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Alexa drifted and listened to the cadences of the voices around her. Just from pitch she seemed able to differentiate the classes. Thealia’s and Marwey’s tones were lower, more decisive than those of some of the other women, whom Alexa had pegged as servants.
She wasn’t sure what she thought of servants, or dealing with them. She and Sophie hadn’t even had a secretary to call their own, let alone a receptionist or legal assistant. Tears stuck in her throat again at the memory of her good friend. Or maybe it was just all the changes she’d been through in a few hours—less than a day. God! Self-pity and sentiment were overwhelming her and she wanted to bawl her eyes out. Here in the pool would be fine if she were alone. She sniffled.
“Alyeka.” Thealia sounded soothing too, and near.
Alexa sighed and opened her eyelids. She was pretty sure the Lladranans would never get her name right.
Swordmarshall Thealia held two goblets in her hands. They looked like gold. Alexa bit her lip. Thealia smiled and sipped from one, then held the other out to Alexa. She took it and tried a tiny taste. Not too bad—very thick and heavy with spices.
Thealia ostentatiously held up her glass, and Alexa got the idea she wanted to toast something. What? Anything the Swordmarshall thought was great, like Alexa’s advent here, wasn’t necessarily fabulous to her. She shrugged and little wavelets spread from her bare shoulders.
The Swordmarshall scanned the room, and Alexa followed her gaze. Everyone held goblets, though only hers and Thealia’s were gold. A movement came from the dimness under a fancy, colorfully tiled cabinet. Alexa narrowed her eyes.
“Viva Alyeka!” Thealia exclaimed. Her voice boomed off the tiles.
Alexa jolted and turned to the woman.
“Viva Alyeka!” the other women returned enthusiastically, and her name hit her ears several different ways.
Alexa slipped. Thealia steadied her with one hand and clinked her goblet against Alexa’s with the other. Gazing at her over the edge, Thealia gulped down her drink.
Alexa did the same. The brew slid across her tongue and down her throat, coating them like honey.
Everyone else drank too. Thealia smiled benignly at Alexa, took her goblet and handed both to a nearby woman. Then she gripped Alexa firmly by the elbow, pulling her through the water to the steps.
Bathtime’s over. Too bad. Alexa blinked and blinked again, a haze gathering over her eyes. Her mind dulled.
Alexa!
Alexa stopped at the top of the pool and peered around the room as she was patted dry with huge fluffy towels.
It’s Sinafin, Alexa!
Sinafin, the little fairy. Alexa’s lips curved in a goofy grin. She looked harder for the tiny pink being, swayed, and was held upright by several sets of hands.
Alexa, think!
Think? It was hard to think. How could she think with the gold-colored robe dropped over her head? She couldn’t see, could hardly breathe.
Her head popped through the neckline and she craned to find the fairy.
I’m not a fairy now, only in your dreams.
Did that make any sense? No. Nothing in the past twenty-four hours made any sense. Alexa frowned, started forward and stumbled. What a klutz! She hadn’t been this clumsy in years. A thought nibbled at the darkening cotton of her mind. Can’t think. Clumsy. Odd stuff. The drink! She’d been drugged!
She gasped, but couldn’t stop her feet from shuffling along as the women walked on each side of her, holding her arms. Thealia swept ahead of them with decisive steps. Alexa wished she could dredge up fury, but sharp emotions were just as hard to find as clear thoughts. She took one last glance back at the cabinet. Something that looked like a foot-long dust bunny stared at her. Maybe it was a dandelion. With eyes…She grunted as she stubbed her toes on the first of a long set of winding stairs.
Time and mind fogged. When the mist parted, Alexa stood in an elaborate rectangular room. The bright colors and sunbeams made her blink. People packed the room. Lots of soldiers in different uniforms, mostly men. She saw Marwey linking arms with her guy.
Click. Click. Click. Alexa followed the sound to Thealia’s forefinger tapping on the table in front of both of them. A large variety of odd objects lay on the table. They zoomed in and out of focus. A smooth stone. A spur? A cap. A tin cup.
