by Shea Godfrey
Bentley refused to move.
“I shall clean her up, but we must bring her fever down. Bentley, I’ll get help.”
His face paled.
“Not as you think,” she said quickly. “You must trust me. I think I know someone who’ll not betray us.”
*
Jessa leaned against the balcony railing and gazed beyond the grounds, the late-morning breeze moving through her hair in a pleasing manner. She could smell in the air the many different trees of the land, each one holding a unique scent and power. In Lyoness the trees did not speak so loudly with the wind, nor did their essence travel so easily. The earth was too unforgiving for that and the sun much too harsh.
Amidst the allure of a rich new land, she understood at last what it was about Arravan that had obsessed Bharjah for so many years. Even a butcher could understand beauty.
Jessa recognized all too well what it was like to be deprived of what you needed most. Her royal blood meant nothing except what its presence within her veins might purchase for those who held power over her. She had grown up sequestered from her own lands, rarely leaving the Jade Palace except when she employed the Veil of Shadows. She had learned the twists and turns of its corridors and hidden pathways under the stern tutelage of Radha, and it had been as necessary to her survival as water on her tongue. To have freedom from her rooms, it had been a gift to her that she could never repay. As she had grown older she had been allowed more liberty, and Bharjah had of course seen the wisdom in teaching her what a woman needed to know.
She had learned to ride and dance, though she had done so under the eyes of Joaquin and his most trusted men. She had learned the art of etiquette, both Lyonese and what was acceptable within Arravan. She had learned the languages of her father’s enemies and for several years had spoken only the strange words of the Arravan people and the patois of the Southern Islands until she was fluent with the cadence of each.
All things proper that a daughter of royal birth should know she had studied. And when her voice was discovered as she learned to play the instruments of her land and memorize its songs, her talent had been cultivated. Its sound was so beautiful that even Bharjah would stand within the shadows and listen.
She was taught all things Vhaelin as well, though her father had no idea to what extent Radha was guiding her knowledge. She had had maidservants over the years, though they had been old women, many of whom were without their tongues. Jessa had treated them all with kindness and respect, not only because this was what Radha taught her, but because they were her only daily contact. Those who could speak would tell her of the world beyond the Jade Palace, and some, after a time, would even tell her of the subjugation of their people. They were always careful in what they said, but Jessa had understood the words that were left unspoken. It was thus that she first began to understand that the people of Lyoness were unhappy.
Not until she was a young woman would Radha take her beyond the palace walls where she was able to see for herself what she had only heard in those stories. She learned, veiled within the shadows, that the poverty her people suffered was at times overwhelming and that her father was a sadistic man. She learned that his subjects lived in fear and that they would often disappear in the night never to return. She had seen women screaming in the streets for their lost sons, their high-pitched calls of grief piercing her ears. She had seen men tearing at their clothes as their daughters were forced into marriages because of their beauty or their station, or taken to serve in the dreechakas that serviced her father’s soldiers. She had seen grief in abundance and it had made her weep silent tears.
For all of that, she had also seen laughter and stolen kisses, and lovers entangled in the sheets carried away in their passion, clinging together as they moved toward their release, their bodies slick with sweat and sex. She had seen men fight the Blooded Duel for honor’s sake, and the victor pray above the loser and drop gold upon his chest for the family left behind. And she had seen what portions of life might never be hers.
She had begged Radha to take her and run, though only once, for Radha had made her confront the Waters of Truth as an answer to that plea. What she had seen haunted her still.
Jessa had seen her father’s men moving through the streets in force and people slaughtered when they could not give the answers wanted. She had seen her maidservants hung from the gates of the Jade Palace and their children brought to the block, some with their own babes clutched in their arms, screaming as Sylban-Tenna’s dogs were unleashed on them. Her brothers had sat upon their balcony and laughed as they tossed down their wine.
She had seen the price of her freedom, which was more than she had ever been willing to pay. She had seen, as well, the blade slowly pierce Radha’s throat.
A fist of unease tightened in Jessa’s stomach as she thought of Sylban-Tenna’s black eyes, so much darker than her own. And Lybinus, their brother, who had clung to Sylban’s shadow as if it were all he knew. They had been a dark pair, everything about them.
The night they had come into her rooms she had been but fourteen. Sylban and Lybinus had been adamant about what they wanted from her. She could still feel their hands on her flesh and smell the bitter wine on their breath. She had thought she knew fear before, but the instant they touched her, she understood better what it was to feel terror for one’s life.
They had not violated her, but they had taunted her as she fought against them and tore her clothes. They had forced her close and pinched her tender breasts until the skin bruised, though they had not gone lower. She had scratched Lybinus’s face, and his long black hair clung to the blood as he stared at her in shock. She could still feel the knife along the underside of her left breast as punishment for her attack.
It was Sylban who had taken the blade from their brother’s hand and slit Lybinus from ear to ear in apparent retribution, leaving his body on the tiled floor to bleed out as Jessa huddled against the wall. Sylban had stood over his twitching body and cursed Lybinus for marking the flawless skin of their sister, and then he had knelt at her feet and smiled, holding out the knife.
