He gave her the answer to what she had asked instead: “The tath-shinn was the prisoner of a seriously mad ha’ra’ha for years. She started to enjoy causing pain. I don’t know that we’ll ever manage to straighten her out. We may have to kill her, much as I hate the thought.”
“After what she’s done?” Alyea stared at him, appalled.
“She’s kin,” Deiq said, unable to stop the fierce pain from coming out in his voice. “It would be like you killing Kam; however much you might think he deserves it, he’s still kin.”
“Kam hasn’t killed anyone by tearing them to bits! And I don’t want to—”
What she didn’t know about her cousin would fill a lake. “He hasn’t torn anyone to bits,” Deiq corrected, then held up a hand to forestall her indignant response. “Don’t sidetrack right now. You wanted answers, so ask the damn questions while I’m still on my feet!”
He hadn’t meant to say that. The wobble from his legs shivered up through his body, followed by a familiar flush of heat. He’d burned through the slight reserve he’d built up with sleep, and if he didn’t get her out of here—
“You need to rest—”
He opened his mouth to say Yes, I do, go away. It emerged, instead, as: “Don’t damn well tell me what I need to do!”
She stared at him, her mouth set in a thin line that reminded him of her mother’s severe disapproval. Strangely, it helped: he was able to catch control of his emotional balance again.
“One more question,” he said. “Then you get out.”
Alyea hesitated, looking him over as though judging whether to retreat now. After a moment, she said, “Do you believe what he—what she wrote in the letter? That the tath-shinn is Idisio’s mother?”
“It makes sense,” he said. “Opens up lots of other questions. But yes. I believe it. I think that’s why she can control him so easily. Blood bond. . . .”
The word blood proved to be a mistake: he saw, reflected from her memory like a mirror, the gruesome disaster of the gravekeeper’s cottage. The loss of control. The destructive freedom that would come from not fighting what he was . . . He stopped talking, blocking the sight from his mind, and rested his head in his hands.
It’s my own damn fault she has no notion what she’s doing to me, he told himself, and drew a careful breath to steady his nerves. When he had control of his voice again, he finished the sentence he’d begun: “Being related makes it easier for her to control him. I’m done talking. Help me to bed.”
Immediately he realized the mistake, but she was already rising.
“No,” he said through his teeth, trying for command-voice and utterly missing; she wasn’t listening to him any more than a horse who’d gotten a hold of the bit did. “Not you. Get Eredion.” Another idiotic idea; but sleeping wouldn’t be enough this time. He shut his eyes and swept other-vision across the area, searching for Eredion’s distinctive rough-paper presence.
“I’m perfectly capable,” she said, moving to his side.
“That’s not—hells.” He let her help him to his feet and leaned on her hard for the few steps to his bed. Eredion, he said, finally snagging against the desert lord’s sturdiness. Eredion. Please—I need you.
Silence.
Please, Deiq begged. He didn’t care any longer if the desert lord responded from simple duty. Alyea wasn’t ready for this; her pulse was steady and her thoughts only on getting him medicine for what she saw as a developing fever.
The mattress came up under his hips; he sat still, blinking and dazed, listening to the silence with a growing sense of dread. Her arm brushed his shoulder as she reached past to arrange the pillows for him, and he saw himself through her eyes: ill. Exhausted. Vulnerable.
Oh, gods, Alyea, you have no damn idea . . . Her defenses had dropped on seeing him apparently weaken, and he could see the path to what he wanted, like a broad river shining in front of him. His hand closed around her wrist; she stopped pushing pillows around, frowning a little.
“You’re throwing a fever,” she said, freeing her hand from his grip and touching his forehead.
His hands latched onto her hips; he held her still and leaned his forehead against her stomach like a child seeking comfort. Her pulse beat against his fingers: he followed it, stroking, with an ethereally light touch, the flowing movement within her veins.
Alyea flinched, pulling back, and he felt a heavy cramp sear across her stomach as though it were his own; echoes from the agony of her blood trials.
She wasn’t ready, damn it. And he didn’t care. He flattened one hand against her stomach, drunk with conflicting needs.
