Glimmer of Steel (The Books of Astrune Book 1)

by K. E. Blaski

  “Loyalty, Marcis Balázs. The one thing I demand is loyalty.” Noble’s pendulum tail skimmed the floor—back and forth, back and forth. Damen crept beyond Noble’s reach—unless Noble leaped. “Who is your master, Marcis?”

  “You are, sir.” He stood impassive, eyes cast downward. Jennica’s skin must have held complete power over him. He’d risked everything for her. What other reason could there be for Marcis to put himself in this tenuous position?

  “Tell me,” Noble commanded.

  “You, Noble Tortare, are my master. I’m loyal to you.”

  “Good. You’ve reassured me.”

  Damen breathed. Noble had spoken the truth. He really was reassured. He was going to let them go.

  “Damen?”

  “Yes? Sir?”

  “When you escort Marcis from my room, make sure he knows that what I’m about to say is the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Noble spun around, extended his arm, and raked his claws against the left side of Marcis’s face, slashing through the flesh. Three deep, red gouges appeared, stretching from above his eyebrow all the way down to his jaw line. They cut right through his eyelid and the side of his nose, and paused only briefly at his silver cheek before resuming. Blood poured. Marcis’s teeth showed as he gritted them against the pain.

  “If either of you see Nobless again—if you speak to her again—I’ll strip your hide, one layer a day, until—I—see—bone.” Camille began to stir. “Hush, little lovely. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he spoke to Damen in a tone so casual he might as well be discussing the next day’s breakfast. “See that Nobless is barred in her room for one moon cycle. No visitors. The hawks will bring her food. Twice a week she’ll pick the name of a servant to come to me in her place. And after the cycle is done, she’ll tell me about the weapons on her planet.”

  Noble sat down next to Camille and propped her up with pillows, like one might a child’s doll. He fanned her yellow hair around her and folded her hands. “Leave us,” he ordered.

  Damen was already at the door when Marcis joined him, clutching his torn face in his hand.

  “Remember, Marcis,” Damen heard Noble add quietly. “No one takes what’s mine.”

  When the door thudded shut, Camille’s screams began.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Well, that didn’t go very well,” Damen said weakly as they walked. Marcis grimaced, blood running into his eye. “You look bad. Let me take you to the kitchen. See what they can do.”

  “No—go tell Jennica what happened. I can take care of myself. This is a battle wound.” He tore a piece of cloth from the edge of his tunic, balled it up, and pressed it hard against his face, wincing. “Only a soldier knows how to treat a battle wound.”

  “What are you waiting for? Go tell Jennica. Except the part about the servants. Don’t tell her about choosing the servants.” He shook his head. “I know, you’ll have to tell, you can’t lie. At least you can try to keep it to yourself for as long as possible. You don’t have to say anything until she asks. And don’t give me that look. I don’t care how much it pains you. You could use some suffering, with all the suffering you’ve caused.” Marcis dashed down the passageway, holding the cloth to his wound.

  Damen knew that Marcis’s words were true. He had caused plenty of suffering. He hadn’t planned it that way, but the pebble of an idea he’d had to save Jennica had caused another avalanche beyond his control. Offering Coralee had backfired. Coralee was going to die anyway, he’d known that; why hadn’t Jennica been able to see that? No, she’d had to be stubborn. Didn’t Marcis and Jennica know? He suffered, too: every time Jennica hated him through Nyima’s eyes. He slid down the wall of the passageway and sat on the floor, defeated.

  Now he had to figure out a way to tell Jennica what was going on, when Noble’s orders were to avoid both seeing her and speaking to her. He supposed he could write a note—he had the paper sheets from Fausto’s shop in his robe. An illegal personal note was risky, but he couldn’t let Marcis be the only one to take risks.

  He pushed himself from the floor and ducked into an empty waiting room, glancing around for wayward eyes. Then he unrolled a piece of the paper on a table and scratched out a message with a charcoal stick.

  Noble ordered you to a moon cycle of confinement because of Coralee. No one can see or speak to you. The hawks will bring your food. I will try to send another note soon. Be strong.

