Heir of Autumn Page 8

  “My breath,” she said, softly and clearly. She matched her breath to her teacher’s, watching his chest rise and fall. Moving as slowly and carefully as stalking cats, they circled one another for one complete revolution. Their spiral paths brought them closer together.

  “What is the second gate?” Victeris asked. His voice sounded as though it came from everywhere, behind her, above her, in front of her, bubbling up from the water.

  “My skin.”

  She focused her attention on her body, feeling every sensation. The preparation given by Caleb and the others helped her. She felt everything within and without. Each drop of water left a glowing path down her back. The brush of her thighs counted every movement as she sidestepped a second revolution around the circle.

  “What is the third gate?”

  “My eyes.”

  She looked into Victeris’s eyes, as she had with Caleb before. But this time, she was not the advanced student looking at a younger. This was her master. His energy slammed into her like a physical blow. Caleb gave her love, comfort, companionship. Victeris frightened her. He was raw power. No mercy. No camaraderie. She was the ship, and he was the storm, sweeping her to a place she had never been before.

  Her breath quickened, and she tried desperately to tame it.

  One foot. Then the next. Round and round. Ever closer to him.

  Her fear surged through her, transforming into excitement. She had never desired her teacher before, but it suddenly became overwhelming. She understood at last. Her cravings for Caleb, for Theras, they were nothing compared to this.

  She fought to even her breathing, fearing her will would crumble the instant she touched him. She longed to explode.

  “What is the fourth gate?”

  “My heart.” Shara’s voice sounded far away, and she knew she was losing control.

  The fourth spiral was tight. She could touch him if she reached out her arm. Somehow, she kept her shaking hands at her sides and opened her heart to him.

  Her chest shuddered. He rushed past her self-control, filling her with energy. There was no kindness in him, no gentleness, only infinite power.

  She thought she cried out, but she couldn’t be sure. Everything was hazy. Her discipline cracked. She wanted to flee. Her heart raced. Turn away, she screamed inside. Break the spiral, run back the way you came.

  No! She refused. Her foot came down sure and steady. She would never turn away, no matter what. She had come this far. She would be a Zelani.

  They spiraled so close their lips hovered inches apart. Each small step was a shuffle. The tips of her breasts brushed against his hairy chest. She sobbed, recovered her breath, somehow maintained her control.

  Victeris reached up and cupped a hand behind the back of her neck. His other hand slid along the curve of her ass. His fingertips barely brushed her sex as his hand glided down her thigh, picking her knee up and setting it against his hip. His erection pressed against her. Three quick shudders shot through her body.

  “What is the fifth gate?”

  “My soul,” she whispered.

  He thrust inside her, and her control shattered like shale. Her head fell back, then snapped forward. Her body crashed against him. The last sound she heard was his growl as his cock pushed into her, breaking through her, breaking through everything. She lost herself, flying outward, spinning out of control.

  She soared above herself, billowing into the room. Below, the Shara-that-was crumpled in Victeris’s embrace, wrapped her shaky legs around his waist. He bore her to the floor, crushing her against the tiles, thrusting into her again and again.

  Shara filled the entire room, pressed up against the dome, flowed out through the stones. She expanded through the school, into the bodies of the students, out across the city, into the Great Ocean, into the Summer Sea, up into the night sky above.

  “I know,” she cried to the night. “I finally know!” But the night did not hear. She made no sound. There was no sound.

  And so she could not hear her teacher as he spoke to her senseless body below.

  “I am Victeris. The source of your power. Your master now and forever. You are mine. When I call, you will come to me. When I speak, you will obey…”

  8

  NIGHT HAD fallen and a hush hovered in the Hall of Windows. Hundreds of Ohndariens filled the silent amphitheater, holding vigil as Celidon took the Test of the Stone. No one stirred or fidgeted, even the babes in their mothers’ arms held the silence. As the moon crept across the sky, the light in the room shifted from pale silver to midnight blue. The stained glass overhead reflected swirling patterns of cobalt light onto the expectant faces of the crowd.

