Emerald Twilight: Bundled Edition

by Ashley, Celia

  EMERALD TWILIGHT

  BUNDLED EDITION

  SEASONS ONE THROUGH FIVE

  Celia Ashley

  Copyright © Robin Maderich

  All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced in any format, electronic or otherwise. Copyright infringement will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  Book Cover Design © Robin Maderich

  EMERALD TWILIGHT

  THE BEGINNING

  Hallandra stood quite still before the vitrine panel, spine straight, arms at her sides. Outside, the desert winds whipped sand into tiny, dancing whirlwinds across the scoured surface of the common ground. Most evenings, she would have been engaged in the concentrated and graceful art of defense with those of her siblings who still dwelled beneath the clan’s sprawling, dome-roofed dwelling. They had all passed beyond the need for training at this point in their lives, but enjoyed maintaining the balance of their skills, the companionship of family and the exercise.

  This day, the common ground remained empty.

  All were readying for the ceremonials, of course. Much needed to be done. The night would be both solemn and celebratory, with numerous rituals to perform, and each clan member to their function. Guests required feeding, housing, entertainment. The responsibilities fell to her parents as they would, one day, fall to her when her daughter came of age. If she had a daughter. Arad had not spoken of children.

  Tilting her chin up, Hallie witnessed the flash of a metal object in the deepening hue of the sky as another transport maneuvered rapidly to the landing pad. She recognized the insignia as the ship turned. Custom dictated the groom arrive for the bonding on the day of ceremony, rather than with the guests. She had not seen Arad here since he had come to tell her parents of his appointment to Council. Obviously, his bonded association with the Ser Irese had served him well.

  Hallie had never been under any illusion why she had been given as bond-wife to Arad Sterne. Despite the ornate phrases embellishing the official document, bonding among the clans was always negotiated with undisguised purpose. In this case, Arad’s family’s wealth had shored up the failing financials of the Ser Irese, and her family name had given Arad something he did not possess, despite all the credit amassed by his house.

  The Sterne were not an ancient clan, but recently derived from an outlying ancestry in which such things had not mattered. Yet, they mattered here in Talia. And Arad was ambitious. She knew that. She had seen that in him when he came with his own parents more than ten solar years earlier to offer contract for her. She had been in awe of him, a youth nearly grown and she a child of but seven passing seasons.

  In the beginning he came often to visit, bringing her small tokens to delight her. He would talk with her parents and her eldest brother endlessly of his plans and occasionally she would walk with him in the desert, holding his hand much as she did her own father’s. As she grew older that changed. He came less often, and when he visited he maintained a formal distance. Such innocent familiarity as they had known was forbidden with a pubescent girl, naturally. There could be no hint of dishonor. And indeed there had been none. Arad behaved with the utmost propriety. All was as it should be.

  But now Hallie was no longer a child. From this night forward she would bear a different name, one Arad would choose. From this night forward she would be bond-wife to a man whose eyes, when she recently spoke with him, held something she did not recognize. Not lust. She knew what lust looked like, having witnessed it on occasion in the errant glance that came her way from young men in her settlement and on occasional forays into the city. His gaze held a different look, one she did not understand.

  Turning on her heel Hallie strode across the room. Draped across her bed lay the dragonred sahare, the long tunic and close-fitting trousers of the traditional garb for a woman’s bonding. Utilizing a thin needle, she had embroidered the clan symbol at the place beneath where her heart beat. She had used strands of her own hair, both the glacial blue of her dyed family mark and the natural gold, as well as the heavier, darker reds that interspersed her head with less frequency than most Talians. Arad’s clan was represented also, in the bold, silver thread he had sent her for that purpose.

  Bending, she touched both symbols, running fingertips across the subtle ridges. She wondered if Arad would notice the care she had taken in crafting the crests. She would find a way to draw his eyes to them. A word of praise regarding the workmanship would please her greatly.

  Slipping the garments over her freshly bathed body, Hallie pulled her long braid from the neck of the tunic, smoothing the cool material along her frame. Her gaze slid toward the surface of a polished mirror, settling on the reflection of a young woman unfamiliar to her. Oh, she knew the face, the eyes, the height and shape of the body beneath the garments, but it seemed something was missing. Missing, on this day of all days. What could be missing? Perhaps only Arad at her side.

  Shyly, she smiled at the reflection of this woman-child, squaring her shoulders, remaindering herself that as a member of the Ser Irese she should be proud of the role she had taken, proud of her heritage, her responsibilities, herself. Her own sister had fared less well in her bonding, and yet had entered into it not only with acceptance, but with joy.

  Hallie looked away from the mirror with a deliberate turn of her head. The summoner chimed. She strode to the console and passed her hand across the beam. A holograph shimmered into an image of her mother, the blood of an elder race apparent in her coloration and countenance, both of which Hallie recognized in herself. Beside her mother stood Arad, taller than her parent, his dark brown hair knotted at the top of his head in the new, prescribed fashion of the Council. Dressed in his official’s attire, the single-piece garment stretched tight across his chest. Arad had gained the weight expected of him in the fullness of manhood and bore it well.