That made her think of the goblet she’d drunk from, obviously doctored. Her mouth was dry and tasted like mud. Her stomach quivered. Bile rose up her throat. Through willpower she forced it back. Swallowed.
The table was covered in silver-shot blue damask; the things on it looked well-used and common, like they didn’t belong. Many brilliant lines wiggled from them. Alexa tried to step back, but was held in place by a couple of people. Her vision had narrowed, so she couldn’t see them.
The lines seemed to writhe like a mass of worms. They all led from the objects to…men. She traced a bright yellow thread from the cap to a man leaning against the wall. She thought she could smell him from here. She gagged. Forced herself to stand up straight and take a deep breath. Maybe it would keep the dizziness and nausea at bay.
“Deshouse, Alyeka,” Thealia said.
Alexa scowled. Didn’t the woman know any other word? Choose, choose, choose…first a baton, then a lover. Alexa’s stomach rolled at the recollection of the night before.
A lime-green line slithered to a guy in the corner. Alexa glanced at him and he grinned, showing broken, stained teeth.
Ick. Every strand from the objects looked neon-nasty, and when she squinted to see the men they led to, her stomach roiled. How many were there? Twenty? Thirty? None of them appeared to be anyone she’d care to meet, but she had the vague idea that this was like last night—the Marshalls wanted her to choose a man.
Time stretched. She heard murmuring and turned her head. The flash of silver caught her attention. A small side table contained long thin knives that looked extremely sharp, and several lengths of colorful silk that looked like ties. She couldn’t force her gaze away from the ominous, gleaming knives.
Someone brayed a laugh. The lime-green guy. Too much. Her stomach revolted. She vomited on the table and sank into welcome darkness.
Very good, Alexa, Sinafin said, fluttering gauzy wings.
Bastien leaned back in the corner booth of the Nom de Nom Tavern and casually flicked his new hat with the broad brim onto the table. From the corner of his eyes he watched for the reactions of the other Chevaliers to his hat, and suppressed a smug smile.
Unlike most of the Chevaliers in the Nom de Nom, he was not a Lord’s or Lady’s Knight, but an independent. And the hat proved just how successful he was. Stretching out his legs, he admired it again. The hat was of his own design, with a great rim around it—wide enough to keep the frinks that fell with the rain off a man’s face or from slipping down his collar—if you had tough enough material. Soul-sucker hide did just fine.
It had been his first soul-sucker kill, and the bounty had been prime. He grinned as he recalled the scene at the Marshall’s Castle where he’d dumped the remains late in the afternoon. Oh, it was great claiming the prize from those tight-assed Marshalls who thought they were the best at fighting and believed they knew everything.
The assayer who’d counted out Bastien’s gold had covered his initial revolted horror at the soul-sucker’s body by donning a self-important air and informing Bastien that the Summoning had been a success—Lladrana now had a new Exotique who would save them all. Trust the Marshalls to dig up and follow all the old traditions instead of trying something new to defeat the invading horrors.
That had dimmed Bastien’s pleasure for a moment—or until he had requested the assayer provide him with the soul-sucker’s skin in an hour for his hat. It was Bastien’s right to have the hide, and the clerk’s appalled expression had revived Bastien’s spirits.
Now that he recalled the scene, he frowned. There had been something else—something that had made the hair on the back of his neck rise—the silver hair that denoted Power, not the black locks. Had he seen a pair of glinting eyes in the rafters of the storeroom? He shrugged it off and gestured for some ale.
After he’d gotten the skin he’d spent some Power fashioning the hat he’d designed on the long volaran flight from the North.
Unobtrusively he shifted in his seat. That last fight the day before had been rough. A slayer, a render and a soul-sucker. They’d been gleeful at their supposed ambush of a single prey—a volaran-mounted Chevalier. He moved his shoulders to avoid a throbbing bruise.
