Voice of Crow

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  She submerged again, running her fingers through her hair to rinse it, creating a mass of floating black strands. He gazed at her body beneath the ripples and wanted to give her a thousand nights in a row like this one. She had suffered so much. She deserved a life of comfort.

  Alanka came up from the water and turned to face him, kneeling between his legs. “Will you wash the rest of me?”

  He covered her shoulders and breasts with the rich suds that slicked her skin and made her sigh. She tilted her head back, parting her lips, and he wanted her now, fast. But there was one thing he needed her to do first. One thing he couldn’t ask her to do.

  As he washed her, Alanka’s fingers stroked his thighs, then descended lower, to his knees. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Do you want me to touch it?”

  He swallowed. “If you like,” he said, though he longed to tell her yes.

  “I want to touch all of you.” Her hand slid down behind his left knee until it reached the hard, blunt stump. She caressed it cautiously at first, then firmly, her fingers exploring the ridges of scars. Instead of feeling numb, it felt alive and exquisitely sensitive. He let his head sink back onto the edge of the tub as his hands spread the lather over her smooth belly.

  “Do you like that?” she said.

  “Yes.” His breath came faster. “I didn’t think I would. But it needs your touch.” As did a hundred other places on his body.

  “It doesn’t feel like an absence,” she said. “It feels like you.”

  Suddenly she stopped and gazed over his left shoulder, head tilted, eyes unfocused. “Do you hear that?”

  He held his breath. In an apartment down the street, perhaps a block or two away, a fiddler was practicing. It sounded like a slow waltz. It was so faint, he wouldn’t have discerned it without his enhanced Horse hearing.

  Which meant…

  “I can hear!” Alanka drew in a quick, sharp breath. “I can smell!” She moved her head from side to side, a smile daring to creep across her face. “One moment I could only smell the incense and the soap, but now I smell everything. Outside, inside…” She looked at Filip, then leaned over to inhale the air above his shoulder. “You smell wonderful.”

  “Your powers have returned?” he said, though the answer was obvious.

  “I think so.” She gripped his shoulders. “Dance with me, to celebrate.” She pressed herself close, straddling him. He looped his arms around her body, slippery with soap. They swayed together in the tight space of the tub.

  “How is this?” he said.

  “It’s perfect.” She slid down against him. “You’re perfect.”

  Alanka took Filip inside her, and they cried out. He held her face between his hands and kissed her, savoring the wetness within. Her tongue teased his, and he tried to thrust upward, deeper inside, needing more. With her knees outside his hips, the confines of the tub held them fast.

  Alanka looked down. “This could be better.”

  “Should we move to the bed?”

  “Not until we’re cold and wrinkly.” She lifted herself, then turned to face away from him, on her knees, resting her forearms on the other end of the tub. Her hips were out of the water, dripping, beckoning. “Try now,” she said.

  He hesitated. He had taken Palia at the brothel this way, from behind, so he couldn’t see the pain on her face, so he could pretend her cries were ones of eagerness.

  Alanka looked over her bare, glistening shoulder at him. “Now, Filip.”

  Water splashed from the tub as he shifted to kneel behind her. He entered her, deeply, and all memories fled. They moved apart, then together, sliding in a quickening rhythm that tore a groan from his throat. He placed his hands over hers on the side of the tub, intertwining their fingers. Her moans grew in pitch until she uttered a breathy scream.

  As he marveled at her pleasure—how he’d caused it wasn’t clear to him—he felt his own rise, overpowering his control in the span of a breath. He surged within her as the world went bright and hazy.

  The man he had been was gone, smashed to pieces, but the man he would become had just been born, whole and healed at last.

  Alanka sagged against the side of the tub. Her knees ached, but her blood sang.

  Filip draped over her, panting. With a groan, he sat back in the tub. She turned to watch him dunk his head underwater, then come up wearing the broadest grin she’d ever seen on his face.

  He moved forward into her arms. “That was…”

  “That was to calm us down. The night’s barely begun.”

  She reached for the soap and lathered him up, relishing the hard muscles beneath his skin.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Renting this room was possibly the best idea a human being ever had.”

  She laughed. “Don’t expect an argument here. Turn around.”

  With some effort, he shifted in the narrow tub to face away from her. She gasped. Except for a small round scar on his right shoulder, his chest had been smooth. The skin on his back, however, was puckered with long, crisscrossed lines.

  She drew her finger down one of the scars. “How did you get these?”

  “Basic training.”

  “They whipped you?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Not just me. Everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “So we could learn to ignore pain.”

  She thought of the Ilion soldier who had kept charging her even with two arrows sticking out of him. “Your men fight bravely, even insanely. Kind of like our Wolverines.”

  “But our soldiers don’t have magic to boost their imperviousness. We get tough the hard way.” He turned his head to the side. “Do the scars bother you?”

  “No. They’re part of you.” She leaned forward and kissed each one. Then she washed his back with the same tenderness as if they had been fresh wounds.

  By the time they were clean, the water had cooled. Alanka stood and wrung out her hair, watching Filip watch her. A new light was in his eyes; she hoped it stayed there forever.

