by Viola Grace
“What can I do,” he asked. “To help you when the time comes?”
She couldn’t unburden herself completely, but they could share. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she glanced away.
“We need to stay close. I know I can’t be at your side all the time, but—” She lifted a single brow. “The king gave me an order. To pressure you to sign the contracts. We can work with that.”
As though it had been timed, a chime alerted him that someone was at the door. Ser Comptyn. Verda took up a stylus and sat at the desk. Brock released the door and then paced, his agitation rising as the fight master entered, wearing his anger like a cloak.
“You’ve not signed yet.”
Brock glared at the man. The Ser paled slightly and focused his ire on Verda. “Haven’t you finished the translations?”
She fought not to grit her teeth. “Yes, Ser Comptyn, I just need to check the three copies against each other.” She turned in her seat, extending all three packets to Brock. “Please take your time to read them over.”
Brock took them and remained standing, scanning each sheet with care. He joined her at the desk, taking her stylus and making notations in the margins. He felt tense as stretched wire, and her tension rose. Across the room, the Ser sighed impatiently. He paced the room, casually picking up and examining the few personal items Brock displayed on shelves and in cases. Trophies, mostly. A figurine of a girl. A broken blade. A lump of green and gold glass.
“I requested changes. Please include them in the final copies.” His voice was cold and arrogant. The fight master took the pages and scanned them, glancing at Verda, and then back to the contract. He finished reading and set the pages on the desktop.
He folded his thick arms, tilted back his head and looked down his nose at Brock. That was a feat, considering Brock was a handspan taller. “That’s all?”
“That’s what I want,” Brock replied.
The Ser smiled, and Verda’s skin went chill.
“No need to make another copy. Set your name to the page.”
Brock looked at Verda. She knew what he’d requested. She nodded slightly.
He signed the page. And then the second, and the third.
And Verda cursed herself for praying that she was right because if she was, this dying planet would take millions of lives.
But if she was wrong, Brock might never escape to go home. And she would die at her uncle’s hands.
Chapter Five
Sitting on the hard, narrow bed she’d slept in for over a decade, Verda looked around the tiny room. She’d known no other home for most of her life.
The crumbling plaster walls were rough and painted dingy white. Once the room had been bright and almost cheerful. Years of neglect and encroaching moisture were breaking plaster from the rock walls. Water stained the wall under the high window. Some of the stains were fresh, and there was moisture creeping along the floor and into the room in shallow pools.
There’d once been rough wooden shelves on the walls, set to hold their necessities and their few personal items, but those shelves were now on the floor, propped against the drier inside wall. Lichen grew up the rock. It was ugly but harmless. The slaves scoured it from the walls of the upper rooms, but down here on the slave level, it grew at will.
She drew a deep breath, deliberately calming herself. Her heart beat too fast. Her skin was too warm. She thought of Brock, and the warmth inside matched the heat on the outside.
His looks attracted her. That wasn’t unusual. She’d seen many compelling men as they visited the palace. She’d carefully chosen her first lover, determined to control that single aspect of her life. He’d been a visiting scholar, one who’d given silent support to his mentor in the arguments about the White Star. He’d treated her like a human and had been a gentle lover. And as she’d expected, his time in the city had been shortened by the displeasure of the king.
Hopefully, he’d escaped the capital city. Hopefully, he’d escaped the planet. She’d liked him.
What she felt for Brock was different. She liked him, too, but felt edgy in his presence. He was a big, gigantic contradiction. He was a fighter, a deadly warrior. But his skills were rough, and he relied on strength and instinct.
He was gentle. And he was lonely.
He learned quickly. He was smart and adapted easily. He’d need to, he was fighting Peri Stroop in just days, and Peri was wickedly dangerous. All of her reading on him suggested that he learned with every fight, and though he’d had some losses, they were few. Whatever mistakes he made were never repeated. Peri was hungry. And Brock called him ‘friend.’
She stood and took a few moments to adjust to the pain that flared with movement. Her sessions with Brock had taken a toll on her. She’d adapt to the pain. She was good at adapting.
