Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (22 page)

“Morgin,” Olivia cried. “Be still.”

Morgin looked at the old witch defiantly.
“Since she does not want me, I’ll not have her.”

Olivia dismissed him with a slash of her
hand. “The choice is not yours.”

“Nor hers,” Wylow added.

“Morgin,” AnnaRail said softly. “You’re
having a lover’s quarrel. Such quarrels end as quickly as they are
begun.”

“We’re not lovers,” he snarled, surprised
that he could raise his voice even to AnnaRail. “And I’ll not marry
her.”

“Enough of this,” Olivia commanded.
“Edtoall. Matill. I suggest you speak with your daughter. And I
shall have words with my grandson.”

She looked like a statue of ice as she said,
“Come, AethonLaw. We will speak in the Hall of Wills.”

Roland spoke quickly, “I’ll come too.”

“No,” the old witch barked flatly. “My
grandson and I will discuss this matter alone.”

Morgin followed her through a small door
that gave private access to the great council hall. It was an
enormous room, the largest in the castle, and Morgin knew exactly
why Olivia chose to speak with him there. The central floor where
he would stand was lower than the periphery, which was raised above
it by three stone steps. And the dais upon which Olivia would stand
was raised above all else by six steps. He would be doubly reduced,
and she could stand over him, giving orders and commands. He
resolved not to be intimidated, and took his stand in the center of
the Hall, far from the dais. The distance between them helped to
de-emphasize the elevation of her position.

“Now what is this I hear?” she demanded.

“She doesn’t want to marry me. And I’ll not
have her if she is forced.”

Olivia shook her head as if, for once, she
honestly wanted to understand. “But why? She’s a woman. She knows
her place when it comes to marriage. Is it you? Have you done
something?”

“I’ve done nothing. It’s her. She says her
blood has been in the clans for centuries, and it’s beneath her to
marry a whoreson.”

“Foolish young girl!” Olivia cursed.
“Stupid! Idiotic! Ahhh! Children! Both of you. The contracts are
signed. You will be wed, and that is the end of it. I command
it.”

Morgin’s spoke only one word: “No.”

Olivia froze. Her stillness was so complete
she could have been formed of stone, but Morgin saw the anger
building in her eyes, and in them the godlight shone.

“Too much depends upon this marriage,” she
said. “The Inetkas need our influence and we need their support. We
could do without this marriage, because ordinarily you and the girl
are of little import. But to default on signed contracts would make
Inetka our enemy. It would split the Lesser Council, and BlakeDown
would love that, for he has always sought to take my place, to lead
the Lesser Clans. And since that dog PaulStaff will, as always,
support him, he could succeed this time. No, grandson. You will
marry your foolish young girl. You will marry her whether you
choose to or not.”

“No,” Morgin said flatly.

Olivia’s eyes widened. “We have given you
much, Rat. You owe this to Elhiyne.”

“No.”

Her magic formed visibly about her. “Do not
defy me. You cannot win.”

Morgin watched the air about her begin to
glow with a soft radiance. He could see her power building,
encompassing her. She seemed to grow, to expand. The Great Hall
felt suddenly reduced. It became difficult to breathe. Sweat
dripped down his brow. She was suffocating him with her power,
trying to intimidate him.

Morgin would not have believed such power
was possible had he not seen it with his own soul. He felt small,
puny, a thing to be brushed aside before that which stood over him,
and then her magic enclosed him, shrank in upon him. He knew fear
and terror, and for just an instant he stood back in the market
square, Rat the thief, running blindly, harried on all sides.

But then he stood again in the Hall of
Wills, and he realized he was no longer Rat, no longer the
scurrying, terrorized guttersnipe. He was a wizard. He could
withstand Olivia’s magic. He did not know how, but he knew he could
hold it back, prevent her from forcing him to her will.

He summoned all of his strength and power,
called it to him, felt it coalesce within him, then released it,
let it swell outward. It pushed the old woman’s will back, forced
her to retreat.

“AARRUUGGHHHH!” she screamed. She suddenly
threw her hand high in the air, and it glowed, for the fires of
magic were cupped within her palm. But giddy with his own success
he no longer feared her. Never again could she harm him, and so he
struck, advanced against her retreat.

