Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  He halted in astonishment, looking first at his kinsman, bloodied and trussed with his own head cloth, then at Klia gasping in Alec’s arms. “Emiel í Moranthi, what have you done?”

  “Nothing, my uncle. By the Bow of Aura I swear it!” Emiel replied, rising awkwardly to his knees. Blood streamed from his smashed nose, and one eye was already swollen shut. “She paused to drink, then fell. I pulled her from the water, but she was choking. I was trying to help her when this”—he shot Alec a stony look—“this boy appeared and attacked me.”

  “Liar!” Alec tilted Klia’s head back against his shoulder. “I saw his hands on her throat. Look for yourselves; you can still see the marks. No fall would stop her breath like this.”

  Nazien stepped closer to inspect Klia, only to be blocked by Beka and Braknil. Other Urgazhi flanked them, blades drawn in warning. Outrage warred with concern in the old Haman’s face for an instant, then he sagged visibly. “Please believe me, my friends, I had no hand in this and will see that no one hinders your return to the city. You’ll find your way faster with a guide. Will you trust me to lead you?”

  “After this?” Beka exclaimed, standing over the princess. Her tone was menacing, but her freckles stood out starkly against the sudden pallor of her face.

  Klia stirred in Alec’s arms. Opening her eyes, she rasped, “Let him.”

  “Let the khirnari lead us?” Beka asked in dismay.

  The princess fixed her with a look that brooked no argument.

  “My lady accepts your pledge,” Beka told Nazien grudgingly.

  “We’re losing time! Someone give me a hand here, damn it,” snapped Alec.

  “Sergeant, see to the horses. Corporal Kallas, you and Arbelus take charge of the prisoner,” Beka ordered. “Mirn, Steb, you help Alec carry Klia back to the clearing. Someone will have to ride double with her.”

  “I will,” said Alec. “Just give me an escort who can keep up.”

  Later Alec would recall little of that long, frantic ride except the flash of Nyal’s sen’gai through the trees ahead of him and the feel of Klia’s struggle for breath as he held her.

  Somewhere behind them, Sergeant Braknil followed with the Haman prisoner under guard, but just now he didn’t care if he saw any of them again, so long as he got Klia back to the city before it was too late.

  He tightened his grip around her, trying to keep her upright without impeding her increasingly labored breathing. Her braid had come loose and the wind whipped her hair against his face. Shifting his hold, he pressed her head to his cheek, supporting her as best he could.

  If Klia died, then everything they’d worked for was lost. Skala would fall, her brave fighters swept aside by the black tide of Plenimar’s soldiers and necromancers—Rhíminee, Watermead, the few places he’d learned to call home, all crushed under the Plenimaran’s unchecked onslaught. Words from his vision came back with new resonance: You are the bird who makes its nest on the waves.

  Could that have been a portent of their failure? And what of Seregil? Sent to guide and protect, could there be redemption for him on either side of the Osiat Sea?

  By the time the river came into sight Alec’s muscles were cramped and his clothes were soaked through with sweat. Urging his horse across the ford, he pushed on, leaving all but Ariani behind. Swiftest of the pack, the Urgazhi scout whipped her foaming horse into a gallop and raced ahead as vanguard.

  Seregil was helping Sergeant Mercalle treat a lame horse in the stable court that afternoon when the chilling wail of an Urgazhi battle cry rang out in the distance.

  The sergeant looked sharply in the direction of the cry. “That’s Ariani!” Whirling to face the startled riders lounging in front of the barracks house, she barked, “Raise the alarm! There’s trouble!”

  The cry came again, closer now, and the sound of it raised the hair on the back of Seregil’s neck as he ran for the street. Kheeta, Rhylin, and the men of the current watch stood on the upper steps, shading their eyes.

  “Here she comes!” Rhylin shouted.

  Ariani came into sight down the street, her blond braid flying. Reaching them, she reined in sharply. “A Haman attacked Klia!” she cried as her lathered horse wheezed and sidled. “Alec’s bringing her. They’re right behind me. By the Four, send for a healer!”

  Kheeta dashed off.

  “How bad?” Seregil demanded.

  “One of the Haman tried to strangle her.”

