by Giles Carwyn
“Magic is truth. How much of a mage could I be if I am afraid of my own art?”
“Well said.” He nodded. “And what is your gut reaction to someone like me? How does it feel to stand next to a man who hurts others and himself for power?”
Energy flowed around them, their ani brushed like cloaks rippling close together in the wind, tangling, untangling. He could feel her presence all around him, sensing the same things he was sensing. Her body temperature increased, and an almost invisible sheen of sweat appeared at her temples, between her breasts and under her arms.
“It’s rather unpleasant,” she said.
“That is a generous answer. Most would call me horrific. An abomination. But that is simply because they do not understand. Pain is merely an intense sensation. It is only unpleasant when we resist.”
“But pain is our body’s way of telling us something is wrong.”
“True. Pain is a message from the body, but that is the least interesting kind. There is another kind of pain that comes from much deeper. A message from the heart, the voice of the soul desperately trying to speak.”
Shara paused, took a deep controlling breath. “And you strive to control that voice? Bend it to your will?”
He shook his head and felt a thrill run through him. If he were not a mage, he would never have known that this topic frightened and repulsed her. If she could control herself so well, how well could she control her surging thoughts while in the throes of real agony? She could be the one he had sought. She could be that one and more.
“Far from it,” he answered. “I seek to travel the pain back to the sundered source and make it whole. One does not control pain any more than one controls an orgasm. Necani, like Zelani, is all about what happens after you lose control.”
“I see.”
“Not yet.” He nodded, but his eyes never left hers. They drank of one another through that gaze. “But you will.”
He closed his eyes, imagining Shara chained naked to his wall, rivulets of blood running down her back and around the curve of her ass. He opened his eyes, charged with the image. If she saw what he was thinking, it did not cause her to draw back. She pursed her lips ever so slightly, a glimmer in her eyes, a softness.
A cool tickle of uncertainty ran through him.
“Tell me,” he said. “When was the last time you were out of control? Completely helpless in another’s hands?”
The softness faded, and she withdrew into herself. Very curious.
She paused, then said, “Very recently, actually.”
“Ah…” He let silence fill the gap, then said, “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Do you?”
He nodded. “Perhaps I am not making myself clear. Choosing to lose control over a strong emotion is different than what I mean. When was the last time you were helpless to make any choice?” He put one hand over another, letting the pinkie sheath rest on the back of his wrist. “When was the last time power over your pain—or pleasure—was completely in the hands of someone else?” Slowly, he pressed the pinkie sheath into his hand, letting the blood well up. “Because if you can walk away, that’s not the same thing. It’s not the same thing at all.”
She said nothing, but her emotions were in turmoil. He could not read them, but he could feel her iron hand of control taming them, shaping them. Ah, so delicious. He shuddered at the thought of breaking this woman, rebuilding her.
“I see a pain trapped behind your eyes, Shara-lani,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Like a wild horse poorly caged. You’re afraid of that animal, what would happen if it got free?”
Her chin rose, only a fraction, but he noticed it. She swallowed, and Jesheks longed to touch her, longed to put his pinkie sheath against her skin and push…
“You came here to escape that pain, didn’t you? But you will never win that race. No one can run that fast. I can show you how to embrace what you are running from, make it part of you.”
She still held his gaze, but her hand went to her chest, trembling as she touched the fabric as if expecting to find something there. Her hand curled slowly in a loose fist, and she looked away.
“What are you missing?” he whispered. “Right there, between your breasts.”
She yanked her hand away and shook her head.
“I can take you to the center of it, Shara-lani. I can take you to it, and through it, and you will never miss it again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Her chin moved down, just a little, but she stopped herself. Ah, the control. He reached out; his thick fingers touched her collarbone and traced that delicious curve to the plunging neckline of her dress. He broke contact the moment before she pulled away, and he took her hand. He drew her closer, felt her sweet, steady breathing on his face. She closed her eyes, cycling that breath through. He felt her magic dance around them.
When she opened her eyes, she returned his gaze without flinching. He marveled at her strength. He had found the great crack in her wall, and she had mended it within two breaths.
“You are right,” she said, her voice low, almost hoarse. “I am hiding something. Some…”
“Pain,” he said.
She nodded. “A pain I cannot face.”
It was all there, an ocean of power and torment, dammed up behind that wall. What a wonder she would be if she let it loose. Jesheks lost himself in the possibilities and barely noticed when her eyes focused on him again.
“But you have something hidden behind your eyes as well.”
A sudden, terrifying thrill surged through him. For a panicked instant he wished he had never left his stateroom.
“You came to me,” she said. “Crossed the deck to me. You have called to me since I came to the Floating Palace.”
“I think you would make an amazing Necani,” he answered truthfully.
She smiled, and he shifted a foot.
“It’s more than that. You want something that I have,” she said softly. “You want it so badly I can feel it.”
Jesheks pulled his hand back and grabbed his own thigh. The spike on his finger sank through the fabric of his robe, touched his flesh. He pushed further, ready to retreat into the pain.
