by Ru Emerson
She had the dagger now; inched it free and brought her arm down to rest it, even more tentatively, against his back.
Vess kissed the pulse in her throat. She was nervous as a maiden untried, by all the gods at once, her arm trembled as though she were afraid to touch him! Who would have thought the brave warrior so frightened in the face of pleasure? “Beloved,” he murmured against her hair.
She tightened her grip, brought the blade through with all the strength in her. What warned him, she was never certain: the tightening of her muscles, some inner sense he'd set to protect himself—Power flared; there was a sudden aura around him, blood-red. She screamed in frustration as the blade bounced off something as ungiving as stone and slid along his back. She raised it for another try but Vess had already rolled away from her. His cry echoed through the room and through her head: The hilts went briefly red-hot, burning her palm. He slapped the knife away.
“Bastard!” She screamed. “Did you really think I would come to you willingly?”
Vess stumbled to his feet, ran a trembling hand across his back. It came away red. “You bitch! You cut me!”
“Come here and I'll kill you!” She scrambled across the bed after the dagger. Vess caught her arm, dragged her to her feet. She went for his eyes; he caught one hand, missed the other, yanked her off balance as she tried to blind him again. “You thought I'd want to sleep with you? You're not even good at what you pride yourself on!”
With a wordless howl, Vess slapped her, backhand and hard.
The blow wrenched her from his grip and her head struck the bedpost with a loud crock.
He ignored her; she couldn't be any trouble for the moment. But where had that blade come from? He was dizzy from deflecting it, ill from the feel of his own blood running down his back. I could kill her for that! He glanced in her direction as his fingers closed on the hilts. Perhaps he had; she wasn't moving. There was blood on her mouth, a dark red thread of it running from her nose.
The blade was hers. But he had taken all her weapons: This dagger with its unusual hilts, her boot knife; even the nail knife that had a tinder-stone for its haft. How had this dagger come back to her? “Who touched it?” he whispered. He was deadly tired and the Power a mere flicker, but he must know.
He needed wine, needed it badly. It left a metallic taste in his mouth, but it steadied his nerves, and the cut was coagulating, finally. Fortunately it wasn't very deep, because he could not heal. Don't think on it. He couldn't, his skin sliced by this razor-sharp blade, his blood—
Ylia still had not moved. He sat, dagger hilts between his hands, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, there was an unpleasant little smile on his lips. “Jers. My good friend Jers.”
He leaned into the hall and shouted for guard. The man who came running was dispatched for Jers and for more wine. Vess made it back to the chair and collapsed. Hells! What good was Power when saving his life and testing the dagger drained him so? And how was he to read Jers?
Of course, there were other ways of testing a man for truth, ways he had used before Power showed him an easier way. You depend upon it too much, Vess. That is dangerous. His thought was interrupted by a considerable amount of noise out in the hall. Jers was being brought; and by the sound of things, he was protesting wildly.
The door Slammed against the wall and the guard came in with Jers in his fist, dangling by his grubby collar. The guard dropped him and stepped back.
“What do you know of this?” Vess demanded. The dagger dangled from his fingers. Jers watched it in wide-eyed fascination. “You gave it to her so she could kill me!” Vess advanced and Jers huddled into himself, flinching away from the expected blow. With a wordless snarl of disgust, Vess threw the dagger from him. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
Some of that got through: Jers drew himself upright, terror forgotten. Fury darkened his face. “You swore I should have the Nedaoan House! And you lied!”
“When Nedao is mine—!” Vess began.
“When? When you conquer it? Or when this witch gives it to you? She has blinded you to all but lust with her spells, she has—”
“Be silent!
“I shall not be silent!” Jers roared. Vess, startled, fell back a step, and Jers came after him. “Did I not teach you the true way when you were a boy? Did you learn nothing? A man slays witches! He does not lay with them! She has ensorceled you! And you have succumbed willingly, my once pupil! Men call you lecher openly! They laugh at you, because you cannot control your lust for the Nedaoan witch!”
“I will kill you!” Vess snatched up the dagger and brought it high over his head. Jers shrieked and scrambled away from him. The guard came forward but Jers dove under his arm and fled.
