The army broke camp. Progress was slow. Alanz was one of a number of officers who had died on the field, and many of the soldiers were wounded or gone. Wagons, loaded with armor, weapons, and the dead, began their slow way back to Alham.
When at last they neared the city, they were cheered by people gathering at the roadside to welcome and praise them. These were the soldiers who had fought to save them from the Ryuven—these were the ones who had bought at least a temporary peace! And enough remembered Luenda to exhibit real gratitude.
They entered the city itself, and volunteers appeared to help push the wagons up the sloping roads. Groups split and wound toward the various stations, and Shianan limped toward the Naziar with his command. They passed through the open gate before the sober cheers of the townspeople.
He was trudging across the courtyard, one hand on the side of a wagon he wasn’t really helping to push, when a figure flew toward him. Luca struck him forcefully, knocking him into the wagon as he embraced him and then recoiling as if suddenly recalling his position and their audience. “Master Shianan,” he tried breathlessly. “Master Shianan! Are you well?”
“Well enough, and a hot meal, a steaming bath, and a warm bed should do for the rest.” Shianan clasped his friend’s arms, feeling a real smile spread across his face. “It’s good to see you, Luca. Very good.” He grinned tiredly. “I told you I would return.”
“Don’t play so arrogant. They said you were missing!”
“I suppose that’s true. But I’m found. Come with us; you can lend a hand.” It was clear the slave would not leave, anyway.
The caravan made its way to the warehouses, where tired men and slaves pushed the wagons into line. “Leave the weapons loaded,” Shianan ordered. “They’ll be here in the morning, and I don’t want a bunch of sleepy half-wits trying to clean and oil them tonight.” And if the truce went suddenly sour, it would be best to have them ready. “Just take care of the others. There will be a place in the south building.”
It was a somber business, laying out the dead. Those who had died early or in the care of the camp healers had received at least a cursory cleaning, while those who had died late or on the road still showed the signs of their last distress. Grey mages had done something arcane which kept the bodies a few days longer than strictly natural. This night and the next day would see many families collecting their own and taking them for rituals. Those left, with no one near enough to claim them, would be taken outside the city and interred.
Shianan turned to Torg, who was easing himself out of a wagon, careful not to jar the arm hanging in a sling. “How are you?”
“Managing. Better than I could be, as I’ve been napping on and off. Go and get some rest yourself.”
Shianan nodded. “I will. Just let me see things started.”
As he moved away, Torg met Luca’s eyes, and he twitched his head sharply toward Shianan’s back.
Luca gave a respectful nod to the captain and moved after his master. “What can I do to help? What must be finished before you can leave?”
“Hm? The dead have to be laid out for claiming, and the wagons need ordering so that they can be drawn out again quickly, and someone will need to stand for the kin coming to—”
Luca circled and stepped into his path. “Master Shianan, with all respect, you look like week-old vomit. What must be finished by you yourself, before you can leave this to others?”
Shianan stared. “’Soats, I think I went wrong in teaching you the staff.”
Luca gave him a smile.
Shianan nodded tiredly. “Right. If Torg’s been sleeping, he can see to the claiming kin. And these may be a bunch of turnip-headed mutton-brains, but they’re my mutton-brains, and they know enough to handle a wagon without my holding their hands. Let’s go home.”
In his quarters, Shianan sank into a chair, staring at his stockinged feet. “I don’t know whether I want to sleep directly, or take that steaming bath and then sleep. Maybe sleep in a bath. And I’m certain I should eat somewhere in there as well.” He looked at Luca. “The prince was injured. Badly. What have you heard?”
“Not much, only that he was wounded, but no details of it.”
“It’s bad, Luca. I was there. I—I don’t know if he’ll make it.” He closed his eyes and took an unsteady breath. When he opened them again, something had shut within him, sealing what he dared not touch. He ran a hand through his hair. “I ought to have that bath, I think.”
“I’ll get fresh clothes.”
The soldiers’ bath was not yet busy, as most of the men were either still at the warehouses or too tired to bathe, but a number of men were taking advantage of the water. There was no steam, as the fires had been allowed to die and it would take a day or two to heat the water again.
