by Daryl Banner
“I don’t suspect it’s necessary to say this,” Ruena goes on, “but my work here is very private work. Only the Queen and I know of it. It is imperative that you hold your secrets true, Halvesand.”
Halves gives a quick gesture: I understand.
“Please, this distance is annoying me. Sit here,” she insists with a pat on the other side of her bed. “If you are going to be my Sworn, then I need to feel safe with you, and I cannot build that sense of … safety … with you halfway across my room.”
After a moment of indecision, Halves rises from his chair, makes his way to her bed, then sits at the indicated spot. The bed is even softer in touch than it is by sight, the silken sheets kissing his very ass through his armor as he sits there.
“See? Not so bad. Do you believe in the rumors that everything I am near has an electrical charge in it? It’s not true. Well …” She sighs and throws him a look. “… other than our first meeting, when I tried to kill you.”
Halves breaks a smile.
“There we go. I knew you had one in you.” She bites her lip and twists two of the wires in her box together. Another spark pops out from its web of metal wires, and again, Ruena pays it no mind. “You know, perhaps I’ll learn the hand language completely.” She nods at once, deciding it. “Yes, right. We will need a way to communicate, especially in situations of danger, or when sound eludes us.”
He stares at that metal box as it sparks yet again, then finds his mind wandering to that circular door. Perhaps it lacks electricity, he wonders, thinking of the whole Dark Abandon, all the torches and flames and braziers it requires to light its way, all the metal lanterns the Guardian and Shadow Guard are required to keep. Maybe the door only operates with an electrical current …
“I am sorry for being rude upon our first several meetings.” She lifts her eyes to him. “I suppose you might understand that I … have trouble trusting people. A close friend betrayed me—his name was Sedge—thereby letting the Marshal of Madness steal the throne. Have you experienced betrayal before, Halvesand?”
His eyes turn dark. Something cold stirs in the pit of his belly. He wonders suddenly what Ennebal will name his son. Or nephew.
“I see.” She didn’t even need him to use his hands; the answer was written clearly across his face. “Then you know its dark taste as well as I do. It’s something like ice cold water, and boiling hot soup. It stings and it smarts, and it changes you inside. How did you lose your voice?”
Halvesand isn’t certain how much of his story she will gather, as her vocabulary of the hand language might be limited, so he tells it as simply as he can: A woman with a poison Legacy put a sharp to my neck and cut deep. My Legacy stopped it only halfway. The poison is buried inside.
For a moment, Ruena doesn’t react, as if she didn’t understand. Then: “Forgive my bluntness, but that seems a rather simple injury. Is it not a venom they can just remove from your neck? I know of far worse injuries that have occurred, and healers who work miracles in both the Eastly and the Westly.”
He responds with a simple gesture at his stomach: Slumborn.
“But Guardian is of Sanctum, and commissioned so,” she argues. “I’ve seen many Guardian from the slums brought to Lifted hospitals for treatment. You should have been given a Lifted doctor. You still can be given one, once the Lifted City is restored to its rightful Queen, my Aunt Kael. You may very well have your voice back.”
His eyes detach. He doesn’t wish to contradict her so quickly or show annoyance, but he has long since grown tired of all the broken promises and false rays of hope. Too many doctors have said things. Too many doctors have let him down.
And now he’s wearing a metal contraption of his own about his thick, damaged neck.
“Someday,” Ruena promises anyway, then returns her attention to the metal box in her lap, and nothing more is said. A spark flies here, and a spark flies there, and Halvesand only watches, the sparks glowing in his eyes. The more they come, the less startled he grows, until the pair of them just watch her work, unafraid, unflinching.
0320 Mercy
I am blood and bone and poison in the shape of …
“It is so lovely to have company once again, yes it is, ho, ho, oh!” sings Desura Sparrow. The woman’s purple eye makeup is smeared halfway across her left cheek from an absentminded rubbing of the back of her wrist. “And you’re such a delight to talk to. Do you know where my daughter is?”
