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

by Neumeier, Rachel

  Fareine, her face set and white, stepped forward, swung the long bronze statue of a flying swan up by its neck, and brought the heavy base of the statue swinging down toward Derich’s head. The man jerked to the side and the swan hit his shoulder and arm a glancing blow. Not his sword arm. He shouted—the cry sounded more furious than hurt—and swept his sword around in a vicious low cut that would gut the old woman like a fish. Fareine cowered from the sword, lifting the bronze swan in a hopeless gesture of defense.

  Gereint flung the knife he held, using all his maker’s skill to encourage it to fly straight and hard and hit point first. But he knew even as he threw the knife that it would not strike Derich in time to stop him cutting Fareine in half.

  But Tehre flung her hands out, making a twisting motion as though wringing the neck of a hen, and when Derich’s sword struck the bronze statue, it did not batter past the statue and slash into Fareine’s body. It wasn’t that Fareine was holding the statue firmly enough to block the sword. But when the sword struck the statue, it shattered. Metal splinters exploded across the room.

  Fareine dropped the swan statue, crying out as some of the steel splinters struck her—Derich shouted too, in surprise if not in pain—so did Tehre, in sympathy perhaps, she was too far away to have been injured—Gereint’s knife snapped into Derich’s lower back with all the force and precision he might have put into ordinary practice with a straw target when making throwing knives.

  This time, when Derich cried out, it was definitely in pain.

  Gereint was already on him. One big hand snatched the neck of the bronze swan from Fareine. But when Gereint swung the statue up like a club and brought it down, he put a lot more force behind the blow than the old woman ever could have. And his aim was better. It took only one blow.

  Then he looked at last for Fellesteden’s other retainer. He found the man at once, fallen where he’d stood when Gereint had struck him in the throat. He was not moving. So Gereint had hit him hard enough the first time. And no other enemy was in the room. And Fellesteden was—yes, Gereint confirmed, staring at his old master’s body. Perech Fellesteden was dead.

  They were safe.

  For the first instant after that realization, Gereint could not believe what had happened, what he had done, what any of them had done. He braced his hands on his knees, lowered his head, and tried to catch his breath.

  Tehre said faintly, “That was… We are…” and stopped. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The room stank of blood and terror, and her pallor only deepened. She opened her eyes again quickly.

  Gereint went to her and put a hand under her elbow. “There’s no time to faint, yet,” he told her urgently. “Though, earth and iron, you deserve to!” He turned his head. “How many men did Fellesteden bring with him? Do you know, Fareine? There’s no knowing what they’ll do, now their lord is dead—”

  Fareine straightened her shoulders. “They’ll leave,” she declared. “They’ll get out! That’s what they’ll do. Their master illegally invaded the house of the honored Lady Tehre Amnachudran Tanshan and threatened the lady and her household! The honored lady has every right to bring charges, serious charges, against Lord Fellesteden! Or his—his heirs and estate, I suppose.” She glanced quickly at the bodies and away again. But then she drew herself up and, although she was still trembling, glared haughtily at Gereint.

  “That’s… one possible view,” Gereint allowed. He, also, still felt sick and shaken, but he couldn’t help but grin at Fareine’s prim tone. “Especially if the city patrol was here to see to it. Do you think—?”

  “They can be brought,” Tehre promised. “Fareine, you can—no. I don’t know how you could get out of the house. The rest of Fellesteden’s men must be watching the doors.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to think.

  “How many are there? Do we know?” Gereint asked Fareine.

  “About… about ten,” the old woman said, but uncertainly. She glanced involuntarily at the man with the crushed throat and winced, but did not let herself recoil. “Or nine, I suppose. There are men in the kitchens, in Tehre’s workroom, in the garden… He sent men everywhere… ”

  “The servant’s hall?”

  “Yes. I told you, they’re everywhere—”

  Gereint closed a big hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her, very gently. “Nine men can’t be everywhere. The bedrooms?”

