The Bloodforged (29 page)

“Perfect?” Kerta smiled sadly.

“Exactly!” To the point that it drove Alix a little mad—drove
everyone
a little mad. “It's not like him to let himself get carried away. But these past few weeks, he's . . . different, somehow. Less restrained than usual. More like . . .”
More like me.
It was not a comforting thought.

“He did very well with the
pasha
,” Kerta pointed out.

“But you heard him say how difficult it was for him.”

“He's only human, Alix. And he's been through a lot, especially these past few weeks.”

“I know, and it's not as if I've never seen him falter, but . . .” Sighing, Alix dropped into a chair. “Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who's a bundle of nerves. What's at stake tonight . . .”

“Like the parley with the Raven.”

“A lot like that, yes.” She smiled ruefully. “Though let's hope with a little less swordplay.”

Kerta reached over and patted her knee. “Things will be fine, you'll see. He's under tremendous pressure and he feels vulnerable right now, that's all. When this is over and the Harrami have agreed to help us, he'll be back to himself, ready to lead us around the corner and out of this terrible war.”

Alix's gaze drifted over to the frieze on the wall, to the painstakingly carved wooden bodies tangled horribly in a maelstrom of death. Though the scene it depicted had taken place centuries ago, Erroman was still recognisable. The
Elders' Gate, destroyed in the siege last summer, loomed in the background, looking on implacably as Harrami horse archers charged the imperial walls.

She needed Kerta to be right. Needed Erik to be himself. Needed King Omaïd to see reason and agree to join the fight. She needed these things, desperately, but she feared. For reasons she could not have given a name to, let alone spoken aloud, she feared.

S
muggle the banners across the river under cover of dark
ness. Maybe a few weapons while we're at it. But can they muster enough help? After what Sadik did to Raynesford . . . If they weren't shitting themselves already, they are now. But without enough bodies, he won't take the bait, and then we're finished . . .

“Sleepless again, my general?”

Rig turned his head on the pillow. Vel lay propped on her elbow, a cascade of black hair spilling over smooth caramel skin. “Sorry,” he said, “am I keeping you awake?”

Even in the dark, he could see the sultry little curl of her mouth. “No, but you may, if you wish.”

He snorted softly. “You're insatiable, woman.”

“I have not heard any complaints from you.”

“I'm a very easygoing person.”

“Mmm,” she agreed dryly. She slid over to curl up on his chest, and Rig tucked her under his arm. It felt good to have her there, he had to admit. In many ways, being with Vel was exactly as he would have imagined it to be—if it had ever occurred to him to imagine it at all. She was lively company, to put it mildly, which was just as well, because Rig found himself
embarrassingly voracious. Maybe it was the stress, or maybe it had just been too long; either way, he looked forward to his evenings more than he had in a great many years. Even so, it was all he could do to keep up with Vel. He'd had fierce lovers before—it was something of a requirement for him, really—but Vel was in a category of her own. For her, lovemaking seemed to be a sort of sparring, a contest for dominance in which every inch of flesh was a potential battleground. She would have had him blushing, if his blood hadn't been too busy rushing elsewhere.

Yet as much as he enjoyed the more athletic aspects of their fledgling . . .
situation
 . . . he found himself appreciating the quiet moments of intimacy nearly as much. That was something he would
not
have expected, and he still wasn't sure how he felt about it. Having someone to confide in was undeniably comforting, a welcome release at the end of the day. (Especially when it was followed, as it invariably was, by a rather more cathartic form of release.) But he couldn't shake the lingering worry that he didn't really know this woman, not in the ways that mattered.

And then, of course, there was the spy.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Rig realised he'd been quiet for a long time. “My mind is all over the place, really.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

She was too clever to put be off by that. She shifted on his chest, looking up at him with an expression that was half worried, half annoyed.

Before she could call him on his evasiveness, Rig added, “Mostly, I was wondering about the priesthood.” A partial truth, at least.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Thinking of becoming an initiate, are you?”

“What's it like? Are even half the rumours true?”

Her expression turned wry. “I suppose I need not ask which rumours concern you.”

“I'm not concerned. Just curious.”

Tucking herself back under his arm, she shrugged. “We are all drug addicts and sexual libertines, is that it?”

“That's what I hear.”

“And now that you have some experience of your own, what do you think?”

He laughed. “I think I know a trap when I see one.”

