Ristor, Ninth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel
Distorted memories of the massacre swirled in Avaren's mind. Ashen faces. Cold flesh. Blood. She struggled to breathe; writhed under the assassin's weight.
"Help!"
Avaren awoke to the echo of her scream and a thousand wings beating in unison. The morning light had not yet stolen into the aperture of the cave when the colony of bats returned to their roosts. The tiny creatures circled the quiet pool before darting into the dark recesses of the cave.
Lying beside her, sprawled on the shore with his boots still in the water, lay her rescuer. Jarle was unconscious; his fingers curled into a claw-like grip; his breaths shallow. Avaren got up and crawled to the man's side. She brushed the hair away from his face and pressed her palm to his cheek. Jarle was cold to the touch; his lips so pale they appeared bloodless.
Gently, Avaren slapped the man's cheek. Jarle didn't stir nor move a muscle. Looking at him more closely, it occurred to her that the man appeared almost frozen as if locked in a strange torpor. Avaren thought back to the moment when her eyes had met Jarle's in the landing below Ca'd'Cel. She had asked questions to which Jarle had blinked back answers, but she couldn't remember what they were. Avaren swallowed hard. She couldn't remember anything past—.
"Paulo." Her voice sounded weak and raspy, and her throat was sore from the assassin's handling.
Suddenly, Avaren didn't want to remember. She wanted to forget. The sight of Jarle's anguished pose banished the memories and returned her to the present. The madness that caused her to ignore her rescuer's injuries the previous evening was gone. It didn't make a difference if she knew what was wrong with Jarle or not. He was hurt, and she needed to help him.
Avaren's hands trembled as she began to undo Jarle's armor. She unlaced his pauldrons and vambraces and tossed them aside in her urgency. His bandolier and hood followed suit. The wet leather straps that held his cuirass together were difficult to thread through the buckles, but the chest piece gave after a few hard tugs. Cuirass, weapon belt, boots, hose, and gloves landed in a pile.
Piece by piece she undressed him until all that remained were his breeches and shirt. A search of his pockets yielded a wire similar to the one the assassin had used to strangle her, mirrors, a pouch of spikes, a wax-sealed cylinder, a set of files, several items that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever, and finally, her jewelry. Earrings, necklaces, combs, and brooches twinkled in the morning's early light. The thief had stuffed the entire contents of her vanity into his pockets!
Rising to her feet, Avaren walked away from Jarle. She paced along the shore in a futile effort to remain calm. Her face grew hot, and her heart pounded in her chest. After Rigo and her father's murderer, Jarle was the lowliest creature ever to cross her path.
The curskin thief represented all the ills of Reyza and its loathsome underworld; the greed and lust of its shiny-eyed hawkers; the lopsided, claustrophobic tenements where newborns were discarded in tubs of fish guts by impoverished mothers; dockside streets crowded with urchins, beggars, drunkards, and whores; bawdy taverns; fetid gambling halls; cathouses; and every manner of evil that lived and breathed in the city's rotten underbelly.
Some believed curskins were a plague sent by the gods to punish the seven bloodlines for interbreeding. Her father had openly sided with those that thought they should be rendered sterile—a belief that had always irked her considering that her mother was a creature from beyond the realm of men.
The jewels dug into Avaren's palms. Her head ached. It was possible that Jarle had been telling the truth and wasn't working with the man who had killed her father, but it was just as likely that he was.
Avaren exhaled and straightened her shoulders. Years spent in the company of governesses had taught her how to comport herself in all manner of situations. She had learned the proper way to dress, which utensils to use at the dinner table, how to address her elders and how to behave in the company of men. She had learned the differences between vulgar flirtations and the coquetries favored in court. Most importantly, she had learned how to control her temper.
"Fire in the heart fills the head with smoke." Avaren quoted the late Mejtress Trudchen who had burned the mantra into her heart with her paddle. She took several deep breaths until the roaring fire of her rage had banked to embers.
