by J. C.
Teesha found that when he gave a verbal order, she could not refuse him. Internally, she could despise him, fantasize about seeing him scorched in flames, and think whatever she pleased. But when he spoke, she could not stop herself from obeying. Neither could Rashed, Parko, or Ratboy—not that Rashed would have refused anyway. The tall, composed warrior seemed honestly loyal to his master. This revolted Teesha, as Rashed was clearly superior to Corische on every imaginable level.
Rashed taught her how to feed without killing, harmonizing the thrum of her voice to the exertion of her will, until the victim became pliable and docile.
When she asked Rashed why he cared so for mortals, that he did not wish to kill them, his reply was coldly practical.
"Even a heavily populated area like this one cannot support four of us recklessly. We must be careful or lose our home and our food supply."
She came to understand that their kind developed different levels of power. Rashed thought her mental abilities were quite pronounced. His own and Ratboy's were adequate. Parko couldn't express himself well enough for the others to gauge his abilities, yet his senses were highly acute, even beyond the average heightened senses of a Noble Dead, and he was a constant trial for Rashed to control. Corische's telepathic skills were so limited that Teesha sometimes wondered how he fed.
Most of the Noble Dead developed mental abilities, but these often were dependent on the individual's inclinations in life. Teesha had always loved dreams and memories, for her life had been filled with the best of them, and so she eventually found she could easily reach into the mind of a mortal and project sweet waking dreams and alter memories.
The first time Rashed took her hunting was a revelation. They rode his bay gelding together for a while and then dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. Slipping through the forest, she realized they were hiding in the shadows on the outskirts of her home village. A farmer came out of the tavern and stepped into the trees to relieve himself. Teesha recognized him. His name was Davish.
"Watch me," Rashed said. "This is important."
He stepped out of the shadows. "Are you lost?" he asked Davish.
The farmer started slightly at the sound of a strange voice, and then he looked in Rashed's eyes and seemed to relax into a kind of confusion. "Lost? I… ? I'm not sure."
"Come. I will help you home."
Davish appeared to be frightened, but not of Rashed. He kept looking around as if he should know where he was but did not. Rashed reached out as if to help him, but then gripped his arm, pulled him over, and wasted no time biting down on his throat. Teesha watched in fascination.
Rashed did not drink much and then pushed the dazed farmer toward her. "Feed, but not too much. You must not kill him. You'll be doing this on your own soon enough."
Teesha grabbed Davish and began feeding, unable to stop herself, and surprised by how right the act felt. She was not repulsed at all. Then she realized how delicious his blood tasted, how warm, how strong she felt. Pure pleasure seeped through her. She could not stop.
"That's enough." Rashed pulled her off. "Don't kill him." He laid Davish out on the ground and then used a knife to connect the holes made by his teeth, but he did this carefully and did not cut too deeply. He leaned close and whispered, "Forget."
"What did you do?" she asked.
"You simply reach inside their thoughts with your own. Force the fear, the moment, the emotion to fade."
And so she learned that Rashed was able to manipulate emotions, and able to create a blank space in his victim's memory. Teesha herself learned to create dreams and manipulate more complex memories.
Ratboy, on the other hand, hunted through his ability to blend. No one noticed him. No one remembered him. He did not hunt with finesse or by creating dreams, but he was able to feed by mentally intensifying his own innate ability to be forgotten. That was all.
Parko quite often killed his victims, but they were mainly peasants. As master of Gäestev Keep, Corische was responsible for looking into these deaths so, of course, little investigation took place.
Teesha hunted either alone or with Rashed. His forethought and consistently rational manner impressed her. He wasn't exactly predictable, which would have made him mundane, but rather, he was constant. His intelligent, calm nature was the only thing she could count on besides herself in this new existence.
Corische, on the other hand, exhibited mood swings she never learned to understand. One night, her choice of dress might please him, and on the next night, the same dress would disgust him and give him cause to humiliate her. The unwashed state of his armor and his yellow teeth sickened her. True hatred was a new emotion for Teesha, and because of this, she did not question how often it consumed her. She began to wonder about the nature of his control and to consider how she might be forced to obey her master and yet thwart him at the same time. Since she was only compelled to obey him when he gave a verbal order, a subtle approach seemed the only possibility. The answer took a month but was simple enough in the end.
She would become exactly what he claimed to want.
Half a year passed, and Teesha made only small changes at first. She took up fine needlepoint and hired a talented local woman to come three times per week for lessons. She asked Corische for money and ordered fine dresses in the styles that most often seemed to please him. And he began to smugly revel in her efforts.
Since her master was masquerading as a feudal lord, he could not completely ignore his duties. A good portion of land profits remained in his purse, so he collected rents and even occasionally sat in judgment over peasants who were accused of petty crimes. But in that first year, he had a new barracks built on the north side of the keep, and afterward forbade any of the soldiers to enter his home. A competent middle-aged soldier named Captain Smythe, along with Rashed, handled the typical workload required for overseeing a fiefdom with four villages.