“Get him!” Vess shouted. The guard was already out the door. A shrill cry followed. Vess dropped Ylia's blooded dagger with a grimace of distaste, kicked it aside, drew his own as he stepped into the hall.
A glance toward the corner windows revealed a most curious situation. Vess fell back against the wall, laughing and shaking his head as Jers came toward him, dangling from Mal Brit Arren's oversized hands. Jers was shrieking nonsense, then simply wailing in terror. His nose ran, there was froth on his lips. He went suddenly, unnervingly still as Brit Arren came to a halt before the open door. “Is this your bit of mad priest? I found it down there; it seemed most anxious to get away from something”
“Its death,” Vess replied grimly, but the laugh broke through again. He clapped a hand over it; it sounded too much like Jers’ laugh.
But Brit Arren—! The laughter died out of him. Why is he aiding me? Why would he, of all men? Brit Arren's face gave him no clue, beyond the sardonic smile. “Why?” Vess demanded bluntly.
Brit Arren shrugged. “Why not? You wanted him, didn't you?” Blue eyes met his levelly.
“Why should I trust you? She just tried to buy my trust, only so she could knife me.”
“Anything I say or do could have another motive, we both know it,” Brit Arren countered flatly. “Trust or not, as you choose; I scarcely brought him to you to change how you think of me.” Jers hung between them, nearly forgotten, whimpering and mumbling to himself. “I might be a fool, not as much of one as that. Is that your blood?” Vess nodded. “What did you expect? Sense? Thought? She's female, Women never understand kindness in men, they think it weakness, and take advantage of it.” He hesitated, as though he had just realized to whom he spoke. “Well. So I have always seen.” Another pause. Then, deliberately: “Lord Vess.”
“I am learning,” Vess replied sourly. He stared at Brit Arren for several long, silent moments. Brit Arren stared back. His face gave away nothing, his thought less. Jers—well, there was nothing to read in Jers. Dig through the man's mind however much he wished, once he had the strength, he'd find nothing but madness. It didn't matter. Jers had given her the knife, for whatever purpose of his own. She had used it the way a man might have expected. Jers would make no more such gifts, and Ylia would not have another chance; there would be no second dagger.
Dagger. He was still holding his own fine-bladed stiletto. He laughed and tossed it high. Brit Arran caught it. “If you truly would do me a service, rid me of this refuse.”
Brit Arren tossed the dagger back. “Never dirty a good blade on refuse, Lord Vess.” He dragged Jers to the open corner window and threw him out. There was no cry. Vess came up in time to hear him hit.
He stared down over the thick sill. Men were running, one of the kitchen women screamed and ran back inside. Brit Arren lounged against the wall, waiting. Vess smiled faintly. “I appreciate that. And I award what I appreciate.”
Brit Arren shrugged. “It was nothing I would not have done for myself. You know that. Sir.” Still that pause. Not quite the implied insult to it there once had been. But—
“Perhaps. But when he was under my protection, you let him be.”
The two studied each other in silence. “That still was no true test—Lord Vess.”
&nbs
p; “No.” Another, longer silence, broken only by the pandemonium in the courtyard. “I think you are a sensible man after all. A practical man.”
Brit Arren smiled lazily. “Perhaps—a man who is becoming that, under provocation. Having found myself alive, I find I like being alive.” He inclined his head slightly, and with only the least hint of mockery. “My Lord.”
Vess watched him go. It is all so simple, as though someone planned moves on a board! Life does not fall so neatly, I dare not trust him! And yet—if I have somehow tamed that man, of all men! Where could I not go, what could I not do, with the Sea-Raiders at my back and Mal Brit Arren my willing ally!
He walked slowly into Ylia's chamber. She had not moved, but as he came in, she moaned. Her hand felt its way up the pillar, fell back again. “It's gone dark,” she whispered, so low he could scarcely hear her. She brought up a trembling hand, held it close to her face, let it fall to her lap. It moved again, explored the floor around her feet, caught at the bed hangings. Clung there. “Oh, Mothers. I cannot see.”