He told her to take it, and she had seen something in his eyes that she would never forget. She had seen laughter and a terrible look of desire. It was then that he grabbed her between the legs and felt of her womanhood, pinning her against the wall. He had whispered in her ear that if she did not take the knife he would make her do things. He made her touch him, and she had wept in fear and revulsion even as he panted and groaned his pleasure against her face, his hand clutching her throat harshly. She had done as he told her, and as he spent his spirit within her hand she wanted to die.
When Radha had found her clutching the blade, her torn clothes hanging from her body and the gash beneath her breast still bleeding, she had not said a word. She had bathed her and stitched the wound, putting Jessa to bed. And then she had destroyed every piece of evidence that Jessa’s brothers had been there, including the blood on the tiles. All evidence but for the dagger.
When the morning came, Radha had soaked its steel and bone handle in the Waters of Truth and the waters had let off steam and hissed in a boil, the stench of blood and something much darker leached from their elements. Jessa could smell beneath it all the sacred essence of the stag whose bone had been carved by such an expert hand to fit the deadly blade. She had closed her eyes and let its lost spirit wash through her as if her soul were the Ibarris Plains and the animal’s hooves beat upon the soil that was her body. She plunged her hand into the steaming waters as Radha had cried out in warning.
The bone was cool to her touch, and when she lifted it free, not a single mark marred her skin. Radha had laughed then as Jessa held the weapon. Radha had bowed her head and seized the bowl from its twisted metal stand, shouting as if in victory as she threw the waters across the room. They had dissipated before hitting the tiles, hissing and misting about them both upon a wind that washed suddenly through the chamber.
That was what she knew of another�
��s touch.
Sylban’s hands harsh upon her skin and Lybinus his shadow, and the cold metal of a blade whose mark Radha had lessened with herbs and spells that were as familiar to her old lips as her raspy laugh. Jessa had never told Radha what Sylban had made her do, for not only was she deeply ashamed, she was terrified of what Radha might do in retribution.
That was what Jessa had experienced of passion, except for the Waters of Truth.
The waters had offered her many visions, and within their endless depths she had felt the loving touch of another. She had shuddered beneath its warmth for years, though never had she known the source. When she had begged for Radha’s help, her pleas went unanswered. She was told that she was not concentrating enough or not meditating properly, and so the one thing she wanted most was always denied her.
When Radha asked, in return, why Jessa could not remember, Jessa had merely ducked her head and refused to answer. How could she tell her beloved Radha that she could not concentrate on such a thing? How could she explain that to do so was too painful? How could she tell her that she did not believe them, that she would not believe them, until her gods came out of hiding and showed her themselves.
And so she had lived with the shadow of warmth always beyond her grasp, sometimes waking in the night with a startled cry as pleasure blossomed wet between her legs and she spent, left to shiver within the darkness in its pleasing aftermath and hoping that her cries had not been heard. She would cling to her pillows and stare into the shadows, sometimes seeing a figure just beyond her sight, drifting like smoke. The tears she cried in silence would burn along her skin, though she had not cried in years now over a vision that had floated through the waters less and less.
Upon the sacred ground of the Lowlands, though, she had felt the old smoke of a familiar touch, and she had seen something she had never seen before: a face and a pair of eyes unlike any in all the world.
As Darry had entered the fête still her gods had hidden, but Jessa’s heart had beat so fiercely she could barely breathe. As Darry had danced the Mohn-Drom and Jessa had watched her body move, so sleek and on display, her stomach had twisted with want and her hands had ached to touch her, to be the one who moved within the dance beside such loveliness. She had not thought it strange or wrong or even curious. It had merely been what she wanted, and it had been a very long time since she had wanted anything.
And then she had gazed across the room as Darry looked up.
Jessa smiled, almost laughing as she looked down at her hands on the stone rail of the balcony. I hadn’t even thought of that. And then she did laugh, the sound quiet as she shrugged.
How many times she had been paraded before her father’s guests she had no idea, wearing saris that were too revealing for etiquette and a burka that hid her face from their greedy eyes. She had stood before them and let her voice have its freedom as she searched their faces, wondering if among the dark-skinned men, and the pale as well, the face within her visions would finally reveal itself.
No passion had she ever felt when looking into their eyes, shielded from their fascination as she took in their clothes and their bodies, seeking something familiar that she never found. No tremble of desire had ever been inspired within her.
She realized now that she had found it, within the corridor beyond the door to her chambers when Darry had picked up her fallen shawl. Some deep part of her had recognized what she had always searched for. A clever joke you’ve played on me all these years, my gods, to hide my visions in the body of a woman. Though perhaps the knowledge wasn’t hidden at all. I merely didn’t know that I was looking in the wrong place. And now to discover my passion within the sister to the man I am perhaps promised to? I should spurn you now and never bow my head to you again.
She swallowed awkwardly at a surge of emotion, the memory of Darry’s touch upon her face swarming through her insides with pleasure. So soft and warm. And then she remembered the brief taste of Darry’s lips, just a whisper, and a wonderful ache laid claim to her heart. Such simple things.
