by Cat Marsters
“And?” Bael urged.
“They were in my dream too. Recurring dream.” Crawling over Bael’s naked body. Maybe she didn’t need to add that part.
He said nothing to that, but he did get up and move to lean over Kett’s shoulder. He was very close, reading the pictograms Lya had drawn. Very close, very hot and very wrong.
Var sat in front of Kett, a small mongrel dog, tail wagging and eyes hopeful. Kett ignored him.
Bael straightened up.
“Kett,” he said softly. She kept her eyes fixed on the paper. “Kett, look at me.” Var nudged her hand with his soft, whiskery nose.
“Why?”
“I dreamed those symbols too. I dreamed you were with me, and those symbols appeared on your skin.”
Kett felt herself go very still. There was no possible way he could have known what she’d dreamt. She’d mentioned the symbols to her father but she’d told no one they’d appeared on Bael’s face and body.
Everyone was silent for a while then Striker, sitting opposite Kett, shoved Var to one side and looked at the symbols.
He laughed.
“Oh, I suppose a ritual involving painful death is funny to you, is it?” Kett snapped as Var, whimpering, leapt into Bael’s arms.
“Of course it is, pet. But what’s funny about this is how no one’s read it right.” He looked at Bael, who was holding Var, now in cat form, and stroking him soothingly. “Did your mother ever achieve this ultimate power?”
“If she had, she’d probably still be alive,” Bael said coldly.
“Right. Peck,” he addressed Lya, who scowled. “You said she was using shapeshifters and Nasc, right?”
The kelf nodded. “She got it wrong.”
This time they all stared at Lya.
“This symbol here,” she said, tapping the paper. “The Nasc interpreted it as ‘shape’ or ‘form’. But I told you—context. It has a looser meaning. They asked me to read it in Leaclii, which is the language of my tribe, but it was meant to be spoken in the ancient language. The meaning is subtly different.”
“How different?” Bael asked. Kett’s heart was thudding in her chest.
Lya chewed her lip. “In Leaclii, tvåskriva maskin krydda mittefiende formabyta.”
“Two creatures,” Tyrnan translated slowly, “two opposite creatures…who can…change?”
Lya nodded unhappily and went on. “And in the ancient language, na varda duan chimeron salasth sa fierna.”
Tyrnan gave her a blank look. The kelfs had never taught anyone their ancient language.
“Two creatures who are enemies,” Striker said, and Kett wasn’t really surprised he’d understood. “Enemies who can change their appearance.”
There was another silence.
“I don’t see the difference,” said Tyrnan.
“I do,” Bael said. He looked right at Lya, who looked right back at him.
“Kelfs and Nasc,” Chance said.
“But a kelf can only change its color when it’s a child,” Tyrnan said. “As an adult, it’s fixed.”
“Unless you’re a kelf who’s been ensorcelled by a Nasc Mage,” Lya said, her eyes still on Bael. “Your father experimented on me. Precisely what he thought he was doing when he sent me through the Wall is anyone’s guess, but I was still really only a kelfing at the time. I could still change my color.”
“The way a young Nasc can still change his shape,” Dark said.
“Whatever he did to me, it left me a mutable creature. I’m old enough to have grown kelfings of my own now, but…” Lya changed her skin color from blue to red, her hair from green to yellow, and her eyes through a spectrum of colors that made Kett feel slightly nauseous. “I can still change my color.”
“Do you think he knew?” Bael asked. “About the ritual, about needing you?”
Lya frowned and eventually shook her head. “He wasn’t terribly interested in the ritual. He said he would participate in it, because she couldn’t, not if she was the one performing it. But while she hunted down a shapeshifter, he experimented on how to send a kelf through the Wall.”
“No one else has managed it,” said Tyrnan. “Even Striker can’t do it.”
Striker snorted and lit up a cigarette in a manner that suggested such a thing wasn’t even worth bothering about.
