by Matt Russell
"This is Lord Baradon," Hervin said, almost huffing out the words.
Livia's heart quickened a touch. The man before her owned the very ground she stood upon, and all the countryside for at least a day's walk in any direction but the ocean. She swallowed and immediately dropped into a curtsy, lowering her head and lifting the sides of her skirt, which suddenly seemed very poor and tattered.
When Livia rose again, she saw that a younger version of Lord Baradon had stepped forward and was also smiling at her. He looked to be a year or two older than herself at most. The young man was tall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair cut short. He wore a deep green tunic and a matching green cape that ended at his knees. His deep blue eyes scanned Livia up and down, and he said: "I had heard quite a few whispers about the silent slave, and her unmatched gorgeousness." These words were followed by a marked increase in the intensity of his grin.
Livia blushed a little. The compliment was not quite gentlemanly, but not nearly so rude as some of the things men said to her. This young man was almost certainly Simius Baradon, the son of the lord. He did not have a bad reputation so far as she knew, but she had heard he was a sorcerer, which could be dangerous. Swallowing, Livia gave him an ambiguous nod and then gazed at Hervin with a questioning look, hoping to shift attention away from herself.
"Lord Baradon requires a new supplier of wine for his home," Hervin said.
Livia frowned. She and Hervin did trade in wine, but it was only a small part of their business—a section she had been gradually shrinking since the cow had gone from the home. Surely the lord could find more obvious suppliers.
Baradon seemed to be able to interpret her expression, for he said: "I'm afraid I have very little taste for what the local merchants bring in. My preference—my passion really—is for wine from the Tilsian vineyards." He let out a sigh. "I had a supplier, but he went and died, poor fellow. Anyhow, I would be a much happier man if I could have a steady flow of the stuff once more." He turned to Hervin. "I don't need much. Can you manage five barrels a month?"
Livia suppressed a gasp. Five barrels a month! That would take an enormous bit of figuring out. She and Hervin had contacts who traveled through the Tilsian Valley, but their trips were seasonal, not monthly. Delivery routes would have to be negotiated with multiple parties, and they had never dealt in wine by the barrel before. After years of enduring the cow's drunken cruelty, Livia had refused to ever touch a drop herself, and thus she knew virtually nothing about vintage, pricing, authenticity, rules for storage, and so on. Still, this was the wealthiest customer they could ever ask for. It would be complicated, but she supposed she could work everything out.
Livia glanced at Hervin and subtly extended two fingers on her left hand and made a fist with her right. He recognized the signals and said in as smooth a voice as he could: "I estimate it will take two weeks to put a system together."
Simius continued in her mind. He was showing off.
Livia tried not to fidget as she returned his smile. She remembered, well over a year ago now, ripping the Nemesai sorcerer's mind to shreds. The vision of him writhing in pain on the city floor sent a shiver through her, and just as it did, she felt the same little tingle in the back of her head that came when that horrible man had tried to gaze into her thoughts. Was Simius trying to read her mind?
Livia's heart began to thump very fast. She had not been ready at all for this. Her deepest secret exposed—at least... part of it was. She could see the intrigue in Simius's eyes. That was dangerous. He might have questions for her—questions to which she would not be able to provide satisfying answers.
"Shall we estimate two hundred desseks a month?" Lord Baradon said to Hervin. Livia shifted her gaze to him and realized that she had just missed an entire conversation between her father and this man. Hervin was repeatedly glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, looking for some signal. She blinked, trying to separate the anxiety from her intellect. She ran through a series of quick calculations in her mind as best she could in her flustered state, and then coughed—a signal to Hervin to increase the price.
"I estimate it would be closer to... two-fifty?" Hervin muttered, looking unsure of himself. He had never been a strong negotiator, but since Iona had been kidnapped, he had lost all confidence. The Lord frowned at this offer, and Livia sniffled twice, indicating that Hervin had gone up too high. He fidgeted and said: "Actually I think two-thirty might do the trick."
Livia gazed at the Lord, watching his eyes, and then she reached up and scratched her right temple with her index finger, signaling that the man would accept this number. All the while, she was aware that the lord's son was staring at her unabashedly. There was an expression of deep amusement on his face.
"I'll consult with my accountant on this price," Lord Baradon said, his voice stern but even. Livia could see that he was already comfortable with the amount. He wanted his wine very much, and in the end, he could afford to pay for it.
She gazed into the young aristocrat's deep, blue eyes, and saw undisguised desire. It was not the first time she had perceived this in a man toward her, but in the son of a lord it was far more dangerous. Simius Baradon, the heir to the fief in which she had spent her whole life, was not someone she could casually spurn. If moved to sufficient anger, he could destroy her life and Hervin's—maybe even have them killed. As she gazed at the young aristocrat, her nigh infallible sense of people told her he was not the kind to humbly accept the rejection of a former slave.
"Well, please send word as soon as you have the shipping worked out," Lord Baradon said. He did not hold out his hand but stood still as Hervin gave him a bow. Then he turned to his son and said: "Shall we move on to other business?"
