Diamond Stained

by J M D Reid

  Not like me, she thought, the cloying taste of whitewash filling her mouth.

  She rolled over on her side, glancing at the curtains covering her window. Compassion was the brightest of the seven moons shining tonight, full and shedding orange light across the world with Forgiveness waxing gibbous, adding emerald highlights in strange places. Patience shone half-bright near the horizon, the others only slivers in the sky. Normally, moonlight soothed her. “That’s Elohm’s Colours shining down to peek through the Black’s cloak,” Daughter Heana had told a far younger Avena. “Look at scarred Honesty. She’s cratered and battered, but she survives. Just like you did. She’s strong, Avena.”

  She’d only stared up in mute appraisal. That night, the white moon, Honesty, had a silvery shine to it, not the thick, chalky paste of whitewash. Avena had smiled and almost felt like talking that night, safe in the arms of Daughter Heana. In the distance, the Rainbow Belfry’s chime hummed, announcing the turning of the hour.

  “ . . .and there she lay, the maid so fair, amid the moon’s bright light. Honesty did shine with silvery delight upon all her beauty revealed.”

  The drunken singing drew her attention. It grew louder, the bawdy song’s lyrics making her blush with the description of the maiden fair. She slipped out of bed, her nightgown rustling down her legs as her bare feet padded across the faded carpet around her bed. She gasped when she reached the cold stone beyond the rug. She shuffled her feet as she reached the window and pulled it open. The glass, fashioned in squares the size of her palm and held together by thin strips of wood, was of high quality, not a single bubble or imperfection.

  “ . . .if you bring me down a beam of red,” the guards sang as they staggered towards the servants’ quarters beneath her window. She had a room on the second floor not far from Dualayn’s quarters. Not that he used his tonight. After the funeral, he’d retired to his lab to study the Recorder. “And fashion me a frolicsome bed, I’ll share all my truths with you.”

  Avena shook her head, spotting Ōbhin in the midst of the men, all drunk. He staggered, supported by Smiles and Bran with Fingers leading them. Their song faded as they reached the servants’ quarters. She stayed at the window, the weight of sleeplessness pressing on her. Eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, sandy and blurry. She felt the ache growing across her mind. She wanted to sleep, but those images wouldn’t leave her.

  She let her gaze drift across the dark grounds. The grass resembled a frozen sea, dark with a mounting wave reaching up to the house. The moonlight picked out the wrought iron posts atop the encircling wall. Her eyes drank in the world, but her mind didn’t see anything save Carstin on the table, his breathing shallow. Weak.

  Why do I care so much? she wondered. Other patients have died. No, she knew why. She’d latched onto saving him while dreading what the bandits would do with her and Dualayn. He’d given her strength, allowed her to maintain dignity, to be defiant, to not think about the emptiness.

  Her eyes trailed up the blackberry hill to his grave as she trembled over the table, blotting up blood, hoping for the bandit to survive. She’d clutched to that fact and . . .

  Movement flashed.

  She frowned, staring at the hilltop. Were there figures atop it? She bit her lip, her right hand pressing against the cold glass pane. Winter’s chill still lingered at night and frost coated the edges. It bled into her numbing fingers. Her breath spilled beads of foggy moisture before her.

  The darkness writhed atop the hill, the large tree blocking the two moons’ light. A chill swept through her. She suddenly felt eyes upon her. Baleful. A hatred dark and profound seized her. A new image arose in her mind.

  The dark-skinned sorcerer with the black lightning gripping his head. Her nose picked up a fetid smell, the rotting scent of corpses. The terror of the unnatural dogs, the jackals, surged through her. She felt naked now despite her nightgown. The linen thin armor against the presence staring at her.

  With a squeak, she thrust the curtains closed and stumbled back, her breath frosting the air before her. She touched carpet then bumped into her bed. She threw herself upon it, pulled the sheets over her head, and trembled in fear.

  He can’t be on the hill, gibbered through her mind as she curled into a ball. Her eyes squeezed shut. I’m just tired. It’s just my imagination. Why would he be here? Why would he be watching us?

  The icy chill reached through the bed. She hugged her knees to her breasts, rocking in her bower, praying to Elohm to send the morning light, to banish the Black. Her heart thundered in her chest as she muttered her prayers. The night passed on and on and on.

