Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  Still rearing, the horse lashes out. Crimson splashes across the animal's pale gray fetlocks. The girl has time for one surprised scream, before she is driven to the stones. I hear the greenstick snap of bones.

  Everything stops. The would-be rioters stand frozen, mouths open. Somewhere beside me a soldier whispers a curse.

  Through the forest of bodies, I can just see the broken form in the flowered skirt. The dog stops barking and moves to her, whining. It bends and sniffs at her hand. She does not stir, does not move at all. I feel a sob catch in the back of my throat, painful as a hook.

  "Get back!” Cyr bellows, shockingly loud.

  I hear a horn and the clatter of hooves from beyond the rear edge of the crowd. Riders from the nearby Imperial garrison, or so I assume.

  The rioters, hearing the approaching thunder, turn and flee, the mass shredding like fog in a stiff wind. I lose sight of the fallen girl instantly. The rider of the panicked horse finally manages to quiet his mount, and leads the animal back towards his companions.

  Moments later it seems, the rioters are gone, the noble carriage has disappeared, leaving nothing but blood and bodies on the cobblestones. The girl, though, and her dog and family are gone, absorbed into the fleeing crowd. Their cart lies on its side, its contents scattered, plundered. Of the girl, all that is left is a smear of vibrant scarlet. “Corpsman!” Cyr shouts. “Corpsman! I need help here! Get these bloody gates open. Now!"

  I react to the call instinctively, and move up with the others. I see the fallen guards, lying beside the quaking Imperial functionary. One is rising, cradling a shattered forearm, but the others do not move. I see red marks staining their surcoats and tunics, red and rounded. Knife wounds. As I watch, the guard with the broken arm reaches down and tries to help one of his fallen comrades, then screams as the motion sends a lance of agony through his shattered limb.

  Inside, I feel the blood magic stir, stretching like a big cat waking from sleep.

  "Where are my corpsmen?” Cyr bellows. “Someone fetch a priest!"

  Cyr looks up, his eyes desperate, and fixes his gaze on me. His eyes beseech me for help, even as loathing and fear churn there. I see some of the other men looking at me now, asking me without words to help him. For an instant, I am tempted, and move forward. The blood magic rouses itself in my belly, keening with red hunger.

  Then the reality of what I am about to do strikes me. Revulsion transfixes me, sharp and painful as an iron spike, and I reel back, gagging on bile. My stomach twists, not with the hot, slick desire of the blood magic, but from something deeper and more primal: pure, animal fear. The image of my son comes to me, of his eyes, so trusting, so innocent ... his eyes sheeting with scarlet as the delicate vessels there ruptured, one by one by one, overwhelmed by the alien vitality I stole from the Mor. It is all I can do to not scream.

  No. I cannot. Cannot allow my perverted power to slide inside him. Cannot allow it out. What happened with Captain Garrett was instinct, a response to a moment of weakness. I cannot allow it to happen again.

  I turn back, forcing my breathing to slow. Cyr calls out once more for a priest, and I look around, seeing if one is near. Let them save the wounded man. Besides, if I am caught using my power by one of Shanira's followers, then I might as well confess myself a witch right now. I will be arrested and my property seized from Lia's house. She will be ruined by the scandal.

  Inside, my sister breathes a small sound of disgust. I ignore it. I know full well the depths of my own hypocrisy; I do not need her help.

  "Let the goddess of healing take care of her own,” I whisper, both for her benefit and mine. “Let her keep the power over life and death that her worshipers guard so jealously. Through them she has made it quite clear that what lives inside me is an abomination."

  "Kirin, what...?” Malthus whispers. He must have heard me. Shaken, I walk away, shaking my head, and do not stop until I reach the edge of the cliffs. Behind me, I hear Cyr screaming once more for help, for someone to come and save our fallen comrade.

  There is nothing I can do, I say to myself. Nothing I can do. Against the Mor, yes, I will do anything, but this ... this I cannot do.

  I stand there, looking out across the vast expanse of the south, and think of the fallen girl and her dog. For once, my sister is silent, and together we stand as tears slide down my chill cheeks.

