Charlie Madigan: Shadows Before The Sun Part 6

The cloak I could've gotten. The grimwyrd I could've gotten in place of the amulet. The mages to take me into Fiallan, could've gotten that, too. The language spell was helpful, but travelers also employed translators. So, Light.w.a.ter really hadn't offered me anything I couldn't have gotten myself.

"You give me two days, Charlie Madigan, and I will grant you one marker in return."

"A marker," I repeated.

"A promise. One. To put all my power, all the knowledge at my disposal, to completing one task, solving one dilemma, or granting a desire you ask. To the best of my ability and as long as it harms none, of course."

Sandra let out a low whistle. "Never offered me a marker."

Light.w.a.ter turned a kind eye to Alessandra. "There is nothing I can offer the oracle that she does not already have. And that which she does not have and desires is un.o.btainable. This you know."

Sandra huffed as I slipped the amulet over my head, deciding to accept the offer. "I accept your terms, as long as the two days I'm here harms none as well."

The Elder flashed a grin. "Of course. The deal has been struck." She moved back to her seat. "Trahern and Brell will take you now."

Sandra stood, said her good-byes to the Elder, and then faced me. "Ready?"

Trahern stepped next to me and curved his hand around my elbow as Brell did the same to Sandra. And then they vanished. I had a half second to see them blink out before the ground dropped out from under me.

I'd traveled this way before courtesy of Aaron, so I knew what to expect, but it sure as h.e.l.l didn't stop that brief flash of panic as my body dispersed into energy and then re-formed moments later in a new place, feeling about a hundred pounds heavier.

Yep, I thought. The sensation of going from weightless to weight? Still hated it.

6.

He'd always thought going back into the grid would be a fate worse than death.

He was wrong.

Leave it to those f.u.c.king old hags to come up with something worse.

His laugh turned to coughs. He lifted his head a fraction to relieve the hard bite of the stone floor against his cheekbones and the side of his skull. He was naked and cold, chained facedown on the floor, arms straight out, held there by manacles on his wrists, neck, and ankles.

They wouldn't let him die. And every time he did, every time his body gave out and his soul departed, their vicious spell would la.s.so it back, drag it back into his broken body. To endure. He'd seen the f.u.c.king light so many times it was making him mad, those glimpses of peace, the feeling it gave him, the brief absence of pain.

There was pure, soft, welcoming light. And then it would begin to dim, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was surrounded in darkness and screaming to go back. This was a dark, despicable magic; one of the most heinous of spells, tethering a soul to a dying or dead body.

Returning to his broken body was a torture the like of which he couldn't comprehend. The shock of it, the utter contrast between peace and pain . . . It was a sensation worse than the grid, worse than the whippings. It was a horror so unique that it f.u.c.ked with his mind.

He was losing his hold on reality. He craved his own demise. They were turning him into a madman. His l.u.s.t for death was only overshadowed by his hunger to kill the Circe, to exact the cruelest, most prolonged, most vulgar kind of end imaginable.

Over time, as he lay there, his pathetic body would actually try to heal, to knit some of his wounds back together. To give the whip master something else to tear back down. But nothing could repair his psyche, his mind, his tired soul. There was no healing for that. The sane part of him knew it and no longer cared.

As he went in and out of consciousness, visions of a former life flashed through his mind, of the forest of Gorsedd and the sidhe fae hermit who taught him, of a life that meant something, of a smiling child with big brown eyes, of a woman so fierce and loyal and beautiful that she took his breath away. He'd tried to hold on to those images, tried not to miss a single detail that played through his weary mind.

But they were all disjointed and random. All part of a shattered life, one that he'd been stupid, idiotic to believe could ever be his.

The most painful, intense regret filled him in the lucid moments after those flashes. It burned through him, searing his chest, his heart, his throat. And sometimes it burned so raw and fierce that he couldn't hold it in and he dug his fingernails into the stone and roared in pain and rage.

He was no longer siren. He was animal. A crazed thing to be toyed with and tortured and lost. An animal that would ravage its keepers as soon as the slightest opportunity arose. Kill or be killed.

He laughed again, the sound ragged and thin. He laughed at that because he had been killed. Over and over and over again.

Red washed across his cloudy vision, and he could almost smell the iron tang, and feel its heat and thickness. Red, all of it red in Circe blood and Malakim vengeance.

