L'Delmah d'l'Yochlol
Dyvynasshar, Nalaya
Pointed nails dug into the soft flesh of his throat. He could feel the breath at his ear as intimate as a lover's and smell exotic incense mingling with the copper tang of blood. Simon Norayan tried to move, but the claws only dug in deeper. They were not quite puncturing the skin. More animal than woman, this creature seemed supernaturally strong. He tried not to think of the other hand that was pinning his dominant wrist to the wall. He was afraid to strike at her, knowing that only death awaited those who went down such a road...let alone before the prying eyes of the others. Feeling helpless was new to the former milits'iayi. He heard her inhale sharply near his ear, no doubt taking in the scent of his fear. "Why do you squirm, little thing?" she purred into his ear, body just barely not touching his. It wasn't a position about sex at all, despite how it might have looked. This was all about power. It was an uncomfortable role reversal for him. "Do you not like it? Poor, unfortunate creature. Shall I kiss it better? Would the miserable mouse prefer such a thing? I would rather see you bleed." There was laughter and he felt the fear twist in his gut like a knife.
"The Dread Wolf—" he tried.
"The Quarval-sharess does not speak to your kind, little thing. She does not waste her time with prey," the woman said in that same, throaty voice. He could hear the amusement and accompanying smile. The vivid knowledge that she was enjoying this, the way he shifted his weight to try and get free or the flexing of the muscles in his arm where he tried to get away. She had him in the perfect position, where his arms were pinned just so and leverage was firmly against him. "The Dread Wolf would fling your scraps into the rubbish heap. I am more charitably disposed, little thing. Squeak out your message and if it is pleasing to the ear, I will release you."
He closed his eyes and silently prayed that the creature would like what she heard. Servants of the Nava'ai heads of government were not well liked, even less so those servants who were known to harbor anti-L'i'dol sentiments. His own affiliations were such. "Ter Karagozian would like a meeting to discuss the end of the mediation talks. He extends his sincerest apologies that the conversation was not amicable enough to ensure cooperation. That is all, Most Revered."
"Sincerest apologies," she repeated back at him with a growl against his ear. He flinched, but she released his arm. For a moment, Simon really did think he would go free. It was only the last second when he felt the press of a silver point beneath his jaw as the blade was driven up into his skull when he realized his error. It was a bloody death, but a swift one.
Alaunirra stepped back and dropped the still-twitching body. She licked the blood off her lips and ignored the spatters across her tattooed face and torso. The pool of blood grew and grew on the stone floor, but another would clean it up along with the body in due time. Her violet eyes were thoughtful as they looked out one of the archways into a garden left to run wild. Long grass swayed in the wind between thorned trees and flowering brambles. It was an inhospitable beauty, as much to be respected for its danger as its delicate blossoms. "So they want to kiss up to us now that it seems it will be a war. Their cravenness is their constancy." She touched her chin at the center of the red and black stripe that bisected it into a left and a right half.
"You could have let him live," one of the others pointed out, an older man with geometrically patterned blue tattoos that almost looked like painted woad. He was the only one who didn't look amused.
"His continued existence insulted me," she said, stalking towards the double doors. "I will inform the Quarval-sharess that the passionless pleading has begun."
"Good luck," a female voice called after her as she slipped through them.
The home of the yochlol was a villa in the Roman style built here near the heart of the Holy City, five minutes' walk from the Fane itself and stood replete with wild gardens and a bubbling spring. Guardians and leaders in the absence of a Quarva-sharess or Quarval-sharuk, the yochlol were seven of the yath'abban elevated to a greater status and marked by their silver and green tattoos. This was also the place that the Quarval-sharess took her mundane rest beyond the walls of the Fane itself. It was well known that the Dread Wolf had returned to the city from Karsoluthiyl weary and eager to wash all traces of the world beyond from her skin. Alaunirra was one of the few that could disturb the woman in her ablutions, as close as a daughter to the mercurial Dread Wolf. She was wolf-kin herself and had followed Lledrith A'Daragon from a young age.
She stepped into the steam-filled baths and inhaled the smell of spiced soaps. It was a welcome change from the dryness of the early spring air. Dyvynasshar was still semi-arid despite its glaciated surrounding mountains. "Dark Mother, I have a message from the insects of the rotting carcass that is Armavir," Alaunirra said as she approached. She heard the water splash as someone rose from the bath and grabbed a towel.
