Nightshade Page 3

  Jessa’s shoulders trembled and her head dropped back. “I smell…I smell the ocean,” she whispered, and heard a tender voice beside her ear but failed to understand what was said.

  “What do you see?” Radha asked again.

  Laughter rose within Jessa’s throat once more and she set it free. She lifted her left hand and it trembled, the bangles she wore on her wrist clinking in a soft rain of sound.

  “And musk,” Jessa said, surprised.

  “But what—”

  Jessa’s head tipped forward with a jerk and she plunged her right hand into the bowl. The water splashed and Radha grabbed the small table to keep it from overturning. The waters were not to be disturbed, and Radha hissed in warning as a cloud of steam mushroomed from the confines of the bowl.

  “A child,” Jessa spoke in a strained voice. “A child of the Durand line.”

  “Do you bear him a son?” Radha was shocked. But that cannot be! That is not what the Vhaelin promised.

  Jessa opened her eyes, her pupils expanding completely until nothing but black was left. She was blind to all but the truth.

  Radha jerked her hand away, startled as a thick finger of water curled from the bowl and snaked about Jessa’s arm, winding its way upward.

  Jessa felt the kiss upon her lips but it was too quick. The flavor on her tongue was the most delicious taste she had ever encountered and she wanted more, she was certain of it. Her lips were sweetly bruised and full with kisses. I know this taste. Vhaelin essa, I know this.

  Jessa saw a face and her entire body filled with heat. The eyes before her were utterly beautiful. “Is what you see different than what I see?”

  Radha could smell the pungent burning of the bowl as the brass began to warp. The container was slowly being drained as the water continued its climb and soaked the silk about Jessa’s right shoulder. It spread like blood across the garment as she seized the spell completely. “No, Jessa!”

  Torchlight filled the tent as the flap was thrown open and the wind blew in. Radha turned with a shout of warning.

  Joaquin rushed forward, his vicious boot sending the table across the tent. The bowl spun away as Serabee stepped close behind him, his pale expression savage at the sight of the ancient brass.

  Jessa felt the spell break like a fist against her chest. She gasped and reeled away from the light with a cry of agony. The world around her coalesced into a cruel focus as she saw her brother’s hand. Pain washed through her nose and right cheekbone at the vicious blow.

  He straddled Jessa’s body on his knees, and his right hand closed hard around her throat. Jessa clawed at his thick wrist with both hands and kicked in panic.

  “Stupid cunta.” He shook her and Jessa’s head snapped back. “You would work majik with the Kingsmen but half a league away?”

  She struggled to breathe, her bracelets jangling with a harsh music.

  “Careful, my Prince!” Radha said. “You would offer damaged goods in this affair?”

  Jessa could see the thrill in his expression at her helplessness, and it was not an unfamiliar moment. He cupped her breast with his left hand, squeezing with violence. “Little rabbit,” he said in a mocking tone.

  Radha spoke yet again. “Careful, my Prince.”

  “What have I told you, dear sister,” Joaquin said, “about consorting with this witch?”

  “My Lord?”

  Joaquin turned at Serabee’s voice, the low timbre of the words seeming to cut through his enjoyment. Jessa fell away as he shoved her and then stood up. “Will you see to this witch once and for all? Or must I do everything myself, now that we’ve left the curried favors and hand-kissing of my father’s presence?”

  “I will do what I can, my Prince.”

  Joaquin considered Serabee for a heartbeat, then smoothed his tunic. For an instant, in the midst of her own confusion, Jessa could see that he was still adjusting to the idea that a man of Serabee’s considerable power was his to command. “See that you do.”

  Joaquin left the tent as Serabee looked at Radha with a knowing expression. “Be careful, Lady Radha.” He smiled. “There are no hidden passageways here for you to hide within or to use in making good your escape.”

  Radha returned his smile. “Lord Serabee El-Khan, I thank you for the warning and advise you of the same, in the coming months.”

