Many rooms in Qynnsent were designed with eastern and western windows or even glass walls, but in this circular room somehow the walls seemed to get more of the Sun. The light of the Aetarx itself, some documents said, was of the same nature as sunlight.
Rianor had to periodically access the Aetarx because he was the High Lord. An Aetarx needed a High Lord or Lady to take care if it, and supposedly Mierenthia needed all of the Aetarx to take care of it in turn. He did not know if it was true, and perhaps that was why he accessed the Aetarx and took care of it despite everything. He wanted to find out.
And, for someone who had learned to close himself to the Aetarx's emissions of turbulence and sadness, there was still a certain feeling of beauty to be found in the artifact and the Inner Sanctum.
Linden's hair brushed his hand as she turned her head to follow his gaze, and Rianor suddenly realized that he was no longer angry with her, but with the Aetarx for frightening her. The realization made him angry with her once again. He abruptly wrapped his arm around her waist and walked her towards the Aetarx, ignoring her fastened heartbeat.
"So you did not feel that what I was doing was right?" he said with forced calmness when they were so close to the Aetarx that if she extended her arm she could touch it. She turned to look at him but said nothing, and he gently caught her chin and turned her head back to the Aetarx.
"Look at the Aetarx, my witch, look at it carefully. It is a beautiful artifact and one that makes people perform deeds they might later regret."
"I understand." Her look interrupted him even before her exquisite, impertinent mouth had shaped a word. Her eyes looked like a storm, then settled in a hard, glass-like appearance that was especially fetching on her.
"So this is one of the celebrated elements," she said, "of the great whole that is the quintessence of the Master's world. This is one of the Master's gifts to humankind." She turned in his arms to face him fully. "If this is the quintessence of the Master's world, I want out of the Master's world right now! If the Master exists and this is what he would do to us, the Master should be unmade! What the books say about it is a lie—at least the books available to commoners lie. It reeks of sadness and fear, and it talked to me. Drew images in my mind, more accurately! What is the problem with you, Rianor? Wretched sorrowful things that should not be able to talk or act seem to talk to me and try to imprison me ever since I met you!"
"I am glad I am making your life interesting. Mine has not been too peaceful with you, either."
That shut her up, but he was not finished with her. "Yes, I know the Aetarx drew images in your mind. It has the habit of doing so, and I would have expected a woman as smart as you are to have realized that it affects feelings. I hope, thus, that you can later explain to me why you acted only because you felt something was or was not right, without thinking."
She fixed his eyes with hers. "You would have expected? Well, I would have expected a man as smart as you are to have realized that it does not affect the feelings themselves. It gives you thoughts—images. What feelings you allow based on those thoughts depends only on you."
He fixed her eyes back. "I said that you could explain to me later. Now, I am taking you to my suite."
For a moment he left the sentence at that, despite her sudden rigidness. The woman really had no idea of the consequences of breaking into a House's Inner Sanctum, proceeding to even interfere with the High Lord's interaction with the Aetarx because she "felt it was not right." In any other House, the best that could happen to her now was Bers. She was too complex for a mere lady and apprentice, too dangerous. And damn inquisitive fool that he was, always poking and tinkering with what he was not supposed to poke and tinker with, Rianor liked it.
"We are only going there because after this stunt we need to talk, and there are documents you need to see—documents that never leave the High Ruler's rooms, which, actually, you are not supposed to see. So stop looking at me as if I were some sex maniac who needed to be clubbed on the head because his ideas of a good time consisted of taking his victim on a stroll amongst the foulest places, creatures, and artifacts."
She awarded him with an unreadable look, then smiled, but it was a neurotic smile, as if now she would do something else reckless. How did the Aetarx affect a woman who was not a High Lady? Was it a better choice now to take her to bed, postponing all conversations until she had slept through her emotions? Rianor gritted his teeth, angry with Linden for heedlessly doing deeds of possible enormity, and angry with himself for neglecting to warn her and failing to predict her. She was so much more perplexing than a Scientific experiment—a nuisance, which on the other hand finally provided him with a conversation partner.
"I would have never guessed that you were not such a maniac, Rianor."
So she was teasing him now. He was too affected to resist slowly stroking her nape, leaning to whisper into her ear.
"Trust me, my lady, I can do better than that with you."
Like going to bed now, alone, forcing himself to sleep through desires and emotions. This girl had the potential to help him—to understand him—just how fast could some sexual trifling between the two of them waste it?
She ran the fingers of one hand against his cheek, as if testing his resolve, murmuring something like, " 'My lady' is not correct, I do not yet have the status of a lady."
"I can easily fix that." He caught her wrist to stop her, but then caressed her palm, mustering all self-control available when this small motion made her tremble.
"Can you, my lord?" Her other hand slipped along his shoulder and down his arm, teasing until the moment she grabbed his sleeve and hauled him to herself. The eyes staring at his were furious albeit deceivingly beautiful.
"And what, my lord, is your price? I may not be willing to pay it!"
