by K. E. Blaski
“She said many things to anyone who’d listen. Most I didn’t understand. But it’s obvious to me that she’s not Nyima Bagulin. I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve seen enough dark science in my day to know that anything is possible. I’m sure she doesn’t remember talking to me. Noble had her injected with opioid so she wouldn’t feel anything when he—”
“Altered her,” Damen finished. “Was Noble in the room when she spoke? Does he know her name too?”
“He stayed for the procedures. Fused the metal himself. But he had to leave and come back every few minutes. Her skin. Even when she’s unconscious, her skin beckons. I opened the door hatch so she could speak to me whenever he left—she stayed mute when he came back. But he must know. Noble knows everything.”
“Yes.” Damen remembered the night of the exchange, when Noble had listened outside Nyima’s door. “And you believe her stories?” Exchanging souls wasn’t something discussed in everyday conversation. Dark science frightened most people.
“I have no reason not to believe her.”
“Have you told anyone else? If you tell what you overheard her say, some will suspect she’s mad.”
“I’ve no reason to tell anyone Nobless’s business.” He slapped his palm across his chest: the soldier’s signal of honor.
“Good. We should keep it that way, Marcis. We wouldn’t want—trouble.” He wanted to say more: about the inhibitor that was no longer a secret; about what more Marcis knew about Nyima’s transfer. But a second soldier entered the balcony.
“Marcis, we need to escort Nobless to the wedding chamber for her presentation to Noble Tortare.”
“Right away.” Marcis turned to Damen. “Will you excuse me?”
Damen nodded. This soldier was a curiosity. He didn’t act like a brute the way most other soldiers did. Sincerity coated his words, but beneath the surface, there seemed to be something more. He’d have to keep an eye on Marcis Balázs.
A high-pitched scrape drew his gaze back to the bottom of the ceremonial room. The other girl—no, not “the other girl”; her name was Jennica—dragged her feet with a groan. “What’s she doing?” Damen asked the soldier, and then realized he’d already left. Damen leaned over the rail. “What are you doing?”
“Getting used to my new feet.”
Her voice tugged at his heart. She sounded broken, now that the end was near, but her actions defied logic.
“You can’t go anywhere. Why do you bother?”
She looked like Nyima—had even taken on Nyima’s resentful, depressed tone—but she acted nothing like Nyima. His Nyima would’ve sat in the chair, waiting resolutely, and not tramped around the room like a polecat in a cage.
“I choose to walk on my own two feet.” She scraped her foot against the floor, and he wondered about the place where she’d come from. Were all the souls there so prideful? There was willpower inside her, too. And anger. He could see it in the tight set of her mouth, the strong angle of her jaw. Her hands clenched into fists. The fire in her eyes rekindled. It was exhilarating to watch. And scary.
Marcis and his fellow soldier entered the room, each carrying a long pole. They circled opposite Jennica, and slid the poles through gaps under the arms of the chair, creating a small lectica.
“Nobless, it’s time,” Marcis said gently. “We can bring your transport to you.” He prepared to lift his side of the lectica, and the second soldier moved to the other side.
“No.” Jennica dragged her other foot.
“Nobless. You must go to your husband. He’s waiting for you.” Marcis gestured toward the chair.
“He hates to wait,” the other soldier added.
“Oh, I’ll go to him, all right, but he’ll have to wait, because I’m walking on the feet he decided”—she grunted while sliding her left foot toward the door—“to give me”—she slid her right foot—“for a wedding present.”
“I’ll get the door.” Marcis appeared there in an instant, keeping the entrance to the room clear for Jennica.
“We’re going to be late.” The other soldier drooped against the wall, keeping his eyes averted from the girl’s struggle. He pulled out a small knife and started scraping under his nails, flicking whatever he found onto the floor.
“Damen? You up there?” Marcis asked.
“Yes.” He stood riveted, watching Jennica’s confusing determination.
“Do us a favor and tell Noble . . .” He shook his head. “What should we tell him?” he asked his fellow soldier.
“How should I know?”