  “Arad,” said Hallie, “you should not see me.”

  “Why? It is not forbidden.”

  She could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “I am not quite dressed. My hair,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of her braid. For this occasion, she was required to wear it in the old style.

  “No matter,” he said. “You are beautiful.”

  A flush of warmth crept into her cheeks. Next to Arad, her mother smiled in fond indulgence and walked out of view, leaving them, Hallie supposed, to speak in private.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You should not thank the man who is to be your husband. Another who speaks so, yes, but not me. It is not proper.”

  Hallie said nothing, processing the instruction. She had never been aware of this impropriety to express gratitude to anyone, especially those you respected.

  “I want to speak with you,” he said.

  “You are.”

  “Alone. I will be there momentarily.”

  Before she could answer him, the image dissipated. A short time later he knocked at the door. She opened it, bidding him enter with only a slight hesitation. He advanced into her chamber in aggressive stride, circling once around the room before coming to stand at the foot of her bed, facing her, his hands folded one inside the other behind his back.

  “I have news,” he stated.

  “What news?”

  Whatever the news, he vibrated with its containment. His dark eyes glittered. “This must be our secret,” he said.

  “As you wish.”

  He took another turn and came back. “I have supporters among the Council and elsewhere whom I have cultivated carefully. Perhaps not this term, but likely in the next I will be voted into the office of Sub-August. Do you know what that means?”

  Of course she did. Impressed
and pleased for him, she said as much.

  “Well you should be,” he answered. “Your position will be elevated as well. Many of the guests here tonight are those supporters I mentioned. It is important you show yourself to be equal to their expectations of me.”

  Hallie frowned a little, leaning her head to the side.

  “Stand up straight.” He strode over to her dresser and began to move objects about as if he had no awareness of the actions of his hands. Self-consciously Hallie straightened her spine. She watched his movements, waiting, suppressing a growing annoyance, both at his tone and at his careless disregard for her belongings.

  “What is this?” he asked, lifting the pair of bracelets she had set out to put on.

  “I will be wearing those tonight,” she answered.

  “This is what I mean. Trinkets like these are unacceptable. I brought you something.”

  With that, he reached into his pocket and drew out a necklace of glittering moonstones. Hallie looked at the bracelets he had tossed aside, then at the necklace lying across his palm. She understood this moment acquiescence was not only prudent but reasonable. Biting back her protest, she stepped forward and turned her back to him so he could place the stones around her throat. He did so, fingers lingering on her shoulders as he spun her toward the mirror.

  “You see? Not only do you appear more respectable, but more lovely. I will provide you with all the jewelry your heart could desire as you stand at my side, bond-wife to a soon-to-be Sub-August.” His mouth turned up in a smile.

  Hallie forced a responding smile to her lips. He meant well. She knew he did. She remembered many kindnesses offered in the past when the wording of that offer was sometimes less than gracious. It was his way. He could not help it. The underlying sentiment was noble enough.

  “Thank y—,” she began, stopping herself at his sudden movement. She met his gaze in the mirror. His expression, however, held no rebuke. He continued to smile.

  “In private you may thank me, if you cannot help yourself, but you must remember yourself in public. You are young, though, and you will learn.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He bent and kissed the top of her head in an uncharacteristic display of fondness. Time for that, Hallie supposed, when they were to be bonded before the night was through. She curved her hand around his fingers on her shoulder.

  “Who will you give these things to?” he asked with his gaze on their reflection side by side in the mirror.

  “What things?”

  “All of these things, here in your room. Those.” He indicated the jewelry on her dresser. “And that.” He jerked his chin at a closed box scented with the oils of the wood of its construction. Within a gift from her oldest brother nested, bestowed on her in years past. Arad knew what was in there. She had showed him the soundsphere, though he had been unable to conjure the music from it.

  “But that’s—”

  “I know what it is. It is a child’s toy, a bauble that lacks sophistication, purpose. You will have no need of it in your new life.”

  Her cheeks flared, the moonstones like ice around her throat. No, it cannot be all your way.

  But she said nothing. She had learned long ago that the time and place for battle was to be chosen carefully. Arad could be a reasonable man, albeit a bit zealous in his ambition. In time, as their affection grew, he would teach her those things that were important to him, and she would teach him compromise.

  EMERALD TWILIGHT – SEASON ONE

  DARK FALL FROM GRACE

  I.

  TRICKS of the TRADE

  The door slid open noiselessly, withdrawing into the wall. Burke Conlan stepped through, ducking slightly out of habit. Unfastened at the collar, his shirt hung open at the throat. A track of perspiration dampened the cloth between his shoulder blades. With an eye to the woven rug at his feet, he resisted the urge to stamp his dusty soles clean. A female spoke briskly into the stillness.

  “Sen Conlan, please be seated. Someone will be along momentarily.”

  Irritated by the woman’s use of the informal address, sen, Burke Conlan found a chair and sat. He ran his fingers through the hair curling along his nape before flicking his collar into place. Easing back into the cushions, his mouth curved into a grim smile. After a moment, he drummed his fingers on his thigh. The woman at the desk glanced at him. He stopped.

