11: Gifts

Chapter 11: Gifts

Time: Present Day, 720 A.E.

Place: The Kingdom of Saimr

Ari stares up at her former master and thinks—not for the first time, and certainly not for the last—that she truly has no idea who this woman is. She was a rank idiot for ever assuming she did. She can’t—she doesn’t understand. She’d forced herself to come to terms with the fact that the Velnyr Napharos she’d worshiped never existed. It’d nearly killed her a second time, but she did it. She had no choice. She had accepted that the lodestar of her life had only ever seen her as a… a resource, something to be honed into proper shape and put to work until she shattered. She had accepted that, having fallen apart before she could be truly wielded, Sahan had discarded her as a matter of course. She hadn’t even minded it so much—it bothered her more that the connection she’d imagined between them had been a falsehood. Sahan had never actually cared about her.

Fine. Fine! So she’s a fool and a failure and now she’s alone. Serves her right.

But this… she can’t take this. She can’t rip all that agonizing, pointless love out by the roots and then have the gnarled, dead remnants thrown in her face. She can’t give quarter to the awful, wretched, squirming thing deep inside her that thrills at being called Sahan’s. Sahan’s pet. Sahan’s tool. Sahan’s to use and discard as she sees fit. The idea that Sahan still wants her—wants her enough to shackle her, to claim her so completely!—sends that part of her into a blissful frenzy. This is right, that weeping tumor whispers. This is where you should be, where you should’ve been all along.

She can’t let herself wonder. She can’t let herself care. She wants to ask why are you touching me? Why are you looking at me like that? What’s that expression on your face? If you don’t care, if you never cared, what is any of this for?

But she can’t say any of those things. Sahan wants her tool back. That’s all she needs to understand. (Oh, but, Sahan—why bother with the niceties? Don’t you have what you want now? You can afford to be a bit mean! This disciple can’t go anywhere!)

Ari wets her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. A soul bond. She’s only familiar with them in theory. A god’s most devout followers might tie themselves to their deity in such a way, surrendering their free will in exchange for power, or good favor, or just as a show of loyalty. Seda had certainly wanted to bind her Dreadsaints in just such a way, but as she hadn’t yet achieved apotheosis back then, she’d lacked the strength. God-Queen Velnyr faces no such problem. With Ari’s soul in her hand, she can command her to do whatever she sees fit, track her location at all times, drain or flood her spiritual reserves at will, even shred her soul to bits and piece it back together as it suits her—and that’s only the important stuff!

Ari might laugh if she wasn’t so miserable.

That flow of numina to her core gradually tapers and then stops completely, though Sahan doesn’t remove her hands from Ari’s neck and face. That unbearable weight lessens, too, and Ari finds she can move freely again.

Ah. It must be done, then. Experimentally, Ari takes stock of her pneumatic system. Everything is in working order. In better shape than she left it, frankly. Her core is full to brimming; her spiritual veins are squeaky clean. It’s almost nice enough that she can ignore the feeling of something else burrowed away in that deepest, most vulnerable part of her, something she cannot touch or approach or even make out clearly. But it’s there. It’s there, and it’s awake. It’s watching.

Sahan—

She should really stop calling the queen Sahan. She’d told Ari, before, that Ari was no disciple of hers. Ari hadn’t been willing to accept it then, but shouldn’t she be more amenable now? She’s not this woman’s student. She’s her toy.

Velnyr looks down at Ari assessingly (a thrill runs through her at the impertinence of using her name so casually, even in the privacy of her own head), that strange thread of hysteria Ari had spotted earlier now replaced by her more familiar indifferent mien. There’s a tug from that thing in her core, and Ari jolts. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s—it’s undeniable. She can do nothing to defend against it.

Velnyr makes a quiet sound of satisfaction. “You’re well-suited to this,” she says.

What that means, Ari has no idea, and she isn’t about to ask. Ari frowns up at her former master, who somehow has still not shooed Ari from her lap and has, in fact, rested her hands lightly on Ari’s shoulders, thumbs brushing idly along the ends of her collarbones.

