So, you want to know where I came from, eh? It's not anything that you could possibly imagine.
Hm?
Yes. . you could say that T'Keezian had something to do with it.
My first memory? Pain.
No, that's not true, not really.
I have double image, distorted fragments of memories, blurry bits of two different minds.
On the one hand, I can remember the smell of horses and sunlight on pine trees. The laughter of children and sweet music.
On the other, I can remember hunger and fear always following contentment.
Sometimes, I dream strange fantasies of gypsy cats dancing through goldfish forests. They always end in horror. The dreams always shatter into broken shards of glass and knives like razors slicing open my feet-paws. I run, and there's always the terror. And the pain as my soul gets shorn in two.
It's been three thousand years since I was first made.
I still wake up in a cold sweat, but at least I don't wake up screaming anymore.
The late afternoon sun melted like honey across the rooftops of the little port town and spattered in golden droplets across the still harbour.
Leren leaned against a piling and sighed. He was sixteen years old. He felt about a hundred.
Carefully, he tuned the lute. The silvery notes sparkled through the languid summer heat like a splash of seawater. Even that though, combined with the faint breeze rolling off the bay, did nothing to relieve the oppressive heat.
He stopped and sighed again, brushing a damp curl of dark hair off his forehead. Carefully setting the lute down, he peeled off the grimy, rusty red tunic he'd worn for days. The heavy sunlight played on the copper and red stitching, still bright with newness, that denoted the status of a fullBard. With care, he laid the tunic on the dock and stretched. The pale breeze skittered across a dark body made hard by years on the road.
He was positively miserable. Leren, you are such a fool. What made you think that leaving the caravan was a good idea? That it would solve all your problems on some grand adventure? You should have fought for the right to stay. He whined to himself. The very thought left him ill at ease, though.
He could still hear the hisses as his family cast him out.
It had started so innocently. He had returned home to them from apprenticing with another Bard, a northerner who had taken up residence in the warmer lands of the south. Helm had been his name, and though a good teacher, had taught Leren everything he could. The boy had wanted to learn more. Helm had promised to find another teacher for the boy, but sent him home in the interim.
When he'd returned to them, Momma and Poppa had had a surprise waiting for him. Aldana. He'd not seen her since she was a round-faced child. She was a round-faced adult now, pretty and kind-looking, but not terribly interesting to Leren. She didn't seem terribly interested in him, either.
Poppa, burly and muscled from his years with the horses, had clapped his considerably smaller son on the back so hard, it sent him sprawling. "Got to toughen thyself up, boy! Aldana and thou want to have strong sons!" Leren dusted himself off. "Thank you, father." he said tersely. "Can I go clean up? I'm hardly a fit sight for anyone, let alone my betrothed." The old man laughed heartily and agreed.
In their wagon, Leren filled a basin and soaked his head. Oh, Mother of the Gods. How am I getting out of this one? It was fairly quiet in the wagon, so when the figure behind him cleared its throat, Leren nearly jumped out of skin. "I see you're still the nervous type, cousin," a deep male voice said behind him.
"Tercz!" Leren smiled delightedly. Tercz was a handsome, dark man in his early twenties, a few years older than Leren. He had the kind of looks that drove the women to fighting amongst themselves for him. He encouraged it.
Tercz had a small smile. "So, what did this Bard teach you, little cousin?" Leren started to rattle on about harmonics and chord structure when Tercz held up his hand. "I don't mean about that refuse, " he said, a tinge of impatience in his voice.
Leren sat back and raked his fingers through his damp curls. "What exactly did you mean, Tercz?" He shifted uncomfortably as Tercz drew closer. "I've missed you, little cousin."
Leren looked as stunned as if he'd been hit in the side of the head with a rock. Tercz had led him in some experimentation when they were younger, but they'd both figured it would never come to anything. Leren had been hopelessly in love with Tercz when he'd left.
"You mean that?" He said in surprise. His cousin said nothing but drew him close as if for a kiss. "Meet me later at the old spot. After dinner." And then, he simply got up and left, leaving a shocked Leren with wet hair sitting in the darkened wagon.
Dinner was remarkably uncomfortable. Aldana, dressed in her best outfit with gold hoops gleaming in her ears, pouted throughout the meal. Tercz flirted with her unmercifully. The rest of the family chatted amongst themselves. No one spoke to Leren. When the meal was over, he excused himself and wandered through the darkened woods.
"Here." the voice softly called from a stand of birch trees, white bark ghostly in the light. Leren felt his skin prickle. He wasn't sure if was arousal or just plain fear. Tercz leaned against a tree like a shadow. "Come here, little cousin." Leren allowed himself to be drawn into Tercz's arms.
