him, but managed to get her temper under control. “The issue of your upbringing under your father’s care aside, what did you hope to gain by challenging Racin? You know full well you can’t destroy him on your own. Are you as mad as the priests say you are?”
He was distracted by that thought. “I haven’t been mad since I left the Isle of Enoch. Not truly mad.”
“The priests report that you speak when no one is in your cell. You draw runes in the air that glow with the light of Kiriah Sunbringer, something no one has seen since the coming of the Harborym. They say you pace the cell endlessly for days, casting spells and summoning minions of death.”
“If I had the ability to summon minions, do you think I’d be here now?”
“What I think is that you have frightened the priests of this temple until there are only a handful remaining. Should those leave, Racin will be forced to take action.”
Deo rolled his eyes. “He could imprison me in Skystead again.”
“After what you did to the keep?” Dasa glared at him. “Deo, I know this inactivity is hard on you. Bellias knows I find it almost unendurable to have to pretend interest in a thousand mundane activities when I would much rather fetch a sword and smite our enemies, but your father and I had long ago determined that we could not let Racin follow the path of destruction he started upon, or all of Alba would be enslaved, crying out helplessly under his yoke. You agreed to our plan. So why do you now cast all that aside in order to satisfy your need for revenge?”
Deo sighed. He wanted to be angry with his mother, but he couldn’t. “It wasn’t me. It was the magic.”
She eyed the runes on his harness, touching one of them with the tip of a finger, immediately snatching her hand back and shaking it. “Blessed Bellias, how can you bear such heat?”
He shrugged. “It is part of me. Just as the maddening urge to kill Racin is also in me.”
“Well, tell that part to be quiet,” Dasa snapped.
“Do you bring me any news?” he asked, changing the subject. He knew from experience of the last eleven months that arguing with his mother would only leave them irritated and annoyed to the point where one or both of them might be driven to violence.
“No.” Dasa breathed heavily for a minute, then laid her hand on Deo’s chest, on a spot not covered by the harness. To his surprise, she tipped her head back and smiled up at him. “You enrage me with your wild ways, Deo, but there is pleasure in the knowledge that my blood clearly rules you. You are indeed a fitting warrior of my house, and a fine reflection of your Starborn ancestors.”
He was momentarily silenced by the words of praise, having seldom heard them. He felt an unwelcome desire to preen in front of her and stifled it immediately. Although she might think he took after her, he had too much of his father’s sagacity to believe he was anything but what he was—a man tormented, one who had sacrificed much in order to fulfill the role to which he had been born. “Your words are pleasant, but they would be pleasanter still if you had something to tell me of Racin’s studies.”
She sighed and made a face before turning to the window. “The people dragged before him are subjected to his…studies…as you call them. The lucky ones die instantly. Those who survive the transformation usually die within days, most by their own hands, but some go berserk and attack the others.”
Deo was silent considering this. “I don’t understand.”
“Why he is decimating the population of Eris?” Dasa asked.
“No.” Absently, he rubbed his thumb along the line of runes on the wrist band of his other hand. “Why, he has so little control over his magic. Once I had mastered the magic, it took me a relatively short time to find a dosage that my Banes of Eris could take without killing—or consuming them, and yet he’s been attempting to do the same since we drove him back to Eris. Why?”
Dasa shrugged, turning back toward him, leaning against the wall. “It’s magic. It is unstable.”
Deo mused that his magic was unstable…but the chaos magic that he had first used was not. Powerful, yes, at times fighting for control, but it was only since he’d traveled to Eris that his magic had become unstable and uncontrolled. “It makes little sense. He seeks to duplicate the creation of my Banes, and yet he has an army of Harborym at his disposal.”
“Made up of soldiers who are easily defeated by you,” Dasa said smoothly, moving to stand next to him. “He fears you, my son. He doesn’t want to admit it even to himself, but he knows that you have done something to his magic that leaves him vulnerable. You pose a threat to him that he can’t tolerate, one that drives him to experiment upon the Shadowborn to find out just what you have done, so that he can find a way to best it…or unmake it completely. That fear drives him to the point where soon there will be no Shadowborn left untainted in all of Eris.”
“Since when do you have a fondness for the Shadowborn?” Deo asked, momentarily amused by her apparent concern. He was under no illusion that his mother put her people’s welfare first and foremost in her life…even above that of her son.
“I have never condoned the slaughter of innocents,” she murmured.
He glanced at her, the words echoing with his own oath. “So I must continue to fester here?” He made an aborted gesture of frustration, wanting to vent his anger and impatience, but knew it would stir the chaos within him. “I remain an impotent prisoner, unable even to defend myself against the monster’s attacks?”
“You defended yourself to the point where you almost brought the temple down upon your head,” Dasa replied acidly, giving his arm a pat as she moved past him to the door. Outside it, the Priests of the Blood Hand stood at silent attention, their pale flesh and luminous, large eyes reminding Deo of frightened rabbits. Dangerous frightened rabbits. “Have patience, Deo. The moment Racin reveals a weakness that we can exploit, we will destroy him, and make all of Alba safe.”
“That could take decades,” Deo growled, his hands fisted. “Or centuries. I will go mad if I have to stay captive here.”
“Then return to Aryia,” Dasa said in a similar growl, clearly having had enough of Deo’s attitude. “I did not ask you to come here.”
“But you knew it was inevitable,” he stated, rounding on her.
She was silent a moment, her gaze on his face before it dropped to her hands. “No. I thought someone else—oh, it matters not. Do nothing that will endanger my plans, Deo, or I will have you removed to Aryia myself.”
She strode out of the cell before Deo could respond that he’d like to see her try that, but the mocking laughter that filled his head did little to soothe his frustration.
“My lord, if you please…” The soft voice came from one of the serving women who attended to the temple and its priests…and prisoners. This one had coppery red hair, and the bronzed skin that told Deo she had been born since the coming of the Harborym. The woman placed fresh bedding on the cot that sat in the corner of the cell before bringing in a jug of water, and a small, cracked bowl. She hesitated, her gaze moving from Deo to the door. Two priests stood outside, their heads together as they spoke so softly Deo could not hear them.
“My lord, you will forgive me, but I must speak. I can stand your suffering no longer.”
Deo,
