Voices of Blaze

by H. O. Charles

  “But you can still fight with a sword?”

  “You want lessons with me?”

  He took her tiny hand in his and examined her thin fingers. Such delicate, feminine fingers. “There would be no point in that,” he said, “But I would like to train with you – running, strength, endurance. That sort of thing.”

  “Hmm.” She removed her hand from his to twirl a section of his beard into twists. She seemed to enjoy doing that. “Perhaps you could have wielded a sword, Kalad Jade’an. Perhaps you had the wrong tutor. The Pirate King Raene used to turn his beard into coils. Did you know that?”

  “Was he handsome?”

  “You are more so,” Mirel said. “But you could be magnificent.”

  He grinned as he led her away to dinner, and barely tempered that smile while he entertained their guests. Lord and Lady Caffrey were in attendance, low-born Calidellian nobles who had been distant cousins to the Lorthians. The Lorthians, of course, had been the previous inhabitants of the manor that now belonged to Kalad, and they had ruled the surrounding estate, collected dues from the tenants and had even left behind most of their serving staff. But the Lorthian name was gone now, and the Caffreys related only to ghosts.

  Beside the Caffreys were the Medyrysh family – Hirrahan nobles from the lands that bordered Kalad’s. The enmity that they had once borne for the Lorthians and the Caffreys was still evident in their strained smiles and lined cheeks, but they could not have been accused of being uncivil. At the very least, they were kind to Yulia, who had a wonderfully convincing Hirrahan accent this evening.

  “Do you know, Kahriss Yulia, I do not recall you having such fine blue eyes,” Lord Medyrysh said, trying to tuck the straining fabric of his doublet into his belt. “Marriage has really brought out a sparkle in you.”

  “Why thank you,” Mirel replied, “My husband is both wise and kind enough to bring a sparkle to the dullest of old rocks.” There was mischief in the look she shot Kalad with those words.

  One of the maids frowned fiercely as she placed a bowl of soup before Mirel, and pretended to drop the serving spoon beside it. There was a clatter as it hit the table, and several drops of the liquid ended their journey upon Mirel’s bodice. Though all the other staff had accepted Mirel was Yulia with barely a twitch in their cheek or a raised eyebrow, this one maid seemed to have grown spiders in her undergarments over it. Mirel had said she would have to be fixed, though Kalad did not really desire to know exactly what she had meant by that.

  “It does not matter,” Mirel said coolly. “I have other dresses besides this one.” Her smile could have turned snakes to stone, and Kalad was entranced by its wickedness.

  “You would wear rags well, my love,” Kalad said as he handed her his napkin, “Now, have any of you here heard about the blood-drinking tigers of Tegra?” He began to relate the tale of his adventure to the captive audience, and as far as he could tell, it did well to thaw some of the frost he saw in his wife. By the time they staggered to their bedchamber after dinner, Mirel appeared to be in very good spirits indeed.

  “I must kill that servant,” she said as she began undressing. “I think I will make it slow so that she suffers a little, but no longer than a day. Is that fair, husband?”

  He sighed, and helped her unpick the last of her lacing. “Rel, you cannot kill everyone you do not like, or who does not like you. I forbid you to kill her.”

  “That sort of demand will make my life very dull indeed.”

  Kalad stroked her hair and whispered in her ear. “I will make tonight perfect for you if you promise to do as I ask. I know the things that make you scream. Let me show them to you.”

  Her chin rose and her eyelids became lazy. “I could make you give me those things.”

  “But it would not be the same, would it?” He traced a finger down between her small breasts, smiling as her nipples contracted and became pointed. “You cannot make me want to please you. It must be of my own accord. Do not kill the servant girl, and do not maim her.”

  She pushed his hand away and folded her arms. “Now you are adding new terms to our agreement.”

  “You can shout at her. That is it.”

