Elyon's Ghost, page 12
Ailith interrupted, “Used hit and run, I bet. Th’ southern end of Dreyutha is rocky, and we had to go after th’ raiders attacking the settlements there. We used hit and run.”
Ailith never spoke much about her past, and Jenx was always happy to glean tidbits whenever Ailith spoke of her time in the army. “That’s right. I’ve never fought in an army, so I wouldn’t know that unless I read about it in a book.” She shrugged, “Now, since I’ve read that book, I know all about that queen, and I learned about using rocks and boulders to hide behind when you attack and to cover your trail when you run.”
Nev flung his lanky arms back and forth. “Wait, wait, wait. You actually fought battles with the Dreyuthan army? That’s amazing! You’ll have to tell me all about it someday. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about their military. Are they as brutal as they say? I mean to their own soldiers as well as to those they capture?”
Brutal was putting it mildly as far as Ailith was concerned. When she’d been in the army, it had been normal to her. Now that she’d experienced the Blades, she understood just how inhumane the Dreyuthans were. Not all, of course. She’d been lucky it had been Duke Ravenkind who’d signed her onto his rosters. But other regiments were definitely run by people who liked nothing more than to give other people pain. Not wanting to go into all that right then, Ailith just shrugged and shoved her hands into her pockets.
That was a sign Jenx had come to recognize, so she changed the subject. “That’s a tale for another time, Nev. For right now, I need a book that teaches the alphabet.”
Nev blinked, and when he saw the blush rising into Ailith’s cheeks, he put a hand to his chin. “Let me think. I have one here somewhere.” He suddenly morphed into the professional bookseller who knew every title in his shop. “Is this for you, Ailith?”
When Ailith crossed her arms and looked at the ground, Jenx answered for her. “It is.”
The man completely surprised Ailith when he said, “Then it needs to be small enough to conceal on your body. I don’t think I have one that will fit in your pockets, but I do have…” he snapped his fingers and raced to the back where he pulled open a large, deep drawer that had been built into the wall. He began pulling out books, glancing at the titles, and tossing them onto the floor.
Jenx pulled a reluctant Ailith to where Nev mumbled to himself as he went through book after book. When he came to the bottom of the drawer, he sat back on his heels and scratched his head. “Poop. It’s here somewhere.” He finally found what he was looking for in the third drawer. “Yes!”
Triumphantly holding up a small book as though he’d just won some type of contest, he brought it over and held it out to Ailith, who took one look at the cover and backed away. “No. No fowkin’ way I’ll be cartin’ that around th’ Temple. Are ya tryin’ to make me into more of a laughingstock than I already am?” The pink and blue book had a small child sitting on a log with two tiny lambs frolicking nearby.
Nev took one look at the cover and chastised himself. “Oh, for the sake of the Goddess. What was I thinking? I’m an idiot, Jenx, plain and simple.”
Jenx grinned at Ailith and crossed her arms as the two of them watched the stork of a man leaping over stacks of books as he hurried to the other side of the store. This time he began rifling through smaller drawers, pulling out old pieces of leather or yards of leather twine. Each time he thought he’d found what he was looking for, he’d hold the book up, gauge its size, and then discard that particular piece of leather.
Finally, he pulled out a well-worn leather dustjacket that seemed to have been made with that book’s dimensions in mind. He slipped the front and back covers into pockets specifically made for that purpose and then proudly held up a nondescript brown leather book no one would guess was a child’s primer.
Jenx watched Ailith, who walked over and studied the cover.
Taking it from Nev, Ailith tentatively slipped it beneath her tunic and down the back of her pants, where her belt held it firmly in place. Pulling it out again, she blushed and held it out to the bookseller, knowing she probably couldn’t afford such a nice book.
Nev beamed and pushed it back at her. “It’s a gift from one reader to another.”
“No.” Ailith set the book on a nearby table. “I thank ya fer yer kindness, but I’ll no be takin’ charity from nobody.”