Rianor did not give her a reply. A part of him knew that he had teased her, too, his own behavior feeding quite some of the misunderstanding. But it was only a part of him amongst many. Others urged him to grab her pretty throat and squeeze, or grab her pretty dress and tear it. And her sharp, accusing, exquisite eyes made him even angrier.
Silently, he gripped her left hand and thrust her sleeve up, snatching the new wristwatch from his pocket and clasping it to her wrist in a single motion. She paled as the watch faded into her skin, the inside of her wrist flashing with a scarlet, exquisitely drawn Qynnsent symbol.
"Fixed, my lady. We should have had a ceremony, but this is the part that matters. Now do you want to come and talk to me, or would you prefer me to come up with a price? "
Linden
Night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705
Linden did not cry out as what felt like iodine-coated daggers cut into her flesh, but she did not dare look at her wrist, either. The hand must still be there. It must. She would have heard it fall if it had been severed. It must be there, but as for whether it was still fully attached to the wrist ...
A shiver shook her body and did not stop. Light was again gathering around her.
The light of the hated Aetarx artifact that she had not even seen when she was first trapped in this room. The room had been dark before, not fully dark like the Passage, and yet too dark and cold. So, what was real, light or darkness?
It did not matter; she hated both. She hated the handsome, steely-eyed face of Rianor of Qynnsent before her, and she especially hated the silent tears that started creeping down her own face. Has it been a second, a minute, or a day since the man had mutilated her? She did not know.
Her hand turned out to be safely attached to her wrist when, after another indefinable period of time, she dared look. There was no wound, only a symbol on her skin. Only. Like merchant Pierre's perfume bottles, her hand was marked. She was.
Linden tried to flex her fingers, but they would not obey, and a feeling of simultaneous freezing and burning shot up to her elbow. The burning felt just like it had in the visions. She did not scream. The man was urgently talking to her, but she could not hea
r his words. She could only hear the light itself, gurgling like rain-water in a gutter.
Light was not supposed to have a sound—but what behaved like it was supposed to here? The light was gathering around her hand, permeating her skin. It was heavy.
"Nobles carry heavy burdens," Mister Podd had once said. "They are not like the rest of us."
"So, what are they? What am I now?"
The sound of her own voice, shaky as it were, gave her strength. She suddenly threw her wounded hand high above her head, her hair and dress rippling around her as she twirled towards the pulsing Aetarx. "Give me an answer, you phantom of afflicting thoughts!" She lashed her hand back down, throwing the light away from her. "Give me an answer!"
The discharged light hit the Aetarx and was reflected with a glare. Then it hit the ceiling and was reflected back to the Aetarx, while the artifact discharged new light of its own. The room vibrated with illumination that was bright and almost corporeal, rattling the windows and gathering at the walls, pressing at her body. It looked like light, but it was something else, crackling with the potential of ... of what?
Not of something pleasant. Linden twirled again, instinctively grabbing at the light with both her hand and mind. She had not been right in letting go; the light was dangerous and had to stay with her, had to be controlled, lest it move and act upon its own will. She pulled at the light, hard, issuing a silent scream as some of it was thrust back inside her left wrist. Then her whole body was yanked to the side and she almost fell over her face as another force pulled back.
What looked like a rope of yellow light was issuing from her wrist now, tugging, the glare of it hurting her eyes. She blinked them clear, then raised them to find the High Lord standing a few meters away from her, watching her, the other end of the rope of light held securely in his left hand. He moved his little finger, slightly, and more light floated from the ceiling towards him, dissipating into little pieces that swirled and blended with his end of the rope. The rope tugged at her wrist again, harder. There was almost no other light left in the room except for the rope and the Aetarx itself.
She twisted her hand, ignoring the pain (which had somewhat lessened), and entwined her fingers with the rope. There, she could pull the rope herself now. It would not do, her being tied, while he had control on his end. Even though the High Lord would have more control here, for this was his place ...
And there can only be one of you.
Her end of the rope turned into a sword.
Later, Linden knew that what happened next had occupied no more than a moment. But sometimes a moment could take forever.
He held a sword, too, and held it almost menacingly—as if he had not yet decided whether he wanted to thrust it into her body, or if he was going to wait for her to attack first. The sword fit him. It was long and elegant, its edge clean and sharp. He held it as if he knew how to use it.
She did not know how to use hers. She had only ever seen swords in pictures. Hers was smaller, but still she stumbled under its weight. Why did she have a sword, anyway?
Would you prefer not to? Would you prefer to obey the will of his?
Images flashed in her mind again. This time, she was not only a woman. Oh, she was a woman, all right. She did see multiple versions of herself, each at the mercy of a High Lord. A lady, a forest witch, a servant ... women who could be either imaginary or real, but she felt the apprehension and excitement of each.
Of course, it must all be her own apprehension and excitement. She had a theory for this. She watched the eyes narrow on the face of her lord. Did he know? Did he see what she saw? Some of the things she had just imagined ... She trembled as his gaze explored her, his eyes sharper and harder than the sword.