What was he missing? He must find the weakness. Stand in it. Gather the strength that—
He looked at her, and his image of her chained and streaked with blood was replaced. He saw her, bathed in candlelight, running a hand along his pale skin. He saw her tight, toned body sliding against his. A pain twisted in his chest. He tried to harness it, to use it, to gain that rush of power he knew so well, but it slipped from his grasp. It was a wild thing, beyond his experience.
“That may be true,” he breathed, swallowing down a dry throat. “But alas, the Zelani art is quite beyond me for obvious reasons.”
She reached out to him. Her long, delicate fingers touched his chest. They were warm, soft. He quivered, wanting to draw away, but he held himself still.
“I must disagree,” she said, barely a whisper.
He pulled away finally, broke gazes, and stared away in disbelief. How did this happen? He was the master here. Not her.
“My art is about pleasure, joy, and love,” she said. “No blade can cut these things from you. Zelani is no more about sex than Necani is about wounds.”
He closed his eyes, an emptiness yawned inside him, sudden and unexpected, hopelessly vast. He felt as if he was falling. He stepped to the side, looking for something to lean on. She took his hand, held him steady.
“If you can hurt me so badly that I will be free from my pain, then I can touch you so softly that you will feel again.” She cupped his cheek and brought his face to meet her gaze. “You’d like that,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t you?”
Jesheks jabbed his pinkie sheath frantically into his leg, deep and hard. It poked through skin, fat, and muscle until it hit bone. He grabbed the sensation, and the power coursed through him. He forced his heart to beat slower.
“That so
unds intriguing,” he said, meting out his words.
“A trade?”
He nodded.
“You find my pain. I find your joy.”
The fire in his leg returned his equilibrium, and the tantalizing image of her hanging in chains returned to him. He reached out, tenderly running a fingertip down a long, red wound in her back. She thrashed against her restraints, thin skin stretched tight over shuddering ribs…
“Exactly,” he said. “It is decided then. We shall meet again under more private circumstances and see where this leads us.”
She nodded. “Only one question remains.”
He raised an eyebrow. The thrill of what she offered rushed through his body. He gathered his pain to himself, chasing that new, ticklish sensation that unnerved him so. “And what is that?”
“Whose path do we travel first?”
He smiled, and his anxiety faded away. Now that she had asked the question, he knew what he would answer. And so answering, he knew what her response must be.
“That is something I will let you decide, my child,” he said.
Her smooth brow wrinkled ever so slightly. She had not expected that.
And when you choose what I know you must, he thought, once you set foot upon my path, I will take you so far that you will never come back.
CHAPTER 24
Lawdon woke with a plan.
She sat up in bed, wincing. Her back and shoulders ached from her long swim, and her skin was painfully raw and itchy. She’d fallen asleep in her salty, wet clothes. It was a stupid dusteater thing to do, but she’d been so tired last night. And she hadn’t wanted to be naked around Shara, or…or whoever else was around.
The small, windowless room of the brothel ship was nearly black, but there was a little bit of red light coming from the crack below the door. Mikal was dozing in a chair facing the entrance, his naked blade resting on his lap. The door had been jammed shut with a triangular wooden doorstopper.
It must be nearly noon, Lawdon thought, judging by how hard and long she must have slept. Last night she had been sorely tempted to continue her plans despite Shara’s and Mikal’s warnings. But she slowly realized that she’d never avenge Reignholtz and Brezelle if she simply rushed off in a blind fury. If she was going to make Vinghelt pay, she’d have to be a lot smarter about it.
Quietly as she could, Lawdon climbed out of bed and pulled on her crusty boots. She removed the doorstop and slipped into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” Mikal asked. He jumped to his feet half-awake, sheathed his sword, and followed her out of the room.
Lawdon cursed under her breath but didn’t answer. Keeping a hand on her dagger, she walked down the hall to the exit. She opened the hatch and was immediately blinded by the midday sun. With no other choice, she backed into the hall to wait for her eyes to adjust before risking the open deck.
“You must not have heard me,” Mikal said, leaning against the wall beside her. “Where are we going?”
“We aren’t going anywhere. Why don’t you go find your pet Zelani and make some magic?”
A flash of emotion crossed his face, but he chased it off with a gallant smile. “And leave my lady undefended? Never.”
“Enough with the act, Heidvell. I’m sick of it.”
“Someone’s got to stop you from throwing yourself upon Vinghelt’s hired swords,” he said, blocking her path with his leg. “Don’t make me get a rope and tie you up.”
Knocking his foot off the wall, she stepped past him. “I don’t need a foppish admirer, and I don’t need a high-minded babysitter. I need a steady blade at my back. If you can’t do that, then get the hell out of my way.”
She climbed one-handed up the ladder and onto the deck, dagger at the ready. No one was there to greet her. The ship was empty. She headed straight for Glory of Summer. Mikal followed her.
Lawdon’s boots thumped across the decks as she crossed from one boat to the next. The sunlight danced across the waves around the Floating Palace. Her bright pennants and banners flickered in the breeze as though they were tired from last night’s revelry. The Waveborn were just starting to reemerge from belowdecks. The Floating Palace was busy but not yet crowded. Lawdon’s eyes flicked around, looking for anything suspicious.
