“Tell us, blacksmith, about Eriondrian Tirinian.”
Odrick said nothing. It was all he could do to keep from falling face-first onto the cobbles.
“That’s alright,” the man said, and he was close now, standing right over him. “You will tell us, you know. Sooner or later. We can be…persistent, my companion and I.”
Odrick felt weak, weaker than he could remember feeling, and he thought the man was probably right. He would try to say nothing, to give away nothing, but he thought, sooner or later, they would ask their questions, and they would get their answers.
Sorry, Rion, he thought. I tried. I really did. Then the world spun, the light blurred and shifted again, dwindling away from him, further and further, and soon there wasn’t any light at all, only darkness. And within that darkness—questions.
***
Odrick was pulled back to consciousness by hands on his shoulders. He didn’t know how long he’d been passed out, and it didn’t matter, for those hands aroused another, more urgent thought. They’re taking me. To wherever it is they ask their questions, to somewhere quiet and dark, and there will be only the questions and nothing else. Except the screams. He thought there would be screams soon enough.
“—you alright?”
Odrick frowned, still just barely conscious, his eyes not opening, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted them to. Maybe they weren’t taking him, after all, maybe they were already there, wherever that place was, the questioning place. Still, it was not the question he’d expected. “…fine,” he muttered. “But…the kids. What about…” He trailed off, suddenly unable to finish. His tongue felt too thick, his mouth fuzzy, as if it had been filled with wool, but not just his mouth, his mind too.
“They’re fine, Sir Odrick. Truly.”
Sir Odrick. Mocking him now, having a laugh at his expense, the big clumsy blacksmith who had dared to rise above his station.
The hands under him pulled him upward, and he heard a grunt of effort from his kidnappers. Something to be thankful for, anyway. Let the bastards struggle.
“Can you stand?”
He realized then that the voice didn’t sound like a torturer’s. In fact, there was something familiar about it. Slowly, with great effort, he opened his eyes and saw that he’d been pulled to a sitting position. After several confused, dazed seconds, he realized he was still in the alleyway, and he looked up at his kidnapper only to find it wasn’t his kidnapper. Instead, the wrinkled face peering down at him, blinking owlishly, was one he recognized. “F…Fermin?” he asked.
The manservant for Lord and Lady Tirinian winced. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
“What…I don’t…”
“Forgive me, Sir Odrick,” the man said, looking almost physically pained by interrupting, “but…well, the assassins are waiting for me.”
“I…what?”
But then Fermin was stepping away, and Odrick blinked, looking after the man and, in so doing, really looking at the alleyway for the first time since he’d awoken. Bodies lay sprawled along its length. The two bodyguards, but others, too, the guards who’d attacked him. All dead, and even as he watched, a man bent and began removing crossbow quarrels from one of the bodies. The bolts came free with wet, sucking sounds that made Odrick’s stomach rumble threateningly, but if the sounds bothered the man, he didn’t show it, wiping the bloody tips on the dead man’s tunic before sliding them into a quiver at his back.
Odrick forced his eyes away to where Fermin had gone to speak to a group of three other men. They all held crossbows slung over their shoulders, and though they were a grim, dangerous looking lot, they seemed friendly enough to the manservant, even so much as clapping him on the shoulder as he retrieved several coins from a purse he withdrew from his tunic and handed them to the nearest one.
Then, the man who’d been removing the crossbow bolts finished his task and came to stand with them, and a moment later they were walking down the alley again. The manservant watched them go then turned and made his way back to Odrick. “One sometimes hears about the vileness of assassins and rogues,” the manservant said, “but I must admit, Sir Odrick, those men are really quite polite.”
Odrick glanced at the four dead men lying in the alleyway. “They might disagree with you.”
The manservant blinked then followed his gaze to the corpses before looking back at him once more. “Oh, forgive me, Sir Odrick, as I don’t mean to be disagreeable, but I don’t believe they will. I’m sure they’re all quite dead, you see.”