He touched Leren's hair. "Listen to me, little cousin." He said softly. "Tomorrow, your father will formally present Aldana to you for betrothal. Say no." Leren pulled away, trying to look at Tercz's eyes, shrouded in darkness. "What?" He was worried. "Tercz. What are you planning?" His cousin laughed softly. "You know I have no family other than yours, Leren. All my life I've loved you, but was tied by the stupid rules of our people." He drew Leren close again. "I want to travel as you did. Not as Gypa'ee, just as a man. I want you with me, little cousin." There was such passion in his voice, Leren couldn't say no to him.
He went back to camp with a quivering sensation in his stomach. When the next morning came, the family gathered together in camp, all dressed in bright colors and gold. Aldana stood in the middle, her long black hair brushed into gleaming waves, her bright green gown stirring in the early breezes.
Leren was dressed in his good clothes, the pale green fabric now trimmed in the ornate copper and crimson bardsblood pattern that denoted his profession. He didn't see Tercz. Poppa came up to him. "Leren son of Elarcz, I present thee with thy bride, Aldana daughter of Sheran." He said it formally, as befitted the family leader, but his face beamed. Leren shifted uncomfortably in front of the crowd. "I must decline the betrothal." He said with the same formality. His face was miserable. Poppa 's mouth hung open. Momma's eyes widened. Aldana was expressionless.
"What sayest thou?" Poppa asked. Leren could hear the anger in his voice. "I have no quarrel with Aldana, but I desire her not as she does not desire me." He used his training to keep his voice neutral, but it was hard, seeing Momma go pale as she had. He looked around and saw Tercz from the corner of his eye.
But before Poppa or Leren could speak again, Tercz boomed, "Thou'rt unclean!" He looked tired, but determined. "The lad was not right when he left to study under a foreign Bard, and now he has brought back unnatural thoughts and ideas with him to us." Leren was waiting for the punchline. A sinking feeling growing in his stomach, he looked over at Aldana. Her face was perfectly neutral. In barely a whisper she spoke "I desired you not, little Bard." It hit him like a ton of rocks. Tercz. She desired Tercz. He'd set this up.
Tercz was speaking to the assembly again. "With unclean thoughts he did accost me last evening and tried to use his foreign learned blandishments upon me! Mikhaela take thee!" Leren drew himself up. "Liar." He kept his voice even, quiet so people would have to listen. "You came to me speaking that you wished to leave this way of life and you assumed I would help you." He looked to Poppa. There was an expression of stony resignation on the old man's face.
"Thou wer't never as a man should be, Leren." He said sadly. "This I knew from when thou wer't small. But I denied it, believing that thee would'st grow into a fine man. It is now seeming that I was't wrong." Leren's mouth hung open. He had a fair idea of where this was going to. "You won't even hear me out?"
The old man shook his head, iron curls catching the early sun. "By thy own account, if Tercz had spoken true to thee, would'st thou have left with him?" He asked sadly. Leren didn't know what to say. His father folded his arms. "I will take it by thy silence that thou would'st." He turned his back on Leren.
"Elarcz has no son named Leren. Thou hast until the sun goes down to gather what ye needs, stranger, then thou must leave or die." Leren tried to speak, but then Momma turned away and his siblings.
Tercz spoke up. "Father of my heart, though not of my body, wilst thou accept my kindness?" He stood before Elarcz, his hands outstreched. Leren could see his eyes over Poppa's back. They were cold. Elarcz took Tercz's hands. "Thou art not son of my body, but thy blood is also mine. Wilst thou be my son and take the burden from an old man's shoulders?"
Tercz clasped the old man's hands. "Aye, father. I shall be as a son to thee."
Leren had to turn away so no one would see him crying.
He left long before the sun went down, to the hissing of the old people and children.
In the weeks he'd left, there had been no sign of his people in any of the villages he'd been to, though they would have avoided him if there was. No gypsy songs drifting though the night. He'd been alone and hungry.
When he'd first came to this little port city (he didn't even know its name) a fortnight ago, it seemed a ray of hope. An innkeeper heard him play on the corner, and asked to hire him for entertainment. Leren had been all too happy to accept.
Things went quite well at first. The customers enjoyed his playing, and Roul, the innkeeper, gave him food and a place to stay and even let him keep a few of the coppers the patrons tossed at him during the performance.
