by Matthew Cook
Rath holds up his hands in surrender, his sardonic smile returning. “I desire only to help Napaula and her child, I assure you. We should trust one another, yes?"
"You should have thought of that before giving me poison in a tea cup,” I reply, striving for the coldest possible tone I can muster. “And do not think I have forgotten the other thing you promised me."
Rath nods. “The Mor. I have not forgotten. Although I warn you: you may not thank me for sharing my wisdom. Now, let us go and tell Napaula the good news."
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I walk through the swirling night fog, and see my street ahead. Seldom have I seen a more welcome sight. It beckons to me, streetlamps shining in the gloom. Mist swirls and eddies around them, turning each one into an island of glowing light shrouded by a cloud of tenebrous gray. The damp penetrates my still-damp cloak, adding to the chill I carry inside. The thought of my warm bed pulls me forward, giving me the strength to put one foot in front of another. Soon I will be home.
Weariness makes my limbs heavy, leaden. The last few hours have been a trial, both physically and mentally, a contest against my power's insatiable hunger. If my discipline had slipped, even for a moment...
No. Best not to think of such things.
At the old woman's insistence, I examined her in her squalid room, first with my secret sight, then aided by the deeper vision imparted by the blood magic. I am still no closer to understanding her condition. As I walk, head down inside my concealing hood, eyes fixed on the cobbles beneath my feet, I ponder what little I have learned.
The magic confirmed for me what my secret vision suggested: Napaula is indeed riddled with pockets of corruption. Cancers of differing kinds have invaded her organs, have made inroads even into her very skin and bones, establishing their dark colonies in almost every part of her aged body. And they are growing.
I am still no closer to understanding her seeming good health; in her condition she should be nearly paralyzed with wracking pain. Her lungs are badly infested, the dark breeding ground for several large, tumors, and move less then half of the volume of air that they should. Her kidneys are scarred and shrunken. Even her bowels are riddled with the disease. When I ask her, Napaula complains bitterly of their sluggishness and the pain she feels on the chamber pot.
I think of the power I have seen displayed by the priests of Shanira and bite back a snarl. Doubtless they could call on their goddess to purge the cancers if they desired to do so, but even if I could convince the old woman to visit them they would shun her as unclean or possessed—or worse.
Rath is still convinced that the sickness is a result of her unnatural pregnancy. I find no solid evidence to contradict him, however, I remain unconvinced. When I masqueraded as a wise woman, I saw many elders with symptoms as bad as Napaula's, or worse, often at a far younger age. Her maladies very well might be natural.
Except for her pregnancy. Nothing in my experience explains that single, impossible fact. It taints everything I know, or think I know, about her.
The babe is still a mystery, despite my best efforts to get a glimpse of it. Whatever lives inside of the old woman is powerful, that much is certain. Neither my secret sight nor the unique vision granted me by the blood magic can penetrate the concealment it has gathered around itself. Every time I tried to glimpse it, my efforts were rebuked, its shroud as impenetrable as a stone wall.
During the third, and last, attempt, I was pushed violently out. Its power stole my breath away, and my sight grew dim. I opened my mortal eyes to find myself sprawled on the floor. The room spun about my head, slow as a water wheel. That time, I sensed something from the hidden child: the ghost of emotion. Fear. It knew, somehow, that we were trying to see it.
Rath suggested we abandon the examination and start fresh the following day. Napaula was exhausted and I was little better, swaying, half-asleep on my feet. He seemed very pleased with himself when we left, once more every bit the thoughtful, gallant courtier. He left a bag, clinking with silver, on the table next to her narrow bed, and offered to pay for a carriage to take me home.
But I wanted to walk alone under the chill skies, to ponder what little I had learned, and wrestle with a dozen contradicting theories. Now I regret that decision: the carriage would have had me home nearly an hour ago.
I turn the corner leading to the house that Lia and I share, and stop. A window on the lower level of the townhouse is lit, the panes glowing with amber lamplight. I turn and look towards the great clock atop the palace tower. Dawn is only three hours away. As I climb the steps to the front door, I wonder if Lia is still up. The first fingers of dread creep past the weariness enveloping me. All I want is the sweet oblivion of sleep; I do not want to explain my whereabouts to Lia.