It’s infuriating. Why bother with this pointless doting master roleplay?! Velnyr doesn’t need to convince Ari to do anything now; she can simply order it! It’s not like Ari can refuse her anymore! What contentment does she find in reprising her old role—the one she cast off so readily when it no longer suited her?

Discomfited, Ari wriggles loose and pulls herself upright with some effort. Velnyr (dragging out that name gets easier the more she thinks it) makes to stop her at first but unexpectedly gives up when Ari glowers at her.

“This preceptor is honored to serve Her Worship again,” she lies through her teeth, “but Her Worship must have many other important things to attend to.”

There’s a snort behind her, and Ari whips around with a start before she remembers that Lord Suyan is still here. She blends into the background so easily when she’s quiet; it’s unsettling. But she realizes, as she blinks at the figure sprawled across a rug, that this is the first time she’s seen Suyan’s true form.

And it’s… Hah! The perfect picture of a handsome young lordling!

Suyan doesn’t wear the queen’s elaborate robes, but compared to Varul’s no-nonsense leathers, her black trousers and long blue-gray tunic are of exceedingly high-quality. The tunic is fastened with silver buttons and embroidered with swirling silver thread around the high collar and shoulders. There’s a lighter, dove gray silk sash tied around her waist, and the tunic splits open underneath it. A dark gray coat (a few shades darker than her skin) with a ruff of pale fur clasps high on her throat, flares out into leather shoulder pads, and falls down to her ankles. Her hands are wrapped in leather gloves; a very fancy tri-cornered hat ruffling with black feathers sits rakishly askew on her head.

She’d look right at home in the middle of a royal hunt, or gathered around a sumptuous feast, or patronizing a highbrow pleasure house with a gaggle of foppish underlings.

Velnyr never breathed a single word about any life but the one she lived in Leviathan, even when Ari unsubtly hinted that she knew Velnyr couldn’t have been native to Ansera. Clearly at some point she was an aristocratic little brat, but Varul had looked like a hard-bitten fighter, not a doted-upon heiress.

Suyan is the second Heavenly Blade, forged after Varul and made to represent a master slightly older than the youth Ari is bound to. Her hair is no longer stark white and tumbles down her back in blue-black waves tied into a low tail with a black silk ribbon. The bangs curling around her irritable face are still white, though. It makes for a striking contrast. Her eyes, framed by exquisitely long lashes, are the same shade of violet as Varul’s. The same violet as the True Flame.

Ari catches herself smiling. “Cute. You look like you have servants hunt your pheasants for you.”

Suyan scowls ferociously, and Ari is delighted to see her silver-studded ears twitch with agitation. She’s so much easier to read than Velnyr, so much easier to ruffle. The pang of fondness that shoots through her is tinged with grief.

With a huff, Suyan rises fluidly, reaching into a pocket to pull something free. Surprisingly, she tosses it at Ari. It slaps against her chest and then falls to her lap. As soon as she discerns what it is, the breath in her lungs freezes.

“Dareja,” Suyan addresses Velnyr, somewhere far away, “this lord will begin making preparations to depart.”

“Go,” Velnyr replies.

Whatever else they say, if they say anything at all, is lost. Ari’s hands are trembling. It takes her three tries to pick up the charm in her lap, and when she finally succeeds she can only stare blankly at it, her mind silent and still.

It’s her talisman. Beaten and burned, twisted and scarred, void of the protective magic once woven into its surface. But it’s hers. She’d know it like she knows the backs of her own hands.

She’d… lost it, during her fight against Seda. It had saved her life, and then it had fallen away. She hadn’t thought she’d ever see it again. Has… has Velnyr had it? All this time? Did she travel all the way to that distant, ruined battlefield and search through the wreckage, looking for some hint of what happened?

Why? Why?

She doesn’t— She can’t—

Ari’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps. She thinks Velnyr might be saying something, presumably to her, but she finds suddenly that she can’t bear to hear it, whatever it is. Blindly, she pushes herself off the ground, staggering, her hand clutched hard around the melted edges of the First Dragon’s splayed wings.

