Thief of Light (64 page)

A confident fingertip slipped between the cheeks of his ass, and the thought shattered, lost in a maelstrom of physical sensation. With a choked cry, the Duke of Ombra spurted all over his stomach, the orgasm so brutal, so gorgeous, only his head and heels touched the mattress.

Ah, Judger God. Tears stood in his eyes.

Gray fell back panting on the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes. A whisper of movement and a soft cloth swiped across his belly, cleaning him as if he were an infant.
Get the fuck away from me
.

Because—
Shit! Gray snatched the cloth and waved Shad away.

His shadow retreated a few steps.
You’ll miss me
.

Gray snarled.
Like hell I will
.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought of old Deiter standing in the precise center of his tower room in Nakarion City on Concordia, the chalk lines glowing an eerie green on the polished floor.

“I can cure you of your shadow, Grayson, my friend,” the wizard had murmured in his cracked old-man’s voice, shrewd eyes gleaming with gentle malice. “But it will cost.” And he’d named a price that made Gray’s blood congeal. His very soul to save his soul. A bargain with the devil.

His mind gone quiet and clear, the way it used to do in battle, he’d stepped forward, scuffing the lines on the floor, chest to chest with the old wizard. He’d wrapped his fingers in Deiter’s tripartite beard and hauled him up until they were nose to nose. “Deiter,” he’d said, almost tenderly, “if you’re lying to me, I will kill you.” A little shake. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The old man’s breath smelled of wine. “But you’re not a killer.”

Gray bared his teeth. “Not by inclination, no. But I’ve done almost everything in my time. I was a mercenary before I was a musician. Play me false, and I won’t hesitate.”

Releasing his grip, a finger at a time, he stepped back, leaving the wizard standing. He threaded his way through the cluttered room—the rows of jars containing strange floating objects, the bundles of dried herbs, the skeleton on a stand, the grimoires shackled to the dusty desk. It reminded him of a stage set for a rustic pantomime—Wizards’ Lair. Wondering where Deiter did the real work, he turned at the door for a last glare. “Remember, old man. Don’t cross me.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Deiter straightened his robes with an irritated rustle and flapped a hand. “Begone.”

And they
had
gone, he and the Duchess, his antique lap harp, all the way to Sybaris, holiday destination for the crass and gullible, happy playground for the criminally inclined.

To play the double game. Dodge and deceit and shadow.

The flame lizards disappeared in a shower of sparks. The fire flared.

Cenda twisted to look over her shoulder. Krysanthe the healer stood at the door, her plump, pretty face slack-jawed with astonishment. “They’ve gone,” said Cenda, feeling gray again. She turned back to stare moodily into the dying fire. “But you saw them, too, didn’t you? So I haven’t lost my mind.”

No answer.

Cenda closed her eyes and leaned her skull against the high back of the chair. The old feeling of dislocation returned full force, making her head swim.

She heard the scrape of a stool as Krysanthe settled next to her. “I never thought—” said the healer. She cleared her throat and started over. “I suspected—oh, yes—for the last two months. In fact . . . But I hardly dared hope.”

“Get to the point, Krys,” said Cenda wearily. All the wonder of the fire creatures had leaked out of her. Six months ago, she wouldn’t have been so curt, but six months ago, she’d sat in this very chair with Elke in her lap, heavy and warm, the curly head resting sleepily on her shoulder. Elke, the child of her autumn years, the child she’d never thought to have, never—

“Salamanders,” said the healer, with something that sounded very much like glee. “That’s what they are. I started my research into fire Magick the night you melted all the candles in the dining hall. Remember?”

Ah, yes. Cenda bit her lip, feeling the flush stain her cheeks. She pleated the fabric of her shift with fretful fingers. Her first meal in public since . . . since they’d been so ill, she and Elke. An ordeal in itself, the cautious, assessing glances, the scarcely there pats on the arm, the murmurs of sympathy. A well-meaning gauntlet to be run.

She’d found the silence of the blessing a relief, a small space she could use to put herself back together. Each of the Pures, witch or wizard, standing with head bowed, holding a small candle to symbolize the presence of the Lord and Lady. On the last phrase of the invocation, the custom was to focus your will on the candle, light it, and set it at your left hand. A lighting spell, not easy to master for all that it looked so simple, but the first of the Magicks required for entry to the First Circle.

Cenda had failed her First Circle practicals twice before she made it through, though she’d had no problem with the theory. And that night she wasn’t . . . herself. Shakily, she’d gathered her will and focused fiercely on her candle, determined not to look stupid.

But somehow, the Lady only knew how, she managed to overdo it. Every candle in the hall, more than fifty of them, flared, shooting flame to the high ceiling before slumping into puddles of melted wax.

Absolute silence.

The fishy eye of Purist Matthaeus, who was presiding at High Table that evening, turned unerringly toward her. “Cenda,” he said delicately, “perhaps—?” He waved an elegant, be-ringed hand in the direction of the tall, carved double doors.

“Yes, Purist.” Head bowed, she’d fled. It was only when she reached her room and uncramped her fingers that she realized her metal fork had flowed and melted in her grip until it formed a right angle.

Now Krysanthe said, “It caused a lot of talk, you know. That much power, used indiscriminately. We tried to hose it down, Matthaeus and I, but . . .” She rubbed her nose. “Rumors get about.”

Cenda shrugged. “I made a mistake; that’s all. I make a lot of mistakes. You know that.”

“No, no!” The healer sprang to her feet and began to pace, her choppy stride betraying her excitement. “It all adds up, don’t you see?” Her hair had begun to come loose from its braid in soft wisps of salt-and-pepper. Seizing the cold lantern, she thrust it toward Cenda. “Light this for me, dear, will you? I’m too excited to concentrate.”

