The Goddess of the Underworld: The Chronicles of Arianthem VIII Read online

  “Where is my armor?”

  “It has been destroyed.”

  Feray made a motion with her hand, ignoring Raine’s clenched jaw. Several of Hel’s handmaidens appeared, bearing beautiful Arlanian clothing.

  “And if I choose not to wear this?”

  “There is no choice. The Goddess commands it.” Feray paused, then added, “Although, I’m sure she would allow you to go naked.”

  Feray’s tone was impassive but the sarcasm was evident, and the handmaidens bearing the clothing made it clear what their choice would be. Raine put out her hand to take the clothes.

  “I can dress myself.”

  “You will not,” Feray said in the same imperative tone. It was not open for discussion.

  “Fine,” Raine said, holding out her arms and allowing the women to dress her. Feray watched the process with a jaded eye. The hands of the servants lingered inappropriately, taking liberties which would get them killed sooner or later. The Arlanian, however, did not respond, simply stared at the wall in resigned silence. This fact pleased Feray, for it seemed the Arlanian’s weakness was only for the Goddess. Her eyes remained ice-blue the entire time she was fondled by the voluptuous women hanging off her.

  “Enough,” Feray said, stopping the endless adjustment to the clothing which fit the Arlanian perfectly. She dismissed the handmaidens.

  Raine stared down at the clothes, trying not to despise them. She had always worn the raiment of her mother’s people in celebration. Now the clothes seemed to weigh as heavily on her as those massive curtains.

  “What is beyond there?” Raine asked, nodding at a second balcony on the opposite side of the room as the first.

  “You may go look.”

  Raine exited onto the balcony gingerly, lest she was walking into another throne room. But this balcony led to a vast space, one so vast it gave the impression of outdoors much like the dim light gave the impression of day. It was a garden, filled with darkly beautiful plants and trees. Fireflies and glowing moths flitted to-and-fro from strange, lovely flowers. Small animals grazed in the dark grass, their fluorescent markings magical in the picturesque gloom.

  “This is Hel’s private garden. It is forbidden to almost all.”

  “And me?” Raine asked.

  “You are permitted.”

  Raine was certain she would pay for whatever privileges were afforded her so she might as well take advantage of them. She walked down the marble staircase to the grounds below.

  It truly was an extraordinary garden. There were some flowers she recognized, nightshade, jasmine, evening primrose, and many others she did not. The air was heavy with the scent of the blossoms. Nightingales sang prettily to one another, perched upon the dark moss on the trees, and Raine thought she heard a reed warbler. Feray walked a short distance behind her.

  “What is out there?” Raine asked. There was an abrupt drop-off of the garden into total darkness, a demarcation so evident it might as well have been a wall.

  “Nothing,” Feray said, and Raine cocked her head at her sideways. It was not an evasion, but rather a statement of fact.

  “When I say nothing,” Feray continued, “I mean nothingness, an emptiness so total that even the gods avoid it.”

  “Has anyone ever gone in there?” Raine asked curiously.

  “Some have wandered away never to return. Those few beings strong enough to withstand the void all went mad. One of Hel’s most trusted advisors returned from that darkness and now lies chained to a pillar, little more than a raving lunatic.”

  “Hmm,” Raine said, then continued on with her exploration. At the far end of the garden she could see a tree, a hideous, twisted monstrosity that for some reason compelled her approach. Despite the forbidding appearance, her footsteps gave in to the compulsion and she was drawn toward the tree.

  She stood before it and it glowed with a low amber light, emitting a humming sound. There was a gash in the bark that dripped a dark yellow sap, and Raine, fascinated, leaned forward to touch her finger to it.

  “It’s beautiful, is it not?”

  Raine jumped, startled and blew out a breath of cold air. The Goddess was right behind her. She withdrew her hand.

  “Yes,” Raine said stiffly, “it is surprisingly lovely.”

  The admission pleased Hel, and she took it as perhaps a mandate on other things. Raine, who was involuntarily honest, perhaps meant it that way as well.

