Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) Read online

  But as the body of the Red Hound landed in the sea, Erramela, all sea wrack and sopping black ribbons of hair, was propelled from the sea by his dying curse, flung through the air toward the seashore, and driven into the wet sand with such force that the explosive crater drew exclamations of amazement from the watching crowd.

  Bayan brought the image of her battered, still body front and center, while Cresconio’s disembodied voice grew urgent, rising toward the inevitable crescendo of the legend. Half the audience was enveloped in illusory water, and the other half watched a damp beach view as dy Chixal, clenching his sword in one hand and Ranguela’s rejected promise cloth in the other, strode down the mountainside and onto the beach to await what he assumed was his last hour. Bayan let the man’s head dominate the arena. His green eyes searched the horizon, and his sandy brows beetled in puzzlement when he could not spot any of the Red Hound’s ships. From her sandy crater beyond a cluster of ragged sea rocks, Erramela called out, tumbling up from her resting place, and the audience gasped in appreciation and murmured excitedly.

  Bayan and Sabella had worked hard to perfect the sea witch’s new appearance. Sabella had even volunteered to model extensively for him, and Bayan had been happy to oblige. In the end, on Cresconio’s advice, he had given the witch an appearance very unlike Sabella’s. He didn’t want to see Sabella’s closing act follow Bayan’s performance only to have someone in the audience point and cry, “Look, it’s the sea witch!”

  So the woman who stumbled up from her curse crater and ran, sobbing, toward the lip of the sea bore straight black hair down to her waist, dark brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Her lithe figure was clad in little more than wisps of sheer pink fabric, which created a different sort of appreciative murmur from the audience.

  Dy Chixal started at the sound of her cry and watched as she fell to her knees before the lacy wavelets, clawing at the sand, desperate to touch the water once again. But wherever her hands fell, the sand immediately dried, dusting away from her in small clouds that blew out to sea.

  A flicker of frustration passed the outer edge of Bayan’s focus. Those individual grains of dry sand had been irritatingly difficult to get right. No one appreciated the natural whorls in the wind the way Bayan did, except for the few other elemental magic users in the circus, but everyone in his early test audiences could still tell when it didn’t look right.

  Erramela, cursed by the Red Hound with not only a mortal form but a complete inability to return to her former home, bowed, weeping in despair. Deep within his concentration, Bayan felt a twinge. He had pulled the inspiration for the sea witch’s despair from the reaction of Ignaas witten Oost at the moment he’d been potioneered, nearly two years ago. The man’s abject loss and despair had been imprinted on Bayan’s memory ever since, even though it was by his own hand and actions that Ignaas had been punished. Bayan would do it again, every time. Even that final act that had gotten him exiled. But he would never, ever forget the price that both he and Ignaas had paid.

  Silence reached Bayan’s ears and invaded his thoughts. Cresconio had spoken, describing the next part of the story, but Bayan had fallen into distraction and failed to move the characters to match. Quickly, he brought the story line to mind and rushed dy Chixal over to the despairing sea witch. Unexpected survival and unexpected loss clashed, wove themselves together, and burst across the audience in a wave of passion as the two characters, larger than life in the air before them, threw their arms around each other and kissed.

  The audience went absolutely manic. Bayan reveled in their pleasure, letting the flood of applause crash over him. Cresconio’s triumphant voice began the epilogue, summarizing the legendary characters’ fate: a kingdom of their own, an eternal legacy, a line of strong kings and queens, and a strategic location on the sea, which brought trade and wealth and stability. Bayan placed his characters on a curving balcony of white marble, overlooking the very beach where the now-Queen Erramela had been cursed, then backed the view out, showing a white marble castle on the a mountaintop, a bustling port below, defensive towers ringing the sea coast, a calm sea full of trading merchant vessels, and a glorious sunset signifying that the tale had drawn to a close.

