Vassal Sterling D'Este (top 10 books of all time .TXT) 📖

Which would show just how much Esha knew about the raising of God children.

Instead of arguing with her anymore, however, Va'al just smiled. “Perhaps you are right, but even so, it will take time. Come, let them play.”

He tugged her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to her wrist, breathing in the warm smells of earth and skin. He might take Mascen and leave soon, but he meant to enjoy her in the meantime. Esha frowned though her eyes were on his lips. Esha rarely denied him, even when they disagreed.

“You aren’t worried by his nature?”

Va'al shoved aside a twinge of annoyance. He was tired of these talks. She seemed to bring it up at every opportunity these days. “No, of course not. Children are meant to be rambunctious. Children of the Gods even more so. He’ll grow out of it.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Esha wanted to know, coming closer despite her chastising tone. He had her now.

“Then you will get to say that you were right and I was wrong.” He pulled her tight against him, his voice dropping. “And wouldn’t you enjoy that?”

He knew he had won when she melted into him, her mouth parted for a kiss. She was willing enough to be quieted for a time, quite unlike the boy’s mother. Still, he would be glad to have Enyo back, if only to be relieved from raising their child for a time.

Chapter XVIII

Seventh Moon, Waxing Gibbous: Thloegr

“No. I’m saying you couldn’t possibly begin to understand the fortitude it takes to wrestle a bear, let alone mate with it. Bears don’t care about wry smiles and pretty words. Which is about all you’re good for.”

The fact that this topic was still being brought up, even three weeks later,and debated between Enyo and Tristan, was ridiculous. Even more so was the fact that she was getting quite heated about it, both clinging to Tristan’s arm as he was currently ‘in’ her favor and glaring up at him in a mixture of displeasure and adoration. As if it mattered, his offhand comment about Delyth’s heritage.

But whenever Enyo was bored, she’d bring the topic up, Tristan would inevitably rise to her bait, and the bantering would begin. It was very likely that Enyo simply enjoyed the conflict, or perhaps the annoyance the topic brought to her human companions. Whatever the reason, when things were too quiet, too comfortable…

“I doubt you could even rise to the occasion—” One of her regular taunts on the topic.

Along with these occasional debates, the weeks had been filled with a fair bit of bickering. Not just with Enyo. If she wasn’t creating animosity, then Tristan seemed to have a talent for stirring up resentments and insecurities. He could get Alphonse to weep within a matter of minutes if he really wanted to, if Delyth or Etienne didn’t step in first.

He was the master of earning icy glares from Delyth and had once managed to make Etienne so flustered that his face had turned red, and the sorcerer lost control of himself enough to deliberately set Tristan’s cloak on fire.

Enyo had laughed herself sick at the sight.

Slowly the time that Enyo was in control started to increase. Sometimes for an hour or more, others for long stretches of the day. Even with an entire night’s rest and a full belly, Alphonse would have moments of wretched silence that seemed to indicate a struggle to remain herself.

Her moods were more fragile, as well. Alphonse, who never shouted and never showed frustration, snapped at Etienne once over the campfire. Another time she told Tristan that he could keep his ogling eyes to himself. Sharp words for the customarily composed and soft-spoken healer.

Of course, she apologized, even to Tristan, later, but Alphonse knew the others noticed her strangeness and surely wondered what it meant.

She knew what it meant.

For she remembered more and more of what Enyo was up to when in control. Which surely meant that Enyo was also aware when Alphonse was in charge. And slipping in her own impulses.

The sickness weighed heavier with each step, and the voice in the back of her mind spoke more frequently. At times it was useful, pointing out animal tracks or a field of root vegetables they could eat.

Other times begging to run, to dance, to be free.

To drink.

That one command Alphonse ignored above all else, and the voice would snarl viciously and rake its claws against her mind. Those were the times she could not speak at all for the pain within her skull, or lashed out, snapping unkindly at her poor companions.

It terrified her, that feeling of infinite hunger.

Her only respite, it seemed, was the few quiet moments she and Delyth could steal, limited as they were. Before bed, upon waking, or even just curled up the fire, water boiling for tea. Sometimes she was too tired to even speak, but the closeness the priestess and Alphonse shared was a balm. Other days they would chat idly of times and places far away from here. Far away from Enyo. Far away from the fate that Alphonse was slowly becoming resigned to.

While they were careful with open affection—Alphonse, because she wasn’t the type to be overly public with her feelings, Delyth, because she had no interest in airing her private business—things seemed comfortable. More natural. Almost relaxed between the two.

Alphonse was utterly grateful for this closeness, for as they traveled further north, further along those mountain ranges, the nights became bitterly cold. The days too, were becoming brisk and chilly. It was difficult to remember that in the lowlands of Ingola, it was full summer now. Had she been back in her home village, or even the sheltered halls of Moxous, she would have been covered in a thin sheen of sweat always.

Here she wore two thickly woven shawls and woolen stockings, even to bed. Except when Enyo got it into her head to