“Verda!”
She jerked in surprise, gasping as the old wounds on her legs pulled. She fought not to pant with the pain, slowly building up the stoic face that hid her from the world.
“Yes, Ser Lanham.” Her voice was steady, betraying neither her pain nor her fear.
The slave master glared at her, disdain and anger showing on her hard, pale face. Perhaps there was a hint of fear there as well.
“You’re to report to Brock Ahern’s quarters. Indefinitely. Gather your—” She looked around the room, her lip curled in contempt. “Gather your possessions and leave now. I’m moving the new ash girl into this room.”
Verda felt as though her throat had closed. It was time.
“I’m not sure if being a fighter’s slut will be a step up from being the king’s whipping girl. At least you’ll have better clothes. For now.”
She was walking away, obviously not expecting Verda to follow. Once she was out of sight, Verda gingerly lowered herself to the bed again. She looked around the room. What did she have to take? Her comb and the strings she looped through her hair to secure it? The chipped mug next to the water basin? Her spare shift, with the darned holes?
Quickly, she hobbled around the room, gathering anything she had any use for, leaving the rest for the new resident of the miserable room. She made a bundle of her robe and pushed the flimsy rolling door closed behind her. She walked up the ramp to the ground level, looking at a tiny rivulet of water as it trickled downward.
How had the Ser not seen that? How could anyone miss what was happening? Before she took another step, the ground rolled ominously beneath her feet, and she struggled to keep her balance. Around her, slaves and servants hurried along, showing no concern. No fear. She walked close to the wall, head down and eyes on the floor. A uniform-clad child dashed past her, delivering a message of some great urgency. Most likely some noble wanted something of paramount importance... a meal served on dishes that would color coordinate with their clothing. Perhaps Princess Janine coveted a caged fowl whose feathers reflected the blue of her eyes. Up there, no one worried about water seeping through the walls or chunks of plaster falling on their coiffed heads.
But those grand towers stood on feet of rapidly crumbling clay.
Her legs hurt, but she set one foot in front of the other and dreamed of the day when the tendons and muscles would be healed. When she could run as swiftly as the page, and spin and feint and train with Brock, once again nimble and whole. Stupid fantasy, but it occupied her mind for a moment.
She rested, leaning against the wall, gazing out a high window. The gray clouds roiled and raced through the sky, and bemused, she watched as they broke, revealing glimpses of greenish blue sky before tumbling into place again.
Greenish blue. The sky should be blue. She hurried along, ignoring muscles that pulled and caught. When she reached the tall red door of Brock’s quarters, she lay her palm on the lock and heard the chime sound. The door slid open, and she entered, heading through the foyer, past the dining space, and into the spacious living room, her attention divided between Brock, who lounged on the massive sofa, and the window.
“Brock. You should see this.” She gestured to him,
and as silently as a mountain panther, he was up and moving across the room. He joined her at the window. It filled most of the wall and had controls to adjust the visibility. “Open it all the way,” she instructed.
“Window, full open,” he murmured, standing close behind her. His light accent burred in her ear. “What are we looking at, other than clouds and rain?”
“The sky,” she said. “Watch the clouds. Something’s happening.”
He stood behind her, towering over her, and she felt as though there was a wall at her back. A warm wall, with just the right amount of give. He wasn’t embracing her, but there was contact, and she fought the urge to sink back and close her eyes. To let him be strong for her, just for a moment.
As though reading her mind, Brock moved closer and slipped an arm around her waist, taking enough weight to ease her legs. She ignored the flutter of her heart.
“There. Right there.” She pointed, but it wasn’t necessary. Behind her, she felt his breath catch. She felt his heart speed up. Tension corded his arms, and she glanced down, seeing the ridges at the outside of his arms begin to protrude.
He was alarmed. Perhaps frightened. Those bumps were a defensive response. They lengthened into alarming, jagged points. But in his arms, she was safe. Verda leaned back, and he looped one arm around her waist, the ridges pointing downward, toward her belly. She wondered how they were used. Were they a vestigial trait of his people? They looked like battle gauntlets, wicked and dangerous. She wondered... were they bone? Cartilage? Some organic material she’d never encountered?