  For whom I cry for, I could not say.

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  CHAPTER TEN

  Two months pass. Two months of fighting atop the Armitage, sometimes for days at a time, standing shoulder to shoulder with the archers of the 103rd. Two months of arrows and fire; of explosions and screams and the smell of burning flesh.

  Two months of returning home to the townhouse Lia has just now completed furnishing, transforming myself from the soldier I am atop the wall into the soft, privileged woman I am when with Lia. Two months of intense horror mix with equally intense bliss.

  Autumn descends into the long chill of winter. Too soon the trees lining our quiet street are bare, black sentinels standing amongst their fallen cloaks of leaves. The first of the winter's snow floats down from the leaden clouds.

  The drifting flakes are greeted by the cheers of the City's inhabitants. Surely, all say, the Mor cannot sustain their attack in such weather. I say nothing, hiding my scorn. They have not seen the Mor's supernatural strength and resilience; they do not know that snow is nothing to such as they. Compared to what we endured in the mountains, the early snow is like gentle rain.

  Lia speaks often of her new responsibilities at the College of Air. She is given the title of Aeromancer, Second Degree, an honor almost unprecedented for one so young. The story of our run for the safety of the wall, as well as of her devastating effectiveness against the Mor, has spread through the ranks of the wall's defenders and their elementalist allies. Her ascension is her reward. Her new position keeps her busy with many duties, from administering the delicate tests of elemental aptitude to potential students, to arranging the training of the new batch of apprentices.

  She likes working with the children, she admits, something that surprises her greatly, but me not at all. She would never allow a child to be hurt, I know, and this sense of responsibility gives her a depth of commitment which is obvious to all save herself. I think of her, standing behind me in my moment of temptation, when I almost brought back my dead son's ghost. Remember how she would have ended me if I had allowed such a travesty to occur. The thought comforts me, as it always does.

  Nights are difficult when I am not on the wall. Lia's bed is too comfortable, the house too quiet. Every tiny noise wakes me and I often surge upright, pulling the covers off, exposing us to the chill. Lia assures me she does not care about her broken nights, but I cannot help but wonder. When it is very bad, when I have been forced to spend extra time atop the Armitage, or after someone in the company has been badly hurt, she holds me in her arms and sings to me, like she did on the day we met, until I finally drift away into unquiet sleep.

  As bad as the restlessness is, however, the dreams are worse. More and more I am ripped from sleep, my body slicked with sweat, by nightmares of smoke and swirling sparks. Half-remembered images fill me with sick anxiety; visions of a giant half-formed thing, all raw fleshless muscle and pale-gleaming bone, rampaging through the streets. On these nights I creep from Lia's bed and return to my sparse room, there to spend the rest of the night wrestling alone with my pillow. When I can tell that sleep's dark angel will not find me again, I have no choice but to leave the stifling confines of our home and wander the streets.

  I never worry about thieves on my midnight excursions; I am more than capable of defending myself from any human threat. Would-be attackers seem to sense this fact, for I am seldom, if ever, troubled, despite my fine cloak and unbound silver hair. Once, a ring of men, four of them, step from the shadows of an alley as I walk past. I see the sparkle of a razor-edged blade, a deadly promise of blood and pain, hear their exp
ectant laughter.

  The men advance while I wait for their attack, reveling in the sensation of the blood magic writhing in my belly. I do not want to hurt them, I tell myself, but if they leave me no choice...

  Before they can commit themselves, something, maybe my black eyes, maybe the predatory smile on my lips, alerts them. They melt back into the shadows, the promise of violence unfulfilled. I return home and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I feel more at ease, more relaxed and satisfied, than I have in weeks.

  The next morning I stride down the back stairs, my dressing gown flowing behind me. I am buoyant, invigorated. I enter the kitchen and see Lia, sitting at the table, a cup of tea before her. She is not dressed and her hair is still down on her shoulders. The late morning sun stretches across the floor in a dazzling wedge.

  "You're here late,” I say, surprised.

