Vhamnya's Tale: Rise of a Dark Queen - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Vhamnya tried to recall her journey as a child while she followed the Chosen back eastward. She looked for landmarks she recalled of the road to Kyrashayr and the places where Prince Phyllip's army had camped. She summoned a raven and through its eyes caught the breadth of the great river Shayr. She waited for a glimpse of the abbey, or whatever ruins remained, but their way did not there lead them. Instead, they went straight to Azpat.

The River Shayr flowed from Lake Kar to the sea, where it embraced the Republic of Azpat. The city lay on the river's mouth, whose bay made a harbor. Golden domes winked upon the heights. Below, ships sailed into the harbor. Within its roads and great markets flowed blood-like the world's wealth. Vhamnya had never seen a city from inside. Now she walked crowded streets where folk shouted in strange accents. The Chosen had wrapped her in a hood and veil to hide her features. From where they left the horses they led her along lanes and alleys to a great house with ironbound doors, near the stockyards.

Vhamnya knew this house, even though she had never set foot in it. She knew without seeing it had an unlighted hall below the main floor, and thereunder crypts where the Chosen hid their prisoners. The house even smelled like her childhood prison, like blood, fear, and other vileness. If she listened, she could hear the madness whispering underneath, of those who had died upon the lightless altar. Yet her escorts brought her to a lockless room. The window, though barred, could open from inside, letting her watch the townsfolk below.

The first night, Vhamnya woke as the house's whispers haunted her dreams. She opened the windows and stared out at the benighted rooves, and then lay back on her bed. She tried to shut out the mad muttering. It did not work.

At last she flung on her robe and a hood, climbed out the window, and squeezed through the bars. She dropped to the street below. The hard-packed stones grated on her bare feet. She wandered through crooked lanes, stepping around puddles and manure. Here and there barked dogs. Vhamnya ignored them. She sought something in the night without knowing it.

Above roof-eaves and chimneys rose a spire. Somehow it glimmered to her eyes. Vhamnya ran toward it. Whenever she got lost, she cut across to another street or doubled back until she found one that led the right way. She hurried breathlessly, mud-spattered, but did not care.

She reached a square. Across it loomed a temple, whose spire had led her. Vhamnya slowed. Her feet bore her quietly up the front steps, past the pillars, onto its porch. Her soles warmed, despite the stones' coolness, but she paid no mind.

She reached out and touched the graven bronze doors. To her surprise they yielded. A high nave greeted her as she stepped inside. Her night-keen eyes cut through shadow and beheld stars on the arches, painted gold on blue in homage to the heavens they worshipped. Among them flew winged figures with gold and silver skin. Were they angels, she wondered? Their eyes sparkled even in the gloom, balefully.

At the nave's axis, under a radiant dome decorated with a sun, stood the temple's altar, a simple table covered with white cloth. Vhamnya walked forward while she studied a statue that presided over this holy place: a crowned woman twenty feet tall who bore a rod; hand outreached in blessing. The dark maiden did not know the gods' names. Even if she knew any prayers, she would not know whom to call.

A wind gusted. It came from the temple's back, behind the altar. Vhamnya's ears perked. It seemed to blow from one corner of the ceilings' lion-carven arches to another. Something moved, perhaps a dove masking its wings within the breeze. Her eyes saw nothing, even when it moved again.

"Who's there?" Her voice rang through the nave and died.

The fluttering continued. The floor's stones heated under her feet. Off in the temple wings came echoes, as from distant stirring or speech. Had the priests awoken? They might be questioning what night-breeze had disturbed their slumber.

An impulse seized Vhamnya: "Carvvyn? Are you here?"

No one answered, but the wind gusted stronger. More echoes sounded: definitely voices rising.

Vhamnya stepped backward, where the temple doors offered flight.

The wind blew straight in her face. Bright points of light prickled her face, along her brow, cheeks, and nose. Wings swooped near as if they veered aside just before striking her. Her feet now burned on the stones.

"Carvvyn?" she called again. "Carvvyn!"

A bell tolled: twice, thrice, many times. It sounded just like the alarm at the abbey, the night Prince Phyllip had kidnapped her. It brought to mind the priests who had died fighting. Further off she heard shouts and the drum of running feet.

Vhamnya dashed for the doors. As she fled, the wind pricked her burning heels. It roared and tore her hair. Within its bellow she heard voices, but in no tongue she had ever heard. Further behind she heard the shouts of men, but did not look back.

For the first time since childhood, Vhamnya knew fear.

The wind chased her down the steps, out across the square. At last the stones chilled under her scorched feet. Vhamnya reached out and summoned down the darkness, cloaked it around her shoulders, and hid within. She ran until her lungs held no more breath, until her legs shuddered and stumbled, and her sight swam. Then she collapsed against a wall and panted.

Later, Vhamnya heard the house's whisper on the night's breath. She shut her eyes and followed. Dawn found her crouching beside the doors; hooded head resting on her knees. When the porter opened the door, she scrambled inside. She fled past the Chosen. If they laughed, they did so beyond her hearing.

Much later that day, one of the Chosen knocked on her door. When Vhamnya did not answer, he entered. She remembered his name was Mandr. "May we speak?" he asked.

Vhamnya sat upright on the bed; gaze downcast.

"You may be happy to know the priests will not track you here," advised Mandr, "but I don't recommend doing that again unless you want them to find us."

She glared.

He met her glare. "I am here to ask a favor, Princess." He drew forth a silver bowl and a sharp-fanged fleam, the kind surgeons use for bloodletting.

Vhamnya stared at the steel tooth, at the runes carven along its shank that danced and gleamed in her sight, which gave the blade power to pierce her flesh. "Of course." She sneered. "I should have known."

"You hold your father's blood, and in His blood lies power," explained Mandr. "Your presence allows us to do many things."

"If I remain here, then something needs to change," she declared.

"What?"

She pointed below: "Still the voices. Get rid of the prisoners. Exorcize the ghosts. Their whispers drive me crazy."

Keenly he looked at her. "Power lies in those whispers. They ward us. They fuel our spells. They consecrate this place to your father's use."

"Consecrate?" she mocked. "Why not desecrate?"

"Instead of trying to shut them out, Princess, let me suggest that you embrace them, so that you too gain power."

She frowned. "Must I?"

He nodded. "I think so. Now." He offered the fleam: "To task?"

Vhamnya grabbed the blade from him. She bared her dark arm.

"No!" he stopped. "From your thigh or belly."

She blinked. "Why there?

Mandr's grin unsettled her. "It must flow from as close to your sex as possible."

Her nose narrowed. "I suppose there's power in that as well?"

His grin nodded.

Vhamnya sighed. She lifted her robe's hem from her legs, trying as best as she could to keep her loins covered, and set the fleam against her thigh's softness.

Continued in Chapter 7

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