  When the house creaked, she whimpered.

  When she heard footsteps moving through the house, she tensed, fearing the dark man came.

  The wind gusted past her window.

  A door creaked open. Boomed shut.

  Whispers echoed down halls.

  Her stomach curdled. Bile crept up her throat. The acrid taste permeated her mouth. Her skin grew tighter and tighter.

  When the dawn came, her throat ached and her lips hurt, dried and cracked. When the first rays of light bled through her curtains, she dared peek out of her blankets. She crept to the window, wrapped up in her covers, her tousled hair falling about her pale face. Raw-red eyes darted to and fro. Her hand quivered as she pushed back the curtain.

  The sun’s light spilled over the top of the hill, illuminating the trunk. No one stood there. No dark beasts. No baleful gaze. It looked the same as it should. An explosive breath burst from her. She staggered beneath the weight of her blankets. Her knees buckled, collapsed.

  She fell beneath the window, cushioned by her sheets. She stared up at the ceiling, feeling at once foolish and relieved. Of course, there was no one on the hill. Her mind had conjured darklings and nightbeasts to scare her.

  Exhaustion seized her. She closed her eyes and let sleep finally pull her down.

  Chapter Eleven

  Twenty-Sixth Day of Compassion, 755 EU

  Ōbhin awoke to hammers beating his head and the faint ringing of a distant chime.

  He groaned, his mouth tasting of sour filth. Bleary eyes flicked around the plain room. He pried his head from a down-stuffed pillow, linen sheets sliding off his clothed body. The pillowcase clung to his cheek, cemented in place by thick drool.

  “Aliiva, deliver me a soothing Tone,” he muttered in his native Qothian.

  He struggled to master his thoughts as he looked around the room. Plain, a single wardrobe in the corner filled with what meager belongings he’d possessed. His chainmail coat, a change of clothing. Hands flexed. He groaned at their stiffness. He hated sleeping in his gloves. He rubbed at the black-dyed leather.

  Last night was a blur of emotions. Laughing, mourning, even singing. His new men didn’t resent what he’d done to Ni’mod. Bran was even impressed. Ōbhin had snatches of memory of the youth prying for the whole story, for the blows that had led to the bloodfire’s death.

  Just chance, Ōbhin thought. Raleth’s Tone resonated with me and not him that day.

  Bladder full, he relieved himself in a chamber pot of unglazed pink-brown, the rim chipped. He groaned as his water passed out of him, the hammers assaulting his brain diminishing for a moment. Then he pried off his gloves and attended to them. He worked the beeswax into the leather, massaging the minx hide to keep it supple.

  Every man of Qoth, who wasn’t a snow-blinded idiot, knew to keep his gloves supple. It would be shameful for a woman to witness their hands uncovered, to see the instruments with which the men provided labor to sustain their community. No different from a woman taking off her mask before any save her lover or close family. It was an intimacy.

  To touch another ungloved . . .

  Foonauri flashed in his mind. The feel of her ripe body beneath his bare skin sent a heat flushing through him. The dagger appeared in his memory a moment later. It plunged, almost on its own, into Taim’s chest. The weight of those he’d failed, Taim included, pressed on Ōbhin.


  He couldn’t stay here. He had guards to train. Ni’mod had cared little for the other men protecting the estate. Ōbhin didn’t need any more spirits disrupting the harmony of his life. He might never resonate with the pure Tones, but he could try. He could make something of himself.

  He donned his sable gloves and slipped on his resonance blade, the heavy belt and weight of the sword feeling comfortable on his hips. He left the room, staring up and down the hallway. The sunlight streaming through his window announced he’d slept half the day away.

  How late were we out? he wondered as he moved through the servants’ quarters. The hallways were plain, his boots thudding on the wood.

  A door opened and a maid emerged from what looked like a storeroom carrying a bucket in one hand and a dried mop in the other, the strips of thick, absorbent cloth dangling from the end. She glanced at him, her youthful expression tight. Dark-brown hair fell in a long tail down her back, gathered with a leather band at the nape of her neck.

  “Pardon, ma’am,” he said, giving her a slight bow, “the kitchens?”