Mercy has heard the same question twenty times. It has been about four days since she invited herself into the house of Desura Sparrow, and four days since Scot left on a mission.
If Scot doesn’t return by this evening, Mercy warned him that she would be forced to take the crazy woman’s apple.
Scot knows what that means.
Mercy, however, has no intention of taking anyone’s apple from this house. What would be the use? Half of Desura’s mind has been burned away by chemical and alcohol, as it seems, and the remaining half is caught in a circular loop of obsessing over a designer she was supposed to meet (of which Mercy is playing the role), and where her dear daughter Erana is.
The woman even owns a broadcast. Three of them.
And the dumb crazy bitch still doesn’t know her own daughter sits on the throne of Atlas.
“The weather is changing for the colder, I did notice it. Outside, the wind is picking up. Have you noticed it? Didn’t we just have a winter?” Desura giggles as she finds her glass of wine next to her on the counter of the kitchen, as if forgetting it’s there. She picks it up, then brings her eyes too close to inspect it. “Oh … ooh, yes, hmm.”
That would be the first half-intelligent observation the woman’s made all day. “It has gotten colder,” agrees Mercy mildly, “and we did just have a—”
“Do you know where my daughter is?” The woman rises from the stool on which she was sitting, then stumbles toward the stairs. On her way up them, she steps on something, which makes an unsettling crunching noise—glass or plastic or toy.
A great, loud, metal clang beats at the front door.
It’s about damned time. Mercy moves to the door, peeks through the glass, then pulls it open to let in Scot.
And he has with him two funny-looking men in suits. One’s tall and olive-skinned with curly hair, the other one’s short and pale with very long and very pointy ears that droop—indicative of him being a Morph, most likely. They are both very skinny, as if the last time they ate was when the Madness fell.
“And who the fuck are these two?” asks Mercy politely.
Scot, used to her crassness, merely brings them into the house and presents them like a magic trick. The men bring with them an assortment of equipment. “Meet Lord Leeth and Lord Pion,” Scot introduces them. “They were employees at the Lifted City Broadcast Center, and were solely responsible for connecting Crystal Court and throne room feeds to all the broadcasts of Atlas.”
Lord Leeth, the tall, olive-skinned and curly-haired one, gives a short, stiff bow. Lord Pion, the short, pointy-eared one, follows suit as well, but his eyes look worried and wet, as if he’s afraid of Mercy.
“Don’t worry,” Mercy assures him. “I don’t bite. I only kill.”
Lord Pion’s eyes don’t appear to close anymore.
The tall one, however, seems positively fearless and speaks with gusto. “In other words, I can easily film and broadcast whatever you wish directly to the Crystal Court.”
Mercy’s eyes go wide with surprise. She flashes Scot her face. You did fucking well, she tells him with her astonished look.
“M-Might we ask the nature of this … broadcast?” asks Pion, the shorter one, as his nervous eyes skim the atmosphere of the house in politely muted repulsion.
Scot was smart not to divulge the nature of our message. Mercy is full of grace and elegance as she clasps her hands in front of her. “I’m planning to have the Queen speak to her mother, of course.”
Pion and Leeth shoot one another a look. “I … oh … I
… hmm …” they mutter back and forth.
“This is the house of Desura Sparrow. You live in this ward and didn’t know?” Mercy questions, looking between them. Neither give a response. Idiot number one, and idiot number two. “Do you … even realize that’s the Queen’s last name? Sparrow? Erana Sparrow?”
“Well, I guess it makes sense,” mumbles Pion with a look at his partner. “And she’s here in the sixth, so …”
Leeth straightens up his back and faces Mercy. “So you wish to utilize our broadcasting capability. That is quite well, but … what do we get in return? Our work was always compensated in the Lifted City, and we haven’t made a proper broadcast in months.”
Mercy had expected this. “Take your pick of whatever treasures you want in this fat house.”
Leeth and Pion share another look, then glance around the place in wonder. Pion seems transfixed by the chandelier, hypnotized, the very glimmers of light catching in his eyes.