“You impudent whelp,” she cried, and hurled
the raw power in her hand directly at him. It arced across the
room, aimed at his soul, but he didn’t fear it, did not move or
retreat. He stood in his newfound confidence, prepared to withstand
it, an orb of flaming, crackling power that he knew he could
defeat.

Time slowed as his magic came fully upon
him. He stepped beyond the universe of mortal men, and his own
universe narrowed to that single, monstrous spark of Olivia’s
power. But it did not halt as it should have when he commanded, nor
did it slow, and he suddenly knew fear again. Rat’s terror struck
at him, and as Olivia’s power splashed across his soul, he knew
defeat.

~~~

Roland burst into the Hall of Wills to find
chaos within. The tapestries on the walls were in flames, debris
scattered about the floor. The ceiling high above was blackened and
charred. Morgin lay lifeless and still in the center of the floor,
his head thrown back at an odd angle, his back arched and rigid,
with his eyes wide and unseeing. Beyond Olivia’s dais, the only
place in the room that remained un-scorched was a small, gray oval
of stone floor surrounding Morgin.

AnnaRail brushed past Roland and ran to
Morgin. Roland moved to help Olivia. The old woman sat upon her
throne, stunned but conscious, staring blankly at Morgin’s lifeless
body. Roland reached her only an instant before Malka and
Marjinell. The Hall filled quickly with servants who moved to
extinguish the flaming tapestries.

Roland tried to understand what could have
happened, how it could have come to this. He had been waiting
outside, knowing that angry words would be exchanged by Olivia and
Morgin, prepared to arbitrate before they lost control. But when he
felt Olivia summoning her power, he knew he had delayed too long.
He had barely begun to move when there came a powerful explosion
from within the Hall.

With Malka and Marjinell caring for Olivia,
Roland was free to look to Morgin. He stepped off the dais and
stopped beside AnnaRail, who sat on the floor with Morgin’s head in
her lap. Her own head hung bowed and motionless, while deep in
trance she sought her son’s soul.

Wylow and Edtoall stormed into the room.
Seeing the chaos, the Inetka leader demanded, “What happened
here?”

Olivia moved for the first time. She looked
up, and her eyes returned slowly from a great distance. She looked
at Roland sorrowfully, and it was to him she spoke with a tremble
in her voice. “He . . . became unyielding. I tried
to . . . control him with my power, but he struck
me, and I . . . I lost control.”

A cold wave of anticipation washed over
Roland’s heart. “And you struck him back?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Yes.”

Roland looked down at AnnaRail’s bowed and
motionless head. He said, “Wife?” and knew in that way he had of
knowing that she’d heard him. After a long pause her head moved,
though she was slow to look upward, and he had to look away to keep
from falling into the depths of her eyes. Still in deep trance, her
expressionless face looked to be no more than a death mask.

“He lives,” she said flatly. “And will
continue to do so, unharmed. But just barely.”

She closed her eyes then, and bowed her head
as if she had never moved, and Roland understood that when
speaking, she had only been partly in this world.

He looked back at Olivia. “Thank the
gods
you had the presence of mind not to kill him, to at
least hold something back.”

Olivia continued to stare at Morgin. “But I
didn’t,” she whispered.

“What?” Malka asked.

“When he struck me . . .” the
old woman said, “. . . I lost control. For the first
time in my life I . . . completely lost control. I
threw everything I had at him . . . I totally and
completely lost control.”

“Impossible,” Wylow said, but his face held
an odd, greedy look. “There isn’t a man in the lesser tribes that
can survive the full force of your power.”

The Hall was still as everyone there waited
for Olivia to speak. Her eyes refused to leave Morgin’s lifeless
form, but then her lips curved slowly upward into a greedy smile.
Her voice came out in a tiny, distant whisper, but silence hung so
heavily in the Hall everyone there heard each word. “There is
now.”

Roland demanded, “This marriage must be
stopped.”

“No,” Edtoall shouted. He had the same
greedy look as his kinsman Wylow. “The contracts are signed. What
care we if children choose to act like children? The contracts were
made in good faith on both sides. You cannot fault us that your
AethonLaw turned out to be more than you thought, nor that our
Rhianne turned out to be less.”

He pointed at Olivia and finished. “The
contracts were made in honor. And in honor you cannot break
them.”

Wylow, who still held that look of greedy
delight, turned to Roland and said, “I must back my kinsman in
this. And if you choose to default, that could mean clan war.”

Olivia stood with a flourish. “Very well.
The wedding will take place. But now, not later. As soon as Morgin
is conscious. We must not give these children the opportunity to
fail us.”

Edtoall nodded his agreement. “Aye. When the
boy is conscious, the girl will be ready.”

