by Dora Machado
By the turd of the gods. He knew exactly what this was. The curse’s ague. The beginning of the end. The pointer that cast the shadows over his life’s dial.
Bren tried to keep panic at bay. He had seen the ague torture his brothers one episode at a time. He had watched helplessly as the ague had unraveled his brothers’ lives, smothered their hopes, destroyed their minds and ultimately killed them. Ethan had lasted only a day from the time the ague began. Robert had lasted two days. Harald, the tireless fighter, had lasted longer.
How long could Bren last?
He tucked his clenched hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms, avoiding Hato’s scrutiny as well as his men’s. No sense in alarming them.
He swallowed the screams rising to his throat. He reminded himself that it wasn’t his life that mattered, but rather Laonia’s future.
He curbed his fears with common sense. A man could die anytime. He could slip on the deck and crack his head. He could fall in the river and drown. His heart could stop beating without reason. His fate was only crueler because of the knowledge he harbored. A death announced was like a rusted blade to the gut. It festered in the most revolting way.
If Laonia was going to have a chance—if Lusielle was going to be free—he had to function through to the end.
The pain eased as suddenly as it had begun. The shrieks chiseling his brain retreated gradually. It was all he could do to hang on to the gunwales and lock his knees to avoid collapsing on the deck. Someone was tugging at his sleeve.
Young Irina’s insistent voice broke through the haze. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Do you have a toothache or something?”
“He looks like he’s about to cry,” little Caryna observed.
“I’m fine.” Bren tried to shake off the residual pain and the toddler clinging to his leg, but the boy kept yanking at his trousers until Bren found the strength to bend over and pick him up.
“He’s shaking.” Caryna’s sharp little eyes didn’t miss much. “Are you cold?”
“Maybe he’s sad to see us go.” Irina wiped the tear pooling in the corner of his eye. “Don’t cry. We’ll be together soon. Lusielle said we had to be brave.”
“She’s right,” Bren said hoarsely. “You’ll have a good home in Laonia.”
“They don’t mind red-haired kids there?”
“Laonians know better.” Bren motioned for old Petrus to approach. “Petrus here will take you safely to Laonia.”
“Carfu is also coming with us,” Irina said.
“Carfu?”
“To take care of us.”
“Lusielle told him he had to come,” Caryna said. “He didn’t want to, but she made him swear.”
Of course Lusielle would add her protection to the children. It struck him that she could be as calculating as he was. By the sullen expression on his face, Carfu was not happy to leave his mistress.
The barge was ready at last. Petrus and the others rowed the children to it. Irina waved, Caryna put on a brave little smile, and an inconsolable Marcus cried streams of thick tears, clinging to Carfu. As the crew turned the barge against the current and raised the sails to take advantage of the afternoon breeze, Bren realized Irina was right.
He was sorry to see the children go.
Even though he had only had them for a couple of days, they had brought a measure of innocence and hope to his life. The ague’s pain had long eased by the time he lost sight of the barge’s sails. He would never see the Konian children again.
As he rushed to make his next set of preparations, he had no time to dwell on his fears or to grieve his most recent losses.
Chapter Fifty-two
THE CHOSEN’S QUARTERS IN THE TEOSIAN galley was a luxurious chamber built amidship around a large crystal basin, a perfect oval bolted into the floor and the ceiling that sheltered a strange purple fire. Lusielle had been told more than once while sailing in the barge that fire was a dangerous risk on any boat. She had been forced to use her braziers carefully. How, then, was this fire allowed?
The room was hot. The air was thick with an overly sweet scent. The fire’s outer basin was filled with a translucent, sparkling liquid. Floating in the center, another concentric crystal basin held the fire. An attendant was pouring a combination of herbs, petals and powders into a long crystal tube which delivered them to the inner basin, where the fire flared into a stunning combination of pinks, whites and purples. As soon as she was done, the attendant departed, leaving Lusielle alone in the room, staring at the astonishing array of tones coloring the flames.
