The Twilight herald tr-2

by Tom Lloyd

  'She won't see that?'

  'I don't know what she'll see.' Vesna hung his head. 'But if it disgusts me, how could she feel any different?'

  'Don't know all you did, but-' Tael paused to catch his breath.

  Vesna almost told the sergeant to save his strength before wonder¬ing what he would be saving it for – a handful more heartbeats? Was that worth giving up on life early?

  'Bet lots o' men like me would thank you,' Tael wheezed, wincing as he fought for each word. 'Whatever you did, bet it gave 'em time t'see their children grow. Give yourself the same time.'

  Vesna felt his chest tighten in sympathy, breathing becoming a sudden effort, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the sergeant, an ageing forester who had come here with nothing to gain and found only a chunk of steel, driven into his gut, taking everything he had left. The far-off voices of his soldiers washed over him as he felt Tael's life slipping through his grasp. Only the image of Tila's smile remained clear in his mind; the bite of the brandy at the back of his throat and the cold smell of the blood and mud faded into the background as Vesna sat staring at the body in his arms, waiting for answers that failed to come.

  CHAPTER 15

  Through the haze of an ancient memory she saw his face again, fixed on some distant trouble, while she slept. His stern beauty was frighten-ing, almost alien when not smoothed into a smile. She looked down at the hand he was propping himself up on the bed with, so close to her bare belly that she could feel the tiny glow of heat radiating from his skin.

  She reached out and ran a finger softly down the back of his hand, watching the emotions wash over his face as contemplation was overcome by surprise and surprise surrendered at last to pleasure. She smiled at him – he was ever wary, alert, when on campaign, constantly listening for the enemy, or reaching out into the air to detect any traces of magic drifting on the winds.

  She was young, and smitten with the languid beauty of the shin¬ing king, but she was utterly at ease here in his tent, guarded by the cream of the Dragonguard. Their mission was to map in detail the very north of their borders, and trap whatever great beasts they could before they declared all-out war with the remaining tribes of men: an easy mission, little more than an extended springtime hunting trip that afforded them the privilege of distance from the queen and the two princes.

  Their eyes met, then their lips. His smooth fingertips on her thigh, circling her kneecap and trickling down towards her toe. A voice came from outside the tent, words too distant for her to hear, but she fell the canvas roll underneath her as her lover rose and left the bed. She watched his stooped, slender frame struggle to pull on his riding clothes and buckle Eolis to his waist.

  She reached out to slide her fingers through his, intent on calling him hack to bed for one last kiss, but as she tried to call his name her throat dried. Something caught her tongue, and the breath in her lungs faded, leaving the words hovering in her mind. She froze, feeling a sense of horror creep down the nape of her neck, unable to even scream.

  The image faded as the tent's close walls turned grey and became a dark and troubled sky. She looked around and saw the spilt blood, the ruined bodies and furrowed earth. She herself was on her knees, her hands manacled behind her back and the fire of open wounds on her body. A sword had scraped down her skull and ruined her helm. A lance of flame had hit her arm and thrown her from her horse. She was flanked by her brothers; one was wheezing through a ruined lung, the other was shivering in fear, trying to shake off the blood running freely over his eye. The bones of his ankle jutted out through the skin. She watched in disbelief as a silver corpse, stiff, cumbersome in death, was dragged to the crest of the hill. It seemed an insult to the hypnotic grace that Aryn Bwr had been so lauded for.

  Now he was dead, nothing but a filthy shell. They could visit no further indignities on him – or so she thought until the voices began to echo out over the plain. Up above, the air shimmered, reverberat¬ing with each syllable. The eight voices, haunted by the loss of their kin and the exertions of a battle that had weakened them nearly to oblivion, swept down to where she knelt. Her ruined body rocked back at the spoken fury that was building into a crescendo of retribu¬tion. There was nothing more they could do, not to the dead – and yet they found a way.

