Oathkeeper (23 page)

“I had not considered that,” Harvester said. “Perhaps I should go.”

“Before you do . . .” Casually, as if it were nothing, Irka walked over to a work bench and grabbed a small bag. Its contents rolled together and clicked like two big rocks or marbles. “Give this to Father, won't you? But don't look inside.” Irka waggled a finger at the warsuit. “It's a surprise.”

“Of course.”

They didn't stay much longer, but when Harvester rejoined Kholster, Marcus Conwrath followed, his mind ablaze with questions. What exactly had Kholster left behind when he had severed his connection with his original warsuit? What piece of him was he now functioning without? What was in the bag? The last question the warsuit resolved easily enough by peeking in the bag after he had given it to Kholster. What did Kholster want with a pair of fake Aern eyes?

CHAPTER 17

A PANOPLY OF SCARS

Wylant shrugged out of the ceremonial cloak, instinctively catching it with a burst of air magic wrapped in a sigh of relief. Relief at being back in her room. Relief that she'd managed to make it through the king's funeral without staining her robe. Relief Grivek had made the decision to appoint Rivvek as his heir.

Bitter and acrid, the scent of
jallek
root clung to her quarters as if it had leeched into the stone. Cold air pushed aside the heavy curtain between her bedroom and the balcony, sweeping away the odor in compliance with her will. Gooseflesh raised on Wylant's skin, responding to the brisk decrease in temperature. A little chill was such an insignificant price to pay for ridding herself, even momentarily, of that scent. Eyes closed, breathing deeply without a hint of congestion or sinus drainage, she smiled—a flash of good humor that faded when she reopened her eyes on the newest additions to her bedchamber.

Her room felt cluttered to her even though the only new pieces of furniture, temporary at that, were an armor stand (occupied) and a cloak stand (unoccupied). Wylant studied the cloak stand, gaining a little extra time before she faced the armor stand.

Why white for mourning? Gray or brown would be so much easier to—

Pondering mourning and the king's cremation held its own mental trapdoors. Thoughts of white gave way to recollections of brass and steel flowing over flesh and bones, replacing it, converting it . . . Wylant's head swam with images of her Sidearms' elemental foci. Grivek would have never wanted them to show him the respect they had at the costs they had incurred.

What on Barrone had possessed them to keep up the elemental display over Grivek's corpse throughout the entire procession? Frip and Frindo's foci, by the end of things, had spread over their entire respective hands and up past the elbow on their affected sides. She hadn't seen Griv's legs yet, but she hoped his foci hadn't quite made it to the knee yet, not with war coming.

Coming?
Wylant curled her lip.
Isn't it already here, but in disguise?
At best it was a conflict in suspension, as fragile as the surface tension on a pond that allowed water spiders to dance across the thin skin, which could be so easily pierced.

She released the wind holding up the white funeral robe, catching and hanging it neatly, in one motion, from the stand the Royal Clothier had provided. Kholster's scars in embroidered lines of crimson blazed at her from the back of the garment. Why hadn't Kholster put his scars on her back properly? Everyone knew she was an Aiannai, and burning Kholster's scars onto her own back as she had centuries ago had gone a long way to making sure no one ever forgot that, but they weren't the same as his exactly, just a good facsimile. Would that ever be enough?

The embroidery thread, smooth under her fingertips, had no answers to give, and as much as she wanted to hide from those thoughts, Wylant hid from nothing long.

Beside the cloak stand stood a blood oak armor stand, its braces and helm rest lined with blue velvet, the eyes, bolts, and other fittings appointed in polished brass.

Just like it must have been in the blasted museum. I wonder how much willpower it took for the docents and the curator to give it back?

Vax stirred in his sheath, sensing Wylant's mood.

“I'm fine.” Wylant drew him and laid him softly on her bed. “I wonder what the plaque says. You know there has to be one.”

Was it cowardly that she'd never gone to see the display? She'd been invited but couldn't see the point in that sort of morose navel gazing.