“Tantalizing, isn’t it?” Orell stepped into the chamber, startling Lusielle. “Suriek’s witching fire, they call it. They say that if you look at it too long, you won’t be able to take your eyes off it. King Riva says that quite a few Chosen have died messing with the wretched thing.”
Fear flared inside Lusielle, intense as the witching blaze. She stepped around the fire, keeping it between her and Orell. “What are you doing here? Where’s the Chosen?”
“Leading the offering, which she must perform regularly during the White Tide procession to lead the yearlings downriver.” Orell smiled. “I’m here for a moment of—shall we say—contemplation?”
“You heard the Chosen,” Lusielle said. “You’re not in the kingdom. It’ll be the yearlings for you if you spill blood.”
“Oh, I know the code.” He stalked her around the fire. “I’m not here to harm you. I’m here to talk about the alternatives.”
“What alternatives?”
“Your lord Brennus won’t last much longer,” Orell said. “You’re a condemned woman in the kingdom. Your own husband rejected you. Have you given any thought to your precarious situation without the Laonian lord?”
She had, even if she didn’t care to discuss her plans with Orell.
“I have a gift for you.” Orell dangled a small pouch. “It’s a token from my lord Riva, one he hopes you’ll wear to redeem yourself from your crimes.”
“Why would your lord take an interest in me?”
“Mine is a merciful lord.” He wiggled a small hair comb out of the pouch, a five-pronged hair fastener lacquered in brown tones, an object of obvious but discreet quality. “Imagine what could happen if, by my lord’s grace, your crimes would go away. Your sentence could be commuted. You could live a long and happy life in the kingdom. Your marriage could be restored. Interested?”
Lusielle couldn’t get herself to speak, so she nodded instead.
Orell flashed a triumphant smile. “My lord thought you might possess a little bit of that utilitarian practicality you baseborn are known for. All my lord requires is that you accept this well-crafted gift and use it well.”
Orell’s thumb clicked on the single dark crystal decorating the comb. As he did so, the comb’s middle prong lengthened into a tiny fang. A single drop clung to the point. The acrid scent of dragon’s breath poison tickled Lusielle’s expert nose. The comb was not so much a gift; it was an instrument and a commission for murder. Her stomach rebelled on the spot. She gagged on the mouthful of vomit she summarily swallowed.
“It will only work if it breaks the skin.” Orell dried off the comb against the fabric of his ruffled cuff and, dropping it back in the pouch, offered it to Lusielle. “He’s going to die anyway. Why not profit from his death?”
Lusielle hated the way Orell spoke about Bren’s death, as if it had already been accomplished. On the other hand, she had to be smart. If she didn’t take the comb, someone else with lesser scruples was likely to use it on Bren. A reckless coolness came over Lusielle, a strength she didn’t know she had. In five decisive steps, she snatched the foul thing from Orell and, opening her remedy case, dropped it in one of the pockets before she clicked the case closed.
Orell was on her like a tiger on a kill, trapping her wrists in his hands, corralling her against the wall.
“Do you know what I think?” His breath was hot on her face. “I think you liked it. I think you
enjoyed what I did to you when I had you on the table.”
“Let me go!”
“You crave pain,” Orell said. “Think about it. Aponte Rummins. Brennus. Me.”
“You’re mad!”
“Do you think I don’t know what you are? You’re but a piece of hide ready to be tanned and stretched. You’re but a wild mare itching to be tamed and ridden—”
“Dill seed,” Lusielle spat.
“What?”
“Dill seed,” she said. “For your breath. It stinks.”
Orell lifted his hand to strike Lusielle, but the sound of his name stilled it.
“Orell?” The lady Khalia stood at the door. “What are you doing?”
“I was teaching this baseborn slut some manners, my lady.”
“You’re not in the kingdom at the moment,” the Chosen said. “Your methods are not welcome here.”
Reluctantly, Orell released Lusielle and bowed to the Chosen. “As you wish.”
“Now leave,” the lady Khalia said.
“But the inquiry—”
“You’ll be summoned when the inquiry begins.”
