Wrapt in Crystal

by Sharon Shinn

  At last her voice changed, and Drake looked over toward the bed. She had folded Angelo’s arms across his chest and now gazed soberly down at the closed, peaceful face.

  “Is he dead?” Drake asked.

  She appeared startled as she glanced his way. She had actually forgotten he was in the room. “No. Sleeping.”

  Drake walked over to the sickbed. “Will he be all right, then?”

  “No,” she said again.

  When she did not amplify, he asked another question. “Do you plan to stay here until he dies?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “That may be a matter of days. I have done for him what I can.”

  He lifted his hand to the buzzer on the wall. “Let’s call for Brandoza, then, and get out.”

  “In a minute,” she said.

  He looked down at her, but her face was not visible to him. She had taken one of Angelo’s hands in hers and bent over the limp fingers. He thought he heard the whisper of her breath, so she must be praying. Then she was silent for a long moment, merely holding the sleeping boy’s hand and saying nothing, either to him or to the Moonchild. Drake waited, unmoving.

  At last she stirred, seeming to shake off an abstraction. She raised Angelo’s hand to her lips, kissed his fingers, and murmured the familiar benediction. She nodded to Drake as she rose to her feet, and he pressed the button over the bed. He could feel it vibrate under his thumb, but it made no noise that he could hear.

  In less than a minute, however, Brandoza appeared again in the doorway, the key dangling from his hands. His eyes went instantly past Laura to his brother. “He is sleeping?” he asked. She nodded. “You have done him some good, then. He has been unable to sleep for three days.”

  “He had a great deal to trouble him,” she said softly.

  Brandoza nodded and waited for the others to pass before him into the hall. After he had relocked the door, he handed Laura a small leather wallet. “For your kindness,” he said.

  For a split second, Drake expected Laura to be affronted, but he had forgotten that the Fideles subsisted on charity. “Your generosity is appreciated,” she said calmly, slipping the purse inside some hidden pocket under her tunic. “We shall pray for Angelo to Ava. And for you.”

  “Your prayers would perhaps have more success elsewhere,” he said, preceding them down the stairwell. He led them to a side doorway so they would not have to exit through the tavern, where they had left behind so many acquaintances.

  Unexpectedly, Laura smiled up at the tall, quiet man. “If souls were easy to save, it would be no great virtue to pray for them,” she said.

  He studied her soberly. “If ever there is something I can do for you, sister,” he said, “please let me know.”

  “You can come to the temple sometime and pray with me,” she said.

  “I will, then,” he said. He touched his hand to his heart and held it out to her. She kissed his fingers.

  “Ava te ama,” she said softly. “Even you.”

  Brandoza pulled his hand away slowly and made no answer. He looked over at the Moonchild and nodded gravely. Drake returned the terse salute, and followed Laura out into the suddenly chilly night.

  “Will he come, do you think?” he asked, once more drawing the Fidele to him with his left hand. The streets were emptier now, but no less dangerous. They had been inside more than two hours.

  “He may. He seemed to genuinely grieve.”

  “And he’ll give up his lucrative smuggling business, no doubt, and mend his ways,” Drake added.

  “You needn’t be sarcastic. It’s been known to happen.”

  “I thought the name sounded familiar,” Drake remarked. “I was sure, when I saw his face.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Your pal Brandoza’s a very famous guy. Infamous, more like. Known across the federated universe for his high-caliber hallucinogens and his ruthless methods of enforcement.”

  “Well, I think he is sad about his brother.”

  Drake grinned, but before he could make a reply, Laura’s body was jerked from his protective arm. He whirled, throwing one knife almost without thinking, shaking another one loose into his left hand, snatching up a third one from his boot. Laura writhed in the hold of two fierce assailants, all black hair and dark skin in this feverish lighting. A third street warrior crouched before Drake, weaving forward in a sinuous circle. The fourth one was dead.

  “Venga, tonto, venga,” the street warrior chanted, inviting the fool to come forward. He followed the words with a string of profanity which Drake did not even attempt to translate. He was watching the boy’s eyes, dead-black and wicked. “Venga, venga—”

  He would have to kill at least two more of them; what would be his best strategy? He did not even dare look at Laura, who made no sound at all. Perhaps there was a hand across her mouth. Perhaps she had ceased struggling. Perhaps she did not care if she survived this encounter. He must kill this one first and then fall upon the youths holding Laura—

  The boy in front of him lunged suddenly forward, brandishing his knife before Drake’s chest. He was young and supple and strong, and Drake killed him without compassion with three swift thrusts of his own dagger. The boy screamed and dropped to the ground still screaming. Drake spun on his heel and leapt for one of the youths holding Laura. He literally ripped the boy’s hand from Laura’s arm; he heard her small cry of pain. He had no time to think about that. This third assailant was also armed, and fell forward upon Drake with a maniacal shriek of rage.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Drake saw Laura being dragged down the street, back in the direction of Casa Verde, but he had no time to watch. This youth was a more skilled fighter than his friend. He came at Drake with a lunatic energy, knives in both hands. Drake met the assault with his own blades, parrying as he would have two swords. The ring of metal against metal sounded insignificant in the grand tawdriness of this place.