  Bayan let his head hang and his arms drop. The targeting lights at both ends of the arena complex lit him, illuminating his gaudy, gilded costume. The swell of applause reached its highest crescendo, and Bayan drew himself up once more and offered formal bows in all four directions. The cheering went on so long, Cresconio gestured to him from below with a circular finger swirl. Bayan bowed again to the audience, waving as well and even blowing dramatic, graceful kisses to the loudest of his fans. After one more spin on his heel to wave to his adoring fans, Bayan stepped down and slipped through the curtain that led below the stands.

  The waiting area was crammed with performers. Sabella and Ordomiro led the near-silent clapping and foot bouncing as they caught sight of Bayan. Sabella threw her arms around his neck and planted a gigantic kiss on his cheek. Bayan gave her a brief hug in return, crushing the delicate ripples in the soft green fabric of her short dress.

  “That was beautiful, Bayan,” Sabella murmured in his ear. “Your best yet.”

  “You could open your own performance center with a show like that.” Ordomiro, in black leather pantalones and the large, dark ink symbols from his earlier performance, punched him in the shoulder.

  Ansio, the props master, flicked Ordomiro’s ear and hissed, “Sew your lips, Ordo. We lose the Wanderer now, we go back to playing the outer circuit of the mining towns in obscurity. You ask me, we need to chain Bayan to the palisade so he never, ever leaves, and we can all actually make some money at this performance trick.”

  Bayan heard Cresconio begin to introduce the final act of the night and remembered his first, clumsy performances nearly two years ago, when the dust from his exiled wanderings still seemed to cling to his scalp despite Ordomiro’s borrowed soap. Cresconio had learned of his talents, and within ten days, Bayan was practicing on the noonday crowd as the first act of the show, thrust into their regard with nothing to follow and no way to let them down. His had been the act that everyone else was supposed to be better than. And that very first night, everyone was. But Bayan had studied the audience, seeing what they liked best, for nearly forty days. Over his next ten performances, Bayan worked on his showmanship, his gestures and timing, and it wasn’t long before Cresconio moved his act smack in the middle of the show.

  Bayan had Sabella to thank for all of his success. She anchored every performance, every night. She danced her way into the hearts of everyone in the audience without fail. And she danced for Bayan after the show was done. True, her dancing had begun as practice, experimentation, once she had recognized Bayan’s skill with elemental magic. She knew her place in the circus, and that place was at its heart. Bayan was both humbled and thrilled that he had drawn the attention of such a powerful performer. But deep down, he suspected that her attention, her affection, was nothing more than a “thank you” of the highest order for his small contributions to her own performance improvement over the past year.

  Not that I’m not grateful. Any man, in the circus or in the audience, would trade places with me in far less than a heartbeat. I know three performers who would literally try to kill me if my magic weren’t stronger than theirs, just for the chance to bed Sabella.

  “And that’s my cue,” Sabella chirped, offering an expansive wave to the gathering. She slipped through the curtain and spiraled her way through the air, letting the green fabric tendrils of her skirt twirl around her legs like tender vines, until she stood atop the palisade next to Cresconio. The audience cheered once again, though its tone had become distinctly manlier.

  The musicians hidden in the wings at each end of the arena struck up a sultry tune. Cresconio descended the center steps and joined Bayan and the others behind the curtain, then folded back one edge so he wouldn’t miss his cue at the end of her performance. Others crowded behind Bayan, forcing
him forward to the edge of the curtain as well. He had seen Sabella’s public performances hundreds of times, as well as dozens of private ones, but he never tired of watching her graceful motions. Not to mention the magic they produced.

  As the music rose in sinuous rhythm, Sabella danced and twirled her way from one end of the palisade to the other, throwing swirls of bright color out across the audience, teasing them with hints of jasmine and spice, giving them moonlight, starlight, sunrise. She drenched herself in honey-light, created a forest glen with Biona’s mythical milk pool, danced her way into it, then transformed it into a sparkling waterfall that was lit by the radiance of a languorous bonfire and bore her sinuous silhouette.

