Forget Me Not, Page 2

  He shook his head and stared off in the distance. “You are the one. You understand the people, the customs, their world and were the last Elsyrian to make contact with Barabbas before the war. I understand that this is difficult for you, but I believe it might be the key to unlocking your own sanity.” He brushed his fingers across her forehead lightly as he met her eyes.

  She glared at him for a moment with her teeth bared before the anger faded and her fists unclenched until she folded her arms, head bowed in defeat.

  He studied her before he nodded slightly. “I see you understand the honor.”

  “You ask too much,” she whispered, a breath, but the words made the High Precept flinch as though he’d been gutted by a barbarian sword.

  He turned away, rubbing his jaw with ordinarily still fingers. “Aye. The last of your line, House of Perr, whose family has served loyal to the people ‘til the end. Hatia of Perr, I can trust no other with this task. That’s the simple truth. You can do what none else can, and so you must.”

  “I don’t suppose the ambassador could stay by himself in one of the crumbling manse along the river. Hopefully it wouldn’t collapse on him as he slept,” she said, glancing up at him with wild eyes and a tilted smile.

  “Hatia, you are the best chance.” His voice was gentle.

  For some reason she thought of all the other daughters of the city who could be used to host the foreigner, as graceful and beautiful as a fountain. Who could resist those pearly teeth, soft pointed ears, the wrists, so thin and breakable? She glanced down at her own wrists, covered in long strips of fabric the color of falling leaves. Beneath the layers were scars, unseen but not unfelt. The scars would never completely fade. Her eyes filled with tears even as she laughed.

  “Then there is no chance.”

  She threw her head back and swayed back and forth with the clouds and the wind while the Head Precept blinked away the moisture in his own eyes. Even after she’d returned from Barabbas mad, scarred from torture at the hands of the Bashai, she would stand between her people and the barbarians, she would stand as well as she could.

  Chapter 4

  Along the river, old stone mansions stood veiled in green moss. The House of Perr was one such, crumbling more than most, for the House of Perr had seen its finest days many hundred years before. Buzzing activity filled the halls and grounds as Elsyrians moved in their efforts to regain some of the glory, or at least the stability of the near ruin in preparation for the honored guest, the Ambassador of Barabbas.

  Lady Perr retreated to the library, finding comfort in the familiar hush of dust-shrouded books. Her conversation with the High Precept had awakened a rare awareness of her surroundings, some memories that left her feeling unsettled and uncertain.

  She went to the wall of books beside the old bay window that overlooked the river and found a tome as heavy as she was that she carried to the window seat with a particular tenderness. Her uncle had shown her the book when she was a child, wide-eyed, eager for a new word or phrase from one of the far away lands he’d travelled in his younger days.

  “It feels much heavier without you,” she addressed the air, aware that she was speaking to herself before she shook her head and turned the thick pages that described the desert. The author had bound maps, descriptions, but best of all, beautiful, pale paintings of red rock and white buildings, round roofs glittering in the sun that shone with a blistering intensity.

  She closed her eyes and could feel the sun, the first time she’d stepped out of the shadows of the valley and into the heat that waited with an awareness that while almost unpleasant, certainly filled her senses like nothing had before or since.

  She’d let the veil slide off her pale hair around her shoulders while she lifted her face to the sun, curious at its touch while the red rocks spread around her as far as she could see, an ocean of emptiness.

  “You’ll burn to a crisp,” a voice said in her own Elsyrian tongue while she felt a tug on her veil.

  She squinted up at the man on horseback who had leaned down to pull her veil back into place. She stared into the golden eyes beneath the black head covering, fascinated by the heat and life in them. She’d met Barbarians on her journey so far, in fact, she was entirely surrounded by them, but this Barbarian seemed different somehow, more familiar and exotic in the same breath.

  “I wonder if I would,” she’d replied in Barabbas, struggling with some of the guttural sounds. She wanted very much to impress this stranger whose hand moved deftly and gracefully adjusting the fabric.

