Cursed by Fire (9 page)

Dethan saw these strengths in the grandina. And yet he saw weakness in her as well. He saw vulnerability. Why that should matter to him, he did not know. It simply … did. Perhaps, he thought, it was a test. Perhaps his commitment to his goal was being tested by this distraction. Or perhaps she was a test of his honor. Had he learned humility and respect as he had burned in the hells? Had he learned to think of others before himself? Weysa
was
the guardian of women.

No. He would think himself into circles trying to figure out the wishes and whims of the gods. He had been given a clear assignment and he must stick to that plan.

But perhaps gaining the grand’s respect could secure him an advantage. Perhaps it could also secure him resources. Both of which, he thought with an internal grimace,
he was apparently going to need if he was going to get past the Redoe.

“Your most honorable,” Grannish began in protest, “it is not worth your time to deal with the disrespect of this mud farmer. Allow me to purge him from this fortress entirely and—”

“It would require all your substandard army to achieve such a thing if I do not wish to go,” Dethan said softly. Dangerously.

Then the strangest thing happened. The grandina’s hand, which had dropped beneath the tablecloth, reached to lie atop his thigh. She very gently squeezed the muscles of his legs. It was a message of some sort, though he could not understand if she was warning him to tread carefully or supporting him in delight for his strength in standing up to Grannish.

But it wasn’t either of those things that mattered to him. What mattered was the way it felt. It felt like … like … like something he had not felt in so long he was afraid to even consider it. Did her warm, strong hand on his thigh actually make him feel … aroused? As a woman arouses a man? It could not be, he thought with all due haste. It should not be. His body was not his own to give. It was not allowed to feel the heat that bled insidiously up the inside of his thigh and into the seat of his groin.

Was this on purpose? he asked himself next. Was it her design to arouse him, to use feminine lures on him in order to win him over? He wanted to reach out and grab her hand, shove it back into her lap, but he did not. He let it linger there, let himself feel the illicit pleasure it gave him, even though he knew with every fiber of his being that he should not.

“Now, Grannish,” the grand chastened with an amused tone in his voice. “This man is still a guest. My
daughter has invited him and we will respect that invitation.”

“Something she should not have done,” Grannish hissed.

“I did not need or want your permission,” the grandina said, barely leashing the contempt in her voice.

“Allow me,” the grand said over the exchange, “to implore you to stay. It will be your decision and it will be difficult for you to leave anyway. Perhaps if you can help us, if you can help resolve the issue with the Redoe, it will make it easier for you to be on your way. And I say to you now, if you have success at this thing, then you will be appropriately compensated.”

“Gold?” Dethan asked with sudden interest.

“A great deal of gold if you are instrumental in the resolution to this problem.”

“I see,” Dethan said. “I will consider your offer and give you an answer at dawntide.” Although a heavy part of him thought he might not even be here come morning. But this problem with the Redoe meant he would need a few more days to figure his way around them. One thing he knew from all his time laying siege to cities was that there was always a way for sneaking in and out of a city. There was always some enterprising individual willing to slip beyond the walls to get supplies, which were then sold on the black market or for an exorbitant sum. All Dethan needed to do was find such people.

“Meanwhile,” the grandina hastened to add, “you will stay here tonight. In comfort. As a guest.”

“That is not necessary or an appealing idea,” Grannish said, his disdain even more evident.

“I agree with my daughter. A night of comfort and hospitality may sway you to help us.”

“A night of the discomforts of war would more effectively persuade me,” Dethan said. “Nothing compels
action more than being faced with discomfort.” He found them all too comfortable for a city that was supposedly under siege.

“Are you declining our hospitality, then?” the grand asked, amusement in his eyes.

“No, of course he isn’t,” the grandina said hastily. “You would not insult us, surely,” she said to Dethan pointedly.

“No. I will not insult you. I will thank you for your comfort. First … I must go elsewhere. I will return shortly after the juquil’s hour. Only … I do not wish to return too late and disturb the household.”

“No matter,” Selinda said dismissively. “There is always someone on guard. We will notify them to expect you, that is all.”

Selinda looked down when Dethan took hold of her hand and moved it back into her lap. She flushed hotly as she was removed from touching all that hot, virile muscle. She had not realized she had left it there all this while. There had been something very comfortable about being in contact with him, and yet very disturbing. He had such strength and energy about him. She had felt that strength in the muscles of his leg, had felt them moving and flexing with his tension. It was a tactile experience that left her strangely hot and uncomfortable.

She should have been more cautious. He could very well have gotten the wrong idea. She could easily see how he might. It was very forward of her to have done such a thing. But she had been desperate that he not alienate her father and that he not leave. She didn’t fully understand why, but she felt a desperation within herself that he
could not leave
. And she had learned long ago, from listening to the words of the magesses, that feelings as strong as that one were not to be ignored. The magical women of the gods had, over the years,
encouraged her to heed those feelings. And heeding them had served Selinda well over time. She was not about to change her habits now.

The rest of the meal passed with little contribution to the conversation from their guest. She noticed that he kept looking out the window, and with every passing minute, he seemed to grow tenser and more agitated, though only someone paying close attention might notice it.

“I must go,” he said suddenly, lurching to his feet, his chair scraping hard across the stone flooring.

