Land of the Burning Sands: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Two

by Neumeier, Rachel

  “Oh, could you? Please do start another one, would you? Just tell Fareine what materials you need, if you don’t want to go out into the city to order them yourself.” Tehre loaded another stone and asked shyly, “Would you like to fire this one?” as though she didn’t think Gereint’s reluctance to leave the house, or the fact that she’d noticed it, was worth the least comment.

  It was typical, Gereint thought, that Tehre both noticed something odd about him, something he was in fact trying to conceal, and at the same time didn’t notice that it was odd. He suspected she simply thought most people were odd and didn’t notice when someone was odd in an unusual way.

  He thought no one else had noticed his fear of going into the city. Well, possibly Fareine; she was an observant woman. But by the household as a whole, Gereint found himself accepted as a normal and valued man for the first time in nineteen years.

  Perhaps for this reason, Gereint liked everything about the house and household. He enjoyed the liveliness of the primarily female staff, enjoyed the friendly warmth of the kitchen and the staff—and they were friendly, right from the first, and only became more so. But Gereint didn’t dare take any of the offers that came his way from several of the young women. Even if he would risk insulting Lady Tehre, he could hardly go to any woman while geas bound. But surely Andlauban would return soon… He touched the stiff leather envelope that contained Amnachudran’s letter to the surgeon, drawing assurance from it.

  The surgeon mage would soon return, and he’d agree to take out the geas rings, and then at last Gereint would be truly free to find a different course for his life… though he found, to his own surprise, that he would be sorry to leave Breidechboden if leaving meant losing the chance to see what odd bridges and complex mathematical philosophy Tehre Amnachudran might come up with.

  But he would leave. The risk of being recognized by someone he’d once known was just too great.

  But in the morning, Tehre found him before the sun was even properly up. Gereint had risen early. He was in the kitchen, cadging pastries stuffed with apples and golden raisins from the cook and letting the kitchen girls tease him about his early morning and what did that imply about his early nights and was he quite sure he was sleeping well? But they scattered, startled, when the mistress of the house came in.

  Tehre looked as though she’d been up for hours, or even all night—but also as perfectly cheerful and rested as though she’d never missed a long night’s sleep in her life. “Oh, Gereint, good!” she said. “Are those apple? Thank you,” she added to the cook, accepting a fresh pastry. “Gereint, an important lord is coming to see me this morning. Did I tell you about that yesterday? Yes, I thought I forgot; Fareine must not have thought it was important to mention it to you, but I’ve decided I want to show off your catapult and then make it fail and explain about material failures. I think that’s exactly the sort of demonstration that will impress this man. He has lots of property and wealth and I want him as a patron so he can represent me to the guilds. So do you mind? And I thought I could explain that you’re the one who made the catapult; that ought to impress him and that would be good for you.”

  “Ah—” said Gereint, not very cogently. He found himself gripped by a senseless but powerful conviction that the intended patron was one of his cousins. Brachan or Feir or, worst of all, Gescheichan. But that was foolish. His cousins were men of wealth and property, but not one of them would be the least interested in bridges or material philosophy. He would not know this man—whoever the man was, he was not likely to know Gereint—especially after nineteen years.

  “Good, then, come this way, I want to receive my new patron in my library.” Tehre, nervous, seemed oblivious of Gereint’s reluctance. “Cook, could you please provide some of these lovely pastries for my guest? That will surely make him decide to represent me.” She said this last in a very matter-of-fact tone, clearly not realizing she was delivering a compliment. Catching Gereint’s hand, she towed him out while the kitchen girls exploded with very quiet giggles behind them.

  Gereint told himself, firmly, that the prospective patron would be someone he’d never met, someone who’d never heard of him. He even found that he looked forward to watching Tehre focus her formidable will on dragging this man into her plans. If the man was intelligent, he’d be delighted to represent her. If he was a fool, perhaps Gereint himself might help Tehre hook him, and thus repay something of the woman’s kindness to him…

  CHAPTER 4

  The very last possibility that crossed Gereint’s mind was that the prospective patron might turn out to be Perech Fellesteden. Fellesteden had intended to go to Abreichan—Gereint was sure his former master had intended to take his family to Abreichan. Yet he was here.

