Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

It was all the room he’d need, and it was all his.

The effort of what he’d done had so exhausted him that by the time the walls of his house in Innarlith slid back into the reality around him and the floor once more supported his weight, he was already half asleep. He struggled to his bed and collapsed, there to sleep for a full day and night, smiling all the while, at rest on a cushion of self-satisfaction that would have sustained a lesser man for decades.

16 Marpenoth, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR)

SECOND QUARTER, INNARLITH

They had begun to meet at a discreet little inn in the Second Quarter. With Willem’s mother living with him and Halina living with her uncle, it was the only way to ensure their privacy. Though it had become a drain on Willem’s always just-full-enough personal coffers, he had come to look forward to their occasional afternoon or evening together. The gold would come back, but those stolen moments felt more precious to him than anything.

He stood in front of the door, his body already beginning to anticipate the afternoon’s pleasures. He took a deep breath then knocked twice on the door, paused, then knocked three more times in rapid succession. The playful little signal they’d created bolstered the illusion that they were doing something they should be ashamed of, something they should keep secret, though neither of them seemed able to explain why they felt that way.

Halina opened the door, hiding behind it so all he could see was the side of her face, one gently blushing cheek and one eye.

“May I help you?” she purred, her cheek and eye being drawn up by a sly smile.

“I’ve come to check the floorboards,” he said, letting a smile of his own spread across his face. “The innkeeper has been complaining of a loud, regular squeaking sound.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she replied, then opened the door a bit wider, “but do come in and … satisfy yourself.”

Willem felt his face burn from within, and he walked with a stiff gait into the little room. She’d had a fire lit in the small fireplace though it was warm outside. The curtains were drawn and the bedclothes turned down. It had been some time since they’d bothered with real pretensions.

She closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He turned to her, standing a couple steps away, and just drank the sight of her in. She was dressed in a long gown, simply cut but elaborately decorated with lace that left holes to reveal her soft, pale skin, though the rest of it, dyed a pale pink, was transparent enough that there was no doubt she wore nothing else. Her lips parted and she stood in silence, watching his eyes roam her body, and waiting for him to have his fill of the sight of her.

“Your hair …” he said, the dim light and quiet anticipation that weighed the air in the room made his voice low and quiet.

Halina touched the hair at her temple and let a fingertip trace a slow path down along her ear and to her neck. She looked down, away from his eyes.

“My uncle-” she whispered, then cleared her throat in a dainty, artificial way. “My uncle suggested it.”

Her hair was shorter and done in a style not unlike some men wore theirs. It was not unattractive, but Willem preferred it long.

“Your uncle is a man of impeccable taste,” he said, “or so I’ve heard.”

She smiled and let a sigh of relief pass her lips.

“It pleases me that you like it,” she said, then met his eyes again.

Willem unbuttoned his long tunic and at the same time kicked off his shoes. She watched him with an amused smile, like a child watching a puppet show. He laughed a little, and so did she.

When he reached out a hand to her she crossed the space faster than he’d expected. Before he could take a breath their mouths came together then their tongues. His hands explored the richness of the lace she wore while hers relieved him of the rest of his clothes.

“Tell me something,” she whispered into his ear.

She had come to know that Willem told her things he told no one else, and he knew that she kept his trust. He felt open to her, vulnerable, but unlike any other person he’d ever known, with her that feeling was a pleasant one.

“They’re building it,” he whispered into her neck.

She took his hand, placed it gently on one of her breasts, and said, “The keep?”

He nodded, the tip of his tongue tracing an arc on her neck as he moved and replied, “Precisely where Devorast wanted it.”

“And the master builder?” she asked as she turned him so that she was between him and the bed.

He stepped closer to the bed, gently pushing her along with him and he said, “Taking all the credit as usual.”

“But spending time there,” she whispered as she sat on the edge of the bed.

“Leaving my afternoons free,” he said, looking down on her.

They shared a smile, and he ran the fingers of his free hand through her soft hair.

“Someday,” she said, a hopeful glint sparkling in her eyes, “you can tell him yourself that you like it.”

“Your uncle?” he asked, and she nodded.

He bent to kiss her, and as he did her hands found his thighs.

“We’ll meet in time,” he said.

“When you’re better established,” she replied, repeating the lines they’d spoken to each other over and over again since the Claws of the Cold, “and I’ll meet your mother then to.”

“And we’ll be married,” he said, drawing the thin silk strap of her negligee down along her shoulder.

“And we’ll be together,” she whispered, then started to kiss his stomach, her warm, full lips teasing his flesh.

“Forever,” he said, then stopped talking when her playful kisses became something else entirely.

8 Uktar, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR)

FIRST QUARTER, INNARLITH

Fharaud eventually stopped being surprised by how much pain someone could get used to. Even then, some days were better than others. He had grown accustomed to other things, too, including the smell of his own sick room.

What he couldn’t get used to, what he hoped more than anything he would never get used to, was being cared for by others.

Djeserka was a slightly better than average pupil who had become simply an average shipbuilder. He designed the same coasters, cogs, and fishing boats they’d been building in Innarlith for a century or more, and they were seaworthy, and Fharaud had heard his customers were satisfied, so there it was. Fharaud tried to convince himself that he’d done a good thing making Djeserka the shipbuilder he was. After all, without the mediocre setting a sort of sea level, how could one recognize greatness?

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Fharaud?” Djeserka asked.

Fharaud looked up and met the younger man’s pitying gaze. Djeserka looked at him with doe eyes, wet and sentimental.

“Is someone else …?” Djeserka started, uncomfortable making eye contact with his former mentor.

“Yes, yes,” Fharaud said, “someone else is coming to look in on me. Thank you.”

Djeserka nodded, still uncomfortable.

“You are kind to look in on your old employer,” said Fharaud, “and to help pack my things.”

Djeserka nodded and forced a little smile.

“But there may be …” Fharaud started.

Djeserka said, “Anything, Fharaud, really. You know I owe my career to your advice and for your taking a chance on me at all all those years ago.”

Fharaud waved him off with a painfully weak twist of a wrist and said, “A small favor, then, though in truth I think it’s I who will be doing you a favor in the long run.”