Diamond Stained

by J M D Reid

  “Learning to fight,” she said, lifting her chin.

  He scowled and shook his head.

  “I won’t be talked out of it,” she added.

  “I’ve learned the futility of that,” he said, raising hands. “Just . . . you sure? From him?”

  “You don’t like Ōbhin either?”

  His face darkened and something flashed in his eyes. Jealousy? A pleased ripple ran through her. “I don’t trust him.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and planted a brushing kiss on his cheek. Then she resumed her practice, heading back to Ōbhin with confidence.

  *

  Ōbhin’s eyes kept drawing to the hill. The feeling of being watched skittered across his spine.

  He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Avena’s haunted gaze kept flicking up to the hill. Her shoulders tightened and a renewed vigor would strengthen her. She would fight through the soreness in her legs and the exhaustion weighing at her. She wasn’t used to such physical exertion.

  Her tenacity was admirable and rooted in that reckless stubbornness. She was like a rock just thrusting up through the dirt. She didn’t look big, but she was just the tip of something larger. Something that would break your toe if you struck it in the wrong way.

  Her skill at moving had grown. It was still simple—he’d let her master the basics before teaching her more complicated placement of feet. It was bad to be rigid while fighting. You had to resonate with Zolinee’s watery Tone. To flow like the rivers which, in their own way, sang with her melody. Adapt, change, react. Fighting was both a passive and active endeavor. You had to flow between the calm pool and the raging rapids, depending on circumstances.

  Now, he just needed to keep her from cracking open her own head.

  The eyes on the hill weren’t the only watchers. Miguil had lurked with sullenness on the edge of the practice area, watching his promised learning to fight. Even the fussy butler had come out, though Ōbhin knew whom he watched.

  He ignored those eyes as he glanced back at Avena.

  She traded blows with Bran, the two enthusiastically swinging their binders with little skill. The metal rods clanked together. Both wore heavy gloves to protect their fingers, which was good since both had taken hard blows, bringing yelps and curses.

  “Too hard,” Smiles said, his grin gone. He had the look of a sergeant now. Though only a year or two older than Ōbhin, the man wasn’t inept. Even Fingers knew how to brawl, drawing more on lessons learned in a dozen barroom tousles and back alley clashes. “You overcommitted, Bran.”

  “Don’t I want to hit as hard as possible?” Bran asked again, his youthful face flushed.

  “What happens if you miss?” Avena asked before Bran could deliver his next attack.

  “I won’t,” declared Bran.

  “You do all the time.”

  “Let the weapon work for you,” Ōbhin said, feeling those eyes on the hill watching. “It wants to move in certain ways. Adapt to it. Fighting your weapon means you have to face two opponents.”

  “And sore arms,” Avena said. She shook her right arm. “When are you going to teach us fancy things?”

  “When you stop flinching when Bran swings at you.”

  Avena shifted. “He’s bigger than me.”

  Ōbhin nodded. “Fear is something you must manage. Too much, and you cower. Too little, and you impale yourself on your opponent’s blade trying to deliver the deathblow.”

  Or face down bandits with only a belt knife.

  “Enough for today,” said Ōbhin. “I assume you know how to treat blisters. I imagine you’re both forming them.”

  Avena flexed her hand. “I’m fine. I’ve spent days with a broom in hand.”

  “What ‘bout Bran?” asked Smiles. “The only tool that he’s held for a full day is the one danglin’ between his legs.”

  Bran went crimson.

  Avena gasped. “Smiles! I should have your wife wash out your mouth.”

  “You dress like a man and swing a club, then I’m gonna talk like one ‘round you.” He winked at her. “Though you make a prettier one than Bran.”

  “I should have my Miguil box your ears, too,” she said, though there was a slight curl to her lips, the start of a pleased smile.

  “Do you need ointment, Bran?” Ōbhin asked.

  “I’m fine,” Bran said.

  “No shame in attending to your injuries. You can’t fight if you can’t hold a rod.”

  “I’m fine!” he snapped with petulance.

  Smiles and Fingers both burst into laughter. Bran flushed more. Ōbhin shook his head. “They’re just jealous that you got something bigger to hold.”

  “Wot are you sayin’?” Fingers grunted.