Orell sneered at Lusielle as he retreated. The business between them was far from over.
The lady Khalia’s harsh stare was as intense as Orell’s and no less compelling than the witching fire’s glare.
Lusielle didn’t think she would gain any advantages from avoiding the inevitable. As soon as the door closed behind Orell, she turned around and, after unbuttoning her blouse and undoing her laces, withdrew her arms from her shift and folded it down to display her bare back. “Is this what you wanted to see?”
The Chosen circled around, perusing her with an appraising gaze that brought a blush to Lusielle’s face.
“Modest, aren’t we?” The lady laughed. “Beauty is a commodity these days. We might be able to grant you a favor and a place in our household.”
“I didn’t come here to beg for favors.”
“Ornery too,” the lady said. “The offer stands. We do appreciate expedience when we find it, although most branded are not as obliging as you are.”
“Branded?” Lusielle said. “Is that what you call those of us who display the mark?”
“Seems appropriate.” The Chosen’s cold fingertips tickled her back. “It’s very well done.”
“That’s what Pious Eligious said too.”
“You showed it to him?”
“He helped himself to the sight.”
The lady sighed. “Eligious would.”
“Does he work for you?”
“The Pious is an ambitious man. Of course he works for me. He also works for Riva and for anyone else who pays well.”
Was loyalty nonexistent among highborn?
“The Pious thought maybe Ali the Craftsman did it,” Lusielle said.
“And did he?”
“Only if he did it when I wasn’t aware.”
“Believe me,” Khalia said, “if Ali the Craftsman would’ve applied his skills to brand you like this, you’d remember.”
“Could someone else have done it when I was a child?”
“No child we’ve known has ever survived a branding attempt. It’s the process, you see, highly toxic and too painful to bear. We’ve seen grown adults die from it.”
“Why would anyone want to fake the branding?”
“Why indeed?”
To trick someone else, Lusielle realized. To mislead, misrepresent and obstruct Bren’s hunt. Lusielle adjusted her shift and buttoned her blouse. “What does the mark mean?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Is it truly the Goddess’s mark?”
“Why would the gods care anything about you?”
“Then why are so many people, including you, so interested in it?”
“Because we’re all a bunch of fools.”
“The mighty will fight,” Lusielle said, “The wealthy defy, the mark of the Goddess reveals: Hunt, test, trial? Tease, chance, fate?”
“Impressive.” Khalia smiled mirthlessly. “Where did you find that helpful bit? Wait. Don’t tell me. You got it from Hato, didn’t you? The old weasel would’ve never shared it with you, which meant you tricked it out of him. Very impressive.”
“What is it that you’re all looking for?”
“Peace is Teos’s only cause,” Khalia said, pacing around Lusielle. “Do you want to know what we find most intriguing about you?”
“What is it?”
“That you should be running from him and yet you’re not.”
Lusielle kept her eyes on the woman. “You’re sniffing me as if I were one of your trial scents.”
“Oh, but you are like a trial scent to us, because we don’t know what you are just yet.”
It took all of Lusielle’s courage to ask. “Are you going to find out?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Not on what, child, but rather on who.”
“I don’t know of anyone in this galley who could stop you if you decided to do so.”
“And yet you still came on board. Voluntarily. Which tells me that just as we want something from you, you need something from us.”
“I need answers to my questions.”
“All this time, you’ve been asking questions and getting no good replies. What would happen if you required answers of yourself?”
Lusielle frowned.
“Come on, girl, give it a try. Why wouldn’t we do the same thing to you that the magistrate, Orell, Hato and Eligious tried to do to you?”
“‘Cause it didn’t work,” Lusielle realized. “‘Cause whatever it is that they attempted to do didn’t achieve whatever result they were expecting.”
“Very good.” Khalia clapped. “See? You’re not as dull as your average baseborn.”
“Why didn’t it work?”
“Perhaps you should try asking the same question in some other way,” the lady suggested. “What did all of those attempts have in common?”
