by Giles Carwyn
Natshea’s smile faded, and she turned her head away. She stood up, licking her lips as she glanced at the door. He smelled the fear, acrid and desperate.
That’s it, Jesheks thought. That was the little girl he was looking for.
Her nostrils flared, and she breathed harder. Her hand twitched. She glanced back at him, fury in her eyes. In that delicious instant, Jesheks did not know whether she would slash him with her sword or do as he had bid.
Her hands moved like lightning, attacking the belt with fervor. The long-sword dropped to the deck. Her breathing came hard as she pulled the tunic over her head, revealing small, round breasts. She pulled her boots off one at a time, gracefully standing on one leg for each. But her nostrils worked like a lathered horse as she paused, her fingers at the laces of her breeches.
Jesheks said nothing. His gaze stayed on her eyes.
“What if someone comes in?” she asked.
“Then someone does.”
“I cannot—”
“There are many things that you cannot. I am ascertaining what you can.”
Swallowing, she undid the laces slowly, fingers shaking. “I have…” she started to say, her voice raw. “There are…” she tried again, breathing heavily over her words as her fingers paused. “I was not prepared for this.”
“I know. Continue.”
With a shiver, she pushed the tight breeches down her legs and stepped out of them. She turned her head sideways, as though she were a slave offering herself for inspection.
She had the caramel skin of the Summermen, and her long limbs were perfectly shaped, the softness of youth combined with the muscles of a warrior. Jesheks let his gaze linger on every part of her. Her flat stomach was graced with the tiny nub of a protruding belly button. Below her navel, Jesheks paused. Her curly, black pubic hair shadowed the space between her legs. The insides of her thighs were covered with scars, two columns of perfect, inch-long marks stacked one above the other.
Her hands clutched the outside of her legs, as she forced herself not to hide the self-inflicted wounds the way a modest woman might long to cover her breasts.
Ah, my pretty duelist. Don’t you realize why you were chosen? Pain is no stranger to you. It has been your master for many years. We will make it your servant.
“Please join me in the tub.” Jesheks nodded toward the water.
Natshea’s jaw muscles worked, but she did not hesitate again. She dipped one long, slender leg in the water, gracefully shifted her weight and submerged the other, sitting opposite him. The waterline rose up her long body to just beneath her small breasts. Inevitably, her gaze was drawn to the place between his legs.
Jesheks’s belly had grown so large that he hadn’t seen the remnants of his genitals in years, but he remembered that sloppy, puckered scar in exquisite detail.
She settled into the water. Her wide gaze locked on his eyes, and he studied her.
“Why are you frightened?” he asked.
“Because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
He nodded, smiling. Her honesty did her honor.
“You realize,” he said, “that the moment you fear, the moment you long for, is never going to happen.”
Her gaze flicked to the ragged flap of skin between his legs, then back to his face. “No, of course not.”
“I have no sexual feelings for you whatsoever.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said, and her lips pressed more firmly together.
“Yet it hurts you when I say it.”
She swallowed, nodded. “Yes, it does.”
Jesheks let the awkward silence fall, looking deep into her gray eyes, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he spoke.
“If you have a question, ask it.”
“How did it happen to you?”
“Ah, through pain, my lovely duelist. Through the burning threshold that brings us into the world and takes us out, and governs every wisp of air in between.” He drew a deep breath. “My parents’ identities are a mystery I’ve never been able to unravel,” he began. “I suspect I was born in Upper Kherif shortly after the civil war, very likely a product of a soldier’s brutal desire.”
He paused, watching her expression, then shrugged. “Because of my unusual appearance, I was sold at birth to a traveling merchant who dealt in exotic animals. Not long after, the merchant’s caravan was raided by a petty warlord who called himself the King of Upper Kherif. At that time, there were many brigands who claimed that title, and this man was no different.
“The brigand’s men were horrified when they saw me, a tiny white infant with red eyes. They were ready to kill me, but the king’s witch stepped forward. She claimed that I was a ghost child who could confer power over life and death and was not to be killed. She promised the king I would make a fearsome bodyguard one day. No other man could boast a ghost warrior to protect his tents.”
Jesheks paused, spread his white hands along the top of the water. “So you see? I was saved by fear and superstition at the earliest moment of my life. Of course, the king was not easily convinced, but he certainly saw the effect I had on his men. Eventually, he listened to the witch’s words…along with certain other persuasions that women have used upon men since the beginning of time.” Jesheks smiled.
“I have no memory of that woman. Fever took her when I was still a baby, but I was later told that she had lost her own child and that she nursed me from her own breast. Still, even after she was gone, her words lingered in the mind of the king. I was allowed to live, thrive even, in the band of raiders. I was treated no better and no worse than any other child who is raised among violent men. My duty lay in standing next to the king whenever he entertained guests, staring into the eyes of strangers until they grew frightened and looked away.
“This life ended shortly after one of the king’s raids. He returned wounded, with a deep gash in his leg. Despite the care of his witches and healers, the wound began to fester. In his delirium, he threatened to kill them all if they did not find a cure. I clearly remember the king pointing an accusing finger at me, screaming that I was supposed to give him power over life and death.”