  At sundown, Celidon lit one torch for each season and climbed down the ladder into the Heart of Ohndarien. Krellis and the four Sisters followed him into that black hole. They would stand by his side all night aiding the Heir of Winter where they could, but in the end it was Celidon’s own heart that would save or betray him.

  Just before dawn, Celidon would raise a shard of burning diamond in his hand and thrust it into his heart. If he was strong enough, he would survive the Test and emerge as the Brother of Winter, a full member of the Council. If he failed, the four torches would be extinguished, and Celidon’s spirit would remain in the Heart with his ancestors.

  Brophy tried to keep focused on the ritual, but his mind kept wandering. Bae’s words kept running through his mind. He wished Shara were here. He wanted to tell her everything he’d heard, but there were no Zelani students in attendance. She would face her own test that night.

  As a Child of the Seasons, it was Brophy’s privilege and his duty to kneel at the very edge of the council platform. For hours he had stared at the gaping hole in the center of the Hall. He kept hoping for a sign, a sound, a flicker of light, but the hole to the Heart was eternally black. Brophy put his hands on the cool stones in front of his knees. Closing his eyes, he willed Celidon to succeed. He imagined the lanky young man standing in the darkness, alone and frightened. It should be me down there, he couldn’t help thinking. It should be me, not him.

  Only a handful of boys from the four houses had grown to manhood since the Lost Brothers had gone north. It was a startlingly low number. Some male children had died in accidents and fallen victim to childhood diseases, but mostly they had simply failed to be born. Girl after girl after girl found her way into the world.

  Of course, Trent was part of the House of Autumn now, but that was different. Trent was an Heir of Autumn in name, but he was not of the Blood.

  Trent had chosen to avoid the ceremony. He would certainly make light of the situation. It was difficult for him to be respectful of serious events, but that was no excuse. He should have been here.

  Behind the Children stood the guests, foreigners and Ohndariens who were not of the Blood. Some came to add their spirits to Celidon for strength. Some came to witness the spectacle. Some came because it was tradition. But none of them could know what the Children of the Seasons felt. For none of them would ever die down in that black hole or live their lives knowing they didn’t have the courage to take the Test.

  The night moved slowly. A few of the younger children started crying or fussing. Some fell asleep. Halfway through the night, Brophy felt the beginnings of an uncomfortable urge. He should have relieved himself before taking up the vigil.

  An hour later, he couldn’t keep a thought on Celidon or the Test. Even Bae’s words fled. He kept shifting uncomfortably, transferring his weight from knee to knee in an effort to distract himself. It was hopeless to resist. Brophy stood on stiff legs. Everyone around him noticed as he stepped carefully through the kneeling people. His aunt Hellena frowned at him. He shrugged helplessly and moved toward the top of the amphitheater. Jostling a few of the faithful, Brophy finally managed to make his way to the Autumn Gate and outside the Hall of Windows.

  He considered sneaking into the gardens and peeing in the bushes. It was such a long walk down to the Night Market, but on this
night of all nights, the idea seemed wrong. Trying to walk quickly, with dignity, he made his way down the long, curving staircase from the Wheel to the Night Market.

  A long row of public toilets stood along the edge of the water. A privacy curtain covered the entrance of each green-tiled stall. At night they looked like tiny fortresses, lit by a lamp hanging over each stall on a long, wrought-iron arm.

  Brophy cursed his luck as he shuffled up to the six toilets. Each curtain was drawn. He shifted from foot to foot and fought the urge to cross his legs like a little kid.

  Blessedly soon, one of the occupants threw his curtain aside. A wealthy trader from Vizar stepped out, wearing the traditional crude clay mask of his people. The facial covering had a long, thin nose and an expressionless mouth that ended just below the bottom lip, exposing the man’s chin. A heavy rainbow-colored cloak covered his entire body from neck to toes. Thousands of tiny mirrors had been sewn into the rich fabric, and they twinkled in the lamplight.