Damen rested his arms on the balcony, captivated by Jennica. She must’ve found the strength of a bos inside herself—once the shock of her feet had worn off. She slid and grunted, paused to catch her breath, then started the process all over again. Slick sweat, or those odd tears, or both coated her purple face. And she had that light in her eyes—like two burning lanterns piercing a winter fog. But it had taken her two minutes to get to the door; at this pace she’d get to the wedding chamber in forty. Luckily, the wedding chamber was close by. Damen tucked his timepiece back in his robes.
“I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”
He left the bride’s grim march behind and went to face Noble Tortare’s wrath.
DAMEN
CHAPTER TEN
NOBLE TORTARE
Noble’s chest expanded when he laughed. Silver scales rippled across his flesh, disappearing inside his black robes. As a man, his size alone would’ve intimidated, but from Damen’s viewpoint, Noble was more than a man: he had the tail, teeth, and claws of a lizard. Formidable in presence, his silver-clad face was frightening to look upon—yet it was Noble’s ability to consume souls that truly struck fear in the otherwise fearless.
Damen focused on controlling the tremor in his voice. “Sir . . . it will take almost an hour.”
“Oh, this is worth the wait.” Noble’s teeth gleamed in the light of a hundred lanterns scattered around the wedding chamber. He squatted on the end of the bed, the tip of his tail twitching, as if its life was separate from its owner’s. “Trying out her new feet? You’re sure that’s what she said?”
Damen nodded.
“The power of her soul—the boldness of her act. Oh, I will enjoy my new wife”—stretching his arms wide, his metal scales flashed—“immensely.” Faint blue puffs of Urion escaped from Noble’s mouth with each exhalation of breath. “Have a seat, Damen.” He gestured toward an overstuffed divan in the corner of the room. “You will wait with me.”
Damen examined the chamber, curling and uncurling his fingers. A heap of pomum, langor bread, and flasks rested on a table. Flower petals puddled on the floor, and incense smoldered in dishes strewn around the bed. The bed—the centerpiece of the room—was buried in pillows, the bedframe clad in cobalt silks flapping in a constant breeze from three circular windows. Through the windows, thick clouds disguised Taros and Candria. A charge in the air raised the hairs on Damen’s arms and neck—a storm was moments away. He hesitated.
“That was not a request.”
Damen sat on the edge of the divan, his hands circling through the fabric of his robes. “Shouldn’t you have—privacy?” His insides squeezed at the thought of being a witness.
“I will have privacy later. For now, you’ll keep me company.” He rose from the bed and ambled over to the table, grabbing a pomum and tearing it in two with his claws. The tender pulp glistened. Noble held the broken flesh to his face and inhaled.
“Catch.”
Grasping for the flying fruit, Damen’s hands got in the way of each other and the pomum slapped the floor.
“Too bad. Taste it anyway.”
Damen tore a section away from the rind, chewed, and swallowed. Sweet, with a bit of grit from the ground.
Tilting his head back and crushing the remaining half above his open mouth, Noble slurped at the sticky juice that gushed across his tongue. He flung the pomum carcass into a side bowl. “Toss it back. The rest of your pomum. Throw it bac
k to me.”
As instructed, he lobbed the fruit, and even though his toss was wide and high, Noble snatched it effortlessly from the air and set it alongside the other.
“One spent, the other battered but viable.” He circled the table, his tail sliding along the stone floor. “Where is she from?”
Damen’s jaw went slack. “Uh, um, what, sir?”
“My lovely new wife—where does she come from?”
“She—she—”
Noble was on him, his breath damp and sweet, his poisoned-dagger teeth a heartbeat away from Damen’s face. “Be careful, boy.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Damen tried to soothe. Stalling never solved anything. He had to tell the truth; it was in his nature. A steady flow of facts poured from his mouth. “Her body is from the village of Elliot, daughter of Jemiah Bagulin and his wife, the deceased Rohesia Bagulin. But her soul—I don’t know where her soul is from.” He hung his head, ready for Noble’s retribution.
