Author's Note: Hi readers! I'm going to be talking with some other authors (real authors!) about romance in science fiction and fantasy here at the Superversive Roundtable, at http://superversivesf.com/2017/02/07/superversive-sf-feb-livestream-romance-sf-f/ at 3 PM Eastern Standard Time, so tune in if you want to hear me. Warning, though. The Superversive Roundtables of the past have had some politics in them. Just letting you know, if that's not your cup of tea. Anyways, onward with the chapter.
***
Abandon hope, ye who delve in the depths of the soul,
For the silent and foulest beasts dwell within,
The demons that we struggle to rise above.
-Inscription on the gate of the Bastille de Somne Aeternite
***
The first thing Colette felt was something hot and wet on her head.
Instinctively she tried to shield herself from the liquid dripping down from above. Ever since she had been imprisoned in the oubliette, the guards had taken immense delight in tormenting her. Sometimes they spat on her. Other times it was rank wine poured out over her. It differed depending on her guards.
But as she inspected her hands and stared at the red, sticky droplets staining her skin, she never remembered them using blood.
She looked up to see the face of one of the guards, frozen in horror, staring emptily down at her. He lay on the grate above, the iron lattice at the mouth of the oubliette that prevented her from climbing out, even if she was able to find a steady foothold against the worn-smooth cobblestones that made up the cylindrical walls of her prison.
The blood came from several messy puncture wounds. Colette could see the ceiling, illuminated by flickering lantern light, through the jagged holes somehow punched through his bone, sinew, muscle, skin, and the steel cuirass.
And just like that, the guard was yanked back, out of sight.
Something interest was happening. Colette had spent too long trapped in this pit, buried in the depths of this Bastille. Finally, something was happening.
There was a crash and a muffled scream, before more red coursed down the side of the oubliette. Colette was no stranger to blood; her study of philosophy required her to spill blood herself. Hopefully, whoever was busy slaughtering the guards would free her.
Maybe they'd kill her. If so, she'd be free and see the great abyss beyond death. Maybe the superstitious fools were right, and she'd stare in the face of God. But that was unlikely.
She stared up at the grate, frowning as something black and viscous, like tar, oozed around the edges of the oubliette. It pulsed, the metal groaned, and the thing ripped the grate off.
"Colette de Voileaux," a voice called, smooth as satin. "Your sentence has been overturned."
Colette stared up at the edge. "Who are you?"
"All will be revealed in a moment. It seems like there is more reinforcements on their way. Aracedia, Yazhara, please entertain the new guests. de Voileaux and I are to have a conversation." Aracedia? Yazhara? Those were the names of two of the Eight, names of boogeymen, demons to the unwashed superstitious masses.
Madmen. She was being rescued by a group of madmen. Or madwomen.
"If you wish to have a conversation, you'll either have to come down here," Colette called up, voice hoarse from lack of use, "or you'll have to lower a rope." It was doubtful she was able to hold on to a rope. She was weak, weak from the meager rations the guards threw down at her.
"Very well." Something shiny and black, like tar, crawled its way down the side of the oubliette. "Grab on. I shall lift you up," that voice, sweet honey in the timbres of her words, said.
Colette, with bony hands shaking from weakness, grabbed on.
All the pain went away, and in its place, a rapturous euphoria filled her flesh, the pleasure of a thousand delights. The delight of sumptuous food, soft silk, the warmth of a fire, the passion of a man, all these things paled in comparison to the ecstasy that overwhelmed her. For once, Colette's mind quieted, numbed by the sheer pleasure. She knew nothing else.
And then it was ripped from her, leaving her in her rags, on the cold stone, breathing rank air. She curled up, shivering. The world seemed harsh to her senses.
After some time had past -for all Colette knew, it could have been a minte, a day, a year- she rose, unsteady, to face her liberator.
She stared into the eyes of a woman. A ravishingly beautiful woman, slender of limb, wearing an outfit which seemed the opposite of modesty. It looked as if it was made out of a black silk so lustrous and smooth it seemed like liquid, and it clung to the woman's frame like a second skin.
"Who are you?" Colette asked.
"Does it matter?" the woman asked. She loaded over to the table the guards had been using, and grabbed the bottle of wine off it.
"You defeated trained soldiers, and judging by your appearance, you are no warrior," Colette said. "So again I ask, who are you?"
"A myth," the woman said. "A demon, a monster, a deified immortal. Call me Ishta'ana."
