Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  Ariana stared, wide-eyed and confused.

  He ploughed on. “I know what you did to the Grande Prime.”

  Annoyance flashed across Devere’s face. “Well, you have one up on me then, as I surely do not.”

  “You—you poisoned him.” Anger burned. He might get in a punch before the tailor could react. The exchange would end with the heavy bastard knocking him into the next life though.

  Devere laughed coldly. “I’m sure you are the height of entertainment around the campfires of Krell, boy, but in Sendal one does not share one’s wild delusions, if one values their neck.” He nodded at Yannick. The tailor placed a hand on Guyen’s shoulder. “I shall put this little outburst down to too much wine, but I shall not be so charitable next time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the midst of a busy evening.” He bowed to Ariana. “Mistress.”

  She curtseyed, not meeting his eye.

  Yannick waited until the Prime was at the door, then released his grip, smoothing out Vadil’s jacket. “Nice tailoring,” he grunted, and lumbered off after his employer.

  Ariana whipped round. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not some little girl in need of a hick knight to ride to my rescue.”

  “I’m not, I—”

  “You can’t go around saying things like that against a High Lord,” she spat. “You’re nobody.”

  Guyen looked away. “Who’s anybody, anyway?”

  She snorted. “Certainly not you.”

  The door swung open again. “Oi!” Rossi staggered up, weaving side-to-side. Drinking was a sport to him. He faced up, nose-to-nose. “What are you doing out here, gutterfill? I thought this section was reserved.”

  Guyen shoved him away. “I’ve as much right to be here as you.”

  “You’re not even the same species as me,” Rossi snarled.

  Ariana stepped between them. “Ages! Can we not do this?”

  Rossi swayed. “I suppose you heard about my promotion? A new commission, under Berese himself. What do you think of those apples?” He belched.

  “I think they stink, like you.”

  “You ignorant fuck.”

  “No!” Ariana shrieked in her best schoolteacher voice. “Not tonight. Come on, back inside.” She pulled Rossi towards the door.

  “This isn’t over,” he growled.

  That didn’t deserve a response. They disappeared inside. Guyen stared out over the city. This place was a viper’s nest. He couldn’t take much more.

  When he finally struck up enough fortitude to face the Reverie again, Tishara accosted him on the mezzanine. “Where have you been?” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be my escort.”

  “Sorry,” Guyen offered. “Waylaid. What’s the latest on Wilhelm?”

  She thawed. “They took him away. People are saying he’s succumbed to the maddenings.”

  “Devere’s got something to do with it,” Guyen muttered.

  “Has he?” Tishara frowned. “How?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll get proof. Something, anything to make them listen.” He let out a frustrated grunt. “He has my brother. I know it.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t know that. Just calm down.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to. You need to keep up appearances, remember? Besides, I want to dance some more and you’ll step all over my toes in this mood.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that now,” Guyen huffed.

  “No, we wouldn’t. Not if I’m to show you off.”

  Her eyes were red. She didn’t usually invade his personal space like this. “How much wine have you had?” he asked.

  “Not enough.”

  “Me neither.” He picked up a full glass from a waiter’s tray and necked it. Then another.

  The waiter regarded him coolly. “Is sir sure sir is not still thirsty?”

  “Fuck off,” Guyen said, “we’re going dancing.”

  Tishara glared. “I do apologise,” she said to the man.

  Whatever. He was only another dumb waiter. Damn. What’s happened to you, Maker?

  They made their way back into the ballroom where the Devotees now spun in a heady procession. He followed Tishara’s lead, cares dissolving with the wine, Toulesh long gone. They took to the dancefloor again, and he lost himself in the music. A woman watched him from the side, coquettishly peering out over her fan.

  Tishara noticed. “Looks like you have an admirer. I think she wants to dance.”

  “Well, I don’t want to dance with her.”

  “You’ll cause a scene if you don’t.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do. I’m getting a drink. Ask her.”