The highly unpleasant sensation of losing all physical sense and then becoming whole again paled in comparison to opening my eyes and knowing I was there. In Fiallan. In Hank's city. So close. I'm here, Hank. I squeezed my eyelids closed and forced down the emotion. I was here, and I was d.a.m.ned well going to succeed.

Trahern's hand fell from my elbow. He stepped back, bowed to me, and then blinked out. Behind him stood Sandra; Brell was already gone.

We stood on a large platform, a wall rising behind us and a market spread out in front of us. I could smell the sea and, beyond the murmur of many voices and activity, I thought I heard it, too. The aroma of fresh bread and seafood mingled with the salty air and the faint scent of the stones warmed by the sun. I tipped my head to the sky and let it bathe my skin in warmth. It was easy, after a while, to get used to the darkness back home. The only times I acknowledged how much I missed the light were times like these.

Sandra stepped off the block. I followed her, walking backward to get a good look at the wall. It was two stories tall, broken by an arched gate manned by guards. Through this break, I'd guess the wall was at least fifteen feet thick. There were two towers far in each direction. The Malakim towers. I'd envisioned them looking more medieval, but they were actually obelisk in shape, made of smooth cream-colored stone, and rising at least five stories high. The remaining two towers weren't visible from my standpoint, and I saw no rings of power, no visible force field of any kind.

I let out a disbelieving breath and turned around in a circle. I was in Fiallan, the inner wall in front of me and the outer wall-which was built after the city had expanded its old boundaries-far behind us. Both walls were shaped like a horseshoe, enclosing the city to all but the sea.

I knew from my earlier preparations to go into the city that a request had to be made at the gate in order to enter the old city. As I took in my fill of the large market, the gate, and the four streets that fanned off of this central area, I noticed Sandra straightening her veil, lifting her chin, and gliding toward the main gate. Request in progress.

I stayed back, allowing her to do her thing, knowing she'd accomplish the task with ease. And that was fine by me. The less notice I gained the better.

I turned away from the gate where Sandra held court and scanned the large marketplace and the crowd, gauging the mood, the threat level, and just letting myself become accustomed to the environment. What I knew of the Circe conflicted with the energetic, happy mood of the place. But then there were few who knew of the lies and heinous practice going on around them.

Eventually, I felt Sandra's presence. "Now we wait." And then she breezed past me.

There were mostly sirens, but some nymphs, a few imps and fae, and one or two humans in the market. Vines and flowers bloomed from railings and over pergolas, creating shaded spots under which tables and chairs had been placed. Streets fanned out from the market, lined with whitewashed buildings no higher than three stories. Brightly painted pottery decorated corners of buildings and doorways, filled with flowers, plants, and seash.e.l.ls.

It was all strangely . . . idyllic, completely at odds with the darkness I'd attributed to this place.

I lost Sandra, but found her again as she neared the building on the corner. It had a bright blue door, whitewashed stone walls, and flowering vines attached to one corner. Her head turned; the flash of her eyes in the shadow of her veil found me and waved me over. I caught the door before it closed, stepping inside behind her.

I'd heard for the normal traveler, it could take a day or more to get approval, but government officials and celebrities like the oracle-it might only take an hour or two.

After Sandra spoke to the innkeeper, we were led to a private room with a window that overlooked the market. As soon as we entered the bright room, Sandra shrugged off her veil and sank into one of the couches. The window was open, one side framed in blooms that crawled up the outside of the building.

I let my bags slide off my shoulders and stared out at the market scene, itching to do something, itching for a fight, honestly. To do what I knew best. I was out of my element, in another dimension that looked like some Mediterranean paradise while all I wanted to do was bust some heads, exact some revenge, and get my partner the h.e.l.l out of there.

I let out a loud exhale.

"Nothing like Charbydon, is it?" Sandra asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. "No. Nothing like." I turned back to the scene outside. "It's beautiful here." Which p.i.s.sed me off; it shouldn't be beautiful. It didn't seem right, not when children had died to protect this place. "Have you seen the city, Sandra, in your visions?"

When she didn't answer, I moved away from the window. She was watching me, her expression blank. I stopped by the arm of the empty couch across from hers. "Have you?"