  Fareine thought about this. “No,” she said at last in a surprised tone. “I don’t think so. Tehre’s suite is just down the hall, you know, and it looks out over the front walk. And those iron lanterns make a good step down… Tehre used to sneak out that way, when she was just a bit of a girl and her family stayed here.”

  “You knew about that?” Tehre asked, astonished, and Fareine gave her a wry look.

  Gereint longed to ask why Tehre had, as a girl, snuck out of her father’s house. But probably that was not the most urgent question to ask at this moment. He began instead, “Ah… Fareine…”

  “Young man, I’m not so old I can’t manage a little climb like that,” Fareine said with some asperity. “If you will make certain none of Fellesteden’s brigands are in the hall, please?”

  Gereint flexed his hands and looked for the knife… remembered it was in Derich’s back and swallowed. He rubbed his palms on his thighs and glanced unhappily at the body. But he needed a weapon before he opened that door.

  Though Fellesteden’s other retainer ought to have—yes. A sword, still in its sheath. Much better than trying to pull a bloody knife out of a dead man. Much better. Gereint didn’t try to get the sheath off the retainer’s belt, but gingerly drew the sword and straightened again. The sword had decent balance, fit comfortably in his hand… ah. It was, he realized at last, one he’d made himself, as he’d made many of the swords and knives Fellesteden’s men carried. The recognition carried a strange kind of reassurance with it, as though Gereint had unexpectedly found a friend at his side in an uncertain situation.

  He shifted the sword in his grip, glanced over at Tehre. He knew very well that, sword or no, he was not a match for any of Fellesteden’s thugs. But if there was no more than one man… If he could at least make the man hesitate… all he needed was to win enough time for Fareine to get out of the house and the day was won… “Maybe we should all go?” he said to Tehre.

  The small woman lifted her head proudly. “I won’t be chased out of my own house by thugs! And anyway,” she added more practically, “if those men find their lord dead and want vengeance, I’m the only one whom they might hesitate to attack. I won’t leave my household at their mercy. I can make them pause, at least, and all we need is for them to hesitate.”

  Gereint hated for her to remain in danger, but he also knew she was right. Taking a deep breath, he stepped past Fareine, flung open the library door, and stepped through with a bold, confident stride that might deceive one of Fellesteden’s men, if not himself.

  The hallway was deserted. Gereint let his breath out, extremely relieved.

  “Tehre’s bedroom is right down…” Fareine slipped past him and hurried twenty feet down the hall, cautiously opened a door, glanced into the room, looked back at Gereint, gave him an all’s-well sign and a shooing gesture that obviously meant, Get back to Tehre. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her.

  It seemed odd to let a woman, a matron who was no longer young, climb down from that window, risking danger from Fellesteden’s men as well as simply from falling. But there was no other choice, and Fareine was right—he needed to get back to Tehre. If any of Fellesteden’s thugs discovered what had happened to their lord… Well, maybe Tehre could make them pause and maybe she couldn’t, but if not, he would have to try to hold them himself until the patrol arrived.

  In the library, Tehre was sitting in a chair she had pulled around to face the door, carefully angling it so she could also more or less avoid looking at the bodies. She was rubbing her face with both hands, but she glanced up when Gereint came in. Her f
ace was tight with strain and weariness. When she saw he was alone, she nodded and pressed her hands over her eyes.

  Gereint laid the sword aside on a table and came forward.

  “Fareine?” Tehre asked without looking up, in a small, tight voice, before Gereint could speak.

  “Well away. There was no sign of any of Fellesteden’s men. It shouldn’t take the patrol long to arrive. With luck, before Fellesteden’s thugs find out what’s happened.”

  She nodded, lowered her hands, and glanced vaguely around the room. But her glance snagged on Fellesteden’s body and stopped there. “He would have ruined us,” she said after a moment, as though answering an accusation.

  Gereint was not going to argue. “He would certainly have tried.”

