Oathkeeper (24 page)

His heart sank when she stepped back, ending their embrace, but Kholster could not allow himself to chase her. If Wylant wanted him, he was hers, but too many years as First of One Hundred had conditioned him to lead in all respects except romance. Years of courting Vael with stillness held him back. The fear of unintentional force through implied command, the thing that kept him from pursuing Aernese females for fear that, as First, they would feel obligated to return his affections, kept him now, as a deity, from picking Wylant up and never letting her go again. Wylant's own careful pursuit of him while he was still enslaved and Oathbound had become his moral compass when physical intimacy came into play.

He'd slipped with Yavi when he'd kissed her through her samir, but Wylant was more important than any Vael. Kholster owed her the same careful restraint she'd employed at the start when setting out to woo him. He was careful to offer and be still, avoiding even the appearance of demand or insistence. Her assiduousness in that regard had played a significant part in what had led Kholster to open his heart to her in the first place, to be capable of truly loving and trusting any mortal who was not under his command. Their love had defined all his romantic dealings since the Sundering. It was why Helg had had such a hard time convincing him to be her husband and beyond that, to have Rae'en and be father to a second freeborn child.

Sir
, Harvester transmitted,
if I might recommend
—

No
, Kholster thought,
but thank you. I believe Wylant and I can kholster this battlefield.

Of course, sir.

*

Kholster was doing the thing.

Wylant found it at once insufferable and endearing to watch him stand there, so obviously filled with emotion but showing such restraint.

Stubborn
, she thought,
but then that is part of his charm. That and those shoulders. A translucent shirt?
She wondered briefly whose idea that had been and smirked. Vander was her first suspect, but Kholster wasn't connected to his Prime Overwatch, his literal number two, in the same way he had once been. Or was he? No. There was a loneliness in those eyes. He was adrift and trying to hold things together as best he could, but he needed help. And he wasn't going to ask for it. Maybe he would open up afterward.

“Are you honestly not planning to kiss me?” she asked.

“I wasn't certain you wanted—”

“I want.” She wet her lips, and it became evident Kholster wanted, too. As kisses became more intense, Wylant noticed Harvester beckon to Vax, looking first to her for silent approval. Wylant nodded and the warsuit lifted Vax from the bed, carrying him out into the hall.
So the warsuit was responsible for the clothing
, Wylant mused, before her thoughts became more primal.

She let herself relax and be one.

*

Wylant expected Kholster to be gone when she woke up. Did gods stay the night, even when one had once been married to them? Always one to rip the bandage off rather than delay inevitable pain, Wylant resisted the urge to lay in bed feeling the empty space next to her, the still cooling mark where Kholster had lain. His scent lingered there, a tailor-made combination of . . .

I will not say his name
, she thought.
I will not call out for him and make a fool of mys—
Other scents made her nostrils flare, nose pulling eyes open like a sleeping hound catching the scent of a hare.
Fresh roses . . . and tea?

“K—” she caught the word in her teeth, clamping them together to stop her tongue.

“I'm spending time with Vax.” His voice, rich and strong, and masculine, yet still so tender and—

VAX?!
Eyes popping open, Wylant jolted up, sheet falling away, cool air from the open balcony curtains wreathing her skin in tiny gooseflesh bumps. Her nose crinkled at a change in scents even as her eyes widened at the casual manner in which Kholster had said Vax's name.

What am I missing?
she asked herself, trying keep her attention on the smells of the room rather than the way the light from the balcony painted her husband in warm natural tones emphasizing the bronze of his skin, picking out the lighter reds scattered through his close-cropped hair. Aern don't gray, but Kholster's hair had lightened over the centuries—the only physical sign of his age beyond the knowledge (sagacity?) of his gaze and the still assurance of his presence. Wylant knew her own aura of command was impressive, but Kholster had commanded for so many years that his name had become his race's verb for it. He turned, smiling, his wolfish doubled canines bared—such a small leap from a smile to a threat, but he wasn't angry. She had rarely seen him happier. The sunlight picked out his muscles, the flat washboard of his stomach plainly visible through the gauzy material of his shirt.

