Oathkeeper (27 page)

“I already told you I had never seen a non-Aern get trapped by memory that way.” Kholster sat down on the edge of her bed, concern on his face. “I imagine it has its explanations, but none upon which I feel comfortable commenting further.” His eyes found her, whatever he'd been feeling gone. “Did the newly recovered information help you decide?”

“Dienox,” Wylant said under her breath, “he controlled me. More than once.”

Kholster's nostrils flared at the name before she got the rest of the sentence out, jade irises growing larger, eclipsing the black, but not all of it.
So he knew, then. Is it because he's a god that he can't act? Or is this one more matter he trusts me to handle? What if I don't want to handle it alone, Kholster?

“I will always help you.” Kholster touched her face. “
If
you ask me.”

“Why should I have to ask?” Wylant pulled his hand away.

“Because otherwise I would be meddling in the affairs of a mortal who very rarely needs anyone's help . . . much less unwanted divine intervention, and because I trust you far too much to butt into your affairs when you do not explicitly request it.”

“What do you know about being mortal?” she asked with more venom than she'd intended.

“More than you.” Kholster folded his arms over his chest. “Of the two of us, which one died and was collected by the Harvester?”

“And tore his throat out.”

“I hope you don't have the same plans for me when your time comes.” Kholster shrugged.

You think I could beat you, too, you old irkanth
, she thought.

“You are still the Aiannai I married.” Kholster smiled. “There is very little I think you could not do and nothing with which I would not trust you.”

“Yes.” Wylant began to strip out of her doublet. “I want your scars on my back, if you still claim me.”

“You are never mine to claim.” Kholster twirled his finger in the air, and Wylant turned around obediently. “You are always your own to give. The same is true of me.”

“You're so stubborn,” Wylant tossed over her shoulder as he stood and gently pushed her down onto the bed.

“For the last six hundred years or so the only thing keeping my people free was that obstinance,” Kholster said.

Wylant felt his weight on her back, sighed contentedly and smiled even bigger when Kholster's hand didn't go for Vax. His new warpick, its surface white and pearlescent, the haft wrapped in black leather, appeared in the air when he reached for it.

“What did you name this one?”

“Reaper,” he whispered.

“Harvester and Reaper,” she started, “how—” she hissed in a lungful of air as Kholster ran his hands along her back, her version of his scars melting away. The skin left in its wake was new and tender. Wylant gritted her teeth when the warpick broke the skin on her shoulder. “—appropriate.” Outlining the markings at the shoulder and neck, he cut two parallel lines down her spine in long, fluid strokes. The diamond at the base of her spine came next followed by the parallel lines opposite each facet.

“Do you want laughing salve for the next part?”

“How bad is it?”

“I peel the skin off in strips and rub my blood into the wound to kill the little animals that will try to grow there. My blood should also promote scarring.”

“Little animals?” Wylant asked doubtfully.

“Too small for the eye to see.” Kholster reached back for something from his saddlebags. “The Dwarves say the beasts are what make wounds go rotten or hot and red.”

Little animals?
she thought again.
Well, if the Dwarves said so they were probably right. . . .

“Did Rivvek get laughing salve?”

“No.”

“Did Sargus?”

“No, but I'm not married to either of them and Bloodmane didn't have any on hand at the time.” She heard him uncapping a bottle as he spoke. “It wasn't exactly part of the exhibit.”

“No salve for me.” Wylant gritted her teeth.

“As you please,” Kholster told her, putting the cap back on the bottle. “It makes the skin taste bad.”

“You're going to eat it?”

“You would rather I throw part of your body out with the offal?”

Of course, he wouldn't want to waste the skin. It was like throwing away food and, given that it was her flesh, likely a special honor for him. It could have been nothing more than Aernese practicality, too. Wylant decided it was the former whether it was or not.

“Go ahead.”