  She wrapped a towel around her body and stepped out of the tub. Before she could offer Filip help, he had followed her, grabbing his own towel. It surprised her how nimble he was on one leg.

  “I’m starving.” She padded over to the small table. Filip stretched out on the bed. She sat beside him, placing the plate of fruit between them. “I don’t even recognize most of these.”

  He picked up a chunk of deep pink fruit. “This is watermelon. They don’t grow up north.” He offered it to her.

  “What do I do with the seeds?”

  “Spit them out, or swallow them.” He pushed it against her lips. “Don’t be scared.”

  She laughed and gingerly bit into the fruit. Juice spurted down her chin and onto her neck, making her laugh louder.

  He leaned forward to lick the juice from her collarbone before it dripped under the towel. “Do you like it?”

  “The watermelon or what you just did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I like it.”

  Filip smiled and reclined on the side, head propped on his hand. He took a bite of the fruit, chewed carefully, then picked a seed out of his mouth and laid it on the edge of the plate.

  “You don’t eat them?” she said.

  “When I was a boy, my brother convinced me that if I ate a watermelon seed, a watermelon plant would grow in my stomach and eventually devour me from the inside out. As revenge.”

  “You don’t still believe that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why not eat them now?”

  He shrugged. “Habit.”

  “I dare you to eat one.” She picked up a fat black seed and held it out between her fingertips.

  He looked up at her, down at the seed, then gave her a heavy-lidded gaze as he slowly stuck out his tongue. She felt her body turn to liquid. Despite his lack of experience, an instinctive power of seduction lurked within him, a power she planned to enjoy.

  She placed the seed
on his tongue and watched it disappear into the wet darkness of his mouth. “How is it?” she whispered.

  He swallowed, never taking his eyes from hers. “I’m cured.”

  She leaned forward and gave him a long, deep kiss, a promise for the rest of the night.

  As she poured their wine, she noticed that he hadn’t covered his legs, either with the towel or the blanket. That he trusted her enough to expose himself made her glow inside, even before sipping the wine.

  He savored the drink, eyes closed. Then he looked at her, his face serious again. “You have your powers back.”

  “They’re not as strong as they used to be, I guess because we’re in the city. I can feel Wolf’s presence, like Adrek said about Cougar. It’s faint, but it’s there now. I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

  “Remember what I said before? How you couldn’t make peace with yourself until you made peace with your enemy? By accepting my wound, you’ve done that.” He stroked her arm. “In your eyes, I’m a hero, and in mine, you’re a warrior. We only had to learn to use each other’s eyes to see.” He touched her chin. “Do you still think you’re a murderer?”

  She stared at a blank space on the wall and remembered the battle. The faces of those she killed dredged up a skewering sorrow, but not guilt, not anymore. “No. I had to do it.” She heard a new strength in her voice. “And I’d do it again.”

  “You may, indeed, if Rhia’s plan gets us into the senator’s mansion.”

  Alanka thought of Marek sitting in that room, drained of all fierceness. She’d get him out if she had to shoot everyone in the house.

  Calm down, she told herself, drawing a deep breath to dissipate the rage. Turned inward for so long, it begged for a target outside her.

  “You never had to do anything to deserve Wolf’s favor,” Filip said. “You just had to forgive yourself.”

  She watched his hand glide over her waist and wondered if she could ever be as gentle with herself as he was with her. Perhaps he could teach her.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll marry you.”

  Filip stared at her, and for a moment she thought he might take the offer back. Maybe his respect for her had vanished the moment they made love. His people’s strange ways could be seeping back into him now that he was home.

  “Let’s do it now,” he said.

  “Get married? At this hour?”

  “Right here. We can’t do it legally in Ilios anyway so we might as well take our vows now.”

  “What vows?”

  He squinted at the ceiling. “I think they’re mostly about property. We can eliminate that part, since we have none.”

  “What else do your marriages mean?”

  He laced his fingers with hers and pressed their palms together. “Loyalty. Above family and place of birth. We become a nation of two.” He quirked an eyebrow. “And eventually three, four, five…”

  “Two is fine for now,” she said.

  “Two is perfect.” He kissed her. “What about Kalindon weddings?”

  “They’re short and rare. We pledge in the name of our Spirits to love each other forever. It’s a hard thing to promise.”

  “I promise to love you forever,” he said quickly, then added, “in the name of Horse.” He thought for a moment. “That wasn’t hard at all.”

  She laughed, then couldn’t stop laughing. She’d dreamed of her wedding day since she was twelve, and now it had come in the depths of her enemies’ city, lying naked next to a plate of strange fruit.

  Filip waited patiently. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Alanka. But you could have chosen a better time to recover your sense of humor.”

  She rubbed her face and became solemn again. “Filip, in the name of Wolf, I promise to love you forever.” She kissed him softly.

  He gazed at her, as if sealing the moment in his memory.

  “What do Kalindons do then?” he asked.

  “Everyone eats and drinks until they pass out, then they wake up and eat and drink some more. Then comes the orgy.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

  She giggled. “Not a formal one—it’s just how things usually end up. It’s good luck to conceive a child on a wedding night—your own or someone else’s.” Filip looked at her belly, and she added, “We won’t tonight. I’ve been taking wild carrot seed for months.”