  “Your curiosity should wait until you’re in the city where you can be tended while you fever from sunstroke,” he’d replied, still in her language but with laughter in his honeyed voice before he turned and urged his horse into a gallop away from her, raising a cloud of dust that made her grateful for the fabric covering her mouth.

  It was only later that she realized that the real danger of leaving her head bare had little to do with the sun and much more to do with the Barbarians who watched her with an appraising eye.

  She blinked the library back into focus. When she looked down at the book in her hands, it was freshly stained with tears. She let it slide onto the rug, faded amber and maroon symbols that would have meant something to her at another time, another world.

  Chapter 5

  The day came for The Wind Spinner to receive her honored guest. She hid in her chambers as long as possible until finally she emerged dressed in clothing that made several young elven girls giggle.

  She wore a combination of her long departed great Aunt Mathilda’s formerly white gown, with long sleeves and billowing layers, and uncle Oldwell’s bee tending hat. Other gowns had been brought to her chamber from the finest tailor in High City, close cut and fashionable but none had veils. One must always be veiled when dealing with Barbarians.

  The house, the formerly glorious house of Perr had attained a nearly honorable visage, instead of simply a decrepit one. She frowned at the comfortably ruined garden pruned into order, the tattered drapes carefully cleaned and mended. The House of Perr was dying, had died. There was no sense in resurrecting something that had already passed.

  “Lady Perr,” a melodic voice interrupted her musings as she stared at the tapestry that depicted the origins of Perr. She frowned at the interruption, but her irritation was lost beneath the billows of net.

  “Your gloves, left in the garden.” He held out the small white things, looking like broken birds in his hands. He wore the brown of a gardener, his knees mud-stained and his peach skin rose-tinged from sun.

  She quickly took them from him, glancing up at his dark gold eyes before she put them on. One more layer couldn’t possibly hurt. Her heart pounded as she struggled with her duty, the need to end a war, to do her part, and the terror of having a barbarian in her country, in her home. At least the customs of Barbarians would allow her to show as little of herself to the Barbarian as possible.

  The trumpets blew from the dock a few miles up the river, the signal that his ship had arrived. Taking a slow breath with eyes closed, she steadied herself then wandered out to the patio that overlooked the river.

  She stepped carefully towards the edge although the stone balustrade looked quite sturdy after the masons had done their work. She leaned on her elbows, relaxing against the sun warmed stone, idly watching the ship upriver unloading its cargo. It felt like a world ago when she’d boarded a vessel so much like it, eager to find her fate in a new world. It was supposed to be an adventure like the stories her uncles would tell her after they’d returned from new lands. Of course one by one they hadn’t returned. When she had, she’d been stripped of her hopes and innocence.

  She stared down at the water lapping beneath her against the stones until she stretched out her arms and called to the world below.

  The small magics flowed through her as she sank her awareness down into the water’s cool depths. A fish slipped against her, a silver finned trout. It followed her and the song she
sang as she rose towards the light and burst into the sun. She opened her eyes and looked down at the beautiful fish where it danced on the surface of the water.

  After one last spinning jump it disappeared beneath the waves. The small magics, the mystics were elven lore as old as the heart of forests, the peak of the mountain. Unbelievers could not see such things, would call such unproven things tricks, lies, but the fish was real enough.

  She glanced back to the boat and adjusted the still-dry gauze around her face. She would not practice any small mystics for as long as she hosted the ambassador. The mystics appeared an illusion to the Barbarians. She hadn't actually been in the water with her skin, therefore to them, it hadn't happened. They did not understand the world that lay beyond the flesh.

  It had been years since any Barbarian had been invited to the High City, more years than the Wind Spinner had lived. She rubbed her chest absently, her hand above the deepest scar as she listened to the wind, trying to lose herself, distract from the sound of the procession as the ambassador approached. It did no good. The wind, usually more than willing to transport her away from memories was adamant about bringing the sound of shouts as they neared. He stirred the city that preferred to remain motionless, barely breathing as it passed through time.

