The Four Forges (37 page)

“Because pleasure is different to each and every one of us, but we all know pain.” She laid her cheek against his leg as she spoke. “From the moment we are thrust into the world from the safety of our mothers’ bodies into harshness, we know it. Pain is what binds us together. Who has not felt the pain of hunger, of loss, of rejection? The pain of fear, of cowardice, of coveting?” She rose from her kneeling position and leaned close to him, face-to-face, her eyes sparkling. “It is pain that sharpens the senses, hones them, makes them so very, very aware of the possibility of pleasure.

“You may want to know what I expect of you.” Tressandre tossed her head, sending her hair cascading down her shoulders and back. She smiled at that.

“There is nothing to tell you.” The words came out gravelly, dry, as his throat tightened.

She traced her knife slowly up the inside of his other leg, blood springing forth before the feeling of the slice, so clean, so sharp the blade. Then the fiery touch of the sensation hit him and he sucked in his breath. Tressandre bent to lick the wound, her tongue tasting him from knee to groin, and the mingled senses made him dizzy for a moment. He twisted his wrists in the shackles, wanting to bury his hands in her hair and hold her to him.

Tressandre murmured wordless sounds as she ministered to the wound, before straightening again. The knife flashed in her supple hand.

He felt another sharpness as she laid his torso open, curving down toward his loins. A shallow yet fiercely bleeding cut along a line of nerves that made him want to sing out, and only the savage biting of the inside of his cheek kept him quiet, the one torture overriding the other. Yet she could do worse, and he wondered when she would demand of him what she really wanted, and if he would tell her what she wanted. He did not believe he would, but the dread that he might not be able to help himself shivered its way into his bones.

She picked up the crystal vial as she carved another line across the flat of his belly. Looking downward through a fierce sweat that began to pour from his brow, he could see she had etched her initial over him. She unstopped the vial with her teeth and spit the cork to one side. Deliberately, she dribbled the liquid inside over the wounds.

“This is kedant. It’s a venom, Sevryn. It’s been diluted, but only a bit, for my purposes. It is rather like pouring salt on open wounds, only it has a more lasting quality.”

His flesh hissed and burned as the drops ran into the bloody cut. Like a hot brand, it seared into the ragged edges of his body with a fire that ate throughout him, consuming him in agony even as it cauterized and tormented, and he let out a low moan, a keening, unable to hold it in. Tressandre laughed joyfully as if he’d presented her with a gift. “You will heal quickly, but the kedant seals itself in the scars, ever present. It takes a very, very long time to dissipate. Every time I . . . or anyone . . . touches you here.” She put her palm over his thigh. “Or here.” His stomach. “Or here.” His flank. “You shall throb and burn and ache with the pain of it. It shall not heal fully for a very, very long time. Even for a half blood, a long time can stretch near forever.”

She ran her bloodied fingers over his face, caressing him tenderly, outlining his features as if learning him by touch. “I am not waiting for you to talk.” She smiled again, softly, her lips curving.

His breath stopped a moment. She had no purpose for what she was doing other than her own pleasure, and he could do nothing to appease that until she was finished. Sevryn fought to breathe again, roughly.

Quickly, she etched two more lacerations along his thighs, close enough to skirt his privates, tender skin there screaming in agony as she did, and blood seeped out between his clenched teeth from his lacerated mouth. She laid the knives down.

“Realize this. She sent you back knowing what may happen. If she had ever been as close to you as I have, she would know you’re a resource that should not be squandered. I know what you are capable of, far better than she. She must be desperate.” Tressandre wet her fingers again in his blood and licked each one clean, slowly, deliberately. Then she held her hands before her, turning them this way and that, as if inspecting them, before dropping them to rest on the tabletop as she leaned his way. “If not today, then soon you’ll come to me. I have the only release from the kedant. And when you tell me what I need to know, we will be prepared, even if our Warrior Queen is not. Some of us have an appetite, a need, for blood and death that she seeks to avoid.”