“What’s happening?” His deep voice was almost a whisper in her ear. She didn’t answer until the wound in the sky closed over, hidden behind the storm clouds.
“I don’t know. I remember years ago the sky was very blue. But once when our family was traveling inland, a fierce storm arose. It was windy, and the clouds were high. The light falling through the sky was green. Like a bruise.” She continued scanning the sky. “The winds were fierce. We sheltered in a series of stone caves. They tunneled far back into the mountain, and I remember the sound of the storm. It sounded like the screams of the dying. It felt as though the wind was reaching into the mountain, struggling to drag us out.”
“Has there ever been a storm like that here, near the ocean?”
“Not that I know of.” She leaned forward, breaking his hold on her. “I can’t imagine... if winds like that are near water...” She took a deep, shaky breath, and then turned. Brock wasn’t looking at her. He was looking out toward the ocean.
“Oh, Geaha... protect them.” He fished a medallion from the front of his shirt, drawing a pendant to his lips and kissing it. She turned back, straining to see what he was looking at. His eyesight must be incredible.
She squinted, seeing nothing but roiling skies and whitecapped waters. Finally, she saw a boat. A large, deepwater boat, pitching and bucking, vanishing down into troughs, and bursting up through the waves. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “That’s a ferry. There are likely hundreds of people onboard. Those waves... oh, mercy.” She pressed a hand to her belly, sick with dread. So many lives... all on the edge of death.
He didn’t reply. Instead, Brock pointed to the south of the boat. Water twisted up into the sky, funnels, and spouts, bursting up like bizarre, sinuous creatures from the depths of the sea. They raged onward, just a mile... perhaps less, but bearing down on the ferry. When Verda was sure the craft would vanish from this world, the water spouts collapsed, folding in on themselves, dropping into the still choppy water.
The clouds looked tattered and frayed. Polarium was in view, its lights slashing and bright, like broken glass in a pool of water. Pushed by the wind, the clouds parted, and light poured down from the sky, illuminating the grey, wet city below them. Colors dazzled her. She squinted her eyes, blinking tears away. How long had it been since she’d seen the sun? She held out her hands, feeling radiant warmth soak into her skin. Her breath caught in her chest. She hadn’t seen the sun for longer than brief moments since she was a girl.
“Verda, your hair—” She turned to look at Brock and froze. His skin was always a warm, amber hue, but as she watched, it changed. His black hair was now a shade of red... dark and rich and vibrant.
“My hair?” She was still staring at him as his skin darkened. Swirls and patterns emerged along his arms, up his throat, and onto his face. “Your hair! It’s changing color! And your skin—you’re photo reactive?”
“You’re golden.” He looked at her with the same wonder on his face that must be on hers. “Your eyes are the color of eppha grain.” He must have seen a look of confusion on her face. “New green. Bright. Almost pale. And your hair—” He touched it, examining it closely. “I knew it was gold, but now it’s the color of freshly polished gold. You’re a blonde.” He smiled awkwardly, his full lips pulling upward. He then looked toward the sky, his smile fading. “How long will that last?”
She turned back to the window, fear creeping back into her gut. “Not much longer. I’m afraid... I’m very worried there will be more storms. More like the one from when I was little.” But these storms would not be on dry land. These storms were over water. The idea of their destructive power terrified her. But the sun exhilarated her. Her hands trembled.
They stood at the window, gazing out at the sunlit world, occasionally glancing at each other in wonder. From behind, he wrapped his arms around Verda, and she leaned back into him. She was warm. She’d forgotten how that felt. She looked down at his arms, seeing the sun etched patterns on his skin. The ridges running down his forearms were darker than the rest of his skin. She lay her head back against his chest, hearing his heart, feeling the heat of millennia radiating from his skin. Braccis was an agricultural planet. Solar light would be everything in a place such as that.
“What are those patterns on your skin?” she asked.