He'd found or conjured—gods could do that sort of thing, couldn't they?—a pair of hobnailed boots from somewhere, scuffed and broken in as she knew he liked them. His belt, corded bone-steel chain, didn't look like his own work—she'd never asked who made it, but he wore it like it was part of him, just like the black steam-loomed denim jeans.

Vax glinted joyously in Kholster's arms, holding the shape of a warpick. Kholster wielded Vax two-handed, testing his weight, his balance, and finding no flaw. He reversed his grip and twisted, rotating Vax in an arc as he would have done Grudge or Hunger. In Kholster's hands Vax's surface sported intricate detailing, whorls and curves of sapphire blue glistening against the matte black lacquered metal, with only a hint of bone-steel peeking through in crafted waves as Vax shifted in the light. His hilt, which had always been wrapped in a mottled blue leather when Wylant wielded him, was the color of old bones.

“If you like.” Eyes flicking from Wylant to Vax, Kholster shrugged, answering a question Wylant could not hear. “No, I won't give you my preference. I'm sorry.”

He paused, nodding at Wylant with that one-moment-if-you-do-not-mind-I-have-to-handle-this-first look he'd perfected a thousand years before she'd been born. She noted she still ranked an apologetic bob of the head and reassuring wink when he did it—something only accorded, as far as Wylant could recall, to Vander, Kholster's children, and Wylant herself.

“Because.” His attention was back on Vax. “My opinion can become someone else's opinion far too easily when given before a person has had time for thoughtful consideration.”

To whom was he talking? Wylant's eyes widened. Vax? He could talk to Vax?

“Yes.” Kholster laughed. “I'm told I can be exceedingly annoying.” His brow furrowed, his eyes pained. “No.” He swallowed and took a deep breath. When he let it out, Kholster found Wylant's gaze and held it. “I am not angry with her.” Another pause. “That would be up to you and your mother.”

Wylant had never fainted when she wasn't injured or ill, but she would have been lying if she claimed the room hadn't spun just then and that the gorge had not risen in her throat.

He knows
, she thought, willing her stomach to calm. She searched for a god's name to use in vain, but the only god she trusted was already in the room.
Vax!

Vax coiled into a chain, dropping to the floor and pulling free of Kholster's grip. Puzzled, but without further comment, Kholster changed his stance to a reserved neutral and let Vax slither off along the stone.

“Sorry about that. He had many questions.” Kholster crossed the room and kissed her rather chastely given the state of her clothing—or lack thereof. “He seemed to be building up to the big one and I wanted him to have a chance to get it out.”

He could hear Vax's thoughts?! Of course he could . . .

Wylant pulled free of her husband. How long had he known? What had Vax and Kholster said? Why hadn't Kholster FIXED him? Could he not . . . make him right?

I have to think about this. I have to . . . to . . . get some clothes on.

Her husband's eyes tracked her every movement, taking it all in, memorizing her as she moved to the washbasin (filled with rose petals) and cleaned up, interrupting her ablutions long enough to sip at the tea waiting in a metal cup beside the basin. The strong black honey-sweetened brew had a hint of . . . had he bled in her tea? It was something he'd always done before battle to help in case she got bitten by a Zaur in rut.

Can he hear my thoughts, too?
She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing. No, then. Either that or he knew enough not to do so. Kholster had scant patience when it came to his enemies, but his reserve appeared inexhaustible for those he loved. The towels had been swapped for clean, fluffy ones exactly like those he always used to bring her. Apparently his supplier was still alive, or maybe he'd conjured it with deific might. She wiped away moisture, drying her skin, feeling more ordered, clean, but it did nothing to clarify her mind or calm her racing thoughts.

How long had Kholster known about Vax?
She couldn't let go of that one.
Could he help him? Was that why he'd come? Had he truly not been angered about . . . what . . . what she'd done? Am I forgiven
, she wondered,
or was he never mad?

Clothes.

Dried, but still shivering, Wylant looked at her husband and scoffed.
I am not having this conversation with no clothes on.

