She was pitiful, with none of the strength and sparkling Power and confidence of the other Exotiques. He clenched his jaw. Why was he the person who had to deal with this?
Because you live by the sea.
Wonderful. He ground his teeth. She smelled, too, not awful, just…odd. Brine, woman, Exotique. His grip loosened. Whatever she was, she was ill. Could it be the frinkweed sickness? The thought stopped his breath.
The Dark has not touched her, Starflower said.
Faucon gazed at the flying horse.
Starflower sidled. I would know. We all knew when Bri was touched.
“Hmm,” he said.
The woman moaned, began to shiver. She was too thin, and so was what she wore. He could see her ribs, more dark marks against her fair skin. “Merde!”
She flinched, drew in a shuddering breath and struck out. He thought she meant it for his eye. He ducked. She clipped him on the ear and it stung. She struggled again.
“Quiet!”
She didn’t listen, raked his cheek with short, broken nails encrusted with who knew what. He spun her around, trapped her arms to her body. “Easy,” he soothed, trying to keep exasperation out of his voice, his Song. He had not handled this right. She was sick. She was frightened. And what in the pit of the Dark was she doing in such a state?
The Seamasters had botched their Summoning at midwinter. They hadn’t even known they’d succeeded in bringing an Exotique over.
When he’d heard they’d tried a Summoning, he should have sent searchers around Seamasters’ Market, but hadn’t. No one had. Everyone had believed the Seamasters when they said they’d failed.
Error upon error upon error.
She stood still for a moment, then twisted. Her heels struck back, but his boots were thick.
He freed her. She stumbled away, not looking at him, avoiding Starflower, too.
He followed. “I’m Faucon Creusse, a noble and Chevalier.”
She said nothing, shambled faster. She didn’t move with the grace of the other Exotiques. Could he be wrong? Perhaps she was a woman from a different land, unusual, but not unknown. His estate was in the south, after all, near Krache, and Song knew all sorts landed and stayed in Krache.
“I want to help you.”
She snuffled, kept staggering away. You lie.
Faucon winced.
“You all lie.” She had a certain tone in her voice that made him think of Alexa. Stopping, he concentrated on her Song. That was strong, held notes of Power, rhythms associated with the sea. But her melody was missing several beats, or he couldn’t hear them. His heart squeezed. They always got to his heart first—why was that? Why couldn’t this attraction go straight to his groin so he could shove it aside, or satisfy it as easily as Elizabeth had done.
He strolled behind the woman. He didn’t want to be here, do this, know her. “I feel obligated to help you. That’s the truth. I will not go away, Exotique.”
She made a keening noise and wrapped her arms around herself and picked up her pitiful pace. “You will kill me. You are like the others who hate me and will kill me.”
He stopped. Exotique, yes. Which meant that some were innately repulsed as well as attracted. He hadn’t thought about that much. Luthan was the only one Faucon knew who had the affliction, and Luthan was the most honorable man on Amee.
Bruises on her skin, anger sparked inside him. No matter who she was, she did not deserve that. He caught up with her. Stuck his hands in his pockets, kept pace on her right, with the sea to their left. It was easy to match steps with her. Like all Exotiques, she was smaller than he, shorter. Marian was the tallest, the most voluptuous, and this woman didn’t have her height, was perhaps as tall as Elizabeth had been. In far worse shape. Faucon didn’t know how much weight she usually carried, but she was skin and bones now.
“I am Faucon Creusse, a Chevalier,” he said again mildly. He gestured to Starflower, who was munching seagrass. The volaran ignored him. “Don’t you know of Chevaliers?”
“Not much.”
“You came in midwinter, Summoned by the Seamasters. They didn’t want to pay zhiv to the Marshalls to bring you through the Dimensional Corridor properly. The Seamasters thought they failed and said nothing.”
She just kept walking, though he sensed she listened.
“Am I right? How long have you been here?” he demanded. “How did you come?”
She flinched.
This time his sigh came out like a sigh. “We are walking north. Tell me where you want to go and I will take you.”
