her instruments 03 - laisrathera

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  Did she squeak? She might have squeaked.

  “Now come,” he said. “We have work to do. Do you have a weapon?”

  “A what?” She shook herself. “No… I… no.”

  He pulled a knife from his boot then and offered it to her, mouth twitching into a partial smile. “Another then, to replace the last.”

  “I keep losing your knives,” she said, rueful. “And you’re a single-dagger man—”

  That pause was startlement, and then he kissed her hair quickly. “This time, I think, you may be ready to keep my offering.” Folding the haft into her hand, he said, “Now, we go, ere it is too late.”

  Blushing, she said, “Yes.”

  He pulled her along by her hand—held on to her hand!—and it was sweating. Strange to think that Eldritch could sweat. She’d never observed him to sweat.

  “You have never observed me in a fight this hard before either,” he said, and for some reason his reading the thought seemed more like a way to save time, and a pleasing intimacy, than anything else, and that was all she had time for before she was outside the cell finally, the damned cell she was very ready to never see again, and maybe she would ask Liolesa to burn the thing down as a liege-gift or something. You could burn stone if you made the fire hot enough, couldn’t you?

  “BOSS!” Sascha wrapped his arms around her. “Angels damn it all! Reese!”

  “Here,” she said, fighting tears. “Here, one piece, promise.” She looked past his shoulder and found Bryer, and if the Phoenix wasn’t smiling exactly, his crest eased down and spread a little in the way she associated with his pleasure. “Where’s Irine and Kis’eh’t?”

  “We left Kis’eh’t with the Queen. Allacazam too. Irine’s up there somewhere with some Eldritch boy….” Sascha pushed back to look at her with frantic golden eyes.

  “I promise,” Reese said. “One piece.” And added, “I love you too.”

  “Aw, battlehells. Save it for your prince.”

  “Different kind of love!”

  “Damn…!”

  She fought her laugh, afraid it would come out hysterical. “You haven’t changed at all.”

  “It hasn’t been that long. Narain? How’s it looking?”

  “We’re good for now,” a stranger said, another Harat-Shar with a gray pelt and a uniform that looked like something out of Fleet and had probably been prettier before being streaked with gore. “Unless you sense something, Lord Hirianthial?”

  “No. But we mustn’t tarry.”

  “Right. Lead the way.”

  “You behind me,” he said to her, his eyes very grave and very intense. “And not to part.”

  “No,” she promised.

  He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin that set his hair swinging around his neck. “Then we go to cut down my brother and have done. This way, now, with a quickness.”

  Baniel felt the violence pouring through the corridors like sweat from a straining body. He closed his eyes, face lifted, then went down the hall. The door he wanted was unlocked and he did not knock to announce himself, but strode in to sweep the suite with his gaze.

  “What is it you want?” the Chatcaavan said without interest from the divan. Under his arm, Surela turned her face away.

  “Our enemies have arrived,” Baniel said. Where had the alien put the woman? He’d parted her from the pack he’d had trussed in the audience chamber; Baniel had seen him do it. Hopefully the creature hadn’t killed her yet. “If you wish to partake of the battle, you should finish what you’re doing. I’ll be in the ballroom.”

  “Is it likely that we will lose?” the alien asked, amused.

  “Not very, though anything is possible.” A muffled noise from the bedroom. Ah, finally. “Your presence is not required if you wish to remain here with your divertissement.”

  “Oh, I will come. I am almost done.”

  “Good. I have need of some of your property.”

  “Ah?”

  Baniel strode into the bedroom and found Araelis bound and gagged in a corner. He drew his knife, slashed the ties hobbling her, and pulled her roughly upright. “You may die,” he said to her. “Or you may come quietly. Or you may struggle, and I will put this knife through your abdomen. Many choices. Pick now.”

  Her eyes widened and then she snarled at him, lips drawing back around the fabric in her mouth.

  “I thought you would make the wise choice.” He took her by the elbow and dragged her in his wake.