  She could almost see the ladies leaning out of windows, leaning far over to catch a glimpse of the stranger walking over the pale path below. Tan skinned, golden eyes and dark hair as well as the way he moved would make him different. Barbaric. Exciting, dangerous, and something they might not see again for another hundred years.

  “One can hope,” she muttered then shook her head. She’d spoken Barabbas.

  Chapter 6

  Balthaar, General of Barrabas and ambassador-spy, stood on the dock, bracing himself for the moment when he may very well be wrapped in chains and dragged down to a dungeon. Ranks of Rasha stood before him, two rows of silver armored Elsyrians, swords sparkling in the sunlight.

  The blue-skinned Elsyrian from the ship slipped beside Balthaar and bowed carefully. “You are welcome to the High City. Your escort will take you to your host.” He gestured towards the ranks of Rasha.

  Balthaar nodded back and stepped towards the Rasha with firm footsteps. He would not flee however his skin crawled and he yearned for his sword.

  The soldiers marched on either side of Balthaar. The city itself was breathtakingly beautiful, rising from the river in waves of white broken by the green of trees and ivy. The reception of the inhabitants upset his expectation of cold looks, suspicion and barely veiled contempt. Prepared for rotten fruit to be thrown, flower petals bewildered the hardened general.

  Long slender arms stretched towards him, pale but tinted blue, green or pink, with silver nails. Their eyes were too far to detect the color, but smiles gleamed, smiles instead of snarls.

  He forced a smile of his own, but knew it looked more like a grimace. He'd seen enough Elves dripping silver blood off the end of his sword, watched the light fade from their eyes as they cursed him. He hadn't seen beauty in their features for a very long time. For a moment it seemed a woman gazed on him with eyes like amethyst, but instead, the purple fragmented into pink petals.

  He forced his heart to slow its beating. The mission may be his personal curse, but the Emperor's will was Balthaar’s. He nodded and straightened his shoulders, longing for the weight of his sword across his back. He had to use his long ago training as a viceroy to the Emperor before he'd taken up the sword. He could not think of these creatures as beauty, as anything other than those who would pass beneath the Emperor's way.

  He gave up smiling as he walked, ignoring the ladies that hung above him from their elaborately carved stone windows, tried to block out the sound of their greetings, the song of their voices intertwining into a complicated melody that made his chest ache.

  He walked unarmed into the heart of the Elven city, where magic seeped through the cracks in the stones beneath his feet, magic that he knew better than a Barbarian should. Some said the Barbarians ignorance was their greatest strength, but since he'd led the soldiers, it was his acceptance of the Elves and their twisting of minds that had helped him turn the tide against them.

  He wished to be there, on the field of battle facing his enemy head on instead of walking defenselessly into their arms, an ambassador-spy sent on a mock infiltration to discover their weak points. He couldn’t be comfortable among the welcoming creatures whose blood would flow into these stones, cursing him eternally.

  He shrugged. He'd lived with a curse for a hundred years. His very age was its own curse. In spite of his experience, his acceptance of his own fate, he sweated more than he should have beneath the cool canopy of trees. Anyone who brushed up near him would catch his scent of fear. It was bad enough to smell it on himself, but far worse to show his enemy his weakness.

  When they neared the house where Balthaar would reside, he looked back and realized that they had reached the edge of the city. Most of his tall escort had abandoned him leaving only a few silent Rasha bearing his luggage. Their silence mocked him.

