Saris nodded. “This was in my plans already; I’ve only been waiting for the right time to strike. You will be pleased to know I have just launched an attack on her army at Nillias.”
The god smiled, his face suddenly strikingly handsome in the soft light of the fire. “Your actions please me.”
He disappeared before her eyes could blink and she was left with a flutter of desire in her heart.
She walked over to the window for a second time and said a spell to give wind to her raven to get him to the Wyld brethren faster. The God of Death was heavy on her mind, and she imagined his hands on her again. “As your actions please me, my Lord,” she whispered softly.
A breeze drifted in from the forest below, cooling the sweat blossoming on her brow. She smiled, and turned away.
She could not have known he had heard her words.
Tinaya was a in a mood, and it was not a pleasant one. Lord Cambry had disturbed their slumber to inform them it was time to move out—hours before daylight would even think to shine its light upon the land. She watched her husband as he threw the last of his clothes into a heavy trunk.
“I disapprove of this, Byarne. Why should they determine the time at which we summon our armies?”
Her husband answered curtly, for he had tired of her grouchiness in the few minutes they had been awake. “Why, you ask? Perhaps it is because they are our closest allies and are the leaders of what is very likely to be the most powerful kingdom south of Lordale. To go with them is wise, dear wife, and to go against them would not be in our best interests. What if this is the way to open up our trade routes again with Lordale? Our city would grow well with a trade route as lucrative as that. Would you not see it grow, as well as be safe from Rohedon’s witches?”
“Of course I would. I just don’t see the sense in you leaving before dawn breaks. I dare say it is just to show that they have complete control over you.”
“That is quite far from the truth,” said Silvia as she walked through their bedroom door behind one of their servants. “Duchess Tinaya, you do not approve of us and this you have made utterly clear. But that does not mean that we are out to get you or drag you away to a war unwillingly. We ask for help in doing what is right and we have done it in the correct manner: messenger eagles and then by coming to ask in person. We have tried to show you and your husband respect…perhaps it is time that you accept the fact that my husband and I are not your enemy.”
Tinaya regarded her coolly, but her cheeks had colored. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I am not used to situations such as this.”
Silvia stepped closer to her. “Believe me when I tell you that if the witches on that mountain defeat Lordale…you will have a lot more situations like this. And they, Duchess, are nowhere near as polite as me. They do not have my etiquette, nor my taste for peace. They wish to see blood on the ground and upon their swords, no matter whose it is.”
The woman nodded. “I understand this. My apologies, Queen Silvia.” Her blonde ringlets bounced as she quickly bowed to the royalty.
Silvia waved her hand as if it were not an issue. “Never mind that—I come here with something else on my mind.”
“What is it?” asked the Duchess.
“There is a lady servant of yours whom I wish to take into my service. I am in need of another lady-in-waiting to help me, and I can pay if need be.”
“Who is the servant?” the Duchess asked with interest.
“I believe you call her Brielle.”
Tinaya shook her head vehemently. “On that question my answer is a firm ‘no’. She is invaluable to me here in my household.”
Silvia’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as she looked at the other woman skeptically. “But you only use her as an attraction—she is here merely for entertainment. I have great use for her, and you yourself advised that I should take on another maiden, if not a few.”
The Duchess stood her ground. “My answer is the same, milady. I have great use for her as well here. I’m afraid you will have to leave without her.”
Silvia knew it was useless to argue at this point. “Very well. Perhaps when I am on my way home after we win the war I shall stop by here and ask of you the same inquiry.”
“And you will get the same answer,” Tinaya said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must bid my husband farewell since you are taking him off to war.”
Silvia bowed slightly and left the room.
Chapter Eight: Intrusions
Quentin allowed himself to be led away; he didn’t really have a choice in the matter with his arm hanging at the angle it was. His will was weak. He wanted to disappear—he still wore the cloak after all—but he could not seem to concentrate well enough to do it. The man dragged him along mercilessly towards his unknown destination. At least Emaree was safe and he didn’t have to worry about her being hurt anymore at the hands of the heathen witches.
Time rambled on and several times he began to lose consciousness. Rounding several more corridors and scurrying down many more halls, he saw with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he was right back where he had started: Natosha’s room. He couldn’t contain the groan which escaped his lips, earning a rough push from the man leading him.
“Hush, you!” the man growled, and shoved him through the open doorway.
To his utter surprise and extreme dismay, he saw none other than Emaree before him. A tall guard was dumping her into a high-backed chair, and carefully began strapping her hands to the armrests afterwards with a coarse-looking rope. As he tightened the rope upon her, she squirmed violently in the chair. Quentin immediately saw the reason for the discomfort: the rope had hundreds of tiny needles designed to delve into the flesh upon compression, and blood spots appeared everywhere the rope touched her skin. He was amazed that she wasn’t screaming aloud in pain, but his heart nearly stopped as he gazed upon her face and he saw why she wasn’t.
