by Garon Whited
“Of course. You rest and I will tell her. Sleep, shadow-child.”
So I did.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17TH
The sunset didn’t wake me. I slept right through it, almost to midnight. I must have been really beat.
When I awoke, it was to the sound of someone humming. I opened my eyes.
The room was almost dark; only the coals of the braziers glowed. However, my eyes see in the darkness as easily as the light; better, for some things. Tamara was sitting beside me again, humming to herself and knitting. It amused me to see her knitting. It seemed such a… mundane, yes, mundane and homey sort of task.
I realized I’d chuckled. I realized I felt well again. Tamara stopped her humming and a collection of candles leaped to life. That made me wonder if she could see in the dark or was just knitting by Braille.
I blinked and sat up, swung my legs over the side of the cot, and kept the blanket over me for modesty. She stared, eyes wide, and a stifled gasp escaped her. I checked quickly to see if I’d missed anything with the blanket.
“What?” I asked. Then I paid attention to my own hands where they held the blanket.
They were pale, paler than ever before, pale as the full moon through a fine mist. My nails were like mirrors, smooth as glass and holding more of the silvery color that tinted my skin. I could have been a sculpture in stainless steel, dusted with chalk. I was also thinner than ever—skinny, even—but I felt light and strong, even healthy. I raised one arm and examined it, interested, but not worried. Maybe I should have been worried, but it just wouldn’t come.
“I seem to have altered a bit,” I observed.
She nodded, still staring. “You were burned by the dragon ichor,” she said. “I watched you regrow your skin after you were taken from it.”
“What, all of it?”
“You were lying in it—and sizzling. The earth was torn and churned, where you had thrashed about in pain, I believe,” she said. “The ichor ate away your clothes as well.”
I stood up and wrapped the blanket around me like a toga. It was weird, the way the material seemed to hang in the air. Every movement seemed strange, as though my sense of time was distorted.
“So do I have any other clothes—what?” I asked, as she jerked back, eyes wide. She stared at me and blinked, glancing from the cot to my face and back several times.
“Your movements! One moment you are sitting on the bed, the next you are standing…” She swallowed and clasped her hands. “Please, don’t… it frightens me. ”
I lowered myself to the cot again, very slowly, very carefully, and it creaked alarmingly under my weight. That much was normal. The eye-watering speed she was seeing was not. It didn’t seem to me I was moving any faster than usual, but the folds of the blanket had hung in the air rather long… almost as though the rest of the world had slowed down. Maybe it was the dragon blood inside me; if so, it should wear off in a few days.
I resolved to move very slowly and carefully whenever possible.
“Was that better?” I asked, once seated.
“Yes. Yes, thank you.” She swallowed again and reached for a jug of something, poured herself a drink, sipped at it. Water melted from the snows, I guessed. Maybe the wheel was running again. “Are you… are you still… you?”
I flexed my fingers and considered. I felt like me. Physically, I had no complaints; dead, but healthy. Mentally, I felt sharp and alert, confident.
“Kiss me and find out,” I replied, smiling.
For a long moment, she looked like she might refuse, but she set down the cup with a determined expression and sat down beside me on the cot. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a second, then took my face in her hands. She kissed me, kissed me hard, and my arms went around her in response.
When she came up for air, she was gasping. “You may be a child of shadows, but you are still Her chosen,” she said, holding on to me tightly. “I cannot deny it.”
Heck, I just wanted her to kiss me again. I wasn’t looking for compliments.
“Oh? And what makes you say that?”
She pressed her head to my chest and squeezed me hard. “Did you know that I thought of you, after you had gone?”
I considered that. “I suppose you must have.”
“Yes. I thought of you every day.”
“I’ve thought of you now and again, myself.”
She looked up at me with a wry smile. “But you do not have the reminder I do.”
“Reminder?” I asked.
She took one of my hands and placed it on her belly. It felt hard and tight under my hand.
