Oathkeeper, p.18
Oathkeeper, page 18
She hadn’t worn it again.
Never intended to wear it again.
Smiling despite herself, she found the cunning little panels on the cuirass that flipped back to reveal tiny anchors to which a cloak could be tied without the need of it being fastened around the wearer’s neck. He’d had a cloak made for her, too, all black except, of course, for his scars embroidered on the back in gold thread. All hand-stitched, his own work for everything, even though he’d had to learn how to sew before he could begin. A short, snorting laugh escaped her then.
“Kholster,” she said, “you put your scars everywhere except actually on my back.”
“The rendition you burned into your back is accurate,” a deep voice spoke, “but not quite the same as if I put it there. Would you like me to?”
*
Are you sure this is all right? Kholster thought at Harvester.
I don’t see why it would not be, the echoing voice sent back. She prayed to you. Called you by name. It is the very definition of inviting you. And if you are worried about how much like yourself you are being, she would know, of all mortals.
Good.
Wylant hadn’t been the first person to pray to Kholster. He’d felt multitudinous mortals say his name in fear or desperation. But to hear his wife’s (or ex-wife—he still wasn’t clear on how that hunt was going) words in his mind . . . he could have done nothing less than come in person.
A scant growth of raven black adorned her head now that Dienox had finally taken the hint and realized she no longer revered him. Kholster wondered why Dienox had chosen blonde hair as a sign of his favor. It had been beautiful. She was still stunning without it . . . and would have been regardless, but even so, he found it hard not to picture her with red hair like his if she was going to give up the blonde.
All those thoughts rushed through his head in a single blink, while Wylant was still caught flatfooted by his appearance. He wanted nothing more than to snatch her up in his arms and . . . but Wylant had said ex-husband thirteen years ago when she had confronted Prince Dolvek and when the idiotic Oathbreaker had still had time to stay within the technical boundaries of the treaty between the Aern and Dolvek’s people.
No, if she initiated a kiss, then perhaps, but otherwise . . .
“How did you,” Wylant began, but even as she spoke, Kholster could see her dawning comprehension. He treasured the way her brows furrowed as she thought, lifting a touch as she puzzled it out. “Deity . . . right.” She took her hand off her armor as if it had stung her. “Kholster, you cannot just appear—”
“I can.” He remained still, his voice soft and even. “If, however, you would rather I did not do so in the future, I could . . . not—”
“No.” She closed her eyes. Pausing. Processing. When she opened them again, Wylant was in motion, crossing the room to reach him. “Warsuit,” she prompted. The word an implied preference, explicitly not a command. Not quite a request, but something an Oathbound slave could either honor or ignore. She wanted the armor off, and Kholster realized he did, as well.
Harvester, Kholster thought, realizing as he sent the command that he hadn’t removed Harvester normally since remaking him. Harvester had teleported away, but Kholster did not want that now. He was here with Wylant. And if he had to try not to blink so he could see her instead of dying multitudes, it was a perfunctory cost, easily paid.
Where Bloodmane opened at the back, plates flaring open like the petals of a blooming flower, Harvester split at the breastplate, the first crack appearing at Kholster’s sternum—or the Aernese equivalent. Humans and most mammals had ribs, whereas Aern had flexible plating beneath the skin.
Flowing up and down, the seam split into six lines of separating bone as it approached his neck. Two central lines converged in a V-shape at his throat, unified into a single line as his helm split open into two equal halves. Other lines worked similar magic at his shoulders, hips, and groin.
A cacophony of snapping bones accompanied the widening of each seam, more pronounced as large sections of plate folded away, revealing the Aern underneath. A muslin shirt, soft, white, and sheer had replaced Kholster’s chain mail, but it was cut in roughly the same style, hanging loose with ragged edges where the sleeves hit mid-bicep. He stepped forward in black steam-loomed jeans, bare feet slapping the stone. The jeans were new, too, but the corded bone-steel belt at his waist was the same one he’d worn for as long as most mortals (Oathbreakers included) would have been able to recall.
