Thief Of Light Part 45

All by itself.

The flick of her fingers in a warding gesture, her choked whisper. "Abomination!" "Abomination!"

But his body didn't care. It was never as good as when Shad did it.

Infinitely preferable to take care of his own needs. He slid his fingers up and down, dragging the satiny skin over the blood-engorged hardness beneath, his b.a.l.l.s drawing up in antic.i.p.ation.

Noises filtered up from the street below. Stumbling footsteps, a wandering, reedy tenor, clearly affected by alcohol. A woman spoke sharply; the singer grunted as if in pain or shock; a door banged. G.o.ds, what a place!

Likely she'd been right, his mother.

Looking back, he'd done so many murky things to stay alive-starting with the price he'd paid to stow away at fourteen. His mouth twisted. His coltish, rawboned beauty had proved a useful commodity, but Judger G.o.d, it had hurt! And it had soiled his soul, all the way to the bedrock of his masculinity. Perhaps it was fortunate he hadn't got his full growth 'til later, or he would have killed the first mate. He didn't know anymore.

And now-He gripped the threadbare covers. His breath came a little faster. The inn was perfect for his purposes-for all that it was so shabby-only a short walk from the Wizards' Enclave. She She would be there now. Sleeping, unaware. His commission on the pleasure planet had begun. would be there now. Sleeping, unaware. His commission on the pleasure planet had begun.

Gray's lip curled. Pleasure planet! He knew he was fastidious, but he'd never seen such a slattern of a world. Wh.o.r.es for every taste, every purpose. All s.e.xes, all colors, all ages. A tawdry smorgasbord of misery and sleaze.

The Technomage Primus of Sybaris had a commission for him, and she wasn't renowned for her patience. A kidnap. The target was reputed to be a fire witch, though he'd never heard of such a thing. Ah s.h.i.t, why did it have to be a woman? Ah s.h.i.t, why did it have to be a woman? But conscience was a luxury he couldn't afford, not if he wanted his dream, his life whole and clean. But conscience was a luxury he couldn't afford, not if he wanted his dream, his life whole and clean.

A double game, a game of dodge and deceit and shadow. Ah, but he walked a razor's edge of risk!

The tension had destroyed his erection. One problem solved. G.o.ds, he needed air! With a sigh, he rolled toward the window, reaching out to pull the curtains and push the shutters wide. A few hours ago, he'd grabbed an ale jug and climbed up six flights of narrow stairs to the flat roof of the building so he could watch the dusk draw down over Sybaris. Ironically, the lights scattered below shone like glittering baubles, jewels in the velvet dark. But he knew what lay concealed beneath the kindly cloak of night-an endless stretch of teeming, festering cities, gambling h.e.l.ls, brothels, and taverns. The single dark patch on the far horizon was Remnant One, fifty square miles of the last native feather forest. Remnant Two, renowned for the exquisite beauty of the Rainbow Lakes, wasn't visible.

A Technomage flitter hummed past, skimming a couple of hundred feet above the slums, a sleek winged shape across the face of the moon. The first of the Dancers, the five famous moons of Sybaris, had risen already, high and silver over the planet's blowsy shoulder, ribbons of light streaming into the narrow room and over Gray's lean, bare torso. He sensed movement behind him. Ignored it. Which moon was that? Arabesque?

A cool fingertip touched the back of his thigh, almost shyly.

Gray reared up, so quickly the bed frame creaked in protest.

His shadow lay behind him, half on the bed, half on the floor. As he watched, it coalesced, gaining density until it sat up, next to his hip. s.h.i.t, not now! Why was it Shad was at his strongest when Gray felt unclean? When he felt wrong wrong?

"No! I don't want-"

The eyeless, featureless head turned toward him, a black silhouette against the wall. His straight blade of a nose, the lock of hair that fell over his brow, the stubborn jut of his chin. Yes, you do. Yes, you do. Not even a whisper in his mind, more like a thought, suddenly apparent, seeming to spring from nowhere, the way thoughts did. Not even a whisper in his mind, more like a thought, suddenly apparent, seeming to spring from nowhere, the way thoughts did.

