something to rely on (narrative)
"I hope I'm not interrupting."
Gola's hand paused, hovered uncertainly, on the verge of continuing. The voice was not unknown to him but it was unwelcome all the same. You could only do so much work before you were interrupted. Now here was an interesting study, one that he'd looked forward to having fun with, and now he would have to end the fun because he'd been discovered. They were so interesting to stare at, to look at, to become a part of and consume in the way a beast consumed freshly killed flesh. The White Rider who was stretched out on the ground had an expression of grim horror on his face. As though he would not scream, though he wanted to. Though he'd been stretched out by driving tent spikes into his wrists and ankles. Struggling caused him pain, thrashing to escape was a nightmare of agony, so he did little of either though the pain must have been unbearable. Gola wanted to know what he had received in exchange for his soul. He wanted to know how it had been squandered so he could understand the worth of it. They were insects, mites, these creatures. Pitiful.
Lady Seca. He smiled as he stood, an ingratiating thing, and his finger traced the air, following the line of her scar.
The woman actually snarled.
She and her father were both under the illusion that he had not heard them arguing. He, defender of 'values', had argued in favor of sending the Red Swords to Agethlea. She had argued against such a tactic, instead wishing to unleash Talon upon them. But Gavrie was insistent. He has all the doggedness of his brother, Gavrie said, without clinging to outmoded ideals. He is a soldier's soldier. A high admission from the man who thought of himself as a soldier's soldier. Seca abandoned that tactic, and replaced Talon's name with Gola's, to which Gavrie reacted violently. He had not liked the fact that Sarta had died. He had not wanted Gola to inherit Sarta's leadership position. The little man snarled back at Seca, remembering how close it had come. All of his planning for nothing, getting that child Feareborne to kill Sarta for him, if he did not take the reins of that which Sarta had controlled. Talon controlled his Dragons and his 'soldier's soldiers', but Gola led the men he had helped to create. They were capable of things these children had never dreams. In Sarta's hands they were woefully underused. In Gola's hands... well, this was to be his first attempt at sowing madness and chaos on so massive a scale.
"You match, now, don't you?" Gola's laugh was deep, but the staccato burst made even his own skin crawl. "I wonder what he thinks of that. He didn't let you remove it, did he?"
"Does this matter?" Seca asked coldly. "Is it important?"
"Now you can stare your own soul in the face," Gola's cackle this time was shrill.
She was here for a reason. The gentle mental caress stilled the anger rising in her, just enough. Just enough for him to stay in the game. If he killed Seca, Gavrie might take enough of an interest to find out Gola's weakness. That would not be a good outcome to this particular game. Talon and Seca, both scarred by their siblings, ruined in the face and forever remembering the slights they'd suffered - both real and imagined. Now they'd given their souls away to have power, but dominion did not come without cost, and those who were careless with their souls found that souls were the only thing that kept a person from running headlong into their own death. So curious. Nothing that had a soul, nothing that was alive in the way that he was not, could be considered truly 'pure'. He was the closest thing to purity he'd ever experienced, and he was pure... shadow. Gola nearly laughed again. Stifled it when he could feel Seca's anger rising. She did not realize that he gave her those gentle touches of the mind, that she could only ever be truly angry at him if he allowed it. Not enough to change a person's personality - that was something Orb could do, but not Gola - yet it was enough to cause Feareborne to kill Sarta.
It was enough to keep Seca's temper in check.
"They failed."
"I know. I predicted that, if you recall."
"He is very angry."
Gola's fingers stretched out again, and in the blink of an eye her sword was pressed against his throat. He stopped - not because the sword frightened him, but because if he pressed her much farther, she would take advantage of the weakness that she had been very keen to discover. Seca was the only one who knew his secret, who could control him in a way. If she knew about the mental nudges he was giving her... that was a problem for another day. She wanted him to do the thing which he wanted to do. So for now there were no troubles between them. Only happy smiles. Instead of giving her another nudge, he slowly and deliberately withdrew his hand. She looked at the dirt floor, to the White Rider who was pleading using only his eyes, and then glared at him scornfully.
"Can I rely on you?"
"As far as you can throw me."
"You do enjoy this, don't you?" and there was no mistaking the cold sneer in her voice. "Remember well. You may continue to enjoy yourself as long as you do the things which I ask. If you do not..."
Gola only laughed, and nodded. He would leave tomorrow. She knew that. He always left the day after he was given permission to... to play his games. Then she was gone, taking her sword with her, and he was left licking his lips. Looking at the White Rider. Feareborne was a dangerous sort. He would never know what Gola had done, but eventually - if he saw Gola on the street again - he would kill him. Eventually. That boy had a talent for death. The woman, on the other hand. Gavrie's daughter. That had been Gavrie's main purpose in ordering all of this in the first place. Whispered instructions to assassins. Above all else, ensure that Vera dies. They'd accomplished none of their goals, but they'd started something that would be useful to Gola. Fear in all its forms; terror that made limbs shake with fright. There would be an end to all of this, but it was not the end that any of them were predicting. It started with fear. It ended with an admission, absolution, and then death. The body could not keep the soul if it was too weak, too rotten to suffer the burden. They would admit what they did, be cleansed of it and then die. They really did not appreciate the wonderful gifts that they were given.
Rage consumed him for a moment, made his limbs shake in a different way, and despite the patches of blood that dotted his chest and his face - he'd made a game out of licking the blood away from the White RIder's wounds - he smiled warmly at the fellow. A witness, a killer, a child and a prophet. That was the making of an adventure story. There was no tale in which he could write his own segment that did not include in some way death, and destruction, and all of the things that followed after calamity. Eragos Feareborne was going to die. Eithne Savastian was going to die. He remembered those two names clearly. But the High Lord's daughter... she was the key to all of it. If he could toy with her, if he could somehow find out the truth - had she given her soul to the Riders, for true? - then he could... it would be a fun game. His eyes found the White Rider's panting face. As he descended with his knife, his hands were steady once more.
"I'm not going to ask any questions yet," Gola told him as he began to saw evenly, back and forth, back and forth, through one of the man's fingers.
The White Rider screamed.
"There is nothing," it was necessary for Gola to raise his voice to be heard. "That you can do to stop this."
There was no smiling. Just screaming, and the wet tearing that underwrote such terror. Despite himself Gola smiled.