  “Which Haman?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord, but Alec caught the son of a whore at it.”

  “Where was the captain?” asked Mercalle.

  “Never mind that now!” barked Seregil. “There’s a shutter there in the hall. Fetch it, quickly!”

  A small group of riders had come into sight down the street and he saw Alec in the forefront, clutching a limp body against him one-armed. Beka, Nyal, and the Haman khirnari trailed behind him.

  Reaching the house, Alec reined in, his face white with anger or exhaustion. From the looks of his bloodied right hand, he’d fought for her.

  “Is she alive?” Seregil asked, gripping Windrunner’s head stall.

  “I think so,” Alec rasped, still clasping her. “Seregil, it was Emiel. He did this”

  “Bastard!” Memories of surrendering himself to the hands of that man hit Seregil like a fresh kick in the gut. He fought them down and helped Mercalle lift Klia down onto the shutter, thankful that the others knew nothing yet of the use it had already seen that day.

  Mercalle and Beka hovered just behind Seregil as he knelt over Klia and pushed the tangled hair back from her face. She was cold and her breath came in tortured gasps. The delicate skin beneath her eyes was tinged an ominous blue. Examining her hands, Seregil saw that some of the nails were thinly edged with dried blood.

  Good for you! he thought. With any luck, he’d leave a few marks on Emiel himself before the day was over.

  She gave a choked gasp and opened her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said, clasping her hand.

  Klia’s fingers closed over his in a punishing grip. Her mouth moved, forming soundless words.

  “What is she saying?” asked Alec, crouched beside him.

  Seregil leaned down, ear close to her lips.

  “No—no vengeance,” she managed. No teth—”

  “No teth’sag?”

  She nodded. “My order. The treaty—all that matters.”

  “We understand, Commander,” Beka grated out. “I’ll bear witness to it.”

  “And so will I,” Mercalle rasped, tears coursing down her lined cheeks.

  Unable to move or say more, Klia searched each of them out with despairing eyes, as if to impress her will on them.

  Seregil had once seen a fellow traveler swept beneath the ice of a river. It had been clear but too thick to break through. Still alive, the man had stared up into Seregil’s eyes with the same burning desperation for an instant before the current dragged him away.

  Klia went limp, and he felt anxiously at her throat for a pulse.

  “Her heart is still strong,” he told the others, reluctantly letting go of her hand. “Where’s Emiel? Teth’sag or not, he’s going to answer for this.”

  “Just behind us, under guard,” Beka replied.

  Seregil drew Klia’s dagger from its sheath. “She didn’t have time to defend herself.”

  “I noticed that.” Alec dismounted and leaned unsteadily against his horse’s side. “He must have taken her by surprise.”

  Beka bowed her head. “I failed her.”

  “No, Captain, the guilt lies on my clan,” Nazien í Hari told her, his voice hollow with grief. “Your princess should have needed no protection among my people.”

  “There’ll be time enough for all that later. Get her inside!” Seregil ordered.

  Thero met them in the hall and took charge. “Here, lay her on the table. There’s no time to be lost. The rest of you, get back. Give her air.” He bent over Klia and pressed his hands t
o her temples, throat, and chest.

  Meanwhile, Seregil opened the front of her tunic to inspect the wounds there more closely. The skin between her chin and the breast band she wore beneath her linen shirt was scored with shallow scratches.

  Braknil came to the door, helmet in hand. “How is she?”

  “Alive,” Alec told him.

  “Ah, thank the Four! We’ve got the Haman under guard in the stable yard.”

  “I’ll be out shortly,” said Seregil, still focused on Klia.

  Mydri hurried in with Kheeta on her heels. “By the Light, what’s happened?”

  “Alec will explain,” Seregil told her. Leaving Klia to those who could best help her, he headed for the yard.

  Good for you, Alec, he thought again, seeing Emiel’s battered face. The young Haman sat on a low stool, ignoring the armed soldiers surrounding him. The rest of the Haman hunting party stood dourly behind him. Braknil’s riders had their swords drawn and looked as if a single word from their sergeant would be all the orders they needed to cut the accused to pieces.

  Nazien stood a little apart, grey with shame.

