by Jenna Rhodes
Auntie Corrie took a chair quietly in the parlor, her mending work in her lap, and her eyes on the polished kettle which reflected to her, round and brassy looking, a view of the children’s room where Merri and Evar sat playing. They knew only that she had withdrawn within earshot and that they were free to play a bit before naptime, the room already gathering a heat to its edges and corners which would add to their sleepiness in time. Smart as they were, and both of them smart as whips, they had not yet cottoned onto the tea kettle mirror that reflected them to their caretaker. Corrie doubted she had more than another moon’s length to observe them unknown. Evarton would spot it, or Merri sense it, and her advantage would be flown. In the meantime, both sides enjoyed these little times of freedom, illusionary though they might be. Corrie picked up her needle and wooden egg so that she could darn the socks waiting in her lap.
She could hear them, too, and the children always seemed well aware of that, careful to keep their voices pitched down, but children’s voices carried far easier than an adult’s muted tones. Eerie children they were, like wise and educated old souls stuffed into new and young flesh, and she did not like it when they watched her as if they would know all her secrets. Her needle clicked about the wooden egg as she drew yarn through and wove it. For all that the one was heir to the throne and the other her fast companion, there were few women about willing to play the auntie to these two. Uncanny, they whispered. Sweet children, but strange. Passing strange, and Corrie did not think their doting mother had the slightest idea.
Merri said, “No making.”
“Not a puppy,” her brother told her.
“No.”
“I make. Mama’s ears like ours. Eyes like ours.”
“No.”
Evar huffed. “Already did it.”
Someone pushed a jumble of wooden blocks about. Corrie guessed it to be Evar, sulking. He could have a temper, that one.
A much softer “No.” Merri, the peacemaker. Always smiling, even when she cried over something, as if she knew something better was just around the corner. “Here. Make this.” And it sounded as if she pushed something toward Evar.
A moment of silence followed, but it wasn’t a serene silence. Corrie put her sock and egg in her lap, an intangible something in the air that made the fine hairs along her arm crawl and a chill go up the back of her neck. She had no words for the feeling that crawled through the air but fixed her gaze on her tea kettle mirror to see what the two were about. Evarton held one hand in the air as if he were about to reach over and tap Merri on the head. She sat, wide-legged with her attention close on him as a . . . Corrie could hardly find words for it . . . a bridge of wooden blocks assembled itself in thin air, arching ever higher until it ran out of blocks to use.
Evar let out a soft grunt. He made a fist and waved it in the air and the blocks, which had been vacillating and wavering, hung in the air as though stuck there.
The feeling that had slithered over Auntie Corrie’s skin fell away, leaving her breathless. She knotted her fingers into the socks she had been repairing, scarcely aware of the needle jabbing into her fingertip. What had the boy just done?
“There,” he said, with victory spiking his voice.
Merri climbed to her feet, chubby hands in the air, reaching to touch the blocks which hung between them. She cooed in approval. She ran her fingers over the blocks she could reach, tugging on them, and they stayed fixed in the air, hanging on . . . nothing. With a delighted chortle, she bent over, grabbed a rag horse from nearby and proceeded to gallop it over the bridge, at least as high as she could stretch. Then she pulled a stool over and clambered to the top and continued her toy’s progress up and over the bridge until she could land her rag doll happily on top of Evar’s head.
“Yay!”
Evar snorted. He helped her down from the stool and proceeded to march two of his clothespin soldiers over the same bridge, into her territory. They proceeded to have a bit of a battle on the bridge, as children will do, bringing another stool into play, but since they were child-sized stools and not built for longer legged adults, neither child stood very high in the air at all and Corrie saw no reason to step in.
She returned to her darning, keeping only an occasional glance out for the two and after four pairs, carefully mended, lay across her knee, she heard Evar mumble, “I’m tired.” And with that, the bridge collapsed noisily and unceremoniously all over the nursery floor, blocks scattering. He staggered off to his little cot and climbed into it, his eyelids fluttering to sleep almost immediately while Merri, hands on her hips, stood and watched in doubt until her companion let out a soft, toddler snore.
“Hmmph.” She kicked a path through the blocks to her own cot and climbed into it, tucking her rag horse under one elbow and soon fell into a nap herself.
Only then did Corrie feel free to move to her writing desk and jot down a little of what she’d seen, to be sent away later. Her mistress seemed hungry for observations of whatever power either of the children had. This ought to serve for a while.
“You will be tempted,” Ceyla said, smothering a yawn. She fluttered her eyes a moment, trying to get the dust of sleep out of them. The day was nearly opened, still gray and dew-sparkled, but it would be hot later. She could feel the dryness in the sun’s rays already. A moment’s worth of homesickness struck her, surprising her with a yearning for the seacoast where the ild Fallyn Fortress perched. No hot, sticky days there. If anything too much damp and chill, but today that sounded almost inviting. Almost. She might be drawn into a midday nap, but the oracle poked at her relentlessly and she had to say what she knew. Had to deliver the vision she’d been given. Luckily, her audience did not mind, nor did he give her greater credence than she deserved. He valued her but he was not enslaved to her words. That kept tension and misgivings away from her as little else ever had.
