Chereads / The Dog and the Serpent Books of Belshalara Book One / Chapter 18 - Chapter Eighteen: The Dove

Chapter 18 - Chapter Eighteen: The Dove

She'd gone to bed alone and lay there in the dark, smiling like a girl with a secret. She had never focused her innate abilities before, but he'd looked so sad. And she'd felt so helpless. In the shadows Castalline had lurked, her large gray eyes wide as the callous and cruel Shadowglade insulted her master.

She'd flinched as she heard every harsh clack of the woman's sharp-heeled shoes moved over the gleaming wooden floor. And then Merris. He was broken and despondent, his delicately featured face twisted in grief. It was clear he loved the heartless Lady Shadowglade. But maybe, she'd thought, maybe she could fix it.

So Castalline had gone to him, focusing her thoughts, gently trying to turn him away from adoring Lady Shadowglade to adoring her instead. Little did she know that it didn't work that way. Eryss was not a goddess of love and emotion and though she was god-touched, she was forsaken as well. She inspired Merris to have her body, but little else. And fate repaid her by giving the Muse her own inspiration. Love did funny things to people under the best of circumstances.

Waking with the sun, Castalline left her room only to be confronted with Merris' servant Lauris. The patchwork maid said nothing, only regarded the Muse with large, sad eyes. Often, she'd seen Merris fawning over his creation, stroking her face and hair, smiling kindly at the Unquenched. It disgusted her. The dead should remain dead and they should not be paraded about like favored pets. Castalline's powers of inspiration didn't work on the dead. And the dead did not create art and Eryss turned her gaze away from them. They were tools and servants of Nehmain and there was no art or beauty in death. Only decay and rot.

"Take me to Master Merris' room," she told the creature.

Lauris said nothing and only shook her head, refusing Castalline. Immediately, she was infuriated, and her hand lashed out to grasp the thin, cold wrist of the maid. She tugged her along viciously. In truth, Castalline was jealous. She wanted that sort of tenderness from Merris, her savior. She wanted the affection he had for his creations and the obsession he had with Shadowglade. Greedy, she wanted it all.

Castalline flung open the door to a coat closet and pushed the Unquenched woman inside. The maid never verbally protested, but now she wore a troubled expression. It made Castalline sick. Sick that the dead could parrot their emotions. She slammed the door shut and pulled and twisted on the crystal knob until it popped off. She would find Merris' room herself.

She searched high and low until her path led her down a dark corridor. There were no decorations here. Just motes of silver dust swirling in the cool morning light that streamed from the high windows. She hid the crystal knob in another closet, this one empty, and shut the door. Lauris, she supposed, might never actually get out of that closet. And this pleased her a great deal. For all her power, Castalline was very much like a sheltered child. She acted impulsively and thought little of consequence.

She tried all the doors in that wing and now stood in front of the last one. She cracked it open and to her delight, there was Merris, fully clothed, laying atop the coverlet on his bed. His room was still very dark and pristine. It smelled sharply of disinfectant. She padded into the room, her feet bare and making no sound at all. She wore only an ivory shift as she slid into bed next to him, her chest at his back.

Merris was not asleep, but his eyes were closed. He still smelled faintly of wine; it seeped through his skin. He turned and looked over his shoulder as Castalline crept into his bed. His dark, sharp brows twisted into a look of confusion. He paused for a length of time, as if trying to glean the meaning of her presence – so unexpected, so sudden. "Castalline?" he wondered in his soft, near whisper. The question was clear, she was uninvited. He was merely curious.

She frowned, her pulse jumping, her mouth going dry. He didn't address her quite the way she expected him to and now she was left feeling afraid and unsure of herself. Why wasn't he happy she was there? Or turning to wrap his arms around her? She ached for him to. "Lord Osterious," she said in her meek, soft voice. "I came to see you. See how you were." No. That wasn't true. She came for kisses and sighs and skin on skin, but she didn't have the courage to say this.

