Despite Cedric's false blue eyes, Kestrin recognized him immediately. He was afraid, and it made him look smaller, weaker. More human. The right sleeve of the man's scarlet robe hung empty at his side, and only one leg protruded from its hem.
Cedric and Kestrin stared silently at each other for a seeming eternity.
Only the arrival of a servant snapped them out of it; she set down a fresh bowl of fruit at a nearby table, then quickly backed out to leave the guests to their obviously fraught encounter.
"You're alive," Cedric finally said numbly.
"For the moment," Kestrin said. He was as composed as ever, but his eyes--once cold and blank, now alight with terror--betrayed him. "Have you come to set that right?"
"How could I know you'd be here?"
"Regardless, you can't let me live. You, Golden Heart, have come under pretense. Many years ago, I led the Victor's Parade in those same vestments."
He stepped toward the Ice Blade, who shrank back into the divan. Despite everything, Cedric felt a surge of pity.
"Do you feel anything for them?" Cedric said quietly. "Jana and Alvir?"
Kestrin's gaze was steady. "I'll make no show of repentance, not even for you. I simply lack the capacity."
A not-insignificant part of Cedric wanted to kill him for the sheer satisfaction of it. But another part would not accept yielding to that impulse on such a vulnerable subject. "If I spared you, would you warn your master?"
"You've spilled blood since last we met, though not lightly," he said. "Taking life in the arena is one thing, but a crippled, defenseless man…"
"You would, if it suited your purpose." Cedric took a seat in the plush, light-blue armchair directly facing Kestrin. "What brought you to such a point? Tell me that, at least."
With some effort, Kestrin heaved himself upright. "I've always been who I am. We all return to the void in the end; what does it matter that I send some there early?"
Resignation had replaced fear in Kestrin's eyes. There was even some relief, Cedric thought.
"I cannot trust any promise of silence from you, can I?"
"It seems there is but one course of action, Your Grace. I cannot escape your punishment, might as well get on with it."
For the first time in ages, Cedric allowed himself to recall that night in harrowing detail. Kestrin's tall, menacing figure dismounting his stallion. The calm, almost languid manner in which he'd presented Jana and Alvir's severed heads. The Ice Blade had loved his work; he didn't revel in others' pain and anguish as openly as the Bloodclaw had, but he'd savored it all the same.
"Your current predicament is punishment enough." Cedric stood, towering over him. "Rendered incapable of serving your beloved master, no more than a burden on his generous hospitality. Useless, like a sickly elder simply waiting to die." He laced every word with deliberate, venomous contempt.
Kestrin's hand leapt to his own amulet, a pale red lesser stone, as if for comfort; his eyes even grew glossy with unshed tears.
Another unwelcome surge of pity.
Cedric leaned forward and took Kestrin's face firmly in both hands. Unshaven bristles tickled his palms. The Ice Blade remained as still as stone, barely daring to breathe; he knew that struggling would be futile.
The previous times Cedric had meddled in others' heads had been desperate, unfocused, instinct-driven. But now that he had a clearer sense of his capabilities and his intent, he could be more deliberate, more precise.
He reached for the reawakened black diamond and drew it up into his body, through his arms, and out his fingers. He closed his eyes and deliberately followed the dark power's path, his own consciousness borne along a stream of cold energy directly into Kestrin's mind.
Cedric promptly found the relevant memories amidst the murmured jumble of image, sound, and feeling; as the most recent ones, they floated on the surface of a seemingly infinite churn. He saw himself through Kestrin's eyes, more imposing than he expected, as well as a sharp lance of fear that wasn't his own. Snatches of the conversation they'd just had flitted in and out of intelligibility.
Inadvertently, he sank deeper into the mass of thought and memory like a swimmer expelling buoying air from his lungs. Now the memories were unfamiliar, though he did catch a brief glimpse of his own bestial elemental form on the night they'd met, accompanied by another visceral bolt of terror.
Then a memory of Marcus, the guard who'd aided in Cedric's escape from prison, unexpectedly coalesced before him. The man was screaming, his face a twisted mask of agony. But it was the wave of depraved gratification inextricably bound to these images that truly sickened Cedric to the core. Marcus had been found out after all, and subjected to horrific torment at Kestrin's all-too-eager hand.
With a forceful burst of will, Cedric wrenched himself out of the Ice Blade's mind. He briefly staggered from the vertiginous return of his bodily senses, and had to renew his grip on Kestrin.