Then one night, the wizard came in. The conversation in the little inn stopped dead, as though someone had cut the crowds collective tongue out. In the doorway stood a creature, easily three heads above Leren, let alone anyone else in the room. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
The Purple Swan inn played host to many races from across the land. Kindred, D'Haarth, Störj and Draquos as well as the ubiquitous humans. Leren was at ease before any of them, but this. . . thing. . . was beyond him. Filling the doorway, it stood there, surveying the room. It was built like a man, except covered with a fine greyish-brown downy fur. It had enormous ears sweeping back from a misshapen face. Its eyes glowed a deep red, matching the sash it wore. At first Leren thought it also wore a long leather cloak.
The cloak stirred, even though no breeze entered the room, and unfolded into enormous leathern wings. Leren felt his mouth go dry. The creature squeaked, "All is clear my master." in a voice so utterly out of synch with its appearance, that the crowd stifled relieved laughter in unison. The creature fixed a baleful gaze on the room and stepped from the doorway. Behind it was a smaller figure, draped entirely in black - hood, cloak, robes, gloves. There was no sign of what could be under the mountains of fabric. Behind that figure, was another bat creature.
As they moved to a booth in the corner, Leren dared whisper to a patron sitting near him, a young Kindred woman. Her slanted eyes were wide with fear and he imagined he could almost see her pointed ears pricking. "What are those?" he whispered to her. Without looking away she whispered back, "Njaa. The beast-slaves the wizards create."
This was new to him and he tasted the word in his mind. Ney-jhaa. It was a definitely not a Southeraan word or one of the Gypa'ee, but he liked the sound of it. The wizard sat in the booth, flanked by the looming bat-njaa. The one that had spoken before squeaked again. "My master wishes you to play "My lady's an angel" and wishes you to play it now."
The crowd stirred. "My lady" was not exactly class music, but it was pretty typical bar fare. Leren felt ill. He hated the cloying rondele that always degenerated into obscenity. He took a deep breath and let it out. Of all the songs in all the lands. . He played the opening to "my lady" through, to get the crowd started, and launched into the first verse. "My Lady's an Angel who has no bright wings, her beauty is such, it makes my heart sing." The crowd sang along (the first verse never changed.) Leren cringed inwardly. The lyric selections began in the audience. "Love!" a woman cried out, knowing it was an easy one. He felt a twinge of relief. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. "My Lady's an Angel who came from above, I'd give her the world if she gave me her love." he sang, then the crowd repeated it. He chanced a look over at the wizard. He just sat there, motionless. The bat-njaa were swaying slightly in time to the peppy little tune.
He made it through Faith, Hope, Sex and even Passion when the bat creature squeaked again. "My master wishes despair." Leren winced. "My Lady's an Angel so bright and so fair, without her kind words I would just despair." Good solution, he thought. The audience agreed and sang after him.
"My master wishes blood." The creature squeaked again, voice like nails on a chalkboard. Blood? Oh, no. "My Lady's an Angel, her beauty a flood, without her bright love, I'd shed my own blood." That was terrible, but it was done. The audience groaned, but sang along. "My master wishes hatred." The damn bat-thing again. Leren gritted his teeth. "My Lady's an Angel, to her I am fated, I would do anything to avoid her cold hatred." Scattered applause. He stared coldly at the bat. "My master wishes violence." Leren could almost feel the creature's voice shredding his nerves. His mind was blank. The crowd was silent. That was it! "My Lady's an Angel for whom there's no silence, to not hear her laughter would do my heart violence." It wasn't perfect, but it did the job. The crowd applauded.
The bat creature started to squeak again. "My master wishes.. ." Leren held up his hand. He thought he was developing a twitch from the creature's voice. "No." He blurted out. " If your master wishes something, let him speak for himself. Otherwise, there are many more people who wish to suggest." He was stunned at his own temerity. The crowd began to murmur. Leren felt his face grow hot. The Kindred woman who sat near him whispered, "Bad move, Bard. No one will gainsay a mage."
It wasn't long before Roul came up and told him harshly that he had to leave before he made things rough for everyone in the inn. He left to the muffled sounds of boos.
Involuntarily, Leren shivered. He could still hear the maddeningly squeaky voice of the njaa-bat-thing at the inn. It disturbed him and made him wish he was with his family again, that this was all some sort of fever dream. He picked up the lute and ran his fingers over the strings. Closing his eyes, Leren let the song take him, sad and sweet, full of homesick longing.
He stopped when he heard the sound of soft clapping behind him. Startled, Leren opened his eyes and saw the golden sky had deepened to crimson. Slowly, he turned to the sound.
