Scimitar's Heir (41 page)

Dura’s heart sank when she realized Pica’s true intention.

“Don’t ye do it, lass,” she said, surprised at her own vehemence. “Ye got too much ta live for!”

“Too much…” Pica shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dura. I would have liked to build more ships with you.”

Dura’s protest caught in her throat as Pica drew the small bit of volcanic glass down one wrist, then the other. Bright blood pulsed from the wounds in jets, and Pica leaned back and sighed out a long, wracking sob. Blood pooled swiftly in the dirt beneath the cage, then more slowly, until it stopped completely. Pica gave one last convulsive breath, and stilled.

Eighteen
, Dura thought, turning her gaze away. She muttered a dwarvish prayer for the swift passage of Pica’s spirit, but her mind was muddled, and she couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to the sliver of obsidian that Pica had secreted away, and what Dura would have done if it had been hers.

≈

Emil collapsed into Camilla’s arms, his breath coming in deep, exhausted gasps. She held him close, gripping his shoulders streaked with the sweat of passion and the red tracks of her nails. Never in her life had she felt such a desperate need, such a craving, as if Emil’s touch could burn away all the evil, hatred and loathing that Parek had left in his wake. At first, he had been reluctant to accede to her request, not wishing to stress her so soon after her ordeal, but Camilla had been insistent. She needed this. She needed
him
.

She
still
needed him.

She traced her fingers down and up his back and nibbled at his neck. “Again,” she whispered, teasing his ear with her tongue. “Please, Emil. Again.”

“Half a moment, my dear,” he said between breaths, laughing. His hands caressed her skin, and he entwined his fingers in her hair. Gentle…always so gentle.

“Now, Emil,” she whispered, kissing his neck, tasting his sweat, feeling his pulse pounding against her lips. She didn’t need gentle, not now. She needed him to scour away the last vestige of every other man who had touched her. She needed him to make her forget Parek ever existed. “Please…”

“The spirit is willing, my dear,” he said, propping himself up onto his elbows and smiling down at her, “but the flesh is weak.”

He rolled away, and she reluctantly let him go. He lay on his back, and she curled up against him, one leg draped over him, her chin on his shoulder. She traced designs in the damp hair of his chest with her fingers and listened to his heart pounding in his chest. Its cadence eased, and his breaths calmed.

“Would that I were a younger man,” he murmured, his soft fingertips brushing her shoulder.

“I don’t want a younger man, Emil,” she assured him, nipping at his shoulder. He tasted salty, coppery, and her head spun with it. “I want you.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the light curtains billowed with the night’s cool breeze. A storm was coming. She could feel the building pressure of it, a line of early summer squalls that would rake the Shattered Isles, bringing welcome rain. Camilla kissed Emil’s shoulder, tracing the lines her nails had left, while the thunder pounded in her head.
So good
. She watched his pulse—beat…beat…beat—in his neck, and the thunder in her mind took on its rhythm.

Men are like storms
, she thought, letting her fingers play.
All they need is a little coaxing
.

“Can you feel it?” she asked, teasing him with her nails, her need redoubled. Lightning flashed outside, and thunder crashed only a second behind. Then came the muffled rip of wind-driven rain falling in torrents, beating against wind-tossed palm fronds.

“Hm hmmm,” he murmured, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “You are relentless…”

“Yes, I am,” she said as she rolled on top of him. Sitting upright, she kneaded the muscles of his chest. A blinding burst of lighting silvered the room, simultaneous thunder so loud it shook the bed, as rain and wind lashed across the balcony, dampening the curtains. Camilla felt the storm surge into her like a lover, and her fingers flexed.

“Ouch! Camilla!” Emil shouted, his grip hard on her wrists.

“Oh! Emil, I’m sorry!” Camilla bent to kiss the weeping wounds her nails had left, dizzy from the thunder pounding in her head, the sharp wind blowing across her skin. She tasted his wounded flesh, and felt the storm rise within her.

Epilogue

Death and Life

“Like a bloody hot-house, ain’t it, Corporal?” Private Yarel wiped the sweat from his brow and fingered the neck of his uniform. The squall was past, but it had dumped enough rain to make the night swelter with humidity. “Not a soul about. Could we loosen our collars for the night?”