"Marcus… where is he?" Cedric demanded, shaking him slightly. "What did you do to him?"
Kestrin blinked blearily as if rousing from a deep sleep. "Who?"
"The guard who helped me escape, the one you tortured!"
Kestrin's eyes lolled, unfocused. "I ordered him… to be kept alive."
"Where?" Cedric shook him again, harder.
"Where… else?"
So Marcus had been left at the Dead End, now as a prisoner. Left to the mercies of those he'd betrayed, who could do anything they wanted short of killing him. Cedric hadn't thought he could hate Kestrin the Ice Blade more than he already did. He was wrong.
Cedric dove back into Kestrin's mind, whose body briefly seized up from the uncaringly harsh intrusion, and made a conscious effort to not delve deeper than the memory of their current confrontation. He drew a delicate fabric of dark energy across this memory; its vibrance and clarity dimmed as if obscured by black gossamer. He drew another, then another, layer upon layer until a complete, opaque darkness was all that remained.
Forget me. Forget everything about this. Now, sleep…
Cedric withdrew, and found a deeply-slumbering Kestrin in his arms. He lay the man down onto the cushions, gently so as not to wake him, then stared at his helpless, brittle form for far longer than necessary.
Is this how it felt for you, my predecessor? To meddle with another's mind, to wield that sort of power over their very being? And yet, after hundreds of souls ravaged for your own ends, you still did not understand them.
*
Virolan stood openly out on his balcony, letting the afternoon sun wash hotly over his skin. Whether he burned, darkened, or freckled--he honestly didn't know which it would be--what of it? His mistress had abandoned him, and he answered to no other in the Citadel.
He took another deep draught of the bottle of Gyrian wine in his hand. After twenty bottles' worth delivered to his chambers over the past few weeks, he supposed he was finally acquiring a taste for it.
His aunt Ilya would drop dead on the spot if she could see her precious nephew now. Imbibing like a drunkard day after day, repeatedly denying the servants' attempts to bathe and attend to him. Virolan's hair was rank and matted, his scent patently un-floral. Upon his inevitable banishment from the Citadel, his family would surely attempt to send him to some new patron. But that undertaking would be considerably more difficult if Virolan refused to wash.
He smiled in bitter satisfaction. He'd vowed to serve no other than Queen Rhea for as long as he lived, and he'd enjoy watching his family's attempts to convince, threaten, beg, or bribe him otherwise. At worst, he'd make his new patron's life so miserable they'd be forced to return him.
This is what I am without you, my queen. Now, my self-imposed purpose on this earth is to be a vigorously unpleasant burden upon everyone else.
He toasted the sky and drained the last of the bottle.
Beldre entered his chambers after a few knocks, which he'd ignored. She gasped at the sight of him standing unprotected in the sun, but wisely didn't comment.
"What is it?" he said dully. It was too early for his chambers' daily cleaning.
"You've been summoned, my lord," Beldre said quietly. She didn't meet his eyes. "By King Asha."
The bottle dropped from Virolan's slackened hand. It bounced once with a heavy, crystalline clink and rolled across the balcony floor.
"I'm sorry?" he said through numb, dry lips.
"The Red King, my lord. He expects you in his chambers within the hour."
Virolan looked down at himself. There were limits to his hedonist's rebellion after all. If he came to King Asha in this state…
Potent fear coursed down his spine, reawakening a mind previously clouded by dull misery and drink. Despite everything, he didn't have a death wish. He undid his stained robe and let it fall as he left the balcony.
"A bath, Beldre, quickly."
She nodded and rushed to go fill the tub.
Beldre scrubbed and lathered furiously, partly for time and partly for the unusually thick accumulation of filth. Even Virolan did his part, roughly scouring the areas she could not easily reach. Ten wordless minutes passed, the intensity of which kept the bubbling dread in his chest at bay, but it promptly reasserted itself upon his emergence from the noticeably darkened water.
Virolan had anticipated expulsion from the Citadel, but never this. He had no recourse but to put on the perfectly dutiful and attentive servant once again, and pray that the numerous stories of King Asha's treatment of his courtesans would miraculously permit an exception.
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Still, this was what he'd been trained for. He and his kind were divinely privileged to serve the Heirs as such. The Red King was not his beloved Queen Rhea, but he commanded the same unconditional deference. Virolan's fear and unwillingness meant nothing.
