Shattered Sunlight (Book Five of the Storm Below), page 34
Throughout the night, survivors had trickled in. Not many, only the few who had fishing vessels or, in the case of the Missionary, Major Wind and could fly. Chovene Rhene had appeared with the largest brood beside the Missionary, her four children, and a niece and nephew, a pair of twins. She’d last seen her husband, Shexon, sailing back to Vesche to rescue more people.
The last to appear a few hours back was Veldene Brisal, the carpenter’s wife. Ash clung to the blood covering her face, her head cut open in a gash, her clothing ripped, torn. “I was holding onto them,” she had kept babbling, a scrap of a girl’s dress still clutched in her hand. “But we were too close to Vesche. Too close.”
Chaylene knew Veldene to have a husband and several children, including a daughter.
“We have to go,” Chaylene said.
The survivors crowded the hills, grouped up in families. Shuchon Grech and his brother had their children with them, Shuchon’s wife still quietly sobbing. Briarim Grech had a grim face, his arms tight around his two children. His wife had been crushed by one of the fiery balls hurtled from Vesche after its impact.
They still had one of the fishing boats, a vessel five ropes long. Thush Shardhin, of all men, had had the foresight to load it with provisions. He’d sailed it up the hill crowded with his wife, holding their infant daughter, and the three Oatlon children. Chaylene did not like Thush. He was a year her senior and, along with his brother and cousin, had picked on Vel for being too handsome.
Ary broke your nose and thrashed your brother.
“Come on, get up,” Chaylene called out. “On your feet. Esty, Missionary, let’s go.” She nudged the sleeping Jhevon. “Wake up.”
“Go?” Estilia Shardhin asked, holding her baby swaddled in stained cloth. The child let out a hiccuping cough. “Where?”
“Oname is the nearest skyland,” said Shurle Dhejhil. She was the other mother of an infant. The last memory Chaylene had of Shurle was her giggling after Vel on the journey to Ahly nearly a year ago.
She must have just given birth. Her new husband, Elenim, had left her to go back on his boat to rescue more people.
“Oname is gone,” Chaylene said. “And Jhov. All the southern Autonomy.”
“The Fringe?” Chayaria Jayne asked. She was Ary’s distant cousin by marriage, her husband also missing and probably dead. She had her two children, her youngest a toddler, in her arms.
“I’m going to Romeich where we can be safe,” Chaylene said, not sure if that was even true. But Ary wouldn’t go there without reason. He has a plan. He has learned something from Riasruo. Some way to drive her back. “A place where Theisseg can’t get us.”
The people flinched at the name of the Dark Goddess. A child cried. Shuchon picked up his young daughter, rocking her as he glared at Chaylene. She didn’t care. They had to understand.
“You heard her speak yesterday,” hissed the Missionary. She held a pair of sleeping children in her large arms. Her tongue flicked out amid the falling ash. “You saw her rise. She is Riasruo’s chosen. We are all alive because of her.”
“Not all of us,” Briarim muttered.
“And I know where we can be safe,” Chaylene said. She grabbed one of the bags they’d packed with preserved food. She slung it over her shoulder. “You can stay here and choke on ash, or you can find safety.”
“Chaylene,” Gretla whispered, taking her hand.
Jhevon grunted and helped Myrian stand. “She saved us,” he repeated. “She knew it would happen.”
Myrian nodded.
“We have all been tested by Riasruo, chosen to survive Her Sister’s calamity,” hissed the Missionary. “Blessed to one day rebuild what was stolen. But only if we have the wisdom to continue following Her light. There is our beacon in this new world of darkness.” She pointed at Chaylene.
Esty led Starfire. She didn’t speak, maybe sensing that it wasn’t her place as an outsider. Her presence heartened Chaylene. She picked up Gretla and put her on the saddle.
“Die here, or go to Romeich,” Briarim said. He glanced down at his young son, then to his older daughter. The girl stood straight, trying to look unafraid as she trembled. He picked up his son and took his daughter’s hand. “Better than choking on ash.”