Kholster used two tools for the second part, a pair of tweezers to hold the skin and a sharp razor to cut it away. There was pain, but a rush of adrenaline, too. To surrender that way, to trust him as he cut and claimed her (whether he admitted the latter part or not) brought a smile to her lips. No one else would have deserved such trust, but there was nothing with which she couldn't trust him . . . or it felt that way.

When it was done there was a pause.

He's about to eat my skin.
It sent a shiver of revulsion through her so strong bile rose in her throat, burning the back like acid, but she forced it back down.
What good was it going to do me, all cut into strips?

His weight shifted, hands on her bare skin as he checked his work, rubbing his own blood in the wounds. Heat from his breath touched her back, punctuated by a soft cloth wiping away excess blood. Bursts of heat and tightness followed each swipe of cloth accompanied by noises of artisanal approval from the artist.

Finally, after retouching the diamond at the base of her spine, he climbed off of her and she rolled onto her side.
I'm already half-naked, maybe we should
—wherever that thought had been headed, it was derailed by the sight of her shirtless husband, his chest and hands wet with a mixture of red and orange blood, his mouth marked with flecks of her from devouring the cut-away flesh.

His breath came faster than normal, the hunger in his eyes told her what he wanted to do next, she wanted to as well . . . or had a second ago, but her head was too full of the image of him chewing her skin and swallowing it for her to be that intimate with him just now.

“Maybe after you've cleaned up a bit?” Wincing, eyes closed against the sight, when she opened them again the moment had passed. Kholster stood before her in his warsuit, looking every bit the grim impassive gatherer of souls, which stood so at odds with Torgrimm's welcoming appearance.

“Now who has their armor on?” She scooped up her doublet. “How long do I have to let this—” Reaching back, she felt scars on her back. Not wounds, but scars already formed. “You healed them?”

“Sorry,” Kholster said, his voice echoing behind the horned skull helm. “I should have asked. Vax can reopen them if you like.”

“Kholster. Wait.” The tone, the awkward stance, the way his gaze fixed on a point right above her head, not actually at her. Wylant recognized them all as signs of what she called a Kholsterian dismissal. He did it whenever he wanted to brood—pondering, he called it—only now, she couldn't walk into the hall after him; he could vanish to wherever it was gods went, conveniently sidestepping all attempts at pursuit. “We have to talk about Vax.”

“Yes.” His saddlebags snapped into place on his armor, his warpick already clinging to the warsuit's back. “The two of you have much to discuss. If you still intend to pass your bridal gift on to Rae'en, I've made adjustments so that it will fit her properly.”

“Excellent.” She was halfway through buttoning her doublet. “Thank you, but, Kholster, I can't talk to Vax. I think he hears me, yes, but—”

“Whose scars are on your back?”

“Yours, but—”

“Then hold your soul-bonded weapon and he will hear you. My scars are on his back as well. My blood ingested and now inscribed should have completed the faulty connection between the two of you.”

“Vax?” Wylant tentatively allowed her skin to touch his leather hilt.

Yes, Master Mother?

Master Mother?
If she had ever received a greater injury than the one inflicted by that title, Wylant could not recall it at that moment.
Please
—she caught the order, changing it to an opinion Vax could either address or ignore.
I prefer Mother, but you can call me whatever you like. Even Wylant, if that is amenable
.

“Khol—” She looked up, but he was gone.

You want him to come back, Mother?
Vax thought at her.
He is there whenever mortals die. So we could kill someone or . . . he also told me whenever you call his name, he can hear you. He will come when you call, if it is within his power . . . and appropriate.

Too much information.

Dienox.

Vax.

Kholster and his scars.

Returning memories.

She walked out on the balcony, Port Ammond unfolding below her, to find Silencer looking up at her from the street. She'd felt like he'd been giving her strange looks back at Oot, lingering on her like an irkanth stalking a deer.

“I do not have time to worry about what the Bone Finders want,” she told no one.

Can we give my sister her armor now, Mother?
Vax thought.
I want to see how you like your new armor as well
.

“What new armor?” A chill breeze blew across the balcony, stinging her cheeks. Below, in the market, a child laughed and dogs barked.