She exits the command tent and doesn’t look back. She just walks.

***

The Time: 11 years ago (709 AE)

The Place: Puravara Manor, Northern Saimr

Ari spends most of her nineteenth birthday tremendously drunk.

She’d say it wasn’t intentional, but… well, it was. For the first time in six years, she’s celebrating her birthday without Sahan. Of course she’s a bit miffed!

She knows Sahan is busy, and it’s not like she’s a child anymore. It’s not such a big deal. She just… had sort of hoped Sahan would be finished with whatever’s keeping her by today. Eight weeks ago, Sahan handed her off to the matrons at Puravara Manor—an estate the Dawn liberated from its lord a couple years back—to use as they pleased. She does this, sometimes, when she’s off on some assignment for the Prophet that Ari isn’t allowed to assist her with. Usually, Ari doesn’t mind it: most of the branches she shelters with are perfectly polite to her and eager for her help. This far north, most of the major threats come from the occasional demon and not the Red Princes and their bannermen. Ari’s quite good at handling demons.

Puravara Manor has been gracious during her stay, affording her a luxurious private suite and even free access to the kitchens to putter around as she pleases after she mentioned missing the opportunity to cook. She has no complaints, except that she misses her master, but there’s nothing the poor matrons here can do about that. She doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, so she puts on her best face every morning, handles every problem the matrons bashfully bring to her with all the grace and aplomb she can muster. Really, she likes helping. Especially when she gets the chance to align the pneumatic systems of the new disciples, who regard her with open awe.

Thankfully (or… unfortunately, maybe?), there are no tasks that need attending on Ari’s birthday. She’s free to wander the estate as she pleases, wine in hand, and she even leaves the manor for a couple hours to visit a nearby town. She’s been here before to handle reports of unsettled spirits and new witches on the verge of a Calamitous Bloom, but she’s never come here just to explore. She spends a while doing just that, leaving coins in the baskets of starving beggars, using her augmented strength to scale the rooftops and making a game of leaping from building to building, purchasing a few street snacks (that she mostly gives to the beggars also). But eventually she admits defeat and returns to the estate, put out despite her earnest attempts at cheering herself up.

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By the time evening falls, she’s thoroughly depressed, locked away in her fancy suite with nothing but her nth bottle of wine to keep her company. The candles burn low, and Ari sprawls aimlessly out on her bed in the gloom.

She might unintentionally fall asleep fully dressed at one point, but she wakes to the sensation of dense, cold magic blooming somewhere in her room. Her eyes snap open and she’s leaping to her feet with her hands groping for the dagger she always keeps at her waist before her fuzzy mind catches up. But it’s too late by then, anyway: in a heartbeat, the swell of living shadow across from her bed dissipates, and in its place, wearing a familiar scowl, is—

Sahan! Sahan, Sahan, Sahan! She didn’t forget! She really came!

She looks more unkempt than usual, and she’s clad in the long, brocaded black cloak she often wears for travel.

Ari races over immediately, yipping with joy like a newborn pup.

“You remembered!” she says by way of greeting.

Ari bows over her hands at first, proper, if a bit clumsy—heart burbling in her chest, scalp tingling, skin tight and hot and aching for some salve she can’t name. And then—because it’s her birthday and she’s drunk and feeling quite daring—she launches herself forward and wraps her arms around Sahan’s midsection. Wraps her up tight, fists coming to rest at the base of her shoulder blades, squashing herself so hard against Sahan’s torso that she can feel the little silver buttons on her cloak digging into her chest.

Sahan makes a small, startled sound, but she doesn’t push her away, and Ari is so giddy with success that she has to bite her lip raw to keep from saying something stupid, or laughing like a dolt. She’s so close, she thinks, amazed. Ah, it feels… good. Better than she expected, even. She swallows a rush of hot saliva, presses her forehead against the firm muscle of Sahan’s shoulder. Her face is burning. Her pulse is so quick in her throat she feels like she could choke on it.

