Whisper of Waves

66

13 Eleint, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

THE WINERY

There you are, you lying bastard,” Phyrea shrieked, having lost all control of her anger and embarrassment. “You won’t forget your place again you sweaty, filthy pack mule. You’re not fit to toil in the blazing sun with the rest of these wretched peasants.”

She’d found Ivar Devorast working on the foundation stones of her father’s new winery after finally giving up hope that he was just teasing her and would finally come to the house to finish the wall in place of that terrible dwarf.

“I should have you thrown out of here,” she ranted. “I can have you tossed out with the rest of the refuse. You should be sent back to whatever Fourth Quarter hovel you squirmed out of to live out the rest of your miserable existence picking scraps up off the street with the rest of the dogs.”

The other men had all turned to watch, and they began to laugh and hoot, egging her on, but Devorast just stood there and looked down at her. There was the slightest hint of a smile curling the edges of his mouth, as if what she was saying amused him. He didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised, much less offended. That fanned Phyrea’s anger.

Words stuck in her throat. Her eyes grew hot and filled with tears, but she couldn’t suffer the idea of that man seeing her cry.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, inviting her to say more, and Phyrea just grimaced.

“Miss?” the grungy little foreman asked from behind her. “Is everything all right, Miss?”

Phyrea started to turn toward the foreman but then spun, whipping her right arm around and slapping Devorast full on the face. She was strong, and she hit him hard, but the man barely flinched at the blow. The impact sent a sharp stab of pain through her own wrist. Her palm burned from the blow and from the scrape of his rough, stubbly face. Her hand, wrist, and arm tingled and shook when she dropped it to her side.

Devorast smiled at her amid a cacophony of hoots, whistles, and gales of laughter from the other workers.

“Miss!” the foreman exclaimed. “Miss, has this man …?”

He couldn’t say it. Phyrea looked at him and shook her head.

“He has …” she said, blinking back her tears. “He offended me, but he didn’t touch me.”

“I will have him dismissed at once,” the foreman promised, sending a red-hot glare at Devorast.

“No,” Phyrea said. “No. I want him to stay and work. I want him to work until his back breaks.” She looked back over her shoulder at Devorast-just a glance. “It’s all he’s good for.”

The foreman said, “As you wish, Miss.” Phyrea was already stalking off back in the direction of the house.

She kept up a fast pace until she was over the hill, then she started running. She cried most of the way, sometimes stopping to cough and catch her breath. By the time she made it back to the house her thin linen dress was plastered to her, and her hair was soaked and matted with sweat.

She went into the kitchen and splashed water from a basin onto her face, wiping the kohl from her eyes. She cried off and on while she drank some of the water, then she broke a few dishes. She stomped around the room in an incoherent rage. Her eyes fell on a half-full bottle of Sembian wine. She picked it up-Usk Fine Old from Selgaunt, a fine vintage-and drank the rest of it in three long, choking gulps.

Phyrea sat on one of the kitchen chairs and cried for a long time, then sat there for a while longer. She didn’t think of Ivar Devorast. Finally she stood on weak legs and made her way down into the wine cellar. She picked a bottle at random and brought it up to the kitchen where she found a corkscrew and a glass. She opened the bottle as she walked back to her bed chamber. There she stoked the fire in the little black wood stove and began the comforting process of warming water for a bath.

The sun set before she was finally ready to strip off her sweat-soaked clothes. She drank the wine more slowly, and from a glass, but her mind still wouldn’t settle on a single thought. Devorast dominated her thoughts, but she was able to suppress the image of him enough to at least take care of herself.

She sat in the bath for a long time, slowly sipping the fine Turmishan vintage.

She had just poured the last of it into her glass and set the bottle down on the floor next to the tub when she saw him standing in the doorway.

The most surprising thing was that she wasn’t more surprised to see him there. She didn’t gasp or cry out. She sipped her wine and looked down to make sure that the foam on the water covered her. It was. Only her head and the soft curve of her shoulders were visible above the surface.

Devorast stared at her. He wore only dirty breeches. He wasn’t even wearing shoes.

“You’re trespassing,” she said, her voice echoing in the tiled bath chamber.

“Have me arrested,” he said. His voice played on her ears like a chorus of angels, though it was just a man’s voice.

Though the bathwater had long gone tepid, her body began to burn with a heat from within.

She lifted the glass to her full lips and took a tiny, playful sip, looking at Devorast from the corners of her eyes.

He stepped into the room and before she could set the glass on the floor next to the bottle, he was standing over her.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-” And his lips were on hers.

She wanted to fight him off but couldn’t. He reached into the bathwater, and his rough, strong hand covered the small of her back. He lifted her out of the water and drew her into an embrace that washed over her, warmer than any bathwater. She sank into him, and their tongues met. A moan sounded of its own accord deep beneath her breasts, which were pressed hard into his firm chest.

The tile floor was cold against her skin when he set her down, but he was on top of her and the warmth, the heat of his body, stole the cold away. The soap from the bathwater made them slide against each other. Her mind reeled and she felt almost as if she was about to lose consciousness.

His lips came off hers and started playing at her breasts. She breathed in short, shallow pants. Her hands explored his body one inch at a time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he helped her to pull off his breeches and Phyrea’s entire body tingled. She gasped again and started to shiver.

“Don’t,” she said, though she didn’t mean it.

“Stop it,” she whispered, but she didn’t stop either.

When his kisses went lower and lower down the front of her, her leg straightened and kicked over the wineglass. It shattered on the cold tile and she felt something hot and wet on her foot. They slid on the floor and she kicked the tub. A sharp sting blazed on her ankle and she only vaguely realized she’d cut herself. She didn’t care. She’d cut herself before.

“Who are you?” she moaned.

He grabbed the hair at the back of her neck and pulled her face into his. They kissed as if breathing each other in, as if they needed each other’s very life essence to survive.

“I should kill you,” she whispered as he took her head in his hands and guided her, took her, used her. And she let him.

She used him. And he let her.

In the morning, she awoke to find her ankle carefully bandaged, and the glass, wine, and blood cleaned from the tile floor.

She was alone in the house.

“If you want to cut yourself, it’s all right,” whispered a voice from beyond the grave. Phyrea closed her eyes and covered her ears, but she could still hear the whisper as clear as the sunshine streaming in through the open windows. “But use the sword. Use the sword.”

Phyrea lay in bed, trying to replace the voices in her head with memories of being in Devorast’s arms, of the powerful, confident man inside her.

Finally she rolled over and reached under her bed. She found the sword right where she’d hidden it, wrapped in a silk robe. She drew the blade and admired its cool platinum glow, evident even in the bright light of morning.

She drew back her covers and touched the wavy, razor-sharp blade to the inside of her thigh. There was a bandage there. She hadn’t bandaged herself there.

But he had.

She threw the sword to the floor where it clattered on the hardwood, and the ghosts of Berrywilde screamed while she dressed.