He’d rarely been in worse shape. Bloody tracks from the render’s claws covered his torso; a puncture from the slayer bore through his left thigh, far too close to his balls to think of the wound without a shudder. Bruises covered his body. Even the soul-sucker had marked him. Round, raised bumps from its suckers dotted Bastien’s right shoulder and scalp—thankfully hidden by his clothes and his black-and-silver hair.
The conversation rose as his new hat was noticed and became an object for discussion. Only Marrec, who swore loyalty to Lady Hallard, actually had the guts to turn from the bar to stare at the hat.
When the serving woman Dodu brought his ale, she gave him a long, slow look from under her eyelashes. “I can cancel my plans for tonight, Bastien,” she whispered.
More than Bastien’s aches throbbed at her invitation. He looked at her plump hips and sighed. For the first time in his life he was in no shape for bedsport. He had the feeling that if he took her up on her offer his reputation as a great lover would shatter.
“Ah, Dodu, my lovely, I only wish I could cancel my own, but for once I must place duty before pleasure.” He pasted a yearning expression on his face.
She narrowed her eyes.
Bastien lifted her fingertips and kissed them.
Dodu sighed and withdrew her hand. “Some other time, then.”
He grinned. “Definitely.”
With a swish of the ass she knew he admired, she served another table. Bastien shifted, trying to find a less painful position.
The door opened, letting in gray twilight and the stench of frink-filled rain. Bastien’s smile faded. His brother Luthan scanned the room, spotted Bastien and strode to him.
Bastien’s brows knit. Luthan didn’t move with his usual fluidity, and pallor showed under the golden tone of his skin. He looked as if he’d been through an ordeal—more than just confronting the Marshalls in their Council, which Bastien had heard Luthan was going to do—as the new Representative of the Cloister. His acceptance of the position had spurred a lot of talk, since it now left the Chevaliers without a spokesperson to the Marshalls.
Was Luthan’s streak of silver over his right temple wider? Bastien scowled. They were very different in personality, but close nonetheless.
Luthan stopped and looked down at the lounging Bastien, dressed in render-hide. Luthan himself had a pure white surcoat over his flying leathers, decorated with the coat of arms of their mother’s family—the estate Luthan claimed for himself. When Luthan’s eyes fixed on Bastien’s hands scored by the tentacles of the soul-sucker, Bastien sat up straight. Then Luthan’s gaze lingered on the new hat.
“That is the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen.”
“You wound me to the core!” Bastien placed fingers over his heart.
Luthan scowled. “Looks to me like your last fight did that.”
Bastien cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “And you look like merde too.” He swept his hat to a corner of the table. “Sit. I know Council meetings are bad, but it shouldn’t make you look like a herd of volarans ran over you.”
Grunting, Luthan gingerly settled his long length on the opposite bench of the booth, angling his body so he could keep an eye on the room as well as his brother, an automatic strategy for a trained fighter. Bastien, of course, had taken the last booth with the wall at his back. Standing at the bar gave Chevaliers more freedom, but Bastien hadn’t been sure he could stay upright for long. Eyeing his brother, Bastien didn’t think Luthan could handle the usual jostling at a crowded bar either.
“You look like merde,” Bastien repeated.
Luthan stared at him, and his gray eyes seemed to have become darker. Bastien frowned, but when that pulled at the wounds in his scalp, he stopped and suppressed a wince.
“Jerir,” Luthan said, as if that explained everything. He caught Dodu’s attention and lifted a hand for ale.
“Jerir,” Bastien echoed, mind racing. He was supposed to be the quickest of wits of his family, and Luthan usually made him use every one of them. “An Exotique and jerir. Knowing the old tales, I’d say the Marshalls must have used it as a test.”
When the ale was set in front of him, Luthan stared down at the liquid. Then he looked up with gleaming eyes and a slight curve of the lips, lifted the mug in a half salute to Bastien, and drank. He set the glass down, pulled a pristine handkerchief from an inside pocket and dabbed his lips. “Right you are. There were several tests, but I don’t know the details. I do know that they—” he jerked his head toward the Castle “—have a whole pool of the stuff.”
