Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  “We used to swim in the river, my brothers and I.”

  Prue tilted her head. “You had brothers?”

  “Three.” His lips curved. “Gods, we were a handful. Poor Ma.”

  “Your father?”

  In the twilight illumination, his eyes looked black. “He was a fisherman. His boat went down in a storm when I was six.”

  “I’m sorry.” Prue curled her legs under her. Asking was stupid, when every tidbit only intrigued her more. Hell. “Where are you from?”

  “New Norsca. On the northern continent of Concordia. It’s beautiful, Prue, mountains all the way to the sky, magnificent fjords. Cold as a bitch in winter.” Returning to the ledge, he crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, gazing up at her.

  “And you went swimming?” His body really was like music, a perfect lilting flow from the width of massive shoulders to a strong, trim waist to the high, arched rounds of his buttocks shimmering under the water.

  “In summer.” His smile became a reminiscent grin. “Naked as the day we were born.” He slanted her an unreadable look. “Haven’t done it in years until today. You?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “I think it feels fucking wonderful.” He reached up to pluck at the gown. “C’mon in. Dare you.”

  When she batted at his hands, he just laughed. “Live dangerously, Mistress McGuire. I’ve seen it all anyway.”

  In the end, he simply hoisted himself onto the ledge beside her with a twist of powerful shoulders and reefed the nightgown off over her head, despite her protests. “Take a breath, sweetheart.” He scooped her hard into his chest and tumbled them both off the ledge.

  The water closed over their heads and they sank slowly, Prue’s hands clutching Erik’s shoulders, his hands gripping her waist. Their legs tangled together. Tendrils of her hair escaped the braid to writhe around her face, but she didn’t notice. Underwater, it was a dim, silent world, where their eyes met in wordless communication, and all she could hear was the beat of the blood in her ears. Erik tugged her flush against all that cool, slick hardness, and she tilted her head so her lips met his.

  The kiss was cool and unhurried, an exploration of what felt like familiar territory, already dearly beloved. But this time, it wasn’t dreamlike at all. Everywhere his flesh touched hers, Prue tingled, and given the broad expanse of him, that was pretty well everywhere. The light fur on his chest was a delicate rasp on her nipples, his belly firm and cobbled against her softness. Muzzily, she thought she would have been happy to go on like this forever and to hell with breathing.

  A dark thought broke through the surface euphoria. Perhaps it would be better.

  Her vision was hazing when they broke the surface, though she wasn’t entirely certain which was the greater contributing factor—the mind-numbing Magick of Erik Thorensen’s mouth or the lack of air.

  Idly, he tucked an errant curl behind her ear as they floated languidly together. “We should go back,” he said eventually.

  “Yes.”

  Silence save for the water lapping.

  “Prue—”

  “Godsdammit.” Turning away, she stroked toward the dark tunnel that led back to the real world. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I have to.” He caught her easily, taking her cheeks between his palms to gaze deep into her eyes. “I hate that I hurt you. Forgive me? Please?”

  Last night, he’d had her exactly where he wanted her, open and vulnerable. Then he’d discarded her, exactly as Chavis had done. Whatever it was he wanted, she hadn’t been able to supply it. A great fist closed over Prue’s heart and squeezed all the joy out of it, drop by drop. Such a transitory thing, happiness. Strange how heavy she felt, as though she could sink into the formless mud on the seabed and stay there, safe in the muffled, silty quiet of death. “You want an honest answer?”

  After a moment, he nodded, his face drawn.

  Prue picked her words with care. “I believe you’re sorry, but trust’s a fragile thing. Once it’s gone . . .” She shrugged

  “I know.” His voice was so low she could barely hear it, but it rang with bitter knowledge. “Gods, I know.”

  “The heart remembers hurt.” She blinked away the sting of tears. “Part of the human condition, I suppose.”

  Slowly, he released her and she swam to the ledge to retrieve her gown. Wadding it up in her hand, she said, “Let’s go.”

  “Yes.” Erik grabbed his trews. “I spoiled it, didn’t I?”

  “Depends on what it was you wanted. A pleasant diversion to pass your time in the city?” She shrugged in answer to her own question. “I don’t need to tell you how attractive you are.”