Her hands curved into claws. Faucon took a pace away, gave her more room, let her feel less threatened. They walked for a couple of moments in silence. She snuck quick glances from under matted and ragged hair. He kept his hands in his pockets.
“I fell through a mirror,” she mumbled.
That gave him pause. The Singer, again. Maybe. Koz had told him the Singer practiced mirror magic. The thought of Koz made Faucon smile. Just the man to win this one. “Come with me,” he soothed. “I promise you food and a warm bed and safety.”
Tears dribbled down her face. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “I can’t leave the sea.”
“I have a dock house.” A fancy to protect his yacht. “Or you can sleep on the yacht.”
“Yacht?”
“It’s a large boat of—”
“I know what a yacht is. I design ships.”
It all fell together in his mind like rippling chimes. The assault against the Dark would need a special ship to carry Marshalls and Chevaliers and volarans. Amee had seen to that, had prodded the Seamasters’ pride to Summon this woman.
He shook his head. The how didn’t matter as much as the fact that she was needed here. In Lladrana. A true Exotique. And his charge. Again he felt the tug of his blood toward her.
He set his jaw. Not this time.
It took him a long while, until the moon began setting, disappearing behind the ocean waves, before he could convince Raine—her name was Raine Lindley—to fly with him.
And though he’d tried to project an ease at that flight, he thought he’d dream of flying double with a novice without tack over the open sea forever.
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Thrills ran up and down Raine’s spine as she watched the waves under them during the lovely flight across the sea. The volaran felt solid and comforting. Sang somehow in Raine’s mind. Or maybe Raine heard a Song from her. That happened to her now and then—she heard Songs.
She thought it happened to Lladranans more often, another reason she’d been considered lacking.
The sexy noble Chevalier didn’t like her. Fine by Raine, especially since she’d spent a little time in his gruff and irritated company and he hadn’t hurt her. He wasn’t like Travys.
She didn’t know how much she could trust him, but him helping her while he was irritated was a good sign. As if he was an honorable man. Honorable. It wasn’t something she’d thought about on Earth. There she might have called him a decent guy.
Perspectives changed.
An honorable man was a treasure.
The large setting moon was orange and gleamed in the sea. They called it a sea and not an ocean, and spoke of many islands, but she hadn’t seen a map. She fell into a half-sleep and images of a ship sailing an ocean flitted through her mind. It would have to be a big ship, she knew that. To carry….
The tiny jolt of their landing, and the man’s arms behind her falling away, taking warmth, roused her. She blinked at him as he stood next to the volaran. A sheen of sweat showed on his face, and she became aware of his masculine scent.
Blossom arched her neck and whuffled at his hair. Well done.
Raine thought so, too. She stroked Blossom’s neck and shoulders. “Merci, Blossom.”
“Blossom,” the guy muttered.
He grabbed Raine by the waist and swung her up into his arms with a matter-of-factness that spoke of expediency and no romantic urge. He turned around and Raine caught her breath at the beau
ty of the yacht at the end of a sturdy well-kept dock. The ship was painted white and pristine, its lines sleek and eminently seaworthy. She could improve on the design a little to make it faster…
Faucon grunted. “Get the door, please.”
Raine was craning her neck to keep the boat in view and the door to a cottage was before her. She reached down and turned the knob. As they walked in, lights came on and she found herself blinking again. “How did that happen?”
Raising his brows, he touched his temple, which showed a streak of silver. “Power,” he said, and she knew that meant “magic.” She swallowed. She wasn’t with the fisherfolk anymore, and concepts she’d heard of—“streaks of Power,” “Power at both temples,” “just a few hairs of Power” suddenly made sense.
Eyeing her, he said, “There’s a fresh-water bath over there.” He gestured to the right. “I hope this suits you.”
She was dazzled. The wooden floors were clean and polished to a gleam. There were chairs with cushions! Knit throws, rag rugs. “Merci.”
“I’ll take care of Starflower.”
“Who?”
Me, whinnied Blossom. That’s what they called me.