Thush Shardhin didn’t say a word. No bluster or bristle. He began scooping ash out of his boat. His wife looked at him, her eyes wide, then back at Chaylene.
“Fine,” Estilia muttered and climbed into the boat, holding her daughter.
Chaylene looked around at the other adults gathering up the children. The youngest were placed in the boat while Thush rigged a rope to pull it along. The small engine was charged, holding it aloft. The Missionary held other children with ease.
Satisfied, Chaylene marched down the ash-coated hill, summoning a flame to light the way as she led them northwest, aiming for Thugri Sound. She wanted to avoid all skylands, and that was the best way to get into the Great Empty and march north to Romeich.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Great Empty/Zumch Marsh
Ary stood at the railing of the Varele the next morning, staring at the angry, black cloud sweeping in from the south. The glow had faded overnight, then dawn had banished it entirely. He hadn’t slept, worrying over his siblings. Chaylene lived, so he had to believe she’d saved his brother and sister, that she’d foiled a tiny bit of Theisseg’s terrible revenge. Hopefully, more had survived from Vesche.
Ary did not like the look of the approaching tempest. It was a new worry. He had never seen clouds like that in his life. They looked so thick. So gray. They covered the entire southwestern horizon, rushing towards them with hunger. He chewed his lip, debating finding Estan and asking his opinion.
Heits appeared beside Ary, the youth’s face furrowed. He didn’t say anything right away. Ary was surprised to see him. He and Heits hadn’t been close on the journey. Heits’s infatuation with Ary’s wife had kept the youth distant. Ary had never been jealous of Heits. He knew his wife. He trusted her, loved her. He kept at bay that small voice whispering in the back of his mind: She almost betrayed you with Vel. It could happen again. He had to ignore that voice. It was poison. A different type than guilt but just as disastrous.
“Well?” Ary asked after a few moments.
Heits took a deep breath. “Well . . .”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s about Meirim.”
Ary glanced at the woman leading her guards in drills. They had improved much, learning to use the thick Agerzak greatswords over their smaller sabres. If they were going to wear the armor, they may as well make use of the slower but more powerful weapon. Normally, he would be with them, but worry kept him staring south at those dark clouds.
They were closer.
“What about her?” Ary asked. She was a closed woman, similar to Corporal Huson. She’s dead now. That thought soured Ary’s mood further. She was a good marine but had been deceived by Theisseg.
While Corporal Huson was rigid, an adherence to protocol to keep others at bay, Meirim struck him as something different, almost fearful. Huson chose to keep people at bay, but it was like Meirim feared what would happen if they got too close. He had seen wary dread creep in her eyes. An animal wondering if it should flee pain.
It was always brief, only triggered when he would clap her on the shoulder in praise or when offering her a helping hand. Ary had no idea what to make of it. She wasn’t skittish nor a coward. She’d fought him without any fear in the barracks.
“Well?” Ary asked again when Heits fell silent.
“I need marriage advice.”
Shock rippled through Ary. “You’re married?”
Heits blinked. “You didn’t know? Meirim married me the evening we left Lrien Hold. I figured everyone must be gossiping about us.” He looked around. “Feels like everyone is watching me.”
Ary glanced at the crew bustling around the deck. “Right now?”
Heits adjusted his shoulders. “Yeah.”
“No one’s watching you.” Ary laughed. “I don’t think anyone really knows that you’re married.”
“Oh,” Heits said, his face falling.
“Well, congratulations,” Ary said, clapping his hand on the youth’s shoulder. Wrackthar had strange marriage customs. And fidelity, the central tenant of a wedding conducted by the Church of Riasruo, was often lacking. It was why Heits had been comfortable flirting with Chaylene in Ary’s presence, trying to attract her interest.
“I guess,” Heits said, his face falling. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, so not congratulations then,” Ary said. “Is it because of Charele?”