On the bed, Vax shifted into a chain whip: seven metal rods, joined by lengths of chain, with his hilt shrinking to match his new form, his metal rasping against the coverlet. At the other end of him, the terminating rod twisted and tapered until it was a stylized dart with a serpent-like head. Wylant watched him, a parent dutifully paying attention to her child's new trick, until he coiled himself with the snake-head in her direction.

“I don't know how to fight with that, Vax. Where did you even see its like?”

He couldn't answer.

She wished he could.

Eyes wet, Wylant turned back to her bride's gift.

It hung from the armor stand, a functional masterpiece: bone-steel half-breastplate and chain with layered black brigandine to protect the abdomen and lower back. Kholster had designed the hybrid armor, long before the creation of the first warsuit, for fighting the Zaur more comfortably. It granted increased flexibility without too much compromise in the toughness of the armor. The breastplate provided an adequate glancing profile. Bone-steel pauldrons, arm plates, leg plates, and boots granted protection against striking Zaur and Skreel blades. Brigandine gauntlets gave her better hand protection than hardened leather gloves. Not much would punch through the bone-steel plates shielding the back of the hand and each knuckle joint, but the grip (made of irkanth leather, like all of the leather in the suit) granted better digital flexibility than any heavy armor she'd ever worn. It didn't interfere with casting either, like some heavy armor did.

Its visorless war helm with a Y-shaped opening for the eyes and mouth seemed to glare at her from the helm rest. The chain collar, stiffened but comfortable as such things went, hung beneath it. Lines of detail beneath a hard layer of enamel, precursor to the technique Kholster had later used on Bloodmane, lent the helm a leonine cast while keeping the surface smooth to the touch. She was alternately pleased and disappointed he hadn't given it an actual mane. He'd left it out because giving an enemy something extra to grab hold of made no sense if one wasn't a nigh-unstoppable Aern. Even so.

She placed a hand on the breastplate, tracing the lines of enameling, letting her fingers glide along its surface as she walked around to the back. And on the back, in the same way, Kholster had (of course) inscribed his scars.

This set had been his gift to her on their wedding day. All the metal was bone metal, and every bit of the bone-steel had been his and worked by him. She hadn't worn it into battle against the Aern at the Sundering because full-plate made more sense against Aern and using bone-steel against Aern was moronic. And also—well—Wylant knew he would have been flattered, thrilled to see her charge into battle, keeping her oath to defend her people, while wearing his gift . . .

She hadn't worn it again.

Never intended to wear it again.

Smiling despite herself, she found the cunning little panels on the cuirass that flipped back to reveal tiny anchors to which a cloak could be tied without the need of it being fastened around the wearer's neck. He'd had a cloak made for her, too, all black except, of course, for his scars embroidered on the back in gold thread. All hand-stitched, his own work for everything, even though he'd had to learn how to sew before he could begin. A short, snorting laugh escaped her then.

“Kholster,” she said, “you put your scars everywhere except actually on my back.”

“The rendition you burned into your back is accurate,” a deep voice spoke, “but not quite the same as if I put it there. Would you like me to?”

*

Are you sure this is all right?
Kholster thought at Harvester.

I don't see why it would not be
, the echoing voice sent back.
She prayed to you. Called you by name. It is the very definition of inviting you. And if you are worried about how much like yourself you are being, she would know, of all mortals.

Good.

Wylant hadn't been the first person to pray to Kholster. He'd felt multitudinous mortals say his name in fear or desperation. But to hear his wife's (or ex-wife—he still wasn't clear on how that hunt was going) words in his mind . . . he could have done nothing less than come in person.

A scant growth of raven black adorned her head now that Dienox had finally taken the hint and realized she no longer revered him. Kholster wondered why Dienox had chosen blonde hair as a sign of his favor. It had been beautiful. She was still stunning without it . . . and would have been regardless, but even so, he found it hard not to picture her with red hair like his if she was going to give up the blonde.

All those thoughts rushed through his head in a single blink, while Wylant was still caught flatfooted by his appearance. He wanted nothing more than to snatch her up in his arms and . . . but Wylant had said ex-husband thirteen years ago when she had confronted Prince Dolvek and when the idiotic Oathbreaker had still had time to stay within the technical boundaries of the treaty between the Aern and Dolvek's people.

