Depths of Madness - Erik Scott De Bie [123]
Gestal smiled-a sickening expression, because it lit flames in her heart even as it made her want to retch-which she could not do.
"I have an offer to make you." "No," Twilight said.
"You have the choice, moonflower," he said. "The choice that is offered only to those strong enough to seize destiny in their teeth and wrestle it bleeding to the ground."
"Like you?"
Gestal's snarl was more like that of a hyena than of a man.
"Like my master," he corrected. "And those who serve him well." He stepped away from her and spread his arms wide, indicating the walls with their old bloodstains and perverse murals as though they were something grand.
"What choice?" Twilight asked. She could work through this enchantment, given time. Just keep him talking, just keep concentrating…
"I have controlled these depths for many years, seeking and searching for a companion-a powerful swordswoman, or a sorceress, perhaps, to serve my master. For the glory of Demogorgon. And now, I have found one."
Twilight blinked and her concentration went away. Her body jerked itself erect again and she stared. "What?"
"Join us," Gestal said.
Hope fled Twilight along with her will, fighting the spell. So that was his play-she had thought it merely part of her dream, to lure her to death and madness. But she saw now.
And she was tempted.
"My prince is the storm and the fury, Twilight of the Fox, the bloodstained hurricane," the demonist said in his emotionless, calm voice. "Demogorgon offers power beyond imagining, strength of sinew and will to control and ruin." He held out his scarred arms. "Stand at my side-serve him with me. With us."
A thought occurred to her, along with the will to pit her mind against the spell once more. Not for the first time, she thanked the gods for her wit.
"You run this bedlam…" Twilight managed. "Just to find… love?" She forced a smile. "That's pathetic, or just sick."
Gestal shrugged. "Some search taverns, some festhalls," he said. "Some wander for gold and prestige to impress lovers. Some go to war for love, some shatter decades of peace for love." He lowered her hands. "Do any of these make more sense?"
"Correction," Twilight said. "That's pathetic and sick."
He looked at her hard where she stood, back arched.
"We are beyond your lies," he said. "Erevan Ilesere, prankster of the decadent Seldarine, is your scapegoat-the name upon which you blame all of your pain. 1 shall not begrudge you this, but it is a false path you walk. And what does it bring you?" He shrugged. "Suffering. Blindness. Emptiness masked by brief illusions like joy and purpose in a world without them. Your way of avoiding the inevitable-the truth." "Purpose," the elf repeated.
"A delusion," said Gestal. "Desire, will, and consequence- these are the only truths. You must choose. You hide from this, and that is weakness."
"Weakness is in my heart." Just a little more. She could feel the magic eroding.
"What is the heart?" Gestal asked. "A muscle-a muscle that tastes just like rothe1 meat." He appeared to take Twilight's nauseated silence as an avowal. "It feels nothing but the blade that parts it."
"You are wrong. I don't run-I have chosen."
"Perhaps," Gestal said, inclining his head to that irrelevance. "But he-Erevan-is the wrong choice. You seek a way to define yourself, and he is not it. He is an illusion. Whether he exists or not, he is nothing but illusion to you. A lie. A deceit. You, only."
Like Liet, she realized.
"Who is real?" Twilight snuffled blood back into her nose. "Liet… or you?"
Gestal looked taken aback. "Why both," he said, "but I was the first. Liet is but a lost, love-lorn boy-a pathetic child."
No, Twilight thought. He's more than that.
"Are there others?" she asked, though she wasn't sure why.
Gestal furrowed his brow, as if searching his mind. "No," he said. "None of consequence-merely me, and my tool, Liet. I am his strength, and he is my weakness."
"Yes," she murmured.
Gestal grinned-hideously. "And yours." His skin swam and ran like butter slopping over a pail, and Liet stood