Somewhere in his vile exile Rurik had found her and he had wooed her with his pretty talk and his pretty face, as he always did. And somewhere, somehow, she had been taken in by it. Voren could see it in the way they looked at one another. The way she held his hand. The way she stole glances at him, even when Voren was talking to her. Had she heard of his crime? Had she not thought to ask why he fled abroad?
Now Rurik would damn her, sure as he had damned himself. Essa. What will they do to Essa? What will they do to me…?
Brickheart took his silence for refusal. Shifting his weight to one hand, Brickheart drove a fist into his gut. Voren wheezed, feeling the air lurch out of him. “Speak!” Brickheart roared. “You aid an exile. Such penalty is your head, if you do not speak.” Voren gaped for air, only to be struck again. He seized up, trying to speak, but his voice would not rise above a rasping whisper.
“I don’t—” he began to say. Then Brickheart’s fist cracked against his face, and his head swung, his world spinning. The fire was growing, and his whole body shuddered from the onslaught.
He thought of Essa, smiling at him. He thought of Essa dancing—not as the girl she had been, but as the woman she was now. He saw that same woman weeping, beaten raw, pushed and shoved and dragged to the gallows, with the noose tied about her neck. Rurik’s haughty laughter pounded through his mind, mocking him. Mocking her. The boy’s end would be swift. A sword and a chopping block. But Essa, sweet Essa, she was but a peasant—and she would die strangling at the end of a rope. Lord only knew how long it would take and how cruel the pain.
“P-please…” His voice was not his own. It seemed distant, foreign. The pain was growing. Brickheart repeated himself. He swung him around and Voren crumbled against the floor, only to be plucked again. How long had he been at it? Not long, he thought dismally. It did not take much with him.
There was only one thing he could do. If not for himself, then for her at least. He held no loyalties to Rurik and Rurik was who they wanted. The boy had done wrong. He never disputed that. If he could give Rurik up, then maybe they would spare him. And Essa. He would not let her be dragged down with her little lord. Maybe, with time, she might even see…
Brickheart stood over him, fist raised for another blow. Voren cowered against the floor, shying from the impending attack, his face bloodied, body aching. The fire was at a simmer. But he was no traitor. He had to make Vardick see that. If he did, then maybe the pain would stop. Maybe it all would stop. Maybe. He could not say for certain.
“Captain, please…I-I know—” He cringed as the captain’s arm flexed. Yet the blow did not come.
“Out with it,” the captain demanded, and he quickly obliged.
“The Prixy. He’s at the Prixy. But p-please, Essa—don’t hurt her. She’s innocent. Merely deceived by him. I was trying to help her, not protect him. You must believe me, ser. I give you the boy, freely. But please, leave her be, I beg you…” He was blubbering, he knew, but he could not stop the words once they began to flow.
Brickheart’s fist fell. The man studied him for a moment, gauging his whimpers and his tears. Tears? He was crying, he realized dimly. Sobbing like a little child. He could not help it. The captain turned away, barking an order to one of his dogs, and the man scurried up the steps as a trained hound would. Then Brickheart turned back to him, snorting derisively as their eyes crossed paths.
“Whom do you call ser, baker?” Voren whimpered in dismay. Brickheart was no knight. He had not meant it as a mockery, only as respect. “There's no knights here. But you should be glad to hear your little woman will not be harmed, on his lordship’s orders.” Brickheart reached down and caught his face roughly in hand. “As for you, I think we might yet find use.”
Voren shuddered. The stories always said that knights were bound by chivalry, but no one ever wrote of the sincerity of soldiers. He was too tired to think of what uses a soldier might have for him. He was just a baker. A lowly baker. He never meant any harm.
Chapter 5
Where is the door?
The hall stretched on and on, as though endless, but when he looked back, the same greeted him behind. How long had he been walking? He could not say. Everything blended together. Pictures on the wall—he saw faces, many faces. Some were familiar, some were not; others had faded entirely, mere shadows of the men they had once been. Knights. Lords. Kings. No matter. One and all stood immortalized, all faded, all dead. The faces went on and so did he.