Odrick grunted. “The kids?”
“The two young men who were here?” the manservant asked, “Oh, they’re quite alright, I assure you. They left a few moments ago, in haste but in good health. Now, would you like to depart? I have some tea on, at your father’s shop, and I believe it should be just about ready.”
Odrick grunted with the effort of rising to his feet, and still wouldn’t have made it had the manservant not helped. “You know what, Fermin?” he asked, glancing around at the dead men. “That’s twice you saved me.”
The older man studied his feet, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, sir, I’m sure you would have effected your own escape soon enough, had I not arrived.”
No, no I wouldn’t have, Odrick thought, and we both know it. Unless, I suppose, death could be considered an escape. “How do you know assassins?” he said. “I mean, how did you even find them?”
The older man gave him an offended look. “A manservant must be able to find whatever his masters require, sir.”
Though his entire body hurt, and he’d very nearly been killed or, more likely, tortured then killed, Odrick grunted a laugh. “You know what, Fermin?” he asked, taking one more look around the alleyway, “I think I will take some of that tea.”
“Very good, sir,” the manservant said with a bow. “Oh, and sir?” He reached into his tunic and withdrew a fine white linen handkerchief. “You have a little something,” he gestured vaguely in an embarrassed sort of way, “on your face. I don’t want to alarm you, but I think it might be blood.”
Odrick grunted, taking the proffered handkerchief. “Come on, Fermin. Let’s go have some tea.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Chapter Sixteen
While her scream of ecstasy still rang in the air, Tesharna climbed off and collapsed on her back in the bed, gasping. Her mind, her thoughts, felt comfortably, pleasantly numb, and she stretched languorously, not bothering to repress the moan of pleasure as she did. The feel of the silk sheets on her skin was a thrill all its own, adding to her enjoyment.
She stared at her bedchamber’s ceiling, with its ornate carvings, as she had so often before, and smiled to herself as she regained her breath. She noted, after a few seconds, that the breathing of her lover was even and unstrained. The corner of her mouth ticked at that, but only for a moment. An annoyance, yes, but nothing of major importance. After all, she had done the work.
His bare, muscular chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm and, to Tesharna’s surprise, he was not looking at her. Instead, he too was staring at the ceiling. As if there is anything there to match my own beauty. She felt one of her lips snarl at that, but she forced it back down, struggled to get a smile on her face, to retrieve some of that fragile post-coital bliss she had felt only moments before. “Sebastian Aralta himself crafted this ceiling,” she said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s nice.”
Said in a bored, distracted way, but that wasn’t what struck her most. Instead, it was the way he had not even called her Tesharna, let alone by her title of Chosen. She felt another spike of anger and hurt at that, but she kept it hidden, told herself she didn’t even know his name, did she? Rolf or something she thought, but couldn’t be sure. He was just a guard in the castle, and his name was of no real importance to her just as, in truth, what he thought of Aralta’s work was of no interest. It wasn’t the man himself which had struck her and sparked her interest or, at least, it hadn’t only been that. True, he was hand
some, and his body was muscular and though not perfect—one of his biceps, she had noticed, was slightly bigger than the other, and there was an unseemly mole on his chest—he was physically attractive.
But the truth was, his name, who he was didn’t matter, not truly. What mattered was that feeling of want, of desire. What mattered was being the object of that desire, to watch their pleasure and gratitude as she took them to her bedchamber. This one—Rolf, wasn’t it? Or Roger, perhaps—had shown such pleasure even through his mask of servile, passionless obedience. It had been hidden well, but she had seen it, and it had only made her desire stronger.
That had been a week ago when, frustrated by yet more failures by the Redeemers and the Broken to locate Alesh and the others, as well as the failures of her own men in the city to discover any news of the Tirinian traitors, Tesharna had chosen him and ordered him to accompany her. What had followed had been a night full of passion, pleasure and, perhaps most importantly, much needed release.