“So Desura herself is paying us?” asks Leeth as he strolls over to a mirror and observes the gemstones embedded in its decorative trimming. He rubs one and squints. “Anything at all?”
Mercy crosses her arms. “Anything. When can we start?”
“Tonight,” states Pion, his eyes full of glitter and glimmer.
0321 Ellena
She kneels before Three Sister and asks them to give her hope. She doesn’t need their strength. She doesn’t need their otherworldly magic. She doesn’t need answers or visions or guidance.
Ellena Lesser just wants hope.
With hope, she’ll know that Link Lesser is safe out there in the streets, and that her deed of misidentifying a body will be to his aid. With hope, she’ll know that, if Forgemon did die down there in the Keep, he died knowing that she loved him dearly. With that same hope, she could believe that Forgemon survived and is finding his way to her right now, and maybe he will forgive her of her weak, sexual transgressions with a man young enough to be her son. He is only a temporary comfort. He is not my lover.
With hope, he will forgive her.
With hope, she can forgive herself.
Then, in the midst of all this hoping, of all this praying, the door to the temple room quietly opens. She hears his heavy footfalls as he comes down the aisle, slowly, gently. And then just as slowly, just as gently, she hears him kneel right next to her in prayer.
His muscular arm grazes the side of hers.
She exhales slowly, pretending she doesn’t notice it. This is how it always begins …
His slow, even breaths touch her ears. Even in their gentleness, she can hear the strength in his lungs, in his chest, in his body as he slowly, evenly breathes, breathes, breathes.
She clenches her hands together tighter. Three Sister, give me …
His arm flexes ever slightly, the one that touches hers.
She notices. But she doesn’t move at all—if tensing every muscle in one’s body can be described as not moving at all.
He seems to unclench his hands from prayer. An arm moves, and then there are fingers upon her thigh.
Soft. He isn’t wearing his Sky Guard gloves today.
She doesn’t even know what he’s wearing at all. She’s kept her eyes closed this whole time. He could be fully armored, save for that one devious hand.
He could be fully naked, his thick, sculpted muscles on complete display, rippling with strength and devotion and stamina.
The fingers slide up her leg, curve around slowly, and come up her inner thigh.
Ellena’s breathing has changed. Three Sister, give me …
His fingers find her panties. They tease the outside, slipping across her sensitive areas, causing prickles of pleasure all over her body, pleasure that almost tickles, that almost inspires tears.
She’s ever so wound up. And his touch, his touch knows exactly what she needs.
His breathing has changed, too.
Three Sister, give me …
His fingers slip under her panties, then slowly tease somewhere else, somewhere deeper.
Ellena parts her lips with a gasp.
Just as her mouth opens, his mouth finds hers, and then all is lost as their bodies pull together, his fingers still torturing her with their expert touch and evil tease.
“Gabel …” she breathes against his face.
“Elle …” he breathes against hers.
Whether he meant to say her full name and simply ran out of breath, or it was actually a nickname he’d just given her, something about it strikes a deep and bothersome chord within her. For a brief, confusing moment, Ellena’s eyes are open, frustrated, searching.
Then Gabel’s fingers do something else between her thighs.
And all’s forgotten once again as she melts against him, their lips locked with any key hopeless to separate them.
It’s no less than an hour and a half later that the pair of them, still alone in the temple room, are sweaty, sore, upon their backs, and casting their breaths to the low, off-white ceiling. Neither have said a word in the past four minutes. Anyone could walk in at any moment and neither seem to care.
“You last so long,” Ellena finally says.
Gabel breathes awhile longer, softly, before he says, “You smell sweeter than any woman I’ve ever known.”
“It’s a ninth ward herb. I’ve a tiny satchel of it I brought back.”
“It sets upon your smooth skin so sweetly. Sweeter than any Lifted fragrance. Sweeter than the Greens.”
“The Greens aren’t so sweet.”
Gabel turns his head toward hers. She does the same. Their eyes are so close, Ellena wonders for a moment if she can see his very soul through those piercing emerald irises.