Colette frowned. "She is, as you said, a myth. Are you attempting to impersonate her, channel the aspects that she represents? Or do you believe you are her?" Colette frowned.
"A demonstration might assist your belief." Ishta'ana snapped her fingers, and her flesh began to change. First it darkened, becoming like tar, soft and shapeless. It warped and twisted, as if it were clay sculpted by unseen hands, before setting itself. Slowly, color bloomed on its surface as the viscous liquid became flesh.
Instead of a woman, Colette found herself staring at a man, bare chested, nut brown skin covered in muscle, a handsome face, dark eyes studying her. Feelings arose in Colette, desires to grab the man and-
No. She couldn't get distracted by carnal pleasures when she could be free. "I suppose that could be a glamour or some other form of magical verisimilitude," Colette said with a skeptical air.
"Does your skepticism know no bounds?" Ishta'ana asked. She softened and blackened, turning into a voluptuous woman again, only this time, a Tethyd, complete with a tail and large fins. "You are seeking to justify your philosophy instead of seeking what our truth can offer you."
"And what can 'your truth' offer me?" Colette asked.
"To put it simply," Ishta'ana said, morphing back into the first guise she wore, "eternal life. Limitless power."
"You seek to give me something unattainable," Colette said. "Do you judge me a simpleton?" she asked.
Ishta'ana was about to answer before a spearhead erupted from her chest. "Stand against the wall," the guard behind wide-eyed Ishta'ana said, "else you suffer the same fate!"
"Such rudeness!" Ishta'ana turned, still impaled by the spear. "You dare try to harm me?" Her voice was low, dangerous, threatening. "I will not suffer insult!"
Her hand shot out, softening, changing, hardening. The guard tried to back away before a black spear pierced his breastplate and tore a jagged hole where his heart and lungs had been. So. That had been how the first guard had died.
Ishta'ana stared down at the pike that had run her through. "Well, that was an inconvenience." She grabbed the shaft and drew it out of her chest, before curling up her hand into a fist. The strong wood splintered. "The nerve of some people."
"So mortal wounds are mere inconveniences to you, Ishta'ana?" Colette asked.
"Aha! I have won you over!" Ishta'ana smiled. "What convinced you?"
You got stabbed right in front of me, which should have shattered any magician's concentration. Yet I didn't feel any blood on me. I doubt you would have hidden it, or could have if you wanted to, even if you could survive such a blow."
"Ah. Impalement. Not the most pleasurable of arguments, but certainly convincing." Ishta'ana stared at Colette. "Look at you. You're in such a sorry state." She frowned. "Soon, you shall be clad in the most beautiful of garments, but first, we must find another friend of mine. He must be freed as well."
"Will this friend need convincing as well?" Colette asked.
"Doubtful. He knew me intimately both before and after my ascension into the expanse of eternity." With that, she marched through the door into a chamber full of blood and carnage.
A Calixa woman, garbed in something that barely covered her bosom and hips and exposed her midriff, stood over a man. Light drifted up from him, like luminous incense smoke, before vanishing into her hand. The man gave a weak groan, as if his very strength had been drained from his lips, before his face collapsed into a pile of ash.
Next to here were a dozen bodies, mangled into a bloody mess. Over one a Vesperati hunched, and Colette thought she could hear the wet tearing sound of teeth ripping flesh. She was aware of them drinking blood, but she was sure they didn't partake of the flesh.
So it was true. The Vesperati hunched over was Yazhara the Glutton. And that made the Calixa Aracedia the Slothful. This was getting more and more surreal.
"Yazhara. It is time to go." The Vesperati rose, and Colette blinked. For one thing, she expected Yazhara to be corpulent. After all, she was called the Glutton for a reason. She wasn't. She was rail-thin, with no emphasis on her bosom or hips, a body type seen in starving women. Her arms were bare, and Colette could see her fur stretched tight over stringy muscle.
She was also tall, almost as tall as Colette. If she was normally-sized, she would barely come up to the noblewoman's chin, yet she could look Colette in the eye. "She is a candidate?"
"Yes," Ishta'ana said. "I'm keeping tabs on a few others, such as my friend below, but she is a good candidate."
"And how do you know he hasn't turned against us?" Aracedia asked.
"It doesn't matter," Ishta'ana said. "If he had turned against us, he must die. If not, he must join us." She began to move again. "Prepare to execute him if he is uncooperative or resistant to us."
They marched through dark stone hallways in the mazelike Bastille, before reaching a large, wrought-iron door. "Here we are," Ishta'ana said, rapping the door with her knuckles. "This is the first gate to my friend."