A flap of skin had sealed her mouth closed.
His jaw dropped in shock, which was doubled as a hand hit him sharply across the face.
“Tell me what you know of the strange man who walks our halls.”
Quentin shook his head and looked at his abuser. Natosha raised an eyebrow as she waited for an answer.
“I do not know of what you speak,” he replied in Mirelda’s voice.
The witch nodded to herself and walked over to her fireplace. She took up a long iron piece and used it to stoke the fire that was inside it. “Everyone wishes to play the game of silence,” she murmured. “I, however, ever tire of that game. I know the Lystian king’s brother is in our beloved mountain, and I wish to know where. Emaree has decided that she’d rather never speak or eat again instead of answering, and so I took another approach.”
She looked up at Quentin, who had sweat streaming down his brow. He met her gaze and held it as she continued to speak. “I asked my Mirror of Ways where the man was and it showed me two people: the young gentleman behind you…and yourself. So tell me what you know of him Mirelda.”
Quentin sifted through the girl’s memories and found incidences where she had talked back to the witches before. He used the same tone and mocking lilt to his voice as he replied, “I’ve already said that I do not know what you’re talking about. I was minding my own business when you had me dragged down here, so may I get back to doing that now?”
Natosha shrugged and stood up. “Claw, you may let the young man go back to his chores. I do not believe him capable of harboring an intruder.” Derge left the room hurriedly, glancing back once before continuing on his way.
The witch still held the iron piece in one hand and Quentin saw with renewed wariness that it wasn’t an ordinary fire poker: it was a branding iron with an ‘R’ on the end. Walking over to him, she raised it so that it was centered on his cheek and pressed it to his skin. He screamed so shrilly that everyone in the room (save Emaree) covered their ears. The pain was worse than any torment he’d ever had to endure. When she removed the brand, he saw that the flesh of h
is face was stuck to the underside of it. Briefly he wondered if his face would still be missing flesh when he returned back to himself…if he ever got the chance. His knees went weak and the servant who held him allowed him to collapse upon the floor. She kicked him hard in the ribs, and he moaned. He rolled over onto his side, keeping Natosha in his sights. This was not his normal type of adversary.
The witch turned her wicked attentions back to the young woman tied down to the chair. “I still believe you know more than you let on, little sister-wife.”
She gestured at the tall man’s waist, pointing at his belt dagger. He extracted it from its sheath and handed it over without question. Natosha wielded the knife close to Emaree’s neck, teasing her flesh with the chill of the blade. “I have ways of making people talk,” she whispered, and deftly reached up and sliced through the flesh covering Emaree’s mouth. Emaree screeched, and tried to shrink back into the chair as sobs overtook her body.
Natosha smiled and handed the knife back to the servant, who wiped it off before sheathing it. She grabbed the iron brand again and stuck it back into the fire. Quentin could hear his flesh sizzling in the flames, and his stomach churned.
After the fire had heated the brand red-hot once again, she rose and held it in front of her as she approached Emaree. “Last chance, my dear. Don’t make yourself fall into a deeper hole.”
Emaree faced her and Quentin saw the skin flap that had once been whole was now gashed open and bleeding. Tears streamed from her eyes as she faced her torturer.
“This man you think is in your domain does not exist anymore,” Emaree said. Her speech was hard to understand through the skin flaps and Quentin could tell she was purposefully not looking at him. “You really think he followed you back here? He didn’t reach you in time to do that, sister-wife; he was caught between where you were and where your magic stopped around you. His existence is not fathomable.”
Natosha chuckled. “If only that were true…because if it were,” she said, leaning close, “then my mirror would not have shown me anything at all.”
Emaree’s face froze and Quentin could tell that what the witch had said had hit its mark.
“Do you have an answer for me now that I know you’re lying?”
Her captive watched her closely, staring into Natosha’s eyes until the witch blinked and cocked her head to the side. Then Emaree leaned back in the chair and spoke.
“Why don’t you use some of your monkey powder up there on your mantle to sprinkle around you and travel to another place where no one knows who you are? You could start over. Forget who you are now, for only death will follow you here.”
That being said Emaree opened her jaws, stuck out her tongue, and bit down.
Natosha retreated only to wipe away the spurts of blood that had splattered onto her face. Quentin laid on the floor, staring in shock at the severed tongue lying on the floor in front of him. The tall guard and the servant who had brought Quentin to the room both yelled in shock and backed away from the scene before them.
Emaree seemed to have passed out from the pain. She slumped in the chair with her head over to one side; blood pooled up in the knife slit on her face and dribbled down her chin and onto her clothes.
A servant came rushing into the room. “Milady, Mirelda has been found.” His eyes saw Quentin on the floor, still in the form of the witch’s daughter, and he stopped in his tracks.
