Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 by The Way Beneath (v1.1) Page A

           You will notP Ashar snapped, then modified his tone. But I will offer you a choice. Aid
me and you shall be freed of this place. I will set you amongst the privileged.
Refuse and you shall see your daughter join you here. And Kedryn Caitin, too,
knowing that you brought them to this.
                A lucid arm swept out, encompassing all that mournful place. Darr did not follow the gesture,
but shook his head. “You are a god of liars and cheats and I will have no truck
with you.”
                 Then you shall have no choice, Ashar
barked, his anger seeming to bum against the mist so that it glowed and
trembled. I will have it from you against
your will.
                 Hands
of fire gripped Darr’s shoulders, lifting him so that he hung above the ashen
ground, the god’s furnace gaze transfixing him, dragging from him the knowledge
Ashar sought. It was as if immaterial pincers plucked pieces from his very
soul, and he writhed at the agony of it, his moaning bringing a smile to the
god’s mouth.
                 So, Ashar intoned when he was done,
releasing his grip to let Darr fall shuddering to the seething strand, I have it. Go.
                 The
shade that was Darr rose unsteadily, compelled by the god’s will, and shuffled
back toward the mist that extended tendrils as if in welcome. Ashar watched
him, promising later vengeance, and turned himself ,
stepping proudly to the edge of the canescent lough, where he stooped to dabble
a hand in the viscous liquid, fervid eyes concentrated on the surface as his
mouth moved in silent speech.
                 When
he was done he rose and disappeared, that place where he had stood shimmering
for a while with baleful red light as the tattered gray wings of the batlike
creatures fluttered anxiously, their piping voices raised in reedy chorus.
                 In
Estrevan Paramount Sister Gerat felt an unseasonably cool wind brush chill
fingers over her face and wondered if the prickling sensation dancing like tiny
needles over her skin was a product of the building storm or something else.
                 There
was, undoubtedly, a storm building. To the east a band of livid sky hid the
bulk of the Lozins, massive banks of black cumulus hanging above, moving
ponderously westward as if in pursuit of the azure that dominated that part of
the heavens. Billows of white fought briefly with the black, and were engulfed,
or sent scudding and streaming from the celestial combat as their darker
opponents took the victory.
                 The
windgrew stronger, tainted with the odor of rain, and across the underbelly of
the great cloud mass flashed shafts of brilliant light. Unconsciously Gerat
counted off the pauses between lightning and the ensuing peels of thunder, remembering
how she had done the same as a child, calculating the arrival of the storm. She smiled, the expression a mingling of amusement and
apprehension, and felt the first droplets of rain touch her cheeks. Within
moments the droplets had become a downpour and she retreated from the balcony
of her chamber, stepping back into the room as globules of water lashed the
stone outside, splashing over the sill to rest translucent on the polished
boards of the floor. The chamber grew dim as the storm settled over the city,
lit only by the dancing tendrils of levin that stalked the rooftops as if some
airborne behemoth trod on insectile legs above Estrevan. She felt her hair
stand up as the world became a shadow show, all darkness and brilliance,
alternating, great racking booms echoing against her eardrums as the rain beat
a manic tattoo upon the stones of the balcony and the droplets shining on the
floor became a pool of light-shimmered effulgence.
                 And
then it was gone, sweeping westward, the canescence to the east brightening to
welcome blue, white cloud repossessing the sky, sailing in alabaster