The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  “Donna, charisha—non, non, non.” Timothy pulled his lover’s face up and kissed him soundly on the mouth. “Hush. Hush. Hush, quiera.”

  The word was out before he could stop it, but once it was, Timothy went still, hearing the echo inside his head.

  Charles smiled against Timothy’s lips. “That’s lovely, that word. Will you say it again?”

  Timothy shut his eyes, feeling dizzy. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t realize what I said. It doesn’t matter.

  I know. I know what I just said, and what it means.

  “Quiera,” he said again, so soft it was like a kiss. “Quiera.”

  Every utterance of it seemed to bring Charles more peace, even as it made Timothy more unsettled. “It’s beautiful,” Charles said. “What does it mean?”

  “Complicated.” Timothy swallowed hard, opening his mouth to try and take in more air. “It’s a…magic word.”

  “Catalians don’t have magic words,” Charles reminded him.

  “Just one. Just that one.” Timothy kissed him again to stop his mouth. “Touch me. Put your mouth on me again. Make love to me.”

  “Say the word again.” Charles’s mouth was trailing down his cheek, over his chin, but he was moving slowly, teasing him. “Say that word. Qu…quair-ah.”

  Timothy clutched Charles’s shoulders and tried to push him down. Don’t. Just fuck me, like you said. Don’t do this to me.

  But Charles was tender, not rough. “Being with you feels like that moment in the dream.” He placed tender kisses on Timothy’s collarbone. “I shouldn’t say that. My chest feels tight when I think about it, because why would you think of me that way, and there it will be again, that light, that hope, seen, then gone again. But when you say that word—” He pressed his forehead against Timothy’s chest, his shoulders sagging. “In the dream, I saw the Goddess and thought if I could be with her, she could make me happy. I knew she could. But you… Goddess bless, Timothy, I hear that word and I want you, because when you say it, I can see…”

  Timothy gave up and slid his fingers down through Charles’s hair. “Yourself, quiera. You see yourself.”

  “Yes,” Charles whispered and clutched at him. “Say it. Please. Say it again.”

  Timothy did. He said it over and over again, a litany as Charles trailed his mouth and hands down Timothy’s body. Passive, he thought fleetingly, abstractly as he kept up his chant. I have never been so passive. He felt like the earth, flat and open and vulnerable, unable to move, unable to stop his invader, but he did not mind, because his lover was so gentle, so strong. Honor. There was love, and there was honor here.

  It hurt. But so long as Charles kept touching him, he thought he might survive.

  When Charles lifted his head and put his hips where his head had been, when he lifted Timothy’s legs and held him up by his hands as he opened him, Timothy went gladly, thinking again of the earth, of the mountains opening for the river, for the sun to stream between them, for the air to pass through the gap, to be filled. When Charles moved inside him, he arched to meet him; he could not speak any longer, but he didn’t need to. The words, the drug, the strange magic of this stranger night spun around them and took them somewhere else, somewhere beautiful and soft, to a garden no men or fire or stones could ever destroy.

  And he saw her appear, gold this time, hovering over him, her tears like diamond shining behind her veil.

  “No,” he whispered, trying to bat her away. “Not now.” When Charles paused, Timothy opened his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t mean you.”

  Charles titled his head to the side and lifted an eyebrow. “Is there someone else making love to you I should know about?”

  She was still hovering there, above his head, and Timothy wanted very much to choke her for stopping the spell Charles’s lovemaking had cast. “The ghost,” he ground out, glaring at it. “I spoke of it earlier. It seems to have returned.”

  “This place is said to be full of ghosts,” Charles said. “The Old Ones. They are wraiths, haunted and lost.”

  “There is only one haunting me,” Timothy said. “She doesn’t look old. She isn’t lost; she’s a nuisance. And she hides behind a veil.”

  Charles’s grip on him faltered; he was staring down at Timothy with a strange expression on his face. “What does she look like?”

