“
Ninsumgal
, I’d like to present to you Valmont, my protégé,” the older man said.
“So, this is the youngling you’ve had sequestered away, Nahib.” Her voice sounded both familiar and not. A distant part of her recognized and hated the indulgent tone she’d heard Fiona use much of the time. “I’ve wondered whether you’d present him at court, or keep him locked away in your library until he died of old age.” Others laughed politely at her jibe though she knew it wasn’t humorous. She felt annoyance at their artificiality, and satisfaction that her people wished to keep her appeased.
Nahib, however, did not respond as the others. Whiskey cocked her head at him, wondering whether she should take offense at his refusal, or respect his level of integrity. Deciding on the latter, she listened to his response.
“Nay, my
Gasan
. Valmont is of a mind to serve his
Ninsumgal
to the best of his ability.”
“And you, Valmont. What abilities do you have?”
Again a round of decadent chuckles from her court, all assuming she made a vulgar jest. She felt Margaurethe’s hand on her arm, and relaxed. Let them chatter and gossip as they would. It meant nothing to her.
Valmont raised golden cinnamon eyes to look at his liege. “I have a strong sword,
Ninsumgal
, and a willingness to follow you to the ends of this earth and beyond.”
Whiskey raised an eyebrow at his sincerity, flicking a glance at Nahib who smiled in return. Around them, the courtesans laughed over his words, expecting their ruler to make lewd jest of his “strong sword.” Eyes narrowing, she glanced about the room. “Be silent!”
In the abrupt hush, she returned her gaze on this youngling kneeling before her. “Beyond the ends of this earth?” she asked. “That would be a long way indeed, would it not?”
“Perhaps so, my
Gasan
. But it would be a trip well worth taking.”
He spoke true; her senses picked up no ulterior motives, no falsehood, no deceptions. She found this young Sanguire rather refreshing in the scheme of things, still unsullied by the intrigues of her court. “Rise and be welcome, Valmont. Tonight you shall dine with myself and
Ki’an Gasan
Margaurethe.”
Valmont flushed, and bowed his head. “Thank you,
Ninsumgal
Elisibet! I am most honored.”
“As am I, Valmont. As am I.”
Flash.
A clatter of metal on metal where there should be none drew Whiskey around the corner. The three guards with her had their weapons drawn. She waved them to remain behind her.
Valmont traded blows with another dark-skinned man in the wide corridor leading to her private quarters. His skill was evident though his opponent couldn’t claim the same. Bleeding from many injuries, the man he fought had slowed, weakening. Whiskey wondered if he’d ever been on the attack, or could only defend himself from Valmont’s dancing sword.
“Hold!”
Her young friend stepped backward, but did not let down his guard. “My
Gasan
.”
The other swordsman’s eyes widened at her voice. He panted heavily as he put his back to the wall, holding his blade out to dissuade an attack from any of them.
“Valmont, perhaps you can explain why you’re playing with one of my people?” Whiskey said, idly stepping forward.
“Is he one of yours?” Valmont asked, pointing the tip of his weapon at the man. At her faint grin, he bowed low. “My apologies,
Ninsumgal
. From the words pouring out of his mouth, I thought he was a lying sack of shite rather than Sanguire.”
“Really?” Her gaze pinned the other fighter. “Ghedi, isn’t it?”
The other man barely nodded, swallowing hard as he kept his sword before him.
“Ghedi, why would Valmont accuse you of such a thing? I, for one, have never heard you speak a word of dishonesty. What did you say?” The man remained silent, and Whiskey looked at Valmont. “It seems Ghedi doesn’t wish to defile my ears with any lies. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to repeat his words?”
“I’d be most happy to,
Ninsumgal
.” Valmont grinned. “He said—”
Ghedi, dripping with both sweat and blood, yelled and attacked Whiskey. His movements fast, he could not hope to match her. Far older than he, she had many decades of experience upon which to draw. Compelling him would be too easy, making the task droll and unpleasant. Instead, she slipped sideways, grabbing at his arm as he passed. He screamed as his forearm broke with a loud snap before he stumbled against the far wall. Physical confrontations were always so much more satisfying.
Again Whiskey waved the guards back. She dusted her hands. “I can assume by Ghedi’s response that it was less than flattering, these words he’s reputed to have said?”
“He is of the opinion that you are an evil blight upon the Sanguire,
Ninsumgal
. When he refused to recant his statement, I offered to remove his tongue for him.” Valmont smiled ferally. “As a gift for you, of course.”