  Mirel sighed quietly, called him a fool under her breath, but eventually acquiesced. “Do as you will with me then,” she instructed, and Kalad pushed her to the bed. To the left of the bed was a jar of Tedarahan scented oil. It had been part of Yulia’s nightly bathing ritual, but she no longer had need of it. Kalad poured some of it into the palm of his hand, and began rubbing it gently into Mirel’s skin. He recalled how a Quidarhan wielder had once done the very same to him with oils, and how it had driven him so wild that he was unable to appear in public for hours.

  For a long while he worked on every part of her body – her legs and arms and buttocks and breasts, but for her sex, until she begged him to touch her there.

  “Please, please, please!” she breathed.

  Kalad was happy to oblige her. He kissed her, and he caressed her, and he teased her until she moaned at him some more. And when she could not bear to wait for him any longer, he entered her as slowly as he dared. Mirel’s screams at that moment were most likely responsible for awakening the entire house, but Kalad was a proud man indeed.

  It was an unfair thing that he could feel her fires and she could not – such clean and pure fires coursing through his blood – but she seemed more than content by the end of it. The two of them fell into a deep slumber afterward, and Kalad contemplated in his dreams what an enjoyable marriage he had.

  The following morning, they led their guests to the archery range, where Lord Medyrysh was keen to demonstrate his Hirrahan bowmanship to all who watched. It was amusing, Kalad thought as he wrapped his arms about his wife, that Lord Medyrysh could even hope to fire a weapon with that belly of his in the way. But fire it he did, and the arrow landed in the second circle.

  “Very good,” Kalad said, clapping his hands. “Most impressive.”

  “Will you not have a go, my Kahr?” Lord Caffrey asked. He held a much smaller, Calidellian bow in his hands, and he did not seem altogether capable with it.

  Kalad shook his head. “Chopping and shooting are not my skills. My wife, however…?” He nodded encouragingly to the Calidellian bow that lay before her.

  It was too much of a lure for Mirel, and she took it up in a second. With the most elegant and swiftest of motions, she lifted the bow, drew and released as if she had practised only the day before. The arrow hit the bull squarely in the middle, and she bowed to her captive audience. “I am in awe,” Kalad said.

  “Aren’t we all?” Lady Medyrysh added. Now, if anyone there had looked as if they could draw a Hirrahan longbow, it would have been Lady Medyrysh. Well over six feet tall and with shoulders as broad as any cart ox, even Kalad felt unremarkable beside her. She took up her husband’s bow and readied herself to fire it. After three shots, she had not only pierced the bull, but had succeeded in knocking the blazed target over.

  “Those bows certainly have some power in them,” Kalad remarked. “Groundskeeper?” He looked about himself for the man to set the target right, but the groundskeeper appeared to have given himself the morning off. “Blazes. Lord of the manor might as well do it,” Kalad said as he jogged toward the row of boards. When he reached them, he felt something whisk past his ear. What - who was firing-?

  But before he could finish the thought, he saw Mirel flying backwards through the air with an arrow in her gut. But she rallied almost as soon as she hit the ground, and she leapt on top of Lord Medyrysh to throttle him. What in the damned fires of Achellon was going on?!

  Kalad ducked as another arrow sailed past his head, fired this time by Lady Medyrysh. Lord Caffrey watched on impassively as if nothing unremarkable had happened, while his wife was nowhere to be seen. The only explanation that Kalad could entertain in that moment was that they wanted the Lorthian estate for themselves. Perhaps they had come to a deal, and that deal involved offing two very inconvenient memb
ers of their nations’ royalty. And what a clever play the two couples had made of being old enemies!

  Kalad hauled one of the arrows out of the nearest target and began running toward the group, dodging Lady Medyrysh’s shots as he gained ground. She had dipped her points in pinh, he realised as the fourth one swished past his ear and splattered his cheek with its dark fluid. Well, pinh would give her no advantages against him! The fifth one struck his hip too rapidly for him to avoid it, and Kalad stumbled to the ground with a grunt. It was only two heartbeats before the change was upon him, and Lady Medyrysh’s face became a mask of horror.

