Healed by Hope (11 page)

25

WHEN LAYLAH watched Dhītar interact with her mother, she felt little compassion for the countess’s sorrow over her father’s death. When Elu rushed over and greeted Torg and then her, she felt little excitement over their reunion. Later that night, when she and Torg lay in a luxurious bed in one of the city’s large manses, she took little pleasure in being at her beloved’s side. Her mind, it seemed, was elsewhere: The boy growing in her womb attracted her attention like a buzzing fly.

Did Torg sense her lack of enthusiasm? She couldn’t tell. As they lay entwined on the cushiony mattress, the wizard held her with his usual gentle grace. So close were their faces, she could smell his sweet breath, which reminded her of a forest in late spring after a light rain. Or was it more like standing near a waterfall? Again, she didn’t know. And again she didn’t seem to care.

The boy was in her womb. And it was imperative that she pay full attention to his growth.

The next afternoon, Ukkutīka, Kithar, and six hundred other Tugars entered Senasana and joined their company. They had journeyed nonstop from Java to the merchant city, and greeting their kinsmen filled them with joy. The Asēkha’s tale seemed to fascinate Torg, and he asked numerous questions about the demise of the great serpent and also about the Pabbajja. Laylah stood by and smiled as best she could, but somehow everything they discussed felt . . . unimportant. She continually rubbed her belly, reveling in the warm yellow glow. Why should she care about anything else?

Near dusk, Laylah found herself standing alone, away from the others. She had put herself in this position purposefully, fluttering from Torg and her Tugarian guardians like a feather in a breeze. She was in no danger. Even if fiends came upon her, she could destroy them with little effort. The sorceress had never felt more powerful—or independent. Now she relished her privacy and found Torg’s intrusions more and more annoying. Anyone or anything that demanded something of her took her mind off her real concern: the health and welfare of her baby.

When Burly interrupted her reverie, she almost let out a shout.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Laylah,” the enchanter said, choosing not to use the honorific title of queen. “But I couldn’t help but notice that you were alone. Would you like some company?”

Burly’s words made Laylah feel strange, as if something were awakened inside her that recently had become dormant. She smiled fondly at the tiny man, who returned her smile and then reached way up and took her hand. Inviting warmth surged up her arm and into her shoulder. In comparison, the presence in her belly felt . . . uncouth. Without knowing why, she jerked her hand away, which caused Burly to frown.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

Laylah couldn’t tell if the enchanter was her ally or enemy, but she knew he was formidable, and therefore she didn’t want to give too much away. Burly would go to Torg. Torg would rush back to her. And things would become complicated.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that . . . with all that’s happened . . .”

Burly smiled again—and it appeared genuine. Laylah looked at him with a mixture of admiration and suspicion, and it must have shown in her face because the enchanter’s smile faded. As if in response, a voice in her ear whispered, “You can do better than this. Don’t act
too
suspicious. Do you want them interfering?”

She most certainly did not want them interfering, she told her inner voice. And so she forced her demeanor to change.

“It’s the baby,” she said with a bashful sigh. “I’m sure Torg or someone has already told you.” But against her will, the derision returned: “News of it spread through the Tugars like wildfire.” Then she caught herself again and sighed in the same bashful manner: “Anyway, it’s Invictus’s child—and worse even than that perversion, there may be some . . . problems.” She started to say more but stopped when she realized that Burly was aghast.

“Laylah . . . no one, Torg least of all, has said anything to me about this. I’m . . . I . . . don’t know
what
to say. What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

The enchanter arched a bushy eyebrow. “What do I
mean
?”

Now it was Laylah’s turn to appear puzzled—and then stunned. “You’re not suggesting . . .”

Careful!
the inner voice hissed.

But she was no longer in the mood to be careful. “My son will
not
be harmed!” she said in a voice as cold as malice. Then she dropped to her knees and glared into Burly’s small, round eyes. “Do you
understand
?”