"Let's be off," Simius said with a grin. The two of them moved to leave, the father stepping ahead of his son. Just as the lord passed out the door, Simius drew a silver coin from his pocket, turned, and sent it spinning through the air with his thumb to Livia. As came whipping forward, she heard his voice in her mind: Even through the strange resonance of the telepathic communication, there was something in his voice that made her cringe inside. Entitlement.
She caught the coin as the young nobleman closed the door to the shop, and Hervin turned and looked at her, exclaiming: "What was that about?"
Livia gazed down at the fifty-dessek piece in her hand, giving Hervin a shrug combined with a sufficient iciness in her expression to advise that she did not wish to communicate just then. Her mind was traveling in dozens of different directions at once. Simius had not been overly crude. He had a touch of charm to him and had shown interest in her intelligence rather than simple, base desire for her like so many others. Still, Livia did not fool herself for an instant into thinking his intentions with her were honorable. She could never be his wife. He was going to be a lord. At best, she could be his mistress—a life many young peasant girls would covet given that Simius was a handsome young noble with wealth and power. It was not a fate Livia wished though. She had spent over a year denouncing the aristocracy. The Baradon family had its absurd riches at the expense of the peasants beneath them, and they provided little to nothing in exchange for
the taxes and rent they exacted. No, she would not be some nobleman's whore.
There was also the matter that she might very well kill Simius. Livia had nearly brought death to a Starborn a year and a half ago. She still did not understand how her power worked—if it could even be called ‘power.’ She had tried hundreds of times to focus her mind, trying to reach back to that moment she managed to crumple the paper through... magic? Nothing had come from her efforts but the pain. Twice in her life, whatever force lay inside her had come to her defense, both times against attackers using sorcery: one mental, one physical. Livia had formed dozens of wild theories about what her power might be, none of which correlated to anything in the tomes on sorcery she had spent hundreds of hours reading. What she did know was that her power did not seem to obey her commands, which suggested there was very little chance she could will it to stop if it went on the attack.
Livia quieted her breathing as she stepped back into the storeroom, still clutching Simius's coin in her palm. Her blood was running cold. The young nobleman would know about the Nemesai whose memories had been eviscerated. He did not have enough information at present to make any real connection from that event to Livia, but if he probed—if he somehow discovered any of what she could do, it might spark some extremely dangerous speculations.
Gods, why was this happening now? Livia almost trembled as she imagined how close she might be to rescuing her sister. Had the time come to run? There was the money Lady Gretis had given her years ago to facilitate travel, and she had contacts now. Disappearing might actually be feasible.
Livia stepped through the second doorway into the back office and sat down at the desk. Plans needed to be made. She did not need to abandon Hervin yet, but that could change very soon. The focus for the moment should remain on impressing members of the Cassianites with her provocative messages to the people. Simius was ultimately just one more variable in the insane gamble she was taking. All of it was in the hope that she could convince Cassian Asango to help her retrieve Iona. It hurt how much Livia was afraid he would not be the hero she imagined, but she would continue to risk her life on the hope that he was.
Chapter 26:
The Nakawa Tribe
"This is it," Kota said, and Gretis heard the unease in his voice. He was staring at a series of subtle claw-marks on the side of a tree she would never have noticed had he not pointed them out. The sun was high in the sky above them, and the forest was alive with the sounds of birds and furry things. Her pupil reached up and ran his fingers over the gashes and whispered: "My tribe."
"Where are they?" Gretis said. She stood behind Kota, her hand on the hilt of her sword. She could not sense the presence of demons, but some dark creatures were more difficult to detect than others.
"Wait," Kota said, and as if in response to this there was a howl from deep within the forest. It was higher pitched than any sound Kota might have made, and Gretis thought she detected an ever so subtle trace of fear within it. She had spent quite a bit of time amongst various shamalak tribes and had learned several different dialects of their language, yet she had never quite deciphered the howls. There were changes in pitch and rhythm too subtle for her human ears to detect.
"They ask us to throw our weapons down," Kota said, drawing the long sword from his belt and throwing it to the forest floor several paces in front of him.
Gretis lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Is that all they ask?" She gave a soft chuckle and, unlike Kota, did not commence disarming.
He stared at her. "They're afraid. There is no harm in doing as they request." She saw the same look of guilt on his face that he had displayed throughout their entire journey. Kota felt responsible for whatever attacks had been inflicted upon his people in search of him.
"There is gods-damn plenty of harm if you and I are attacked and we don't have our swords ready," Gretis said. She craned her neck to stare into her pupil’s towering form and snapped: "You're not returning as Kota, the eleven-year-old. I will not see you endanger yourself over some misplaced sense of obedience to your tribe."