~~~

Morgin stood at the window, his hands clasped
behind his back. Below him lay the castle yard, enveloped in the
swirling mists of early morning, and with the sun just beginning to
rise over the distant mountains he watched as the Inetkas mounted
up and began their long journey home. He watched the caravan snake
its way out of the compound, and realized he had spent no time with
Annaline. And since she was Inetka, as Rhianne was now Elhiyne, it
would be a long time before he’d have the chance again.

After more than three days of
unconsciousness he’d awakened with his mind immersed in a sea of
confusion. He stumbled hazily through preparations for the wedding,
a blur of sights and sounds and images, mostly disconnected and all
incomprehensible. And then it all culminated in the ceremony, where
he could remember Rhianne as if he’d been there himself. It took
him a moment to remember that he had been there. He had to keep
reminding himself of that fact. It was all so confusing.

He could remember standing there, surrounded
by his family and Rhianne’s, oppressed by the pall that hung over
the place. He could remember how lovely Rhianne had been, how
beautiful and lifeless, like a doll dancing on invisible strings of
magic, wooden and unresponsive in and of itself. He had watched as
she crossed the room to stand beside him. Then, looking in his
face, she suddenly become aware of her surroundings. She ran from
the room in tears.

When she returned some time later even he,
through his own haze, knew that she had been drugged. The wedding
happened, Rhianne partially supported by two of her sisters, and
the last thing he remembered was the look in JohnEngine’s eyes. It
was a sad look, a sorrowful look, as if his brother mourned
him.

His next memory was of awakening in the
night, still dressed in his wedding finery. He had the most
demanding erection he could ever remember having. And Rhianne lay
beside him, sweet and soft, and now she was his wife.

He pulled back the covers to discover that
they had made her ready for him. She had been undressed, and
wrapped in a filmy, gauzy thing that he could tear off with his
fingers if he chose. He could see her soft skin beneath it, with
the nipples of her small breasts standing out. And in the moonlight
that splashed through the window he could even see the dark shadow
where her legs met. There lay his desire, his want, his need.

Only at the last moment, barely an instant
before he ripped her nightgown to shreds, only then did he realize
he was operating under one of Olivia’s spells. How like her, he
thought, using her magic to insure that the marriage would be
properly consummated, even with Rhianne drugged to unconsciousness,
and he no more than a mindless zombie. How like the old witch.

It took every bit of will he had to replace
the covers, walk across the room, and sit in a chair to masturbate,
to relieve the tension of the old woman’s spell. And after that he
refused to return to bed for fear that she might cast another. If
he could fight her in no other way, he would fight her in this.

Since then he had been standing before the
window, waiting for the sun to rise. He’d watched the Inetkas
leave, and as the sun climbed into the sky, he now watched the
castle awake. He watched, and he waited, and finally, hearing a
gasp from behind him and the rustle of covers, he turned to behold
his wife.

Awake now, she sat up in bed, pulled the
sheets high about her neck. Her eyes widened as she took in her
surroundings. To her unasked question he answered, “Good morning,
wife.”

She gasped. Then, realizing where she lay,
she ran one hand quickly over her body to discover its nakedness,
while the other hand still held the sheets tight about her neck.
And in response to the fear on her face and her frantic actions, he
said, “Don’t worry, wife. You are untouched, unsoiled. You needn’t
fear bearing the seed of the whoreson. I’ll touch no woman if she
is unwilling.” His words turned into a snarl. “And since my mere
presence seems to repulse you so, I’ll be taking apartments
elsewhere in the castle. We are wed, you and I, and I cannot change
that. But from this day on, the less our paths cross, the
better.”