He turned to lie on his back. His arm draped over his bloodshot eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice still quiet and soft. "I just... think I drank too much wine. Perhaps." And then he exhaled, a puff of breath shot from his lips. He slid his arm away to look at her fully. His beard was scruffy and unkempt, his hair jostled and spread against the pillow. "If I said anything to upset you... last night. I'm sorry. My mind is in a bit of a haze. I remember... I had a long conversation with Lady Shadowglade." He swallowed. His lips looked dry. "And it was unpleasant. I believe she left before you left your room." He paused, his dark eyes drifted up to the ceiling. "I know living here must be an adjustment for you. It must be difficult. Lauris – I am unsure if you met her – can see to your every need. She rarely speaks, but she can. Just let her know if you need anything, anything at all."

Her expression further soured as she rose up to look down at him. Her long, silvery hair was a curtain between them and the rest of the world. She frowned softly at him and brushed his dark hair from his face. She looked into the deep dark of his eyes and felt small and ugly. She didn't want to talk about that awful Lauris or the terrible Shadowglade. "She's an awful woman," she said, her voice gaining some strength with the power of her loathing. "Lady Shadowglade is cruel. You shouldn't heed a word she says."

He would know that she'd been eavesdropping, but that was all right. She saw no reason to lie about that. Castalline offered him a shy, sweet smile before dropping her gaze demurely. "You're a man, Merris," she said, her voice full of longing and heat suddenly, her throat tight around the words. Color flooded her cheeks, pinking them as she bit her bottom lip.

He looked entranced for a brief, shining moment. His hand slid against her snowy cheek and his lips barely opened. He tipped his head on the pillow, studying her with a severed detachment. "She's... not awful," he said quietly. Then his other hand rose to his head. He massaged his temple, as if the wine still drummed behind his eyes. "It is difficult to explain." He went on as his eyes closed. The balls of his fingertips still moved in a tight, circular motion against his skull. "We have a long history, Shadowglade and I. And she's... right about a lot of things, Castalline." His hand dropped away from his skull and his lids lifted once more. He looked at her with an expression of knotted pain and aching sadness.

Empathy and longing twisted her own features. Oh, she thought miserably, he would adore her if he weren't hung up on Lady Shadowglade. So she scoffed and looked away so he couldn't see how his detachment hurt her. "This wasn't even a real Quarter until Shadowglade made it one. It's just a whorehouse. That's all it is," she said with clear revulsion. Bitter and sour. "And she is the Madame. You're a man, Merris." She looked over at him, her sad, gray eyes half lidded. "You more than showed me that last night." Had he forgotten? Surely not. He'd felt so good, so much better than Mulecio. "And you may have had a history, but she made it plain, did she not? You don't any longer." Desperation tinged her tone, jealousy. Loathing.

Fear.

She was terrified of being cast out again. Forgotten.

Merris pushed himself up, resting himself against the backboard of the bed. Suddenly, his pale skin and black hair contrasted even further as a dark look settled across his face. He seemed indignant, offended. "Had you been listening to us?" he asked crossly. His arm rested on the peak of his knee. "To Lady Lillandyr's and my conversation... after I asked you to stay in your room?" He looked away from her and sighed in frustration. He rubbed his forehead again, as if a headache blossomed behind his eye sockets. "It's fine. It's fine, Castalline. But it would have been dangerous if she saw you. I realize you are new here. But everything here, my servants, my staff members, including you, must remain secret. Hidden." He looked at her hawkishly. "I'll be killed, and you... all of you will be, too."

His reprimand made her tremble and turned her stomach sick with fear, and shame and tears gathered in her eyes. Inspiration was her power, but it was always tinged by her mood. Her passion made it most intense, her anger made it sharp and her sadness was a boggy mire of despair. She felt emotions far more strongly than the average person and now she even made crying into the most sublime of art forms. Mulecio had bid her be secret as well. His shame. His naughty little private pleasure. It didn't feel good then and it didn't feel good now. She turned her face away from him and said nothing.

Merris continued to nurse his head as Castalline turned away. He swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. After silence settled like falling dust between them, he exhaled again and spoke in a dull, lifeless voice. "Again, I apologize, Castalline. It isn't my intention to be unkind to you." He then reached a hand to gently touch her shoulder. "Truly, I have your best intentions at heart. Were anyone to find out about what happens in this manor, all of it would be burnt to the ground..." He lashed his tongue across his lip before he went on. "I implore you. You must understand. Now." He dropped to his feet and stood. "It is your first full day here, yes? Surely you must be hungry. We can... we can try to forget the unpleasantness of last night..." He trailed off, and for a brief moment, his words sounded sad and his mind seemed elsewhere. "There must be something I or my staff can do for you. Get for you. Make you feel more at home, comfortable, right? It isn't usual to have someone... like yourself. Among the living. To be here. With me."