“Mm.” Her gaze still fixed on her friend, Cenda flicked a finger in the general direction.

The lantern blazed up in the healer’s face. “Lord’s balls!” She dropped it with a tinkle of broken glass. “Uh, sorry.” Crouching, she grabbed Cenda’s water jug and upended it. The flames died. When she looked up, her face was bright with triumph. “See?” she said. “I told you. Fire Magick.”

Cenda gaped. Then she shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Not me.”

Not Cenda the clumsy, Cenda whose gifts of Magick were so small, she’d barely qualified for the First Circle. So awkward that the visiting wizard who’d fathered Elke had quickly grown impatient, though he’d found her inexperience a charming novelty in the beginning.

Krysanthe stroked Booboo’s head with a gentle finger. Unobtrusively, Cenda moved him aside. The healer said, “I think you’re the first true fire witch on Sybaris. Matthaeus agrees.” Her dark eyes, usually so soft and calm, grew flat and purposeful. “If you don’t learn to master the powers, you’ll be a danger, Cenda. To yourself and everyone around you.”

Rising, Krysanthe lit the fat candles on the mantel with a wave of her hand.

Bemused, Cenda stared at her friend. “Ah, Krys . . .”

“Don’t you see? It’s the only answer! Great Lady, you must be the last person in the world to know, you poor love. You don’t feel the cold anymore, do you? Hadn’t you noticed?”

Cenda started to shake her head, then stopped. Krysanthe was still wearing a heavy all-weather cloak, while Cenda sat in her shift, perfectly comfortable.

“And your hair . . .”

“What about it?”

The healer reached under her cloak and rummaged through the jingling chatelaine she wore at her waist. She came up with a small round mirror on a short handle. Unclipping it, she thrust it into Cenda’s slack fingers. “Look.”

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her hair properly. Once, it had been her only vanity, a thick, lustrous black, waving down to the middle of her back. No gray, though at forty-one, there should have been.

Tilting the mirror, she peered. No, just the same, though a little wilder than usual. New frown marks graven between her brows, her lips thin and tight. Wait! What was that?

Helpfully, Krysanthe grabbed a candle and held it close. Cenda grunted with surprise.

A few threads of red shone at her temples. True red, blazing red.

“Then there’s this.” With cold deliberation, the other woman brushed the length of Cenda’s forearm with the candle flame.

Cenda yelped and jerked aside, but Krysanthe clamped a ruthless hand over her wrist and did it again. Lady, it felt like the fire lizard! Warm, yes, but almost pleasant, ticklish even. Nothing like the searing pain of a burn.

Together, they stared down at her unmarked flesh.

“You could walk through a forest fire and emerge unscathed.” The healer let out a long breath. “And then there were the salamanders. How many? Two, was it?”

“Three.” Her brain seemed to have turned to soup. “But why? How?”

“Something happened the night your fever broke, didn’t it?” Krysanthe took Cenda’s hands in a strong grip. “Tell me, sweetie.”

“Elke died,” said Cenda flatly. “And so did I.”

Elke had been whiny, fretful, whereas normally she was a cheerful little body, bright and sweet as a new moon, always into mischief. Cenda had sighed and cuddled her close, rocked her and told her stories. “The winter ague,” said Krysanthe’s apprentice, Tai Yang. “Be sure to make her drink.”

And she had, though she could feel the first effects of the ague herself, nibbling at her bones and joints, sapping her strength. Then Elke had begun pushing the cup aside and screwing up her eyes against the light. When Cenda stroked the hair off the child’s forehead, the skin was dry and hot.

Tai Yang had been busy, but he’d come straightaway when she sent for him. His almond eyes fierce with concentration behind his spectacles, he’d examined both of them. Then he’d drawn a deep breath. “I need Purist Krysanthe’s opinion,” he’d said. “Nothing to worry about.”

But she heard his footsteps receding rapidly down the passage.
Running
. Tai Yang, who was such a scholar, so self-contained. Terror swam like a monstrous, twisted fish in Cenda’s belly; her head thumped as though a demon used it for an anvil. Though every muscle screamed in protest, she’d gathered Elke’s little body into hers. It felt hot and brittle, like a dried leaf, and the child whimpered at her mother’s touch.

The fever took them both like some great ravening beast, roaring with delight and fury as it ate them up, burned them alive. Cenda was only peripherally aware of Krysanthe barking orders, of people rushing about with cold cloths and infusions and ice packs. With every fiber of her being, she yearned to touch the little body lying in the next bed, to offer her breast. Somehow, she was convinced that if she could only hold Elke close and let her suck, the way she used to, all would be well, the fire beast vanquished.

“Mama’s here,” she murmured foolishly, though the words got tangled in the agony in her throat. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’re safe. Mama’s here.”

But she’d been wrong. Ah, Great Lady, so very, very wrong!

By the time Elke’s convulsions began, Cenda was deeply unconscious, though she fought bitterly against the swelling tide of it, every step of the way.

It could have been a moment later, or a century, but the darkness fell away, leaving her floating, disembodied, voiceless, looking down at her own lanky limbs on the bed, the cluster of figures working frantically over Elke’s small body. In one corner of the infirmary, just under the heavy beam that supported the ceiling, an oval of light shimmered into being, cool and golden. It expanded, grew into an aperture that opened onto a long tunnel, stretching far away into infinite space. And somehow, Cenda was not surprised to see Elke trotting away from her toward the distant glow, Booboo bumping along behind, dangling from one fat little fist.