12. Bane
Chapter 12
Bane
“ T his looks ridiculous.” I eyed myself in the mirror, smoothing the odd tailoring of the shirt that barely obscured my jagged, misshapen form. “Ludicrous. Absurd .”
The finery had been insisted upon—we would hold a feast tonight in Fog Hollow, one of the northernmost villages in the Rift, and all the Rift-kin had been invited to come meet their lady.
The spectacle was not only for the sake of the Rift-kin seeing that the Accords had been met, that no upheaval lay in their future; it was because of their intense superstitions. No wedding in the Rift went unaccompanied by a chair braided with the ancient deterrents of the Fae—garlands of primrose and holly—nor a touch of cold iron to the bride’s brow. She would be served wine from a glass with a crusted salt rim, and watched carefully until she’d drunk every last drop.
The Rift-kin wouldn’t accept her unless they’d seen with their own eyes that she was no Fae-bred creature. Tonight was not only a celebration, but an alleviation of their nerves.
“The things I do for my people.” I tugged at the clasp holding a heavy, black velvet cloak over my shoulders; not even the finest tailors Wyn could dredge up were capable of designing a coat that fit this body.
There was nothing to be done for any other part of me; I decided this was the best it was going to get, and prowled from my chambers.
The night before, I had feared she would be ashamed to be seen with me. But by morning light, hoping against hope that my plans would work, she had once again knocked me head over heels, upending my world.
How could a woman who would run from my chambers look at me with such… such intent? All through the day, moving from task to task throughout the keep, the same question had circled my head until I could think of nothing else: what did it all mean?
She ran, but she smiled. She feared the bedroom, but she touched my hand.
She had let me kiss it.
And what did that mean?
I cleared my throat, feeling the intense thirst of several days without a proper meal. Dry as dust, a painful, fiery parching… she clearly did not want to be fed upon, even if that was desired. Expected, even.
But I would have to feed at some point, and soon. If ever I found myself in a position to have my lips at her throat again, it might prove impossible to hold myself back.
Bad enough to have frightened her while in full control of myself, but to lose my thoughts to thirst while I held her in my arms… there wouldn't be so much as a smile then. If that happened, I might as well procure the poppy syrup for her myself.
If Cirrien continued to reject my advances, I would ask Wyn to quietly arrange a victim. Someone already destined for the gallows—I would give the gift of a quicker, cleaner death.
But the silver lining, so to speak, was that the lack of blood meant the fiendish changes I’d forced on myself would fade quicker. Soon I would be exactly as she’d met me.
With these gloomy thoughts in mind as I descended the stairs, I almost didn’t notice Wyn standing right at the front doors to the keep. But she moved aside, revealing the brilliant gleam of Cirrien’s crimson hair.
My wife’s eyes went straight to me, and my back straightened, ears quivering upright to catch the faintest hitch of her breath.
And then she smiled. Of course she did; it was like she knew exactly how to disarm me, destabilizing the ground beneath my feet.
She signed something with tentative, almost shy motions; I tried and failed to read the words she’d formed. One was almost familiar, like a thought on the tip of the tongue that faded into nothing when considered too intensely, but her meaning was opaque.
“You look beautiful.” I couldn’t keep the growl out of my voice, but she didn’t shrink away. “Of course, you always do.”
Her hair hung loose down her back in soft waves that my fingers itched to stroke, to wrap them around my hand like a leash of fire… or blood. Tonight the soft curves of her body teased me from a cocoon of hugging velvet instead of silk; it would grow chilly in the Rift after sunfall this far into autumn.
“You two will take the carriage. I’ll ride with Visca and keep an eye on the wagons.” Wyn handed Cirrien a leather bag, large enough to hold a cloak, but there was something hard-edged pushing its form out of shape. “The usual precautions have already been made, Bane.”
I nodded, knowing she had been delving deep into the art of sanguimancy as of late; Wyn had drawn more blood sigils in the last week than she had in the entire previous year, all for Cirrien’s sake.
Cirrien herself clutched the bag tightly, and sidled a little closer. I offered her my arm, gratified when she took it without a second of hesitation.
