And at the same time, he stared down at the matte-white helm in his gauntleted grip, an unfamiliar flame-shaped crest on its brow. His gauntlets were white too, and his breastplate, greaves, pauldrons, all of it heavy armor that nevertheless fit like a comfortable glove. All white but for the flecks of drying blood, the same as that which stained his bone-colored sword.
“You can’t be either of those Cobs now,” said Lerien. “You had the opportunities, but you let them pass by.”
“So what do you want?” Cob said. His head hurt. Heads weren’t supposed to hurt in dreams.
“I told you, it’s not—“ Lerien sighed. “You know what? I do want something. You’ve heard the Guardian’s side, and you’ll hear my master’s side soon enough. They’ll want you to choose between them: Dark or Light, Guardian or Ravager. I don’t want you to do it. Refusing to choose is also a choice.”
Cob eyed him. “Shouldn’t you be pushin’ for your master’s side?”
“I’m my own person in here.”
“No you’re not. You’re imaginary.”
Lerien smirked and shrugged. “Have I been any less of a friend to you for not being flesh? I’m trying to look out for you. That’s my purpose. I can walk with you wherever you go, so does it matter if no one else can see me?”
“Yes!”
The boy rolled his eyes. “He’s right, you are a brick-headed idiot.”
“Hoi!”
Lerien just laughed, and Cob glared up at him for a long moment before the anger ebbed and the absurdity started to get to him. Here he was, standing in Kerrindryr-Not-Kerrindryr, talking to someone who did not exist but had been with him his whole life, about how he was secretly a tree.
He rubbed the busted bridge of his nose and sighed.
“So you don’t think I should choose sides,” he said.
Lerien straightened and cleared his throat. “Yeah. I think you should just get free of both of them. They’ll destroy you, Cob. They don’t care about you, just what you can do for them.”
“The Guardian saved my life when I was shot.”
“By possessing you. After it had put you in danger in the first place.”
“And your master tried to kill me.”
“You didn’t die.”
“You jus’ don’t want me to go to the Dark.”
Lerien looked pained. “I’m not trying to manipulate you. Listen, your father wasn’t quite right when he called you ‘hidden truth’. Ko Vrin means ‘behind story’--the reality behind the fictions we tell ourselves. There are many, many stories here—in your head, in the world, in everyone who’ll try to influence you—but all I want is for you to look behind them. They’re not all true. Some of them are just very convincing.”
Cob scowled. He wanted to find a cave and bar the whole world out, to just be alone for a while with the silence. But even now, his thoughts were swimming, and he knew there could be no silence in his own mind. Not until he got some things done.
“Wake me up,” he said curtly. “I’m tired of this.”
Lerien winced. “You’re still not ready—“
“I don’t care. Jus’ do it.”
Shoulders slumping, the boy nodded. “You won’t like it,” he said as he started to shimmer. “I just hope you remember this.”
I hope I don’t, Cob thought.
Then the white ringhawk was on the branch, the boy gone. It flexed its wings, then fixed its shining gaze on him, and he felt himself shrinking or fading—it was hard to say. Fright rippled through him. The world constricted to that fierce white shape, and when it leapt from the silver bough, he tried to move but could not, could only see the eyes and feel the talons clutch him and tear him skyward.
A great jolt. A feeling of weightlessness, disembodiment.
Then he slammed into physical reality, every muscle screaming, every bone outlined in fire, his teeth like nails driven into his jaws, his eyes burning in their sockets. They teared up and overflowed, and as they did so, he fell backward into himself and the pain vanished like it had never been.
He blinked blearily, groaned from the depths of his lungs, and thought, Piking terrible way to wake up.
Above him, vague shapes leapt away to show the white ceiling. “By the Throne, he’s awake!” someone said. Another face leaned over him, and fingers pried at his eyelids. He groaned again and smacked them away.
“Alert Lady te’Couran,” said another voice. Slippered feet scuttled on the floor, and a door opened and slammed.