“Surely not. You haven’t—”

“I must go,” he said even more harshly, setting down all remaining protest from her. She silenced and nodded, fighting the urge to come to tears. She knew … knew very well that she was going to pay dearly for standing up to Grannish. Somehow she thought that if Dethan stayed, maybe his presence would delay the inevitable. Or at least lend her strength. But with a deflating sigh, she knew that wasn’t to be.

Her own father had ignorantly refused to see the abuse she suffered at Grannish’s hands. What led her to believe a total stranger would make any difference? But she never knew when or how Grannish’s retributions would come. Sometimes he would simply ignore the slights she could never seem to keep herself from delivering. Other times he stored them up and found ways to pay her back when she was least expecting it. In fact, that was his favorite torment. To wait until she thought she was free of punishment. To wait for when she was most relaxed. It was because of this that she endeavored to never let her guard down. Yet somehow he always managed it. He seemed to know the very moment she began to enjoy herself. Almost as though he were a carrion bird, sitting high on a branch, watching and waiting
for when it would be best to pick the meat from her bones.

If only she could convince her father of his poison. She had given up almost all hope of ever doing so. Until tonight. It suddenly occurred to her that the only way her father might begin to see Grannish’s flaws would be if someone else came along and did his job better than he did. Someone like Dethan.

There had been others in the past. Other up-and-comers who might have contested Grannish’s power, but they had all met terrible ends: transferred into dangerous positions of ambassadorship or abjectly humiliated or even … death under mysterious circumstances. By encouraging Dethan to stay and play this role, she knew she was painting a target on his back, and at the first opportunity she needed to warn him of that fact. But now he was going and she would not see him again until morning … unless she waited up for him until the juquil’s hour when he returned. She needed to catch him alone as soon as possible. She knew the look in Grannish’s eyes all too well.

She hastened to stand as he moved away, something that was highly inappropriate. It was a sign of respect for someone to stand when others were leaving, and looking down the table, she saw only a few had stood—those of no real rank and therefore equal to their guest. Had her father stood, all would rise … just as they soon did after she had risen to her feet unthinkingly. Realizing what she had done, she awkwardly held out her hand to her guest.

“We look forward to your return,” she said quietly, trying to sound measured and not as desperate as parts of her were truly feeling.

Dethan looked at her offered hand for a moment, finding himself feeling gauche and unsure. Clearly she was expecting him to do something. To show her some
sign of respect. But not being from Hexis, he did not know what it was.

Evidently she understood his dilemma, and with a smile she leaned in and whispered to him, “Take my hand and kiss the center of my palm.”

Finding himself grateful for her assistance and irritated with himself for even bothering with such trivialities, he took her hand and brought it hastily to his lips. He kissed her hand so quickly that the only thing he took away from it was the scent of a soft, seductively sweet perfume. It almost compelled him to linger, but he had no time. The sun was setting and he had no idea when the curse would begin. As soon as the sun touched the horizon? Halfway set? Once it was fully below? He had no idea. All he did know was that he had to make it through the city and back up into the mouth of the eight hells before it took place. He could not allow anyone else to be harmed, and he knew he could not allow anyone else to see him suffer. One, because they would know he was cursed and it would make a target of him. He did not need any undue attention. He needed to be on his way with little or no disturbance. And two, because his shame was absolute. It was bad enough that he must face the humiliating lesson at the hands of the gods, worse still for it to be witnessed. The one blessing all these decades was that his punishments had been suffered in solitude.

And as he looked down into the fair teal-blue of her eyes, the blue silkflower the only thing comparable in his estimation, he knew he never wanted those eyes to look on him in abject horror or disgust. He may deserve both and more, but from her … He would have her be ignorant of who and what he really was for as long as it may be allowed. Yes. He would take a small pleasure for himself in the idea that at least someone in the world who had touched him thought better than ill of him.

But he also saw hope in her eyes. A desperate sort of hope. He knew he should squash it, crush it under the grinding of his boot heel. It was better for her if she put no faith in him. He had nothing to offer her. He was no source of hope for her. She was looking in the wrong direction and with the wrong eyes.

He turned away from her and quickly made his way from the room.

“Selinda, do sit down!” Grannish snapped out to her. Then he must have realized what he sounded like and plastered a small smile on his lips. “I mean only to say these others are waiting until you do before resuming their meals.”

“Yes,” she said absently, slowly lowering herself back into her seat.
Why
, she asked herself,
do I feel as though my survival just walked out that door?

That was the feeling that would keep her awake and awaiting his return at the juquil’s hour. She would pray. Pray to her god for his safe return.

She would pray to Kitari.

Dethan reached the cave with barely enough time to spare. Oh, how he despised the act of walking into the eight hells. How he feared it. He broke out in a sweat right at the threshold of the cave and found he was trembling from the exertion it was taking to simply face what was coming. He wished he were ignorant of it. Wished it would take him by surprise so that his suffering would not start until the very last minute. But he knew that it was better this way. This way no one else would be harmed or have to suffer along with him. If he was going to burn the way he had burned before, such a conflagration could bring the entire city to its knees. Certainly it would deliver it a wound that might mean life or death in their battle with the Redoe.

And what of that? Oh, he knew he could be of help, knew that his head for strategy would allow them to win against the Redoe, but the question remained: Should he bother? What ends would it serve him? Or, more concisely, what ends would it serve Weysa?