“Charity? It’s not charity. It’s a gift from me to you.”
“No.” Ailith’s tone said she wouldn’t waver from her decision. “But…” she glanced around the shop. “Ya got some dust on some of yer higher-up books. I’m a good climber and no afraid of heights. What say we do a trade? I work deadnight shift, and that means I have some time durin’ th’ day. How about I dust yer books to pay fer that one?”
Both Jenx and Nev knew perfectly well that Sábria would pay for any book Ailith wanted. All she asked from a Blade who bought a book on the Temple’s credit was that the book go into the Temple library when they were finished. For that matter, Jenx could easily afford to buy the book herself, but she was relieved when Nev seemed to understand the problem and nodded with a serious expression on an otherwise friendly face.
“Deal. Ten candlemarks of work will pay for that book just fine.”
Ailith brought her palm up to spit in it—the Dreyuthan peasant’s way of sealing a deal—when Jenx growled, “Don’t you dare.”
Stopping herself just in time, Ailith squeezed her eyes shut. “I fergot. Sorry.” Holding out her hand, she watched as Nev spit into his own palm and clasped hands with her.
Ailith grinned, and when she had her hand back, she looked down at her nearly dry palm. “I’d say ya need some work on yer spittin’, Master Lowenbrow.”
Nev shrugged and handed Ailith her book. “I’ve always wanted to do that but wasn’t sure how much spit was required.”
Ailith laughed out loud at his sheepish expression and proudly took the book from him. Her book. The first book that belonged entirely to her. She stuffed it down the back of her pants and beamed at her handler. She was going to learn to read.
CHAPTER 13
There always seemed to be too many reports to read. Too many disciplines to review, too many counseling needs, and lately, way, way too many wounded to check. Sábria sat in her second-floor office, wondering when she’d let the backlog of administrative details pile up. Sitting back in her chair, she let the quill pen drop from her fingers and raised a hand to rub her eyes.
She stopped short when she realized her fingers were stained with a light sheen of black ink. “Wonderful.” The grumble in her voice surprised her. She’d been doing this job long enough to realize that much of what she did was tedious administrative work. Opening the desk’s center drawer, she lifted out a clean, black cloth her serving woman kept there for just such a purpose.
Beneath its folds was a decorative rounded tin the size of a small woman’s fist, a gift from the woman whose friendship she cherished with every part of her being. The mighty ship’s captain had captured her heart twenty turns earlier when she’d sailed her three-masted ship, The Polperro, into Millnet Bay and had come marching into the Temple to see the woman who dared usurp the name of her ship. She’d pushed her way past the gate guards and stood in the middle of the courtyard bellowing that she needed to see the “fowkin’ priestess what claims she can wear th’ name of me ship without askin’ th’ permission of Captain Gweyir Wynlafur.”
It had taken Ursuna Geller, a refugee from the Trenchian Isles, to explain that Polperro, translated from the original Trenchian dialect, meant The Arch Priestess.
Sábria smiled at the memory, as she did every time she pried off the colorful lid. She dipped her fingers into the ink-removing salve Gweyir had insisted she use to remove the “Bloody black ink ya let stain yer musical, magical fingers what make me body cry out to th’ blessed Goddess Elyon.”
After they’d known each other for ten or more turns, Gweyir had sailed to the small island kingdom of Pheodra to find the artisan known throughout every kingdom and empire for crafting the most exquisite enamel artifacts and wall hangings. She’d commissioned him to create an enamel replica of the Polperro on top of the round salve jar so that Sábria would think of her every time she lay down her quill.
Sábria thought back to another time and place, to the first few times they’d met. The two women had been wary of each other at first, and Shirin had taken an instant dislike to the brazen, disrespectful, undisciplined woman who’d come sailing into their lives without a by your leave. One incident always came to mind whenever Sábria thought of those early days.
