Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Carefully, she dabbed a bit of powder beneath them, trying to conceal the bruiselike marks. She didn’t sleep well these days, no matter how many walks she took with Wolf.

  So far this week, Salesin had spent every night by her side.

  Even if he did not avail himself of his husbandly privilege, she often lay tense, waiting for him to wake and take her.

  One of the few times she’d managed to fall into a deep sleep, she awakened to find him atop her, already aroused.

  Ulandra longed for the Prince to go off on a state visit, or to visit one of his several mistresses. Oh, yes, she knew about them now. There was Countess Cimiel, and Baroness Rolandra, and probably some others whose names she hadn’t heard whispered about … yet. At first the thought of those women had angered her. Now she felt nothing but gratitude toward them. When Salesin was with them, he wasn’t with her. Sometimes, after he returned from such a visit, he would let an entire day or two pass without taking her.

  The agony of that first time had passed with constant rep-etition, but for the life of her, Ulandra could not comprehend why any woman could find the process pleasant—as some were reputed to do.

  As she stared at herself in the mirror, for a moment she

  thought she saw a shadow move behind her. She started violently, then turned around to look. The room was empty, and her own shadow, cast by the light of the candelabrum on her dressing table, spread out along the floor behind her. Stop it, she thought angrily. Talk about starting at shadows! Those dreams are only that—dreams.

  Even on the nights Salesin was away, she had not been sleeping well. She had dreams, and those dreams, formless as they were, terrified her.

  In them, she often seemed to be floating above her own body, gazing at herself through strange, inhuman eyes. Male eyes, she knew that, though how she knew, she could not tell.

  The body she wore, or shared, was not human, but she had no idea what it looked like—she had never seen it. For that, she was grateful.

  Lately she’d sensed that the Other had been drawing closer and closer to her sleeping body. Several times she’d jerked awake as it reached out as though to touch her. The thought of being touched by the Other was frightening, far more frightening than being touched by Salesin, distasteful as that experience was. At least her husband was human.

  Ulandra could no longer remember what it was like not to be afraid. Some unnamed horror seemed to be part of her now, an integral part of her life. She’d thought once or twice about killing herself, but could not shame her family in that manner.

  She started again as she heard the door to her suite open.

  Hastily, she summoned a smile and rose to her feet, standing there, hands clasped before her, so he would not see how badly they were shaking.

  Salesin strode into the room. Ulandra curtsied. “Good evening, my lord. I trust you dined well?”

  He waved away her attempt at social chatter and then gazed at her, scowling. What he saw must have pleased him, because slowly his dark features relaxed. He nodded.

  “That’s a pretty robe. If you value it, I suggest you take it off now.”

  Ulandra flushed. “As you wish, my lord.” She headed for the dressing screen that stood against the wall.

  “Stop,” he commanded, leaning against the doorjamb. “I want to watch.”

  “But—” Seeing his expression darken, she bit her lip and nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Hot with shame, she undid the clasps and ties of the gown, then tossed it onto the boudoir chair. She could not meet his eyes as she stood shivering in the short chemise.

  Ulandra headed for the bed, with its concealing sheets.

  “Stop. Take off the chemise, too. I’ve never gotten a good look at you naked.”

  She stopped, then turned to face him. “My lord, I am not comfortable with this.”

  “I’m your husband, and I’m the Crown Prince,” he said, sounding more amused than angry. “I suggest you obey, Ulandra.”

  It was the first time he’d ever spoken her name. Ulandra’s hands went to the bottom of the chemise, ready to tug it up and over her head, but she was frozen before his gaze, like a mouse before a snake.

  When she didn’t move, his temper snapped. With one stride he was there before her, grabbing the garment and yanking it over her head. She gasped, trying not to cry out.

  “I’ve had it with your stupid modesty and your schoolgirl ways!” Grabbing her by both shoulders, he held her steady, naked but for her cloak of hair, and surveyed her up and down. “Too damn skinny, that’s your problem. Eat more, and then I’ll wager you’ll breed!”

