The whipcord lean, white-haired frictionnaire was leaning over her to attend her task. Ellaeva glanced back out the window to watch the servants hurrying around in the courtyard below. There were a great many preparations required for a diplomatic mission, especially one that included the Prince of Ahlleyn, and the group were scheduled to depart on the morrow.
Melleph stepped back, folding her hands before her.
Ellaeva glanced up into the pale woman’s silver eyes, slit vertically like a cat’s. What had the frictionnaire looked like before she sought out magic? She was tall enough to be Mysenan, although nothing of that people’s darkness remained to her if so.
The frictionnaire began gently to run two fingers together. It was a common habit of her kind, to constantly generate friction of some kind, so that they always had access to the energy that fuelled their magic.
“It can’t be that powerful a spell,” Lyram said.
Ellaeva shot him a look—this was hardly the time to interrupt a frictionnaire intent on her craft—but Melleph answered in an absent voice.
“It is powerful enough. I will attach it to her bones and her muscles, so it will keep the same fundamental structure, altering and mimicking while following her expression.”
Her accent had the cadence common to all graduates of Tyrandell, though there was a hint of something else below. Yes, it could be Mysenan.
“No, I meant...” Lyram rubbed his own fingers together in demonstration.
He was right. Only a very small amount of friction, and so a small amount of power, could be generated by a frictionnaire merely rubbing her fingers in that way.
The frictionnaire looked up, a mocking smile twisting her lips. “There is adequate friction in the room to power the spell.”
Ellaeva’s gaze snapped up to meet Lyram’s, and he glanced away. A slow, hot flush crept up his cheeks.
She looked back out the window and stared fixedly. Enough friction. If that weren’t the truth, she didn’t know what was. At least the frictionnaire couldn’t know the cause of the tension. The memory of Narrawen’s casual reference to marrying Lyram popped back into her head, and she held herself still only through an exertion of will. I cannot have him. I must accept that, wish him the best, and move on. And yet the idea of him marrying lit a deep ache in her belly.
”It is done.” The frictionnaire stopped rubbing her fingers together and lowered her hand.
Ellaeva touched her face, but it didn’t feel any different. She glanced at her sword, propped against a nearby table. The frictionnaire had worked her magic on the weapon first, and now it appeared a standard broadsword, with a battered basket hilt. A red tassel hung from its end, and the basket was tarnished brass. Its transformation was nothing short of extreme, and it now bore no resemblance whatsoever to the blade of the Battle Priestess, or Lyram’s own. What did she now look like? The makeover on her face needed to be more subtle, though, or so the frictionnaire said, because she was an animate, moving object.
Melleph stepped away, leaving Lyram with an unobstructed view.
Ellaeva watched him for some hint of the change the magic had wrought.
“She doesn’t look any different.”
The frictionnaire’s eyes flickered, as if she’d thought to roll her eyes but then reconsidered. “Not to you, who know her well. It is a subtle spell. You see what you expect to see. Others, who know her less well, will not.”
Ellaeva picked up a hand mirror lying on a nearby table and perused her image. She frowned, disappointed. As Lyram had said, she didn’t look any different. Her hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was still black. The stern look made her old beyond her years, and her black eyes still carried their customary chill. She didn’t look like a woman of twenty-three, but she did still look like herself.
“An illusion like this needs to be subtle if it will last,” Melleph said. “The illusion needs to move with your face, and the bigger the changes, the more energy it will draw, and the sooner natural attrition will show. Trust me, for longevity, this is what you need.” The frictionnaire picked up her bag and headed for the door. “Good day.”
As the door clicked shut behind her, Ellaeva met Lyram’s gaze. Immediately the tension in the room spiked. Ahura, will it be this way the entire time? They left tomorrow on a journey that would take weeks, followed by who knew how long in Jerrek.
“Will you marry Narrawen?” She broke eye contact. Why had she asked that? She hadn’t meant to, and the words came out stiffer than she liked.
“No. I don’t know. No.”
