The Battle Sylph (4 page)

That seemed to settle it for her. “Your poor lady! She must be devastated.” Then, while her husband stared in amazement, the woman vanished back into her hovel and returned with some folded pieces of rough burlap.

Heyou took them thankfully but stared at them, not knowing what he was supposed to do. The mother laughed and helped, showing him how to pull an itchy tunic on over his head. The cloth was so worn in places it was barely holding together, but it covered him from his neck to midthigh.

“You must be used to far finer clothes,” she commented, and he didn’t disagree.

“Thank you,” he told her.

She waved the thanks away, blushing. “I’m just sorry I don’t have shoes for you.”

“He doesn’t need them,” her husband growled.

Now that he was decent, the women all moved in, chattering and introducing themselves. The men held back, recognizing the danger, but for the women he was too appealing to ignore. He had to fight his instinct to put his protection around them, the same as he fought his hate for the men. A little leaked out anyway, and the women all loved him, while the men were afraid.

“You’d better go to your lady now,” the mother told him at last, and Heyou nodded.

“Thank you.” Turning, he strode back into the woods, the women waving good-bye and a few children—all female—running after him. He let them follow, waiting until he had outwalked them all before shimmering back into smoke and returning to his queen.

Airi watched the girl and the battler as a drift of sun motes on the wind. The battler was young, barely more than a hatchling. A seasoned battler wouldn’t have let her come so close to his master. This one had left the human girl alone, and without any spoken warning to Airi. It wasn’t as though she would hurt the girl—not even with a direct order from her own master—but battlers were extraordinarily possessive.

She watched him go and wondered what to do. Devon hadn’t been too detailed in his instructions. Follow them. She had. Should she stop now? She wasn’t an unintelligent creature, but she was a minor sylph. Her duty was to obey, whether in her original hive or with her master here. Independent decision-making skills weren’t something strongly encouraged in her kind. That lack of independence was what the humans used to bind them, but she really didn’t mind. She had one master focused on her alone. No one back in the hive she hatched in had that kind of attention. More, Devon gave her greater freedoms than most sylphs could dream of.

Unlike battlers, elemental sylphs in Eferem weren’t usually bound into a single shape, though they were limited in what forms they could take. That of a human being was forbidden. Like most air sylphs, Airi preferred to stay incorporeal and invisible, rarely acquiring solid form, since she could use wind to lift whatever she needed. Unlike most others, however, Devon let her speak. That was forbidden to every other sylph, but he’d given her permission, so long as no one else heard. That was a gift and she knew it, for
she’d never been allowed to talk to either of the masters she’d had before him. But she spoke to Devon, chattering at him, asking questions, asking him to play his flute for her, and thanks to their bond, she didn’t need to speak aloud. She could whisper her words directly into his mind, where no one else would hear, just as she would have to other sylphs back home. Trapped in silence for fifty years after her arrival through the gate, she still reveled in speaking and knew how rare her freedom truly was.

She saw this battler had the same freedom she did—and more. He was locked into a shape of his master’s choosing, but he certainly didn’t seem to mind, and she hadn’t ordered him not to shift back. Airi watched him soar away as a pattern of energy that was both familiar but alien. He wasn’t from her hive, but he looked to be from the same one as Mace. At least those two wouldn’t fight if they met up…unless their masters ordered it.

The girl watched the battler go and stood, looking around and making her way to the hot springs, testing their temperatures until she found one she liked. Airi watched and wondered if she should speak. In the end, she decided against it—Devon had made it clear she wasn’t to reveal to anyone that she could talk. Besides, the battler would be back soon. He might not like Airi being too close.

She swirled in the steam, dancing on the hot air as she decided to wait a bit longer. The human girl couldn’t stay here forever, and her battler would return. She’d wait to see where the two went, and then she’d return to Devon.

The redhead slid into the water with a sigh, unaware of Airi’s presence, and the air sylph floated back into the steam, well clear of her but close enough that she could do anything required.

Screaming invectives, King Alcor of Eferem hauled off and struck Thrall across the face as hard as he could with his
mail-clad fist. The battler’s head snapped to one side and then returned to its original position, looking at him. The eyes were unmoved as always, the hate as familiar and even as ever. Thrall loathed him, the king knew that. The creature would kill him if he could, but he was bound to obey. It was the extremes of that obedience Alcor protested at times.

“Why didn’t you kill that thing?” he thundered, even though he knew Thrall was ordered not to speak. A battler giving voice to its hatred could drive a man insane. “My son is dead because of you!”

