perhaps another time.
Please allow me to show you the flaying knives. They are so wonderfully sharp and thin that it is quite possible to remove a man's skin in one piece, you know, though it can take weeks — sennights as you call them — to properly loosen the skin of the face. I understand that the best method is to make a small incision and then to inject brine beneath the skin — did you not tell me you had done that once?" Zyperis allowed his brow to furrow, as if in thought. "Oh yes, now I remember. You said the man died of the pain, but I assure you, that won't happen here," the Prince added, in soothing tones.
Like all the so-called Masters of the Dark Arts with whom Zyperis had dealt in his lifetime, Henamor was brave enough when inflicting pain on others, but the mere thought of receiving such treatment himself made him weep like a child. Zyperis reveled in this delicious foretaste of the banquet to come — and the beauty of it was, the human had no notion his Demonic host was already siphoning off his pain and despair, while leaving its wellspring intact. Patience; that was the essence of success. Queen Savilla was right; patience won all, with patience, one could create a feast of fear and pain that would satisfy the most finicky of appetites.
Henamor was weeping now, quite frantic with terror, and Zyperis judged that it was time to offer some small modicum of relief, lest matters progress too swiftly.
"But I am sure that you will want to tell me more of what you know about the dragons, leaving nothing back," Zyperis said, drawing the human away from his horrified contemplation of the crystal cases filled with slender glittering knives.
When Henamor had come here, the man had intended to withhold some of his information, to use it to bargain for his freedom, or at the very least, to persuade the Prince of his continued usefulness. Now he found himself telling everything he knew, or guessed, or suspected about the caverns where the dragons might be found — how to seek them out, the spells that might be used to compel them, how to force a bond upon one of them.
Zyperis listened intently, sipping the fear that radiated from the human just as he absorbed the information — though this was hardly the last time he would have this information from Henamor's lips before the Mage-man died. If only he could use it himself — but unfortunately, his race was unable to make an alliance with the Dragons. Only a Mage could bond with a dragon, and only a human could become a Mage. But once Bonded, a dragon was psychically and emotionally vulnerable to anything that its rider was vulnerable to, and humans were so very, very vulnerable . . . .
As he listened, he watched Queen Savilla at her feast, savoring Tanilak's destruction nearly as much as she did. Though she had not taken him into her confidence, he had guessed her plans from the moment she had first begun to show favor to Tanilak, and had secretly been delighted when he was proven right. Zyperis had never tired of watching the two of them here together here in the Heart of Darkness, glorying in the anticipation of the moment he knew was to come.
Henamor's words faltered to a stop, his eyes following the direction of Zyperis' gaze. "What . . . is that?" he whispered.
"That is my mother the Queen," Zyperis said, pretending to take offense. "The most beautiful and accomplished of all of the
host of Endarkened _- "
"No!" Henamor protested frantically, terrified of causing new trouble for himself. "I meant no disrespect! I meant . . . with the Queen."
"Ah." Zyperis smiled, and allowed himself to be pleased. Henamor had recovered his equilibrium, and was ready to be frightened once more. "That was once a noble of this court, who failed to give satisfaction in a far more trivial matter than you have, my dear friend. The Queen's abilities in the Art far exceed my own, and as you see, she has quite destroyed poor Tanilak. Now she consumes him utterly."
Already, the scarlet pulsing mass had much decreased in size, while Queen Savilla glowed with increased power and life. Zyperis felt the intimate tug of her beauty.
"She's . . . eating him," Henamor moaned.
"So she is," Prince Zyperis said, as if he'd only just discovered that fact. "And do you know, as she does, she is consuming every one of his memories, and his soul as well. There will be no rebirth for Tanilak upon the branches of the Tree of Night."
The frisson of despair that jolted Henamor played deliciously on all of Zyperis's senses, and he luxuriated in it. Not quite so delicious a vintage as the essence of Tanilak, but savory in its own small way. Let Henamor believe for as long as possible that this could be his own ultimate fate. Humans were so short-lived that they set great store by their souls' fates.
And even though it was not possible for Zyperis to do to Henamor precisely what Queen Savilla was doing to Tanilak, the
Prince had plans for the human Mage's immortal spark. Plans that he would reveal to his victim at the appropriate time in their relationship . . . .
"But come," Zyperis said. "I know that our afternoon together has tired you, and you will wish to spend some time alone meditating upon your numerous failings and considering how you can best please me. Although of course," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I can think of no way that you can save yourself from your fate."
He turned away, knowing that in Henamor's wearied and distracted condition it would take several seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in, and raised his hand. One of the Lesser Endarkened hurried over, its hooves clicking against the glittering mosaic floor. It bowed low before the Prince, casting a greedy glance toward the human.
"Return my guest to his rooms and see that he has food and drink, for I anticipate many long hours of pleasure spent in his company in the future."
The Prince turned back to Henamor, who was only now beginning to realize what Prince Zyperis had said. He would still deny it to himself, and hope he had heard wrong — Zyperis meant to fan the flames of hope and uncertainty for many days yet, before dashing those hopes forever.
"Please — Prince Zyperis — Your Highness—"
"Your company grows tedious, my friend. Do not make it entirely offensive," Zyperis said gently. He watched as Henamor reluctantly allowed himself to be led away by the Lesser Endarkened, and heard the sibilant sound as it whispered to the
human, telling him horrors — on Prince Zyperis' orders, of course — that would cause Henamor Lear a long and sleepless night.
The Prince smiled, and returned his attention to the enchanting tableau before him. Tanilak was so diminished by now that the Queen could cradle what was left of him in her cupped palms like a malign scarlet fruit, and as Zyperis watched, she sucked him in with one last deep swallow.
A murmur of appreciation passed through the watching Endarkened, and a ripple of gentle applause.
Zyperis approached, bowing low.
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Savilla regarded her son with approval. He had handled the ugly little human splendidly, feeding from him so subtly that the human Mage probably wasn't even aware that the vampirism had taken place. Now he knelt before her, flushed with power — and quite the most attractive member of her Court, at least since the day, so many years ago, when his father went the way that Tanilak had just gone. Dear Urallesse — in so many ways he had been her equal, save in guile, and there was no one in all the Court these days to match him.
Save Prince Zyperis. Strong and handsome, ambitious and utterly merciless . . . he was her peer, almost her equal.
She rose gracefully to her feet, regarding him through lowered lashes. He stared back at her with a hot-eyed gaze of frank admiration, as drawn by her increase in Power as she was captivated by his youthful charms.
She held out her hand. He took it, first kneeling gracefully in homage, then rising to his feet and bringing her hand to his mouth, kissing first the palm, then the wrist where the pulse of stolen life beat strongly. Their eyes met, and there was no doubt between them where this unspoken conversation would lead.
"I shall be in my chambers for the rest of the afternoon," Savilla announced, leading Zyperis toward the door which led to her rooms. "My . . . private chambers."
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