Her eyes widened and she forgot herself, her station, her lot in life and was only terribly shocked. She looked up at him with eyes spilling over with tears. She was a colorless creature. All white and silver. Even her tears in the gray light of dawn looked like mercury down her porcelain cheeks. "It wasn't all unpleasant," she protested. She jerked reflexively away from his touch. His fingertips had brushed over the knotted, ugly scars on her back from where she'd lashed herself. Suddenly, she didn't want him seeing her imperfections. The horror of it all was settling over her now. He didn't care for her. He couldn't. Not while Shadowglade haunted his thoughts.

Merris' brows contorted again in confusion. He watched as beads of silver dropped down her rounded cheeks. "Castalline," he whispered as he stepped in front of her. He removed a red handkerchief from the pocket of his heavy silk housecoat. "Why are you crying?" he said in a soft, gentle way. He tipped her head up, forcing her to look at him as he mopped away her tears. "You're a gentle creature," he said after a moment of assessment. "If you'd like, I would be glad to give you an allowance. Spend it however you wish. In fact, I insist," he said as he stuffed away the hankie. "I shall have a carriage sent for you. I wish for you to spend the day as you see fit. Buy yourself a wardrobe. Please, anything, anything to make your stay here feel... warm and welcoming. I do not want you think that you are merely a servant or a guest. This is your home as much as it is mine." He canted his head, bird-like and sharp. "I can have you escorted as well. To be safe."

Could he not hear her? She didn't understand. She didn't want an allowance. At least, not at this moment. Her features crumpled in abject misery. Nuances were lost on her. She didn't even know how to be social. She only knew that she wanted. But just what she wanted from Merris Osterious was a mystery. "Did you hate it then?" she asked, her voice teetering on a sob. "What we did? Did you despise it? Are you sending me away?" Fear tore icy claws into her insides. She wilted and sagged, her shoulders stooping.

He swallowed and took a small step back, as if suddenly splashed with ice water. "I – oh." A look of realization suddenly sobered him. "Castalline," he uttered apologetically. He fell to his knees to become eye level with her. She sat on the bed and he knelt upon the icy wooden floor. "I'm not sending you away, and I didn't despise it. Of course not. Never. No." He leaned in to gently peck her forehead, an attempt to be tender and soothing. "Again, I apologize. Last night was..." He trailed off a moment as he slowly rose to his feet, his hand gliding against her cheek until it dripped away and fell back to his side. "It was a difficult night for me. I fear that I was not, exactly, in my right mind. Lillandyr was –" He broke off and rolled his shoulder uncomfortably. His eyes fell to the floor. "She broke my heart, Castalline. I, to be frank, do not recall much of last night. I rarely drink, and I am afraid I had too much." He looked at her pointedly, "I know what we did. And I'm... grateful for it. Your kindness. You. I merely hope that I did not hurt you in anyway. You are under my care. I'm afraid I have overstepped. It won't happen again, I assure you. And whatever I can do to make it up to you – I promise, I shall do it."

She didn't understand a word. If he didn't despise it, what they'd done, why was he not allowing it to happen again? What was she? She didn't want to be a Muse anymore. She didn't want to be stuck on a pedestal, not allowed to have her own thoughts and feelings. She didn't want to siphon brilliance into the heads of others only to be denied it herself.

Boldly, she touched his face with the pads of her slender, small fingers. "But Merris," she said, her tone sad and thin. "I..." Courage, she told herself. "I want it to happen again."

Once more, he looked befuddled and confused. "It shouldn't, Castalline," he whispered in reply. His face dropped down and looked at the darkly patterned carpet and cherry wood floors. "I just – shouldn't. It was wrong of me, Castalline. What I did to you. And, once again, I'm sorry. In a sense, I took advantage of you. I was angry. I was angry that she didn't, and will never, love me." He turned away and tangled his fingers behind his back. He strode into the center of the room and turned to face her. His face was suddenly cold, as if glazed over with a sheet of ice. There was fire smoldering in the black coals of his eyes. "You heard her yourself, didn't you?" His voice was like a whip cracking. "I repulse her, Castalline. But Lillandyr doesn't understand the extent to which I can be repulsive. I wish to create today. I feel... energized. Not with life, but with the dead. She will not love me, I know this. I am no man to her." He gestured with an elegant flourish of his hand, "No matter, no matter, Castalline. This doesn't concern you. I realize this. I should not have placed this burden on you. And I will not... Never mind all of this. I will be in my laboratory today. If you need anything, tell Lauris. And she will fetch me if I am needed."

