by Ellyn, Court
If he and Lasharia met at night, they risked no more than candlelight, even though the windows were high and narrow. Thankfully the walls were thick and the room high enough that none heard her music. He hoped she would bring her harp today. He needed the soothing notes of her song.
He drained two tumblers and fell into a sorry mood. She wasn’t coming. He needed her, and she wasn’t coming. What the hell was keeping her?
About the time he’d given up hope and was about to douse the fire, a clammy breeze stinking of blood and loud with screams swept through the cell. Lasharia dived through the portal and turned back still slashing with a blooded sword. Red-eyed, gray-green monsters closed the gap behind her, turned to engage a bellowing enemy Valryk couldn’t see, and the portal rumbled shut.
Lasharia stood in the middle of the room wearing black armor dripping with blood. Blood stained her hair and smeared her face. “Bad timing, Your Highness.”
“What’s happened? Who are you fighting?”
“Enemies, who else?” He’d never seen her in anything but soft, flowing gowns. The edge in her eye and the steel in her voice were alien to him.
“Let me help you! I can fight.”
“No, it’s our war.” She tugged a cloth from inside her chest plate and slid the blade through it. The sword glistened more like silver than steel. It sang a crystalline note as she slid it into the scabbard.
“What were those creatures?”
“Our infantry. I’m not at liberty to say more than that.”
“That’s unfair. I tell you everything.”
“I would tell you if I weren’t ordered to silence. Would you have me disobey my captain’s orders?”
Valryk hated it when she reasoned with him like a second mother. “But what war?”
Lasharia unbuckled the chest plate, ducked out of it, and stretched her shoulders. “Oh, it’s been going on since you were a baby, Highness, in deep holes where humans do not tread, so don’t trouble yourself with it.”
“But—”
“Valryk, you are helping me. Every time you summon me, every time we speak, you are helping me. Only if we’re unlucky will you have to fight beside me. You don’t want that, not really.” The stench of dead animals swirled around her like a noxious cloud; her boots left smears of blood-tinged mud on the wooden floor. “Mind if I get cleaned up?” She headed for the pump room in the center of the tower and heated her own water in the cauldron over the fire. She was adept at living with only the necessities. Came from being a soldier, Valryk supposed.
She disappeared behind the wooden screen and swished around in the tub. Valryk poured himself another drink and examined her armor. He’d never seen anything like it. So lightweight, and though it had been bloodied in action, the metal was virtually unscarred. Harps and leafy swirls were molded into the plate, and the black enamelwork was the best he’d encountered.
She rejoined him wearing a fur-lined dressing robe. It was too short for her in the sleeves and hem, but she made it look beautiful. The scents of soap and sandalwood accompanied her. Sliding into her armchair, she sighed. “A relief to be out of there. I told the captain the passages were too narrow, but one does what one must.”
Valryk offered her a glass of brandy. “Will your captain be angry that you abandoned him in the middle of a fight?”
She sipped, eyes closed. “He gave me leave.”
In the middle of a shrieking, bloody battle? “Things must’ve been going your way then.”
Her smile was almost sleepy. “Yes. It’s been several days since we spoke, hasn’t it? Tell me your troubles, Highness.”
“My troubles seem small compared to yours.”
“Nonsense. That was just a bit of cleaning up, really. Talk to me.”
Groaning, he collapsed into the chair opposite her. “I made an arse of myself today.”
Lasharia’s eyebrows darted up, and she chuckled. “Oh? How so?”
He told her about the order he’d given the garrison soldiers and what Kelyn did in response. “He said both honor and dignity are more important than a man’s life. Do you think so?”
“Hnh, I didn’t think humans knew what honor and dignity were. Interesting.”
“Of course, we do. That’s why his words stung. Those men are a disgrace on their own. I was just showing them.”
“You did the right thing.”
“You think so?”
“Certainly. And it isn’t right for a mere lord to upbraid you for it.”
Yes, she always made him feel better. “I could blame the whole incident on my father in the first place. He overlooked me again, and I got angry.”