  “So you’re him?” asked the woman, arching a dark eyebrow. “Kept my Phelep out drinking until the wee hours, you did.” She planted the end of the mop on the floor. “That how you keeping the estate secure?”

  “Phelep?” he asked. A recollection from last night percolated through his aching head. “You’re Smiles’s wife.”

  “I’m Phelep’s wife.” She shook her head. “I didn’t marry an expression, did I?”

  Ōbhin blinked. The picture painted by Smiles—Phelep—was of a sweet and caring woman, the nicest creature who lived. This woman’s eyes had a sharpness to them. If they were daggers, they would plunge into Ōbhin’s body.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, touching left hand to heart. “The kitchens?”

  “Other wing,” she said. “Though if the cook got any sense, she won’t feed you.” She shook her head and marched past him. “Drinkin’ ‘til almost sunup.”

  Her mutterings dwindled as Ōbhin rubbed leather-clad fingers against his throbbing head. His steps only exasperated it as he left behind the servants’ quarters and entered the main house. He passed through the extravagant entry and the door to Dualayn’s lab. A tray of food, covered by a linen cloth, lay before it while a wooden sign hung from it with painted letters reading: “Research in progress, kindly do not disturb.”

  The smells from the kitchen filled the other wing of the house. He encountered another pair of maids bustling around with friendlier smiles than Jilly’s followed by a cook’s assistant, a young woman named Hajina who gave him a nod. He reached the open door to the kitchen where a fleshy woman, face ruddy but bearing traces of youthful beauty, watched her young assistants dicing yellow, gnarled carrots.

  “Come on, girl,” the woman said, her voice cold. “Even cuts.”

  “Yes, Kaylin,” the girl said, shoulders hunching.

  Ōbhin rasped on the edge of the doorway. “Ma’am, could I sneak a bite to eat?”

  The cook turned her attention to him. An apron, not dissimilar from the maids’, covered her dark dress. Her sleeves were rolled up, arms smeared with streaks of flour. Her eyes had all the warmth of a corpse as they fixed on him.

  “Eat?” she asked almost like the question confused her. “Yes, yes, lunch meal is ready.” She shook her head and then turned around. “Where did we put the lunches, girl?”

  “They’re under the cheesecloth, Kaylin,” the girl dicing carrots said.

  “Of course they are,” the cook said with almost a tone of admonishment. Despite her bulk, she moved swiftly around the large table to a second that stood near a bank of stoves with pots steaming on them. She pulled back a large cloth and revealed plates with hunks of sliced bread and meat draped over them. “Take one.” She frowned. “Who are you?”

  “Ōbhin.”

  “He’s Ni’mod’s replacement,” said the assistant. “Remember? Came in with Master Dualayn and Avena yesterday.”

  “Did he?” The cook frowned again, the confusion appearing in her eyes. “Did Dualayn leave?”

  “He did, Kaylin. Don’t you need to attend to the stew?”

  “Of course I do!” snapped the cook. She whirled around. “Only one here who has any sense in the kitchen.”

  As Ōbhin entered the kitchen to fetch an earthenware plate, he glanced at the assistant. The young woman, her round face flushed, shrugged. “She ain’t been right since her husband died.”

  Ōbhin nodded. He heard something about the previous butler passing on. The fussy Pharon had replaced him. Scooping up the plate, he said, “My thanks, Madam Kaylin.”

  The cook frowned. “Who are you? Why are you in my kitchen?”

  Ōbhin just gave a smile and retreated with the plate. He found his way outside and leaned against the wall. The scent of the savory stew spilled out the window. He ate slowly and was soon joined by the other guards who looked as bleary-eyed as he. All save Smiles, who had a big grin.

  “How can you be smilin’?” Fingers growled around a mouthful of wheat bread and goat meat. “Feel like my wife clubbed me over the head with her rollin’ pin a time or three.”

  Bran nodded in agreement, the youth’s pale cheeks tinged with a faint hue of green.

  “Jilly was such a dear,” Smiles said. “She fed me a tonic and soothed it all away. Good wife is a comfort.”

  Ōbhin stared at the man and shook his head. Maybe the wrong wife’s doing the poisoning.

  “What sort of duty chart do you have?” he asked.