  "I asked Mirriam to take my classes today,” she says. “I wanted to talk to you."

  "Oh? About what?” I shake the kettle, then pour more water into it before setting it on the stove. I hold my hands above the hot iron, grateful for the warmth.

  Lia pushes out a chair and pats the seat. I drop into it with a sigh. I smile at her but she answers it with a frown. Unexpected lines crease her smooth forehead.

  "Well, I'm glad you decided to take a day off,” I say. Perhaps we can go to the market together. I hear they've just brought a caravan up the cliff filled with fruits from—"

  "No. I mean, yes, we might. Later. But that is not why I am here. I wanted to talk to you about ... That is, I wanted you to know I have noticed ... Oh, gods damn it!” she says, raking her fingers through her hair.

  My own smile evaporates like morning dew. Lia seldom swears. “What's wrong? Did something happen?” I put my hand on hers, my eyes seeking hers. The silence stretches, but I resist the impulse to keep talking; something tells me it will only make things more difficult for her.

  "Why are you not happy?” she finally asks in a tiny voice.

  I push down the reflex to laugh, limiting myself to a smile. “What are you talking about? I'm perfectly happy. Look at me. Don't you see me smiling?"

  "You are not, I can tell. When you ... when you leave in the night, you always return to your own bed,” she continues, still in that small voice. “I always wake when you go, and notice when you do not return."

  "I'm sorry. I tried to not wake you. You're still just not used to sharing a bed; you'll get used to it. Urik used to snore like a bull with a head cold, especially when he'd been out at the tavern the night before. There were nights that I had to put my pillow—"

  "It is not that,” she interrupts. “You used to wake me in the middle of the night on purpose, remember? I looked forward to it. Sometimes so much that I had trouble falling asleep.” A ghost of a smile traces itself across her lips. “But this is different. I can feel your restlessness. Something troubles you, but you will not tell me what it is. And last night, like many nights of late, you went out, and did not return until close to dawn."

  "I ... some nights, I can just tell I won't be able to sleep. Walking calms my mind. I think too many years of hiking up and down trails has ruined me for city living,” I say, intending the words to be said lightly, in jest, but they emerge sounding more serious than I had intended.

  The kettle whistles and I rise. I pour the water into my cup, then set the tea strainer into the steaming surface. The smell of rose hips and chamomile reaches me, astringent and soothing.

  "It's not you,” I continue, returning to my seat. I squeeze her hand. “You're the thing I look forward to most when I'm away. When I'm on the wall, and the men are talking about their wives and sweethearts waiting for them below, all I can do is smile, because they have no idea what loveliness really is."

  Lia smiles at the compliment, but the gesture seems reflexive, as if she does not believe me. She pauses, then asks in the smallest voice yet, “Is it me?"

  "Is what you?"

  "Is ... am I the cause of your displeasure? Because if so, I—"

  "Gods, Lia, aren't you listening?” I say, my voice rising. Her meekness goads me, like a prong; she is stronger than this, I have seen it. “I'm not unhappy!"

  "Then why do you go?” she shouts, her eyes finally meeting mine. They are wide, and so very blue, flashing not with lightning but anger. “What do you seek out there in the night when you are not here with me?"

  "I'm not sneaking off to meet a lover, if that's what you mean. What, do you think I would—?"

  "I do not know what to think, that is entirely the point! I do not know if you are going off to meet a man, or ... or another woman. You could be going off to the house of Liandra for one of her orgies for all I know! All I know is that many nights—most nights—when I wake in the night and reach for you, all I find is a cold pillow."

  Silently I congratulate myself. I wanted her to show some backbone and she has. Mother always said I should be careful about what I wished for.

  "Lia, I'm sorry, I truly am. It's ... it's not you, believe me. I'm happy to be with you, here in this house. I ... I love you, and what we have. My restlessness comes from somewhere else."

  "So you have said,” she sniffs, obviously not mollified. “But even though I am not the cause, it is I who suffers for it."

  "What do you want of me?” I yell, frustration finally breaking through my restraint. “You're not the only one who's suffering! Do you think I wanted to come here?"

