by Ru Emerson
Where was he failing? He'd been so gentle, so kind, and she still loathed him; he didn't need to read her thought to tell that. But why? He'd forgiven her everything: Nedao; the petty remarks—even that slap in the Caves. Another man would have set her ear ringing for a week. He had been kindness itself, and she still—Ah, well, he thought comfortably as he refilled his cup, added wine to hers and handed it to her, in an hour or so, these things will change. I've done everything that Father said.
Why would Lyiadd not increase his Power? That irked him badly. It hadn't failed him so far. But it had been Lyiadd's Power that had set the focus; it was Lyiadd's Power that wrapped Ylia's wrist and kept her AEldra Power at bay. It's that bitch Marrita. Her doing.
He ate soup. It was poultry, fresh chilled cream, herbs, greens—nothing he liked. But she did and he'd have to eat it to assure her it wasn't poisoned; that was how her nasty, suspicious mind worked. Vess kept the grin from his face, but it warmed his belly: I shall have to do something about that nasty, suspicious mind, as soon as I have opportunity. And that will not be very long at all.
Down on a landing which was even gloomier than it had been mid-morning, Mal Brit Arren hovered undecided near the staircase leading to the old library. He had had the freedom of the Tower for a five-day now, ever since they'd taken his cell for that woman. I'm not mad, he assured himself. Jers is mad, I'm not. He wasn't completely sure of that. It was hard to focus his thought, his wits were too often scattered. Ah, by the black depths, why bother?
Because of Jon. Because you own Jon a life. Why did Vess let him run free, knowing Brit Arren still wanted to kill him? Am I as helpless, as ruined, as that, that he no longer fears me? Vess had feared him once. His hands wanted to fold into heavy fists; he restrained them. Given opportunity, there was a face he'd smash—that before he gutted the man! But to do that, a man would have to hold his brains together and think.
The Nedaoan woman was Brandt's daughter Ylia, Queen of the Nedaoans. Nedao's Queen? Vess’ bedsheet, now. He grinned at that, briefly. But he'd heard more of this Ylia than just the name. She was witch, of course; an Ylsan mother guaranteed that. But she carried a sword, they said, and knew how to use it. She'd fought beside men like an equal, led Nedao's armies; she'd earned her blades. I'd like to see that, a swordswoman. But what is Vess doing with a woman like that?
Because she hated him, if gossip below was tree at all. Some—those who bothered to speak to him, now Vess’ rule permitted—said she had tried to kill him once. Or perhaps he had tried to kill her because she stood between him and the throne. That could possibly explain why he wanted her. Rumor also had it she would still kill him, even though he had bedded her, even though he claimed her as his Lady. She'd worn fair garb and no fetters when she came up from the cellars, but Vess’ Ylsan guard had held her and there was a lock on her door. No one really believed the lock was there to keep men out; who would dare take a woman Vess named his?
But Vess! He'd gone down those cellar stairs like a puppy after a bone! Fortunately the men in the upper halls had held back laughter until he was gone from sight and hearing, and fortunately his attention had been so single-directed.
Brit Arren grinned suddenly. “If Vess wants her,” he whispered with rising glee, “he can't have her!” But he must not kill her, no. Someone else, someone Brit Arren could denounce, and then, if a man could seem to come to his senses and take Vess’ part? It might work. He had freedom of the Tower and its courtyard and while Vess didn't trust him yet, unlike Lyiadd, Vess could possibly be manipulated through his pride. If he thought he had broken Mal Brit Arren, he might well accept that—long enough to die. Now—a dupe to kill the woman. He took the narrow steps two at a time.
“Who is it?” Jers rose from his improvised prayer bench. His voice quavered nervously.
“Is it the religious?” Brit Arren demanded.
“It's F-Father Jers,” the grubby little cleric replied with what dignity he could muster. “I cannot see you.”
“Well, make a light! ’Tis I, Mal Brit Arren.”
“I—what is it you—you want?” The stutter was suddenly pronounced. Jers backed away, stumbled over his bench, and both fell to the floor with a clatter. Brit Arren strode across the chamber to right them, turned aside to light the room's single candle.
“Sleeping here, these days, are you?”