“No, no. Meirim doesn’t actually care about that. She doesn’t care about much. Let alone me.”
“Then why did she marry you?”
“To have strong sons and daughters.” Heits’s voice grew dead. “She wanted you, but you were married.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I’m her next best option.” His voice grew even more miserable.
“Have you tried asking her if that’s how she truly feels?”
“She’s not one for talking.” He hunched his shoulders. “Every time I try, she wants to smelt iron.”
“Smelt . . . iron . . .” Ary’s cheeks warmed. “Ah, yes. Well, that sort of intimacy is part of marriage.” An ache swelled in his loins. His awareness of Chaylene surged to him. Still alive, though she was having trouble breathing. He feared one of those punches had hurt her, but he couldn’t feel any lasting wound.
“And that’s distracting,” Heits said, “because she’s hot. Real hot. She really melts my iron. When we’re done, she gets cold like she’s been dunked in quenching oil. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to her. That’s the real key. Chaylene and I learned that one the hard way.” Ary grunted. “We had to relearn it. Keeping secrets, important secrets, is not healthy. Not when they concern your relationship. It can gnaw at the trust that you need to forge between you two. That’s terrible to lose. It’s like a pot you’ve broken. You can try to piece it back together, but it’s never quite the same. Even if it can hold water again, it’s fragile.”
“But she won’t talk to me. I try.”
“Keep trying,” Ary said. “I mean, she’s your wife now. You have a choice. You can forge that trust and make a relationship out of it.”
“Or?”
“Or you can keep on going like you are: colleagues in the business of making the next generation. Doesn’t sound great to me.” Ary shrugged. “Chaylene’s more than my wife. She’s my friend. I trust her. I enjoy being around her. And I miss her.” His heart ached. He gazed to the southeast. The clouds were almost upon them. “When I wake up, I want her beside me, her hair all messed up, her breath terrible, that gunk stuck in the corner of her eye.”
“I think my parents had that,” Heits sighed, slouching on the railing. “When they met, though, they knew each other about as well as Meirim and me. Mother married Father to save his life. They made it work.”
“Maybe you can, too,” Ary said. “But she’s got to open up.”
“If she won’t?”
Ary shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll probably be miserable, resent her. Argue all the time. Vel’s parents were like that.”
“That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“So you better make it work.” Ary glanced back at the clouds. Something drifted out of the air, gray, like snow. He held out his hand and a flake landed in his palm.
Ash.
Ary glanced at the leading edge of the clouds boiling overhead. The smoke from the skylands. So far . . .?
More ash fell like snow as Heits turned away and stumbled off, shoulders slumped.
*
Heits had hoped Ary had magical words that would make everything better, an insight into his marriage with Chaylene that would solve all of Heits’s problems with Meirim. As he stumbled away, he glanced at his wife drilling, ignoring him.
Talk to her.
That was what Charele had said, too. Heits had tried. It ended up with passion, which was wonderful while it lasted, feeling her heat, writhing with her, but it left him even more empty when they were done. Even Charele, who cared for Heits but did not love him, showed more affection when they finished.
He yearned for those moments. At least with Charele, he didn’t feel like anything more than a sack of seed destined for Meirim’s field. To Charele, he was a man. Well, a boy. Someone she could teach and play with. It was better than the emptiness with his wife.
He leaned against a crate as gray ash drifted out of the air. He watched her drill, hoping she would glance at him, give him something. An acknowledgment. He studied her. She’d opened herself up when they were together, showing real emotion, and then it retreated the moment they were finished, her eyes growing almost dead.
Is she afraid of being . . . what? A woman? That I’ll hurt her? That I won’t care for her? Or that I’d rather be with Charele than her?
Like she would rather be with Ary than me.
“Sitting on a crate and staring at her is not going to solve anything,” Charele said.
Heits flinched. He hadn’t heard the whisk of her skirt. Today, she wore a black dress with white beads accenting the bodice. Her parasol matched, black with a fringe. She held it directly over her, shielding her dress from the ash.
