Sasha put a hand on his cheek and smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. “But Errollyn…tell me what you feel. What does it feel like? I want…I want to get inside you. I want to know who you are.” Even as the words left her lips, she knew that she was falling in love. It wasn't wise, she knew, but like the passionate lust that drove them to such craziness beneath this blanket, there was nothing she could do about it.
Errollyn kissed her, long and lingering. “Right now,” he said softly, “I feel only you. And in truth, I prefer it that way.”
Rhillian leaned upon the ship's railing and watched the small boat struggle against the wind and swell. Two men worked the oars, and a smaller figure waited in the bow. That would be Adele. Adele was good at sneaking. Like Aisha, she'd been running messages at the time of the attacks. It was the main reason she was still alive.
The wind blew the smoke from Dockside's pyres back onto the slope, wreathing the city in the ashes of the dead. An orange sun set upon the ridge, shrouded in black. Yethel would have thought it a magnificent image, and sought his easel and paints. But Yethel was dead. Feshaan. Ylith. Reshard. Terel. All her friends. Her talmaad. Her responsibility. Rhillian wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. Her heart had broken. Crying now would break her soul. She had to be strong. The storm was coming.
Adele climbed over the railing and made her way along the rolling deck. Several of the human staff watched blankly from where they sat about the mast. They had come from properties in Angel Bay, the only places to have survivors. Some had nothing left, and departed their home with the only family they'd ever known. Adele's blue-black braids tossed in the wind, her lean face worn with lines that had not been there a few days ago.
“Neither Patachi Maerler nor his people would see me,” she said tautly as she reached Rhillian's side. “It's over. Patachi Steiner will take command of the Torovan army and march on Saalshen.”
“I believe the human word is ‘cowardice,’” said Kiel, in Torovan. He had appeared out of nowhere, but Rhillian barely blinked. She was accustomed to that. Kiel's calf was heavily bandaged, but he walked well enough, and held his balance on the rolling deck.
“Cowardice,” Rhillian corrected in Lenay, gazing at the smoke-wreathed hills. “It sounds better in Lenay.” With all its inflections of honour and blood. It suited her mood. Sasha would know what she meant.
“Patachi Maerler feels he has nothing more to gain, and everything to lose,” said Adele. “With the priesthood standing so clearly against Saalshen, he cannot side with us any longer. Not if he wishes to avoid displeasing the archbishop. The balance has shifted.”
“This archbishop's days are numbered,” Rhillian murmured. “One way or the other, he has overestimated his power and has become a liability, for everyone. For the priesthood most of all. But the new archbishop, when he comes, will not be able to undo what has been done. His favour now rests with Patachi Steiner, and the coming war shall make Patachi Steiner even more powerful than before. Or so he hopes.”
“So it's over,” said Adele, with what sounded something like regret, and a lot like relief. “Do we sail?”
“Soon,” said Rhillian, faintly. “Very soon.”
“We cannot just run away,” Kiel said firmly. “We cannot let any human see Saalshen so easily defeated.”
“Soon also, my friend,” Rhillian assured him. She took a deep breath. “Very soon.”
“We must stand firm,” Kiel insisted. “There is a storm coming.”
“No,” Rhillian said softly. “The storm has arrived. And it is us.”
“Enough,” Sasha gasped, pushing weakly at Errollyn's shoulder. “Dear gods, enough.” Errollyn nuzzled at her ear, kissed her neck and then finally slid off her. She turned away from him, and he pressed close against her back, pulling her to him. Sasha bit back a happy grin…it felt improper to feel so good, when so much else was bad. But it had always been her philosophy to take her pleasure where and when it came, and devil take the consequences. A lamp flickered on the table by the door and their clothes lay together on the floor where they'd tossed them. Their weapons arrayed carefully against the wall.
“You appeal to the gods now?” Errollyn murmured in her ear.
“What?”
“Just now. You appealed to the gods. And several times before. Somewhat more loudly.”
Sasha tried to frown at him over her shoulder, but that was hard. She knew he was teasing her, again. Errollyn found these things amusing. “I was born Verenthane, they won't mind.”
“That implies you're no longer Verenthane, in which case they probably will.”
“You can be quite annoying sometimes, do you know that?”
“You don't seem to mind too much.” His hand strayed down her flat stomach. “If you prefer my less lucid thoughts, we could make love again.”
“No,” she protested. “I can't. Damn it, Errollyn, that's five times in a day. It hurts.”
Errollyn put his arms around her and rested his mouth against her hair. “And how does it feel to be no longer a virgin?”