“You need some medicine for that fever,” she said, touching his hair even as she pulled away another half-step. The hand resting on her hip tightened despite himself, stopping her retreat.
“What he needs,” Eredion said from behind them, harshly, “is for you to get out of here.”
Alyea jerked round, startled; Deiq forced his fingers to loosen.
“Go,” he croaked. “Alyea, go.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Eredion said, and held up a small vial. “I’ve got medicine for him to take, and Oruen wants to see you. He’s in his casual room. Go on.”
She hesitated; but Eredion’s expression was uncompromising, and Deiq waved her off when she looked back at him.
“Go,” Deiq repeated, unable to offer better reassurance than another fierce hand-motion towards the door.
“Don’t keep the king waiting,” Eredion said. “His pride’s a bit tender yet for that.”
She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug, cast one last misgiving stare at Deiq, and turned away without more protest.
Eredion shut the door behind her, threw the latch, and turned to frown at Deiq, assessing.
“You’re a damn fool,” he said after a moment, and went around the suite locking hidden doors: two of which Deiq had known about and one of which came as a surprise.
Deiq sat still, eyes half-shut, and waited, gathering his scattered senses more easily now: he was back on safe, familiar ground with Eredion. The desert lord finished securing the entries, then stopped arm’s reach away, studying Deiq closely.
“How long has it been?” he asked. Deiq shut his eyes and shook his head dumbly. “Too long, obviously. Damn fool. I should have known when the tath-shinn laid you out like a baby.”
Deiq blinked, frowning at the insult, and found his eyes crossing; he couldn’t focus on outrage long enough to do anything about it.
“Why the hells have you been starving yourself?” Eredion demanded. “And with a new desert lord right to hand, you called me?”
“She’s not ready,” Deiq whispered, shutting his eyes again; ignoring the question he didn’t want to answer. “I don’t want to hurt her. I promised.”
“And you don’t mind hurting me?”
He made himself open his eyes all the way, and inhaled deeply; cinnamon and ashes, ink and leather and dust. Eredion had been going through old books recently. He looked up into the desert lord’s frown and said, reasonably clear, “I’ll try not to.”
Eredion’s frown melted into resignation. “Don’t bother,” he said, and broke the wax seal on the small bottle in his hand. “I’ve been through it enough to be used to it by now.” But his hand shook, just a little, as he tossed back the spoonful of dark liquid.
Deiq stood up, moving with intense care; felt his eyes shifting out of human-normal as he put a hand on Eredion’s broad shoulder. “No,” he said, feeling Eredion’s muscles bunch reflexively. Mirrored memory gave him back a sobbing youngster, crouched in a stream of moonlight: “No,” he said again. “Not like that. Not this time.”
“Does it matter?” Eredion snapped, shivering a little.
Deiq didn’t bother answering. He could feel the dasta syrup streaking through Eredion’s body, soothing the man’s nerves and lowering defenses; and knowing that he had what he needed made it easy for Deiq to take his time, the way a human might pause to savor each bite
of a long-delayed meal.
“Pass the salt, he’s a little bland,” Eredion muttered, voice already thickening.
Deiq blinked, a little surprised that his thoughts had carried so easily; then grinned, belatedly catching the humor. “I doubt that,” he murmured, sliding his hand down Eredion’s arm: tracing the veins with his fingertips. Eredion sucked in a breath, eyes hazing, and shivered.
“Don’t bother,” the desert lord said hoarsely. “I’ve been through . . . don’t.”
Deiq left his fingertips on the inside of Eredion’s wrist, feeling the pulse thudding past, the energy swirling in thready colors through the man’s body: collecting, dissolving, pooling, dissipating. Choking and stuttering over the invisible scars Ninnic’s child had left; pooling and overflowing riotously where the tath-shinn had, more recently, left as yet unhealed marks.
“Ah, damn,” Deiq whispered, his eyes dry: only human-normal vision allowed him to cry. “I wish I had some healing skill, Eredion. . . .”