  At last the tears came, not for the defeat and humiliation, nor for the hurt done to her, nor fear of whatever judgment was to come. She cried for the king she worshipped, the lover she was devoted to for all time. And yet his name faded from her mind, the letters carved into her heart no longer intelligible. When the Gods were finished with the corpse and had tossed it into a festering pit, his name had vanished, gone from her heart, gone from the minds of those who had accompanied him for a hundred years, rent from history.

  A distant knocking broke Zhia's sleep. Her eyes opened to a new Land, one changed in every way to that time before the war. It helped ease the ache in her heart to think of it as a different place, a differ¬ent world. The loss was a memory she had learned to live with, one for the private moments of her dreams, but rigorously denied even a minute of her waking life. That world was gone, and yearning for its return would do her no good at all.

  She yawned and stretched her slim frame, questing down the bed with her toes until they touched the footboard and pushed into the groove cut a few inches from its base. She forced away the later part of the dream by focusing on the happiness of what had gone before, something she had learned to do many years back, the only way to quell the pain enough to be able to carry on. Exercises of the mind soothed and transferred her attention to happier subjects: remember¬ing the feel of his skin on hers, so unlike the touch of a human, the cadence of his voice that had captured her heart the very first moment she heard it, and the feel of his breath on her ear as he whispered to her in the night. She'd almost been frozen with shock when she first saw Lord Isak wearing that armour, killing so smoothly and efficiently. It had felt as if her heart had been torn open for a moment, and all that buried loss flooded back afresh.

  She had a few minutes yet before Panro would come to wake her, and Zhia felt a comforted smile creep onto her lips as she recalled the brush of Aryn Bwr's lips on her belly. Despite the intervening years, her mortal life remained bright and clear in her memory and she had no problem remembering that. She slid her palms between the cool linen sheets until her arms were stretched out and her body was spread like a virgin sacrifice.

  The room was almost completely dark, the shutters on the windows screwed shut each morning before dawn. It made the room stuffy in the relentless afternoon sun, but Panro aired it well each morning before she went to sleep. It was a small enough inconvenience when compared to the alternative.

  A discreet rap on the door heralded Panro's arrival. The tall man entered and walked to the side of the bed. Zhia hadn't bothered to move; he was alone. She listened to his footsteps, trying to detect his mood. Her powerfully built manservant had a peculiarly dainty manner of walking, treading softly, taking great care over each step. Today, detecting nothing unusual in the neat patter, she assumed his mood was as placid as usual.

  'Coffins,' she declared, rolling over in bed as he placed her chilled tea on the bedside table. In his hand was a candlestick that he used to light the lamp beside her bed. Her smile widened.

  Cffins, Mistress?'

  'Coffins,' she confirmed, nodding with mock emphasis. A long curl of hair fell over her face. 'Why do people think we sleep in them? They're small, and hardly comfortable.'

  'You told me your spirit would return to your tomb when your body died, that only there would you regenerate,' Panro reminded her as he swept the curl away with one deft finger.

  Zhia ignored what might be considered impertinence in a servant; her hold over him was magical, so he couldn't be blamed for the love he held for her – and a man's touch, however slight, was delightful, particularly after her dreams of Aryn Bwr. She stretched again, and said, 'But that's when I die. Why would I want to spend every damn day i
n a coffin when this bed is just so deliciously comfortable? Waking up like this is one of the few pleasures I have left.' She grimaced and added, 'It takes a few foggy moments before the years catch up with me, and for that I am inordinately grateful. I would be utterly miser-able if I had to wake in a coffin instead.'

  'Yes, Mistress.'

  Zhia gave him a coquettish smile. When one awoke in a mood this good, there really was only one thing to do – but first, she should check on who was waiting downstairs. 'Who have we for this evening, then?' she asked.

  'Mistress Legana and Mis- the woman Haipar have come, with a nobleman they called Aras.' Haipar had made it plain she didn't want the usual honorific, and Panro, a stickler for the correct forms, heartily disapproved.