Thrall didn’t react, his face not changing at all, but Alcor could almost hear the laughter. The battler had been his slave for decades; he knew when the monster was amused. Cursing, he hit Thrall again. It did no good. He could hit him all night, and he was the only one who would suffer for it.

“You’ll pay,” he growled at the battler instead. “I’ll make you pay.”

Thrall had done nothing, nothing at all. He’d let that battler kill his son and he’d let him escape. He hadn’t disobeyed, though. If Alcor had ordered him to fight instead of protect, he would have. But he hadn’t needed to do any protecting. Instead, he’d just stood there and let the battler escape, leaving his king looking like a coward.

“Your Majesty?”

Alcor turned, gasping for breath and far too hot in his ermine cape. His son was dead, turned to ash by a battler he should have controlled. He would have killed those priests if they weren’t already dead. How had that slip of a peasant girl got free? How had she been armed? Now she had the battler. He just hoped the thing killed her.

Jasar Doliard stood behind him, dressed resplendently in a black suit with white lace at the collar and wrists. The dandy had actually found time to change in the face of all
this. Alcor felt rage, but Jasar was a major controlling force on the council. The other council members stood behind him, waiting nervously for his favor. In the corner, Leon Petrule stood quietly, his arms crossed.

The battlers of the two men waited outside. Only Thrall was allowed in these inner chambers, just as only Thrall was permitted to look human. Alcor stomped to his chair and sat down, leaving the others standing. Leon seemed as though he could wait all day, but Jasar looked irritated—and felt such irritation was safe, Alcor realized angrily. Jasar thought his battler would be able to protect him. He had no idea how fast Thrall could move, though. If the king wanted, Jasar would be dead before Mace even got into the room.

Somewhat mollified, the king gestured at the other chairs around the table, none of them as ornate as his own. Thrall took a place at his shoulder, staring at the assembled men without blinking. All of them sat, except for Leon, who remained in the corner.

“You know what happened,” the king growled, leaning on the wood. “The crown prince is dead and a battler is loose.” He was still furious. He hadn’t loved his son. The boy was too weak for that, but he was the only son he’d been able to get. His daughters couldn’t wear the crown when he died, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He’d never admit it to these fools, but he hadn’t been able to get it up for years. He’d have to find someone suitable to wed his eldest daughter, and from the smirk on Jasar’s face, it was clear who
he
thought the best candidate was.

The remaining men weren’t quite so obvious in their ambitions. “We grieve for your loss, Your Majesty,” the oldest said, bowing his head, as did the others. Even Leon did, his face showing a regret Alcor thought might actually be genuine. Born without any land or titles, he wasn’t a member of the council and didn’t owe his authority to politics, but instead to a ruthlessness Alcor had recognized in him
years before. It had tempered over the years into a calm efficiency that the king still appreciated whenever he needed to get things done.

“Save it,” he snapped. “There’ll be time for that later. The succession is in doubt. I want to make it clear”—he paused to stab a finger on the table—“that
I
will decide who is to succeed me. I don’t want any suggestions. If anyone makes one, I will give him to Thrall.” This was a blatant threat. The men of the council stared uncertainly at the battler, even Jasar, and Alcor leaned back, pleased. “For now, I just want to know what happened.”

The assembly stared at him, silent, none of them confident enough to speak.

“Surely one of you has talked to the priests!” Alcor snapped.

“They’re all dead, Your Majesty.”

Jasar lifted his head. “Not all, Your Majesty. I spoke with Father Belican before I came here. He’s too old to attend the rituals, but his mind is sharp. I took the liberty of filling him in on what happened.”

“And?” the king growled.

“He says nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Of course not!” Alcor thundered. A woman gaining a battler? It was unthinkable.

Jasar shrugged, amused. “While it has never happened, Belican could theorize. Somehow, the girl used magic to snare the battler, magic we’ve never heard of. Perhaps she was planted by our enemies, sent for just this reason.”

“Bullshit.” Everyone looked up as Leon Petrule pushed himself away from the wall and walked toward the table. “The girl had a blade up her sleeve. She palmed it before she was stripped, and no one searched her.” He tossed a butter-fly-shaped barrette onto the table with a one-inch blade sticking out the end. “I found this on the altar. She cut her
rope and stuck His Highness, the prince, before he could stab her.”

The king flushed red. “The bitch…How dare she!”

His head of security shrugged. “She was saving her own life. I admire that. But the timing meant she ended up with the battler, instead of His Highness. She must have named him.”