An unfamiliar cloak hangs on the hook inside the door, a man's garment judging by the size and cut, made of rich blue wool trimmed with silver embroidery. Tiny shells and delicate swirling runes are stitched on its hem, suggestive of the flowing tide. The murmur of voices floats down the stairs, Lia's clear soprano mixed with a man's rich tenor.
I find them in the parlor: Lia on the couch; her visitor in the chair beside it. He is holding her hand. As I enter the room I see her withdraw it. He stands, stretching a bit as if he has been sitting for hours.
"It is good to see you home, Kirin,” Lia says softly. “When you did not return for dinner, I grew worried."
I listen to her voice, trying to sense if she feels nervous, or guilty, at my arrival, but all I hear is an uncharacteristic reserve, as if she is dreading having to speak.
I frown and stare at the stranger. His face is familiar to me, but I cannot recall where we have met. Why is he here, so very late? “I ... I had something I needed to take care of."
"And did you? Take care of your errand?” A steely edge creeps in her voice when she asks this, the brittle tone riding beneath her soft words, bracing them like an armature. Her guest glances at her and frowns.
I sigh. I do not want to have this discussion now. Not this late. Not in front of strangers. “Lia, I'm very tired. I—"
"I really should be going as well,” the man says with an awkward little bow. “Thank you, I had a lovely evening."
Lia blinks, then seems to remember her manners. She gestures towards the man and says, “Kirin this is Westyn Obarre. You met him at my father's party."
The man's face clicks into place in my memory. “I remember. You're Lia's old friend; the hydromancer."
He nods and gives a deep, formal bow. I do not return it. Sister would surely be shocked at my rudeness, if she were here. I am too weary to care.
"I'll see myself out,” Westyn says. He gives Lia a last, concerned look, then moves past me to the entry. The door opens, then closes. All the while, I do not move, or speak. Lia sits on the couch, eyes on the floor.
"Did you have a nice evening?” I ask, surprising myself with the question.
"I ... yes. Westyn and I had the occasion to talk at great length. We did not really have the opportunity to catch up at father's party, so we—"
"You waited up for me,” I interrupt. Only after I speak the words do I realize that I hope it is the only reason for her wakefulness at this unusual hour.
"I was worried."
"Worried? About me? You should have just gone to sleep; you know I can handle myself."
Lia looks up at me for the first time. Her blue eyes are bloodshot and shadowed. “Sleep? Gods above and below, I have done too much of that lately, have I not?"
"I don't understand what you—"
"Where were you, Kirin?” she interrupts, her tone imperious and demanding. “What were you doing?"
Her words kindle my own temper, and I feel the bone-deep weariness receding. “Am I a child now, that I must report my comings and goings to you? I thought we'd decided to try and make a life together because we trusted each other."
"Yes! I agree!” she exclaims, leaning forwards, her eyes b
oring into mine, defying me to look away. “So trust me enough to be honest. Where were you?"
I open my mouth, ready to speak a lie that neither of us will believe, and her words strike me. Trust. We had it once, not long ago. Before we came here. Before the City. What's happening to me?
No. As much as I desire it, I cannot be totally honest with her. Not yet. She will demand I betray Rath to the authorities. The law is clear: necromancy is a crime, and Lia is nothing if not lawful. If Rath is given into their hands, what will become of Napaula?
"I ... was in Low Town,” I finally say, settling for a lesser truth.
"Why?"
"Someone there ... she needs my help. An old woman with a very particular condition."
Lia frowns. Whatever she had imagined, this was not it. She squints at me, as if trying to penetrate the unspoken truths my guilty heart contains. Finally, she says, “Have the priests of Shanira seen her? Surely if she is ill, the goddess of healing would be the best—"
I cut her off. “The priests will not help her.” I raise my voice, drowning her protest. “I know you and Brother Ato were close, but trust me, Lia: not all of the goddess's followers are as steadfast in their devotions as he. They will not help her."