As if knowing she thought of him, he leaned forward. “And what might tempt me?”
“Few things in life, I deem, from my time spent with you.” She grinned at him suddenly. “Maybe you’ll have a chance to push Bregan off a cliff.”
He grunted at that. “That might indeed interest me unduly. But is that all you truly have to tell me?”
She nodded. “Little came to me but that, an envoy, a shapely one, bearing news and an offer.”
“No wisdom on whether to accept it or not?”
“Not revealed to me.” Ceyla looked down at the scrub grasses and dirt under her sandaled feet. She felt reticent, all of a sudden, unwilling to share her innermost feelings with Diort.
“Nothing?” He curved his strong hand and raised her chin.
“I remember being jealous. That’s all.”
“Ummm. I shall tell this envoy to watch her back when I tell her to leave, then.”
Her face went hot and burned under her chin where his fingers stayed, lingering. She said nothing else until he dropped his hand and moved away.
“And when will this envoy approach?”
“Soon.” Ceyla scurried away then, to the women’s long tent, where she could hide among the workers. She could feel his stare on her back, somewhere between her shoulder blades, and her face refused to cool. She should have stuck to the vision and nothing more. She’d said too much. It could be the death of her.
Chapter
Thirty
Trevalka
DHURIEL SET HER DOWN with a growl. The road turned this way and that through a nondescript valley, but it led to many a city of riches beyond, after a considerable journey. A thin layer of dust hung over the hillocks, betraying an approach from the other direction and a reluctant yield of the pass to end of winter weather. The ground about her stayed frozen, the grasses and shrubbery brown, but beyond thawed enough that dirt could be churned up. The air shivered about her, warning of more snow and winter’s grip tightening soon.
“Don’t be crass,” Trevilara told him. “
It’s as much to your benefit as mine.”
“I am not a pack animal.”
“Nor am I a pack.” She shook the skirts of her dress out as if he had rumpled it while carrying her in his arms. The simple muslin showed stains, old and new, and smelled of grease and wood smoke. Her blouse was frayed on the placket where buttons strained against the button holes. Trevilara tapped one thoughtfully. It was not that she was so big-busted, she had never been, though the dress certainly seemed to fit her in that way. Her hair hung down in oily twists and she felt thoroughly disgusting. She straightened her sleeves. “Now slap me.”
“You tempt me.”
“Fool God. I want to look as though I was beaten and left on the road. Do hurry, I can hear them approach.”
Dhuriel shimmered close enough that she could see the manlike form at the core of all the flames, his eyes tight with disgust and anger, his hand within his soot-dark sleeve rising, but she did not see the actual swing. The blow, ice-cold and red-hot in equal measures, stung across her face and rocked her back onto her heels before she curved her body protectively, for Dhuriel seemed to enjoy it far too much and she thought he would hit her again. And he did, faster than she could dodge, with a short burst of a laugh before he curled away, edges bright blue among the orange-and-yellow flickers. When she straightened, she tasted blood on her lip and the air hitting her rib cage where the dress’s bodice tore open. She ached, but she would not make a sound other than to say, “Well done.” She’d give Dhuriel no satisfaction for abusing her.
Trevilara shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Wait nearby.”
Within the fire, she saw Dhuriel’s lip curl. “If I wish.”
She licked some of the blood off her lip. “I implore you.”
“You needn’t. You’ve already sealed the bargain to be brought here and brought back. You forgot to stipulate when.”
“I don’t know when.” The sound of hoofbeats filled her throbbing head. “Please do not abandon me when the moment arises that I need you.” She hoped she sounded subservient enough; she held little patience for this fool of a God. She fed him his strength. What would he be on that day when she decided to rescind her support? Nothing. Not even a hot ash smoldering out in the night. She would see to that.
The manlike form within the fire watched her with soulless eyes. His nostrils flared. “Very well.”
“Thank you,” and she swept a deep curtsy.
He turned his back on her in answer.
Trevilara swallowed tightly. She would not have to resort to these measures if she had the Ferryman and Daravan by her side. But the Ferryman, alas, had succumbed to plague, of all things, and Daravan had not yet returned from his tasks on Kerith. He worked to prepare it for the two of them. The world would be a little small for her, after all, but clean and bursting with possibilities, not sunk into its festering decline. She allowed herself to feel sorrow for the dying of Trevalka, and crumpled to her side on the dirt road. She waved a hand at Dhuriel. “Leave me,” she said, “until I call for you.”
White-hot heat flared out, not touching her but very, very close, and then the God disappeared. Trevilara fanned the heat from her face, feeling the tiny drops of sweat that covered her profusely. Fool God. She closed her eyes. Cold thrilled through her in Dhuriel’s absence as the wind came up in a thin, chill wail about her, and she wrapped her arms about her knees as proof against the cold. The next time she came out wearing another’s skin, she’d make certain a cloak would be involved. She could, of course, put up her fire, but that would ruin the image of abject poverty and helplessness she wished to project. She sank into meditation, awaiting discovery.
