by Chris Howard
* * * *
"Why don't you get along with Lady Kallixene?"
Nicole's question took a few seconds to penetrate Kassandra's mood as they kicked across the assembly hall, weaving through small groups of Rexenors awaiting judgment or approvals from the Lady of Rexenor. Some looked up, staring at the two sisters as they passed.
"It is not your enemies who are most likely to thwart your plans, but your friends."
"Okay, now try answering me without maxims, Ms. Bonaparte. And that's it. You've used up your ‘thwart’ ticket. You only get one thwart in a lifetime. I'd better not hear that word out of your mouth ever again."
Kassandra stopped in the water, one side of her mouth turned up, a finger crossing her heart. “Not as long as we live. I promise. ‘Frustrate'?"
"'Frustrate’ is fine. How about just plain old ‘prevent'? What's wrong with ‘prevention'? Why should anyone suffer the indignity of being thwarted?"
"How come you get to use thwa—the T-word so much? And I only get one?"
Nicole shrugged simply. “I'm on the Dean's List. You're not. Honors students get certain privileges."
"Speaking of, has anyone mentioned the library?"
"What library? Whoa.” Nicole grabbed her shoulder. “No changing the subject. Not until you tell me what's up with you and Lady Kallixene."
Kassandra's thoughts had already started plodding down a mental side street. “Didn't Napoleon crown himself emperor?"
"Something like that. Pope Pius the Seventh wasn't good enough. Napoleon handed over a pile of land to the Vatican in exchange for the approval of placing the crown on his own head. Thinking of doing the same?"
Kassandra looked at her with an unreadable expression. “I'm not asking anyone's approval. It's the former king or queen—or someone honorable—who traditionally crowns the new one, but there's no way I'm going to let my murdering grandfather place the crown of the ruler of all the Seaborn on anyone's head. I will do the crowning myself."
Nicole elbowed her. “Enough. Tell me about you and Lady Kallixene."
"Okay.” She looked around to see if anyone was watching them. “This way.” Kassandra grabbed her sister's wrist, turned, and hauled her to the end of the crowded assembly hall, down a brightly lit tunnel and into a large room with a low ceiling, full of armor on racks.
"Where are we going?"
"Where we can't be overheard. Sound travels fast through water.” Kassandra snapped the lock on the door, turned and gestured over her shoulder, in the direction of the hall where Lady Kallixene oversaw all of House Rexenor's administration. “It's not that we don't see eye to eye. It's that we do."
Nicole frowned at her.
Kassandra frowned back. “I would trust her with my life, but not my schedule or my plans. She meddles too mu—"
"Kass! Listen to yourself. That's shit and you know it. You tell me the real reasons.” Nicole glared, her fists going tight. “And you better not give me one more bullshit Wreath-wearer line."
Kassandra jabbed a finger at her. “Then you better be damned sure you want to hear this!” she shouted, holding Nicole's eyes, surprised at the strength of her mental defenses.
Nicole swallowed, leaned back, and nodded her head. “Please? It hurts to see you two fight. I feel the anger whenever you're in the same room. I thought you loved her."
"I do, okay?” Kassandra nodded. “Kallixene made the decision to bring me into this world.” Kassandra glanced around the empty room. “And she traded my father to Ampharete to have me."
"Traded? To your mother?"
"Do you know why my mother named me Kassandra?"
"After the greatest Rexenor lord. You've told me."
"But do you know why?"
Nicole shook her head.
"Because my father, Gregor Lord Rexenor, was going to be the next Kassander, but she knew he wasn't going to make it through all of this ... intact. I am named after my mother's and Kallixene's two-bleeds-in-one-person experiment! I am named after the original promise of the man who got used up in the research, Nicole."
"But Dad's awesome. He's—"
"Dad isn't even a tenth of the man he was when he was our age. Dad was one of the most powerful sorcerers in this place. Dad could talk to the old ones of Rhodes, what remains of the Telkhines. Dad had his own seadragon. Do you know who carries around the other ninety-something percent of what used to be his power? Me! I die every time I look at him—because it's me who's killing him. And I can't even cry about it! I am his destroyer, Nic, and my mother and my grandmother made me what I am. Is this what you wanted to hear?"
