Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  Someone hummed it back to him, very softly.

  “Who was that?”

  “Hmm?” enquired Prue, her pencil moving rapidly down the page.

  “Listen.” He did it again and got the same response. There had to be someone behind the block of seastone. It was certainly coming from over there.

  “Oh, that’s the flow sculpture,” she said without looking up. She waved the pencil in a preoccupied sort of way. “Read the plaque over there. You have to provoke it.”

  “Provoke it?”

  Prue set the notebook and pencil aside, the aquamarines in her cuffs distracting him as they glittered, though they were no brighter than her dancing eyes. Primitive satisfaction moved through him. Mine.

  “Blow on it,” she said.

  “Blow—? All right.” Pulling himself together, Erik moved closer, pursed his lips and blew.

  The surface of the flow sculpture slithered and spun in a kaleidoscope of gentle color. It formed a tiny mouth that puffed out a scented breeze.

  Erik reared back. “Lord’s balls!”

  Prue laughed outright. “Wonderful, isn’t it? It responds to different stimuli.” Rising, she came to slip a hand into his. She did it unthinking, so naturally that his heart lurched in his chest. “Sing again, Erik.”

  Cautiously, he began the “Seelie Song.” After a few seconds, little ripples stirred, flexing in time with the music, combining and recombining in complex patterns. The stone changed color, until it was every possible shade of blue and green, cobalt to emerald, with infinite variations.

  Prue pointed. “Look, there’s a seelie. And another.”

  There were. Tiny seelies gamboling among the feathery fronds of water weeds. The air smelled briny and fresh.

  A work of genius.

  Erik switched to the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.”

  Without missing a beat, the flow sculpture reassembled. Broad swathes of amethyst and lavender swept back and forth. Slow drops of water trickled down like tears squeezed from a diamond. It wasn’t until threads of gold and silver wove themselves into the pattern that he realized the sculpture was singing harmony in an impossibly high key, clear and pure.

  The last note lingered and died, leaving silence save for the tinkling voice of the waterfall.

  Someone clapped.

  Erik whirled around. They had an audience of about a dozen strangers, some wearing formal, light-colored robes, others obviously families out for the day. A couple of guards stood with their arms folded, watching impassively. Laughing, he grasped Prue’s hand and pulled her down with him into a bow.

  “Mistress McGuire.” A short, tubby figure stepped forward, beaming. “And Master . . . um . . . ?” He cocked his head to one side like a curious bird.

  Erik remembered that gesture. The Queen’s Knowledge.

  “Thorensen,” he said shortly. “The singer.”

  “Of course, of course.” The Knowledge rubbed his hands together, the long sleeves of his robe swinging. “That was quite delightful. Come, walk with me. I’m on my way back to the Library. After a session with the Cabal, I find such beauty—ahem—soothing.” He twinkled.

  When the Knowledge turned onto the path, the ordinary folk melted away, leaving the minister surrounded by his subordinates, with the two guards taking up flank positions, hands on their sword hilts.

  Praise to the Lord and the Lady, another chance! A single swift stride and Erik was at the man’s elbow. “May I speak freely, my Lord?”

  “In Caracole, the correct form of address is Noblelord,” the Knowledge said mildly. He shot Erik a shrewd glance from over the rims of his spectacles. “Speak about what? This seelie nonsense?”

  The older man kept their progress down to a dignified amble, whereas Erik had the sense he would have preferred to trot down the path, bouncing on his toes. The Knowledge seemed to have a lot of energy.

  Gritting his teeth, Erik bowed. One minute. Hell, give him thirty seconds and one sentence. The minister would be his to command, the city safe. “For your ears only, Noblelord.”

  The Queen’s Knowledge chuckled. “Can’t be private with anyone, lad.” He gestured toward the guard on the left. “The captain here would kill me himself.” He plucked a flower from a lover vine as they passed, raised it to his nose and sniffed. “Speak or don’t speak.” He flung the blossom away. “Up to you.”

  Erik could have strangled him quite cheerfully.