  “Leave her intact,” the Chatcaavan called.

  “If she does not remain intact, it will be her own doing.”

  The Chatcaavan snorted. Baniel left him to his pleasures, judging that Surela would keep him for long enough that it wouldn’t matter. If the oldest texts were right, the alien would have just long enough to resume his pleasures before the link Baniel had been fostering so carefully emptied him of everything useful. But first, the trap wanted baiting.

  He’d thought he had power enough, in his intellect, in the stupidity of others that made them so ripe for manipulation. The brushes he’d had with the power he’d borrowed from the Chatcaavan had acquainted him with a force far more potent. He was amenable to the notion of stealing that ability permanently, though if the exchange failed he would not be sorry. Corel’s legacy came with significant pitfalls, if Val’s little story was any indication. Himself he knew he could rely upon.

  Pleased that everything was working as arranged, Baniel repaired to the ballroom to await his brother, bringing a furious Araelis with him.

  Irine and Sascha’s reunion wasn’t pornographic only because there wasn’t enough time for them to strip, Reese thought. As it was, their kiss was enough to scandalize everyone who caught sight of them, except the other Harat-Shar who (true to form) watched with a big grin and commented when they’d finished, “Finally, something worth seeing on this trip.”

  “Who’s this?” Irine asked, wide-eyed.

  “A man I like,” Sascha said. “Maybe you should marry him.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hey, Narain, got any wives yet?”

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “He looks likely,” Irine said, and leered at Narain.

  Reese shook her head and went to see the ghost. Val was standing to one side, looking gaunt and exhausted… a lot like a corpse, in fact. She wondered why he was holding position so avidly… and then saw the body behind him. She stopped.

  “Belinor,” Val said, hoarse.

  “Not.…”

  “Not yet, no. But soon, if we do not win this thing.” He drew in a breath, shaking. “So we should win this thing.”

  She nodded and said, soft. “We will.” Then added, because it was beyond belief that she’d seen him die and yet he was standing here, looking at her with tragic eyes, “Did Corel resurrect himself or is that trick specific to you?”

  Behind her, Hirianthial said, “Corel?”

  Val managed a weak smile. “I’m no deity, Lady, I assure you. I just wasn’t quite as dead as Baniel believed.” He looked past her. “Lord Hirianthial.”

  “And you are….”

  “Valthial Trena Firilith,” the other man said. “Former priest of the Lord.”

  “And dire enemy of my brother, it would seem.”

  “And all his works.”

  “Where is everyone?” Sascha said, pulling Irine after him by the hand. “I thought you were going to free Olthemial and the Swords?”

  “And we have,” Val said. “Along with everyone else… that would be the noncombatants, whom we’ve sent through the servants’ halls, and Asaniefa’s guard, whom we sent to kill pirates for taking their lady.”

  “You freed Surela’s minions?” Reese asked, appalled.

  Val met her eyes. “They’ve taken oaths to protect their liegelady and the last time they saw her she was being manhandled by pirates at the behest of the high priest. They don’t want us. They want them. And I have to say they were doing a pretty fine job of getting them last I
looked around the corner.”

  “It’s a bloodbath out there,” Narain said, trying futilely to wipe his uniform. “Knives are rhacking messy.”

  “So we have two sets of Eldritch fighting the pirates,” Reese said. “Just because things weren’t hard enough to figure—”

  Hirianthial’s face jerked toward the wall.

  “—out?” Reese finished. “Hirianthial?”

  “Araelis,” he hissed. “He has Araelis.” His eyes narrowed. “Nearby. The ballroom.”

  “And you are not going to dash off in there alone!” Reese exclaimed, fretful.

  That brought him back, though his eyes remained disturbingly flat. It made their color look more like blood than wine. “No.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I think I’ve had my lessoning about attempting these things alone.”

  “That’s the trap,” Reese added, to make sure he understood.