An old man stood there, kindly face and brushy white beard above a tatty brown robe. A small black kitten dangled gracelessly in the crook of his arm.
"That was simply beautiful, young man." The old man said, smiling.
Leren felt himself blush furiously. "Thank you, good sir. I. . ah. . haven't had an audience in a while." Nervously, he raked his fingers through his tangled, dark curls.
The old man stepped closer. "When was the last time you ate, boy?
Before he could say anything, Leren's stomach growled loudly. "To tell the truth sir, not in some days."
The old man laughed. "Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we boy? Come now, what's your name?" The kitten yawned and stretched.
Leren stood and straightened himself out. He was tall for a sixteen year-old, and the weathering added a few years to his face. "My name, sir, is Leren Ragoczy. I am hardly a boy." He sounded petulant.
The old man laughed harder. "My apologies, Sir Bard! I take it that you're Gypa'ee. Worry not, my young friend, I won't hold it against you!" He stroked the cat. "My name is T'Keezian. This is my friend, Kiff. We would be honored if you would join us for supper this eve." He bowed formally.
Leren gathered his few things and smiled. "On behalf of starving, unwashed Bards everywhere, my lord, I accept."
T'Keezian's house was only a few blocks from the dock. It was small, dirty and disheveled. To Leren, it might as well had been a palace. The aroma of bread and fish soup made his mouth water.
T'Keezian directed him to a small back room. "You can wash up in here, my friend. Dinner shall be waiting."
Leren looked about the room. It was roughly furnished, with only a small slit of a window. Involuntarily, he shivered. It was a Gypa'ee trait to be the slightest bit claustrophobic. His worries faded when he saw the small, chipped basin filled with clean water, and a pot of soap, faintly scented with lavender.
Oh, to be clean, again. Leren thought he'd died and gone to heaven. bit by bit, he peeled off the dirty, sweat stained leathers he'd worn since leaving the tribe. They smelled terrible. Ugh. I didn't realize how. . . fragrant I'd become. Carefully, he unpacked a clean tunic and trousers that he'd stashed on the hope of meeting up with another band of Gypa'ee and looking presentable. They were a soft, pale green fabric trimmed in the copper/red of the Bards, not well suited for hard traveling, but handsomely cut.
As he washed, Leren became aware that he'd not heard his host outside the little room since they'd arrived. Deep inside, a small instinct cried out a warning. Silently, he dressed, and hid his two daggers in the deep folds of the tunic.
Ever so gently, he eased the door open. The main room was dimly lit with tallow lamps. T'Keezian was seated at a low, rough table laden with food. His wrinkled face creased in another smile and his blue eyes caught the light. "Well, I daresay you look a proper prince now, Sir Bard."
Leren smiled nervously. "It was so quiet out here, I thought something had happened. . " his voice trailed off as his stomach made itself know once again.
T'Keezian's smile didn't waver. "Such a thoughtful lad you are." He inclined his head to the table. "Please, eat. Your stomach will disturb my neighbors."
Fish stew. Dark bread. Thick, sharp cheese. Some ripe, sweet figs. Tart wine. Leren had finished eating before he'd realized he started. "I'm sorry. My manners haven't improved on the road, I'm afraid."
T'Keezian was picking at a fig. "Give it no bother, lad. I know what it's like to go hungry."
Leren sat back, more relaxed than he'd been in days. He was slightly dizzy from the wine and all the food, but it was a dizzy he relished. "I don't know how to thank you, Master T'Keezian. You've saved my life this day."
T'Keezian cleared the plates. "Fetch your lute, then, Sir Bard, and repay me in song." His eyes twinkled in the flickering light. "Something bright and common."
Leren rose to get the instrument, and promptly collapsed back in the chair. His head was spinning. "I. . . seem to have drank a bit more than I thought. Hang on. . " Slowly, he lifted himself back out of the seat, and took a tentative step. His legs were as supportive as wet grass, and he thudded to the floor.
Where is T'Keezian? Leren thought foggily. Small points of colored light danced before his eyes. His sight was rapidly growing dim, and he felt his breathing grow fast.
And there was his host. Standing over him, the old man had taken on gargantuan proportions. His smile had widened, become a predatory leer and there was pure malice in the eyes that had looked so kind. "I think I fancy 'My Lady's an Angel,' hm?" His voice seemed miles away.
Leren wanted to ask why, but his throat was tight and the darkness dragged him down like the tide.
There was a strange dream that I had last night, Leren thought. Outside the confines on the wagon, he heard his sister Mileandre calling the twins. "Igo! Ashfane! Get over here!" The smell of Poppa's bread filled his nose. Eh 'Thane. I suppose I have to get up now.
