The creature’s eyes fixed directly on Gráinne’s before its words confirmed her suspicion about its perceptiveness. “Your husband, Marquessa.”
Before today, her marriage had connected her with a power monger. Now, it linked her to a murderer and an underling who could read her thoughts. The reminder of Slyxx rolled into a memory of his order to the General, and images of the slaughter plunged into her mind.
Gráinne retched, and the creature stepped back, jerking its hand away from her. She leaned over the side of the bed, spewing bile that burned her nostrils on its way out and left bitterness in her throat. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to gag again, but memories of fire and flailing arms and legs sent her into another fit of heaving. When the fit ended, her abdomen ached from repeatedly convulsing. After a few minutes, she lay still, struggling to calm her stomach and catch her breath. She froze when she felt something sweep up her long, curly hair and move it away from her face.
As one of the creature’s hands gently held her gathered hair, the other moved to tenderly stroke the nape of her neck. And then Gráinne heard a sound she couldn’t quite make out.
The sound grew louder, and she caught sight of something moving from behind the creature’s calf-length dress coat. Her eyelids opened wide, and she stared unabashedly at a bushy, black tail swishing side to side in rhythm with the sound she now recognized as a rumbling, baritone purr.
“It is a tail,” the creature huffed, abruptly releasing Gráinne’s hair, which then drooped over her eyes in its own unruly way.
Sitting up, Gráinne groaned and pushed the hair back from her face. Somehow, its tail and purr, as well as its aversion to vomit, made the creature less threatening. “I can see it is a tail,” she replied like a child mocking a scold. “Did something go amiss when you Shifted?”
“Shifted?”
She eyed the ears again and murmured to herself. “Usually, it is a complete change, not a partial one.” Maybe it is defective, too.
The creature rolled its eyes.
“If you are not a Shifter, then what are you?”
The creature rolled its eyes again. “My name is Lan Noire thank you for asking I am male not it thank you very much and as I doubt you could pronounce my species in my native tongue you may identify me as Kathan.” It took a deep breath. “Not beast.”
“Kathan? What is that?”
“Kathans are creatures with tails.”
Mention of the tail reminded Gráinne she’d noticed it after the flashes of flame and thrashing limbs had made her throw up. She rubbed her stomach and looked apprehensively toward the iron door leading to the balcony outside her chambers. She frowned, displeased with herself for not considering the balcony door in her escape plans.
“You do not want to go out yet,” Lan said.
“Do not tell me what I want,” Gráinne snapped back at him, annoyed at his invasive perceptiveness. This was her chance to get away. She slid her feet to the floor, carefully avoiding the puddle of bile seeping into channels of age-worn mortar between the grey tiles of marble. Bracing her arms on the side frame of the bed, she shifted her weight to stand.
What began as a sting in her right ankle sharpened into an agonizing throb. The ankle, swollen and already darkening to the shade of ripening grapes, pulsed with pain.
Gráinne sat back down fully on the edge of the bed and gritted her teeth.
“Are you going to let me clean and dress the wounds, or would you rather bleed and rot?”
“I would rather bleed and rot.”
Lan rolled his eyes. “I doubt that is true. Have you ever seen someone with a rotting limb?”
Gráinne didn’t seriously consider the question. She had worries greater than rot. If she couldn’t stand, she certainly couldn’t walk. Running down the stairs was out of the question. If the Kathan was inside her room, what lay outside her door? A mercenary she hadn’t stopped before he slaughtered the innocent? The body of someone she knew and had failed to save? The dusty General? Defeat and impotence and uncertainty overwhelming her, she looked up at Lan with tears in eyes that had Shifted from brown to cerulean and narrowed to a shape more befitting his cat-like appearance than did his own dark brown, human-like eyes.
Lan didn’t react to the changes if he noted them. Rather, he tenderly lifted Gráinne’s legs back onto the bed and fluffed her pillow before nudging her to lie back.
“It was my home.”
The Kathan kept his gaze fixed on the bruised ankle. “It is not broken. You probably should not walk on it for a few days.”
