He’d never finished explaining what Deiq would do. Staring at the clammy white face and flat grey eyes a handspan from her own, Alyea suddenly didn’t want to find out. She caught control of her pain, shoving it all behind a thick shield, as fast as she could.
Deiq’s skin flushed towards crimson, then faded back into his normal bronze tone. His eyes darkened to a whiteless black, laced with silver; he focused a sharp glare on Alyea.
“Tharr,” he growled, deep in his throat. His hands tightened, fingers digging painfully into her back. Violence thrummed through his muscles.
Alyea let go of fear and focused on apology and servant, completely submerging herself in submission; abandoning all pride, all ego, anything that might aggravate Deiq further.
Deiq’s hands slowly, so slowly, relaxed. The silver faded from his eyes, and his breathing steadied. “Tharr,” he said again, then blinked and shook his head, the white edge slowly returning to his eyes. “Alyea.”
She stayed in a near-trance of unimportance, afraid to risk responding.
Deiq sighed and ran his hands lightly over her back as though to soothe the forming bruises, then stroked the side of her face with one hand.
“Alyea,” he said again. “All right. All right. I’m all right now. Gods, that was close.”
He shivered a little. His hand cupped the back of her head, tilting it to press her forehead against his own. His breath felt warm on her face and smelled of sour ashes.
“Good trick,” he murmured. “I assume the teyanain taught you that one. Good. That’s good. Gods.”
He shivered again. Alyea drew a shorter breath and risked allowing herself to be aware of her self; a different tremor ran through Deiq’s whole body, and his grip tightened.
“Damnit,” he muttered. “Damnit, damnit—stop. Just—wait.”
She promptly retreated into the haze of not-being.
“Damn bonds,” Deiq said after a while, and sighed, his grip loosening. “All right. I think I have it this time.”
She drew herself together once more and backed up a step, pulling away from him. He took a step forward, letting her free of his grasp but staying right up against her—close as they had been when the teyanain chained them together. She stood still, understanding finally, and put a hand on his chest.
He let out a great breath and set his own hand on her chest.
“Alyea,” he said, voice ragged. “How in all the hells did you not kill her for that?”
Alyea sensed, in the fine tremor still working through his muscles, just how close he had been to killing Hama; not through malice, but through sheer reflex of wanting the pain to stop.
“She didn’t really mean it,” Alyea said, immensely careful to keep all emotion out of her voice and thoughts. “She was scared and trying to hurt me so I wouldn’t see her fear.”
“But it did hurt.” He seemed baffled by her calm.
She tilted her head slightly, watching his face with quick sideways glances to avoid setting off his defensive instinct again; one of several potentially lifesaving tips Evkit’s daimaina had offered. “You don’t really understand human emotion, do you?”
His dark brows dipped into a slight frown. “I don’t understand how any creature can endure that level of pain and not kill what caused it,” he said. “Humans seem to consider it perfectly sane to do nothing in retaliation for an attack, and so you go on hurting one another because there’s no consequence for it. That makes no sense to me. Hama will turn and bite you again and again, because you’ve done nothing to stop her from doing so. Chacerly will show up again one day with a dagger aimed for your back, because you made the mistake of forgiving his betrayal. If you’d just killed him, you’d have one less enemy in the world to worry over in the future.”
She stared at him, a faint chill working down her arms. “Don’t ha’ra’hain understand mercy and forgiveness?”
A faint wince tightened his eyes. He shook his head. “Eredion would be telling you the same thing: you should have killed Chacerly, and you shouldn’t be letting Hama walk away unscathed. But mercy and forgiveness? No. There is no such thing for ha’reye, and there is no such thing for ha’ra’hain. I’ve been trying to tell you: my human blood doesn’t matter.”
“The murals,” she said, glancing at the nearby wall, which showed a field of sunflowers in full bloom. “How could you have done these if you didn’t have any understanding of what you were painting?”
“I was trying to understand it,” he said, his frown deepening. “I never did entirely succeed.”