  “Why?”

  “I was in no shape to have a baby. Even now, I want to wait until we have a home where we can raise it in peace.” She frowned. “I don’t know if that day will ever come.”

  “Let’s not worry about that day.” He reached across her for the bread-and-fruit plate. “Let’s finish our wedding.”

  They drank enough wine and fed each other enough food to stuff their stomachs and weight their eyelids with drowsiness. Then they made love again, with a slow heat that gave them hours to find every inch of bliss on each other’s bodies.

  Alanka fell asleep in their entangled embrace, feeling pure contentment for the first time she could remember. Her Spirit and her beloved were with her at last. Tomorrow she would return to her mission, with more power and strength than ever.

  But tonight she would rest.

  35

  Marek walked behind Basha, his gaze on the pale gray stones beneath his feet. He barely noticed the market crowd jostling around him. It was larger than usual on this holiday honoring some god who existed only to make the temples rich. Two guards kept close to him. The short swords in their belts squashed any thought of escape he might entertain.

  He felt the midday sun sear the back of his neck, the lower part of which was bare. Basha wanted his hair to grow long again. He wished for a knife to cut it short, though he was no longer sure if he’d use it to slice only his hair.

  Nilik gurgled and cooed in the carriage pushed by Petrop. Basha laughed with delight. “Demedor, you love a crowd, just like your mother.”

  Marek’s stomach felt another pang. He’d eaten and slept little in the past several days. His body seemed to rebel against itself, perhaps in retribution for the things it had done with Basha.

  He saw her embroidered boots near his feet. She took his hand and pressed a coin into it.

  “Marek, fetch me one of those fried breads with the fruit on it.” She scrutinized his face and clicked her tongue. “Get one for yourself, too. You look positively skeletal. People will talk.” She looked at his guards. “Go with him.”

  The fried-bread line was endless. The treat was one he’d always looked forward to at the midsummer Fiddlers Festival in Velekos, but now his gut heaved at the thought of the sweet, oil-soaked flour.

  While he waited, he explored his new powers. Fox had taken him under Her care, enhancing his hearing and night vision, though his sense of smell was diminished from that of a Wolf. He wondered if he had the second-phase Fox power of camouflage—blending into his background by remaining motionless—or if he would start over in the first phase. None of his people had ever changed Spirits midlife.

  He couldn’t test his camouflage, since he was never alone, not even to bathe or piss. Basha said he was so valuable, someone might try to steal or harm him. He wondered if she sensed that Marek posed the greatest threat to his own life.

  If it weren’t for Fox, he would have found a way to die by now. Even his son wasn’t enough to live for anymore. As soon as Nilik reached the age when he could understand who his real father was, Marek would be sent away or killed. Basha couldn’t take the chance that he would tell his son of his identity. It would ruin her experiment.

  A Wolf would have chosen the noble route, to perish rather than betray his beloved Rhia, to put honor before life. Fox had saved him, but for what?

  A stone rolled near his feet. He glanced at it, then froze.

  It was tied to a crow feather.

  He lifted his head and looked behind him.

  A young man stood in a vendor’s stall across the street, perhaps twenty paces away. His dark brown gaze bore into Marek, cuttin
g through the air like a hurled dagger.

  Arcas.

  Marek turned back to the fried-bread stand to keep his guards from getting suspicious. His mind reeled. Why was Arcas here, his old rival, the man who’d once held a blade to Marek’s throat for “stealing” Rhia?

  Marek pushed back his shoulders in a long stretch, feigning stiffness in his lower back. As he did, he let his glance trip over the crowd, back to the stall.

  Arcas was surrounded by wooden carvings. A sign read Custom Designs, from what Marek could tell. The Spider looked at the other side of the street. Marek followed his gaze.

  Basha.

  His mind made the connection with a sudden spark.

  “Your order!”

  One of his guards jabbed him in the back. He turned to the fried-bread stall, where the vendor was glaring at him. “Hurry up,” she snarled. “There’s people waiting.”

  He stepped forward and ordered as Basha had instructed, one for her and one for himself. His stomach twisted again, but from excitement now instead of dread.

  He and the guards found Basha, who was contemplating the purchase of a new decorative plant.

  “There you are,” she said. “I thought I’d have to call the police.”

  “My apologies, Your Honor.” Marek handed her the fried bread. “There was a long line.”

  “Yes, it’s dreadful how they let anyone come to these festivals. You’d think they’d have a special day for the worthwhile families to attend without having to mingle with the rabble. Maybe we should pass a law to that effect.” She turned away from the plant, apparently forgetting it in the excitement of a new policy initiative.

  “Your Honor.” Marek tried not to sound too eager. “There’s an artist whose wares you might like to see.”

  “Hmm?” She gave him a distracted glance. “What kind of artist?”

  “From Asermos. He makes carvings like the ones you have in your living room.” Marek took a calculated risk. “But these are better.”

  “What?” Her voice went shrill. “Impossible. Show me.”

  They went to Arcas’s stall. The Spider was the only person within the shade of the small tent. He displayed an ingratiating smile at their approach.