“I—um—yes. No!”
Brit Arren turned back to lean against the room's only furniture, a long, narrow table holding the fat red candle. Strange shadows crawled up the walls; the light bleached the Chosen's face. “Think I'll come back tonight to slit your throat, do you?”
Jers shook his head wildly; stringy hair flew. “L-L-Lord Vess—I'm under—his protection.”
“Worth a man's life to go against that, is it? But perhaps I don't want to. If it's Lord Vess’ order, perhaps that's good enough for me, eh? My Lord, too, perhaps. Spared my life, after all.”
But Jers knew little or nothing of the events that had passed that night in the tower, save that men were dead in a fool's attempt at coup—supposedly this fool. Brit Arren had lost his ship and command but he was alive. Not even a prisoner anymore. Did that mean Lord Vess—?
Brit Arran laughed, shattering what little concentration Jers had managed to pull together. “I'm not going to kill you, little man, stop shivering! I only want to talk to you, nothing more.”
“Wuh—what?”
I heard you today, exhorting the witch.” Jers drew himself up a little straighter. Good work, too; though I hear witches don't repent. Safer dead, aren't they? She might kill us all, mightn't she?”
“I—the One teaches that. But—but only as—last resort. After—only after they refuse—refuse to recant. And he—Lord Vess holds her powerless. Did you not see the bird about her arm? She will not harm you, if you feared that.”
Bird. Like Jon's, Brit Arren thought savagely. His hands gripped the table behind his back until the wood creaked. “So he has.” His voice remained level, vaguely amused. Jers seemed reassured by the distance between them, the Sea-Raider's relaxed stance and voice. “But I still worry. She is a powerful witch, you know that. And you do know what they are doing—she and Lord Vess?”
“He—he is teaching her, he is correcting her—” Jers faltered to silence as Brit Arren roared with laughter.
“Correcting her! Teaching her! Well, yes, so he is, isn't he? He is rumored to have certain talents where women are concerned! And what he is teaching her, my fine religious, has nothing to do with renouncing witchcraft!”
“He is—he is not—”
“No? Ah, my stomach hurts from so much laughter, little man!”
“He is not—he cannot!”
“He can and is! Do you know what they are doing in that room? Did you not see that fine bed, perfumed sheets, soft pillows? Did you not see her, clad in pale silk herself, with her hair all unbound and her breasts half-uncovered?”
Jers clapped his hands over his ears. “I will not listen to this! It is evil, it is blasphemy!”
Brit Arren launched himself off the table and closed the distance between them in one long stride. Jers yelped as heavy hands descended on him, and he tightened the grip on his ears and hunched his head down between his shoulders, trying to protect it from an anticipated blow. Brit Arren took hold of his wrists and pulled them away with no effort at all. “It is not blasphemy. It is not evil. It is a thing as old as men and women, and I am certain it is much more amusing to Lord Vess and the Nedaoan woman than you picture it.”
“Do not tell me, I will not listen!”
“Stop blubbering! You will listen! Are you not curious? Perhaps it is not witchery on her part, it may be merely lust on his. Could you look upon such a woman and not think of perfumed sheets?”
“I will not listen!” Jers closed his eyes tightly.
“You will. Can you not imagine, Vess and that woman?” Brit Arren let his voice fall to a whisper. Jers flailed at the wall for balance, turned and lea
ned against it. He caught his breath on a sob; tears ran down his face and he stared at Brit Arren miserably. “Now, I do not care. But you! A man who follows the ways of the One, will He not hold it to your account that you condoned this lechery? And do not your laws say that witches must die?”
“Witches?” Jers giggled faintly, clapped a hand over his mouth. “Aye, kill the witches, kill them all. Shhh!” He held up an admonishing hand. “The bell for evening service, do you not hear it?” Mad, Brit Arren thought in disgust. Mad and worthless. He pinched out the candle, turned and strode from the chamber. A mumble of prayer followed him, and something that brought him up short: “Kill the witch.” Perhaps he hadn't failed, after all.
“More wine, my Lady?”