He moved as if to get up, and his limbs seemed frozen in place. Slowly, Leren opened his eyes.
There was blood everywhere.
Poppa lay butchered by the cook fire. Mileandre, Igo, Ashfane, Momma, all of them dead. Even Aldana and Tercz in their wedding clothes.
And Leren could not move. Only watch the rats as they went about their business.
And scream.
He was still screaming when he woke up. Leren tried to sit upright, but this time too, his limbs were immobile.
He opened his eyes, half expecting to see his family lying dead around him, but instead gasped when he saw the room.
It was white tile and stone, scoured bright and polished. Glowing mage-orbs floated in the room, flooding it with a harsh and painful light. The light reflected off polished metal surfaces that he could not clearly see.
Leren lifted his head as far as he could. Something unseen held his arms and legs down.
He let his head fall, with a whimper. He's a cannibal. This is how it ends. Dinner for a cannibal.
He heard footsteps, echoing through the hollow white room. "Sir Bard. I'd not expected you to wake this soon." He made a parody of the conversation they'd had earlier.
Leren looked wildly at him. "What the hell is this? T'Keezian?" He hoped he sounded less the frightened child than he felt in the pit of his stomach.
T'Keezian was dressed all in white and bore a gleaming black object tucked into the elaborately braided cord at his thick waist. He was far better groomed than the scruffy old man Leren had met on the dock. And he carried a cage.
Leren strained to see the its contents. It was Kiff, the little black kitten that T'Keezian had carried.
Kiff was not moving.
Unceremoniously, T'Keezian dropped the cage on a nearby table, gleaming white and steel. He bent over Leren with the same leer that the boy had seen the day before. Had it been the day before?
T'Keezian breathed in Leren's face. His breath smelled like something foul had died in his throat. "Don't take it personally, boy. I don't have anything against you. In fact, you should be flattered."
"Flattered that you're going to eat me?" the words slipped out of Leren's mouth before he could stop them and his voice cracked.
T'Keezian laughed heartily. "Eat you? By Plague, boy, do I look like a cannibal to you?" He shook his head in amusement. "Hell's no, boy. Do you know what Kheythu is?"
At the word, Leren's eyes almost fell out of his head. If he could have raised his hands in a warding gesture, he would have. Kheythu. The evil magic. The bad karma. If this man. . no, demon. . is going to eat anything, it's going to be my soul. At that thought, he broke into tears.
T'Keezian just laughed. "I see you do." He leaned close again, drawing from the depths of his robe the gleaming, ornately carved black object: a razor sharp stone dagger. " The human form is the perfect channel for the energies of Kheythu. But lacks the necessary elements of the lower species, like Kiff here, to be an adequate container. You and Kiff together shall be my vessel, young Leren."
Leren sniffled. "You mean, I'll be like a mage?" he asked hopefully.
The wizard shook his head sadly. " I doubt you'll be anything at all, as the process shall most likely destroy your mind." He turned the black dagger over in his fingers.
The young man started to whimper. He grew silent as, almost absently, the wizard gestured with his hand. The far wall began to slide back with a hissing sound. As it did, strange twisted figures, straining against the gleaming bars there, began to catch the light. They moaned and gibbered like creatures from chaos. T'Keezian beamed at Leren. "I thought you'd like to see your predecessors, boy."
Leren's screams were cut short as the black knife flashed down into his throat.
Over the sound of gushing blood and the desperate, bubbling breathing, T'Keezian hummed a little song he'd heard on the docks the day before. Rather than homesick, though, it was bright and cheery, in time with the rhythmic gestures of the knife.
EXCERPTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF T'KEEZIAN ADORAMOS
14, Azha, 7556
It is with great pleasure that I write this. The experiment with Kiff and the Gypsy boy went even better that I had possibly dreamed. The new creature is naturally receptive to my energies. There shall be no more aging on my part due to burnback of the Kheythu flow.
Even more amazing: Due to some judicious planning on my part and (Plague be praised, here.) the boy's amazing will to survive, the new creature has almost human cognizant abilities. It could not speak at first, but can now form simple phrases. It is also gaining control of its body at an impressive rate. Walks like a man, but moves like a cat (sadly, preliminary tests show that it seems to share a visual deficiency with Kiff, it cannot see any shade of red. Not a problem really, just an unseen flaw). It is a njaa that the world has never seen the likes of before. The best of both worlds, as it were.
There is but one true problem with this new creature. It has an almost savage disposition. I feel that I have this problem corrected by tying its blood and what possibly passes for a spirit even tighter to my Kheythun Atzthau knife. Its obsidian depths have tempered my wild beast into a willing slave.
