Ruby Ruins

by J M D Reid

  The tingles in her fingers dwindled. The fuzziness retreated. For now.

  He led her stumbling across the room. With each step, his strength seemed to flow into her, reinforcing her legs. Her normal grace and control returned to her by the time they reached his bed. His blankets were rumpled but still tucked in. They sank down onto the hay-stuffed mattress. The bed’s frame creaked. She stretched out on her back, her toes twitching. He lay on his side, watching her.

  His hand slid up to her face, touching her with the bare pad of his finger. The intimacy sent a momentary shiver through her. She knew what this meant for him. His eyes caught a momentary gleam of Honesty’s silvery moonlight as he leaned down.

  She shook her head, her heart still racing. “I didn’t come here . . . I mean . . .” Her cheeks warmed. “I’m too shaken to even think of that. I feel like I could just slip away at any moment, lose my body and fall into those dreams.”

  He smiled at her. “I couldn’t resist stealing one kiss.” His finger reached her lip. He caressed her. She kissed the calloused tip, reveled in the control of her body, but the tingles still lingered in her extremities. The excitement his touch should stir in her couldn’t find anything to kindle. “I’ll be here, Avena. When the snows come, I’ll be your shelter.”

  “Something they say in Qoth?”

  He nodded. “Something said during certain ceremonies. A promise. When the mountains quake, I’ll be your support.”

  “Tell me about Qoth.” She stared up at him. “You don’t speak of it much. You miss it?”

  “I do.”

  Avena’s fingers tightened on Ōbhin’s hands, the prickling almost numbing the feeling of him away. “What sort of gloves did you wear before black?”

  “Uh . . . the last pair I wore were rose gloves with flame-hued circles on them.” He shifted, his voice tight. “It was the day of my duel with Taim.”

  “Rose?” She blinked. “That’s an unusual color.”

  “They were a statement of my innocence. I was accused of assaulting the personage of Foonauri. The circles were the color of flame. That indicated I possessed a great love and desire for someone.”

  “Colors mean that much in Qoth? I thought you were all about the Tones.”

  “We are, but the colors of the gems and their related hues have come to mean things. Usually, men only have one or sometimes two colors on their gloves, but women can get quite elaborate with their masks.”

  It intrigued her. Was there a trace of Elohm’s Colours found in the pagan beliefs to the east? It stood to reason since He had created the world and established the jewels, each a different aspect of Him. Just like a prism broke light into different colors, so did Elohm’s light refract through every human being.

  “What does . . . orange mean?” she asked, going with the Colour of Compassion and topazes.

  “Orange is the color of mothers and life,” said Ōbhin. “A woman will paint it on her mask to indicate her hope of having children while on a man’s gloves it’s a boast of his virility.”

  “Oh,” she said, her cheeks warming up. “I think we call those codpieces.”

  He chuckled and she found herself giggling.

  “One of the daughter colors of orange is amber. It’s used by women to represent motherhood. They will mark their masks’ cheeks with accents for each of their children they are proud of.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I suspect my mother has one less adorning her mask.”

  “You don’t know that,” Avena said, not wanting to open old wounds. Those could bleed the worst.

  “I killed the son of our satrap. Our king.”

  “Well, green then,” she said, wanting to get away from that color. It seemed safe. The Colour of Forgiveness, emeralds, and strength.

  “Men who work outside in the forests wear green gloves. It means they’re close to the mountains and Vatsim, who is the Tone of the Mountains and the Earth. Viridian, a daughter hue, is seen as a deeply masculine color. It’s a common one for soldiers to dye their gloves. A woman who paints it on her mask is declaring her independence and her self-sufficiency.”

  “So you wore viridian gloves normally?” She pictured him with that bright and happy color. The shade of grass and the leaves of the rhododendron bushes dotting Dualayn’s estate.

  “Purple, actually.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, fascinated by this. “Purple? I never would have pictured you in that shade.”

  “It’s the color of fatherhood and protection,” he said. “It’s the other color soldiers wear. To express their desire to protect.”

