“Nothing, as far as I know,” Deimos said again. “You’ll not be kept under my watch, although I doubt he’ll hesitate to give the order, should you make it necessary.”
Her heart sank. She shored it up with thoughts of koi, sparkling like jewels in the water of her garden. “Would it be all right if I go to the library then?”
“No. I’m to take you to our lord’s chambers to be prepared.”
The first image that came to mind on hearing those words was that of the Mayor’s kitchen, a pot over the fire and a hen hanging from a hook.
“For what?” asked Lan.
Deimos gestured vaguely toward the cresting sun. “For dinner.”
“Dinner?” Lan stared at the back of his indifferent head. “Tonight?”
“I had taken to understand you living ate every night.” He glanced at her in the mirror again. “If it’s Lareow you want to see, he asked me to tell you…he found your note.”
She had nothing to say to that but, “Oh.”
“He did not disclose its content to me, but he seemed upset.”
“Oh,” said Lan again. It was still all she could think to say.
“His duties kept him at the palace while you were away. Otherwise, he assured me he would have called on you and that he’ll discuss the matter further when you resume lessons with him tomorrow.”
“Resume…?” She shook her head, not refusing to go as much as trying to throw off her shock as a dog throws off water. “And that’s it? Like nothing ever happened?”
“I should think you would be grateful for that.” Deimos considered that and smiled a Revenant’s steel-edged smile. “Our lord is so very angry.”
The rest of the drive passed without conversation and soon enough, she was back in the palace, approaching the door to Azrael’s bedchamber. There, Deimos passed her into the care of Serafina, who did not appear to be overwhelmed with sentiment at her return.
Lan was made to stand while her handmaiden stripped away her bandages and then circled her several times, inspecting the damage. At length, Serafina punched her hands onto her hips in a resolute manner and declared, “Well, you weren’t what anyone would call a great beauty beforehand, so you haven’t ruined much. At best, you’ve put another stain on a fusty drape, but it’s still my job to iron it. Get in the bath. I have—”
“The doctor said not to get my wounds wet.”
“Or what, they’ll scar?” Serafina asked, putting a poisonous twist on the last word that would have done Batuuli proud.
“They might get infected.”
“I’ll risk it. You stink. And if you’d let me finish, you might have heard me say I have something for you.” Head high, Serafina stalked over to the row of bottles Azrael kept at the side of the bath. One of them had been set a little apart from the others and it was this one Serafina picked up and brought back to her. She opened the jar, dipped her fingers in the colorless, pungent ointment it contained, and daubed it none too carefully on Lan’s neck. It was cold and had a prickly sort of sensation that was not quite an itch.
“What is it?” Lan asked, now holding out her arm so Serafina could smear the stuff over her ‘practice’ cut. It had not been a straight line to begin with and the subsequent infection had pulled it even further out of shape. The raised dots where the stitches had been made it look a bit like an old railway track.
“How should I know? Lord Azrael said you were to have it, to keep the wet out. Although why he should show you such consideration after what you have done, I’m sure I don’t know. Now get in the bath.”
Lan obeyed, sitting on the third descending stair with her arm propped up along the lip of the bath so that she was as fully enveloped as she could be without submerging her wounds. She could see water beading up over the ointment where errant splashes found her arm, so the stuff did seem to be working, but she doubted it would hold up very long if she went all the way under. And she was tempted to. The doctors had wiped her down fairly often during her long lie-in, but that was no substitute for a good soaking. Once, she would have been appalled to see herself wasting so much clean water, but the thought had no substance now. It blew through her like a ghost, briefly disturbing and then forgotten. She leaned into the uncomfortably right-angled wall and closed her eyes, letting the heat relax her body and the familiar sound of her handmaiden muttering just loudly enough to be heard over the fountain soothe her mind.
She was home.
Gradually, it dawned on her that the last time she’d been in this bath, Azrael had been with her. He’d sat just where she sat now and she’d been curled around him and the knife had been under the mattress, just waiting for him to leave. She got up, wading deeper into the water, but the thought followed her. She found herself looking out over the tiles, searching for bloodstains. She found none, but she had bled here. A lot. Some of that blood might have plausibly trickled over the stone floor and dripped into the bath. She might be bathing in her own blood even now.
Lan braced her hands on the lip of the bath and hupped herself noisily up and over. Her arms didn’t want to hold her, so she ended up kick-rolling free of the water, which put her beneath the table where Azrael kept his masks.
A moment later, Serafina stuck her head around the privacy screen and, seeing her, squeezed her eyes shut and pinched at the bridge of her nose. “What is the matter with you? Just…what…I can’t even…I don’t have time for this.” And she went back around the screen.
Lan crawled out from under the table and used it to pull herself to her feet. It took longer than it should have, so she was still standing there, waiting for her legs to get steady enough to let go of the table, when Serafina came back to rough her over with a towel.
“You didn’t even wash your hair,” she grumbled. “Oh, you’re a mess, just a mess. I can’t let you be seen like this. Back in the bath!”
“No.”