“Oh,” Raine said. “Blossom Greeting the Spring Wind. Blossom.”
“Ayes,” he said shortly. His bow was just as brusque. “Catch up on your sleep. You look like you need to. Sleep late. I intend to do so.”
Translated, she looked like hell and he didn’t want to be bothered with her in the morning.
“There should be food in the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll talk to my housekeeper and confirm, and will send down more supplies tomorrow.” He gave her the once-over again. “Clothes. We must have something to fit you. There should be bathrobes in the closet. Good night.” Then he was gone, striding out of view.
Raine went to the threshold and looked to her right, inland, and not to the ship across the dock and to her left. Her mouth fell open as she saw lights from the huge bulk of a looming Castle, a black shadow against the night sky.
Then she stepped back into the cottage and closed the door. There was only one flimsy lock. The nobleman didn’t think anyone would violate his property. Raine shrugged and locked it, headed to the bathroom, opened that door to see a large turquoise rectangular tub sunk into the ground with a wooden ledge. Another wisp of old conversation came to mind, “them nobles take their bathing serious like.” She guessed so. How glad she was to see that!
She turned on the faucets, moaned when hot water poured through the brass. Tears leaked from her eyes. She wiped her running nose with a corner of her apron that she ripped from her. The fabric gave all too easily, as did the rest of her clothes. Rags. All of them. She’d never have to wear them again.
She bathed and shuddered with weeping. Hope filled her.
Faucon strode to his Castle from the boathouse, muttering under his breath about strange women, then actually listened to himself. This is what happened when you got deeply involved with Exotiques. He’d noticed it before in their men. They talked to themselves. Sometimes not even in Lladranan. Once he’d yearned, then enjoyed being a part of that exclusive group. No more.
No more, indeed. There was another Exotique sitting down there in his boathouse, and he was responsible for her. He stopped grumbling and clenched his jaw instead. He hated that he had a sick and confused Exotique on his hands. Hated that his body reacted to her, hated that he more than pitied her. He respected her for her grit and determination. She must be tough to survive in the dock-towns for months as an alien.
When he reached his home, he left instructions with the night captain for his housekeeper to provide food and clothing for the Exotique during the day and his medica to see her. Perhaps he should leave that to Bri. He sent a quick search for a Song.
Jaquar wasn’t at the Castle, and Sevair…damn himself for a coward, but Faucon didn’t want to contact Sevair or Bri yet.
Tomorrow.
He sank into a well-padded leather easy chair and rubbed his hands over his face. There was much to do. Informing everyone of a new Exotique meant dealing with the Marshalls and the Chevaliers in a council meeting. That might be best. He could imagine the ructions of the other Exotiques when they discovered one of their own had been misused.
Confronting the Seamasters about a Summoning that had gone terribly wrong. How much did they know of their lost Exotique? Would they seek to claim her? Harm her? They certainly hadn’t protected her.
Dealing with the sick Exotique herself. Yes, he’d have to contact Bri first thing in the morning.
That recalled him to her task, to build a ship. He wrote another note for his housekeeper to have a drafting table, tools, paper and parchment sent down to the cottage.
Exhaustion settled on him and he welcomed it. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Tonight, with all the surprises of the day, should be better. His eyelids went closed and his muscles felt heavy, so he let himself slip into memory-dulling sleep.
Travys rocked to his hands and knees. Shook his pounding, painful head. Rain splattered against the wood of the pier above him, swept in on the night breeze and smacked him with cold drops. Staggering to his feet, he leaned against the piling of the pier and touched his head. Felt blood.
Rage surged through him and he trembled with it. Bared his teeth. The fucking bitch had tried to kill him. Then his violent anger turned to glee. Now he could kill her. No one could deny him. His hands flexed and fisted, released.
He could taste the pleasure of beating her to death. She’d pay for what she’d done to him. For what she was, a half-breed, half-wit. He’d squeeze the life from her throat, silence that strangely pitched atonal Song that nearly drove him mad. No, strangling her was too fast. Too easy.