Whiskey could feel her teeth elongate as she regarded the wounded man cradling his arm. Her voice low and dangerous, she growled, “Then by all means continue, Valmont. Far be it for me to interfere in the offering of gifts to your liege.”
Her young friend eagerly stepped forward, hefting his sword.
Flash.
Whiskey watched her best friend and her lover chase each other across the garden. She sat beneath a towering oak on a marble bench, laughing as Margaurethe drew Valmont along. The game ended when her lover came too close, and Whiskey reached out to grab her, pulling her into her lap.
Valmont dropped to the ground at their feet, panting and happy. “Let that be a lesson to you,
Ki’an Gasan
.” He waggled a finger at Margaurethe.
Giggling, she stuck her tongue out. “There’s been no lesson, sir. You’ve yet to catch me.”
“Ah, but I’ve caught you.” Whiskey tickled the woman in her arms until she begged for mercy.
The laughter soon died, and they sat in contented silence. Overhead, the full moon well illuminated the garden, causing white lilies to glow.
Whiskey basked in the simple contentment surrounding her, an alien but intoxicating sensation. This was as it should be—trusted friends, loved ones, and peace among her people. That the peace came from her iron grip mattered not at all. Some things had to be sacrificed to keep her people safe.
“Valmont, what are your plans for the day after tomorrow?”
He looked up from the twig he shredded, a grin on his handsome face. “That’s the night of Ostara, yes? I’ll be at the ball, dancing with many eligible and not-so-eligible women.”
Margaurethe snickered. “It’s the not-so-eligible you should be worried about, Valmont. Soon or late, someone’s husband will get the upper hand with your philandering ways.”
“Ah, they’ll have to catch me first,” Valmont said, grinning. “And then they’ll catch my blade.”
Whiskey smiled. “I’ll send my tailors on the morrow. I want you to wear the finest of outfits.”
“Thank you, Elisibet. But why? I’ve clothes enough, and if I had my druthers, I’ll be out of them and in some vixen’s bed while the night is young.”
“Because I plan on elevating you, Valmont. How does
Sublugal Sañar
sound? I’ve an eye on some land that will be bestowed upon you as well as the title.” Whiskey paused, feigning deep thought as she tapped her chin. “Defender of the Crown.”
“I like that.” Margaurethe hugged her. “It’s quite fitting.”
“What say you, Valmont?” She forced herself not to laugh aloud at the expression on his face as he tried to find his tongue.
Sputtering, Valmont finally said, “I’d be honored, my
Ninsumgal
.”
“Good. Consider it done.”
Flash.
“Oh, come now, Valmont! The man spoke out against me. I had no choice but to silence him.” A combination of confusion, and regret washed through Whiskey as she tried to fathom the nature of the problem.
He fumed as he stood before her, eyes cold. Valmont appeared older now by a few years, past the blush of youth, and into early manhood. “He was your
Nam Lugal
, and my friend.” His voice shook with emotion.
Whiskey rolled her eyes at him. “His position as senior on the
Agrun Nam
was the primary reason for his public execution. Certainly you must know that.” She turned her back to him, wondering if he’d control his anger, or attempt an attack. Pouring a goblet of wine, she continued. “If Nahib hadn’t been fool enough to flap his gums, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Fool enough...?” Valmont took a step forward. “He only spoke sense, Elisibet! You no longer care for your people. Your only desire is blood and chaos.”
Whirling around, Whiskey pointed at him. “Watch yourself, Valmont. You may be a friend this moment, but I’ll not listen to rabble rousing from you, the
Agrun Nam,
or anyone else.” She drank half her wine in one swallow, and thumped the goblet onto a table. “Don’t think our friendship will save you any more than Nahib’s position saved him.”
“He was a good man. He did nothing to deserve the gory end you sentenced him to.”
Whiskey’s eyes narrowed at his hypocrisy. “Really?” she asked, her voice sweet with anger. “I seem to recall many gory ends to which you’ve sentenced people. Remember just a month or so ago? That beautiful young man in the dungeons? We had an enjoyable time with him, didn’t we? And he said much the same things as Nahib, if I recall. Do you remember what you did to him?” She circled Valmont, appreciating the tense shoulders, the smell of his fury. “I believe Nahib got off rather lucky in comparison.”
