Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods) (22 page)

Thirty feet.

Now the footfalls were directly behind her. She imagined stony claws tearing through decomposing vegetation, crushing worms and any other slow moving creatures that called the leafy mass home. A blood-chilling growl made her skin crawl.

She reached the tree. Two nimble outstretched leaps from her sore legs up onto buttress roots brought a grimace to her face. Then she was around the massive trunk and sprinting away. She called to her two eagles, and they answered with high-pitched cries.

Behind her came a snarl, abruptly followed by a resounding crash. Irmina’s heartbeats slowed to mere increments as she stopped and turned to face the beast.

Splinters exploded from the giant redwood. Through the shower of wood chips flew the rockhound, leaving a gaping hole in the center of the tree trunk. The tree leaned listlessly and began to topple, the roar of branch tearing against branch rumbling through the air.

Eagles screamed in defiance. Giant, living arrows of feather, beak, and claw shot down through the canopy.

Sunlight streamed through the space that slowly cleared as the tree continued to lean to one side before stopping, supported by its neighbors, their branches snapping under the weight. The hound’s chipped rock surface glinted when it landed in that patch of radiance with a thud, its bestial, golden eyes shining with violent intent. The creature roared, its maw lined with white, stony teeth, its tail sweeping back and forth.

The sound of beating wings played a slow rhythm as the first eagle swooped onto the hound’s head, claws clicking as they gouged into flesh and left bloody furrows. The hound howled, swiping a huge paw through the area where the eagle had already vacated. Before the stoneform beast could draw back, the second eagle alighted on its back, beak stabbing, claws tearing. The hound bounded to one side, lost its balance, and crashed to the ground, its massive frame leaving indentations in the earth before it sprang upright once more.

As the creature gained its feet, the eagles screeching and circling to attack in sudden bursts, a transformation began. Its body, previously stone-like but covered in parts by mottled green moss, rippled. The lichen receded beneath hard skin etched with fissures like some eroded stone formation. The rockhound became stone in truth, a carapace of what could pass for grey feldspar covering its body. When the change completed, the hound ignored the now harmless attacks of the eagles, focusing on Irmina instead.

Their gazes locked. The rockhound bounded forward, its long strides eating up the remaining distance between them.

Heart racing, Irmina sucked in a deep breath and pushed the lump of fear crawling through her chest down into her gut. She stretched her mind out, similar to reaching out to pet the animal, to soothe its rage. Her touch sped along the eye contact and pierced the beast’s psyche. And slammed into a wall. The lump threatened to come crawling back up her gut, but Irmina drew her brows together in concentration.

The hound snarled, the sound a heart-stopping rumble, and leaped the last ten feet. Its maw opened wide, a slimy rain of slobber flying from its jaws.

Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Irmina pushed against the wall with all her willpower. It gave a little before rebounding back at her with near insurmountable force. Staggering from the recoil, she clung to her link as dogged as the hound itself. She could see the golden irises of the beast now, locked on her, murderous intent clear.

“No! Damn you! No!” Irmina yelled, her heart a thump that drowned out all else. “You’re. Mine!” With those words, she snatched her mind back like a bullwhip and snapped it forward into the resistance.

But it was too late. There would be no way to avoid the impact now or those fangs. Was she left to die like this? Eaten? Without fulfilling her revenge, or completing her training, without revealing who and what the Dorns really were? Never seeing Ancel’s emerald eyes and long dark hair again?

No. No. NO!

Irmina screamed, the sound piercing her head, echoing through the forest, chasing away birds. With the last strength she could muster, she battered at the barrier.

The wall crumbled.

Practically stopping in mid air, the hound crashed to the ground with a resounding thump. It writhed for a few seconds before going still, then struggled to its feet once more.

Pushed to the limit by the taming, Irmina felt the pressure as the hound struggled to regain control. She wouldn’t be able to keep the eagles and the beast. She needed all her focus, so she sent a command to the birds to return to Jerem. With wild screeches, they flew off. The pressure subsided to a distant throb at the back of her mind.

Chest laboring from her exertion, Irmina strode over to her new pet. The hound’s eyes shone defiantly and it growled.

“It’s fine, boy,” Irmina said, her voice a soft coo. She reached out and touched its stony skin, and her pet whined. “It’s fine. I mean you no harm.” She sent pictures of her intent, of her love for animals, her bond with them across her link. When she reached out again, the hound gave a plaintive growl, and its stone carapace retracted. Irmina stroked its neck, and the hound crooned.

“Come, let’s go.” A scowl twisted Irmina’s features at the thought of Silvereyes sending the creature after. She gazed back up toward the mountainous slopes. “We hunt.” Her pet followed.

CHAPTER 17

In a corner of the Dancing Lady tavern that smelled of sweat, liquor and giana smoke, Ancel Dorn sipped from a wine glass so thick its surface appeared frosted. A slight tingling crept along his body and his head buzzed in a jumbled susurrus.

Through the peeling paint on the window next to him, he spied the occasional passerby, often with their heads bowed, hurrying in the direction of Randane’s temples. A prayer bell tolled. Ancel couldn’t help his smirk. He could picture Randane’s palace and its spires alongside the pristine pillars of the Streamean temples. At this moment, patrons would be crowded beneath the massive statues of Ilumni and the smaller ones depicting Rituni and Bragni at his sides.
If only the gods knew the debauchery I have planned.
He took another drink.

I wonder what you’d think if you saw me now, my dear Irmina. After all, I’m doing what you asked. What a life I’m living.
This time, he took a long gulp. Warmth coursed down his gullet, and the buzz increased.

