War of Torment, page 4
Gi’Zac wavered again, and the reality struck Marco then—the exhaustion, the bone-deep exhaustion from powering a ship using a gift long ago corrupted . . . he knew it very well.
Marco stood and looked to the general. “Arrange quarters for the Uchuvchi to rest and eat.” He returned his attention to the alien, who billowed to his feet. “You are my guests. I know the toll piloting takes, so I suggest rest. Since you said the ships cannot be unmanned, mayhap do so in rotations.”
Again, Gi’Zac rolled his hand and fingers, touching his temple port.
Instinctively, Marco mimicked the gesture—a sign of gratitude and respect—and watched them leave.
Would their presence and fast-attack craft be enough?
Aye, they were skilled pilots of advanced spacecraft. However, they faced an armada they did not know. If more Uchuvchi somehow came through, mayhap led by Eija, there might be a prayer. But in the Quadrants, they were—like the rest of Drosero—sorely outnumbered. If they could barely walk here, how were they to stay alive long enough to fight and annihilate this threat?
The door opened, and the revelry beyond shoved its way into the quiet chamber. In the commons, aerios and regia were laughing, talking, cheering the Uchuvchi. Already celebrating a victory in a war not yet fought.
“Your efflux betrays you.”
He did not turn to the master hunter behind him. “So much for the Codes that forbid anak’ing Brethren.” Irritation clawed his spine, but he channeled it and faced his men. “Foolish the hope they put in an alien race simply because there is more technology and things of which they have not heard.”
“Think you we are lost then?” Bazyli angled his head, blond beard twitching.
Marco reached for a tankard of cordi. “If they were our savior, there would be no need for what yet burns in me.”
And burn did it ever. The heat of the brand had begun to pale to the more demanding fire from the weapon. While it invigorated, it also depleted his patience and seemed to inflame . . . thoughts.
Case in point: “Tell me, Uncle, do you anak them?”
Roman did not hesitate, falling right into the pattern of master to hunter. “There is a void around them.”
“Liodence.”
At that, the master recoiled.
“Huh,” Marco grunted. “I am not surprised you know of it.”
“How can they—”
“Because!” He rolled his gaze to the hearth fire and sipped the warmed cordi. “The Uchuvchi are part of the Draegis race and have been captives all their lives, serving as pilots for ships.” He traced the rim of the tankard, struggling against the fury of the memories. “On the Prevenire, I was trapped in the lectulo for six weeks. For them”—he nodded after Gi’Zac—“it is the entirety of their existence. All they have known.”
“How did you come to learn of liodence?”
“An old man.” Marco stretched his neck at the memory. “Qadimiy found me on Rohilek, the Draegis homeworld.” He gave a mirthless laugh and set down his tankard. “He was not what he appeared to be.”
Hesitating to tell the tale, he wondered how this would be taken. Few times had he felt more awkward. But the master must know. They all must. “Right in front of me, he . . . transformed. And I do not mean that figuratively.” He roughed his hands together. Stared the master hunter in the eyes so there could be no doubt of what he would speak. “He was . . . Vaqar.”
Shock and rage rushed through Roman’s visage. “Vaqar!” Snatching Marco up by his tunic, he pulled him face-to-face, drawing the regia, who faltered, unsure of what to do. “What say you?”
Knowing it blasphemy to speak such, Marco shoved out of the grip. “Do not reprimand me, I—”
“No.” Roman’s breaths heaved and worry touched his brow. “Vaqar . . . you know his name is sacred to all the Brethren. But . . . more than that . . .” He gave a strangled cry. “Marco, it was written.” He rested a hand on Marco’s shoulder, his efflux one of awe. “The White Temple scrolls predict ‘the Progenitor with war in his hands will walk with he who hunted and felt the first touch of the Ancient in his nostrils.’” His brows dug down in earnestness. “Speak true. You saw him—Vaqar?”
Why did it anger Marco that this, too, was in the scrolls? That he would be questioned and doubted in this as well? “As true as I see you.”
