Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (3 page)

The spells had started with the appearance of her woman's moon. Valdis hadn't taken much notice of them in the beginning. They were flickers of inattention, she told herself. Then she realized she would fade out of normal family conversations, losing snippets of stories told by firelight and coming back to awareness only at the end of jokes, when everyone else was doubled over with mirth and she was left to wonder what she'd missed. Once, her mother scolded her for batting her eyes too much. She hadn't realized she'd done so.

Then there was that day in the forest when she was herding geese one moment and lying in a tangle of gorse the next, scratched and disoriented, her chin wet with her own spittle.

She was undoubtedly witched.

The Greek was talking now, low-pitched instructions to the body slave, who responded in deferential tones. Valdis watched them through the thin curtain, hazy forms without distinguishing features.

Just like my dream, until the last terrible moment.

She pushed back the sheet and reached for her own palla before the body slave could hustle over to assist her. She hadn't been dressed by another since she was toddling. It made no sense to revert to such helplessness now.

Once she was clothed, the Greek approached her, bearing a silver tray. He set it down on the low table near her sleeping couch. The ebony table was inlaid with ivory and far finer than anything in Ragnvald's home, and his was the best in the fjord.

Valdis was still in awe of the Greek's grand apartments. Sleek marble floors of moss green, thick damask wall hangings depicting jewel-toned birds whose fanlike plumage was surely an artist's fantasy, and everywhere the imperial golden eagle of Byzantium—on the caps of columns, on the strange two-tined implement with which the Greek encouraged her to eat, and on the gold signet ring that never left the man's right forefinger. Sometimes, the grandeur became more than Valdis could bear and she was forced to squeeze her eyes shut to let her mind rest.

“Day-mee-uhn,” the Greek said, his long-fingered hand splayed across his chest. He gave her a hopeful nod.

Valdis just looked at him. She knew he was telling her his name and encouraging her to reciprocate. But why should she? The longer she kept him from realizing she was picking up much more of his language than she voiced, the longer she'd be able to live in this silken gaol without any other duties than to eat and sleep unmolested while she uncovered a method of escape.

The Greek didn't seem to want her body. Why then did he want her to speak to him so badly? And if all the man wanted was conversation, why hadn't he bought a Greek girl?

She picked up a slice of fruit and bit into it, the unusual combination of tart and sweet making her mouth water.

“Orange,” he said.

She filed the information away, but didn't repeat the word as he clearly wished for her to do. She swallowed the delightful bite and grinned at him. There was no need to be unpleasant just because she was being uncooperative.

A muscle twitched along the Greek's smooth jaw, but though he scowled darkly, Valdis knew she was in no danger. A man capable of doing a woman real harm had a hardness about his eyes, a glint of steel protruding from his soul. Though her captor carried himself like a warrior, something in his face spoke of an intimate acquaintance with suffering. In some men, pain begat cruelty; in others, an empathetic spirit. The Greek would not beat her. However, the guards stationed outside the door of his chambers assuredly would if he gave the word.

But this man would not give such an order.

Valdis took another bite of the orange, licked her lips, and smiled once more.

Damian let the door slam behind him. How could he have miscalculated so badly? He was sure he'd found the right woman for the task, certain he'd seen the requisite spark of intelligence in her unusual eyes. He treated her with kindness, almost deference. How could she be so slow in grasping his desire that she master his language?

It was probably not a mental defect, despite that moment on the dais when her eyes seemed to glaze over strangely. No doubt she suffered from shock after the bastinado was applied to her feet. The rapid fluttering of her eyelids made her mismatched eyes seem all the more supernatural. It was just the thing to convince the superstitious that she communed with the spirit world. It would certainly increase the plausibility of the ruse he intended.

She was being stubborn, as only those cursed
barbaroi
could be.

He could be just as stubborn. Though he'd hoped not to involve another party, he was going to have to bring in one. Quintilian was sending over the best Greek speaker from among his Norse officers first thing this morning.

He could see no other course. Even so, it galled Damian to have to use a Varangian. He was enough a student of history to mistrust them. After all, years ago a flotilla of five hundred dragonships attempted the sack of Constantinople itself. Even with the advantage of the weapon known as Greek fire, the ferocity of the Northmen nearly prevailed. The emperor, in his divine wisdom, had deemed it expedient to hire the
barbaroi
and incorporate the Norse pirates into the body politic of the Empire. Since the first Northman donned a
byrnnie
stamped with the Imperial eagle, the Varangian Guard had pledged their honors and their lives to the service of the Byzantine Emperor.

But Damian was a skeptic at heart. Loyalty bought with
bezants
couldn't compete with the devotion of a native-born Roman. Technically, he admitted to being Greek, as nearly everything in the great city was, from the culture and architecture to the people themselves, but in his heart, he was Roman—a defender of the glory of the fallen West, a jewel of hope for mankind that still glistened in this eastern setting.

Hadn’t the same sort of godless barbarians as the Varangians toppled the first Rome?

Damian followed the labyrinth of corridors to his office, deep in the bowels of the Imperial Palace. Even in this remote place, far below ground where it was unlikely any foreign dignitary would ever tread, the love of beauty led designers to fashion a pleasing space. Damian slid the key into the lock on the silver-plated door and let himself in.

The scent of leather bindings and musty parchment greeted his nostrils. Light shafted from a row of clerestory windows. The wells that brought sunshine to his lair were narrow and deep and grated at the surface with iron bars. No one could venture down the constricted tunnels to gain entrance to his vault by that route, and Damian possessed the only key to the door.

It was good that the door was kept locked. One entire wall was honeycombed with cubbyholes filled with scrolls and bound manuscripts. If Damian were the type to be motivated by greed, he possessed enough secret information in this small space to blackmail most of the Byzantine nobility into threadbare poverty.