“But no one else who’s tried it was a Nasc Mage,” Bael said. “That’s the thing. A kelf and a Nasc have never teamed up like that before.” He turned to Kett. “Do you know what this means?”
“You’re going to stop beating up kelfs?”
“No. Well, yes, but I mean—they don’t need you anymore.”
“Aye, but they don’t know that,” her father put in.
Kett rubbed her aching shoulder. “A great comfort. Thank you.”
She paused for a moment and looked around the table. She was tired. She was depressed. She was in pain. And she wasn’t needed.
She shoved back her chair, knocking it into Bael, and stood up.
“Right then,” she said. “I’ll be off.”
She hadn’t gotten three paces outside the room before Bael caught up to her.
“Kett, wait.”
“Fuck off.”
“No, listen.”
“Fuck off.”
“Kett—”
“Fuck.”
“Please.”
“Off.”
Var, all of a sudden a full-grown tiger, leapt in front of her. He filled the wide corridor, his eyes like solid amber, his tail swishing.
“I’ve fought tigers before,” Kett said.
“Yeah, and see how that worked out?” Bael moved to stand in front of her. “Kett, just listen to me a minute.”
“No. Your ritual doesn’t need me. You can’t possibly have anything to say to me.”
“My ritual—” Bael began, teeth gritted, but he calmed himself. “Look, you and I know the ritual doesn’t need you, but Albhar doesn’t. He’ll still be after you.”
“I can take care of—”
“No one, in this state.” When she started to protest, he interrupted again. “Have you even been able to change your shape since you got here?”
She folded her arms and glared at the floor. “I haven’t tried.”
“Try.”
“Fuck—”
“Albhar put an enchantment on you so you couldn’t. I can lift it.”
“I could get Striker to do that.”
“For what price? Just stand still a minute.”
Kett narrowed her eyes. “You could be putting a mojo on me.”
Bael looked at her with terrible sadness in his eyes. “You don’t—” he began, and broke off, sighing. “You never trusted me, did you?”
“I never trust anyone.”
“Why, Kett?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Kett snapped, and attempted to push past him, but Bael caught her arm and yanked her against the wall, pinning her there with his body.
“Get off me or I’ll rip your throat out with or without the help of fangs,” she spat.
But Bael spoke in some other language, something lyrical, and Kett felt the same sensation she had when Striker had freed her from the spell the first time.
No, not the first time. She’d been freed from this spell once before that. She’d heard those words once before.
Her skin rippled, changing to fur, feathers, scales, her fingertips growing claws, shrinking again, her whole body reveling in its flexibility. Bael, never letting up, watched her from a distance of about six inches.
“I’ve heard those words before,” she said, holding up one hand and slowly turning it into a tiger’s paw.
“The spell was on you that first time,” Bael said, “when we were in the cave. There was one on me too but I shook it off. Who did it for you?”
“Striker,” Kett said. “But he didn’t use words. And that wasn’t the first time I’ve been under that spell.”
Bael had hold of one of her wrists and
one of her arms. Her free hand turned into a gryphon’s claw and she considered using it on him. But instead, she held it in front of his face and turned it to stone.
Kett had always found it more difficult to change one part of her body than to mimic an entire shape. Turning every inch of skin to the texture of stone was easier than changing just her hand, and she still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent well, so she did her whole body.
Bael was still holding her against the wall, but as the crackle of stone spread over her skin, his hands flew away from her as if she’d burnt him. His face twisted with horror, his whole body flinched. His eyes were wide with revulsion, shock and fear. Var shrunk against him, once more a small dog, whimpering with fear.
“Kett,” Bael croaked, like a man witnessing a massacre. “Gods, no. Please!”
Kett turned herself back, blinking. “For gods’ sakes, Bael, you look like you’ve seen a corpse.”
He touched her, tentatively, as if he was terrified she might break. When she failed to shatter into a million pieces, he grabbed her and hugged her to him, breathing hard, burying his face in her neck. Kett thought he might be crying.