Heits sighed. “Probably not.”
“So you’ve been uniting your fires with her, and she hasn’t opened up to you?”
He shook his head.
“And you used everything I taught you?”
Heits’s cheeks warmed. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” Charele stared at Meirim. “She’s a blunt woman. When you talk to her, how direct are you?”
“Pretty direct.” Heits shrugged. “I say, ‘Why do you really want to be married to me?’ and her answer is always the same. Though she is getting annoyed. Now she just kisses me and yanks me to the cabin if she senses I’m about to ask her.”
“Deflection with sex. That’s interesting. Does she ever mention me?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm, so she doesn’t display any open jealousy. Let’s see.” Charele suddenly leaned down and kissed Heits hot on the mouth. He stiffened in shock, her blonde curls caressing his face. The heat shot down his body to his crotch, his pants growing tight.
Heits drew in a breath, cheeks red. Even the tips of his ears burned.
Meirim glanced at them for a moment then went back to watching her guards.
“Nothing,” Charele said. “She is a strange one.”
“I know,” Heits groaned. “I wish she understood how I feel.”
“Have you told her?” asked Charele.
He worked his shoulders in discomfort.
“Try that. Tell her that you don’t like being her second choice. That you don’t like being used. Some women think men are always ready to be intimate, that they will jump into bed with any woman who parts her legs. They underestimate men. It’s not so simple. Men have feelings, too, they just like to hide them and make their women think they’re rocks.”
“Like her,” Heits muttered.
“Oh, no, she has emotions,” Charele said. “I’ve heard her gasping with you.”
Heits blushed again. He’d forgotten how thin the ship’s walls were.
Charele laughed and ruffled his hair. “Tell her how you feel. Maybe a little vulnerability on your part will crack open her shell.”
“Because she’s afraid,” Heits said.
“Maybe,” she nodded. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a bright and eager boy.”
He scowled at that. “I’m a man.”
“Right, right, I forgot.” With a giggle, she strolled off.
He scowled at her.
No, Charele is definitely not the answer. He studied Meirim, insides squirming. The idea of telling the rigid woman what he felt, opening himself up, terrified him. She’d married him because she thought he was strong. He couldn’t go and be weak like that. He would just have to be blunt.
When she finished training, he marched up to her. “We have to talk.”
“You want to do that too much,” she said. “But you are eager. I like that. Perhaps you’ll quicken me this time.”
“No, not that,” Heits said, but she had already grabbed his hand and yanked him after her. “Meirim, we have to talk. I’m not . . .” He almost blurted out, “a sack of seed.” He stopped himself. In the cabin, she turned, her eyes almost glowing like bright coals as she cupped his face. “Meirim, if you want strong children, why not Ary?”
“Because he is married,” she answered.
“And he won’t bed you?” Heits swallowed, fearing her answer. “They don’t have to be my children. You can choose other men even if you claimed me.”
“Do you want me to choose other men?”
“Not really. But . . .” He took a deep breath.
“I have never approached Ary. I chose you, Heits.”
“Why? Why me over him?”
She answered with a hot kiss. Questions boiled out of his mind. Hope surged in his heart as they fell to the ground. Clothes were ripped off. Her passion melted his body. She exposed more and more of herself, opening wider.
And then slammed shut when they finished, pushing him off of her.
“Perhaps we quickened a child that time,” she said, adjusting her short hair.
Just a sack of seed . . .
*
Lsaapoa 6th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
“Are you certain of these weights?” Estan asked, studying Usreili’s handwriting. Though the Wrackthar and the Vionese had been separated by two thousand years, they both used the same alphabet. It was written differently, but Estan could decipher the minor differences and read the weights of various metals. They had worked on a rough conversion all day yesterday.
“Yes,” Usreili said. “I worked in the forges all my adult life.”
“I am hoping that we can use metals to armor a ship,” he said. “Perhaps with an engine that can reduce a metal’s weight similar to how we make our ships fly. Then we could replace the wooden hull with metal plates.”