Such a good night, in fact, that she had called him back to her bedchamber several times since, attempting to discover once again that catharsis she had found the first time, that moment in which all of her worries and fears had fallen away, if but for a few seconds. She had been nothing but a creature of beauty and pleasure whose own satisfaction was increased by that reflected in her lover’s eyes, and she had felt young and beautiful, had felt desired.
But now that they had lain together on multiple occasions, she thought her lover’s sounds of pleasure were not as strong as they once were, his passion not as burning hot as it had been. Silly, of course. She was Chosen Tesharna, the most beautiful woman in the world. For years, she had been an object of desire and lust for every man in Entarna, an object of envy to every woman. Hers had been—is, by the gods, it still is—a face which inspired poets and bards to create their finest works, masterpieces which celebrated a perfection never before seen in the world, one never thought to be seen again. Her body—full, voluptuous curves, a thin waist, and long, supple legs—was one which tempted even the most faithful of husbands into faithlessness.
Now, though, this man, this lucky guardsman, more fortunate than mere words could convey, did not stare at her, sheathed in sweat, at the glistening beauty of her skin beside him. Instead, he looked at the ceiling, on his face an expression that might have almost bored. “A priceless ceiling,” she said, effecting a level, calm tone, “a one-of-a-kind masterpiece by the world’s foremost engraver. I am thinking of changing it into something new. After all, it is only a ceiling and, priceless or not, I grow tired of it. What do you think?”
He still did not look at her, only rolled one of his muscular shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “If you think so. It’s your ceiling.”
“It’s your ceiling, Chosen,” Tesharna said, carefully controlling her voice.
He did look at her then, turning his head a fraction, and giving her a small smile. “Of course. Forgive me…Chosen.” And was there a tone of mockery in his voice?
He brushed her arm the barest bit, his fingers running along it, and she felt her skin tingle. He was smiling, obviously pleased to be with her. Perhaps any sort of sarcasm or humoring she thought she detected in that smile was only a figment of her imagination. He was content, was grateful—how could he be anything else? “I will keep the ceiling,” she said softly, “since you clearly like it.”
He looked up at it again as if seeing it for the first time. “Well. It’s a ceiling, I guess. I don’t know much about art myself, but if you say it’s a masterpiece, I believe you.”
Tesharna felt her mouth tic again, that unconscious, involuntary gesture which sometimes accompanied her annoyance, one which had been happening doing considerably more often of late. “You don’t have to believe me,” she said, and though she tried her best to keep her tone neutral, some of her anger came out, “anyone who knows anything of art knows it’s a masterpiece.”
“As you say,” he repeated. Then, he pulled the covers aside and began to rise. Tesharna put a hand on his back, enjoying the feel of the rippled muscles beneath her fingers as he moved.
“Don’t leave,” she said. “I don’t want to fight. I just…it doesn’t matter. Forget the ceiling. It’s these traitors in the city, and those the Broken and the Redeemers still haven’t been able to find. These fugitives—the Dark friends.”
He bent and retrieved his trousers from the floor, turning to her. “There has been no news?”
Again, he neglected to use her title. This will be the last time. With him, at least. But she had had such thoughts before, had said such things before. Yet, when the pressures of her station grew too difficult to bear, she found him, called him to her, and for a time she was able to forget. She could forget the man, Alesh, and all those others with him, those who threatened to spoil all her plans, if they were not taken in hand soon. In her lover’s embrace, she could almost believe she did not feel her goddess’s displeasure with each day that passed without results. “No,” she answered finally. “Nothing.”
He smiled then, a small, almost knowing smile, as if he was quite aware of his slip in forgetting to use her title, just as he knew she would say nothing about it, would not risk causing a disagreement between them. That smile, the arrogance it showed, was enough to kindle a rage in Tesharna, one that begged her to make use of her power. And despite what many thought, she still had power. Admittedly, she could no longer access those abilities granted her by Amedan, not since she had sided with Shira. But the Dark offered its own powers, its own rewards.
