Sword of the Lamb

by M. K. Wren

  But Elianne was no longer a child. She was twenty-six, and six years his senior, yet he’d have guessed her to be no more than sixteen by her face and body, and by her behavior. If she would consider that a compliment, she didn’t know him.

  And that was true. She didn’t know him and never would; she didn’t really know herself. Elianne was a captive of her senses and found reason enough for her being in the exploitation of sensory stimuli. She didn’t ask for more.

  He recognized his ambiguity toward her, that he could enjoy her, indulge her and himself in those pleasures that delighted her, and still, if he never saw her again he would feel no sense of loss. Nor would she.

  He sank down onto the bed and propped the pillows behind his back. He wouldn’t try to sleep again; it would be futile. He watched Elianne stirring, turning languidly, but she didn’t wake. He would leave her soon, and if his shoulders sagged at the thought, it had nothing to do with her.

  Today was the Estre holiday, a celebration of resurrection whose roots were in another hemisphere where it marked the birth of spring. Yet tradition placed it in Avril, and it was celebrated then regardless of seasons, or even the lack of them, throughout the Two Systems.

  Tradition also bound him to appear with his parents for the High Cantas at the Cathedron in Concordia this evening. And tradition bound him to return to the Confleet Academy in Sidny tomorrow. The week-long holiday leave ended then.

  Five more months in Sidny; seven were behind him. And after the Academy certified him as qualified to wear the insignia of a Confleet officer, to go out into the worlds and engage the enemies of the Concord in mortal combat—

  He didn’t think past 15 Septem. Graduation.

  Elianne stirred again, then turned and smiled up at him, coming awake with a child’s instant alertness.

  “Well. Good morning.”

  He laughed, watching her as she stretched herself, every movement as fluid as a cat’s.

  “Good morning, Elianne. I think you slept well.”

  “Beautifully.” She sat up and looked out at the roseate sky. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to give it up yet. Tell me, Alex, do you always rise to greet the dawn?”

  “Always.”

  “Mm. I know better.” She leaned close to him, and, even though she didn’t touch him, he could feel the warmth of her tawny-silk skin. “Can’t you sleep, love?”

  “I’ve slept. I was simply availing myself of your cousin’s headache remedy.”

  “Oh.” She smiled wryly. “Is it bad?”

  “No. I don’t indulge myself to that point.”

  “Well, that’s very wise of you, my Lord Alexand.” Then she laughed, her green eyes glinting. “We’ll probably be the only ones mobile this morning.”

  “And how do you explain your mobility, my lady?”

  “I’m just careful about what I indulge myself in.”

  Alexand laughed. “I see. How very wise of you.”

  He was aware that she’d drawn closer to him, and that her gaze kept straying from his eyes to his mouth, and it was curious that this creature of senses had the capacity to project her sensual orientation to anyone near her. He found himself acutely aware of the murmur of the sea, the cool salt scent of the dawn wind, the perfume lingering in her hair. There seemed to be a magnetic essence in the supple lines of her body that drew the eye.

  She was silent for a while, and he felt himself being studied with the same detached pleasure he’d felt in watching her asleep. Her lips parted a moment before she spoke.

  “Surely you don’t have to leave so early.”

  “No.”

  “But soon, I suppose.” She sighed. “Do you really have to go to that dull ceremony? Old Simonidis is so dreary.”

  Alexand smiled at that. “Yes, I have to go. Duty, Elianne; one must keep up the facade.”

  She laughed, still watching him, eyes half closed. “Well, that’s one advantage of being second-class Elite. I don’t have to worry so much about facades.”

  He frowned and turned away. “I don’t like that term.”

  “Second-class Elite?” She gave that an insouciant shrug. “Well, if you think I object to being second-class Elite, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t trade places with the daughters of the First Lords for anything. Or with you, for that matter, my handsome young first born. A little condescension is a small price to pay for freedom.”

  He looked at her, surprised at that, and he wondered what she understood of the word freedom. But she was laughing again, a purring sound as tangible as a caress, and she moved closer, her thigh touching his.