The press of Darry’s strong body as they had danced the Amendeese was still uppermost in her mind. I don’t understand as well as others, perhaps, but I could not have insulted you that badly. Or perhaps I did, for Darry had been absent at dinner yet again. Jessa felt a tightness in her chest at the thought of having pushed her away. I thought, Darry, that discarding my etiquette would—
The knock on her chamber door made her jump and she spun about, staring into the shadows of the room. Radha is prowling the streets of Lokey…you cursed old woman, did you know this? Is this why you wouldn’t speak to me when I asked?
Jessa was halfway through the main chamber of her rooms when the knock came again. She quickened her step to the door.
Jessa smiled at Emmalyn for but a brief second before her heart beat oddly and she met Emmalyn’s hand halfway. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Are you…” Emmalyn stopped. “We were told, I mean, Jacob’s men said…” Jessa pulled her gently across the threshold. “I’m under the impression that you’re a healer. Is this true, Jessa?”
“Yes. It is among the arts of the Vhaelin that I practice. It is a most sacred thing.”
“All right then.”
“Emmalyn, what’s happened?”
“I need your help. And you cannot tell anyone.”
“Is someone hurt? Is it Royce?” Jessa remembered Emmalyn’s first husband and wondered if the fear that she saw was for yet another man she loved.
“Please, just come with me.” Emmalyn’s grip on Jessa’s hand tightened. “Will you do that? Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Jessa said. “I must get my things, yes?”
Emmalyn let her go. “Yes,” she said, then pulled her back by the sleeve. “You mustn’t tell anyone, Jessa, do you agree to that?”
Jessa nodded, though she did not understand. “I have many secrets, Emmalyn,” she said softly, thinking that this was perhaps a part of friendship. She had never had any friends, however, save for Radha and the few maidservants who had taken pity on her. Sometimes she had laughed with them, but never had they given more. She was King Bharjah’s daughter. “I think one more shall make no difference.”
“Hurry then, Jessa, please.”
Jessa gave a nod, then moved quickly for the baggage where her medicines were kept. A strange rush of foreboding moved within her.
Chapter Thirteen
The warm liquid filled Darry’s mouth and she swallowed without thought. The hands. Flames moved along her throat and she coughed, trying to expel them.
“Hold her, please.”
Strong arms went around her shoulders and pressed against her legs, and she fought them. She opened her eyes and a sea of faces filled her vision. And light, too much light that sent a stab of pain through her skull. “Darry, you must drink,” came an unyielding voice, and she recognized the scent of her sister’s flesh. Emmalyn.
She coughed but the fluid still filled her mouth. She had been thirsty for so long but not for this. Not for more fire.
“Wait.”
Darry’s head fell forward and she tried to hold her neck straight. Her back ached at the effort. She tried desperately to focus her eyes.
A gentle hand lifted her face. “Darry?”
The scent slammed through her and she spoke, though she did not understand what she said.
“Yes…please, Darry, you must drink.”
The intense, appealing aroma flowed through Darry and the pain blossomed in the pit of her stomach once more, like an old enemy that never seemed to die. Her eyes burned with tears and she lashed out, trying to push it away, not wanting to fall beneath its strength. She had already done what it asked and yet still it clung to her bones.
There was heat against her face and then a breath beside her ear. Darry heard the words in her head like thorns. You must drink, Akasha, and it will go away. I promise.
The liquid filled her mouth once more and she obeyed, letting the fla
mes coat her throat and burn deep into her stomach.
*
Emmalyn stood at the end of the bed in the early evening light. Jessa sat in a chair with her legs drawn up beneath her chin and her arms wrapped around them. Jessa had pulled the chair as close to the bed as she could and barely moved for hours, keeping a constant vigil.
Darry wore one of Wyatt’s old tunics, naked beneath its soft fabric and the sheets of her bed. Her beautiful hair had lost its shine as it lay scattered about her face. Her strong hands peeked out from the long cuffs as if she were a child again playing at being a king in one of their father’s shirts. The memory pulled hard and lit upon the experience of earlier that morning when Darry had looked at her with unseeing eyes, her tears spilling as she begged it to stop.
Emmalyn had no idea what it was, but she had every intention of wringing the answer from Bentley’s throat, if necessary. It would be easier than trying to get an answer from Darry, who could be as stubborn as a plough horse when her mind was set.
Darry stirred beneath the sheet and Jessa moved quietly, dropping her legs and leaning onto the bed. Her hand was tender as she pushed Darry’s face free of her curls. And then Jessa sat back and brought her legs up once more, resuming her silent watch.
Emmalyn had not forgotten how she had reached out when Jessa first saw Darry in the bed. She steadied Jessa as she had swayed and her features paled. But it had been only for a moment that Jessa stared, and though she had tried, Emmalyn could not decipher the thoughts that had flooded her eyes.
Emmalyn had not missed the shock on Bentley’s face either, when they had entered the room, nor the suspicion with which he regarded Jessa. It had not only been his worry for Darry, it had been something else, though he had done as Jessa asked.
“I must speak with my mother,” Emmalyn said quietly. “I will make our excuses for dinner.”