She flicked her gaze back up to him for a moment, a tiny smile tugging the corners of her mouth despite herself. “Which is it?”
But he didn’t smile, instead frowning deeply. “I need to marry and have heirs. And politically, she is a good match, but...”
“But?”
“But.” He looked at her frankly.
A hot flush spread up her cheeks, and she found herself unable to drop her eyes. “We... we cannot be.” Her tongue tripped over itself, betraying her.
“And yet,” he said, his voice very quiet in the near silence of the room, “you still asked.”
CHAPTER 4 – GIFT OF THE GODDESS
Ellaeva smoothed out the worn piece of paper on the well-polished table, then glanced around the inn to make sure no one was near. This early in the evening, the well-furnished common room was still quiet, with only two locals nursing ale at separate tables. Tallow candles on the walls had been lit against the early autumn sunset, adding a dim glow and an acrid smell to the room.
After three weeks of hard travel through the highlands in almost constant rain, they would finally cross the border into Jerrek tomorrow. The cavalcade had stopped for the night in the small town of Reivere, an Ahlleyn community heavily influenced by Velena across the eastern border rather than Jerrek across the northern. While the guards and servants camped in the tents, the inn had rooms enough to accommodate the nobles in the group and Ellaeva.
The paper before her bore a drawing of two faces, a man and a woman; her parents. A bad likenesses, no doubt. She’d created the original drawing from the almost twenty-year-old memory of a five-year old.
In the last six months, she’d expanded on that original picture after returning to her home village and then following her parents’ cold trail. The further she traced them, the fresher people’s memories grew, and the more she’d modified the drawings.
“Nice picture.”
Ellaeva immediately snatched up the drawing, folding it and stuffing it away as she looked up into the oily smile of Drault. His breath stank as he leaned over and set two tankards of ale on the table; they weren’t his first drinks of the evening. His dark red hair was pulled back in a neat queue, no doubt courtesy of the nervy man who served as his aide, and he was dressed far too finely for a back-country inn like this. The Gaylbrath tartan alone screamed his identity, and he wore both kilt and plaid with a snowy white silk shirt. Then again, she had said the more pomp the better.
She swallowed a grimace and dropped her eyes, unable to find it in herself to offer a smile. A man like Drault would only take it the wrong way anyway. “Your Highness.”
The prince sat down uninvited, as princes tended to do, and pushed one of the tankards towards her.
“I am waiting for Lyram,” she said.
“You speak very familiarly of your betters.” He looked at her sideways over the top of his ale and took a long draught. When he set the tankard down, an unpleasant, amused smile twisted his lips.
She shouldn’t have used Lyram’s name. That was a sloppy error. “I acknowledge it is inappropriate of me to speak so familiarly of him in public.”
“Bit more to it than just captain and lord, eh?” Drault’s smile turned sly as he leaned forward over the table. “The nights get cold in winter in Ahlleyn without someone to keep you warm.”
Ellaeva curled her hands under the table to stop from punching him in the nose. It was already slightly crooked from wh
en Lyram had broken it, after Drault had insulted Lyram’s dead wife. That urge to hit him was, she realised, entirely understandable. She pushed the proffered tankard back to the centre of the table. “I’ve never endured an Ahlleyn winter. And I can I assure you there is no more to it.”
Immediately the sly sneer disappeared and he reached across the table to take her left hand. His smile was now astonishingly genuine, even lighting his green eyes. “Then he won’t mind if I cut in. You are breathtakingly beautiful, captain. Are you aware of that?”
The transformation was so unexpected that she hesitated, caught flat-footed by a flanking attack. Then she stood, pulling her gloved hand from his grasp.
He resisted for a moment, long enough that she thought he wouldn’t let go.
“I was not aware that any claim by Lord Aharris would have stopped you, Your Highness. In any case, I am not interested.”
The smile died, anger flickering in his eyes, but she turned her back on him and strode to the bar.