Now go, fulfill your purpose, cracked Ilya's whip-sharp voice in his head.
Dressed by Beldre in a fresh, clean robe, Virolan left his chambers.
The Red King's chamber doors were as vibrant red as Queen Rhea's were blue, and inlaid with gold. Virolan dithered on the cusp of knocking, his heart thumping wildly in apprehension rather than the hungry anticipation he'd once been accustomed to. What if he simply fled, right here and now, and didn't stop until he'd cleared the capital gates and vanished among the commoner hordes? The Deauratas would surely bear a most acute shame, and perhaps even be cast out of the city--and nobledom--entirely, but the idea did not horrify him as much as it once had.
A series of faint, echoing sounds interrupted this manic line of thought: hurried steps behind him that were gaining in height. Someone was attempting to enter the forbidden top level of the Citadel.
Virolan turned.
He was young, fair-haired, garbed in white silk complete with a billowing cloak in the wake of his rapid advance. A stab of outrage supplanted all else in Virolan's mind. "You there!" he called indignantly. "Where do you think you're going?"
The youth stopped, turned, and met his gaze. He briefly glanced up at his destination, then reluctantly began to plod back down.
"Who are you?" Virolan demanded as he reached the bottom step. "Tell me your name. I command it."
"Cedric… Noxus, my lord," the stranger said. "This year's tournament champion."
Even Virolan had to admit that he was lovely, as lovely as the most prized courtesans judged worthy of the Heirs' regard. He was also young. Very young. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.
Rather than give another straight answer, Cedric cocked his head and furrowed his brow as if Virolan were an exotic animal. "Could I ask, my lord…" he said hesitantly. "Why you stand outside King Asha's chambers, yet do not knock?"
He flushed at the whelp's blatant presumption. Then, what he'd said earlier finally sank in: this whelp was the tournament champion, the most fearsome warrior of this year's entrants. The so-called Golden Heart. That explained his appalling commoner manners, but why did he resemble Virolan more than he did a grizzled, battle-scarred old fighter?
"It is not your concern," he said imperiously. "I'll forgive your lapse in etiquette this once, as you're a freshly-minted noble just pulled from the mud, but do not address me so impudently in the future."
"You're afraid," Sir Noxus said bluntly, apparently not hearing him. "Is it Asha you're afraid of? Has he summoned you?"
This was preposterous. Virolan didn't care how many extinguished lives had emboldened Sir Noxus so far past propriety; he would not be addressed like this. "King Asha has indeed summoned me. Now begone, you insolent little--"
Sir Noxus abruptly lurched forward, as if to grab hold of him, and Virolan flinched back. The former clenched his outstretched hand and dropped it back to his side. "Sorry, I never got your name," he finally said quietly.
"Deaurata," Virolan said shakily, automatically performing the caste gesture. "Virolan Deaurata."
"Virolan, please don't go in. Asha will hurt you."
His lips had gone numb again. "How could you possibly know that?"
"I’ve been in his chambers… I saw what he did to Elara and Saman. Please, I'll accompany you back to your quarters."
Hearing Virolan's own doubts and fears voiced by another somehow infused them with legitimacy, validity; perhaps they weren't entirely meaningless, after all.
And so Virolan allowed lowly Sir Noxus to escort him back downstairs, disobeying an Heir's direct command for the first time in his life. He felt rather giddy and light-headed as he slumped into his armchair.
"When the Red King comes storming after me, I assume you'll take all the blame," he said blankly. He grabbed a wine bottle from the nearby table, shook it briefly to judge its fullness, then tipped it all down his gullet.
"Stay here. Say you've taken ill, if you like." Then Sir Noxus, in all his careless brazenness, turned to leave.
"Don't you dare!" Virolan squawked, straightening up. "You don't coerce disobedience then abandon me to the aftermath!" He indicated one of the armchairs. "Sit. You'll be right here to answer for it."
Sir Noxus paused in thought. "I can stay, but only until sunset," he said, as if he had any choice in the matter when a First Caste was commanding him. Then again, Virolan was currently exercising that same defiance against an even greater authority. The sheer wrongness of it gnawed at his insides like a wild animal's jagged jaws.
This called for more wine.