  She stroked toward the entrance to the tunnel and turned in the water, waiting. “You know that and you use it. It’s what you do, what you are.” She tried to smile, perhaps to soften the blow, though for whose benefit, she couldn’t be sure. “Not a man for the long haul.”

  His face grim, Erik joined her. As if she hadn’t spoken, he said curtly, “On the count of three then. One, two . . . three!”

  Together, they sank a few feet and kicked into the darkness of the tunnel.

  She’d stopped shivering by the time they reached the first of the small pavilions, but she hadn’t said a word beyond a murmured thanks when he wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Erik glanced down at her huddled figure. Her face looked pinched, not like bright, bustling Prue at all.

  Caracole was one fucking debacle after another. A slow, ugly feeling unfurled in his belly. What, in the gods’ names, had he been thinking just then? Had he been thinking at all? After last night’s disaster, he should have been testing each step with her, moving slowly, but he’d been thoroughly seduced by the blaze of awe and joy that suffused her whole expressive little body when the seelies bobbed up. Gods, she’d loved them! And then . . .

  Make me, she’d said, her voice breaking. Damn you to hell!

  Even walking through The Garden in this awkward silence, his balls tightened at the memory. One of the most perfect moments of his life, her heart beating in the delicate flesh against his tongue, his will controlling her climax, setting her free to soar. And no mistakes, well, not then. He’d been so careful, ensuring she couldn’t touch more than his hair, inspecting every word before it came out of his mouth. This time, he’d held to his purpose. No Voice.

  Gods, the rewards! He hadn’t even been touching himself and he’d come so hard he’d almost drowned.

  It was after that he’d fucked it up.

  Despite the warmth of the sun, the wet trews clung cold and clammy against his skin. He shivered, and regret and fury swept over him. He’d ruined it. Her opinion was clear enough. Not a man for the long haul. He glared at the wet braid snaking down her back, almost hating her. How dare she offer him a glimpse of paradise and then snatch it away?

  Erik’s lips tightened. He didn’t have time for a long haul, whatever that was, but he’d hold fast to what remained of his honor and make do with what she’d give him of her own free will in the brief time they had. He’d just done exactly that. In the battle for Prue McGuire, this round went to him, not the Lady. Determination firmed inside him. He’d win the next one too.

  Mind you, honor didn’t mean he wouldn’t push Prue’s boundaries as far as he possibly could—he’d already shown he couldn’t resist, even if he had to walk the very edge of risk. He thought of her helpless, delicate wrists bound in jade silk and his balls tightened with mingled lust and apprehension.

  His frown darkened. The physical pleasure he’d given her was nothing in comparison to the body blows he’d dealt her proud spirit. Which meant he had a responsibility to heal what he could—if he could. Erik stifled a sigh. He’d have to be careful—not only with Prue, but with himself.

  Gods, he’d hurt her.

  As they passed a fountain, tinkling into a grotto of pierced and fretted rocks, Prue grabbed his arm, bringing them both to an abrupt halt. A few yards ah
ead, a man kneeled on the path, a huge dark flower cupped tenderly in both hands. He was crooning to it, tunefully enough.

  “Dai,” said Prue. “What are—?”

  The man held up a warning finger. Finishing the song, he patted the blossom the same way he’d pat a woman’s cheek. Then he rose, dusting off the knees of his trews. All his garments were black and superbly cut, the shirt finished with fine silver buttons.

  Erik recognized the beautiful face, like a wicked angel. Yesterday, he’d seen it on a barge, laughing at him. He glared, pleased to discover he was at least six inches taller.

  The man slanted a twinkling glance in their direction. “I’d ask,” he murmured, “but then I’d have to hear the answer.”

  “Dai, what are you doing? Where’s Walker?”

  “First things first, Mistress Prue.” The man nodded at Erik, the ruby drop in his ear catching the sun like a crimson tear. “You’re still all wet, my friend. What are you? Part fish?”

  “What I am not is supper,” growled Erik. “Just so we’re clear.”

  Prue shot him a startled glance. “This is Erik Thorensen,” she said to Dai. “The singer.”