  Ulandra was terrified, but anger gave her the courage to try and twist away. “Stop it!”

  He backhanded her across the face with no more thought than he’d have given to cuffing one of his hounds. “Shut up!”

  Her cheek seemed to explode in a white-hot lance of pain, but far worse than that was the stunned disbelief that her own husband would actually strike her. She gasped as he grabbed her, threw her on the bed, then fell on top of her,

  like a forest giant in a hurricane. His hands and mouth were everywhere, hurting her. His fingers dug into her breasts, kneading them, then he sucked and bit them. Tears filled her eyes, coursed down her face, but she was careful to make no sound. If I anger him further …

  “That’s better,” he muttered. Lifting his head from her breasts, he began kissing her, his tongue thrusting, probing, nearly strangling her. His hand went down to her thighs, and it, too, began probing. “You’re wet,” he muttered. “Good. I told you you’d learn to like—”

  Suddenly he sat up, looking at his hand. Ulandra saw red streaks on his fingers. “Damn! Another month wasted! You barren bitch!”

  He slapped her face again, bruising her other cheek, then raging, he drew back his open hand and slapped her belly so hard the sound cracked like a lash. “Wake up in there!” he snarled. “I need a son!”

  Ulandra curled into a ball, cringing away from him. “No, please,” she sobbed. “Please, don’t …”

  Abruptly, Salesin seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped. He got up off the bed, then stood there, looking down at her, his breeches hanging open, his thick, engorged organ drooping like a flag on a windless day. He was breathing hard, still flushed with fury. “It’s your own fault, my lady,” he said coldly. “I hope you learned your lesson. Don’t make me teach you again.”

  Ulandra nodded. “I won’t,” she gabbled.

  Slowly his breathing steadied. He pulled his breeches closed, then looked around him for his shirt and drew it on.

  When he was dressed, he shook his head at her sorrowfully, almost reproachfully. “You should know better than to defy me, my lady. Nobody defies me.”

  Then he turned and strode away.

  Ulandra lay there in a state of utter shock. For a moment she considered ringing for her maid, but the thought of anyone seeing her like this was not to be borne.

  Slowly, she dragged herself off the bed. She was shivering so hard her teeth clacked together. Fumbling, she rummaged in her drawers, then put on her warmest nightgown. Pouring water into the ewer, she began bathing her face, trying to lessen the swelling.

  After she’d done the best she could to cleanse herself, and had tied on a towel to catch her monthly flux, Ulandra knelt before the little chapel to the Goddess that rested in one corner of the room.

  She tried to pray but could summon no words beyond, “Help me. Please, help me.”

  What did I do to anger him? she wondered blankly. She’d been too slow to remove her nightgown. She hadn’t conceived a child. And Salesin claimed it was her fault he’d lost his temper.

  As she knelt there on the cold floor, Ulandra felt the stirrings of hatred. “I did nothing wrong,” she said aloud. “By the Goddess, I did nothing wrong!”

  She knew it was true. She raised her head, straightened her shoulders, caught a glimpse of movement in her mirror and for a second felt the presence of
the Other, close to her, as close as her own shadow. In comparison to what she had just been through, the Other’s presence didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. She climbed stiffly to her feet. Who needs to fear dream-monsters when I have my very own right here in my bed?

  Strength seemed to be flowing back into her, carried by the hatred that filled her. Ulandra looked down at the shrine.

  “Lady Goddess,” she said in a conversational tone, “I did nothing wrong.”

  For Talis, the time in Q’Kal passed too quickly. She was busy each day from dawn until long after lamp lighting.

  Each day she went to the marketplace and made arrange-ments to purchase the supplies her father needed to run the farm. Then, in the afternoons, she and Clo continued their hand-to-hand lessons with Jezzil. After supper, she and Jezzil took their horses to a field outside the city to practice mounted maneuvers. She was in awe of Falar’s training.

  Having such a mount in battle would be like having a comrade to guard one’s back.