Gray came up on his elbows and glared down the length of his body, knowing what he'd see. No more than a blink, and he'd swelled again, his shaft so high and full and fat, it strafed his navel, barely quivering. A shadowy hand reached for it, the fingers closing over him with absolute certainty.

Gray grunted with shock and horror and pleasure. Shad's grip was cool, smooth, hard.

Perfect.

f.u.c.k, it was always perfect! How could it not be, when Shad was the other part of himself? The worst part, the darkest part, the soiled underbelly of his soul he tried so desperately not to expose.

Gray grabbed for his shadow's wrist, even as a slick palm cradled his s.c.r.o.t.u.m and a knowing thumb rasped over the sweet spot under the head of his c.o.c.k. The seed boiled, pressing hard against tender skin. "Stop," he groaned. "Stop!"

We need. Shad pumped, exquisitely deft, milking and squeezing exactly the way Gray liked. Shad pumped, exquisitely deft, milking and squeezing exactly the way Gray liked. Both of us. Both of us. His shaft slipped through the black fist, appearing and reappearing, the ruddiness of l.u.s.t washed pale by the moonlight. His shaft slipped through the black fist, appearing and reappearing, the ruddiness of l.u.s.t washed pale by the moonlight.

Gray arched and shook, helpless, fingers gripping the bedclothes. Ah f.u.c.k, it was fine! f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k! His brain gone foggy and slow, he thought, Once, just this once, then never again. I promise, I' ll be good. I'll- Once, just this once, then never again. I promise, I' ll be good. I'll- A confident fingertip slipped between the cheeks of his a.s.s, 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 o.r.g.a.s.m so brutal, so gorgeous, only his head and heels touched the mattress.

Ah, Judger G.o.d. Tears stood in his eyes.

Abomination.

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 f.u.c.k away from me Get the f.u.c.k away from me.

Why?

Because- s.h.i.t! Gray s.n.a.t.c.hed the cloth and waved Shad away. s.h.i.t! Gray s.n.a.t.c.hed the cloth and waved Shad away.

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

Gray snarled. Like h.e.l.l I will Like h.e.l.l 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 tripart.i.te 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 had gone, he and the d.u.c.h.ess, his antique lap harp, all the way to Sybaris, holiday destination for the cra.s.s and gullible, happy playground for the criminally inclined. gone, he and the d.u.c.h.ess, his antique lap harp, all the way to Sybaris, holiday destination for the cra.s.s and gullible, happy playground for the criminally inclined.

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

2.

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 sc.r.a.pe 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, a.s.sessing 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.a.l.l.s!" She dropped it with a tinkle of broken gla.s.s. "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 b.o.o.boo's head with a gentle finger. Un.o.btrusively, 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, l.u.s.trous 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 s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 pa.s.sage. Running 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 s.p.a.ce. And somehow, Cenda was not surprised to see Elke trotting away from her toward the distant glow, b.o.o.boo b.u.mping along behind, dangling from one fat little fist.

"Sweetheart!" she'd called. "Wait for me. Wait for Mama!"

Elke had glanced over her shoulder and chuckled, a rich baby chuckle, one that showed her bright new teeth, but she didn't stop. "Mama!" she'd caroled. "Mama!" Her st.u.r.dy little legs twinkled along, with that toddler gait like a tipsy sailor's.

And beyond her, Cenda had seen it.

A huge wall of flame, flickering and shifting. Behind, dimly seen figures. A queenly woman with five moons circling above her head, a broad-shouldered man wearing a horned headdress.

The woman crouched, holding out her hands through the flame curtain, her smile so tender, so loving, Cenda's eyes filled with tears of joy.

Yes, yes! Exerting her will, she hurried after her daughter, skimming down the tunnel like a twig carried by a summer stream. Laughing, Elke stepped through the flame as if it wasn't there and was gathered into the Lady's embrace.

But when She rose, She looked directly at Cenda and shook Her head, the moons dancing in the swirl of Her hair, Elke tucked into the crook of Her arm. Not yet, Not yet, She said, Her voice like a silk-and-silver bell in Cenda's mind. She said, Her voice like a silk-and-silver bell in Cenda's mind. Not yet, my dear Not yet, my dear.

"Yes!" insisted Cenda. "Oh, my baby, my baby!"

And she hurled herself into the wall of fire.