  “Huh. Well, now he won’t.” But Tehre seemed to be unable to look away from the body. Gereint moved forward to lay a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched and jerked her gaze up at last, her breath coming sharp and quick. But after a moment she said, in a tone that only shook a little, “Lord Fellesteden threatened me, threatened my household—he intended theft and violence. He intended it from the first, in complete disregard of the king’s law—he probably quarreled with my father in the north—thus he brought so many men.” She glanced sharply up to meet Gereint’s eyes. “Will the city patrol believe that? Will a judge?”

  “When your enemy is dead, honored lady, you are free to offer any story that pleases you. It seems to me that one is somewhat plausible.” Gereint paused. Then he said, “But here’s a better story, if you will permit me. I’ve never encountered your father. I met your brother in Dachsichten. He suggested I come to you because he knew that you were looking for a maker to assist you in your work. He wrote you a letter representing me to you; your father never wrote a word to you about me. I came here for reasons of my own; you had no idea I was geas bound and can’t imagine who might have removed my brand. Fellesteden recognized me. He never intended anything against your household; he merely recognized me and wished to reclaim his lost property. In a madness of rage and despair, I managed to kill him and both these other men. All the fault is mine. You and your household are merely witnesses. You summoned the patrol to protect yourself against me, not against Fellesteden’s remaining men.”

  All of Tehre’s formidable attention was now fixed on Gereint. She said nothing.

  “It’s a plausible tale. Fellesteden’s remaining men will hardly object—they may even believe that tale themselves, if you tell it properly. You’d need to write immediately to your father and brother so neither of them contradicts this, um, adjusted version of events. And of course,” he gestured awkwardly down toward his own feet, “you will need to cut those cords.”

  The woman began to speak, clearly a protest, from the rigid shake of her head.

  Gereint interrupted her. “No, listen, Tehre. They can’t do anything to me that hasn’t already been done, do you see? But if I was bound under your control when I killed them, then you are responsible and I merely your weapon. If a judge finds against you—if he does, Tehre, and the precedent is all against you, believe me that I know—if you are found to have done murder, Tehre, you could be geas bound. Nothing would be worse, do you understand? And there is no reason for you to risk it!”

  “My father removed your brand. Isn’t that true?”

  Gereint shook his head emphatically. “I will never say so. If anyone makes that suggestion, I will deny it. Tehre, the patrol will surely come very soon. Your cords—there’s no time to hesitate—cut them, Tehre!”

  “I can’t leave you to take all the blame on yourself!”

  “You can. Don’t be foolish. Of course you can! You must! Do you want everyone asking about your father? They won’t stop with you, Tehre! They’ll ask why your father sent you a geas-bound slave with an unmarked face, and you won’t like the answers they think of—”

  A man’s deep voice rang out somewhere in the house, barely audible. It might be one of Fellesteden’s men. But Gereint thought it was probably the patrol.

  Tehre’s eyes widened with alarm. “I—” she began.

  “Let me take the blame! It doesn’t make any difference to me! I can’t get away now anyway!” It occurred to Gereint that he might have earlier, if he’d managed to persuade Tehre to cut the binding cords quickly enough. Grab his boots and out the window right after Fareine—too late, too late, the opportunity had been fleeting and was gone. He tried not to think about it, but said urgently, “Cut me loose, Tehre! Hurry!”

  Her eyes were wide and shocked, but her small mouth firmed with decision. She said quickly, “I’ll petition—whom does one petition? Never mind: I’ll find out and I’ll buy your bond properly. I won’t abandon you, Gereint, do you hear?”

  “I would… I would be very grateful,” Gereint admitted. He tried not to depend on the promise: Maybe Tehre would find herself or her family coming under too much suspicion if she tried to buy his bond. Maybe she would simply change her mind. He would have no recourse if she did. He gazed down at her for a moment. Those bronze-green eyes met his with utter conviction and he thought, surprising himself, No, she will keep any promise she makes.

  He was surprised by his own confidence: no one was bound by a promise made to a geas slave. But even so, he thought Tehre would be. And was even more deeply surprised at how important that seemed—that he should trust her, that even when he would not dare approach anyone he’d once known, neither family nor friend, there should still be someone he trusted in the world. And it had happened so quickly, and he had hardly even noticed—not really allowed himself to notice.

