Hands Like Secrets, page 20
That’s what he’s trying to get me to embrace?
I mentally Part Akasha again, but that brief brush with rashas has unsettled me. Such lack of control is anathema to everything I know about qi working; I don’t dare approach that threshold willingly.
Worse, I’m now too flustered to draw sattva.
Rafel grips my hands harder. “You’re not even trying, are you?”
“Stop it,” I struggle to get loose. “Let go!”
“Quit whining.” He seizes and twists one of my wrists, yanking me close, making me yelp. “You are just a pathetic gray, aren’t you? Because I thought you could do this.”
His lip curls and he thrusts my arm away.
I stagger back in disbelief. To hear him say that cuts deeper than any whisper or insult I’ve ever been dealt at Aschamon. Cowl or not, Rafel is the only person besides the High Priestess who’s ever shown real confidence in me. The contempt twists like a knife inside.
But as swift as the verbal blow had fallen, fury flares up to meet it. I’ve spent the last nine years of my life being told I’m not good enough, and I’ll be damned if I let some Cowl tell me the same.
My chest burns like I’ve been struck with a Spark weave. I bare my teeth and grasp hold of that heat, feel it click with the energy of the room, of Rafel’s body, of the air itself. Every beat of my heart pounds in my ears.
A new power surges through me.
Where drawing sattva qi through the body feels like a breath of winter air, rashas is a raging, hallucinogenic fever. Sattva is icy, tingly, head-clearing. This is liquid lightning in my nerves, addicting in a way sattva has never been. I feel like I can do anything.
Fascinated, I turn my focus onto the energy itself, but this causes it to slither out of my mental grasp, leaving me empty. I gasp and sink to the floor, my whole body shaking.
“Fifth try.”
I look up. To my shock, Rafel wears a wide grin.
“You drew rashas qi on your fifth try.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “That is...downright impressive.”
My wrist still throbs from where he’d twisted. I rub it, utterly confused.
“But you said —”
“I said that to make you angry.” He reaches out a hand to help me up. “Rage is like tanathe weed for new Cowls. It’s one of the strongest emotions and the easiest to evoke in someone else. Rage is how my ras taught me to draw years ago.”
“Oh.”
Maybe I should be annoyed or embarrassed that he’d manipulated me so easily, but mostly I just feel numb. Drawing rashas has drained me inside; not a sensation I’m used to. I try to climb to my feet, but a wave of vertigo makes my knees buckle.
Oh, fantastic, brainless, you forgot to ground.
It’s standard procedure to flush any excess energy from the body after working with large amounts of qi. I take a breath, place my hands against the floor, and relax my muscles. With sattva, all one has to do is un-tense and let the energy trickle out.
To my alarm, nothing happens this time; my body continues to shake.
“What’s wrong?” Rafel demands.
I mutely hold up my trembling hands. He swears under his breath and pulls me up, causing another wave of dizziness.
“My fault,” he says shortly. “Grounding rashas is done differently. I didn’t think you’d pick it up so fast, so there was no need...”
He slips an arm around me and sets fingers against my forehead. The touch of his skin on mine, again, weakens my already weak knees further.
“Just push against your nodes. I’ll help you.”
I nod and close my eyes. Pushing against one’s energy nodes is like bearing down on the diaphragm, but toward one’s spine instead. It’s taught to new students, who don’t have a good grasp of sattva yet; I haven’t had to do it since my first year.
Because, of course, sattva is all about submission, rashas is all about resistance, and what works with one is anathema to the other.
I inhale sharply when a jolt of power, heady and undeniably masculine, pulses through my skull and down my spine, flooding me with warmth and expelling the excess energy in one strong push. Then it’s gone, and he’s moved his fingers from my head.
I stand there, shaken, not daring to open my eyes.
“Your cheeks are flushed,” he comments in a wry voice.
I mentally shake myself, backing up a few steps. Feeling his energy inside my body had been intoxicating and way, way too intimate for comfort. He watches me stare, his mouth lifted in that edged smile that always makes my chest tighten. I wish I could ask him what those smiles mean.