Jesheks shrugged. “They were all terrified, the king was not known for making idle threats. So one of the witch women spoke a benighted lie. She said the king must take the strength of the ghost for his own. She promised that if he cut off my genitals and burned them, he could cheat death, and his wound would be healed by morning.
“The king leapt upon me, pinning my chest under his knee. He drew a dagger and cut my genitals off with three clumsy slashes.”
Natshea’s hand had tightened on the edge of the tub, her knuckles white.
Jesheks blinked lazily. “The king died that night, screaming in a fever, my burnt cock in his hand. His last command sealed the fate of the witch women who had counseled him. They were slain at dawn.”
“And you?” Natshea asked.
“My life began again that next morning.”
Jesheks looked into her eyes, seeing thoughts of her own childhood swirling there.
“What did you learn from my little story?” he asked.
“That we are very similar, you and I.”
“Perhaps. Before we go any further, though, I need to know why you came back to me.”
She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.
“Are you in love with me?”
She didn’t answer.
“You are in love with me,” he said, nodding. “I hurt you, and you love me. Why is that?”
Natshea wetted her lips with her tongue, frowning as she searched for the answer. “I…” she started, “I’ve seen the power you wield. If pain is the path to greatness, I would gladly walk that path to the end.”
“Why? What do you need that much power for? What do you intend to do with it?”
“I have my reasons.”
“I’ve found that those who hoard food were once very hungry. And those who
hunger for power were once helpless.”
She flinched, broke gazes with him.
“Who hurt you?” he asked softly. “Where did he hurt you?”
Her jaw clenched, but she did not answer.
“Did he hurt you there?” Beneath the water, his foot shifted, and he touched her cunt with his toe.
With a violent splash, she leapt from the tub, spraying water everywhere. Momentarily blinded, Jesheks calmly blinked the droplets away. He wiped a fat finger across his eyelids and opened them. Natshea leveled her sword at his face. She stood, quivering like a drowned cat, her flesh raised with goose pimples.
“Never…” she whispered lethally. “Never do that.”
“Who made you hate being touched there?” he asked calmly, ignoring the sword.
“I’m not going to talk about that.”
“But you must. Shame. Fear. Doubt. These are all walls between you and your power. Your pain must move through you. Your anger must move through you. Don’t run from them. Relish them. If you deny your pain, if you run from it rather than embracing it, you become its victim instead of its master.”
She shook her head. “You lie. You’re trying to own me just like…You’re trying to use me.”
Jesheks looked at her kindly. “Don’t you see how close you are?” he whispered. “Look at those scars on your legs.” He nodded at them.
Her implacable visage softened, and her lip trembled. Her free hand went to the insides of her thighs, brushing the dozens of white, raised lines.
“How many nights have you spent with a blade? Learning. Growing. Finding your power.”
Her sword drooped, the point touching the ground next to her naked toes.
“Go ahead,” he urged in a conspiratorial whisper. “Make the cut. Feel it.”
The blade rose between her legs, touched the inside of her thigh. She took a deep breath and let it out in a long shudder as she dragged the blade forward. Skin split. Blood wet the blade.
“You are so close, my child. So close to discovering what is on the far side of your pain.”
She nodded, mesmerized by the streaks of blood crawling slowly down her leg.
“Let’s take that step together and find out what’s on the far side.”
“What do I have to do?” she asked, her voice thick. Her shoulders curled forward slightly, relaxing.
“Look at me. Look into my eyes. There, that’s right. Now climb back into the tub and tell me. Tell me everything.”
She crouched and set her blade gently on the floor. Taking measured steps toward the tub, she lifted her legs and joined him once again in the hot water.
“Was it your father? Did he hurt you this way?”
“No.” She shook her head.
He waited patiently for her to gather her courage. The old wounds were the hardest to reopen. The old blood was the most reluctant to flow.
“The dueling master who taught me as a small child,” she finally said.
“Just tell me what happened.”
“He enjoyed it. I know he enjoyed it. The punishments. The beatings. For stupidity, clumsiness, laziness. He did it with all of his students, but especially with me. Especially with me.” She took a deep breath. “I gave him little reasons, little excuses, and he took them. He took every one.”
She shuddered and continued with her tale.
Hours later, Natshea stood at his open door, utterly exhausted but with eyes filled with love. She had shared her story with him, a tale no greater or lesser than any other, and very similar to his own. He had responded by giving her a task that would propel her into the very heart of her pain.
“Remember,” he told her, as she hovered in the doorway, terrified to leave. “A slave to pain responds with hatred. A master responds to it any way she chooses. You have been given a gift, an endless well of power to draw from. You must make that pain your own. Use it. Learn to wield it like the blade you carry at your side.”
She nodded slowly, lost in the darkness, doubting the light waiting before her.
“Prepare yourself. Our lord will have need of you soon, but you can leave just after your next duel. Do as I say, and you will soon find yourself in an entirely new world,” he said, sending her the encouragement she sought.