  That was the Ōbhin she loved. That desire might fill him too strongly sometimes, but it made him special. Focusing on this helped to keep her anchored in her body.

  “Women rarely wear pure purple, but mauve is often used by virgins to declare they are protecting their virtue.” He snorted. “It was seen as provincial in Gunya, the capital. Something country girls wore who didn’t know the delights the flesh offered.”

  She bit her lip, for a moment, as the desire to experience those delights rippled through her, but the unease lurking in her belly won out. She wanted their first time to be special, not when she hovered on the cusp of losing her mind. She clasped his hand tighter, fingers fuzzing.

  “Still, I have a hard time imagining you in purple,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.

  “It’s a very manly color,” he said, masculine pride rearing through him.

  “Maybe in Qoth.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I’d like to see you in purple anyways.”

  “Maybe,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “I do miss it, Avena. Every direction you look, peaks rise around you. They all have names. Histories. I grew up in Dhoseth Valley in the shadow of Mount Qaari. He wasn’t the biggest mountain. Certainly not one of the Seven which ring Gunya, but every morning as a child I woke to see him out my window. Looming there, perpetually capped in ice. He wore it like a man wears his gloves, never taking them off. Sometimes, clouds would surround his flank, and other times, a dome of them would hover over his peak. He’s a fire mountain.”

  “A volcano?” Avena asked. “Did you ever see it erupt?”

  “Only belch the occasional burst of steam. They’re deadly when they erupt.” His expression darkened. “The day I killed Taim, Sunset’s Tower erupted. It shook the ground so much the arena where we were dueling cracked. The sand flowed like water and dragged us into the old mines beneath Gunya.”

  “How dreadful.” Avena studied his face, hating the way his eyes shadowed.

  “Yeah.” Ōbhin glanced at the window. “I marched onto the Sands of Truth thinking I would prove my innocence. I believed Taim was a villain who’d forced my beloved Foonauri to be his wife. I learned the opposite in those dark tunnels. I learned what sort of man I am.”

  “Was.” Her hand touched him over his heart. She spread her fingers wide, feeling the heat of him. The pounding of his life. “That’s not who you are. You’ve changed, Ōbhin. You’ve almost polished the stains from your diamond-bright soul. I can see it.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I wanted to kill Dualayn.” He pulled her hand away from his chest. He brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. “Just like I wanted to kill Taim for what he claimed about Foonauri.”

  “Taim wasn’t lying, but Dualayn is a maggot writhing through the muck.” She turned her hand and entwined her fingers with his. “What sort of man, what sort of person, wouldn’t want to inflict pain on him for the things he did? But you didn’t act on the impulse.”

  “Only to save you.” Ōbhin shifted.

  “You. Didn’t. Actions matter.” She felt the strange tingles fading. The interference was ending. “What will you do when he repairs me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I do. You’re walking a better path, Ōbhin.” She lifted her head. “You could steal another kiss. I wouldn’t mind some pleasant dreams for a change.”

  He smiled and leane
d down. Hot lips seized her. She squeezed his hand tight, her eyes closing. The exhaustion of the day’s travel weighed down on her. She broke the kiss and murmured, “Blessed night, Ōbhin.”

  “May your fire burn strong through the night,” he whispered.

  She rolled onto her side, still holding his hand. He pressed into her from behind, spooning her. She had no fear as she surrendered to her dreams.

  After some time, she found herself walking with Chames. The dream didn’t surprise her. She accepted it as she clung to his arm. He was young and handsome, standing tall, his hair combed back and gathered in a short tail at the nape of his neck by a dark-blue ribbon. He wore a matching waistcoat, a frilly cravat tucked into it and wrapped about his neck. He wore the knickerbockers that were in style, pants she’d chosen for him, exposing the tight socks fitting his calves. She wore a fine dress of dark-red, the neckline scooped to show off her upper chest and adorned with blue beadwork across her bosom. The layers of petticoats gave volume and shape to her skirts.

  “This is the perfect spot,” he said as they reached a secluded part of the lake. The high bank behind them shielded them from the view of the near estate. The thick layers of reeds warded them from the view of the rest of the shore.

