Vassal

by Sterling D'Este

  Gesturing to the clearing, the tents, the mountain ranges beyond, and then to herself, Alphonse shook her head, eyes grim suddenly.

  “There is no map for this. It’s… it’s very frightening to be so…” Alphonse glanced at Etienne’s tent, the light in her eyes dimming now. “Alone.”

  ༄

  Delyth listened to Alphonse speak in solemn silence. There was a familiarity in her tale. Though Delyth had never felt as though she had footsteps to follow in, she was very well acquainted with the feeling of walking alone.

  Still, the vassal was not entirely on her own.

  “The boy, Etienne, must care deeply about you to undertake this journey,” she said. “These travels must be hard on both of you. People are not so far removed from animals; they both lash out when hurt or frightened.”

  She knew that well. All too often, they were frightened of her.

  “Also, so long as you walk, I am destined to walk alongside you.” Delyth bumped her shoulder. “So you are not so alone, yes?”

  The vassal smiled slightly at that, blushing and looking down at her tea. “I don’t suppose you could fly us there?” she asked.

  Delyth laughed, the sound deep and throaty. “I could perhaps fly you for a few miles on a clear day, but not you and Etienne and your packs. The three of us would not be able to get off the ground.”

  The halfbreed stretched her arms upwards with a weary sigh and took the other cup of tea Alphonse had prepared. “I wish I could, though. I flew here from my village south of the peak on which Thlonandras stands in seven days. I will be impressed if we make it there in two moon’s time.”

  She took a sip of the tea, taken aback at first by the herbs' unfamiliar taste, though she eventually decided it was pleasant enough. Just another small reminder of just how different the two Ingolans were from anyone she had known before.

  “We have a long walk ahead of us. You should follow Etienne’s example and find your tent.”

  With a sigh, Alphonse stood, nodding wearily. “Goodnight, Delyth.”

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  Clumsy hands brushed over Delyth’s hair, adjusting a few of the braids before moving down her throat and chest, fumbling with the straps that kept her beautiful Calamity tied to the priestess. Enyo snarled internally at the human’s inept graceless body, fingers like frozen blocks. Useless and cumbersome.

  The faintest rays of sunrise painted the sky overhead pink and purple, with swipes of yellow and deep blue. The camp was quiet, and so was Enyo as she finally released the straps that held Calamity to the priestess.

  No!

  Enyo shook her head, casting aside the stray thought that belonged to the annoying human.

  Her eyes were intently focused on the task at hand, and her expression tight.

  Goosebumps stood on her arms and neck, the human body unused to the far brisker mornings in Rhosan. She crouched in nothing but her underdress, despite the chill of the morning, uncaring of the needs of her physical body.

  ༄

  Delyth lay on her side where she had fallen asleep beside the fire, her wings folded gently behind her. It had been a comfortable night, so warm this close to the Ingolan border that she had not bothered to cover herself.

  Somewhere, beneath the lighter sleep of near-morning, the halfbreed dreamed of a time long past, of waking to gentle hands smoothing the braids at her temples. Slowly, she became aware of other touches, of insistent tugging at the clothes she wore. Her heart rate increasing, Delyth blinked awake, her face soft from sleep.

  “Tanwen?” she asked, confused. Why had they slept outdoors?

  But no. It wasn’t Tanwen. It was Alphonse. And it wasn’t clothes she was pulling at, but the straps buckling Calamity’s scabbard to her back.

  Delyth sat up abruptly, knocking her head against Alphonse’s, where she leaned close. The halfbreed pressed her hand to the sore spot. “Ah, sorry, Alphonse.”

  The girl’s face was blank and focused. Not Alphonse either.

  “Or Enyo…” Delyth added belatedly, but the Goddess didn’t react, her fingers still moving on the buckles.

  Delyth knew what Enyo wanted, but still, she hesitated. There was no Alphonse here, just blank focus clothed in a too-thin shift. Her hands moved against the buckles blindly.

  The halfbreed knew that the other priests at Glynfford would have already handed Enyo the sword, that if the Goddess made any request, big or small, they would work to achieve it. But Delyth was not one of the other priests. She had been shown all her life that she was different.

