Keir Page 2

  Water!

  Despite the cold and the strong sea winds blowing inland, Quin stripped down to her underwear. The reek of the fouled water on her clothing made her want to gag, and her skin burned with it. Hades knew what harm prolonged contact might cause and since she was already wet a little more made no difference. Choosing a stretch of sea well away from the waste outlet and the swamp it had created, she plunged in and washed herself down as thoroughly as possible, shuddering at the iciness of the water. The chill of it stole the remaining sensation from her extremities and rendered her numb and breathless. She forced herself to submit to the torture as she plunged her head under the waves to soak the filth from her hair.

  She surfaced with a series of painful gasps as the cold burned deep in her chest. As she turned back to the beach, Keir’s motionless figure caught her eye. She stared at him as she twisted her hair into a rough knot to squeeze the water from it, mystified by his lack of movement. Were his injuries more serious than she’d imagined? Was he ill? Whatever the reason, it seemed he needed her help.

  With the worst of the stench rinsed away, she trudged back to her clothing and took her tunic from the pile. After a quick sluice in the sea, she wrung the water from it as best she could and tugged it over her head. It was scant improvement, but better than nothing.

  Oh, for a hot shower. She almost groaned with longing at the prospect.

  She approached Keir, arms wrapped around her body as shivers took her. “We have to get you out of those wet clothes and cleaned off,” she told him with chattering teeth. When he didn’t respond, she stepped closer, intending to help, but he shoved her back.

  “Do not touch me,” he breathed, his voice fainter than ever.

  Tired and chilled to the bone, Quin’s fragile patience shattered, the rush of anger providing a faint flush of warmth. “Fine, do it yourself,” she snapped, “but if you die, I’m leaving your corpse to rot right here!”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Keir stood trembling like a beaten animal, head and shoulders bowed. If she felt weak after their ordeal, how much more had he suffered?

  Despite her guilt, the harsh words seemed to have the right effect. Without further protest, he stripped off the outer layers of his robes–no more than scraps of fabric tied over each other to hide the gaps in other places–before staggering into the sea and allowing the waves to wash him clean.

  Quin glanced at the pile of abandoned tatters then back at Keir with a mind full of questions. Even without the threadbare cloak, he remained covered from top to toe–not the smallest patch of skin visible–hiding himself from the world. He even wore a flap of cloth across his mouth, muffling his voice. She had no idea what he looked like, or how old he was, but nothing could disguise his skeletal condition.

  Poor devil.

  Quin gathered up her ruined robes and Keir’s discarded rags, rinsing them out as best she could in the seawater before laying them out to dry in the sun. She wished she could lie down with them but Keir had crawled out of the waves and knelt shivering in the shelter of the rock face that divided beach from land. Quin crouched some distance away, giving him the space he seemed to require but fearful his health would take a turn for the worse. She had no supplies with her, having hidden them in the city where she had expected to be safe–a naïve assumption that had cost her dearly.

  Bereft of even the most meager of useful things, she would have to find her bearings before they made a move, especially if Keir was unfit to travel far. She had no intention of leaving him behind despite his first threat to kill her. In the end he’d saved her life by pushing her out the way when the prison ceiling collapsed. She owed him that debt if nothing else.

  Intent on salvaging what she could of their filthy clothing, she nonetheless sensed his gaze on her and glanced across. From somewhere within the shadow of his hood, unseen eyes stared back and it spiked her curiosity. Why had he chosen to conceal himself, to refuse help when he so desperately needed it?

  Slowly, she made her way to him. The movement of his head matched her progress across the beach, a sure sign of his suspicion.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked, his tone weary and bewildered, as if her companionship was beyond understanding.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You are free of the city, of the Corizi. Why do you not leave?”

  She chose to ignore the question, crouching in front of him instead. “Are you ready to go?”

  Keir sagged forward, one hand touching the sand for balance as his head sank lower. “Go where?” he said, his voice so faint Quin had to lean forward to catch the words before the breeze swept them away.

  “Away from here.” Quin shuffled closer, her concern deepening. Keir seemed to be sinking toward the sand, no longer able to keep himself upright. “Keir, what’s wrong?”

  “What do you want of me, Quin?” he demanded. “Can I not even die in peace?”

  I’ve already seen too many wasted lives…

  “I don’t want you to die,” she said, the words catching in her throat at his plight.

  Keir’s head lifted, as if drawn by her wish. “There is not a soul in this world who would not wish me dead.”

  “Why? I don’t underst–”

  Keir crumpled to the sand with a sigh. She darted forward with outstretched hands and managed to catch him.

  Pain lanced through her at the contact and she gasped as his mind bled into hers. The flash of red-tinted blades. The screams of a child. Anger. Fear. Bitterness.

  Oh, Hades, what the hell am I going to do with you?

  * * * *

  In a room atop the North Tower, an elderly lady sat in a high-backed, elaborately carved chair as if it were a throne, regal despite her advanced age. The walls of the apartment were pearly-white plaster, divided into sections and decorated with pastel scenes of colorful landscapes and elegant figures–children at play and courtiers poised in formal dance. A large marble fireplace dominated one wall, unlit during daylight hours and surmounted by a wide family portrait framed in gold. Thick, dark-red drapes swathed the large four-poster bed and bordered the three windows that trickled sunlight into the room and revealed views across the city.