Natosha also eyed Quentin, though only for a moment. “You’ve found her?” she said crossly. “A little late, aren’t you?”
The servant looked bewildered. “No, milady—Saris just sent me to fetch you. She ran into her in a corridor near her bedchambers.”
“She sent you to ‘fetch’ me? What am I—a dog?” Natosha uttered.
The man ignored her utterances and went on. “I came straight here. There’s not any way that Mirelda could have made it here before me, yet, here she is on your floor. I’m afraid I am a bit confused, milady.”
“Saris has her, you say?” The witch pondered on his words, eyeing Quentin’s prone form on the floor of her chambers.
“Yes milady, but the girl won’t speak. She’ll hardly even look anyone in the eyes—she’s acting quite strange.”
Natosha’s eyes flicked back to him with interest. “Is that so? Sounds like we have an intruder after all. Tell her I am on my way there.” She spoke to the tall servant who still stood next to the chair upon which Emaree was strapped. “This one is not going anywhere, Talus, but the real Mirelda needs a wet cloth to clean up with. Go fetch some water from the spring access down the hall and get something clean to wipe her face. I’ll look into healing her properly as soon as I return.”
She strode out of the room with purpose, an eager look on her face. Claw took one uneasy look around the room and quickly followed suite. The tall man knelt next to Quentin and moved strands of hair from his face.
“Poor little bugger,” Talus mumbled. “Could have been worse though. I learned a long time ago not to talk back to the witches. My brother did that, and his torture was put on public display in the dining hall. It ended when he ceased breathing a day and a half later, minus several body parts and organs. My advice to you is to keep your damn mouth shut next time.” He rose and left the room, closing the door most of the way behind him.
Quentin slowly began to move, pushing himself up with his good arm. The witch had been so obsessed with getting information that she hadn’t even noticed one of his arms being out of socket. Just as well though—he didn’t need the extra questions. He got to his knees and then to his feet. He shuffled over to the door and closed it as quietly as he could, thrusting the latch into place afterwards. With a sigh, he changed back to his normal form, the white cloak covering his body. Pulling the hood back, he turned to Emaree, but a glint caught his eyes. On the bed, sticking out of a bag, was a sapphire. Rushing over, he dumped the contents of the bag.
“Praise be unto the Parent Gods,” he said, as he scooped up the two necklaces which matched his. He quickly threw them over his neck and pushed them under his attire. Glancing into the antechamber to the bedroom, he noticed that the giant mirror once again stood whole. “Blood and ashes!”
He hurried into the room and stopped when he saw his face in the reflection. His cheek had already swelled up from the branding, and his eye was beginning to close on that side. He would not let the heathen witches get away with their cruel punishments much longer. He vowed that each of them would see their deaths before he saw his. Using the same pot he’d used before to bust the mirror, he did so again. He started to turn away afterwards, but instead knelt down and grabbed several of the largest pieces. He went back to the bed, opened up the cloth bag that had held the stone necklaces, and carefully inserted the shards. He placed the bag inside an inner pocket of the cloak before at last focusing on Emaree.
She had opened her eyes ever so slightly and was staring at him. He reached out and stroked her hair. “We’re leaving for good now, Emaree, and this time I’m making sure that we’re doing it together.”
Her eyes went to the mantle and one of her fingers lifted, trying to point.
He nodded. “I got your hint when you were talking to the witch,” he said as he untied her wrists and gently removed the needle-embedded rope from her skin; more blood seeped from the needle wounds, dripping onto the arms of the chair. One of his hands wrapped around her severed tongue on the floor and scooped it up, putting in the same pocket as the satchel with the mirror shards. “What do I do? Do I just grab the dust and toss it around us and we disappear?”
She nodded slowly.
“And I just say where I want to go?”
Again, a faint nod.
“All right, then.”
He was worried about carrying her, for his shoulder was in a much worse state than it had been in before. In the end he bent over and grasped her waist with his good arm, telling her to use her hands to scoot forward in the chair. As she did, a thump was heard as someone hit the door
and started yelling. “By the Dark Moon!” he hissed. Grunting, he managed to get her on his good shoulder, with her head against his back and her feet in the front. He lurched towards the mantle and grabbed the bowl that the monkey held, nearly dropping Emaree in the process. Holding onto the bowl with his mouth, he took out a good handful of powder and tossed it around him.
He took the bowl from his mouth and said, “Take us to Nillias!”
The door burst open, and Quentin whipped around to face the enemy. But even as he did so, the room around him faded away and the darkness took him.
Saris waited impatiently for her twin to arrive, her eyes never leaving the servant girl in front of her. She never considered the children of the other wives to be related to her; she did not think of them as step-children or nieces and nephews or anything of the sort. They all helped out around the mountain and beyond and were, therefore, nothing more than servants. Her own children were often not exempt from this way of thinking either, and were barely above the other children of Rohedon when it came to status.
War Against the Realm Page 11