My first thoughts were not about her.
Did I want to be a father?
Admittedly, she was pretty. Very pretty. Hell, she was beautiful. I liked her a lot. She was smart and funny and had enough well-sharpened wits to shave me with them. Yes, yes, yes—she was also immensely good at sex. She also saved my life, twice now, and probably the lives of Raeth and Bouger.
I like her too, boss. So does Bronze.
I glared at Firebrand, who shut up.
Did I want to be a father?
I didn’t even know if I wanted to be a husband again, even if I had the option. It might not be necessary for a priestess.
The world moves at a geological pace, no pun intended. That is, there’s lots of standing still, doing nothing much, and then the occasional short, sharp yank. Once in a while, there’s a huge kaboom, and nothing is quite the same afterward.
Did I want to be a father?
Some Goddess throws me at a priestess for two-person orgy in Her honor, then decides the priestess ought to spawn from it. Was I asked what I thought about it? No. Nevertheless, I had a choice. I knew the risks. I could have said no.
I could have… but I didn’t.
Did I want to be a father?
“What do I do?” I asked.
“About?”
“In general. Do… I’m going to be a… a… you’re going to… uh….”
She chuckled and sat up straight again. She didn’t giggle, she didn’t exactly laugh; she chuckled.
“Whatever you want to do,” she answered. “It is not your responsibility.”
“Beg pardon?” I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly.
She laid a hand on her belly and smiled wider. “The Mother decides when a priestess conceives, not some calendar. She chose you to give me a spark; I must fan it to flame. You are not needed.”
“I’ll keep my own opinion on whether or not I’m responsible,” I answered. “And if I’m not needed for that, what am I needed for? You imply that there’s something.”
The smile went away. “I’m hunted, you know,” she said. “The Church will kill me if they find me, and there are priests here who have survived. They dare not try anything now, for I healed all I could reach in time—and you. Everyone has heard about you, the hero. I bask in your glory in that I kept you alive. So I’m safe, for now. But it will not last.
“When word reaches Carrillon, a contingent of men will set out. They shall have my head on a pole if it kills them. The men here…” she shook her head. “They’re grateful, but most of them only know me as the Church has painted me—a fiery succubus from the netherworld. Most will protest, for I have done them only good, but few will stand and die to defend me. So I must go somewhere out of the reach of the Church before I become too big to run.”
She paused. “I would be pleased with some company,” she said, in a very small voice.
I thought about it.
Aside from a matter of genetics, this was my fault in another way. If Bronze hadn’t gone to fetch her, she would still be in her little valley, safely anonymous, protected and hidden by secret Fire worshippers and the laissez-faire attitude of the Baron. Here she was safe for a while, because everyone owed her for her help. She was too public. She couldn’t hide. In fact, soon enough, she would be famous. Because she was what she was, and because of the deeds I’d done. She needed to fi
nd a place where nobody else—
“You will need to build it.” I could almost hear the words.
I wondered how much steering the gods did. Interfering bastards. I hate being manipulated. But is it still manipulation if it’s something I would have done—or wanted to do—anyway?
“Well, since the Church is after me as well, I think I’ll let you talk me into it,” I said.
She moved to me and hugged me again, hard—hard enough that I felt it. Then the cot broke under our combined weight and spilled us both to the floor. Laughing, I rose and handed her up.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling, standing close, and not releasing my hand. “Mother said that you would likely be willing to help.”
“Glad I didn’t let her down, I guess,” I replied, slightly stung. I hate being predictable. I also don’t like the idea I’m a convenience, but I doubt she meant it that way.
“Well, do you have any idea where we will go?”
“The mountains, I think. I know a good spot to start looking, anyway.”
She nodded. “I don’t… I’ve never traveled much,” she admitted. “I could not, because of my hair. It won’t take color for long.”
“I could guess.” Which reminded me. I looked at my hands and thought. “Any suggestions on my color?”