There was a crackle of dried leaves, and Gretis cocked her head to see six shamalak archers emerge from brush around them, each with an arrow nocked and aimed at her from various angles. She met their silver eyes, one-by-one, and saw fear mingled with anger. The archers formed slowly around her and Kota, never lowering their arrows, and then a group of three additional warriors, each of an age with Kota, emerged from the center of the brush before them. These ones were shirtless like their brethren, yet they carried imperial military swords and shields, albeit quite old looking ones. Perhaps they had traded with the empire? Whatever the case, imperial steel was a definite improvement over the crude iron and stone weapons she knew the shamalak tribes to possess.
"We come in peace," Kota said in his native tongue. Gretis had not heard him utter a single word of the shamalak language in years, but he spoke every syllable with an easy precision.
One of the swordsmen—a youth with a square face with a scar on his right cheek—bellowed: "Kota?" His metallic eyes narrowed, and then all the apprehension left his face, replaced by an expression of excitement. "KOTA!" He threw down his blade and shield and ran forward.
"Narok!" Kota exclaimed, and the two figures embraced, both grinning wide enough to display fangs. Several of the warriors around them lowered their weapons, though most did not. One swordsman in particular, Gretis noted, was glaring at Kota. His muscles were tense—almost trembling with what seemed like anger. Much of his right ear was missing, its tip looking to have been bitten off from the uneven scarred edges.
"Do not embrace this traitor!" the glaring shamalak said in his native tongue. Kota and his apparent old friend stepped apart. Narok whirled to face the speaker, whose lips twitched back, revealing many teeth as he snarled: "He's the reason our brothers are dead!" The warrior pointed the tip of his weapon at Kota and cast him a furious scowl. "Deny it, brother! Deny that the demons are here for you!"
Kota's face lost all of its good humor. He stared at his accuser, somber and guilt-stricken. "I know little of these attacks, but perhaps they have been for my sake. I have come to find out."
The words elicited bewildered looks from some of the warriors. Narok seemed to be less apprehensive with his old friend than the others. He looked Kota up and down and said: "W-we all heard the stories you passed to our tribe years ago.” His expression filled with pain as he added: "After the first... attack, we were told that the great warrior had one moon to appear, or they would kill dozens more—all of our children."
"They cut down twenty of us before we even knew what was happening!" snarled the shamalak with the dismembered ear. He lowered his shield enough that Gretis noticed dozens of deep scars on his shoulders, biceps, and chest. He took several huffing breaths, seeming to hold himself back from simply attacking, and then shouted: "My brother, Tequin, died because of you! He was sixteen winters old!"
"I... I'm sorry," Kota said, his face stricken with horror. He turned and gazed at Gretis, as if to ask what to do. She had never seen him in so much pain, and something tightened within her reflexively.
"What is your name, warrior?" she asked the scarred shamalak in his own tongue.
The swordsman paused, his eyebrows rising as he stared at her. After a brief moment, he grunted: "Skillen."
"Well, Skillen, I took Kota away from your tribe to train him," Gretis said in a loud voice. She gazed around, meeting the eyes of every warrior. "If not for me, he would have returned to you all years ago." Her animus sense detected the tightening of muscles amongst her audience. She readied herself for an attack. "None of you have the authority to execute visitors to the tribe, let alone a full member." She gestured to Kota. "This is a matter for the elders. You will—"
"Do not speak of our traditions as if you know them!" Skillen hissed, and he took several steps closer to Gretis, the tip of his sword now pointed at her.
Her animus pulsed eagerly. It would be a si
mple matter to rip out her blade, focus her energy through it, and slash Skillen's sword in half before he could even flinch, yet Gretis held this urge in check. The warrior before her was angry, but he had a right to be. She knew well the pain of seeing a younger sibling killed. Thus, instead of attacking, she stepped toward Skillen so that his blade was only a finger's length from the tip of her nose and looked into his eyes. "I am horribly sorry for your brother, warrior. I promise you, the ones who cut him down will die."
Skillen's furious expression faltered a little, revealing a flash of the pain that lay beneath it. "Y-you cannot fight these... things. No one can! They killed a group of Onkai soldiers like they were nothing."
"WHAT?!" Gretis shouted, her animus coalescing through her lungs and vocal cords so that the word came out with tremendous volume, and every shamalak but Kota flinched. "Where? When!"
"Yesterday," Kota’s friend, Narok, said. He blinked, staring down at the leaves beneath his bare feet. "A troop of Onkai found our tribe. We called Kota’s grandfather to translate to them for us, but..." his face contorted, and Gretis had the sense that he was reliving a horrible moment, "The demons magic user—he came out of the shadows and attacked the Onkai with fire. Several died right away, but the ones who could still fight... a monster unlike anything I’ve ever imagined dropped from the sky and hacked them to pieces." Narok’s bronze skin went ashen as he spoke. "It was bigger than any creature in the world, and the way it moved! That beast hacked all the rest of the Onkai to pieces in one—maybe two heartbeats.”
Gretis's memory flashed to her battle with the Demon Lord Rakathon years ago. Even with the full power of her animus and a fair bit more summoned from the heart of the world, she had only been able to annoy him for a few minutes before he beat her within a hair of her life. She recalled the feeling of his massive hand around her throat—Gods but he had been strong!
