Jon Sprunk - Shadow’s Lure

Sweeping a curtain aside, she traveled down a narrow passage of dressed stone to a doorway. The beat of pounding drums echoed from beyond the portal. Splinters of ruddy light throbbed in time with the rhythm.

She emerged into a vast hall filled with a throng of sweating, writhing, groaning bodies. The sweet heat of their passion seeped into her flesh and warmed her chilled bones. The smells of blood and sex swept the dusty attar from her lungs. Sybelle closed her eyes and let the energy of the ritual fill her. Since coming to these lands, she had tried to civilize its savage inhabitants. For four years she had worked to eradicate all traces of the True Church. She was shocked to find so many men-and even women, who should have known better-willing to die for their idols. Yet once she and Erric took the city and exterminated the Light-worshipping cult, Sybelle had had a change of heart. Why deny the people an outlet for their baser natures? So she’d devised a new sect to venerate the Dark, with herself as the earthly incarnation of Mother Night. Those who came to worship here gave of their blood and their bodies, infusing the temple with a power that lapped at her soul like an ocean of ambrosia.

Glowing braziers sat along the walls. A company of men and women in various stages of undress cavorted under the lurid light. A haze of blue smoke from a forest of water-pipes clouded the air. Golden bowls filled with ruby wine were placed about the chamber, from which the people dipped their cups and drank or poured the contents over their lovers. Grunts and sighs echoed from the vaulted ceiling while blind musicians played. Near to her entrance, a black basalt throne sat upon a raised platform. Two smaller thrones were placed before the platform. In one of them, the Duke of Liovard slouched, puffing on the end of a water-pipe while a lithe slip of a girl hunched over his lap. Her golden locks rose and fell in time with the music.

Sybelle took her place beside the duke and shooed away the vixen servicing him. The pipe slipped from Erric’s lips. Then he relaxed as she took his manhood in hand. While coaxing him onward, Sybelle observed a knot of glistening bodies on the floor. Amid the tangle of graceful limbs, two rugged men lay upon their backs, drinking from silver cups as they enjoyed the comforts provided by a flock of young beauties.

“How fare our guests from Warmond?” she asked.

The duke made a final groan and slumped in his chair. Sybelle pressed herself against him as she wiped her hands on his pant leg.

He took a deep breath and let it out, deflated. “They seem satisfied. Although they mentioned a need for assurances about the firmness of my control over the clans. Something about rumors that have reached the ears of their liege.”

“Just as I told you.” She traced a tiny scar running down the cleft of his chin. “The death of the thanes was not enough. You must move quickly to consolidate your gains.”

He caught her hand and nipped at her fingertips. “We agreed to wait for Arion’s return. His report will tell us how go the activities along the border.”

Sybelle pulled away. “I grow tired of waiting.”

“Your distaste for my son does not sit well with me, Sybelle.”

She bit her tongue before she said what she really thought of his son. Antagonizing her paramour would only make him less biddable.

“I think only of your future. I helped you secure the greatest city of the north. Will you not trust me to guide you to your rightful place?”

He grunted and reached for a cup beside his chair. Sloshing the wine on his stain-riddled shirt, he took a sip.

“My soldiers are overextended as it stands now, love. It will take months to raise a new levy and train them, and weeks more to relocate them.”

“Then use the mercenaries I have secured for you.”

“I don’t trust them. Their commanders show me no respect.”

“They respect only strength, my lord. Show it to them-send them out to do your bidding-and they will give you the honor you deserve. The honor due to a king.”

He eyed her with a peculiar expression, like a man woken from a disturbing dream. He blinked and the look faded, replaced by his usual jaded gleam.

“Still, I would rather wait for Arion. When I know all is well in the south, I will feel more agreeable to do as you suggest.”

Sybelle stared at the duke, debating how hard to press him, but the sweet ecstasy of the temple chamber made her unable to sustain any true ire toward him. Against her better judgment, she let the matter pass.

She stood up. “As you will, my lord.”

“Where are you going?”

The sorrowfulness in his voice was like a knife down her spine.

“Stay and enjoy the fete.” She bent down to kiss him. “I shall join you later.”

Sybelle turned away as Erric reached for his pipe and signaled a servant to fire up another cube of kafir resin. She wasn’t thinking of the duke, or even the emissaries she had invited to forge a pact that would eventually unite the Northlands under Erric’s banner. Her thoughts were focused on a man who had thwarted her designs in another direction, a man who should be dead, and the plans intended to remedy the situation.

J osey twisted the ring around her finger as she stood outside the ballroom doors. The imperial palace had three ballrooms, but this one-the largest-was reserved for state occasions. The strains of the orchestra tugged at the pain in her temples. She had cancelled her audiences again today, taken a ride through the imperial grounds, and even tried her foster father’s remedy of ground fennel root mixed in diluted wine, but nothing had relieved the headache. And now she had to contend with this infernal pageant.

Forty-two days. This morning when she woke up, she had been seized by a stranglehold of panic when she tried to conjure an image of Caim in her head and found herself grasping for details. It was the little things that she couldn’t remember, like the pattern of scars on his hands, and the smell of his sweat. She’d spent the morning locked in her bedchamber and called off the ball at least four times, and each time relented.

Josey took a deep breath that threatened to burst the seams of her bodice. Might as well get it over with.

At her nod, two footmen opened the doors. A wave of sound and light washed over her. Dozens of lords and ladies in elegant attire promenaded about the room. Crystal mirrors reflected the light of a thousand candles, and their soft glow lent the ball an air of otherworldliness. For a moment she forgot her anxiety and let the music carry her inside.

Everyone stopped and bowed at her entrance. The musicians stopped their song and began to play the imperial anthem. Josey smiled to everyone as she swept through the room. This isn’t so bad. Why was I so concerned?

Hubert came over to stroll beside her. “Put your hand down,” he whispered below the level of the music.

She nodded to an older lady in a purple-and-white gown that resembled the plumage of a strange bird. “Why?”

“Because.” Hubert inclined his head to a pair of older men in military uniforms. “You look like a farm girl on her first trip to the big city.”

Awkward warmth crept into Josey’s cheeks as she lowered her hand. “I’m a little nervous, all right?”

“No need to be. You look enchanting.”

She brushed her hands down the panels of her gown, chartreuse in tabaret with a lace decollete. “Well, thank you, Your Grace, but I don’t feel it. My head hurts, these shoes are killing my feet already, and maybe I would know what to do if you had been around today to coach me.”

“I was working hard on the behalf of your empire.” Hubert nodded to an aged duchess of some middling territory. “I have written to your rambunctious nobles, but I don’t expect a reply for some days. Perhaps longer, as they weigh their options.”