Lusielle tried to recall the details. Pain. Torture. Brute force. She’d had no say in the matter. She had been forced to withstand a variety of cruel ministrations against her will.
Fear’s fingers strummed her spine when she met the woman’s knowing stare. “You want me to—?”
The lady smiled. “Exactly.”
Chapter Fifty-three
THE LADY ERNILDA ESCORTED BREN AND Hato onto the sacred galley. Hato was hesitant about coming onto the ship, but Bren was in such a hurry that he trampled on the lady’s heels as they descended the steps leading into the galley’s elaborate interior. He clutched Konia’s testament box as if it could win him a battle, which of course, was a reckless bet considering that it could also lose him the war.
Hato’s feet dragged, heavy as lead. The gods were a lousy lot. With all the eminent Chosen peopling Teos’s sacred rolls, why had Khalia been selected to lead the White Tide procession? And why did he have to face her again?
He had already faced her once and lost. This time, it wouldn’t be so easy. Laonia was at stake. His lord’s life teetered in the balance. He would not allow the woman to distract him from his duty.
Orell was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Ernilda signaled for him to follow. Damn the man and his greedy lord. Was Khalia in cahoots with Riva?
In the galley’s main chamber, the witching fire was already burning into a pink glow. Upon sighting the foul thing, Hato broke into a sweat. He hated the high heat and the overpowering scents. Khalia took a seat on her cushions, as cool and slick as the savage yearlings following in her vessel’s wake. Much to his lord’s relief, Lusielle was also there, apparently unharmed. By the expression of both women’s faces, they had interrupted an interesting exchange.
“We shall finish this later,” Khalia said.
Lusielle started to leave.
“Stay,” Khalia commanded.
“My lady?”
“I’ve come,” Bren said. “You don’t need a hostage any longer
.”
Khalia pouted playfully. “‘Hostage’ is such a harsh word.”
“She’s baseborn,” Orell said. “She’s worthless as a witness.”
Khalia’s glare cut through Orell like a bloody blade. “Do you presume to teach us the code?”
“Let her go,” Bren said. “She’s of no value to you.”
“Sometimes we get headaches afterwards,” Khalia said. “We might have need of her.”
Damn if Hato understood. There was something inherently ridiculous about an inhaler of sacred airs retaining the services of a common remedy mixer. But Hato had given up on Khalia a long time ago. With that surrender, he had also forfeited all attempts at understanding not just the Chosen’s quirks, but the intricacies of the female mind.
Khalia signaled. Her servant stepped forward and inserted a long flexible cane into the crystal tube connecting to the fire. The translucent cane protruded from the larger basin, a long pistil dangling from a bloom. The servant deposited the end of the hose on Khalia’s lap.
“We’ll begin with a puff of truth.” Khalia selected a ready pack from the tray the servant offered. The servant poured the powdery contents into the fire. It flared. Pink smoke filled the crystal basin and bubbled up the hose. Khalia waggled a finger at Bren and patted the cushion next to hers.
Hato’s blood boiled, and yet he managed to restrain his anger. The woman was his wife in name only. No sense in ruining Laonia’s chances for something that had waned and died years ago.
Bren handed Konia’s testament box to Hato and took his place next to Khalia. For a moment, Hato thought he might have seen his lord’s hands shaking. But when he looked again, Bren was anything but a shuddering coward. He sat with his back straight and his hands clasped, awaiting Khalia’s pleasure.
Her lush lips pursed around the hose as she drew her first few breaths, summoning the wispy clouds into her lungs. Her eyes closed. Her face flushed. Her chest heaved, her breast strained against her dress’s golden fabric and her body swayed in a lewd, exquisite dance.
Hato recalled his only experience with Khalia’s airs many years ago. She had used him in practice, but only because he had insisted. With a young man’s recklessness, he had wanted to know what she felt, how she made others feel. By now, her lungs would be filling up with the enrapturing scents that had torn her from him. Her senses would heighten with every draw. Indeed, when her eyes opened again, they were beyond gray, possessed by an opaque luminosity that contracted her pupils into dark blades.
