The False Martyr (8 page)

The only thing keeping him
from dozing was the lists of worries clogging his mind.
Dasen. Wildern. The village boys. His countrymen.
Eia.
When his mind tried to encompass them
all, it felt like the very fate of the world hung on what he would
do in the next week. Yet, even with all those concerns, his mind
returned time and again to Eia.

Somehow, he could not get
past the way she had kissed him, the sensation of her slim body
pressed against him, her hand held in his, the way she watched him
while they ate their meagre lunch. His mind returned relentlessly
to those sensations, projected them, transformed them into
fantasies that went far beyond reality. He cast those thoughts from
his mind again and again, forced it back to the hard realities he
had to face, the distance he had to maintain, the betrayal so
fresh. But even those grim reminders kept fading to dreams of what
lie beneath Eia’s robes. Finally, he gave in. He allowed himself to
imagine how things might have gone in the kitchen, how he might
have pulled off her robe, kissed her breasts, pushed her onto one
of the tables, and. . . . Arching his back, he released his desire
into the water of his bath, felt the water splashing into his face
as his hand churned it below the surface.

When he was done, he felt
nothing but tired and guilty. “Pathetic,” he said to himself.
Certainly, it was not the first time he had done that in the twelve
years since his wife had died. It wasn’t even the first time he had
fantasized about someone other than Kira, but this was the first
time he’d wanted the fantasy to be real, the first time that his
hand had felt like a failure.

Rising from the water,
Ipid jerked the towel from the stand next to the tub – the servants
had not removed a single item from his room when they cleared the
house – and buried his face in it.
You
can’t do this
, he told himself.
You have too much to do, too much to think
through. And she is one of them. She cannot be allowed to cloud
your judgment.

Stepping from the bath,
Ipid walked to his shaving table. Normally, Elton would shave him.
The thought brought a lump to his throat. He had spared barely a
thought for the Morg who had died in his service. He had not even
sent a letter to his wife when he had the chance. He grasped the
copper bowl before him and felt the world spin.
How could I have forgotten that? And now I have no way of
knowing where they are.
Elton had a house
in the village on this side of the river.
Had Paul taken his wife and children with them when they
left? And what would become of them now?
With a sigh, Ipid promised himself that he would do better,
that he would stop failing the people who depended upon him, that
he would work harder to protect them.

Slowly, carefully, he
shaved away the few days of salt and pepper stubble that had
accumulated on his chin, cheeks, and neck. All the while, he stared
at the slim face in the mirror wondering where that man had come
from. He felt his sagging stomach, slim arms, and somehow solid
legs. He was as thin as he had likely been since before he married
Kira over twenty years ago. Surprisingly, that fitness had left him
looking older. Where the swelling of his face had kept the skin
tight, the deflation left sags. But worst of all were his eyes. The
clear blue he remembered seeing there just a month before had faded
to grey. The white had dimmed to pale yellow streaked with red. The
skin around them sagged beyond bags. The lids above drooped. These
were the eyes of an old man, an old man who had seen a hard
life.

What could Eia ever see in
this?
he asked himself.
I look like I’m preparing to step into my
grave.
He shook himself.
Enough!
I cannot do
this. I have already failed too many times, in too many ways. I
have to double my efforts. I have to be more, to do more. I cannot
have the distraction. I cannot allow my thoughts to be so
scattered, my emotions so muddled, my confidence riding on the
flitting smile of a mercurial, Order-defying invader. I need her,
but I cannot allow her to do this to me.

He looked at himself hard
in the mirror, built his resolution, then decided.
Purely professional. Our relationship will be
purely professional. I will tell her. No more kissing. No more
holding hands. No more teasing. I have to be able to focus, and
that means she cannot be constantly in my head.

And so, Ipid found his
clothes, dressed, and began to write letters. He resolved to forget
about Eia, to think of her as nothing but a trade partner or
engineer in his employ. But his mind did not seem to
agree.

#

“
My lord, dinner is
ready!” interrupted Ipid from his work.

He looked down at the
stacks of letters arrayed around his desk, his ink-stained fingers,
his most recent set of scratches. He had completed a score of
letters in the last few hours. They stood in two stacks. The first
for the families of his guards and the few dead boys whose names he
knew well enough to address a letter. The second and much shorter
were to officials in Wildern, the first to the Chancellor. Near
copies, they told his story, explained what was likely to happen in
a week’s time, and urged them to surrender, to accept the Darthurs’
terms, and, even then, to evacuate the city, to save as many lives
as they could before the destruction began. Looking now from the
latest of those letters, he rubbed his eyes, smearing them with ink
so they looked bruised, and wondered what he would possibly do with
these stacks of paper.

Normally, Paul would
arrange a courier or use one of the services, but Ipid had no idea
where those couriers came from or where the services operated.
Given the usual volume of his correspondences, they likely stopped
here daily, but would they do that now that the estate was
abandoned? Were they still operating? Were the couriers even
alive?

Sighing, he decided it
didn’t particularly matter. He felt better just having done the
job, as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders, as if
explaining and apologizing had cleansed his conscious of the deaths
and betrayal.

“
Lord Ronigan, your dinner
is getting cold,” Eia called again from the bottom of the
stairs.

“
Coming!” Ipid quickly
wiped the head of his pen, corked his bottle of ink, and tried to
wipe the smudges from his fingers. Rising, he saw the smears of ink
on his face –
painted like a Sylian
savage
. He employed the slightly scummy
bath water to lessen their prevalence. He left his room behind and
strode down the staircase that led to the main floor.

