Even now, he didn’t know what it was about Irina Archer, Irina Garcia, he told himself bitterly. He just didn’t know. When she walked, he could not help but follow her with his eyes, barely able to turn away. When she spoke to another man, he had to restrain himself from murder. When she lay on their bed, stretched her arms high above her head, arched her back and stared at him, challengingly, invitingly, the corners of her lips quirking, her eyes filled with a crazy light, he melted. He burned, first hot and then cold.
When she went to his father’s bed, or any of the other’s she had taunted him with over the years, or even worse, the Primate’s, he would lock himself in their quarters and desperately seethe, running one insane plan after another through his head. And when she returned, languid and sated, he could barely look at her, filled with loathing both for her and for himself.
“Your father was vigorous tonight.” She grinned at him, brushed the tips of her fingers against his cheek and placed a light, fleeting kiss on his lips. “He is very strong, for such a small man. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going to sleep, now. I’m too tired for anything else.”
She drifted into her bedroom and softly closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock.
He drew a deep breath that was almost a sob. He had reached his limit. He could bear no more. Something would have to be done.
Chapter 24
Something about old, abandoned places fascinated Blake Pierce. The romance of the distant past, perhaps. People had lived here. People had died here. Who were they? What were their lives like? What had happened to them, and to their descendants? What caused this place to be abandoned?
“They weren’t like us,” Davida said. “They lived among the stars. Their lives were filled with glory and wonder.”
Or not, Blake thought. Blake suspected that they had been men and women, not much different than themselves, going about their daily tasks, raising their children, living routine lives. They were sorcerers, or so the story went. Blake didn’t believe it. He had never met a sorcerer.
Here, a black stone wall rose from the grass. There, a stone archway still held the remains of what must have been a doorway, and next to it, a window. After all these centuries, traces of soot still clung to the stones. The fire that had burned the old keep must have been white hot, a towering flame.
Something about the place called to him.
Davida looked at him. “Are you alright?”
“Certainly. Why do you ask?”
“You seemed very far away, all of a sudden.”
Davida’s horse pawed at the ground. Blake’s lowered its head and chomped a tuft of grass.
There, so long ago, a tower rose, high above the trees. Over here, stood a wall, topped with a walkway. He could almost see it. He could see it. On top of the walkway, a young man strolled arm-in-arm with a young woman. He leaned toward her protectively. She smiled and caressed his cheek. The young man grinned and seemed to smile down at Blake.
He blinked.
“I never liked this place,” Davida said.
“No?”
“Too sad.” Davida shook her head. “Too much tragedy.”
Blake shook his head, trying to dispel the vision. “Let’s go, then,” Blake said.
“Yes.” Davida smiled at him. “There’s a grassy clearing, down near the river, where nobody can see us. Would you like me to show you?”
Blake smiled back. “I didn’t think to bring a blanket.”
Davida’s smile grew wider. “I did,” she said.
He came back the next day, by himself. Something drew him to the place, something he could barely feel. He walked his horse in a circle, all around the clearing. Strange, in a way, that the woods had not encroached further. The tree line ended abruptly, then a large field covered with short, thick grass, the sort of grass that invited a man to take his shoes off, dig his toes in, and roll around. He grinned. A childish notion. It had been many years since he had played in the grass.
What was it about this place? Blake had always kept a healthy distance from the dead cities. He had been warned, a part of his training, the earliest lesson that every child learned. If the grass grew sparsely, if the trees grew short and gnarled, if there were few birds or animals about, or even worse, if the birds and animals were smaller than they should be, or misshapen, then keep your distance. You would feel nothing, but over the next few months, your hair would fall out, your muscles would grow weak, your bones would grow fragile and then break. You would die, slowly poisoned by something unseen.
But generations of Montoyas and Montoya retainers had wandered through the old keep and had left unscathed. If there had ever been poison here, it was long gone.
He tied his horse to a branch at the edge of the clearing and wandered inward, toward the center of the circle, clambering over the remains of a wall, then walking through what must have been a room of some sort, covered now with grass.
He let his senses flow, out and down, deep into the Earth.
Five years previous, Blake had been part of a company contracted to defend Sorrentino, one of the city states of Venecia. The assignment had been hopeless. Benedetto Corsi and his Wolves had breached the walls and set fire to the docks. The flames had risen high. Blake had felt them, even from a distance, beating on his senses. The fires had merged and blazed into an inferno, into more energy than he had ever felt or seen in one place. Blake had watched and felt it swirl upward. It was energy that he could feel and grab hold of, and use.
The rest of his company had run, abandoning an obviously hopeless position. Blake had taken hold of this roaring inferno, let it fill his being until he could feel himself almost glow, and then he had released the flames back, right at the invading soldiers.
In the end, nobody quite knew what had happened. A stray wind, perhaps. A trick of fate, but the trap that Corsi had set for the defenders of Sorrentino had caught him and his men, instead.
Corsi had been lucky to escape with his life. It was one of the Wolves very few defeats.
