“We need to talk on this some more. But I have to get back.”
“I know,” Ashlinn said, leaning in for another brief kiss.
“I want to stay.”
“I know,” Ash breathed, nibbling her lower lip. “Just promise to return.”
“Say please.”
Ashlinn’s nibble turned into a painful bite.
“Fuck you, Corvere,” she smiled.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t ask, remember?”
Grinning, she kissed Ashlinn’s eyes, Ashlinn’s cheek, Ashlinn’s lips, steeling herself against the moment. And then she rose from the bed, their bed, wrapping herself in her scraps of cloth, dreading the sunslight that awaited her just beyond the curtain. But still, she pulled the fabric aside, squinting against the brightness, turning to take one last look at the beauty she was leaving behind.
Has anything changed here?
With a sigh, she climbed out into the waiting light.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
CHAPTER 22
QUIET
“’Byss and blood, that’s hot.”
Mia sighed, closing her eyes and sinking farther down into the steaming heat. The water closed over her head, sounds of the bathhouse momentarily muted, all the noise of the world falling away.
She hung there in the dark and the warmth, enjoying the sensation on her aching muscles. The last two weeks had been spent training under the blazing suns with Furian and Bladesinger, and the trio were no closer to learning to fight together as a unit. Knowing the silkling would give no quarter, Arkades was showing no mercy in the circle, and Mia ached in muscles she never even knew she had. She was black and blue all over, and growing more frustrated with Furian by the turn.
Holding her breath beneath the water, she floated weightless. She was reminded for a moment of Adonai’s pools, and blood walks from the Quiet Mountain. Thinking of Solis, Drusilla and the others. The role they’d played in her familia’s fall.
What were they doing right now? Helping Scaeva secure his fourth term, no doubt. Rolling in their coin like hogs at trough. But the consul, and thus the Ministry, must be growing impatient at her lack of progress recovering Duomo’s map. How was Mercurio fending them off?
Not for the first time, she realized what a risk her old mentor was taking for her. Thinking of it, she found herself ashamed she’d ever thought Mercurio might betray her. She missed him, truth told. Missed his counsel, his smoker’s growl, even his bastard of a temper. But soon enough, she’d be back in Godsgrave, standing on the sands of the arena. She’d see him then. And after, when the deed was done.
Presuming I don’t get murdered at Whitekeep first …
Mia surfaced with burning lungs, shrouded in steam. Blinking the water from her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of Wavewaker walking into the bathhouse. The man was gleaming with sweat from his turn’s training, dusted with dirt and grime from the circle. He was singing a duet called “Mi Uitori” all by himself; the female’s lines in falsetto, the male’s in his traditional baritone.* Stripping off his loincloth at a suitably dramatic noooooooooote, he stepped into the bath and Mia gave him an impromptu round of applause.
“Too kind, Mi Dona,” the big man bowed.
“Quite a set of pipes you’ve got on you there.”
“I studied at the feet of the best.”
“Were you really an actor in a theater?” she asked, head tilted.
“Wellll,” the big man said. “I worked in one, on the door. In happier turns. I always wanted to stride the stage, marveling the crowd, but…” He shrugged at the walls around them. “’Twas not to be.”
She looked the man over with a critical eye as he reached for the soap. Wavewaker was a daemon on the sand, a little undisciplined perhaps, but strong as a bull. She’d wager those hands of his could encircle her throat easily, crush her skull if he squeezed hard enough, and she could no more imagine him wearing tights and mumming in some pantomime than she could imagine herself sprouting wings.
“Let me guess.” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t strike you as the theater type.”
“Forgive me,” she chuckled. “But not at all.”
“You’re forgiven,” Wavewaker grinned. “My father said much the same. He raised me in the art of steel, you see. Taught me from the time I was a boy how to break men with my bare hands. He intended me to be an honorguard of the Bara, like his father before him. Called me a fool when I told him I wanted to be a thespian. The suffi hadn’t named me ‘Stagestrider,’ after all. But I didn’t fancy the thought of being told what I could or couldn’t be. So I tried anyway. It was my dream. And one best dreamed awake.”
Mia found herself nodding, admiration budding in her chest.
“So I traveled to the City of Bridges and Bones,” Wavewaker continued, with dramatic flair. “Found a troupe who’d take me in. A little theater called the Sanctuary.”
“I know it!” Mia gasped, delighted. “Down near the Nethers!”
“Aye,” Wavewaker smiled broad. “Grand old place. I had no training, so they started me slow. I was only standing the door and cleaning up after shows at first, but it was still magikal to me. Listening to the great old dramas, watching poetry float in the air like gossamer, and scenes come alive before the crowd’s wondering eyes. That’s the power of words: twenty-six little letters can paint a whole universe.” Wavewaker’s voice grew wistful. “They were the happiest turns of my life.”
Mia knew she shouldn’t open her mouth. Shouldn’t let herself know more about the man. But still …
“What happened?” she heard herself asking.
Wavewaker sighed.
“Aemillia, one of our actresses. She caught the eye of a some rich man’s son. Paulus, his name. The dona made it clear she was uninterested in his affections, and I was forced to see him off a few times after he’d had too much goldwine, but that wasn’t so unusual. It was a rough part of town. All was going well, really. The troupe was making coin, crowds were growing. I’d studied hard, and was set to play my first role in one of the productions—the Magus King in Marcus and Messalina, do you know it?”
“Aye,” Mia smiled.
“It was the turn of my maiden performance. But it seemed even after Aemillia’s refusals and the drubbings I gave him, little Paulus wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.”
“Rich men’s sons often aren’t,” Mia said.
“Aye. I found the bastard backstage after dress rehearsal, trying to force himself on Aemillia. Her costume torn. Her lip bloodied. You can guess the rest. Father taught me from the time I was a boy how to break men with my bare hands, after all.”
Wavewaker looked down at his sword-callused palms.
“But he was a rich man’s son. It was only the testimony of my fellow players saved me from the gallows. I was sold into bondage instead, the price of my sale paid to Paulus by way of compensation for the broken hands I’d gifted him.”
“Four Daughters,” Mia breathed. “I’m sorry.”