  “Tall as I am, though sometimes she seems like a giantess. Dark hair like the people of my country, and it comes in great curls all the way to her waist. A dress made of sheer fabric, like wind. And a veil. Always the veil. She was gold at the inn and blue in the tower, but here she is gold again.”

  Charles gripped Timothy’s hips tightly, pressing his own against him in excitement. “That is the woman from my dream. That is the Goddess.” His eyes went dark, his expression hooding in new passion. “Timothy—” He began to move, his hands tightening, holding Timothy still as he pushed deeper. “Timothy.”

  Timothy shut his eyes, gasping now as Charles’s thrusts turned into waves, rolling movements that seemed to touch the back of his throat, lighting up his spine and sending fire through his veins. But the ghost was there still, not speaking, just weeping and hovering. And finally Timothy could take no more.

  “Come,” he said silently and opened to her.

  She entered him, sliding into his mouth, and then the world went as gold as she was. He flew up into the stars, becoming as large as the cosmos, making every movement Charles made inside him an explosion, sending him even higher. He came, but he didn’t come with his body: it was as if in his orgasm, he drew the whole world inside him, every particle of it, until he was the world, and the world was him. He felt Charles’s pleasure building, felt it because Charles was in the world too, but he realized in that moment that Charles was, in fact, not wholly in the world. Not yet. When he came, when he came in this moment, in this place—when it happened—when it happened—

  Charles jerked, bucked, and cried out, but in pain, not pleasure.

  The world shattered.

  His body had never left, but when Timothy came back from those heights, he felt slammed, as if he had fallen from heaven onto the carpet again. His sex was hard and aching, and Charles was not inside him. Charles was lying on the floor, shaking, gasping, clutching his groin as he wept.

  “Stupid,” he whispered. “I’m so stupid.” He choked and pushed himself to his elbows, a line of saliva hanging from his lips as he retreated toward the couch, reaching for his clothes.

  Timothy tried to sit up, but he felt heavy. He thought again of being earth, but it was not beautiful now. “What is wrong?” He tried again to rise.

  Charles was stumbling into his trousers. He was pale, and he looked ill. “Spell. Some spell. So stupid. Why did I think he wouldn’t have a spell to stop me from coming? Why didn’t I think?” He looked at Timothy, his eyes full of terror. “And what has it done to you? What have I done to you?”

  Once again Timothy tried to rise. At best he could get to his elbows. He tried not to show his panic. He failed.

  Charles swore under his breath and reached for his shirt. “He will be coming. He will try to find you. And if he finds out you can see the Goddess—” He choked again, wiped at his face, then searched for his shoes.

  “Daghata,” Timothy said, rolling to his side and raising his hand. “Stay, charisha. Stay. We will sort this out. This is not logical.” But he felt the weight of his body, his heaviness, and he was cold with fear. “We need the witch. We must wait for the witch.”

  “No.” Charles shoved his foot into his boot. “I won’t let him find you. I won’t. I won’t let him touch you.”

  “Mitha!” Timothy hissed his rage through his teeth. “I am no delicate flower!”

  “I saw what he did to you at the inn.” Charles shoved on the other boot. “I saw how you fought him. No. I won’t let him find you. And he can’t find you without me.”

  He stood to go. Timothy tried once more to sit up, to roll over, to climb even to his knees, but he cou
ld not. He cried out in frustration and fell back to the carpet.

  “Don’t leave,” Timothy said when Charles bent down beside him. “Quiera. Non.”

  Charles kissed him hard on the mouth. “The Goddess is with you. She will protect you.” He rose.

  “I do not believe in your mathdu Goddess!” Timothy shouted.

  Charles smiled at him, a crooked, sad, but charming smile. “She seems to believe in you. I think that’s enough.” He reached for his jacket, his eyes wet. “I won’t let him find you.”

  “Don’t go,” Timothy cried. “Charles! Stop!”

  But he only shook his head, turned, then left.