Oh, really? Sharper and harder? She must be quite acquainted with the degrees of sharpness and hardness of swords, then, the lady expert-on-swords-she-had-only-seen-in-pictures. Or had she taken this ingenious comparison from the books Calia liked to read?
She was a woman again, but that did not matter, and neither did it matter that the sharp eyes meeting hers belonged to a man. It was the sharpness of his sword that mattered as he thrust it in her chest. She had been a High Lady.
But there could only be one.
Then she was another woman; after that she was a man. She was a lady, but then she herself was a High Lord, and then another one, and then someone else. She always had a sword, and she often knew how to use it, metal clanging as she met the blades of both women and men. Sometimes she was victim, other times she was victor. The fight went on.
The sword in Linden's hand wriggled, pulling her forward. She fought.
But she did not fight Rianor—she fought the sword.
The night had left her body exhausted and her mind confused, but somewhere inside her a part had awakened that thought and felt with crystal clarity. It was not a part she controlled easily. Often it was just beyond the reach of the rest of her, shrouded with what she sometimes thought of as "mental mist." It was the part that solved puzzles and built mechanisms that other parts of her thought she could never solve or build.
Right now, it knew who the real enemy was.
The sword had somehow become lighter. She could swing it easily, and it would obey her, its smooth handle just a right fit for her palm, its touch on her skin almost sensual. Swing it, a part of her said, feel the movement. Feel the wind it creates—the wind you create.
But here it is where you are wrong, stupid thing. The wind it creates would never be mine.
It should have all stopped at that moment. Images should go away after she had made realizations. She did not want this happening—it was all in her mind, wasn't it? Shouldn't it? A sword should not be able to change its weight just because it wanted Linden to attack a man. It should not be able to want anything. Linden trembled, then stumbled under the weight of a weapon that was once again too heavy and was trying to haul her forward. It was not herself who wanted to harm Rianor and take his place, was it?
No!
"I don't want to fight you!" she cried out to him, just as her sword twisted her arm with a jerking motion, the blade meeting his with a clang. He twisted his own blade, shoving hers sideways, her shoulder convulsing with the impact.
He could kill her with just another blow. He did not. Her sword tried to lurch again, and it took all her strength to hold it. She did not know how long she could hold.
Good, he almost believes you. He might even let you close. Use it, otherwise he would be too strong an opponent. Go ahead. There can only be one.
"Shut up! Shut up! Damn you, just shut up!"
"Linde." For the first time since the light had started gathering, she could hear Rianor's voice. His voice was hard and at the same time almost gentle. "A weapon, even one such as these, cannot work on its own."
She tried to drop the sword, but her fingers would not unclench from the handle.
Foolish girl. Weakling. Do you trust him?
He had come too close, and no, she did not trust him completely. His face was too unreadable, and despite his words, the hand that held his sword seemed to have too much will of its own.
He reached out with the blade and caressed her throat, almost tenderly. "What is it, my lady, that you do want?"
There it was again, another moment of crystal clarity. Thoughts and feelings suddenly clicked together inside her in a seemingly randomized fashion, producing what to her was known as truth.
"First, I want you to take this blade away before you have cut me," she said, "for I am not certain what it is that you want."
"And then—" She dared take a breath, managing to not injure herself on his sword. "I want to be myself. I want to continue making my own choices. Perhaps to share some with you, because for the short time I have known you, I have seen you understand." She watched a hint of an emotion flash in his eyes as he moved his blade a centimeter away, where it could still threaten without touching. She inhaled again, deeper, and then again.
"I want to n
ever again step into a witless, power-hungry mindset where I would feel compelled to kill the man who has done so much for me just to take his place. And I want to never forget my sword and its will. I want to always remember how it feels to use power you cannot fully control. So that I never again wish for it."
"Many people would try to grab any power that came in their way. Why not you?"
"Because I am not many people. I am me." She shook her head. "It told me that there could only be one, but it showed me many. Men and women scrabbling to wield swords not all of them knew how to wield, so that they would grab power—and for what? To wield the swords again, and to wield better swords than their old ones. Why? To achieve consequences they could not possibly predict, let alone plan? Are they thinking of consequences, are they planning at all? Are these people evil or stupid, what do you think? Power conquered for no other sake but power itself is corrupt. There could only be one, your Aetarx said, but I have seen many—and I refuse to be one of them."
There can only be one. It needs not be you.
Her sword, which had so far been pulling forward, towards Rianor, suddenly jerked back, with both its own force and the force Linden had been applying to hold it. Her hand still clutching the hilt, she somehow managed to make the lower part of her body leap aside. The blade barely missed her leg.
Linden almost fell as she jumped to again protect herself from the sword in her own hand. Her fingers just would not let go. So she grabbed the sword with both hands, trying to control it by force, but when she pushed it away from herself, it tried to once again go after Rianor, then back at her. Linden almost whimpered. It was too heavy for her to hold still without knowing whom it would try to attack next. How could you fight an enemy whose moves did not form a pattern, did not make sense?
The Seekers of Fire Page 20