Burly took several steps back, and he held out his wand as if to ward her off. But then he slowly relaxed. “Harmed?” he finally said. “Of course not, my queen. None of this is the boy’s fault. He should not be held to blame for his father’s misdeeds.”

Agree with him! Smile! Apologize!

Instead, Laylah crouched on the ground and burst into tears.

Torg heard this and then rushed over and knelt beside her. “Laylah, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“I . . .
am
 . . . ill,” she said. “Everything that’s happened . . . it’s too much.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been watching you more closely. Let me take you to a place where you can rest.”

Torg lifted her with ease and took her back to the luxurious bed chamber where they had slept the previous night. As the wizard carried her away, Laylah looked back at Burly. The enchanter’s expression remained perplexed. She had to resist an urge to stick her tongue out at him.

Larger than life

26

LAYLAH WAS NOT handling things well, but it really wasn’t the little bitch’s fault. Vedana’s great-grandson was the true cause of the problem. Even unborn, he was proving to be compulsive. Would this trait make him less easy to control, once he was out of the womb? It was a disturbing question. But one thing was certain: There wasn’t a whole lot Vedana could do now but try to minimize whatever havoc the fetus attempted to wreak.

If the annoying wizard or the equally annoying enchanter caught wind of what was going on, either was capable of
doing things
that would ruin Vedana’s schemes for good. Vedana doubted this would occur, but it was enough to make her wary. She had been thwarted too many times over the millennia to feel confident now. Until her prison was shattered and she was unleashed into the Realm of Life, she would never rest comfortably. Could anyone blame her?

“I . . .
am
 . . . ill,” she heard Laylah say. “Everything that’s happened . . . it’s too much.”

“I’m so sorry,” the Death-Knower responded in his milquetoast manner. Then he carried the little bitch away.

Vedana sighed. Another crisis averted. Now, could she finally have some time to herself? She had duties to perform.

She watched Torg and Laylah for another moment and then sped to her next destination.

In many regards, the Kolankold Mountains were as massive and unforgiving as the Mahaggatas. Some areas were incredibly dense and sheer. Few living beings could survive in such a hostile environment.

But that didn’t mean that none could survive.

In her incarnation as a gray-haired woman, Vedana strolled into a cave that descended deep into the interior of a granite mountain. The tunnel wove this way and that in total darkness, and any ordinary being would have needed a torch to find its way. But as a demon she felt right at home, walking on the craggy floor without stumbling. Eventually, the passageway opened into a cavernous chamber filled with a treasure not nearly as vast as Bhayatupa’s had been—but impressive, nonetheless. Upon the treasure lay a female dragon—the golden hue of her scales more beautiful than any jewel or nugget. Her name was Sovaōōa, and Vedana knew that she was mother of the Sampati.

Sovaōōa was deep in dragon-sleep and at first was unaware of Vedana’s presence. It took Vedana three days to wake the golden dragon enough so that Sovaōōa could speak lucidly. Though Vedana knew that the dragon had never liked her, the great creature was too groggy to make threats—and so listened . . . warily.

“I will be the boy’s slave,” Sovaōōa finally managed to enunciate.

“You will be
my
slave first,” Vedana said. “
His
second. But everyone but the two of us will be beneath
you
.” Vedana patted one of the dragon’s cavernous nostrils. “I suggest that you consider my offer carefully.”

“I could leave here now and kill the sorceress before
he
is even born.”

“That might prove more difficult than you think. Laylah is stronger than she looks—and the Death-Knower is with her. Besides, I would stop you, if you tried such a thing.”

Sovaōōa snorted. “You have always overestimated your powers, Vedana.”

“That’s what
everyone
says. There’ll come a time . . . soon . . . when they’ll regret saying it.”

Sovaōōa awoke enough to lift her head. When she stretched out her long body, she extended from wall to wall in the enormous chamber. Yet she was barely two-thirds the size of what Bhayatupa the Great had been before Invictus destroyed him.