From a human man, the question might have been insulting. But from a serrin…Sasha smiled wryly. “I was only ever a virgin in body, never in spirit.”
Errollyn laughed softly. “Good answer. Almost serrin, in fact.”
“I suppose if pressed, I could take that as a compliment.”
For a short moment, she was content. He made her forget about all the killing, and the fear. She found a moment to wonder if that was a good thing…
A new shroud of gloom threatened to settle, but Errollyn's lips found her neck and his hand explored her thigh, and the gloom lifted. She turned within his arms, kissed him some more and then settled against his shoulder.
…and was woken by a horrid, acrid smell. Her head spun as though she were falling, even lying in bed. She pressed her face hard to the pillow, trying to hold her breath. Hands grabbed her, a knee pressed to her back, her arm twisted to prevent her reaching for the knife beneath the pillow. Something hit her from the side, perhaps Errollyn fighting back…but she dared not lift her face and risk a lungful of the acrid stench.
The next thing she knew, she was still facedown on the bed, not knowing how much time had passed. She reached for Errollyn with a hand, and found only sheets. Beneath her pillow, the knife was missing. She risked a sniff of the air, and found the smell strong, yet not overpowering. She pulled the blanket up, pressing it to her face…the air stung her eyes, and someone had put out the lamp. Stumbling off the bed in the dark, she felt for the weapons along the wall, finding nothing. Her impulse was to rush out the door and after Errollyn…but she was naked, weaponless, and her eyes were stinging. What could she do in such a state?
She reached instead for the washroom door and pushed inside, fumbling on the cold stones for the water bucket. She dunked her hands and washed her face and eyes, and blinked blearily around in the darkness. The room seemed to lean sideways…she took several steps and her bare foot kicked something familiar. She bent and her hands found…her sword. Not stolen, then, but placed in the washroom. Who would…? Who…?
She swore in Lenay, and heard a distant crash from downstairs. Taking a deep breath, she dashed back through the sleeping chamber, then out the door. The trapdoor to the stairs was open and she ran down fast, the night air chill on her bare skin. Her nudity might have bothered her, were it not for the blade in her hands. The sword gave her more comfort than any number of clothes could have done. Beyond the softness of her own footsteps, she heard a muffled grunt and a harsh whisper of voices.
Sasha reached the base of the stairs by the wall, and slid the sword free, placing its scabbard silently on the pavings. Statues loomed about, poses softly outlined in the dim light from overhead windows. Hands reaching for the stars, clasping in fury, wide open in exclamation, or grand gesture. Stone faces stared, mouths gaped silently, hard eyes watchful in the dark.
Sasha held her blade low, two-handed, and took one careful step after another. Her eyes slowly searched the dark, wide and unfocused as she tried desperately to stop from blinking lest they tear up once more, red and irritable. She stayed close to a row of statues, ready to dive for cover in case of an archer, or to parry hard. Somehow she doubted either eventuality. If they'd wished her dead, surely they'd have slit her throat in bed. But neither was she in a mood for generosity.
She heard movement over by a far wall, something heavy. She took a careful step around a great figure of a winged god, and found a shadow near the leg of another statue had come to life. The shadow was all blackness, save for a pair of luminescent emerald eyes and a motionless silver blade. The eyes were familiar. Sasha stared in disbelief.
“Rhillian?” she whispered.
“Sasha,” came the quiet reply. “Go back to bed.”
Sasha took a deep, quivering breath. When she spoke, there was a painful lump in her throat. “Not without Errollyn.”
“You are a beautiful woman, Sasha. You can have any man you like. But not this one.”
“You…you've gone mad. What in all the hells are you doing?”
“Restitution,” said Rhillian softly. There was something faintly odd in her stance. A slight sideways edge to her position, a barely perceptible backward slant to one shoulder. Her sword was not raised, held only in one hand, but it was bare. Clearly Rhillian was defending something. Perhaps Errollyn had put up more of a fight than expected, and several strong serrin were having difficulty carrying him. Perhaps one had been injured. For the first time in her life, Sasha found herself hoping so.
“Get out of my way,” she demanded. She edged a step forward, then another. Rhillian took in the posture, with the recognition of one who read such things as a scholar might read a text. Sasha's head still swam, and her knees were weak. She would not need clothes to take Rhillian, but balance would be useful. There weren't many opponents she was uncertain against, face to face. Rhillian was one.
“Would you kill me?” Rhillian asked. Her tone was not wounded, as Sasha might have expected. It was bland. Almost cold.
“Kill you? You attacked me!”
“You are still alive.”
“In my culture,” Sasha retorted through gritted teeth, “that makes no difference. You had no right. Now, I do.”