He’d break every bone in her body and enjoy her pain, see it in her eyes, listen to her beg. Ah. Ayes.
His head came up and he sniffed the air, tested the tavern above him. It was full of people but not one of them was pot-girl. Slowly he turned, and caught her scent.
North. She’d gone north, perhaps even over the bay. He shrugged, working kinks from his shoulders. He knew people who’d lend him a boat to cross the water. When he stepped from the pier, the rain stopped. A good sign.
Raine woke in dawn’s gray light, and knew at once where she was. That nobleman’s dockhouse. Her body sunk in a soft feather bed, a down comforter of silk so fine that it caught on the ragged cracks of her rough hands when she tried to pull it up. The linens smelled good. She smelled good.
She’d had a bath, used fluffy towels to dry and stumbled into this wonderful bed. She stretched luxuriously. Warm. Finally warm.
Testing her sickness, her inner compass told her she was on land, next to the sea, as she’d remembered. All right, then.
Compared to the past six months, she was downright fabulous. Her body ached with bruises and unaccustomed walking—flying!—the day before, but she wasn’t curled and cramped in a corner of the Open Mouthed Fish under a tattered blanket. She wasn’t expected to get up right now and do another cleaning of the kitchen and the taproom. That in itself was sheer luxury.
She let her muscles loosen and didn’t wake again until there was a knock on the bedroom door. This time memory was a little slow, as if she’d slept too well or too long. She was used to no privacy and noise around her all the time.
The door opened and a solid, middle-aged woman came in carrying a pile of folded clothes. Raine’s eyes widened. She knew Lladranans loved colorful clothes, but the people she’d lived among had only worn color for feast days. These clothes were bright. The woman herself wore a blinding red dress over an orange underskirt of a quality Raine had never seen on Lladrana.
She dipped a curtsey to Raine. “Salutations. I’m Lydia, the Creusse housekeeper.” Then said over her shoulder, “Bring breakfast for the Exotique.”
“Salutations,” Raine croaked. “I’m Raine Lindley.”
The housekeeper nodded, but curiosity lit her eyes. “We won’t stay long, or bother y
ou while you work. Here are some clothes. We’ve stocked the kitchen, and the men have arranged the drafting table and instruments in the living room. Is that acceptable?” She eyed Raine and laid out a tunic and skirt of blue, put the rest of the clothes in a wardrobe.
“Urgh,” Raine said, scrunching back until she was supported by the headboard, pulling the covers to her chin. She focused on the rapid Lladranan in a different accent. So people had been speaking slowly to her. Well, hell. She was less ready to be out in the world beyond the Open Mouthed Fish than she’d thought. Try to catch up, woman!
“Drafting table?” she murmured.
“For the ship.” The housekeeper’s mouth pursed in disapproval. “That was all I was informed of. That you were here and would be designing The Ship that will take the invasion force to the Dark’s nest.”
She was a lot more informed than Raine. Several of those concepts had just whizzed right by her. Invasion force. Dark’s nest. “Um, Faucon,” she said.
The housekeeper’s face softened. “He’s had it rough lately. That Elizabeth and Snap of your land weren’t good for him.” Her voice was accusatory, her Song sharpened. “Reminds me.” She waved and two other women came in. Maids, Raine guessed, but they were as far above her as a pot girl as the moon was the Earth. Dressed well, walked gracefully, fine hair and skin and hands. One brought in a tray of eggs and toast with strips of bacon that had Raine’s mouth watering. The other held a stack of three books.
“Here,” Lydia shook out what looked like a bed-jacket garment like Raine’s Granny Fran had once used. It was bright red and smelled of lavender. With competent movements that managed to preserve Raine’s modesty, the housekeeper tucked her into it. Talk about efficient.
“Breakfast.” She took the tray from the maid and placed it on Raine’s lap. “We’ll leave you now, but if you have any wishes, just use the horn.” She bustled back out with the wide-eyed maids before Raine could find words, but not before her stomach gave a serious rumble.
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