Lasharia leaned forward, laid her fingers lightly on the back of his hand. “The king needs you. For an heir. But perhaps he doesn’t love you. So what? It’s no fault of yours, my prince.”
For years Lasharia had encouraged him to keep trying, earn his father’s love, but Valryk had come to her conclusion long ago. He was wasting his time. “I told myself I wouldn’t let it bother me anymore, but today, ugh, jealousy hit me upside the head. I took it out on those slobs and I shouldn’t have, but Goddess! It’s Kelyn he loves, always Kelyn. He knows he can get away with anything because my father will back him. I can’t even complain to a higher authority about it. My mother will just say, ‘Get along with the War Commander. He’s a good teacher.’ Of course he is, but I can’t stand it! He should’ve been my father’s son. I know that’s Father’s wish, too.”
The wheels in Lasharia’s head turned. She frowned. “There’s no chance your father could name the War Commander his heir, is there?”
“No, Mother wouldn’t stand for it. She likes Kelyn, but she’d see him banished first. You see? I’ve spoken to her about this many times, and there’s nothing I can do.”
Lasharia propped her chin on her knuckles. “You’ve told me so little about the War Commander. What’s he like? You make him sound like an arrogant, unbearable man.”
“Then I give you false impressions. He’s neither of those things. He just … he takes liberties. Because Father adores him, he’s forgotten his place. One can’t win against him. Nothing, never. Not chess, not swordplay, not political maneuvering. The man doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Oh, Valryk, every man makes mistakes. It’s just a matter of catching him at the right time. What’s his weakness?”
“He doesn’t have one, Lasharia, I’m telling you. Not women or wine or pride or rage.”
Lasharia drummed her fingers irritably. “Did you ever think that loyalty could be a weakness? Or honor or obedience? His mistake is not vying for the favor of the king who will follow your father. Your father will not live forever, as we all know, and then where will Lord Ilswythe be?”
She pushed herself out of the chair, letting the implications hover around them as stifling as fog. At the table near the fireplace she poured herself another brandy. “Has he taught you tactics? His favorite maneuvers?” She perched lightly on the edge of the table and swirled her glass.
Valryk was too rattled to answer. At last he cleared his throat and replied, “No, I have tutors for that. All the battles of the last umpteen wars against Fiera have been documented. Makes for an ugly stack of books. He’s taught his son, though. Kethlyn gets excited about all that, but it’s a bore. I’m sure he’ll be the next War Commander.”
“Your War Commander, Highness.” Her smile was impish and delectable.
“Yes, but Father’s efforts have all but ensured there won’t be a war in my lifetime, so why bother with it?”
“One can’t foretell the future, Highness, unless one knows where all the pieces are.”
“What do you mean? You refer to the war your people are fighting?”
She drained the glass in one long gulp. “Your father doesn’t know everything. He can’t prepare for every possibility, not even with his precious Kelyn’s help. Study those books, Highness, Lord Ilswythe’s tactics especially, and keep his son close. They may come in handy one day.
” She set aside the glass and hurried toward the ornate screen where she’d laid out her bloodstained underclothes.
Valryk surged from the chair. “Where are you going? Don’t go.”
“I have to.” She tossed the robe over the screen. Between the folding sections, Valryk glimpsed pale, luminous skin. “You saw what was happening in the tunnels. It’s a wonder I had permission to visit you at all. I have to see if my people made it out.” She appeared again in a padded doublet, leather trousers, and tall black boots with the sword buckled about her waist. She stooped for the chest plate.
Valryk touched her shoulder. “Come again tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I can.” Seeing his disappointment, she raised a hand, touched his face. “I’ll try. But soldiers …” The pressure of his lips on her palm stopped her.
“Stay,” he said.
Her eyes closed and she swallowed hard. Her breath came short and fast, and she made a feeble attempt to free her hand. She stood as unyielding as a post when he kissed her on the mouth, as if she were suddenly afraid of him. A tiny whimper escaped her throat, and her fingers clenched onto his sleeve. They let go, and she backed away. “You confuse me, dwínovë.” She seized her armor from the floor and fled, slamming the door in his face.