There were murmurs of discord. “A woman can’t control a battler,” one old man protested. “They don’t have the strength!”

Leon shook his head. “I don’t think strength is what they need.”

“What do you mean?” the king asked.

Leon bowed. “With your leave?” he asked, gesturing toward the exit. When Alcor nodded, he went to the door, opened it, and whispered to the servant outside. The man bowed and hurried away.

“This better not take long,” Alcor growled.

“It won’t.” Leon paused. “Ah, they found one already. Wait a moment,” he ordered the servant and held out his arm. “Ril!”

The battler appeared, folding his wings and landing on Leon’s forearm as he was brought into the room. The council gasped at the presumption, and even the king tensed, but Thrall merely tilted his head to one side, quietly regarding the other sylph. Ril stared back at him and the familiar aura filled the room. The two battlers hated each other, and they hated the council. The antipathy was palpable. Even after thirty years, it still made the king want to pull his cloak away from his neck and get some air. He resisted.

“You feel it?” the head of security asked unnecessarily and looked at his battler. “You despise us, don’t you, Ril? As you despise Thrall. And he’d kill you too, if he could.” The bird blinked, glaring at him out of one eye, and Leon smiled
at the council. “Ril is my glory. He’s worth the danger a thousand times over and I don’t regret him. But I’m a simple man. I live in a small house when I’m not working, surrounded by my wife and daughters, and I’ve noticed something interesting.”

He nodded toward the door. A serving girl in a white and black uniform came into the room, curtsying nervously. Alcor raised an eyebrow. No woman had ever been in the council room, not unless it was empty and she was on her knees cleaning it—or perhaps on her back on the table. Alcor watched the girl enter visibly shaking.

Leon took her arm. “Hold it out,” he ordered, and to everyone’s surprise he transferred Ril to her. The bird settled down, feet lightly gripping the servant’s arm, and bowed his head, his attention on the girl. She stared back in fascination, obviously not knowing what she held.

“Does he scare you, girl?” Leon asked.

“N-no, sir,” she managed. “He’s a pretty bird.”

The council guffawed, Alcor joining in. They laughed at the girl, who smiled uncertainly as she held the battler on her arm and tentatively scratched his bowed avian head. Alcor would have thought he’d rip her arm off. He’d seen the thing mutilate a spoiled courtier’s son who’d tried to touch him.

“Do you feel it, my lords?” Leon asked.

The king frowned. The hate was there, the same as always, but it was lessened. Ril was actually ignoring them in favor of the girl. Alcor looked over his shoulder. Thrall was staring at the servant as well, his expression rapt.

“Ril plays with my daughters,” Leon told them seriously. “He’s never harmed them. Look at his feet. He’s dug into my leather pads so hard that they cut me. He’s not even touching her with his claws. Look at Thrall. I bet if we brought Mace in, it would be the same.”

Jasar started in surprise.

“Ril, come!” Leon commanded. Shrieking, the hawk spread his wings and flew back to his master’s shoulder. The creak of the leather guard as the bird dug in its claws sounded clearly to all the men at the table.

“Go, child,” Leon added. Swallowing, the servant girl curtsied and left. The king shot a look at Thrall. The battler was staring at the council again, as disinterested and hateful as ever.

“Battle sylphs like women, for some reason,” Leon continued. “Probably because they’re no threat. I have no idea what it means for one to be bound to a girl, but it makes me nervous.”

Alcor frowned. Given what he’d just seen, the situation made him nervous as well, and he had enough other things to worry about. “Find the girl. Have her killed.”

Leon bowed, not questioning the difficulty of the order. With the girl dead, her battler would be banished. Turning, he went out the door, Ril swaying on his shoulder.

The king turned back to his council. Some of them looked upset, others thoughtful. Jasar was smirking to himself, about what, the king didn’t want to know. He had his uses, but he was perverted. Alcor didn’t care too much about the fate of his daughters, but he didn’t want to see any of them married to the man unless it became unavoidable.

To change the subject, he commanded, “Tell me what Para Dubh said about our trade proposal.”

Out in the hall, the serving girl shivered, rubbing her arm where the bird had sat. His feet had been warm against her skin, and he’d been so much lighter than she expected. She shivered again, almost missing him, but the servant who’d taken her away from her wash bucket flicked his fingers at her, dismissing her before he returned to his post across from the door. She knew better than to disobey.

Curtsying, she hurried down the hall and around the
corner. On the way, she’d had to pass the alcove where battlers waited during the council. Always before, she’d nearly run past. Now she slowed, looking curiously inside.