The carriage we’d used to transport her from Argent was waiting in the courtyard, freshly cleaned, with new blood sigils glowing with their faint light on the windows.
“Beauty before beastly,” I said, opening the door for her. Cirrien shot me a sharp look, then her eyes softened when she saw my own smile, and she signed something rapidly, no longer quite as shy.
She took my hand to help her in, settling herself on one of the long benches with the bag cradled in her lap. I felt her touch, still branded against my palm, as I climbed in after her and pulled the iron bar down, locking us in.
Instead of sitting next to my wife, as I craved, I sat opposite her. Perhaps it was close quarters that bothered her, being locked in with a fiend. She would want breathing room.
Cirrien stared at me in the darkness of the carriage, and as we lurched into motion, she rummaged in the bag, tugging at the hard-edged shape, and pulled out… a slate and a piece of chalk.
A frisson of anticipation ran down my spine. My ears twitched once, the only motion to give away my sudden eagerness.
The soft scrape of chalk on the board filled the silence between us, and Cirrien held it up when she was done. In Veladari letters so tidy they might have been printed by a scribe, she’d written: I’ve been dying to talk with you. Now we have a whole hour to ourselves. Joy!
I couldn’t stop the grin that spread wide across my face, displaying each and every fang. “And I’ve been dying to understand your words. May every wheel on this carriage break and grant us more time.”
She lowered the slate and pulled a handkerchief from the bag, erasing her message. As she scrubbed it blank, I asked, “Do you like what you’ve seen so far? Of the Rift, I mean,” I added, when those green eyes rose to my face. Ancestors forbid she thought I meant myself. I was nothing to be pleased about.
She wrote again. It’s beautiful. More peaceful than Argent. Do you usually lift wagons and shoe horses, or is that something you do for your own amusement?
“I do it when we’re short-handed,” I told her, watching her erase it again. “Every man in Ravenscry is rotated out to train with the legions. We can’t afford a single warrior to be unversed in weaponry if things go south in a hurry, and the smith’s journeymen are out in the field now.”
She nodded, gazing distantly out the window, the chalk loose in her hand. How often do wargs make their way into the keep?
“Often enough to be concerned. I understand our way of doing things must seem suffocating to you…” I hesitated, thinking of the young warg Hakkon had sent on our wedding day. Even now, he would have eyes on us. Spies, hidden in the forest, possibly—ancestors forbid—hidden among our own people. “I promise it’s for a good reason. We’ve all learned to sleep with one eye open.”
No, not suffocating at all. In the Cathedral, we were never alone. Simply having a room to myself is an unexpected pleasure . She held it up, biting her lower lip as though debating with herself, then wrote again. Did Wyn tell you? I was a maid for the Sisters. I’m far better at household work than being a lady.
No, my advisor had not told me this. I wondered why Wyn had kept it to herself—even if I’d been told Cirrien was once a night-digger, I wouldn’t have given a single damn. “It probably slipped her mind.”
She does seem to have a lot on her mind , Cirrien added. So many lists. Why doesn’t she give them to the steward?
She’d underlined ‘many’ with a heavy stroke, which made me smile. The bloodwitch had a list for every possible potentiality. Literally mountains of lists.
“Because Wyn doesn’t believe something is done well unless she’s done it herself. My steward is either the happiest man alive, or he’s debating how best to kill her in her sleep.”
For the first time, Cirrien made a genuine sound. Her laughter had no voice in it, but the breathiness had a more tangible quality than her sighs, even as she clapped a hand over her mouth. She scribbled quickly, her shoulders still shaking: she probably has a list for that eventuality, too.
“It wouldn’t shock me in the slightest,” I said, unable to force my smile away. The sound of her laughter had made a strange feeling bubble up inside me, a sensation both unfamiliar and pleasant. Something light and carefree, two things I never felt these days.
The fact that I’d made her laugh at all… ancestors, what was this warmth in my chest? Had it been so long since I’d felt happy that it was this strange and alarming?
Cirrien took a breath, trying to stop laughing, and then her eyes widened. She wrote so fast I heard the sharp plunk of the chalk hitting the slate with each word. Please don’t take this to mean I’m making fun at her expense. I truly appreciate everything she’s done for me.