“This is earlier than expected,” said the first voice. “Was it the needles after all? Sir, can you speak?”
His tongue felt like a strip of old leather. He batted away another hand and tried to wedge up by his elbows. The room spun, then straightened. As he raised his head he saw for a moment, very clearly, a young man at the foot of the table. Fair-haired, dressed in white, and smiling a wan, worried smile.
“Lerien,” he mumbled. Then the world wobbled again, and he laid down flat.
Around him moved a blur of voices and prodding hands. For a while he simply laid there, opening and closing his eyes, breathing slowly as the weakness of his body tried to tug him back under. Then, at some point, he was drawn to his feet. Nudged from behind, he moved automatically, indifferent to words or sensations or distance as if still dreaming.
It was the bathwater that roused him. He inhaled it, then expelled it in a hacking cough, his eyes stinging at the unpleasant feel of soap-suds in his sinuses.
The very surprising feel. The next cough was half-sneeze, the next inhale the first time in years that he had breathed through his nose..
“That’s right, lad, keep your head up,” said a soothing female voice, and he startled. A woman’s hand gripped his shoulder. He saw himself naked through the sudsy water and heat rushed to his face, and when he looked up, there were three of them with their hair pulled back under kerchiefs and big brushes and sponges in their hands. He yelped and nearly flung himself from the tub, but the bottom of it was too slick for his heels to find purchase and he plunged right back under the water.
When he struggled up again, they were trying to hide their laughter behind their hands and he only flushed a deeper crimson.
“There, are you with us at last?” said the one behind him. He peered over his shoulder to see a matronly woman in a red kerchief, her dress-sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a look of amused exasperation on her round face.
“Um…”
“Don’t worry, we’ve been gentle.”
Cob stared at her, then looked around quickly. Beyond the women, there were four armored guards—two each bracketing doors on two different walls. A third door on a third wall was propped open by an upturned bucket to show descending stairs. The room itself was completely tiled, its floor, walls and arched ceiling covered in pastel garden mosaics. Small dressing-tables held a vast array of crystal bottles and bowls, mirrors and mysterious feminine things, and there were two more tubs, one big enough for a party. Pale light slanted down from notch windows in the ceiling, accentuated by candles.
And the scents, soap and perfume and honey and wet skin…
He felt dizzy. It was disorienting enough to be able to breathe through his nose again, but adding that lost sense to his baffling surroundings made his head swim.
“Where am I?” he said, and winced as the maids stifled more laughter.
The matron snapped her fingers at them and they quieted. “In the suite of the Lady te’Couran, in the palace of His Majesty King Garlan of Wyndon. I’m told you’ve been asleep for six days.”
“What’m I doin’ here?”
Smiling in a way that made Cob nervous, the matron said, “Getting washed. Then I believe the Lady would like to have a word with you.”
“But I dunno her…”
“I’d imagine not.”
She nodded toward his shoulder, and he winced again, realizing that his slave-brand was bared for all to see. On the heels of that came another realization, and he felt
at his neck but found no cord, no arrowhead pendant.
“Where’s my stuff?” he said.
The matron shrugged and brandished her bath-brush at him. “I haven't a clue. Now stay still, we’re nearly done. Then we should do something about your hair.”
The maids leaned in, all smiles and brushes and sponges. Burning with embarrassment, Cob gripped the sides of the tub and stared at the ceiling as they worked. Cold water, he told himself. Glaciers. Avalanches. Horrible bloody death.
Scorpions. Scorpions aren’t sexy, think about scorpions.
That was effective for long enough, and when the maids finally retreated, he was red mostly from the scrubbing. The matron shooed them away and they fled, giggling, down the stairs, taking the buckets with them.
“You’re a shy one,” said the matron as she tugged at Cob’s arm. With great reluctance, he clambered from the tub, and she steered him to a stool by one of the mirrors and slung a towel over his lap.
“Um,” he said.