  Did she want to do this like one of them?

  She shook her head. She served a Goddess, not mortals. And that Goddess wanted a sword.

  Slowly, as if not to startle her, Delyth pulled Calamity from its scabbard, gritting her teeth at the sudden rush of malice. For once, it would be easy to let go of. The only thing Calamity wanted more than bloodshed was Enyo.

  Delyth reversed her grip and presented the sword to Enyo, hilt first where she stood utterly still, her pupils devouring the rest of her eyes until only a sliver of gold was left. As soon as the pommel was presented to her, Enyo lunged for the sword, snake-fast—a predator outmaneuvering prey.

  The girl’s tawny hair, unbound and cascading down her shoulders and back in perfect ripples, rustled as Enyo’s hand slithered over Calamity’s pommel, gripping the hilt and lifting the massive blade as if it weighed no more than a feather.

  Rising to her feet, Enyo groaned with pleasure at the contact with Calamity. It seemed to radiate with joy, as well. A spring breeze came barreling through their campsite, tossing Delyth and Alphonse’s hair, shaking the tree branches and tents, stirring up the dust and the fallen leaves.

  It swirled around Enyo, twisting the underdress up and about her body. As if she wore those ancient robes old paintings showed her in, when she was clothed at all.

  The dark steel of Calamity glittered like some precious metal in the sunrise as Enyo lifted the blade, bringing her empty hand up to trace along the contours of that dangerous edge.

  Slowly, so slowly, she started to draw that edge across her palm.

  ✶

  Etienne woke to the sound of Delyth’s voice. It was morning, sunlight creeping through the seams of his tent like an unwelcome visitor. He lay still for a long moment, just breathing.

  He wasn’t angry, not anymore, though last night he had fallen asleep long after the other two had stopped speaking, his mind roiling. Now he only felt heavy, as though the situation he and Alphonse had found themselves in was a physical thing pressing him into the rough fabric beneath him.

  Slowly, he pushed himself up. If Delyth was speaking, then likely Alphonse was awake as well. They would be moving soon.

  He pushed open the flap of his tent, blinking in the wan light of morning. It was clear out, birds singing greetings to each other in the distance.

  And in the center of camp, just yards away, Alphonse held the dark blade, sliding it across her palm. Etienne seemed to find his voice at the same time the warrior did, and their shouts mingled in cool air.

  Delyth was already on her feet when he started forward, but even as she reached out to stop Alphonse, the girl shoved her away and sent the proud warrior sprawling.

  Then there was just Etienne, leaping towards his friend. “Alphonse, no!” he shouted. “Your hand!”

  ❂

  Enyo tossed the blade away after discarding the priestess. She had gotten what she wanted after all. The palm before her lay open and exposed, revealing layers of muscle and fat, and beneath that… bone.

  Blood.

  Fantastic, glorious, euphoric blood welled up along the wound and dribbled in a stream down her arm and onto the earthen floor before her feet.

  The clearing smelled metallic as she lifted that injured hand, seemingly unaware of what pain should be coursing through her body. Instead, she studied it, enraptured and obsessed.

  Then, so carefully, so tenderly it might have been a n
ewborn babe, she lifted that pulsing hand to her lips. Her tongue flicked out, and like a cat drinking from a bowl of milk, she lapped at the blood.

  At her own blood.

  Even the birds had stopped singing, seemingly disturbed and alarmed by this gruesome sight.

  ༄

  Delyth’s usually stoic face was slack with horror. She had seen blood before and plenty of it. She’d seen fallen friends bleed out from open bellies. She’d sliced through the throats of enemies. She’d seen it fountain. She’d seen it pool.

  Never had she seen anyone mutilate their own body or raise their torn flesh to their lips to sup.

  Her stomach twisted. This was an act of violence from the Goddess to the vassal, wrenching in its simple lack of humanity, and Delyth didn’t give herself time to consider the temple’s position on such an act. She just leaped to stop it.

