Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (29 page)

It was just as well. Seeing the woman he loved in another's arms would only eat away at his heart the way the cursed Greek Fire had gnawed his flesh. Memories of the spectacle-turned-disaster churned in his gut.

Once he’d seen that the
dhow
couldn't outrun the flames, he did the only thing he could do. Erik bellowed to his crew to abandon ship.

Better to die by water than fire.

Erik had filled his lungs with a precious gasp just before the scorching breath of the Greek weapon filled the air around him with cinders. He hit the water like a stone, his shining armor bearing him into the depths of the harbor. He struggled to rid himself of the greaves and breastplate, clawing at the leather bindings. Panic wrapped its tentacles around his throat. Then he remembered his knife. He pulled out the horn-handled dirk and slashed the remaining leather to free himself.

His ears ached as the water pressure mounted, but even so he heard the muffled shrieks of those caught in the fire. Around him, his crew floundered, trying in vain to flee from the sickly orange glow illuminating the surface above them. In the ghastly light, he saw several men give up the struggle, their frenetic movements winding down like the clockwork birds that surrounded the emperor's throne.

Once Erik freed himself of the weight of armor, he kicked toward the surface. His path was still blocked by flames. Part of the truly diabolical nature of Greek Fire was its affinity to water. It spread across the surface without abating one whit, as if water were its natural fuel.

Erik allowed a few bubbles of air to escape the corners of his mouth as he searched for an opening, any place he could grab a quick breath. He spotted a patch of open water above the foundering
dhow
and swam through the charred wreckage as she sank in pieces.

He surfaced and dragged in a deep breath. The smoke seared his lungs and the fire ringing the space closed on him with lightening speed, bubbling the skin on one side of his face with heat. He dived for safety.

His ability to hold his breath for long periods of time had won him several bets in the Northlands. Now it was his salvation. How many times Erik repeated the process of snagging a quick breath and submerging again, he couldn't remember. He only knew he wasn't always able to avoid the glowing Greek monster.

His right shoulder was burned. Scarred flesh pebbled up his neck and across one cheek. Fire claimed one ear, sizzled away his beard and much of his hair on the right side, but at least it left both his eyes intact.

Finally, Erik dragged himself up on the spit of land near the mouth of the harbor and lay there panting for what seemed like an eternity. Pain screamed to his brainpan as he staggered to his feet. All the attention in the harbor was on the safe recovery of the emperor, so no one spared him a second glance until Brother Nestor. The monk saw his stunned agony and took him by the hand as if he were a little boy.

Erik didn't ask any questions. He just followed the monk, putting one weary foot before the other in mute suffering. The delirium of fever descended on him and he couldn't remember reaching the monastery where he now resided. Erik suspected he lost consciousness somewhere along the way and Nestor and some of his fellow monks carried his dead weight the rest of the distance.

“Your thoughts are troubled, brother,” the monk said. “A peaceful heart will help your flesh mend sooner.”

“Believe me, Nestor, my flesh will be whole before my heart will.”

The monk cast a glance toward the silk merchant's grand house. “The woman is beautiful, without doubt. But be warned by the story of King David. No good can come of gazing at a woman on another man's rooftop.”

Erik smiled wryly. Almost as soon as Erik had regained consciousness, Nestor began telling him stories to help the time pass more quickly. It eased his suffering to listen to the monk's lisping voice as he related tales of wise kings who behaved foolishly and pillars of fire and sons who squandered their inheritance in a far country before finally deciding to come home.

Lately, Erik suspected Nestor told him stories not to keep him amused and distracted from the pain, but to woo him gently into the monk's faith. There was little chance of that. The Christian's god was weak and powerless. What kind of god let himself be killed without lifting a finger in protest? A god that puny, who couldn't even save himself, couldn't be counted on to come to the aid of his devotees either.

“Who is Olaf?” Nestor asked.

Erik looked at him sharply. He was sure he'd never mentioned his brother to Nestor. “What are you? Some kind of diviner?”