“An interesting idea.” Usreili stretched her back. “You would have to rivet them to the ship. There would be limits to how big a plate can be forged.”
The last to appear a few hours back was Veldene Brisal, the carpenter’s wife. Ash clung to the blood covering her face, her head cut open in a gash, her clothing ripped, torn. “I was holding onto them,” she had kept babbling, a scrap of a girl’s dress still clutched in her hand. “But we were too close to Vesche. Too close.”
Chaylene knew Veldene to have a husband and several children, including a daughter.
“We have to go,” Chaylene said.
The survivors crowded the hills, grouped up in families. Shuchon Grech and his brother had their children with them, Shuchon’s wife still quietly sobbing. Briarim Grech had a grim face, his arms tight around his two children. His wife had been crushed by one of the fiery balls hurtled from Vesche after its impact.
They still had one of the fishing boats, a vessel five ropes long. Thush Shardhin, of all men, had had the foresight to load it with provisions. He’d sailed it up the hill crowded with his wife, holding their infant daughter, and the three Oatlon children. Chaylene did not like Thush. He was a year her senior and, along with his brother and cousin, had picked on Vel for being too handsome.
Ary broke your nose and thrashed your brother.
“Come on, get up,” Chaylene called out. “On your feet. Esty, Missionary, let’s go.” She nudged the sleeping Jhevon. “Wake up.”
“Go?” Estilia Shardhin asked, holding her baby swaddled in stained cloth. The child let out a hiccuping cough. “Where?”
“Oname is the nearest skyland,” said Shurle Dhejhil. She was the other mother of an infant. The last memory Chaylene had of Shurle was her giggling after Vel on the journey to Ahly nearly a year ago.
She must have just given birth. Her new husband, Elenim, had left her to go back on his boat to rescue more people.
“Oname is gone,” Chaylene said. “And Jhov. All the southern Autonomy.”
“The Fringe?” Chayaria Jayne asked. She was Ary’s distant cousin by marriage, her husband also missing and probably dead. She had her two children, her youngest a toddler, in her arms.
“I’m going to Romeich where we can be safe,” Chaylene said, not sure if that was even true. But Ary wouldn’t go there without reason. He has a plan. He has learned something from Riasruo. Some way to drive her back. “A place where Theisseg can’t get us.”
The people flinched at the name of the Dark Goddess. A child cried. Shuchon picked up his young daughter, rocking her as he glared at Chaylene. She didn’t care. They had to understand.
“You heard her speak yesterday,” hissed the Missionary. She held a pair of sleeping children in her large arms. Her tongue flicked out amid the falling ash. “You saw her rise. She is Riasruo’s chosen. We are all alive because of her.”
“Not all of us,” Briarim muttered.
“And I know where we can be safe,” Chaylene said. She grabbed one of the bags they’d packed with preserved food. She slung it over her shoulder. “You can stay here and choke on ash, or you can find safety.”
“Chaylene,” Gretla whispered, taking her hand.
Jhevon grunted and helped Myrian stand. “She saved us,” he repeated. “She knew it would happen.”
Myrian nodded.
“We have all been tested by Riasruo, chosen to survive Her Sister’s calamity,” hissed the Missionary. “Blessed to one day rebuild what was stolen. But only if we have the wisdom to continue following Her light. There is our beacon in this new world of darkness.” She pointed at Chaylene.
Esty led Starfire. She didn’t speak, maybe sensing that it wasn’t her place as an outsider. Her presence heartened Chaylene. She picked up Gretla and put her on the saddle.
“Die here, or go to Romeich,” Briarim said. He glanced down at his young son, then to his older daughter. The girl stood straight, trying to look unafraid as she trembled. He picked up his son and took his daughter’s hand. “Better than choking on ash.”
Thush Shardhin didn’t say a word. No bluster or bristle. He began scooping ash out of his boat. His wife looked at him, her eyes wide, then back at Chaylene.