What happened to my boots?
I have them, Harvester intoned. Footwear is awkward to remove in the heat of passion.
Is there likely to be . . . passion?
If there isn’t, sir, I submit to you that you are doing it wrong.
Doing what wrong?
Things.
Kholster stepped forward to meet Wylant, gaze fixed, deliberately not looking at Vax, pretending not to notice him at all. Harvester resealed himself with a sound akin to that of wooden wind chimes clattering together, stirred by a sudden breeze.
Wylant met him halfway, closing with him as if it had not been centuries since last they touched. Her arms slipped around him. He enfolded her, and it felt like home and hearth and family in a way South Number Nine never had or could. Tears ran down his cheeks. He smiled under them, knowing there would be no matching tears from Wylant’s eyes. She had always been made of some material more fantastic and resilient than bone metal.
Her head nestled against him, the short stubble of her newly black hair brushing his clean-shaven chin.
You shaved me?
It IS how she prefers you, sir.
This close Kholster missed the smell of jallek root he’d come to think of as part of Wylant’s scent. Still, the intoxicating fragrance of her skin, her hair, even her sweat sent him crushing back to intimate moments and to their marriage vows: the first ones sworn in secret on the battlefield, the second set at Fort Sunder before the Aern, and the official ones (under Oathbreaker law) before King Zillek years later with Uled’s scowling face looking down and disapproving of them.
Amber light reflected in her eyes as she pulled away from him, the illumination from his memory-trapped pupils shining in Wylant’s when she gazed up at him.
“Me, too,” she whispered as if she were sharing the same memories. Wylant kissed his cheek, her lips sending him deeper into more erotic exchanges they had shared as husband and wife. She blushed and so did he. His eyes dimmed. With so many people, even lovers, an Aern had to explain about the power of memories, how an Aern could be chained by the past, trapped in thought, still capable of physical defense, but cognitively dissonant. Wylant needed no such explanations.
His heart sank when she stepped back, ending their embrace, but Kholster could not allow himself to chase her. If Wylant wanted him, he was hers, but too many years as First of One Hundred had conditioned him to lead in all respects except romance. Years of courting Vael with stillness held him back. The fear of unintentional force through implied command, the thing that kept him from pursuing Aernese females for fear that, as First, they would feel obligated to return his affections, kept him now, as a deity, from picking Wylant up and never letting her go again. Wylant’s own careful pursuit of him while he was still enslaved and Oathbound had become his moral compass when physical intimacy came into play.
He’d slipped with Yavi when he’d kissed her through her samir, but Wylant was more important than any Vael. Kholster owed her the same careful restraint she’d employed at the start when setting out to woo him. He was careful to offer and be still, avoiding even the appearance of demand or insistence. Her assiduousness in that regard had played a significant part in what had led Kholster to open his heart to her in the first place, to be capable of truly loving and trusting any mortal who was not under his command. Their love had defined all his romantic dealings since the Sundering. It was why Helg had had such a hard time convincing him to be her husband and beyond that, to have Rae’en and be father to a second freeborn child.
Sir, Harvester transmitted, if I might recommend—
No, Kholster thought, but thank you. I believe Wylant and I can kholster this battlefield.
Of course, sir.
*
Kholster was doing the thing.
Wylant found it at once insufferable and endearing to watch him stand there, so obviously filled with emotion but showing such restraint.
Stubborn, she thought, but then that is part of his charm. That and those shoulders. A translucent shirt? She wondered briefly whose idea that had been and smirked. Vander was her first suspect, but Kholster wasn’t connected to his Prime Overwatch, his literal number two, in the same way he had once been. Or was he? No. There was a loneliness in those eyes. He was adrift and trying to hold things together as best he could, but he needed help. And he wasn’t going to ask for it. Maybe he would open up afterward.
“Are you honestly not planning to kiss me?” she asked.