Virolan spent the next few hours recalling his every grievance in life, big and small, past and present, in great detail. All these years he could never have afforded to breathe a single, petulant word lest he besmirch the mighty Deaurata name, but a mere Sixth Caste who'd no doubt leave the Citadel within the day, rarely to return, was the perfect audience. A captive one, too. Served him right.
But Sir Noxus, for his part, seemed genuinely interested. He sipped lightly from the cup that Virolan had sloppily sloshed some wine into, and listened silently and attentively. He only interrupted when the subject of Queen Rhea emerged.
"You were her lover?" he said, eyes wide.
"Yes, I belong--belonged to the Blue Queen." Virolan melted even further into the armchair, cradling the bottle forlornly against his chest.
"You 'belonged' to her… as a slave?" Potent consternation spread across Sir Noxus' face.
Virolan stared, dumbfounded. "Of--of course not! How dare--"
"Then you were free to leave if you wished?"
Virolan straightened from his slump. "I've all the freedom I need," he sputtered, slurring more than he liked. "Freedom from starvation, disease, discomfort, obscurity. I serve the Divine Heirs! What more could I possibly want?"
"Freedom over yourself," Sir Noxus said as if it were obvious. "Over where you go, what you pursue. To whom you… give yourself…" He cleared his throat and turned away with a faint blush.
Ah, so pretty little Noxus is even fresher than he looks. As innocent as a spring lamb.
Virolan, unexpectedly dropped back into his element, observed the young noble with a well-honed eye. Finally, a potential opening to set him back on his heels for a change. Besides, Virolan had already blown off a Divine Heir's summons; any further indiscretions would hardly make a dent.
He leaned forward. "And if I seize that freedom now?" he said, far more artlessly than his old self would have ever permitted. He glanced past the balcony, at the reddish sun beyond. "We've still time before dark."
Sir Noxus' blush deepened as he caught the barely-disguised meaning; it made for a gratifying sight. He took a larger gulp of wine than the ones previous. "Erm, I don't think…"
"You could hardly do better. I've exclusively trained in such arts; I'll render you a quivering mess, but you'll only beg for more."
Virolan rose from his seat and grasped the arms of Sir Noxus' armchair, penning him in.
"Thank you for the offer," he said, his voice firm despite the vibrant blush. "But I wouldn't know the first thing about…"
"Come off it," Virolan laughed, straightening up. "Where'd they find you, under a rock?"
"I know about men and women," he said, a little defensively.
Virolan scoffed. "The banal mechanics of procreation barely scratch the surface. Sir Noxus, prepare yourself for the most fruitful enlightenment of your life."
Sir Noxus' expression frequently vacillated between horror and intrigue as Virolan cheerfully unfurled the considerable breadth of his knowledge, though the blush never faded. He did return to his normal coloring eventually, accompanied by relaxed shoulders and an overall more confident bearing, but the change seemed unrelated to the subject matter at hand.
"The sun has set," Sir Noxus finally said. He set down his empty cup and stood. "Thank you, my lord, for that… fascinating talk. Most detailed."
"Well, someday you'll understand exactly what you missed out on tonight," Virolan smirked. "And you'll be inconsolable with regret."
In all this time, no one had come to question Virolan's absence from the Red King's chambers. Perhaps King Asha had simply forgotten about him. "It seems you needn't have stayed after all," he said. "Regardless, you're now free to attend to… other matters."
Sir Noxus lowered his eyes. "About that… you should know that my intentions--"
"I know of no intentions on your part."
He blinked. "Well, when you saw me heading for--"
"I saw no such thing," Virolan said pointedly, then scoffed. "I'm a mere courtesan, Sir Noxus. No one expects for me to keep a sharp eye."
Whatever Sir Noxus' true purpose here, it was obvious that neither King Asha nor Queen Ayo would approve. But Virolan hadn't been trained in such matters, had he? It wasn't his duty to think, to investigate, to protect. Even Queen Rhea had treated his heartfelt request for her confidence as something quaint, fanciful. So how could Sir Noxus and his clandestine activities be of any concern to an empty-headed ornament such as he?
The young man nodded in understanding before departing. Virolan was almost sorry to see him go.
An odd lad. Was he my first, true friend in this blasted place? The thought was most discomfiting.