  Her own Bayberry was a fine animal, as good as any raised in Kata, but the Chonao horses were special—swift, tough, and smart. Within a day of trying to teach Bayberry the special battle-maneuvers Falar performed so easily, Talis knew her bay would never equal the gray. But Bayberry did learn, and Jezzil praised her horsemanship. One day he even allowed her to ride Falar, a mark of trust that was a thrill in itself.

  She still hadn’t decided what to do about Eregard. She knew she would need the money from selling him, but since they’d come to Q’Kal, he’d grown more confident in himself, and tended to act almost like a companion rather than a slave. While she and Jezzil and Clo practiced their arms training, Eregard and Thia often sat on the grass together, talking. Thia, Talis had learned, came from up north, where she had been some kind of scholar. She and Eregard talked about all kinds of scholarly subjects—history, maps of the world, and religion. The few times Talis had bothered to eavesdrop, she’d grown bored quickly. The only history that interested her was military history and tactics.

  But Eregard and Thia never seemed to run out of subjects to talk about. Jezzil seemed pleased that his “sister” had found a friend who shared the same interests, even if that friend was nothing but a slave.

  Finally, on their fifth night in Q’Kal, the summons Talis had been waiting for arrived. Rufen Castio wanted to meet with her; she was to wait in the alley outside the inn three hours after midnight, and he would send someone to bring her to him.

  Talis went to bed early, pleading—truthfully—weariness due to a particularly exhausting lesson with Jezzil that day.

  She fell asleep, mentally ordering herself to awaken at two of the clock.

  Like most farmers, Talis was naturally an early riser, so when her eyes opened in the darkness, she was alert almost immediately. Grateful to have a room to herself, she dressed hastily by moonlight, not daring to light a candle. Then, carrying her boots, she crept out of the room and down the back steps of the inn.

  The spring night was chilly, and she was glad she’d brought her cloak. Wrapping it tightly around her, she shivered as she paced slowly down the alley, one hand on the hilt of her dagger. But her tension was unnecessary; the night was peaceful. She saw no one, heard no one, until sometime later a soft hiss caught her attention. Talis turned, her cloak billowing out around her, to see a dark shape at the end of the alley, beckoning.

  She moved lightly, warily, toward the figure, remembering the words of the challenge Castio had given her. “Who goes there?”

  “Not the Watch,” came the expected answer. “Agivir’s clock needs winding.”

  “Then we shall have to tell him what time it is,” Talis responded.

  A soft sigh of relief escaped into the darkness of the alley.

  “Thank the Goddess. Be you Talis?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

  “Nobody you need to call by name, missy,” the voice said.

  “Just follow me. Castio be waiting.”

  Talis followed him, squeezing through a hole left by a couple of loose boards in the fence. Her guide moved quickly, lightly, drifting like a shadow through the silent town. It was so late that even the alehouses were mostly closed. They went by the back ways, careful to avoid the routes taken by the Night Watch. At first Talis tried to memorize the route, but within a few minutes she was lost. The buildings were so close together, crowded, with their squalid little back alleys, a contrast to the broad thoroughfares in the better parts of the city.

  Accustomed as she was to barnyard muck, Talis had to cover her mouth and nose with a fold of her cloak as she hurried along, trying not to think about what she was treading in. She slipped and skidded more than once, and it was only luck and a fighter’s balance that kept her from a fall.

  Finally her guide slowed, then stopped before yet another

  back entrance, in a section that was visibly cleaner than some they’d traversed. Glancing back to make sure she was still with him, he knocked softly. Two taps, a scratching with his nails, followed by three more deliberately spaced taps.

  Then, silently and speedily, the man—was her guide even male? She couldn’t be sure—was gone.

  Talis stood there before the door, waiting, and was rewarded a moment later when it opened a narrow crack.

  “Talis Aloro?” The voice was unfamiliar.

  “I’m here,” she said, moving forward until her features could be seen in the narrow band of candlelight.

  “Come in and welcome, then,” the man said, opening the door just wide enough for her to squeeze in.