I wish I could trust him to be truthful if I did ask.
“Are you grounded?” he asks.
Disappointment stabs me; I look away. “Yes.”
“Good.” He rubs his chin, looking me over solemnly. “Let’s have you draw and ground on your own this time, and then you can try—”
“Ras!” a voice yells from downstairs, breaking the moment.
Rafel whirls with another Spark weave on his fingertips as a heavyset figure comes barreling up the stairs. It’s Kae, who did the healing on the redhead, the night Rafel spirited me away.
The man stumbles to a halt. “Whoa! Cool the crank, ras!”
Rafel lets the fire in his hands die, but his eyes still glint with it.
“Define ‘emergency’ for me, Kaeben.”
“In a word?” Kaeben folds his arms. “Grisen.”
Chapter 23
The name hits like a silent thunderclap. Rafel visibly blanches, in shock or anger; maybe both. I’ve never seen such an expression on his face before.
“Explain,” he commands in a subdued voice.
But Kaeben has spotted me.
“Marilith kark, the girl is here! Ras, we—”
“Of course, she’s here! You know why she’s here.” Rafel seizes the front of Kaeben’s black tunic. “Report, or I’ll truthsay it right out of your thick skull.”
“Sorry, ras.”
“Don’t apologize.” Rafel lets the man go. “Explain!”
Kaeben holds up his hands.
“So, Arik got overconfident—”
“Surprise, surprise,” Rafel grumbles.
“—and ran afoul of a local majahel on his last circuit. The little ringknocker almost got wiped.”
Rafel pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I really am going to have to oust him, aren’t I? No matter how good he is. It’s a damned shame.” He shakes his head. “What does that have to do with Grisen?”
The way Rafel spits the name out makes my neck prickle. Who is this Grisen?
“The slime and his slime suras swooped in out of nowhere and saved Arik’s rear, or so he claims,” Kaeben says. “Iuril only knows where they came from.”
“We’d better hope she doesn’t,” Rafel mutters darkly.
“So, of course, Arik invites the whole stinking Blackport cell into the city,” Kaeben finishes.
My chest constricts. Another raider cell? Aschera will be overrun in a moon at this rate.
“I have changed my mind,” Rafel growls. “I’m going to kill that boy. Where are they now?”
“East Gate slum. I sent Mauri back to stall them.”
“Good. Grisen is there?”
“I saw him myself.” Kaeben’s mouth twists. “Still has that greasy mustache. You know he’s going to demand that we bring him here.”
“And atwa protocol demands that I accommodate him.” Rafel rakes a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands from the tail. “I should have known the slimy thag would want a piece of Aschera. He—”
“Um, excuse me,” I cut in, unable to stand it any longer. Both startle like they’d truly forgotten I was there. Rafel’s mouth thins to a bloodless line.
“Grisen would kop her first and ask questions later,” Kaeben comments to Rafel, who nods.
“Excuse me, I am right here.” I fold my arms. “Would you mind dropping the Cowl slang, and tell me plainly what’s going on?”
“You’re a spirited one, aren’t you?” Kaeben grins at my glare.
“The Blackports are a raider cell. Grisen is their ras,” Rafel says in a clipped voice. “Atwa is the official state of truce that exists between all raiders, enforced by Iuril herself. Slime and thag ought to be self-explanatory. Did I miss anything?”
“Bah!” Kaeben folds his arms across his thick chest. “Calling the Blackports ‘raiders’ is insulting. They’re cowards and thieves, and Grisen is the worst.” He sniffs. “They butt in on raids coordinated by better cells, steal spoils, and torture cowens for fun, among their more pleasant qualities.”
Others in Rafel’s cell share his atypical sense of honor, it seems. Interesting.
“Despite that —”
“Because of that,” Rafel interjects.
“—Grisen is one of Iuril’s favorites. Of course, he fawns and licks her toes every opportunity he gets.” Kaeben’s lip curls. “Bet he’d lick a few of our Lady’s other parts if she’d let him.”