“It’s not so bad,” Eredion said; a lie he clearly didn’t expect to pass, and Deiq didn’t bother challenging aloud.
The dasta syrup hadn’t even been necessary. A second-generation would barely have any trouble pushing past what was left of Eredion’s defenses.
Deiq slid his hand back up Eredion’s arm, deciding, in spite of the strain it would put on his own dangerously low strength, to take this even more gently than he’d intended. Eredion deserved that much consideration, after what he’d been through.
In the back of his mind, he saw Meer’s face, just for a moment; felt the echo of a ravenous hunger, pushed past enduring.
Gently, he told himself, his breath catching hard. Gently. For Meer’s sake, if nothing else.
The desert lord’s knees began to buckle; Deiq hastily guided him to sprawl on the bed, then sat on the edge, watching Eredion’s eyes haze and clear repeatedly. He’d taken a damn strong concentrate, from the looks of it: measure enough not only of his tolerance but his terror.
“Get . . . over . . . with,” Eredion muttered, his eyes sliding shut.
Deiq shook his head without answering and sifted delicately through Eredion’s exposed memories until he found what he was looking for; tugged it, feather-light, into the desert lord’s perception of now.
Eredion jerked, his back arching and his breath dissolving into a ragged series of gasps. “Oh gods,” he moaned, vision fixed on something from years ago, his body responding to memory as though it were happening in the moment.
Deiq expanded the memory/reaction with infinite care, like stretching fresh taffy just shy of the breaking point; catching flashes of sweat and heat and slick and pressure that made his own breath catch in his throat and his own promise of chastity seem like an asinine vow.
You never really tried, Idisio had said. You could have done it. You never really cared enough to try.
Well, so: he was damn well trying now. He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he struggled to keep Eredion balanced without losing himself in the memory of the man’s first passion; found the grey border where pleasure turned to pain, and wove a path through that, a circuitious route that took ten times the effort a straight pull would have.
Eredion’s gasps grew more strained; his body jerked, head thrown back. Wait, Deiq said, easing the command into the memory of the long-ago girl’s own moans. Not yet . . . not yet.
The tendril-thin draw finally reached the right spot inside Eredion’s self: Deiq had never found a better word for it. A furnace-heat flushed through Deiq’s own body at the contact. Control slid, gone on the instant, and he pulled hard, barely remembering to kick loose the stop he’d put on the memory-moment at the same time.
Eredion screamed as boundaries blurred, mixing agony and ecstasy as one; then collapsed, panting. Deiq rolled onto his side, gathering Eredion in to rest, broad back to slightly narrower chest, against him; they lay still, breathing hard, until their stuttering heartbeats steadied to a more normal rhythm.
“You,” Eredion said at last, voice still rough and shaky, “you are a complete fucking bastard, you know that?”
“Hhh.” He didn’t have enough breath yet to answer that; didn’t entirely understand it, or care, just at the moment.
The desert lord drew a ragged breath, another, coughed; “Bastard,” he said again, and elbowed free. Deiq made no attempt to stop him. He watched, heavy-lidded, as Eredion left the room without looking back; then dropped all interest in outside matters and let himself fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Chapter Forty-five
Hands shaking, Eredion drew the outer door of the suite shut behind him and stood in the hallway for a moment: he’d seen much more, during that far-too-intimate moment, than he’d wanted to. He fought to even out his breath, making himself think about the indignity of what Deiq had done, instead of the centuries of black pain he’d just brushed up against.
Before he entirely succeeded, one of Filin’s trainees trotted around the corner, step slowing as he caught sight of Eredion.
“Lord Eredion!” He grinned, boyishly enthusiastic; sobered at the glare Eredion aimed his way. “Uhm, Lord Filin’s looking for you.”
Lord Filin, Eredion thought uncharitably, damn well could have come wandering round himself to track down a conversation, or spoken from across the palace to find Eredion. Sending the trainee was an unsubtle snub.
Just at the moment, Eredion was not in the mood for Darden-style power games; but he knew how to play them well enough, and mood never had anything to do with necessity.