By the time Valryk entered the corridor, Lasharia was gone, a dark portal sealing shut behind her.
He floated through the rest of the day. His mother’s complaints about missing his teatime appointment and his father’s tirade about treating soldiers with respect both faded to a dull drone. All that mattered was the touch of Lasharia’s hand, the silken softness of her lips. He had kissed her! Something he had longed to do for years. Had to have been the liquor that dulled his fear. If only she had kissed him back, but he had to remember that Lasharia wasn’t a swooning girl, no matter how young she looked.
His cousins from Lunélion joined the royal family at the high table that evening and kept a lively conversation. They sought the king’s aid for something or other that Valryk wasn’t privy to. He hoped it wasn’t a marriage proposal between him and Lady Genna’s daughter. Were second cousins off limits or not? He couldn’t remember the details of that bloody law. Cousin Carah was far more appealing, but she happened to be Kelyn’s daughter, and that wouldn’t do. Lady Genna and her mother, the Princess Mazél, invited him for drinks and music after supper; duty didn’t let him refuse, but he didn’t linger long either, pleading the classic headache.
All he wanted to do was lay on his couch and dream of Lasharia. He fell asleep before a crackling fire with her song swirling in his head.
Someone whispered his name. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or not. She stood over him, and she wore not one stitch of clothing. The fire had died to embers; red light turned her skin to rubies and moonlight. His breath caught in his throat. Kneeling beside him, she pressed her fingers to his mouth. “You confuse me,” she whispered, then kissed him hard and long and left not one of his dreams unfulfilled.
~~~~
13
… and the fay children disappeared in droves, like the stars at dawn, and none could find them.
—Tales of the Millennial War
Spring was the season to gather the oysters off the shores of Rávalin. Rhian kicked against the vast, rolling current, his lungs tight with the sea wind, his hand clutching a creel basket woven from sturdy reeds. The deeper he dived, the dimmer the light, the quieter the churning of the waves, the colder the weight of the ocean pressing down on him. Rhian felt at home nowhere else.
He could dive deeper than the other pearl fishers who worked for old Captain Sea Bones. Rhian’s father had been able to do the same, though none could explain why their eardrums didn’t explode or how they survived so long on a single gulp of air. Kin to seals and crabs, Sea Bones said. Son of the sea, Rhian’s mother said.
Likely they were right, he decided. What else accounted for it? The skill had made his father wealthy. Sea Bones, too. But the debt collectors and gambling halls lining the back streets swept all that wealth away. Rhian had never seen more than a handful of silver in his life, none of it his. To him, riches were like a lighthouse in a distant cove, impossible to reach unless one had the proper vessel. The boat he used every day leaked.
His free hand gripped the jagged rim of a sea-battered shelf and anchored himself against the pull of the tide. Beyond a silver cloud of swirling fish stretched a sandy bed strewn with clusters of oysters. With a powerful kick, Rhian propelled himself over the shelf. His hands worked quickly, deftly, sweeping up the mollusks and tucking them into the creel.
A long black eel slid out of the depths. Rhian pulled his outstretched hand close to his chest to avoid a sting. Though most eels were passive, preferring to hide among the rocks, black eels had earned a nastier reputation. They swam deliberately into anything that moved, testing whether their sting paralyzed something delicate and small enough to eat.
Rhian watched the eel disappear into the rocks before he resumed his task. Fishers sometimes panicked and drowned when they allowed their minds to consider the dangers gliding in the waters around them. Sharks hunted in the shallows, octopuses reached from holes under the rocks, jellyfish swarmed in invisible clouds, and sea serpents ruled the deeper waters, often rising to investigate the smallest hint of blood. These were just the animal perils. Fishers had to consider tangling seaweed, rip tides, squalls blowing in from nowhere, as well as their own misjudgment in depth, breath, and skill.
