handsome features were tight with disgust. Without another word, he spun around and marched off.
“Milady, he will go to the Healer and—”
“And the Healer will tell him that each of Princess Clea’s ladies-in-waiting are pox-riddled,” Clea assured her. “I have greased his filthy palm many times over to save you women the curse of being mauled by a piece of offal like Sorath Nergal!”
Marbas rushed to her mistress and knelt down beside her, wrapping her hands around Clea’s scrawny legs. “Thank you, Your Grace. Oh, thank you!”
Clea put a hand to the girl’s dark hair. “We will save your virginal offering to a man worthy to claim it, Mari. I swear that to you on my beloved mother’s grave.”
“I wish the Venturians had won the war,” Sariel stated. “With a man like Lord Krull at the head of our Tribunal, the women of Pleiades would not have to suffer at the hands of men like Lord Nergal.”
“I, too, wish they had won the war, Sariel,” Clea told her. “Perhaps one day those powerful warriors will march on Nebul and free us all.”
“But would you be allowed to keep the throne, Your Grace?” Marbas questioned.
Clea continued to stroke Marbas’ hair. Her rheumy eyes gazed into the distance. “I don’t see why not. I am no threat to them, and I believe I would make a good monarch.”
“The best,” Marbas swore. “The very best, milady!”
“Then let’s say our prayers that one day the gods will take pity on us and rid us of the wickedness that prevails in our land,” Clea advised her women.
“Come to us, Lord Krull,” Sariel pleaded, her hands clasped to her chin. “Come and deliver us from the evil in which we are forced to live.”
“Come, Leksi,” Clea whispered, her gaze shifting to the man who visited her often in her secret dreams. “Come and rescue me.”
Chapter Eight
Kynthia tossed upon her bed and flung the covers this way and that. She was restless in her sleep for an age-old nightmare had come to gallop across her memory, its pounding hooves striking to the rhythm of her terrified heart.
In her dreams, she was running upon the Isle of Uaigneas, trying to outdistance the gruesome thing racing toward her. She ran through the forest with tree limbs slapping at her face, she stumbled over logs and fell face down in the blistering sand. Looking behind her, she could see the loathsome entity slithering after her and she got up and ran again, the stitch in her side so painful she moaned in her sleep. For what felt like hours, she raced through the forest until she came to the high cliff overlooking the island where the Reaper’s airship, The Levant , sat perched like a mighty black raptor.
There was nowhere else to run. All avenues of escape were closed off to her and when she dared to look around one last time, she was horrified to find the thing from which she had been striving to escape loaming over her, wicked talons curled, and flashing incisors dripping with saliva, glowing red eyes piercing her to the marrow of her bones. She could either accept the evil coming at her or turn and jump from the cliff to the jagged rocks far below. The decision was hers.
“It is your choice, wench,” Cainer Cree’s voice came at her from the sky.
And she had made her decision by holding her arms out to the creature and offering her neck to its wicked fangs. As the sharpness hooked into her flesh, Kynthia Ancaeus sank to the ground in unconscious worship of the Transition she knew would soon come.
With a gasp, Kynthia sat up in the bed. Her legs were tangled in the rumpled sheets and she viciously kicked them away, unnerved by the restriction that had wound its way around her ankles. Shivering, her teeth chattering, she plastered herself to the headboard and drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and sat there rocking back and forth, a soft keening sound issuing from her constricted throat as her backbone thumped against the wooden slats of the
“Milady, he will go to the Healer and—”
“And the Healer will tell him that each of Princess Clea’s ladies-in-waiting are pox-riddled,” Clea assured her. “I have greased his filthy palm many times over to save you women the curse of being mauled by a piece of offal like Sorath Nergal!”
Marbas rushed to her mistress and knelt down beside her, wrapping her hands around Clea’s scrawny legs. “Thank you, Your Grace. Oh, thank you!”
Clea put a hand to the girl’s dark hair. “We will save your virginal offering to a man worthy to claim it, Mari. I swear that to you on my beloved mother’s grave.”
“I wish the Venturians had won the war,” Sariel stated. “With a man like Lord Krull at the head of our Tribunal, the women of Pleiades would not have to suffer at the hands of men like Lord Nergal.”
“I, too, wish they had won the war, Sariel,” Clea told her. “Perhaps one day those powerful warriors will march on Nebul and free us all.”
“But would you be allowed to keep the throne, Your Grace?” Marbas questioned.
Clea continued to stroke Marbas’ hair. Her rheumy eyes gazed into the distance. “I don’t see why not. I am no threat to them, and I believe I would make a good monarch.”
“The best,” Marbas swore. “The very best, milady!”
“Then let’s say our prayers that one day the gods will take pity on us and rid us of the wickedness that prevails in our land,” Clea advised her women.
“Come to us, Lord Krull,” Sariel pleaded, her hands clasped to her chin. “Come and deliver us from the evil in which we are forced to live.”
“Come, Leksi,” Clea whispered, her gaze shifting to the man who visited her often in her secret dreams. “Come and rescue me.”
Chapter Eight
Kynthia tossed upon her bed and flung the covers this way and that. She was restless in her sleep for an age-old nightmare had come to gallop across her memory, its pounding hooves striking to the rhythm of her terrified heart.
In her dreams, she was running upon the Isle of Uaigneas, trying to outdistance the gruesome thing racing toward her. She ran through the forest with tree limbs slapping at her face, she stumbled over logs and fell face down in the blistering sand. Looking behind her, she could see the loathsome entity slithering after her and she got up and ran again, the stitch in her side so painful she moaned in her sleep. For what felt like hours, she raced through the forest until she came to the high cliff overlooking the island where the Reaper’s airship, The Levant , sat perched like a mighty black raptor.
There was nowhere else to run. All avenues of escape were closed off to her and when she dared to look around one last time, she was horrified to find the thing from which she had been striving to escape loaming over her, wicked talons curled, and flashing incisors dripping with saliva, glowing red eyes piercing her to the marrow of her bones. She could either accept the evil coming at her or turn and jump from the cliff to the jagged rocks far below. The decision was hers.
“It is your choice, wench,” Cainer Cree’s voice came at her from the sky.
And she had made her decision by holding her arms out to the creature and offering her neck to its wicked fangs. As the sharpness hooked into her flesh, Kynthia Ancaeus sank to the ground in unconscious worship of the Transition she knew would soon come.
With a gasp, Kynthia sat up in the bed. Her legs were tangled in the rumpled sheets and she viciously kicked them away, unnerved by the restriction that had wound its way around her ankles. Shivering, her teeth chattering, she plastered herself to the headboard and drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and sat there rocking back and forth, a soft keening sound issuing from her constricted throat as her backbone thumped against the wooden slats of the
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