  “Very well.” Wearily, he went through the whole improbable tale again, and by the time the small party had entered the echoing cool of the Library colonnade, the back of his neck was hot, embarrassment warring with fury. The minister’s entourage of clerks maintained complete silence, as was proper, but Erik didn’t miss the nudges, the smirks and sidelong glances. Perfectly pleasant, unfailingly courteous, the Knowledge had asked penetrating, logical questions, some of which Erik knew he’d fumbled.

  Coming to a halt, the minister raised a hand. “Enough, Master Thorensen. I am a scholar. Wild speculation is of no interest to me. You see this?” He moved aside, revealing a small niche in the wall.

  “Sweet Sister!” Prue gasped. “What is it?”

  The colonnade had been lined with statuary, all of it extraordinarily fine, though Erik had barely noticed. But this object was breathtaking, a sinuous-waisted shape, no more than a foot tall, made up of colors so vibrant they glimmered with sumptuous life. Amber, russet, terracotta, apricot, ochre and cream, all the colors of the living earth, and, if you turned your head just right, spiced with a gleam of green bronze.

  Irresistibly drawn, Prue lifted a hand to touch, only to meet a glass barrier. “Are those feathers?” she said, staring.

  The Queen’s Knowledge folded his hands in his sleeves and nodded, smiling. “Indeed they are. We call it a feather vase. Aetherian work.” He paused. “Well, supposedly.”

  “Supposedly?” asked Erik. He had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

  “For centuries, we’ve heard rumors from beyond the Horsehead sector about a race of . . . ah . . . altered humans. Winged and tailed and exquisitely beautiful.” He shrugged his plump shoulders, well into lecture mode. “Most creatures of myth are, of course. But not so long ago, a Technomage starship patrolling the farthest frontiers discovered a derelict pirate floating alone in the vacuum of space. When they salvaged it, they discovered a number of unusual artifacts, including this one.” He rapped the glass with a knuckle. “Let me tell you, the negotiations with the Technomage Tower were protracted and difficult. If it hadn’t been for my—”

  “What happened to the crew?” asked Prue.

  “Don’t interrupt, my dear. They’d been dead many years.” The Knowledge flipped a dismissive hand. “In any case, they were pirates. The point is that the vase could be the first evidence of a civilization as yet undiscovered. Or”—he caught Erik’s eye, his gaze steady and chill—“it could be an elaborate fake. We at the Royal Library are attempting to establish provenance and the Technomages have taken two feathers to test with Science.” His pink lips curved with satisfaction. “Thus we have the best of both worlds.”

  Erik lost what little patience he possessed. “You want proof, is that it?”

  As one, the clerks froze, staring fixedly at their feet. The two guards stepped forward. Prue’s hand stole into Erik’s. Shit, no man reached high office without a certain degree of bastardry in his makeup.

  The Queen’s Knowledge pursed his lips. “I see you comprehend.” He inclined his head. “Finally. Good day to you, Master Thorensen, Mistress McGuire.” Turning, he swept away in a dignified swirl of silken robes. The clerks scuttled after him, heads down.

  Fuck, his last chance. Desperately, Erik seized it. “Wait!” The Voice boomed off the seastone walls of the building.

  32

  They froze midstep—two guards, half a dozen clerks and one member of the Queen’s Cabal.

  Slowly, the Knowledge turned. “I believe our conversation is concluded, Master Thorensen,” he s
aid, his tone arctic. “Why are we still standing here?”

  Erik opened his mouth and shut it again. Godsdammit, the command bubbling in his throat was only applicable to one man—the one who had the power to implement it. The others would go mad trying.

  All right then, a blanket compulsion for the lot of them. Do what I tell you. That might work. No, no, they’d be a set of puppets. Gods, what if they wouldn’t eat or drink without his direct command?

  “Erik!” hissed Prue. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Sorry.” He released her hand.

  “What is it?” said the Knowledge, pink with irritation.

  Erik bowed. “Thank you for your time, Noblelord. I was wondering, do you have maps of Caracole in the Library? Oh, and a list of taverns?”

  “Do we—?” The Knowledge swelled with indignation until Erik thought he might pop. “What, you think I’m a clerk? You”—he snapped at a tall, thin woman with gray hair—“assist him.”