He lifted one arm so she could see the elaborate, filigree-like patterns. “Gresha Geaha,” he said in his own language. “The touch of the Goddess. It’s what sets sky farmers apart from others. We can bear the solar exposure at higher altitudes.” He lowered his arm and tentatively, she stroked the smooth skin of his forearm, running her fingers over the ridges on his outer arm. “What are these for?”
He flexed his arm, and the ridges suddenly grew, curving back like serrated teeth. She gasped.
“They’re called tengs. We move rapidly through the framework of the sky farms. The tengs enable me to catch a lattice or a branch if my hands are full. Or if I slip.”
Verda touched the tengs, shivering as he retracted them.
“They seem more like weapons.”
He twisted his arm, extending, then retracting the wicked-looking protrusions. “I have them on my feet, too. And elsewhere.” He was silent after that. But his hands were not still. He touched her lightly, smoothing his hands over her arms, stroking the soft skin at her throat.
“Why did you leave your home, Brock?”
His arms tightened slightly, one around her waist, the other crossed over her chest, his palm on her shoulder. He sighed.
“Why does a young person ever wander? I sought adventure. I went looking for fame and fortune. And I found it. I had that drive, you know. It told me I was meant for bigger things than toiling in the heat or scrambling through the sky farms.”
“But at what cost?”
He gave a small laugh. “My honor. Sometimes my dignity.” He was quiet for a long moment. “My family. My freedom.”
“But you can go home,” she said, knowing that his freedom to return hinged on their escape. She’d projected clearing skies, but not for several days. She’d been wrong about that, what if she was wrong about the catastrophe she’d been preparing for? What if the planet continued to survive the solar flares? Perhaps this brilliant day signaled the passing of the crisis.
Then they’d both be trapped.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he touched her hair, unfastening the firmly threaded coils, so they c
ascaded down past her shoulders. He stroked her temples, his fingers unexpectedly gentle. She knew where this was going. She wanted it as well. She imagined their limbs entangled, their bodies joined, and she shuddered, feeling the taut pull of desire. She couldn’t bear to close her eyes against the brilliance of the sky, marveling at the light until her eyes watered.
He moved then, one hand tracing the curve of her waist. His lips were warm as he whispered kisses down her throat, down to her shoulder. She took his hand from her shoulder and laced her fingers into his, then carried it down till his warm palm covered her breast. He groaned softly, his breath tickling her cheek. Smoothly, he turned her to face him, angling them, so they were both fully in the light, and she studied his features. His skin was gleaming, dark copper, and his eyes were the vivid dark, with sparks of fire within. The grim lines that bracketed his mouth faded and instead, he smiled.
She couldn’t stop looking; he was bright and brilliant in the full, unfiltered light. Even under the vivid lights of the arena, he’d never looked this bold and electric. He was powered by sunlight. She wondered if it made him stronger. Faster. More dangerous than she knew him to be.
He bent to her, and the kiss was both bold and gentle, awkward and painfully familiar. Unexpectedly, Verda felt tears in her eyes, and she moved closer, hungering for the touch of his skin, for the warmth and comfort of being held by another person. How long had it been? He seemed to sense—or even share her need. He wrapped her up in his arms, holding her tightly.
She let her legs go soft, and he lowered her to the floor, where a thick carpet softened the exotic quarried tiles. He lay beside her, gazing at her. The sun dazzled her eyes, but she still saw the softness on his face. The desire. Briefly, she thought of the ridges on his arms and wondered where else he might have them. His feet. Maybe his legs. But where else? Tengs, he’d called them. He considered them tools. Knives were also tools. And some tools were weapons.
She caught the edge of his shirt and pulled it over his head, then studied the whorls and delicate lines on his skin as the sun drew them forth. How had he survived here in the rain and gloom? She glanced up at the window. Dark, riotous clouds studded the sky, but there were still vivid patches of blue. The sickly greenish shade was gone. She looked at Brock, and he was also staring at the sky. He was less sensitive to the light than she. Had they both adapted to their environments? Would she always wince at the light?
