by T L Greylock
“Did you know?”
Eska’s question hung for a moment between them.
“Did I know what?”
“That you could swim to the bottom of Lake Delo without air. That you could bend the entire lake to your will as easily as the wind does a sapling.” She held his gaze. “Did you know you would survive?”
“No,” he said at last. “I would never have put you in a diving helmet if I had known that.”
“Then why did you do it? Why risk it?”
Eden stood quietly, gaze boring into her, then took up her hand and placed her fingers on his chest. “You know what is written here.” He sighed. “There are some who believe Venadascar is gone. Vanished. A thing of memory only. A thing that belongs to the dead. But I am not dead. I am alive. And as long as I am alive, Venadascar survives. Her story lives on my skin and my very existence is part of that story. But what is existence without risk?”
The heart under Eska’s hand beat with a steady, strong rhythm as Eden touched his forehead to hers. Still, they held each other’s gaze. At last she brought her hands to the sides of his neck, his hair curling through her fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “It is not enough, but I thank you. Now about that liberal application of indicca oil.”
He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, then, as she settled on her stomach on the soft linens, fetched a small blue pot from the bath chamber. Sitting on the bed next to her, Eden pushed the hair off the back of her neck, then poured the amber-colored oil into one palm and rubbed his hands together. Eska closed her eyes. His touch was gentle but firm. Experienced, she decided, as he worked his hands up the back of one leg.
“You haven’t said anything about my name,” she said as he massaged one of the raised, irritated areas with his thumbs. The oil was instantly soothing.
“What name? The one you happen to share with two of the most senior officials in the Arconian government?”
Eska smiled into the bed. “That name.”
“You felt the need for secrecy when you arrived, who am I to demand otherwise?”
“You mean for me to believe that you didn’t ask around? Didn’t try to find out who this strange woman was?”
Eden’s hands paused for a moment and Eska expected a confession. What she got was entirely different. “I respect the boundaries people put up. Is that so unbelievable?”
It was Eska’s turn to hesitate and she lifted her head from the pillow to look over her shoulder at him, her hair falling over one eye. “I suppose I have come to expect differently from the world. And the people in it.”
“That sounds like a very difficult world to live in.”
“Everyone wants something. Needs information. Seeks acclaim. Wants to cut down the competition. You mean to tell me you don’t see it? You don’t feel it?”
The hands on her lower back went still. “Oh, I see it. Which is precisely why I try not to live it.”
Eska sat up, twisting so she could better look him in the eye. But it wasn’t words that spoke for her, not in that moment. She reached over and placed one palm on his cheek, then leaned in to kiss him. His hands slid down her back and his eyes seemed to ask for permission to go further, but it was Eska who pulled him down to the bed and demanded a great deal more from him.
***
“Why do you dislike Carriers?”
The question came after, with sunlight streaming through the filigree balcony doors and a platter of juicy grapes and figs between them on the bed. Eden had poured a crisp, refreshing wine and the light pierced Eska’s glass, shattering it into countless pieces over Eden’s bare skin. He lay with one arm behind his head, the other hand trailing up and down Eska’s stomach.
“Do you mean other than because the most infamous family of Carriers our world has ever seen were so powerful they destroyed everything that stood between them and their quest for dominance and immortality?”
Eden smiled. “Let’s leave the Alescu dynasty out of the equation.”
“What makes you think I dislike Carriers?” It was an evasive tactic—and a poor one, Eska knew, but instinctual.
The smile grew. “I seem to recall a moment on the shore of Lake Delo in which your face became exceptionally severe and, dare I say, terrifying. It was, if you can imagine, the precise moment you understood that you held an object flowing with Carrier-gift.”
“Why not ask me about it in that moment?” If they were capable, Eska’s eyeballs would have been rolling themselves at her continued avoidance.
Eden propped himself up on one elbow and his other hand came to rest on her hip. “Boundaries.”
“And now?”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him in one swift movement, then removed the wine glass from between her fingers and set it aside as he kissed her. “I would hope that risking our lives at the bottom of a lake, facing a deadly creature that definitely wanted to eat us, and emerging triumphantly from the depths with a priceless artifact might have caused some of those boundaries to vanish. Coincidentally, of course.”
“Not to mention the events of the past two hours,” Eska said, smiling.
“Now you’re catching on,” he murmured, leaning close to kiss her neck.
Eden had kissed his way down to her navel before Eska was able to summon the words.
“My prejudice against those who Carry was built first on my early lessons about the Alescuan kings and queens. Like any child, I learned about that malevolent, vicious family, men and women who did not hesitate to kill for power, who used their unmatched Carrier skills to bend the will of the world to their whims. But you’re right, that’s not all.” Eska sighed and lay back on the closest pillow, casting her gaze up at the painted ceiling.
“It’s two stories, really. Though in my mind and heart they quickly coalesced into one, branding me. I cannot think of one without the other. I was young, impetuous, and already fiercely proud. Of my family name, my parents, my uncle, myself,” Eska added in response to Eden’s unspoken question. “The first took place twelve years ago. I was at the Varadome, brought there by my uncle. I was sent to wait in a garden while he met with the Archduke. I had brought with me a manuscript, a gift from my uncle, who had recently unearthed a trove of scrolls, the personal correspondence of Leonato de Scipicus. The astronomer,” Eska added, “the one who first theorized about the rotation of our earth around the sun.”