His words, every last one of them, made her flinch. Shadowglade, Shadowglade, Shadowglade. She was the source of all his ills, and thus all of Castalline's. Every mention of her and his servant Lauris roiled a sick and obsessive hatred inside her. She sat and eyed his back for longer than she should have and it earned her a narrow look from Merris.

Castalline, blinking back angry, hurt tears, nodded and fled. While she dressed, alone because Lauris was in a closet, a geist, spindly with creaking joints, all stitched together like a doll with leather thread, gave her a purse full of gold coins.

"Taaaaake," it crooned, the voice sexless and pitiful, like a small, hissing child. "Take!" It held up the purse again.

The Muse looked down on the undead thing with disdain and fear, but eventually snatched the purse. It watched her with glittering, black eyes. The eyes of a snake. Shuddering, Castalline drew a cloak around her shoulders. With her back to the geist she said, "I can spend this money?"

The geist crooned and shuffled. "Yessss. Spend it how you like. The Master wishes it." It came closer, a leathery hand on the hem of her cloak. "So pretty," it said, looking up at her with those bottomless, unnatural eyes.

Swallowing back bitter revulsion, Castalline forced a tight smile and nodded. "Yes... thank you. Would you tell Master Osterious that I am going out? I wish to buy new clothes. Shoes." She waved a dismissive hand as she hooked the purse to her belt.

The undead, skittering creature basked in her radiance. Despite his – or her – state, the Muse's inspiration touched him. Perhaps less, but touched him all the same. His dry, brittle fingers touched her hand and her hip before she could move away. "The Master wants you to be... haaaappy. Very happy."

Castalline fled then. It was too much. She had been but a girl when the Unquenched were on opposite sides. When they weren't contained. She had seen what they had done to Belshalara. There would be no forgiveness from her. Let everyone else forget, she thought. And even though the geist wasn't an Unquenched, he may as well have been. That creature belonged in a tomb or on a pyre. Nowhere else.

She meandered aimlessly around the manor, brushing into rooms that were largely empty and dusty and cold. She touched things that didn't belong to her, like silver candlesticks. She peeked under drapes and tarps that covered the furniture. She thought only of how she could help Merris and herself. If only Lady Shadowglade was somehow out of his life.

A nasty, dark thought sank icy fingers into her brain. She could kill Lillandyr Shadowglade, couldn't she? But no, the Lady was far too protected, too guarded in her gilded tower. Lillandyr sat high atop the world, untouchable. Castalline frowned, listlessly leaning against an old apothecary's desk, trailing her fingers over the dusty bottles and vials.

Curious, she opened the secretary and found some bottles marked. Some were not. Most were empty and all of them were dusty. She plucked up one with a skull on the label. Draught of Bitter Widow Root. A poison she'd never heard of? She popped open the cork and gave it a sniff. Immediately, her lips went numb and she felt dizzy. Oh, but it was a very potent poison indeed.

She slipped it into her pocket. What for? She wasn't sure yet. Maybe the next time that dreadful Shadowglade woman came to his manor? She'd poison her tea! For now, Castalline opted to take a walk, to clear her head. She wanted to buy some clothes that weren't white. That weren't so childish and old-fashioned looking.

She left Merris' manor, fleeing into the cool night. She mused over how different the Flesh Quarter was from the Artisan Quarter. There were no open plazas with soft music and singing. There were no vendors selling grilled meats and cheeses. The streets were cobbled with native rock, bright pebbles, marble, and a mish-mash of whatever was available. The roads were uneven, like broken, jagged teeth.

Instead of painters calling down for models from balconies with billowing red silk curtains, there were whores dangling in large, open, shapeless windows. Most of them were nude or mostly nude. They all looked rough and tired. The lights spilling from these windows were red and orange and green. The whores called to men and women alike. And much to her surprise, several male prostitutes, painted and draped in thin silk just like their female counterparts, called to her. They called her lovely and swore to hold her gently and make her orgasm a hundred times.