  For a long, long moment after Fellesteden came into Tehre’s library, Gereint could not move at all. Not to speak, not to run, not at all. He felt he had been struck to stone by some inimical magic, as though he literally could not move.

  Fellesteden, clearly, was just as astonished. “This is a surprise,” he said, but his tone, smooth and pleasant, indicated that it was one that pleased him very much. But he always sounded like that when he was most dangerous—when he intended to indulge himself at someone else’s expense.

  “You know one another?” Tehre said, but then she picked up some quality in Fellesteden’s tone or in Gereint’s silence and stopped, her eyes narrowing.

  “Harboring fugitives, are you, honored lady?” Fellesteden said to her, though his eyes did not move from Gereint’s. “Was it you who removed his brand? Or had it removed? Of course it was.” He began to smile. “Did you think to gain a loyal servant whose special qualities might go unnoticed? How very clever of you.” His eyes moved at last to meet Tehre’s. “But I had heard that about you. That you are clever.”

  Gereint said, “She knows nothing about it.” He measured the door behind Fellesteden and the men he had brought with him—Perech Fellesteden always traveled with a retinue. He had today. There was no hope of getting past them that way. And there was no other door to the room.

  “Of course she does,” Fellesteden said mildly. He was still smiling. “Is it coincidence you are here? I think not.”

  Gereint shifted back a step.

  “Derich,” Fellesteden said, and one of his men-at-arms came smartly forward, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

  Gereint knew Derich. And there were far too many men behind him. He stopped. Derich smiled—not a smooth, polite smile like his master’s: The man-at-arms had very little interest in smooth courtesy. His head was shaved in the manner of a soldier, but Derich was not a soldier—as Gereint knew very well.

  Tehre knew neither Fellesteden nor Derich. She said sharply, “Fareine! Go for the patrol.”

  “Derich,” Fellesteden said gently, before the old woman could take so much as a single step, “be so good as to ensure that no one leaves this household until I give permission. If anyone should happen to wish to enter, that’s another matter, and they are certainly welcome to come in.”

  “My lord,” said Derich, and lifted a hand, grinning. Men moved. One took Fareine by the arm. She looked, white faced and helpless in his grasp, to Tehre for help.

  “This is entirely illegal!” cried Tehre, outraged. Not yet frightened.

  Fellesteden looked thoughtful. “An interesting question. I think it will prove otherwise. I do think so. Gereint…” He stood for a long moment, studying Gereint. “Let me see your feet,” Fellesteden said to him at last.

  Gereint did not move. It felt very strange not to move in response to that smooth voice. Not to feel the bite of compulsion. It was not a freedom he was likely to enjoy for much longer.

  And it was in a very real sense an illusory freedom, because Fellesteden sighed and shook his head, just a little. It was the exact gesture a tired father might use toward a recalcitrant small boy. “Shall I have my men compel you?”

  Without a word, Gereint bent and removed his boots. The geas rings pierc
ing through the flesh between bone and tendon glinted coldly silver. Gereint did not look at Tehre Amnachudran. He did not meet anyone’s eyes.

  “Not bound, after all,” observed Fellesteden. “I am surprised.”

  “I told you,” Gereint said, and was mildly pleased and considerably astonished to find his voice steady. “The lady knows nothing of me other than that I am a maker.” He forced himself to look straight into Fellesteden’s face. “You have no business here, except with me.”

  “Oh, well,” Fellesteden murmured, and paused. “Do you know,” he said then, “I imagine that may even be the truth, or why else would you be free? But who else would believe it?” His gaze moved from Gereint’s face to Tehre’s. “Theft of a geas-bound servant… honored lady, I am shocked. Shocked. Interference with the brand of such an infamous person… clearly to disguise his geas for your own benefit… Anyone would be profoundly shocked. I believe that we might well come to an understanding on this matter. If you are indeed clever.” He paused again.