  But everything he’d argued was still true. He stepped toward the woman, turning so she could reach the geas rings.

  Tehre didn’t need a knife to cut the cords she’d made herself. She’d woven strength and resilience into them, but when she touched them, the knots she’d tied in them came undone and all the braiding unraveled. The cords simply fell to pieces. Gereint stared down at the unidentifiable wisps of hair, feeling the geas once more release its grip and subside to the back of his awareness. This time, he had no hope that this freedom would last.

  Boots rang authoritatively in the hall outside the library.

  Gereint stepped quickly away from Tehre and tried to look like the sort of desperate criminal who might have killed three men in a wild fit of terror and rage. This was not very difficult. It was harder to imagine why he would still be here in this room—maybe he had been struck insensible in the struggle and had only just recovered—he caught up the sword, tossed it on the floor by a chair, went quickly to one knee and braced one hand on the chair’s carved seat as though trying just this moment to haul himself to his feet.

  Tehre stared at him, then sank back into her own chair. She looked tiny, young, feminine, fragile, and perfectly helpless. Putting a hand to her face as though dazed, she stared vaguely at the door.

  The next moment a big man in the livery of the Breidechboden patrol flung the door wide. He stood a moment in the doorway, filling it: as broad in the shoulder as Gereint, though nothing like so tall. His eyes went quickly from Gereint to the sword discarded on the floor nearby, to Perech Fellesteden’s body, and at last to Tehre Amnachudran. His mouth tightened. He stepped into the room, gesturing to his men.

  Gereint flung himself to his feet, staggering, just in time for two more men of the city patrol to rush forward and grab his arms. Fareine, who had followed the men into the room, started to protest; Tehre said, cutting the older woman off before she could manage even one word, “Patrol captain! Please send your men to secure my house and ensure that my people are safe. I had better accompany them. I’m afraid there has been a great deal of confusion.”

  “Honored lady, I see there has,” said the captain, shaking his head—not doubt, Gereint saw, but simply amazement. He gestured to his men, and they led Gereint toward the door. He did not fight them. Nor did he try to turn for a last glance at Tehre. He simply bowed his head and went where the men took
him.

  * * *

  Six days in a windowless stone cell provided plenty of time to think of fifty better ways he might have handled a sudden confrontation with his previous geas master. The best of them involved avoiding the confrontation altogether. Gereint reviewed in painful detail his decision to come south at all, his decision to stay on the southern road from Dachsichten rather than turn west, his fatal acquiescence when Tehre had suggested he meet her new patron.

  If he had chosen differently at any of those moments, he might have gone to Feierabiand as planned. He might even be in Feierabiand right this moment, rather than sitting here on the cold stone floor, watching occasional slivers of light creep across the floor as guards carried lanterns past in the hall.

  Gereint spent some of his time chipping carefully at the stone of the door with the buckle of his belt. He thought about what Tehre had said about cracks and masonry, and he thought of how she had made Fellesteden’s sword shatter—an astonishing act of unmaking, the very antithesis of making. If he could do that… he would do more than break the door: He would shatter this whole prison, pull all its walls down around him. But no matter how he tried, he could not find any way to coax the scratches he made to run through the stone and break it to pieces.

  In moments of hope, Gereint thought he might eventually be brought out of the cell and led up into the light to find that Tehre Amnachudran had indeed purchased his bond. He remembered thinking, She will keep any promise she makes, and though the original conviction of that thought was lacking, he still hoped, sometimes, that it might prove true.

  But in other moments, Gereint was certain Tehre would be furious that he had deceived her, furious with her father, too. Though she had not seemed angry. But she might find herself and her family endangered by too close interest—she would realize that she had to avoid, by whatever means, any suggestion that her father had sent Gereint to her house, or that her father might have been the one to interfere with the geas brand. Either way, she would not want to further any connection between herself and Gereint. She would not intervene for him.