She probably shouldn’t have taunted him like that, or alluded to his interest in Lyram’s dead wife. Did he suspect that Lyram knew the truth?
The barkeep stood behind the scratched but well-cared for bar, polishing some pewter mugs. Unsurprisingly, he was a priest of Kelich; many tavernkeepers were, although there were some private alehouses. He wore unassuming brown robes, which a priest once told her was a good colour for hiding all the ale stains, and he had the coffee-coloured skin and dark hair of Mysena. His kind tended to move around a lot, trading places and generally making their way around the country via the various taverns which were the communal property of their Temple. He looked her up and down appraisingly, his eyes narrowed.
Ellaeva leaned on the bar, the leather in her armour creaking, and spread out the smudged picture of her parents. “Have you seen either of them?” she asked quickly, to distract him from wondering about her. Those truly close to their gods might sense something of the frictionnaire magic or her true nature, if given enough time to dwell on it. She only wanted him to know who she was if she chose to reveal it.
Her parents were not particularly memorable people, so she held out little hope anyone might recall them, even though it appeared she might have a strong resemblance to her mother. A priest of Kelich, though, was trained to notice comings and goings and events that a private tavernkeeper might turn a blind eye to. If anyone remembered them, it was most likely to be him.
He leaned closer without ceasing his polishing, wrinkled his nose, then shrugged. “Hard to say. Was a couple here about... say, three months ago now.”
Her heart beat faster. “Tell me about them.”
“Coulda been them. Or not. Only remember them because it was just after I took over here and they was right chatty about how some friend had got them jobs in the palace north of here. Unusual, them being foreigners and all.”
She arched one eyebrow. Why did all roads lead to the palace? “The king’s palace, you mean?”
“Indeed, he was going to work in the stables, and she in the kitchens. I thought it odd, Tembrans going deep into Jerrek. I saw Tembra once, stayed there for a whole two years. A fun, infectious people, notwithstanding Tembra is home to Ahura.” He cocked his head at her, considering. “You look a bit more serious than the average Tembran, though. Generally speaking, Jerrek’s not a fun place for a fun people like yours. They’re a bit backwards up there, always have been, but lately things have been getting worse. It’s like the old days in Jerrek, before they learned about the word ‘civilisation’.”
She straightened up, folding the picture up and tucking it away inside her armour. “What is going on there?”
“Nothing you want any involvement in, girl.” The man flicked his rag up over his shoulder, set the mug down, and put his hands on his hips. “Not you nor any other woman. The way Jerrek is going, its women will be reduced to chattels within a few years.”
Ellaeva glanced over her shoulder. The taproom was more or less empty, and only Drault was looking her way, scowling and nursing a mug of beer.
Turning back so her body concealed her hands from the room, she peeled back the black leather of her glove far enough for the priest to see. To his credit, his expression didn’t change except for a pursing of his lips.
“Wondered when you were coming by,” he said. “What with all them priestesses...”
“Being murdered,” Ellaeva said, her voice flat. “I know. I have cradled them in my arms while the life left their bodies. Justice has been thrown out of that kingdom.”
“Then you know more about that than I,” he said, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. “They’ve been coming here in ones and twos, or sometimes three, broken and bleeding and carrying tales a man ought not ever hear in his life. They burnt the Temple of Ahura in Ellair, did you know? Said women had no place dispensing justice over men, that it was a man’s job.”
She sucked in a breath. Either Oriella hadn’t known, or it happened after she left. “Burnt it?”
The priest nodded his dark head mournfully. “There’s no justice there no more, and I don’t reckon there’ll be freedom for much longer neither. Time already for me to be moving on. I mislike being so close to the border these days. I doubt the Temple will send a replacement when I go.”
“Thank you.” She dropped a few coins in the charity jar on the bartop. The priests used it to feed and care for the poor and others in need.
“Do you want a drink?”
Lyram’s voice at her ear made her jump. She’d been so engrossed in her conversation she’d not even noticed him drawing nearer.