Serafina caught her by the arm and swung her around. “I’m not arguing with you!”
Neither was Lan. She punched her. She’d been aiming for her ear, but her aim was off; she got her handmaiden right in the eye.
Serafina staggered, one hand clapped to her face, staring at her through her fingers.
Lan picked up her towel, dropped in the scuffle, and wrapped herself. She went to stand by the fire, staring into its steady orange light. She thought of Azrael’s eyes and found herself wondering how they worked and if everything he saw came to him through a stain of pale flame.
Behind her, Serafina went to the wardrobe and took out a gown. “I need to have this altered before dinner,” she said stiffly, crossing the room in a whisper of skirts. “If you want to rest until then, I’ll wake you when I return. Perhaps you’ll be in better humor.”
Alone again, Lan reached up and rubbed a hank of limp, grungy hair between her fingers. It did need washing. She didn’t want to go to dinner tonight, but what did that matter? Azrael wanted her, so she’d go. And she’d go with her hair clean and brushed and all done up. Her scars would be covered. Her face, painted. Everyone would know what she’d done, but they’d never know to look at her.
Like this room, she thought. There was no blood in the water. Azrael’s servants were quite practiced at erasing death. Even now, knowing what she’d done, she could look around and see no sign. They’d scrubbed up every drop that had ever spilled out of her. They’d done it before; they’d do it again.
She’d come to Haven to end the Eaters, save the world, change everything. Well, nothing had ended. No one was saved. The only thing that had changed was Lan herself.
She thought about that for a long time as she stared into the fire. Then she washed her hair and put herself to bed so she wouldn’t look tired when she saw Azrael at dinner. If she woke with tears on her cheeks, well, so what? She didn’t remember her dreams. It was like she never had them at all.
* * *
“You look tired,” Serafina said, frowning as she examined Lan’s painted face. “I thought you said you slept.
”
“I did.”
“Well, you look awful. Your eyes are all swollen…Were you crying?” she snapped, as if Lan had done it solely to spite her.
“No.” And, because she was a horrible person, she added sourly, “Your eye isn’t swollen. Didn’t I hit you hard enough?”
“I’m dead. I don’t bruise. Hold still.” Serafina brushed on more paints, focusing on Lan’s eyes, then stood back to scrutinize her at arm’s length. After tipping her head this way and that, she flung up both arms dramatically and started packing away her brushes and jars. “That’s the best I can do. Wait.”
Lan waited while Serafina ran to the wardrobe, returning with a bit of wide ribbon and a clunky brooch. She had to wrap the ribbon around Lan’s neck three times to cover all her scar and she pricked her when she pinned the brooch on.
“It’s too tight,” Lan said.
“They’re supposed to be tight, that’s why they’re called chokers.”
“How am I supposed to eat with this thing strangling me?” Lan asked, reaching up to try and loosen it—not take it off, but just loosen it.
Serafina slapped her hand and turned away with a sniff. “If you wish to remind our lord of how dreadfully you’ve managed to mutilate yourself, by all means, take it off.” She went ahead of her to open the door, muttering, “The other one was much prettier anyway and far more appreciative of my efforts.”
Lan was all the way out in the hall before the full impact of that little remark struck. She halted mid-step and turned around. “What other one?”
Serafina shut the door on her.
Lan took a step toward it, then looked at the dozen or so pikemen lined up along the walls. “Has…Has he brought another dolly here?”
None of them looked at her, but one of them coughed. The dead don’t breathe and they don’t get tickles in their throats. They all faced straight ahead, emotionless and immoveable as statues, and Lan stood in the middle and felt the silence like it was laughter. At last, she started walking again, pretending it didn’t matter. Hell, it might not even be true. And even if it was, what difference did it make if Azrael planted his oats in another furrow now and then? She wasn’t the only dolly on his shelf. She could hardly complain about who he took to his bed when she’d left it so dramatically. Besides, she was the one he wanted now. She was the one whose life he’d wanted saved, so who cared if he got a bit somewhere else while he was saving it? It’d be silly to feel even a little jealous.
This didn’t feel like jealousy. She’d felt that before. She’d grown up with that bitter taste, knew it as well as she knew the taste of peaches. This didn’t feel like jealousy at all. It felt like death.
Dinner had already been served when Lan reached the dining hall. The musicians were already playing. The fake nobility of Azrael’s court were already pretending to be amused as they pretended to eat and drink. No one took any notice of her, not even Azrael, sitting alone at the imperial table and gazing broodingly up at one of the windows. It was like opening a book in the middle or walking into someone else’s dream, herself a mere spectator, unable either to follow the story or to affect it.
Then Azrael saw her. He stood and immediately, all talk and laughter ceased as his courtiers swung their hundred heads to look at her also. The musicians played on as they always did. The flute player never bent a note as Lan walked by; she wore a ribbon too, around her arm where the blood had been taken from her.
The hall had never been so long, not even the first time she’d crossed it. Azrael came down from his dais to meet her and offer her his arm to ascend the short stair. ‘What other girl?’ Lan thought, watching her feet move, one after the other, up those steps and around the table. Did she sit in this chair beside him? Did she drink from this cup? And where was she now, tonight? Did she get what she wanted and push on or was she still here in the palace, waiting to be called?