But his concern was not gain. It was for the emperor's safety and continued reign. To ensure that end, he was not above using either subtle means or brute force.

Someone pounded on the door.

“Speaking of brute force,” Damian muttered, then raised his voice. “Come.”

The Varangian swung open the door and stomped in with typical
barbaroi
disregard for decency and decorum. Better to let this underling know his exact position from the start, Damian decided.

He didn't spare the man a glance, making a great show of studying the missive spread before him. It was an inconsequential report. He employed numerous spies throughout the great city and frequently paid for drivel, but one never knew when a nugget of pure gold might be found among the dross.

The hardened leather of the Northman's chest piece creaked as the
barbaroi
shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Damian shuffled a paper or two and signed his name with a flourish to the last one before deigning to look up.

He recognized the man immediately. It was the Varangian who drove the girl's price so unconscionably high. Obviously, the Northman remembered Damian as well because that same sneer creased his lip.

“There's been some mistake,” Damian said. “What are you doing here?”

“I am under orders,” he answered in flawless Greek. The man handed over a scroll bearing the seal of the general. “I was told to report to the office of the chief eunuch. However, if there's been a mistake, I'll be more than happy to return to my unit. I've fought many campaigns to win my centurion eagle. This reassignment is likely to cost me my command.”

Damian returned the Northman's scowl and ripped open the scroll. He ran his gaze over the familiar, precise curlicue script and read:

Hail Damian Aristarchus,

Greetings.

Before you stands Erik Heimdalsson, a centurion under my command. In truth, I am loath to lose him, but you demanded our best Greek speaker from among the
Tauro-Scythians.

Damian was mildly surprised to see the leader of the Varangians use this epithet for his troops.
Tauro-Scythian
was even less kindly meant than
barbaroi.
Then his time in armed service rushed back to him and he remembered his old commander swearing the air blue and denigrating the heritage of his favorites. He read on.

I
assure you that Heimdalsson is the best. He has an infallible ear for languages and can ape several different accents, Horn Cretan to Paphlagonian. He is quick-tempered and should be deemed dangerous, but there is no officer among this pack of wild dogs I'd rather have at my side in battle. Tell him I'll have him hung upside down in the barracks if he fails to please you.

Damian smiled at the image of the smug warrior in such a demeaning position before he returned to the letter.

There is one stipulation on the transfer of Heimdalsson to your command. I understand your desire to have him gelded before he enters your Imperial service, but let me assure you such a course would render the man useless. While there is no stigma attached to the condition of a eunuch among us
—
indeed, as you yourself have experienced, it is often the path of preferment to high office
—
but among the Varangians, it is a source of such shame, the man would probably fall on his own sword.

Written with the callousness of an intact man,
Damian thought with bitterness. He shifted in his seat. How often had he contemplated the very course? Suicide had held real appeal for him during the excruciating period of recovery after the hot knife severed his ballocks from his shocked body. Sometimes, when he woke in the night, drenched in old woman's sweat, Damian still weighed the value of a gladius thrust to his heart. He read on:

Heimdalsson may be a hell-bound
barbaroi,
but he has taken the Varangian Oath. Among the Northmen, a pledge binds a man more effectively than the promise of gold, which I'll not deny they covet beyond the degree of most. Erik is the emperor's pledge-man. He will serve you well.

The document was duly signed and embossed with the general's signet. Damian rolled up the scroll and tapped the end absently on the enamel desktop.

This was an unexpected turn. He'd tried to find a female Norse-speaker for the task, but it seemed the
Tauro-Scythians
preferred to keep their fair-haired women in their distant frozen vastness. If Damian had to employ a Northman at all, common decency required he be a eunuch since the man would be spending copious amounts of time with a virgin. Quintilian had ruled that out and Damian could not afford to feud with the man who controlled a force of
berserkrs
a thousand strong. Now Damian would have to monitor the time the girl spent with her language tutor—time he could put to use elsewhere, but her purity must be without question for his plans to succeed.

Damian would have preferred a Northman without a personal interest in the girl. Of course, given her unique appeal, any man would soon acquire an interest.

Even a half-man, he admitted to himself. When he was first gelded, he continued to wake each morning with a painful erection for some months, an ache that could not be assuaged. Then he schooled himself to thrust that part of his nature aside, to cultivate the life of the mind to compensate for the loss of the flesh. But since the girl had taken up residence in his apartments, his phallus stirred to life once more with frustrated lust.

He studied Heimdalsson's rough-hewn face, meeting the Northman's icy gaze without a blink. Damian read a certain undisciplined intelligence in the
barbaroi's
features.

But could he be trusted? Perhaps it didn't matter. Just because he made use of the man, the
Tauro-Scythian
didn't have to be privy to all Damian's plans.

“Very well, Northman,” he finally said. “I'm told the Varangians are prepared to die for the emperor if needs be. Is this true?”

“I am the Bulgar-Slayer's pledge-man,” Heimdalsson answered. “My blade and my body are the emperor's to command. My heart's blood is his. What does my lord the emperor require of me?”

“Nothing so dramatic, I fear. You'll be back leading the charge at the head of your one hundred ruffians in no time.” One corner of Damian's mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You only have to tame and teach a willful woman.”

A tingle of fear pierced Valdis's groin. She stood on the edge of a cliff, albeit a man-made one. She leaned over the balustrade of the balcony and peered at the
tagmata
exercise yard below. The Imperial forces struck terror in the hearts of all peoples who lived along the coasts of the inland sea, but the fighting men far beneath Valdis's feet looked small and insignificant from this height.