  “And I suppose,” she said wistfully, “you must go back to Sidny tomorrow. Oh, Alex—what a bore.”

  He studied the contours of her parted lips; an extraordinary union of subtle planes and curves.

  “Sidny is also part of the facade, and I’ve even less choice there.”

  “No. Oh, well . . .” Then she smiled, tilting her head to one side, the movement bringing her hair down over one shoulder in a silent cascade. “Alton said he’d heard that you volunteered for Confleet’s next Altair expedition. Did you really?”

  He smiled with her. She thought it nothing more than a joke, and perhaps it was. It was highly unlikely that the Directorate would approve the funds for that expedition.

  He shrugged and said, “Yes, I volunteered for it.”

  “Oh, Alex, how marvelous! But why?”

  As a statement of position, of personal conviction; it was a stand taken without hope, and in that it seemed typical of so much in his life.

  He laughed and countered with, “Why not, Elianne?”

  “Why not? Because you might fall into a hole in space or something like the Felicity, and then what would I do?” The soft laughter brimmed in every word. Her hand moved to the medallion at his throat, but it was only of fleeting interest. Her fingers traced a warm line along his collarbone outward to his shoulder and back again.

  He regarded her silently, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat, the faster tempo of his breathing, and the less definable sensations evoked by her touch, her languidly alert gaze, her very presence, and aware that she knew exactly what she was doing and what she wanted.

  Ennui. . . .

  A smile curved his lips, but there was a coolness in his eyes. Elianne seemed unaware of it, watching him, never blinking, as he sat up and leaned close to her, brushing her hair back from her cheek.

  “Well, Elianne . . . perhaps you’ll have to volunteer, too, and we can fall into that hole in space together. . . .”

  Her laughter again, and the whispering touch of her fingers along the long muscles of his back. His hands caught in her hair, pulling her mouth against his, but lightly; his lips were still closed, and he allowed himself a mental pause, poised on the brink of a choice. He looked into her eyes, cloudy green, and she smiled; a slow, sentient smile. He could read her pulse in her throat, and knew she read his, and he heard in the inner ear of his mind his own silent, dark laughter.

  A remedy.

  He closed his eyes and pressed his lips again to hers, one hand sliding under her arm around the sweep of soft-fleshed bone, the other pausing at the curve of her breast. His mouth was open now, the black laughter fading as he sank down into the bed, feeling the sinuous shifting of her body against his, the reactive tightening at the groin, the contraction of awareness that sought only sensation in the polished texture of her skin, the taut strain of bone and muscle under it, the momentum of pulse and breath. He was aware always, yet in a vague, nonspecific manner, of an exquisite skill in her every movement, in every part of her.

  He reached out for that consummatory limbo, past conscious reaction, past thought, in extremis, where the center of motivation dissipated into every cell of his body, and he no longer had to think—only feel and act and
react and act and feel; a complex of instantaneous perception and response, his consciousness so narrowed there was no awareness of Elianne except as an inseverable adjunct of his own body. And his body exalted in its vitality, spent its energies like a profligate, as if the wellsprings of power were infinite.

  At length, when he reached the ebb of impetus, the nerveless reawakening, he heard again the dark laughter.

  A remedy. . . .

  He had a fleeting vision, a brief, waking fantasy, of Elianne and himself lost in the nonconscious limbo of lovemaking while the walls around them collapsed into the sea.

  And that brought the dark laughter to his lips, but it lost its sardonic edge. He made no move to draw away from her, feeling the faint unconscious tremors, muscular aftershocks, lax flesh against lax now. He looked down into her face, lightly flushed, her eyes dilated. She was smiling in response to his laughter, even if she didn’t understand it.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t understand it himself.

  2.

  Master Webster snapped his fingers, and Tuck obediently brought the shirt, eyeing the tailor with bemused tolerance, but still moving quickly to do his bidding.