  He’d still have to find a soldier to give her the news officially. She seemed to like Logan; he’d pass along Noble’s orders to Logan. But Damen had to tell her himself first. All of this was his responsibility. She was his responsibility. He knew she’d leak from her eyes when she read his message. The hawks terrified her, and without the salve, her legs would rage tomorrow.

  More suffering. Everyone suffered because of what he did: Jennica, Marcis, Coralee and her mother, Camille, and now ten more girls. He had a sudden urge to apologize, to scrawl, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t tell lies, let alone write them down.

  As he walked the musty stone passageways toward Jennica’s room, listening to muffled conversations from behind the dozens of doors he passed, he thought about the girl inside Nyima’s body. She was different from anyone he’d ever known, emotional like a child, stubborn like a polecat—which drove him near madness—but strong like a bos, except for when she leaked. He was having a hard time getting used to tears. And she was smart, so very smart. She always seemed to be thinking fast, figuring things out. He liked that about her.

  He admitted he liked having her here. He couldn’t lie about that either. After he made sure no one was watching, he slid the note under her door.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  At last, Damen crawled out of his robe and into his cot. Mighty Aprica blazed through the top of his window. The drone of castle activity merged with sounds of the city below. The Officiants from the Order of Cloisan were supposed to meet with Noble today and deliver the taxes they’d collected, so Damen had a reprieve from his role on the council. He covered his head with a blanket to deaden the light and the noise, trying to bring himself some peace.

  It never came.

  Instead, thoughts of Jennica consumed him: her continuous bravery in front of Noble, her vulnerability after Alban’s death, her resolve concerning Coralee. The way her eyes flashed with the fire in her soul. He could still feel her body pressed against him, still smell the olinda in her hair. How he wished he hadn’t called her Nyima by mistake. He’d completely ruined the moment, and he didn’t even know why he’d done it. She so badly wanted his apology for stealing her soul, and he couldn’t even give her that. It was almost like he was trying to push her away.

  He recognized the truth in his thoughts: maybe that’s exactly what he was doing. Afterall, a Tovar couldn’t risk getting too close. A Tovar could never admit he cared—unless he was asked.

  Sleep came in snatches, interspersed with visions of claws and torn flesh. When he slept, the dreams came. The creatures in Argathe’s cages squealed, his father begged for life, and Urion glowed.

  A cough. A grunt. A nudge. Another cough.

  Damen peeked out from under the covers. Aprica had withdrawn for the night and lanterns lit the face of Nyima’s cousin, Abelinda.

  Drawing the blanket around himself, he sat up. “What are you doing here?” He wished all the doors in the castle were as heavy as the one to Nyima’s room. He was not fond of surprise guests. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with with one fist and held up the blanket with the other. Hopefully Abelinda wasn’t another test. “Did Noble send you?”

  “No. I need to ask you questions and you . . . should be up by now. Who sleeps all day and into the evening? Drunks and lazy scientists. You’re a Tovar, aren’t you?” She went on without waiting for an answer. “You have to tell me the truth.”

  “Yes,” he managed to slip into the conversation.

  “Why is Nyima alive? Wh
y hasn’t Noble taken her soul? Why is she living in the castle as Rosen as ever?”

  “Noble is keeping her.” He fidgeted. “The way she is. He—likes her.”

  “Ridiculous. He married her for her skin. And what? Now he likes her personality?”

  “I don’t know. Noble isn’t in the habit of telling me his secrets.” It was unwise to tell secrets to a Tovar who could easily be interrogated by anyone who walked into his room. Like now.

  “Guess.”

  Guessing was dangerous. “She tells him stories. He listens. She draws him pictures. He looks. She makes him laugh. I think he likes her. That is my guess.”

  “My mother is going to scream to the stars. Jemiah won’t marry her as long as Nyima’s alive. Some stupid obligation to Nyima’s abnormal mother.”

  “Would you leave so I can get dressed?” The last thing he wanted was to argue with Nyima’s cousin about Nyima’s father marrying his dead wife’s sister Kornelia. And he thought his own family was crazy.

