If he was being charmed, it was excellent and frightening. It may have even been perfect, except that he was the victim.
“You spoke of a burden,” said Lyla. “What did you mean?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
9
She had drawn it out of him again, taken him to places he didn’t want to go. Her abilities were frightening, and how quickly she had progressed was even more terrifying. But it wasn’t the time to think about that, thought Zar, for this was the moment of truth.
The guard’s legs jumbled in some sort of confused dance, looking torn between turning back towards the cell’s gate or retreating back outside the door. He had thrown their morning meal between the bars, and as the corners of bread struck the ground, sounding as hard as rocks, Lyla was speaking to the man.
“No!” the man shouted, one hand over an ear and the other reaching for the sword on his belt. “I’ll do it! I’ll take your tongue, as my queen commanded!”
“She said if I sung,” Lyla emphasized, “but I do no wrong, for as the gods are my witnesses I shall sing no songs. I only wish for a moment of time for a word, concerning her fate, and ours, and yours.”
The man jerked, head shaking as stiff as a dry tree branch, half-turning away towards the door before turning back to the cell and looking at Lyla. Lyla kept on.
“Aye, your army is strong, brave and bold, but this castle you don’t have the numbers to hold. And when the army comes that waits in the woods, your courage and heart will be for no good. There is a solution, simple and true, for the battle that brews is over us two.”
The man’s face, scrunched and lined, said he didn’t want to hear anymore. He must’ve been curious, though, because not long after he asked, “What do you say?”
“Aye, a smart man you are. I say that if we are released and unharmed, the army that comes will disappear and be gone.”
The man’s face lit up in what looked like a moment of clarity, his brown skin straightening and his eyes opening wide as he darted away from the bars calling, “Quiet!” as he went. But Lyla didn’t stop.
“Should I be quiet or should I keep talking and all? Why guard us when in time you’ll have no life to do any guarding at all?”
The man turned around just in front of the door, looking back at Lyla, a shine of concern over his eyes. Lyla gave him no time to talk or object or decide.
“Take my advice. What use is serving your queen when doing so means giving your life? Would she do so for you? Has she ever rewarded or raised in esteem any but a select few? It will never be you.”
Zar marveled. Aside from poetry, a voice soft and sweet with a stirring rasp that turned the tone from innocent to seductive, the woman was smart. She was saying things that were likely true, things that even without her gifts might turn a man to betrayal if she had enough time. It reminded Zar of the things he’d said to Anza about Stroan. He shifted his arms, making sure he had the strength to do what he’d need to if the whole thing worked.
The guard was walking back up to the gate.
“I won’t betray—” he called, but Lyla cut him off.
“Pssh, betrayal, it’s only a word, but what of your life, what is that worth? We only ask for a measure of help, and know by setting us free you do the same for yourself.”
The guard’s hand was on his key ring, a great iron loop decorated with a handful of large keys.
“Free,” he said.
Lyla gripped the bars, pressing her face between two of them, lips whispering at the man, eyes seductive and knowing and keen. “Aye, freedom, not whatever you call this, bowing and serving and working your shifts. There are other things to be had in the world: power, gold, adventure—and girls.”
The key ring jingled. The man had lifted it off his belt.
“Aye,” Lyla coaxed, “put the key in the lock, give it a little twist, and then see us off.
“I—I—”
“You really wish to help.”
“No.”
“Of course you do, more than anything else.”
The guard had the key in the lock, hands trembling as he stared at Lyla, his eyes a soup of captivation and chaos. But he yanked the key out and shouted, “No!”
Lyla called, “Aye!”
“You wish to deceive me!”
“You believe that? Why?”
The guard tried to say something, but Lyla spoke over him.
“Ride south and see what will come in time.”
“If I do this I’m dead,” the guard pushed out the words.
Zar had never seen a person’s eyes dart around so much. The guard looked all over Lyla, like there was some ubiquitous mark vanishing then reappearing all over her body in different places. He looked torn, decidedly guarded and suspicious while at the same time immensely interested in doing what Lyla asked of him. The key was back in the lock.
“You’ll be free,” the guard said. “I’ll be the one being punished by the queen.”
His hand fiddled, and the key rattled within the lock.
“No. For you are also free to go,” said Lyla. Her raspy voice had lowered to a purr. It had lessened in volume but not in intensity, and every sound was a feeling of soul, of seduction, a sensuality that danced to the music in her throat. “If not, you’ll be the fool who didn’t let us go. Later, I’ll be saying I told you it was so—if my Cyanans haven’t skinned you from head to toe.”
“I—” the guard started, but Lyla gave him no room for words.
“Will you not learn until the army comes and this place is crumbled and burned?” Then she whispered, “Give the key a turn.”
Click. The locked popped. Creeeeaak. The cell door tilted open.
The guard stood still outside the gate, looking down at his hands, then at the open cell, and then back down again. Zar hobbled out behind him and wrapped his manacle chains around the man’s neck.
Why am I thinking? Stop thinking. Just fight.