  Alexand gazed coolly at his own image as the Bond held the shirt for him. In the mirrored walls of the dressing room, the three of them and their multiple reflections made a stifling crowd. He shrugged on the shirt, and Webster fussed at the draping of the full, fine-pleated sleeves. Alexand ignored him, concentrating on the lacing at the neck, but when Tuck reached out to help him, a flashing glance made him draw back. The Bond was more familiar with his Lord’s moods than Webster.

  The tailor was intent on the blue-gray trousers, seamed with silver at the sides, a narrow decorative border of silver at the hem. He pursed his lips, nodding to himself. The fit was perfect, low on the hips, close to show off the young Lord’s long legs. Webster considered himself a fortunate man: the Lord Woolf and his first born were ideal subjects on which to display his talents.

  “Ah, Lord Alexand—excellent!” He gave a short, smug laugh. “And a formal suit without boots; you’ll have all the young gentlemen tossing off their footwear!”

  Alexand pulled at one sleeve impatiently. “The boots are far too martial, Webster; they aren’t appropriate for a religious celebration.” And he had enough of boots and military accouterments at Sidny; enough for a lifetime and more to come. “Next time, drop the seams on the shoulders a little more.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, my lord.”

  “The doublet—Tuck?”

  The Bond held the doublet, with its elaborate silver brocade on pale blue, while Alexand pulled it on, frowning as Webster began making more fussing adjustments.

  “Webster, I’m not a mannequin.” His tone was sharp, and the tailor retreated a pace. “Who designed the brocade?”

  “Why, that’s Mano Damik’s work. If it doesn’t please you—”

  “It pleases me very much. Tell Fer Damik for me, and authorize a fifty ’cord bonus for him.”

  “Ah, yes, my lord, I will.”

  Alexand turned to let Tuck help him into the surcoat, a clear blue with slashed sleeves, open in front to expose the brocaded doublet. There was no sash; the surcoat was so subtly fitted, it needed only a silver catch at the waist. Otherwise, it was unadorned, and Webster had balked at that; he had a penchant for decoration that neither Alexand nor Phillip Woolf had yet managed to subdue entirely. But now he tilted his head to one side, beaming with complacent pride.

  “Ah, my lord, marvelous! If I do say so myself, my finest creation!”

  Alexand studied his image with deliberate skepticism. “Possibly, Webster.” Then he tensed, seeing a reflected movement in the mirrored walls: Rich at the open door, floating in the nulgrav chair. Alexand pulled at the surcoat’s lapels, swallowing at the constriction in his throat. Rich still used his crutches at the University, but at home he depended more and more on the chair. The crutches asked too much of his failing arms and hands.

  “Hello, Rich. Come to see the draping?” He called up a smile, watching his brother in the mirror as he maneuvered the chair into a corner out of the way.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Rich grinned slyly. “The tailors will be indebted to you.”

  “Will they?”

  “You’re breaking precedent again. The cut of that surcoat and no boots. Thousands of new wardrobes will have to be made.”

  Alexand laughed. “Then I’ve made some contribution to the general welfare of humankind—or at least tailor-kind. Master Webster, you may go now.”

  Webster’s expectant smile faltered; then he bowed.

  “Yes, my lord. Oh—the cloak?” he asked hopefully; he so much preferred to see the entire ensemble together.

  Alexand only glanced at the cloak on the clothes rack. “I’m sure it will be quite satisfactory; I don’t need to try it.”

  “Oh. Yes, my lord.” But he still hesitated.

  Alexand studied him coolly, then finally gave him a brief smile. “I’m pleased, Webster. Thank you.”

  He sighed gustily and bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Rich. “Good night, Ser Richard.”

  “Good night, Master Webster.”

  Alexand caught Rich’s eye in the mirror, but neither of them spoke until Webster had made his exit and they heard the bedroom door snap shut behind him. Then they both laughed aloud, and Rich said, “I suppose this was his finest creation again.”