It awaits you at Fort Sunder, Mother
, Vax told her.
Father and I made it
.

Which means there is something at or on the way to Fort Sunder he wants me to see. What did we miss?
Her mind turned to Zaur tunnels and warsuits.
If he didn't hope to reveal intelligence to me, he would have presented me with the armor here. Wouldn't he? Unless there was something about the armor itself that required it be viewed at Fort Sunder. . . .

“Come along, then, Vax,” she told her son. “Let's go see your sister.”

CHAPTER 20

A NUMBER OF NEEDLES

Personal appearance had never meant much to Rae'en. Back in South Number Nine, she hadn't even owned a mirror. Looking into the full-length mirror featured so prominently in her palace guest room brought on a frown. It irked her, the way this silver-backed glass was meant to fill a role her own unit should have handled. If an Aern needed to be dressed and styled in a specific way, they helped each other. Why use a mirror when you could look through the eyes of your Overwatches? Or was that only a kholster and Overwatch thing? Even so, clad in her new armor, she couldn't stop looking at the fierce young warrior in the looking glass.

I think it's a privacy thing
, Vander sent her.
The armor looks nice on you. When did Kholster make the alterations?

Kholster?
Rae'en squinted, studying the half breastplate for whatever Vander had seen.

He's gotten better at rolling edges over the centuries.
In several spots, the alterations to the armor glowed gold as Vander highlighted the changes.
If you look at some of the detail-work, he's retouched it, smoothing out lines and sharpening the definition.
An image of the original ensemble floated, rotating on the right side of her field of vision.

All the leather is new
,
too
, Rae'en added.
Isn't it?

I think so
, Vander thought back,
but I wonder how he broke it in so quickly.

Maybe one of the museum docents?
Rae'en thought.

Smell it.
Vander transmitted a scent.
Leather on which Kholster has worked and taken time attains a distinctive aroma. Sharp and rich, an undertone of his blood.

Rae'en took a deep breath. Vander was right. It smelled like Kholster.

That's not why I interrupted, though
, Vander sent.
Prince Rivvek is requesting that you partake in the Test of Four
.

In what way?
Rae'en rolled her eyes and let loose a low growl. Rivvek was slowing everything down.

Let me show you?

Go ahead.
Her current surroundings dropped away, subsumed by a view of the throne room. Platforms (once floating, based on memories Kholster had shared in his All Knows) hung at varying levels supported by crystalline lattices. Delicate tile-work on each platform showed stylized representations of Aeromancy, Geomancy, Hydromancy, Pyromancy, and the gears-within-gears symbol of the Artificers.

Reminiscent of the Tower of Elementals she'd viewed at Grivek's funeral, the throne room centered on a ragged-edged square of unknown metal alloy. Partially melted on one side, the gray square looked as though it had been torn free from some larger object. Upon its surface, four bowls, one filled with water, one with soil, one with kindling, and a final empty bowl were arranged around a single massive carnelian-colored candle.

Dragon tallow candle
, Vander thought at her.
I wonder how many of those they have left
.

Four steps, each emblazoned with an elemental symbol, led up to a throne carved of a massive slab of granite, the Throne of Villok. Behind it, an open, uncurtained veranda overlooked the docks and the Bay of Balsiph. Vander moved past Eldrennai going about various preparation, dusting and polishing, to stand in the middle of the room where he spun in a slow circle so she could see the tiered seating on either side of the room, not lower than the king but on an equal level.

Don't most kings loom over their subjects?
Rae'en asked.

It's said Villok felt anyone who had to look down on his subjects to rule them was unfit to hold the throne.
Vander zoomed in on the open space behind the throne and then back at the entryway, which was also open, without a door.
He felt the same way about being able to seal off the throne room
.

He wants you to sit on the throne
, he said as he jumped up the steps and rested his hands on the stone,
as its ceremonial guardian until Rivvek passes, fails, or abandons the Test of Four.