“No, just one who listens, friend.” Nestor stood and began pruning the vines growing on the monastery roof. The grapes produced there weren't the best quality, but they served for making the homely house's communion wine. “When you were in the throes of fever, you called out the name. Many times. It seemed to give you as much pain as the burn.”

Erik had only nightmarish flashes of the time he languished on the cusp between this world and the next. Rising from the icy mists of
Hel,
the shade of his brother came to reproach him.

Or to drag Erik back to that cold hall with him.

“It's a long tale,” Erik said.

“Then I'd better get comfortable.” Nestor settled next to Erik, splaying his gnarled fingers on his knees and looking at him with expectancy.

In a flat voice, Erik told Nestor of his wife's faithlessness and his brother's betrayal. Then with more difficulty, he relived the killing, or at least as much of it as he could remember through the black
berserkr
haze.

“So, you have done murder,” Nestor said thoughtfully. “And yet, he was your brother and you loved him, so the memory pains you.”

Against Erik's will, tears pressed against his eyes. He blinked them back. He never cried. Not at the funeral biers of his parents. Not even when Olaf's body was burned before Erik was sentenced to banishment. Not over the men he'd led to their deaths in the Harbor of Theodosius. A warrior didn't weep. Still, a tear slid down his cheek, scalding a salty path over his abraded skin. He swiped it away, heedless of the extra agony the rough touch cost him.

“Bah! Pain has made me womanish.”

“No,” Nestor corrected. “Do not be afraid to shed tears. You have earned them. The evidence of your remorse gives me hope for your soul. Even our Lord wept. Better men than you have let grief seep from their eyes.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Erik said sourly.

“You were banished for your crime and yet your punishment has brought you no peace.” Nestor seemed to be mulling over the problem as if he were a physician diagnosing a patient. “In ancient times, a murderer might be condemned to drag the body of his victim with him as punishment. Bound wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle with the decaying corpse, the killer would bear a constant reminder of the wrong done. No one could remove it till the bones loosed from their sockets and fell away of their own accord. I cannot see your brother's body on your back, Erik, and yet you bear it just the same. O wretched man, who will deliver you from the body of this death?”

The image of his brother's moldering corpse made him want to retch. Nestor was right. Erik bore the load of his crime in his own heart. He'd never really believed in the Christian idea of sin, but he felt the weight of his guilt bearing down on him anyway.

“There is only one thing you can do,” Nestor went on. “You must forgive your brother.”

Erik couldn't have been more surprised if Nestor had slapped him. “No, you're wrong. Olaf is dead. Surely there's no going back now.” Erik stood and paced toward the parapet. “Even if such a thing were possible, I'm the one who needs forgiveness.”

“You're right in that,” Nestor said agreeably. “Yet it is a principle woven into the very fabric of the universe. In the measure that we forgive others, we ourselves find pardon. Release Olaf from the wrong he did you and you release yourself.”

Olaf's face rose up in Erik's mind again, as he was as a boy. A sob fought its way out of Erik's throat and this time, not a single tear, but a torrent poured from his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and wept like a lost child. From his heart, he forgave Olaf for sleeping with his wife. He wiped the offense from his mind. He buried the hurt as a dog might bury a bone and resolved not to take it out and worry it again. The knot of bitterness in his chest dissolved into tiny pieces and washed away with the salty river of his tears.

Nestor's bony fingers patted his unburned shoulder, easing the shudder that coursed through him.

“Yes, my brother,” the little monk said. “Now you have tasted the most terrifying power of Love. The power to forgive.”

As his soul quieted in heartbroken peace, Erik decided the Christian's god wasn't as weak as he thought.

Valdis was too stunned at first to protest Damian's kiss. She had seen Christians at the basilica share what they called “a kiss of peace” and assumed this was what her former master offered, a simple expression of comfort. But when he drove his tongue between her teeth, it was clear there was nothing sympathetic in his embrace. She shoved against his chest with both palms.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You endanger us both. Or do you suppose being a gelding will shield you from Mahomet's jealous eye?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Damian's dark brows lowered and his face hardened like marble. Valdis regretted throwing his maiming in his teeth. After all, in a world where her family had cast her out and the man she loved was no more, Damian was the only one who seemed to care for her even a little.