  Tishara headed for a waiter. Swearing under his breath, he met the woman’s gaze. She was a little older, but drop-dead pretty. She came over, a devil’s smile on her lips. Her Pledge clinked amongst the other jewellery at her breast. He tried to pick her Devotion from the inscription.

  “Corpus,” she said.

  He averted his eyes. She’d probably have him down as some kind of pervert. “Would you like a dance?” he offered.

  She smiled graciously, holding out her hand. “Why, I would be delighted, sir.”

  He led her out onto the floor. They waltzed about the ballroom, everyone staring—Rialto, Nyra, Rossi, Ariana… Good, that would show her. Eventually, the woman delivered him back to Tishara, returning with a giggle to her friends. Another woman caught his eye.

  “Well, you are popular,” Tishara snorted.

  “I don’t know why.”

  “I do.” She glanced down at the floor. “Notice anything?”

  Maelstroms of nether light arced through the quartz, wilder now he was drunk. She couldn’t mean that. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “See the red glow under my feet?”

  He blinked away the nether light, taking in the lit-up quartz instead. “What about it?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Look under your own.”

  He did. The crystal was perfectly dark. Well, no surprise there, Faze treating him differently to everyone else. Still, he should have noticed. “At least they’re not taking bets on who’s got the gall to dance with me,” he said.

  “Yes, that would be worse,” Tishara agreed. The orchestra changed tack. “Ah, another formal,” she said. “The Odasion Six Step. You remember what I showed you?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll be fine, come on.”

  She dragged him back onto the floor, and the dancers organised themselves into two lines facing each other. All bowed to their opposite number, and the harpsichord and strings took up a melody. The steps came easy with the alcohol, or perhaps he just didn’t care anymore. Positions swapped, and he found himself arm in arm with Gigi. She had all the poise of a rolling pin.

  “Mist was looking for you,” she said after a few steps.

  “Really, why?”

  Gigi rolled her eyes. “I dread to think. She said if I saw you, to tell you she’d be in the roof garden around ten.”

  “Oh, right.” He glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten now.

  “Are you and her, you know—involved?” she asked.

  He laughed. “Certainly not.”

  They swapped partners again. This woman could only look at his drunken feet. He swapped again, several more times, eventually ending up where he’d started with Tishara. The piece ended.

  “See, wasn’t that fun?” she said.

  “Oh yes, such fun.”

  She punched his arm. Felix and Moran wandered over.

  “I have to meet Mist,” Guyen said. He turned to the Secondus. “I’ll leave my date in your capable hands, Maker.”

  Felix grinned. “Two Bindcrafters for the price of one? The evening’s looking up.”

  Guyen left the three of them reviewing the night, and headed out through the Sanctum, back up to the mezzanine. He took another flight of stairs to the
top of the Devotoria, the hubbub of the Reverie fading to a distant hum, and pushed outside as the chimes of the Basilica rang out tenth hour. The roof garden was deserted. A cold, refreshing wind cooled his neck. It had to be close to freezing up here. But he was too drunk to care.

  He brushed past luscious green overhangs of exotic flora, breathing in sweet lime and vanilla. “Mist?” he called. No answer. He scanned the impressive garden. Frosty chimney pots sparkled in the moonlight, bushes and strange plants hugging pathways lit by strings of lanterns. Seeing no one, he set off along one of the narrow trails and turned past a smoking chimneystack. He double took. Jal sat against it, a wine bottle beside her, goblet in hand. She stared out over the city, expression catatonic. “Good evening, Guyen.”

  “Er, good evening, Mistress.”

  She sniffed. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Meeting Emeldra. Have you seen her?”

  “No, sorry.” Her dress rippled in the breeze, clinging to her curves. She had to be freezing.

  Guyen shrugged off his tailcoat. “Please, you must be cold.” He draped it over her shoulders.

  She smiled gratefully. “Will you join me for a drink?”