Alyea tried again. “Hama and Chac made mistakes; that doesn’t mean they deserve to die. They did good along with the bad in their lives, and I’m not setting myself up as a judge over them.”
Deiq sighed. “Now you’re starting to sound like a Callen of Comos. Never mind. We’re not going to agree on this.” He dropped his hand from her chest and rubbed both hands over his face. “I need to rest. It’s been a long day already, and there’s more ahead.”
“I need to go back to Peysimun Mansion to greet Lord Fimre,” Alyea said, then hesitated. “I still haven’t told anyone...It just hasn’t seemed the right time. Dealing with Hama seemed more important.”
Deiq nodded. “It can wait,” he said around a yawn. “Go on. It’s best if I avoid Fimre right now, so I’ll stay here. I’ll come back to the Mansion later tonight, when he’s gone.”
Alyea opened her mouth to ask why Deiq wanted to avoid the new Sessin lord, and how he could be tired so early in the day, then let it go. If Deiq wanted her to know, he would have explained already; and he hadn’t slept the night before, so he probably needed a nap. For all his protests that he didn’t sleep often, she’d seen him do so as often as any human.
The lines of his face deepened with a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said, then pulled her close again for a gentle hug and an awkward, quick peck of a kiss.
Both the gratitude and the kiss felt strained. She returned, “You’re welcome,” without other comment, and left him to his solitude with a slightly shamed sense of relief to be out of his presence.
Chapter Sixty-three
Fimre had dressed in blue and dark grey silks, the slashes lined with green; his bracelets and jewelry carried unmistakable messages of their own. Eredion looked at the overall effect and sighed. A firetail bird in full mating plumage would have been subtler.
Was I ever that single-minded? Eredion wondered, and admitted the answer was probably an emphatic Yes. Thankfully, few of the northerns they encountered would have the faintest idea what the display indicated—including Alyea.
“I hadn’t planned to go straight to Peysimun Mansion,” he said mildly. “There are a few other people and places to visit first.”
Fimre delivered a florid bow. “I follow your lead, Lord Eredion.”
Eredion shook his head, dourly amused, and waved Fimre out the door ahead of him.
Fimre behaved himself impeccably over the next few hours. For all his cynicism, he understood the potential of exotically charming and used it brilliantly. Without ruffling a single feather, he managed to maneuver himself into position to seduce a double handful of men and women if that ever became useful. Without a single open request, he laid a foundation for political alliance with as many of Bright Bay’s wealthy, some of them diametrically opposed.
In a single morning he accomplished what had taken Eredion years. Granted that Eredion had been laboring under multiple handicaps, but still—The spectacle was infuriating, and Fimre’s increasing smugness didn’t help.
“You know more about northern custom than I expected,” Eredion said as they began the walk towards Peysimun Mansion. The carriage that had brought them to the Seventeen Gates was ostentation within them; Eredion had opted to walk from the West Gate, and Fimre hadn’t protested.
“I did spend some time preparing for the post,” Fimre said, as dryly. “Given that I knew I had a large set to match.”
Eredion grinned. “You’re doing wel
l,” he admitted, letting go of his irritation.
“You’ll be able to leave within the tenday, I expect,” Fimre said, then glanced sideways with an arched eyebrow.
Eredion hadn’t been able to keep his smile alive at that remark.
“I might travel a bit,” he said, looking straight ahead. “Instead of going right back to Sessin. I think I’ve earned a vacation.”
“Lord Sessin won’t like that.” The tone was a warning.
Eredion shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just a thought. Here we are.” He was pleased to see that the gate stood shut with guards inside and outside; Alyea had learned some sense.
“Good morning, s’es,” the outside guard said respectfully. “Your names and business, if you would?”
“Lord Eredion Sessin and Lord Fimre Sessin,” Eredion said. “I believe Lord Peysimun is expecting us.” He glanced at the inside guard and restrained a grin.
“Yes, Lords. One moment.” He bobbed a polite half-bow, then turned his back on them to glance at his companion, who nodded, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. Together they pulled open the heavy gates, which were still sticking a bit from decades of disuse.