She needed to know more about him before she escaped, and she did intend to escape, so she started with something non-threatening. “Where is your home?”
“Far from here.”
“How did you get here?”
“A woman brought me.”
Gráinne stiffened. “The General?”
“No.”
“Who?” Her tone stiffened.
“A woman named Niamh.”
“I do not know her.”
Lan shrugged. With the deftness of a cat, he washed the cuts on Gráinne’s elbow and forehead and set aside the bowl of bloodied water before dipping his fingers into a crock.
The putrid odor of the crock’s contents wafted up to Gráinne’s nose.
She scrunched up her face and leaned away from Lan’s fingers. “What is that?”
“A poultice of yarrow and fat. It will prevent rot and stop swelling.”
Gráinne sat up. “It smells like it is rot.”
“Sometimes, senses fool us.” Lan returned to his task, the smirk playing at his lips making him look self-satisfied. He smeared the poultice on the clean gashes on Gráinne’s elbow and forehead. Then, he wound two long strips of white cloth around her elbow and tied the strips together in a knot. When he urged Gráinne to lie back on the pillow again, she complied and pretended to watch as he bandaged her ankle.
Conceding she wasn’t going anywhere immediately, she assessed her healer while he continued his work unselfconsciously. Despite the seeming contradiction between his human and cat-like features, Lan’s overall appearance displayed impeccable refinement. A skirted coat of fine wool lay like smoothed icing over a compact—lean but muscular—frame. A crisp shirt of spotless white linen peeked out above the top button of the coat. A perfectly tied ascot neatly closed the shirt’s collar. Gráinne couldn’t see Lan’s boots, but she suspected they were sleek and made of leather ungouged by rough wear or combat. His face was youthful and smooth but, like his voice, neither distinctly masculine nor feminine. His cheekbones and jawline were chiseled but more delicately than were those of his Master. A meticulous haircut further accented his bone structure and outlined his face. His lips were full and soft, his eyebrows thick and as black as the mop of hair framing his face in a flawlessly symmetrical curve.
When Lan had finished his task, he rose from the bed and picked up the discarded bowl and the crock. “Try to rest, Marquessa. Rest will help you heal quickly. I will return with warm broth if you think you can keep it down.” He looked at the puddle on the floor. When Gráinne didn’t respond, he turned to leave.
“Wait.”
The Kathan stopped and turned around slowly to face his patient.
Gráinne wrinkled her brow.
“Have I overlooked an injury?”
“No. I wondered . . . .”
“Wondered what?”
“How long have I . . . slept?”
“A little more than a day.”
Gráinne felt frustrated, afraid, but she had to ask the question with a potentially unpalatable answer. “What . . . what has become of . . . the island?”
Lan delivered his response without emotion. “The fires have mostly burned themselves out.”
“And survivors?”
Lan hesitated before responding, “There are none.”
Gráinne caught a glimpse of something unsaid in the Kathan’s eyes.
“But . . . .”
“But what?”
“What will he do now?”
“You will have to ask him, Marquessa.”
The Kathan turned and left Gráinne’s chambers via her planned escape route before she could press him for more information.
As light footsteps descended the narrow staircase, Gráinne, too, sank into the void Slyxx had shoved her into. She’d failed to protect what the women of her family had forfeited their lives to save. As a result, her father and cousin and aunt and uncle were likely dead, the citizens of Incorrigible had been slaughtered, and there was no one left to protect, no realm left to defend with her last breath. With each of the Kathan’s footsteps, death marched through Gráinne’s mind in memories of bodies and swords and something unfamiliar—a growing urge to kill Slyxx. When she heard the door click shut, she turned her face toward the pillow and whispered, “Forgive me.” She sobbed into the silk bedding, exhausted and in pain, until she surrendered to sleep and to the ambiguity of not knowing how . . . or if . . . she could ever stop imagining killing.