  “That your wife needed to borrow a bigger tool from the miller,” Smiles said.

  Fingers tackled him and the two men crashed to the ground and rolled on the grass. Avena gasped, rushing forward then paused when she heard them laughing as they spilled apart. Fingers shook his head, staring up at the sky.

  “That’s your wife that he . . .” Avena drew up a deep breath. “And you . . . They . . .” She threw a look around. “You are all coarse and vulgar, do you know that? My Miguil would never—”

  Bran burst into guffawing laughter, braying almost like a donkey as he bent over.

  “What?” Avena asked, glaring at him, her gloved hands on her hips, the old leather cracking in places. “What are you implying? Do I need to talk to your mother?”

  Horror fell on Bran’s face. “That’s low. I’m a man now. You don’t have to talk to her.”

  Avena arched an eyebrow.

  Fingers and Smiles laughed louder on the ground. Ōbhin almost joined them, but the eyes returned. His hand fell down to his sword hilt as he faced the hill again. It provided a perfect vantage of the estate. A longbowman could even fire from there and have a fair chance of sticking them.

  Ōbhin frowned at that thought popping into his mind. He considered the tracks he saw. The watcher had a staff. Or a bow. Handsome Baill? Has Ust sent him to spy on us? Is his ego that wounded? After a moment’s consideration, Ōbhin knew the answer.

  “Fingers, back to the front gate. Smiles, with me.”

  “With you?” asked Smiles. “Wot we up to?” He rose, wiping grass off his back and rear.

  “Patrol.”

  “The hill?” Avena asked. “You feel it?”

  He gave a short nod.

  “Probably just some boys from the Breezy Hills neighborhood,” Fingers said. “Wouldn’t pay ‘em no mind.”

  Ōbhin shrugged. “Humor me. Besides, Smiles needs a walk. His wife’s fattening him up. Let’s sweat some weight off.”

  “Jilly does make sure I got a full plate come supper,” said Smiles, patting his stomach. “Good woman.”

  “Come on,” said Ōbhin.

  Avena fell in at his side. He glanced at her and felt that stubbornness roiling from her.

  “What?” she demanded, eyes hard.

  “Did I say anything, Smiles?”

  “Nope. Good sign of a leader, that is.”

  “Oh?” Avena asked as they headed for the gate across the grass.

  “Never give an order you know won’t be obeyed,” Smiles said. “Leastways, not in public.”

  A tinge of pink touched Avena’s cheeks. “I just . . . I mean . . . Come on, let’s go see these boys Fingers was talking about.”

  It didn’t take long to climb the hill. Ōbhin thought he saw movement beneath the tree as they passed through the postern gate unlocked by Smiles’s key. Is someone fleeing? He kept a grip on his resonance blade just in case. Avena’s face grew paler as they climbed the narrow trail between the thorny blackberry bushes. She quivered, swallowing. The stink of fear bled off of her. Sour. Queasy.

  What had she seen last night?

  Smiles’s good nature slipped. He shifted.

  “What?” Ōbhin asked.

  “Just . . . a chill breeze
off the lake, I reckon. Gets windy up ‘round here.” The man rubbed at his arms, pale flesh pebbled with bumps.

  Something did feel . . . deathly. They’d buried Carstin at the top of the hill. Had his soul lingered? Had he failed to find harmony with the Seven Tones and merge with the universe? Had his sins been too great? Did he clutch to that laundress he’d met? The last words he spoke were about the new woman.

  How can I possibly find her if I don’t even know her name?

  “He was here,” whispered Avena as they neared the top.

  “Who?” Ōbhin asked.

  “Him.” Her brown eyes landed on his. Pale sweat wreathed her brow.

  Ōbhin swallowed. The memory of those jackals filled him. His bowels went colder than a mountain blizzard. His grip tightened on the resonance blade as he inhaled, questing for the smell of decay. Only the faint sweetness of the blackberry flowers reached his nose.

  No one waited for them at the top of the hill, but Carstin’s grave lay disturbed. A pile of dirt lay to the side, the soil on one side dry, the other side still holding in the damp, shadowed from the sun. A clammy hand squeezed about his heart.

  Dje’awsa had come for his friend’s body.