“Stay here,” he told the trainee, pointing to the door he’d just shut behind him. “Stand outside this door, and don’t let anyone in. Deiq is sleeping, do you understand? He’s not to be disturbed.”
“Not even Alyea of Peysimun?” the trainee said, brash enough even to lower one eyelid in a half-wink.
“Especially not Alyea,” Eredion said, drenching his tone with enough ice to stiffen the boy’s spine and wipe the smirk off his barely-stubbled face. “Do you think you can handle this, or should I find an ordinary servant who will listen to orders?”
The boy jerked his head in a stiff nod, all amusement gone from his face, and set his back against the wall by the door.
“Good,” Eredion said. “You stay here until I tell you to go. And you don’t send anyone to come bothering after me, either.”
That raised a protest: “But Lord Filin said—”
Eredion moved close enough to almost press his nose against the trainee’s. “Boy,” he said, “maybe nobody’s bothered to explain how things work to you. But in this instance, in this place, I outrank Lord Filin. So you sit and you stay until I tell you otherwise!”
“Yes, Lord Eredion,” the boy stuttered.
“Lord Sessin,” Eredion snapped. The trainee gulped and nodded frantically.
“Lord Sessin,” he said, “Lord Sessin. Right. I’ll stay here. Right here. Lord Sessin.”
Eredion grinned and stalked away. Let Filin deal with that. The boy would piss himself before moving for a bathroom break now. It was a petty business, bullying a trainee; but tremendously satisfying as an outlet for strained nerves.
And focusing on belligerence kept him from thinking about what Deiq had done. Gods, of all the memories to corrupt—Eredion shook his head and increased his pace, wanting to reach the distraction of Lord Filin more quickly.
Lord Filin hadn’t been entirely crass: he was waiting outside Eredion’s suite with studied indifference, arms folded, one foot kicked back and both shoulders leaning against the wall.
“Lord Eredion,” he said, not moving as Eredion approached. “I was beginning to think Rendill had gotten lost. Even for an Eshan, he’s a touch dim at times.”
Eredion stopped just out of reach, pointedly not moving to open his door or to offer an invitation. “What do you want, Filin?”
Filin took his time answering, his dark stare traveling over Eredion from head to toe with sharp thoughtfulness. “I had hoped
to assure myself of your impartiality,” he said at last, “but I can see that’s a lost cause already.” His gaze dropped towards Eredion’s knees, then came up again slowly, pausing at the fresh, awkwardly placed damp spot Eredion had no way of hiding. “Since you’re obviously . . . allied with Deiq.”
Eredion set his teeth together hard to stop his first, unwise answer from emerging. Damned if he’d tell Filin anything about Deiq’s current vulnerability. “It’s my duty,” he said, instead, “to give what’s asked, when asked, without question. Yours as well, by the way—not that you’ve been around much of late.”
Filin’s thin nostrils flared. “I’ve been hunting across the city after traces of the tath-shinn as you asked,” he retorted. “Risking my own neck, thank you ever so much, and that of the trainees.”
“Appreciated, and over with,” Eredion said. “So I imagine you’re here to say that you’re leaving?”
Filin stared at him. “I’m here to say you’re making a mess of everything,” he said abruptly. “Deiq never should have been allowed back in the city, and you’re making a damn bad mistake, allying yourself with him. And you’re making a hash of the girl’s training—Hells, she isn’t even ready to be out in public yet! What the hells were you thinking?”
“Not my decision,” Eredion said flatly. “Take that up with Deiq. He’s the one in charge of her training.”
“That’s even worse,” Filin said, pushing away from the wall to stand square, shoulders coming forward in a sour hunch. “He doesn’t have the first damn idea what he’s doing. All he sees is a new game. I’d thought you had more care for a new desert lord than to let him use her that way.”
Eredion snorted. “You’re just pissed because she didn’t drop to her knees for you,” he observed.
Filin’s face darkened. “The way you did just now for Deiq? Must have been good—I think they heard you in Water’s End!” A flutter of fingers by one temple indicated he wasn’t talking about ordinary hearing.
Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) Page 29