There was a sound like music, and for a moment he thought it might be Bluebeard come to join him. He scowled and drew his sword, but the song played on, and Bluebeard—the scum—did not appear. Only as he stood there in the dark, blade poised beneath the hollow faces, did he realize it was not a man’s voice. Pipes and flutes and harps were leant to a woman’s song, eerily thrumming through the dark.
What was she saying? He could hear but he couldn’t. Words meshed together and the meaning was lost. Sweet thing. Sad thing. The words made him feel heavy. The hall stretched on and he was growing tired. When he looked at the pictures, it almost seemed as if they were smiling at him. Laughing at him. He cut at one with his sword, but the portrait merely rippled and dissolved, a black pool that latched to his sword and would not let go.
He pulled, but it would not give. He pulled harder and the surface began to ripple. Whatever light he had was failing and the pool was spreading. He pulled harder and everything began to undulate and blacken, and then the pool reached out to him and he was pulled screaming into nothingness.
When he struck the other side, he was in a field of flowers, their colors shining in the mid-day sun. The singing was nearer. In the midst of the field he saw a tree, with a great company perched beneath its shadow: mummers and musicians and a singer all swaddled up in silks, face veiled, voice like heaven on the wind. There was a crowd of dancers, peasants and knights and petty lords all swaying to her song.
Through them all he spied her standing all alone. Silk rolled off her porcelain skin. Long hair, longer than he remembered. It was free. So was she. There were no bruises, no scars. Long legs, beautiful legs. How he longed to touch them. Run his hands up them and—she was barefoot, clad in a long skirt and simple tunic, and she was looking around for someone, spinning in circles, waiting to dance but without a partner.
Looking with those emeralds in her eyes.
He sprang across the field and it seemed to fold before him. The music grew louder and louder, the veiled woman’s voice rising higher, the tempo mounting, bodies swaying. Everyone moved. Quick beats. Swirling and swaying. He pressed through them. She was there before him. Still looking. Eyes wishing. She need not say a thing.
He caught her by the arm and spun her, and her body twisted like a flower on the wind. Graceful woman, divine treasure. She swirled through and rolled against his arm. He caught her to his chest. Essa smiled. Sweet, white smile. She looked so happy, eyes glittering. She spun away, laughing, and he sprang after her.
They danced. Her body on his. Moving close, drifting far. Drawn at the hip, hands just barely touching.
She was a feather on his skin, a whisper in his ear, and then her hips were rolling away, legs swaying hypnotically. He touched her. Held her. Swung away and watched her laugh, flowing through the crowd like no one else could match her. And they couldn’t. No one could. She was a goddess of the dance—every graceful motion, every seductive arch a testament of her power. There was no prayer but her. Temple. Priestess. Goddess. One and all.
She caught him by the arm and they circled one another. She took his hand and spun him out, but as he extended, their grip broke and he stumbled through the crowd. Bodies were all around as he stood back up, but when he turned, Essa was gone. Frantic, he spun, but she was not there. The bodies closed in around him. He tried to push through, but they did not move. They seemed endless. Spinning. Dizzy. Nothing made sense. Everyone was laughing and dancing and she wasn’t there.
He shoved a man, trying to get through. Steel flas
hed as the man whirled. He cried out, but the blade drove through his stomach and drew up into his chest. No one noticed. Everyone was dancing. He looked up, staring beneath the man’s hood. Everything flickered. There was the hall. He saw a woman. Then he was there, in the field, staring at the man and the hood and the sword sticking through his stomach. The music was fading. Everything was fading. They were all so far away.
The man smiled and the blade twisted. He tried to breathe but he couldn’t breathe. The face. He knew the face. Another flicker. He was closer now. The woman was on her knees, but she was staring at him, and she was crying. Flicker. A man burned, screaming from his pyre. Flicker. Knights road five abreast through snowy woods, swords in hand. They were on lions, and though it was dark, there was no moon. High above them hung a red sun and everything else was fading, dark.
