The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  Yet some instinct in her could not believe him such a creature. He did possess quai. She sensed it now, although it was so bleak that she had been unaware of it at first. She frowned. Perhaps…

  He lifted a gloved hand in repudiation. “Don’t.”

  Although he spoke softly, there was a warning in his tone that she heeded at once. Hugging herself, she drew back without a word, yet made no effort to walk away as he’d suggested.

  “Commander.”

  It was one of his men, the scarred centruin with the ruined voice, the one that had killed Rinthella.

  No, Lea thought with an inner sob. I killed her.

  The centruin came up, clutching a short whip, and here in the Hidden Ways, his face between the leather cheek guards of his helmet looked skeletal, flesh worn away to reveal pale bone. His cruel eyes held neither compassion nor pity when he glanced at Lea, and his teeth were rimmed black with rot. The mark of Beloth was burning in tiny flames on his left cheek. His threads of life looked charred and frayed in clumped knots. Lea saw that his quai was very dark, darker even than her abductor’s.

  “Commander,” he said again, his voice a harsh croak.

  As the two men began to converse in low, almost inaudible voices, Lea hurried away, not caring where she ventured as long as she left their proximity.

  Within a few steps, stumbling a little on ground that she could almost see clearly yet never was quite what she expected, she reached the stream. The water sounded very shallow and fast. Seeing and hearing it made her thirst burn so intensely that, although she knew better, she knelt and tried to dip her hand into the liquid.

  Her fingers passed through nothing.

  Miserably she licked dry lips and sat back on her heels, bowing her head. On her left, the men began taking turns approaching the stream, scooping up a cup of illusionary water, and moving away. They did this in a disciplined, orderly fashion, as soldiers would. Renegade soldiers, she thought. Lawless men, no longer in her brother’s service. She watched them drink, wondering if they realized no real water was passing between their lips.

  Even if under orders to stay quiet, they should have been grinning, bright with triumph, but they weren’t.

  Maybe, she thought, they were as afraid of this evil place as she was.

  Concerned that she seemed to be the only prisoner, Lea stood up and craned her neck, looking over the men in search of anyone she might consider friend. But, seeing no one she knew, she felt terribly alone.

  At that moment, something tugged at the hem of her skirts.

  Startled, she turned around but saw nothing next to her. She frowned, knowing she hadn’t imagined it, and her heart began to thud a little faster.

  Again, there came a sharp swift tug at her skirts, this time from the side. She twisted her head, but still saw nothing.

  But she heard a faint, almost inaudible, hissing. She swiftly moved only her eyes, and glimpsed a pale, slim creature about the size of a cat except that it walked upright. It vanished before she got a good look at it.

  A splash in the water made her turn. She saw the liquid gleam of two eyes on the water’s surface as something small came swimming across the stream. Emerging, the creature lay flat and shimmering on the pebbles before it swelled into a three-dimensional shape with legs and arms and talons and fangs. Its head was misshapen and narrow, and its shiny little eyes glared at her fiercely before it scuttled sideways into the darkness.

  The hissing noise came again from beside her. Lea bit her lip, but stayed otherwise motionless, letting the cat-sized creature tug at her skirts. It grew bolder, creeping around her, prodding the cloth with its talons and sniffing a long while before it paused to stare up at her. Its sly eyes glowed like yellow flames.

  Another of its kind joined it, crawling out of the shadows to venture closer. This one, she saw from the corner of her eye, was malformed, its head misshapen and its spine contorted. It was as pale as soured milk, and the sight of it made her swallow hard.

  The hissing sounded louder, accompanied now by a muted clicking. She saw more yellow eyes glowing at her from the shadows, and could endure no more.

  Her courage slipped, and she crouched swiftly, causing the creatures to scatter back into hiding. Yet they did not go far. She could hear them hissing and clicking, watching from all around her. More and more of them were gathering. Demons, she thought, unnerved. Shadow spawn that should not exist. Never mind that they displayed deformities, scars, or even missing limbs; their very survival, along with the fact that it was still possible for men with magical powers to open the Hidden Ways, meant that Beloth’s vile influence remained far stronger than common knowledge believed. There was still enough evil lingering in the world, still enough malevolence, to keep these remnants of shadow going.