Roman sniffed. “All this time . . .” Another shake of his head. “We thought it merely . . . symbolic.”
Marco could not account for writings he had not read, but never would he forget looking the First Hunter in the eyes. “I assure you, it was not symbolic. And neither was he. Nor was he gentle with me.”
“Did you expect him to be?” Roman asked around a laugh.
“I expected him to care! Care about what I’d been through. The harm done to me and Isaura. Those creatures digging in my head, a feeling not unlike a pulse blast—”
“You are not the focus.” Roman edged closer. “Not of that trip, not of this war. That is why he did not coddle you, and I am ashamed you expected it. The people face—”
“I’m aware of what the people face!” Marco growled. “I saw the cruelty done to the Draegis. Through centuries of dosing them with liodence, the Corrupt have altered this race into beasts they use as mindless drones. At those same hands, I suffered, my body punished, my receptors brutalized as they sought to harness this so-called gift of ours. Probes shoved into my nose and down my throat—”
Burning, the memories choked him. He swallowed, suddenly aware of the silence that had fallen in the room. That he had spoken what he’d vowed not to. That they stared. Grief and revulsion blanketed the air.
Marco snagged the tankard again. Downed the cordi—now cold. He grimaced, wiped his mouth, took a few measured breaths. Did his best not to anak their reactions. And like everything else he’d tried, failed.
Without a word, he strode from the hall.
He was not the same man she had bound herself to, but he was still Dusan. Still powerful both in presence and influence. Especially over her heart.
Isaura had followed him to the ship, up into it—though the thing terrorized her—and then gaped in . . . shock? Horror? She could not put a name to what she felt as the ship . . . came alive. Like some monstrous creature from tales told to children to make them behave. It had attached to him in a way that was neither natural nor . . .
What, normal? Is that what you would speak?
Horrific, how that thing had gone after their child. What was that? Even now, cold dread crept over her shoulder. She feared the ship would reach through the stone walls of Kardia and come for her, for Aeliana.
Ridiculous! Truly, she did not know what to feel. The very ship on which Dusan returned had also disgorged itself of those strange-looking men. Granted, through that experience, she understood on a much deeper level that he had endured a lifetime of events and traumas in the six months they were apart—and, somehow, it had been even less time for him. No wonder he was much affected, altered. How she ached for him.
Sitting at the mirror as Kita combed and plaited her hair, Isaura glanced down at her belly and ran her hand over it. Felt a soft, assuring thump from the baby.
Oh, my precious girl . . . thank you for bringing him home to us.
Her thoughts moved to the master hunter. Quite ill-humored throughout the morning as they talked and visited the ship. Very stern. Disapproving. More so than usual. As if he, too, feared how Dusan had changed. Feared his future.
“You are well?” Kita reached around her and set the brush on the vanity.
Isaura looked up at her friend’s reflection. Then saw her own. Circles under her eyes. Downturned mouth. He had yet been back two rises and still she feared falling asleep. Feared he would be taken from her.
Or that I will be taken from him.
She swallowed, again gazing at her belly. My time with them both is short . . . The truth of that spiraled through her, twisting her heart and thickening her throat. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
“My lady?” Kita squatted beside her. “What grieves you?”
Clasping the lifeline of her friend’s hand, Isaura met her honeyed gaze. Felt tears welling up. “What this war will bring.” She choked back a sob. “He has only just returned to me, and I fear our time together is short.”
“Oh, tsk.” Using a handkerchief, Kita wiped away a tear. “You will be with him long—”
“No,” Isaura groaned. “I will not. Ignorance is not how I went into this life, and I would not leave it in that manner. Before our binding, Dusan told me of a foretelling he had—of himself and Kersei . . . with sons.” She felt her vision blurring. “I was not in it. But I so ardently do not want to lose him when he has just returned!” Tears burst free, and she was grateful for the reassurance of Kita’s warm arms encircling her. Comforting her.
A door thudded open in the main room. “Isa?” His voice was urgent as he sought her.