  Feigning disinterest as he listened in wariness of long habit for any sounds which might indicate approach, Burke studied the etched patterns in the pale walls. Caution was a necessity in his line of work. Those who resorted to the hiring of a Drifter were in some manner a desperate lot. Then again, so was a Drifter. Or so the tales went.

  He shifted in his seat, thumbing his chin as he rotated his head toward a narrow door opening opposite the one in which he’d entered. With a calm, restrained movement, he leaned forward to rest his right hand over his left knee. The small impulse sheathed in a detection-proof shield inside his left boot could fire rapid pulses, effective at close range if it came to that. Of course, he wouldn’t likely survive his departure from the Hold afterward.

  A woman ten or twelve years his senior––it was hard to tell, even with desert dwellers––leaned out, signaling for him to follow. She possessed the high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes of a Talian, the combination red and gold hair peculiar to many of their women. This one bore a lavender family mark in her elaborate coif. Burke stretched his limbs and stood, movements deliberate and designed to keep the woman’s eyes occupied as he palmed the weapon. He followed her down a barely lighted corridor to another trisected door at the far end, footsteps echoing. The woman’s, he noted, hardly made a sound. She stopped him.

  “The Revered Arad Sterne is within,” she said. “When you hand over your weapon, you may enter.”

  Burke started. Too late he saw the tiny red light flashing on the thick decorative band wrapping her wrist. Drawing a quick breath, he gave the woman the impulse. She acknowledged his action with a slight nod of her head and a brief smile, almost seductive. He smiled in return.

  “I’ll get it back?”

  “Most likely. You may go in now.” The woman deactivated the door lock with a dance of her fingers in a sequenced pattern on the grid beside the frame. With a nod, she walked away down a side corridor. Burke watched her go, thinking about his weapon, then turned his attention to the sliding panels and the illumination seeping through the widening cracks. He stepped back. Light filled the corridor, coloring the pale walls orange. He shielded his eyes, cursing under his breath. The light kept him from seeing what lay beyond the threshold. Suddenly, as if the source had been shut down, the light vanished.

  Burke blinked, dropping his arm. The movement of a lowering screen inside recalled him to the time. It was customary for citizens of Talia to observe the descent of Arias over the western sea beyond the dunes.

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  The man who had spoken leaned against a large white table, half-shadowed by the dimming illumination. A tall man, nearly as tall as he, the Revered appeared more broadly built, a strong man once now tending toward weight more than muscle beneath his robes. He wore his hair pulled high on top of his head as befitted his office, a silver band encircling the crown. The metal winked as he nodded.

  “I am the Revered Arad Sterne,” the man said, voice still pleasant, conversational. “Is it too dark in here for you? I’ll change the lighting. Better? Why don’t you take a seat.”

  On edge, Burke found a chair and sat, studying the Revered openly. The man’s official robe had been thrown open, revealing a white one-suit underneath, fabric stretched taut over a stomach rounded with easy living. A fleshy face hinted at a handsomeness that might have been his half a lifetime ago, but the skin was darkened and creased now by the sun, making him look older than his years. The Revered’s dark gaze was calculating above the odd, downward curve of his smile.

  “Drink?” Sterne asked again. Something of a command, a threat, l
urked in the repeated offer. The Revered didn’t trust him—that much was obvious. Didn’t trust him, but needed him: a dangerous combination.

  “No, thanks,” said Burke, stretching his legs and crossing them at the ankle, arms folded loosely across his chest as if they had all the time in the world. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  Sterne thumped a glass on top of the table, proceeding to pour liquid from a narrow, four-sided decanter. Amber fluid splashed over the rim of the glass onto his hand. Taking a steadying breath, the man swiped his fingers across his sleeve before lifting the glass to sip the beverage. He turned to Burke with a broader, colder smile.

  “Straight to business?”

  Burke bared his teeth in return. He’d heard enough about the Revered in the last day and a half to form an opinion, but even if he hadn’t, gut instinct was sending out alarms he couldn’t ignore. “Why not? I certainly don’t want to waste your time.”

  Sterne strode across the floor to a desk and lowered himself into the chair behind, balancing his drink on the very corner as though compelled to take the risk of letting it fall. He folded his hands on the desk top. “Your reputation precedes you, Drifter.”

  Burke said nothing. A statement like that was nothing more than a double-edged sword.

  “Cool. Efficient,” Sterne went on. “You perform your jobs discreetly and well, which makes you worth the credit paid you.” Sterne spun in his chair and punched a numeric into the screen on the wall behind. A series of monetary figures flashed into view. Sterne ran through them several times before affecting to make up his mind. “There. Does that figure interest you? Will that suffice?”

  Burke gave the screen a brief glance. “Depends on the job, Revered, naturally.”

  Sterne threw back his head and laughed. “Cool head. I said that, did I not? But you’re not fooling me: that figure represents a fortune, even to you.”

  “Could be so,” Burke admitted. “Nevertheless, I am not in the habit of discussing my fee until I know the job.”