“It is a good one. You are beautiful.”
“I’m—?” I broke off, taken aback.
“Beautiful,” she repeated. She poked me in the midsection. “Even though we need to fatten you up a bit.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say. I have a reflection—comes in handy when shaving. I couldn’t describe it as ‘beautiful,’ though. But there she was, saying it to my face. I couldn’t see it, but she was looking at me with those too-bright eyes and smiling. I wondered what she was looking at.
“Perhaps you have a spell?” she suggested.
“Spell. Right.” I tried my camouflage spell, using it for skin tones.
She looked me over. “Much better.”
“Okay. Can I get dressed, now?”
She giggled. I thought I detested the sound of giggling. I didn’t mind it from her. I wonder if that’s a survival reaction—being more tolerant of a reproductive partner, whether you love them or not?
“If you insist.” She fetched out clothes.
And what clothes! Formal attire with a vengeance. A dark-green tunic and breeches, with red, orange, and yellow knotwork for the trim and piping; a tabard to throw over it, in the same colors, but with a solid red circle taking up most of the field, containing a stylized dragon on its back, black, with a great sword of fire, in gold, thrust downward into it. It looked like the dragon was about the size of a medium-large dog in relation to the sword, but it was the idea that counted.
“These aren’t mine—” I began.
“Yes, they are.”
“I don’t recall them.”
“Sir Raeth brought them. After the battle, your healthy men sent a rider to tell of victory. Rather than face a long trip through the snows, many of the people returned. One of them is a tailor, and he had already been commissioned to make some garments. It seems Sir Raeth had been intending to surprise you with finery. He made the tailor add the device to your tabard after he heard of your deeds. He gave them to me and told me, ‘If he lives, he should wear them. If he doesn’t, we’ll burn him in them.’”
I nodded. “That’s Raeth. And my boots?”
“Replacements scavenged from the dead; the cobbler was a casualty. Cut down by the ones who burned the barracks. The belt and baldric are new; the tailor is not used to such leather, but he did his best.” She dimpled. “Do you like the belt?”
I looked at it. The leather was dark red, nearly black, both supple and tough. It reminded me of sharkskin, decorated with scales. The workmanship wasn’t the finest, but it was solid. The scabbard was of the same stuff, cured differently, and stiff as a board.
“It’s quite nice,” I admitted. “Why do you ask?”
“I had to help with it,” she answered, smiling wider. “It is dragonskin.”
“Really?” I looked at it more closely, sniffed it, touched it with my tongue to taste it. I don’t know why I did that. It just seemed the thing to do. I still couldn’t taste anything, but I could tell by smell it was the dragon I killed.
“They’ll do nicely,” I said. “All of it. Thank you.” I got dressed. Raeth had also picked up the underwear I’d commissioned. Nice of him.
I stood up, feeling much more presentable, and buckled on Firebrand.
Nice, it commented. Going to ask her to dance?
“Later.”
“Excuse me?” Tamara asked.
“Just talking to my sword.”
She blinked at me, then answered, “Oh.”
“You’ve met?”
“No…”
“Firebrand, this is Tamara. Tamara, this is Firebrand.”
Charmed, said my sword. I could hear the difference in its “voice” when it spoke to others; I still “heard” it, but I knew it was including Tamara. The difference was a sort of psychic echo when it included her.
“Likewise,” she replied, eyeing it cautiously.
“Now, can I go out without raising a ruckus? Or do they all think I’m dying?”
Tamara smiled. She did that a lot. I liked it. “They doubt you’ll die. The fire-witch has been tending you. I also warned them you were much better. Besides, you are the wizard knight, the hero that rides a steed of bronze, wields a sword of flame, vanquished the viksagi, killed their wizards, and slew a dragon.”
I nodded. Great. Well, at least Linnaeus would have more grist for his musical mills. Right now, I just wanted the hell out of that room for a while. It felt tiny and enclosing. I wanted to stretch my wings and fly, but since I didn’t have wings…
“Shall we go for a walk?” I asked, and offered my arm. She put her hand in the crook of my elbow, firmly.