Rhian preferred to imagine that any but the latter had claimed his father. He’d been only ten years old when his father promised Sea Bones he would bring up the greatest lode yet. He had surfaced, but three days later, bobbing face down and bloated with brine. Ryrden had been the best of the pearl fishers, but Rhian learned that not even heroes are immortal.
Just as his lungs began to burn, Rhian found the prize of the day. An oyster the width of his splayed fingers hid in a deep crevice between boulders. If it had a pearl, it might be the size of a bird’s egg. Bones would be happy. Rhian reached, but the oyster lay another arm’s length past his fingers. He pulled a long-handled rake from his belt, all he wore when he dived, and slid it into the crevice. The curled iron tines would cradle the oyster and bring the prize to him.
A shadow glided past, blocking the sunlight, and pulled the sea in a mighty rush around him. He cried out, vital breath rushing skyward in fat bubbles. The rake slipped from his fingers. He prepared to duck under the rocks when the shadow swam by again. A large, liquid eye appraised him, and a flipper churned the water in his face. Rhian recognized the sleek shape of a seal. He relaxed and looked for others, but this female swam alone and seemed unafraid of the human in her realm. Rhian stretched up a hand, and the seal slid past his fingers.
You temptress, he thought, smiling. It’s to the bottom you’d take me if I let you.
The seal paused in her frolicking, and the direct contact of her eyes became uncannily humanlike.
To the sunrise go, Rhian heard. Dizziness shook him as if a wave flipped him upside down, and he feared he must be drowning. Forgetting the rake and the giant oyster, he gripped the heavy basket under his arm and lunged for the dancing light of the surface.
Sunrise, he heard again. Deep blue spread beneath his toes and swallowed all sign of the seal.
He burst into the sunlight, sputtering and coughing. Pressing brine from his eyes, he rolled onto his back gulping air.
“I’s beginning to worry ‘bout ya, lad,” Captain Sea Bones called. Oars struck the sea, whisking the skiff closer. The old man lowered a brown, wizened hand and dragged Rhian into his boat. Bones had spent all his adult life at sea, first aboard a pirate ship, sailing to every corner of the continent; then aboard his own Harlot’s Hand. The skiff was no ship, but she was aptly named, he said: she provided a man days of boating pleasure but consumed all his silver in the end. True, she was in continual need of repairs.
Bones looked sturdier than his boat
. His limbs were as wiry and scrawny as knotted ropes, and despite the amount of food he devoured, they never fleshed out. He had a healthy paunch bulging under his jacket, however.
That jacket had once been a thigh-length pea coat from his pirating days, but he’d long since cut it to his waist and ripped off its sleeves. Ridiculous red-and-white striped hose banded his calves under short canvas pantaloons. The only shoes he owned were boots so old and ill-kept that the leather curled away from the soles. On his balding head, he wore a red bandana and a wide brimmed hat to shield a hook nose and a jutting chin. His sunned skin was as tough as old leather and as uncomely as the battered sea rocks.
To be so ugly would be a relief, at least in Rhian’s estimate. Eyes naturally gravitated to the fine symmetry of his face. His olive skin kept its tan throughout winter, and despite being well into his nineteenth year, his cheeks remained as smooth as a boy’s. He was taller than anyone he knew, with broad swimmer’s shoulders and arms and legs made powerful by his daily dives. His dark hair bleached to sandy brown every summer, and he let it hang in his face to cover his eyes. Goddess’ mercy, he hated his eyes. Everybody he knew had green or brown eyes, but his were aquamarine. His father’s had been similar, but Rhian didn’t remember them being quite so bright and electrifying and obvious. Bones said the only other time he’d witnessed that color in nature was when he’d sailed to the Zephiryn Islands in the Othial Sea, where tropical waters were the purest in the world. Whenever Rhian met a stranger’s gaze, his eyes seemed to startle them. He’d grown accustomed to the reaction long ago, but he still feared his eyes would give him away: his grandmother Raysa, his father’s mother, had been avedra.
He laid in the bottom of the skiff in six inches of rancid brine, rejoicing in the touch of the sun on his eyelids.