Lia ponders this for a moment, frowning. “And that's where you were all this time? Helping a sick old woman?"
"Yes,” I say, hating myself even as I speak for the lies of omission covered by such a small word. “Her condition is strange, but I believe my healing skills can help her. They may be the only thing that can."
Lia returns her gaze to the floor. A blush tinges her pale skin. “Kirin, I apologize. After last night ... after what was said, when you did not return I worried—"
"Don't worry,” I say, moving towards her and sitting on the couch. “My feelings about ... my feelings have not changed. I will keep my promises."
Lia sniffs and I see a tear slide down her cheek. Then she is embracing me, hugging me tight, her face buried in my neck. I return her hug, tears stinging my own eyes. Reflexively, I tense, awaiting my sister's cry of Liar! Liar! But she remains silent. Gods, how I wish she would rail at me, that she would scream obscenities and accusations at me, but there is nothing inside but silence.
I pull back, brushing at the tears which threaten to overspill my eyes. I force a wry expression onto my face and say, “Now, what was all that with the handsome hydromancer?"
Now it it Lia's turn to stammer. “I ... I am sorry. I was worried and ... I have nobody I can talk to. So when Westyn came by, I asked him if he would stay and dine—"
"He came here?” I ask. There is something in her face, in the way she will not look at me, that tightens my scalp. “Why?"
"He wanted to bring us a housewarming gift,” Lia replies, gesturing towards the dining room. I look over and see a wooden box on the table. “Wine, from his family's vineyard in Astbrooke,” she explains. She looks me in the eye, and the troublesome shadow I thought I saw is gone. “I have known him since we were children, Kirin. Did I ... did I do something wrong?"
Stop it, I tell myself. She's done nothing to deserve this.
This farce of mistaken intentions would be amusing, were it not for Lia's expression. She looks, for an instant, very much like a child, wounded and confused. And yet, still, I sense there is something more here. But the hypocrisy of confronting her about it with my own untruths still fresh on my lips prevents me.
"No, love. You've done nothing. Now, I'm very tired, and I'm off to bed,” I murmur, giving her a final squeeze. She nods and hugs me back, then looks up at me. Her face is close to mine, and I smell the wine perfuming her warm breath.
"Will you share my room tonight?” she asks.
Desire uncoils in my belly, a sensation reminiscent, yet so very different from, the awakening of the blood magic. Lia's eyes dance with mine, communicating in a language older than speech. Her smile deepens, a coy upturning at the corners of her lips, enticing; seductive. Seeing it reminds me of Napaula, and her secret, mother's smile. Of the look in her ancient eyes as she gazed lovingly down at her eternally unborn son.
The thought of the old woman is cold water over the rising coals of my passion. I look away and step back, out of her embrace. “It's ... it's very late, and I'm too weary to do anything but snore,” I say.
"Of course. I'm sorry,” Lia replies, frowning. She opens her mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to begin the argument again, then closes it and shakes her head. Gods ... to be young again, with youth's appetites. And energy. Was I ever like that? I cannot remember. The realization makes me feel old and decrepit.
"Goodnight, love,” I say, giving her a brief peck on the cheek before turning towards the stair.
"Goodnight ... love?” I hear her reply, barely a whisper.
I climb the stairs like a condemned man on the gallows.
* * * *
I sleep late the following morning; it is nearly noon when I force myself from the warm nest of blankets. I do not remember suffering nightmares. Thank the gods and their small comforts; having to endure them on top of the bone-deep fatigue brought on by wrestling the blood magic would have been too much to endure.
As it is, I am sore, every muscle aching. I have not felt this way since the weeks following my flight from home, when I first endured the stresses of living in the wild. I flex my hands, wincing at the soreness in my joints and tendons.
I pad across the icy floorboards, out into the hall, then make water in the small privy. I wash my face and the splash of frigid water brings the world into crisp focus.