CHAPTER TWO
Mothers and Daughters
Ilythiiria hated water-gazing. Looking through water made her dizzy, particularly when using a deep, round vessel, which distorted the horizon into a sharp curve. It left her feeling like a bubble had enveloped her, a bubble with dissipating air. Water-gazing was, however, the only way to check on Euryale without others knowing. Ilythiiria had done all but suck the air out of the cloister to make the water-bearing Niamh uncomfortable. Though linked as sisters through their vows, Priestesses in the Higher Order of Numinus didn’t allow themselves to get too familiar with each other. An appeal for mercy would have fallen on deaf ears and a cold heart, so Ilythiiria had convinced Niamh to help her watch Euryale, whom she claimed had sent an urgent, but vague, message with rumors about war between the Surfacers and the Concealed. Though probably with the intent to bolster her own prestige in the Order, Niamh had agreed it would do little harm to have foreknowledge of trouble by observing an Assembly meeting. Whatever its underlying reason, Niamh’s agreement to engage in an act not expressly forbidden but certainly worthy of disapproval had brought the two Priestesses to the vessel of murky water.
Niamh took Ilythiiria’s hand and whispered, “Mother, guide me. That through water shall I see.”
The murkiness unclouded, and the Assembly Hall of the Concealed came into focus just as a meeting convened. Into the underground chamber of stone streamed dark-skinned women, almost all with albino hair. Most of the older women moved slowly about the chamber, nodding politely to each other before taking their seats at a massive, obsidian table. A few remained standing amid a horde of younger women who closed in as tightly to the table as possible.
Ilythiiria searched the crowd. She spotted Euryale and pointed toward the tiny figure with silky raven hair and frosty blue eyes. “There. In violet.”
“I see her. She is the loveliest of them, would you not say?” Niamh asked.
As she listened to the Assembly Mother call the meeting to order, Ilythiiria studied Euryale’s face and her slender but curved frame. She was as tall as her mother had been, about a head and a half taller than Dwarfs, making the young woman average in height among the short Concealed. The way she carried herself displayed anything but the commonplace. Unlike the other unseated observers, whose postures betrayed inexperience and apprehension, Euryale stood confidently and relaxed with an expression Ilythiiria couldn’t define because it kept changing. One moment it bore curiosity and attentiveness. In the next, it flaunted self-confidence and indifference. Niamh was right, though. Euryale was the most beautiful in her family and by far the most beautiful among the Assembly observers and Representatives. Her dark skin was smooth with a subtle shimmer, her nose small and straight, her lips full but not overly so, and her cheekbones soft protrusions setting off her eyes. “Her eyes are arresting.”
The voice of the woman at the head of the table lilted into a question, and both of the Priestesses hushed.
Euryale stepped forward. “I have a matter to bring before this Assembly.”
A hush fell over the entire Assembly. The Assembly Mother arched an eyebrow. Her response was curt, impatience breaking in her tone. “Go on, Daughter. State your case.”
“Why do you send the Daughter of House Khailani into the midst of Surfacers? What has she done to deserve such honour?” Euryale asked.
The Assembly Hall of the Concealed vibrated with murmurs, as if the engravings on the vaulted ceiling and carved pillars had uttered in hushed tones.
“She’ll be cut off from the Great Mother. You know that.” Euryale tilted her head and paused.
“Yes,” the Assembly Mother said.
“Willfully making such a sacrifice is walking humbly into the Abyss without hope of landing in the arms of the Great Mother. Is that not a sacrifice worthy of the highest prestige?”
“Of course it is.” The Assembly Mother sighed.
“Then why send this particular Daughter when the Daughter of House Sheifilli, one who has proven herself worthy through tenure, sits among us?” Euryale motioned first to Davielle of House Khailani and then to her friend Braunise of House Sheifilli.
Davielle rose, her lips closed so tightly her face looked pinched. Her voice quivered as she spoke. “Are you saying I am not worthy to serve as I am needed? Why do you insult my Mother and House Khailani in this way?”