One night, when Corische and Rashed were leaving to collect rents, Teesha watched Rashed lift the iron bar off the door. He was physically the strongest creature she had ever known, an immortal incarnation of bone and muscle. But she had also begun to see through his cold dispassion, catching him at times staring intently at one of her needleworks or the small items she'd ordered for the making of a proper noble household. Rashed hungered for the trappings of the living. She saw no shame in this, and knew she could use his hunger to her advantage. Teesha decided that night to accelerate her plans.
First, she had every room above the cellar cleaned by hiring a temporary housemaster, allowing him to believe she and Corische were a pair of lazy nobles who debauched all night and slept all day. She ordered tapestries, braid carpets, and muslin bedding for the two small guest rooms, a chandelier with forty candles, silver goblets, and porcelain dishes. Every night, she had a roaring fire laid in the pit to create an illusion of life and warmth. Although she told herself this was all simply a ruse for Corische's benefit, she began to see layers of herself she'd never realized before. Weren't taste and style simply learned skills that the wealthy taught their children? Isn't that what she'd always believed? Back in the tavern with Edwan, Teesha cared for nothing beyond warmth, love, and the friendship of others. She'd worn one dress in the summer and another in the winter. Why had that never bothered her? Why hadn't she seen how much more there was to desire? She hated Corische, but part of her appreciated how his curse had opened her eyes.
Corische watched with a growing arrogant satisfaction as day after day she slipped deeper into the role he expected of her. And she watched Rashed's fascination grow as the cold keep slowly changed into a living place. She even found that she derived some comfort from pleasing him. And he was the only one she entertained any interest in pleasing.
Eventually, Corische stopped taking notice of all the things she did. She was doing what he wanted, and he made little or no comment on it. Rashed, on the other hand, could not hide his growing approval, which seeped out for a blink or two to wash away the grim coldness of his
features. He'd ask where she'd found the latest tapestry or how she would use the strangely shaped flowered vase. Once, he even complimented the knotted pattern she was stitching into a pillowcase.
Then one late evening, when Corische was out, she slipped downstairs to spot Rashed alone in the main room, unaware of her presence. A wrapped and tied bundle of new cloth she had ordered was sitting on the table, and he was trying to peek inside without leaving any trace that he'd been inspecting it.
For a moment, Teesha forgot about Rashed's place in her half-formed plans and stood entranced by his bizarre obsession with mortal trappings. A forgotten softness filled her briefly while she watched him. Firelight almost gave his face color, and he looked so handsome standing by the table, as curious as a boy about her bundle. Then she remembered herself and shook off the feeling. She must think of him as a tool. He would be her instrument, and she could not let emotion sway her from using him.
In another month, Corische began to invite guests to the keep—at first only a nearby lord from a neighboring fief, then a few others as the visits were a success. Teesha could see he sought to improve his social standing and rise in mortal political ranks. After the year's end, she stepped up her studies, using house accounts Corische put at her disposal to order scrolls and books.
She studied history and languages on her own. Lord Corische knew she was trying to improve herself and did not interfere, but neither did he take an active interest, seeming to shy away whenever she was entranced in some text. Rashed, however, openly approved of her efforts and, to her surprise, started teaching her mathematics and astronomy. He showed little interest in most of her books, but was apparently educated, instructing her from memory alone. It was the most she'd learned about his origins somewhere in the great desert lands he referred to as the Suman Empire. Her ability and interest in academics gave her more cause to appreciate her new life—should she call it life? There was so very much to learn and study and absorb, and she'd never given any of it a moment's thought. She'd never known that anything beyond her small world of spiced, turnips and Edwan even existed. How droll, how sad.
Although she studied astronomy and languages diligently, Teesha learned little about the other household members. Parko grew more difficult to speak with as time passed. Often he would be out at night, only appearing when Corische wanted him for something. He seemed to have an awareness that told him when his master would expect his presence. On the other hand, Ratboy would annoyingly pop out of dark corners whenever he felt like it. She caught him watching her intently several times, only to have him turn away with dramatic disinterest when discovered. He was always polite but bored and discontent—something of which she took careful note.
Throughout that second year, Corische began to make guests in the house a regular event, at least once per month.
In the third year, a caravan came through the village. She hurried out early after dusk in time to purchase a large piece of rich, dark burgundy brocade and silver thread before the merchants closed their tents for the night. For the next month, she worked in secret, sewing Rashed an exquisite tunic. She finished it early one evening and sat waiting in the main hall, knowing he would be along sometime soon, as always.
"Here," she said. "I thought you could use something new in your limited wardrobe."
He offered no response when she handed the wrapped bundle to him. He took it with only a slight twitch of puzzlement in his left eyebrow, wasted no time snapping the binding strip, and unwrapped the muslin to display the tunic.
Rashed looked at Teesha once, quickly, then back down at the tunic, staring for a long moment. He said nothing to her as he turned away, but his hands shook slightly as he carefully refolded the muslin around the tunic and then walked toward his own chamber. It was not until later in the year that she would realize why he didn't start wearing it immediately. He would only wear it on the rarest occasions when expected to look his best for guests, and when he did, he was conspicuously concerned with anything that might cause the slightest stain or smudge on the fine fabric.