Nicole shook her head, her mouth open but empty of words, her eyes filling up.
"No Wreath-wearer bullshit, Nicole. Welcome to my family. Just desperate plans for regaining the throne and restoration of an exiled great house—and we'll walk over our own goddamn children to get there."
Nicole grabbed Kassandra by the shoulders, her tears smearing the water in front of her face. She embraced her sister and held her so tight that the wound on her right side throbbed.
"I'm sorry.” Kass dug her chin into Nicole's shoulder. “I should have told you this. I need you. To hold me together. Just for a little while longer. You are the smart one. You're the artist. You're the Renaissance Woman. You're on that damned Dean's List.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please. I will give you anything. Just promise me you will help me get that murderer off the throne."
"I promise.” Nicole released her, holding her at arms length, trying to read anything in her dark eyes. “We're sisters. I promise."
Kassandra closed her eyes, shivering, her face going pale.
"Are you okay?"
Kassandra waved at her wearily. “Fine. I did something ... and I don't think it worked the way I wanted it to. Besides, you want to ask me something."
"I do? I mean, yes, I do."
"What is it?"
"Are you...” Nicole hesitated. “Are you the disease or the cure?"
"I'm the Wreath-wearer. Part of me doesn't even think in those terms. Part of me is scared that I am the first."
"Okay,” she said slowly. “I don't understand why you don't take the throne right now."
Kassandra pointed to her head. “Because it's telling me I'm not ready. I still need many things. Some of the things it wants me to do I can't even tell you—or I'm ashamed to tell you. One I can. I need an army—either created and trained by me, persuaded to fight for me, or somehow compelled or paid to fight. Less than five thousand."
"From where?"
"I've answered that a hundred ways. Everything from kidnapping Navy SEALs to the appearance of an entire army out of thin air. A hundred paths. I've set them all in motion. One of them is bound to succeed."
Nicole looked doubtful. “SEALs—as in elite fighting forces?"
Kassandra placed a hand on her hip. “Not really kidnapping. You don't think I could persuade them?"
"How?” An answer shot to the surface of her mind and she blushed.
"What do you take me for?” Kassandra's mock anger slid off her face, replaced with a scheming smile. “Sure, I could do them all. I did think of that—but only because I was listing every possible method of getting them to fight for me."
"And how would you actually do it?"
"Give them the curse. If I have assessed them correctly, very few would refuse to join me in return for the powers you now have."
In a whisper, Nicole said, “I guess I can see that. One more?"
"Sure.” The word was bright, a forced cheerfulness, and the effort it took was obvious.
"I have to know. Did you plan to tell me this? I mean what you said about your mother and Lady Kallixene. Is this part of some schedule?"
Kassandra nodded before she even considered a lie, and then a look of panic hit her features. “I'm so sorry. I am the Wreath-wearer. I can't turn it off. I have it all in here. Down to you standing up to me and squeezing me tight and forcing me to shed my tear and summoning Ochle
ros with—"
"Lady Kassandra,” said the demon's rumbling voice. “I have brought Lady Nikoletta's armor and sword as you requested."
Nicole spun away from Kassandra, glaring at Ochleros.
"Please believe me, Nic."
"It's okay.” Nicole sounded distracted, and held up one hand approvingly. “I stood up to you. I think I expected it. I would have ... I had already made up my mind not to believe you if you said this wasn't planned. I promised without making it a condition on the rest. I will help you.” She stared at the knee-length hauberk of silver scales Ochleros held out to her. “You're giving me my own armor?"
"And a sword."
Nicole kicked up to Ochleros, unafraid, and took the armor off a stiff frame made from what looked like a tree of some woody kind of coral. There was more scale armor clothing folded over one of the branches.
"Pants, too?"
Kassandra nodded. “Put them on. This is a three-dimensional world. They can come at you from any direction. An attack from underneath is especially effective. You don't want a spear up your twat."