“Yes.”
I opened the door and Hellas fell backward into the room; she’d been sitting with her back to it, sleeping with her boy in her lap. Tamara looked surprised. I bet I did, too.
Hellas opened her eyes, groggy, and the child stirred.
“Didn’t I say you should be in a bed?” I asked, trying to sound stern. I don’t think I did it well. I was touched, and deeply so. I will lay long odds she was helping Tamara tend me—whenever Tamara would let her—and sleeping at the door between times.
“My lord!” she cried, and set the boy aside on a blanket; he curled up on it and went back to sleep. I suppose he was tired. Hellas rolled over to kneel in front of me.
“I’m not your lord,” I said, feeling both moved and now a trifle testy. “I’m your employer. Get off your knees and get that boy out of the hall and into a room. A warm one. You go with him and you both get into a bed. Sleep in it. And if I see you outside that room before sunrise, I’ll beat you with wet noodles.”
She stared at me, altogether taken aback. Then she bowed—a neat trick while kneeling—and then scooped up the blanket, boy and all, before hurrying away.
Tamara looked at me, amused. “Are you always so brutal?”
“Yes,” I replied. “She’ll just have to endure some comfort, damn it.”
She laughed and squeezed my arm as we continued down the hall. She had to lead; I was turned around. It turns out we were on an upper floor, in the back; the rooms were larger there. I don’t know why the upper rooms were larger. Maybe to be more attractive to people after climbing several flights of stairs. Maybe because they didn’t need to have as many structural walls to hold up higher floors.
The great hall was empty. The keep was quiet at that hour. We didn’t mind; we were out for a stroll after a long period of convalescence. She led me out into the courtyard and then up on top of the wall. We passed a sentry; he drew his weapon and gave me the closed-fist-to-chest salute, grimly serious, keeping eyes rigidly front. I returned the salute, empty-handed, and we walked on.
“I’m going to get a lot of that, aren’t I?” I murmured.
She didn’t say anything, but she squeezed my arm.
From the rampart atop the wall, over the main gate, I could see the battlefield. It had already been looted of anything useful by the townsfolk. What was left of the dragon was still there. There was a large charred area surrounding it—blackened and seared by the ichor. I knew, without knowing how, that the place would never be able to grow another living thing again. There were no bodies on the battlefield, but there was another charred place, full of bones and ashes, where the dead had been burned.
I wondered about the viksagi. I’d never met any socially. What were they like? Did they have families to go back to, or was this just the way they got rid of excess bachelors? Did they even want to go to war? Did their wizards charm the lot of them and drive them like pieces on a board? Why would they even bother to try and invade Rethven? Loot and slaughter? Women? Cattle? Clothes? What?
Something within me seemed to feel that all these questions, to some degree, had an answer of “yes.” Winter in their land is a bitter thing, and Rethven was much more appealing. They also bred rapidly, often having twins, and needed space to grow—or fewer numbers of their own to feed. I didn’t understand the details; I just had a sort of general feeling.
Well, I’d certainly consumed enough of them to make up a statistical universe.
But it galled me. Maybe because I’d consumed so many of them, it galled me even more. They hadn’t done anything, not the average guy. Sure, they were trying to breach the keep I was in, but they weren’t after me. If I’d had the good sense to just stay out of the way, they would have left me alone. It wasn’t anything personal.
I think that’s what bothers me the most. Killing someone is very personal, or at least it should be. It always is, for me. If I’m going to kill a man, it’s either because he wants to die or because he’s pushed me to it.
I wish I hadn’t had to kill them. If I have to kill—and I do, no argument—then I’d rather do it retail. Wholesale slaughter… I don’t know. I don’t like it. It feels wrong, like it’s not what I’m meant to do. It bothers me and I don’t like being bothered.