said the first thing that came into her mouth. “I needed to ask you about something. Back there, when we were going into the wood and the soldiers caught Amethea…” Now, she found the words were falling from her, easing a weight on her heart she hadn’t even known she was carrying. “Would you… would you have let her die?” Her voice caught and she was crying again, unable to help herself. “Let all of us die?”
Would you have killed all of us in order to save yourself?
The question wasn’t about Amethea – it was about the choice he’d made on the alchemist’s table, the choice to damn their entire world in order to save his own skin.
Shame was one fucking ugly emotion.
“I’m gonna help you.” His rasp came from the wall shadow, softer now, almost gentle. “Goddamn motherfucking program. I’m gonna
do
this. You fucking see if I don’t.”
Triq drew a ragged breath, crying, almost laughing. “I believe you, I
believe
you.” She bit her lip against the sobbing and the words were lost.
“Jesus.” It was a confession, a realisation, a breaking. Even as Triqueta turned away from him, hands over her face, she could feel him move behind her, small and slight, taut as terhnwood fibre. As she turned back, she found herself abruptly too close – he was there in front of her, a hair taller than she was. His skin was flecked with the warm yellow of hers, the shine of the opal stones in her cheeks; his eyes were huge, featureless and terrifying. A glitter of black showed between his lips.
Hesitant, his hand touched her face. When she turned into it, almost as an excuse not to have to look at him, he caught his breath…
Stopped.
Her colour seeped into his skin.
She expected him to pull away, to snarl denial, to deliver some blistering retort, to hurl her back by word or gesture; she expected to have to fight. But there was nothing. He simply stood there, his hand on her cheek, breathless, unmoving.
Warm.
And something in her began to tremble. That touch was calling an answer from her belly, a spread of anticipation through her body that made her shake with the strangeness of it.
So many faceless lovers, grapple and sweat, attentions just to fill the holes in her soul. Rough relief or momentary comfort, all forgotten with the birth of the sun. And this…
Somewhere Triqueta heard an echo of Tarvi’s fire-crackle laughter, taunting.
The heat in her flared in response. His face was almost desert-shades now, warm and normal. Only those limitless, bottomless black eyes…
Neither of them moved. They stood there as if the Count of Time waited breathless, was watching them as they watched each other, transfixed, to see what they would do.
He said, his voice a whisper, a question, “Triq…”
But it broke the moment, and the cold sky lurched into motion. She stepped back, swallowed, unsure what had just happened. His arm fell back to his side as if it were lost.
“Sorry,” she said, not even sure why. “But I’m going alone. I don’t…” She’d been going to say, “I don’t want company”, but she realised that was a lie, and instead she trailed into an awkward silence. His closeness, his strangeness, had been so intense they’d made her shiver, made her skin thrill and her heart pound. She wanted…
No, that was just crazed.
She was going alone, and that was all there was to it.
Before she could do anything else, anything foolish, she took another step back. Then she turned and walked out through the archway.
He called after her, and it took an effort not to stop.
It took all the effort she had to turn the corner, and walk out into the cold.
4: MERCHANT MASTER
FHAVEON
In a small, high window at the aching heart of Fhaveon, there sat an old man in a red robe.
He wore pince-nez glasses, new and slightly too big for him. They slid down his nose constantly, to be retrieved by the reflexive shove of a finger. In his other hand was a pure white quill, tip dark with ink, and on the
Would you have killed all of us in order to save yourself?
The question wasn’t about Amethea – it was about the choice he’d made on the alchemist’s table, the choice to damn their entire world in order to save his own skin.
Shame was one fucking ugly emotion.
“I’m gonna help you.” His rasp came from the wall shadow, softer now, almost gentle. “Goddamn motherfucking program. I’m gonna
do
this. You fucking see if I don’t.”
Triq drew a ragged breath, crying, almost laughing. “I believe you, I
believe
you.” She bit her lip against the sobbing and the words were lost.
“Jesus.” It was a confession, a realisation, a breaking. Even as Triqueta turned away from him, hands over her face, she could feel him move behind her, small and slight, taut as terhnwood fibre. As she turned back, she found herself abruptly too close – he was there in front of her, a hair taller than she was. His skin was flecked with the warm yellow of hers, the shine of the opal stones in her cheeks; his eyes were huge, featureless and terrifying. A glitter of black showed between his lips.
Hesitant, his hand touched her face. When she turned into it, almost as an excuse not to have to look at him, he caught his breath…
Stopped.
Her colour seeped into his skin.
She expected him to pull away, to snarl denial, to deliver some blistering retort, to hurl her back by word or gesture; she expected to have to fight. But there was nothing. He simply stood there, his hand on her cheek, breathless, unmoving.
Warm.
And something in her began to tremble. That touch was calling an answer from her belly, a spread of anticipation through her body that made her shake with the strangeness of it.
So many faceless lovers, grapple and sweat, attentions just to fill the holes in her soul. Rough relief or momentary comfort, all forgotten with the birth of the sun. And this…
Somewhere Triqueta heard an echo of Tarvi’s fire-crackle laughter, taunting.
The heat in her flared in response. His face was almost desert-shades now, warm and normal. Only those limitless, bottomless black eyes…
Neither of them moved. They stood there as if the Count of Time waited breathless, was watching them as they watched each other, transfixed, to see what they would do.
He said, his voice a whisper, a question, “Triq…”
But it broke the moment, and the cold sky lurched into motion. She stepped back, swallowed, unsure what had just happened. His arm fell back to his side as if it were lost.
“Sorry,” she said, not even sure why. “But I’m going alone. I don’t…” She’d been going to say, “I don’t want company”, but she realised that was a lie, and instead she trailed into an awkward silence. His closeness, his strangeness, had been so intense they’d made her shiver, made her skin thrill and her heart pound. She wanted…
No, that was just crazed.
She was going alone, and that was all there was to it.
Before she could do anything else, anything foolish, she took another step back. Then she turned and walked out through the archway.
He called after her, and it took an effort not to stop.
It took all the effort she had to turn the corner, and walk out into the cold.
4: MERCHANT MASTER
FHAVEON
In a small, high window at the aching heart of Fhaveon, there sat an old man in a red robe.
He wore pince-nez glasses, new and slightly too big for him. They slid down his nose constantly, to be retrieved by the reflexive shove of a finger. In his other hand was a pure white quill, tip dark with ink, and on the
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