  “Indubitably. But he is there to be taken, and he must be.” He shook himself, and said, chagrined, “And here I have said we shall not be parted. But I need you to go find as many of our allies as can be spared and bring them to the ballroom. And if you can find the Chatcaavan and dispatch him… it’s unlikely he is apart from Baniel, but if he is, then he must be dealt with. Captured, preferably, or killed if he resists.”

  “And while we do that, you go after your brother,” Sascha said, ears flat.

  “Don’t worry,” Val said. “I’m going with him.”

  CHAPTER 20

  What had he learned of this stranger in the short time he’d been in-system? How much did he have to know? The power that radiated from Valthial was so hot he expected the tautness of skin that came from too close proximity to a fire, and there was a lodestone weight in it that pulled toward justice that almost, almost disguised the blood-flecked shadow Hirianthial could find no name for. It echoed like memories buried so long they’d rotted clean, leaving only bone and whispers. A perfume glided through it: roses.

  “Yes,” Hirianthial said at last. “Yes, I think you will.”

  “At your service.” Val touched a hand to his chest and inclined his head in what should have been a caricature of a bow and instead felt real. To them both, he thought.

  Returning his attention to Theresa, he said, “I won’t engage unless needful, but the quicker you bring reinforcements.…”

  “I understand.” Her aura jangled, discord and nauseated colors. “Don’t do anything too heroic without me.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him for you,” Val said. “But see to Belinor. I beg you.”

  Reese said, “I will. And you do that. Come on, fluffies, we’ve got a round-up to do.”

  “On it, Boss.”

  He forced himself not to watch her go, the one brightness in all the swamping dark. Instead he crouched alongside the acolyte and brushed a hand over the clammy flesh. His touch whispered back cruel stories of blows and wounds and torture. “How did you survive the culling of the talented?”

  Val folded his arms behind his back. “By being one of the people executing it.”

  “You were a killer.”

  A hesitation, but there was none of the ambiguity and skidding colors of someone working up to a lie. Hirianthial thought the other man was looking in himself and hating the view. “Until I woke up one day to what I was doing.” Val met his eyes. “There was no excuse for my actions. I thought it was necessary; I was wrong.”

  “And this bought you my brother’s ire.”

  “He tried to have me killed, yes.” Val paused. “That was the first time. The second time he almost succeeded, which is why I smell like a corpse. I’m lucky they were throwing the dead in a heap outside instead of burying them or he would have had me.”

  Hirianthial glanced at him. “A rather more exciting life than the average Eldritch.”

  Val snorted. “Given how little things change around here… yes. Though things are changing now.”

  Thinking of Liolesa’s words to him when he first returned after the misfortunes on Kerayle, he said, “It appears the priesthood has had its purge after all.”

  “Thank His name, and Hers too. So, how are we going to do this? You got my message, I’m guessing.”

  “That Baniel is tapping the Chatcaavan? Yes.” A hissing whisper from his borrowed memories: Urise’s disapprobation. Dire warnings of power wielded without finesse, death sentences, unpredictable results. “I’m guessing they’re together.”

  “No idea. If he already stripped him, then the alien’s dead. If he hasn’t, then it’s easier to have him to hand, but not necessary.” Val glanced down at him. “It really is a trap.”

  “Let us go spring it, then.”

  “Without your lady’s reinforcements?”

  “Baniel will want to have words first. He has been waiting a long time for this.”

  Val rubbed his nose, streaking it with dust. “He never seemed the talkative type.”

  “He’s not,” Hirianthial said. He touched Belinor’s brow, whispered a command: Hold fast. Then he rose, waking his sword. “But confronted with the two of us? I think he will be inspired.”

  The fighting in the halls had moved toward the wing of the palace where Asaniefa had been housed and the ballroom was a short distance from the audience chamber. They met no trouble, and didn’t need to. Hirianthial knew what awaited them there, and that was trouble enough.