The dripping wet figure of Lledrith A'Daragon in a towel was still imposing. She was the same height as Alaunirra but seemed immeasurably taller. Perhaps it was because the yathallar was in the presence of that which was considered divine. The bold black lines of her tattoos were readily visible, but the subtler lines of gold took closer inspection to observe against her tanned skin. The Dread Wolf reclined at the edge of the pool, muscles flexing as she propped her head up with her hand. "Sit and speak," she said in a voice like honey.
Alaunirra sat down at the opposite side of the pool and let her legs dangle in the warm water. It was soothing, though curls of orange dispersed from her feet where she had blood dripped across bare skin. "The two-faced one would like a meeting to draw us back into the talks. He spoke of sincerity. Such things cannot bode well."
"Fascinating," Lledrith said. She closed her eyes thoughtfully. "And the faern?"
"I still have no proof beyond doubt, Arzhani," Alauirra admitted. "The Unkndirnei have not been...keen...to share information on our missing and dead. They insist this is a national security matter."
"It is of no consequence," the Dread Wolf said with the placidity of a tired predator. "An animal cannot conceal its nature for long, even an insect. Camouflage is only a method of attack or survival. They will strike or they will flee, and then we will have everything we need. Then a fire will come down upon Armavir such as it has never known. We will turn sand to polished glass and stone to charred rubble. There will be nothing left."
Alaunirra smiled. She had her own reasons to hate that city and the people within it. Any mention of vengeance was both gratifying and soothing. It treated the poison that coursed in her veins every time she had to think of Tadevos Ohanyan and his city. Still, someone had to be the voice of reason even if it was a fundamentally unreasonable yathallar. "The qu'ilinasaren and their C'rintrin will not be welcoming of such a change. They have become accustomed to peace and its bland fruits."
"They have a duty as the faithful. They will answer the call," Lledrith said. A broad, blissful smile spread languidly across her features. "What a day that will be."
Quellarin Nasadra
Karsoluthiyl, Nalaya
Sabrae sighed contently, her head tipped back as she stretched out in the sun like some kind of cat. Her feet were propped up on her assistant's lap as she listened to the gentle susurrus of soft voices speaking in the fluid language of her people and the scents of blooming roses drifted in through the open archways. A brilliant red butterfly fluttered in and settled on the head of the couch near her. She seemed to be dozing more than listening to business as Nalfein took down his notes, though nothing could be further from the truth. A book rested open, but face down on her stomach. She was not the oldest woman in the room, but she had enough senority to be able to just listen quietly without appearing to attend. Adinirahc was speaking, which was a particularly obnoxious sound on the best of days that she invariably found grating, but today it didn't bother her. They were all on the same side for the first time in...years. The Norveni invasion had faded into the past and taken with it the spirit of cooperation. But now they were staring down a future war. It should have wound her muscles as tight as those of the other C'rintrin here assembled. However, she had long ago made her peace with the Quarval-sharess's will.
"You operate under the mistaken impression that Lledrith A'Daragon is a creature that can be reasoned with," she said from where she lay with her sapphire eyes closed and her blonde hair, shot through with silver, loose on the cushions. She was in her mid-forties now but still maintained a certain reserved beauty. "All of us could condemn what she is doing, but what do such words have in the face of a creature with the unswerving passions of the divine? There is cold, hard logic and there is the fury that is faith. I know which I prefer, but I also know which will win out in the hearts of the multitude."
"And is that your official position, Ilharess?" Adinirahc said shortly, his fists clenched tightly and were pressed against his thighs. The Ilharn Masq'il'yr was not a happy man. His powerful shoulders were strung as tightly as piano wire.
"Are we standing in the chambers?" she said idly, turning her head and opening her eyes to examine the butterfly. "Lesaonar and I will make our official positions known tomorrow, and not a moment before." She heard him growl in displeasure and a couple of the others shifted, but there was no argument. "In the meantime, we should accept that Armavir will antagonize the Dread Wolf until she cannot remain inactive. The question is what the Tigress will do."