  “Do you know what I can do to you with this? Do you have any idea?” echoed in Ōbhin’s mind as the harmonics of anger, fed by Otsar’s bold Tone, sang in him.

  Finding no answers at the empty grave, Ōbhin retreated down the hill. He didn’t know what to do next. How to find Dje’awsa. He had Dualayn to protect. A house to secure. Men to drill. Impulses pulled him in two directions.

  For now, he had given his word to Dualayn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thirty-Fourth Day of Compassion, 755 EU

  Ōbhin’s boots thudded across the dark lawn of the mansion.

  The chimes of the heliodor alarm blared from the manor house.

  “There, there!” Bran’s excited voice shouted ahead, the youth’s gangly legs giving him long strides. In the dark, the purple glow of his binder bobbed beside him, spilling violet light across his hand and arm. “They’re heading for the blackberry gate!”

  The two thieves were only shadows ahead of Bran. Ōbhin increased his step, pushing his body. The week of drilling his new guards had restored stamina he didn’t realize he’d lost. Banditry involved lots of waiting.

  A figure burst out from the far side of the mansion, binder glowing. It was Fingers, Ōbhin guessed based off the gait. The older man still had pounds needing to be sweated off of him. He raced to cut the two thieves off.

  Ōbhin’s boots, donned in haste and tied loosely, slipped on the dew-coated grass as he headed down the slope. For a mad moment, he thought he’d fall as he changed directions. Arms waved before he caught his balance. The scent of torn plants filled his nose.

  “Got you!” Bran shouted.

  The youth tackled one of the racing shadows, carrying him to the ground. Ōbhin grinned as the exhilaration surged through him. He charged down the slope to the practice grounds by the rhododendron bushes.

  “Get off!” the thief shouted.

  A loud crack echoed. Bran grunted, dropping his binder and grabbing at his nose. The thief scrambled to his feet and charged after his partner. He made it two steps before Fingers swung his binder, striking the thief hard in the chest. Purple energy sprang about the thief’s torso, pinning his arms to his side. He stumbled but held his balance.

  “Wot you do that for?” the thief gasped, voice sounding young, cracking. “Eh, gramps?”

  “Gramps!” snarled Fingers.

  The thief kicked, foot planting hard in Fingers’s crotch. The old man groaned, doubling over from the blow. The thief whirled but Bran lunged, arms wrapping around the intruder’s legs. With arms bound, he couldn’t break his fall. His face smacked hard into the grass, bringing a grunt.

  “Bugger my mother!” Fingers panted, falling to the ground a moment later. “What do you have in those boots? Lead?”

  Ōbhin raced by them. The other thief was nearing the gate to the blackberry hill. The watchers hadn’t returned in a week. Not since they’d discovered Carstin’s plundered grave. He kept an eye on it now while his stomach churned at what Dje’awsa wanted with his friend’s mortal remains.

  A violet light rippled into existence by the gate. The thief jerked short. He scrambled to change directions on the dew-laden grass as Smiles rushed at him, binder in hand.

  Got you.

  The shadow reversed direction, racing right at Ōbhin in what looked like blind panic. The figure peered over his shoulder. A gap in the clouds appeared, allowing Father’s purple moonlight to shine down and illuminate a youthful face, dark hair streaming in a wild mess. The boy gasped, spotting Ōbhin.

  “Black’s foul piss!” The boy’s hand dipped low, drawing something from beneath his vest. He aimed it at Ōbhin as the guard closed the distance. Recognition flashed through Ōbhin’s mind.

  A hand crossbow.

  TWANG!

  The bolt fired at Ōbhin across the five cubits that separated them. Out of desperate instinct, his hand darted out and closed about the wood haft of the short quarrel. The wood scraped down his bare hands, burning palms, before popping through. The point pierced through his nightshirt’s thin linen and struck his sternum.

  Pain flared as the quarrel, slowed just enough by his crushing grip, bounced off his breastbone, leaving a deep gouge and a throbbing wound. The missile tumbled onto the ground. The youth gaped to see Ōbhin still standing. Battle exhilaration mixed with the surge of anger rushing through Ōbhin as he closed the distance.

  His fist slammed into the boy’s temple, snapping back the youth’s head. The hand crossbow tumbled from his hands while the boy hit the ground hard, clutching at his forehead. Numb throbbing skated over Ōbhin’s knuckles.