  Kalad ran at her with his teeth bared and his weapon held aloft. As she stumbled backward and screamed, he thrust his arrow into her neck and held it there. “No,” she gurgled, and Kalad watched as the black oil from his skin dripped down the shaft and into her throat. When he was sure that enough had entered her wound, he left her where she was and turned to search for Mirel.

  By now Lord Medyrysh was already headless and Lord Caffrey lay upon the ground with a broken neck. Caffrey would live, but only if Kalad permitted it, and he was not feeling terribly generous at that moment. Mirel lay on the floor beside him, her whole body a quiver for arrows.

  One by one, Kalad started pulling them out. “There is a lot of poison in you, my wife,” he lamented.

  “Is the big bitch dead?” Mirel asked. Already her voice sounded weak, and already the black stains of poison ran beneath her skin.

  Kalad looked across to Lady Medyrysh. Her eyes bulged like a fish’s. “She’s gone. You saved my life, Rel.”

  “I did, sweet husband. I did that. You are good to me.” Her eyes fluttered closed as she smiled.

  “No.” Kalad shook her, and the ache in his chest was unmistakable. This was what it felt to love a woman, he thought. This was what it was to need someone to live and never leave his side. “Mirel!”

  But as he shouted at her to stay with him, he could see her stream withering to nothing in the ether. She would die, he thought, and he would be alone once more. “Mirel!”

  Chapter 14

  Morghiad gazed at the dregs at the bottom of his mug. It had contained a pint of this world’s idea of ale, though nothing about its taste or texture resembled any sort of beer he had ever consumed. It had been as murky and dull as the water from a used laundry barrel, and the flavour had not been much better. The sooner they got back to their world, or more accurately his, the sooner he could drink some of Baydie’s more select beverages. And the sooner he could work on making Artemi happy again.

  He lifted his eyes to look upon her again, though it still pained him to do so. He had been prepared for her to be upset at his actions, and had fully expected her to rail at him in fury, stab him or throw every piece of furniture at him that she had to hand. But instead he had observed something crumple up inside her, like a burning parchment that withered away in the flames, and the hurt in her new features was plain for all to see.

  A new layer of guilt would seal around his bones each time he saw the hollow look in her eyes, and no one else was responsible for it but him. The choice had always been in his hands. The more he thought on it, the more he came to the conclusion that his actions had been no different from giving her a physical beating. He had gone to great lengths – terrible lengths – to guard her from others who had the power to hurt her, but he could not guard her from himself. Morghiad: one-time king, peacemaker, lord, adulterer and wife-hurter. He closed his eyes from the shame of it, and wished there was more non-ale left in his cup.

  “Let’s get drunk,” Artemi had said after they had talked about their infidelities for as long as either of them could bear. Further intoxication was most likely the last thing that was good for her, but Morghiad had not had the strength to deny her anything more than taqqa when her eyes were so filled with tears. He would watch over her to make sure that she did not go too far, he had promised himself, but now that inebriation teased his mind, he could not help but find it an attractive alternative to lucidity.

  What would Silar have done in this situation, he wondered, to focus their minds on overcoming their heartache? Beer would probably have been involved, though Silar would never have tolerated this rubbish. Morghiad smiled at the thought of the man spitting his ale onto the table in disgust. No doubt he would have thrown in a few curses and words of abuse at the management too.

  “What amuses you?” Artemi asked softly.

  “I was just thinking – Silar would have hated this place.”

  A small smile spread across Artemi’s dark lips, and it was a beautiful thing to see after its absence. “Women here don’t have much in the way of breasts. I can imagine him becoming irritated about that.”

  Morghiad could not help but glance briefly down at her chest to confirm her words. He had not really noticed that those particular aspects were not quite so prominent as they had been before; other matters had weighed more heavily upon his mind. “I need to get you home sooner rather than later,” he said.

  “Just one more drink.” Artemi hailed a gangly waitress, or perhaps waiter – Morghiad could not tell which it was – and ordered a jug full of more of the brown horror to be brought to the table. When it arrived, Artemi poured it out for both of them and was quick to consume as much as she could in a single gulp. “It’s not that bad,” she said, topping the unfinished mug up again.