He was strong and warm and close, and for a moment she let herself relax into the pleasure of his arms. But only for a moment. He might not have been the one to lock her in the tower, but he’d hardly protested Albhar’s intentions.
“Get a grip,” she hissed. “I was only trying to show you—look, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Bael said, looking up. “Believe me, Kett, it does. In my dream you were made of stone, and you crumbled to pieces. I thought—”
“You dreamed of me made of stone?” Kett asked sharply, and Bael nodded, looking wretched.
“I dreamed of you made of stone, and you turned into a—you looked like you’d been…”
“What?” Kett asked sarcastically, trying to disentangle herself from him. “Left in a tower cell for five days with no food and water?”
Bael flinched. “Left in a tower cell for five months with no food and water.” His eyes met hers, and they were tortured. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“And that makes it all right, does it? If you thought I was some anonymous stranger that you’d left to die? That’s sexy, Bael. That’s really hot.”
He flinched. “I was angry. I was hurt. You might have some memory of why.”
Kett felt her face burn.
“You have no idea of the agonies I’ve been through since I saw you there,” Bael said softly. “Day and night, visions of you. Nightmares. Your body just rotting away as I watched. Like the dead grown old. I thought—it was telling me you were going to die, and then when you turned to stone…”
He buried his head in her neck again, and Kett, frowning, let him. It was only when the door from the breakfast room opened and Tyrnan looked out, eyebrows raised, that she made Bael move.
“We need to talk,” she said, gesturing to her father that it was all right. A direct lie. Kett couldn’t really remember any instances in her life when things had been less right, but she really didn’t need Tyrnan’s interference.
Tugging Bael upstairs to her bedroom, she shut the door and leaned against it, shoving her hands through her hair. Funny, but it was one of the hardest things to change.
“Sit,” she said to Bael, gesturing to the bed, and he did. “Stay. Good dog.”
Var, still a dog but rather larger, gave her a reproachful look and leapt onto the bed to rest his head in Bael’s lap.
They were both silent a while. Kett, her leg aching, limped over to the dresser for a jar of liniment then hesitated. What the hell. Bael could see her naked without jumping on her. He thought she consorted with whores.
The fact that she actually had didn’t make her feel any better.
She kicked off her boots, tugged off her trousers and dealt Bael a severe look. “My leg hurts,” she said. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”
“I wouldn’t anyway.” He hesitated, watching her sit at the other end of the bed and start to rub liniment into her thigh. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Hurts like buggery. Well, not actually like buggery, that’s not really so bad. But, you know. Hurts. A lot.”
“I tried to fix it.”
“How?”
Bael frowned. “I don’t know. I just…wanted you to be better. To stay alive.”
Please get well again. Just stay alive.
“Sure, and I’m the Maharaja of Pradesh,” Kett said, shaken.
“Actually, funny story,” Bael said. “I used to know the Maharaja of Pradesh.”
“No you didn’t,” Kett said wearily.
“Did too. Fat man. Smelled of curry.”
“Harem of concubines younger than his daughter,” Kett said absently.
“You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
She poked at her leg a while, trying to think of what to say. All this bullshit between them. Maybe if she’d just been honest in the first place, none of this would have happened.
Yeah, like she believed that. But maybe it was worth a try anyway.
“The thing is…”
Bael looked at her encouragingly. Var nuzzled her hand and she found herself scratching the soft fur at the top of his head.
“The thing is…”
Var licked her fingers encouragingly.
Tell him you were the barmaid. Tell him you didn’t fuck Giacomo. Tell him he’s probably right and you are his mate.
Tell him…
He left you to die.
Bael touched her hand and she looked up, her eyes meeting his. His eyes were so green, impossibly green, shining like emeralds.
“The thing is,” her voice came out as a whisper, “there’s so much you don’t know.”
“Then tell me,” Bael said.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Start anywhere.”