She moved her head cautiously; her eyes were wide, but gave no sign when they moved past him. The side of her face was purpled and swollen; the hair behind her ear was stiff and dark with dried blood. Her eyes closed and she slumped against the bedpost once again.
Vess turned and left the room, leaving her where she lay and the door wide open. Why bother to close it? She would never know. He was laughing as he stepped into the hall, still laughing as he reached the apartments that had been Brandt's and were now his.
He leaned against the door, found that he barely had strength. to push it closed. Reaction. Somehow he managed the three steps that took him across to the bed, fell onto it. He winced, rolled cautiously onto his stomach; his back throbbed. He needed wine, needed someone to clean the cut. But—not just yet. Not—just—yet. He fell asleep between one breath and the next.
Brit Arren waited an additional count of a hundred after he saw Vess leave. “He'd never be able to explain if the creature found him in her chambers. Likely Vess was already asleep; he'd been weaving like a drunk with the shock of his wound—that Vess was one of those odd men who went green and queasy at sight of his own blood! That was a thing worth knowing. A thing to remember. If he remembered things, once this Guardian with the unpronounceable name worked sorcery on his thought.
He hesitated. Go. Get her out of here, the woman and her outland sorcerer both, so I can concentrate on the one task left to me before I die.
He'd left his boots in the library—Jers’ room no longer—and he ran silently down the deserted hallway to stop in surprise before the open door. He can't have moved her, I was watching! But she was there, a still, tiny form slumped against the bed-frame. She stirred as he knelt beside her. “Who's there?” Her eyes looked right through him. “Who is it? I—please, whoever you are, help me, I cannot see.”
“I will. It is I, Brit Arren.” He took her hand; she clung to his with a tenacious grip. “We'll get you out of here, there's a friend, waiting.”
“Friend?” She laughed breathily. “Friend?” That triggered something in her memory as he lifted her. “Dagger. There's a dagger somewhere, Vess took it. And—the sheath, it's in the bedding, under the pillows—”
“Woman, we haven't time for foolishness.”
“Please! Pillow—red thread on white silk—please!” She wouldn't be quiet. He cursed under his breath, set her on the bed, wrapped her hands around the post so she would not topple over, found it and pushed it into her hands. She felt it. “The dagger. It's—copper hilts, a ship on it.”
“There isn't time for this—!”
“Please! It's—it was a—a last gift, from a man—a friend.”
“He'll forgive you, come on!”
“He's dead. Lyiadd killed him.”
“Ah, gods!" But he had to get it for her now. It was under the table, in plain sight. He shoved it into the sheath. “Hide it in your sleeve, If there is anyone in the hall, I can explain my presence and yours, but not that blade in your hands. When she made no move to indicate she'd understood, he yanked it impatiently out of her hands and shoved it up between the outer sleeve and the snug shift sleeve. She managed a faint nod, pushed it above her elbow and crooked her arm to hold it in place. He picked her up, careful that the bruised temple did not touch his arms or his shoulder.
It was silent in the hall, though he could still hear hysteria outside. Jers dead was causing more excitement here than Jers living ever had.
Brit Arren reached the little library, pressed the panel open with his shoulder and slammed it with his foot.
Ylia stirred. “What was that?”
“The panel in the library. I closed it. We're in a passageway, leading down and out.” She settled against his arm with a little sigh. Brit Arren scowled down at her and took the stairs as rapidly as he dared.
It was dark in the main passageway. Bendesevorian moved out of thicker shadow, made a light that left the walls glowing faintly. Brit Arren could see no source for it and decided he did not want to know what it might be. He wordlessly held out his bundle and Bendesevorian took her. Ylia's hand touched his face; he kissed her brow. “Shhhh, You are safe, Ylia, I have you. And I will take you home. But can you stand so I may do a promised favor for this man who brought you here?” She tried to nod, grimaced as pain knifed through her head, pressed against his chest with her hands for answer. Bendesevorian set her hands on an outcropping in the wall, held her until she found her balance. “Time presses, Brit Arren. My friend, if I may call you that.”
Brit Arren shrugged. “If it pleases you. You know why I did it. Not for her.”
Only the result matters in the end.