"How many gates are there?" Colette asked.
"Five. Maybe seven. They like to add some every two centuries or so," Ishta'ana said.
"I am not a warrior. I will not be able to conquer the guards," Colette said.
"You are surrounded by three immortals. We have toppled kingdoms. You shall not fear for your life." Ishta'ana said. She turned to the door. "Prepare yourself."
Her arms transformed into dark sludge again, wrapping around the edges of the door the same way it did with the grate. Colette stepped back.
The metal buckled, warped, but the doors didn't fall. "Yazhara," Ishta'ana said, before gesturing to the door. Yazhara strolled over to it, rolled her head, and raised her palms so they faced the door.
She gave a sharp shout, and her palms shot out. The doors flew backwards, flying through the air as if they were made of paper and not entirely forged of metal.
A long bridge stretched before them, illuminated by waning moonlight. Dark brine rippled far below, the moonlight reflecting off the black water, making it appear almost like liquid glass, save for the white foam where the sea crashed against the weathered stone.
Ahead of them was a tower, and ahead of that was another, and another, and another, all connected by bridges of various heights. At the very end, far out in the sea, a different tower stood. Instead of the blocky, square Leyons-style architecture that the majority of the Bastille resembled, this was round, decorated with elegant carvings of trees and other scenes of nature, worked in such a scale to baffle the mind.
Colette backed behind the Calixa as guards, in their rounded helmets that shone dully in the moonlight, charged forth, pikes stretched out. Aracedia stepped forward, and Colette stared as the flesh of her back -the skin of which resembled smooth bark of a tree- began to bubble and warp. Tendrils burst from it, damp with blood, a mess of veins and tooth-like spines, as if some unholy abomination's bowels had become their own creature.
These tendrils, two of them, stretched out, fifty feet in length each, like tentacles from Aracedia's back. "I really don't feel like a fight," she said, her voice seeming tired.
The tendrils reared back like cobras about to strike, but instead of darting out with the viper's ferocity, they simply swept aside the soldiers. They screamed all the way down until, with a splash, the dark sea swallowed their cries.
An arrow whizzed past Aracedia's head, before Yazhara's hand moved so fast it was a blur. Now, they stared at the arrow, Yazhara's fist crushing the shaft. "The archers!" Ishta'ana said.
"They're mine. I'm hungry." Yazhara stretched her arms, and wings unfolded. She threw herself into the air, and her dark fur made her vanish into the night. The other three women, meanwhile, took shelter behind a fallen slab. Arrows skidded off the top, a constant hail of death.
And then, like that, it was over.
Colette looked up to see Yazhara walking back, her garment soaked in blood. "The first gate is down, and I sense no other humans nor Vesperati, nor anything living beyond."
"It's abandoned?" Colette asked. "Or do you suspect mechanical traps?"
"Traps, most definitely," Ishta'ana said. "I imagine some conjurations exist within the walls. Spirits, wards, and other things that seek to end our lives."
"Let's not keep them waiting, then," Yazhara said.
They advanced across the bridge, and Colette could smell the sea below her, hear it's waves crash against the side of the fort. They were very high up, and striking the merciless water would most certainly shatter bone, if not kill her outright. Worse, there were rocks below, like jagged sawteeth, hiding just out of view, ready to disembowel any vessel that dared to approach the Bastille.
The guards had regaled Colette de Voileaux with tales of a pirate captain who owned a fleet of a hundred galleons. He had promised the guards his men would come back for him, and that they would assault the Bastille and raze it with cannon fire. The guards decided to hang him in a cage, letting him watch as his ships began to sink before even reaching the Bastille.
They reached the door of the second cubic tower. Yazhara knocked, and, surprisingly, it opened. "I guess they were confident enough in their guards that they never thought to lock the door," she said, stepping inside.
Immediately, a large, pitted, rusted blade fell, and it was only Yazhara's quick reflexes that saved her. She clapped her hands on it, holding the metal weapon up with her palms. "I speak too soon," she said.
Colette stared at the cramped corridor. What other forms of death were concealed within?
***
It turned out there were fifty-three different types of traps.
They had evaded all but two. Ishta'ana had been sliced apart by thin wires that acted like blades. She had only been trifled for a moment, as her body softened and rejoined. Another trap had struck Ishta'ana, a pair of darts that doubtless had been envenomed. That didn't seem to affect her.