Feeling smug with the knowledge that she would make him pay for his crimes, Avaren returned to Jarle's side. She stuffed the jewels back in his pockets along with all of his tools. What good were jewels or the suitors who had procured them? Idle days of girlish games and lavish fetes had vanished along with her dignity.
Avaren unsheathed one of Jarle's daggers and used it to cut open the front of his shirt. Removal of the garment revealed a blotch of purplish bruises centered on a lump on the right side of his chest.
Slowly, Avaren set the dagger down. She had seen a similar injury before.
Some years ago, one of her father's footmen had been kicked by a rearing horse. The man had been in so much pain from his broken ribs that for weeks he had cursed the very act of breathing. By the look of the swelling Jarle had at least one broken bone, perhaps more. How the man had managed to carry her down hundreds of steps to the villa's landing was a mystery. The pain must have been excruciating.
Avaren stood and jogged around the pool. She squeezed between two calcite columns and stepped into a natural tunnel that led deeper into the cave. The rough corridor sloped up, twisting and turning before opening into a vaulted cavern fringed by rows of stalagmites.
Beams of sunlight pierced the far reaches of the cave, illuminating the rushing waters of an underground waterfall. Smooth-lipped plateaus and steps had formed where the cascade's runoff had pooled throughout the centuries. Tiny crabs scurried in the dark.
Avaren climbed down to the vault's sandy floor and walked past the sunlit gallery and into the shadows. She had discovered the cave on her tenth birthday six years prior and had since explored it with the zealousness of a child. While her father had believed her to be swimming in the shallows, she had whiled away the hours exploring windswept reefs in search of shipwrecked treasure.
For years, the hidden grotto had served as a refuge—a place where she had found respite from the tight-laced routines of Ca'd'Cel; where she could be herself and dream. With her father dead and no home to return to, the cave seemed nothing more than a hole filled with broken, useless trinkets. Worn curtains embroidered with silver thread hung over a sleeping pallet of layered blankets stolen from the villa's linen closets. Coins manacled together by coral and the passage of time were piled high inside broken chests. Barnacle-encrusted platters, mangled chalices, and rusted weapons rested on crates bursting at the seams with dredged baubles. An assortment of wine bottles and sand-filled glasses cluttered the innards of a lopsided cabinet. Moth-eaten shirts and gowns from bygone eras rested on chairs whose cushions had long ago disintegrated.
Avaren brushed aside the cobwebs and began to search for the one item that could save Jarle's life. She found the small trunk beneath a brass ewer. The chest with hammered silver ribs appeared untouched by time and the salt of the sea. Inside, nestled in red velvet, was a portrait of a Seh'nahiel nobleman and a cut-crystal vial. Avaren took the bottle out and shook it until the liquid inside shone a bright, pale gold.
She had found the magically preserved chest not far from the port of Reyza where her father had said the Ruarch had sunk. It was possible that many of the objects she'd salvaged had once belonged to the ship's crew, but she had never disclosed her findings to her father. The secret cave and its contents were her only link to a mother she had never known—a woman her father had rarely talked about and likely considered a monster.
Avaren took a gown from the back of a chair and shook it out, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She slipped into the threadbare dress and tucked the small vial between her breasts. With a quick pull, she discarded her hair tie. A quick search revealed a set of ivory combs which she used to wrangle her unruly mass of curls at the top of her head.
The footman, she recalled, had been bound around the torso with strips of linen; a remedy which had not deterred his cursing of the pain. Jarle, Avaren concluded, needed warmth, rest and a bandage to support his ribs.
Avaren rummaged through piles of tattered garments until she found a long swathe of Seh'nahiel silk that was as bright as the day it had been woven. She gave the fabric a few hard tugs and was pleased when it did not tear. The silk would make a good bandage.
Not wishing to waste time, Avaren grabbed one of the woolen blankets from the bed and headed back. Through the years she had scavenged many treasures from the sea but never had it crossed her mind that she might one day trawl in a man. Saving the life of a curskin thug who was just as likely to help her as rape her seemed reckless.
What was she thinking?