Eia was waiting for him in
the dining room, but he barely recognized her. Her wild,
translucent curls had been tamed into a long, loose tail that hung
like a bundle of yarn down her back. Her face, lacking the hair and
hood to obscure it, was fresh and bright, dark eyes huge, round
cheeks sagging ever so slightly, slim lips painted just enough so
that they were not lost. But most surprising, she was wearing a
dress. Somewhere she had found a simple, dark-blue satin dress with
white embroidery along the low neckline and down the arms. She
stood as Ipid entered, and the dress hung from her, the gap at the
neck sagged to show the tops of her white breasts, leaving Ipid
trying not to stare. The rest of the dress swept down her in a line
to pool on the floor. It was clearly too big for her – even the
sleeves had been carefully rolled to allow her hands to escape –
but it was such a shock after the black robes, that Ipid could only
stammer.

“
You like the dress?” she
asked with a knowing smile. “I found it in the room you gave me
along with a wardrobe of others. A mistress perhaps?” Her smile
grew, and her eyes twinkled. “She must be tall and elegant. I am
sorry I cannot hope to compare.”

Ipid sputtered.
A mistress
. He hadn’t
been with a woman since the fire. Then he realized,
Tethina
. He had given
Eia the room meant for Tethina, and his staff had made sure that
she would have everything she needed when she arrived. “My
daughter-in-law,” he blurted. “The dresses were meant for her. I
doubt they have ever been worn, but I’m sure Tethina won’t
mind.”

Eia smiled knowingly,
dropped her eyes, and stared at him through pale lashes.

“
You . . . you look
lovely,” he managed.

“
Thank you. I just ask
that you to not tell the Belab of this. He is quite strict about
the robes ever since the Darthur, but we weren’t always so dour. I
used to have a fine collection of dresses.”

“
I’m sure they were
beautiful.”

“
Hmm. My lovers liked them
best on their floors, but that was before the Darthur burned them –
the dresses and the lovers.”

Ipid gaped. Eia laughed.
This was not going how he’d planned. Now, he could only think of
that dress lying on the floor of his room.

“
Shall we eat?” Eia asked
when her laughter died. “I managed to find enough vegetables in the
garden for a soup. It’s not much, but the bread and sausage I
brought won’t sustain us for a week.”

Still rattled, Ipid
managed to sit at the head of the table. Eia sat to his left, close
enough that his knee bumped hers as he pushed in his chair. She
smiled and placed her hand on his knee under the table then ran it
up his leg until he caught it and brought it back to the top of the
table. She giggled.

“
So your son is joined?”
Eia asked casually. “To a tall slim girl it would appear.” She
examined the too-large dress. “That fits what the Belab told me and
explains a great deal.”

Ipid nearly choked though
he had not even managed to take a bite of the thin soup. “What . .
. what do you mean? You can’t mean that . . . .”

“
Your son had a girl with
him,” Eia explained calmly, eyes on her soup as she took a bite.
“She was masquerading, quite effectively, as a boy, but such
disguises are meaningless to us. It must mean they are still
together. At least, they were when they escaped
Wilmont.”

Eia took another bite of
her soup but spared a sideways glance at Ipid. He could not keep
the shock from his face though he should have known that Dasen and
Tethina were still together. From what he knew of her, it was
probably Tethina that had gotten them as far as they
were.

“
Will they . . . I mean if
the Darthur . . . will they . . . ?”

“
Kill her?” Eia put down
her spoon. “If they think she is a boy and she does not surrender,
they most certainly will. With them, it is hard to say how they
will treat her if they know she is a she. The Darthur nearly
worship their women, the very word for woman is ‘heart of honor.’
And their women are fearsome. They do not leave their lands or
fight in battles, but their wills are strong enough to tear a city
down without so much as raising a finger. I suppose the Darthur may
give your daughter to the wife of the man they murdered. She may
kill her or enslave her or sell her to recuperate her loss. It is
hard to say with Darthur women.” Eia shrugged off the horror she
had just described and returned to her soup. “All the more
important then that your son surrender. If he does, we may be able
to protect his wife. If not . . . .”

Ipid felt his mind swim.
Certainly he should have known that Tethina would be with Dasen.
Where else could she be? But he had not seriously considered the
implications. Just one more stone to carry. He stirred his soup,
watched the vegetables dancing in the broth, and brought a spoonful
to his lips. He barely tasted it.

Then he felt Eia’s hand on
his. He looked up and saw her staring at him, head tilted slightly,
mouth pursed. Her fingers moved on his hand, made his heart
flutter, his breath quicken, his pores open. “Such worries,” she
cooed. “Trust me, there is nothing to do about them now. This
should be a reprieve, a time to prepare for what is to come. You
should let me help you with that.” Her hand crept back under the
table and found his leg.

Ipid cleared his throat
and caught her hand at the top of his thigh. “I don’t think this is
a good idea,” he declared, but his voice cracked and blood rose up
his face like a boy. “I have to admit that I find you attractive,
very attractive. Too attractive really. And that is the problem. I
am afraid that if we continue like this, I will never be able to
concentrate on what I need to do. Do you understand?”

Eia watched him with that
same smile then made a false pout. “I understand, but that does not
mean I agree. I feel the same way about you, and I have been denied
my passions for a long time. I cannot see why we cannot have this
time. Is a week not enough time for this and your preparations?”
Giving up on her hand, she brought her small bare foot up to creep
along his leg.

“
Stop!” Ipid gasped. He
stood and stepped from the table. “I cannot do this.” His breath
came in gasps, his heart hammered until it hurt. “I think we need
to be apart. Thank you for the soup, but I think I will now retire
to my room. It has been a long few days. Perhaps, I will see you
again tomorrow.” He stumbled from the room, nearly running to be
away from the temptation that dogged him like a pack of wolves on
an injured deer. He did not look back as he left, but he could
almost feel Eia’s dark eyes and knowing smirk pulling on him from
behind.