  Spinning on his heel, he vanished into the cool depths of the building, leaving Erik and Prue alone with the trembling clerk.

  “Lord’s balls, that was good,” said Erik. Wrapping his arms around Prue, he rolled over in her bed. She finished up stretched out on top of him, breast to breast, belly to belly, the hair on his chest a delightful rasp against her nipples. The warm, furry bundle of his genitals pressed against her thigh, slack and satisfied. Pleasure still thrumming between her legs, she buried her nose in the curve where his neck met his shoulder, breathing him in.

  “You’re going to be the death of me.” With a tired chuckle, he sifted a lock of her hair through his fingers.

  Prue’s stomach lurched. Death. Two days and nights of watching him work the taverns, visiting them after the last curtain at the Royal Theater and staying into the early hours of the morning. Two days and nights of torture. Walker had sent men to watch Erik’s back—men with hard eyes and sword hilts worn with use. Dai still lived, which she supposed was a good thing, but the pale assassin continued to evade capture. The swordsmaster’s silent fury had become such a terrifying, palpable force Prue couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him.

  Everywhere they went, her spine prickled with atavistic terror. Danger could come from anywhere. Godsdammit, it could be anyone, anything. She found herself watching people’s eyes, their hands, quivering at every unexpected movement.

  A soft snore rumbled out of the man beneath her. Prue propped herself up on one elbow. Sister save him, he was exhausted. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, stubble roughened his chin. He looked worn to the bone, hard and dangerous. Surely there had to be an opera about a pirate king, because he could step out of her bed and straight onto the stage.

  By unspoken mutual consent, they hadn’t returned to the Bruised Orchid. Instead, they’d snatched a few hours here and there to make love in Prue’s rooms, very much like normal people—in bed, aching and sweet; over the desk, hard and fast; on the couch, breathless and laughing. Once on the rug, though Erik complained his knees would never be the same. Prue had opened her mouth to tell him his knees were perfect, then shut it again. Dizzy as an adolescent and twice as foolish, she thought ruefully.

  She glanced over at the silver cuffs, gleaming on the dresser next to her hairbrush. The aquamarines called to her, sparkling in the afternoon sun like chips of seawater imprisoned in a lantern. She hadn’t worn them since the day they’d spoken with the Queen’s Knowledge and perversely, she longed to. Her body was more in tune with Erik’s than ever, but she ached for more, the power of helplessness, the intense erotic charge of complete surrender.

  Listening to him breathe, she worried away at it, the longing throbbing like a sore tooth. Why did she want Erik’s mastery again? It made her vulnerable, exposed her to emotional devastation, swept up all that she was and gave it into his keeping. Squeezing her eyes closed, Prue made a deliberate effort to recall the physical sensations—her fingers twisting in the ropes, the pressure of his heavy shaft invading, impaling, his low voice growling in her ear, the expression on his face when she’d turned her head to meet his eyes—

  Her breath stopped, stuttering in her lungs, her heart tumbling in her chest. No wonder he hadn’t asked her again!

  It cost him as much as it cost her. Why hadn’t she seen it before? The vulnerability was right there in his eyes. To enter her soul so completely, he had to allow her into his. One surrender required another, a never-ending circuit. He’d asked her to trust him, he’d even thought he had to order her to do it, the silly man. But trust was a double-edged sword and they’d both been wounded to the heart.

  He’d said he loved her and—merciful Sister!—it was possible he did. Erik had given her the precious gift of his trust.

  Hope sprang up, twining around her heart, bright and vigorous as a rampant lover vine. A little bemused, she gazed down at his strong face, remembering the hunger in his eyes, so swiftly concealed she’d thought she imagined it at first.

  Everything fell into place. She could tick the items off, as easily as she tallied The Garden’s accounts.

  She loved Erik Thorensen. Even thinking of the assassin made nausea bubble in her throat and a cold sweat prickle all down her spine. Prue shifted her hand until it lay over his heart, the regular beat reassuring under her palm.

  He was a man worth the loving, with his own ironclad code of honor. Thinking about it, she couldn’t recall that he’d lied to her, ever.

  It might be insane, but in his arms she found a safe harbor, a refuge.

