Sentinelspire

by Mark Sehestedt

  Lewan took her hands and pulled them off him. “Ulaan … I must speak to you.”

  He saw a slight widening of her eyes, a quick intake of breath—but she hid it quickly. “What is it, Lewan?” she said carefully.

  He looked to the bedside table. A platter of food—fruits, bread, white cheese, wine—waited there. She’d even found a sprig of red holly and put it on the edge of the platter. He walked over, threw the bow on the bed, then poured the wine into a goblet and drained it in one gulp. As the warmth began to suffuse his head, he looked to Ulaan, put all the gentleness into his voice he could, and said, “Don’t look so worried.”

  She would not look at him. “Do I have reason to be?”

  Lewan put the empty goblet on the platter. He saw that his hand was trembling. “I’m not sending you away if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Ulaan did look up then, her eyes rimmed with tears. She smiled and rushed at him with open arms.

  Lewan took a step back and placed his hands on her shoulders to keep her at arm’s length. Even through the grime coating his fingers, he could feel how thin her dress was and how soft the skin beneath.

  Her eyes narrowed, not so much in hurt as confusion. “Lewan, I …”

  “Please, Ulaan. You must listen. We …” Lewan swallowed and took a deep breath. Damn it all! Exhausted as he was, he was still blushing like a little boy. “We cannot … be together. At least not for a while.”

  “I don’t understand. You said you weren’t sending me away! You said—”

  “No!” Lewan shook his head, cutting her off. “I mean, we can’t … you know. Love.”

  Ulaan sat on the bed. “You don’t love me.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than him. “Earlier today, I thought … when the Lady Talieth interrupted, I was so sure you were about to tell me y—”

  “I love you, Ulaan.” There, he had said it, and he felt a surge of pride that he’d said it, plain and simple, no hesitation. “I do. But you must understand. I—”

  “If you love me, then why can’t we share our love? You said—”

  “Ulaan, please!” He said it with more force than he’d intended. “I’m sorry, Ulaan. I’m just so tired, so confused. I can barely think. You must understand, my faith … the ways I was taught, the path of the Oak Father I have sworn to follow …”

  He trailed off, struggling for the right words to make her understand. They wouldn’t come to him. His exhaustion was pulling him down, and the wine wasn’t helping, either.

  “I took an oath, Ulaan. Being with you, I … I betrayed that oath. Today, I purified myself, and if I am going to get us out of here, my only hope is to remain pure. To seek the Oak Father’s aid. I—”

  “Us?” said Ulaan. “Get us out of here. Lewan, what do you mean? You mean … leave?”

  She looked at him a long time, then stared at the wall. He could tell she was not seeing the stone, but all the possibilities before her.

  “Yes,” he said. “Leave the Fortress. Leave Sentinelspire. Come away with me.”

  She looked at him. “Where?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “One problem at a time. But you’ll be free. No longer a sla—” He caught himself. “A servant. You’ll be with me.”

  “Your woman?”

  “No. You’ll be your woman. Free. As for you and me … we’ll figure all that out once we’re long gone from here. But it will be up to us, not Talieth or Sauk or the Old Man or any other madman who falls from the sky in a puff of smoke, asking for my help.”

  Ulaan’s eyes seemed troubled. “Lewan, you aren’t making any sense.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m tired. So tired.”

  Talieth lived in a series of opulent rooms in the upper floors of a mid-sized tower that hugged the Dome of Fire. Other than her servants and guards, she was the only resident, and even the servants didn’t reside there so much as sleep close enough to be at her beck and call.

  Either the two guards at the main door knew Sauk was expected or they saw the expression he wore and quickly stepped aside. One offered a quick bow. The other made sure he was well out of the way before Sauk threw the door open and stormed inside.

  The winding passage up the stairs that ringed the interior wall of the tower alternated between pools of light and wells of shadow. Only half the candles were lit, and many of them burned low. The wake Sauk left behind snuffed out several.