The blade moved up. He was dying. He knew he was dying. He didn’t want to die. Help. Help. Please, Assal help. Essa. Where is Essa? He tried to grab the blade, but his hands wouldn’t move and the man didn’t stop. Please. The music became a blaring scream and everything sped past him. The woman was there and he was right before her, and she was weeping on the dais at the end of the hall, but she was not weeping tears. Trails of blood ran down her face and the silk spilled around her and she was screaming. The singer screamed. Please gods help me. They did it. They did it. It kept flickering between her and the burning man.
Who was screaming?
He was burning. He tried to stop it but he couldn’t stop it and the man was burning and dying and there was nothing he could do. He knew them. Storms swirled overhead and there was no roof. Their eyes. Storms. He was drowning, lightning crackled but the sky was blue he remembered and all was dark before the red sun. Armies clashed beneath the dying sun. Gunpowder swept across the scene and everyone was choking and dying and she, she merely kneeled and wept blood.
His father smiled at him as he drove the blade into his heart.
* *
Rurik jolted from his slumber in a cold sweat. His hands went to his chest, as the ghostly steel lapped at his lungs. Just a dream. But he felt the sword and he felt the flames and he could see his father smiling as he plunged steel into his breast. They were gone now, all of them, but he could still see them.
Usuri had sat at the end of a hall and wept blood. So much blood. And there was a fire. He frowned at that. He tried to summon up the image of the man in the flames but he could not. It seemed he knew him, but he could not recall his face. Rurik felt his chest, but there was no blood.
Essa sat alongside him, one long lithe leg outstretched as she laced up a boot. She was watching him, the shadows bunched under her eyes, coloring her fair skin like some of the city women did with their expensive paints. Even the dark fell smooth against her skin. She was beautiful. Even in darkness she was beautiful.
“Restless,” she noted. “What nightmares take you?” She lifted her leg and rolled her foot once, making sure the boot fit snug.
Fire and blood and devils in skin. “Nothing worse than usual.”
She stared at him, thoughtfully. She did not believe him. He did not care. He hadn’t tried hard to lie. Her foot lowered and she prodded him in the thigh. “Time to rise anyhow. We’re moving soon.”
“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”
She shrugged. “If we do not fight our dreams in their proper place, we spend the whole day fighting them. Come on, sleepy-head.”
Rowan was already up as well, and dressed, and armed. He tipped his hat to Rurik and resumed wiping at his blade. Lather and wipe. Hone the tip for imperfections. Make sure the balance has maintained. The man had a predictable morning routine, ever since he had lost his first blade at Greenhaven, far to the west.
Just as well. Must keep it cared for. One’s blade is an extension of the self.
There was no sign of Alviss or Chigenda yet. They were in the other room, probably already packed. As usual, he was the last.
Grumbling to himself, he stumbled out of bed and set about dressing. Essa hugged her knees as she watched him, but she looked away when her cousin glanced up at them. She had already set his clothes out for him, right beside his arms and armor. He smiled at that. Sometimes, it was the little things.
He threw on his pants and his shirt, slipped into a chain coat, and drew his tunic over it. He slid his belt on and checked his pistol for ammunition. A round, silver pebble was chambered, packed in with black powder. Three other chambers sat empty, but ready—a custom job, done up by one of his father’s contacts abroad. The smith called it a spitfire. It was a novelty, and costly for it, and most multi-chambered guns were as like to blow up in one’s hand as shoot. Not his. His smith had been a genius. The thing clasped between his fingers was the paramount—the culmination of a life’s endeavors. Poor fool also proved to be an eccentric. For all that he might have brought the world, when he died his knowledge died with him. Men picked over his house like vultures in the weeks that had followed his demise. The Empire did not speak of it because no one ever found any notes. The smith kept none. His knowledge was in his head, so when nature ran its course, his advances ran theirs.