She had killed men for such impudence before, had watched their bodies writhe as she grasped them with her goddess-gifted powers. But she would not, not this time. For one, that power always came with a cost—evidenced by the shock of gray and the relative dullness of her once lustrous dark hair. For another, the truth—a truth she would not even admit to herself—was her need to vent her frustrations on the man, to show him that a man who played with fire often got burned, was not as great as her need to be desired, to be wanted.
So she only smiled back, telling herself the sparkle in his eyes had been imagined or, if it’d been there at all, was only a symptom of his desire for her, that and nothing else. “Come back to bed,” she said, propping up on one arm, giving him full view of her naked form. She smiled demurely as his eyes roamed her body. Her breasts, still full, though she thought, perhaps, that they might have begun to sag the slightest amount—not noticeable, of course, to any but her. His gaze traveled down to her thin waist, her legs, and her skin tingled as it did, as if she could actually feel his eyes settling on her, glorying in the beauty of her.
“Later,” he said, still smiling. “I’ve got to get to my shift—the captain’ll be wondering where I’ve gotten to.”
A lie, and they both knew it. The captain knew that Roger—was that it, Roger?—was with Tesharna, and so he would make do, not even considering questioning his ruler on something so trivial as a single guard being late for shift. Tesharna sat there, dumbfounded, so shocked at the man’s refusal she could barely speak, and was still sitting so when he finished dressing and left without a word, closing the door behind him.
She sat in the empty room, staring at the door, and suddenly she did not feel beautiful. Instead, she felt ugly, an old, wretched thing. She pulled the blankets over herself, covering her naked form, with an involuntary motion she didn’t even notice, at least not at first. When she did, a black rage came over her, and she thrust the blankets aside, jumping from her bed and grabbing the nearest thing to hand—a priceless, porcelain vase from far-off Welia—and threw it at the door with all the force she could muster, screaming as she did.
The vase struck the door and shattered into dozens of tiny pieces. Though her anger was not appeased, it was tempered enough by that small bit of destruction that Tesharna only stood there staring at it, her chest heaving, her hands clenched into fists at her side. She regarded the remains of the vase, broken shards, so destroyed that o
ne could not even guess at the beautiful piece it had once been. A thing of beauty, a thing that was, in its way, perfect. Hours spent in the making, a shaping requiring time and effort and love, destroyed in a careless moment and as easily as one might draw a breath.
She regretted it, wished she could take it back, for the vase had always been a favorite. But she could not. Beauty lost was lost forever. Flowers bloom only to wilt and die, and puppies, cute and cuddly as they may be, will eventually grow up to be mongrels, feasting on trash in alleyways, leaving piss and shit so a woman walking by might step on it in her newly-purchased shoes—and so the cycle continued. No. No, she told herself. Not all beauty fades. You are no dog, no flower, and your beauty will be eternal—Shira has told you as much.
And as for the guardsman, her lover, well, he would have to be educated on what it meant, on the privilege he was being granted to lay with her, to be with her in a way thousands of men once would have coveted. And they still do, she thought desperately, almost frantic now. Gods, they still do. Besides, she knew she would do nothing to him. She had promised herself the same the last time, when he’d acted similarly, as if she were some whore which might, for a coin, be lain with one moment and ignored the next. But she had not then, and she would not now. She knew this just as she knew that his name was Rolf, had always been Rolf, and that there was no confusing it.
Young, muscular, beautiful Rolf. Arrogant, yes, but then the most beautiful things must be possessed of some arrogance—it was a truth Tesharna knew well. Peacocks were beautiful, of course, but their true beauty was found when they embraced what they were, when they, in their pride, spread their tails and puffed out their chests, strutting so the world might see their magnificence.
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