“Come on, Sovaōōa,” Vedana said, her voice suddenly lighthearted. “We both know why you’re here. When you sensed Bhayatupa’s awakening, you fled. But dearheart, the
Mahaasupanno
is dead—and so is the one who slew him. You can again fly free in the skies. And even better, if you join the boy and me,
you
will become
Mahaasupanno
.”

“Your proposal is intriguing, but it would be even more so if I trusted you.”

“
Tcchhh!
Why shouldn’t you trust me? What have I to gain from betraying you? It’s obvious why I need your help. The boy will have amazing powers, but being able to fly all over Triken on his own won’t be one of them. He’ll need you to carry him places.”

“The places you tell him to go, you mean.”

“What’s the difference?”

Sovaōōa pondered this last question from late afternoon until past dusk before responding. “Very well . . . when do we begin?”

“That’s the spirit!” Vedana said. Then she added, “Sooner than you might think. He’s growing fast.”

27

IN HER INCARNATION as Sakuna the mountain eagle, the Faerie could see almost as well as a great dragon. From her viewpoint in the upper heights of the deep-blue sky, the merchant city of Senasana was about the size and shape of a head of cabbage. And the tiny black specks that were Torg and Laylah were smaller than grains of sand. But she recognized their aura, nonetheless.

In the end, who would prevail? Would it be the demon and the boy? Or the wizard and the sorceress? Without Peta around to update the forecasts, the answer remained unclear. The uncertainty had been just one of the prices that had needed to be paid to ensure the destruction of Invictus’s physical incarnation. The fact that his offspring would become powerful in an eerily similar manner could not be avoided.

All the Faerie knew was that she would do everything she could to aid the Death-Knower. And that would include playing foil to a great dragon once again.

Life had been appeased. Death had been appeased.

But not yet Undeath.

The darkness that existed where life and death did not waited hungrily for its moment.

The Faerie continued to circle, watching and wondering.

28

TWELVE DAYS HAD passed since they had left Kilesa, and ten days since they had returned to the peaks of Okkanti, yet the suffering of the snow giants did not cease. Upon their arrival, Gambhira and Sampakk refused to take part in the communions and eventually wandered off, their depression as palpable as winter. Where these two had gone was a mystery to the others. But Okkanti was vast, and if a snow giant wanted to disappear, it could be done.

This morning’s communion was particularly unrewarding. Yama-Deva sat in a circle with the five of his kind that remained together, their hands joined and knees touching. When they sat this way their thoughts melded—and they became as one in
Santapadam
(the Path of Peace). But Deva now saw—or believed that he saw—that
Santapadam
was born of naiveté. It was easy to be a pacifist when violence was nowhere to be found, but not so easy when you were forcibly immersed in it. When Deva tried to tell them this during their melding, the other snow giants did not understand.

Violence is violence, peace is peace
was their telepathic response.

But none of them had been Invictus’s slave.

Finally Deva went alone in search of Gambhira and Sampakk. He wanted to tell them that the deeds they had performed deep inside the catacombs of Kilesa had been good things, at least in some ways. They had removed terrible evils from the world.

Was it not possible that violent acts sometimes could prevent others? For most of his long life, Deva had not believed such a thing. But Invictus had taught him otherwise. After all, was it not Deva who had slain the sorcerer?

As he climbed amid the jagged peaks, Deva thought back to what had occurred just after he had beheaded the Sun God. Torg had begged him to flee, but Deva had refused. The very thing that now tormented Gambhira and Sampakk had also tormented him, though a thousand times more. The acts of violence he had committed as Mala absurdly dwarfed those of his two companions, both in quality and quantity. The prospect of a million tons of granite collapsing on his head had been uniquely appealing. It was so difficult to kill a snow giant, but that certainly would do it—with blessed rapidity.