Winter’s chill bit at her, from the inside out. Her bones ached as if they could split open, burst from within her very marrow by the expanding ice. She had heard old people complain about the various aches and pains in their elder years, but she did not feel this was her lot. No, the cracking pain came from deeper within, seeded by disappointment, fostered by fear of losing. She was the only God who had the will, the courage, to live as she did, and the others cowered before her rather than look her in the eyes. She ate from them just as she feasted on the subjects around her. It was her right! Only the strong could take and hold, only the steadfast and Talented. Only she who had chosen the road she walked. The loss she feared could be nothing more than a misstep, a teetering on the edge of her path.
So she sat in the moment, wrapped in another’s skin, someone who had not had the will or strength. Trevilara shook herself slightly. The other’s skin itched, the area unreachable because it was on the underside of the disguise where it rested over her own, and no way to scratch it could be managed. She clamped her teeth shut against the irritation. Nothing more than a gnat, she told herself, compared to what she’d gone through and was prepared to endure in the future. Her world was poisoned. Her purging efforts failed. Her cleansing efforts had not yet shown success and were likely as not to fail as well. Survival would be won only by the strong. She judged herself able and no longer cared how any other might judge her. She had moved beyond that.
She felt the vibration in the ground before she heard the approach. The hoofbeats, the boot stamps, of an approaching army reverberated throughout her body. Trevilara lifted her chin, bringing her fully out of her thoughts. Her right knee, cloaked in cloth and silk, itched abominably. She slapped at the irritation and felt her borrowed skin sting before all sensation faded. In answer to her plight, before the question could be asked by those who approached, she leaned over and began to rock, wailing, and found tears she could shed. She pulled moisture out of the air around her and condensed it about her eyes, feeling the drops form and roll down her borrowed cheeks.
The road crested slightly and then curved behind her. She could hear the jangle of bits and the creak of leather as well as the slow drum of hooves. Not all were mounted. In fact, most were not. As she huddled over and rocked back and forth, her wailing dismay growing louder, she peeked at them from under one arm curved about her head as if to protect herself from any more blows of fate. The army was a much smaller size than she anticipated, without uniforms, most of their clothing little more than rags. Did her lieutenants and spies think her a fool for reporting this . . . this crew of stragglers as a formidable foe? Or had they even carried out their duties and approached this band as ordered?
She studied the leader riding to the fore. He alone wore clothes in one piece, his silvery skin showing through the open vest he wore rather than a shirt, a garment of curly white wool. Black leather pants stretched over muscular thighs. And a gossamer-like sheen wove its way about him. She wondered what magic he carried about him like a veil.
She would know in mere moments. She thrust herself to her feet crying out in warning, and at her reveal, a troop of men sprang out from behind the trees and scrub bushes, attacking from ambush. War cries shrilled in the air. Horses reared. The ragged crew dropped back in formation and, with only their hand-carried weapons and a few archers to the rear, answered the attack.
Feigning fear, Trevilara fell back, off the road, huddled against a tree and watched what should have been a rout by her hand-picked troop. They had the weapons and the discipline, dismounting and moving confidently into the fray. She knew after the first confrontation that this man’s soldiers were no ordinary mongrels despite their looks. They fought without fear and total disregard for their bodies. She’d never seen anything like it or the total slaughter which she witnessed in a handful of moments.
The soldiers did not bleed. They did not bend from steel and their bodies, appearing ragged and frail, turned blades aside as if they were wood and stone. The only two she saw fall came from beheadings, while her own men collapsed under the sheer repeated weight of the attack. When silence fell, far too soon, she found herself trembling and wondering if Dhuriel could reach her in time to bear her away.
Trevilara straightened. If she had to, she could
shed this borrowed skin and flame up protectively although that would not solve the problem of getting all the answers she needed. This . . . man . . . if he was a man, and his troop, had been marching and raiding along the perimeters of her kingdom for two very harsh seasons now, yet they had not marched into Throne City. From what she could see of their tactics, few could have stopped them until they reached her. Spring would bring them like a flood when winter thawed.
So why did they hesitate? What did the leader intend? Only words with him could tell her what she wanted to know, if he would talk.
As if sensing her observation of him, the man turned his horse about and paced it forward. He stopped close enough to talk but far enough away that it would be difficult to truly engage him. He had magnificent Vaelinar eyes, gray with obsidian arrows and the darkest of sable flecks. She sensed no power about him other than the stink of death and blood. He did not look to her like a full-blooded Vaelinar, but if another race, from a little-traveled continent, ran in his blood, she did not recognize it.
“You warned us.”
“I am an envoy. Queen Trevilara sent me to treat with you. My escort”—and she flung her hand out to indicate the fallen bodies—“disobeyed orders. They beat me for disputing their intentions and set me aside. They would have killed me when they were done with you and your men. I think they thought me dead already.” And she let part of her borrowed skin sag away from her torso in a bloody, flayed strip.
She did not see a reaction, familiar or otherwise, light in his eyes. Did the man feel no sympathy or understanding? Did he, like the warriors he’d directed, not fear maiming or death? She fumbled back her silk clothing, holding the skin back to her ribs, debating her actions.