No, if she initiated a kiss, then perhaps, but otherwise . . .

“How did you,” Wylant began, but even as she spoke, Kholster could see her dawning comprehension. He treasured the way her brows furrowed as she thought, lifting a touch as she puzzled it out. “Deity . . . right.” She took her hand off her armor as if it had stung her. “Kholster, you cannot just appear—”

“I can.” He remained still, his voice soft and even. “If, however, you would rather I did not do so in the future, I could . . . not—”

“No.” She closed her eyes. Pausing. Processing. When she opened them again, Wylant was in motion, crossing the room to reach him. “Warsuit,” she prompted. The word an implied preference, explicitly not a command. Not quite a request, but something an Oathbound slave could either honor or ignore. She wanted the armor off, and Kholster realized he did, as well.

Harvester
, Kholster thought, realizing as he sent the command that he hadn't removed Harvester normally since remaking him. Harvester had teleported away, but Kholster did not want that now. He was here with Wylant. And if he had to try not to blink so he could see her instead of dying multitudes, it was a perfunctory cost, easily paid.

Where Bloodmane opened at the back, plates flaring open like the petals of a blooming flower, Harvester split at the breastplate, the first crack appearing at Kholster's sternum—or the Aernese equivalent. Humans and most mammals had ribs, whereas Aern had flexible plating beneath the skin.

Flowing up and down, the seam split into six lines of separating bone as it approached his neck. Two central lines converged in a V-shape at his throat, unified into a single line as his helm split open into two equal halves. Other lines worked similar magic at his shoulders, hips, and groin.

A cacophony of snapping bones accompanied the widening of each seam, more pronounced as large sections of plate folded away, revealing the Aern underneath. A muslin shirt, soft, white, and sheer had replaced Kholster's chain mail, but it was cut in roughly the same style, hanging loose with ragged edges where the sleeves hit mid-bicep. He stepped forward in black steam-loomed jeans, bare feet slapping the stone. The jeans were new, too, but the corded bone-steel belt at his waist was the same one he'd worn for as long as most mortals (Oathbreakers included) would have been able to recall.

What happened to my boots?

I have them
, Harvester intoned.
Footwear is awkward to remove in the heat of passion.

Is there likely to be . . . passion?

If there isn't, sir, I submit to you that you are doing it wrong.

Doing what wrong?

Things.

Kholster stepped forward to meet Wylant, gaze fixed, deliberately not looking at Vax, pretending not to notice him at all. Harvester resealed himself with a sound akin to that of wooden wind chimes clattering together, stirred by a sudden breeze.

Wylant met him halfway, closing with him as if it had not been centuries since last they touched. Her arms slipped around him. He enfolded her, and it felt like home and hearth and family in a way South Number Nine never had or could. Tears ran down his cheeks. He smiled under them, knowing there would be no matching tears from Wylant's eyes. She had always been made of some material more fantastic and resilient than bone metal.

Her head nestled against him, the short stubble of her newly black hair brushing his clean-shaven chin.

You shaved me?

It IS how she prefers you, sir.

This close Kholster missed the smell of
jallek
root he'd come to think of as part of Wylant's scent. Still, the intoxicating fragrance of her skin, her hair, even her sweat sent him crushing back to intimate moments and to their marriage vows: the first ones sworn in secret on the battlefield, the second set at Fort Sunder before the Aern, and the official ones (under Oathbreaker law) before King Zillek years later with Uled's scowling face looking down and disapproving of them.

Amber light reflected in her eyes as she pulled away from him, the illumination from his memory-trapped pupils shining in Wylant's when she gazed up at him.

“Me, too,” she whispered as if she were sharing the same memories. Wylant kissed his cheek, her lips sending him deeper into more erotic exchanges they had shared as husband and wife. She blushed and so did he. His eyes dimmed. With so many people, even lovers, an Aern had to explain about the power of memories, how an Aern could be chained by the past, trapped in thought, still capable of physical defense, but cognitively dissonant. Wylant needed no such explanations.