Equally discomfiting was how Sir Noxus' words still rattled about in his head, refusing to be dislodged. Freedom over oneself--a notion utterly tantalizing for its novelty, only ever coalescing in his mind in the vaguest of terms until today. If Virolan had been allowed the space to dream, to aspire to something other than his ordained purpose…
The door of his chambers burst violently open, nearly startling him off his armchair altogether. The memory of a similar occurrence set his heart racing with dread several moments before his mind fully caught up.
The Red King stood at the threshold, his finely-carved lips curled into a sneer.
"Did you miss my summons?" he asked silkily.
*
It had been a good decision to wait until night set in. Cedric's darkness sense spanned nearly the entire height of the Citadel and all the individuals within it; he now knew for certain that there would be no one to witness nor obstruct his path to the Vault. He also knew that Asha had left his chambers and was headed for the lower floor via an alternate route. Ayo was likely in the Vault itself, far beyond the reach of Cedric's senses from where he currently stood. She wouldn't act until dawn, which allowed him a good amount of time.
Compared to everyone else, the Heir of Fire's presence was heavy and broad, like a bonfire among pinpricks of matchlight. Cedric instinctively honed in on his movements even as he rapidly put distance between them, but then halted in his tracks when Asha's path unmistakably led him to Virolan's chambers.
Cedric's heart skipped a beat. That poor, helpless courtesan was to be Asha's next prey of choice. Had he finally wrung the very last drop of suffering from Elara and Saman, then readied himself to begin his sadistic ritual anew? And if he knew of Ayo's plans, he'd have no reason to hold back, nothing to draw out and savor without a tomorrow.
Candra would give him a verbal--if not physical--walloping for even considering it. Don't squander your one chance to avoid a confrontation with Asha, idiot. Exploit his distraction and take your stupid arse to the Vault! But her words were far less convincing when conjured by Cedric's own mind.
Goddess help me. He gritted his teeth and spun harshly on his heels.
*
The Red King gestured at Virolan's bed in a clear command. Virolan's limbs felt simultaneously boneless and stiff as rock, but he managed to clamber atop the covers and pillows all the same. There he kneeled, head slightly bowed; he didn't dare look him in the eyes.
"As you see, my little doxy, I've been forced to come to you. After you heartlessly rebuffed my request for your company…"
Virolan quickly bowed forward, burying his forehead in the covers. "I--I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I'd taken… ill, and I--"
A harsh hand caught his hair at the scalp and hauled him upright. He yelped as tears of pain welled in his eyes, his scrabbling fingers inconsequential against the Red King's iron grip.
"And you ignored your master?" King Asha snarled. He shook Virolan, who yelped again.
The Red King's hand was growing hot, unnaturally so. It was burning Virolan's scalp, singeing his hair. The smell was horrendous, overwhelming, the pain amplified by every agonizing second that passed--
King Asha flung him backwards into the pillows, where he lay like a stunned fish, and began to undo his own scarlet overcoat. The king's breathing was heavy, and not from physical exertion.
"The night she left," King Asha said in a strangely husky voice. "Did she tell you anything? About… about why?"
Queen Rhea. He means Queen Rhea…
With some effort, Virolan raised his head. "N--no, Your Grace. She told me n--nothing. But upon her return--"
King Asha laughed harshly. "She won't ever return, doxy. The Blue Queen is dead. She perished out there, in the mud." He pinned Virolan in place with his blazing amber eyes. "Scorned her exceptional standing, her divine privilege. Like master, like servant."
The harshly delivered news of Rhea's demise was simply one torment too far. Virolan began to tremble, and the tears finally spilled over. He flinched back against the headboard when King Asha stepped toward him, not far enough to escape.
He cupped Virolan's cheek.
"Tell me to stop," King Asha said quietly. "Command me. Tell me my touch repels you, that my very presence turns your stomach."
Virolan opened his mouth, but the words--true as they were--simply refused to leave him. Instead came a weak bleat of what had been branded into his throat ever since he could talk. "I live to serve Your Grace. Whatever you desire…"
A strange tinge of disappointment veiled the Red King's eyes. At this proximity he radiated a feverish, metallic heat, like molten iron made flesh. The ruby at his throat flowed and pulsed with fresh blood, and the palm against Virolan's face began to blaze anew.
The chambers doors burst open again. Virolan started, but King Asha didn't even turn.
"Get off him," spat Sir Noxus, his voice strong and sure. "Now!"
The Red King dropped his hand, and a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "You've come to rescue him," he said, evidently pleased. "What a gallant hero you've grown into, brother."