  Timothy swore. He shouted. He pounded on the floor and clawed his way across the carpet until the heaviness became so great that he could not move. He lay, in fact, in the puddle of his own seed, in the place he had begun, and there, unable to do anything else, he shut his eyes and wept.

  * * *

  Timothy moved quickly into sleep and into a dream. He felt the Goddess leave his mouth, and she covered him like a blanket, holding him like a mother, whispering softly to him in her strange language. He dreamed he left the tower and floated back to the stars, and he dreamed he found Charles there, dressed all in white, smiling and strong, and Timothy went to him like a breath of air, kissing him, taking him inside again, finishing what they had begun, and then he took Charles in turn, pushing him into a cloud and claiming him with a mouth that was not a mouth, with arms that were not arms, and all the while the Goddess covered him, her long hair falling around their faces, closing them inside its fragrant curtain.

  He woke to cool hands against his face and a cup of hot tea at his lips.

  “Drink,” a gentle voice said. “Drink it down.”

  Timothy drank. And at once he could move.

  He sat up, blinking. He had a blanket over him, and he clutched it to his waist. He was cold, but the blanket was warm and soft. He blinked again, and the room came into focus.

  The witch was sitting beside him on the floor, holding an empty cup, watching him carefully.

  “Charles.” Timothy’s voice was rough, and it hurt to speak, but he did anyway. “Charles. He was here, and he left. The alchemist—He will hurt Charles—” He broke off, coughing.

  “The alchemist is dangerous,” the witch said. “He is more powerful than he should be. You were under his spell just now, and it took me several tries to wake you. The magic of the Craft is always stronger than that of an alchemist, but somehow he has changed this balance. And now he has marked you. You must not go near him, or you will be lost.”

  “Charles,” Timothy said again tightly.

  “I will help him,” the witch promised. But she looked weary. “I must return to my cottage and rest, but when I have recovered, I will find him and stop the alchemist. I promise you.”

  She climbed carefully to her feet, but Timothy could see she was unsteady. He rose to help, letting the blanket fall to the ground as he caught her elbow, steadying her.

  She put her hand on his arm in a quiet thanks, then shook her head. “I am fine. And you will be, as well. I have put a charm on the abbey; the alchemist cannot come here. Even he cannot break this spell. But now I am tired.” She stepped away from Timothy and rubbed her neck. “He is resting, but he is well. He will likely be full of energy when he wakes, but try to keep him quiet as long as you can. It would be best if you waited a few days to travel.”

  It took Timothy a moment to realize she was speaking of Jonathan, and the thought made him feel cold. How could he have forgotten him so completely? He shifted on his feet, and only then realized he was naked. He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you.” It seemed so inadequate. He bent down and grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around himself.

  Madeline was rubbing her temple now, her eyes closed. “When I was casting the protection spell, I saw movement. People are coming to the abbey. Stephen Perry, Jonathan’s youngest brother. Lord Whitby, his grandfather. Their intents are mixed and jumbled. But I cannot keep them out. Be wary.”

  “I will.” Timothy tightened the blanket on his waist. “Is there some way I can help you? Some way I can repay you?”

  She turned to look at him, and Timothy was struck by the pain and shadow he saw in her face.

  “Help him understand,” she said, almost whispering. “When he comes to find me and I am not there, help him to understand.”

  “But I do not understand,” Timothy said. Tell me, sad lady. Tell me why he will not find you.

  Her smile was black. “Lie. It will be easier on him than the truth.”

  Timothy opened his mouth to plead with her, but she had already turned her back to him and was halfway to the door. He watched her go, not sure what else to do. He stood there in silence for a long time once the door closed, still seeing the black despair on her face.

  Then he dropped the blanket, and he dressed. But he took the blanket with him when he went up the stairs, the coverlet folded over his arm, and he clutched at it as he opened the door to the bedroom where he had left Jonathan, his fingers curling into the softness as he went inside.