Shianan made a face as he filled a bucket from the tepid pool. “Well, it will rinse off the grit, anyway.” He upended the bucket over himself to sluice the worst of the sweat and grime.
Luca cast a furtive glance at the other soldiers and retreated to the wall, well out of the way, where he began folding Shianan’s discarded clothing to occupy his hands.
Shianan did not bother with the soaking pool. He craved warmth and rest, and the cool water offered neither. He scrubbed at his skin and scalp and then, finally clean, pushed himself wearily back from bucket and brush. Almost before he straightened, Luca offered him a towel. “No hurry, then?”
“I’d like to see you fed and sleeping. It’s only good sense, really, as the better my master fares, the better I’ll fare.” Luca grinned.
“Your sympathy is touching.” Shianan buffed his body, shaking his head. “Maybe I’ll try the Kalen baths later.” He squeezed water from his hair and reached for his clothes. “What I’d give for a good aelipto just now.”
He slid his braies over his legs and tied the laces. Then he tugged at the shirt in Luca’s stack, but it slid reluctantly over the slave’s stiff arms. He looked up and prompted, “Luca?”
The slave blinked and looked down at the shirt. “Oh. Sorry.”
Shianan dropped the loose shirt over his head. “I just thought I’d like to have the worst of the aches pressed out of me.” He left the shirt unlaced and took the tunic. “But I suppose we haven’t had good luck with the place, after all.”
Luca stared at his empty hands. “Master Shianan...”
“Yes?”
Luca seemed to startle, scanning the wide room about them. “It can wait.”
Shianan exhaled. “Good enough. Will you bring something to eat? I’m going back.”
But he was asleep atop his blankets before Luca returned.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
THE CORD SHIFTED ABOUT Tamaryl’s throat as he swallowed. His arms, crossed at the wrists behind his neck and bound by the cord, were growing heavy, but he could relieve the strain somewhat by bowing his head. That, he thought, was appropriate.
Where was Maru? Was he similarly bound in another cell, awaiting Oniwe’aru’s judgment? It would have been easy to take him. It would not have needed Oniwe’aru himself to trail Maru through the between-worlds.
Tamaryl could have fought, could have resisted his arrest. But fighting would have wounded them both and ultimately profited nothing.
The following sho and che had spread about him and closed, ready to fight but leaving the first blow to him. Tamaryl didn’t look at them but at Oniwe’aru, who stared evenly back at him. “Tamaryl’sho.”
As if by an unseen signal, the sho and che moved. Cords and chains settled about Tamaryl, making him wince as they drew tight and fed on him. He could have repelled them, could have fought them, but it would only delay the inevitable. And he did not want to appear a rebellious traitor when he did not consider himself one. He hoped to explain, to make them understand, and they would not hear him if he fought them.
Oniwe’aru stepped forward, and the others shifted so that they faced one another. “Is this what you wanted?” Oniwe’aru asked heavily.
&nbs
p; “I knew it might come to this,” Tamaryl answered. “But I hoped it would not.”
Oniwe’aru’s expression did not change. “Still, this was by your choice.”
Tamaryl felt one brief moment of panic—no!—but he hardly had time to struggle before Oniwe’aru stretched out his hand. The effect struck him like hot irons as Oniwe’aru ripped the inherent magic from every fiber of his body. It was like having the power drawn from him for his binding in the human world, condensed and distilled into pure, unnatural agony. He arced rigidly backward, jerking in the hands of the Ryuven holding him, and begged for blackness.
It finally, belatedly, came.
Now, he was bound and imprisoned, drained of his power like any criminal. He hoped Maru had been shown mercy. He had only obeyed his lord of obligation, and that provided a measure of protection to nim. Surely he would not be punished too harshly.
A bolt rattled loudly, and Tamaryl raised his head, pulling at his shoulders. It was a che who came through the door, not Oniwe’aru. He carried a long, forked rod; they were taking no chances with the Pairvyn ni’Ai. He closed the door behind him and faced Tamaryl. “What did the humans offer you?”
The question surprised Tamaryl. He had not expected the accusation of being bought. “They offered me nothing.” He shifted and the chains across his chest, holding his wings close and immobile, bit at him. “Where is Maru?”