  A scarlet dragonfly buzzed past to hover over the green water.

  The first good day of spring had arrived.

  Ōbhin stood in the water, his chest bare, watching her with arms folded across his chest. His hands were naked. She smiled at him as Chames spread out the quilted blanket on the shore. She didn’t resist as he pulled her down.

  “You know I’m glad,” Chames said.

  “Oh?” she asked, glancing at Dualayn’s son. She could see the older man in the younger’s face, though Chames lacked the round jowls and soft cheeks. He had the brash angles of youth.

  “That you found happiness,” he said, opening the basket and revealing the contents: purloined food and a bottle of strawberry currant. “You deserve to be happy.”

  “Chames . . .” She blushed and then leaned against her promised’s shoulder. “You make me happy.”

  “For now,” he said. “But not forever.”

  Lightning crackled on the horizon. A storm lurked on the far side of the lake beyond the watching Ōbhin.

  “I wanted it to be forever,” she said, taking his hand. Her fingers slid in them. “This moment here.”

  “I did, too.” He smiled at her. For some reason, he looked soaked, like a deluge had swept over him. He wore only a shirt, his waistcoat around her shoulders. “I wanted this spring to never end.”

  “But you got sick,” she said, memories intruding. She wanted to banish them.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Chames said. “It’s not your fault I died. You know that.”

  She nodded and leaned her cheek on his wet shoulder. “Part of me wishes we never came out here.”

  “And the other?”

  “Remembers that hour here as the happiest point of my life. What if the storm never reaches us?”

  “Then you would be stuck in a dream.” He stroked her hand. “Be happy. Don’t let my father steal any more from you. He’s a bastard who’s caused you enough pain.”

  “I won’t,” she said, staring at Ōbhin. “I won’t forget you just because I found someone else.”

  Chames stroked her head. “Just be happy. If I could have warned you about my father sooner, I would have. I didn’t know. Not until it was too late.”

  His lips kissed hers. As the dream fled, her body waking, she clutched to the fading Chames. She didn’t want to let him go, but he became mist, the foggy vapors from Lake Ophavin that melt away in the morning sun. Her fingers passed through him.

  She opened her eyes to see Ōbhin lying beside her, sleeping. She glanced out the window. Dawn lightened the horizon. She sighed and rested her head on his chest. Ōbhin breathed in sharply and shifted, groaning.

  “Morning?” he mumbled.

  “Yeah.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I dreamed of Chames.”

  *

  “Dreams are a resonance of the tones,” Ōbhin told Avena after listening to her dream of her past lover. A strange jealousy danced around the edges of his emotions. Nothing sharp. Nothing like he’d felt with Taim. Ōbhin knew he had nothing to fear. Chames had died. She only had her memories of him. She didn’t want to lose those.

  He could understand that. Respect that.

  “He said his father was a bastard,” Avena said. She sat beside him, her chemise hanging off her shoulders and falling down her body like mist risen from the snow higher up the mountain and spilling down its forested slopes. “It felt so real. Like he was there. He wanted me to be happy.”

  “Maybe it was him.” Ōbhin shifted. “In Qoth, we believe that sometimes our souls don’t melt into the harmony of the Seven Tones. Our music still lingers. Wanting to communicate. Or maybe just the echoes of strong songs reverberating around through the immaterial.”

  “Through where Tones broadcast. My mind.” Avena’s brow tightened. “If Chames thought his father was a bastard, did he know about the secret lab? Did he witness something? The last time I saw Chames, his father took him in there and . . .” She shuddered. “No, no, Dualayn loved his family. His wife and son. He wouldn’t hurt them.”

  Ōbhin’s stomach sank. The lie spilled easily from his lips. “Of course not. But if Chames’s soul is lingering, watching you, then he knows what his father would do. I’d hate my own father if he’d done something like that.”