They had moved through the third tower, which had been filled with what looked like rusted statues, blocky and crudely fashioned. Yazhara and Aracedia had smashed them, and Colette swore that some of the shards had moved of their own accord.
They had gone through the fourth tower. There, the four of them had found an orb, made of some rough black stone. The second they had stepped near it, it had erupted into flame and rose from its pedestal, before Ishta'ana's hand speared it through.
Now, as they stood before the door of the fifth tower, Colette gulped. She had kept her distance, lagging behind to avoid the danger. The peril within hadn't excited or scared her, just registered as a fact without any emotion.
But there was something about these doors that scared her, for once in her life.
Ishta'ana slammed her hands into it, and the door crumpled. "One last trial." She stepped in, Yazhara after her, and Aracedia after her. Colette followed, stepping into the building.
There was nothing in the chamber, nothing but a rusted sword shoved into the stone. "What is that?" Colette asked.
"A Blasphemer's Blade," Yazhara whispered. "Our predecessors. Those who pushed the boundaries of magic, but were captured and cursed, bound to their blades." She backed up. "Be careful. If we awaken it, we'll have to-"
The blade suddenly ignited with a ghostly purple flame. "It's awakened!" Ishta'ana shouted.
The blade flew into the air, and Colette stared at the faint image, a ghost, that wielded it. She gasped. He was covered in red scales, glowing like chips of glass. He was heavily muscled, clad only in a loincloth, with spiraling ram horns. He was a Dragonblessed, like the Ranger that had locked her up. "Can we slay it?" The bearer was quickly fading into solidity.
"Leave me with it," Ishta'ana said. "I can slay him. Take her and go to the next tower!" Yazhara grabbed her, pulling her along. Colette turned back as they rushed out of the exit of the tower. Ishta'ana walked towards the red Dragonbdlessed warrior, and her garment slipped down off her, exposing too-perfect flesh. The Dragonblessed straightened, before his free hand caressed the curvature of her body. Was she seducing him? Colette didn't see anything more, as they rushed out of the tower, towards the elegant tower.
A few minutes later, Ishta'ana emerged, clad in a dark robe. "That blade is broken," she said. "He was a... fun diversion, but no longer." She strode to the tower. "But now... we meet another of my former lovers. And unlike the specimen back there..." she said, "this one survived my pleasure."
So she did seduce him. That did align with the myths, where she acted as a succubus, draining life by engaging in carnal relations. "Well, let's not wait then," Aracedia said. She approached the door. "It's Sidhe-make. How do you open them?" She stared at the solid slab of gold.
"Like such," Ishta'ana said. She placed her hand on the metal.
Light grew from it, creeping from her hand in intricate designs of leaves and thorns. They expanded, glowing green and blue. "Now, we align the door." Align it?
She turned her hand, and the design moved with it, twisting. They were gears, decorative gears made of light and designs of vegetation. Thorns rotated out of view, flowers bloomed in light, as Ishta'ana made several other motions, before the designs snapped in place, glowing blue. "That's a fancy lock," Aracedia said. "I want one for my chambers."
"If we sway this man," Ishta'ana said, "I'm sure you and he can come to an agreeable conclusion." The door began to shudder, before falling down into a slot below. Colette studied the doorframe. Strange. There seemed to be no artifice or machine that lowered the door, no elaborate pulleys or such devices. "Now, we descend."
"Descend?" Colette asked. "On what?" The room inside was vast, ornate with several trees sculpted out of shining gold. Their leaves seemed to be chips of green glass, but no glass Colette knew glowed with the soft light these did. The craftsmanship of the Sidhe, the Fair Folk, was something quite interesting to see, almost enough to convince Colette that beauty wasn't a made-up concept forced on the enlightened by the soft and weak.
"On this," Ishta'ana said. She bent down, placing her hand on the ground again. Immediately, it lit up again, blue designs casting their light up, mixing with the faint green of the tree-glass. The designs led to a giant circular icon in the center, an eight-pointed star encircled, the tips of the star touching the boundary circle. Within, different designs portrayed scenes of nature. A vast mountain. A fiery volcano. An ocean. A castle. A forest. The starry sky. Windswept hills. Finally, a great chasm. "Step within," Ishta'ana ordered. "The Queens of Fae decreed that this man be buried, and this is our only avenue to him."
Colette stepped on, Yazhara following her. Aracedia was sitting, while Ishta'ana held her hands over the center, palms facing downward. "Let us descend, then," Colette said.