Sweet kinai wine could have such an effect on anyone. The drink crept up a little bit at a time until it kicked you in the head like a wild stallion. The kicking had not started yet, but he intended to get to that point soon enough. He swilled the red liquid around in his glass. It did not taste as refined as what his family made back home in Eldanhill, but it would do.

He should have left for home days ago in order to make it in time for this year’s big Soltide Festival. Or to resume his training. He shrugged both ideas off, the buzz from the liquor feeling better by the moment. He might regret drinking himself into a stupor in the morning, but he would worry about that in the godsforsaken morning. First things first was to find himself a woman.

Mirza and Danvir sat opposite him at the round table, both nursing their own drinks. Unlike him, they were garbed in eye-catching silk shirts and trousers. Tonight, he wore black. They’d chided him for it all the way to the Dancing Lady. Their attempts to convince him to return to their inn and change into something more celebratory for his nineteenth naming day went ignored.

Tonight, Danvir’s hair, so blond it appeared almost white, was oiled and brushed until it hung above his wide shoulders. Mirza had cut his hair short and used some scented plant from Torandil to make it spiky. He claimed it was a new style among the Dosteri. His hair drew many an ill look from Sendethi along the streets, and almost caused a few fights. Ancel kept his dark hair in a simple ponytail tied with a leather cord.

They ended up picking this place for a few reasons. The first, his father had suggested The Dancing Lady, second, its famed dancing girls, third, it was one of the few establishments in Randane where they could still find a decent seat.

Patrons filled all the other more reputable places to the brim. A usual occurrence whenever Ancel delivered his family’s kinai wine to the other taverns. Not that he couldn’t have forced the issue at any one of the numerous inns to find him accommodations, but he’d promised his father not to ruin the Dorn name. Another reason they had agreed on this place. The Dorns earned a pretty penny off their drink, and he intended to spend his portion with glee.

The Dancing Lady, however, did not buy the Dorns’ kinai wine. The owner preferred to try copy the product. Ancel did not mind one bit. The more who failed to find that special taste, the more fame the Dorns’ winery earned. Ancel smiled. This seedy place with its windows painted with dancing girls and dim, smoky interior would do just fine.

Ancel’s favorite serving girl swayed across floors sticky with mud and spilled drink. He figured the ability to move that way on such a surface required great skill and practice. Her pretty face soon hovered before him as she delivered another round. A smack rang out as Mirza slapped her on her rump when she turned to leave. An upturned nose and a headshake greeted Mirza’s wayward touch quickly followed by the smile she shot Ancel’s way. Yes, he was definitely going to bed her tonight. Ancel held up his glass toward her in appreciation of her slim figure and dark curls. The gesture earned him an almost sinuous sway of her hips.

The jumbled conversations and laughter subsided when the music started again. Oil lamps around the small stage flared until their light highlighted a seated, grizzled man playing a takuatin. The instrument always reminded Ancel of a long, skinny lute, but instead of fifteen strings, the takuatin had thirty-two, said to represent the thirty-two winds. Stories had it that like people caught in the fateful winds, the most brilliant players could get lost in their instrument’s rhythms, eventually going insane, lost to the world forever.

The musician kept his head down and eyes closed as he played, his head nodding to the timing. He strummed the instrument in a slow tune, his finger work sure and steady. The tune’s speed gradually increased into a wonderful takuatin rhythm, and he began to sing.

Now, Ancel was always one for a fine piece of music, after all, it tended to lighten the mood and often made it easier for him when he was on the prowl. But someone needed to tell the player he croaked. Every time the man hit a high note, Ancel looked to his glass to see if it cracked. Nevertheless, the patrons clapped and sang along to
The Peasant Thread the Needle:
a vulgar little number about a peasant who has his way with a nobleman’s wife and lives to tell the tale.

Both his friends clapped right along and sung. Danvir’s deep rumble and Mirza’s girlish tone made for quite a contrast. Ancel soon joined in.

He pounced when she bounced,

He bang when she rang,

When the peasant thread the needle.

He slipped and he slid,

In and out he sure did,

When the peasant thread the needle!

On and on the song went, with men and women laughing and clapping. Drinks flowed like water, and the music lowered as one of the dancing girls strutted onto the small stage next to the takuatin player. The music changed to a soft, flowing tune like clear water trickling down a spring.

Ancel recognized the song—Damal’s Sacrifice—but he pushed it to the back of his mind, and it was quickly forgotten as he drank in the sight of the performer. He’d seen dancing girls before but none to match her. Mirza sucked in a breath. Danvir whooped.

The musician kept his rhythm going, and she began to sway. No, that didn’t properly describe what she did. Her hips, waist, and buttocks moved in circular motions as if they were separate from the rest of her body like some sinuous creature that was half woman, half snake. The movement accentuated her curves and the shine of her coppery skin. Her waist-length, honey-colored hair hung behind her and her sheer, lace garb teased with the promises her body offered.

Ancel stared, his mouth agape. It wasn’t just her exquisite beauty that held him enraptured, nor her movements. Color her hair black, lighten her skin tone, and she would be Irmina. The fact Irmina had danced in a similar fashion for him did little to help.

The music sped up, and her gyrations increased to match. The rhythm slowed again, and she coiled with mesmerizing seductiveness. Ancel couldn’t tear his eyes from her even if he wanted to. Then, the music stopped, and she retreated behind the curtains.

A deafening roar exploded from the patrons. Smokers set down their giana pipes and yelled, some coughing as they did so. Men and women whooped and hollered. Everyone clapped. People cried for more. Glasses tinkled. Bottles broke. Knives flashing, two men fought, and the big guards dragged them out by their ears.

“Close your mouth, Ancel.” Mirza guffawed, placing a hand ungraciously under Ancel’s chin and pushing.

“You should see the look on your face,” Danvir roared, his voice carrying a slight slur. He did not hold his liquor well.