  Why feel surprised? she asked herself angrily. Had she not witnessed enough pettiness, greed, and misspent fervor at court these past three years? Were there not even now misguided wretches in New Imperia who sought to worship and deify her, to form a cult of adulation around her, to seek her wisdom on every matter as though she were an oracle? It was why, when Caelan had asked her to travel to Trau in his place, she had seized the opportunity so eagerly. To get away…to fulfill her last official function and then vanish into the mountains near the glacier. Yes, she intended to return to the Choven and abide among her mother’s people, safe and isolated in a proper balance of jaiethquai thereafter.

  Now, as she crouched on the ground with the little demons watching her, she groped about for pebbles and swiftly rowed them in the shape of a square before stacking more in a simple pattern.

  As she worked, the boldest of the creatures crept up to stare at what she was doing before it bleated a cry and recoiled, slashing the air with its claws and hissing. Glad, she reached for another pebble just as a booted foot stamped the abacus-like pattern she’d made, grinding some of the stones into the dirt and knocking the rest awry.

  Startled, Lea had no time to react before the commander’s gloved hand gripped the front of her cloak and yanked her bodily to her feet.

  “Stupid,” he snarled at her.

  She hardly heard what he said, for he stood before her without his helmet. For the first time she saw his face. Lean, chiseled features…the high cheekbones and slightly tilted dark eyes of a Ulinian aristocrat. Slim black eyebrows knotted angrily over an aquiline nose. A jaw firm beneath its stubble of beard, surprisingly youthful. A mouth refined and mobile, with perhaps a touch of sensitivity at the corners, although at the moment it was clamped in a thin line. Handsome, he might be, but cruelty and impatience formed his expression. He glared at her without mercy.

  “Don’t you know better than to work your magic here?” he asked.

  Lea’s small chin lifted. “They’re demons. I won’t have them gathering around me.”

  “Leave the little ones be,” he said, his tone harsh and flat. “They’ve suffered enough.”

  “They could never suffer enough. They shouldn’t even exist.”

  He barked a brief laugh that held no amusement. “Stupid and naive. Light Bringer may rule the empire, but we have not all curled up into dust and ashes just to please him.”

  “You—”

  He gave her a shove. “Move.”

  She tried to jerk away, but he caught her hand with crushing strength and wrenched her around. It was the first time he’d touched her without his glove, and the involuntary sevaisin between them caught her by surprise.

  With an oath, he released her, jerking back his hand as though burned. Overwhelmed by a tide of emotions she could not begin to understand, much less control, Lea tried to retreat from him, but sank to her knees instead. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  He stood over her, a dark silhouette. “Stop that. Get up!”

  Grief and fear engulfed her. Seeing inside him, knowing some part of him, was too terrible to endure, for he was…he was…With a wrench she managed to break sevaisin, but she felt pain rip through her, as though she’d torn h
er flesh. She cried harder.

  “Hear me,” he said, gripping her shoulder. “You must show no weakness here. Get up. Stop your sniveling at once.”

  But she could not obey him. All of it, the shocking brutality of the ambush, the death of men sworn to protect her, Thirbe lying unmoving on the ground, Fyngie’s death and Rinthella’s worse fate, the evil of this place, and now the involuntary joining with someone like this man—this creature—who was…who was…It all overwhelmed her. Crumpling over, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

  The commander gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet, shaking her when she swayed. “Stop this!” he said. “I can hold back only so much, can protect you only so far. If you do not control yourself, they’ll attack.”

  As he spoke, he pulled her hands away from her face, and pearls that had formed from her tears went spilling everywhere. He frowned, staring at her in amazement. “You—”

  Lea flung down the rest of the pearls. They rolled in all directions, glowing briefly in the gloom before turning dark. Wrenching free from his slackened grasp, she hurried away, wanting to get as far from him as she could. In two strides he caught up with her, steering her past the watching soldiers with repeated prods to her back.