“No.” The corporal was a career marine hoping for a sergeant’s position, and not likely to bend any rules. Yarel knew it, but there was no harm in asking. “Be thankful that you’re on the night watch and not the day. Besides, it’s better than sitting in that stinking hole Rockport, or even Tsing Harbor. At least there’s a breeze here.”

“Aye, but there’s inns and doxies in them places.” Yarel fingered his collar again and shrugged. “Just don’t put my name on the list of volunteers for permanent garrison here, if you please, Corporal.”

“Not my choice, and you know it.” The corporal turned away with a snort of mirth. “I’ll mention your name to the sergeant, though.”

“I’d appreciate it, Corporal. Goodnight.”

“Just keep your eyes open, Yarel. These natives make me nervous.”

“Aye, Corporal. I’ll keep an eye open.”

He turned away, hiding a derisive smile. There was no danger from the natives, Yarel knew. They were upset, to be sure, but about the pirate attack, not the imperial presence. Some were downright friendly, as a matter of fact, and several of his mates had found out just how friendly they could be. The women were willing, and their men didn’t seem to mind them taking up with the imperials.

No, if there was danger here, it would come from off-island, and with a dozen warships on station, there was little to fear. Night watch was a necessary precaution, but there was no real danger. Yarel strolled his patrol area with one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other tucked in his belt. The burned-out shipyard had been dismantled, but the massive ship-hauling device had escaped the flames and loomed tall in the moonlight, its upthrust frames resembling the skeletal fingers of two cradling hands. He passed one of the haul’s massive wheels, almost as tall as he was, and trailed his sword hand over the rusty iron rim. He had to concede, it was peaceful here, no loud tavern brawls or signaling trumpets, just the night sounds of the jungle, the hum of the insects, the lap of the water on the black sand beach, and the roar of the distant surf on the reef.

All was quiet.

Yarel strolled out the long wooden pier near the mangroves where the little smack
Flothrindel
was chained to the dock. This, he knew, was the admiral’s main concern: he didn’t want the natives stealing the boat and running off without his permission. Under the wan light of a crescent moon peeking through scudding clouds, her graceful lines shone as if she were spun from beams of starlight. She was a sweet craft, her elvin lines pleasing to the eye, yet seaworthy and speedy, if the tales of her passage from Plume Isle to Tsing and back in less than a fortnight were to be believed. Yarel wondered if Joslan’s concerns were more selfish than defensive; the little boat would make an elegant admiral’s yacht.

“Maybe, someday…” he murmured, tucking both hands in his belt. Plans for the future—retirement someday, maybe with a corporal’s pension—rambled through his mind, distant and vague. He wouldn’t mind having a little fishing smack like this, taking her out a few days a week from Tsing Harbor to catch grouper or the big dolphin-fish that ran in the deep. The income would supplement a pension nicely, and there were doxies aplenty in Tsing on which to spend it.

A splash off the end of the dock snapped his reverie, and he looked down into the water, counting the concentric ripples. Some fish had been startled, probably by a barracuda hunting by moonlight. The big fish prowled like wolves in the shallows.

“Careful.”

Yarel whirled at the lilting feminine voice behind him, reaching for his sword. His cry of alarm caught in his throat, however, for before him stood a woman of such surpassing beauty that it took his breath away. She wore naught but a filmy nightgown, sheer enough to tempt his eye with a glimpse of her curvaceous outline. Her pale skin shone luminous in the moonlight, her face framed by a wreath of dark hair. Her lips were full and smiling, but her eyes were cast in shadow.

“Who— Pardon, Lady, but what are you doing out here?” he asked, peering at her more closely. By the gods, she was beautiful. He’d never seen a woman quite like her before, certainly not on this forsaken little island, of that he was sure. Nobody could forget a woman like this.

“Enjoying the night,” she said, her voice low and haunting. She approached him, raised one slim hand, and traced her graceful fingers across his chest. “You should be more careful, walking out on the docks like this. You marines wear mail under these handsome uniforms. If you took a plunge, I daresay you would sink like a stone.”