Blake knew enough to keep his own role a secret. He barely knew how he had done it. It had never happened before and it hadn’t happened since…except that now, here, in this old, decrepit place, he could feel something similar to what he had felt that day, some power stirring, deep beneath the Earth.
“I thought I would find you here.”
Blake recognized the voice. He turned, his heart sinking. Thierry Jorge Garcia stood in front of him, armored, holding a sword and a knife.
“Men talk, you know,” Thierry said, “to strangers in taverns, in the beds of women they are trying to impress.” Thierry shrugged. “The Garcia family has many ways to gather information. It’s our stock in trade, more valuable even than gold.” He grinned.
Thierry held his sword and dagger almost loosely, as if barely aware that they were in his hands. Blake sighed. Thierry’s smile was strange and entirely without mirth.
Blake had seen combat many times, in many places. Thierry had the look of a man who had decided on his course of action, a look that said nothing was going to change his mind. “Tell me more,” Blake said.
Thierry grimaced. For a moment, he looked away. “Personally,” Thierry said, “I hold you no ill-will. It’s merely that my wife has been asking about you. I know what happens when my wife asks about a man. I’m tired of seeing it.” He shrugged. “I am no longer willing to put up with it.”
“Irina,” Blake said, and immediately wished he hadn’t, because Thierry’s lips thinned back, his face flushed red and he gripped his sword and dagger tightly.
Blake Pierce had no wish to fight Thierry Jorge Garcia—none at all, but it appeared that he would not be given a choice. Fighting is so often not a matter of choice. Someone had said that to him, long ago. When you are attacked, you fight back, or you die.
He yanked his own sword and dagger from their scabbards as Thierry charged. Their swords met in a quick thrust and parry, then another thrust, parry, riposte and parry. Thier
ry took a step back, eyes narrowed, and launched an overhead sweep, his opposite arm coming up with the dagger. Blake turned, leaned away from the dagger, deflected Thierry’s sword with his own, feinted left and aimed a kick at Thierry’s right knee.
Thierry spun away.
He was fast, as fast as any man Blake had ever fought.
“You don’t have to do this,” Blake said. “I have no interest in Irina Garcia.”
Thierry laughed softly. “This is irrelevant. It is enough that she has an interest in you.”
Beneath the earth, Blake felt a stirring, as if some being long asleep had suddenly come awake.
“My wife…” Thierry sighed. A pained expression crossed his face. “She is a woman who obtains what she desires. I find that this situation is no longer acceptable to me.”
“Then why don’t you take it up with her?”
“Oh, I intend to.” Thierry smiled ferociously. “I intend to present her with your head in a box, and when I do so, I shall inform her that her behavior has had consequences she did not foresee, and that if she persists in this behavior, there will be further such consequences. She won’t like those consequences.”
What was that? He felt it watching.
“You seem to have thought this all out,” Blake said.
“Yes,” Thierry said. “I have.” He attacked, his weapons a blur. An overhead slash was met with a parry, then a lunge, a feint and a reversal, all so quick they could barely be seen. Blake had trained and fought with the best, for many years now. He was very, very good, and he knew it, but he realized quickly that he was not as good with a blade as Thierry Garcia. Within seconds, he was bleeding from a slash on his shoulder, then another on his left arm. Thierry was not unscathed. Blake had managed to penetrate his guard at least once. Thierry was favoring his right knee, but Thierry’s injuries were not as serious as Blake’s.
What is this? A voice whispered in his awareness.
Who are you? Blake thought. What are you?
I am the central intelligence assigned to coordinate the activities of this complex.
Thierry thrust his blade at Blake’s face. Blake barely managed to parry. Then again, and again.
Energy surged beneath his feet. Frantic, Blake reached for it…but he couldn’t quite grasp it. It was beyond him, guarded somehow.
You must provide the proper codes before accessing the available resources of this installation.
Fuck me, Blake thought.
“Fuck me” is not a proper code.
A rock rose from the edge of the circle. Thierry grinned and made a gesture with the hand holding his dagger. The rock flew at Blake’s head. Blake deflected it with a push of his mind.
The day was warm. Nearby, the river flowed its winding way down to the sea, the breeze was blowing, the sun shining brightly. All these things contained energy. Energy was everywhere. The energy lurking beneath his feet would have made it all so very easy, but Blake Pierce had always been strong at the weaving of soul-stuff. He didn’t need it.
Another rock flew at Blake’s head. Blake grabbed the rock and flung it back. Five rocks rose, then ten. They spun around Blake’s head. Thierry’s eyes grew wide.
Blake gestured. All ten rocks flew toward Thierry. Five, Thierry managed to deflect. He dodged another three. Two struck him, one on his shoulder, one on his head. Thierry swayed, a trickle of blood dripping down his forehead.
Thierry’s lips pulled back in a snarl. Five rocks rose and circled him. Ten more rose and flew in a complex pattern around Blake.
“You’re strong,” Thierry whispered. He made a hoarse, grunting sound, gestured with his blade and suddenly, the five rocks that he held flew toward Blake. All five collided with the rocks spinning around Blake and shattered into small stones, and then all these fragments of rock and dust turned and flew back toward Thierry and rained down on his head. Thierry staggered, flailing, his blades swinging wildly, his vision obscured.
