Evening, 21 Intas 2716
Berret Park, Old Rose Harbor
Berret Park, Old Rose Harbor
The human went first, slow, shuffling steps on the hard wood. There was an odd labored quality to his breathing, a sort of snuffling noise. Niccolette wondered, absently, if it was characteristic of the collapsed lung, or if it was only because he had been sobbing. Tom followed after, his steps steadier but heavier than before, a little uneven.
Niccolette let them both go ahead. She slid a handkerchief from a pocket inside her cloak, wiped the remains of the nosebleed from her face, leaving behind only faint reddish traces in the dim, diluted moon light. Her cheeks she patted as well, carefully doing what she could for the smudges of eyeliner with no mirror. She glanced down at her skirt; she didn’t much care to think what might have been on the floor here or downstairs, but at least nothing seemed to show on the dark green fabric. She used the other side of her handkerchief to wipe her hands clean. Her nails were ragged from gripping the floor, dirty as well, and she picked a few of the larger bits of dirt out, flicking her thumb over them to brush them away. Well enough, she thought. Such work was never clean, and she was presentable enough to appear before Hawke if need be.
Niccolette folded up the handkerchief and stored it away. She grasped her cloak and dress in her hands and stepped out past the foul mess the human had left behind on the floor, skirting it deliberately. From the sounds down the hallway, the filthy thing was still making his way down the stairs, Tom behind him. Niccolette followed as well, her boots clicking as steadily as they had before on the rough wood. She descended the stairs after them, lifted her skirt again to step around the messy blood pool from the human whose throat Tom had slit.
Niccolette glanced around once to check for the wick. He was gone; his already disarranged papers were speckled with blood and spit, and he had, it seemed, left them behind. But there were no surprises left waiting for them; it seemed whatever fight had lain smoldering in this place, they had suffocated it well.
Niccolette let her skirts drop to the floor once she was clear of the edges of the blood. She held there a moment, waiting for the human and Tom to reach the door with their slow, awkward gait, then kept walking, following behind at a slower pace. She didn’t let them get too far away; it wouldn’t do to lose the human now. Not that Niccolette thought, in truth, that he was much less than utterly broken. She had made clear her power over him, and she thought she had strength for perhaps one more spell, if truly necessary. But he would not run; she had seen to that. Someone like Tom would take more, of course; she thought Tom would not surrender so easily as the wick or the human had. But, luckily for them all, this one was weak. Well - perhaps not luckily for the human, in the end. Were he wise, he would have forced her to kill him; better to die here than by Hawke's hands. She would have made it hurt, of course, but it would have been over in minutes - perhaps an hour. Not days.
Niccolette wondered if the human appreciated this, his last view of the streets of the Rose. She glanced around Berret Park, and supposed not. They would pass through much of the city tonight – Castle Hill, of course, there was no avoiding it. Sharkswell, if Tom was wise, rather than Cantile and Quarter Fords, into Lossey’s quiet streets and all the way to the Palace. Would the human appreciate any of it? He must know, Niccolette thought. He must know that he wouldn’t see any of it, ever again. Perhaps he could no longer think so clearly; she would not be surprised. Humans were not smart, as a rule, and this one seemed a particularly poor specimen.
There was a feeling of deep satisfaction that settled into her after anything like this. It was true of winning duels – and Niccolette remembered each win, savored it. True wins, not practice ones. She had always felt restricted at Brunnhold, although of course she hadn’t known it then. Rules, rules; they had so many rules about what a galdor could and could not do, what was considered the acceptable sort of fighting. Most were written down and even more were unspoken. There were rules about the sort of damage one could inflict, rules about the timing of spells, rules about the timing of engagement. They loved to take turns, a polite sort of waiting that ignored how long each spell took, let the other side take their time. This was not as true on the Field, of course, but even there one was meant to follow – rules. If your opponent did not want to be harmed, you could not harm them, or else you were the one in the wrong. Foolish, Niccolette had always found it, but she had had to go along, and mostly she had managed it.
Even with all their rules, all their constraints, victory had carried with it a sweet savor for her. The fights outside the rules were even better – tangling a drunken idiot’s feet beneath him with an anesthesia spell, or causing someone to wet himself on the streets of the Stacks – those were moments she had held close and tight, even as a girl. She had not known, then, why it called to her. At times it had scared her.
She had explained the feeling to Uzoji, of course, or at least she had tried.
“Like a high?” He had asked, his hand resting on her bare side, smiling at her.
“No,” Niccolette had made a little pouting face at him, laughed and shoved his hand away. He had reached for her anyway, pulled her close, enveloped her body in his.
“My wife,” he had murmured into her hair, his lips gentle against her neck.