Tressandre stretched close, whispered to his ear. “And when I send you home to her, you will remember that. She would call her healer to you, but her healer won’t be there. She is gone to Tomarq where Tranta ild Istlanthir has fallen from the cliff of the Jewel. He lives still, although he has little memory, I am told, and he may even walk again, but that is gossip only. When her healer returns, there will be no respite for you, until I wish to give it.” She traced his shaft which had not softened, despite the roar of pain through his body and the pounding of his heart. “It is pain and only pain that keeps us truly open to pleasure.”

Tressandre turned and left him then, to recover, more or less, or until she was ready to let him go. When she shut the door, he let loose his Voice in a scream of anger that no one else could hear through the carved stone of the chamber.

THE SPARE FIGURE ENTERED the pavilion without fanfare, the guards parting to let him through without introduction, despite their bristling efficiency and alertness, although they looked him over. The sword sheathed at his back drew their hard glances, but they looked away quickly as if they could not bear to stare at it, and fear glimmered deep in their weary eyes. The man sitting at the far end of the pavilion, his head lowered over maps and charts flung across a table looked up without a word. The intruder bowed and then dropped to his knees, drawing the great war hammer from his belt and laying it across the floor at the booted feet of Quendius.

“It is not as forged. A good weapon but not great, though it holds a Demon inside it. I’ve failed you.”

“And you know this because . . .”

“The Shield of Tomarq still stands.”

“Did it take any damage at all?”

“A few powdery splinters fell from it, but it did not fracture or cease in its vigil of the ocean. I thought it faltered, though I cannot be sure.” The kneeling man flexed his hands. “My senses are not what they were.”

Nothing about him was as it had once been, even more so than he could guess. Quendius gazed upon Narskap, his Vaelinar form little more than steel inside skin, so lean had he become, with great shoulders and arms from working at the forge, and more than a little madness in his eyes. Quendius was taller and bulkier than the other by far, but he respected him. “They are greater,” the weaponmaster commented, not unkindly.

“It does not excuse the failure.”

Quendius shifted in his campaign chair, the leather creaking as he did, the stormy nature of his eyes shifting as well with the thoughts in his mind. His sooty skin took on the aspect of shadows, playing back and forth across his body. He toed the hammer. “The power of Gods and Demons varies as much as the strengths of mortal flesh, it seems. I have a use for the hammer, as it is. Perhaps it is not meant that I should carry a weapon as demanding as the sword you carry. I have the first blade.” He paused, thinking. “I can use this, however. Yes, I can. It will serve as bait.”

The other raised his seamed face. “For whom?”

“Abayan Diort.” And Quendius grinned broadly.

“Then, with your leave, I will go to my tower.” Narskap looked upward. “Have it bolted from without, and I will bolt my door from within, as well.”

The grin bled from his lord’s dark face. “Is this necessary?”

“It is.” The other’s steely body vibrated, as if he went to great effort to control it, even bowed in rest at Quendius’ feet. “You’ll know when it’s safe to unbolt the door.” Without another word, Narskap got to his feet and made his way across the keep to a far tower, armored and isolated, and within a candlemark, the keep echoed with a howling that raised the hair upon the flesh, a howling of despair and madness, the keening of one who fought both himself and Gods and Demons. It might go on for days before it would cease and the door to the tower could be unbolted.

Quendius did not move from his seat until the howling began, and then he stood to pick up the great war hammer lying on the floor. It tingled in his grip, and it spoke to him in a low, guttural tone of the damned being captured within it, a minor God of little ability it seemed, and he ignored it. Its only use now would be to entrap Diort. He called for his scribe and set that in motion.

ABAYAN DIORT SITS ON a throne of melted slag which was once a great relic used by the Magi of Kerith, under a canopy against the blazing sun that burns down inexorably upon the warlands. If one had eyes keener than a hawk, one could think he saw the various sigils of the Magi etched into the metal, each of a different discipline and pride with their own cadre of pledged followers and Galdarkan guards. Each is now dead and gone, only their guards left to hold their pledges, still at odds with each other as were the Mageborn who warred among themselves. Only the battle is different, confined to minor territory skirmishes and a hearty dislike of each clan. It keeps them scattered, at each other’s throats, holds them a far distance from the greatness that could be theirs if they would but join together.