  Two more guards—Talieth’s favorite Damaran and Shou, more elegantly garbed and more heavily armed—stood outside the heavy double doors that led into Talieth’s main apartment. Both had been at ease, but seeing Sauk, the Shou stepped forward and the Damaran put a hand to the short sword at his belt.

  The Shou raised a hand. “My apologies, Lord Sauk. The Lady forbids any entrance. She is—”

  Sauk’s foot slammed into the man’s gut, knocking every bit of wind out of him. He went down like a wet sack. Sauk stepped over him.

  The Damaran drew his blade and held it on guard before him, but his shaking hand showed he was scared.

  Sauk stopped so that the blade, trembling slightly, rested lightly on his chest. “You, I’ll put out the window if you don’t sheathe that steel and step aside.”

  “Lady Talieth ordered—”

  “Lady Talieth ordered me to report. You can stand aside and obey her—and me—and sleep in your bed after your watch. Or you can go out the window now. Your choice.”

  The man took a deep breath, blinked twice, then sheathed his short sword and stepped aside. “Let it be on your head, then,” he said.

  “It always is,” said Sauk. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  The room held an assortment of couches, a table where Talieth sometimes dined with guests, and two hearths, both burning low. Candles were set about the room, but none were lit. The room was dim, lit only by the dying fires and a lamp set amidst a wreath of apple blossoms on the table.

  Kiristen, a Calishite beauty and Talieth’s chief maidservant, lounged on a divan by the fire, dozing with an empty goblet in one hand. Hearing the door open, she leaped to her feet, the goblet falling onto the rug.

  “Sauk! What are you doing? Out of here, this instant. The Lady has ordered that no—”

  “The lady herself ordered me to report the moment I returned.” Sauk gave a bow, hoping his sardonic manner was coming through. “I have returned. You may bring the Lady out, or I’ll go in.”

  “She is abed. I will not—”

  Sauk started to pass, but she stepped around the divan and in his way. She put both hands on his chest. He stopped.

  “She is abed,” said Kiristen, then lowered her voice. “But she is not alone. Come back in the morning, Sauk. Please.”

  Sauk took a deep breath through his nose and looked down at her. “Are you going to move?”

  “No. Sauk, please list—”

  Sauk picked her up by the waist and tossed her over the divan. She landed in a pile of cushions and pillows piled near a couch. Before she could disentangle herself from her skirts, Sauk was at Talieth’s bedroom door.

  “Sauk!” Kiristen gave a final plea.

  Sauk pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  “What in holy gods—?” said a man’s voice in surprise and exasperation. Valmir was standing before the ornate fireplace, a crystal glass of wine in one hand. He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Seeing Sauk enter the room, Val grabbed a pillow off the couch before him and held it in front of his loins.

  Sauk kicked the door shut behind him, cutting off more of Kiristen’s protests.

  Talieth rose from the couch in front of Val. She glared at Sauk a moment, then grabbed a black silk robe from the couch, threw it on and tied it shut. “What are you doing here?”

  “You told me to let you know what happened out there. ‘The moment you return,’ you said. As you can see, I have returned.”

  “So I smell,” said Val. “Gods, did you run the whole way? You stink like a—”

  �
��Be silent,” said Talieth.

  Valmir scowled—though Sauk knew he wouldn’t have dared had Talieth’s back not been to him. He finished his wine and stared daggers at Sauk.

  “You have good reason to interrupt us, I take it,” Talieth said to Sauk.

  “You take it damned right. We’ve got a severe problem. I was watching the boy do whatever it was he went out there to do, and I saw your father come and speak to him. Had quite a long conversation with Lewan.”

  “My father?”

  “Saw him with my own eyes.”

  Talieth paced the room, staring into space and chewing on the back of one knuckle. Valmir, who had gone white as a cloud, followed her with his eyes. At last Talieth said, “That’s … impossible. It’s impossible, Sauk. You know that.”

  “I do know it. Which means we have a big problem.”

  “Tell me everything he said.”