  Dai’s considering gaze traveled from Erik to Prue and back again. His lips twitched. “So I see,” he said obscurely.

  Prue hitched her towel more firmly around her shoulders. “If Walker catches you in his bed of dark roses, you’re a dead man, Dai.”

  But Dai shook his head. “He sent me, said I was to keep them company for a while. I’m to take his classes as well.”

  “But why?”

  The other man’s merry face clouded. “He’s back at the House of Swords, Mistress, with a fever you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Walker? But he’s never sick.”

  “Isn’t Walker the swordsman?” asked Erik. Dai wore a long dagger at his waist, but Erik had no doubt there’d be another half dozen weapons concealed about his trim person. He looked that kind of man. Casually, Erik shifted closer to Prue, resisting the temptation to tuck her under his arm.

  “Walker’s many things,” said Dai. “He was a shaman once. Now he’s a gardener.” He gestured at the flowers, their satiny petals a purple so dark it was almost black. “He bred these blooms for Mistress Rose. He’s a genius with any kind of blade, not to mention purely incredible with a quarterstaff.”

  Shaking himself out of a moment’s abstraction, Dai touched Prue’s arm. “What’s wrong, Mistress Prue?”

  Prue raised troubled eyes to Dai’s. “I was going to ask Walker to come with me. I have to go the Open Cabal today.”

  “Ah,” said Dai. “My pleasure.” He bowed.

  “No need,” growled Erik. “I’ll be there, remember?”

  “The Open Cabal is not for the fainthearted.” This time, there was no heat in Dai’s assessing gaze, only challenge. “You’re big enough, but what use are you?”

  Erik tossed the towel aside. A swift step and he had Dai in a choke hold, a brawny forearm clamped across his throat, long fingers clamped over the wrist of his dagger hand.

  17

  “Not bad.” Standing perfectly still, Dai gave a muffled laugh. “Look down.”

  The blade was so small it was lost in the man’s left hand. But the tip glittered wickedly, poised over the big artery between Erik’s hip and thigh.

  “Hmpf.” Slowly, Erik released him.

  Dai raised a hand and massaged his throat. “What are you best at?”

  Erik showed his teeth. “Brawling. Fists.”

  “Blades?”

  He shrugged. “A little better than average. No more.”

  “Hmm. Show me your sword hand.”

  When Erik held it out, Dai turned it palm up for an impersonal examination. “Calluses. You practice?”

  “When I can.” Honesty compelled him to add, “For the stage.”

  Dai looked him in the eye. “Tell me, singer, have you killed?”

  When Erik slanted a wary glance at Prue, she spun on her heel. “Sister save me,” she muttered. “I don’t want to hear.” She set off toward the Main Pavilion at a brisk trot.

  Erik turned back to Dai. “Twice. I hated it.” He shrugged. “But there was no choice. We were attacked on the road. It’s a risk the Company takes, traveling.”

  Dai stared into his eyes, not at all embarrassed because he had to look up a few inches to do it. His gaze was very steady, and a little grim. “All right,” he said at last. “We all go to the Open Cabal. I’ve got your back, singer.” He held out a strong, slim hand. “Agreed?”

  Without hesitation, Erik took it in a firm grip. “You’re no courtesan.”

  When Dai grinned, his eyes sparkled green gold like a cat’s. “That’s not quite what Walker says.” He released Erik’s hand. “What I am is a sword for hire, the second best in the Queendom.” The grin became wry. “According to Walker.”

  “Grab my belt and hang on tight.” Erik took one look at the crowd streaming into the Audience Hall and shoved Prue behind him. Blessing the gods for bulk and heft, he shoved a ruthless path forward, Dai placidly keeping pace one step to the left. By the time he’d secured a vantage spot near the great semicircular table at the far end of the chamber, he’d lost count of the toes he’d crushed, the curses hurled at his back.

  A sour mist of excitement, fear and sweat swirled toward the coffered ceiling. His nose was stuffed with it.

  A paradise for pickpockets. Suddenly, he was immensely relieved Florien was back at the theater helping with props. Lord and Lady be praised though, the lad had kept his promise and gone straight back to the boarding house last night. Bettsa had checked. Well, well. Progress, of a sort. A smile tugged at his mouth. What would a slum rat like Florien make of the seelies? Gods, what he’d give to see the lad’s face!