“I think my not-daughter-in-law is cheating on Halvesand,” she says suddenly.
Gabel’s eyebrows pull together. “With whom?”
“My other son.”
He looks away, back to the ceiling. “That’s problematic.”
“Is it?” She stares at the side of his smooth, handsome face. His high cheekbones, strong angular jaw, and full lips. “Halves has left on a mission to the Core. Possibly a permanent relocation, I’m told. Ennebal needs someone there to take care of the baby. Her and Aleks were former partners. They’ve a bond as well.”
“Perhaps they’ve a bond because it’s his baby in the first place.”
Ellena turns away, somehow disturbed by that. The thought had not even occurred to her that their affair might run deeper than it seemed in that fleeting moment several nights ago.
Perhaps it’s why there has been so much tension between her two eldest. Perhaps there has been more to the fuel of their flames that Ellena couldn’t possibly have known of.
It saddens her, that there’s so much about her sons she doesn’t know.
And then she’s thinking of Anwick and Lionis all over again.
Ellena closes her eyes and presses hands to her face. I’ll never have hope, she realizes with a sick stab to her stomach. I don’t deserve any of the things I pray for. Three Sister, forgive … forgive …
Gabel rises first, but before he dons his own clothes, he lays her blouse over her. Ellena takes it, clutches it at first like a blanket, then slowly rises off the floor. The two dress in silence, Gabel stealing tiny worried glances her way. Ellena notices, but pays them no mind.
When they’re out in the hall and returning to their home floor, Gabel says, “I’m sorry for my bluntness.”
“No,” says Ellena quickly. “It’s … It’s appreciated, actually.”
“It may not even be true. I’m not concealing a secret.”
“Well, I may never be able to trust that much from you,” she responds with a hint of indignity. “Now may I?”
Gabel closes his mouth at that.
And it’s just as well, because the moment they come around the corner, Cilla is found hollering at a nurse in the hallway. “He’s my fucking nephew!!” she shrieks. “And she’s—she’s whatever she is! I deserve to be in ther
e! I deserve—!!”
“What is this about?” interjects Ellena, coming between them.
“Ennebal!” cries Cilla. “There’s a trouble with the baby! Ennebal! And these fuckers won’t let me inside!”
Without another moment’s regard to her sister, Ellena brushes past the nurse, who gives one mild cry of protest before she’s down the short hallway and into the room where Ennebal lies on a bed surrounded by no less than six nurses and doctors.
Aleks is at the wall, biting his fingers, fretting.
“What’s wrong?” asks Ellena over the murmurs and activity of the nurses and doctors, who rush about in their coats and talk in complicated medical phrasing. “What’s happening?”
Aleks only stares at Ennebal on the bed, fear in his eyes, as he listlessly answers, “It’s to do with the baby … or Ennebal. They’re debating inducing the labor now. Today or tonight.”
“Today or tonight?? It’s too early! By over a month!”
“They must do it. There’s complications. There’s—”
Ellena pushes forward to the nurses and doctors, demanding to know some answers, but no sooner than she opens her mouth, she is being gently ushered out of the room. “That’s my grandson!” she cries out over the madness. For one fleeting moment, her eyes meet Ennebal’s, and all she sees is fear and pain. “I can help! I can help! Let me help my fucking daughter-in-law!”
The door closes upon her face, and Ellena presses her nose to the cold glass of the narrow window, panic choking her as she stares in, helpless.
Three Sister give me …
0322 Mercy
I am blood and bone and poison in the shape of …
A camera lens.
A giant screen that’s like a broadcast, but with several lights on its top and bottom, flickering and blinking and flashing red, blue, and green.
A bundle of wires that connect to one of Desura’s broadcasts in her living room, which has been cleared of all its junk and treasures and crap. “Oh, a cleaning crew!” Desura had sang when she observed the four of them—Mercy, Scot, Pion, and Leeth—clearing out the big room of bag after bag of her nonsensical collections.