Eredion paused before stepping through onto Peysimun lands. “One question. What was that look and nod for, if I may ask?”
“He was checking to make sure I’m not witched, lord,” the guard answered promptly.
“And if you had been?”
“You wouldn’t of got in, lord.” The guard grinned crookedly and bowed again.
Eredion smiled, but Fimre snorted. As though they could stop us, he observed. This is useless.
“Nar,” the inside guard said, his grin revealing a mouthful of ruined teeth. “Look at the roof, thar.”
Fimre’s eyes narrowed. Eredion put a hand out in warning.
“There,” he said. “Not tharr. It’s dialect, not insult.”
Fimre’s stare moved to the roof briefly, took in the archers stationed there, then returned to the guard a few steps away. “How did you know to say that?” he asked, very quietly.
“Yer face,” the guard said, and spat, politely to one side. “Blind man could read it. By the by, watch yer purse, lord, until you get known.”
Fimre stiffened with instant anger. Once more, Eredion intervened.
“Not a threat,” he said, “it’s an honest warning, meant as helpful advice. Thank you, Ferrow.”
“Yeh. Go on, then, we’ve the gate to close.”
Eredion steered Fimre through the gates and to the mansion beyond.
“He’s no Hall-trained freewarrior,” Fimre observed as they reached the steps.
“No,” Eredion said. “But he knows what’s needed, and won’t fool easily.”
Peysimun Mansion being technically independent of kingdom law had given him a lot of rope to work with, and he’d used every length he could. He didn’t explain that to Fimre: the incoming liaison didn’t yet know about the recent disposition of Peysimun into Eredion’s hands, and hopefully wouldn’t until Eredion was safely out of his—and Lord Sessin’s—reach.
A tall, lanky young woman stood at the top of the steps, waiting. Her serious face and servant-simple dress offered little to attract interest; her mild grey eyes and slightly ragged brown hair did nothing to raise it.
“Lords Sessin,” she said, dropping a formal curtsy. “Welcome to Peysimun Mansion. My name is Kalei, and I will be at your disposal during your visit today. I cannot, unfortunately, offer you a tour today, as the Mansion is undergoing some overdue repairs; but if you would care to take your ease in the gardens, Lord Peysimun will join us there shortly.”
“That would be fine, Kalei,” Eredion said gravely. “Lead the way.”
She nodded and turned away with a graceful gesture. Eredion glanced at Fimre as they began walking, and found him studying Kalei with narrowed eyes and pursed lips; not salacious, but thoughtful.
“I’m beginning to get the feeling,” Fimre said in a low voice, “that Lord Peysimun has an unusually well-trained staff for a northern house.”
“Peysimun is no longer a northern house,” Eredion said.
Fimre shot him a sideways glance. “No?”
“You hadn’t heard yet? She’s convinced the king to give her full autonomy as a southern Family.”
Fimre’s eyebrows arched. “That was quick.”
“She’s not particularly patient,” Eredion said with a faint smile. “Even for a northern, sometimes, she’s quick on her feet.”
“Good to know. And in bed?”
Eredion kept his thoughts carefully shielded. “She hasn’t invited me yet. I think she’s had other partners to keep her busy.”
“In a northern city? They don’t even have kathain here.” Fimre shook his head. “She must be tearing up the walls by now.”
Eredion restrained a grin. “Not noticeably,” he said dryly, and left the warning there.
“Invitation,” Fimre muttered, sounding disgusted, and shook his head again.
The gardens were less impressive than they had been a few days ago. Many of the blossoms had closed, the leaves showing dark, dry areas where the erratic weather had damaged the delicate cells. A few small birds hopped through the dying flowerbeds in search of bugs; a handful of enterprising bees and flies wandered through the air in search of something interesting to do.
There were no butterflies visible today. Eredion suspected that if he looked around, he’d find more than one dead blue-speckled king butterfly among the flowerbeds. They didn’t handle sharp weather changes well.