  “It is the Tree of Death,” Hel explained, plucking a leaf from a branch, “the twin of the Tree of Life which grows in the garden of Iðavöllr. It was grown by my head gardener, who walks this way.”

  Raine turned her attention to the strange being coming towards them, a man much like the spirit beings she had seen in Hel’s court. He was nearly transparent, shimmering and shifting in the dim light, and Raine could see the flowers behind him by looking right through him. He muttered to himself, either unconcerned or oblivious to them, and Raine braced herself because he was going to walk right into her.

  Instead, he passed right through her. She turned, astonished, as he continued on unimpeded.

  “He walks in the realm of the dead,” Hel said, “and although you can see and hear him, he cannot see or hear you. He is barely aware, even of me, unless I enter that realm.”

  “How did he wind up here?” Raine asked, wholly forgetting she was speaking to her mortal enemy.

  “The dead are distributed according to their lives. The good go to Iðavöllr, the valiant go to the Holy Mountain, all others come to me.”

  “So he was evil?”

  “Worse,” Hel said, “he was mediocre. I judge them the harshest.”

  “So the creatures in your court, not all of them are dead?”

  “Most of them are not dead. The spirits you saw, like him, are dead, moving about in their parallel realm. But my court is made up of demons, demi-gods, an entire pantheon of those who would court my favor.”

  “And your handmaidens?”

  “Flesh and blood. My personal creations,” Hel said, “like the Hyr’rok’kin.”

  The mention of the Hyr’rok’kin silenced Raine and she silently chewed her lip, the unconscious act so sensual the Goddess thought about taking her beneath the tree.

  “Wait a minute,” Raine said, turning back to look at the gardener who was floating ephemerally across the flower beds. “He passed right through me.”

  “Yes,” Hel said, as if that were obvious.

  Raine looked down at her hands, turning them over. “I’m not dead,” she said slowly, “I’m not dead.”

  “Of course you’re not dead.”

  Raine still stared at her hands as if they were new and wondrous appendages. “But why am I not dead?”

  “Do you want me to kill you?” Hel asked.

  “No,” Raine said quickly. “No, it’s not that. But why? Why didn’t you kill me?”

  The green eyes glowed. “A simple answer. There was no need. You entered Nifelheim of your own free will; death was unnecessary.”

  “And what is the more complicated answer?”

  “Because I don’t want you dead,” Hel said. “The dead are subjugated to my will. You would slowly lose all independence and become little more than a thrall to me. And that is not what I want from you.”

  Raine suddenly understood the fate that had been handed to her, but Hel made it explicit.

  “I enjoy your struggle. Subjugating a thrall is nothing, but subjugating you is divine.”

  It was a devastating pronouncement. Still, it seemed there was something Hel was withholding, as if she were debating saying more, but decided against it. And the pronouncement did not bother Raine nearly as much as it should have, rather she stood silently mulling the revelation. She did not resist when the Goddess motioned for her to accompany her, rather fell in beside her, intensely preocc
upied.

  The preoccupation annoyed Hel. She would rather face the Arlanian’s fury than her disinterest. And the fact that Raine’s eyes were violet and that Hel was likely not the cause stoked her anger. Both Faen and Feray observed the entrance of the Goddess with great misgiving. Faen was infuriated because the mortal walked at the side of the Goddess as an equal rather than behind her as she should. Feray, on the other hand, was dismayed by the unconscious disregard of the mortal; Hel had killed for far less. She stepped forward.

  “Your Majesty, we have readied your bath.”

  All of the attention of her voluptuous attendants meant nothing to Hel at the moment, but that was not Feray’s intent. She knew of the Arlanian’s weakness for the Goddess and would exploit it. As the robes of the Goddess came off, the eyes of the Arlanian flicked upward, settling with involuntary intensity upon the curves of the sensual Queen. And as Hel settled into the bath, the water not quite covering her large, beautiful breasts, Feray breathed an inward sigh of relief, for the Arlanian’s renewed attention instantly altered the mood of her Mistress.