“No, Cirrien.” I started to reach for her, drawing my hand back before she could see. “She wouldn’t be offended. It’s an old joke among us, at this point.”
She studied me, as though determining whether I were being truthful, then wrote. Cirri, please. I prefer Cirri. You’ll find out when you read my journal tonight. There’s so many things I’ve wanted to say to you, and now that I have you here, my mind is strangely blank.
“Cirri.” I said it again, slowly, tasting the abbreviated name. Yes, she was a Cirri; the name suited. “Believe me when I say, I’ve been waiting with great impatience to read it. There is so much I wish to know about you.”
She rolled one shoulder in a shrug. It’s not a very exciting account.
“You say that, but right now you are a tantalizing mystery.”
A crooked little smirk crossed her lips. I was a servant. Now I’m not. There’s not too much mystery in it.
“No? Then how did you come to be fluent in the language of the Silent Brotherhood? As far as I know, they’ve never taken female recruits. You write with the neatness of a court scribe, while claiming to be a servant, yet have the composure of someone who expected to be thrust into this life. How many scullery maids would have cut their own throats rather than agree to this?”
To my surprise, a terrible expression of empty shock crossed her face, those green eyes going wide and blank. I wondered what I had said to disturb her so deeply, cursing myself for the unknown misstep, as she slowly erased her last message.
“I don’t know what I said, but… I apologize, Cirri.”
She blinked, and shook her head. A loose strand of red hair curled across her cheek, begging for a hand to brush it back. My wife hesitated, then wrote. I’m sorry, it was nothing. No, the Brotherhood has never taken a female recruit, but their books of symbology were in the Sisters’ Library. I taught myself to speak with help from one of the older Librarians.
Cirri was clearly hiding something, but I was afraid to pry at her. Not when this clear communication was so new and fragile—although the small talk quality bothered me. But how could I ask her to write out her innermost thoughts, her deepest notions, with chalk of all things?
“Your Veladari is flawless,” I noted, and winced. Small talk, indeed. And of course a pureblood, a lai Darran, would be flawless. It was her native tongue.
The look of emptiness had faded from her gaze, thank the ancestors, and that little smirk returned. Oh, wait until you read my journal.
“Don’t tempt me any further, please. I will turn this carriage around right now to fetch it.”
I was rewarded with another breathy laugh, my warm inner glow returning.
Is it so necessary to have another celebration tonight? I think I would much rather talk to you than strangers.
“Believe me, I feel exactly the same.” The growl in my voice deepened, betraying my desire to be locked in here with her all night. I told her the why—that the Rift-kin, unlike the rest of Veladar, had carried centuries of superstition through the Red Epoch and into the modern age, and superstitions aside, must be reassured that the Blood Accords would ensure our continuing rule.
Understandable, if tedious . She sighed as she wrote. I feel like I’m making awful parlor conversation, when I have so many questions, and yet not enough time to have them all answered.
The parallel to my own thoughts made me grin ruefully at her. “I feel the same. Maybe we could make this easier on ourselves. Simple questions only, taking turns.”
She nodded, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.
“But—since I presented the idea—you must take the first round.”
Cirri wrinkled her nose at me, but she looked pleased nonetheless. Where were you born?
“Somewhere in southern Nordrin. I don’t think my village even had a name; we were lowland folk. And before you ask, we were farmers. Sheep farmers. Not much glory in that. And you?”
Well south of Argent , she wrote. The lai Darran holdings are also farmland, but they make their gold with silkworms and honeybees. Your turn .
For a terrible moment, my mind went completely blank. All the questions I wanted to ask this woman, and I could think of nothing!
“Ah… what would you choose to do with your life? If you had not been selected for the bride lot?” A mental cringe made my ears flatten back against my skull.
As though I wanted to remind her that she would have been dragged to the altar in chains.
But Cirri wrote with swift confidence. I wanted to become a Librarian for the Sisters. I love books, words, languages. They may have taken me in time, but it was not to be. If you need a court scribe, I’m the woman for you. And what would you have chosen?