Sábria had been young and dumb and had the mindset common to all young Blades that convinced them that they were invincible. Thinking back now, she often wondered how she’d ever survived her first years as Arch Priestess. She’d chaffed at the restrictions imposed upon her by her new duties at the Temple and would often leave without her guards just to prove to herself that she hadn’t become the Goddess’ obedient prisoner.
Back then, she hadn’t been as easily recognizable as she was now. When she walked through the streets alone wearing the all-black uniform, no one gave her a second glance. She was a Blade, nothing more or less. On this particular morning, she’d walked past the Broken Tooth and entered the Codpiece, wanting to find Marne and an older Blade, Kushlin, who often worked the lower streets. She missed being an active Blade and had wanted to patrol with them for part of the night.
Instead, she’d found five angry tribs who’d been arrested and, in their minds, humiliated by the Blades a fortnight earlier. The scruffy, unshaven nobs had moved forward in unison, backing her further into the alley she’d just turned down on her way to the back street where she hoped to find her two friends.
The leader, a sunburned, red-headed bear of a man, ran his gaze up and down her curvaceous body and leered with a black-toothed grin. “Look what th’ sewer dragged up, lads. A sweet Temple morsel served up on a platter.” He pulled a long knife, and as he strode toward her, the others moved around to block her retreat.
When Sábria pulled her blade, his grin widened, revealing several gaps further back in his mouth where his rukilla dust addiction had completely rotted his black teeth from their sockets. Putting her back to the wall to keep from being taken from behind, Sábria whistled her personal distress call and readied herself for the fight of her life.
The other four drew their weapons and leered hungrily at her from within their semi-circle. If she managed to get past the bear, which in their minds was highly unlikely, she’d have to take on each one of them in turn. Or all at once, since honor was a foreign concept to their way of thinking.
The big man’s slashing attack was fast and skilled, and Sábria had her hands full deflecting his strikes while keeping away from a second nob on her right. His blade scored across the front of her tunic, luckily below the level of her breasts since he’d have had the reach if the knife had traveled slightly higher. As it was, the tunic gaped open, revealing the lower part of her breastband, which flashed white every time she parried his attacks.
The four onlookers hooted and made ribald comments about how they intended to remove it and what they intended to do with the fulsome breasts it concealed.
Their voices were raucous and loud, which made the sharp silence that followed all the more shocking. One minute there were four in the semi-circle, and then a red-bladed curved sanguine sword slashed through the air, decapitating the lag on the right. The noise stopped mid-jeer as the head rolled under the big bear’s feet, where he accidentally stepped on it and sprawled on the cobbles directly in front of Sábria.
Not one to miss an opportunity, Sábria gripped her blade in a two-handed overhead swing and struck down, nearly cleaving the man’s head in two. She looked up in time to see Captain Winlafur’s blade slice across a second man’s throat, and when Sábria leapt forward to engage the remaining two lags, both men turned and fled the alley.
Gweyir stooped and wiped her blade clean on one lag’s tunic, and Sábria wiped hers on the bear’s trews. Both women stood and looked at one another, and the ship’s captain finally pointed to the tear in Sábria’s tunic. “Are ya hurt, Lass?”
Sábria glanced down and ran her finger through the fabric. “No, but a bit higher and….” She raised her brows and grinned at the other woman.
“In that case…” Gweyir shocked Sábria when she stepped forward, put both hands on either side of Sábria’s cheeks, and delivered one of the most sensual, satisfying kisses of the young Priestess’ life. Time slowed to a standstill, and Sábria’s world shrank to nothing more than this dark-skinned woman and the sensations she was sending throughout her body. Gweyir pulled away and said quietly, “Come to me ship, Lass.”
Looking down at the three dead men, Sábria shook her head. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Gweyir tugged gently on her hand. “They’ll either be here when ya return, or they’ll be rottin’ on th’ midden heap. We’re in th’ Codpiece, and no one will care what happened here today. Besides, I think ya need a bit of rule breakin’ in yer life, or a lovely lass so spirited and bold will begin to resent who she is and the path her Goddess demands she walk.”