  She craved his body with an intensity she found alarming; she loved listening to him sing, speak, laugh, grumble. She didn’t care what delusions he had about his voice. In fact, it was downright astonishing how little she cared. Godsdammit, she’d deal with it when the time came. In all else, he was eminently sane, the sanest man she’d ever known.

  But lastly, lastly . . . Soon, he would go, leave Caracole, leave her.

  Prue took four deep, calming breaths, one after the other. The irresistible force meets the immovable object, he’d said, laughing. Well then, she’d convince him to stay. And if he wouldn’t . . .

  Tears threatened, her thoughts circling like corpsebirds. Katrin had found her love, her Arkady. He was a fine young man, serious and steady. Soon they’d have a family of their own. A salty drop landed on Erik’s bicep, and when she bent to lick it off the smooth, tawny skin, he sighed in his sleep. Prue’s lips twisted. Her daughter was a grown woman, she might understand if her mother abandoned her to follow her foolish heart, but she wouldn’t forgive—not until she came to trust Erik for herself.

  How had life become so complicated? Prue sniffed. One step at a time, the way she did everything. The first order of business was to save Caracole of the Leaves. Her private life would have to wait.

  Hating to do it, she shook his shoulder. “Erik, wake up.”

  “Go ’way.”

  “No.” She nibbled his earlobe, tugged his hair. “You promised Florien, remember?”

  A grunt.

  “He’ll be in the kitchen with Katrin, eating us into bankruptcy.”

  “Florien?” He levered open a bleary blue eye.

  “Yes. And then you have an opera to sing and after that—”

  “Yeah, I know.” Erik sat up, rubbing his chest and yawning. “Another tavern.” With a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, he rose, pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. Then he stood, stretching the kinks out of his back.

  Prue sat on The Garden’s water stairs, watching the sun sink toward the horizon, a long, golden shimmer already flung across the pewter waters of the canal. She raised her head, enjoying the quiet and the solitude of late afternoon, a breathing space in the chaos her life had become. Ah, there was the Sister, a waning crescent peeping over the shoulder of an orange pink cloud.

  She ran an admiring finger over the lover vine on one of the silver cuffs she wore. Erik had noticed of course, the way he seemed to notice everything about
her. Over the boy’s head, he’d stared from the bracelets to her face, his intensity so tangible she could taste it on her tongue. When his eyes flared a dark, dangerous blue, she realized she’d licked her lips. After what seemed an eon, he’d relaxed, muscle by muscle, but she’d been achingly conscious of his attention ever since.

  At this late stage of the afternoon, everything was hushed, no one about. All self-respecting courtesans were primping for the evening ahead. Katrin would be toiling in the kitchen, helping prepare an exquisite supper.

  As for Erik . . . She frowned, watching the ripples lap at the base of the stairs. He’d taken the boy down once already. When their heads had broken the surface, Florien’s face had told her all she needed to know. “They came, then,” she said, laughing.

  “Yah.” The boy was transfigured, his eyes wide and soft and shining, his lips trembling on a smile.

  “Did they dance for you?”

  “Yah.”

  Erik stroked toward the steps, the lad’s skinny arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Four of them,” he said, grinning. “Go on, tell her.”

  Florien wriggled with joy, the first uninhibited expression Prue thought she’d seen from him. “I touched one.”

  “It brushed past his fingers,” said Erik.

  “So fookin’ soft,” breathed Florien, his hair plastered flat to his small skull. “So blue, ya know?”

  “Yes,” said Prue gently, rising to offer a towel. “I know.”

  “Kin we go back down?” The boy patted Erik’s face, his eyes beseeching. “Just fer a minute?” He swallowed. “Please, please? I ain’t skeered no more.”

  Erik wavered. Then he said, “If we do, there’ll be more hand-shakes in your future.”

  A pause. “Yah. All right.”

  Erik sent Prue a wicked wink over Florien’s head. His gaze dropped to the silver cuffs and darkened, as explicit as if he’d reached out to cup the throbbing flesh between her thighs. “Won’t be long, love.” They’d disappeared back under the stairs, the boy’s excited chatter floating across the water.