She picked up scissors from a table and turned his head with a forceful hand, and he flinched at the first snip. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. Her voice was flat, practical, not at all soothing. “You’re not in trouble, and the lady certainly won’t eat you. Just relax and do as she says. I’m sure it will come naturally.”
“But--“
Her brows quirked and he blushed despite the scorpions still scuttling through his mind. “Trust me, you don’t want to disobey her,” said the matron. “Be a good boy and follow orders, and you’ll be fine.”
“Um. D’you do this a lot?”
“Prepare men for her? Mhm.”
Cob fell silent, trying hard not to think about the situation, but even scorpions were losing the struggle. He was miserably confused. It felt like only moments ago that he had been a bird, flying through lightning-streaked air. The last thing he remembered was wrestling Morshoc in the cart.
Six days. What happened? What do I do?
The matron set aside the scissors and took up a shaving razor. He sat very still and soon it was done, and she turned his head this way and that with a critical gaze. “Good enough,” she said, “but you’re much too thin. We’ll see about getting you to the kitchen later.” Then she tucked the scissors and the cased razor in her sash and started away.
“Hoi,” Cob called after her. “Where y’goin’?”
“My work here is done.”
“Don’t I get pants?”
“No. Of course not.”
And with that, she passed through the third door and pulled it shut behind her.
Cob stared, thinking about chasing her. But all he had was the towel across his lap and four armed guards in the room watching him.
Anyway, what am I thinking, trying to run away from a lady who wants me naked?
It was strange. This had been a subject of discussion in the army camp, somewhere between ‘harem or no harem?’ and ‘what would you do for a massive pile of gold?’ Cob could no longer recall his answer to ‘being a noble lady’s pet?’ but he remembered he had thought the question ridiculous. The slaves barely ever saw women, and the ones they saw were slaves as well. Even imagining a noble lady had been difficult.
Maevor, of course, had been all for it. ‘Lounging around all day with no responsibilities beside sex and staying fit? Sign me up.’
But whatever Cob’s own answer had been back then, he was sure ‘really kinda scared’ was not it.
What do I do? I’m not Maevor. I’ve never even seen a woman naked. Oh Light, she’s gonna be naked. Scorpions, scorpions, towel made of bees.
He smacked himself in the forehead several times and heard a guard snort.
There were no windows low enough to climb out of, and he knew that if he ran down the stairs he would end up in a laundry-room or something, full of maids, with just a towel on. And then there were the guards.
I can take ‘em. Steal some armor and sneak out. Yeah. Why am I running away from the naked lady?
Cool down. Breathe. Maybe it’s not like that. Maybe it’s to make sure I’m not hiding any weapons. Maybe she’s ugly and likes slaves ‘cause they can’t say no.
Wait, that’s not any better.
Why me? How did I piking get here? Weren’t there mages? Morshoc? Lerien?
Light, my head hurts.
He took a deep breath, then another through his nose, because he could. He concentrated on his hands. They were as dark and callused as ever, and when he glanced up at one of the many mirrors he saw a face dreadfully out-of-place in the opulence, nose still crooked and hair raked back in a neat cut that looked alien to him, like a tiara on a toadstool.
What am I doing here?
But the face held no answers, only a dazed stare--an expression of blank animal incomprehension. He scowled at himself, and that was better. At least scowling he looked like he had some sense.
His gut twinged. He made another face at himself, thinking, Hungry on top of it all, but it turned into a knot and then a pain, and he looked down to see a finger-length silver needle protruding from his belly just above the navel. As he watched, it slid gently out, leaving a thin trail of blood as it dropped into his lap.
For a long moment he just stared at it, unable to process what had happened. Then he touched the spot of blood on his belly. It was bright and fresh, but beneath it the knot had subsided and he felt no pain.
A creak of hinges. He looked up to see one of the guarded doors swing open into a lavish chamber. Butterflies filled his stomach, and he swallowed hard to keep them down, the needle already forgotten.