“Oh, that Scipicus,” Eden said with mock seriousness. “And here I was thinking of the one who told the first rude joke.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”
Eden brought her palm to his lips. “Go on.”
“It wasn’t Leonato’s papers that entranced me. It was his wife’s. Geneveira. Letters between them revealed she was an equal partner in his discoveries, that her contributions helped him through thorny problems. I could hardly believe what I was reading. I tore through the letters, perhaps the only person since Geneveira herself to know just how valuable her mind was to the scientific understanding of her era. It was remarkable.” Eska sighed. “I brought one of the letters with me to the Varadome that day. My favorite. And I met a girl in the garden. We were about the same age. She asked what I was reading. And so I shared it with her. She listened to me for a few moments as I prattled on and then asked my name. I gave it to her. To this day, I don’t know who she was, but she knew me. Her face twisted into a sneer as she insulted my family, calling my parents corrupt.” Eska looked at Eden. “And then she plucked the priceless letter from my hand, summoned water from the fountain and drowned Geneveira’s words right in front of me. I could have, if not forgiven, forgotten the insults. I could have gone home in an ill temper but woken up the next day determined to move on. If not for the letter. That she could, without a care, for nothing more than spite, destroy such a thing.” Eska shook her head. “Some might call it childish, but I had never truly known anger until that day.”
“Generally speaking, Eska, and correct
me if I’m mistaken, it might be considered childish to pout over the absence of a sweet before bed, or to make up stories about how the dog got covered in green paint. Not, shall we say, distress over the loss of a priceless object that would have affected the work of countless—or at least six—scholars.”
Eska laughed but then grew quiet. “I still think about that letter.”
The humor vanished from Eden’s face and he leaned close to kiss her. “Of course you do.” For a moment they were lost in each other once again, hands exploring, lips tasting. And just when Eska began to forget the conversation that had brought them to that point, Eden paused, his fingers hovering teasingly, his breath hot against her skin.
“And the other story?”
Eska groaned and shoved a pillow in his face. “Is of absolutely no importance, I assure you.”
Laughing, Eden poured more wine and settled back on the bed, but Eska got to her feet and began to pace, driven on by the words that followed.
“Do you know anything of the Cult of Mercuria?”
“A harmless rabble?” Eden said. Eska was quite sure he was guessing. “Intent on seeing a horse made supreme ruler of the Seven Cities?”
Eska’s smile was short-lived. “Something more than harmless, I’m afraid. The Cult of Mercuria is young and full of young fanatics. It only came into existence shortly before I was born. They believe they are called by a dead prophet to honor a dead woman who supposedly sacrificed her life to save the city when Arconia was in its infancy, generations before the Alescus, before the league of the Seven Cities of Bellara was even conceived of.”
“And how would they honor this dead woman?”
“By killing my mother.” The words burst from Eska, bitter and sharp.
“Why?”
“They never managed to explain themselves with any clarity,” Eska said, her jaw tight, glad for the sarcasm to take some of the anger from her voice. “Something about her blood and how the spilling of it would save the city again, or some such nonsense.”
“And they Carried?”
“Not all. Just the ones who broke the legs of the horses pulling the carriage transporting my mother home from Vienisi, who opened a chasm beneath the poor beasts, who set the carriage on fire as it plunged into the would-be tomb.”
She had expected a muttered oath, an expression of outrage. But Eden’s silence was a far better echo to the rage that shook her voice and shivered her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Eden said at last. “I am sorry that was done to your family. How did she survive?”
“By her own quick thinking and that of two men charged with protecting her.” Eska met Eden’s gaze. “She carries scars from the fire. The men died.” She took a deep breath. “This was mere days after I met that girl at the Varadome. And in the aftermath of that day, the actions of those Carriers fused with her petty spite. So now you see the making of my prejudice.”
“Were they punished? These cultists?”
Eska nodded. “My mother was and still is a diplomat of the highest order—the law demands death for such an assault, after a fair trial, of course. The trial was swift, for they offered no defense and asked for no mercy. My father did not wish me to witness their execution. My uncle said it was my duty as the daughter of the Vice-Chancelier and the Ambassador-Superior of Arconia. My mother insisted the choice was mine to make.”
“What did you choose?”
Eska closed her eyes as a breeze ruffled the thin curtains and lifted the hairs on her bare arms. “I watched. One of the usual methods.” She opened her eyes and looked at Eden. “Did you know Carriers can stem the flow of their own blood? Some, I should say. I don’t imagine it’s a skill many possess. Something about controlling the water in the blood, I understand. One of these would-be assassins could. I watched as they cut open his belly, watched as the blood flowed out and then back in, by the sheer force of his own will. They made a second cut and began to draw out his intestines. Still the blood welled but did not spill. I wonder how long he could have continued on before his strength and abilities failed him. I’ll never forget the silence as we watched him defy death, his skin fading to ash grey, his eyes rolling in their sockets with the effort. But then the executioner pierced his heart with a small blade and that, well that was apparently too much.” As she finished speaking, Eska came to stand at the balcony doors, her arms crossed in front of her. She heard Eden rise from the bed and approach. A hand settled on her waist but nothing more, as though he understood the difference between supporting and smothering. When he spoke, his voice was soft in her ear.