  Zhia gave a groan. 'Ah, Count Lurip Aras. A pretty little man, but dear me, he is dull. Unfortunately, he is also rather useful to me, and one of the few decent soldiers this city has, so an enchantment of bonding was well worth the effort. I assigned Teviaq to his command staff, thinking any daughter of that morose bitch Amavoq might teach him the value of silence, but I think it's only encouraged him.' She brought her hands up behind her head and looked Panro up and down. Her manservant had an athletic frame and towered over her, but she had always preferred men far larger than herself. It's probably Aryn Bwr's fault, she thought with a grin. After all, most things were.

  She pursed her lips and blew softly at the sheet covering her. Only a shred of magic was needed to make it slither over her body to the fool of the bed, leaving her naked, exposed to the lamplight. She glanced down, admiring her smoothly tinted flesh; the previous night she had

  succumbed to the latest fashion; bathing in rustroot-infused water had stained her skin the colour of a true Fysthrail woman (though there were few enough of those about in Scree), instead of her normal deathly pallor. The effect greatly amused her.

  It obviously had an effect on Panro too, for his rapt gaze was sending a tickle of delight down her spine. He appeared particularly entranced by the curve of her buttocks, so she shifted position a little, the better to enhance his view, and smoothed a slender hand up her thigh. A pert rosy nipple was just visible as she turned towards him.

  As a slight gasp escaped his lips, she reached up to take his hand and pull him towards her, whispering, 'Well then? I wouldn't want to keep my guests waiting long.'

  'Ladies, my dear Aras, I do apologise,' Zhia called as she swept down the broad staircase that faced the open entrance to her reception room. She was clad in a flowing white dress, with elbow-length gloves, and an evening stole draped over one arm. The house was of the classical design – wide, open rooms, narrow windows running from floor to ceiling – and Zhia thought it suited her perfectly, for she too was 'classical': ancient, yet still beautiful, and very desirable.

  Her guests rose to their feet as she swept in. She took note of the contrast in clothing: the count was immaculately turned out, his ash-blond hair fashionably loose about his shoulders, while Haipar, her usual linen shirt dirtier than usual, had clearly spent the day in the field. Legana trod the middle ground, for her tunic, though finely tailored, was also stained. She had heeded some of Zhia's advice, for she had obviously attended to her hair and make-up before returning to (he city. Honestly, Zhia thought, Lesarl is a fool at times. He sees a beautiful woman and simply assumes she's capable of infiltrating any organisation by blinding them with her looks.

  'Mistress Ostia, you look ravishing as always,' Aras oozed, earning a blushing smile from the vampire. Her bonding enchantment ensured slavish devotion, but not mindless thrall, which would have rendered him useless to her.

  'You look a different colour, at any rate,' Legana commented, trying to stifle a smirk. Zhia had promised to teach her to blush or cry on demand; she claimed few things turned a man's mind like the blush ol a beautiful woman.

  'I know. I thought I would give the gossips something to wonder about,' Zhia said as she held out her hand for Aras to kiss. 'I'm hoping Siala will take this as a reminder of the Circle's earliest traditions; she's foolish enough to be distracted by such matters.'

  'I thought you'd been impressed by her,' Legana said. 'She appears competent enough whenever I've spoken to her.'

  'My dear, your benchmark has been set by Farlan spies – perfectly competent at whatever Chief Steward Lesarl sends them off to do, I have no doubt, but you must agree that they lack sophistication.'

  Legana scowled. Zhia had several times chastised her lack of educa¬tion and her quickness to violence.

  'Siala differs from you, Legana,' Zhia continued, ignoring the girl's colouring cheeks, 'because she is intelligent and educated, but she is unable to use that properly. You have not had the correct instruction, but since you've come under my wing you've responded admirably. By the time you reach Siala's age, I will have made a queen of you. Siala is what one hopes for in an opponent, intellect without imagination, but I will not accept that from my allies.'

  She bade her visitors be seated again, and settled herself on a chaise longue, arranging her skirts decorously around her. She nodded for Haipar to begin her evening report.

  The shapeshifter wiped the smile from her face and cleared her throat. 'We have received the weekly reports from the legions, but there's nothing of particular interest. The training programmes are running well, but they're far from battle-ready. One colonel has ad¬mitted seeing the benefits of merging mercenary companies with our recruits.'