She tugged a bit harder, and with the typical insanity that Sábria came to recognize in later years whenever Gweyir Wynlafur sailed back into her life, Sábria had compromised. Two days later, she’d walked to the docks where sailors were carrying heavy boxes onboard the Polperro, readying her for her next trip east.
She wasn’t surprised to see the captain, with her dark skin glistening in the morning sun, working alongside her people. Her arm muscles were sculpted like those of Sábria’s Goddess, each one distinct and shapely and strong. The way her shoulders stretched and flexed whenever she lifted a heavy box and handed it to one of her people had Sábria wishing she was standing behind her with her chest pressed up against her hot, sweaty bare flesh.
Gweyir noticed the Arch Priestess leaning against a pylon, watching her with a definite glint of interest in those clear blue eyes. With typical over-the-top enthusiasm, the captain grinned, and her voice boomed across the docks, startling the flock of seagulls perched here and there around the ship. “Lads and ladies, I want ya to bow to th’ woman what dared take th’ name of me ship fer her own.” With a great flourish, she bowed and then cuffed a few of her female sailors who stood gaping at the fact that the Arch Priestess of the Daughters of Elyon had come down to the docks to watch them load their cargo. “I said bow, ya knob-brained skuts.”
They had, and before long, Sábria had been invited to tour the ship, an invitation she’d happily agreed to. She had no interest in the holds or crew quarters, but she thoroughly enjoyed following that muscular back as they wended their way through the ship. By the time the tour came to the exotically decorated captain’s quarters, Sábria was more than ready for what came next.
She’d waited for Gweyir to follow her inside and had then kicked the door shut. After a long, passionate kiss, the two of them had enjoyed each other’s bodies while rocking in the arms of the magnificent Polperro.
Even now, the memory of that afternoon spent on Gwe’s ship and of the many other times her captain had spirited her away from her routine at the Temple were enough to spark a sensual response no matter where she might find herself at the time. She cherished the times they’d had together, free from any conditions or commitments or emotional baggage. She closed her eyes and sighed as she slowly replaced the lid on the beautiful gift her wild and playful friend had given her so long ago.
Shirin came through the door and stopped short when she noticed the same wistful smile she always saw whenever Sábria opened her tin.
The look of concern Sábria saw told her something was very wrong. “What is it?” She quickly wiped the gel from her fingers and stood.
“Sábria—” Shirin glanced over her shoulder into the outer office and then stepped all the way inside and shut the door.
Coming out from behind her desk, Sábria started toward Shirin. “What? Is it one of the Blades? Please don’t tell me another one has died.”
Shaking her head, Shirin put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “No, no. The Blades are fine.” She steered Sábria toward the sofa in the library portion of the office. “It might be better if you sat.”
Sábria, who’d been allowing Shirin to guide her toward the sofa, stopped dead in her tracks. “Shirin. What is it? Tell me. Now.”
Swallowing hard, Shirin pulled in a breath and spoke while trying to hold back tears. “The harbormaster is in the outer office.”
Sábria’s legs gave way, and Shirin caught her and supported her to the sofa. There was only one reason the harbormaster would make an uninvited, unannounced visit to the Temple. He’d become a good friend, too, over the turns, mostly because he and Gweyir were old drinking buddies from the time they’d fought pirates together as sailors in a mercenary fleet. “Don’t say it. Please.”
Shirin remained silent, rubbing Sábria’s back until the Priestess leaned in and allowed her friend to hold her in a loving embrace.
Barely able to produce even a harsh whisper to ask the question, Sábria nonetheless forced herself to form the words. “Is she gone?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t know. The word from several ships’ captains is that the Polperro went down in a hurricane off the Kibrunian coast.”
Using Shirin’s tunic to wipe her tears, Sábria rubbed at the wet spot when she realized what she’d done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