  Breathing hard, Erik set Prue before him, an arm tight around her waist. Only a double strand of rope separated the ordinary folk of Caracole from their betters. Not that the members of the Cabal were yet in evidence. The vast chamber was awash with noise, shouted conversations bouncing off the polished, sandy pink seastone of the walls, while in a minstrels’ gallery set high on a mezzanine, a group of unhappy musicians sawed away at their instruments, adding to the unholy din.

  “Now what?” he said in Prue’s ear, inhaling her crisp, clean scent with gratitude.

  She fished a small wooden square out of her pocket. “Once the ministers are seated, the Open Cabal begins. We wait for the number on our chit to be called.”

  “What number do they start with?” he asked, his heart sinking.

  “One, usually,” said Dai at his elbow.

  Wordlessly, Prue held up the chit. Sixty-seven.

  “But I have to speak to someone today. I have to! Who knows how long—”

  Prue dug an elbow into his ribs. “Shush now, they’re coming. And I have an idea.”

  Someone was playing a trumpet voluntary, quite well really, the long, gleaming notes insisting on the courtesy of silence. A Guard sergeant with a chestful of medals sprang to attention, holding back a heavy curtain. From behind it strolled a group of oddly assorted but richly dressed people, deep in conversation. Ignoring the neck-craning and the whispers of the crowd, they fanned out behind the heavy table on the dais and took their places. Only two of the high, bro caded chairs remained empty, the grandest one in the center, which was clearly a throne, and another on its left.

  “Where’s the queen?” whispered Erik.

  “Only hears the most serious cases,” said Dai quietly. “But see the man seated to the right of the throne?”

  Erik nodded.

  “Uyeda, the Queen’s Right Hand. He who carries out the will of the queen.”

  Uyeda sat bolt upright, his hands folded in the capacious sleeves of a severely cut, formal robe. Although his hair was iron gray, the bones of his face were broad and starkly elegant. Intelligence shone in the faded blue of his eyes, only the shadows beneath betrayed the strain of his office.

  Erik’s gaze traveled to the e
mpty throne and the seat beyond it. “And on the queen’s left?”

  A soundless chuckle from Dai. “The Queen’s Left Hand, he who executes the will of the queen unseen. Her spymaster.”

  “Who is he?”

  Prue shrugged. “No one knows, that’s the point. It’s all about the separation of powers. He—or she—could be anyone. Anywhere.”

  Comprehension dawned. Erik fought the desire to laugh. “You mean the Right Hand doesn’t know what the Left Hand is doing?

  “Exactly,” said Prue. “Only the monarch knows that.”

  The sergeant strode to the center of the floor, grounding the hilt of his halberd with a ringing impact on the stone flags. “One!” he intoned in a stentorian bellow, and two women stepped forward, already deep in what was clearly an ongoing argument, hands flying with the intensity of their feelings. Six pairs of eyes gazed down at them from the Queen’s table with varying degrees of disapproval, boredom or interest.

  “Who are the others?” asked Erik.

  Rising on tiptoe, Prue explained in an undertone. If he hadn’t been so tense, Erik would have enjoyed her proximity. As it was, he tightened his arm around her supple waist, bending his head to brush his cheek against her hair while he listened and watched.

  The Queen’s Money was the middle-aged man at the far left, frowning down at the papers in his hand. Behind him stood a harried-looking clerk with an armload of scrolls and bound ledgers. Lounging back in the next chair, the Navy shared a joke with her swarthy, hawkish neighbor, the Queen’s City.

  On the far side of Uyeda, the Right Hand, a small, plump man surveyed the great unwashed of Caracole with bright, birdlike interest. The Queen’s Knowledge. As far as Erik could make out from Prue’s hurried whispers, the office required a combination of archivist, librarian and research scholar. It seemed that the Knowledge was a learned man.

  Which left the Army, with his dress uniform, his brush of grizzled hair and the scar under his eye. Erik studied the man’s thick fingers drumming an impatient tattoo on the table.