  Jonathan was asleep on the bed, his figure shadowy and dark in the dim morning light, but even in the semidarkness Timothy could see how drastically his friend had changed. His skin was not sickly and wet with sweat, to start. He looked sated, not half-dead. His scars were gone, every one of them, all but the thin line along his thigh, but it was pink and soft, not angry and red. He was no longer gaunt, either—it defied reason, but even some of his muscle tone had returned. He was still wiry and too thin, but he had a look of strength about him: real strength. It was a strength greater than Timothy had ever known in his Etsian friend.

  Jonathan was healed.

  Timothy sank into the chair beside the bed and stared. He did not understand. Everything was strange, surreal, impossible. Nothing was right. Nothing was familiar. He felt like a survivor of another war, except in his experience that had been peaceful and easy compared to this. This… He did not know what to do with this.

  He looked down at the blanket, realizing for the first time that he had not had it with him when he had fallen into sleep. As he studied it, noticing how white and clean it was, his fingers tracing the gold and blue threads that twined across it, forming the patterns of the katkha moor and others he did not know, symbols of circles and lines and crosses joined in different ways. He touched those patterns, and he was no longer shocked or frightened, just overwhelmed.

  And tired. He was very tired.

  He curled his legs onto the chair, rested his head against the back, wrapped the blanket around himself, and shut his eyes. He did not sleep and did not dream, just sat there, his mind swimming, his heart aching, his spirit tired and beaten, and he let the sight of what he had come for—his mira healed at last—soothe him into peace.

  * * *

  Emily woke in Stephen Perry’s embrace.

  She was lying in his lap, or across it rather, with her head pillowed against his middle, her body closed within the casual circle of his arms. Emily held very still, any morning chill evaporating in the heat from her embarrassment. She did not remember falling into sleep, but she knew she would have remembered moving into this position. At worst she might have put her head on his shoulder, perhaps put her hand on his arm, but nothing more.

  His hand stroked her back gently as if to rouse her. “Emily,” he whispered. “Emily, they’re here. The androghenie are back again.”

  She lifted her head and sat up. Blinking, she scanned the moor in the dim light of morning, the landscape far more visible now than it had been during the night. She saw them there, hovering on the ridge, the same four as the night before. They saw Emily and Stephen watching them, and they waved.

  Emily waved back. “It’s rare to be able to see them,” she said. “You are the first I have met who can, besides myself.”

  They watched the ghosts in silence for a few minutes. The sun was not visible in the sky, and
the air had the feel of rain, but the day brought a lightness that eased Emily’s heart.

  “When you said they were the children of the Lord and Lady,” Stephen said, still speaking quietly, “I thought you meant this way they looked, like shades, was the way they were born. But that doesn’t seem right, the more I think of it. And now I am thinking I heard you say at one point in your story that the androghenie died.”

  “They did,” Emily replied, just as softly. She kept her eyes on the ghosts. “I don’t know how they teach history in schools run by logic, but I assume you know that long before the Cloister Army left the fortresses in the east to conquer the Continent, they came here, to conquer Etsey.”

  “The First Invasion—yes, of course we study it. The Cloister Army denies it, but it’s ridiculous, as there is so much evidence. They came by ship along the eastern shore, but they shot much farther north of Boone than they had originally intended, giving the Etsian Army time to rout them, and because they landed in the bay, the navy was able to blockade and then sink them. If they’d come ashore even as little as one hundred miles south, they would likely have laid waste to the capital. As it was, historians think they did little more than burn villages and destroy a number of priestess sanctuaries. We were quite lucky.”

  “We were, perhaps, but the androghenie were not.” Emily nodded to the spires of the abbey, which were just now visible over the tops of the trees. “The Cloister Army did not march to Boone because they were too intent on marching here. By that time in history, all remaining androghenie had retreated here, and it was here the monks came. They tortured them, and they killed them. All of them. No matter what their age or station, no matter how they pleaded, no matter where they hid. The army destroyed them all, every last one of the androghenie.”

  For a long moment, Stephen said nothing. “What of the Houses? What of the ones who were supposed to protect them?”