After Torg fled, Deva had stood next to Invictus’s decapitated corpse and waited for the end. Though tears streamed down his beautiful face, the snow giant felt strangely at peace. With a series of hissing sounds, cracks widened in the ceiling—and then chunks of stone began to fall like boulder-sized hail. One struck his head but caused relatively little harm. It would take more than a single boulder to destroy him. It would take the bedrock itself.

Finally a pair of massive slabs fell upon him, but to Deva’s amazement they collided in the air above his head and folded downward like an inverted V. Though he was enshrouded in darkness, Deva found that he still was unharmed. Now he believed that suffocation would cause his death instead of pulverization, and that did not seem so appealing.

The catacombs beneath Uccheda continued to groan and quiver. Deva willed his eyes to glow, which created just enough light to see for several paces, and then he began to feel his way out, not with the idea of saving his life but rather of reaching a less stable place where his death could come more quickly. His initial attempts met with little success. Wherever he went, the crevices became too small to traverse. And the air indeed was growing stale. Deva felt panic rising in his awareness. But since he no longer feared death, and in fact
wanted
to die, the panic did not escalate beyond a manageable level.

Several times he was able with his great strength to widen a passageway enough to squeeze through. Another time he came upon a newborn huddled in the darkness, unharmed physically but ruined emotionally. Deva felt pity for the man, but when he reached for him, the soldier yelped and then crawled into a crevice just wide enough to contain his much smaller body. Deva could not follow, so he continued on his way.

He came to a place where he too was forced to crawl—which was difficult with only one hand—and then slither on his chest. The panic rose again, but then subsided. What did it really matter how he died as long as he died? The chain he had borne as Mala had caused more pain in just a few years than most beings experienced in a thousand lifetimes. Anything he might be forced to suffer now would be minuscule in comparison. So he kept slithering, more out of curiosity than anything else. Where would he die? When would he die? How would he die? All seemed like questions that would not be answered unless he kept moving.

Eventually, the passageway grew so tall he again was able to stand upright. Deva could sense that the surface—where the air smelled sweet and life thrived wildly—was just above his head. Just one titanic slab of stone blocked his way.

Deva discovered, to his own surprise, that he wanted to continue to live. At least for now. But the stone was too heavy to lift, especially without the use of two strong hands. And he realized, with a grim chuckle, that he would die just a few cubits from salvation.

Then the Tugars had arrived and freed him.

Now, Deva went from mountain to mountain, traversing perilous ridges and leaping across deadly chasms. He came upon Gambhira first. The large male, young by snow giant standards, was huddled in a shallow cave near the summit of one of Okkanti’s northernmost peaks. Though it was nearly summer, the barren heights remained snow-covered and bitterly cold. Gambhira sobbed and shivered.

“Will you not come out?” Deva said. “The sun is about to set. We can enjoy it together.”

Gambhira growled but did not otherwise speak.

Deva knelt and prepared to crawl into the cave, but something huge fell upon his back and crushed him face-first onto the icy ledge. Powerful fingers became entwined in his mane, and then his skull was pounded against the frozen stone.

“You did this!
You . . . did . . . this!
If you had just
stayed
up here, none of this would have happened. It’s your fault!”

Deva didn’t resist. It occurred to him that this was how he would die. Finally he knew the where and when. But before enough damage was done to finish him, Sampakk stopped—and then she too was sobbing and shivering.

Deva sat up. Blood oozed from his nose and lips. But it appeared the time of his ending had been postponed again. “Are you so sure?” he said, loud enough for both to hear. “Would not Invictus have found us eventually?”

Neither answered.

Deva wiped blood from his eyes. “When you wander from the heights, there are risks,” he said. “But there are also rewards.”

Sampakk looked up. “Rewards?” she said bitterly. “What rewards could come from this?”

To Deva’s surprise, Gambhira crawled out of the cave. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, but they contained just the slightest hint of curiosity.

“We have been given an opportunity,” Deva said.

“To do what?” they said in unison.

Deva smiled. “To heal,” he said. “But more importantly . . . to grow.”