Philip Athans - Whisper of Waves

She sat in the bath for a long time, slowly sipping the fine Turmishan vintage.

She had just poured the last of it into her glass and set the bottle down on the floor next to the tub when she saw him standing in the doorway.

The most surprising thing was that she wasn’t more surprised to see him there. She didn’t gasp or cry out. She sipped her wine and looked down to make sure that the foam on the water covered her. It was. Only her head and the soft curve of her shoulders were visible above the surface.

Devorast stared at her. He wore only dirty breeches. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.

“You’re trespassing,” she said, her voice echoing in the tiled bath chamber.

“Have me arrested,” he said. His voice played on her ears like a chorus of angels, though it was just a man’s voice.

Though the bathwater had long gone tepid, her body began to burn with a heat from within.

She lifted the glass to her full lips and took a tiny, playful sip, looking at Devorast from the corners of her eyes.

He stepped into the room and before she could set the glass on the floor next to the bottle, he was standing over her.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-” And his lips were on hers.

She wanted to fight him off but couldn’t. He reached into the bathwater, and his rough, strong hand covered the small of her back. He lifted her out of the water and drew her into an embrace that washed over her, warmer than any bathwater. She sank into him, and their tongues met. A moan sounded of its own accord deep beneath her breasts, which were pressed hard into his firm chest.

The tile floor was cold against her skin when he set her down, but he was on top of her and the warmth, the heat of his body, stole the cold away. The soap from the bathwater made them slide against each other. Her mind reeled and she felt almost as if she was about to lose consciousness.

His lips came off hers and started playing at her breasts. She breathed in short, shallow pants. Her hands explored his body one inch at a time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he helped her to pull off his breeches and Phyrea’s entire body tingled. She gasped again and started to shiver.

“Don’t,” she said, though she didn’t mean it.

“Stop it,” she whispered, but she didn’t stop either.

When his kisses went lower and lower down the front of her, her leg straightened and kicked over the wineglass. It shattered on the cold tile and she felt something hot and wet on her foot. They slid on the floor and she kicked the tub. A sharp sting blazed on her ankle and she only vaguely realized she’d cut herself. She didn’t care. She’d cut herself before.

“Who are you?” she moaned.

He grabbed the hair at the back of her neck and pulled her face into his. They kissed as if breathing each other in, as if they needed each other’s very life essence to survive.

“I should kill you,” she whispered as he took her head in his hands and guided her, took her, used her. And she let him.

She used him. And he let her.

In the morning, she awoke to find her ankle carefully bandaged, and the glass, wine, and blood cleaned from the tile floor.

She was alone in the house.

“If you want to cut yourself, it’s all right,” whispered a voice from beyond the grave. Phyrea closed her eyes and covered her ears, but she could still hear the whisper as clear as the sunshine streaming in through the open windows. “But use the sword. Use the sword.”

Phyrea lay in bed, trying to replace the voices in her head with memories of being in Devorast’s arms, of the powerful, confident man inside her.

Finally she rolled over and reached under her bed. She found the sword right where she’d hidden it, wrapped in a silk robe. She drew the blade and admired its cool platinum glow, evident even in the bright light of morning.

She drew back her covers and touched the wavy, razor-sharp blade to the inside of her thigh. There was a bandage there. She hadn’t bandaged herself there.

But he had.

She threw the sword to the floor where it clattered on the hardwood, and the ghosts of Berrywilde screamed while she dressed.

21 Eleint, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

THE WINERY

Hrothgar stood with his arms folded, watching Devorast gather up his meager possessions. Vrengarl was still working on the wall for the human girl. The tent already seemed empty.

“It’s a mistake, Ivar,” the dwarf grumbled.

Devorast tied the strings of his rough, tattered bag. He smiled a little, but that was all.

Hrothgar sighed and said, “You’ll be a noble’s plaything.”

Devorast straightened, looking down on the dwarf. Hrothgar drew himself up too, though he was barely over half the human’s height.

“He’s not a ‘noble,’” Devorast said. “Technically, he’s just another senator, but they keep the senate at an equal number and he provides a tie-breaking vote, should that be necessary. From what I’ve heard, it almost never is. He has other responsibilities, too, but he’s no king.”

“Bah, don’t fool yerself, boy. He’s as much a king as any other, and should you tie your fate to him, he’ll burn you to cinders before he’s through.”

Devorast laughed at that and sat on the edge of his cot.

Hrothgar tried to go on, to rant and rave about the ransar of Innarlith and how Devorast going to work for him was the worst mistake of all time, but he had to admit-to himself at least-that he didn’t really believe that.

“So that’s it, then,” the dwarf said. “The ransar sends for you, and you go, just like that, leaving the winery undone.”

It was a lame attempt to play on Devorast’s inability to leave a job half done, but then-

“It’s not my winery,” the human said. Hrothgar blew a breath out his nose and sat on his own cot.

“What you haven’t said, boy, is why,” Hrothgar said. “Why now? Why the ransar himself?”

“The man he sent said the ransar received a letter from a trusted colleague that described my idea for a canal to join the Inner Sea with the great western oceans,” Devorast explained. “If he’s serious, if he’ll pay for it, organize the city-state around it, it’s worth at least riding in his coach back to the city to discuss.”

The dwarf shook his head, but they both knew he agreed.

“It’ll be lonely here without you, boy,” Hrothgar said, standing and putting out a hand to Devorast.

Devorast took his hand and said, “If he is serious, and we start work, I’ll need good stonecutters.”

“Aye, you bet your life you will. Vrengarl and I will be waiting to hear from you.”

The ransar’s man, who’d been waiting outside the tent the whole time, cleared his throat. The two of them shared another smile then Devorast walked out.

Hrothgar stood in the middle of the tent for a while, just listening to the sounds of the worker’s camp all around him.

“Bah,” he said after a time, then went back to working stone.

23 Eleint, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

THE WINERY

Phyrea stood in the shadow of one of the workers’ tents and imagined that the darkness wrapped her like a cloak. The camp was quiet in the time between midnight and dawn. The men worked hard, long days in the hot sun, and that made their slumber deep as death. Having heard only crickets and the snores of the men, she knew no one would see her, so she took four long, silent strides to the shadow of the next tent in line.

In the darkness it was difficult to identify the proper landmarks, so she took her time. So as not to lose her keen night vision she kept away from the perimeter of the camp, where the workers kept torches lit. She saw the tree with the three twisted boughs backlit by one of the torches. Counting three tents to the left she traced a path with her eyes that would keep her in shadow all the way there.