“Fine,” Estilia muttered and climbed into the boat, holding her daughter.
Chaylene looked around at the other adults gathering up the children. The youngest were placed in the boat while Thush rigged a rope to pull it along. The small engine was charged, holding it aloft. The Missionary held other children with ease.
Satisfied, Chaylene marched down the ash-coated hill, summoning a flame to light the way as she led them northwest, aiming for Thugri Sound. She wanted to avoid all skylands, and that was the best way to get into the Great Empty and march north to Romeich.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Great Empty/Zumch Marsh
Ary stood at the railing of the Varele the next morning, staring at the angry, black cloud sweeping in from the south. The glow had faded overnight, then dawn had banished it entirely. He hadn’t slept, worrying over his siblings. Chaylene lived, so he had to believe she’d saved his brother and sister, that she’d foiled a tiny bit of Theisseg’s terrible revenge. Hopefully, more had survived from Vesche.
Ary did not like the look of the approaching tempest. It was a new worry. He had never seen clouds like that in his life. They looked so thick. So gray. They covered the entire southwestern horizon, rushing towards them with hunger. He chewed his lip, debating finding Estan and asking his opinion.
Heits appeared beside Ary, the youth’s face furrowed. He didn’t say anything right away. Ary was surprised to see him. He and Heits hadn’t been close on the journey. Heits’s infatuation with Ary’s wife had kept the youth distant. Ary had never been jealous of Heits. He knew his wife. He trusted her, loved her. He kept at bay that small voice whispering in the back of his mind: She almost betrayed you with Vel. It could happen again. He had to ignore that voice. It was poison. A different type than guilt but just as disastrous.
“Well?” Ary asked after a few moments.
Heits took a deep breath. “Well . . .”
“That’s what I said.”
“It’s about Meirim.”
Ary glanced at the woman leading her guards in drills. They had improved much, learning to use the thick Agerzak greatswords over their smaller sabres. If they were going to wear the armor, they may as well make use of the slower but more powerful weapon. Normally, he would be with them, but worry kept him staring south at those dark clouds.
They were closer.
“What about her?” Ary asked. She was a closed woman, similar to Corporal Huson. She’s dead now. That thought soured Ary’s mood further. She was a good marine but had been deceived by Theisseg.
While Corporal Huson was rigid, an adherence to protocol to keep others at bay, Meirim struck him as something different, almost fearful. Huson chose to keep people at bay, but it was like Meirim feared what would happen if they got too close. He had seen wary dread creep in her eyes. An animal wondering if it should flee pain.
It was always brief, only triggered when he would clap her on the shoulder in praise or when offering her a helping hand. Ary had no idea what to make of it. She wasn’t skittish nor a coward. She’d fought him without any fear in the barracks.
“Well?” Ary asked again when Heits fell silent.
“I need marriage advice.”
Shock rippled through Ary. “You’re married?”
Heits blinked. “You didn’t know? Meirim married me the evening we left Lrien Hold. I figured everyone must be gossiping about us.” He looked around. “Feels like everyone is watching me.”
Ary glanced at the crew bustling around the deck. “Right now?”
Heits adjusted his shoulders. “Yeah.”
“No one’s watching you.” Ary laughed. “I don’t think anyone really knows that you’re married.”
“Oh,” Heits said, his face falling.
“Well, congratulations,” Ary said, clapping his hand on the youth’s shoulder. Wrackthar had strange marriage customs. And fidelity, the central tenant of a wedding conducted by the Church of Riasruo, was often lacking. It was why Heits had been comfortable flirting with Chaylene in Ary’s presence, trying to attract her interest.
“I guess,” Heits said, his face falling. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, so not congratulations then,” Ary said. “Is it because of Charele?”
“No, no. Meirim doesn’t actually care about that. She doesn’t care about much. Let alone me.”
“Then why did she marry you?”
“To have strong sons and daughters.” Heits’s voice grew dead. “She wanted you, but you were married.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I’m her next best option.” His voice grew even more miserable.