With a flushed and burning face, Castalline ran. She left the rows and streets and alleys where the ungilded whores and pimps languished. She could almost smell the corruption and disease. The entire block had the stench of an overturned midden. Her eyes watered and her stomach went cold. There was no scent of fresh baked bread or newly arranged roses like in the temples of Eryss. It was all filth and damp rot.

Rats scurried along the alleyways, and children, grubby and filthy, chased them. For what purpose she could only guess, but judging by their sparse, thin frames, it was likely for dinner. It was clear to her now as she gazed at Lady Shadowglade's glittering spire. It was clear that the horrid woman must be taken from power. Merris could rule over the Flesh Quarter; he was much better suited and not nearly so corrupt, she told herself. Though really, she knew so little about him. She only knew that she'd liked their lovemaking and his softness. She liked his kisses and the way he spoke. She adored his patronage to her goddess. She admired how he responded to her company. Surely, all this meant he was a good man. An honorable, pious man who wanted the same things she did.

A world drenched and held by beauty and art. Not filth and debauchery. Really, she couldn't fathom what Lord Osterious saw in Lillandyr Shadowglade aside from her beauty. That, sadly, had not been exaggerated. The woman, for all her ills and wickedness, was lovely. Thinking this as she jogged over the jagged cobbled street only made her ache further with jealousy. She couldn't bear such thoughts without acting on them. She had to save Master Osterious from the vicious woman. She knew that once he got over her loss, he would need his heart mended. And she would be there, to tend to him. And he would see. See how gentle and good she was. And then? She'd have a home forever and would never be cast out into the streets again.

Wherever Castalline went, she created a flurry of activity around her. She hardly noticed this anymore, but when she'd first come into her "gift" she had been disturbed by it. When she was thirteen years old and had her first woman's blood, Eryss chose her. Some said it was for her sublime, soft beauty. Others said it was because she was such a gentle little soul, a bright light in a dark world. Whatever the reason, she had affected her parents first.

They had left her, bewildered. Her mother to start a painting career and her father to see the open ocean on a sailing ship. She never saw either of her parents again. She went to the Temple of Artifice in the center of the Artisan Quarter and prayed to the patron goddess. And all around her, people fled to do whatever popped into their heads.

A Muse was not for the regular populace, no. She was meant for artists and writers and musicians. In more troubled times, a Muse was inspiration to a tactician or general. A country rife with Muses won wars.

Now, whores were inspired to wear new frills and pimps were inspired to brutalize their girls in new and exciting ways. People fled from her, as they had since she'd been thirteen. Castalline Liera'thel was the loneliest girl in all the world. Before Mulecio, however, she hadn't noticed how much she was missing out on. But after knowing love and pleasure, she could hardly do without it.

The city-state of Belshalara was a huge wheel. Each Quarter was a triangular slice of territory ruled over by the noble caste. The Marquis. The Flesh Quarter was no different and at its widest part was where Lord Osterious dwelt. It was not the nicest part of the Quarter, nor was it the worst. As Castalline journeyed on, the roads narrowed to a single point. The glittering tower of Lady Shadowglade. Not far from the tower was the infamous Gilded Lily. It was a lovely red and gold building with spinnerets set with billowing silk flags. They all held the Lady's sigil, the leafless tree with gnarled branches. Black on a field of lurid crimson.

So Castalline would strike here, at the heart of the Serpent. The Gilded Lily was one of six lavish whorehouses Shadowglade had built to serve the Flesh Quarter proper and lovely courtesans. Not the typical streetwalker, oh no. And when the women lost their youth and thus their usefulness, she sacrificed them in the Flesh Pits of Baellith. She drove in the dagger herself.

It made Castalline sick. The worship of Baellith, she thought, should be as forbidden as the worship of Venorith and Nehmain. He was a wicked, evil god. And she would strike at him too!

But how? How could she do this?

It wasn't a long way back to the pointed center of the Quarter, not with her fleeing as though fire lapped at her heels. No one paid any mind to her that she noticed and the hour was growing late. Fishing in her pockets, Castalline breathlessly withdrew the vial of poison. At least, she thought it was poison.