“No.” She pushed the cup away. “Thank you.” Chance no offense, he'll bury you alive in that cellar. The last rays of evening sun touched Vess’ face. His smile sent a chill through her gut; she gripped the edge of the table, shifted her gaze in sudden horror as her fingers seemed to meet right through the wood. Her eyes reassured her this was not so, even while her sense of touch tried to convince her otherwise. It was getting dark—or, rather, it should have been: There was a golden light touching everything. The cup at her right hand was glowing a sultry red, like coals in a fire long burned down. Beyond it, on the wall, the hawker and his bird, the dogs on the tapestry came to life, moving gracefully across the fabric with underwater slowness. And between the tapestry and the cup, Vess, his pale brown hair shining like gold, his hands setting off sparks as he moved them, his eyes pale brown fires.
One hand went to her throat, the other sent the cup sprawling across the table; somehow, she forced the chair back, pushed to her feet. Vess smiled; the sun no longer touched him, but his eyes still glowed with it. “You look unwell, my Ylia.”
“You've—” She dragged her voice down from that high pitch of hysteria. Something was coursing through her veins at double speed, giggling through her body, trying to smother sensible thought. “What have you given me?”
“Something rather amusing—you'll like it. Ragnolan herb, distilled to a paste and smeared across the bottom of your cup. I've only inhaled the steams, those are quite pleasant. This is of course more potent. I will try it another time.” He came around the table and held out his hand. Ylia backed away from him. The smile stayed on his face; he walked toward her, waited until the wall stopped her, then caught her wrists in his hands and pressed them against stone. Her eyes were all pupil and blackly furious.
“I will kill you for this!” she whispered. She twisted and one wrist came briefly free; he recaptured it, slammed it back against the wall. “Are you afraid of me, Vess? I wager I could take you, my AEldra Power against your warped Power, just as readily as I could gut you with a sword.” The words brought a brief, intense sensation of color, sound and feel and threatened to make her sick, but fury temporarily slowed the drug.
“You are forgetting, sweet cousin. Manners. A proper respect.”
She laughed, silencing him. “We had this conversation once before, do you remember? In the Caves, before young Brelian brushed the sword out of your hand and cut holes in you, because you were afraid to face me! I would have killed you then, Vess; I'll kill you now!”
“You couldn't have touched me,” he snarled. His grip tightened savagely, pressing the Thullen bracelet into her wrist.
Ylia laughed wildly. The drug was making her light-headed, burying fear and sense both. Vess was a blur, near as he stood, but she was grateful for that. “I never hated anyone as I hate you. I will always hate you, whatever you think,” she whispered. “Give me a blade, one chance of it!” Silence. “You always were a coward, Vess. Sweet cousin,” she mocked, viciously. “But you're one of the Three! What, haven't you sufficient Power to stand on your own against another half-AEldra? Against me? But my AEldra blood is Second House, not Fifth. And my parents were honorably wed when my mother bore me!” She cried out as Vess slammed her back into the wall.
“You will not, ever, say that again!” he hissed. With visible effort, he brought his temper under control. She sagged as his grip relaxed. The Ragnolan drug was swallowing her whole, she heard Vess from a distance and he echoed. “My father warned me how you goaded him into battle, how you tricked him. You will not trick me that way. And you are my Lady, now. A Lady does not duel. The bracelet stays where it belongs, you stay where you belong—in my bed. Count yourself fortunate that I permit that, instead of sending you back to the cellars. My uncle was a fool, your husband a greater one, that you are so willful. That is behind you now. You will obey me.”
“Don't wager on it,” she whispered. “I'll kill you, I swear it. You must sleep sometimes, and most men sleep with their eyes closed.”
“No. After tonight, you'll never want that chance. You will only want me.” He was not certain she heard him; she sagged against his hand. When he released her, she slid rather gracefully to the floor, skirts billowing out around her, and rolled over onto her face. He watched as she tried to push herself up with her arms, but could not. He began to count, then. Slowly, as he had been told. Awareness of the drug first, then it quickly distorts vision, balance and strength. Then thought. A count of 500 past loss of balance, and it will hove taken its strongest hold.