  Long-tailed birds glided around her, and their pale feathers grew across her skin. Gold and ruby snakes twined their way up her calves. She threw her head back, rippling her arms from side to side, swaying her torso in one of Bayan’s favorite motions, and letting her head loll, eyes closed, before falling backward, gracefully and slower than humanly possible, into a black, starry void that caught her a hand’s breadth above the floor. Her back arched, and her long blond hair rippled on unseen wind. Delicate tendrils of vine grew across her skin, sprouted lacy leaves, and blossomed delicate pink trumpets that hid and drew attention to her most delicate areas.

  Sabella’s body rose higher, twirling slowly, rotating her so that the audience could see her from all directions, and all the while she held her pose of ecstasy, mouth open, eyes closed, limbs outstretched.

  Bayan felt himself harden. Every time. I should never have taught her that anima magic. At this rate, every town we visit is going to have a population explosion three seasons later.

  Her act over, Sabella descended to the palisade, where she accepted the ardent cheers of her adoring audience. As usual, at least a dozen hot young blades called out proposals of marriage, to which Sabella simply blew kisses and turned away.

  She traded places with Cresconio, who went out to bid his aroused audience a fortunate night. The other performers congratulated Sabella in a kind but perfunctory way—everyone knew whose acts kept the circus in coin, and Bayan knew well that none were so jealous of creativity as other creatives—then dissipated into the darkness to pursue their own ends. Ordomiro gave Bayan a goodnight punch on the shoulder. “See you at breakfast.”

  Sabella shifted to her other foot and tipped her chin down. Her left eyebrow rose, and a look of invitation sparked in her eyes. When she stepped closer, Bayan felt her body heat radiating against his skin. “Someone’s up.”

  He breathed in her scent. “Someone is too skilled at anima for her own good.”

  She stepped closer still, pressing her taut body against his. “But not for yours.” Her fingers twined with his, and she led him from the arena’s back entrance to her tent. Though it was made of silk like all the others in the encampment, hers was not only the largest personal tent, but it was made of the rarest golden silk, a mark of importance so rare that Bayan hadn’t heard of Cresconio ever granting such a gift to anyone else.

  As they entered, she ignited a low orange light in each of her three lamps and used a puff of wind to secure the clasps on her tent flap. She pulled him past her to the edge of her round feather mattress, laden with round pillows stuffed with sweet spices and aromatic flower petals, and gave his shoulders a push with two fingers each, toppling him backward. He grinned as he let himself fall.

  She flowed forward and settled atop his hips, then bound his wrists with bands of air, trapping them against the mattress. Her smug smile tantalized him. “What, no gag this time?”

  Her voice was like silk. “Surprise me. You’re the hexmage. I want you to prove it.”

  The beads of his necklace lay heavy across his neck. So many beads, so hard won. The magenta stone, third from the right, he’d added after he and Sabella had first lain together. Their first coupling had happened over a year ago, but it had taken him over a season to earn the stone that symbolized his mastery of passion. Not only was she distracting, but the effect she had on him had made it nearly impossible to concentrate on his magic. But he had eventually managed it, and it was the nights when she demanded proof of his skills that he found his efforts most rewarding.

  You want the hexmage, you get the hexmage. The silk and bright sparks of metal that made up what little costume she wore were made of anima and Earth. His trousers were Wood. He grasped all three substances, poured his consciousness into them, identified them as individual items within the world, and then disintegrated them. Sabella’s hot skin suddenly pressed against his own, and he gave an aroused hum at her impressed gasp. He let his focus slip inside her mouth with her breath, rode it down to her lungs, enjoyed the warmth of her flesh, then sent his anima lower within her.

  He was hard as a rock, pressing against her soft warmth from below. His consciousness warmed her from within. He heard her moan in anticipation and pleasure. She rolled her hips involuntarily, and wetness slid across his hot, throbbing skin.

  Just you wait. His focus split, part of it returning to his own body, anima and anima. Then he bent the world around them and bent himself within her. Without moving, he suddenly occupied her most precious space, and Sabella arched, throwing back her head just as she had during her performance, and swayed her torso, arching her breasts over his eyes.

  “Nearly cheating, Bayan,” she gasped, even as she rocked her hips atop his.

  “Nearly.” He felt the spiral of his own need begin deep within him. Sabella’s own anima was spreading through his body, invading and mastering him. “And that’s nearly treason, where I come from.”

