“So Idisio’s children will be second-generation?”
Eredion started to answer, then stopped to think more carefully. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know enough about his heritage to answer that. If his mother is first-generation ha’ra’ha and his father was human, then Idisio himself is second generation, and his children will likely be as human as makes no difference. The traits just don’t carry further than that. But we don’t know enough about his parentage yet.”
“And . . . Deiq?” Alyea said, her voice almost a whisper.
Eredion drew in a long breath, then released it, and said, “I don’t know anything about the children of First Born, Alyea, although I’m sure there must be some. But Deiq is unique. Every other First Born . . . went completely insane. They had to be destroyed.”
Alyea put a shaking hand over her mouth and stared at him in open horror.
Eredion let the silence rest for a moment, then said, evenly, “At times I have my own doubts about Deiq. But he doesn’t kill unless he has to, and he doesn’t enjoy killing when forced to it—”
He tried not to think about Deiq’s charge into Lady Arnil’s house.
“Ninnic’s child is a good example what the First Born were like, if the stories I’ve heard are anywhere near true. And Deiq’s nothing like that. Nothing at all like that.”
Eredion wondered, privately, if he were trying to convince her or trying to convince himself. With a sigh, he stopped talking, giving her time to think and himself a chance to choose his next words carefully. She was looking decidedly pale again; almost time to put her back to bed.
And hope that change didn’t kick in just at the wrong moment. Given how damned long it had been since Eredion himself had trusted someone enough to take them into his bed, and how overpowering a new desert lord could be when the need hit, no wouldn’t really be an option. Deiq might not enjoy killing, but Eredion doubted the ha’ra’ha would work too hard at controlling his rage if he walked in on that.
He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, blocking that image, and train of thought, as swiftly as he could. This was not the time to fantasize, not with Alyea’s perceptions edging steadily towards the highest they’d ever be and Deiq’s nerves on a raw edge. He had to be very, very careful.
“So I won’t say he loves you,” Eredion went on when he had his thoughts under control. “That would lead you to some bad assumptions. But he cares, passionately, what happens to you, and about your safety and happiness. Sometimes it won’t look like it: he thought he was doing right by denying the ransom demand. We both thought it was nothing but a few bandits out after a rich merchant’s money. You could have handled that easily.”
She shut her eyes and swayed a little. “I should have,” she said in a blurred voice.
“Mm. Time for you to go back to sleep. No, you promised. Come on.” Eredion stood and guided her back to the bed. “We’ll talk more later. I promise. After you talk to Oruen, because he’ll have me torn apart otherwise.”
She mumbled something, already incoherent and likely not hearing his words at all. He sat beside her and cautiously stroked her hair until she fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Sixty-three
Exhaustion racked through Alyea, leaving her more incapacitated than pain ever had. Just the small effort of dressing—with, embarrassingly, a servant’s help—left her sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling like a limp noodle. Eating a bowl of cold fruit soup and a thick piece of peasant bread gave her enough strength to reach the couch in her outer suite, where she rested in a grey haze, listening to rain patter down in random bursts outside. A welcome cool breeze sifted through the room, dispelling the evil odors of convalescence, stirring vases of dayflowers and bundles of rosemary into releasing their fragrances.
Alyea held up her right arm, studying the smooth skin with an odd feeling of detachment. Only a faint tracing of red lines remained to show the damages, but she remembered: Tevin had set the edge of the knife just there, under the elbow, and had traced a sideways cut to there, just above the wrist—working the thin blade into the cut, and little by little peeling—
She shut her eyes, dropping her arm back to her side, and shook with remembered horror.
“Alyea,” Eredion said, and his large hand closed around hers as he knelt beside the couch.
She jerked and let out a sharp yip, pulling her hand away; he let her, then patiently recaptured her wrist. This time she forced herself to relax and allow the contact. His hands felt warm and dry, and a strong pulse thudded in his thumbs.
“Alyea,” he said again, searching her eyes as though to check for sanity. His face held a grey tinge. After a moment, he let out a hard sigh and sat back, releasing his grip; her hand prickled with a brief chill. “Gods. Hasn’t anyone taught you the first damn thing about shielding yet?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, then understood. “I wasn’t—thinking about being overheard,” she said thinly.
“Obviously.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Not that I blame you; that
was . . . extreme. But you have to learn to remember . . . even the worst
things . . . quietly. Or every damn sensitive in the area will see it. And Deiq will—” He stopped short and swallowed back the rest of that sentence, his gaze shifting to one side. His mouth set in a hard line.
“What will—”
“Never mind,” Eredion said, tone curt. “This isn’t the time. The king’s waiting to see you.”
He held out a hand. She took it, let him help her up to a proper sitting position. Eredion pushed pillows behind and beside her for support, poured her a cup of hot tea, then left the room, his taut, grim expression unwavering throughout.
Alyea sipped tea and tried to steady her breathing and emotions, feeling as though she’d just awoken from a heart-stopping nightmare and still hung in that aftermath of disoriented uncertainty. Nothing could be the same; her life would divide, in her own mind, as pre- and post-Tevin. She’d thought, previously, that she knew how depraved humanity could be; thought the whipping she’d endured the worst torture she could ever imagine, and the pain of the blood trials the highest end of the scale.