  Lewan knew that if Ulaan put her hands on him or helped him bathe, his resolve would crumble. So he sent her from the room, ostensibly to fetch him clean clothes and a pitcher of water—his head would take no more wine. But in reality, he simply needed her gone while he undressed and scrubbed away the grime of the day. He’d also asked for more blankets.

  When she returned, he was clean and almost dry, standing before the fire and wrapped in the thick fur coverlet from the bed. He asked her to turn away while he put on the fresh clothes. She protested at first, insisting that she help him, but she gave in without much argument.

  “Ulaan,” he said as he pulled on the linen shirt.

  “Yes?” She turned around.

  “What I said earlier … you can still stay here tonight. Take the bed. But I think it best if I sleep out on the balcony.”

  “The balcony? Why? Won’t you—”

  “I’ve spent most of my life sleeping under the stars,” he said. “In truth, I’ve always found this room a bit … close. Besides …” His eyes took in the way her gown accentuated the curves of her body. “The cool air will do me good.”

  And so he bedded down on the balcony, amidst the ivy and blossoms closed against the night. The breeze off the mountain felt wonderful, and for the first time in many days, he felt somewhat at ease. The purification had done him good.

  Then he noticed clouds coming in from the north—a thick blackness blotting out the stars—and lightning flickering in the far distance. Rain by morning.

  “Wonderful,” he said to himself. He turned back to the open doors, reconsidering a night in the open. Fresh air was one thing. Sleeping in the rain was quite another.

  But then he saw Ulaan, peeling off her gown before getting into bed. All the candles were out, and the warm light from the fire settling to its rest painted her skin in glowing curves and soft shadows. She saw him watching. She returned his stare and arched one eyebrow. She said nothing, and even though Lewan had known her only a few days, he knew what she was asking. Are you sure?

  Lewan took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and closed the balcony doors. Perhaps a cold shower was just what he needed after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  That day in the foothills of the Khopet Dag, Lewan had not been entirely truthful with Sauk.

  You ever killed anyone? Lewan had evaded the question, then let Sauk believe whatever he wanted. I’ll take that as a no.

  But Lewan had killed. And not just the animals he’d told Sauk about. He’d killed a person. He’d been only twelve years old. For years after, that day had haunted him, recurring again and again in his nightmares, and the images and sounds coming to him with sudden clarity in the middle of the day while he was in the midst of a task for his master. Years had dulled the nightmares, and even the waking memories now seemed distant and hazy.

  Even as a young boy, working the fields with his father or helping his mother cook, he’d seen death. Lambs that did not survive a hard birthing. Sheep or hens slaughtered for feast days. He had seen death. But the first person he’d ever killed …

  Most likely, the raiders from the Ganathwood had waited outside the village most of the night. They’d waited until the eastern sky was just light enough to cast the village in a muted glow. The first shepherds had just been walking bleary-eyed out of their homes to tend the fields when the first raiders slew the guards and threw the gates open wide. Lewan didn’t know how or when his father had been killed. He hadn’t seen the body until it was all over and the raiders were dragging him away.

  The sound of his home’s front door being kicked in and his mother shrieking had woken him instantly. Outside, the flocks were bleating.

  He’d sat up on his straw mattress and started to call out for his mother, but hearing the raucous voices, the main room’s table being thrown aside, and his mother continued screaming had filled him with a sensation he’d never known before: sheer terror. As a small child, Lewan had been afraid of the dark, and thunderstorms had often sent him scurrying to the pallet his parents shared in the main room. But this was something entirely new. His hearing and vision sharpened, but his heart was pounding so hard he could feel his temples pulsing. He felt cold all over, like he’d been rolled in snow.

  His mother’s screams intensified, but amidst the shrieks Lewan had heard the creaking of the ladder that led to his loft. Someone was coming up. His breath coming in ragged sobs, Lewan rose. Taking steps that were far too slow—he’d barely been able to get his feet to move at all—he staggered to the far corner, where their croft’s roof almost touched the floor and the shadows were deep and dark. A pile of dirty clothing and his heavy winter blanket in need of mending lay there. He’d crawled under them and waited.