“No.” She shot him a warning look, although of course he would naturally offer the captain of his guard a beer notwithstanding she couldn’t drink.
Lyram shrugged and ordered for himself. Behind him, the bar was starting to fill up. A few of the officers from Lyram’s guard wandered in for an ale, and then right behind them, a knot of almost a dozen locals. The farmers all had loud, carrying voices, and they filled the room with bluster and calls for ale in moments.
“Seems unfair a priest of Kelich can drink on the job and you can’t,” he murmured, as the man moved off to pour.
“He’s responsible for dispensing alcohol, not justice,” she snapped.
“True enough, but you’ll need to at least nurse a beer now and then if you don’t want the soldiers asking questions.”
He was right, much as she wished he wasn’t. “Another night. I’m going upstairs.”
She turned and strode away, noting that the table where she’d left Drault was now empty, both tankards drained dry and abandoned. A newly arrived trio of farmers pushed the mugs aside to make room for their own, heedless of how the froth spilled.
Lyram’s puzzlement, nestling firmly in the corner of her head that was devoted to his feelings, followed her out of the room. Walking down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the stairs, she tried to ignore the almost constant sense of his presence, but it was like an itch she couldn’t scratch—no, a splinter in her foot that she couldn’t find. A blister buried beneath a callus on her heel that just wouldn’t burst. Things had been better when he was a continent away and the sense of him was little more than a sense of his direction. Now his emotions were constantly in her head, and it was harder to walk away from him when she could feel his emotions for her.
As she turned the corner into the stairs, she collided hard with someone coming the other way. The impact knocked her backwards to the floor, onto her bottom. She gasped, and then a hand reached down and grasped hers.
She froze. The hand belonged to Drault. He smiled that same oily smile, the ale fumes strong this close, as he hauled her to her feet. She recoiled, snatching her hand free of his grip.
“Captain,” he said, with the hint of a slur. “We meet again.”
She backed away, painfully aware of the deserted hallway stretching behind her. The sound of laughter and good cheer seemed a long way down the other end. Should she just return to the common
room? Foolishness. She was perfectly capable of looking after herself.
So why then did she feel so uneasy being alone with him in this hallway?
She took a step towards the common room, then hesitated, humiliation burning hot in her cheeks at the thought of running away from the smirking little prince. Besides, if she fled to the common room and Drault followed her in there... how then would she explain it to Lyram? The mere suggestion that Drault had made her feel... uncomfortable could be a disaster.
“That’s right, captain. Stay and talk awhile.”
The sense of threat deepened, but still she hesitated. At the thought of what Drault might intend, fear fluttered in her stomach, but she clamped down on it before anything leaked through to Lyram. Only Lyram’s honour held him back from having his revenge on Drault for Zaheva’s murder; if he suspected anything of Drault it might be enough to tip him over the edge.
She took a step forward. “Excuse me, Your Highness, I need to get past.”
Drault tried to reach for her hand again, but she moved away, retreating another step. He pursued, grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed his lips against hers. She slammed her hands into his chest.
Drault stumbled away “Bitch!”
She wiped his drool off her face with one trembling hand and glared at him. No man had ever dared touch her that way. “Let me past.”
His lip curled as he looked her up and down insultingly. “I should have known Aharris wasn’t sticking it in you. Bastard’s still moping over his dead bitch wife, and he seems to like women pushing him around. But you should know, captain, no woman says no to me.”
“No.” She enunciated the word carefully, as though speaking to an idiot.
But Drault only sneered, the expression making him even uglier than usual. “I know what you want. How about we just go on upstairs and enjoy a little of each other’s company? I’ll be the best lover you ever have.”
“How about we don’t.” She dropped one hand to the hilt of her sword, her pulse beating a rapid tattoo in her throat. Thoughts of Zaheva and all the horrible things Drault did to her flashed through her mind. Shot in the back. Raped. Her throat slit. But that wasn’t what frightened her; it was the possibility of Lyram suspecting that Drault intended to do it to her.
In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1) Page 43
