She greeted him with a smile—a real one—and they shared their first kiss.
She bit him.
"Explain to me again what you mean by 'hurt'," she demanded as he held a cloth to his wounded lip. And then, "No, I don't feel that at all. What are you even doing?" when he was recovered enough to demonstrate a human style kiss. To his relief, he found a human-like body with perfect breasts (a bit small for his taste, but he'd expected that) and slender legs (although not a single strand of hair) under her heavy silk gown. She allowed him to remove the garment and gently stroke her thighs to the part between her legs, and said that was called her ama and was to be treated with absolute respect. But when she reached for him with her hands full of a lovely blue flame, he screamed. That made her laugh.
"Do you want to scorch my cock off my body?" he asked, backing away.
"Cock." She tried out the word, then wrinkled her dainty nose. "That's unattractive. No proper person would say something like that. I believe you mean yala?" She extinguished her flame and he let her look at it—his yala now, he guessed—more closely. "It's fluffy," she observed. She looked up at him and down again, her brilliant red cat eyes reflecting the glowing rocks. He had a sudden fear she might bite him again, only in a more tender place.
Finally she shrugged. "I suppose the size will have to make up for your lack of flame. Are you absolutely certain you have no fire?"
Being her lover was like getting in bed with a gorgeous, potentially lethal animal. He craved her but he was also a little afraid of her. He had no idea how she felt about him, except that the invitation remained open. When she forgot herself and left him with a bruise or burn, he told himself it was her way of expressing passion.
That had been six months ago, and through innumerable viewing parties, performances that he could neither understand nor properly describe, dinners, bottles and bottles of sarave, and too many injuries to count, he understood her no better. But he didn't care. He looked at her delicate, lethal perfection and he thought he might be in love. And tonight he was going to prove it.
He'd finally finished his book: The Claiming of the Duke. It was everything he dreamed and the very best he could do: exciting, action packed, lots of drama, with complex, interesting characters that spoke with true and original voices—in other words, the book that would make his name and bring him the life he wanted. All that was left was to wait for the glowing reviews to come rolling in. In no time, he'd be out of the Guardhouse and living in a big house in the center of Mistra, giving lectures and writing his next book. He thought perhaps a thinly fictionalized version of his own experiences with the demons might make a strong follow up (in his mind, the main character was not a lowly assistant, but the ambassador himself, and the Princess was less violent and more ardent).
Until that day, though, Malloy toiled as assistant to the ambassador. It wasn't a glamorous position, but it gave him access to things. Interesting and important things. Some of the things were secrets. It didn't hurt to jot down a few notes, just in case. He'd give her the fruit of his best work today: his novel and his secrets. He hoped it would ease the sting of bad news: he was recalled back to Mistra, he would be leaving that very evening. He knew she’d be annoyed, he hoped she’d be overcome with grief.
Following the now-familiar secret passage to Hellne’s balcony, he found her as he usually did, hair down and with the stone bowls softly glowing.
After joining (as they called it on Eriis) and taking a moment to make sure nothing was bruised or burned that couldn’t be hidden, he said, "I have good news and bad news."
She folded her hands and waited, her face, as ever, unreadable.
"The bad news is I’m leaving."
He got a reaction, that was something—even a slight frown or a twitched brow was a victory.
"How dull," she frowned. "How long?"
"Not long. There’s something going on back home and they need me there. But I’m leaving right away."
She gave a tiny sigh, reflecting a world of displeasure. "Hmm. You mentioned good news?"
"Ah! Of course." He handed her a small, flat package wrapped in bright silk. "I made this for you. It’s the key to our being together. It’s yours, now."
She held the package up and beamed at him, or more likely elected to let him see her approval. "I'll treasure it forever."
He silently cursed. He'd been so excited about giving her something so special, he'd forgotten her people had no tradition of wrapping gifts. At first she thought the pretty paper or fabric was the gift. But, as she explained to him, when someone handed you something secret, what then? Open it in front of them and risk a disappointed face? That would be unforgivably rude not only on her part, but on the part of the giver who had forced her reaction. He had to admit it made sense.
And sure enough, she slipped the unopened gift into the slashed pocket of her heavy gown. She’d changed out of the elaborate outfit she’d worn for their trip to the market earlier that day, a narrowly cut blue dress and some sort of see-through silvery veil. He could see a handful of discarded fabric on the floor peeking out from under the bed, where it would sit until Hellne’s maid collected it. She’d left the jewels in her hair, even though the white and blue clashed with the brocaded sage and gold of her ceremonial gown. She fancied the stones and left them in place, barely holding together the coif of soft coils. The gown she wore, he knew, was her seventh best, reserved for the sort of state dinner they had just attended, notable only because it was delayed to wait for the return of the recently appointed Eriisai ambassador, a young fellow named Preeve, through The Door. Oddly, he hadn’t appeared. That she had a seventh best gown—and a fifth, and a tenth—chafed, because the forest green cleric’s robe and dark hose were all he owned. That they were in good repair and flattered his frame hardly helped. These people had a way of sizing you up without ever appearing to notice you, but he had no doubt that they noticed. The only balm was the way she’d undone the lacing—or rather, her maid had undone it—which left her exposed from the nape of her neck to the middle of her back, where her wings were tucked out of sight (he preferred them hidden, reminding him a little too much of the wings of a bat). The collar, layer upon layer of tissue thin fabric carefully arranged like flower petals—silk, he supposed—had come apart but still framed her face.
