“It makes me feel something,” Phyrea said, turning back to Thurene.
“Phyrea, please, I”
Phyrea pressed down on the knife and the hot wetness of the blood was the first sensation, followed only after Thurene’s shocked gasp by the pain.
“It isn’t bad, but it hurts,” Phyrea whispered.
Yes, the ghost of the man whispered, it hurts.
Phyrea watched as the man faded away, drifting into nothingness like a wisp of steam.
“For at least the space of a heartbeat,” Phyrea said, her eyes closed, “all you think about is the little stab of pain and not the horrible, bloated beast of a woman that’s sitting across from you, the pretty but frivolous man you’ve sold yourself to like a whore’s whore, and the sad, pathetic ruin of your own life.”
She opened her eyes again and laughed in Thurene’s horrified face.
“Wouldn’t you prefer it back in Cormyr?” Phyrea asked. She held up the pairing knife and a few drops of blood clung to the blade. “If you went back there, you might live out the rest of your life like a sow in a pen, spared the slaughter by a farmer gone sentimental.”
Thurene swallowed, which caused her chins to waggle in a ridiculous way. Her skin was so heavily powdered it was impossible for Phyrea to be sure, but it appeared as though she’d gone pale.
“Willem doesn’t know I do that to myself,” Phyrea said then licked her own blood from the blade, reached down, and cut a sliver of pear. Thurene gagged, a hand at her throat, her eyes wide. “Pear?” Phyrea offered.
She held the slice of ripe fruit out to her mother-in-law, who shook her head and shrank away.
“You s-said,” Thurene sputtered, “you said… you said that you did that… before you met my Will”
“I said nothing of the kind,” Phyrea interrupted. “It’s not your pathetic son who’s very presence makes me feel as though there may be some hope for our miserable, porcine existences.”
Phyrea placed the slice of pear on her tongue and held it in her mouth, sucking the juices from it until it sizzled. With the tip of her finger she drew up the little smear of blood that oozed from the cut, and licked it off with the tip of her tongue. Thurene gagged again, but Phyrea enjoyed the salty tang of her own blood as it mixed with the tart sweetness of the pear. As she chewed, she pulled the hem of her dress down until it almost touched her knee.
“Phyrea, I” Thurene started, but choked to a stop when the door opened and Willem walked in.
What are you doing here? the voice of the sad woman murmured.
Phyrea looked to the door, ignoring Thurene’s struggles to stand and her blustered, shrill greetings. The woman stood next to the door, not sparing Willem a glance as he stepped in. Made of pale violet light, she looked as though she was about to cry, the same as always. There was something both comforting and terrifying about that particular undead creature.
Phyrea didn’t stand, even when Willem walked into the room. He looked back and forth between his new bride and his mother with crippling uncertainty. Phyrea imagined she could hear crickets chirping in the still expanse of emptiness inside his handsome head. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and slipped his rain-soaked weathercloak from around his shoulders.
“Willem, my dear,” Thurene all but screamed.
“Really, Mother,” he said, “are you all right? What have you two been talking about?”
He eyed Phyrea with a look that surprised her. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all.
“Oh,” Phyrea said, her voice light, almost girlish, “we’ve been having a wonderful time, just us girls.”
“Really…” Willem said, not believing her. He looked at his mother and raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve been having tea,” Phyrea cut in before Thurene could speak. “Would you like some?”
“Everything is fine,” Thurene said, but her face was pleading and desperate.
“Or would you rather just turn in?” Phyrea asked, and had his full attention.
Phyrea stared at Willem, keeping his eyes away from his mother, but she could sense Thurene sagging, almost falling to the floor.
Willem swallowed and said, “I’d love a cup of tea, thank you.”
He handed his weathercloak to his mother, who almost dropped it and looked at it as though it was some alien creature from a foul outer plane. Phyrea smiled at both of them and turned back to the tray. She picked up the knife, ignored both Thurene’s series of little gasps and the laugh that echoed in her head from the man with the z-shaped scar, and cut another slice of pear. She held it up to Willem, who took it out of her hand without a second thought. She looked at Thurene with fire in her eyes, and the old woman was smart enough to swallow whatever it was she wanted to say. Willem ate the slice of pear with a smile.
“I…” Thurene said, “I’m feeling… tired.”
“Mother?” Willem said, turning to look at her.
Thurene turned her eyes to the floor and started for the stairs.
“I’ll leave you alone,” she muttered. “Good night.” “Good night, Mother,” Willem called after her. “Sleep well.”
When he turned back to Phyrea, she patted the seat next to her and smiled.
51
2 Ches, the Yearof the Shield (1367 DR) Aboard the Ransar’s Yacht, the Lake of Steam
It had been some time since Marek Rymiit had been at sea. It wasn’t exactly his preferred method of travel. The deck rose and fell at irregular intervals, but the motion was smooth, almost comforting, without any violent lurches to challenge the stomach. Though it wasn’t yet spring, the air was warm with only a light wind. The smell of the lake had numbed his nose so he hadn’t been able to smell it since only a little while after they’d shoved off from Innarlith. The sail on the single mast fluttered above him. He found the noise irritating.
“It is a lovely day, isn’t it, Master Rymiit?” the young woman standing next to him said. He glanced at her and smiled. “And the ransar’s yacht is most impressive,” she added.
“Well,” Marek said with a sigh, “one does have the responsibility to keep up appearances.”
“Of course,” said the young woman. “And I would also like to tell you again how delighted I am to”
“Please, Senator Aikiko,” Marek said with a wave of one hand. “You may not want to thank me once you’ve seen this hole in the ground.”
The senator giggled in a way that some men might find alluring, but made Marek cringe. He spared her another glance, noting the clothes she wore. She’d dressed for an expedition, in tan tunic and trousers. Though the sky was a gray overcast, the sunlight dim and diffuse, she wore a hat with a brim. Overall she looked like a petty aristocrat on her way to a masque dressed up as a laborer.
“I can’t wait, Master Rymiit,” she said, her smile never wavering. “I can’t wait.”
She smiled. Aikiko was a pretty woman, small and delicate with features that had a subtle hint of elf to them. She might have been a half-elf, but Marek knew she was in fact entirely human. Her father, himself a senator before his untimely death a decade past at the hands of a bitter political rival, was from Innarlith, but her mother was Kozakuran.
“Do the others know why we’re here?’ she asked.
Marek shrugged and shook his head. One of the reasons he’d thought of Aikiko was as a way to get rid of her. She’d become a fixture at his regular meetings for the junior senators, and her voice and cloying mannerisms irritated him.
Kurtsson emerged from below, his pale skin and bored expression somehow reassuring. When he spotted Marek and Aikiko he approached with the minimum of greetings. Any further conversation was cut short by the approach of the last two of Marek’s guests.
“Ah, Senators Djeserka and Korvan,” said Marek, “so good of you to join us.”
Willem appeared sheepish, embarrassed, though he wasn’t necessarily late. Djeserka’s look was as vacant as usual.