  Desperately, the halfbreed wrapped one hand around the delicate wrist and tried to pull it away from Alphonse’s lips, her fingers quickly becoming drenched in blood. The other hand, she braced on the small girl’s collarbone, ready for the Goddess’s strength this time.

  “Enyo,” she pleaded, “you need this body. Hasn’t she gone through enough by hosting you?”

  Behind her, Etienne pleaded for Alphonse to come back, to banish the Goddess, but Delyth paid him little attention. Instead, she focused her gaze on the wide-pupiled eyes, searching for a hint of gold.

  Darkness ate up Delyth’s reflection in Enyo’s eyes, darkness and a flicker of the flame.

  Alphonse had warm eyes, doe-like and open. Enyo’s had embers glittering in their depths. Fire. Infernos. Lava. How the same pair of eyes could be so different?

  ❂

  A small amount of blood had reached Alphonse’s lips before Delyth had wrenched the hand away. Of course, Enyo could have shoved the priestess off, continued as she pleased but…

  Her gaze traced the urgent lines of Delyth’s face, down her body, to that hand on Alphonse’s collarbone, ready to ‘stop her.’ Ready for action. A woman after Enyo’s own heart. She smiled, blood in the creases of her teeth, “Beste kran, Ba’oto. Alphonse, et, beste?” and gestured with her bleeding palm, towards herself, and then towards Delyth.

  Enyo had worked out speech, if not common. She spoke the ancient language, the tongue she had given the people of this land. It was guttural and harsh, with soft S’s and strange pauses mid-word.

  The meaning was clear, though. I drink, or you drink.

  “What? No!” the priestess recoiled but didn’t let go. “She’s your vassal. Why do you want to hurt her?” She paused, glancing at the wound. “Why does it have to be me or her?”

  Then, Etienne was beside them. “Alphonse, come back!” he pleaded. “You can fight her, I know you can!”

  Enyo bared her teeth at the boy, then clenched her fist, making the blood course faster, the drops turning into a stream falling on the ground between them.

  “Alphonse us fa Ruyaa. Alphonse ca’at Krin Enyo.” She looked to Delyth again, pushing her bleeding hand towards the priestess’s face. Towards her mouth. “Meste Enyo. Meste beste Taouk. Yuk.”

  ༄

  Delyth gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. The smell of blood was thick around her, metallic and cloying. She could feel streams of the stuff slide down her fingers, where she held Alphonse’s wrist. Drip down her forearm.

  That was a direct command from the Goddess she served, had served her entire life. Obedience to the temple and its teachings were all she knew.

  Gods, please let Enyo give Alphonse back for this.

  “I’m sorry, Alphonse,” she said.

  Delyth lifted the smaller woman’s blood-coated fist to her lips and ran her tongue across the delicate fingers.

  A low, sensuous moan escaped Enyo, raw and purely carnal. Aside from that, other signs of arousal shuddered through Alphonse’s body. Her nipples hardened, her breathing hitched, her core clenched.

  She opened her fist to allow Delyth to suck the blood from the wound directly and practically writhed in pleasure when she did so.

  Alphonse’s unsullied hand came to cradle Delyth’s skull, beneath that torrent of black hair, pressing her closer, urging her harder towards the slice.

  It all happened very quickly. One moment she was watching Delyth in rapt focus, panting and enjoying herself.

  The next moment, her body jerked, and the intimate sounds changed to those of pain. A yelp left Alphonse’s lips, and she yanked away from Delyth, clutching her injured hand to her breast.

  Delyth let Alphonse go and staggered away, spitting blood. Her mouth and throat were covered in it. It dripped from her chin. Pooled in the hollow of her neck. She gagged, her stomach heaving. Her eyes watered, blurring her vision, but she could see Etienne rush forward to catch Alphonse.

  Gods, what had she done?

  Alphonse was back. They could get her healed.

  But had it been worth it?

  How much of herself would she have to sell to serve Enyo?

  Delyth backed away from the pair of them, horrified. How would Alphonse ever trust her now? She was meant to protect the girl. Her wings half spread as though to fly, to run away, but she couldn’t just leave them. Not with Alphonse injured. She stood rooted, unable to go forward or back.