  The hatch on the floor next to the far wall slammed up. A wild-haired, unshaven man thrust his head and arm through the opening. That hand held a knife. He looked around—looked right where Lewan lay curled in the shadows—then called down, “Empty! Just a loft. My turn. Now you hold her!” And he’d leaped down, leaving the hatch open.

  His mother’s voice rose to one long, agonized shriek, then broke into quiet sobbing. With the hatch still open, Lewan could hear at least two men chuckling and another breathing heavily. How long it went on, Lewan could never remember, but in his nightmares of the following years, those sounds went on and on and on, mingling with terrified screams and angry shouts from outside.

  “Done?” a man’s voice said, then, “Finish her. We’ll start the roof.”

  Lewan heard the man leave, heard his mother cry out once more, a short burst of air, almost as if she’d fallen and had the wind knocked out of her. Then more footsteps, and the only sounds were those from outside the house.

  Peeking from beneath the blanket, Lewan had been unable to look away from the open hatch, sure that at any moment the wild-haired man would return. And that’s where he was looking when he saw the first ember fall. He gasped and looked up. A large area of the thatch was black, and little specks within the black were glowing like orange stars.

  We’ll start the roof. The men had torched the thatch!

  Still shaking, Lewan crawled out from under the blankets and made his way to the hatch. More sparks were falling. One lit on the back of his hand, and the sudden pain almost broke his shock and sent him into full panic. He shook it off and scrambled the rest of the way. He peeked over the edge.

  The croft’s main room was in shambles, their table and water basins shattered, the door cracked almost in half and hanging on by one hinge. His mother sprawled on the dirt floor, her homespun nightshift torn up the middle, leaving her nakedness exposed. She lay in a dark puddle that Lewan first thought was the blanket she shared with his father, but then he saw it had the gleam of wetness. Thickest around her head, it formed a sickly mud on the floor, but where it had soaked into her shift, even in the dim light of predawn, Lewan had seen it was red. And worst of all, the dark blotch under her chin that had seemed like a shadow at first glance … his eyes seemed drawn to it, and he saw that his mother’s throat had been cut open from just under her left ear to her collarbo
ne.

  “Mother!” Lewan had called, then rushed down. In his haste, he’d slipped and fallen, landing in the mud surrounding his mother. A bit of it splashed onto his face.

  Closer to her, he could see the lifeblood trickling out of her, a new wave with each beat of her heart.

  “Mother …”

  She’d turned her head at the sound of his voice. The blood pulsing out of her neck splattered her cheek. Her jaw hung slack, the tip of her tongue protruding between her lips, the slightest hint of her teeth showing. She swallowed and tried to speak, but all that came out was a horrid groan.

  That had snapped some semblance of thought back into Lewan. He remembered his father slaughtering the sheep. One careful swipe across the throat, and the sheep would bleed out in moments.

  He rushed to his mother on his hands and knees. The mud squished between his fingers. He grabbed a fistful of her ruined shift and pressed it to the wound.

  “Mother, make it stop!” he said, and it was then that the tears had begun to fall. “Make-it-stop-make-it-stop-make-it-stop!”

  The fire was growing. Lewan could hear the great roar and crackle of the flames consuming the roof, and large chunks of burning thatch began to fall in his loft. Sparks and cinders rained down the open hatch, and the loud pops all around told him that the fire was catching in the timber itself.

  “Mother, we have to get out. Mother!”

  She was still trying to speak, making that terrible wet moaning sound. One hand, shaking like an old woman’s, rose to reach for him, but fell halfway.

  Smoke was filling the room, and the sound of thatch falling in the loft overhead was a constant patter.

  “We must leave, Mother!”

  Lewan let go of his mother’s shift. It was completely saturated with blood. He stood, grabbed one of her wrists, and pulled. She didn’t budge. He pulled harder, and his feet slipped in the mud. He came down hard on his bottom and sobbed.

  “Mother, please get up.”

  He scrubbed away the tears, and when he looked down at her again, she was watching him. She blinked once, hard, then swallowed and said, “Lew! Don’t … let … me … buh … burn!”