Shahla had never been so lucid in a fight, so aware. It had always been more of a reflex, her eyes locking onto targets and her hand pulling out arrows to find them. Ever since she had begun her adventuring—that day she had come upon a caravan being raided, and she’d shot down the bandits without hesitation—she had acted almost instinctively. She was a quick draw with a bow, her aim was superb, and she had eyes like an eagle. As long as the threat was in range, she synced those abilities and there was a hole in her enemy a second later. There had been no thinking.
Now, there was all manner of ruminating. What ifs, why nots, and how comes. What if Zar had been killed, why hadn’t she told Tuskin about the army Anza had acquired—the army that was probably attacking them now, and how come they hadn’t been alerted of their approach? Was it because of what she had done? Was it because she had killed the Cyanan scout, Daro, that they had been set upon unawares? There should have been other men scouting ahead.
Shahla also thought about Tuskin fighting at her side, his movement wild, unrestrained, feral. He moved more like a beast than a man, a panther or wolf, crouched low, and not looking a bit tired from the melee. He swung his spear in a flurry, a whirlwind of wood and steel, shiny spearhead extending out from a pole of dark orewood. He ruthlessly attacked anyone who came close to her, and in return, Shahla shot down threats attacking from afar, men with bows, javelins, or leather slings hurling stones.
It felt like they’d been fighting for hours. Maybe they had.
“Down!”
Shahla dropped at Tuskin’s command, a round ball of stone flying over her head and crashing into a tree behind her. Her hand shot back to her quiver, pulling a shaft and notching it. There were three close and two closing in from afar. The man with the sling stayed tucked behind a tree. He shuffled there, likely drawing another stone or switching weapons. The other beside him was drawing an arrow, but Shahla already had hers drawn. She put an arrow in the man, high in the chest just under the throat. She had another shaft pulled when the other stepped out from beh
ind the tree to hurl another stone, arm wound back, snarling like a mad dog. Shahla ran towards him—partly to get away from the other three who were rushing them—and released the drawn shaft at the man’s face. The bolt sunk through and splintered out the back of his head.
She turned back to Tuskin. One of the three attackers had the hunter’s spear skewered though his abdomen, and he flailed about like a fish out of water. Tuskin was still fighting the other two, a hand axe in each of his hands. Shahla thought to help by putting one of them down, but by the time she had drawn her shaft, both men were bleeding on the ground.
“This way!” Tuskin called. “To the king and prince!”
Shahla shuffled behind Tuskin, sending arrows occasionally to silence enemies who darted out from the trees. They moved away from the tents, a quarter mile south to a clearing they had passed where Baram and his soldiers had led the king to when they were set upon. He had ordered his company to form up and protect the king, and as Tuskin and Shahla drew near the formation of mounted Cyanan soldiers, all they could hear was the terrible wailing of King Dandil.
Shahla didn’t know the reason. Ringo the Hammer and his men were still north of them fighting off the attackers. The rest of the men, commanded by Baram, were formed up in an arch in front of Dandil, mounted, armed, and ready to defend their king. The king didn’t look to be hurt from what Shahla could see through the cavalry lined up in front of him. His cream surcoat was unstained and the golden chainmail links that covered it shined without the tarnish of blood. He also seemed to be moving uninhibitedly: crouching, bowing, hands dancing at his side before reaching up to hold his own head.
Still, the man was obviously in anguish.
The king cried out again, and as Tuskin walked up to the formation to see about the trouble, Baram gave him a pointed look before turning a glance back at the king. There was a body on the ground, Shahla could now see, behind the arch of Cyanan war camels mounted by anxious riders. It was the prince Hinrik.
“I will kill them all!” Dandil cried, staggering around his son’s lifeless body. “I will kill them all!”
Shahla’s stomach churned. Then she grew hopeful. Then she stood grave. King Dandil would certainly still be laying siege on Snowstone Castle. Zar was there, and that was their only hope of freeing him. On the other hand, they had no doubt failed to prevent a war.
II
10
A month had passed, and Zar no longer limped from the arrow Yari had shot through his thigh. His shoulder was also near fully recovered, save a slight stiffness when he raised his arm too high.
They stood gathered in a small muddy yard outside the horse trainer’s cottage. Zar had arranged the whole thing.
Lyla had never seen a man break a horse before, and as she watched the stallion kick and jerk while the horse trainer struggled to stay mounted, she was so captivated by the experience she nearly forgot it was her job to try and calm the animal. She lifted the drum from the ground in front of her, swinging it by its broad leather strap and suspending it over her shoulder. The instrument hung against her belly, and she patted her hands on each side of the drum as the horse danced in front of her.
She had chosen a drum because the sound would project the farthest. The tune of a flute, harp, or lyre might get lost in the sound of the wind or waves, and she didn’t imagine the Leviathan would come quietly, either. Whatever sounds the beast made, whether screech or roar or growl, she imagined her tunes would get lost in those, too.
She had a small lot of an audience: the horse trainer’s wife, Prynner the shipwright, a few lads who were the horse trainer’s neighbors, and, of course, Zar.
The buckskin stallion jolted, sending a tremble through the man that made it look like he’d been struck by lightning. Still, the man hung on. His body was loose like a drunkard, and he never stiffened at the animal’s movements. He moved with the animal rather than against it, his body folding then uncoiling, rolling and flowing like waves of water.