  Raine wanted to look away, but the ministrations of the hands of the attendants as they stroked and caressed that pale skin were mesmerizing. Fingers dipped beneath the water to stroke, lips feathered a kiss on that long neck, a mouth settled on one breast, and the emerald eyes of the Goddess were focused only on Raine. Raine could feel her heart pound in her chest, for she was more afraid of the desire that Hel inspired in her than any pain she might inflict. And Hel knew this, a slow smile curving about her face as she relished her captive’s distress.

  “Come here.”

  Raine could not move. She wanted to flee, to run into the garden, past the demarcation that led into oblivion, into the darkness from which she would never return. But she could not budge, uncertain if Hel was restraining her or if she had simply frozen. Normally, such resistance would have infuriated the Goddess, but Hel was only amused by the Arlanian’s continued struggle, perhaps because it was so futile.

  Feray approached Raine, taking the arm of the benumbed woman and gently leading her to the edge of the bath. Two attendants flowed upward from the water and skillfully removed Raine’s clothing while Raine’s eyes were imprisoned by those of the Goddess. And the Goddess released that gaze only to look at the beauty of that magnificent body. She had seen the Arlanian prone, she had seen her face-down in the bed in front of her, but she had not seen her standing upright in all her glory. The muscled splendor of that physique was jaw-dropping, and the hands of her attendants slowed, then stopped as they, too, stared in wonder and lust.

  “Leave us.”

  The command of the Goddess produced anguish in the handmaidens, for Hel rarely banished them from her bedroom, and never had they desired so much to stay. But they were not so foolish as to linger, and Feray expedited their exit with furious motions.

  “Come here,” the Goddess repeated, and held out her hand.

  Raine was still frozen, standing on the edge of the bath, gazing at the hand in tortured silence. Her heart was pounding so hard she was certain Hel could hear it, or at least see it as it beat against her chest wall. And slowly, she raised her hand and took that of the Goddess.

  Hel pulled her gently forward on to her lap so that they were face-to-face. The water around the Arlanian cooled to a delightful temperature. Hel took a moment to gaze into eyes so purple they were nearly black. Then she kissed her prisoner, reveling in the tormented noise she elicited. And it was only a brief second before the Arlanian was kissing her back.

  And that was something else that few understood. Arlanians could be forced into sexual enjoyment, pleasure could be taken from them at will. But if they were seduced rather than forced, gently and skillfully guided, they were as compelled to give pleasure as they were to receive it. And Hel felt that compulsion take hold of the lithe creature on her lap, as the hand hovered, trembled over her breast, shaking with a desire that all the strength in the world could not contain. And the hand surrendered, settling onto the breast with a caress that stole Hel’s breath away. And where the hand went, the lips followed, and that beautiful mouth took the nipple, then as much of the breast as it could, kissing, and licking and suckling with a longing that nearly brought the Goddess to climax just watching. Hel shifted up the slope of the pool so that most of her body was out of the water, and the Arlanian did not hesitate, kissing every inch of her stomach, her ribs, her abdomen, her hip, then trailing lower. The warm water lapped against her sides as that beautiful little mouth settled between her legs and Hel closed her eyes, then stared at the ceiling in disbelief. Her dark green eyes returned to the creature between her legs, however, because she had dreamed of this moment and the sight of the Arlanian going down on her gave her as much pleasure as the sensation of those lips on the center of her being. The gentleness of the feathery kiss, a stark contrast to the muscles that bulged and bunched as they held the thighs, drove Hel mad. She had no control and wanted none. Her hips moved with abandon as her fingers tangled in that fair hair and her feet pressed downward so her hips could move upward, and the Arlanian helped her by hooking those strong arms beneath her thighs, both opening her legs further and cradling her hips, causing her to explode in release. And somehow that beautiful little mouth stayed on her as she thrashed beneath the onslaught, never losing its rhythm as the Goddess of the Underworld came again and again in response to that insistent pressure.