  Jessa glanced at them as she tried to order her thoughts. She saw only the shadows of ancient enemies, however, a Lord of the Fakir and a High Priestess of the Vhaelin. Gods that had been mortal foes since the birth of the sun itself, their history awash in murder and honorable combat, the blood spilt upon both sides stretching back through the ages. Their combined energy dragged at her senses, Serabee’s quiet laughter cutting at the base of her skull like a dull blade.

  Serabee bowed his head and then spun about, tossing the canvas behind him as he took his leave into the night. Radha fell to her knees and grasped Jessa by the shoulders with gentle hands.

  Jessa lifted her face and searched the shadows that swam above her bed. The darkness divided and a form shifted within the gloom, fighting to free itself. She reached out as her emotions swarmed up and broke through the walls she had built. She tried to recapture the heart of her vision and her eyes burned with sudden tears.

  Don’t leave me, Jessa, please.

  Jessa sobbed at her name spoken so, for it was said with such sweet desperation.

  She collapsed against Radha and began to cry. Radha glanced beyond her toward the far corner of the tent. “Hush…” Radha brought her face close. “Hush now, child.”

  The nausea swelled up in Jessa and she pushed free with weak hands. Her entire body ached, pinpricks of pain that moved within her blood like thorns. Vertigo pulled hard in the pit of her stomach and a cold sweat raced across her skin, her breath becoming short and strained. Her body jerked as her stomach pushed into her throat and she shoved it back down, trying to assert her will.

  Radha came close once more and took hold of Jessa’s waist, catching her when her arms gave out.

  “Forgive me,” Jessa whispered.

  “It’s all right, child.”

  Jessa felt confused as her eyes began to focus again.

  “Who do you look for?” Radha whispered.

  “Radha?”

  “Yes, child, all is well.”

  Jessa fixed her gaze within the darkness near the ceiling of their tent, and for a time she searched with as much purpose as her strength could summon.

  “Do you remember, child?”

  “What happened to the bowl?”

  “You have destroyed it. I should have known better, child. It is this place. The land beneath us is a stronger bowl.”

  “’Tis a holy place.”

  “Yes, there is too much power here. It is too easy to lose control.”

  “Your spell is not what you think it is, old woman,” Jessa said softly.

  “My spell is fine.”

  “What did I say?”

  Radha hesitated. “You said nothing.”

  You lie, my Radha.

  “What do you remember?”

  “I remember nothing.” Jessa gave as she was given, for she remembered the scent of the sea and lips upon her throat, soft and filled with warmth.

  “Not a face?”

  “No,” she answered, and this time she told the truth. Joaquin had destroyed her trance too soon. She wiped at her nose and the back of her hand came away touched with blood. “Only smoke.”

  “I will fix the bowl,” Radha said.

  “I don’t wish for you to fix it.”

  “Then what do you wish for?”

  “To look up one day and understand. I wish to say, Vhaelin essa yellam nee-ellow.” She pushed onto her right hip and tumbled over into a pile of pillows. “And thus praise my gods for smiling upon me.”

  Radha seemed to ponder her statement. “Perhaps you should meditate.”

  Jessa turned her face to a pillow, forcing her emotions down. This was the mo
ment she always feared, this overwhelming sense of failure and betrayal. The knowledge that she was too weak and thus had abandoned the shade of her lover to the endless darkness of the spirit world. That her gods would give her but a taste of what was sweetest, then steal it away with such heartless indifference. That they could be so cruel when she had done nothing but serve them. “Be silent, old woman,” she said. “Just…just for once, please.”

  Radha held her tongue, respectful as she turned away.

  Chapter Three

  Late spring 1032

  The city of Lokey, Arravan

  The dice rolled across the boards, everyone in the main parlor of Madam Salina’s House of Courtesans waiting with anticipation. The bones hit the surface of the overturned table and leapt back, tipping and then falling still.

  Some three dozen spectators reacted, the parlor erupting with cheers as the Princess Darrius Lauranna Durand stood back and laughed, throwing her arms up in victory as the crowd swamped her.

