Gail Martin - The Sworn

Aidane paused at the gate to the large manor house. It wasn’t the custom in Nargi to make an ostentatious show of wealth on the outside of a home. Better not to give the priests any reason to claim higher tribute or to covet one’s property. Nargi’s priests were infamous for bringing charges against even the rich and well-connected whose power or wealth might pose a threat to the iron control of the priesthood.

“Hurry,” a voice called from the other side of the gate, which opened far enough for Aidane to slip through. “The mistress is waiting for you.”

Aidane said nothing as she followed the servant up the long gravel carriageway. She kept her hood up. It was possible that the servant had no idea of the nature of Aidane’s visit. That would be best. The less said, the better.

In Aidane’s mind, she could feel Nattan’s anticipation. He’d reconciled himself to the new arrangement, and the more he thought about it, the more urgent his lust became. Aidane tried not to guess at the nature of her clients’ relationships with their dead lovers. For some, it was obvious that death had severed a deep, genuine love. Many of the others just missed a reliable lay, or found the novelty of sex by proxy to be titillating. Aidane and the other ghost whores promoted the fiction that they suffered memory loss after the ghost left them. While she fervently wished it were true, it wasn’t, although the fiction pacified nervous clients and squeamish spirits. And it gave clients who later had second thoughts about the rendezvous less of a reason to hire one of Nargi’s numerous and inexpensive assassins to eliminate a potential embarrassment.

“M’lady is this way.” The servant led Aidane in through the kitchen door, down a darkened hallway. Perhaps Jendrie had dismissed the other servants for the night; the corridors were empty. They climbed up the servants’ steps from the kitchen, then went through a narrow passageway intended for ladies in waiting and kitchen staff, before stopping at a door. The servant knocked four quick times, and the door opened. A woman stood in silhouette in the doorway.

“That will be all, Priscilla. Mind you say nothing of this to anyone or I’ll have you beaten.”

“As you wish, m’lady.”

The servant fled, and the woman gestured for Aidane to enter. “Take off your cloak. I wish to see you.”

Aidane did as Jendrie bid her, letting the cloak fall to the floor. Jendrie eyed her with a combination of suspicion and lust. “How do I know you can channel Nattan’s spirit? Maybe you’re just a good actress.”

Aidane met Jendrie’s eyes with an insolence the woman did not expect. “You know my reputation or you wouldn’t have sought me out. Once he possesses me, you’ll know. His gestures, his way of speaking, his way of pleasuring you… all will be as they were. Only the body has changed.”

“And you’ll remember nothing?”

“Nothing, m’lady.”

“Very well.” Jendrie stepped closer, and Aidane could smell wine on her breath. Apparently the encounter had unnerved her patron just as it had made Nattan’s ghost fidgety. “Let’s begin.”

“First, my coin, if you please.” Aidane’s gaze did not falter. “Sometimes, my leaving is rushed. Best to handle business first.”

An ironic smile touched the corners of Jendrie’s mouth. As she turned to take a coin from a purse on the desk, Aidane got a good look at her. Jendrie was tall and slender. Her coppery skin showed Nargi blood, while her startlingly blue eyes hinted at a mixed heritage, perhaps Margolense or Dhassonian. Her chestnut hair was loose around her shoulders, and Aidane imagined that Jendrie had let it down for her lover, since the long pins and gem-studded combs that most highborn women used to bind their hair lay discarded on a stand. A black satin robe, another piece of contraband, clung to Jendrie’s curves. Jendrie handed Aidane the coin and then loosed the belt of her robe, letting it fall away. She wore nothing underneath.

“I want Nattan,” she whispered seductively, and reached out to stroke Aidane’s cheek. “Bring him to me.”

Aidane resisted the urge to shy away from Jendrie’s touch as she put the coin safely in her purse. She reached out for her magic, letting it fill her, and called out to Nattan. The transition was always unpleasant as the ghost’s spirit forced its way into her body, crowding out her own being. Aidane trembled as Nattan’s spirit filled her, and she could see in Jendrie’s eyes that Jendrie found it arousing. Aidane scurried to the far corner of her mind, to her hiding place, but not quickly enough to block out the depth of Nattan’s hunger. A voice that was not her own spoke from her lips, as Jendrie began to unfasten the brooch and belt that held Aidane’s dress together and Aidane’s own hands, now Nattan’s, fumbled with the unfamiliar clothing.

Aidane reached her refuge and slammed the mental door. The years had perfected the ability to block out the moans and pleasantries even as it deadened her awareness of pleasure and release. Chanting helped. Aidane chanted a series of long poems from the ancient tales, willing herself to pay no attention to the uses made of her body or the unfamiliar voice that spoke from her lips. On occasion, sudden pain broke her concentration as Jendrie’s sharp fingernails drew blood. For that reason, Aidane preferred serving male clients or women who had lost female lovers. She was likely to sustain less unintentional damage that way.

Finally, it was over. In her mental hiding place, Aidane retained a sense of the passage of time, a necessary survival technique. The two candlemarks were ending, and Aidane needed to regain herself in order to leave before they were discovered. She ventured out of her sanctuary, but still not within Nattan’s awareness. Her body lay entwined with Jendrie’s on the broad bed. It seemed both Nattan and Jendrie had discovered that the novelty of the pairing brought new satisfaction. Nattan was talking, stroking Jendrie’s tousled, dark hair.

“What of Zafon?”

Jendrie’s lip twisted. “He’s gone to court for a fortnight. He suspects nothing.”

Aidane could feel Nattan’s apprehension. “That’s what you said before I died. But somehow, Zafon found out.”

Oh, great, Aidane thought, feeling panic rise. Nattan’s not just her dead lover; he’s her murdered lover. Funny how no one mentioned that. Time to get out of here-now!

Before Aidane could force Nattan out of her consciousness, a door slammed open. She felt Nattan’s terror at the sight of a tall, heavily built man in the doorway, and there was no mistaking the rage in the man’s eyes.

“Zafon, no!” Jendrie screamed. She tried to scurry out of the way, but Zafon moved quickly, grabbing Jendrie by her long, slender neck. She wore nothing but her jewelry, which rang like bells as he shook her, closing his large hand around her throat until Jendrie’s face grew red and she wheezed for air.

“Whore,” Zafon spat, throwing Jendrie to the floor, where she lay sobbing.

Run! Move! Aidane tried to fling Nattan’s consciousness out of the way to take back her own body, but the ghost was frozen with fear. Aidane watched helplessly as Zafon returned his attention to the bed. He took in Aidane’s necklace and the heap of clothing that lay at the foot of the bed, and his face mottled with rage.

“Ghost whore,” he hissed, as if his anger had robbed him of the breath to speak. “It’s that good-for-nothing artist, I wager.”

Aidane gave up on pushing Nattan completely away, but she finally got him to roll from the bed, barely missing Zafon’s grasp.

“Didn’t you learn anything when they killed you? They assured me it was painful. Said you shrieked like a stuck pig when they cut off your balls and that you didn’t stop screaming until they slit your whore-spawned throat.” A gleam came into Zafon’s eyes. “But you came back. So I’ll just have to kill you again.”