  Tehre’s face had gone blank. Her eyes were fixed on Fellesteden’s face, but she did not speak.

  “Derich…” Fellesteden murmured. “Derich—let us be certain this house is secure. The honored Fareine will be so kind as to assist us, I am sure. Please remain here, honored lady. You might well take these few moments to consider your situation. We may hope that you do indeed deserve your reputation for cleverness. A practical cleverness will serve you much better, at this moment, than defiance.” He gestured to his men and withdrew, shutting the door gently behind him.

  Tehre, her small fists clenched in silent fury, glared at the door for a long moment. Then she transferred the glare to Gereint. “That man,” she said in a tight voice, “that man is going to accuse me of having stolen you from him. No. You came here from my father’s house. He’s going to accuse my father of having stolen you.”

  “I’ll deny it,” Gereint promised her.

  But Tehre shook her head. “What good will that do? No one will listen to anything you say! Lord Fellesteden is a powerful man—he has powerful friends, friends at court, that’s why I wanted his patronage! Somebody removed your brand, and then you turned up in my house? It doesn’t matter what you say—it barely matters what I say: If Perech Fellesteden brings accusations against my family, everyone will believe him, not us!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “That does very little good.” Tehre stared at him for a brief moment, her eyes intense with thought and anger. She asked sharply, “Who did remove your brand?”

  Gereint did not answer.

  Tehre’s lips compressed. She looked quickly around the room, thinking. There was still only one door, and Fellesteden’s men would still be guarding it; outside, Tehre’s female household would be thoroughly overmatched by his retinue. “This is absolutely illegal!” Tehre said furiously. And helplessly.

  “Bind me,” Gereint said suddenly, and when Tehre swung around to stare at him, “Bind me yourself! Don’t wait for Fellesteden to do it! You can say—you can think of something to tell any judge.” Gereint paused, trying to think what the woman might plausibly claim. “You can say you bought me legally. You can say I was unbranded when you bought me. You’re too trusting of people: When the man who sold me told you that the judge ordered my face left unmarked, you believed him. I didn’t contradict him because I didn’t want the brand renewed. Anybody would believe that. Fellesteden will say I wasn’t bound when he found me in your house, but it’s his word against yours and I’ll swear to any judge he’s lying. I’ll say anything you like; I’ll refrain from saying anything you like. But you have to stop Fellesteden from claiming me. If he binds me—”

  He didn’t have to finish that thought. Tehre was already searching through the library for anything that would do for the binding. There were no fine silver chains handy, but she clearly knew that one did not actually need the chains. But nothing like a fine cord seemed to be available, either. She stopped and bit her lip. “Where’s an embroidery kit when you need one?” she asked the air. Then she blinked, reached up to her head, and pulled the pins out of her hair. It tumbled around her shoulders, dark and thick, glinting with gold.

  “That won’t be very strong—” Gereint began.

  Tehre cut him off. “It will be for me. Anyway, do you see anything else handy to use?”

  Gereint didn’t. He closed his mouth.

  “I don’t know what’s to stop him forcing me to release you again,” Tehre said, her small fingers darting along the strands of dark hair, braiding, braiding, faster and faster, pulling more hairs from her head to lengthen the cord. Her eyes were fixed on her work and at least part of her mind had to be, but she also said, “What will stop him?” as though it was a real question and she really expected Gereint to answer it.

  Gereint opened his mouth and shut it again. He had no idea. Then he said, knowing it was impossible, “No matter what he does, you’ll have to persuade him you won’t.”

  Tehre made a scornful little sound, but she glanced up only for a second and her racing fingers did not slow. She finished the first cord and began on a second.

  Gereint moved to the door and listened carefully. It was easy to imagine that he heard rapid, triumphant steps ringing down the hall, coming toward the library door. He couldn’t tell if he really heard such sounds or not. “Hurry,” he urged Tehre.