“Don’t worry about me, Lady,” he said, still cautious, but not wanting to be rude. Perhaps the poor lass was touched in the head. “We’d best get you to the keep and into a robe. A lady like you shouldn’t be walkin’ around in naught but a night shift.”

“Oh, I’m warm enough,” she said, raising her hand to caress his stubbled cheek, “and we have time enough.”

“Time enough for…” Her hand blazed a lazy trail down his cheek to his neck, her fingertips brushing the lobe of his ear, then lingering. He reached up to pull her hand away. As much as he thrilled at the caress, he was far too aware that they were standing out in the open, in full view of the other marines on night patrol, though he saw none about. “Please, Lady, I don’t…”

“Oh, but you
do
,” she insisted. Her smile spoke volumes as she raised her other hand to cradle his face between her warm palms. “I can feel it in you, and I need it.”

“You need…” Words failed Yarel as she drew him near. He couldn’t speak, struck dumb by her beauty, her manner, and those luscious lips so close to his.

“Yes…I need it.” Her lips touched his in light, teasing kiss. This close, he could see her dark eyes, black in the moonlight. “I need you…” she breathed into his mouth.

“But I…” he began, but then her lips were pressed to his, her tongue darting, teasing. Without conscious thought, he found his hands on her, crushing her against him. His will fled as her mouth trailed down his neck, and her hands twined in his hair, pulling him close.

Yarel felt a sudden chill, like something cold and wet crawling across his soul, and his eyes snapped open. There was a prick of pain, tiny needles in his throat, then a horrible jolt.

He tried to scream, but only managed a gurgle of frothy blood, his voice lost in a crimson torrent. His hands grappled with her, his fingers trying to tear her away, but her grip was iron. First his strength fled, and then his sight.

In the end, she had been right. He sank like a stone.

≈

Fire…

It surged in his flesh, through his veins, in his mind, in
their
mind.

Confusion. Fear. Anger. Love. Some of the emotions were his, some were not, but all were theirs together, and through it all there was fire. He tried to open his eyes, but found that he could already see. All around him there was the sea, and all through him surged light, fire and steaming water.

Confusion…Fear…

Instinctively, he shut himself off from the sea around him. He pulled his great gates closed, breaking through the blockage of coral rock, and sent forth the fire until the water in his lower reaches began to boil away. It felt good—this purging, cleansing fire that coursed through him, burning away the offal of a thousand years of neglect. He brought the winds in from above to howl throughout his passages, carrying away the ashes, steam and smoke like a deep, cleansing breath.

Anger…

This was not as familiar, not to him, but he felt it nonetheless. Their thoughts were inseparable. They were one. All the betrayal, the rage, the self-loathing and the madness rose in him like a burning tide. Memories that were not his rushed in: the anguish of loss, the pain of wounds, the taste of blood, and the curious, warm fullness of being with a man, the building pleasure of being two creatures as one, joined in rapture. His own memories meshed with these, and one moment, one encounter, came to crystal clarity in their mind from both perspectives; the moment of their lovemaking.

Love…

It felt strange to him, like nothing he had experienced before. It was akin to his longing for Camilla, but different; a thirst for protection and comfort. Another shared thought: neither mind had a single memory of ever being told they were loved. His parents’ fear of him, her father’s stoic attention to duty, and her mother’s coldness. The discipline of a lightkeeper, the heavy hand of a nanny…

Abandonment…

The crack of a whip…

Fire erupting from
Clairissa
…

Screams…

Blood…

Rage…

Fire…

Burn them all!

The conjoined thought centered him, took hold and became him…a thirst for revenge against all those who had wronged them. Vengeance against those who had lied, manipulated and tried to kill them. Cynthia Flaxal, Feldrin Brelak, Emil Norris…

Yes…especially the seamage…

She lived, had somehow escaped the flooding chamber and survived the sword wound. He felt her nearby, the distinctive smothering chill of her power.
Where
… He looked outward with his new sight and saw a ship sailing away to the north. Yes…he could feel her there, her power fading with distance.

The winds sprang to his call, howling from the south, pushing him, pushing them, slowly, ever so slowly northward. The ship was faster, but they would follow. And when they found the seamage, she would burn.

They would
all
burn.