Euryale stretched her expression from surprise to humility. “I do apologize if you sensed insult where none was intended. I meant no disrespect at all. In fact, my questions pay homage to respect itself—respect for the Great Mother who deserves and requires the most valuable offerings, respect for the House whose Daughter has sat longest at this Assembly table, and thus, respect for this Assembly itself. I have nothing but regard for you, Sister, and for your House Mother, even though she does not sit at the table. Indeed, it would be disrespectful to welcome such gossip as has already begun to swirl, especially when we can avoid all such ills.”
“What gossip is that?” Davielle smirked.
“I do not wish to repeat it, Sister.”
Davielle motioned from one end of the table to the other with a grandiose sweep of her arm. “Please, Euryale. Share with us this blasphemous gossip.”
Euryale’s gaze softened until it looked almost pained. “That a Mother’s sacrifice of her Daughter to Surfacers was made to merely secure her own seat at the Assembly table.”
Davielle’s mouth fell open.
“I am as horrified as you, Sister,” Euryale said, shaking her head. She turned her gaze directly at the Assembly Mother at the head of the table. “What I propose will assure that the Mother of House Khailani receives the respect she so rightly deserves and end this vicious gossip.”
“Go on.” The Assembly Mother nodded at Euryale.
“I am certain this Assembly wishes to avoid casting aspersions on the Mother of House Khailani as much as do I. The Mother of House Sheifilli already sits at the table. None can question the motives for her sacrifice. Would it not, then, be a service to all for Braunise to replace Davielle? For this Assembly to demonstrate thereby the highest regard for the Mothers and Daughters of both Houses? For this Assembly to strengthen its position in the alliance by sending the higher-ranking Daughter?”
“She chooses her words carefully,” Niamh said.
“She always has,” Ilythiiria said.
Davielle sank into her chair, and the hall filled once again with a rush of whispers and murmurs from every direction.
Braunise’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath as she stared at Euryale. “This is preposterous!”
“Is it?” Euryale replied far too quickly for Ilythiiria’s comfort. “You are the most beautiful and clever and talented among us, Braunise, and your counsel at this table is highly valued by all who sit here and all who do not. Who is more deserving of such an honour than you, dear Sister? Who better than you to control the alliance?”
Braunise rose, h
er palms pressing down on the tabletop, her tone sweltering with unyielding boldness. “The decision has been made, and Davielle was chosen to go.”
Euryale smiled at Braunise. “I do not wish to contradict your words, Sister, but choice requires options. The Assembly agreed to an alliance with the Surfacers. Davielle’s House Mother made an offer to the Assembly Mother, who accepted the offer. The Assembly did not consider additional candidates. Might our wise Assembly Mother have chosen otherwise if the Assembly had debated the benefits of sending another?”
The hall clattered with the raking of chairs on the black, stone floor. Yaes and naes rose and fell. Angry shouts bounced off the walls.
“Euryale is right,” said Niamh. “The Concealed of Unukalhai will control the alliance with those above ground if Braunise represents them. They will not if Davielle goes instead.”
Ilythiiria nodded. “She shows a depth of strategic diplomatic wisdom far beyond her years.”
“True,” Niamh said, “and a talent for covert strategies, but to what end, Ilythiiria?”
In the few moments before the chaos subsided, the two Priestesses watched in silence, the air palpable with Ilythiiria’s resentment about Niamh’s indifference, and Niamh’s discomfort with Ilythiiria’s blind devotion to a young woman shunned for the good of all.
Braunise spoke through gritted teeth. “And who are you to question the wisdom of this Assembly or its Mother?”
Euryale smiled at Braunise and gave a respectful dip of her head. “I am a humble student of the Assembly and servant of the Great Mother. Nothing more. I question the lack of options, not the wisdom of decisions made when no options were presented.”
“No, I mean who are you to have a voice here at all? You, the bastard offcast of a Surfacer bitch?”
Giggles interspersed with gasps and coughs and murmurs throughout the Assembly. Someone cackled, and then silence and stillness settled over the room.
The Dragon Writers Collection Page 100