I took the liberty of adding a few refining cosmetic touches to the creature and now, watching it pace its cell, I find myself almost overwhelmed with lust by its magnificent form.
Truly, I may call myself creator.
24, Azha, 7556
I have even greater news to report. My servants, trained fighters all, were escorting my creature to my workroom and he almost escaped.
That in itself amazes me. I have since drew more of his blood with the Atzthau in a manner most unpleasant and it has pacified him. Yet, I am amazed that this creature, controlled by my former familiar's gentle spirit and deep mystic bond, can find the . . I am loath to use the word independence. . .will to kill one guard, a trained mercenary, and maim two others in a futile escape attempt.
The njaa ( I will have to call him something, won't I?) took many injuries from the guards attempting to subdue him, yet today, they are healed.
I believe I will have to re-think my application of this new creation.
The creature paced the length of it kennel. Occasionally muscles created for swishing a tail twitched in its back, causing pain. It paced in a world that seemed to both strangely devoid of color, and yet filled with enormous detail.
It couldn't say why it would have felt either, for it didn't actually remember seeing anything before.
It was filled with a peculiar mixture of dread and anger. It had dreamed again. The same dream of falling, being wrenched away from the comforting, black-robed figure that stood just on the edge of its vision. It longed for the peaceful figure with feelings it could not even being to identify.
If it could have adequately verbalized these feelings, it would have cried betrayal.
All it could really do at this point was howl and beat its head against the bars.
To look at it, from a distance, one would see a young man of deep golden skin and a waist-length cascade of unnaturally jet black hair. Closer, and one would see the utter smoothness of the body and the strangely keen definition of the muscles. Even closer and visible would be the eyes. Brilliant, feline yellow-green in that dark, beautiful face, opaque with strangled emotion.
T'Keezian was far up the corridor, when it sensed him, and the black knife he carried. Its mouth worked trying to say something above the tempest it felt in its head. It pressed itself against the far back corner of the room, with some dim thought that the master would not find it.
It didn't work. Using the knife, T'Keezian tapped lightly on the bars. "Yes, come here," he cooed. "That's a good boy. Yes. . " It slunk to the bars, hating the will that dragged it there and made it kneel and look up at the master with adoring eyes as the cold sank into its gut.
T'Keezian smiled. "I have a present for you, boy." He stroked the creature's silky hair. It wanted to scream, but it purred instead.
From the endless folds of his robe, he removed a lute, its burnished wood glowing warmly in the dim light. Carefully, he passed it through the bars. The creature took it in its hands, caressing the worn bronze strings and purring at the shimmer of sound drifting from them.
It tried to fit a hand about the neck of the lute and finger the strings with the other hand, but the skill was not there. It pawed at the strings, a dissonant crash of notes filling the cell. It was shaking now, the creature, and a strangled cry rose from its throat. One hand closed convulsively, snapping the neck of the lute off.
It flung the lute against the wall, a yowling, sobbing sound drowning out the sound of the shattering wood and popping strings.
T'Keezian watched impassively as it crouched on the ground, long fingers flexing and clawing in the dirty floor of the cell until they bled. It was panting between sobs, the muscles in its scarred neck clenching.
It looked up at T'Keezian, peridot eyes wide and damp, tears tracking through the dust on its cheeks. Its face was desperately confused.
The mage looked down at the creature with a paternalistic smile. "There, there," he said, almost soothingly. "I have something that will make this all better."
From another fold in his robe, he produced a collar of gold and iron. With sure hands. T'Keezian fit the collar around the creature's neck.
It felt the calming magic pour from it like honey on its soul. "N. . nngh. . No!" tore from the creatures throat. It clutched at the collar, muscles straining, but could not remove it.
Sobbing, the creature fell to the ground. T'Keezian simply watched in amazement.
Time passed more quickly now.
The collar had rendered the njaa a placid fool, for the most part, and T'Keezian trained his new creation thoroughly.
The njaa (He had now named him Fe'lannior) had become more than a vessel for vile magicks, but rather a guard dog, kept docile by the collar. T'Keezian would bring the njaa with him when he called on his fellow mages to gloat of his creative abilities, or to see of their own magical creations or njaas.
As the wizards argued, the njaa and servants present shared looks of despair, if they were not dulled as Fe'lannior had been. These visits were few, though, compared with the trips to the city's bazaar.