Do I just…walk in? he thought, and looked to the guards for guidance, but their expressions were blank behind their helms. Slowly he stood and wrapped the towel tighter, imagining bees, spiders, anything horrible to keep himself in check.
Getting fired-upon by wraiths had been less frightening.
Cautiously he approached the open door, attention switching between the guards that flanked it and the unfolding interior. Lamplight shone on wall-hangings and gilded wood, crimson rugs and glass decanters. As he reached the threshold and spied the bedposts, he caught his breath, but saw no one.
He looked to the guards but they stared straight ahead, ignoring him. Evidently a young man in a towel was not a threat.
He was afraid to cross the threshold. Peering in further, he saw a cushion-heaped divan pushed against the foot of the bed, with a carved table before it, a bottle and two glasses set out. But no lady.
“Do come in,” said a woman’s voice, warm, fluid, and rich as the room. It sent a tingle up his spine.
Bees, he thought. Bees.
He stepped in. The door had blocked much of the view, and as he cleared it he saw the whole of the bed, the canopies drawn back to show its vast, pillowed expanse. Across it was the lady, her gown as crimson as the rugs and her hair a spill of gold, her back to him as she primped a last curl in the mirror.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, and gestured toward the divan with a glittering hand.
Obediently he moved there and sat, but comfort was impossible. The door closed with a click and he twitched and clutched tighter at his towel, fixing his stare on the rug.
Stop being an idiot, he told himself furiously. Nothing to fear. Women are the nice ones, right? And she’s not naked.
Yet.
Shut up.
A ring-encrusted hand intruded into his view, holding a wine-glass. “Here,” said the lady, nudging it at him. “For you. Do loosen up, I don’t bite.”
He glanced up, got an eyeful of her bodice and looked away, bright red, fumbling blindly for the stem of the glass. She pressed it into his hand, her fingers leaving warm traces on his. The divan cushions shifted as she sat beside him, and her velvet gown brushed his leg. He shivered and nearly smacked himself with the glass.
“Darling, really,” she said, “I went to such trouble to prepare myself. The least you could do is look at me.”
Her voice made him think of a hu
nting cat, lounging on a sunny rock and watching the prey pass by through half-lidded eyes. Still, she was right. This was disrespectful. Cautiously he turned his head, telling himself, Look at her face, look at her face.
But that was difficult. The lady reclined in the pillows, her tawny legs crossed beneath the gown’s slit to give a glimpse of thigh. Her bodice barely held her bounty in check, and the golden pendant she wore pointed straight down her cleavage. It took him a teeth-gritting effort to make it all the way up to her mouth, red lips half-veiled by the wine-glass.
The bees were doing nothing. His fingers still tingled from her touch.
Finally, flushed, he managed to meet her gaze. Her eyes were like warm honey, and their attention sent another jolt to his groin. This close, he could smell her—a drowsy sweetness, stronger than the wine, filling his head with fog.
She smiled and said, “Much better. I am Anniavela te’Couran, but you may call me Annia. And you are?”
“Cob,” he mumbled. “Um. M'lady.”
“Please, just Annia.”
Cob mouthed the name but could not bring himself to say it. If he blushed any harder his eyebrows would catch on fire.
“I’ve heard a few things about you from your friend, but I’d like to discuss them with you, Cob. If you don’t mind.”
“My friend?”
“Hunter Darilan Trevere.”
The name was like a splash of ice-water. Cob stiffened and glanced around as if he might spot Darilan hiding somewhere he had overlooked. “He’s here?”
“In the palace, yes. I’m told he was pursuing you. That you had fled the service of the Crimson Army.”
“Oh.” Cob looked down into his glass, which he had clutched awkwardly by the stem. “Um. Yeah. I guess he caught me.”
“No, dear, the Gold Army caught you. You are under my jurisdiction—well, my king’s. The Emperor gives us free rein over this protectorate, and we keep what we catch, as long as we stay cooperative. So you are not the Crimson Army’s anymore, Cob. You are mine.”
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 53