  At the end of the echoing emptiness of the ballroom, standing in front of Liolesa’s padded bench on the dais, was his brother, looking no worse for their separation, for the battle, for all his machinations. It would almost be unfair, save that he no longer feared this fight. The execution he had owed his brother had been delayed, that was all… the blow was finally falling, and the ending pre-ordained.

  /You’re awfully confident./

  Startled by the sending and hiding it, Hirianthial said, /You would talk to me this way?/

  /Seems better than out loud, where we’re sure he’ll hear us./

  /And you’re certain he won’t hear this./

  Val snorted. /If he can we’re rhacked either way./

  Hirianthial paused because he wanted to laugh and thought that would be a bad way to begin this encounter. /Learned Universal completely, did you?/

  /Very nice language. Like it better than our own./

  “Extraordinary,” Baniel said. “And here I thought you were dead. Nicely played, Valthial.”

  “You’re an arrogant bastard,” Val said, switching into their own tongue and splashing the words with condescending swaths of black and shadow. “You didn’t even bother to check to make sure I was dead. You just assumed. That sort of thing gets you killed, you know.”

  Araelis was lying in a heap of skirts behind the bench, but her dress was intact, without even tears on the hems. Not hurt, then, but not conscious either, Hirianthial noted. Probably to make it easier for his brother to kill her.

  “Did you really come here to talk?” Baniel lifted his brows. “You of all people? The oh so obedient minion, who consented to murder because his betters commanded it and he needed to believe? You really want to exhume our history? In front of your newest ally?”

  “My newest ally has my mettle,” Val said. “But I’m not here to dig up old corpses.”

  “No?”

  “I’m here to figure out why you’re the one stalling. Did your fickle alien throw off your yoke? Or did you kill him before you could suck all the power out of him?”

  Hirianthial extended a feather-soft hand toward his cousin, felt her stir. /Araelis,/ he whispered. /Can you run?/

  No words in her bleary response, but she was rousing.

  “Ah, ah,” Baniel said. “No, I think not, my brother.” Araelis vanished from his awareness as if cut away. “Very well, if you wish. Let us begin this, and have it done.”

  Hirianthial gathered himself and launched the attack, met unexpected resistance. Tested that resistance, found it strong and smooth to the touch. He explored it and then exhaled, emptying himself. Let his brot
her hold fast against the divine silence. No mortal shield could deflect the power that lived in the dark spaces between stars, and in their molten hearts.

  Val’s shout ripped across the hall. “NO!”

  He opened his eyes, saw the knife in Baniel’s hand darting toward Araelis, slowing as Val exerted himself on it.

  No one expects a knife, the whispers in his head suggested, and he woke his sword and ran the length of the ballroom, to end the struggle, to commit to the execution too many years in the arrest. He reached the dais, swung, and missed when Baniel leaped inside the range, close enough to almost smash into him, the knife reversed. The forearm Hirianthial used to deflect the attack took a long slice—and from his own dagger, the missing Jisiensire knife, to boot—but missed, and none of it made sense of the leaping triumph that blazed from his brother’s mind.

  “Oh yes,” Baniel hissed. “Give it to me, brother!”

  His life? Baniel’s?

  Fingers skidded, slick, over the cut in his arm.

  …and reached into him, forcing a bond and swallowing the power that was pouring into him from the welling calm, the Divine, the energy that had no ending, swallowing and swallowing until appalled, Hirianthial cut it off, choking his brother’s grip and by then it was much, much too late.

  This he learned when Baniel threw him halfway across the room with his mind alone.

  “You too, pathetic thing.” Val froze in place and Baniel grinned. “Stalling, was I.”

  A furtive test demonstrated that he could move, so Hirianthial cautiously tucked his feet beneath himself and watched his brother. The aura around him was so dense it crimped the air around him—he had no doubt even the mindblind could see it now.

  “Tempting to take the rest,” Baniel said. “But this is more than enough. Now truly we finish this.”

  He could almost feel the wave poised to crash over him when a warm wash of energy flowed through him. Startled, he looked toward Val, who met his eyes.