The man had made few copies. The Turselts had one, he remembered, and that seemed only right. Admiral Turselt was as much an engineer as a captain. His family wasn’t blooded, but they had worked their way up to status on his intuition and dedication. It was said it had been his experiments with his own gun that sparked the retrofitting of Imperial cannons. Details were lacking, but whatever evolution he had wrought had enabled Imperial ships to smash the once proud Effisian navy, and establish dominance in the sea. The advance remained a closely-guarded secret, for all the angling of the other nations. To lose the advantage of technology, after all, might well have meant the end of their dominance on land as well as sea.
All of this had happened in another life, though, when Rurik was still a Matair. He was always surprised his father had let him keep the pistol when he went. Then again, he was always surprised his father had let him have it at all.
Rurik was not the eldest son. Far from it. He was the fourth of five children, the third and last of his father’s sons. The pistol was a hand-me-down. It had been meant for Ivon, but his eldest brother waved it off. Never saw the need. Ivon had ever favored the sword and lance, a true knight, and though he knew the value of a long gun, he never saw the need for a pistol. The boy had grown into a man, but ever he dreamt of ages past, when he might have been something greater than he was. A shame for him. A boon for Rurik.
Unlike Ivon, Rurik had taken to the pistol quickly. This little drakkon. There was something about the newness of it, the raw power. One could kill without skill, maim without concentration. It was just as well. Unlike Ivon, or even Rowan, he had never been more than a mediocre swordsman, nor did he have the strength and training necessary to pull a longbow.
There was a knock on the door and Alviss entered as he was pulling on his boots. The old man looked older in the darkness. Rurik couldn’t make out his scars any more, but for some reason it did not make him any smoother, any younger. He looked haggard, grey.
Alviss watched him silently for a moment, then turned and walked out again. They needed to hurry. Rurik turned and held out his arms, showing off his outfit. “You like?” Behind him, he became suddenly conscious of the howling of the wind. Something rattled against the inn and it became a struggle to keep his smile.
“Divine,” Rowan said, rising to his feet. His head bobbed as his eyes ran over Rurik, glittered pleasantly, and turned away again. Essa’s cousin sheathed his sword and headed for the door.
Essa cocked her head at him and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Fit for a fine reunion, I’d say.” She smiled back at him, but her eyes darkened with a sadder truth. Sweeping her legs out from under her, she hopped off the bed and joined him by the wall. She circled him, hands tucked behind her, surveying him as a sculptor might inspect his statue.
She ran a hand from his shoulder, across his back and fina
lly to his chest, when she stepped in front of him. “Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully, pursing her lips together as her fingers ran down. So close. Essa smiled as her nails trailed against the buckle of his belt. With a sudden yank, she drew his breeches tight, looking him in the eye all the while, daring him to make a sound. He didn’t.
Satisfied, she took his cheek in her hand, and moved tenderly against him. Her lips hovered near, and he thought she was going to say something, but she nibbled on her lower lip a second, then took the plunge. Familiar warmth flushed through him as she kissed him, and he moved into her as she started to move into him, sliding an arm behind her back to draw her closer.
Has Rowan left? Such sweetness. Tastes like strawberries. Is that right? His lips were on hers and he could feel the memorable tingle down below. Exile had began with such a thing. There wasn’t much more he could lose now. Too unfocused. He tried to shut out his thoughts and focus, for all he saw and all he wanted was her. Their kiss became more fervent. The hand on his cheek fell to his shoulder and began to rub insistently.
Then she was pressing at his chest, pushing him away. She murmured something into their kiss, and though she did not break away it was obvious he had overstepped himself. They pulled back, but they continued to hold one another, his hand on her back and her hand caressing his shoulder. She was flushed, and he could feel her breaths quicken, but she seemed about to tear up.
“Too much to think of already,” she said, softly. “My poor Rurik.” She turned away, pushing at the hair that had fallen across her eyes. Her hands were never still when she was nervous. “Must you…” She stumbled over the words that were meant to follow, stopped herself, and turned down another path. “They will be waiting. Come on.” Looking to the floor, she slipped away from him.
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