"Or what she won't do," Lesaonar said, stroking his neatly trimmed, steel-colored beard. He was a man of average height for a Mak'ur, and neither fat nor thin. Age had taken some of his muscle mass, but he was still a powerful man. His oxford's sleeves were rolled up to show the many tiny scars up and down his tanned arms, each one the mark of his own blood shed in thanks for a victory. His swirling grey tattoos were readily visible on exposed skin. "We can expect her not to bomb Dyvynasshar or Armavir, but anything that moves in border territory between the Homeland and the Highlands can expect to take fire."
"If T'avish is pushed, nowhere is safe. This is a shove," the Ilharess Dalael said. She was a curvy woman with dark, hawkish eyes that spoke of her own hints of Nava'ai ancestry. "The Quarval-sharess will strike without hesitation at the heart of the enemy. Armavir will be a battleground. There will be no alternative for the Avangardn but to go in with military force. What we need to be prepared for is what the Nava'ai will say. If they garner foreign aid...if they insist they are the force for democracy in Nalaya...if they say this is an excuse for the Tigress to consolidate power and eliminate political rivals in one of her famous bloodbaths...what will we do?"
All of the fourteen of them, the proud leaders of the seven great qu'ilinasar, fell silent in contemplation. Finally, after several minutes of considering her position carefully, Sabrae spoke. "We can muddy the waters by claiming they intend to wipe out our faith and destroy our holy sites. That would not be a lie. Furthermore, we can appeal to the rest of Nalaya. If the Vatani can be persuaded, which shouldn't be difficult when Qasim is released, we have a substantial power base. The Arusai and Imanalov' will follow the Protector."
"Drawing ethnic lines is dangerous. We need the Yath to stress that the Nava'ai ku'nal are under assault as well," Adinirahc warned. "We may have to arrange some incidents to get them to do so. They have tunnel vision at the moment and do not concern themselves with appearances."
"I think between all of us we can make that happen. Sabrae I know has considerable influence in the border regions," Lesaonar said calmly. "Though if the Quarval-sharess were to find out, heads would roll."
"Heads will roll anyway if those tribal animals make it to Karsoluthiyl. They would like us destroyed just as much as L'i'dol," the Ilharess Dalael commented. "Let us merely agree that now is a time for secrecy and pledge never to let her find out. We do not need a purge of the unworthy—we all have too may hidden flaws to survive such close examination."
There was a murmur of agreement and Sabrae rubbed her eyes. "If we cause incidents, it may kick off a war early. This must be done with the utmost care. We will have to wait until it is inevitable," she said. Then she swung her legs to the side and sat up. "I think we have a plan. Shall we adjourn and reconvene tomorrow in a more official fashion?"
The general agreement through the room signalled the end of the conversation. Sabrae waited until everyone but Lesaonar, including Nalfein, had left before she stood up. "This is extremely tiresome. If I could kill the Nava'ai leadership myself, I would do it in a heartbeat," Lesaonar said, though he was watching her with interest as she sauntered over and took a seat in his lap. Their little liaisons were not appropriate considering their positions—such things were too dangerously close to consolidation of power between a couple—but the appeal remained in the physical realms. He had his wife, but there was something intoxicating about having something as powerful and ultimately unconquerable as Sabrae T'sarran under his control even for a little while. "You know, some of them are probably still in earshot."
"Do you really care?" she countered, casually starting to unbutton his shirt. "Perhaps you are fine, but I need an outlet for frustration at the moment." A smile turned up the corners of her mouth when she felt his hand slide up beneath her skirt. He could do the most delightful things when he was in the right mood. She didn't love him, but she appreciated him. "Good boy." She knew it would irritate him, which was the point. She knew how to needle him into doing what she really wanted.
Just as she'd hoped, he scowled and the touch on the inside of her thigh became an almost bruising grip of her leg. "Remember what you're baiting, Sabrae," he growled in her ear.
Her smile was cat-like and smug. "I know exactly what I'm doing, ussta mrannd'ssiniss."
Even irritated, he knew that was most certainly true. The coming conflict, the qu'ilinasar, even this—her part was all planned and carefully executed. It was one of the things he admired about her. He moved her collar to the side and bit down less than gently at the junction of her neck and shoulder, earning a sharp intake of breath and a moan.
They were both going to enjoy this.