"That's—” Nicole stuttered the next word. She squeezed her legs together, looking down with a worried look. “—d-dishonorable!"
"To say the least.” Kassandra laughed.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Nineteen
Tribunal at Sea
The Wreath of Poseidon was a gift of the Lord of the Sea to the Alkimides family for their victory over the Seaborn Royal House, Telkhines. Bitter, as are many gifts of the sea, the Wreath quickly became a burden to the new Royal House, steering the Alkimides more than guiding them in their rule over the Seaborn.
—Michael Henderson, notes
* * * *
Deputy Art Ramirez of the Monterey County Sheriff's Department stepped cautiously from his patrol vehicle, coming around the back to use the armored sedan for cover. He twisted up the magnification on his lenses and scanned the spectral data of the compact car parked in the weeds next to a couple of wind-gnarled cypress trees. A week's layer of sand and dust coated the old Toyota compact, opaquely sheeting the windows. He noted the lack of footprints near the vehicle and approached cautiously.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the scan of the car, blocks of color with a lot of warm pink because the sun had baked the metal and plastic body for...
SatStat cut into his comm in a pleasant woman's voice with, “The target vehicle appeared in its current location between 08:14 hours PST October 4 and 17:50 hours PST October 4."
Deputy Ramirez crouched down and wiped the sand from the Toyota's rear license plate with one gloved hand, and whispered, “Nine days."
Satellite Status continued after a computationally intensive pause with, “Single occupant for the target vehicle, possibly female, shoes: no, footprints lead west from vehicle, terminate in the Pacific Ocean."
Ramirez stood up, turning to face the low wind-smoothed dunes. Nothing but the gulls crying and grass shooting from caps of creamy sand.
The plate-run status service cut in, this time in a man's clipped tones, “Target vehicle registered to Corina Lairsey. C-O-R-I-N-A. First name. L-A-I-R-S-E-Y. Last name. Female. Age: Twenty-two. Height: five feet seven inches, one hundred and seventy point one eight centimeters..."
He let the voice slide into the background as he scraped the powder off the rear driver's side window and peered inside. Corina Lairsey's clothes and shoes had been thrown into the backseat on top of what looked like a large musical instrument case, and next to it, a wad of elastic webbing used to hold scuba tanks in place.
Ramirez straightened, a chill running under his armor. “Repeat that, Status."
The service paused for context and then responded. “Report filed October 6 with MPU. Corina Lairsey reported last seen AM October 4."
Ramirez's twelve-year-old daughter, Catherine, was taking diving lessons in Sand City while he stood beside the vehicle of a diver who had apparently gone into the Pacific nine days before and never come out.
"Stat, I need a Coast Guard notify on Corina Lairsey, and a vehicle pick up."
The deputy climbed to the peak of the dunes and stared out at the Pacific Ocean, empty except for rec traffic, mostly sailboats. “Where did you go, Corina Lairsey?"
* * * *
"Corina Lairsey?"
She couldn't focus, her thoughts gathering too much momentum to stop when she needed them to, stumbling by like a drunk trying to stick a key in a lock. She heard someone calling her name through the ice-cold alcohol rinse she seemed to be soaking in. It was a man's voice, with an accent she couldn't place, something close to Spanish. For a moment, she dreamed that the voice was Aleximor's real one, that she'd been rescued and Aleximor had been expelled, and her body was hers again.
But it wasn't his voice.
There was a torrent of thoughts sloshing around her mind, the rush of a fear so deep-cutting it hurt to remember, and looking back meant blindness.
Don't look back. You're not going back. He's going to kill you. He's going to kill you slowly.
The scene in front of Aleximor's eyes pushed through her defenses.
She saw the captain of a ship and two other officers sitting across from her. Corina's thoughts coalesced, and took in the scene as clearly as she was able to through whatever psychological game Aleximor was playing. What's wrong with you? Did they give you something to ... um ... calm your nerves? It doesn't feel like you're pretending. After a moment's consideration, she added, I don't need you weirding out on me.