The back of the Gilded Lily was not guarded. There was no need. All the back contained was a big brass drum that held the heated bath water for the brothel. Like the Temple of Artifice, the heated water also ran through the walls to heat the rooms and it was what steamed the baths. Castalline was certain that if she dumped the contents of the vials into the brass drum, the entire brothel would be overcome just long enough.

After making her way around the back, she stood there with a furrowed brow. There were some stacked wooden crates, but she couldn't quite reach. She lingered a long time, poison in her palm, wondering how to get up that high.

"Hey," came a gruff voice.

Castalline turned, eyes wide. There, behind her at a few paces, was a rough, dirty man. He was tall, shoulders stooped. He looked like a laborer, maybe even a man who worked in the Emerald Mines. His arms were bare and corded with thick muscle. A spider tattoo dotted his thick left hand.

"What're you doin' here, girly?" he asked her, sneering.

She wasn't supposed to use her power, the power of a muse, for anything other than to inspire art. And though she was inexperienced with the world, that black, baleful look the man gave her turned her stomach to water and made her tremble. Castalline flicked her tongue over her lip and let her inspiration fill his head.

Without another word, the man gave her a lopsided smile and scooped her up, helping her stand on the crates so she could reach the inside of the big copper drum.

There were valves and knobs, and she struggled with these for the better part of an hour. She yanked and twisted until sweat rolled into her eyes and her muscles cried out from the strain. But finally, she managed to yank a big valve off and see into the steaming depths of the drum. With trembling fingers, she yanked off the corks and dumped the contents of the vials into the water below.

She waited in the dark, panting, slinking around the building to the front. Nothing happened, at least, nothing visibly discernible and after another stretch of time that dragged by painfully slowly, Castalline finally worked up the courage to enter the Lily. She used her collar to work as a mask, and she held her breath, lace and linen covering her mouth and nose. The guards were asleep or dead, dead judging by the purple color of their faces and the froth at their mouths. She felt a pang of pity before she stepped over them. Her blood rushed and roared in her ears and she wanted to breathe... but she knew she would end up just like the guards unless she held her breath.

It didn't take her long to see what she needed.

An oil lamp burned on an ebony wood table, casting cheery, buttery light on the corpse of a woman slumped in the overstuffed chair beside it. Castalline hefted it and slung the lamp at a wall that also held floor to ceiling velvet curtains.

It shattered upon impact and the flames roared over the oil and fabric. Black, ugly, billowing smoke flowed and quickly filled the room and stung her eyes. One more, she thought. She found another lamp and slung this one at the opposite wall. Soon, the entire drawing room was engulfed.

The heat was staggering and the smoke was blinding. For a brief, terrifying moment, Castalline was disoriented, and she feared she was lost. She feared she would burn with the poisoned harlots, but no, she saw the smoke move over the ceiling, sucked out the opened heavy doors. She fled and tripped over the bodies of the guards, spilling and falling into the street.

She tore her dress and scuffed her hands raw, but she could breathe again. She rolled onto her back, gulping air, panting. Castalline looked at her handiwork. The Gilded Lily burned bright like a torch in the darkness of the Flesh Quarter. Screams sounded from the upper floors and someone broke out a window, the glass falling and tinkling to the street. A woman with golden hair shrieked and cried and waved her hands as tears from the smoke streaked down her face.

Guilt nearly overcame Castalline, but she remembered that these were all whores. Women who sold themselves. It was good that she had done this. It would hurt the vicious Shadowglade and purge the world of the unclean.

People were pouring out of their houses and hovels. They crowded the streets, their faces all horrified and frightened. Castalline scrambled to her feet and ran, dirty and aching and smelling of acrid smoke and the sickly sweet smell of open sewage from the Hidden Quarter. The moon was high in the sky by the time she found her way to Lord Osterious' manor. The ghouls let her in and she staggered to her room, barely able to carry her aching, bruised body up the stairs. She even let the geist from earlier help her undress. His hands were dry and smooth and he cooed sympathetically at her.

From the tall window in her room she could see the orange and red glow of the fire she'd started stain the night sky over the pointed, jagged roofs of the buildings beyond, leading towards the center of the Quarter.

Naked and exhausted, she lay on her bed and watched it spread, this glow, her glow, until, exhausted and satisfied, sleep claimed her.