  The boy shoved, and Drake gave ground, watching for an opening. The boy surprised him by whipping one of his blades straight at Drake’s heart, snapping his wrist and releasing the dagger so quickly that the Moonchild barely had time to turn his shoulder into the destructive path. He felt the steel bite through the thin tunic of his uniform; pain for an instant made him stupid. His left arm was useless. He threw one dagger with his right hand, changed his left-hand dagger to his right, and charged.

  But his own missile had hit more true. His attacker had staggered backward, the knife having gone deep into his belly; he howled with pain. But he was not incapacitated yet. As Drake ran forward, the boy threw out his knife hand and clawed for the Moonchild’s eyes. Drake hit him across the face, sending him skidding to the street. The boy rolled to his shoulder, tried to rise. Drake slapped him again with his right hand, then dropped his fingers to the knife still protruding from the boy’s stomach. He dragged the blade upward and twisted it once. Yanking it free, he raced after Laura and her captor.

  They were only twenty yards before him, and he could see the fluttering white of Laura’s dress. She was resisting, then. Drake did not think his footsteps sounded particularly loud on this restless street, but the boy glanced back when Drake’s feet slapped against the cobblestones, and a look of terror crossed the deeply scarred young face. Drake knew he must be a fearsome sight, spattered with blood and looking like grim death itself. He ran faster, lifting his good right arm and loosing a berserker yell.

  It was too much. Shouting back defiantly, the boy suddenly released Laura, shoving her violently toward Drake so that she stumbled and went to her knees. The youth disappeared into a convenient shadow. Drake hurtled to a halt and crouched beside Laura in the street. She was trying to push herself to a standing position. Her hair was wildly disarrayed around her face, and her hands and face were covered with bloody scratches.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, slipping his arms under hers and hauling her none too gentl
y to her feet. The motion wrenched his left arm to the point of excruciation. He could not see her face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m—I’m fine,” she whispered. “I can’t—wait, I’m dizzy—don’t let me go just yet—”

  He wrapped his good arm around her and urged her back in the direction of the car, the perimeter, safety. “Come on, try to walk, we can’t lose any more time here—”

  “I’m—sorry, I can’t quite get my balance—”

  “I’ve got you, don’t worry—”

  She took only a few limping steps before she seemed to recover her balance, but he still did not release her. “A little faster, if you can,” he murmured into her ear. “This is not a good place to be.”

  They came to the first corpse, the last one that Drake had killed. “Is he dead?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes. Sorry about that.”

  He felt her try to pull free, and tightened his grip instinctively. “Let me go,” she said, a little strength coming back to her voice.

  “Laura, we have got to get out of here.”

  “Let me go. I have to—Cowen, release me.”

  Incredulous, he dropped his arm. She knelt painfully beside the fallen body, speaking rapid, unfathomable words. She was praying over her dead assailant. Drake waited for her to pick up the dead boy’s hand and lift it to her mouth, because at that point he intended to lunge forward and knock the arm from her grip. But she didn’t.

  “Ava te ama,” she whispered, and struggled to her feet. Drake silently reached down a hand to help her rise.

  They stopped at each of the other fallen bodies, briefly, but long enough to make Drake increasingly nervous. His left arm was throbbing but he didn’t think he had sustained any permanent damage. The bleeding had slowed, and he thought he might even be able to use the arm if he had to. But he didn’t want to have to.

  “Come on, Laura,” he said, taking her by the wrist when she had finished her orisons over the last fallen warrior. “We’ve got to get back to the car.”

  He hurried her along through streets that grew quieter, cleaner, more respectable. There was a definite demarcation line when they crossed out of the spaceport. The car was visible, half a block away, gleaming under the spooky white streetlights that were a welcome change from the harsh glare of the spacer city.

  Laura had stumbled intermittently as they fled the area, but Drake kept a tight grip on her arm. He was not of a mind to allow her to stop and check out untied shoelaces. But now, as they came out of the mean alleys of the spaceport, she tripped again. He swung her around, backing her against the smooth white stone of a tall building, with his own body sheltering her from any eyes that might have watched their precipitate flight.

  “Tie it,” he said curtly. “Or buckle it. I don’t want you to fall.”

  She gave him a strange, wondering look, but bent down to refasten her shoe. In the eerie light, her hair looked almost white. There were scratch marks on her cheek and down the side of her right arm. He felt irrational rage building in his chest and struggled to contain it. She straightened and gave him that unfathomable look again.

  He gestured at her face. “Is that the worst of it? Your face? Did you twist your ankle or snap a bone or anything?”

  “No,” she said slowly. Her eyes never left his. “What did they want with me? Were they from Brandoza?”

  He shrugged irritably. “Doubtful. If he’d wanted you, he would have kept you, since I would hardly have inconvenienced him. And anyway, he’s from Semay. Not the kind to mess with a priestess.”