Now she understood those things had been mere annoyances compared to what was really possible—especially for a desert lord who could heal . . . so fast. . . .
She blinked hard and sipped tea, sharply restricting her thoughts to the moment. A grumbling, subterranean unease continued in the back of her mind, chewing over the simple, incredible fact of her survival.
A rattling knock on the door sounded. A moment later, Eredion stepped in and said with brief, cold formality, “Lord Alyea. May I present Lord Georn Oruen.” He bowed and stepped out again. Oruen came in, shutting the door behind him.
Alyea felt a chill race down her spine. Oruen had opted to appear in full royal regalia, from blue and grey robes to the heavy formal-court crown. His expression held no trace of humility or friendship; his gaze was distant and aimed somewhere past her. He stopped, four long steps into the room, presented a formal bow deep enough to require a steadying hand on the crown, then seated himself in a well-upholstered chair facing her.
“Lord Alyea,” he said, his dark stare settling on her at last. “How does the day find you?”
She fought the urge to respond with familiarity and said, matching the cold in his tone, “Well enough, Lord Oruen. I tire easily still, but that’s about it.”
“That comes as a relief,” he said. “Some reports had me believing you on death’s doorstep.”
She said nothing, delivering a severe stare instead.
His gaze moved to the thin red lines still visible along her arms, then back to her face. “I am advised, by some,” he said, “that I should not involve myself in prosecuting or searching for your kidnappers. That, as you yourself asked that Peysimun Family be made independent, this is, in fact, a desert Family matter.”
Alyea’s breath caught in her chest. “A valid point,” she said, forcing he
r tone to remain level.
“Other . . . advisors . . . have suggested,” Oruen continued, “that the actual crime occurred on Kingdom soil, by the kidnap being on the streets and the . . . damage . . . being performed at Lady Arnil’s estate; and thus the matter lies under my jurisdiction.”
“I wonder who that advisor was,” Alyea muttered, glancing towards the door.
Oruen was the one who said nothing this time, his gaze dark and sharp.
Alyea studied his fiercely intent expression for a few moments, then said, “So you’ve just spent an hour listening to my mother and Lord Eredion go at you on the matter from opposing sides, is that it?”
Oruen’s mouth moved towards a smile. “Something like that,” he admitted. He removed the heavy crown and set it on his lap. “What do you want me to do?”
She leaned back against the cushions, seeing the larger question: to reaffirm Peysimun independence, or put herself under the king’s authority once more.
“I believe,” she said at last, “it’s best to allow Peysimun Family to handle this matter ourselves, Lord Oruen.”
He nodded as though he’d expected that answer. “I think you’ll find some internal resistance to that decision,” he said dryly.
“I expect so. I’ll handle it. Thank you.”
He pursed his lips, his gaze moving again to her arm, then said, “Your mother isn’t going to take being set aside as Head of Family lightly, Alyea. Under northern rule, she has status of her own; you’re taking that away from her.”
“With all respect, I’m not discussing this with you, Lord Oruen.”
He stared at her, half-smile fading to a frown, and said, “Can we possibly take this out of the formal for a moment or two?”
“Fine. I’m not talking about my mother with you, Georn.”
The dry smile returned. “Understood. A more personal matter, then. What happened to you made me realize—I’ve been a fool.” He glanced down and away, the smile gone; his throat worked for a moment. “Alyea, I’m sorry. I only saw political angles—that’s how Chac taught me. Without him around, I’m seeing—some things differently.”
Alyea said nothing, watching every small twitch of his hands and face with a new alertness.
“Chac was the one who advised me to set you aside; there were alliances that could only be made if I was . . . unattached.”
Alyea raised an eyebrow, bleakly amused over where this was obviously headed, and decided to spare them both the embarrassment.
“Georn,” she said, “A year ago I would have already been on my knees thanking you. Now I can’t help thinking how much more advantageous an alliance I would be than any of the noble daughters who’ve been courting your attention, and how you’d have Peysimun Family back under your control if I married you.”
He shrugged, not in the least offended or surprised. “True. But it’s not politics alone that has me here today, Alyea.”
She shook her head. “Georn—has anyone told you yet that I’m not likely to have any children?”
His skin went an odd grey shade. “Because of that bastard—”
“No,” Alyea interrupted hastily. “It happened during the blood trials.”
Oruen’s mouth thinned, a flush replacing the shock. “So it’s my fault? Is that why you won’t—” He stopped, his gaze dropping to his fisted hands.
Alyea regarded him without any sympathy. “Done is done,” she said after a few moments. “I made my own mistakes on that road. But I’m not interested in alliance through marriage, Georn; we went to bed together once, that’s all, and not even because you loved me. I was there, and I was willing, and you’d just seen something awful; there wasn’t anyone else you trusted not to stab you in the back that day. I was . . . I was your kathain.”
He shot her a startled, sick glance. She laughed, genuinely if blackly amused.
“Don’t make more of it than it was,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling tired and would like to rest. Good day, Lord Oruen.”