“I wasn’t certain you wanted—”
“I want.” She wet her lips, and it became evident Kholster wanted, too. As kisses became more intense, Wylant noticed Harvester beckon to Vax, looking first to her for silent approval. Wylant nodded and the warsuit lifted Vax from the bed, carrying him out into the hall. So the warsuit was responsible for the clothing, Wylant mused, before her thoughts became more primal.
She let herself relax and be one.
*
Wylant expected Kholster to be gone when she woke up. Did gods stay the night, even when one had once been married to them? Always one to rip the bandage off rather than delay inevitable pain, Wylant resisted the urge to lay in bed feeling the empty space next to her, the still cooling mark where Kholster had lain. His scent lingered there, a tailor-made combination of . . .
I will not say his name, she thought. I will not call out for him and make a fool of mys—Other scents made her nostrils flare, nose pulling eyes open like a sleeping hound catching the scent of a hare. Fresh roses . . . and tea?
“K—” she caught the word in her teeth, clamping them together to stop her tongue.
“I’m spending time with Vax.” His voice, rich and strong, and masculine, yet still so tender and—
VAX?! Eyes popping open, Wylant jolted up, sheet falling away, cool air from the open balcony curtains wreathing her skin in tiny gooseflesh bumps. Her nose crinkled at a change in scents even as her eyes widened at the casual manner in which Kholster had said Vax’s name.
What am I missing? she asked herself, trying keep her attention on the smells of the room rather than the way the light from the balcony painted her husband in warm natural tones emphasizing the bronze of his skin, picking out the lighter reds scattered through his close-cropped hair. Aern don’t gray, but Kholster’s hair had lightened over the centuries—the only physical sign of his age beyond the knowledge (sagacity?) of his gaze and the still assurance of his presence. Wylant knew her own aura of command was impressive, but Kholster had commanded for so many years that his name had become his race’s verb for it. He turned, smiling, his wolfish doubled canines bared—such a small leap from a smile to a threat, but he wasn’t angry. She had rarely seen him happier. The sunlight picked out his muscles, the flat washboard of his stomach plainly visible through the gauzy material of his shirt.
He’d found or conjured—gods could do that sort of thing, couldn’t they?—a pair of hobnailed boots from somewhere, scuffed and broken in as she knew he liked them. His belt, corded bone-steel chain, didn’t look like his own work—she’d never asked who made it, but he wore it like it was part of him, just like the black steam-loomed denim jeans.
Vax glinted joyously in Kholster’s arms, holding the shape of a warpick. Kholster wielded Vax two-handed, testing his weight, his balance, and finding no flaw. He reversed his grip and twisted, rotating Vax in an arc as he would have done Grudge or Hunger. In Kholster’s hands Vax’s surface sported intricate detailing, whorls and curves of sapphire blue glistening against the matte black lacquered metal, with only a hint of bone-steel peeking through in crafted waves as Vax shifted in the light. His hilt, which had always been wrapped in a mottled blue leather when Wylant wielded him, was the color of old bones.
“If you like.” Eyes flicking from Wylant to Vax, Kholster shrugged, answering a question Wylant could not hear. “No, I won’t give you my preference. I’m sorry.”
He paused, nodding at Wylant with that one-moment-if-you-do-not-mind-I-have-to-handle-this-first look he’d perfected a thousand years before she’d been born. She noted she still ranked an apologetic bob of the head and reassuring wink when he did it—something only accorded, as far as Wylant could recall, to Vander, Kholster’s children, and Wylant herself.
“Because.” His attention was back on Vax. “My opinion can become someone else’s opinion far too easily when given before a person has had time for thoughtful consideration.”
To whom was he talking? Wylant’s eyes widened. Vax? He could talk to Vax?
“Yes.” Kholster laughed. “I’m told I can be exceedingly annoying.” His brow furrowed, his eyes pained. “No.” He swallowed and took a deep breath. When he let it out, Kholster found Wylant’s gaze and held it. “I am not angry with her.” Another pause. “That would be up to you and your mother.”