  “Then—”

  “What do you think?” he asked savagely. “Even you can’t be ignorant of the fact that women are a high commodity in worlds across the galaxy. You had a couple of outright offers at Casa Verde, but some whoremongers don’t care if their merchandise comes willingly or not—”

  She flinched from his voice. “Why are you angry at me?” she said. “All I did—”

  “Angry at you!” he exploded. “All you did! You risk your life—for a stranger, for a goddamned, blood-covered, thieving, killing, piece of shit of a man—for nobody! for nothing! You would throw your life away! Because some evil, worthless man called you to pray over his evil, worthless brother—for this, you walk unprotected into a place where even Moonchildren are careful and fools never go—”

  He was so furious that he could not complete his sentences, he could not express himself rationally. By contrast, her voice was assured, almost stubborn. “Every soul has worth to Ava,” she said. “Who are you to judge whether or not he is capable of salvation?”

  He grabbed her by both shoulders and shook her thoroughly. The searing pain in his arm seemed small next to the agony of his fear. “I don’t care about his soul!” he cried. “I don’t care about your soul—my soul—I don’t care about souls. I care that you will throw yourself away—that you will die, don’t you understand that? It doesn’t matter to you if you are alive or dead but it’s all that matters to me—all that matters—there is nothing else that has any importance at all. And you—you would blithely walk into hell and throw yourself away—”

  She was staring up at him, her face so white that the fresh scratches along her cheek looked black and deep. He wanted to pound some comprehension into her brain, he wanted to throw his body across hers and protect her to the limits of his life. With a strangled groan, he compromised; he wrapped his arms around her as tightly as they would go, and he bent down and kissed her roughly on the mouth.

  The shock of that kiss seemed to go through her like a slap. He felt her sudden flare of reaction and resistance. He held on, drowning in the kiss, himself the sea and himself the swimmer totally lost in it. His fingers tangled in the white masses of her hair; he felt the shape of her skull beneath his hand. She clung to him, she tried to push him away, she was as unruly as fire in his embrace but she was trapped there. He kissed her and did not think he could ever stop.

  She arched violently away and finally broke his hold, but he was still quicker than she was. He caught her wrists high over her head and almost slammed her back against the smooth wall behind her. She fought for breath but stared up at him defiantly. He glared back at her, struggling for air himself.

  “Yo te amo,” he said flatly. “I love you. And nothing in your world or any of mine can change that.”

  She shut her eyes. The pain on her face was as great as if he had indeed slapped her. “Don’t say that,” she whispered.

  “Well, it’s true,” he said. “And after what you’ve put me through tonight, I can say whatever I want to you.”

  Now anger seemed to come to her, suddenly, for the first time. She wrenched at her arms to get her hands free, but his fingers did not even slacken. “I didn’t ask for your love!” she cried. “I didn’t ask for your concern—I didn’t ask for your friendship or your protection. You are angry with me because I don’t care for myself—well, I can’t care for myself and I can’t care for anybody else! What do you want from me? Tender declarations of affection? Do you want passion? There is none of that in me—I could not give it to you if I chose! You could leave me on the street to die or you could abduct me back to your hotel room and it would all be the same to me. Take me, if you want me so badly—you care about this body far more than I do—take it—”

  He inhaled so sharply that she flinched. For a split second, he really thought he would hit her. His fingers tightened cruelly around her wrists and he stared down at her. “What has been done to you,” he breathed, “that you have reached such a state?”

  “My brother died in my arms. And the man I loved died because of me. And it is as if I killed them both, with my own hands, with my own weapons. And all that I know of human love is that it is a dagger in the heart. Even death seems kinder.”

  The streetlight made a halo of her disordered hair, set the whole white sheath of her tunic to an unearthly glowing. His grip on her wrists changed; h
e brought her hands together carefully against his chest. How could he not have seen this before? He spoke her name as he would have spoken to a goddess appeared before him in the flesh. “Laura.” The light. The dawn. The golden day. “Diadeloro.”

  Indescribably, her face changed; again, it was as if he had really struck her. She said nothing, but her eyes were fixed on his.

  “Who is trying to kill you,” he asked softly, “and why?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “How do you know who I am?” she whispered.

  He shook his head slowly, sifting the pieces into place. Now Laura made sense; now Diadeloro could be understood. Even the names were enough alike. He had been a fool.

  “I have been searching for you for weeks.”

  “Why? How did you know? How did you guess who I am?”

  “Who is trying to kill you?” he repeated. “And why?”

  She sagged against the white stone wall behind her. He thought he would see her this way forever in his memory, witchlight against alabaster, marked with the souvenirs of this night’s brutality and his own despairing love. “There was someone who would like to see me dead,” she said, “but he is dead himself. Believe me. I checked that myself the first time a priestess was killed.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Oh, Cowen, it is such a long story.”

  “You can choose where you would like to tell it,” he said, “but you are going to tell it tonight.”

  They could not go to the temple and she would not come to his hotel, so he drove them to the viaduct on the edge of the city. One of the all-night liquor stores was open, and he stopped there for wine and light food. Once they arrived at the viaduct, Drake spread out the blanket from the car and wrapped Laura in his own jacket and made her drink a cup of wine. He had bought a gallon of bottled water and a packet of paper napkins, and Drake used these to clean the blood from Laura’s face and his own hands.