  Talis walked in, blinking against the light, even dim as it was. She had been so long in the darkness. The room was dominated by a huge machine, and she smelled ink. Her host was a youngish man of medium height, with bushy brown hair and a stocky build. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and his hands, arms, and shirt were spattered with ink stains.

  Talis smiled at him. “Talis Aloro, at your service.” She gave him the secret hand sign that the revolutionary movement had chosen.

  The man returned it. “Denno, printer, at your service.” He raised his voice. “Rufen, she’s here. Just as you described her.”

  Rufen Castio stepped out from behind the enormous machine. His lanky frame was unchanged, his queue still unfashionable, and Talis was so glad to see him again after all these months that her throat tightened. “Master Castio!”

  “Rufen, Talis … remember?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, Talis.” He came over and gave her a quick, comradely embrace.

  Denno pulled up a couple of chairs to a battered old desk and waved to Talis to sit down. Castio regarded her. “So, tell me everything that’s been happening.”

  Talis gave him a quick summary of everything she’d observed in the past few months that related to the Cause. In his turn, Castio caught his two listeners up on his own do-ings. “Things are moving along,” he said in conclusion.

  “Though not as quickly as I could have hoped. We have molds to allow us to produce the new bullets for the rifled muskets, and we captured the rifling bench intended for the royal fort at Three Notch Bluff, so we’ve been able to convert many of our smoothbores into rifles able to use the new bullets. But we can’t bring every musket in Kata to the rifling bench, and it’s slow work rifling the barrels of muskets without it.”

  Talis was fascinated. Better, more accurate muskets!

  “Where are you keeping the rifling bench?” she asked.

  Castio gave her a look. “I’ll tell you if you need to know, Talis.”

  She flushed. “Oh. I understand.”

  Castio asked her if she could do her tavern-slut act at a popular soldiers’ pub in Q’Kal. “The proprietor is not one of us,” he cautioned. “He’s a royalist. You’ll need to be careful.

  But since there are so many soldiers there, the place is always swarming with whores anyway. Nobody is likely to notice one more. Just keep your ears open, see i
f you can pick up anything.”

  Talis nodded. “I’ll go there tomorrow, after I register Eregard for the slave auction.”

  Castio nodded. “Very well.” But Talis noticed he didn’t look at her when he said it.

  She wet her lips. “Rufen, do you own any slaves?”

  He shook his head. “Not anymore. I used to.”

  “You sold them all?”

  He finally looked at her. “No. I freed them. One day I realized that it was hypocritical to struggle and yearn for freedom, while owning another human being. That day, I freed my slaves. Two of them are now two of our best couriers, matter of fact.”

  Talis was troubled by his words. “I’ve been thinking much the same thing,” she admitted. “But if I don’t sell Eregard, I

  won’t have enough money to leave home so I can work for the Cause!”

  “I understand that’s a hard decision,” Castio said. “And you’re the only one who can make it.”

  Denno nodded at her. “As someone who freed his slaves two years ago, I can tell you that paying workers puts a hole in your pocket pretty quickly. But,” he gave her a rueful grin, “I sleep better at night, and I guess that’s worth something, ain’t it?”

  As the three continued to talk, slipping from actual plans into discussing their dreams for the future, for a free Kata, Denno produced a bottle of wine and blew off three dusty glasses. Talis normally did not drink, but to be companion-able, she took a glass of wine, then another.

  As they talked and sipped she lost all track of time and things began to blur. At some point she found herself singing Castio’s off-color song in harmony with Rufen, while Denno laughed and beat time on the desk.

  “What’s the title of that one?” he demanded when they were finished, wheezing with laughter.

  “ ‘Agivir’s Farts’?” suggested Talis, without thinking.

  The two men roared with approving laughter— —just as the door to the shop opened and a small, slight figure stood silhouetted in the light of day.

  Denno was so startled he tried to sit up too quickly. His feet slipped off the desk, and then he overbalanced, trying to save himself. His chair crashed over backward, leaving him upside down, arms and legs waving in the air like an overturned beetle, sputtering with a mixture of laughter and indignation.