Frantic he would see her blotchiness, she straightened. Silly, since it seemed he had already detected her struggling emotions. “Coming.” Skirts in hand, she left the dressing chamber.
“You are well?” he called as he turned in her direction. His brow furrowed and he stopped short.
Her heart alighted when his silvery gaze connected with hers. It felt as the heat of a hearth. Relief that he was yet here, that the ship did not take him, swam thick and heady through her. “Dusan.”
Four strides carried him across the room. “What grieves you, my aetos? I anak’d it and could not focus.”
“No grief, just . . . concern. Over this war.” She should not lie to him, but she would not have him stressed regarding her.
Wary, he considered, then brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Isa, I know concern from grief. They hit my receptors differently.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “I beg your mercy. I just . . . I fear this war, Dusan. I fear losing you all over again.”
He wrapped her into his arms. “My aetos . . . I will not let it happen.”
Strange how an unkeepable promise could so vehemently latch onto her heart. She hugged him, treasuring every moment they had together.
“Isa, earlier . . . the . . . ship.” He shifted back and cupped her face. “I vow to you, the ship—”
“It is well.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “We are well.”
“It would not harm you, I assure you.”
Though she wanted to believe his words, she faltered. “How can you know this?”
“I . . . it is hard to explain, but I . . . I control it.” He peeked at her like a recalcitrant child. “Somehow, with tech I cannot explain nor understand, it responds to me. I wouldn’t have let it harm you.” But something in his silvery eyes betrayed hesitation. “Too, I wonder . . . mayhap what is in me is in our daughter. Mayhap the ship sensed it . . . her.”
“That does not allay my alarm,” she confessed. “However, I trust your word.” She would not question it or him, but neither would she again go near that ship. “You are returned to me, and I am glad for it and your protection.”
Again, he drew her into his hold. “My refuge.” He kissed her neck, then the hollow of her throat. With a groan, he trailed kisses up to the tender, ticklish spot behind her ear.
Trills ran down her spine at the intimate gestures. Surprised at his sudden flare of passion, she wrapped her arms around him, missing him, loving him.
“Every moment I was away, I ached for this.” He burrowed in and stayed there. As if . . . hiding. “For you. To be here, in your arms.”
“I as well,” she said, sensing something amiss. “But what brought this on? Are you well, Dusan?”
He dropped back onto the bed behind him, slumping. Roughed a hand over his face and beard. All so contradictory to who he was, the confident hunter who commanded respect. “I do not know, Isa. I don’t know if I’m well. Or . . . what.” The way that last word lashed out made her hurt for him. “I want to sleep in your arms for a hundred years, yet there is barely time for one night’s rest. And even then, I cannot find it. When I sleep, I dream. And it is not . . . pleasant.” He looked up at her and something shifted in his expression as he huffed. His hands slid up her thighs . . . hips . . . and framed her belly. Eyes sliding shut, he leaned in and kissed her womb. “Little One . . . thank you.”
A solid thump startled her.
Dusan twitched back. His silvery eyes shot to hers. “She heard me.”
Isaura laughed, hand resting on his shoulder, her legs and lower back aching. “There is no doubt she did or—considering those kicks—that she is your daughter.”
He grinned, and her heart melted as the Dusan she had fallen in love with sat before her once more. Confident. Focused. Not lighthearted, but never had he been such. In this brief moment, he was not burdened by the survival of the Quadrants.
She traced his face, the beard he had grown . . . the stubble of his shaved head . . . “I have missed you, Dusan.”
Please, Ancient, give us more time . . .
An ominous warning snapped Marco from the heavy shackles of sleep and thrust him into the cold, black void of night. Drenched in sweat, he struggled against a weight pressing on his side. He glanced there and found a sea of wheat. Hair. Strands so golden, even in the inky hour, her skin nearly white beneath the amber glow of touchstones lining the walls of their apartments.
His heart settled and the nightmares scampered into the shadows, as he watched her sleep. Amazed that he was truly here with her. That it was no tormenting dream.