He rocked back and forth, staring vacantly at the table, occasionally glancing up at the three men.
She didn't like the cold bureaucratic looks the officers wore.
Oh my God, they're going to try me and execute me.
They'd caught her with scissors, blood everywhere, running down her arm, Pinnet's body on the floor—obviously one of the crew—and there she was with the murder weapon. Thoughts piled up in her mind, tumbling over one another. What kind of laws prevail at sea? Can they hang me from the yardarm? Plank walking. International waters. Whose jurisdiction? No passport, sold into slavery, Interpol, South American prison, Count of Monte Cristo, nameless grave. She thought of never seeing her sister or aunt again. She thought about the cool Pacific on her skin—her own skin, about her music, about her car parked next to a cypress tree, baking in the dry California sun.
Cypress branches, the symbol of mourning.
The oldest of the ship's officers, a gray-haired grandfatherly man, watched her with intense rust-brown eyes. He leaned across the table, sliding his hat aside and patting the arm of the man on his left, a huge angry bald man in an officer's uniform with a handgun in a holster on the table in front of him.
The captain said softly, “Miss Lairsey? Please tell us what happened."
A sharp biting anger uncoiled inside Corina. When did you kill Mr. Pinnet? How many days have passed?
She remembered a dream of night, infinite darkness, loose gravel under her bare feet, blindness, and a strong wind at her back, as if she had been teleported somewhere outside her body.
Where have I been?
Aleximor was tight with his memories and thoughts, and it was only when he let his guard down or in his dreams that Corina picked them up clearly. He opened something up in his soul and told her, Two days have passed, Corina. I thought you might tell me where you have been. I have called for you. I thought you had somehow fallen into insanity or ... departed.
She spent a few seconds entertaining insanity and how pleasant that might be.
What do they want? Tell them that Pinnet tried to rape me, he touched me, tried to rip my clothes off.
Her own voice, rough with pain, echoed her thoughts for the uniformed men in the room. “Pinnet attacked me and tried to rape me, he touched me, and tried to tear off my clothes."
Corina wondered if Aleximor had been playing the confused victim in order to buy time for her, because he suddenly lifted his head, making eye
contact with the officers and spoke clearly.
"He held my hands down, and then I kicked him."
Stay in character. You need to put some pain back in your voice. Look, the older one's shoulders just dropped. He's relieved to hear you say Pinnet attacked you. This was self-defense. Tell them that everything happened so fast. The man pinned you to the bed and the next second you were grabbing the scissors out of the bathroom drawer. Tell them!
Aleximor dialed up the mental disarray. “Every ... thing. It happened very quickly. He pinned me to the bed. I did not know what to do. I—"
The next thing you remember!
"The next thing I remember ... I was taking the scissors from the drawer and ... and..."
You don't know what happened next. It's all a blur.
He brought her voice down to a whisper. “I do not remember what happened after that."
Now, cover your face with your hands. Can you cry?
Aleximor gasped loudly and sobbed into his hands.
Not bad. Don't overdo it.
The captain cleared his throat. “I apologize, Miss Lairsey. I am so sorry."
Don't look up. Keep your head down. It's the older one in the middle speaking.
"I am Martim Teixeira, Captain of the Maria Draughn. Mr. Pinnet was a ... violent man, and I am terribly sorry for what has happened."
Corina wondered what kind of name Ta-shay-rah was.
"Miss Lairsey,” said the skinny boyish looking officer to the captain's right in a polite British accent. “I ... er ... have a few questions for you. I'm Second Officer McHutcheon. I cover the medical needs of the crew. Can you explain the skin between your fingers?"
Smile sheepishly. Corina felt Aleximor tense up. Don't know what a sheep is? Guiltily, as if your friends talked you into getting your nipples pierced. More muscles tensing. Didn't you do anything outrageous when you were a kid—just to piss off your parents? Hurry! Make a face. Say, “It's all the rage in Hollywood. Cosmetic mermaid surgery. All the girls are getting it done.” Say it just like that.