A section of garden had been cleared to make room for a southern-style pavilion of red and white silk. A narrow, curved table inside offered enough space for six to sit at tea; the seats were wide-bottomed, sturdy-legged stools, and thick reed mats covered the ground.
Pebbly rock and sand shifted and crunched underfoot as they stepped onto the mats. Eredion repressed a smug smirk at the surprise on Fimre’s face as he looked around.
“I hadn’t expected...This looks almost like home,” Fimre commented, then slanted a quick glance at Eredion. “Been helping the new Family redecorate, have you?”
“I’ve offered advice a few times,” Eredion said blandly. “It seemed appropriate.”
Kalei motioned them to take whatever seats they liked, then quietly sat at the far end of the table from them. “Tea will be here shortly, Lords. My apologies that it’s not already here. Please don’t consider it an insult.”
“Kalei,” Fimre said, somehow managing to lounge on his stool, “are you kathain? I don’t recall you using the actual term, and I don’t want to assume.”
“No, Lord,” Kalei said with remarkable composure. Eredion saw a muscle twitch in the side of her jaw. “I’m your guide and servant today, but not kathain as you understand it.”
“That’s a shame,” Fimre said, smiling. “I’d love to have you rub my back.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to task your own kathain with that, Lord,” Kalei said.
“I didn’t bring any,” Fimre said. “I thought to find some locally. You seem very intelligent, yourself, which I always value in my kathain.”
Eredion kept quiet this time and waited to see how the girl would handle the implicit offer.
“I’m not the one to talk to about kathain, Lord,” Kalei said. “I’d imagine Lord Eredion would know more than myself on such matters.”
Two servants came into the pavilion, carrying trays laden with tea supplies. Kalei made no move to help, which prompted a sour glance from one of the servants. Fimre caught the moment just as Eredion did, and his eyes gleamed with amusement.
Some resistance to the way of things yet, he observed. I take it that Kalei didn’t always hold such a lofty station?
Eredion shrugged and didn’t answer.
“You’re more involved here than you’ve been admitting,” Fimre murmured, watching the servants arranging teapot, cups, and various other supplies. He switched to Sessin dialect. “Not making the classi
c mistake, are you? Thinking of switching over allegiance to Peysimun, maybe, if that’s the only way to get into her bed?”
Eredion snorted. “Hardly.”
Fimre aimed a dry, unconvinced glance his way and made no reply.
The rich, smoky scent of thopuh tea—real thopuh—laced the air as the tea was poured. Eredion inhaled, grinning openly; it had been a long damn time since he’d been graced with the real thing. Fimre looked startled all over again, and more so with his first sip.
“Good gods,” he said. “This is incredible.”
“Thank you,” Alyea said, stepping into the pavilion. “It was a gift from Lord Evkit of the teyanain.”
The servants bowed and retreated. Eredion stood and offered a formal bow. Fimre, a beat later, scrambled to his feet and did the same. Alyea inclined her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Her dark hair had been partially braided in an informal style that exposed her narrow face while allowing most of her hair to drape loosely over her shoulders. Her jewelry, from earrings to rings, echoed a theme: delicate strands of silver woven together by a master’s hand and tipped with a single, small red or white stone. Her trousers were a deep red and her blouse, an ivory cream, caught at the waist with a wide blue belt; all very nearly peasant-style but for the silken material and a slight extra bit of piping or lace here and there.
Without any hint of brazenry, the outfit left no doubt as to her curves. Eredion sat down as quickly as was polite, biting his lip, and tried not to think of her naked and willing in his arms.
Thank you, Alyea said to Eredion as she sat down. I understand your people were responsible for finding and returning my gifts to me. I thought it fitting to serve you some of what you were honorable enough to save.
Impressed with her control—Fimre, clearly, hadn’t heard a hint of the comment—Eredion nodded and poured her a cup of tea.
“Lord Peysimun,” he said aloud, sliding the cup politely towards her, “may I present Lord Fimre Sessin. He will be replacing me as liaison within the next tenday.”
Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) Page 50