Noble released Damen from his grasp. “I’ll have to ask her myself, then. And you will stay and tell me if she lies.” Noble didn’t seem disturbed at all, like he already knew what Damen’s answer was going to be when he asked him where his wife was from.
Damen sat back down and tried to clasp his hands again, but his fingers refused to interlock. They lay on his robes like gasping rémy. He should be with Nyima, miles from here—hiding in remote villages as they made their way to Casilda. Instead, Nyima was on another planet, and he was forever trapped under Noble’s thumb—no, his claw. Forced to watch the events that he himself had set into motion.
“Do you wonder how I suspect she is—unique? Do you wonder how I know the question to ask you?”
“It’s not my place to wonder, sir.”
“I despise secrets.” Noble rested his claws on the table. “My home is no place for them. Unless of course, I’m in on the game.” He carved four deep grooves into the yielding wood. “You understand, don’t you, Damen?”
“Yes.” He understood all too well.
The table squealed in protest as four strips curled away from Noble’s nails. “Spies. Informants. They tell me most of what I want to know. The rest, I uncover for myself. I’m resourceful—you see?”
“Yes. Sir.”
“I’m interested, very interested, in my bride’s origins. Especially after I heard her declare herself to be from another planet—to none other than you, Damen.”
Noble had been toying with him all along. Like a squirming biuri, trapped underneath a clawed hand.
“We’ll find out who she is, where she’s from, and more importantly, why she’s here. To overthrow me, do you think? With help from inside?” Noble stretched and pressed his shoulderblades together. When his spine cracked, he sighed.
“She’s not a threat to you,” Damen assured.
Noble laughed, with genuine mirth this time. “You’re right about that.” He cocked his head. “Ah. My olinda approaches—though she sounds more like a broken cart than a delicate flower.”
Damen heard it too: the slow and steady dragging of Jennica’s metal feet. He rose from the divan as one of the soldiers rapped on the door.
“Permission to escort Nobless inside?” Marcis said.
“Come in—come in.” A drop of blue-tinted saliva slid down Noble’s chin.
The door swung wide, and Jennica stood framed by the doorway. She hadn’t bothered to wear a hood or a veil. She was flushed deep maroon with the exertion of walking, and her hair had spilled out of its bun to rest on her shoulders. Her wedding robe swayed though she stood motionless.
Damen was immune to the draw of her skin; Noble was not. A low growl crept up from his throat. “My love, you astound me.”
Terror replaced exhaustion as Jennica, now clear of her opioid-induced haze, saw her husband in all his glory. Then almost as quickly, her eyes seemed to blaze with rage.
Noble saw her reaction too. “You must be tired from your long, long walk.” He threw his arms open. “Come in and rest. Marcis and Logan, leave us now.”
“Good-bye, Nobless.”
The sadness in Marcis’s voice touched Damen. It reminded him of his own helplessness.
“Good-bye, Marcis. Logan. Thank you.” Jennica dragged herself further into the room. Logan lowered his chin and shook his head as he closed the door.
“Damen, bring the Nobless a chair.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Pomum?” Noble held out the section of fruit recovered from the floor.
“No, thank you.” She trudged in, step by agonizing step. “I don’t need anything else from you.” She made her way over to where Damen stood, fascinated by her fury, her audacity, in front of Noble, no less.
“You don’t like my wedding gift,” Noble said with false disappointment.
“In general? No, I don’t.” She faced Damen, her lips tight, eyes on fire. “Although my new feet are good for one thing.”
“Is that so?” Noble asked. “What are they good for, my love?”
“Stepping on jerks.” And she dropped her heavy metal foot on top of Damen’s.
The room swirled in a peculiar tempo with Noble’s laughter. Damen’s mind chased his thoughts—catching a few, then letting them slip away: she’s crushed my foot—she’s very angry—there must be a lot of nerves in my toes—what’s a jerk?
◊ ◊ ◊
“You’ll be fine—act like a man,” Noble said.