And she’d hurt him to the core.

Yet he was the one who had always urged her to discretion. Whatever possessed him to kiss her like that?

“Forgive me.” She stood and walked to the nearby potted roses to put more distance between them. “I shouldn't have said it like that. I only meant—”

“No, you're right.” Damian's expression went flat and unreadable as he waved off her apology. “It was a mistake to kiss you. It just seemed you needed something and I was caught up in the moment. We will not speak of it again.”

Valdis nodded, but she felt a tingle at the small of her back. From the beginning of her enslavement, Damian felt safe. The kiss shattered that safety forever. Erik's instincts were right. Damian did want her, though the kiss didn't smack of passion. It was more like a test, in which she or he had failed. She'd heard the
zenana
gossip about late-made eunuchs and their unnatural sexual stamina. If she thwarted Damian's advances, would he still honor his pledge to set her free?

She would be on her guard with him from now on.

“You usually visit me at daybreak,” she said, hoping to bring some normalcy to their conversation. “What brings you at twilight?”

Before Damian could answer, the sound of commotion rose to her ear. Valdis leaned over the balustrade to peer down into the inner courtyard. Guards were dragging two people toward the pergola in the center of the garden.

It was a man and a woman, though both had been whipped so badly, their clothing hung in bloody ribbons down their backs. They were forced to their knees while the guards bound their hands behind them. The woman raised her heart-shaped face to the fading sunlight.

It was Landina and Bernard.

“Assemble in the courtyard,” Publius screeched, his unnatural alto straying upward in pitch in his excitement. “Witness the terrible wrath and justice of our lord!”

Valdis flew down the staircase, jostling the squealing women of the
zenana
in her haste to hurry to her friend. The day she and Landina were sold as slaves off the docks, she'd offered mute comfort to the Frankish girl. Once again, all she could do was stand with Landina in silent support.

Landina's gaze darted over the gathering mob, obviously looking for Valdis. When she found her, the Frank's face broke into a sad smile. It was the only goodbye she could offer without endangering Valdis as well, but it spoke volumes—sorrow for her deception, thanks for Valdis's friendship and finally, farewell.

Then the Frankish girl turned her eyes toward her lover, and no matter how the pitiless lash fell on them both, she would not look away.

“I have failed you,” Bernard gasped between stinging blows. “I am sorry, beloved.”

“I am not,” Landina said with fierceness. “We have known love, you and I. I would not trade one moment with you for the span of a hundred lifetimes.”

“Silence!” Mahomet strutted forward, hands on his hips. His dark eyes snapped and his white teeth glinted like a wolf about to attack a helpless kid. In his rage, he was terrifying. “You have led my agents quite a chase. Shall I give you over to them for sport to make up for their trouble? It will give me pleasure to see your living entrails wrapped about your own throats.”

The guard wielding the whip threw it down and pulled out a wickedly curved knife.

“Master, a thousand pardons, but I must speak,” Publius interrupted with a groveling bow. “Such things are not fitting for the women of the
zenana
to see. At least five are bearing now and we do not want to blight the children by allowing the mothers an evil sight.”

When Mahomet held up his hand to halt the guard's action, Valdis felt a surge of hope. Was it possible that her master possessed a shred of mercy?

“You are right, Publius,” he finally said as he held out his hand. “Bring my sword.”

Hushed expectancy fell over the assembly. Valdis forced herself to breathe as Publius hauled his bulk up onto the raised pergola. He offered the curved scimitar to Mahomet, jewel-encrusted hilt first.

“Hold still, Frankman,” he said to Bernard. “And I will give you a cleaner death than you deserve.”

Bernard's mouth moved, but Valdis couldn't make out the words. Landina didn't turn away as the blade sliced through the air, taking Bernard's head with it. His blood spattered her with a warm shower.