  Staring was the height of rudeness in Vizar. They wore the masks and mirrors to ward off unwanted glances. Remembering his manners, Brophy averted his eyes and rushed past the merchant into the toilet.

  He hastily undid his breeches, aimed for the tile-lined hole, and let out a quiet sigh of relief. The world slowed down and he felt almost drunk with relief by the time he laced his breeches up again.

  His thoughts turned back to Celidon as he washed his hands in the waist-high basin and poured a ladle of water down the hole. He had a hand on the curtain when he stepped on something. Kneeling, he picked up a brilliant cloth pouch covered with silver disks. Brophy fumbled with the drawstring and peered inside. The purse was full to bursting with silver.

  He threw open the curtain and stepped out, casting about for the Vizai trader. He was nowhere in sight.

  Brophy paused, giving one glance back toward the Wheel. He should get back to the ceremony, but the trader couldn’t have gone far. He’d probably headed for the line of cafés along the harbor.

  Brophy swerved through the milling crowd along the canal’s walkway. The Night Market was particularly crowded on this night of the Test. He hurried to a saltwater fountain and hoisted himself up the side of it to get a better view.

  There! The mirrors on the man’s cloak flashed as he passed under a streetlight. The Vizai walked leisurely, stopping every now and then to look at the wares of the snack vendors in their pushcarts.

  Brophy skirted the crowd, running along the edge of the walkway, inches from falling into the harbor. He slowed his pace as he neared the merchant, stopped and respectfully tugged on the short man’s cloak.

  The trader turned, fixing his gaze somewhere above Brophy’s head.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  Brophy paused, realizing that the man wasn’t going to look at him, and somehow that probably made sense. Thousands of years ago, the men of Vizar led solitary lives spread far apart on their barren land. If two men met each other in the wilderness, the weaker man would look away from the stronger. If the two met eyes, it was an invitation to fight to the death. Eventually the confrontations grew out of control. To end the conflict, they all donned masks and stopped looking at each other altogether. The mirrored cloaks were an extension of the same tradition, added after they grew rich trading slaves for silver. But they never gave up the primitive mud masks, as strange and unsettling as they were.

  “You dropped this, sir,” Brophy said, holding up the pouch.

  The trader patted his right side. “Ah,” he said. He brought his hands around very slowly and they disappeared into the folds of his cloak. “It appears as though I did.” He waited.

  Brophy paused, confused by a custom he knew nothing about.

  “I thought you might want it back.”

  “I see,” the man said. “That is very courteous of you. And so you are correct. I would very much like that.” Still he did not reach to take the pouch, though Brophy held it out at arm’s length.

  Brophy’s brow furrowed. He suddenly felt stupid, as if he were talking to Shara about mathematics.

  “Well then, take it,” he said. If the Vizai wasn’t going to be helpful, Brophy wasn’t going to try to guess the right response.

  “Ah, yes indeed. What shall be our exchange?”

  Brophy narrowed his eyes. He shook his head. “No, I don’t want anything. I just wanted to return it.”

  “Truly? You release it without onus?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “So be it.” He reached out and took the pouch. It disappeared behind the mirrors. “I am pleased,” the trader said. “I realize that perhaps you are ignorant of our ways. You have done me a great service and released me from any debt. I would return a kindness, also without onus.”

  Brophy wished he knew what onus meant.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Will you sit and take a cup of spiced cream with me?”

  Vizai traders were notoriously tight-lipped and aloof. It was probably a great honor to be invited to drink with one.

  Brophy looked back toward the Wheel, then glanced to the west. The moon was dipping close to the Windmill Wall. He had at least another hour, maybe two before dawn. He’d already broken his vigil, it wouldn’t matter if he stayed away five minutes or fifty.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It is good,” the trader replied, leading the way to the nearest café. The trader’s cloak swished back and forth as he led the way to a table and signaled for a server. Many less-than-pious attendants of the Test sat in the café, sipping warm drinks.