Wylant had never fainted when she wasn’t injured or ill, but she would have been lying if she claimed the room hadn’t spun just then and that the gorge had not risen in her throat.
He knows, she thought, willing her stomach to calm. She searched for a god’s name to use in vain, but the only god she trusted was already in the room. Vax!
Vax coiled into a chain, dropping to the floor and pulling free of Kholster’s grip. Puzzled, but without further comment, Kholster changed his stance to a reserved neutral and let Vax slither off along the stone.
“Sorry about that. He had many questions.” Kholster crossed the room and kissed her rather chastely given the state of her clothing—or lack thereof. “He seemed to be building up to the big one and I wanted him to have a chance to get it out.”
He could hear Vax’s thoughts?! Of course he could . . .
Wylant pulled free of her husband. How long had he known? What had Vax and Kholster said? Why hadn’t Kholster FIXED him? Could he not . . . make him right?
I have to think about this. I have to . . . to . . . get some clothes on.
Her husband’s eyes tracked her every movement, taking it all in, memorizing her as she moved to the washbasin (filled with rose petals) and cleaned up, interrupting her ablutions long enough to sip at the tea waiting in a metal cup beside the basin. The strong black honey-sweetened brew had a hint of . . . had he bled in her tea? It was something he’d always done before battle to help in case she got bitten by a Zaur in rut.
Can he hear my thoughts, too? She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing. No, then. Either that or he knew enough not to do so. Kholster had scant patience when it came to his enemies, but his reserve appeared inexhaustible for those he loved. The towels had been swapped for clean, fluffy ones exactly like those he always used to bring her. Apparently his supplier was still alive, or maybe he’d conjured it with deific might. She wiped away moisture, drying her skin, feeling more ordered, clean, but it did nothing to clarify her mind or calm her racing thoughts.
How long had Kholster known about Vax? She couldn’t let go of that one. Could he help him? Was that why he’d come? Had he truly not been angered about . . . what . . . what she’d done? Am I forgiven, she wondered, or was he never mad?
Clothes.
Dried, but still shivering, Wylant looked at her husband and scoffed. I am not having this conversation with no clothes on.
Taking a clean set of small clothes from her wardrobe, she suppressed the urge to glance around for the ones she’d worn the night before. Look for them later, she told herself. There is no need to feel so flustered. He’s still my husband. Or thinks he is. Do I want him to be? Yes, but—Except things were so much more complicated than that. Once she was clad in her doublet and leathers she could breathe easier. Her mind clearer, equilibrium restored, she turned her attention back to Kholster and found him folding her things from the previous night. He smiled at her, eyes twinkling as he placed them in her wardrobe.
“This is one of the self-cleaning ones the Artificer made?” Kholster wrinkled his nose at the wardrobe.
“Yes.” Wylant held in a laugh. Of course, he would rather hand wash everything. “He gave it to me when you told him he could only discuss being Aiannai with other Aiannai.”
“Sargus?” He pushed the wardrobe door firmly closed. “Yes, well. I imagine he was grateful to have a compatriot with whom to speak.” Kholster’s hobnailed boots hammered the stone as he stepped away from the device, studying the lightly stained mahogany. Tutting at some minor defect in the workmanship Wylant couldn’t see, he rapped the side with his knuckles. “I prefer doing laundry the old way—”
“You have to admit, it is much more convenient this way.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Kholster put his ear to the wardrobe. “But this way, when do you get to hang it out to dry?”
“But there’s no need.” This was the Kholster few people got to see. Inquisitive. Open. At ease. What had he and Vax discussed? Ask him, she told herself, he’ll tell you. Instead, she settled for “How do the Dwarves do it?”
“Even the Dwarves prefer their shortcuts.” Kholster opened the wardrobe and checked the clothes. “They’re still—”
“It takes a few candlemarks.” Wylant stepped over and closed the wardrobe door. So unreal to talk about trivialities like laundry with a being who was not only her husband, but—Kholster, are you really a god, now? Can you read my thoughts?