When the blanket snagged on a rock, Avaren cursed. Jarle had come in contact with her tears and had seemed under her thrall, but she couldn't be certain. Only time would tell if the allure of her tears would affect him as powerfully as it had others in her father's circle.
Avaren returned to Jarle's side and dropped the bundled blanket. The slight rise and fall of Jarle's chest coupled with his growing pallor worried her.
Then, the realization struck her. Jarle's claw-like fingers, the tension in his neck and the stiffness of his body reminded her of her father.
'Forkleaf... it paralyzes the body. Your father died quickly.'
Avaren looked down at her wrist, felt the thief's hand; saw her father's wide open eyes.
Poison.
Working quickly, Avaren grabbed Jarle by the arms and dragged him away from the shoreline until his feet rested on dry land. She laid the silk perpendicular to Jarle's torso and began to thread the cloth around his chest. The act of lifting the man left her breathless and made her head throb. She wound the cloth half a dozen times and secured it with one of the stolen brooches. Once finished, she reached between her breasts and withdrew the magical vial.
Avaren shook the crystal bottle until the golden glow returned. Curiosity had driven her to taste the contents of the potion once before. The draught had made her feel light hearted and caused a subtle tingling at the back of her throat. Within a day all blemishes and childhood scars had faded, leaving her skin as smooth as a babe's bottom. Avaren wasn't entirely sure what the potion did, but there was a chance it might help Jarle. She unstoppered the vial and took a drink. The liquid soothed her sore throat and caused the tension to drain from her limbs. The painful bruises on her arms and face began to fade along with her headache.
For a moment, Avaren felt woozy and out of sorts. She stared at the ruby-studded brooch that held Jarle's silk bandage. The delicate dragonfly with silver wings had been delivered in a glass box alongside a bouquet of roses—a token of some merchant whose name she hadn't bothered to learn. She had tossed the jewel among the rest never imagining that it might one day serve to bandage the thief who had stolen it.
Thief. Curskin. Criminal. Avaren ran her fingers through Jarle's shoulder-length dark hair and allowed herself to view him as a man. Strong arms chiseled with lean muscle led to a broad back which tapered down to a narrow waist. Between his hip bones began a trail of dark hair that ran up the center of his chest and branched out over his nipples. His face was handsome with prominent eyebrows that curved elegantly over deep-set eyes. An elegant and aristocratic nose led to full sensual lips that were as kissable as—Paulo's. Avaren withdrew her hand.
She placed her thumb over the opening of the crystal vial and tipped it over Jarle's mouth. The golden drops sparkled in the sunlight before disappearing between the thief's parted lips. Avaren watched in awe as color returned to Jarle's lips and crept back into his cheeks. His face softened, and his fingers relaxed; a subtle tremor shook his legs. Then, as if by a miracle, the man opened his eyes.
A smile brightened upon Avaren's face but did not linger. The man was looking at her with the adoration a hound might lavish on its master. His eyes were unfocused, and his lips held a hint of a smile. "How do you feel?" she asked.
Jarle raised his hand and touched a strand of Avaren's pale hair. "Alive," he replied.
Avaren shrank from his touch. The subtle intoxication caused by the potion had worn off, and Jarle had returned to being a scoundrel in her mind. "That's comforting."
Jarle balled his fists and tried to rise, but the pain in his ribs hobbled him. Wincing, he lay back down.
Avaren stoppered the empty vial. The sudden closeness to the man made her uncomfortable. She grabbed the blanket and draped it over his body. "You need warmth and rest. Your ribs are broken."
Jarle caught Avaren's wrist when she went to rise. "Thank you."
A spark of anger flared in Avaren's eyes. She wrenched her hand free and stood up. Her eyes darted to the pile of daggers. "Do not ever touch me without my consent again."
Jarle squinted into the sunlight and clutched the blanket to his shivering body. His dark eyes burned into hers, cold and defiant. "I meant no offense."
Avaren wanted to lash out; to scream, to tell the son of a dog that his very presence offended her, but instead she just nodded. Despite her privilege and status and priceless jewels, she was homeless, orphaned and as powerless as the curskin before her. Without further words, she turned and fled.
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