He stood, slowly, staring as though unable to take his eyes from her face. “It’s Deiq, isn’t it?” he said. “That’s what’s changed you. His influence.”
Alyea leaned her head back and shut her eyes, weariness threatening to swamp her thoughts into incoherence. “No, Lord Oruen,” she said. “Not Deiq. I think it’s actually something called growing up.”
Silence hung in the room. After a few breaths, it was broken by soft, shuffling footsteps, and then by the door quietly closing.
Chapter Sixty-four
The rain made the walk back to Peysimun Mansion quietly pleasant; it matched Deiq’s sober mood. He’d spent the day among some of the ghosts from his past, doing what he could to make amends, and thinking about all the mistakes he’d made along the way; remembering, too, more of the seer’s words:
Your past holds many deaths that call for an accounting . . . I don’t see whether you’ll reach the road to the right or the left side of your soul, but you have a long way to walk yet, whatever efforts you make to shorten the path.
At which point a vision of Alyea’s battered body came to mind, and he threw himself into his work with renewed attention to push it away.
I almost got her killed. She almost got herself killed.
He couldn’t decide which view was more right. In the end, though, his feelings didn’t really matter. Alyea would have to pick a side to land on, and he’d have to accept rejection if she placed the blame only on his failure to protect her.
He paused at the gates of Peysimun Mansion, studying the ornate coach in the carriage-way to the right side of the house. Four guards in royal livery stood around the coach, alert even in this drizzly grey weather. No doubt more were stationed indoors.
So Oruen had chosen to make this a formal visit, rather than a quiet slip in through the servants’ entrance. More than likely Lady Peysimun’s influence was at work there. Or perhaps Oruen had recognized, finally, that this was more than some former lover he was dealing with; in which case, Deiq suspected the man came armed with a proposal of marriage.
He smiled without any humor and eased over to lean against the inside wall near the gates. The guards stared straight at him and looked away without a twitch.
A suddenly intense squall funneled rain down his collar and slicked his hair. He stood motionless, breathing long and even, his gaze on nothing in particular. After a time, his restless thoughts soothed under the grey patter of rain on damp cobbles. He barely noticed when the carriage rattled past him on its way out of the gates.
Sunlight on his face pulled him from the meditative daze. The rain clouds scudded away to the east under a quickening breeze that kept the air cool. He blinked, realizing the king had left; found himself strangely reluctant to go indoors and find out what Alyea’s answer had been. He decided to sit in the gardens, instead. Watching bees and butterflies darting round with vigorous intensity to collect freshly washed pollen always amused him. It was even more entertaining than watching paint dry.
Chapter Sixty-five
The door banged open, startling Alyea from a pleasant grey drowsiness. She pushed herself upright to find her mother bearing down on her, face flushed with emotion.
“Oh, gods,” Alyea subvocalized, putting both hands up in a warding gesture. “Mother, stop!”
Lady Peysimun rocked to a halt, her expression astonished. The color washed out of her broad face, then returned sharply; her hands clenched in the folds of her elaborate, floor-length dress. She’d definitely dressed to impress the king: beadwork swirled in intricate patterns across the sleeves and waist, and the material itself was largely Stone Island white silk, which had to have drained Peysimun coffers significantly. The finery made Alyea feel awkward and slightly grubby, dressed as she was in loose shirt and looser trousers; she’d lost even more weight during recent days.
Her mother took another step forward, astonishment fading towards a scowl.
“I’m still sore all over,” Alyea said hastil
y; not exactly a lie, and she felt a strange aversion to having her mother touch her at the moment. “And I’m afraid of ruining your dress. Please, sit down.” She pushed pillows out of the way and sat up, drawing her legs closer in, then pointed to the other half of the couch. “Please? I’ll take the hug as a good thought instead.”
Her mother stared, her eyes going wide for just a moment, then said, “You thought I was going to hug you?”
Alyea’s breath stopped in her chest. She forced it to restart, swallowed hard, and said dryly, “A natural reaction to seeing me awake for the first time since my kidnapping, I’d have thought.” Not that her mother had ever been particularly affectionate; she sighed, recognizing the same smothered hope in herself that had once been provoked by any smile from Oruen.
“You’re fine,” Lady Peysimun said, and took the chair Oruen had occupied. Her lips spread into a taut grimace as she folded her hands together in her lap. “Despite initial appearances, you seem to have recovered from your little adventure just fine.”
Alyea stared, her mouth slightly open. “Adv—? I almost died.”
“If you’d been anywhere near death,” her mother said primly, “you wouldn’t be sitting up and talking a matter of days later. I imagine we all misunderstood.”
“Good gods,” Alyea said. “Did Lady Arnil turn into a reeven and possess you when she died?”
“Don’t be absurd. Now, there are matters we need to discuss.”
“Did you ever meet a woman called Sela?”
Lady Peysimun flicked her fingers impatiently. “Stop that.”
Alyea hoisted herself more upright, studying the fine lines around her mother’s eyes and mouth. “Do you really think it was all . . . fake blood, or someone else’s blood, or minor wounds?” she asked. “Do you really think the broken bones were imaginary, or a misunderstanding?”
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