“Not a high,” Niccolette had insisted, shifting against him, laughing a little bit. “It does not fade like that. When you are high, you must – chase the next. It comes in peaks and then it falls away, yes?”
“Yes,” Uzoji had growled, and his kisses had become a little less gentle.
Niccolette laughed again, harder. “Stop it, I am explaining!” She had pushed him away, gently, because the feeling of his skin beneath her hands had still been – was still now – a delight.
“This is not like that,” Niccolette had said, rolling over to look at him. She had needed him to understand; she had needed it more than she could have ever told him.
Uzoji had smiled at her, cupped her cheek with his hand, stroked it – and he had listened, had not tried again to distract her. At least, not then; later, Niccolette recalled, he had done an admirable job. “It doesn’t fall away?” He had asked.
Niccolette had nodded. “It does not,” she said. “You do not need to chase it. It lives – inside you, here,” she took his hand from her cheek, drew it down, slowly. “Forever, I suppose.”
“You make it sound like love,” Uzoji had said, grinning.
“Perhaps,” Niccolette made a little face. “It is not quite so wonderful.” They had talked, a little more; then she had let him sweep her away.
It did not scare her any more, that feeling. She was no girl now; she was a woman, and she was a galdor, and as Niccolette walked through the streets of the Rose, it was with her head high. It was with the thought of Uzoji at home – probably, she thought, asleep on the couch in his little study, too strong for his own good at times, and becoming a little stronger every day. It was with the thought of her own bright-edged field around her, weaker than it had been, unstable still, not yet restored – but it too, like her husband, would come back to what it had been. Stronger too, Niccolette believed, although she could not yet prove it. Stronger, the both of them, for having been broken.
Not all weakness became strength. Niccolette looked at the two humans in front of her – she had never fully taken her attention off of them; she was no fool – and thought of the human’s cowering – of the mess on Tom’s face – of Uzoji’s slow, deliberate shuffling walk – of her own screams, pain wracking her body as she knelt on the filthy floor. She thought of rising up to claim the mona as her own once more, of reaching out to them in strength and supplication; she thought of her husband’s firm squeezing grasp of her hand.
The streets and the lights rose and fell around them; dark in Berret Park, brighter in Castle Hill, where the few street lights of the Rose shone pale circles on the dirty ground, dark again in Sharkswell, lit by the houses on either side in Lossey, and – finally, bright at the edges of the palace, that light like a beacon to call them home. Niccolette walked, steady, deliberate and unyielding, along the filthy streets, and never once did she cease to feel that satisfaction, humming deep within her veins. You are here, it promised her; you are strong. And Niccolette knew it for truth.
Niccolette let them both go ahead. She slid a handkerchief from a pocket inside her cloak, wiped the remains of the nosebleed from her face, leaving behind only faint reddish traces in the dim, diluted moon light. Her cheeks she patted as well, carefully doing what she could for the smudges of eyeliner with no mirror. She glanced down at her skirt; she didn’t much care to think what might have been on the floor here or downstairs, but at least nothing seemed to show on the dark green fabric. She used the other side of her handkerchief to wipe her hands clean. Her nails were ragged from gripping the floor, dirty as well, and she picked a few of the larger bits of dirt out, flicking her thumb over them to brush them away. Well enough, she thought. Such work was never clean, and she was presentable enough to appear before Hawke if need be.
Niccolette folded up the handkerchief and stored it away. She grasped her cloak and dress in her hands and stepped out past the foul mess the human had left behind on the floor, skirting it deliberately. From the sounds down the hallway, the filthy thing was still making his way down the stairs, Tom behind him. Niccolette followed as well, her boots clicking as steadily as they had before on the rough wood. She descended the stairs after them, lifted her skirt again to step around the messy blood pool from the human whose throat Tom had slit.
Niccolette glanced around once to check for the wick. He was gone; his already disarranged papers were speckled with blood and spit, and he had, it seemed, left them behind. But there were no surprises left waiting for them; it seemed whatever fight had lain smoldering in this place, they had suffocated it well.
Niccolette let her skirts drop to the floor once she was clear of the edges of the blood. She held there a moment, waiting for the human and Tom to reach the door with their slow, awkward gait, then kept walking, following behind at a slower pace. She didn’t let them get too far away; it wouldn’t do to lose the human now. Not that Niccolette thought, in truth, that he was much less than utterly broken. She had made clear her power over him, and she thought she had strength for perhaps one more spell, if truly necessary. But he would not run; she had seen to that. Someone like Tom would take more, of course; she thought Tom would not surrender so easily as the wick or the human had. But, luckily for them all, this one was weak. Well - perhaps not luckily for the human, in the end. Were he wise, he would have forced her to kill him; better to die here than by Hawke's hands. She would have made it hurt, of course, but it would have been over in minutes - perhaps an hour. Not days.