  “Oh, we take turns watching the gate during the day,” said Fingers. “Do some patrollin’ of the ground. One of us got to wake up a few times during the night and check if all the gates are secure.”

  “No one’s awake for the whole night?” asked Ōbhin, frowning.

  “With just the three of us.” Fingers popped his knuckles. Then he winced, rubbing at the swollen joints.

  “You ever ask Dualayn to use a healer on you?” asked Ōbhin.

  Fingers snorted. “Not lettin’ some gem resonate through my body. Experimentin’ wot put his wife like that.” Fingers nodded to the wheelchair being pushed around the grounds by the motherly woman. “Should’ve let her die, not keep her soul trapped in that husk.”

  “He’s trying to save her life,” said Smiles. “And his experiments didn’t cause her gettin’ feeble-minded.”

  “Nope!” Bran said around a hunk of bread. “Mfy magh sadyh—”

  “Swallow, boy,” growled Fingers. “Colours, we can’t understand you.”

  Bran chewed and chewed on the thick bread before finally swallowing. “My ma said it was another surgeon wot did it. Botched her with his cure ‘n destroyed her mind. My ma would know.” He nodded to the motherly woman. “See, she’s been carin’ for Madam Dashvin for years and years.”

  “Avena said much the same,” Ōbhin said. “So, you don’t guard at night, only the day. What else do you do?”

  Bran shrugged. “Just, you know, be ‘round. Ready in case of any of dem Breezy Hills Boys try ‘n break in. They be Rangers boys, you know. Don’t like us. Why we got spikes on the fence.”

  Though the grounds looked picturesque, they weren’t far from the slums of Kash. Ōbhin knew that a hundred or more street gangs controlled various neighborhoods, running contraband, stealing, extorting merchants, or running illegal brothels. Some were allied with Grey’s Brotherhood, while others, especially in the outlying burrows, supported the Free Association of Rangers. Twice, Ust’s band had been ambushed by highwaymen loyal to the Rangers.

  “No training?”

  “For wot?” asked Bran.

  He shoved his plate at the young man. “Take our dishes to the cook and . . .” He looked around the grounds. He spotted an open stretch of mostly flat grass by a row of flowering rhododendron bushes, their mauve petals open. “Meet us over there.”

  “Why?” the boy asked.

  “Training.” Ōbhin worked his shoulders. If
Dualayn was back working with the Brotherhood, the Rangers wouldn’t be happy. If the local gangs worked for them, it would be best to prepare for any issues.

  “You gonna teach us how you killed Ni’mod?” Bran asked, his eyes wide.

  “Going to make sure you can protect this estate.” Ōbhin backed away from the marble wall, staring at the veins of red and blue working through the smooth white. “Your mother’s here, Bran, and Smiles, you got a wife. These people need us to protect them.”

  “Against sneak thieves?” Fingers asked.

  “Against anything.” Ōbhin fixed a glance at the older man. “You don’t have Ni’mod here now.”

  “No, we got you,” Bran said, holding all the plates now, the earthenware rattling. “You got to be better.”

  “I didn’t beat Ni’mod,” said Ōbhin. “I killed him.”

  “Wot’s the difference?”

  “It wasn’t a duel—it wasn’t even a street brawl—it was fighting. The real thing. No rules. No mercy. I took advantage of Handsome Baill firing an arrow at Ni’mod and cut him down before he could kill me.” Ōbhin drew his blade. “And I had this. It levels things greatly.”

  Smiles leaned forward, his grin vanishing. “That’s a Demochian resonance sword. Ain’t those outlawed?”

  “Not Demochian and not illegal,” said Ōbhin. “We have them in Qoth. The Tethyrians refuse to sell weapons, so they haven’t made it here. Yet. Won’t be long before someone imports them.”

  “I thought resonance blades were a myth,” Bran said. “Does it hum?”

  Ōbhin nodded. He sheathed it. “Training. Get moving, guard. Now!”

  The crack of command, something Ōbhin hadn’t used since his time as a lieutenant in the palace guard, snapped Bran into motion. The youth darted around the building, his footsteps retreating. Ōbhin turned his gaze to Smiles and Fingers, arching an eyebrow.

  Smiles nodded. “We did trainin’ in the city watch all the time. Drillin’ on riot control ‘n clubbin’ sneak thieves in the head.”