Sahan doesn’t return her embrace. She doesn’t say a word. But she does lift a single hand to cup Ari’s arm just above her elbow—a good, solid hold. Grounding. She imagines what it might feel like if Sahan grabbed on just a bit harder, if she left five little fingerprint-shaped bruises right there where Ari could see them, feel them, fit her own hand over them and press down until the echo of that touch rings through her whole body.

She shivers.

“Ahhh, Sahan,” Ari sighs, sing-song, and she means it to come out wheedling and playful but instead her voice sounds oddly ragged. “It’s been so long… This disciple really missed you…”

“It’s been two months,” Sahan says flatly.

“Too long!” Ari insists. She injects a bit of hurt into her tone. “Sahan used to see this disciple every day, rise with her in the mornings and rest with her in the evenings… Now Sahan is so busy she doesn’t even have time to visit this one on her birthday. Is Sahan sick of this disciple’s presence…?”

She draws back just enough to show off her shining eyes and wobbling lip. It’s easier to disguise it as a joke. If she can laugh, Sahan won’t see how grasping she truly is. How hungry she is for even a scrap of Sahan’s attention.

Sahan seems unmoved by her display. “Would that such accusations held weight,” she replies coolly, “or this master would not have wasted her time and energy crossing half the kingdom in an evening.”

Ari blinks beseechingly. “So Sahan did miss her disciple?”

“Don’t tread on my patience, girl.”

This is the point at which Ari would usually let off the rudder, mindful of choppy waters, but tonight her blinders are firmly affixed.

She lowers her lashes. “Sahan, this disciple is stupid and useless. If this worthless disciple’s master truly holds her in such warm regard despite her failings, won’t she be kind enough to say it so this foolish one can understand?”

Do you miss me? Do you think about me when I’m not around? I think about you. I think about you all the time.

Sahan’s eyes narrow, a warning sign as clear as a snake’s rattle. “I leave you without a guiding hand for a few weeks and you regress into this… snotty whelp?”

Ari nods vigorously. “Mmhmm! This disciple is completely hopeless without Sahan. All of Sahan’s hard work polishing this one will go to waste if she leaves again; this disciple will pine day and night, unable to focus on her studies—”

Sahan whacks the side of her head so hard she sees stars for a second. “Pathetic wretch. Stop begging like a stray.”

Ari shivers. Ah, she wanted a bit of affection, but this… this is good too. “Y-Yes, Sahan.”

She pretends she sounds breathy from the pain.

But just as she’s resigned herself to enjoying the fruits of her labor (Sahan’s volatile temper), Sahan murmurs, “Of course I would not leave you here if I had some other choice.”

The rush of happiness that follows bubbles under Ari’s skin all over, rapid and violent. Suddenly abashed, she hides her face and rubs her nose against the fabric of Sahan’s cloak. It smells so nice! Warm and sweet, a little musky, a little like smoke and sweat. Entirely absent any input from her higher thought processes, her mouth opens and draws a tiny corner of Sahan’s lapel past her lips. Just enough to bite down on, to suckle at until the barest hint of that tantalizing aroma blooms on her tongue. It goes to her head worse than the liquor. She makes some kind of sound, she can’t tell what; there’s an insistent throbbing at the junction of her thighs that keeps time with her heartbeat.

Sahan makes a disgruntled noise and thwaps her soundly upside the head again with her free hand. “Enough, girl. Get off.”

Ari whines. Mulishly, and more than a little taken with her own daring, she squeezes her eyes shut and weathers the risk of worsening Sahan’s temper to slide her face up until it rests neatly in the join between Sahan’s neck and shoulder—next to where the collar of the cloak rides down to expose the soft skin of her throat, below the delicate swoop of her ear. A perfect fit, she thinks smugly. She’s just the right height for it now, just the right size to fit them together like this.

“It’s my birthday, Sahan!” she mutters plaintively. “You won’t even give me a hug on my birthday?”