Var, cat-shaped again, slid onto her lap, his fur silky against her bare skin. He looked up at her, eyes as green as Bael’s, and purred.
Kett dug her fingers into his fur, and started talking.
Chapter Nineteen
Once upon a time, Bael learned, there had been a little girl who was made of stone. One day, she was turned into a real girl, but because she’d been a statue for eight years she didn’t know how to talk or move or eat. She babbled like a baby and nearly choked on ordinary foods. She crawled, shouted and hit people, because she didn’t know it wasn’t acceptable to do so.
She also didn’t know that it wasn’t usual for other people to change their shapes at will. She frequently turned into a dog or a horse without notice, since those were the animals she’d seen most when she was a statue. Later, when she was educated a little more, and learned about tigers and gryphons, she started trying to emulate them. On the island where she lived, there were dragons, but it wasn’t until her teens that she managed such a shape—
“Hold on,” Bael said. “Dragon island? The only one in Peneggan is Koskwim.”
Kett nodded. “I’ll tell you about it later.” She paused. “It’s—well, it’s not entirely my secret to tell.”
“But it might prove important?”
Her fingers dug into Var’s fur. “Yeah. It probably will.”
“Who undid the spell? Striker?”
She gave a half smile. “No. Striker was still imprisoned in the kelfs’ mythical hell dimension—don’t ask—pickling in his own madness. It was a couple of kids who’d nicked a magic book and went on some kind of spree, trying to turn inanimate objects into real things. And with me they just…got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.” Her gaze slid in his direction. “You’ve met one of them.”
Bael gestured with his hand for more. He was too tired to think which of Kett’s many bizarre acquaintances it might have been.
“Jarven. He’s the one who took me to Koskwim, didn’t know what else to do with me. He was pretty much the only one on the whole island who didn’t treat me like a
freak.”
Bael opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. Jarven, silent and unemotional, quietly lending Kett the support she needed. A surrogate brother for an orphan child.
She told him how, when she was sixteen, a tall, lean man with chilling blue eyes, dressed all in black, had turned up and said he knew her father. Kett hadn’t believed him—in fact, up until then she’d rarely thought about her father. She’d discovered her mother had been a shapeshifter, but absolutely nothing of her father.
“He said he was taking me home,” she said, “and I told him I already was home. I’d never known anywhere else. I didn’t leave that island until I was sixteen.”
Bael frowned, because all he knew of Koskwim was that it was inhabited by a colony of wild dragons. But then, given Kett’s day job, he wasn’t that surprised.
“Who was he?” he asked, although he figured he already knew the answer.
“Striker. He and my dad go way back. He brought me here.”
She told him how she’d met her father for the first time, and he’d been distinctly underwhelmed, more interested in chasing pretty girls and separating wealthy people from their money than being a father. He’d sent her on to his own father, an Anglish earl, from whom Kett had been kidnapped by men who tried to sell her as a slave.
“Reckon he’d probably have left me there if they hadn’t gone after Nuala too,” she said without rancor.
“Don’t you mind?” Bael asked.
“What, that he prefers her to me? He’s known her longer. He was best mates with her brother—now the king—in their army days, saved his life once or twice. Nuala was like his kid sister—until she grew up, that is.” She smiled. “Funny, everyone thought she was still such a kid, but they treated me like an adult and I’m six years younger than her.”
Bael frowned, and she said gently, “It’s okay. You don’t need to go calling him out or anything. We actually get on okay now.” She gave a faint smile and added, “Apparently, finding out he has a teenage daughter can bloody terrify a man.”
The lamp grew dim as she told him about meeting her father’s exotic, glamorous and sometimes just insane friends. Striker was the tip of the iceberg, just one of many mad, bad and dangerous individuals Tyrnan of Emreland consorted with. Somewhere in between being the son of an earl and marrying a princess, he’d developed an infamous career in highway robbery. Perpetually pardoned by the king in Peneggan, and thrown in jail everywhere else, he spent his days with whom Kett called madmen and freaks.