“I hate to ask a lady the same question three times, but where are we headed?” Mikal asked.
“Why don’t you ask Shara? She’s the mind reader around here.”
Again, that flash of emotion. Was it anger? Worry? “I would,” he said. “But she left and never came back.”
“So go find her.”
“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
“Even if you wanted to? You expect me to believe you would rather be following me than her?”
“Yes.”
“You actually want to help me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a fool.”
“A colossal fool. But I’m not going to let you do anything stupid.”
“Better get a rope then, because we’re almost there.”
They crossed two more ships, and Lawdon could feel Mikal’s tension as he realized where they were going. She led him straight to Glory of Summer. A small crowd in very rich dress was gathered around a heavily laden table on the main deck. Vinghelt’s powerful voice could be heard as he spoke passionately to the attentive group.
The plank that spanned the gap between the ships was guarded by one of Vinghelt’s men. Lawdon headed straight for the guard at the gap.
His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, but his gaze was turned toward the gathering behind him. At the last minute, he looked over at her. “Captain Lawdon,” he acknowledged, “how good to see you. I was told that I should—”
She kneed him in the groin. He doubled over, and she leapt up to the landing. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she swung around in a circle and flung him overboard. He caught the rail at the last minute and dangled two stories above water in the narrow space between Glory of Summer and Dancing Dolphin. Lawdon left him there and continued toward the gathering.
Guards at the three other entrances raised the alarm and rushed toward her. Vinghelt paused, and the assembled Summer Princes turned toward her.
Lawdon strode straight toward the group of stunned Waveborn. More armed men in black and gold rushed out of hatches and doorways toward her.
She made it to the table, her loose glove in hand. She swung it at Vinghelt’s face with all of her strength.
A strong hand caught her wrist just before she landed the stinging slap. Her glove spun away, landing on the map-covered table. Several more guards grabbed her from behind and dragged her away.
The men tried to knock her to the ground, but she fought them, keeping herself upright through sheer force of will. The assembled princes and courtiers gave the scuffle a wide berth, creating a rough circle of cleared deck space around them.
Vinghelt watched her with amused surprise.
“My dear Captain Lawdon, have we done something to offend?”
“You know damned well what you’ve done!” Lawdon shouted. “And Fessa of the Deep will see you pay for it.”
Mikal stood beside her, his hands held up in a placating gesture. Two of Vinghelt’s men held the tips of their swords at his throat.
“I claim justice,” Lawdon cried, loud enough for everyone on this boat and the next to hear. “Last night this man took the life of the greatest prince on the Summer Seas. Lord Reignholtz and his daughter were assassinated because they opposed his plans to make our people a slave to his ambition.”
A murmur ran through the assembled princes.
Vinghelt’s jaw clenched, but he forcibly turned it into a smile.
“Does anyone know what she is raving about?” he asked mildly, though his well-trained voice carried to everyone present. “Lord Reignholtz’s daughter attempted to best my champion, but she lost.” He looked at his companions. “That matter is decided. You saw it yourselves. The Test of Truth and Steel pro
ved Lord Reignholtz’s accusations hollow and false.” Vinghelt held out his hands helplessly. “The prince and his daughter left here last night, and that was the last I knew of them.”
“You’re a liar,” Lawdon said. “And an assassin. Your men cut them down last night as they fled to a physician.” She spat at him. It landed on his maps.
The Summer Princes looked to one another, their expressions ranging everywhere from shock and confusion to open hostility.
“Your prince already made his challenge,” Lord Koscheld, Vinghelt’s strongest supporter, said in his deep voice. His voluminous burgundy clothes draped like a tent over his tremendous girth. His eyes were barely slits in his fat face. “That matter is decided, as Lord Vinghelt mentioned. He has already earned the goddess’s favor and the mandate of his people.” The huge man turned to the rest of the assemblage, and raised his voice. “Besides, this woman was only adopted into the Reignholtz shiphome. She was not born upon the waves and cannot issue such a challenge. Only her lord may.”
Lawdon clenched her fists.
“No. No.” Vinghelt held up his hands as though calming the silent crowd. His impeccable poise had returned, and the little half smile he always wore was back in place. Lawdon wished she could crack it with her fist. “I will honor this misguided grievance,” he said magnanimously. “I would hate to have it said that I shrank from any challenge, no matter how baseborn its source.”
Pulling off his glove one finger at a time, he stepped off the riser and approached Lawdon. With a slow swish, he brushed the glove lightly across her cheek.
“I accept your challenge.”
He nodded at his men, and they released Lawdon, shoving her away from Vinghelt and standing between the two of them. She stumbled backward, wiped a hand across her mouth.
“The truth is paramount,” Vinghelt said to the princes around him. “We must always strive to bring it into the light. I am happy to do whatever is necessary to bring all of the Summer Seas under a single banner of common purpose.”
“No true heart would ever set sail under that banner.” She pointed at the gathered nobility. “Just Summer Slaves and the Wave-bought.”