Each month, T'Keezian would roam the bazaar during the day, searching for victims to be used in his magicks, Fe'lannior trailing slightly behind him, clad like a rich man's favored retainer or serving-lad, unaware of the eyes upon him.
The method of this search was formulaic for the wizard. Often, in this marketplace, T'Keezian would pick up a young man or woman, pay them well and take them home. There, he would offer Fe'lannior to them for sex. More often than not, they were delighted with the prospect. As they reached orgasm, T'Keezian would bring out the Atzthaun and kill them as the njaa held them fast.
T'Keezian would perform the Kheythun rituals, then, drinking the blood of his victims and trapping their souls, filtering the raw energy of their dying through his impassive slave, and taking what was safe.
Other days were not so bad, though, and T'Keezian would sometimes teach the njaa to read simple fragments, or allow him to go to the bazaar alone with a few silvers, confident of the power the collar and the knife exerted.
On those days, he would simply sit at the edge of the bazaar, listening to the minstrels play. Although he could not say why, the simplest tune almost drove him to deep, wrenching emotion. But he could not cry, only sit and sway, smiling dumbly.
He tried to sing along once, but such a horrible sound came out of him, that the minstrel threw a rock at him and cursed his tone deaf soul to a musical hell. Fe'lannior was stricken by this, but opted to keep his mouth shut.
One season, in this bazaar, T'Keezian found an apprentice. He was young and handsomely dark-browed, a cold hearted, part-Kindred bastard named Mender. Fe'lannior would have gagged at the stench of the young man's evil, but the collar and the knife kept him still.
He had been indentured to the stone carver whose shop dominated a corner in the bazaar and had killed the man and his three cats in his sleep. T'Keezian had arrived at the shop before the constabulary had, and offered the thinly smiling young man a life of magick.
He took the job with obvious glee.
Mender had taken an instant dislike to T'Keezian's njaa slave. "You hate me, don't you, pretty-boy?" Mender would coo to him, staying out of reach of the chain that was sometimes used to hold him in place in the cold, stinking workroom.
Deep below the soothing power of the collar, the njaa did hate him, hated T'Keezian as well, but the hate was no more than a passing ghost in a darkened hallway. Mostly, he was afraid.
Afraid of the crushing horror of the Kheythu flow tearing through his lungs, afraid of the pain T'Keezian would inflict upon him if the transfer did not go properly or if it did go properly and he was simply drunk with the stolen power of another life.
He was also deeply afraid of what Mender might be capable of doing. Cruelty ran in the man's veins stronger than blood did.
There was the time that Mender saw him feeding the small tabby that begged at the kitchen. Fe'lannior would sneak it scraps and sit with the little cat, unmoving, broken trills catching in his throat. He had balked in a genuine fear when Mender threatened to tell T'Keezian of the njaa's disobedience.
"Please. . ." He had whined, clutching the cat protectively and burying his nose in its fur. Mender circled the crouching njaa, his dark eyes gleaming like a buzzard's. "All right." He'd said silkily. "I won't tell. Maybe."
Fe'lannior kissed the apprentice's hand, stumbling over the words of thanks.
The next day, the tabby did not come to the door. That night, from his spot in the workroom, he watched wizard and apprentice disembowel the screaming cat in an exercise. He hid his face against the dank stone, shaking, until the screams stopped.
From that point on, Fe'lannior did all he could to avoid the apprentice in the halls of T'Keezian's keep.
Often times, at night, running errands for his master, Fe'lannior would see Mender in the library, engrossed in works he shouldn't have even been allowed near. The njaa could feel the force of the magick radiating from the tomes. They made his head spin.
More often than that, he would quietly listen in on the strange lessons that T'Keezian gave to Mender. He took perverse delight in that the apprentice could grasp the power of things already dead, but had much difficulty understanding the infinite power of life just before death, the consuming concept of Kheythu.
To make matters worse, T'Keezian had been jealous with his secrets, and took great delight in taunting Mender, that the younger man's will and dark soul were not strong enough to ride the raging tide of Kheythu. Mender flatly hated the man. "Just show me the spells!" Mender would scream at him. "I will show you what I can do!" T'Keezian would laugh until he couldn't anymore and walk away.
The old wizard was sitting in the workroom, one late night, covered in blood and sheep placenta, chanting and rocking back and forth like a dottard. Mender was at the workbench, mixing an ointment out of noxious smelling substances. He coolly watched his master with gleaming, dark eyes.
Fe'lannior sat on his heels in the corner, feeling the nauseating ebb and thrust of the power as it coursed through the room and burned his lungs. Far deep within his mind was a place that was not lost to the sickness the energies made him feel. He retreated to it now.