I waited, wondering if I'd be able to detect a lie if she told one. Alessandra was a lot of things. Greedy. Haughty. Prideful. Sarcastic. But for some reason, she didn't strike me as dishonest. Oh, she milked her clients for every penny she could, but as far as I knew she never told things she did not see. She was more the type to deliver the brutal truth or simply not answer at all. This time, she chose the latter, which meant she had seen this place in a vision.

"Sit down, Charlie. Relax. If you start pacing, I might throw something at you." Her eyes drifted closed and her head fell back against the cushion. "I'm already getting a headache."

I sat down. "I've been thinking about what you said . . . If you can't see Hank's future because it's intertwined with ours, that means he's alive, right? He's part of all this. Otherwise you'd be able to see."

Her chest rose and fell. Her eyes opened and she looked at me with a mixture of exasperation and pity. "Well if he's dead, I wouldn't be able to see him, either."

I winced, her words slicing between my ribs as effortlessly as a surgical knife and straight into my heart. Sandra had a way of hitting me where it hurt, and this time was no exception. I gazed out the window, knowing that pressing her wasn't going to get me anywhere, but I'd needed to do it anyway, needed some hope or rea.s.surance . . . something.

"I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me, Charlie. I'm just . . ." She searched for the right words, but none seemed to come.

"p.i.s.sed off that you can't see the future?"

Her eyes glowed and her tiny form seemed to vibrate with energy. "You could say that. It's not enjoyable to . . . wonder what will come."

The soft knock at the door came in just under an hour. Must be a record, I thought as Sandra stood and shot me a superior smirk before answering the door.

"Oracle!" A tall siren dropped to his knees, grabbed the hem of her robe, and brought it to his lips. "Fiallan is honored by your presence, simply honored."

"Please, stand."

I didn't miss the note of discomfort in her voice, which was surprising. Guess after a while, groveling grew old even for the oracle. Who knew?

The siren straightened. He was handsome, a bit on the thin side with a straight nose, long chin, and thick dark-blond eyebrows. Like all sirens, he was blond and blue-eyed.

"Your name, siren," Sandra prompted him with patience.

He colored. "Pelos, Emissary to the Royal House of Akleion. I offer greetings from King Aersis himself and bid you welcome to Fiallan. You would bestow a great honor upon us to accept the king's invitation to stay at the palace during your visit to our fair city by the sea."

"Well spoke, Pelos." Sandra turned to me, an eyebrow arched.

"Your servant-" His gaze swept over my insignificant self until it landed on my weapons, visible since I'd removed the robe. "Pardon, your guard is most welcome, too, of course."

"She is both, as it happens. It is always wise, dear Pelos, to employ those with multiple talents. Will her weapons be permitted inside of the palace?"

Pelos stumbled. It was clear by the red creeping in his cheeks that they were not.

"Of course," Sandra continued on, "there is no need for protection within the royal house, but my . . . popularity, you see . . . Once word reaches the ma.s.ses, well, as you can imagine my presence requires protections from those more . . . ardent seekers of the future, and I am so attached to my guard and rely on her greatly."

His eyes grew wide and he was nodding before he probably even realized he was. "Oh, of course. I had not considered that. You must need protecting at all costs. I'm sure the king will permit this protection on your behalf."

Sandra bestowed a glorious smile on poor Pelos. "That is wonderful news! We shall accept his invitation with the highest grat.i.tude."

Pelos turned and motioned to someone behind him. A siren guard, dressed like those at the gate, stepped inside of the room and picked up Sandra's bag. I waited for him to pick up mine, but no. They were already walking out the door, leaving me to shrug back into the robe, toss my backpack over one shoulder and my duffel over the other.

The emissary fawned over the oracle as we were escorted past the wall and into the inner city or old city as it was also called. As my subservient role required, I followed directly behind them.

The old city of Fiallan sloped gently down toward the sea. Houses had been built snugly into the rocky landscape, packed tightly together or with narrow alleys between them. It was no wonder the sirens took an interest in the Greeks-their land was familiar, from the rocky landscape to the blue sea and the pebble beaches.

The city was made of marble and whitewashed stone that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The main streets were wide and paved with smooth flagstones, and the houses all faced the sea with balconies and fluttering curtains waving in the breeze.