Her words reassured me that a book had been a good choice of a gift, as well as the library that the steward had a small army of servants cleaning even as we spoke… but perhaps buying her a romance as my first gift had been a touch on the nose. Perhaps I could sneak it out of her bedroom before she started to read it.
“If you desire, we’ll have you named as the official scribe by tomorrow morning, but… I was told there was something else you may be interested in. As for myself…” I pondered the question. “I don’t believe I would have chosen another path. Even as a human, my dreams involved leaving the sheep and joining the northern jarls. Obviously I became a vampire instead, but… the end is the same. I fought for the side that I considered family.”
She tipped her head, studying me, then wrote. How long have you been a vampire?
I grimaced, turning my face away so she wouldn’t take the full force of its hideousness. “Sixty years, or thereabouts. I was twenty, I think, when I was reborn.”
Though the immortal lifespan of a vampire meant we measured time quite differently—to my people, I was still so young—would she see me as an old man?
But Cirri simply wrote on her slate: I’ve put this in my journal, of course, but I’m twenty-five. Is it painful to become a vampire?
“Oh no, my lady. It’s my turn for a question.” Why was she thinking of what it was like to be of my kind?
It must be simple curiosity. Humans who wished to be reborn weren’t exactly rare, but neither were they throwing themselves at us in droves, begging for an eternal life of blood. In any event, I would not allow Cirri to open her veins and take in vampire blood; her rebirth would disqualify her to be my wife. The Accords were quite clear on that point, that any bride taken by one of the Four Lords must remain human.
Cirri erased her slate and watched me expectantly, chalk poised to write.
I needed to think of something innocuous that could not be turned against me, making me an animal in her eyes. If I asked so much as her favorite meal, she would ask mine, and ancestors only knew how ‘blood’ would sound as an answer.
“Why did you not become a Silver Sister yourself?” I asked abruptly.
To think that if they had claimed Cirri, if the first time I’d laid eyes on her she’d possessed those brutal, ugly silver teeth… what a waste that would’ve been.
This time, her smile was tinged with bitterness. She reached up to touch her throat, eyes on mine, and wrote: The Sisters do not take damaged goods. They’re struggling to recruit as it is; they want the prettiest girls, the best ones, to represent them. A mute is not good representation.
“Damaged goods?” I snarled, rage sparking to life in my gut, and only when Cirri leaned back in her seat—no more than a slight shift—did I force myself to take a calming breath.
She watched me sidelong, still relaxed, but there was a watchfulness to her now that shamed me.
“My apologies.” What I didn’t say was that I rather wished I’d shoved the silver bells down the Eldest Sister’s throat until she choked on them. “I think you would have been better representation than what they showed me.”
She huffed her silent laugh again. Thank you. I’ll pretend that’s true. But even I couldn’t combat the rising tide of your people’s popularity. I think the Sisterhood will die out soon. Maybe not in this century, but the next.
I thought of something that she might find entertaining. Anything to drive that bitter edge off her expression. “Do you want to know a secret?”
She nodded, my ruse working; the shine of curiosity had come back into her gaze.
“The book… the book I found for you,” I said, clearing my throat. “Have you, ah, looked at it yet?”
To my amusement, she blushed. I’ve heard much of it, but I haven’t read it. I’ve had no time.
“Well… it’s not the only one of its kind out there. Gisele fel Marchand, she’s written many of them.”
I know , Cirri wrote, blushing even more furiously. The maids pooled their money to buy them. They were very popular.
Ancestors, it was hard to keep my thoughts from scattering at the sight of the pink glow across her cheeks. Even her scent intensified, the musk of skin and the tinge of iron beneath as her blood pounded through her veins.
I swallowed hard, pushing the thirst back.
“Fel Marchand is a vampire. Her only job is to produce those books and have them distributed in human cities… to draw humans in.”
Cirri looked up at me, eyes wide, all thought of hiding her blush forgotten.
“They’re designed to make us seem more… appealing. Heroic. Seductive. One of the reasons the Sisterhood is gnashing its teeth over our popularity is because fel Marchand has embarked on a campaign for the last ten years to present us in the best possible light, in the most subtle possible way—via books.”
She gazed at me wonderingly for several moments.