“Have you tried asking her if that’s how she truly feels?”
“She’s not one for talking.” He hunched his shoulders. “Every time I try, she wants to smelt iron.”
“Smelt . . . iron . . .” Ary’s cheeks warmed. “Ah, yes. Well, that sort of intimacy is part of marriage.” An ache swelled in his loins. His awareness of Chaylene surged to him. Still alive, though she was having trouble breathing. He feared one of those punches had hurt her, but he couldn’t feel any lasting wound.
“And that’s distracting,” Heits said, “because she’s hot. Real hot. She really melts my iron. When we’re done, she gets cold like she’s been dunked in quenching oil. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to her. That’s the real key. Chaylene and I learned that one the hard way.” Ary grunted. “We had to relearn it. Keeping secrets, important secrets, is not healthy. Not when they concern your relationship. It can gnaw at the trust that you need to forge between you two. That’s terrible to lose. It’s like a pot you’ve broken. You can try to piece it back together, but it’s never quite the same. Even if it can hold water again, it’s fragile.”
“But she won’t talk to me. I try.”
“Keep trying,” Ary said. “I mean, she’s your wife now. You have a choice. You can forge that trust and make a relationship out of it.”
“Or?”
“Or you can keep on going like you are: colleagues in the business of making the next generation. Doesn’t sound great to me.” Ary shrugged. “Chaylene’s more than my wife. She’s my friend. I trust her. I enjoy being around her. And I miss her.” His heart ached. He gazed to the southeast. The clouds were almost upon them. “When I wake up, I want her beside me, her hair all messed up, her breath terrible, that gunk stuck in the corner of her eye.”
“I think my parents had that,” Heits sighed, slouching on the railing. “When they met, though, they knew each other about as well as Meirim and me. Mother married Father to save his life. They made it work.”
“Maybe you can, too,” Ary said. “But she’s got to open up.”
“If she won’t?”
Ary shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ll probably be miserable, resent her. Argue all the time. Vel’s parents were like that.”
“That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“So you better make it work.” Ary glanced back at the clouds. Something drifted out of the air, gray, like snow. He held out his hand and a flake landed in his palm.
Ash.
Ary glanced at the leading edge of the clouds boiling overhead. The smoke from the skylands. So far . . .?
More ash fell like snow as Heits turned away and stumbled off, shoulders slumped.
*
Heits had hoped Ary had magical words that would make everything better, an insight into his marriage with Chaylene that would solve all of Heits’s problems with Meirim. As he stumbled away, he glanced at his wife drilling, ignoring him.
Talk to her.
That was what Charele had said, too. Heits had tried. It ended up with passion, which was wonderful while it lasted, feeling her heat, writhing with her, but it left him even more empty when they were done. Even Charele, who cared for Heits but did not love him, showed more affection when they finished.
He yearned for those moments. At least with Charele, he didn’t feel like anything more than a sack of seed destined for Meirim’s field. To Charele, he was a man. Well, a boy. Someone she could teach and play with. It was better than the emptiness with his wife.
He leaned against a crate as gray ash drifted out of the air. He watched her drill, hoping she would glance at him, give him something. An acknowledgment. He studied her. She’d opened herself up when they were together, showing real emotion, and then it retreated the moment they were finished, her eyes growing almost dead.
Is she afraid of being . . . what? A woman? That I’ll hurt her? That I won’t care for her? Or that I’d rather be with Charele than her?
Like she would rather be with Ary than me.
“Sitting on a crate and staring at her is not going to solve anything,” Charele said.
Heits flinched. He hadn’t heard the whisk of her skirt. Today, she wore a black dress with white beads accenting the bodice. Her parasol matched, black with a fringe. She held it directly over her, shielding her dress from the ash.
Heits sighed. “Probably not.”
“So you’ve been uniting your fires with her, and she hasn’t opened up to you?”
He shook his head.
“And you used everything I taught you?”