Damen woke up stretched out on the divan. He couldn’t believe he’d passed out. Heat crawled up his neck. Coralee from the kitchen was wrapping his foot in a white bandage. A pinprick of blood seeped through the top layer. He searched for Nyima—no, Jennica. The girl who’d stomped on his sandaled foot. She stood by one of the windows, the breeze teasing her hair. Thunder rolled in the distance.
“Sorry, Damen.” She didn’t sound sorry.
Could she at least try to hide her disdain for him? She could try to lie like most people did—as a social courtesy. A courtesy he couldn’t extend, but at which it seemed most everyone else was very skilled.
“His bandages will need changing tomorrow.” Coralee gathered her supplies and offered Damen a fleeting smile. “Should I . . .” She hesitated in Noble Tortare’s presence. “Come back?”
Noble picked her over with his gaze, and Coralee’s cheeks pinked. “You’re from Benicio, yes?”
Coralee nodded.
“A strong people. The last to join my realm. You don’t have much of an accent, though you have the look. Dark skin, fair hair, light eyes. How old are you, my sweet?” He touched a blond tendril peeking out from under her cap.
“Seventeen, sir.”
“The same age as my wife—and just as fresh, don’t you think, Damen?”
“Yes, sir.” Damen winced as he tried to wiggle his toes.
“You’ll heal, boy—a little pain is good for you. Reminds you you’re still alive. Don’t you think, Nobless?
She ignored him, keeping her eyes on something outside, until Coralee cried out. Both she and Damen turned to see the servant girl holding her bleeding hand.
Coralee’s blood clung to Noble’s lips and teeth. “Go, girl,” he commanded.
She ran from the room, dropping her supplies as she struggled with the door. Her cries faded down the passageway. “He bit me . . . oh, dear Aprica . . . he bit me.”
“See what you do to me, Nobless? Your lovely presence brings out the animal in me. I don’t know how much longer I can wait for you.”
“Why wait?” she said.
Damen sensed a cover-up. So she was capable of trying to hide her true feelings. Right now though, her eyes gave her away. Unbridled fear seemed to churn just below her sharp attitude.
“And why is he here?” Jennica pointed at Damen.
Whatever fear she had, she did an admirable job controlling it in front of Noble. But her anger was another story. Somewhere between the ceremonial room and the wedding chamber, she’d decided to direct it at him. He c
ouldn’t be angry back. He knew he deserved even worse than a foot-crushing.
“Questions, questions.” Noble swiped at Coralee’s blood with the back of his hand. “I have questions too, and Damen is here to tell me when you lie. I can be patient. I postponed our wedding for your feet—what’s another few minutes for your answers?”
“What if my answers take longer than a few minutes? You’ll need to control yourself. Like Damen does. You must’ve noticed, he’s not affected by my skin. He doesn’t react at all. Unless I squash his toes.”
“I notice everything,” Noble said. “Damen is not affected by your skin because he’s impotent.”
Jennica didn’t even blink. Looking straight at Noble, she said, “He’s impotent because of the medicine he takes. Show him what you use, Damen—show him the inhibitor.”
How could she? He’d thought the soldier, Marcis, would be the one to spill the secret. And now that Noble knew, he’d rip Damen to pieces for having kept the inhibitor to himself. His head would be displayed on a spike outside the gate, its flesh melting in Aprica’s rays.
He removed one of the vials from his robes and held it out for Noble to see, trying to control the tremble in his hand.
“What is it?”
“Inhibitor. A potion to numb the senses,” Damen explained.
Noble raised his thick eyebrows. “It didn’t numb your whimpering a minute ago.”
“I guess it doesn’t inhibit pain, but it does block the yearning for Rosen skin.”
“Show me.”
“What, sir?”
“Hold her, touch her,” Noble demanded. “Let’s see what happens—or doesn’t happen.”
Cautiously approaching Jennica, he tried to keep his bandaged foot away from her metal ones. “May I hold your hand?” She held it out and he took it gently. She clenched his fingers in return.
“What do you feel, boy?”
“Like she’s trying to crush my fingers, to go with my toes.” He resisted the urge to squash her fingers between his own, certain he could squeeze just as hard.