Taking a clean set of small clothes from her wardrobe, she suppressed the urge to glance around for the ones she'd worn the night before.
Look for them later
, she told herself.
There is no need to feel so flustered. He's still my husband. Or thinks he is. Do I want him to be? Yes, but—
Except things were so much more complicated than that. Once she was clad in her doublet and leathers she could breathe easier. Her mind clearer, equilibrium restored, she turned her attention back to Kholster and found him folding her things from the previous night. He smiled at her, eyes twinkling as he placed them in her wardrobe.

“This is one of the self-cleaning ones the Artificer made?” Kholster wrinkled his nose at the wardrobe.

“Yes.” Wylant held in a laugh. Of course, he would rather hand wash everything. “He gave it to me when you told him he could only discuss being Aiannai with other Aiannai.”

“Sargus?” He pushed the wardrobe door firmly closed. “Yes, well. I imagine he was grateful to have a compatriot with whom to speak.” Kholster's hobnailed boots hammered the stone as he stepped away from the device, studying the lightly stained mahogany. Tutting at some minor defect in the workmanship Wylant couldn't see, he rapped the side with his knuckles. “I prefer doing laundry the old way—”

“You have to admit, it is much more convenient this way.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Kholster put his ear to the wardrobe. “But this way, when do you get to hang it out to dry?”

“But there's no need.” This was the Kholster few people got to see. Inquisitive. Open. At ease. What had he and Vax discussed?
Ask him
, she told herself,
he'll tell you.
Instead, she settled for “How do the Dwarves do it?”

“Even the Dwarves prefer their shortcuts.” Kholster opened the wardrobe and checked the clothes. “They're still—”

“It takes a few candlemarks.” Wylant stepped over and closed the wardrobe door. So unreal to talk about trivialities like laundry with a being who was not only her husband, but—
Kholster, are you really a god, now? Can you read my thoughts?

“Yes and yes, but I only do so when you address me directly or think about death or what comes after. Those thoughts I hear automatically when I'm outside of Harvester or filtered through him when we are united.”

That was not the whole truth. Wylant pursed her lips briefly. A lie of omission. But why? With beings Kholster's age, and her own, once she turned her thoughts in that direction, it could be so hard to tell if, when you suspected someone of holding back the fullness of the truth, they were doing it because they were hiding or erring on the side of brevity. Ask Kholster about warpicks or smithing, for example, and if he told all he knew, you'd die of old age before he finished.

“Do all of the other gods like to do laundry?” Wylant asked, deliberately letting it go.

“No.” Kholster laughed. “They cloak themselves in god stuff and shape it to their will.”

“And you don't?” Wylant touched the smooth muslin of his shirt. It felt real, smooth under her fingers, but solid. Material.

“Not if I can help it.” He covered her hand with his own. She'd once expected them to feel rough with skin that didn't need a gambeson between it and mail, but Uled had given the Aern an appealing softness that—she pulled free and punched him playfully in the center of his chest, trying to break the mood. “You and laundry . . . do you still do that?”

“Do laundry when I need to think? That and other chores.” A breeze blew in from the balcony bringing with it scents of . . . and that's when she realized what was different about the room.

No
jallek
root
.

“You got rid of the
jallek
root smell?!”

“Well. Yes.” Kholster looked at Vax to keep from meeting her eyes. “I like the scent, but we had time after we got back from Fort Sunder, and Vax said you hated it so I—”

“Magicked it away?”

“I did no such thing.” Kholster recoiled as if struck. “I used soap and lye.”

“Last night?”

“After you fell asleep. I—gods don't need sleep.” Another partial truth. Hmmm . . .

“How did you do all of that without waking me?”

“You slept like the grave.” Well, Kholster was right on that point; she always slept soundly when they were together. Kholster grinned, baring his doubled canines and moved to kiss her but stopped himself. Her lips found his all the same.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Wylant stayed close, each of them breathing the other's breath. “Holding back. Kiss me if you want to kiss me. If I need you to stay at arm's length for a bit, I'll tell you.”