That’s either the most deceptive or the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard , she wrote. She thought it over, and added, maybe a little of both .
“Yes, both. We all agreed that if this was to work… well, our history was not flattering, of course. Several of the most charismatic and imaginative among us were chosen to create a new image, one in which humans and vampires live side by side.” I mused over fel Marchand’s elaborate ploy to worm her way into the psyche of the readers across Veladar. “Strange, how a simple tale of a handsome vampire can make us seem so much less frightening.”
Is it just books? Cirri asked.
“No, there’s artists, playwrights, architects… all across the spectrum, my people are doing their best to present everything to do with our kind in a desirable light.”
She leaned back, an odd look on her face—half admiring, half concerned. A beautiful trap. Like spiders luring flies into a shining web.
“But is it truly? We’ve passed new laws. We’ve executed those most vehemently against them—those vampires who promised to defy them and take a human life. Several vampires in my legion have married human Rift-kin, and by all accounts, they’re quite happy.” I gestured to myself. “We’ve given much, hoping for a second chance to prove ourselves.”
Cirri fumbled her chalk, dropping it to the carriage floor. It rolled to my feet and I reached down to pick it up, straightening to find Cirri gazing at me, stricken.
I held out the chalk, and she took it. Her fingers brushed mine, and she didn’t shy away.
Bane , she wrote, I’m sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. I didn’t think.
I looked at my name, written in her lovely hand. The curved loop of the Veladari word, a single symbol, for ‘bane’—a curse, a scourge.
How appropriate. I was her curse now.
Despite the brief flare of irritation I’d felt, I couldn’t be angry with her. “No, Cirri. You grew up with vampire slayers. To you, our subtle campaigns would seem like a trap.” I smiled at her, unable to hold onto annoyance. “Say what you think, always. I’d rather hear censure from you, if that’s your true thought, than to hear a polite lie.”
She erased the slate and looked out the window, giving no sign she wanted to write anything more.
“Please don’t shut me out,” I asked, perilously close to begging. “I’m not angry.”
Cirri glanced at me. I’m not , she wrote, I’m just embarrassed. I really don’t hate your kind, despite my upbringing. I know what you gave makes you a hero to your people. But I can’t claim to understand it yet.
“Shall we be embarrassed together, then? What would you have me do?”
She squinted her eyes, incredulous, but there was a ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth. I’m not sure you could be embarrassed. You’re very self-possessed.
I read her words, again and again.
No… it wasn’t self-possession. But she didn’t realize that yet. It was simply that it was difficult to put a natural predator into a position where they might feel anything remotely close to silly.
It’s a quality I admire , she wrote, leaning forward to brush a finger across my knuckles. A faint streak of white chalk was left behind. I resolved to keep it there as long as I could; a Cirri-mark.
“Choose the date and time, my lady, and I will do whatever frivolous thing you desire,” I told her gravely. “One embarrassment of your choice, to be served at your whim.”
Now her smile was back in full force, as dazzling as the sun. This is going to require some thought. I can’t waste the opportunity to mortify such a lofty individual.
“I eagerly await my debasement at your hands.” Without thinking, I took her hand again, feeling the dryness of the chalk, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. It was the one touch she allowed me to push upon her and even now, that blush returned.
Ancestors, being this close to her, yet never tasting her, was going to kill me.
She hesitated, her hand curling into mine, the slate forgotten on her lap. Her smile had slipped a little, an expression I couldn’t read in her eyes.
Would she possibly… allow a true kiss? Or would she flee the carriage, fearing my bite?
I drew a breath, wanting to ask if I could have one kiss, a single moment of feeling that sunshine against my lips, but the carriage rattled all around us—the wheels clattering onto the cobblestone roads of Fog Hollow.
From outside the carriage, Eryan’s shout of arrival split the moment between us.
Cirri looked rueful as she drew back from me, signing something with obvious annoyance, then she took up the slate again.
Where did the hour go? she asked. Time’s hardly passed at all.
I let out my breath in a sigh. I would have to ask for that kiss another time, when she was still feeling softly towards me. “As the Rift-kin would say, it’s been stolen by the faeries.”