He had no working concept of time, other than day and night, but he had seen disturbing changes in both T'Keezian and the outside world that this distant part of his brain interpreted a long passage of time. He was no longer allowed out to the bazaar, or given simple things to read. Rather, the mage had begun beating him nearly every day, enraged over the new wrinkles on his hands, or the thinning shock of white hair that he always kept so groomed. Beyond that, T'Keezian no longer saw an of the other mages or went out looking for victims. He had Mender do it, preferring to spend all of his time spellworking in this unpleasant room.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fe'lannior watched Mender. The dark haired apprentice had a determined look on his face. Carefully staying outside T'Keezian's proscribed area of protection, he circled the old man, studying him.
After he had made a circle of the room, he stood behind the area where T'Keezian was now howling in a long forgotten language. "Uullaa'en T'hehalluu Xaa'athn!" he was crying out, coaxing the flow to him. As he rocked and gestured, lost in the power, Fe'lannior watched Mender with detached interest.
The lurid light of the torches played on the black, shining object that he pulled from the depths of his tattered robe. It was an Atzthaun knife, similar to the one T'Keezian carried, but crude and badly formed. It drew dull sparks from the sphere of sorcerous protection that T'Keezian had set up.
As the realization hit him, Fe'lannior opened his mouth to say something, to warn his master, but before he could, it hit him. Let him, the voices said echoing in the back of his brain. Let the bastard die. So stunned by this was he, Fe'lannior simply shut his mouth, sat back and watched.
By the time T'Keezian sensed the intrusion into his sphere, it was too late. Mender was upon him, snarling, "You stupid, overconfident old bastard!". As the two clashed, raw sparks of energy bounced across the room. Fe'lannior winced with each blow. Bound as he was, every pain that happened to holder of the knife, he felt as well.
It grew too bright for him to see the two wizards, rolling about on the floor screaming at each other, then, simply, with a final slicing pain, it was over. Mender had almost decapitated T'Keezian with the crude Atzthau. He looked, silently about the room, to see Fe'lannior retching in the corner.
Picking up T'Keezian's knife and dropping his own in the puddle of red on the floor, Mender started to laugh. He casually walked over to the retching figure in the corner. Reaching down, he grabbed a handful of the njaa's long black hair, and jerked his head back.
Grinning evilly, he raised the knife. "Thus do I claim what is mine." he said flatly. The knife sliced into the surface of the exposed neck. The shining black blade absorbed the red that spattered over it.
Sinking to his knees, still holding Fe'lannior's head back, he said "Thus do I bind what is mine." and pressed his lips to the gash on the njaa's throat. Fe'lannior groaned but could only struggle weakly.
Roughly shoving the njaa away, Mender loosened his robes, exposing his taut, muscled body. "Thus do I take what is mine." Feeling the pull of the knife, Fe'lannior could not even turn away. "No. ." he whispered. "Please don't. ." Mender licked the blood from his lips and grabbed him by the hair again, forcing his face to the cold, rough floor. Using the Atzthau, he sliced way the simple clothing the njaa wore.
Then, laughing again, took him from behind in the pool of blood seeping from T'Keezian's body.
INTERLUDE
Mender?
He took everything he wanted of T'Keezian's and left his home to burn to the ground, the body and Mender's own crude Atzthaun in it.
Essentially, I traded one cruel master for another.
As bad as T'Keezian had been, he'd never laid a hand on me. He'd beat me, I don' t mean that. And to channel Kheythu magicks is a horror I cannot even describe to you.
But, he never raped me like Mender did. He didn't have to.
You see, T'Keezian, evil and twisted as he was, was right about one thing. Mender could not control the Kheythu flow.
It was too strong for him.
He grew remarkably powerful in the necromantic arts, though, and , in the fashion of the day, declared himself a magelord in control of the Southeraa, the realm we lived in.
Thanks to everything he'd claimed of T'Keezian's, he had the power to back up that claim. Lesser mages paid homage to him, the ones who were comparable to him made alliances with him, and those more powerful kept an eye on him.
Because of my looks, he kept me as a toy.
So tightly bound was I to that damn knife, that even in the worst moments, I was forced to look at him with longing and adoration. And because of my ability to heal from the worst injuries, Mender would loan me out to his friends as a partner for the day.
But as time went on, the magic from the collar faded, as the power of the Atzthaun drew me tighter. Mender liked it that I could show real terror when his guests beat me.
He renamed me Felinor and claimed to all that he'd created me as his njaa, from a creature from beyond.
Hm? Yes. I think they all knew hew was lying.