But that evening, Teesha sat quietly satisfied as Rashed disappeared down the side hall, her gift in his hands. He thought himself so guarded, but he was so easy for her to read. She told herself the gift was only meant to sway him further to her side. But he had looked pleased, hadn't he?
It took a moment, distracted with Rashed as she was, before she sensed the eyes watching her. She turned her head slowly with a scowl, expecting to catch Ratboy lurking in the corner again, but she couldn't have been more wrong.
The sight that met her eyes would have made anyone else, even one of her current household, back away—but not Teesha. She froze, unable to speak, and perhaps experienced a moment's fear. Then her eyes grew forlorn as if her heart had been shattered all over again. No tears fell, for the dead no longer had the ability to weep. She tried and failed three times to speak, then stumbled halfway across the room to stop short. A smile finally came to her lips.
Edwan stood at the foot of the stairs in his hideous, transparent form.
Perhaps she'd been living in a nightmare so long that seeing the ghost of her dead husband did not strike her as traumatic. Perhaps death was too intimate a thing for her to be repulsed by his visage. She smiled wider, cutting short a small laugh of relief.
"How long have you been here?" she asked.
"Since… beginning," Edwan said, though the sound didn't quite match the movement of his sideways lips speaking from the half-severed head upon his shoulder. "I saw… he did to you."
Teesha's smile faded. "And you left me alone?"
Language seemed difficult for him, but she could still read his familiar face, pale and bloodless as it was.
"You have not been alone," he said, almost petulantly, his words growing clearer. "I was afraid to show myself. I exist at the moment of my death." His body turned, for he couldn't move his severed head and it was the only way to pull his closing eyes away from her.
Teesha stepped close, glancing quickly about to make sure no else was there. She reached out to touch him, but her hand only passed through his chest without even a tingle on her flesh. Edwan's eyes opened.
"You are beautiful to me," she said, and she meant it.
"Then leave this place. I am bound to you, and if you leave, I can follow."
She was astonished. "Edwan, I can't leave. I'm bound to my master."
"Is that why you've changed yourself? Why you work to make this place and yourself so beautiful for him?"
For a moment, she thought he spoke of Corische, then she caught the quick twitch of his eyes toward where Rashed had left just moments ago. She couldn't find any way to make him understand the years that had passed. There wasn't enough time before someone would come in and discover him, so she comforted him with soft words.
"We will be free, my Edwan. I have planned it."
Another year passed. Sometimes Teesha could feel Edwan nearby, even when others were present. None of them appeared to notice the spirit, only she. She studied and never once let pass even the smallest opportunity to do some kindness for Rashed. She bought special irons to heat, so she could curl her hair elaborately before pinning it up. Her dresses became simpler and darker in color but more elegant. Occasionally, Rashed would knock on her door and come in to find her primping or trying on some gown. After he left, Edwan would reappear in thinly disguised agitation, and Teesha would parade for him, telling him all she had worked for and how it would soon be time to leave. She did not allow herself to dwell on the unwanted thought that Rashed's opinion of her gowns was the only one that mattered.
During this phase, she actually had little to do with her master. He never touched her and rarely sought her company unless they had guests. He even stopped reveling in her obedience and simply took it for granted, as he did with Rashed. Then one night, Corische invited six lords and their ladies from southern Stravina for roast pheasant and aged spring wine.
Both Corische and Teesha had beco
me skilled at pretending to eat. Consuming food wasn't impossible for the dead. It simply provided no sustenance, and only raw foods, particularly fruits, had any real flavor for them. Cooked flesh tasted bland and nearly repulsive. Wine was at least tolerable, sometimes pleasant.
While Corische tried to draw one of the noblemen's attention to an exquisite tapestry that Teesha had ordered from Belaski, she politely interrupted and asked the gentleman a question. She phrased it in the old, little-known Stravinan tongue spoken mainly by nobles with too much free time and too high an opinion of their bloodline. It was easy enough for her to snatch the surface thoughts from the gentleman's mind to perfect her accent by the time she finished her first sentence.
The nobleman smiled in delight, thumping his glass down as he responded. Everyone at the table suddenly switched to conversing avidly in the nearly dead tongue— everyone, that is, but Lord Corische. He sat in mild discomfort at first, perhaps a bit nervous that he had no idea what was being said around him, and then Teesha caught his eye.
She looked at him with all the disdain she had amassed in the years with him, and it flooded through her gaze to wash over him.
Realization dawned on Corische, and his discomfort turned to barely contained outrage. Teesha felt the initial sweet bite of satisfaction, a unique blend of triumph and revenge. The culmination of her plan was coming soon.
Shortly before dawn, after all guests were safely in bed, Corische found her by the fire. Lately, he had begun to dress like Rashed and now wore well-tailored breeches and a dark orange tunic, his chain mail abandoned.
"Do not forget your place, my lady" he said sarcastically. "I was displeased at supper."
"Truly?" She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and watched him take in the sight of her low-necked, black gown and plaited chocolate hair. "That is because you are not noble and could not share in our discussion. You are not even ancient." Her tone remained even and polite. "I know Rashed believes you to be old, but his good heart is easily fooled. What were you in life, my lord! A mercenary? A caravan guard? However did you escape your own master?"