  Does my father hate me for what I did? Shame for killing Taim had driven Ōbhin from Qoth. He had taken Foonauri with him, promising her a new life. He wondered about her. Had she found happiness in Guirreu, Ondere’s capital, to the south? Did that rich man she’d seduced shower her in jewels and luxuries? Do you hate me, Foonauri, for dragging you across the world?

  I hate myself for doing it. I should have left you behind, but I’m selfish. I cling too tight. He glanced at Avena. She’d become his reason for escaping the darkness. She made him feel too much to stay in the mire, but if she were to die, would he be lost?

  He’d have to be careful with Avena. Too much could destroy her as would too little. A balance. He’d have to find it or repeat past mistakes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Twelfth Day of Patience, 755 EU

  Ōbhin studied the three suspects as they left behind the village, the Upfing Woods a dark smear on the horizon. After three days of traveling, he still wasn’t sure which one was the impostor. Fingers, Bran, or Dajouth.

  His eyes flicked between each of them before frustration drove his attention to Avena. She sat on the wagon’s driver bench beside Miguil. He leaned back, a wide felt hat on his head cocked to the side to shield his eyes from the sun rising on their left. Avena hadn’t donned her bonnet, her loose hair swaying in the breeze.

  He smiled as he watched the strands dance around the back of her neck.

  Avena hadn’t shared his bed since that night. She’d had no more signs of signal interference. He ached for her. It had been two years or longer since he’d been with a woman. With Foonauri. What had been minor urges now consumed him. But Avena was a modest woman. He would be patient with her.

  It made her kisses all the more special.

  If she were Qothian, he was certain her mask would have the purple-red hue of rose as an accent proclaiming her love and commitment to a man. The color of a maiden’s promise. He closed his eyes, picturing her in a mask, only her brown eyes peeking through, a mystery begging to be unwrapped.

  His fingers remembered the feel of Avena’s face. He flexed them beneath his gloves, the fire swelling in his veins for a moment before a cough from Fingers snapped his eyes open. The sound stretched a tightness taut across his shoulders like the skin of a mountain bear mounted on a frame of alder being scraped off all the fat and flesh clinging to it.

  Who was the impostor? The grumliicho who’d stolen his friend’s face? What would happen to them when they r
eached the Red Heart of the Forest and the ruins of Lost Koilon? Legends abounded of the great cities destroyed in the Shattering and places in the world where strange events supposedly happened. In Lay, a country east of his mountainous Qoth, there was said to be a valley stained an unnatural orange that hummed with a note whenever Mother, the orange moon, shone full. Those who ventured to the Shattered Islands often uncovered bits of strange architecture, stones shaped in impossible ways, alloys of metal stronger than steel and lighter than tin.

  After an hour, the edge of the woods appeared, marked first by a swath of stumps surrounded by the grass before the thick edges of the woods. The lane narrowed and grew rougher. Only woodcutters ventured this far to coppice the trees, cutting them down to near their stumps and allowing them to sprout new growth to be harvested in a decade or two.

  Ōbhin straightened and climbed over the bench, settling on Avena’s left. She scooted over closer to Miguil to give Ōbhin room, favoring him with a smile. A foolish grin spilled across his lips. There was something to a woman showing off her face all the time, to witnessing her emotions shining bright.

  “There’ll be a sidetrack coming soon,” Avena said. “We’ll want to take it.”

  “Yes, yes,” Dualayn said from the back. “She is quite correct.”

  Avena stiffened. “Thank you for thinking I’m a dullard. You might have cut out my brain, but it still works just as sharply.”

  “I meant no offense, child, I jus—”

  “Avena!” she hissed. “My name is Avena. Not ‘child.’ Not ‘daughter.’ Not ‘girl.’ Avena.”

  “Ah, yes, I forgot. Old habits are easy to fall into.” He chuckled.

  Ōbhin stared ahead, ignoring the foul man. If he didn’t, his hand would start to drift to his sword, his mind considering those darker paths. No justice would ever be delivered on Dualayn if Ōbhin didn’t kill him when this was over. He had too many powerful friends protecting him from the courts and proper justice.

  It would be so easy, a part of Ōbhin thought.