He hoped it hadn't been too strong a dose: Ragnolers only inhaled the stuff, and those who ate it or drank it were men twice her size. He'd not quite halved the dose. It might still be too much. But it would serve her right. She'd always known how to go for the throat; he smarted, remembering the things she'd said, and his hands twitched.
Her body would be undamaged, whatever the drug did to her mind, and he had plans for her thought, anyway. The Ragnolan paste would lower her inner shields, and she'd never taunt him again. He continued counting, ticking off the numbers on his fingers, right hand, left, right again.
Ylia gazed at the floor. It shimmered, and just at the edge of sight it was blossoming. There were things beyond the flowers, but they stayed almost out of sight. Wood hard against her cheek as though they were melting together. The sensation wasn't pleasant, but she could not bring herself to move.
That curiously shaped thing, what was it? She closed one eye to try and sort it out: Her eyes weren't focusing together just now and she saw five of everything that way. Five? Some number. The thing—what? Sense of the floor, flowers, all of it faded. Boot—no, two. A pair of them.
Lyiadd? For one shuddering, dreadful moment she was sprawled across Lyiadd's floor, Marrita's boots under her nose, Brendan dying and herself not knowing, not able to change any of it. The sensation passed. The boots belonged to Vess, the floor had once been her floor. She sighed faintly, let the eye close. Not Lyiadd's halls; not the Lammior's. She was no longer afraid. But deep down, she knew she should be.
I would have done anything to aid Bendesevorian, but neither I nor Ysian was able. I was too weak, but even so AEldra Power could not have helped him. Galdan alone had the Power to reinforce and strengthen the Nasath. But we waited with them, Ysian and I, and we watched. An eerie, bluish light touched both of them for what seemed hours. Then Galdan cried out in pain, and fell to his hands and knees. But Bendesevorian—he was gone.
20
He found the ledge without difficulty, found a place to sit and waited. He needed sun and wind for his Power, but the Folk were a night people: He needed their aid, if he was to find Ylia. Eya came and listened in chilled silence as he told his story and asked for help. She left at once, returned with many of her people. Between them, they would scour fallen Yls for Nedao's Queen, as well as the lands south—avoiding only the Lammior's valley—and west.
It was near dawn before Eya returned. “She is not in any of those places. We even searched as much of Yslar as we dared, all but its Tower. She is not in Yslar. I am sorry.”
He shook his head. “Do not be. We have eliminated a vast area of land. Yslar and its Tower would be the greatest threat to Ylia, and to our hope of freeing her. I can now search othe
r places and in my own way.” He sighed. “I had hoped to avoid what I do now; I have not expended so much Power in a thousand years, and no Nasath wields well alone.”
Eya touched him. “We will aid you in any way we can. But the sun is hard on us.”
He nodded. He was glad for her touch: Like Ylia, he loved the outward forms the Folk took. And so strong was their Power of shape even he could feel the touch of dry, slender fingers on his arm. “Go and rest. When I come back to this place, with Ylia, then we may need your help.”
“Send,” Eya replied simply, and was gone.
His shoulders sagged. At the moment, he keenly felt the mortality Ylsans denied he had and missed the company of his kind. “An itch in an unscratchable place for each of the Elders, to be so stubborn and unyielding when the need is so great!” He laughed at the image and felt better for having laughed. The sun topped the eastern ridges as he stood with a refreshed sense of purpose and sought the place upon the rock ledge where Lyiadd's fixed focus had been.
It was not as difficult as he had feared; it might be use was honing his own skills. Waste no time on Yls: Try north first, then east and south. He clasped his hands together, extended his arms and slowly pivoted on one heel.
The sun was an hour higher when he stopped: The faint line that had never been an actual one, that was only the ghost of an image of the faintest of connections of Power, point to point, led him past the Lammior's valley; past the Lake of the Falls. Past the Hunter's Meadow and the Yls Road. To Koderra.
Lyiadd had set a fixed focus in Yslar that had caught Ylia here and dragged her perforce to Koderra? Lyiadd is more powerful than even I feared. Once he has the Peopled Lands—and perhaps the lands across the sea as well—might he not take the step to bring him against our kind? And what is to stop him taking the Elders as simply as he took the Ylsan Council? It wasn't a pleasant thought.