  “You’ve been here too long.”

  Artemi only responded with a, “Hmm,” and continued to drink. Clearly she found this situation just as uncomfortable and awkward as he did.

  He knew that he ought to have been similarly hurt by her actions here, but instead he felt at least partially reassured by them. Artemi had acted entirely according to her nature. She was impulsive, and passionate, and as Silar would have been the first to note, she was predictable in her unruliness. It proved to Morghiad that one part of her had not changed, and that she was still wild enough not to have been tamed by any marriage. Most reassuring of all was that she had been able to finally explore her curiosity, and upon doing so, she had chosen him. He had never doubted that she loved him, but now he knew that it was not based upon any physical laws or fears of burning other men alive.

  He reached across the table to place a hand on hers, and when it found its partner, she stared at it with suspicion. Though they had no link between them, he could almost read her thoughts. That touch has been known by another woman. Artemi withdrew her hand, and immediately looked away.

  What happiness could there possibly be for him without her? No, he told himself. Such thoughts were unhelpful. They would return home, be together, and find a good life for themselves once more. It could be no more complicated than that. Their mutual infidelity may not have made them equal, but neither action had been done out of spite or dissatisfaction. Artemi knew that, didn’t she? “I did not… I did not enjoy it-” he began.

  Her eyes snapped back to him, full of fury and rage, but instead of spitting abuse at him, she poured herself another mug of ale and slammed it onto the table when she had emptied it of its contents.

  Morghiad had to admit that he was more pleased to see anger than sadness in her. Perhaps he was on the correct path. Perhaps her new thirst for blood was not as negative a thing as he had feared. “It was the most difficult decision I have ever had to make-”

  Artemi hissed her words before he could finish. “I should never have left you alone! Instead I came on this pointless mission to bring back…to bring back the dead when I should have been caring for the living. Dorinna-” Artemi said the name as if she were invoking an evil spirit. “I have known women like her before. I could have shown you what she really was; I could have found a way to force that nest-breaking weasel into scrawling her filthy name onto that treaty with her own blood!”

  Morghiad did not doubt that Artemi could have obtained that particular signature using her own, more aggressive means of persuasion, but treaties made on the basis of violence rarely ever lasted. He had read eno
ugh histories to know that much. The peace he had forged would last far longer than Artemi’s upset. It had to.

  Tears of the fires burn for eternity, the voices whispered inside his head.

  You are here, after all, he said to them.

  Eternity, eternity, eternity, they echoed between each other.

  He had made the right decision, hadn’t he? “If you had been in my position, how would you have chosen?”

  “You know very well what I would have done. We are different. Don’t ask me stupid questions!” She glared at him briefly, and then said, “You do not have your sword with you. It would have been safe to bring it into The Crux – did you have to trade that as well as your body?”

  “No. It’s resting in The Crux.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And you trust the Law-keepers not to destroy it?”

  “They won’t destroy it, Artemi.”

  “And they will permit you to take me back to the Darkworld?”

  He nodded, but Artemi frowned as if dissatisfied with his answer. Whatever her thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself and went back to her drink.

  “The gate is beneath this city. Did you know that - is that why you came here?” he asked her.

  She blinked at him, and then shook her head slowly. “Rav kept it from me. He must have known… Bastard!” she slurred, and returned to her drink once more.

  The peace had been the right thing to do, he thought as he finished another pint. He had been right to put it first, hadn’t he? He shook his head in the hope that it would shift the thought, but it did not. He needed more beer.

  Medea glanced back at the door to the offices. The blazed man was still standing there, his arms folded and caramel hair falling loosely across his eyes. He had to know how he looked - it was the only explanation for his irritating stance. Fool woman. She was staring at him again.

  She tore her attentions from him as rapidly as she could, and returned them to Koviere. “And apart from Tyshar, everything appeared normal with my father?” she asked him.