  The woman didn’t dignify this with even a glance, far less an answer. But she finished the second cord with flying haste and beckoned urgently to Gereint, who crossed the room in four long strides, swung a second chair around beside Tehre’s, and put his right foot up so she could reach the geas ring.

  Tehre threaded the first cord she had made through the ring and tied it off with a neat little knot. She had seemed far more outraged than frightened when Fellesteden had threatened her, but she was more frightened than she looked: Her fingers trembled against his ankle.

  Steps sounded outside the room, loud and definite and not at all the product of imagination. Gereint gritted his teeth against a desperate need to urge Tehre to Hurry, hurry, hurry and forced himself to stand perfectly still while she completed the first knot. There were voices outside, loud but indistinguishable, and he put his right foot on the floor and his left on the chair.

  Tehre completed the second knot, and the geas woke, twisted tightly around Gereint’s self-determination and will, and bit deep. He caught his breath in something that was not quite pain and grabbed the back of the chair to steady himself against what seemed almost a physical dizziness, although it was not actually physical at all.

  Just at that moment, Derich opened the library door. He stepped aside for Perech Fellesteden to enter. Derich entered at Fellesteden’s back; another of Fellesteden’s retainers held Fareine by one arm. The woman looked older and far more helpless than she had ever seemed before.

  Tehre stood up, crossed her arms across her small breasts, tilted her chin up, and glared at Fellesteden.

  Gereint moved a step out from her side. He was not at all certain now what could possibly prevent Fellesteden from forcing Tehre to cut the cords she had just made. He had wanted her to bind him for his own protection—to do it herself before Fellesteden could—but now Fellesteden could simply threaten Fareine; he could threaten one woman of her household after another, and he wouldn’t stop at threats; Tehre could not possibly resist him—

  “Gereint,” Tehre commanded, staring straight at Fellesteden, “kill him.”

  Gereint couldn’t believe she had said that. Perech Fellesteden couldn’t believe it. In fact, no one could believe it. For that first instant, everyone in the room was frozen in astonishment. Except for Gereint. Because he did not have to believe it. It did not matter that he was shocked or that he had never in his life killed anyone and probably would not have been able to do it on his own; the geas could not be astonished and did not accommodate delay.

  Gereint’s body moved in automatic geas-driven response to Tehre’s command. He yielded
to it instantly, let the geas drive his lunge forward, put his own will behind it, and rode it for strength and force and, most of all, speed.

  The man holding Fareine had a knife drawn; Gereint hit him hard in the throat, caught his knife as he staggered, spun, plunged the knife into Fellesteden’s side and ripped forward and up, ignored the man’s gasping cry as he jerked the knife out, and pivoted as Derich, shouting wordlessly, moved at last. Gereint caught Derich’s wrist in his other hand and struck viciously at the other man’s chest, but Derich twisted away and snatched out his sword, and the geas was already dragging Gereint back around to make sure of Fellesteden, whatever threat Derich presented at his back—

  Tehre hurled herself bodily against Derich and the two went down together in a flailing tangle. Gereint had no attention to spare for that struggle, all his focus was on Perech Fellesteden. The man was down on the floor, on his knees, one hand braced against the floor, the other hand pressed tightly against the wound Gereint had dealt him. He stared up, his face white, his mouth open, unable to catch his breath to speak.

  Gereint felt no pity at all. But it would not have mattered. Fellesteden was still alive, so the geas was still a goad, still a source of speed and violence. Gereint jerked Fellesteden’s head back by the hair, whipped the knife across his throat, and felt the compulsion of the geas relax as the life went out of his old master’s eyes. He did not watch, but whirled, looking for Derich.

  Derich was just getting to his feet, and Tehre as well, though much more slowly. Gereint faced Derich, horribly aware that the knife he still held was not a match for the other man’s sword, that even if he’d had a sword of his own, he would not have been a match for Fellesteden’s man. Derich knew it too. He stalked Gereint, smiling tightly, as he always smiled when about to murder or torture or inflict any sort of brutality. Gereint wondered if Tehre might give him another Kill him command, and whether that might help—