Azrael retook his throne and looked at her, just looked.
She looked back at him, hardly seeing his mask, but only his eyes, trying to see some clue in them to tell her how he saw her. She saw only shadow and flame.
Below them, the braver of his courtiers began a cautious return to their play-acted revelry. Others gradually joined in and soon the room was swallowed in their noise once more.
Azrael picked up his cup and turned his gaze out into the room. “I should not have sent for you so soon.”
He said it in no special way, but her heart leapt all the same—a cold roll that tumbled all the way down to her stomach and lay like lead. “Don’t I look all right?”
His eyes flared as he watched his musicians play. Otherwise, he did not respond.
Lan reached self-consciously to touch her rouged cheek, then lower…to the ribbon that covered her scar. She let her hands fall to her lap, watching them twist and knot together until his hand dropped over them. She went still at once, but he kept his hand where it was, as if he thought she’d jump the table and run out the door if he took it away. His grip was gentle, his fingers only lightly curled. It was almost like holding hands. If she didn’t look at him, if she didn’t have to see his anger burning out from the sockets of his snarling mask, she could pretend.
The music played, setting a light, quick rhythm for the forced laughter and inane prattle to follow. When the song ended, a slow one started. Most of the instruments went quiet. The flute sang out, low and clear and grieving.
Azrael’s eye fell to the knife beside his plate. He listened to the music and said nothing.
“Azrael…”
He took his hand back, picked up the knife and stabbed a chop, transferring it from its serving dish to his own plate. It was lamb, very rare. The juices that welled when he cut into it were red as blood. “Yes?”
“Do you want me to go?”
He ate without looking at her. “No.”
“I don’t think you want me to stay anymore either.”
He did not correct her.
“I could—” Nervously, Lan reached toward her utensils, just wanting something in her hand to fidget with. In the next instant, Azrael had her knife and banged it down on the other side of his plate. He kept eating, the way he had the day Batuuli poisoned him, methodically and without pleasure. “I could go back to the Red Room for a while,” she finished softly.
“No.”
“Until you want me again. If you—”
“I want you now.”
The words should have comforted her, but the flat, cold manner in which he spoke them robbed her of all relief.
She should let it go at that, take whatever thin shadow of hope there was and hold onto it until he gave her something more. The very last thing she ought to do was shine a light on the growing space between them.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she ventured. “I know I broke…everything I may have built and I don’t expect….Listen, if you’d rather be with the other girl, I’m not going to make trouble.”
His knife and fork stopped briefly, then resumed scraping against his plate. “What is it you think you know about her?”
“Just that there is one,” she admitted and shrugged one shoulder. “I guess I’ve always known that much. And it’s all right. If she makes you happy—”
“Do I look happy?” His silverware slammed down on the last word, cracking the edge of his plate. He looked down, fangs bared, and dashed the broken plate aside with a sweep of his arm. A servant darted invisibly in to clear the pieces; another brought a fresh setting.
“I just thought—”
“You just thought so little of me that you believed I would fuck a stranger to pass the time while I waited to hear if you would live!” He sent the servants back to the wall with a curt wave and threw another chop on his new plate. “She came to the gate, a starved and desperate wretch of a woman, scarcely ahead of the hungering dead. And for that you lay dying, I was moved to bring her in. I placed her in your handmaid’s care, to be cleaned and her wounds tended, fed and rested and supplied, bef
ore I sent her on to a human settlement. I never set eyes on her!”
“Oh.”
“It’s gratifying to know I would have your approval to take another concubine, but you know, there are other ways to remove yourself from my bed than on the edge of a knife.”
“You know that’s not why I did it.”
“But you did do it,” he said savagely, then took several steadying breaths. “You did it,” he repeated, calmly this time. “I don’t care why.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Words.”
“I don’t know what else to say except I’m sorry and you can only say that so many times. If you—”
“Why?” he interrupted. His voice was no louder, no sharper, and if it held any emotion at all, it wasn’t enough to register beyond a detached sort of interest. It was a familiar tone, one she’d heard twice before—once on her first night in Haven and once when she’d watched him interrogate the woman and child from Mallowton. Was that what this was? Was that what she had become to him?
“I told you why,” she said, her heart sinking. “I didn’t want to, I just—”
“Why are you sorry? For what you did?” He stabbed a glance at her. “Or are you only sorry it didn’t work the way you planned?”
“I’m sorry for all of it. And especially that it hurt y—”
He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling dishes and silencing all his court but for his musicians, who played sadly on as he roared, “You’re not the least bit sorry for that, you lying bitch! That was the hingepin of your whole poisonous plot, to hurt me and to make me remember that hurt the rest of my eternal life! Whether I have you back or not, no matter how sweetly you take me in or how soft your lips, I will never be free of that moment, and that is just how you planned it, so damn you and damn your hollow sorries!”
Land of the Beautiful Dead Page 62