Even so, he reached out and touched her hair. Felt its silkiness.
Oras later as he yet drifted somewhere between waking and sleeping, watching the moonslight stretch across the bedchamber to her lithe frame and the glorious swell of her belly. Incredible—his child grew within her. What would she be like? Dark-haired and brooding like him, or fair and light, full of gentle courage like Isa? His gaze strayed again to his bound’s smooth cheek, unfurrowed brow.
The nightmare returned to him. Words of warning, so clear in his head, as if—
Squeezing his eyes shut, Marco growled and lurched to his feet. “No.” When his voice reverberated across the stone floor, he yanked his attention back to the bed, hoping he had not awakened Isaura. But the bed was shrouded in darkness. No moonslight, no gleam of hair.
What . . .? His heart lurched, realizing what this was. “Where is she? Do not torment me!” He stepped nearer the bed, his thoughts torn. “I would have peace,” he hissed.
Light glimmered and danced across the foot of the bed, a sea of black.
He drew closer . . .
The black thickened . . . reddened . . .
Dread coiled as a scent rose like a wispy, taunting tendril. A sweet, metallic scent snaked across the room.
Blood!
Spinning around, he felt his feet tangle. He pitched against the edge of the bloody mattress. Hands splatting in the viscous substance. It stuck to his palms. Spilled down his arms.
Then he saw her.
Isa in a pool of blood. Asleep—aye. An eternal sleep.
“No!” As panic ripped through him, Marco was diverted by a powerful fragrance permeating his receptors. To the right.
Blackness surrendered to a shape.
He stalked toward the figure sheathed in light and mist. Felt a tremor of anger at the toying with his mind, with his heart. The words she’d spoken on Iereania. The future he’d been forced into—endless heartaches, cruel battles, long days . . . “Change this! Do not let her die because of me!”
“Remain strong.”
A barbed tendril bit into his chest. “Have I not returned? Have I not faced enough?” he demanded. “I nearly died in that accursed system! Do you tell me I escaped only to see her die?”
“Stand between Life and Death.”
“Answer me!”
But she was gone.
“Augh!” Marco awoke with a jolt. Cold sweat plastered his shirt to his chest and back. He found himself abed, Isaura beside him.
It’d been a dream . . . within a dream . . . He groaned. Hooked his hands over his shorn scalp with a shaky moan.
“Dusan?” Isa rose and caught his arm.
Hunched over, he gripped his head and fought the torment.
Warm, gentle hands touched his back. “Are you well?”
Far from it. He grunted, cast a wary glance over his shoulder. Saw her. Fair, beautiful Isa. Not dead. Not bleeding. Instead, radiant, hair free and beautiful.
With a shuddering breath, he dropped against the feather mattress, and she was there. Her cheek came to rest on his chest. He coiled his arms around her, feeling her heart beat steadily against his own.
My burden and measure. Burden and measure.
What did it mean? She was no burden—she was an anchor. A lifeline! The aetos that guided him home—by carrying their daughter.
“The ship again?” she whispered into the darkness.
Never would he speak of that dream—of her death. “Aye.”
The first night back, he’d dreamed of being trapped in the Prevenire. Tubes of iron holding him hostage. Sucking the life from him. But tonight . . . Horrific.
Readily would he endure the lectulos a thousand times over as long as what he dreamed this night never came to pass.
Please, Ancient. I beg you. Keep her and the babe safe.
He pulled her closer and bathed his receptors in her Signature. Breathed her in. Breathed again. And again. He felt the roundness of his heir pushing her mother’s belly out. Hand over the swollen womb, he reached with the anaktesios to the babe who had drawn him home with a Signature so powerful that even the Ladies could not hide her from him.
Isaura’s cool, gentle fingers traced his shorn head. “Still cannot believe you shaved your hair.”
“Do you hate it?”
“It is not possible for me to hate anything about you except your absence.”
Marco propped himself up on his elbow. Brushed her hair from her face. Reveled in the twin lights in her eyes—hers and the babe’s.