The che scowled. “You’re in no position to ask questions, or haven’t you noticed?”
Tamaryl gave him a sardonic half-smile. “Oh, and I thought the luxury of a locked door was due to my rank and honor.”
The bolt came fast. Tamaryl sensed it and tried to protect himself, but there was no real power left in him, and the energy sizzled through his weak defense and seared into his face. He gasped with the shock of it.
The che’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he had just struck the Pairvyn and would suffer no consequence. He stopped forward. “So you say you were not enticed to betray Oniwe’aru? You turned for the simple pleasure of it?”
Tamaryl could feel the weal swelling on his cheek. It would not heal without his power, and the implication of letting the che’s injury remain galled him as much as the pain. “I have always served Oniwe’aru and our clan to the best of my ability.”
“You fled the field and then interrupted a battle which had turned to our advantage!”
“I gave our people a chance to survive!” Tamaryl checked himself; he owed no defense to this che. “We can purchase what we need without risk to our own. Surely you can see the benefit in that.”
“I see you’ve closed opportunity for anyone below you to improve his station,” growled the che. “You shielded your own shank, afraid we would outshine you soon. But see where it got you? What is your position now?”
He advanced on Tamaryl, the forked stick ready in his hand, but Tamaryl could do nothing. At best it would be days before he regained his former strength, but his chains were fup-forged, burning away any returning power. He could only watch as the che moved forward. Grinning at his own manic daring, the che kicked Tamaryl—in his unprotected gut, first, and then again in his face as he grunted and folded.
The che laughed. “But I might profit yet by your attempts. I was one of those who captured the traitor. You’ve only aided me.”
The cell spun about him. A physical blow—the worst of insults. Two of them. And Tamaryl could only sit and bleed before him, like a chastised nim or even a human slave. By the Essence, he had not known he was so proud.
But why couldn’t they see what he had done? Didn’t Oniwe’aru know the good of it? Was he truly too offended at the slighting of his orders to recognize the greater gain?
The che regarded him with a disdainful sneer. “You’re not much now, are you?” He turned his back and went to the door. “What a sad end for a Pairvyn. But a fitting one for a traitor.”
Had they repealed the truce? Made it all for nothing? No, please, no—Essence within, let something have come of all this...
The iron bolt slid with an echoing finality, leaving him in the dark again.
TAEV CALLAHAN GLANCED around once more, assuring himself no one was near. It was falling dark, and anyone observing would be as difficult to see as he would be. But he was far from the road and near a rocky, unused part of the river, quite alone.
He stepped carefully onto a river rock and picked his way across the first third of the fast-moving water. Then he crouched and felt for a stick, wedged across two large stones, where it held firm a rope and the attached net. He withdrew it all, watching the netted leaves shed water.
The first bushel of dall sweetbud had been sold, and at stunning prices. The spreading plague had frightened those with coin enough to buy protection. It would not do for any of them to become ill after taking the new herb.
This was the eighth of the dispensers he’d destroyed. He would leave the others, as a few remaining pockets of flux would make the sickness more believable and spur a steady demand for the cure. He laid the dripping net across a flat rock and, with a moment of concentration to counter the wetness, set it aflame. He was careful to stay upwind, for bilgewort smoke could do unpleasant things.
When the flames had died, leaving only unrecognizable ashes, he kicked them smoking into the river and turned back toward the road.
To Be Continued
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Also by Laura VanArendonk Baugh
Kitsune Tales
Kitsune-Tsuki
The Lonely Frost
Kitsune-Mochi
The Shard of Elan
Shard & Shield
Blood & Bond
Standalone
Fired Up, Frantic, and Freaked Out: Training Crazy Dogs from Over the Top to Under Control
Smoke and Fears
Con Job
So To Honor Him: the Magi and the Drummer
Bait
The Songweaver's Vow
Social, Civil, and Savvy: Training and Socializing Puppies to Become the Best Possible Dogs
Circles & Crossroads: Two Robin Archer Tales
Watch for more at Laura VanArendonk Baugh’s site.
Blood & Bond Page 58