The throne is nearly all that is left of the Shrine of the Sun. A small, wadded-up piece of parchment is hidden in the palm of his fist. He has read it and will not look at it again. He surveys what is left of his kingdom, the seared and oft infertile warlands, but the plains are vast and, as the nomads that his people have become, it is survivable. Some clans even prosper. They inhabit the ruins of the past, rebuilding around it carefully so as not to disturb the reminders of what was and what happened. They are Galdarkans, inheritors of the Magi kingdom after they destroyed themselves and it, and even the Galdarkans could not hold onto the ruins. It ran through their fingers like fine-grained sand.

His fist closes ever more tightly about the hated letter. The sun beats even more gold into his copper hair, and his eyes of smoky jade seem to drink of the summer-blue sky overhead, deepening into a truer green, and when he gets to his feet, he towers over even the other tall Galdarkans standing to wait for him. As he frowns, the tattoo of leadership on his right cheekbone appears to flash more vividly, the ink ebony. He reaches to the messenger bird, a small, fine-boned falcon, resting on its perch. It makes an affectionate chirp as Abayan strokes its breast feathers. It nibbles its carved beak down his finger. Then both hands wrap about its throat and he strangles the bird and cracks its neck before throwing it down lifeless.

“Find me another falcon,” he orders. “One with feathers not so ill-omened.”

A woman behind him has risen quietly, in his shadow, her body of Vaelinarran slenderness, her beauty bespeaking that of those called elven on Kerith. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and leaves with the guards to fetch another messenger bird.

Left to himself except for two lieutenants under the canopy which scarcely holds back the sun at all, Abayan throws his head back and glares out at the warlands. “The Ways must be taken,” he declares. “They strangle my country. They will either be mine, or destroyed. They are webs of deceit and the makers of them shall pay for enslaving our country.” And he drops the message in his hand into a small fire of incense smoking at the rim of the Shrine of the Sun, and watches as it turns to light gray ash. “Destroyed or mine,” he repeats.

“WE HAVE AN APPLE PRESS.” Tolby took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his brow and head with it, then dusted off his hands before shoving it back into his pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. “And a damned fine one, if I say so myself. We’ll have a good line of hard cider stocked by while I get the crusher and press ready for the grapes. It’ll be a fair amount of work for us, but I think we’re up to it.”

“Grapes won’t be ready for picking till nearly first frost anyway, Da.”

“Well, I know that. It’s to our advantage. We’ll have this old place in shape by then, I think. Time for me to teach you all a bit about wine making.” He looked about the area in satisfaction. The immense warehouse had been transformed from a cavernous wreck to a building with equipment, barrels, and racks, all ready to store, process, and eventually ferment. “Tell you what, though. Today’s the end of some hard work. I say a bit of a holiday is called for. Lasses, Lily said for you to come down to the shop if I was done with you before noon, and I am. Lads, come with me. I feel like a bit of a smoke and some tale-spinning. Time to reacquaint the city with the Farbranches.” He scratched his chin at that.

“Let me come with you, Da.” Nutmeg reached over and put her hand on her father’s arm. “You know I love the old stories.”

“Not today. Back home, the toback shop is a fit place for a woman to visit now and then, but I can’t say how it would be here. Might be a bit rough for a female, and she unwelcome at that. Let me see how it looks, and later I’ll sneak you in for a tale or two, a’right?”

Nutmeg wrinkled her nose at that, but nodded in agreement, even as she took off her apron and shook it. Motes of dust swirled about in the bright sunlight streaming through the wide-flung doors. Rivergrace hesitated as she took off her scarf and apron and shook them out. She had not yet been to the shop or walked the streets of Calcort.

“Best clean up,” Tolby warned. “Lily wants the two of you more than presentable. And mind you stay away from that boarded-up well in back. ’Tis closed off for a reason. Likely, it dried up, but if not, it could be poisoned with disease. You use the pump off the side porch, even if it’s slow, you hear?”