It occurs to her that if she moves a little to the left, she could press her lips to that exposed neck. She could take one of those dangling earrings between her lips, sucking it down until she reaches the lobe it’s attached to. She could trail her tongue up that ear, take the tip of it into her warm, wet mouth like she did with the lapel of Sahan’s cloak…

There’s something wrong with her. There has to be. This longing, this vulgar hunger—it’s so thick inside her it makes her feel ill. It’s loathsome. It’s stupid. Wanting quietly, in secret, that’s one thing. Ari has always wanted something from this woman: her time, her attention, and, most fervently, her approval. Her affection. But it’s alright, if she can’t have those things. She knows she doesn’t deserve them. It’s alright, if only she still has Sahan; even if Sahan doesn’t look at her, she can still curl up at her feet and bask in her presence. That’s enough. It has to be. (She tells herself this when the longing expands inside of her until it presses on her heart, her lungs, until it’s so overwhelming she can’t breathe around it.)

When she was younger, there was a purity to that desire. A child’s simple hunger to be noticed, acknowledged, wanted. Maybe nobody else wanted her anymore, but Sahan did—and what was the use of anyone else’s regard when she had Sahan’s? Sahan was her god as much as the Fell Empress was, as much as the Eight Archons were. She saw something in Ari that Ari couldn’t discern for herself. She didn’t even really care what it was, as long as it kept Sahan by her side.

Ari wasn’t sure exactly when that childish wanting had morphed into… into this. Maybe it was just a natural progression, for someone like her. She’d always been greedy. Why wouldn’t she come to want all of Sahan?

What would Sahan think if she knew? She’d be so furious, so disgusted; she’d strike Ari bloody. She’d be right to do it—lash her unruly disciple until she couldn’t stand, much less slobber all over her like a dog. Spit on her limp body, rub her face in the dirt, mock her so coldly, so viciously for daring to think she had the right…

Arousal strikes her like a slap, and she twitches bodily at the answering jolt between her legs.

Filthy. Disgusting. Lower than a snake in the grass.

Sahan’s hand is still on her arm, the softness of her full breasts still pressed against Ari’s chest. Trembling minutely, Ari nuzzles deeper into the crook of her neck, where the aroma of her perfume is the strongest and the sleek curtain of her hair brushes Ari’s cheek so lightly it sends tingles all the way down her spine.

Oh, she’s a beast, but she’s alive with wanting. It’s like a dam has burst, and no matter how frantically she scoops she can’t pour it all back in.

She unclenches her fists against Sahan’s back, digs blunt nails in on either side of her spine. Is Sahan breathing faster, or is that her? She can’t tell. Her head feels like it’s been stuffed with smoking flares.

“Sahan,” she breathes into her neck. “I’m… I…”

She doesn’t get to finish her thought, which is probably a good thing because she isn’t sure what she would’ve said anyway. Sahan suddenly reaches up and peels her off by her plait, making Ari’s eyes water and her jaw drop open in a gasp that she can only hope sounds feasibly like discomfort.

“Off,” Sahan says emphatically, looking irritated but no more affected than she had before Ari unceremoniously trapped her in a decidedly unfilial embrace. Ari decides to count that as a blessing. “You reek of spirits. Have you spent all day gorging yourself?”

Ari’s lips start moving before her brain does, completely ignoring her master’s attempted reprimand. “If this one bathes, will Sahan let this one hug her again?” she asks hopefully, lips curling in a smile that at least allows her to play it off as a joke.

It’s like an entirely different person is behind the wheel in her skull. She’s not going to survive the night at this rate.

Even Sahan looks stunned by her audacity. “Are you always like this when you drink?”

The liquor demon in Ari’s head directs her to bat her lashes coquettishly. “Only for Sahan.”

Stop! Ew! What are you saying!!! Shut up!!!

Thankfully, Sahan just rolls her eyes, managing to make even that soft derision look refined and elegant. “I brought you something,” she says instead, and Ari is immediately mollified.

“Sahan got me a birthday present?” she asks eagerly. She cares less about the contents of the gift than she does about the fact that it’s from Sahan. A sack of rocks would be precious if it came from Sahan.

Sahan’s hand disappears into the depths of her cloak and withdraws a slim, plain black box. It looks like the sort of thing that might hold fine jewelry, and when Ari eagerly plucks the box from Sahan and lifts the lid, she discovers that’s precisely what it is.

