Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (69 page)

Courageous, if stupid,
he’d thought then, and:
Potential.
He’d set out to use her as a political tool, had backed her in a bid to put a bridle on Pieas. Pieas’s unexpected cowardice and her own unexpected stubborn strength had set everything veering out of control in short order, and even as Eredion had given up on his nephew in disgust he’d grown more and more interested in her progress.

It wasn’t love: not even remotely. Eredion had no illusions on that, and his refusal to put a romantic layer over his feelings kept Alyea from any chance of misunderstanding.

His memory:
Alyea leaning back against him, her bare skin slick with sweat, Tanavin arm’s-length away, and how close he’d come to giving in—Deiq will kill me—

Alyea laughed, the sound bitter in her throat.
He doesn’t care,
she told him, and unrolled a memory of Deiq talking:
You don’t understand a damn thing ...Neither of you do...I don’t care who else you take to bed—as long as they’re not a threat to me.

Eredion let out a long, harsh breath.

“Good to know,” he said in the back of his throat. His arms tightened again; then he inhaled sharply and let her go, stepping back a long pace. “But this isn’t the time or place.”

She turned around slowly to look at him. “Why not?”

Eredion shut his eyes, his breathing evening out. “Because he’ll be back,” he said unemotionally, “and I don’t like to be interrupted.”

Her breath hitched in her chest. “How soon?”

“No telling.” The visible pulse in his throat subsided. “Could be hours. Could be any moment. Depends on whether Fimre fights him or cooperates.”

“What happens if he fights?”

“I’ll probably be sending word to Sessin for another liaison.” Eredion’s breathing steadied. He opened his eyes and regarded Alyea soberly. “And he will. We all do, the first time. Didn’t you?”

She shook her head. Eredion’s eyebrows rose, then settled into a faint frown.

“Coffee, Lords,” Kalei said from the doorway of the servant’s entrance. She stood still, watching them with a wary expression; in her grip, the tray of coffee fixings stayed remarkably steady. How long she’d been there, Alyea had no idea.

“Yes,” Eredion said, then bobbed an apologetic nod to Alyea.
Your house,
he said.
Not my place. Sorry.

May as well be yours, at this point,
she said, then waved Kalei into the room.
Near as I can guess, you’re done with Sessin.

He said nothing as Kalei set down the tray and withdrew; busied himself pouring them each a small cup of coffee and sweetening hers. As he handed her the cup, he said, “That depends on what sort of shape Deiq leaves Fimre in.”

The scent wavered through the room, tantalizing and vague. Deiq circled the room, eyes half-shut; at last, restlessly, began poking through drawers and chests. He couldn’t define what drove him in the search, beyond a growing sense of nauseated unease: something was
wrong
about that smell, and he needed to understand why it bothered him at such a deep level.

He opened a drawer, slid a hand across a pile of lacy underclothes; couldn’t help smiling over the thoughts that brought to mind. Then his fingertips snagged against something less yielding than silk: the corner of a small box, tucked far back in the drawer.

Without hesitation, he tugged it out to sit atop the heap of lace and silk. A small keyed lock secured the contents. He stood still, considering for a moment, then touched the lock with the tip of one finger. It clicked open immediately. He brushed the lock to one side and began to lift the lid.

Damnit, Fimre, what are you thinking—
Alyea’s fury and startled fear washed through him along with Eredion’s bellow. An image of a hand closing around her arm, dragging her into an unwanted embrace
—Not again, I won’t go through this again—
and a flash of killing rage: quickly restrained, but enough to pull Deiq’s attention from his discovery.

He retained enough sense to shove the box back into place and shut the drawer before stepping the relatively short distance to stand in the informal dining hall doorway.

Fimre’s reaction flared instantly, collar-driven subservience locked in battle with instinctive rebellion: that conflict, just as with Eredion years before, took matters out of Deiq’s control within a matter of heartbeats. Alyea’s horror washed through him as he closed in on Fimre; he spared her a bleak glare, then caught the fainting desert lord and moved them elsewhere: back to the cellar he’d so recently been in, where at least Fimre’s agony would only layer onto what was already there, rather than ruin a hard-won sense of peace in the rooms above.