That, on the other hand, is exactly the sort of vulgarity I’d expect from a Cowl.
Kaeben grins at my sour expression.
“That is if she could stand the slimy—”
“Enough, Kae.” Rafel throws the man a look of disgust and begins to pace.
“Grisen has crossed me one time too many. He’s probably here to provoke me into violating atwa so he can whine for Iuril to step me down.” He pulls a hand through his hair again.
“We did advertise this raid to a few other cells. Word was going to get ‘round to him eventually,” Kaeben comments, then shoots me an alarmed glance when my eyes widen.
Advertise?
That would imply that Rafel’s initial plan to kill our High Priestess was only the start of a bigger scheme, something that required more Cowls than he had at his disposal. The thought makes me feel cold all over.
Luckily Rafel is too caught up in his irritation to notice Kaeben’s slip, and I keep my mouth shut.
“Shayol-cursed meddler!” Rafel shouts, startling me. “The last thing I need are Iuril’s eyes on me right now.”
“Ras.” Kaeben’s deep voice drops further. “Iuril hasn’t forgiven you for yanking Grisen’s rings, last time we dealt with the Blackports.”
“I know.”
And they’re talking over me again.
“What do you mean, you yanked his rings?” I ask.
Kaeben sticks a finger behind his left ear and folds the top down, showing off a tiny loop earring.
“This marks a raider. Marindar and gold. Suras wear two; the original and one made by his or her ras. Ras have three; one for raider, two for suras, three for the ras they replace...usually taken from the ras they replace. Anjahel raiders promoted to Vicar get a ruby one, made by our goddess, in the other ear.”
I sneak a glance at Rafel’s head, and sure enough, three minuscule gold rings decorate the top of his left ear. They’re so small I’d never noticed them before. His other ear is bare.
So, a ras is a leader, and suras is second-in-command. That makes sense. And I guess a Vicar must be like a priest? But why would Rafel not hold that rank, too? He’s Anjahel, and he surely has the skill and drive.
Though given how much he told me he hates Iuril, I muse, I’m not surprised.
Rafel broods silently, seemingly content to let Kaeben explain.
“Grisen had three raider rings until Rafel shoved him against a wall after a botched raid and burned them right out of his ear. Slowly.” The man grins. “Did you know skin actually melts under the right kind of heat?”
I blanch.
“Grisen howled like a cowen,” Kaeben continues. “Left a notch in his ear the size of a ten-marn.”
Rafel’s mouth lifts in a hard, cruel smile. “A satisfying end to an otherwise karkstained day.”
I look back and forth between them in horror.
The image of Rafel burning a hole in a man’s ear while he screamed makes me nauseous, and their flippancy only makes it worse. I suddenly miss Aschamon with a vengeance that shakes me. Because I’m not a Cowl, no matter how much I might respect this one.
I can put up with him teaching me, but I have no desire to participate in his raider life of revenge, torture, and death.
“He tried to fight me,” Rafel explains, probably seeing my discomfort. “And fights between ras are to the death. Believe it or not, Gray Robe,” and he smiles, “what I did instead was a mercy.”
“It also got Iuril’s attention,” Kaeben says. “Grisen is a moron, but not when it comes to his own ambitions. He wouldn’t dare enter a Mantle region, let alone provoke you again, unless someone is making it worth his while.” He gives the ceiling a significant look.
I follow his gaze and shudder. We Mantles respect Isasar, but Cowls seem to outright fear their goddess. I think I’m probably better off not knowing what she’s like.
“This changes things.” Rafel’s voice is quiet.
“Mauri’s going to need you, and soon,” Kaeben says. “What’s our next move?”
It’s a valid question, but the way Kaeben’s gaze strays to me wakes my suspicion. Like he’s asking what Rafel plans to do with me, not with Grisen. I peer back at him and at Rafel, who won’t meet my eyes.
He cuts me off when I start to speak.
“I’m taking Saeli to her party.” Rafel lifts a hand when Kaeben opens his mouth. “She’ll be safe there, and I can show myself to Grisen. Nothing can go forward until he’s dealt with.”
