Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

things”—Ariston gestured at the four-legged shapes with flat wooden tops—“that go beyond our understanding.”

“Seems obvious to me. We’re in a place of education.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Look.” Sol stabbed his finger at a dark gray board marked with chalk letters. “A teacher’s slate. A very large one. I recognize some of the Latin words from my days among the Romans—and we are in Romania, are we not?”

“I once knew a Roman soldier or two,” Erota said.

Nineteen years of age, this dark-haired nymph and her younger sister were the daughters of Eros. At one time, they’d served under Megiste as prostitutes at the Grecian temple.

Not to be distracted, Ariston sucked in his gut and responded to his son. “Believe me, we will hunt. But this modern culture is new to us, and the Concealed Ones are known to be as wise as serpents.” He lifted a book from a table. “We should study. Like good hunters, we may need to learn the terrain first and then explore the best uses of camouflage.”

“I disagree. We’ve gone unseen long enough.”

“Yes, well—you always were worried about being noticed, weren’t you?”

Sol glared out the window, gnawing on his cheek.

Shelamzion shot Ariston a look of chastisement, which he deflected. She had sided with her son since their days in Jerusalem, and she was still reeling from dear Salome’s loss. Tonight, he figured, there was no room for such parental anxieties.

Helene was the voice of reason. “Let’s keep our egos in check, shall we? It’s been said that ‘a house divided against itself will fall.’ We are one—the Houses of Eros and Ariston. Joined together, there’s no reason we can’t make all other Collectors squirm at our success.”

“A worthy sentiment, my doe.”

Discord and division had long been the bane of Collectors every-where, and Ariston had to wonder if the seeds of such turmoil weren’t rooted in that first cataclysmic revolt by the Master Collector himself.

“While we wait,” he said, “let’s each of us select one of the flat scrolls here from the room, something to further our understanding of these new times we find ourselves in.”

Too thirsty and weak to argue, the others complied.

Sol said, loud enough for all to hear, “Judging by these drawings, father, I don’t think your yellow- and red-dotted robes were meant to be worn by a man.”

For once, Ariston and his son agreed.

Thirty minutes later, Barabbas and Megiste returned with sealed bags in their arms. The cluster drank together, slurping, staining their lips dark red. Color flowed back into faces and necks, eyes brightened, and the mood lightened.

“Come,” Ariston said at last. “We have only a day’s journey to Arad.”

The others faced him with renewed purpose and respect. It helped, of course, that he had changed from his seam-popping, polka-dotted, white robe into something more befitting a leader. He now wore blue leggings and a matching cotton jacket pilfered from the storage room. Even Eros, eternally suave, looked impressed.

“And once we make it to Arad, it’s but a short jaunt to the village Mendel told us about. Cuvin, I believe he called it.”

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Cuvin

The Provocateur reappeared the next morning, this time in a dented red Dacia that sputtered outside the gate. Gina recognized his gum-chewing and level voice. His tapered silhouette at the front door stamped itself into her mind even as her mother scrabbled about the kitchen and the alcove, packing items into a soft-sided suitcase.

Gina tried to catch his eye. To read his intentions.

His dispassionate gaze made her wonder if the earrings had been from him, after all. She’d started wearing them last week, with nothing but a skewed glance from Nicoleta, and she was wearing them now.

Yet he showed no reaction. Maybe because her mother was here.

“I’ll be back, my angel.” Nicoleta had pulled up her hair in a yellow ribbon and her lips were full and pink. “Treia will keep an eye on you.”

“Can’t I come along?”

“No, you stay and take care of the house.”

“I won’t get in the way.”

“You’re staying, while I go to find you a better life.”

Gina glanced toward the Provocateur, eyes pleading. “What if I—”

“You’re staying here, is that clear? Now take this.” Nicoleta pressed their dagger into Gina’s hand. “Keep this with you. If anyone tries to break in, you stab them through the heart. Am I clear?”

“Mamica, I—”

“You do it.”

“Okay.” She grasped the weapon’s handle. It was a crude artifact, yet effective, its blade sharpened on a grindstone. “What if something hap-pens to you?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, child.”

And they were gone.

Gina waited till the car puttered off, then laid the weapon against her mother’s pillow and eased the wooden chess set from under the bed. She thought of putting away the knife since it had brought her nothing but grief. Instead, she found herself enraptured by the stately chess pieces.

Treia hopped up beside her, nose twitching as Gina arranged the piese de sah on the board and played against herself, shifting light pieces and dark.

“Sah mat,” she said at last. Checkmate.

Who had taught her the rules? She couldn’t remember.

At least when it came to chess, her mind was sharp. Despite the complex maneuvers of gallant knights, promoted pawns, and doubled rooks, the game of kings seemed as natural as stacking clean dishes or slicing potatoes for dinner.

Honor . . . duty . . . combat . . .

Those words resonated in her bones.

Storing the carved figures back in their niches, she imagined them as her comrades-in-arms, as ones she could trust at her side in battle. She would need them. She was a young woman and nothing more. A nobody. Of course, the great master Philidor had proclaimed that pawns were the very life of the game.

A queen. A pawn. What did it matter? In chess, noble titles were never as important as a role nobly filled.

Where, though, had she learned that quote from Philidor?

It was yet one more mosaic, another fragmented piece of her memory.

Steps on the walkway shook her from her reverie, their sharp staccato rhythm like