The downside to that was the utter darkness of the room, which sent Fimre even further into a blind panic—

—yellow eyes in the darkness, jagged lace stripping through his veins—

—the smell of urine as Fimre lost all bladder control—

—thin, savage laughter—

—the ghosts of prisoners sobbing out their last breaths—

—Fimre arching in his grip, screaming—

Oh, gods, this was a mistake. Bad, bad mistake....

He tried to regain control:
Stop,
Deiq told the Sessin lord,
stop, stop, please, don’t make me hurt you, take a breath, damnit, relax, stop
fighting
!

Blazing defiance as hot as anything Alyea had ever thrown at him seared back: uncompromising refusal to submit. The collar twisted; Deiq’s howl mingled with Fimre’s shrill shrieks.

Blackness closed in around them.

The coffee had gone cold. They sipped it in mutual silence, waiting, not even looking at each other any longer. Alyea shook her head each time Kalei stuck her head out to check on them, and the servant retreated without entering the room.

Eredion’s face had taken on a steady grey cast, his thoughts tightly closed in on themselves. “This is taking too long,” he murmured at one point, then rubbed a hand over his face. “Gods. What do I know? I have no idea how long—” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he dropped his hand, his eyes gleamed with tears.

Alyea took another sip of cold, bitter liquid, surprised by how steady her hand remained. In the back of her mind, the screaming went on, unrelenting, raw, agonized.

You’re just as ugly as the rest of us....

Hearing Fimre’s pain didn’t particularly bother her. There was nothing she could do about it, even if it had; but the lack of emotion she felt worried her.

I should be trying to find some way to stop him,
she thought dimly.

Eredion shook his head.
There’s nothing you can do that wouldn’t get you killed,
he told her
. You never get between a ha’ra’ha and something it wants, once that prey drive kicks in. It’s suicide. If Fimre had just held still....

You didn’t,
Deiq said.

They both twitched. Eredion’s hand spasmed around the delicate cup. For a wonder, it didn’t break, and he set it carefully on the table. Alyea, her hands empty just then, fisted them and glanced around the room with a carefully neutral expression.

The screaming in the back of her mind had stopped. In its place hung an ochre silence, a muddy sense of despair. Deiq was nowhere to be seen. She exchanged a quick glance with Eredion. His back rigid, his face grey, he offered a shrug and sat still, eyes half-shut.

She eased herself into a light trance, taking his stillness as a warning, and waited.

Deiq appeared a heartbeat later, Fimre in his arms. The young Sessin lord lolled, eyes glazed and blood leaking from the side of his mouth.

“Bit his tongue,” Deiq said dispassionately, lowering the unconscious man to the floor. “Damn near in half.” He straightened. His eyes, still predominantly black, fastened on Eredion. “You handled it much better.”

Nobody said anything. Nobody moved, although Eredion’s gaze darted, just for a beat, to Fimre’s limp form, and his face twisted briefly.

“Alyea,” Deiq said, his tone still flat and hard. “Something for you to answer.” His hand moved; something flashed through the air. She caught it: the edges of a small wooden box dug into her palms, and she sucked in a hard breath, panic flooding through her instantly.

“No—”
Eredion shouted, rising from his seat.

Ignoring him, Deiq advanced, the white fading from his eyes again.

“Wait,
ha’inn,
wait—
give her a moment—damnit—”

Alyea caught her breath, reaching frantically for the calm of aqeyva as Eredion stepped into Deiq’s path.

“Wait,” she said, “it’s not what you think—”

Deiq snarled and swung. Eredion tumbled sideways to crash into a wall, reeled back and collapsed in a limp sprawl beside Fimre. A bare heartbeat later Deiq was
there,
right up against her, lifting and slamming her against a wall. The box fell from her hand, the small bag inside spilling out but thankfully not open.

“Why,” Deiq said, black, black eyes seeming to fill her vision, “why would you have that in your drawer, if it’s not what I
think,
Alyea?”

Her face flared into bright agony, as though an invisible hand had given every piercing a hard yank. His face contorted into a savage snarl at the same instant.