  Hel collapsed, her breath coming in gasps, her breasts heaving as her hardened nipples pointed to the night sky. The Arlanian also collapsed, barely able to pull herself up to rest her head on Hel’s stomach. Although she had not climaxed, contact with Goddess, especially skin-to-skin, was exhausting for her, and sexual congress with her was as draining as fighting that legion of demons. She tried to stay conscious, but she could not and drifted into darkness.

  Hel intertwined her fingers in the damp hair, caressing the smooth cheek that was still cool to the touch. The feeling and sight of that angelic face lying on her stomach filled Hel with pleasure. She had not been so satisfied in bed since this girl’s dragon lover had brought her to orgasm eons ago. But as enjoyable as it had been, it made Hel thoughtful. Although the Arlanian had been on her knees, tortured by her own lack of self-control, the act had been anything but subservient. That had been nothing like the services provided by her minions, where Hel took whatever pleasure she felt was her due. Rather the Arlanian controlled her completely, driven to provide pleasure and doing so flawlessly. That could become dangerous.

  And, Hel had to admit as she brushed the blonde hair from the cheek, part of her great joy was bringing this Arlanian to climax against her will, the mortal’s loss of control driving her own. As enjoyable as that had just been, it was not what pleased her the most.

  Sometime later, Raine awoke in the semi-darkness that indicated a nocturnal period in the land of perpetual darkness. She was alone in the black bed, wrapped in the satin sheets, surrounded by lit candles and a fire that burned in a nearby fireplace. The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls, intimating the demons that likely surrounded her, unseen. She pulled the sheets close, for even with the fire, she was chilled. She turned on her side and buried her face in the pillow, curling herself into a fetal position.

  Despite the hopelessness of her position, the desperate futility of any action, her uncontrolled and humiliating response to the Goddess, Raine held one thing very close to her heart. It was what had distracted her earlier and caused her eyes to turn violet with merely its thought. It was something that warmed her even in her ice-cold prison, a life-line thrown into the despair that threatened to drown her. She was bound to her love, Weynild, which meant that her soul could not leave the mortal realm without her.

  Which also meant, if Raine was not dead, then Talan’alaith’illaria, Queen of All Dragons, was still alive.

  Chapter 7

  Nerthus watched the Empress and her great-grandchild
ren. It was a strangely conventional scene given the utter dysfunction and weirdness that had precipitated it. Aesa had appeared right after Raine had been taken by the Goddess, demanding that the Emperor, her grandson, relinquish the throne to her. Under other circumstances, the appearance of an Empress long thought dead, especially one who had not aged a day in two generations, might have given Nerthus and her fellow Knight Commander, Bristol, more pause. But Aesa had arrived just as the Emperor was backing away from his allies in an embarrassing display of cowardice, declaring that, not only would he not assist in rescuing Raine and Talan, but that he would prevent anyone else from doing so. Both Knight Commanders had been prepared to commit treason to remove him from the throne when Aesa had arrived and saved them the trouble.

  And now, an undead Empress sat on the throne, shadowed by her vampyr lover Malron’a, once thought to be the Emperor’s closest advisor, now revealed to be the assassin sent to kill Aesa so many years ago. And Nerthus had a feeling that “Malron’a” was not the vampyr’s real name, nor was she any ordinary assassin. She felt an unease around the woman she felt around few.

  It was all very confusing and unsettling for Nerthus, who thrived on structure and order. But Aesa had proven surprisingly adept as Empress, making numerous decisions regarded as both shrewd and diplomatic. Discovering that she had great-grandchildren, she had them brought before her and was pleased to learn they were nothing like her grandson. Perhaps this was because they had been raised entirely by their mother, who was little more than a girl herself. Malron’a suggested that the former Empress, displaced by Aesa, was not the “sharpest arrow in the quiver,” and was little threat to her. So Aesa kept both mother and children in the palace with her, and none of the three seemed to miss the former Emperor, or really even notice that he was gone. And when Aesa appeared in the court accompanied by her great-grandchildren and the former Empress, all who seemed to adore her, it gave her claim to the throne a legitimacy that force alone would not have produced.