  Alphonse was staring down at her hand in horror, her entire body was rigid with pain. Slowly, she looked towards Calamity as if even with Enyo gone, she could hear it calling to her.

  “Put it away!” She gasped, tearing her eyes from the blade and back to her hand. “I need my kit. Etienne?”

  Delyth darted for the sword. That was something she could do, some way she could make this better. She lifted it easily, without thinking to prepare herself for the blade’s bloodlust.

  And then it was on her, and Enyo’s moan was in her ears, and Alphonse’s blood was on her lips.

  She stood frozen, torn so many different ways that she didn’t know how to act, what to do first.

  For a long moment, she stayed that way, still, trembling.

  She took a step towards Alphonse.

  And dropped the blade, the heavy thing thumping into the bare earth of the campsite. With trembling fingers, Delyth pulled off the scabbard, already loose from Alphonse’s quick fingers, and shoved the thing onto Calamity.

  Behind her, Etienne had already rushed off to get the kit, but Alphonse was barely standing, her body swaying from loss of blood. Delyth left the sword where it lay in the scabbard and went to her, to steady her, though the halfbreed’s hands were hesitant from shame.

  “Gods, I’m sorry.” The words came out like a whisper or a groan of pain, and then Etienne was back, the kit grasped in his hands.

  Alphonse settled down on the ground, not seeming to notice that she was sitting in her own blood. Maybe it hadn’t been a choice. “It’s alright. It’s alright,” she mumbled.

  With Etienne back and laying out her kit, Alphonse opened her clenched fingers. Delyth could see bone, exposed white and gleaming amidst the smears of red.

  How had she not felt that?

  ✶

  “I’ll just… I’ll just clean this properly and then… heal it,” Alphonse gulped.

  She was a superb healer.

  Etienne sat at Alphonse’s side, opposite of Delyth. “Yes, exactly,” he told his friend gently. “You know how to deal with this.”

  He put an arm around her shoulders for support, ignoring the trembling warrior on her other side and trying to banish the image of Enyo slicing Alphonse open. Anger lurked in his breast, wild and hot, but he kept the reins on it tight for the moment. He would help Alphonse first, and deal with Delyth later.

  “Take a deep breath. I’m right here. You can do this.”

  Alphonse actually smiled at Etienne.

  It was sad and weak, but she clearly wanted to comfort him as well.

  “I know. Master Delphine said I was very good with cuts…” High praise, ‘very good.’

  With the wound cleane
d, all she had to do was the magic.

  Green light faded from Alphonse’s touch as she sighed, eyes flickering open and closed, open and closed. “My veil,” she murmured as if that were her biggest concern. She was half asleep on her feet as he and Delyth walked with her to her tent.

  The pallet within that tent showed what he had missed.

  Alphonse had never slept. It was neatly made. Enyo must have taken over late in the night, but before Alphonse had gotten to even pull the blankets back.

  ༄

  Delyth stepped out of the tent shakily. The knowledge that Alphonse had been under Enyo’s control the entire night only made the situation feel worse. If she had just thought to check in the night, if she had just woken up earlier, this all might have been prevented.

  Delyth knew that she had been exhausted, that she had fought the sky all the previous morning, but it wasn’t a good excuse.

  It was her job to protect the vassal, to protect Alphonse. And she was starting to understand that seeing them all alive to the temple would mean protecting her from Enyo as well.

  Something she had failed already.

  “This is all your fault.”

  As if echoing her thoughts, Etienne stood trembling with rage in the center of the campsite, still next to the pool of Alphonse’s blood.

  “You gave her the fucking sword. I told you what she would do. I told you she was dangerous.” His blond hair was shoved back from his face, his eyes wild and red-rimmed.

  “I was just doing what I thought I should, what I’d been taught— I—” They were just excuses. And poor ones at that. Delyth should have thought for herself, should have listened to her reservations.

  Etienne was screaming now, his face red with anger, his hand fisted in the shirt over his chest. “You let this happen! You let her hurt Alphonse! You drank Alphonse’s blood. You’re still covered in it!”