  “I’ll leave, all right.” She rose from the bed. “He’ll get tired of her, you know. We’ll wait. Eventually, she’ll wind up like all the others.”

  “Yes.” It was the truth: she could end up in the harem. But what he didn’t have to share was his hope that Jennica could survive indefinitely.

  Amada came in, her robes stained with soot and grease from the kitchen fires. As Abelinda left, they brushed past each other and Amada’s nose pinched. Abelinda didn’t give the elder woman a second glance.

  “I don’t like that girl,” Amada said once Abelinda was out of sight. “Something about her is cruel. Like she’s got the hawk blood in ’er.”

  Damen said nothing. He wasn’t even dressed yet and he already had a stream of people flowing through his room.

  “It’s the Nobless,” Amada continued. “She’s howlin’ something fierce. In great pain she is. An’ poor Marcis, he’s outside her room listenin’ to it all, not a thing he can do. We’ve all been told, no speaking to Nobless, no visitors, no comfort. Marcis is going to do something stupid if she keeps hollerin’. Get hisself killed or worse. Won’t you come an’ talk to him? Calm him down?”

  “What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

  “We all listen to you, Damen. You always speak the truth. Lot of respect goes out to you for doin’ what no one else can.”

  Damen sighed. Her respect was unwarranted. His biology prevented him from lying. If he weren’t a Tovar, he’d lie. He’d lie all the time. “I’ll go see him, once I get dressed.”

  “Thank you, Damen. Such a sweet boy.”

  He wondered if she knew about Coralee. She was so close to her daughter, wouldn’t someone have broken the news to her? No, she mustn’t know—her demeanor wasn’t grief-stricken. Thank Aprica she didn’t ask him if he knew anything about Coralee.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Marcis’s wounds were pink and swollen, stitched closed with thin white thread. His left eyelid hung partially closed, giving him a dopey expression. His back was pressed against the door. Frustration seemed to throb in the veins of his thick neck. Jennica sobbed in pain from the other side of the door.

  “Why are you here? You can’t see her either.” Marcis’s words slurred a little, like he was battling sleep deprivation, or maybe painkillers.

  “I came to help you.” If Marcis was going to be surly, Damen wasn’t sure he really wanted to help him, but he pulled out a sheet of the yellow paper anyway. “You can write to her. Slide it under the door. Amada’s standing watch, so we won’t get caught if we do this quickly.”

  “I can’t write. Never learned.”

  “Then say the words and I’ll write them.”

  Marcis slid onto the floor next to Damen. “All right. Tell her don’t be afraid. It’s only a moon cycle. Tell her to keep her legs moving, whenever she’s awake. Don’t let the muscles lock up. Tell her I’ll find a way to get the salve to her. She needs to hold on till then. Tell her to—”

  “Whoa, slow down. You talk too fast.” The words he’d scribbled so far were barely legible.

  Marcis slowed. “Tell her to look out her window to pass the time. And exercise, if she can, to get stronger. The time will go by quickly.”

  “Finished? ’Cause I’ve run out of room.” He pocketed the charcoal.

  Marcis nodded, and Damen slid the edge of the parchment under the door.

  Jennica’s cries stopped. Her fingertips appeared under the door: rose-colored petals, seeking, searching. Damen touched their tender ends.

  The thick door muffled her voice. “Thank you for the note, Marcis. It helps. It really does help.” Her fingers tried to hook around Damen’s, but they were too short. She retreated.

  A strange pang throbbed inside his chest. “She thought I was you.”

  Marcis slapped him on the back. “You’re a fool, Damen, if you still think it’s only about her skin.”

  Damen resisted the urge to say something insulting to Marcis. He already knew that in his own case, it wasn’t about the skin; he’d been taking inhibitor long before Jennica had arrived. No, it was Marcis who was confused about the draw of Rosen skin.

  Together they stood, and then realized that six castle servants had come to investigate the commotion. So much for Amada’s warning skills. Luckily there was no longer any evidence of the note.

  The servants glared at Marcis.