She smiled, feeding on his ani. With a deft snatch, she pulled the dagger from the doorjamb and sheathed it, closing the door behind her.
Jesheks felt a twinge of sadness at her departure. The task was probably beyond her. A true Necani master was one in a million. Jesheks let out a long breath. But he would keep cracking open oysters until he found that pearl.
And yet what a delight it would be if this one actually succeeded in her task. Perhaps she would eventually try to kill him just as he had killed his own master. Wouldn’t that prove interesting?
Setting the future aside, Jesheks turned back to the present moment. He carefully lifted the lid of the driftwood box and withdrew the only red scorpion that had survived. Leaning back in the cooling water, he let the creature crawl back and forth across his hands.
Necani was a difficult form of magic to master. If Jesheks was to expand his art, he had to continually push himself beyond his own limits. But it was so difficult to treat the mind to greater and greater ecstasies of pain without destroying the body in the process.
The agony caused by this scorpion’s sting was legendary. By all reports, the venom caused a wound to swell so fast the skin burst, and the muscles ripped themselves off the bone.
The flush of power grew within his body, a cold sweat seeped onto his forehead. He sucked the fear back into himself and embraced it.
He picked the creature up by the tail. Its stinger twitched between his fingers, searching for something to strike.
His heart pounded, blood rushed in his veins, and Jesheks considered where to let the wriggling little creature land its strike. Perhaps the nipple?
He brought the scorpion to his chest, letting its pincers latch on to his pale skin. He began to close his eyes, then stopped.
No.
Pulling the scorpion from his chest, he opened his mouth and let it crawl inside. His body shivered. Its tiny feet skittered across his tongue.
And slowly, ever so slowly, he bit down.
CHAPTER 15
Ossamyr leaned back in the little sailboat as Reef steered across the glassy sea. For the hundredth time, she looked at the bevel-edged bottle of Siren’s Blood she was supposed to drink. Multicolored lights swirled through the bottle as she held it up to the afternoon sun. The mythical wine would have made an extravagant addition to any wealthy merchant’s dayroom, splashing swirling rainbows across the painted walls and exotic carpets.
“I’ve had Siren’s Blood before,” Ossamyr said. “Phandir served it at our wedding.”
Reef watched her with his golden eyes. Strangely, over the last few days she had spent with him, she had become fond of that gaze. When she had first met him, his strange eyes held only menace. But considering the price this man paid for his beliefs, it was easy to see why he was so fierce with strangers. Now that she had been to the other side, his gaze made her feel safe. Reef was like a shield between you and your enemies. He would stop at nothing to protect you.
“That wasn’t Siren’s Blood,” the Islander said, leaning on the tiller as his little ship cut through the water.
She turned a wry smile on him. “Wasn’t it?”
“You had the Gold Islanders’ brew.” He flicked his head to the side, spitting over the side of the ship, then looked back at her. “Brewed for profit, spilled for coin. They brew their swill from a long-dead strain of Siren’s Blood that lost the spark of truth years ago. The lights in their wine are extracted from unhatched songbirds. But the lights in that bottle are the souls of the fallen, the life essence of those destroyed by Efften. It is their story you will hear.”
“So I’m drinking stale dead people?” She arched an eyebrow.
Reef grunted. “Your jokes are the voice of your fear.”
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Ossamyr snorted. “Well, you’ve given me every reason to be afraid, with all your veiled threats and dire predictions.”
She looked back at the bottle and imagined the swirling lights floating around inside her belly, moving up her spine and into her brain where they would forever change her.
And possibly drive her mad.
“The fear is natural,” Reef said, closing his eyes as he breathed in the salty air. “We will wait until you are ready.”
Ossamyr had a sudden urge to crack open the bottle and pour it over his head, but she held back and let the feeling pass. She’d been the one who asked him how they created the light emmeria. If this was his way of teaching her, she’d see the lesson through to the end.
They were a couple of hours from Slaver’s Bay when Reef sailed around to the back side of a tiny island that didn’t look any different than a hundred others in these waters. The sun had just begun to set as they approached the jagged lump of volcanic rock with a tuft of green vegetation perched on top. Reef steered their little boat into a narrow gap between two cliffs that she never would have found without him. They sailed between black crags dripping with flowered vines of deep blues, oranges, and reds. Ossamyr couldn’t stop grinning as they slipped through the narrow cleft into a sheltered lagoon with a small white sand beach. It was truly enchanting, vibrant and full of life.
If any other man had brought her here, she would have assumed he was planning a seduction. And by the Nine, it would have worked, too.
Ossamyr let her gaze linger on the hard, muscled body of the man across from her. It was a pity that Reef didn’t think that way. Ever since she had the news that Brophy had awoken, Ossamyr’s hunger for life had reawakened. Food tasted better. Sunsets were more beautiful than she remembered. The smiles of strangers lingered in her mind, and her own laughter came more easily. Her magic was stronger than ever, rushing through her in an overflowing fountain. She had already spent a few nights wondering what it would be like to have those massive arms wrapped around her, but Reef seemed to view sex as something that could wait until after he was done saving the world.
