Taelin saw him as a boy with a new puppy in a sack. The sack’s neck was knotted; it was weighted down with rocks. Caliph knew that it had to be done but he didn’t want to do it—yet he wasn’t going to blubber about it either. Taelin could see that and her heart melted. She wanted to comfort him. She left her chair and crouched beside him, daring to reach out and touch the High King’s hand. It was innocent, she told herself.
His fingers were warm and soft. His nails manicured.
“Lady Rae—” Oh no! But then he pulled something golden out of his pocket. Something almost glowing. “I picked it up.”
It startled her, but not because it represented a sign from her goddess that she was being shamelessly inappropriate. In fact, she didn’t even see it as a symbol of Nenuln anymore. It was just a necklace with no special powers other than the sentimental fact that it had belonged to her grandfather. What amazed her was that he had rescued it and kept it for her.
“Oh…” she said.
“What?”
“Thank you.” She took it from him, then abruptly leaned forward and planted her mouth against his. She almost stopped there. She almost pulled back and left it at that. But she didn’t. She pushed her advantage. Kissed him again. Waiting to see if he would resist. When he didn’t, when she realized that he had actually begun to kiss her back, her body filled with heat.
It wasn’t wrong. The relationship between Caliph Howl and his witch queen was nothing official. It had never been recognized. Never been authorized by any church. No vows, no certificate; it meant nothing.
Thank gods she could still save him.
Her head was buzzing, maybe from the wine. And despite this breach in protocol, her head, her whole body was telling her this was the way to defeat Sena Iilool. She moved up on top of the High King, one leg on either side of his chair. She closed her eyes and smiled as Caliph’s lips worked down the side of her neck. She ground herself down hard against him.
It was moments later that he lifted her up off the deck and carried her back to his stateroom.
CHAPTER
31
Taelin woke up the next day pale and wretched. She couldn’t believe what she had done or that he had let her. And yet it had been just what she needed. She couldn’t help toying with the idea that maybe it could work … maybe it could last.
Impossible! She stayed in her room, pacing, staring out the porthole at faint wisps of vapor that passed for clouds, tearing at her fingernails with her teeth.
That was when she noticed the little silver patch on the underside of her wrist. There were two spots actually, directly over the blue shadow of her veins. Nothing to worry about. Right? After all, she had been vaccinated. So had everyone else on the ship. She turned her wrist in the window light. It shimmered beautifully.
Her thoughts went back to Caliph. She didn’t remember returning to her room … or the details of his room. But she did recall the startling crackle of static as she had pulled his shirt off, discrete electrical ghosts that limned the soft-woven blackness before falling into dark trenches around the bed. Mostly she remembered the feel of the sex.
Her cheeks went through cycles, burning and cooling then burning again. What am I going to do?
What if he acts like nothing happened?
There was a knock at her door. She put her face in one hand and closed her eyes. “Who is it?” she called.
A voice said, “Specks. Are you coming to breakfast, Lady Rae?” It was a lilting impersonation of something almost masculine and chivalrous. She had to smile. But then the implications of going to breakfast sank in. A host of possibilities raced through her head. In the end, she decided not going was far riskier than going.
“Yes,” she called back. “I’ll be right there.” Oh shit! she thought. Then she looked in the mirror.
“Oh shit!”
She cleaned up, pulled her hair back into a tail and pinned it in place. She rummaged for something light and relaxed to wear.
She left her room.
Refracted morning light played designer, painting different colored stripes across the ceiling; pastel bands led her toward an antiseptic blaze at the end of the hall.
She found her way out onto the zeppelin’s port deck where a small crowd of people bantered over breakfast. But it wasn’t actually all that jovial. The more she listened the more solemn and uncertain the mood registered. What laughter seeped out echoed in the aluminum railings, affected and strange.
The witches were seated to Caliph’s right. She noticed the large shape of Sigmund Dulgensen, sitting in his overalls, and the judgmental glare of Dr. Baufent whose short gray hair spiked in the breeze. Baufent was staring at her.
When Taelin looked at Caliph she thought, A hello kiss? Certainly not! She resigned herself to “Good morning.”
He smiled at her but gave no special indication that everything was fine. Instead he seemed as preoccupied as ever, scanning the faces around him.
The witches were talking, their glittering eyes full of tiny geometric designs. Taelin looked beyond the railing, at a landscape that had changed magically over night. Orange dunes with serpentine crests harbored pools of shadow. Miles of sand glittered under daybreak as the sun punched east. For a moment, Taelin watched the Bulotecus’ stretched silhouette passing over the ground.
She looked for Sena’s ship and found it. A fleck of white.
It refused a definable shape: in one moment it resembled the pupa of a tremendous insect, then fantastically, a pale tuber. But they were momentary semblances. It shifted, bulbous portions smoothing out, planing into curious banks of gill-like clefts on some albescent batoid, slipping with mercurial swiftness to the next.
“It’s only a bitch if they find us,” she heard Sigmund say.
“Of course they’ll find us,” snapped Baufent. Taelin turned around. The physician was digging in a halved citrus with a serrated spoon.
“They might not,” said one of the witches. “They don’t have towers in the desert.”
Notably missing from the group was the Iycestokian diplomat and his bodyguard. Taelin sat down in one of the empty seats, hoping for a reaction from Caliph. His indifference was quickly dragging her into a black spiral of depression.
“Well, at least a breakdown ain’t likely,” joked Sigmund.
Speak for yourself, Taelin thought.
“Ship’s in good working order,” he went on, “and we have enough juice to get us quite a ways. I think we’re in good shape.”
“Will you kindly shut up?” said Baufent. She glared at the mechanic. “We are not in good shape, you idiot.” She got up and left the deck.
Sigmund scratched the side of his neck and looked sheepish. “Just trying to look on the bright side,” he muttered.
Taelin’s chair was near but not too near to Caliph. She listened to him talking with the witches—all four of them beautiful and sparkling. They made Taelin feel like a wreck. “Sig’s right,” Caliph said. “We need to stay positive. If she’s headed to Bablemum. That’s what? Another five hundred miles, give or take?”
Taelin tried to absorb the conversation about chasing Sena. She tried to feel its importance. But it slipped past her. She wanted to be one of the grown-ups at the table but instead felt like a petulant child. It was the perfect metaphor, really. And why? Why had her life always been like this? No matter where she went, it was always the same.
The captain’s baritone nearly shot Taelin out of her seat. “Yes,” he said. She hadn’t noticed him standing directly behind her, holding his coffee. His other arm was wrapped around his son. Specks held on to his father’s waist, resting his head against the captain’s body. “No matter what happens, we’ll have to dock in Bablemum. Pick up a charge. Get supplies.”