Niccolette wondered if the human appreciated this, his last view of the streets of the Rose. She glanced around Berret Park, and supposed not. They would pass through much of the city tonight – Castle Hill, of course, there was no avoiding it. Sharkswell, if Tom was wise, rather than Cantile and Quarter Fords, into Lossey’s quiet streets and all the way to the Palace. Would the human appreciate any of it? He must know, Niccolette thought. He must know that he wouldn’t see any of it, ever again. Perhaps he could no longer think so clearly; she would not be surprised. Humans were not smart, as a rule, and this one seemed a particularly poor specimen.
There was a feeling of deep satisfaction that settled into her after anything like this. It was true of winning duels – and Niccolette remembered each win, savored it. True wins, not practice ones. She had always felt restricted at Brunnhold, although of course she hadn’t known it then. Rules, rules; they had so many rules about what a galdor could and could not do, what was considered the acceptable sort of fighting. Most were written down and even more were unspoken. There were rules about the sort of damage one could inflict, rules about the timing of spells, rules about the timing of engagement. They loved to take turns, a polite sort of waiting that ignored how long each spell took, let the other side take their time. This was not as true on the Field, of course, but even there one was meant to follow – rules. If your opponent did not want to be harmed, you could not harm them, or else you were the one in the wrong. Foolish, Niccolette had always found it, but she had had to go along, and mostly she had managed it.
Even with all their rules, all their constraints, victory had carried with it a sweet savor for her. The fights outside the rules were even better – tangling a drunken idiot’s feet beneath him with an anesthesia spell, or causing someone to wet himself on the streets of the Stacks – those were moments she had held close and tight, even as a girl. She had not known, then, why it called to her. At times it had scared her.
She had explained the feeling to Uzoji, of course, or at least she had tried.
“Like a high?” He had asked, his hand resting on her bare side, smiling at her.
“No,” Niccolette had made a little pouting face at him, laughed and shoved his hand away. He had reached for her anyway, pulled her close, enveloped her body in his.
“My wife,” he had murmured into her hair, his lips gentle against her neck.
“Not a high,” Niccolette had insisted, shifting against him, laughing a little bit. “It does not fade like that. When you are high, you must – chase the next. It comes in peaks and then it falls away, yes?”
“Yes,” Uzoji had growled, and his kisses had become a little less gentle.
Niccolette laughed again, harder. “Stop it, I am explaining!” She had pushed him away, gently, because the feeling of his skin beneath her hands had still been – was still now – a delight.
“This is not like that,” Niccolette had said, rolling over to look at him. She had needed him to understand; she had needed it more than she could have ever told him.
Uzoji had smiled at her, cupped her cheek with his hand, stroked it – and he had listened, had not tried again to distract her. At least, not then; later, Niccolette recalled, he had done an admirable job. “It doesn’t fall away?” He had asked.
Niccolette had nodded. “It does not,” she said. “You do not need to chase it. It lives – inside you, here,” she took his hand from her cheek, drew it down, slowly. “Forever, I suppose.”
“You make it sound like love,” Uzoji had said, grinning.
“Perhaps,” Niccolette made a little face. “It is not quite so wonderful.” They had talked, a little more; then she had let him sweep her away.
It did not scare her any more, that feeling. She was no girl now; she was a woman, and she was a galdor, and as Niccolette walked through the streets of the Rose, it was with her head high. It was with the thought of Uzoji at home – probably, she thought, asleep on the couch in his little study, too strong for his own good at times, and becoming a little stronger every day. It was with the thought of her own bright-edged field around her, weaker than it had been, unstable still, not yet restored – but it too, like her husband, would come back to what it had been. Stronger too, Niccolette believed, although she could not yet prove it. Stronger, the both of them, for having been broken.
Not all weakness became strength. Niccolette looked at the two humans in front of her – she had never fully taken her attention off of them; she was no fool – and thought of the human’s cowering – of the mess on Tom’s face – of Uzoji’s slow, deliberate shuffling walk – of her own screams, pain wracking her body as she knelt on the filthy floor. She thought of rising up to claim the mona as her own once more, of reaching out to them in strength and supplication; she thought of her husband’s firm squeezing grasp of her hand.
The streets and the lights rose and fell around them; dark in Berret Park, brighter in Castle Hill, where the few street lights of the Rose shone pale circles on the dirty ground, dark again in Sharkswell, lit by the houses on either side in Lossey, and – finally, bright at the edges of the palace, that light like a beacon to call them home. Niccolette walked, steady, deliberate and unyielding, along the filthy streets, and never once did she cease to feel that satisfaction, humming deep within her veins. You are here, it promised her; you are strong. And Niccolette knew it for truth.