  At one point, she stumbled and would have fallen but for the quick hand of a soldier, who steadied her back on her feet.

  His eyes, set in a homely face, looked kind. He almost smiled at her—until he glanced at his commander and stepped back with all expression wiped hastily from his face.

  Still, that small show of humanity was enough to help Lea regain her self-control. She drew in a breath, sending the soldier a look of gratitude. “Thank—”

  The commander shoved her forward. “Move.”

  She was lifted up onto his huge black warhorse, where she sat stiff and horrified while he climbed into the saddle behind her. Drawing on his gauntlets and gathering his reins, he gestured at his men before hesitating. That was all the warning Lea had before he sagged forward heavily against her, bracing his hand on the pommel. She could hear him breathing raggedly, and at first she thought he was about to fall.

  Resisting the temptation to push him out of the saddle and flee on his horse, Lea struggled to support his heavy weight. The others were too close for her to try anything. Already the centruin was riding up, starting to speak, then choking back words as the commander abruptly straightened. A muscle knotted in his jaw as he grimaced, his features contorting. Lea saw red fire blaze briefly in his eyes.

  Gasping, she shrank back, but his arm went around her and pulled her close as he kicked his horse forward.

  The centruin rode beside him, stirrup to stirrup. “Commander,” he said in a rasping whisper. “We’re far enough away. Let us drop out of the Hidden Ways and—”

  “Not…yet.”

  Puckering his mouth, the centruin dropped back. In silence, they all trudged onward.

  Fresh tears blurred Lea’s eyes, despite her attempt to control them. Her emotions churned in chaos, driving all inner harmony away.

  It could not be true. She did not want it to be true. Yet the vision she’d involuntarily seen, however brief, could not be brushed aside. Sevaisin did not lie, and what she’d glimpsed inside this man had to be faced, whether she wanted to or not.

  For in him she’d seen her future, a destiny she’d never planned on, and one she did not want.

  Chapter 12

  In the dead of night, Hervan awakened, feeling restless and half-caught in a dream he couldn’t remember. Fiery embers glowed balefully in a pile of ash, filling his tent with orange light. Lying down had proved impossible, so he was propped up on several rolled blankets. Damned uncomfortable they were, too. His hand had gone numb from the awkward way his arm was trussed to his side, and his broken bone ached miserably.

  Next to his cot, his servant Crox lay knotted up in a blanket on the ground, uttering soft snores. Atop Hervan’s campaign chest, his cuirass gleamed with polish, his leather gauntlets had been scrubbed with pumice and ash to restore their white perfection, and his boots shone with a fresh application of blacking—all readied for the morrow. Hervan frowned. There should have been a full cup of wine within reach, but obviously the lazy knave hadn’t thought to provide it for him.

  A faint sound from outside distracted him from rousing his servant. Curious, Hervan struggled up, nearly stepping on Crox, who should have risen to serve him. Slinging a blanket awkwardly around his shoulders, Hervan ventured outside.

  It had stopped snowing. Overhead, the clouds had parted to allow a full moon to shine down on pristine white ground. The ruins cast strange shadows in the pale landscape, and the world held a still, hushed quality. The hair prickled uneasily on the back of his neck.

  He heard a distant sound of male voices. They paused, then murmured again, paused, and murmured.

  Recognizing the pattern, Hervan swore softly beneath his breath and ducked back inside his tent. He found Crox sitting up, hair wild and eyes staring.

  “My dagger and boots,” Hervan ordered.

  “Are we breaking camp? Are we under fresh attack?”

  Hervan snapped his fingers impatiently, and Crox scrambled to do his bidding, even fetching a thick cloak for him to wear instead of the blanket.

  “Shall I go with you, sir?”

  “Gods, man, I don’t need your help to piss,” Hervan said. “Go back to sleep.”