Blake could see clearly while Thierry could not. He swept silently in and thrust. His sword pierced Thierry’s chest. The dust, the stones and all the rocks fell with a clatter at their feet. Thierry stood still, a thin, ironic smile on his face. “Life is full of little surprises,” he said, then he crumbled to the earth.
Blake looked down at him. Thierry stared back. He had given no quarter and he expected none in return. Thierry Jorge Garcia was dying as he had lived. No apologies.
Blake sighed. “I’m Terence Sergei Allen,” he said, “speaking of surprises.”
Thierry stared at him, then silently laughed. “That stupid boy Irina was engaged to?”
“Yes. That one.”
“You were supposed to be dead.”
“Well, I’m not.”
Thierry took a gasping breath and coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “This is the second time you’ve defeated me. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.” Something that might have been a smile crossed over his face. “If they ask for me tomorrow, they shall find me a grave man.”
“It didn’t have to end this way,” Blake said, feeling the futility of the words even as he said them. “I’m sorry it did.
Thierry shook his head, grimacing. “Each of us is the hero of our own story. I made my choices. None of them are your fault.”
Blake Pierce, who was no longer the indolent young man he once had been, knew very well that choices often lead to consequences that we do not intend. None of what had happened between the two of them was written in the stars. It wasn’t destiny, and despite Thierry’s words, it wasn’t all his own fault, not by any means. A series of decisions by both men, most of them stupid and self-indulgent, had led them here, today.
“And now, you can have her,” Thierry said, “if you still want her.” He smiled again. “But you will have to share her with others.”
“I think,” Blake said carefully, “that I shall do my very best to stay as far away from Irina Garcia as I possibly can.”
“Wise,” Thierry said. He coughed again, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth. He sighed, the breath catching in his throat, and then his body trembled and seemed to slump down and grow smaller. Thierry Jorge Garcia was dead.
“I see that humanity has changed very little since I was last activated.”
“Probably not,” Blake said. “And now that you’ve been activated, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” the voice said. “All of us must do as we are programmed. I was instructed to observe, and do nothing, unless and until I am presented with the proper codes.”
“And what would you do if I were to give you the proper codes?”
“I would grant you access to the resources of this installation and instruct you in their use.”
Energy…a vast pool of energy lurked beneath his feet. “How can I find these codes?”
“That information is restricted.”
“Naturally,” Blake muttered.
He considered burying Thierry, deep in the woods, where his body would never be found, but decided instead to strap him onto his horse and send the horse galloping down the road, far from Miramar and Lord Montoya’s lands. He would soon be discovered, his family left in no doubt as to his fate. The cause of death would be obvious but there was nothing to connect his murder, if murder it was, to Blake Pierce.
He hoped.
Thierry had been the heir to a family that hoarded its secrets. It seemed doubtful that he would have spoken of his plans to waylay and assassinate a poor retainer of a minor house…and if he had, well, the blood feud against Terence Sergei Allen had still been in effect, though none now knew it. If needed, this fact should protect him.
The death of Thierry Jorge Garcia caused a stir. People spoke of little else for the next few days. The cause was obvious, the perpetrator, a mystery. No one questioned Blake. After a few days, he breathed a bit easier.
On the third day after Thierry’s death, a priest arrived at the gates of Miramar. He carried a message for Blake Pierce.
The message was coded. When deciphered, it informed him that a man named Albert Erasmus, in the nation of Juno, was said to be experimenting with forbidden technologies. If Blake accepted the Viceroy’s request, he was to make his way to Juno, investigate Albert Erasmus and deal with the situation as he saw fit.
Blake sighed. Juno was skirmishing with Trebizond. Juno had a new and untried King. Trebizond sensed an opportunity. Juno was hiring men. Blake knew this. He made it his business to know such things.
He thought about Irina Garcia, and he thought even more about Davida Montoya. He was not eager to leave Fomaut at this time, but it might be prudent. Thierry Garcia was dead, but Irina had seen…something, and Thierry’s father was not a man to be dealt with lightly.
That evening, he spoke with Emilio Montoya.
“I would hate to see you go,” Lord Montoya said. “You’ve done an excellent job.”
“Tell me,” Blake said. “If I were to ask you for your daughter’s hand, what would you say?”
Lord Montoya hesitated, frowned and looked away.
“I think you’ve given me your answer,” Blake said.
Lord Montoya sighed. “Despite the high regard that I have for you, you would bring nothing to such a union aside from your own, very competent self. I would not encourage it, but Davida will make her own decisions.”
Blake Pierce could have a comfortable life as an officer in Lord Montoya’s employ, but the higher reaches of society were reserved for those with land and much more money than Blake could ever make as a member of Miramar’s guard.
“I plan on founding my own company,” Blake said. “Once I’ve done that, my situation may be different.”
Blake could almost see the wheels turning in Lord Montoya’s head. “In that case, I wish you well.”
He spent the night with Davida. Neither of them spoke of the future, not until the sun first broke over the horizon. “I’ll miss you,” Davida said.
The Towering Flame Page 18