The circle twisted, and slowly, smoother than silk, it began to descend. Colette peered over the edge. There was nothing holding it up, no cable, no device. Magic, it seemed, was the only explanation. Then again, they were dealing with fae-craft. That would be the norm.
The circle kept descending. The twisting branches curling around the tower transformed into towers and brickwork as they descended, before the brickwork became a rough-hewn surface, where the stone had been hacked away. In some places, the shaft was too wide for the light on the disk to illuminate the sides, making it as if they were trapped in a void.
Down, down, down they went, before the disk they stood upon slowed, then halted, fitting in neatly with a circular band of bronze in the rough floor. Before them stretched a long tunnel, lit occasionally with more of that luminous glass. "Now," Ishta'ana said, "we'll pay him a visit."
It was a ten minute walk to the door, and unlike the great Sidhe works before, full of arcane mystery, it was an ordinary door. Granted, it looked like it was made out of pure bronze, but there was no magical glyphs, merely a door with a barred window.
It took one swipe of Ishta'ana's arm to send it flying off it's hinges. She strode into the room, confident, arms glistening black, though retaining their shape. "Hail, Cerenainn," she said. "We have come to free you." She walked towards a dark, indistinct shape.
"Begone." The man's voice was the voice of a weary man, one whose weariness had endured for centuries, if not millennia. "I want no part in your schemes, temptress."
"Now, that's not a way to treat an old lover," Ishta'ana said. "Maybe we could renew the flames of our passion again."
"The years I spent in your embrace I count as wasted, as cursed." The figure rose. He was tall, seven feet tall. "Begone. Leave me here."
"I offer you freedom," Ishta'ana said. "And you spurn me?"
"I spurned you before, I spurn you now, and I will spurn you a thousandfold in the years to come. Begone!"
Ishta'ana turned away. "Fine." She began to walk back, but Colette saw a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
She whirled around, her arm lengthening, becoming a whip. The figure ducked it, and for the first time, Colette saw what he looked like.
He was covered in metal, in an ugly mask that covered half his face, exposing his mouth, but covering his eyes. The gauntlets on his arms and greaves on his legs were joined to their twin by chains, permanent shackles. Yet despite this impediment, he could move perfectly well.
He lashed out at Ishta'ana, having closed the distance with one leap. She ducked, warping around him, a mass of liquid. Suddenly, she wasn't the slender woman, but now wore the guise of the Dragonblessed she had seduced. "You have lain with my cursed guardian?" Cerenainn spat. "Have you no shame?"
They wrestled. Light glinted off of Cerenainn's shackling armor, off of Ishta'ana's rippling muscle. Despite his imprisonment, Cerenainn was strong, just as strong as the Dragonblessed, it seemed, and he was able to hold his own against Ishta'ana's new body.
"You will not have me?" Ishta'ana's voice, now a deep man's growl, asked. "Very well. You've made your choice!" The immortal threw Cerenainn aside, before leaping atop him. Ishta'ana's meaty arm wrapped around Cerenainn's neck, and with a violent twist, finished him.
Ishta'ana rose, and in a moment, melted back into the slender woman she seemed to prefer. "It is unfortunate," she said, "that he had to be so uncooperative."
Yazhara straightened. "There are guards assembling above."
They hurried back to their lift, and Ishta'ana made it rise again. Without a sound, it floated up, showing no strain as it bore the weight of four.
Halfway up, there was a boom, the sound echoing down the shaft. "You think they collapsed the bridge?" Colette asked. "They'd just leave us to starve."
"That's cute," Ishta'ana said. "Notice Yazhara has wings. You've seen Aracedia's Sunscourges, but she has learned the other arts and can grow wings. And you've seen how malleable my body is. We will be leaving soon, regardless of if they destroyed the bridge or not."
The circle rose, and they stepped off, into the same room as before. Colette saw out the door, staring at the blackened and crumbling remains of the bridge. They had used some blasting reagent, like dragonsbreath powder, to blow the stones away.
Yazhara shrugged, unfurling her wings. "I will see you later," she said. Aracedia stretched, and a vein-choked membrane spread from her back.
Ishta'ana put her hand on Colette's back. "It is time to be free," she said. Black, ropy lines of the same liquid Ishta'ana was composed of erupted from her back, slowly weaving itself into a pair of wings. "We must depart," she said. "Come closer to me."
Colette gasped as the black liquid flowed around her, pure rapture suffusing her bones, her very soul. Dimly, she felt Ishta'ana spread her wings and take flight.
Immortality awaited her.