Lyla found a rhythm with her drum. Boom, tap, and then the hollow echo of a quick flick. While the animal was calming, Lyla knew when they were at sea the lower sounds of those precise taps and flicks would be drowned out by all the commotion. She needed to maintain louder and heartier sounds in her rhythm if she wanted to affect the dragon. Nothing soft, nothing quiet.
Lyla stopped, and the horse trainer nearly flipped off the horse. The stallion was strong, angry, and the man had been hanging on for so long Lyla knew he had to be tiring. She started again, and this time, everything was loud, everything was full.
But that’s not quite it.
She tried something different. Booom dum booom, booom dum booom.
That’s it.
The stallion faltered, its last hard jerk mellowing out into a sway, a somewhat gentle shift of its body that even the horse itself seemed to be confused about. Lyle kept it up, stretching out the sounds that needed to be long, and cutting short those that needed to be crisp. In moments, the stallion had stopped its fighting, and the only movements it made were the ones prompted by the horse trainer.
Prynner called out a cheer, the three lads were asking a dozen questions, and the horse trainer was smiling and looking at Lyla like she was a thing that couldn’t exist. Lyla looked at Zar and smiled.
Zar wore a mask of pride and disbelief, a face that said while he was surprised, he believed in her the whole time. Lyla thought there was something else in his smile, but she didn’t know what, so she didn’t spend time thinking about it.
It was one of many experiments they had conducted that week. She had quieted a pack of wild dogs, calmed two lads who were ready to come to blows, and coaxed an adder that was curled up and ready to strike to instead slither away from Zar, who’d provoked it with a stick. They had all been adventures, her and Zar imagining scenarios they thought would work, then seeking them out with the help of Prynner, who was a local and knew where to find exactly what they needed for each activity.
It was exciting and suspenseful—not knowing what would happen—but more than that, it was fulfilling, and Lyla couldn’t remember a time she was happier. Everything was a game, as it was when she usually used her charms, except this time the game could be played without any consequences. It was all a test for now, and Zar had enough gold, charisma, and connections to arrange nearly any situation that they imagined might be helpful. Who is he?
That night, back at Prynner’s house, they ate dinner together and drank wine as they had done almost every other night that week. Prynner had fallen asleep, and Lyla and Zar sat across from each other, both huddled in their own corner of the cottage.
Lyla felt bad for asking, but she was curious about the man, and she wanted to talk to him. “Why are you helping me?”
The only candle that still burned was by the door, and Lyla could barely see his eyes, two faint glints over a shadowed face. She saw his lips stretch to a smile.
“I see myself inside you.”
His words were spoken as low as a whisper, his smirk was orange and dim amid the candlelight. Lyla smiled back, throwing the quilt from off her shoulders. She crawled to the man, and when she was close enough to touch him, she saw that he looked confused.
“No, silly,” he said when she leaned into him. Zar chuckled heartily. “Not that. I meant—I used to be like you—without purpose—trying to find one.”
The man kept on laughing, and Lyla went from confused to embarrassed to upset in a matter of a few seconds.
Stupid, she reprimanded herself. That’s not what he meant.
Zar kept on laughing.
“I see myself inside you,” he repeated. “A poor choice of words, I daresay. It’s my fault, entirely. I think I’ve had too much wine.” He was laughing out the words.
Lyla shuffled and scooted to the wall, resting her back against it beside Zar. She sat on the side of him because she didn’t want him to see her. She didn’t want to scoot back across to her corner where he could see her and laugh at her, thinking abo
ut what she’d done. She didn’t want to see him, either. She was too embarrassed. She stayed there at his side, hiding against the wall.
These things always happened to her. She knew she was intelligent, but there were times where she confused the meaning of something or didn’t understand the situation. Growing up, they had called her lightheaded, harebrained, and her friend had once remarked that she was the smartest simple girl he’d ever met.
Still, it seemed a logical thing. During her time around men, from when she was younger until now, she had hardly met one who wasn’t interested in her. And this one was handsome.
Aside from that there was something interesting about the man, and although she had charmed a few personal bits from him during their captivity at Snowstone, something told her there was far more worth learning from Zar.
But he had waved her off with a laugh, like the idea of them sharing a bed was preposterous. It made her mad. She wondered if it had anything to do with the two women he had told her about at Snowstone. The ones he claimed he loved.
“Do you have anything in mind that we can try tomorrow?” Zar asked, and Lyla was happy he had changed the subject.
“I don’t need any more practice,” Lyla told him. “I’m ready.”
Zar turned and looked at her, but Lyla kept her face forward. “How do you know?”
She knew it wasn’t something she could explain to him, that feeling of fullness and confidence when she no longer hoped a song would work, but knew it would. He wouldn’t understand.
“I just know,” she said.
Tuskin’s legs were tired, his arms more raw and sore than an open wound.
First, they had climbed up the hill, siege ladders in tote, trekking up an impossibly steep incline. There had been many slips and stumbles, ladders dropping on men’s feet, soldiers rolling down the hill. It had been almost funny, except that it wasn’t. It hurt too much.
Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless Page 8