We walked through the meandering streets, Sandra chatting idly with Pelos while I took in my surroundings. Seabirds cried. The sound of the waves mixed with the sounds of everyday life. It was all so familiar and yet . . . not.

I couldn't help but think of Hank as a child, growing up here. His roots were here, his family, his people. I spied the other two towers rising in the distance-needles jutting up from where the wall turned into sheer cliffs rising straight up from the sea. Goose b.u.mps sprouted along my arms at the contrast of beauty and the evil I knew to lurk there. Sometimes that was the worst kind of danger, the kind veiled in beauty, the unsuspecting kind.

Pelos pointed out areas of interest as we went-the way to a sacred spring, the baths, the market, and the temples to the sirens' primal sea deities, Merses, and his consort, Panope.

"And those magnificent towers," Sandra said. "Framed on either side of the cliffs, they look like gateways to the sea itself."

"There are two more on the wall behind us. We have four in all. They are the Malakim Towers, built during the war with the Adonai, a thousand years ago."

"Is it true there are children guarding the towers?"

Pelos didn't miss a beat, and I remembered what Hank had told me about the Malakim being so old and so ingrained in his people's customs that no one questioned it. It was just something that had always been. "Oh yes, and they are the bravest of our people," Pelos was eager to share. "The practice, you see, began during the war with the Adonai when the city of Fiallan nearly fell. The Circe, old even then, saved our fair city by creating the four towers and the spell by which four sons-children of its mightiest warriors who were off fighting the Adonai-would release their power, link together, and form the rings of protection around the city. It worked. The city was saved from an Adonai attack. The young guardians became heroes.

"Once peace was reached seven years later, the Circe entered the towers to remove the children. Only, the sons of its warriors proved strong and proud. They asked to continue their guardianship and thus became Malakim. Every seven years, they would be approached again, and yet again refuse."

"Such bravery is rare indeed," Sandra said. "But surely your fair city is safe. There has been no threat from the Adonai since the peace."

"Oh, but the Circe say we must be ever vigilant. There are threats always lurking, always waiting for a weakness to show itself. The towers and the Malakim protect us to this day." He glanced back at my stony face. "Much like your protector guards you."

"Indeed," Sandra said lightly as Pelos moved on to another subject, but the quick look she shot over her shoulder was incensed.

I wanted to grab Pelos by the collar and shake some sense into him, but a calmer side of me played devil's advocate. The siren people had been duped by the Circe for so long. There was no one left alive from the war, and the entire population had been born into the Malakim practice and into the Circe's control. They knew no other way. And they had no idea what had really happened in that tower when Hank freed himself. No, the blame lay squarely on the Circe's shoulders.

Eventually, we came to the palace. It had been built at the southern edge of the inner city on an outcropping of craggy rock, a vast complex of straight lines with large, long rectangular buildings supporting smaller ones, like building blocks stacked wherever there was room. It had a commanding view of the sea and everywhere there were smooth columns painted red and black. They lined entire buildings, framed entranceways, or held up balcony roofs, and there were several sets of stone stairs leading to balconies on varying levels.

It wasn't heavily guarded or fortified, but I supposed it didn't have to be seeing as there were the towers and walls and the Circe to contend with. Fiallan was remote, separated from the nearest siren city of Murias by Gorsedd, a forest the size of Texas. It made me wonder why the sirens had built a city here to begin with and why they'd warred with the Adonai in their early days. What could the Adonai possibly want with such a remote city?

The main courtyard was huge, rectangular and paved with smooth stones inlaid with mosaics depicting sea creatures of the natural and mythical kind. Steps that ran the entire length of the courtyard led into a gallery with a line of red columns with black bases. The far wall was brightly painted in reds, blues, and sea green.

We pa.s.sed through what appeared to be a main hall and then through a confusing maze of hallways, levels, and atriums before finally coming to our rooms.

"I hope the rooms are to your liking, oracle." Pelos pushed the door open and stepped inside. "You have a main lounge, two bedrooms on either side with bath chamber, and a private balcony with views of the sea."

"It's lovely. Please extend our thanks."

"Of course. We have already dined, but I'd be happy to bring something to eat if you're hungry."

"That would be most welcome, thank you, Pelos. You are an excellent emissary. I will be sure to tell the king."

Pelos looked like he was going to burst into song, but he held himself straight and still. "You are too kind. I shall return shortly."