Bastien choked, swallowed, breathed through a couple of gasps. “A pool?” He shook his head. “Can’t be. Jerir is scarce and valuable.”
“A pool. The ritual bathing pool in the Temple, to be exact.” He closed his eyes and a shudder rippled his long frame.
Bastien leaned forward and pressed his fingers on his brother’s fisted hand. “What is it? How can I help?”
“Take the job as Chevalier Representative to the Marshalls’ Council.”
5
“Become the Chevalier’s Representative?” That jolted a laugh from Bastien and he leaned back against the padded wall—just the contraction of his chest hurt, by the Song. “Very funny.”
Luthan didn’t open his eyes. “I’m not joking. Listen to your last words. You want to help, to matter, to make things better.”
Letting his eyelids lower, Bastien fingered the edge of his hat. “I think you take life too seriously and want me to, also. I’m willing to help my brother.”
“And Lladrana?”
“The Marshalls believe they are Lladrana.”
Luthan opened his eyes. “They are doing the best they can.”
Bastien snorted and lifted his mug to drink again, let the smooth buttery taste of goldenale slip down his gullet. He licked his lips. “The Marshalls follow old ways. What’s worse—they keep those old ways and old spells from the rest of us, so we don’t know what they are doing, why, or what to expect. Most damning of all, they hid the knowledge that our boundaries were failing from us until we were invaded by the greater horrors.”
“Perhaps they thought they could find a remedy without involving us.”
“That’s your supposition. Meanwhile Chevalier lives were lost,” Bastien said. Including his childhood friend….
“They say the Exotique will solve the puzzle of restoring the fenceposts and boundaries. As in olden days, they Summoned one, and Tested her.”
“Did you actually see her?” Bastien lifted a brow.
“I saw a forming of her.”
His brother’s voice held an odd note. Ever fascinated with something new, Bastien scooted a little closer. “You did? Where? And what did she look like?”
“During the Marshalls’ Council this morning. She looks—odd. Exotique.”
“Hmm.” Bastien eyed his brother. “What of you? There’s something different about you. You didn’t Pair with her, did you?”
This time Luthan choked. “Merde, no!” His mouth twisted. “Mind you, I was invited. The Marshalls were displeased that no Chevaliers showed up.” His eyebrow mimicked Bastien’s.
They grinned at each other.
“It’s the jerir. I took a plunge.”
Bastien’s mug halted midair. “All of you?”
“And not just a quick dip. You know the size of the Temple pool—a nice dive and glide across to the other side to stagger out.” He shuddered again.
Drinking deeply, Bastien finished his ale. He’d never seen his brother so twitchy, not Luthan the Calm. “Better you than me.”
“No, better both of us.” Luthan’s fingers curled around Bastien’s wrist. “Bastien, the stories are true. The jerir makes a difference in a person, an obvious difference. I could tell at a glance those who’d bathed and those who hadn’t. Everyone can see the change, and I’d wager every Marshall in the Castle will be in that pool before long. It’s an advantage they can’t pass up, and neither can you.”
“Ha, as if they’d let my little toe into a sacred jerir protection pool.” Bastien withdrew his arm from Luthan’s grip. An odd vibrancy to Luthan’s fingers had set every silver hair on his nape rising. He waved to order two more ales.
Luthan’s eyes blazed. “That’s just it, Bastien. Word’s gone out.” His teeth gleamed in a grin that seemed to mock. “They’re breaking tradition. Anyone who wishes to can immerse themselves in the pool for the next month.”
“Must be desperate.” With a smile, Bastien handed a couple of pegtees to Dodu to pay for the drinks.
Shoving his empty glass aside, Luthan took a swig from the new one. “It’s a grand gesture, and a smart one. They’ll find out who’s the toughest, they’ll get better Chevaliers and soldiers from this move, and they’ll challenge the Chevaliers—the dissenters who don’t think much of them, like you—to match them.”
The ale turned sour in Bastien’s mouth. A feeling deep in his gut told him he’d be swimming in jerir. Rot.