  'And the others?'

  Haipar grinned. 'The others are still bitching about it, of course – I believe the words "affront to our honour" have been mentioned several times.'

  'Madam,' Aras interrupted, almost spluttering in indignation, 'your orders are gravely insulting to a military man – you force the city's finest to stand alongside common mercenaries, men who will hire their swords to the highest paymaster without considering the wrong or right of it, and you place savages on the command staff, where they give orders to noblemen!'

  Ah yes, how are the Raylin settling in to their new roles?' As she spoke, Zhia allowed a trickle of magic to slide over her fingers to In-certain the enchantment on the count still held. There were so many mages and spies around that she would have been foolish to simply assume he was still hers – and Zhia Vukotic was not a fool.

  Haipar chuckled. 'It rather depends on who you're talking about. My companions are greatly enjoying themselves – Tachos Ironskin was a ranking soldier in the Chetse army anyway, and my friend Matak Snakefang has thrown off his usual surliness to become the consummate general. As for the others, some are less encouraging. Veren's Staff is causing chaos by forcing every religious observance he can think of onto the men. Apparently he called a halt to manoeuvres yesterday and made four thousand men perform the devotionals!'

  Haipar couldn't stop laughing when she saw Zhia's expression.

  Exasperated, Legana broke in, saying, 'Bane hasn't yet grasped your orders. He's with the Second Army, but he spends his days wandering the camp in a daze. His single accomplishment has been to execute a soldier he believed to be a vampire. On the training ground. At midday. Under the sun.'

  'Don't underestimate either of them,' said Zhia softly. 'They're both quite mad, but their value on the field will be great. Ironskin is happy with the training, I trust?'

  'Hah, Ironskin is,' Legana scoffed. 'The colonel commanding him is less so. Apparently he has restructured the entire army into Chetse battle-order… without actually mentioning that fact to his com¬mander. There has been no talk of duels yet, but I have no doubt they're trying to find a way to murder him. Do you want me to step in?' Legana's position in the army structure was indeterminate, but she was a potential Circle member, and Ostia's aide, so the officers assumed she was in effect Siala's voice, and thus obeyed her orders without question.

  'No, Tachos Ironskin knows war better than most, in this city or elsewhere, so he can do as he sees fit. A phalanx requires intense training, and if he can provide it in a matter of weeks, I will be delig
hted.' Zhia smiled. 'I can't believe they'll manage to kill him, and it does a Raylin good to be kept on his toes; they're a quarrelsome breed and a good conspiracy will stop him starting any other trouble. If you find anyone running a book on the matter, do back him on my behalf.'

  'The others are happy enough by Raylin standards and causing no real trouble yet. As for the Third Army,' Legana said, 'I really can't say. We're kept well away from them. Siala has the Fysthrall troops under total control, though she's brought more into the city these past few days.'

  Zhia was far from surprised. 'She knows I have control over the city guards now. I was expecting her to boost her strength within the city. She will want to test her authority, so make sure the guards do nothing to antagonise the Fysthrall – they must back away from any conflict. Have any that don't obey flogged.'

  'She is paranoid about assassins,' Legana added. 'For some reason she suspects the city has been overrun with foreign agents, all looking to kill her.'

  Zhia gave the Farlan assassin a stern look. 'In that case we should keep an eye open.' She looked thoughtful for a moment. 'But this might be a useful distraction. I shall get one of the Jester acolytes to make the threat appear real. They are skilled enough to narrowly fail, and playing the assailed sovereign will keep Siala busy.'

  The Jesters, the sons of Death, made their home in the deepest part of the Elven Waste where they were worshipped as Gods by the local tribes. They demanded martial excellence from their followers, very like the original Raylin. Zhia had secured the services of six of their acolytes, half-brothers, sons of some chieftain. She spent most evenings walking the night streets with them. They were skilled and loyal warriors, and perfect for the more delicate spying missions.