  He glanced back the way he’d come. Mist wasn’t here yet. To hell with it. He squatted down, back against the warm chimneystack, and Jal filled the goblet for him, taking a long drink herself from the bottle. The red wine was rich, and dark. Out here, in the chill air, under the stars, it tasted better somehow. Was now a good time to bring up Yemelyan’s disappearance?

  “You know, I was like you once,” she said. “Every possibility laid out in front of me.” Her eyeliner was smudged. Had she been crying?

  “Are you all right?” he asked. There was nothing worse than a woman’s tears.

  “You don’t want to hear about my problems.”

  “It would make a change from my own.”

  She took his hand. “We’re alike, you and I—tortured souls.” She was right. They did have a connection on that level. “Destined to be miserable, aren’t we?” she said. “Weighed down by some forgotten curse. Me in a loveless marriage. You… I’ve seen the way you look at Ariana, but you can’t have her, can you?”

  How dare she presume to know him? But she was right, he couldn’t have her. Ariana neither needed nor wanted him, besides, she had the oaf in the colours to protect her honour. “You can’t always have what you want,” he sighed.

  She upended the bottle again. “I’m still cold. Put your arm around me.”

  Against his better judgement, he did. She felt so slight, yet so sensuous.

  “Look at this city,” she said. “It’s literally on fire.” She waved at the view. The conflagration had spread in Alesmound. “A good metaphor for the times. These problems with the Binding, the lack of leadership, I fear the fire of chaos that approaches will incinerate us all.” She turned her head, her mouth an inch away, breath warm and sweet with the wine.

  Their lips met. He kissed her.

  She pulled back. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s a bad idea.”

  He kissed her again. She let him, mouth opening, tasting him. Her hands sidled up his back, under his shirt, and she pulled him down on top of her, eyes flashing. The wine bottle knocked over, clinking on the stone. They kissed deeper, teeth grinding, her biting his gum. He let her, lust rising, urges growing. His hand explored beneath her dress, feeling her thigh, her waist, holding her breast. Somewhere, a warning thought protested, but it was too late to stop.

  She rolled him over, the cold paving no concern, undoing his belt, easing down his britches, straddling him, as animal passion surged, her spell total, all power or inclination to object forgotten.

  They fucked. And the heavens sang.

  A deathly voice hissed, “What a disgusting sight.” Devere stood over them.

  Passion turned to ice. Suddenly, he was pushing her away, disentangling himself, pulling up his britches, scrambling drunkenly to his feet. Glittering nether light outlined the exotic shrubs, clamour shrieking like a banshee. He’d made a terrible mistake.

  Jal got to her feet, laughing. “He fucks much better than you do, Arik.”

  Devere roared, lashing out. She staggered. Guyen sprang, but a cord wrapped his throat like a leash. He pawed helplessly at it, smelling Vale’s waxy cologne as he dragged him backwards across the paving, britches ripping, legs scrambling for purchase. Smack. Vision swam, dull pain coursing through the inebriation in his skull. He fell against the chimneypot, arms pulled back, cord wrapping his wrists. Jal picked herself up, nursing her cheek.

  Devere growled. “Was this the best you could do, my sweet? Sex with an Ordinate? With him?”

  “We had an arrangement,” she spat.

  “There’s a difference, my love, between dangerous liaisons and prostituting yourself to this—this heathen.” He shoved her back, pulling a small bottle from his jacket. “I think our time together has run its course, don’t you?” He pulled out his handkerchief, uncorking the bottle.

  Jal screeched. “Now! It’s now, you imbeciles!”

  Vale stepped forwards. “I can’t let you do that, my lord.”

  Devere tightened. He sat the bottle down on a ledge. “What did you say?”

  “Step away, my lord.”

  Yannick appeared from behind a fern.

  “What is the meaning—” Devere shot backwards, heels skating, half-suspended by the rotund tailor. “Unhand me,” he demanded.

  “You would have done it, you bastard!” Jal kicked him in the groin.

  Devere whelped, doubling over on the floor. What was going on? None of this made sense. “What are you doing, barber?” he cried.