  “Of course. Tuck, the jewelry case, please.” Then to Rich, “You look damnably comfortable. Anticipating a quiet evening with your tapes, I suppose—and stop gloating.” He chose three rings and a sapphire medallion on a long chain. “Thank you, Tuck, and that will be all; you’re free for the rest of the night.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” He put the case away, then paused to bow to Rich on his way out. Rich waved him on with a smile.

  “Good night, Tuck. Blessings of the holy day to you.”

  “And to you, Ser. Peace be.”

  The Bond would also commemorate the Estre holiday this evening, but in a crude chapel rather than the magnificent Cathedron of Concordia, and Alexand wondered if Tuck would understand that his Lord envied him that. He fastened the medallion at his neck, then surveyed his image once more.

  The Lord Alexand. It had been seven months since that fateful birthday: Age of Rights.

  What rights, he wondered; what rights accrued to him at that magical age? The right to sign House documents without the bother of having a proxy drawn up. The right to sit in meetings of the Court of Lords should he wish to waste the time. The right to surrender four years of his life to Confleet, learning and practicing the lordly arts of war.

  That was all; nothing else had changed. Except that he was now addressed as Lord Alexand.

  His gaze shifted from his own image to Rich’s, and he became aware of his brother’s intent appraisal.

  “Very handsome,” Rich said quietly.

  “Webster knows his craft. I’ll give him credit for that, even if it comes a little reluctantly.”

  “I don’t mean just the suit.”

  Alexand shrugged uncomfortably as he turned to leave the room with its mirrors and multiplied images.

  “Some brandy to celebrate the holy occasion, Rich? I suppose it should be wine.”

  Rich followed him through the bedroom to the alcove where the view of Concordia was framed in the oval panes of oriel windows.

  “I’ll have brandy. Wine is only a surrogate for blood.”

  Alexand went to a sidetable on which a decanter and a set of crystal goblets waited. He filled two glasses and, after handing Rich his, turned to the windows.

  “Perhaps blood would be more appropriate for the times.”

  Rich made no comment on that, looking out at the city, refracted in the
multiple panes, its lights, like the stars, coming to life in the waning glow of sunset.

  “How was Alton Robek’s beach party, Alex?”

  “Boring.” Alexand turned, laughing, and slumped into a chair near Rich. “Holy God, the ’cords wasted, and the end result monumental boredom. But perhaps Alton’s guests aren’t capable of anything else.”

  “That’s ironic since Alton seems to have made relieving boredom his goal in life.”

  “At least he doesn’t seem to take his role as future First Lord of Hild Robek too seriously. But even if I count myself among the congenitally bored, Alton’s gathering had one advantage.” He took time to taste his brandy, his smile turning icy. “It wasn’t the kind of party any daughter of a First Lord could properly attend.”

  Rich nodded absently. The Fallor were in Concordia for the holiday, and Alexand had been forced to endure Julia’s company as her escort to three levays already during his week’s leave, and tonight after the High Cantas would again be her escort at a banquet at the Galinin Estate.

  Estre didn’t compare as a social holiday to Kristus Eve or Concord Day, but it still generated a flurry of banquets and balls, and drew many of the Lords to Concordia. Among them, Rich knew, was Loren Camine Eliseer, with his family. Rich knew this because he still corresponded with Adrien. That had begun long before the Galinin-Ivanoi assassinations and continued sporadically since, given impetus by Adrien’s studies in sociology at the University in Helen. Rich had even sent her copies of Richard Lamb’s theses—under another name—and he’d never made a secret of their correspondence, but Alexand had shown no interest in it.

  Or rather, Rich thought bleakly, he allowed himself no interest. For the last three years he hadn’t so much as spoken her name in Rich’s hearing.

  Rich wondered if the Eliseer had been invited to the Galinin banquet tonight. For Alexand’s sake, he hoped not.

  And for Adrien’s.

  It was curious how a negative shape reveals the positive form it encloses. After that fateful Directorate meeting, Adrien seemed to suffer a memory lapse similar to Alexand’s. In her lettapes to Rich she hadn’t once mentioned him, not even a polite inquiry after his health.