Even though they'd had this conversation before, about unwrapping gifts, she wasn't going to look at the book. She might be a beauty and certainly charming in her own strange way, but it was a good thing her father was in charge and her brother a capable heir. He tried to imagine her leading a negotiating session and laughed to himself. Next time I'm here, I'll show her how it works. She’ll have read my book by then, and seen what I wrote for her on the back page. Another gift—a little insurance in case idiots take over and they actually shut The Door.
He pushed the thought of closing The Door for good from his mind. No one in the Order wanted to be responsible for letting the demons slip through their hands—not while there was still a chance to learn how they did their astonishing magic. In Mistra, at the Guardhouse, magic was something that took a lifetime to master, at the cost of literal sweat and blood. Of course, the demons smiled politely when the humans called it 'magic', to them it was like walking or breathing—just something you did. Fire, for instance, they all had that to one degree or another, and they used it both in sport and in bed (as he had come to learn, to his regret), and he'd begged Hellne to show him what was called her True Face, turning herself into a living, flaming weapon, but she acted embarrassed and changed the subject. Well, he'd be back soon enough and he'd show her what the book, his key, meant. Maybe as a reward she'd show him what she looked like, transformed. He thought that change, showing her True Face (and confessing her true love) might make a good climactic moment for his next book. The Princess Revealed, how was that for a title?
Would it be madness to think his affair with this lovely young lady would help to bridge the gap and bring real magic—magic th
at flowed from your hands, not dusty old books—into Mistra. Why shouldn't he be the one to bring that kind of power to the human world?
Aim high, he thought, or not at all.
He rose to his feet and stood next to her. The top of her head came up to the middle of his chest.
"I don’t want you to worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Look for me at dinner soon, as usual," he promised her. "These talks back at the Guardhouse can't last that long. They'll send me back very soon." Was she worried? The Eriisai made the best card players he’d ever encountered: you simply could not tell what they were feeling. He found he was actually concerned—the Eriisai ambassador’s absence and his sudden recall back through The Door to Mistra were probably coincidence, but it felt... off.
"I'll miss you." She affected a pout so he could see it. "It's boring without you. Just go and tell those silly old men what to do and come back to me."
They kissed.
"I'll see you soon, Hellne. This will all be over and we'll be together. I promise."
Neither of them could guess how long that would take.
Chapter 3
Eriis City
Three hours later
Under the palace
"Rushta!" Hellne swore. The stair was dark and she’d caught the heel of her sandal on the hem of her sage and gold brocaded gown. She held the small, glowing chunk of crystal, the only light in the stairwell, higher up, but all it revealed were more stairs cut from dark tan stone, circling down and out of sight. It would have been so much easier, so much more convenient to shimmer to her destination—just think about where you’d like to be, and off you went. But where she was going, one did not simply appear, with or without an appointment. So she lifted her hem a little higher and continued down, down, far beneath the light filled palace she called home. Tonight she had a meeting with the Mage—the Zaalmage, as the chief of their mysterious order was called—and she wanted to make a good impression.
Generally, she didn’t care what sort of impression she made. Hellne was the princess of Eriis, the youngest child, her father’s jewel, and it was everyone else’s job to favorably impress her.
Malloy had impressed her. And now he was gone.
She took a calming breath and gathered herself at the great stone doorway to the Raasth. It appeared to be part of the walls around it, with neither hinges nor handles. She squinted at the door and moved the lighted stone back and forth, looking for a way in. She’d never visited the Mages in their lair before, why would she? They worked their magic in the dark; there were whispers and rumors about their favored ingredients, their unnatural practices. And they only accepted boy demons as students to the Peermage—even the humans on the other side of The Door took girls as novices in their Order, and everyone knew humans were a primitive race.
Malloy hadn’t seemed primitive, though.
As she prepared her best, most placid face, the stone door to the Raasth blew away like smoke, and the Zaal—for who else would be receiving her?—waved her inside. It was dark but she could see a circular room lined with bookshelves rising into the gloom and out of sight, and rows of well-used wooden tables and benches. She thought she saw robed and hooded figures peering out from other doorways on the other side, but it was dark and they were quickly gone. She wouldn’t begrudge them; the brothers of the Raasth never came out into the daylight, and who knew when they’d last seen a woman, much less a princess? Let them look, she knew they, at least, wouldn’t talk.