Kaeben’s eyebrows lift, making my neck prickle.
That’s the same look Mauri gave Rafel, too, when he mentioned the party.
But haven’t Rafel and I already had this conversation more than once? I know he has a plan tonight that involves me and my dedication, and he keeps ducking my questions about it.
Surely, he has to tell me what’s going on eventually.
His bigger plan won’t work with me left in the dark.
“I need you with Mauri,” Rafel says to Kaeben. “Don’t let the Blackports leave East Gate. And keep an eye on Grisen; I don’t want him wandering around the city until I’ve interrogated him. Thoroughly.”
Kaeben presses a fist against his chest. Rafel waves him off and chuckles lightly at the sound of him thumping ponderously down the stairwell.
I frown. Why not just ‘port from up here?
“This place is warded.” Rafel moves closer to me. “Except for a small area in the living room, where we came in. There’s a Gohes glyph on the floor; you have to visualize it when you ‘port in and stand on it when you go out. Otherwise, our anti-‘port will kick you back.” He gives a strained smile. “Arik’s idea, ironically enough.”
“How is it that you always know what I’m going to ask before I open my mouth?” I ask, a little annoyed.
“Your face is refreshingly expressive.”
He shoots me a sly grin. For a moment, I think I see something like genuine affection in those intense eyes, which sends warmth shooting along my nerves. Before I can be sure, though, his face settles back into its usual cold lines.
He exhales.
“I’d like to keep you a secret from the Blackports, Saeli, but too many of mine saw you the other night. With Grisen and his cell here, this arrangement of ours could get...complicated.”
He lays a finger against my upper lip before I can even think to ask a question.
“Know this. Grisen is Iuril’s eyes and ears, and he hates me. He cannot find out that I’m teaching you rashas, or about the bridge form, or the Oath-Keeper, or any of it. If he discovers your real purpose here, we are all dead.” He visibly shudders. “You don’t know Iuril like I do, what she’d do to the two of us if she got wind of this. Understand?”
Real worry stains Rafel’s sunshine voice, leeching the arrogance and leaving an unfamiliar note of vulnerability. I shiver, then nod.
“I don’t know why he’s here,” Rafel goes on, “so I don’t know what to expect from him. I will have to do whatever it takes to make him believe I’m simply caught up in an extended raid, and you’re my informant.”
I open my mouth, but he forestalls me with a finger to my lips again.
“Explaining the complexities of atwa among raiders would take all night, and we don’t have that kind of time.” His voice hardens. “If Grisen is with me next time we meet, it’s very likely that nothing I say about you or to you will be true. I will have to treat you like a Mantle traitor, and you may have to act like one, Saeli.”
My heart turns over as his thumbs brush my cheekbones.
“You will still have to trust me and follow my lead. Just remember that nothing is more important to me than overthrowing the gods. If you have faith in anything, have faith in that.” He narrows his eyes. “Can you do that?”
What on Verre does he imagine he’ll have to do tonight, to keep this Grisen from being suspicious? I’m still getting used to the idea that I can trust this Cowl at all, and now he’s saying that he might need me to pretend to be a spy, a traitor to my own people.
Could I do that?
I grit my teeth.
I’ll have to try if I believe in his plan at all. Because otherwise, what am I even doing here?
“I’ll...do my best.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s get you to that party, then.”
Chapter 24
Rafel ‘ports me to a secluded strip of grass between two enormous houses. Across the street, cabs and carriages line the road beside a sprawling white mansion on the corner. A steady trickle of people wends up the path to the front porch.
Qi globes and regular oil lamps, spaced across the front lawn, light up the house like a white stain on the surrounding darkness, cheerful and ostentatious. The cliffs for which East Ridge is named rise behind, with another row of mansions near the top, their windows twinkling in the night.
“That’s the house?” I mutter. “It’s practically a whole city block.”
Rafel keeps to the shadows so that even without a hood, I can’t make out his features.
“Just slip into the crowd,” he says, “and no one will notice where you came from.”