  “You should go. You’re not popular among the staff today.” Word about Camille had already traveled through the castle.

  “I’ve got to come up with a way to get the salve to her—I’ll work on it. Oh, and Damen, I want you to get me some inhibitor. The next time she reaches out for me . . . I want to be the one there for her—and not risk breaking down the door and getting us all killed.” Marcis hurried off, leaving Damen to worry about getting more inhibitor. He’d exhausted his supplies with the scientists last night. He’d have to go back to Argathe.

  “Damen, is there anything we can do for her? Anything at all?” It was Lasca, from the cleaning staff.

  He shook his head. “Not unless it fits under the door. But don’t take risks. The hawks are supposed to bring her food.” It was bad enough that he and Marcis were putting their lives on the line. He was sure Jennica wouldn’t want anyone else to get into trouble for her sake.

  Ignoring his warning, one of the children from the kitchen slid a tiny spray of olinda flowers under the door. “For the Nobless.” He smiled, his teeth bright with youth. “She’s going to save us, you know.”

  Shaking the boy by the shoulders, he yelled. “No—don’t say that. All of you must stop believing that. She’s just a girl.” She could barely save herself.

  He left them, dread gnawing on his bones. If Noble got wind that his servants were anointing Jennica as their liberator, he’d take all of their souls—including Jennica’s. He had to protect her at all costs.

  Logan jogged up to him. He had a new patch of silver on his forehead. No doubt for skillfully handling Alban’s body, a little reward from his Master. “Noble wants you to join him. He’s meeting with Farrar and the construction crew.”

  “What’s it about?” Damen asked, though he already suspected.

  “The usual. He wants to fly. Except this time he’s getting input from forty laborers instead of six scientists. He wants you to make sure none of them lies. Come on, little biuri. Time to go.”

  Damen wilted. It was going to be a long day. Forty people? There’d be a liar among them for sure.

  DAMEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE BARGAIN

  It took him twice as long to get through Durand as usual. Today his brown robe and Tovar symbol lured every news seeker in the city. They grabbed at him and blocked his path, bombarding him with questions about Jennica he was tongue-bound to answer. And one truth wouldn’t satisfy their insatiable curiosity.

  “Yes, it’s true. Nobless is alive. Yes, he has her locked in her room in the North Tower. Yes, she tried to save the kitchen slave, C
oralee. Yes. Noble made her metal feet so she couldn’t run away.”

  He’d answer their questions, and then escape a few feet before the process began again. At one point, he found himself completely surrounded by a crowd of washerwomen who refused to let him pass.

  “We hear she’s the most beautiful of all of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “We hear she’s teaching him how to fly in exchange for her soul.”

  “Yes.”

  “We hear she knows the dark science. She’s used it to enchant the soldiers. They follow her orders, and she’s biding her time until she overthrows Noble and takes the power of Urion for herself. Can she eat souls, too?”

  “Absolutely not. Your gossip will get people killed, including yourselves. Now let me go. I’ve business to attend to.”

  Not that he was in a rush to see Argathe, but he needed more inhibitor to be ready for Jennica’s release. Her imprisonment was already half over, and on the off chance that Noble released her early, Argathe’s potion would be the only thing preventing him from taking Jennica’s soul.

  Every trace of inhibitor had left Noble’s body by this time, and he had taken full advantage. Marcis had brought him four girls in two weeks, and the castle staff hated Marcis for it, but at the same time, they were also grateful that—after Noble had his way—Marcis was willing to put what was left of the girls to rest.

  Unlike the wives, whom Noble sheltered and protected, Noble would leave soulless servant girls to fend for themselves. Defenseless, many were taken down by wild dogs, died from exposure or starvation, or were collected for the brothels. And no one else in the castle had the guts to end the girls’ brutal lives. Damen had to admit, Marcis had both courage and mercy. He slit their throats, wrapped them in funeral robes, and buried them in the servants’ plot behind the courtyard.

  Damen was glad Argathe hadn’t claimed them first. She would’ve used them in any number of her convoluted experiments. Today was the first time Damen had even seen Argathe since Nyima’s transfer.