I walk back into the hall and see Lia's closed door. Suddenly, the damp chill and the dim, blue glow from the leaden sky outside the windows seem almost too oppressive to bear. I lift the latch, slowly, and it swings open on oiled hinges. The stout bar sits in its holder beside it.
The sight of it starts a warm glow deep in my chest. I slip into her room. I want to look at her, see her sleeping face, untroubled by the burdens I have put on her.
Lia lies on her side, illuminated by the light from her single window. Her freckled cheek rests on a thick, snow-white pillow, surrounded by the dark corona of her hair. Pale strands of copper and tawny gold twine through the chestnut curls, legacy of our time under the open sky, out on the road.
Unlit candles surround the bed, resting in holders and tall brass candelabra. A bouquet of flowers, roses red as heart's blood mixed with other, lesser blooms, pink aster with centers as yellow as the summer sun and pale violet sea lavender, rests in a vase beside the bed. Their fragrance fills the room, making it feel warmer than it is. They must have been very expensive, imported, perhaps, from the Southern lands, where winter's killing hand does not reach.
Despite the cold, she has thrown the blankets off, like she always does. I move to cover her and her sky-blue eyes open. I wonder how long she has been awake. Did she sense me watching her? She turns onto her back and smiles at me, reaching for my hand. She draws it to her face.
She plants a kiss in my palm, soft as down. I feel the tip of her tongue flick out, tracing the delicate lines there. She presses it to the side of her face, her eyes sliding closed, then guides it down the side of her neck to her breasts. I feel her nipple stiffen through the thin fabric of her sleeping gown.
I feel my own flesh responding to her arousal, sending a warm flush through me. I bend and kiss her, gently at first, then with growing urgency. Our lips part, allowing our tongues to dance together, slippery and warm. The musk of sleep still clings to her, is in her mouth, but my rising passion pushes aside such trivial details. All I can sense in this moment is the feeling of her body beneath mine, moving to give my eager hands room too explore, hips already rocking in the oldest of rhythms.
Lia pushes me aside, unexpectedly, and sits. She pulls off her gown, causing her hair to stand up in a crackling, electric cloud, and we both laugh. The cold turns her pale skin to gooseflesh. Her large, dark nipples pucker, standing out proudly. She grasps my face and pulls me to her,
kissing me hard. Her teeth worry at my lower lip, biting to the point of pain.
Lia's hands roam down my body, gathering the hem of my own sleeping tunic and pulling it urgently over my head. I wince as her tugging hands catch in my hair. “Lia, gods, slow down,” I laugh, breathlessly.
She answers with a kiss, her mouth open and hungry. Her hands fumble at my breasts, pawing at them until I put my palms atop them, stilling them. I hold them until she twines her fingers in mine.
We tumble back into the snowy sheets, bodies tangled together, knees and thighs intertwined. My earlier pain and soreness is forgotten, washed away by the growing, all-encompassing heat.
Lia kisses my breasts, drawing my aching flesh into her mouth, teasing and biting and sucking, lips and tongue and fingers dancing across my hungry skin. I growl, a sound of pure, animal passion, then whisper her name.
"Lia."
She moves up, until we are face to face. Her heavy breasts press against mine, the soft weight almost unendurably erotic. I feel the first precursor shocks of my ultimate release, washing through me like the echoes of distant thunder. She reaches down, cupping my sex, and strokes me with her thumb. I shiver.
The storm rolls towards me, evoking a tremor in my belly and thighs. I throw back my head, baring my throat to her, and a moment later she covers me with kisses. I gasp as her teeth once more nip at the tender skin; the pain so like pleasure that there is no separating them.
Then she is sliding down me, our skin whispering. She lingers a moment at my breasts, circling each nipple with her tongue before tracing it down my belly. Her saliva leaves behind a deliciously chill trail, a wonderful counterpart for my burning skin.
I open myself for her, completely, totally. Lia slides between my parted thighs and breathes across me. I gasp as her warm breath flows over me, then again as her lips press against me, part me. I rise off the bed, wanting to press her flesh into mine, to join with her completely and totally, fusing our bodies, trapping this sensation in flesh and blood and bone forever.