  Smiles arrived and hit the boy in the chest with the binder, wrapping him up in purple energy.

  “Elohm’s bright Colours,” said Smiles. “How’d he miss at such range?”

  “He didn’t,” Ōbhin said, his chest hurting more and more. He felt at the wound, blood slicking his bare hands. He glanced at the hand crossbow. It was small, lacking the power of a full-sized one. His burning palm was a small price to pay to keep the simple metal tip from burying into his heart.

  He almost killed me, Ōbhin thought.

  “You okay?” Smiles asked.

  “Fine,” Ōbhin said. “Not a bad wound.”

  “Best have Avena take a look.”

  A flush of embarrassment rippled through him. He was gloveless. He might as well be walking around pantless with his cock out for any woman to see. Not that any Lothonian woman would be scandalized by bare hands. Their men walked around showing off their masculine strength.

  “I’m fine,” Ōbhin growled, feeling eyes watching them from the manor house. Maids and others. “Who are you, boy?”

  “Runty Ed,” he said. “Just out for a walk.”

  “Out for a walk?” Ōbhin drew his sword, his palm throbbing against the leather handle. It felt strange to hold the weapon in a naked grip. “In Qoth, we skin thieves and throw them into the mountain snows.” He activated his weapon.

  The blade hummed to life. The lad pissed himself. The acrid scent stung Ōbhin’s nose as the youth dissolved into blubbering tears. Snot poured from his nose, illuminated by the weapon’s glowing emerald.

  “P-please don’t skin me with your magic blade!” He said. “We’re not thieves. Honest!”

  He brought the blade closer to the boy.

  A piglet-like squeal burst from the runt’s lips. “Please, please, guv’nor. We just heard there was a big gem here. Somethin’ unique. That’s all. You got to believe me.”

  “Jewel?” The Recorder? No one outside of Ōbhin, Dualayn, and Avena know of its existence. And Pharon; he carried it in, didn’t he? “Who told you about it?”

  “A man,” the boy said. “Likes to drink at the Sword Arm.”

  A chill ran through him. Ōbhin knew that t
avern, located in the Slops, a slum north of the lake. “Describe him.”

  Smiles gave a questioning look but held his words.

  “Tall man,” the boy spat out. “Big in the shoulders. His hair was greasy. Chews weed. His teeth were all stained worse than my pa’s.”

  Ōbhin’s heart tightened. Ust. The man liked the Sword Arm. Ruvine, the bandit chief’s favorite tavern wench, worked there. “Anyone else with him?”

  “This snivelin’ fellow. Had a hook for a hand.”

  Was it Handsome Baill watching us, then? Is Ust working with Dje’awsa? Dig up Carstin’s body in exchange for what . . . Ōbhin’s skin crawled. He didn’t believe in magic, having never seen it, but that man exuded something unearthly. If sorcerers existed, working their dark arts, then they’d look like him.

  “You tell your friends,” Ōbhin snarled, “next thief I catch gets skinned! And I will catch you.” He leaned down. “We don’t sleep in Qoth.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Smiles, drag him and his friend to Breezy Hills and dump them in an alley. They can wander free once the binds wear off.”

  “Sure you don’t want to skin ‘em?” asked Smiles in a casual voice. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that.”

  “Please, please!” the boy sobbed. “I won’t cause no problems.”

  Ōbhin nodded and sheathed his blade. Ust was here and causing problems. Petty annoyances. Ōbhin rolled his shoulders. A part of him wanted to march to the Sword Arm and plant his blade in the man’s throat. Murder him outright. I’ve killed better men for less reason.

  He stared down at his hands. They were bare of the gloves, but he could still see the sable. He’d never be free of it if he thought like that. Killing had a finality. He stared off into the dark. At the hill. He didn’t feel the eyes, but that didn’t mean Handsome Baill wasn’t up there, longbow in hand, watching.

  *

  Avena watched the commotion from the smoking room window, her housecoat wrapped around her body. Located on the eastern side of the third floor, this room had windows allowing her to see both in front of and to the east of the manor house. She leaned out the open window, listening to the maids below. Jilly cheered on her husband over the ear-splitting blare of the alarm.