  He stepped outside, drawing a deep lungful of the frigid air to wake himself up, and made note of the sentry positions before slipping into the shadows between the tents. In moments, he’d left camp and was picking his way cautiously through the snow, stumbling a bit over the rubble concealed beneath it. His breath misted white about his face, and soon he was panting and hurting, wishing he’d stayed in his tent where he belonged.

  A shape loomed out of the darkness before him with a suddenness that made him reach for his dagger. Recognizing his lieutenant in the moonlight, Hervan eased out his breath.

  “Rozer,” he said quietly.

  “Captain. We didn’t expect you to join us.” Rozer glanced around. “Have you come alone?”

  “Of course.”

  Rozer nodded and escorted him past a corner where two walls stood nearly intact. On the other side, four men sat on large, rectangular stones, holding steaming cups. They stared at Hervan in unfriendly silence before getting up.

  Something tight eased in Hervan’s chest. Conscious of Rozer at his back, he went forward.

  “Men,” he said quietly, well aware of how clearly sound could carry over snow.

  Sergeant Taime stepped forward. “Come you as friend or foe?”

  It was a loaded question, full of all that had been left unsaid two years ago when Hervan—on the urgent advice of his father—had withdrawn his membership in the Talon Cadre. There was no harm in the brotherhood, of course. Hervan knew that every officer belonged to some secret society or other, sometimes several. Such memberships were expected, especially in the Household Regiment. Even the rank and file, notoriously superstitious, had their groups. All now officially forbidden, of course, by the reforms.

  “Well?” Taime demanded.

  “I come as—as your captain.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Taime,” Rozer said in rebuke, and the sergeant shut up. “Well, Captain, if you’re curious, we’re drinking toasts to our fallen comrades.”

  “And calling the dead.”

  Rozer drew in a sharp breath, and the others exchanged glances.

  “What of it?” the lieutenant asked.

  Hervan was glad Rozer didn’t deny it. He’d known the lieutenant since they were boys, growing up on adjoining estates. They took their commissions on the same day, had trained together. Not until Hervan dropped out of the cadre had their paths grown apart. But it was good to know that Rozer still cared enough not to lie to him.

  “A fine old tradition, honoring our dead,” Hervan said now. “Did they come?”

  “Not
yet,” someone replied, and was elbowed sharply by Taime.

  “We’d just started,” Rozer said. “There’s a lot of old death in this valley. We don’t want to call forth the wrong ghosts.”

  Hervan swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. He’d never been enamored of the rituals. The fellowship was fine, and the drinking marvelous. To this day he remembered a birthday celebration they’d thrown for him. Giddy with wine, he’d gone blindfolded into a chamber containing a haggai—smuggled in Gault knows how—and no pleasure he’d known since then had equaled that experience. Most of the rituals, however, were boring recitations or chants and responses from rote. The words meant nothing to him. Only a few ceremonies—usually the most important ones—proved unnerving. Twice had he stood in a circle that called the dead; twice had he toasted their shimmering pale images with blood-spiked wine. It was a bit hair-raising, but he knew of nothing darker that went on in the cadre. Despite his father’s nervous fears, they were not using shadow magic, not really.

  “I, too, would like to honor our dead,” Hervan said now.

  Rozer moved closer. “Would you? What else do you want?”

  Hervan shoved prickles of doubt aside. He’d made his decision before he came out here. “Ask them to open the Hidden Ways to us.”

  Some of the men gasped aloud. Another started to laugh, but swiftly hushed.

  Rozer ducked his head, and through the shadows and moonlight, Hervan saw him smile.

  “That’s my Oli,” Rozer said in low-voiced approval. “That’s the friend I remember, full of courage to the rattle, not afraid of light or shadow.”

  They gathered around him then, clapping him on his good shoulder and leading him over to sit down on one of the stones. It felt like a block of ice under his rump, but he perched there just the same, trying not to shiver, and felt the reckless delight of illicit conduct.

  Taking the flagon for himself, Rozer handed Hervan one of the cups. The contents smelled quite dreadful to Hervan. He lowered the warm steam away from his face, knowing it was not time yet to drink. No one has to know, he assured himself. Least of all Father. His spies can’t report on me out here.