As she stood before the Zaal, she was somewhat disappointed to see a rather ordinary looking old demon, more white hair than black, and the typical tilted red eyes in a lined face. He looked like her father, if her father never went outside. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting; something more exotic; horns, or strange round eyes like a human. He bade her sit across from him, and waited for her to arrange her gown around her feet before sitting himself. At least he had some idea of how to behave. And as if to prove he wasn’t a manner-less peasant from the hills, he handed her a silver cup of water, and she took the required three sips before handing it back. Now they could talk.
"Quite a surprise, when you asked to speak with me, Princess. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a breath of wind such as yourself here in our humble Raasth before."
Hellne did not consider herself to be unusually clever—the realm had her older brother for that—but any woman in possession of her own wits could tell when she was being patronized. It was only due to his age and station as Zaal that she made no remark on his speaking first. And she needed his help, she reminded herself. And there was no injunction on shimmering out of this nasty, dark place once she was done. She sniffed. It smelled like dust, and age, and blood.
"Yes. I thank you for agreeing to see me, Zaal. I know the hour is late." She wondered if she could just get to it or if he would want to hear gossip from the world above.
"Princess, I am inclined to think this is not a social call, what with the hour. How may the Peermage be of assistance?"
She gave an inward sigh of relief. "I would ask your help. Something you can do. The Mages can do. I want—I would like you to protect someone. He is very important to me."
"Well," said the Mage, "if he is important to you, he must be vital to the safety and security of all of Eriis. What is the High Seat without its Princess?"
"It’s well tended by my father, and will be occupied next by my brother Araan. As you know." She was an ornament, she knew it, and she suspected he knew it. "This individual is important to me in a way that requires discretion. I can count on the Raasth for that, I trust?"
"Since my brothers have sacrificed their voices for the study of the power of the Word, I think you may rest assured against gossip." He paused and sipped his water. "Who is the lucky boy?" He paused and smirked. "I jump ahead. We do speak of a young man? You did say ‘he.’ It’s not mine to make assumptions..." She gritted her teeth and nodded politely. He continued, "I assume your father doesn’t know you’ve taken a... companion." She colored and he added, "Or perhaps he does know, and that’s why the fellow needs protection." He frowned. "Protection against the High Seat. This may prove to be costly, Madam."
She shook her head. "My father—and my brother—they don’t have anything to do with this. My... friend... has been called away from Eriis. I want to insure he is safe until I see him again."
"You’re having an affair with the ambassador? I didn’t think Preeve had it in him."
She drew back in her seat. "You assume much, Zaal." She was about to correct him, then thought better of it. "I would prefer not to use names unless it’s required by the Powers." She hoped Light, Wind, and Rain would not require her to confess the identity of her lover to this old man, but could instead read his name in her heart. "Can you help me? Can you keep him safe?"
The Zaal cocked his head and rubbed his ear. "Safe is one thing. Alive is another. I can guarantee your friend will remain alive. I can’t promise what condition you’ll find him in." She shrugged. Malloy was young and strong. As long as he lived, she knew he’d find his way back to her side. "I’ll need something your friend has had in his hand."
She reached into the pocket of her gown and drew out a small, flat package wrapped in silk, which she handed over. The Zaal laid back the fabric, revealing a book, bound in heavy paper and with a brightly colored painting of a pair of humans on the cover. It read, in ornate script, The Claiming of the Duke by Malloy Dos Capeheart.
"He gave this to me, just this evening," she said.
The Zaal sniffed the bright scrap of silk, and then the book itself, and made a face. "Your friend got this from one of the humans of Mistra, then? And he’s not here in Eriis?" He sniffed at the book again. "Human-made, it stinks of human. Even if it wasn’t in the Mistran tongue, the smell... well, you wouldn’t notice that." He shook his head. "Preeve aims high." Then he fixed a curious eye on her. "Though you did not actually name the ambassador, did you?"
Hellne drew herself up.
"Who he is does not matter. Can you insure his life until I see him again? With this?" She indicated the book. She hoped he’d give it back, not that she intended to read it. She’d read enough of the earlier drafts and doubted it had somehow improved. She loved him well enough to encourage his hobby, but that didn’t mean she had to participate in it. But it was Malloy’s gift to her, and the wrapping was pretty, so she wanted it.
"Yes," said the Zaal. "We can guarantee his life. I remind you, only his life. Do you understand?"
Hellne was heartily sick of men telling her what she did or did not understand. So he might take an injury, so what? If trouble should come between the humans of Mistra and the demon kingdom of Eriis, the important thing would be Malloy’s life when the trouble blew away.
She nodded. "I understand. I assume you require a price?"
Here the Zaal laughed, or attempted not to laugh, since that would have been unforgivably rude even if the lady he laughed at wasn’t a princess. He quickly passed his hand over his face. She frowned but let it go.
"Yes, Madam, a price. You are correctly informed. Tonight, all I require is something you will hardly miss. The price will be named in due course. I don’t know what will be charged against you. I don’t know when it will come due. But it will. We do magic, and magic always claims its price."
The Sand Prince Page 2