“You would be a poor excuse for a commander general if you did not. And I would not find you nearly so interesting.” Her fingertips drifted down his stomach, lightly enough that his muscles twitched. She'd been enormously pleased to discover how ticklish he was. As for Rig, he'd been enormously surprised at the sorts of uses that knowledge could be put to. “The Order of Ardin certainly lives up to its reputation.” She traced a finger along his hip bone, over the ugly purple welt he'd earned in the ring yesterday. “The priestesses especially. Given their small numbers, they are rather in demand.”

“I can imagine.” Every red-blooded Aldenian male could imagine—and had, sometimes more often than was healthy.

“For them, coming together in passion is an act of devotion, celebrating their chosen Virtue.”

“They must be the most popular of the orders,” Rig said, grinning.

“The most popular in folklore, certainly. But passion is not for everyone.”

“Forgive me if I find that less than convincing coming from you.” He paused, considering her frankly. “Why did you choose the grey instead of the red, anyway? Ardin seems a perfect fit for you.”

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was unusually diffident. “We do not all choose to follow the Virtue that is closest to our nature. Some of us prefer to immerse ourselves in the tenets of the Virtue we most aspire to.”

“And you aspire to wisdom.”

Her shoulders bobbed in a small shrug. It was such an incongruously self-conscious gesture that Rig couldn't help marvelling a little. It amazed him how changeable this woman was. Sultry vixen one moment, self-possessed priestess the next. And every now and then, this other, entirely more vulnerable creature, one who seemed always to be waiting for the world to judge her. “That sounds like a more difficult path,” he said, “going against your nature like that.”

He'd thought that might please her, and it did; he felt her relax in his arms. “Faith should be difficult,” she said. “It should challenge us to be better than we are.”

“Through enormous amounts of sex.”

She laughed. “That's just the Order of Ardin. The rest of us conduct ourselves with more dignity.”

“You sure? I've heard a thing or two about the Order of Eldora too. About certain herbs and mushrooms and potions.”

“You make it sound so hedonistic. It's not like that at all. If used correctly as part of the holy rites, they allow us to pass through the gates into Eldora's Domain, where we may be given a glimpse of true wisdom.”

“The same thing happens to me when I drink too much ale.”

Vel
tsk
ed. “Do you genuinely wish to learn, or do you intend to make childish quips the entire time?”

“Can't I do both?” She punished him for that, tracking her nails over the ridges of his stomach. He grabbed her wrist, but not before his body seized under her touch.

“I myself have never managed to cross the threshold,” she said. “My mentor says I lack inner discipline.”

“Now that I believe.” Another tweak of the nails, but this time he was ready, twisting away just enough to avoid the worst of it. “It must bother you that all anyone ever talks about is the mind-altering substances and the sex. People never gossip about . . . I don't know . . . the Order of Garvin, say.”

“The Order of Garvin is unspeakably dull. They achieve empathy through prayer circles, in which they pour their hearts out to one another five times a day.”

“Five times?”

“A tedious lot. Constantly weeping . . .”

Rig laughed. “I'm getting the sense you all don't always get on.”

“We have our rivalries.” Soft hair spilled over his chest as she lowered her mouth to his stomach. Rig felt himself stirring. “Still, some orders manage to stay above the fray. The Order of Hew, for example, is well liked by all.”

“Really? I've always found them rather off-putting. The piercings, especially. Seems like an awfully
literal
interpretation of Hew's dazzling tongue.”

“Oh, but that accounts for much of their popularity.” Her mouth was working its way down, slowly, teasingly.

“How's that?” His voice grew husky.

“They make for creative lovers.” Her head disappeared beneath the blankets.

“What? I don't . . .
Oh.
”

At which point, naturally, someone knocked on the door.

Rig swore feelingly. Vel merely sighed, sliding out from under the blankets. “The burdens of power,” she said languidly.

He rolled off the bed and set about fumbling in the dark for his breeches.

“Shall I conceal myself?”

Rig laughed. “My dear, do you seriously think there's a single person in this fort who doesn't know about us? Aside from the fact that soldiers gossip more than any other creature in creation, you're not exactly the quietest.”

“Oh,
really
,” she said tartly.

“Maybe they think you're praying. You certainly call on the gods enough.” He ducked expertly as a pillow cartwheeled past his head. “I jest!” He held up his hands in laughing surrender. “In earnest, though, the mere fact of you appearing at my door day after day will have led the men to the conclusion that we're . . .”