  Her fingers traced their way along the flushed skin of her torso, letting her nails scratch, her fingers pinch, her palms cup. Hex tattoos formed and vanished upon her skin, accentuating her curves with fluid motions. Her body seemed to twin for a breathless heartbeat—one Sabella arching her hips against him, the other studying him with unblinking focus—and Bayan’s body shivered with thrills. At once helpless and in control, he lay on his back, quickly losing the battle against Sabella’s elemental magic hexed with anima. If he let himself, he would reach his fall in mere moments.

  She sensed his nearness to completion: his anima felt her anticipation rise. “Don’t wait. Pleasure is our toy, not our master. Take it.”

  He embraced his own pleasure, holding on to his focus even as it quaked through him in white-hot waves. He directed its overflow back into Sabella’s body—she always let her exquisite control over her anima slip when she was with Bayan. Her body arched as she rode him in his ecstasy, and she out flung her arms, skin alight from within, letting fire trail under her skin and spiced breezes tangle her hair. The golden tent lit like the sun, and Bayan didn’t care who knew. His hands clasped Sabella’s hips, held her hard against him, rode out every last spasm of pleasure, until she collapsed atop him, weeping and laughing.

  He held her close, extinguished the tent light, and wrapped them both in sleep. Tomorrow, the circus would move on, and he and Sabella would need all the energy they could spare. Tomorrow, the world moved for others. Tonight, he’d made it move for them alone.

  A Bloodthirsty Sea

  “If you had been here longer, Calder, you would get to stay warm and dry in the duel den, sipping spiced cider, waiting for one of the nobles to hire you,” Teos said. “You’re the back-end plow horse.”

  “Sure an’ you’d still be out here, though, wouldna you, with whoever was that plow horse?” Calder asked.

  “Someone, they have to teach you newniks how to do the basic repairs around here,” Teos’s sentences were as twisted with their strange Akrestan construction as Calder's old friend Odjin’s. “The Godsmaw, it’s entirely unforgiving, especially in winter.” The Akrestoi nodded his stiff, short blond braids toward the water that lashed hungrily beneath Calder’s Water avatar, Fogbreath, a giant ice crystal. “When I was first assigned to the Muggenhem duel den, this cliff extended another forty strides toward town.”

  As Calde
r watched and waited, balanced atop his fountain spell, the viny arms on Teos’s wood avatar ripped another chunk of stone from the living cliff and passed it toward Calder, keeping it several strides above the Godsmaw’s crashing surf. Fogbreath accepted the heavy stone into the midst of a swirling vortex that kept it afloat. From his vantage point on the topmost fountain jet, Calder saw the dark stones of the jetty underwater. He spun the boulder out to the end of the construction then let the vortex dissipate. The heavy stone immediately sank two strides under the rough surface and came to rest on the pebbly sea floor.

  Calder took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, easing the ache, and felt a small weight brush against his thigh. He slipped a finger into his pocket and tapped his nail against a dueling walnut, which contained a steel ball within its shell. Though he’d never used such a walnut in a duel—it wouldn’t do to show off the impossible in front of a crowd—he’d seen actual battle, and he didn’t want to be caught wishing he had one and finding only empty pockets. Cracking the shell and hurling the steel ball through one of his avatars would destroy its physical form and allow him to remake the avatar in a different shape—a potentially critical advantage in the middle of a fight. The ancient book of duelism that Tala and Bayan had found under the Temple told him and his hexmates that such a practice had been commonplace long ago, but it had fallen out of favor along with the potioneers. But no self-respecting Dunfarroghan would ignore an advantage in battle simply because it wasn’t socially acceptable.

  Calder pressed his pocket flap tight and turned his attention back to Teos, whose avatar was busy ripping out the next chunk of rock. Calder studied the sheer cliffs that ringed the Godsmaw for as far northward as he could see. “Bloody contrary water,” he called to Teos. “When I first arrived, I dinna understand why everyone used the Karkhedonian term for the Gyre when the rest of the empire stuck to the Waarden word.”