“I am what I am.”
And this time, the words were his alone, the echo of Alexandre de Minos forgotten.
“Can you live with that?”
Eska answered him without words.
Interlude 12
Excerpt from the Songs of Mercuria, the definitive text of the Cult of Mercuria comprised of the teachings of their prophet, Malo
For she is the shield against the dark and her light is the very light of the Bright One. She will shine it upon the worthy and wield it against the ruined and the fallen and those who deny the Bright One—sharper than any blade, stronger than any armor, her light shall be the scourge of the world and her death will bring both end and beginning, a new age.
Three times will she do this. Three lives will she live. Three deaths and three purifications. The first has come and gone. The second is near. The third will be revealed by a prophet yet to come. Watch for him, and heed him, for he will be the last and greatest, the true herald of the Bright One.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"At least I shall never do anything half so tedious again.”
It might be possible, were one to undertake a sea voyage of some considerable length, even if one were a reluctant passenger harboring a great deal of trepidation for ships and sails and seas and things of that nature, it just might be possible for one to develop, if not a passion for the open water, at least a tolerance and, dare it be said, an appreciation.
This was not the case for Albus.
By the time the Seycherran pirates deposited Albus—rather like a sack of root vegetables gone limp—in a rowboat and put to shore, he would have been willing to wager a great deal that the crew was regretting their captain’s decision to bring him aboard.
Not that Keleut , daughter of Nestor, seemed to care or share in their regret. No, she watched Albus pitch his insides over the side of her ship each morning—and usually again in the evening—with faint amusement. It was, he decided, her natural state, though it could be at turns tinged with intimidation, skepticism, and scathing dismissal. Indeed, when Albus’s appreciation for the sea had not developed, the pirate captain had appeared to develop a condescending sort of affection for the librarian, offering a handkerchief—his own, complete with embroidery—and making comments about the pallor of his complexion, only to playfully insult his constitution, or lack thereof, within his hearing a moment later.
Though his insides ached and he was thoroughly tired of burning his throat each day with his stomach acid, it was their direction of travel that had most concerned Albus. It did not take long for even his landlocked mind to realize they were not headed for Seycherran waters, not directly, at least. The ship’s course was far too northerly for that.
He had tried asking Keleut on the third day of the voyage, and then, when she rebuffed him with a laugh, put the question to various crewmembers who didn’t glower and grimace at his very existence. They either pantomimed that they could not understand his Seycherran—a ridiculous notion—or developed selective hearing in his presence.
And so Albus was left to ponder the Anerrean Sea in his head, ticking off possible destinations but coming no closer to an educated guess no matter how many arguments he held in the confines of his head. By the sixth day, he wanted to give up thinking about it. He wanted to crawl into the cramped bunk he had been allotted, curl up clutching his bottle of ink and crumpled pages of a book—all th
at was left of the Conqueror of Calviza’s heroic accomplishments—and imagine he was back in his beloved Lordican. In fact, he did all three of these things, but he could not forget he was on a ship and his brain, no matter how he implored it, would not stop thinking.
As such, when the crew tucked Albus into the rowboat to go ashore, he was a pitiful excuse for a librarian and a scholar. His robes were wrinkled and stained, his normally clean shaven face was sporting an unsightly amount of reddish-brown hair, and his stomach tried to climb up his throat once more for good measure, earning him the annoyed glances of those in the rowboat with him.
But it was Keleut Albus was looking at, despite his poorly state. The pirate captain sat at the bow, her hands grasping the sides, leaning forward as though she could propel the small boat to shore through sheer desire. As it was, the rowers clearly went about their business far too slowly for her tastes, and she barked at them in Seycherran more than once, her anticipation undiminished, her gaze remaining fixed on the shore.
And what a shore it was.
The sea wall of Onaxos rose up to an astonishing height, blocking out all sight of the city within. Indeed, the nature of the headland the city was built on was such that the sea wall was very nearly all Albus could see, rearing up out of the waves like something left behind when some ancient gods fled the world.
Solid iron it was, and crowned with ten towers. A horn called down to them and Keleut looked back at her ship, nodding as she spotted the flag waving in response. Whatever the signal was, it appeared to be acceptable, and Albus watched in astonishment as a door slid up from the water, revealing a passage large enough to accept a ship many times the size of Keleut’s pirate vessel. Albus supposed the fact that they were taking a mere rowboat through had something to do with the nature of Keleut’s relationship with whoever was expecting her. Were he less ill, he might have taken some satisfaction in suspecting that his kidnapper was less than thrilled by this. As it was, he merely clutched at the rower closest to him—earning himself yet another grimace—as the rowboat pitched over a wave.