  You’ve worn your hatred for me like a mark of honor, Seregil thought with satisfaction. Perhaps now you’ll savor my family’s shame a bit less.

  The accused was another matter. Emiel showed his usual contempt as Seregil came to a halt just in front of him.

  “Alec í Amasa says he saw you attack Princess Klia,” Seregil said.

  “Must I speak to this exile, Khirnari?”

  “You will, and truthfully!” Nazien snarled.

  Emiel turned back to Seregil with distaste. “Alec í Amasa is mistaken.”

  “Take off your tunic and shirt.”

  Standing, Emiel undid his belt with exaggerated slowness, then pulled off the two garments together and tossed them down on the stool. For all his bravado, however, he flinched at Seregil’s touch as he examined Emiel’s hands and arms. There were a few fresh scratches on the backs of his hands. Otherwise, the callused fingers and palms showed only the soil of a long day’s hunt. His chest, neck, and throat were also unmarked.

  “He was seized immediately after the attack?” Seregil asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” Braknil assured him. “Alec said this man was still choking her when he found them.”

  “She fell. I was trying to help her,” Emiel retorted. “Perhaps it was a fit of some sort. The Tír are prone to disease, or so I hear. You’d know more about that than I.”

  Seregil resisted the urge to slap the arrogant sneer off the man’s face. The arrival of Alec and Kheeta at the kitchen door provided a welcome distraction.

  “What does he say?” Alec demanded, striding over to them.

  “That he was trying to help her.”

  Alec lunged for Emiel, but Seregil wrestled him back. “Don’t do this,” he muttered, close to his ear. “Go back inside and wait. We have to talk.” Alec quit struggling, but didn’t back off.

  “If she dies, Haman, there’ll be no dwai sholo for you!” Alec hissed.

  “Enough. Go!” Seregil nodded to Kheeta, and the Bôkthersan took Alec by the arm, drawing him back inside.

  “Do you have anything more to say?” Seregil asked Emiel.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, Exile.”

  “Very well. Sergeant, search this man and his saddlebags.” He paused, then without looking at Nazien í Hari, added, “Search all the Haman who went today and bring me whatever you find. They’re to be held here until you hear differently.”

  Silence followed him back into the house. Kheeta had Alec cornered in what had been the mourning chamber.

  “Klia has been moved to the women’s bath,” Kheeta told him. “Mydri ordered that a small dhima be set up for her there.”

  “Say nothing of what you saw out there for now, all right?”

  Kheeta nodded and slipped out.

  Finally alone, Seregil summoned what little patience he had left and turned his attention to Alec. “I need you to calm down.”

  Alec glared at him, eyes dark with fear and anger. A soul-deep pain radiated from him; Seregil could feel it tightening his own throat. “Maker’s Mercy, Seregil, what if she dies?”

  “That’s out of our hands. Tell me exactly what you saw. Everything.”

  “We stopped at a clearing in the hills at midday. We ate a meal and waited for the heat of the day to pass. Emiel offered to show Klia some pools along a stream.”

  “You heard the invitation?”

  “No, I was—distracted,” Alec admitted, shamefaced. “Some of his friends challenged me to a shooting match. Klia and Emiel were sitting in the shade talking the last I noticed. After the match they were gone. Beka had seen them, knew where they’d gone. She’d offered to go with them, but Klia said no. She must have been hoping to win Emiel over. Anyway, they couldn’t have been alone more than half an hour when I found him wrestling with her on the ground. Her hair and tunic were wet and she was fighting hard. By the time I’d gotten him off her she was having trouble breathing. I got her on a horse and we came here as quickly as we could.”

  Seregil considered all this, then shook his head, the words he was about to speak already bitter ashes in his mouth. “There’s a chance he’s telling the truth.”

  “I saw him! And you’ve seen the marks on them both.”

  “The marks on her neck aren’t right. There should be bruises, finger marks, but there aren’t.”

  “Damn it, Seregil, I know what I saw!”

  Seregil ran a hand back through his hair and sighed. “You know what you think you saw How did Klia’s face look when you first reached her? Was it pale or dark?”

  “Pale.”