“Truly. Vess’ death. Do what you must.” He wiped suddenly damp hands down his breeches, let Bendesevorian cup his temples. A strange vibration ran through him.
“There. Your purpose is yours, and known now only to you and to me. It is locked behind a wall that Vess cannot tear down or sense. Nor can Lyiadd.” Brit Arren merely nodded. “We must go. Five paces that way, there is an opening and within it is bricked, top to bottom. Kneel in front of that brick wall, find the lowest brick on the right side and count across four; up three, press hard. You will find yourself behind the great tapestry in one of the empty chambers near the kitchens.”
“Thank you.” The words didn't come easily, but he owed them.
“Wait.” Ylia caught at his sleeve. She licked dry lips, swallowed. “You mean to kill Vess?”
“If you tell me you do not wish him dead,” Brit Arren said stiffly. Fingers dug into his arm with surprising strength and there was suddenly color in her face, fury in those eyes, though they weren't aimed quite at his.
“If you kill him, if you dare to kill him, I will come for you, some day, and I will cut your throat!” she hissed. “He's mine! What does he owe you? A life, two lives? A son? He owed me that and more before I was brought here. Vess is mine." He glared down at her in a mixture of anger and astonishment.
“Then kill him before I can. And do not dally.” He looked up at Bendesevorian. “There is no time for this, take her and go.” He walked away. The passage was as simple to find and work as the Nasath had said; there was no one in the chamber. He hurried through it, bare feet silent on the polished wood floor. Down the hall, he heard men coming from outside, but he made the small library and collected his boots before anyone saw him.
When he came down the main stair moments later, he found himself the surprised object of celebration: That hall guard had already spread the tale of Jers’ death and suddenly; their fallen Lord Captain was again a hero. Threw that slimy religious right out the window, and if it had been at Lord Vess’ command, well, what of that? The thing had Brit Arren's old flair to it, and they'd sorely missed Mal's ways.
When he broke free an hour later, he had a full skin of wine in him, and a genuine, if drunken, smile plastered on his face. It took three false tries before he found the proper chamber, found his own blank
ets and fell across them. A little sleep, he thought blurrily, aye; the old man has that coming.
In a spacious chamber almost directly above him, Vess sprawled face down across his fur coverlet and slept like the dead.
It is no effort at all for an AEldra to read the thoughts of others and then to block them. Those are the first skills any of us learn. Perhaps fear buried long-trained ability, but that night, even I—with the strongest block among us—could not keep out the welter of emotions that were Ylia's: fear, guilt, pain, misery and anger. Even Bendesevorian could not.
22
It had been a long day; Ysian finally made herself quit counting moments after the Nasath left, and went to visit Grewl. The elderly Chosen Father was glad to see her, and after his first concerned inquiry, he led the conversation to innocent topics.
But though she found it temporarily pleasant to discuss simple matters, it was impossible to ignore realities. Ylia was gone; she must return to Galdan and wait. And she was aware of the bustle and excitement out in the hall, while she and Grewl drank tea and talked of the schools and of herbs and weaving. The Chosen Council would be meeting long hours this night to deal with the latest messages from Nar: threats from the Heirocracy and from Tevvro. And the messages from Osnera's Prince that had come in matched copies to Nedao's rulers and the Chosen Household, messages from Nalda on the same subject: Osnera had broken trade relations with Nar and refused Narran requests for Osneran warships to help defend against Lyiadd. Ysian privately doubted the Chosen could persuade either the Heirocrat or the Osneran Prince to countermand that ruling, but Grewl and his advisors would be awake late trying to find a way to negotiate an easing of terms.
The sun was westering, nearly down when Ysian left. Nisana awaited her beyond the gate that separated Chosen land from Nedao, for Ysian seldom rode from the Tower to Grewl's halls. Like Ylia, she was scrupulous about utilizing the Power on Chosen grounds, and unless specifically invited by Grewl to visit the grain barns for mice, Nisana never went on Chosen land. Ysian pulled the cloak close as Nisana leaped to her shoulder: It was still day and summer, but the afternoon wind went right through her. Thinner air, higher mountains; she wondered if she'd ever adjust to it.