  Vale regarded him silently.

  Jal sniffed. “Sorry, Arik, did you really think I could fall in love with an old goat like you?” She wiped the blood from her cheek and picked up the bottle. She uncorked it, wetting the handkerchief.

  Devere struggled to get up, but Yannick stood on the loose folds of his jacket, pinning him in place. The Prime swore. “You’ll regret this.”

  Jal knelt, one knee trapping his loose arm. “It’s nothing personal, Arik.”

  “No!” he bellowed.

  She pressed the handkerchief over his mouth.

  He struggled for several seconds, then slept.

  Yannick removed his foot, and the wind howled, fighting the whining clamour for supremacy. Nether light curled across the floor, a disturbance as if Faze itself were hungry. Jal soaked more liquid into the handkerchief and placed it over her husband’s mouth. She looked up. “Leave us.”

  The Cloaks bowed and swept away through the flora.

  Jal turned back. “I’m sorry, Guyen. I should not have led you on. I did not mean for things to go so far between us.”

  The roof was deserted. Where the hell was Mist? The girl would have been handy about now.

  She read his mind. “If you’re waiting for your little friend to rescue you,” she said, “I’m afraid she doesn’t know you’re up here. I sent the message.”

  Bad feelings solidified amongst the confusion. Had she used him? To trick her husband up here? Why?

  “You can untie me now,” he said.

  “I could trust you to do as I ask?”

  “Yes,” he lied, even as the pieces fell into place. The Cloaks were loyal to her. It was all her. She’d pulled the strings all this time.

  She knelt over her husband, smoothing his hair, adjusting his cravat as a proud mother might for her favourite son. “I wasn’t lying,” she murmured, “when I said you fucked better than him.”

  Guyen snorted. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? What do you want from me? Do you know where my brother is?”

  She stood, regarding him. “These times we live in,” she motioned towards the sky, “the citizenry need a liberator, a beacon of hope. You could be that light, Guyen.”

  “What are you talking about? Let me go.”

  She cam
e closer. “Do you deny your gift, even at this late hour?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She laughed. “Coy, aren’t you? Both of you. Yet I see your other has deserted you once more. A shame, he provides such insights.”

  What the hell was she talking about? Toulesh? Surely she couldn’t see him?

  She tousled his hair. Guyen recoiled. “I shall make you an offer,” she said, “but only once. Do you understand?”

  He shrugged, angry at himself. How had he become caught up in all this?

  “Come work for me,” she breathed. “You will be my special advisor, my right-hand man. Our combined Talents shall make Sendal great again, an empire to rule the Feyrlands. What do you say?”

  “Untie me, then we can talk.” If only his head wasn’t so fogged with wine. He tried tuning into the clamour. It was wild, all over the place. Nether light gathered ominously around Devere.

  “Give me your word,” she said.

  “Where is he? Where’s my brother.”

  She crouched, eyes beautiful poison. “Give me your word.”

  “No!”

  Her eyes hardened. “Very well, in time you’ll see things my way.” She thrust her hand inside his shirt, yanking his Pledge away like a demon ripping out a heart. Broken chain segments spilled on the floor.

  “What are you doing? Let me go.”

  “Hush now.”

  He struggled, commanding the eddies of Faze to obey. Nether light whipped violently, but randomly, flowers blossoming on the silvery plants. His chest tightened, sharp pain radiating from the centre. Jal bent over her husband, pressing the Pledge into his hand. She wrapped the chain around his wrist.

  “You’re crazy!” Guyen shouted over the gathering winds. He thrashed against Vale’s restraints, but it was no use, the bastard had tied him securely to the chimney stack.

  “Every season turns,” Jal sighed, “it’s the way of things.” She took hold of Devere’s jacket and dragged him across the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  She ignored the question, nearing the roof’s edge, stronger than she looked.

  Mouth-watering nausea roiled. There was nothing to do.

  “Goodbye, my love,” Jal said, and rolled Devere’s sleeping form over the precipice.