“It’s not the same—”
“Why?” Whiskey asked sharply, coming back around to face him. “Because he led the
Agrun Nam
? Or because he was your mentor?”
Valmont snarled, face red. “Yes!”
“No one is allowed to speak against the Crown,” she said. “You helped me enact that particular law decades ago. And in case you’ve forgotten, that means all Sanguire, to include you.”
He lowered his chin, refusing to concede as he glared at her. “You threaten me? Your Defender?”
Whiskey sighed, and relaxed her aggressive stance. Her hand went to his upper arm, grasping the trembling muscle firmly. “You’re my best friend and greatest ally, Valmont. I do not wish to lose you over something so inane. We make laws to perpetuate peace among our people. Some are sacrificed because of these laws, but overall they work to instill common sense.”
“No, Elisibet. They instill fear, not common sense.” He pulled away from her, stepping back and out of reach. “You sicken me.”
A wave of fury rolled over her, smothering her. She felt her teeth unsheathing in her mouth, heard his heart pumping in his chest. “Guards!” Six burly soldiers immediately stepped into the room. “You’d do well to look in a mirror,
Sublugal Sañar
Valmont. What sickens you is that you’re just like me.”
“Never!”
“Guards, see this man out before I lose my temper.”
Flash.
Searing pain along her thigh, the familiar taste of blood, sweaty, weak, stumbling as a sword blocked her attack, knocking her weapon away to clatter against the marble floor. Looking up, Whiskey saw Valmont stumbling toward her. Unable to move, she watched as he stood over her prone figure, a sword reversed in his hands as he prepared to skewer her.
“Get away from her!”
Valmont, distracted by the voice, turned and spoke. Not waiting to listen to his words, Whiskey grunted as she rolled over, attempting to crawl away. She heard a flurry of movement, a crash of bodies hitting the floor, the sound of Valmont’s sword skittering away. Swallowing against the nausea and pain, she felt her life’s blood seeping away as she concentrated on her escape.
Familiar hands stopped her progress, gently turning her over. Above her, Margaurethe’s green eyes scanned her injuries, filling with tears. Valmont’s voice drifted over them.
“What’s done is done.”
Margaurethe hissed at him, protecting her. “Stay with me, ’
m
’
cara
! We will get you to a healer and soon you will be fine.”
Whiskey knew her lover lied. She’d always been able to tell when someone spoke dishonesty. She found herself chuckling at the irony of her death occurring in her lover’s arms. “Nay, Margaurethe. It’s beyond that, and we both know it.” The words were hard to speak, her breath coming in gasps as her body shut down. She coughed, gripping at the woman’s arm as she tried to hang on for just a little while longer.
“No! You cannot die, Elisibet.”
“Apparently so,
minn
’
ast
. Will you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
Whiskey’s one regret was leaving Margaurethe. Nothing else mattered but this beautiful woman’s love. Odd she should come to the realization now when she’d lost everything. She shivered. “It’s cold, Margaurethe. Hold me.”
The world went dark.
Flash.
Whiskey came to herself slowly. The darkness of an ancient death dissipated as sunlight from outside the window brightened. Her vision blurry, several minutes crawled past before she realized tears coursed down her cheeks. Her awareness of them spurred them on, and she held herself, rocking where she sat, salty drops hitting the cover of the leather Book in her lap.
It hurts
. God, it hurt though she knew it was just a dream, and nothing had really happened. It must have killed Margaurethe to hold her as she lay dying. How long did she suffer? Did she ever heal, or find another lover?
As she gained control of the sadness, Whiskey’s anger began to burn. The more visions she had, the more real they became, as if she had experienced them herself. Whoever Elisibet had been, Whiskey felt closer to her now than ever before.
And Elisibet yearned for Valmont’s blood.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hours later, Whiskey groaned and rolled over in the darkness. Similar to the first chant, she had become ill not long after the visions had ended. This time it wasn’t brought on by a result of incongruent sensory simulation, however. A fever rushed through her body. Her skin burned, and her head pounded. She’d long ago lost her impromptu lunch, barely having the strength to drag herself into the bathroom. Her stomach cramped in avid displeasure as it rumbled with deep hunger. Immense pain in her belly rolled over her, wave after wave crashing down, threatening her consciousness. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she took those few minutes between cramps to decide what to do.
Call Reynhard.
Her
Baruñal
would understand what was happening. Maybe he’d be able to stop the pain.