“Yes?”

He waved vaguely at the bed.

“How very articulate.” A self-conscious pause. “You're not worried what your men will think?”

Rig shrugged as he pulled on his breeches. “Fretting about appearances has never been my strength.” He could practically hear his mother declaring that to be the understatement of the decade. If only she could see him now . . . she would have been
appalled
.

And speaking of appalled . . . Rig opened the door, knowing full well the expression that would greet him. Commander Morris did not disappoint. He flicked an uneasy glance into the shadowed interior of Rig's room, as if half afraid he might catch a glimpse of the priestess concealed within. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, General,” he said stiffly, “but I have urgent news.”

“Let's have it, then.”

“The falcon we sent south has returned with a message.”

“From the Resistance?”

“That's just it, General. It's not signed. A precaution, most likely, in case the bird was intercepted by a civilian. But we'd best make sure it's the real thing, or we could be blundering into a trap.”

“Agreed.” It would have been so much better if the Resistance had been willing to trust him with their cypher. He understood why they hadn't, but that still left him with the problem of how to authenticate the message. “Suggestions?”

“The handwriting, maybe. I thought . . .” Morris coughed, shifted on his feet. “Maybe you could ask . . . that is, if you feel comfortable contacting . . . at this hour . . .” Slowly but surely, Commander Morris was turning pink.

“Vel?” Rig ventured blandly.

A pained look crossed Morris's ruddy features. “Yes, General.”

“Give me a moment.” Rig closed the door.

Vel lit a candle. She lay strewn across the bed, hair dishevelled, bronze curves glowing invitingly in the soft orange light. “I was seriously considering wandering out there stark naked.”

“Dear gods, that would have been interesting.” At least once a day, Rig still wondered whether this . . .
whatever it was
 . . . wasn't just another act of rebellion for her, a way of winding up Morris and anyone else who didn't approve of her. And if it was? How much would it matter to him? Rig honestly didn't know. What he
did
know was that it took every ounce of his discipline not to accost those glowing bronze curves, Morris and his mysterious message be damned.

They found Rig's second in the common room, along with the chief messenger. “Here's the scroll, General,” Morris said.

Rig handed it over to Vel. “What do you think? Did you ever see anything written in Wraith's hand?”

“I did, but I can't say I paid much attention. Without a sample to compare it to, we are relying on memory alone.” She unfurled the scroll and scanned it. “I think . . .” She bit her lip. “I think this is genuine. Yes.” She nodded, as if to reassure herself. “Yes, this is his hand.”

“Are you sure?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She wasn't sure.

Rig sighed. “I suppose it was a long shot anyway. All right, let's see what it says.” His eyes tracked over the page.

Morris and Emric, the chief messenger, waited patiently for him to finish. Not Vel. She let him get about five lines in before she demanded, “Well?”

He raised his eyes just long enough to communicate disapproval before resuming his reading. “Interesting,” he said finally, handing it to Morris.

Vel was fairly dancing with impatience. “Are you deliberately being infuriating? What does it
say
, General?”

“To start with, our friend Wraith claims to have spies deep within the Trionate's borders. In Varadast itself, if he's to be believed.”

“It's possible,” Emric said, rubbing his beardless chin thoughtfully. “The Andithyrians pride themselves on being learned, so there's probably more than a few of their number with a strong enough command of Oridian to pass for native. They'd just have to pick someone who didn't have white hair.”

“Does it say what these spies have learned?” Vel asked.

“Nothing we don't already know,” Rig said. “Varad's health is poor, public support for the war is ebbing, that sort of thing. But he thinks one of his people might work his way into a sensitive position soon. He doesn't go into details—too risky without a cypher—but if it's as close to power as he implies, it would be a real boon for us.”

“Don't you have spies of your own in Varadast?”

“Of course. My sister's man has an excellent network. But you know what they say—you can never have too many spies.”

“Or soldiers,” Morris said, finishing the expression. “And what about this other bit, General? About the siege engines?”

“Too risky. Besides, I'm not sure that would work in our favour. Those siege engines might be the only thing holding Sadik on the south side of the river. As it stands now, he's reluctant to start building a third time, but if he loses them, he might as well cross. I'd rather Wraith has a go at the supply lines.”