  Lord Bentley Greeves, jostled as the crowd surged around him in celebration, watched his friend with a broad smile. He knew what was said about the Princess. She was backwards in a world where such a passion was not fully accepted, especially for one of her station. She refused to deny that she reserved her love and desires for women and not men.

  And at the moment, Darrius was as beautiful up close as she was from afar, and appeared to be just as wild as the rumors claimed she was. She was tall and her body was lean and powerful beneath her black uniform and white tunic, her shoulders, so he’d heard it said, were the sort that a woman could hold on to when in need of some leverage. And her hips, her hips were slim and her trousers hinted at a behind that was firm and delicious. Her thighs? He’d heard women give delicate moans at the sight of those strong legs.

  And the hair. It was all heavy golden curls that were thick and natural and sinfully lush. It had been tied behind her neck when they arrived, but now it was not so and she was all the more beautiful as it spilled down her back to just between her shoulder blades. Her face was pleasing in the extreme, noble lines and chiseled cheekbones, a nose that was true above full lips, her skin soft-looking with just a hint of a tan. But it was her mouth that he caught people dreaming over, men and women alike.

  The Golden Panther, he thought, the nickname given to Darrius when she was but a child, and from her sleek looks and the rich color of her hair, it was no surprise that it had stuck.

  When Darrius had openly declared herself to be backwards, announcing to the world that she desired the company of women over that of men, she had created a long-lasting scandal. Conversation and debates had abounded, and more than a few factions within the Court of King Owen Durand had complained, some even speaking out against his youngest daughter and demanding that she conform to the dictates of her station.

  She had refused, and her father had not forced the issue. It had all been petty politics, though, and so for those not immediately involved in such concerns only one thing mattered. The residents of Lokey loved Arravan’s youngest child well, and whether she enjoyed the touch of a man or a woman made little difference.

  The backwards women of the city desired her, though Bentley knew that Darrius honestly had no idea, no matter how many times he brought up the subject. And though her reputation was wild, not one courtesan could lay an honest claim to having shared her spirit with Darry. Not all courtesans would entertain those of the same sex, but very few would have turned down a client of royal blood, be they male or female. And even if a courtesan were undecided, one look into those unique eyes would most likely tip the scales in favor of a tryst, for her right eye was a rich emerald in color and her left a deep sky blue.

  Darrius scooped up her gold and eyed her large opponent. “Well played, Sir Littleton,” she said. “Just not your night.”

  Arton Littleton was no gentleman and he knew it. He was also extremely drunk. He stepped his three-hundred-stone, six-foot-six-inch frame into the circle of spectators and looked down his nose at her. “Do you mock me?”

  “Darry, be nice now,” Bentley said from the edge of the crowd.

  Darry began to pocket her coins, smiling. “Yes, I am mocking you, Sir Littleton, but only a bit.”

  His nostrils flared wide.

  “You’ve lost all night and still you bet more than your share,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “You should’ve known better, my large friend.”

  “If you weren’t who you are…” He took another step.

  “And who might that be?” Darry gave her heavy pockets a shake. “The woman who just took all of your coin, that’s all. If you feel I’ve cheated you in some way, then take the first swing and with my blessing.”

  Bentley cringed. “Bloody hell.”

  Darry laughed. “Bentley don’t be such a—”

  Arton Littleton’s right fist took Darry in the side of the head and sent her sprawling into the crowd. The big man laughed as several people tumbled to the floor beneath her. He spun about and held his arms high as a nervous cheer rippled through the crowd.

  “You want my hammer in your ear as well?” Arton asked, shaking his fist.

  Bentley blinked at him. “You’ve just hit the High King’s daughter in the head.”

  “She said I could.”

  Bentley considered that. “Yes, but she’s drunk.”

  “So am I.”

  “I am as well, actually, but this is all beside the point.”

  Arton frowned in confusion. “You want the hammer?”

  “No, now see, this is what gets you into trouble, Arton,” Bentley replied simply, tapping his fingers against the massive knuckles. “Someone tells you to bet all of your money and so you do. Someone tells you to hit a pretty woman in the head and so you do. It’s a terrible pattern I see forming, and I think it might be the root of a more serious problem.”