  The woman sat motionless in her dark-blue robes, the complicated silver knot symbol of the Corizi emblazoned on the front panel of her bodice in solid silver beads and tiny white pearls. The high collar framed a masculine jaw line and an oval face that was lined and haughty. Her long hands lay folded in her lap and she took slow, deep breaths, listening to her city speak. Her eyes snapped open at the sound of irregular footsteps and a pounding at the door.

  “Enter,” she commanded.

  A gray-haired soldier limped into the room and slammed the door. He sketched a perfunctory bow, which she acknowledged with the merest inclination of her head. “Mother.”

  “Well?” she snapped. “Is my palace about to fall?”

  “They are making repairs as we speak.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “Two days.”

  The Matriarch grunted, unimpressed. “And the cause?”

  “An explosion in the lower levels, causing the sewer beneath the palace to collapse.”

  “Yes, I heard the explosion,” she retorted. “I should imagine the whole city heard it.” With eyes as piercing and cold as those of her son, she leaned forward. “No explosives are stored beneath the North Tower, Rialto. What were you hiding down there? The truth, my son.”

  For the first time, something other than anger flickered across his face. “Prisoners.” He did not meet her gaze.

  The Matriarch made as if to stand, hands clenched like talons on the arms of her chair. “Since when are prisoners kept below the tower?” she demanded. “Why were they not in the holding area?”

  “I did not want these two to be seen.”

  “Why? Who were they?”

  His ensuing silence allowed the distant commotion of the bustling city and the near
by rebuilding work to flow through the window. The everyday sounds of civilization filled the room, marking the passing seconds in irregular beats.

  Rialto swallowed hard, his long face twisted as if in pain. “The Blue Demon.”

  The Matriarch made herself sit back, though her anger had grown to match her son’s perpetual rage. “Why?”

  “He has been allowed the freedom of our city for too long!” the commander spat, his look slightly wild. “I would rid us of him, once and for all.”

  “Have you not tormented him enough for the sin of his birth, without resorting to murder?”

  “The removal of such a creature is not murder. It is a cleansing.”

  “He is no creature, Rialto. He is–”

  “Enough!” He took a step forward and his eyes blazed with a fury approaching madness. “I know well who he is. It matters not. He will be brought to justice.”

  “Rialto.” The Matriarch forced herself to calm. “You cannot do this. The law does not permit execution without proven cause.”

  “His existence is cause enough.”

  “He has committed no crime!”

  Rialto thrust his face to within inches of her own. She held herself steady and matched his gaze though her heart quivered. “He has blighted my life, as well you know, Mother,” he growled. “A curse on me and on Adalucien. I will have it ended!”

  After a moment’s pause, the Matriarch reached out a hand to touch his cheek. “I believe there is a curse on you, my son,” she said with a hint of sadness, gazing into a face she no longer recognized. “I think it has driven you mad.”

  He retreated from her, regaining a semblance of composure. “I will rid the city of its madness,” he said coolly, assuming his soldier’s stance once more. “I will be free of him.”

  The Matriarch shook her head. “There must be a fair trial. The law must be observed, Rialto.”

  “Then I shall bring him to you for trial, Mother. Him and his companion.”

  “Companion?”

  “My men arrested a woman, one asking questions about the Demon. No doubt seeking some unholy alliance. Together they caused the explosion.”

  “Then no doubt they lie buried beneath our feet, Rialto.” The Matriarch sighed. “You said the chamber was destroyed. Surely they have not survived?”

  Sudden doubt etched its way across his haggard face. “I shall have it searched.”

  He saluted and turned, clearly distracted as he left. The Matriarch watched him go, hands still clutching the chair arms as if seeking reassurance from the solidity of the wood.

  “May the Gods have pity on them,” she muttered. “And on you too, my son.”

  * * * *

  When Keir came back to the world, he was warm and sheltered. Heat flowed from the cheering crimson flicker of a camp fire. A deep-blue sky full of evening stars hung overhead. The twin moons were setting beyond a row of trees. He lay on something soft that exuded the fresh scent of resin and greenery, his body draped in a set of heavy robes that smelled faintly stagnant. For the first time in more years than he could remember, he seemed safe and cared for–though neither his pain nor weakness had lessened.

  He eased himself up. Quin had wrapped her dry robes around him and laid him on a pile of leafy branches. Not a single rag had been removed–even those he had stripped off had been neatly rebound around his arms and legs, cloaking his true self from sight. An outcrop of rock lay behind him–three or four larger boulders making up a circle of stones open only to the patch of scrubby woodland that masked the horizon–sheltering them from the sea breezes. He heard the rush and fall of the sea nearby, split by the crackling of the fire. Drifting smoke carried the aroma of something cooking.

  Footsteps heralded Quin’s return as she stepped into the circle of firelight. A startled expression lit her face as she noted Keir awake.