  A heavyset woman in her forties hurried over to greet them. She had the round face and corn-colored hair common to the House of Summer. She wasn’t of the Blood. Brophy could tell that just by looking at her, but she was definitely Ohndarien. Her family had probably lived here since before the city was built.

  The woman recognized Brophy immediately and bent over to kiss him on top of the head. “All our thoughts and prayers are with Celidon tonight, Nephew,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Brophy replied, squeezing the woman’s fleshy hand.

  “Celidon’s a good man, a true child of Ohndarien,” she added. “We could use a few more good men around here.”

  Keeping his gaze on the sky behind Brophy’s head, the trader respectfully ignored their exchange.

  Brophy ordered for both of them and in a few minutes they had steaming cups of spiced cream.

  The merchant brought the thick cup to his lips and sipped. When he set the mug down, he said, “You are from Ohndarien?”

  “Yes,” Brophy said, blowing on his own cream. It was still too hot to drink. “I grew up in my aunt’s house, just on the other side of Donovan’s Bridge.”

  “Ah, you are one of the ruling class.”

  Brophy shrugged. He wasn’t sure what the Vizai counterpart would be to a Child of the Seasons. “I suppose.”

  Brophy evened his breathing, concentrated, and tried his cream again. The heat did not bother him this time.

  “This Test that everyone speaks of tonight, what must one overcome to succeed?”

  “I don’t know,” Brophy admitted. “No one knows until they take it. Those who have taken the Test never speak of it.”

  “I see.”

  The trader let the silence fill the space for a long moment.

  “I’m Brophy. What is your name?”

  “Ah,” the trader said. “Names carry a great onus.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what ‘onus’ means.”

  “It is a burden. An obligation. Some might think you yet sought payment for the return of my purse.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I believe you. I do not think it was your intent to be so rude. Ignorance is almost always forgivable, especially in the young.”

  Brophy bit back an angry reply and stared at his mug of spiced cream. Perhaps there was a reason people didn’t talk to Vizai.

  The foreign merchant leaned forward, practically
whispering in Brophy’s ear. “I must also ask your forgiveness for my own ignorance. I am curious about something which confuses me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where I come from, one would sell their children into slavery for as much silver as I carry. Even a rich man would pocket the coins and count himself lucky. But you sought me out. You left your vigil to return my pouch to me. Why?”

  Brophy shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”

  The Vizai laughed abruptly. It looked sinister, the way his living jaw dropped away from the mask, which remained immobile.

  “I wonder, then,” the Vizai said, “how Ohndarien has lasted this long. True, you have the tallest walls in the world, but within the city there are no walls. There are no guards. The doors have no locks.”

  “Some doors have locks,” Brophy protested.

  “But not most.”

  “No. We don’t need them.”

  “Truly? And what if someone were to steal from you?”

  “There aren’t many thieves in Ohndarien. Those who steal know what will happen to them,” Brophy said.

  “And what will happen?”

  “They are exiled, stripped naked and left outside the city walls. That’s punishment enough for anyone.”

  “Indeed? Where I come from, thieves are tied to a stake and disemboweled by those from whom they stole. That is punishment. What you do in Ohndarien is merely an inconvenience.” He sipped his cream, then added, “I wonder, what you do to murderers?”

  Brophy was still imagining the horrible fate of a thief in Vizar. “Well,” he said, “it is the same. They are forced outside the walls. But if a murderer is truly hated, people gather on the ramparts and throw rocks at him as he goes. The worst of them never get more than fifty yards.”

  “Ah, that is good,” the Vizai said. “I was beginning to wonder if Ohndariens were made of stone. At least that is some human emotion. A man who cannot hate is not a man at all.”

  They both sipped their cream.

  “Tell me again of this Test. What if this young man succeeds?”