  Balthaar took a moment to grab the end of a trunk causing the bearer to raise an eyebrow in amusement at him. Balthaar grinned back at him, nearly snarling. He was a Barbarian after all. He’d be expected to have common manners like wanting to carry his own luggage. Of course, he couldn't carry it all, not the long train of trunks and cases, some filled with gifts, others with ridiculous outfits to wear in his performance as diplomat. He belonged on the field or already dead, hanging from the walls of the Emperor’s city as an example of other traitors. He didn’t need a distraction like this at a time when his men would be preparing for the largest assault of their short lives; likely rendered shorter under someone else’s command.

  He looked around the courtyard, at the simple fountain tinkling musically, for the sight of the females so he could keep his distance. The only person was a gardener who didn’t look up from the earth as the bearers stacked his luggage in piles behind him.

  The gardener glanced at Balthaar then rose slowly only after the other Elsyrians had dispersed, other than his two companions from the ship. Balthaar didn’t like the way the gardener looked at him, like the gardener knew him better than he knew himself. He gave the gardener his most polite smile from his days as viceroy.

  The peach-skinned gardener didn’t act like a servant. He stood like a god, his golden eyes giving Balthaar one last final look before he turned towards the house. The enormous, overpowering manse had a presence that demanded attention. Balthaar glanced up at the spiraling tower and elaborate stonework before he followed the gardener through a large passageway into the dim interior.

  Inside it was darker, cool, and Balthaar felt himself sweating harder. They hadn't told him anything about his host, his interpreter, simply brought him to this ancient estate on the edge of the city and left him there. When Balthaar’s eyes adjusted, he walked towards the grand stairs, the gardener ahead, the two Rasha close behind.

  Balthaar stood at attention for some time before his host graced him with her presence. It was a she, probably, but none of the other ladies of the city had so much as their arms covered, much less the entire face, head and body like this creature swathed in white.

  She was covered like a parody of the ladies of Balthaar’s country as if she was trying to respect his customs, but Balthaar’s mouth twitched at how badly she’d carried it out. Her eyes were completely obscured.

  She moved like a dream in spite of her obscured vision. She descended with the ethereal grace none of his people would ever come near. It reminded him of amethyst eyes.

  He thought he could see purple reflected behind the billowy gauze when she reached a few steps from him before she tripped tumbling down the last steps and falling into Balthaar’s arms with a solidity that belied her apparent weightlessness. She felt cold, like a bird hanging onto the last of its life after striking glass, heart thumping delicately in its feeble frame. Her eyes, amethyst, stared at Balthaar
through the mists of gauze.

  Chapter 7

  Lady Perr watched from the shadows as the barbarian ambassador entered the manor. He blinked thick lashes that framed large golden-brown eyes that seemed rational and calm as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t as broad shouldered as most barbarians but taller, a diplomat instead of a warrior, except that his stance was wrong. He waited at the ready, as though he expected someone to attack him at any moment.

  Lady Perr hesitated before she forced herself into her position atop the steps. Barbarians were bred to be alike in their brutality, their simplicity, except for the very elite, a few of which she'd met when she’d served her term as Elsyrian ambassador to them.

  She swallowed and lifted her chin slightly before she started down the steps, raising her skirt as she walked, dignity forced into each step.

  It was three steps from the bottom where he waited still as the statue of Callus when she looked up and caught his gaze directly, or directly as was possible with her head swathed in clouds of net. His eyes caught and held her surely as if he'd used a small magic. She stumbled as her shoe caught on the hem of her dead great-aunt's dress.

  Falling forwards she reached up and caught him around the neck, while his hands circled her waist, arresting her fall against his strong, warm body.

  He smelled of cimarron. Time stopped as she stared at him, into those eyes that didn't belong to a Barbarian.

  ___

  They stood in the Emperor’s capital's plaza, voicing the same argument they always came to. The sun shone on unwashed bodies filling the air with a raw flavor Lady of Perr had taken time to adapt to. It added fervor to her voice.

  “Being a slave is ennobling? Perhaps to nobles, but I don’t hear many slaves arguing your point.” Her passionate voice slurred some of the Barabbas consonants.