Something slammed into them from the side. Eredion shoved between them and stood with his back to Alyea.

“No,” he shouted into Deiq’s face, and his next words came through as clearly as though spoken aloud:
You don’t want to do this, damnit, I
know
you don’t, Deiq,
listen
to me—
trust
me—

Deiq lifted the burly Sessin lord as though he weighed nothing more than a vase of flowers, slammed him spine-down across his knee, then tossed Eredion to lay near Fimre once more.

Alyea stood still, too stunned to think of moving; and then Deiq filled her senses again, eyes shimmering with a strange yellow-gray overlay this time.

“Convince me,” he said,
“quickly.”

“I—” An invisible hand stopped her throat, a whisper of memory:
There are certain precautions—a preparation in the tea, a slight adjustment to your memories by an athain—which will prevent you from casually revealing the peh-tenez by way of your mind-speech. Even the First Born will be unable to pry this from you without causing you great pain and possibly death; although he may well try, should he ever suspect.

Deiq growled, low and menacing, the golden shimmer in his eyes deepening. “Don’t. Fight,” he said through his teeth.

Distantly, Eredion whimpered, his breath bubbling in his throat. The sound called to mind water, and a conversation with Deiq, almost forgotten until now:
What emotion do you need to work with water? What’s the opposite of anger and hatred?

She’d never answered that question; had only gotten as far as a stumbling definition of hatred before the conversation moved to other matters.

Water...
flows
.

She shut her eyes and became water, still water, yielding water. A moment later he shoved into her mind, her memories: relentless, merciless, reaching for what he wanted to see. She flowed around the intrusion, not fighting, not resisting; accepting. Trusting. Allowing.

This First Born is too strong. We wish to weaken him without harming him, so that he does not present this terrible danger to the world. We wish him to lean more to his
human side than to his ha’reye heritage. And as he favors you, we wish you to help us with this effort.

Rage washed through her; molten lava, hissing and sparkling in her mind. She held to the
water
imagery and felt the heat dissipate and ease; felt Deiq’s startled flinch, then his renewed determination.

This is what you want,
she said, shaping a subtle current to direct his attention to the end of the conversation.

She remembered the recent feeling of Deiq’s fingers trailing down her exposed throat, and the distant, abstracted look in his eyes as he stared at her.
Mine
, he’d said, leaving her in no doubt that if she so much as twitched, he would immediately rip her throat out.

He will kill you in the end regardless.

She believed it utterly.

The daimaina sat perfectly quiet, seemingly patient as the stone around them, and her bead-bright eyes never stopped watching Alyea’s face.

At last, Alyea let out a long breath and reached for the cup—and turned it upside down, spilling the final sip into the waiting bowl.

“I won’t do it,” she said. “He trusts me. I won’t do that to him.”

The daimaina nodded, expression unchanged, and rose from the table. “The peh-tenez has ended,” she said. “You will not speak of this. I will not speak of this. It never happened.”

Alyea’s legs went out from under her. She sprawled on the floor, breathing hard. Deiq stood over her, unmoving, his eyes nearly shut. After what seemed like eternity, he tilted his head to look down at her, his face strained and grey, his black eyes thinly edged with white and glinting with moisture.

“Never happened,” he said, then nudged the small bag with one foot, shoving it aside with a grimace of distaste. “Do you even know what this
is?”

She shook her head and tried to catch control over her hoarse breathing.

“It’s a combination of a diluted stibik powder and a few other things I won’t mention,” Deiq said. “Mainly the other ingredients mask the taste and smell to where I normally wouldn’t notice it.” His jaw tightened. “How long have they been feeding it to me, I wonder?”

Alyea shook her head again, only allowing herself to think of her breathing: no fear, no thoughts, no emotions, just
breathe....

“Stibik powder,” Deiq said, tone musing, still staring at the bag, “is humanity’s greatest obscenity, as far as I’m concerned. The teyanain have a tremendous supply of it put by.” He shook his head. “They’ve been
feeding
it to me....” He fell silent, occasionally shaking his head.

“What is it?” Alyea managed after a while.