  “Damn. There’s no bruising on her neck, and the bones here—” He touched a finger to his larynx. “They’re undamaged. If she was being strangled, her face would have been dark. I’m not saying he’s innocent, just that he didn’t choke her. You’ve got to let go of that, or you’ll be no use to me at all.”

  “But those scratches on her neck?”

  “There’s blood under her nails, but not his. She did that to herself, clawing at her throat in panic. It’s a common reaction to choking. Or poison.”

  “Poison? We all ate from the same bowls. I shared a wineskin with her myself. It still comes back to Emiel doing something to her down by the water.”

  “So it would seem. Are you certain no one else was there with them?”

  “The ground was so soft in places mice had left tracks. If there’d been anyone else down there in the past two days, I’d have seen signs of them.”

  “Then let’s hope Braknil finds something for us to hang an accusation on, although Emiel doesn’t strike me as the type to leave empty poison flasks in his pockets. In the meantime, we’ve got to be careful what we say.”

  Alec sank his head into his hands. “Beka’s right. We failed. Hell, how could I have been so stupid? An archery contest!”

  Kheeta opened the door and looked in. “Alec, Mydri needs you. You’re to come right away.”

  Four riders of Rhylin’s decuria were on guard at the bath-chamber door. Beka and Rhylin stood just inside. A scene of quiet chaos lay beyond, but at first all Alec could focus on was the sight of Thero and Seregil’s two sisters at work over Klia.

  The princess was wrapped in a clean linen robe and lay on a pallet next to one of the small sunken tubs, which had been converted into a fire pit. An iron tripod had been set over the flames, supporting a large, steaming kettle. Thero knelt motionless beside her, eyes closed, holding one of her hands between his.

  Mydri was supervising half a dozen servants around the room.

  “Is the infusion steeped yet?” she called to a woman working over a nearby brazier. “Morsa, Kerian, finish with that dhima and get it heated!” This last was directed at several men who were struggling to stretch a thick felt cover over a wooden frame.

  Kneeling beside Klia, Alec listened to the faint, steady whistle of breath in her throat.
Her face had taken on a bluish pallor, and the dark circles around her eyes had deepened alarmingly.

  “Look at this,” said Seregil, lifting Klia’s free hand. The flesh beneath her fingernails had turned a dusky blue. Her bare feet showed the same discoloration up to the ankles, and were icy to the touch.

  “She shows signs of poisoning,” Mydri said doubtfully, “yet it’s like none I’ve ever seen. None of the usual remedies alleviate her stupor, but still she lives.”

  Alec looked at Thero again. The wizard was sweating and drawn. “What’s he doing?”

  “I tried a divining trance,” Thero said without opening his eyes. “Some magic blocked my vision, which suggests that whoever did this covered his tracks. Now I’m just lending her strength. Magyana and I did the same for her mother.”

  The woman at the brazier brought over a cup and began patiently spooning its contents between Klia’s lips, a few drops at a time. The workmen finished with the dhima and lifted it to cover Klia, the woman, and the makeshift fire pit.

  “From the time you first met with Klia this morning, what did you see her eat?” Mydri asked Alec.

  “Almost nothing before we left,” Alec replied. “She complained of being wine sick.”

  “So Beka said, but she did eat later. Just list it off. Whatever you saw the whole day.”

  “A little bread, an apple. I picked some wintergreen leaves for her in the woods to settle her stomach. I think she nibbled a bit of that. And I’m sure that’s what it was. I tasted it myself to be sure.

  “By the time we stopped for the midday meal she seemed better. She shared part of a roast kutka with Beka and me, drank a little wine—” Alec closed his eyes, picturing the meal. “Nazien offered her cheese and bread. But I saw him eat from the same portions.”

  “The poisoning could have been accidental,” said Mydri. “Did she eat anything wild besides the wintergreen? Berries, mushrooms? The scent of caramon buds is tempting, but they’re dangerous even in small amounts.”

  Seregil shook his head. “She knows better than that.”

  The sound of retching came from inside the dhima and went on for several minutes. When it subsided the woman nursing Klia handed a basin out to Mydri. She inspected the contents closely, then passed it to another servant to carry away. “It appears you are correct, Alec.”