  “How do you feel?” She crouched down, warming her hands on the fire with an air of urgency. With her robes sacrificed for his sake, her basic outfit seemed scant protection from the chilly evening.

  “Grateful,” he managed, and then coughed, his throat dry.

  She immediately stepped around the fire, proffering a small flask she must have summoned up by magic. Keir drank in deep gulps, the cool water soothing his throat. As he passed it back, Quin handed him a fist-sized fruit. Recognizing it, he moved the veil away from his mouth and ate.

  “I couldn’t find much,” she apologized, as he finished. “I didn’t want to go too far with you unconscious. My supplies are back in the city, and it took most of the day to get you here. I wasn’t sure if you were fit to move or even if it was the right thing to do, but I couldn’t leave you on the beach.”

  “You could have.” Keir lay back and stared into the flames, his strength spent. “No one else would have bothered.”

  “Why?” Quin seemed genuinely curious. “Is there something wrong with you?”

  He suppressed a laugh then regretted it as pain stabbed his ribs. “Do you not know what I am?” he demanded. “Are you not afraid?”

  “Afraid of what? You saved my life.”

  “I would not have done it if I had known what I was doing.”

  “Really?” Quin frowned, taking a long sip from the flask. “Well, you did it all the same.” She capped the flask. “Listen, if it’s some kind of disease, I’m immune to most things. If not, I have friends who can treat almost anything. They could help you.”

  “A cure?” This time, Keir did laugh, and could not stop until tears wet the rags concealing his face and his chest burned. “Are they magicians? There is no cure for a curse!”

  “What kind of curse?”

  “The dark kind.” Keir closed his eyes and covered his face with one arm, shutting out the firelight.

  He heard movement and knew Quin had come close. Before he could repeat his warning to not touch him, she had grabbed his arm and forced it aside so she could look him in the eye.

  “I don’t believe in curses and I’m not afraid of you. I don’t judge anyone by how they look, only how they behave, and you saved my life today, whether you meant it or not.” She spoke softly and urgently, her face close to his. “If your people judged you by what they believe you are instead of by what you do, I’m sorry for them and for you.”

  She maintained her grip on his arm, her gaze locked to his. Something seemed to pass between them–a sense of empathy, of kinship. Words drifted through his mind he could not place. “It doesn’t have to be like that…” Sorrow and bitterness bled into him.

  Then he broke free from her grip. “You know nothing of me.”

  Quin sat by him a moment longer then went back to her place beside the fire. She knelt close to the flames, reaching her hands toward their heat as she shivered. “You don’t know me either.”

  Their scant meal was eaten in silence, with Quin’s gaze never leaving him. Food gave Keir some strength, but he had little appetite for it even at Quin’s insistence. Eventually she curled up between two rocks with her arms wrapped around herself. After a final lingering look he could not fathom, she closed her eyes.

  Keir remained vigilant even as her face softened into sleep. He stared at her through the veil of sinking flames, refusing to surrender to his exhaustion. Despite all she had done for him, he could not quite bring himself to trust her. What Fate had sent this odd woman to him, to save him despite his own desire for death? She was no goddess he recognized, yet something strange had passed between them when she touched him. He felt her presence in his mind still, like cool hands soothing his fevered thoughts. It both disturbed and comforted him. Was she an angel in human guise? Or some demon sent to torment him before delivering him to his final hell?

  Unable to resist any further, Keir’s eyes shut as he drifted into an uneasy sleep of his own.

  * * * *

  Rialto sat in his great carved chair, legs stretched out before him as he brooded over a cup of wine. His chamber was little more than an austere gray cell, one of many that made up
the army barracks within the double walls of the palace. There was a plain, narrow bed against one wall, a table set with food, a long chest of his belongings, and his one luxury as commander–a frugal fire behind a simple iron grill. His armor lay neatly stacked and polished on its ledge, though he still wore his chainmail under the Corizi tabard. The only light came from the orange glow of a fire that did little to warm him. A sharp rap sounded on his door and he started from his somber reverie.

  “Come in.” The words came sluggishly, his tongue thick, and a dull anger filled him.

  One of his personal guards entered and saluted. “Sir, they have completed a search of the chamber. No bodies have been found.”

  Rialto stared into his cup thoughtfully, before finishing the dregs and rolling the cup between his hands. “So, they did escape.”

  “It would appear so, sir.” The young soldier stepped forward and laid a tattered piece of parchment before him on the table, gesturing with his mailed hand. “The architect was able to find an old plan of the palace sewer. It leads to the coast, east of the city. There is no other outlet before it reaches the sea.”

  Rialto spun the map and stared down at it intently, brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Have a squad ready to ride at dawn,” he growled. “Tell them they have orders to shoot on sight.”

  “But sir, the Blue Demon…” the young man protested. His face turned a shade paler under the shadow of his visor, but Rialto’s scathing look quelled any further insubordination.

  “Do not tell me you believe that superstition, boy! He will die like anyone else. You can tell the men any curse on the man who kills him will be nothing compared to my wrath against the one who lets him escape.”