  “What in the seven hells are you talking about?”

  “I’m not sure. I was just waiting for Darry to get back up.”

  Arton spun about more quickly than Bentley would have thought for a big man in such a drunken state, but Darry was ready for him. Her right boot landed between his legs in a well-placed shot, and a collective groan moved through the crowd as Arton grabbed his crotch, falling forward onto his knees with a boom. Darry swung the empty pewter pitcher and it clanged against the side of his head.

  Arton Littleton tipped to the right like a felled tree and slammed into the floor.

  Bentley smiled. “Were you taking a walk?”

  “I was trying to remember who I was,” Darry said.

  “And you are?”

  “I haven’t a bloody clue.” She laughed and turned with a start.

  Someone’s shoulder hit her in the ribs and she let out a grunt as the body attached to it knocked her into several chairs and a table that skidded and tipped over beneath their combined weight. Bentley was caught up as the crowd surged, taking a fist on his left shoulder and shoved into the fight with a grin.

  *

  Bentley sat on the cushioned bench behind the round table and stared at the parlor. Darry lounged against his body doing the same. Less than a dozen patrons were left and the mess had been cleaned up quickly, the damaged furniture dispatched for firewood. A fire blazed in the hearth and a lute was playing. The entire room was completely altered from its chaos of several hours earlier.

  The windows behind them were closed to the night, though the louvered shutters allowed the ocean breeze to enter. The scent of the sea cut through the pipe smoke and ale, as well as the heady perfume that seemed to occupy every corner. A bar ran along the southern wall, fronting the kitchens and the corridor that led to the private baths.

  Of the establishment’s three stories, the upper two were reserved for the courtesans and their patrons. It was a place less rich and opulent than some, but its reputation was of the highest order. Madam Salina’s did not cater to the Bloods of Arravan society, but offered pleasure and respite to its backbone and calluse
d hands.

  “How much gold do we have left?” Bentley asked.

  “What we won or what we came in with?”

  “Either.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do we have enough to pay for this delicious Ravonese gold?” He took up his goblet from beside the empty wine bottle.

  “I thought you already paid.”

  “You have all the coin.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I didn’t order it, Bent.”

  “Neither did I. I shall be scrubbing plates, I know it,” he mumbled. “We win the biggest roll of the bones all night and it pays for furniture.”

  “And a bodhran.”

  “A bodhran?”

  “Yes. Someone’s head went through the drum.”

  “And here you thought your music lessons would never be of use.”

  “It was him or me.”

  “One would think that a princess would have better manners.”

  “And four bottles of Kenton Rose.”

  “My favorite vintage.”

  Several minutes of companionable silence passed and then, “Do you think it’s safe to go home yet?” she asked.

  Bentley noted the touch of melancholy. “We can stay as long as you like. We can even get a room, if you want.”

  Darry took a long breath and let it out slowly. “I drank too much.”

  “Are you drunk?” he asked. Darry made a good show of drinking and her reputation was such that everyone assumed she favored the grape, but he knew that she was rarely if ever drunk. She was too careful for that despite that she liked her fun.

  She had fallen last in line of the royal children, and though that fact should have given her more leeway as the babe of the family, her life had been far from carefree. The eldest, Malcolm, was heir to the throne and a decided presence in Darry’s life. It was no secret that he disapproved of her. As a consequence, Darry had been forced to step carefully, forever glancing over her shoulder for the blow of his condemnation.

  The beautiful, red-haired Emmalyn was next behind Malcolm, and her generosity and graceful spirit made her much beloved. Bentley knew that Darry worshipped her sister and loved her terribly, but what she did not appreciate, perhaps, was that the feeling was mutual. Emmalyn was much like their mother, strong and filled with a presence that drew others to her side with little effort. She was also a touch like Darry, though her wild streak was somewhat reserved and showed itself more in her sharp tongue than her behavior.