Heits’s cheeks warmed. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” Charele stared at Meirim. “She’s a blunt woman. When you talk to her, how direct are you?”
“Pretty direct.” Heits shrugged. “I say, ‘Why do you really want to be married to me?’ and her answer is always the same. Though she is getting annoyed. Now she just kisses me and yanks me to the cabin if she senses I’m about to ask her.”
“Deflection with sex. That’s interesting. Does she ever mention me?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm, so she doesn’t display any open jealousy. Let’s see.” Charele suddenly leaned down and kissed Heits hot on the mouth. He stiffened in shock, her blonde curls caressing his face. The heat shot down his body to his crotch, his pants growing tight.
Heits drew in a breath, cheeks red. Even the tips of his ears burned.
Meirim glanced at them for a moment then went back to watching her guards.
“Nothing,” Charele said. “She is a strange one.”
“I know,” Heits groaned. “I wish she understood how I feel.”
“Have you told her?” asked Charele.
He worked his shoulders in discomfort.
“Try that. Tell her that you don’t like being her second choice. That you don’t like being used. Some women think men are always ready to be intimate, that they will jump into bed with any woman who parts her legs. They underestimate men. It’s not so simple. Men have feelings, too, they just like to hide them and make their women think they’re rocks.”
“Like her,” Heits muttered.
“Oh, no, she has emotions,” Charele said. “I’ve heard her gasping with you.”
Heits blushed again. He’d forgotten how thin the ship’s walls were.
Charele laughed and ruffled his hair. “Tell her how you feel. Maybe a little vulnerability on your part will crack open her shell.”
“Because she’s afraid,” Heits said.
“Maybe,” she nodded. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a bright and eager boy.”
He scowled at that. “I’m a man.”
“Right, right, I forgot.” With a giggle, she strolled off.
He scowled at her.
No, Charele is definitely not the answer. He studied Meirim, insides squirming. The idea of telling the rigid woman what he felt, opening himself up, terrified him. She’d married him because she thought he was strong. He couldn’t go and be weak like that. He would just have to be blunt.
When she finished training, he marched up to her. “We have to talk.”
“You want to do that too much,” she said. “But you are eager. I like that. Perhaps you’ll quicken me this time.”
“No, not that,” Heits said, but she had already grabbed his hand and yanked him after her. “Meirim, we have to talk. I’m not . . .” He almost blurted out, “a sack of seed.” He stopped himself. In the cabin, she turned, her eyes almost glowing like bright coals as she cupped his face. “Meirim, if you want strong children, why not Ary?”
“Because he is married,” she answered.
“And he won’t bed you?” Heits swallowed, fearing her answer. “They don’t have to be my children. You can choose other men even if you claimed me.”
“Do you want me to choose other men?”
“Not really. But . . .” He took a deep breath.
“I have never approached Ary. I chose you, Heits.”
“Why? Why me over him?”
She answered with a hot kiss. Questions boiled out of his mind. Hope surged in his heart as they fell to the ground. Clothes were ripped off. Her passion melted his body. She exposed more and more of herself, opening wider.
And then slammed shut when they finished, pushing him off of her.
“Perhaps we quickened a child that time,” she said, adjusting her short hair.
Just a sack of seed . . .
*
Lsaapoa 6th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
“Are you certain of these weights?” Estan asked, studying Usreili’s handwriting. Though the Wrackthar and the Vionese had been separated by two thousand years, they both used the same alphabet. It was written differently, but Estan could decipher the minor differences and read the weights of various metals. They had worked on a rough conversion all day yesterday.
“Yes,” Usreili said. “I worked in the forges all my adult life.”
“I am hoping that we can use metals to armor a ship,” he said. “Perhaps with an engine that can reduce a metal’s weight similar to how we make our ships fly. Then we could replace the wooden hull with metal plates.”
“An interesting idea.” Usreili stretched her back. “You would have to rivet them to the ship. There would be limits to how big a plate can be forged.”