  "I ... you said you did. The Mor—"

  "The Mor are everywhere! I don't need to be here to fight against them. The north is still overrun! Towns and villages burn while the army cowers here behind this bloody wall!"

  "But, your mother. And your sister. You said they always dreamed of coming here."

  "They did, not me! I am not my sister, Lia, nor am I my mother! I choose what is best for me. I choose!"

  "Then why did you come here if you hate it so much? Why not just leave me then!” she screams, bolting from her chair. It scrapes across the wooden floor and slams into the wall in an explosion of plaster dust. It swirls and eddies in the sunbeam, sparkling like miniature diamonds as she flees the room. A moment later I hear her feet on the stairs, then, from the second floor, the slam of a door.

  I sit at the table, watching the sunlight move slowly across the floorboards. My cup no longer steams; the tea is cold and bitter.

  My sister, usually so ready to offer her advice, remains silent. I do not know if I am relieved at this or disturbed. Kirin, for all her many faults, was always the better twin when it came to dealing with people, a talent that even her death has not diminished. In the end, I resist asking for her advice. I am afraid of what she will tell me I must do to set matters right.

  I stand and walk to the stairs, ascending them two at a time. Lia's door is closed tight. I try the knob, but the door is bolted from within. I rap on the boards, softly.

  "Lia? Will you open the door?” When she does not answer, I say, a bit louder, “Lia, please. Open the door. I ... I want to apologize."

  Do you? my sister asks, breaking her silence. Or do you just want the argument to go away?

  I hear Lia's feet, the squeak of the floor boards as she walks to the door. A moment later, the bolt snicks aside. She opens the door, facing me with reddened eyes. Her tousled hair shines like molten copper. “Kirin, I—"

  I lean forward and kiss her. Surprised, she tightens, body quivering like a drawn bow. I reach out and twine my fingers in her hair, pulling her to me, hard. She resists, but years of archery have made my arms so very strong. Soon, I feel her startled tension slowly melt. Her mouth opens, her tongue flicking out against mine. I breathe in our mingled breath.

  We stumble back, hands tugging at laces and strings, freeing our bodies from enshrouding clothes. My mouth finds Lia's throat, biting gently. Then we are falling, backwards, into the soft sheets. I trail my kisses lower, until my lips find a plump nipple. Lia's gasp of pleasure mingles with my own low growl.<
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  You only think this will help, my sister says in a thick voice. Then she, too, moans in pleasure as Lia's hand runs down my body.

  I do not care if this happiness is an illusion; do not care if this is nothing but a distraction. For now, all that matters is this: this shining moment where all I can think about it the feel of her skin against mine and the taste of her in my mouth.

  Outside our window, the City rumbles on, a mighty engine of commerce and activity, always in motion. We do not hear it.

  * * * *

  We make love again after the midday meal, following a long, shared bath. I am rough with her, with my fingers, and my teeth, mingling pain with pleasure until tears stand in Lia's azure eyes. She has taught me much, and I keep her at the edge of bliss for what seems like hours, finally tipping her over into climax. Her breathless cries affect me in turn, and it is short work for her to bring me along with her. We collapse together, Lia's warm back pressed snug against my breasts.

  Lia decides to go shopping, so we rise and head out. The day is cold, but brilliant, the sun peering out from behind wisps of lacy cloud. Lia is radiant, her skin almost glowing in the pale, golden light.

  The place Lia has chosen is far, near the southern end of the Gold Road, close to the drop-off of the cliffs. “I want pomegranates,” she announces as the open-air bazaar comes into sight at the end of the street. “They are good for the blood, or so mother always said when I was a girl. She loved pomegranates.” Lia sighs, a shadow darkening her gaze like a cloud across the sun.

  I nod. “I'll walk with you as far as the fletcher's shop."

  She nods and twines her arm in mine. Together, we stroll down the uneven byways, between the crude wooden stalls and the outspread blankets.

  Even this late in the season and despite the chill snap in the air, the wide square is thronged with people, buying and selling and haggling. Everything in the world is on display, or so it seems.