Oh, but it’s so much more than just a trinket. As soon as she claps eyes on it, Ari gasps, and an emotion that feels perilously like adoration oozes out of her heart to fill all the crevices inside her.

“Sahan…” she whispers wetly.

It’s a protection talisman. A beautiful one. Sahan has never been devout, but she’s aware that Ari is, and the charm hanging from its sturdy golden chain is a breathtakingly detailed rendition of the Fell Empress as the First Dragon—black and shining, wings outstretched, claws and horns and fangs depicted with astonishing clarity. Ari has seen (and owned) a number of protection talismans, but never a masterwork like this. It’s solid and warm to the touch, and when she runs the shaking pad of her thumb across its body she can make out both its fine particulars and the unmistakable signature of Sahan’s magic.

It’s not just a protective talisman, then, but a protective talisman that Sahan enchanted herself. This little necklace is worth far, far more than its weight in gold. This is the sort of thing treasure hunters would cross oceans for.

“Sahan,” Ari says again past the lump in her throat. “It’s… it’s wonderful. I love it. Did you really… You really enchanted this yourself?”

“And carved it myself,” Sahan grouses, and oh, Ari’s chest hurts. “It’s made from treated Steel of Virtues. Exceptionally conductive, and exceptionally resilient—which doesn’t mean you should be careless with it, child.”

“No!” Ari squawks. “Never!”

“Once it’s attuned to you, that enchantment will provide some level of protection against hostile arcane energies, since you’ve no talent for the defensive arts,” Sahan continues pointedly.

Ari doesn’t even mind the jab. She beams at her master, cheeks hot, eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Will you put it on me?”

Sahan purses her lips, but Ari’s watery eyes melt her resolve. “Turn around, then.”

Ari whirls around so fast she makes herself dizzy, holding the necklace obediently around her throat so Sahan can fasten the clasp. It falls perfectly on her chest, long enough that it doesn’t hug her throat, short enough that the rather large charm doesn’t get stuck uncomfortably between her breasts. She’s intimately aware of Sahan stepping closer, her fine-boned fingers coming to grasp either end of the chain. Ari bends her head down and pulls her plait aside, giving Sahan clear access to her neck. She’s quite a bit taller now than she used to be, but Sahan is still a full head larger. Her fingers brush Ari’s skin tantalizingly as she works, cool and soft, tipped with sharp-edged nails. Too soon, the talisman falls slack against her, but Sahan doesn’t step back immediately. Instead—without turning Ari around—she reaches over Ari’s shoulder and grasps the charm, pressing her thumb to the First Dragon’s scaly chest. A moment later, Ari feels a pleasant rush of magic, starting in her heart but spreading until it encompasses her entire body. She sighs. What a nice feeling… Without quite meaning to, she sways until her back rests against Sahan’s chest—but Sahan doesn’t push her away.

They stay like that for a long moment. Ari’s scared to even breathe too hard.

Sahan’s thumb strokes the charm. Ari watches it avariciously, dry-mouthed and damp with sweat.

“Good,” Sahan murmurs against the side of her head. “The enchantment took well.”

And then, horribly, she steps away. Ari almost grabs her arm but stops herself at the last second.

She does her best to steady her expression and slow her racing heart before she turns around. “Will… Sahan be staying for the night?” she asks hopefully. “Or—is Sahan ready for this disciple to join her again?”

But Sahan only shakes her head. “No. Not yet. I must leave; I’ve spared all the time I can manage.”

Ari deflates. “Oh.”

And then, after a perfunctory goodbye, she’s gone in a tangle of shadow. Ari stares mournfully at the spot she just vacated, wrapping her fingers around the tingling warmth of the talisman on her chest.

She’s not proud of how she spends the rest of her evening chasing that horrible heat from her blood, holding that talisman the whole time, breathing in the faint aroma of Sahan’s perfume that still lingers on her clothes, but it’s alright. Sahan doesn’t have to know this. This can be her secret—something she keeps just for herself.