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by Patricia Reding

  There was a hole in the floor, an opening.

  But . . . to what?

  She ran her fingers along the outside of what she now recognized as a trapdoor. Someone had removed the rug that usually sat over it, and then closed it, but not tightly.

  She edged closer, then peeked down to find a room below. A small room, to be sure, but a room, and Cark sat within it.

  What is he doing?

  He went still.

  She pulled away, soundlessly. What would he do if he found her watching him? Kill her, perhaps? Good! Still, she held her breath, waiting, then exhaled slowly.

  A few minutes later, the sounds came again. They seemed familiar somehow.

  Once again, she peeked through the crack in the floor.

  Cark sat with stacks of gold coins surrounding him.

  Where did that come from? He spent everything he had to purchase me—a fact he continually reminds me of.

  He picked up a bag, untied it, opened it, and then turned it upside down.

  She recognized the bag as one used for deliveries to and from Zarek.

  Two gold coins dropped into the man’s hand. “Just two,” he muttered. “Damn. Grik must be stealing from me.”

  She pulled back. So, Cark was stealing from Zarek, and Grik was stealing from Cark. She wished she could make use of the information.

  That’s when it struck her. She nearly grinned, satisfied with her nearly perfect new plan. She’d given the man plenty of time and opportunity to let her go, but he’d refused. She’d given him numerous chances to kill her, but he always stopped short. All this time she’d thought he could ill afford to lose her, that she was the only thing of value he possessed. Now she knew that wasn’t so. Well, whatever held him back, she cared not. Since it seemed he wouldn’t kill her, she had but one choice.

  Her plan was perfect. She was certain no one knew of Cark’s hiding hole.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rain fell for days. It left pools filled with slush and fetid waste throughout Camp Cark. Wagons churned through the muck, throwing it into the air and onto anyone standing nearby, as workers delivered load after load of building materials. The activity occupied nearly every man. They lifted, measured, and constructed. Those not so engaged guarded the camp or, like Marshall, policed the comings and goings of others.

  The Oathtaker handed some water-sodden papers back to the camp’s most recent guest, then waved the wagon onward. He stepped back under a heavy tarp that he’d tied overhead to four posts anchored into the hard earth and shook the water from his hair just as another wagon pulled up.

  He turned toward it, pleased to find Jerrett, but disappointed to find someone with him. He waved his friend forward, then wasted no time taking advantage of the opportunity to get up to date, having been unable to communicate magically with him, as they were stationed too far away from one another.

  “How are you? How are things going?” he asked.

  “As well as can be expected. Grik uses every means possible to get the building supplies here quickly. Apparently, as soon as the men complete the project, Zarek will visit here. From what I can tell, they’re nearly through.”

  Marshall examined his friend’s papers. To the onlooker, it would appear he carefully considered their details. “How much longer, do you think?”

  “Weeks maybe, but it’s hard to say. I don’t get many chances to read the exchanges going from place to place. Too many people watch me.”

  Glancing at his friend, Marshall held back a grin. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked. Everyone at Lucy’s compound found the man’s style rather odd. Over the years, they’d poked fun at him because, except in the deepest winter weather, he always donned a sleeveless vest that didn’t close.

  Raising a brow, Jerrett grinned. “I’ve got to keep up appearances. You know, it’s odd how people think that if you can withstand cold, you can withstand all sorts of other pains. It keeps them off balance and at a distance—and around here, that’s a good thing.”

  “Mansur!” came a shout.

  Marshall handed Jerrett his papers. “You’re approved,” he said.

  A messenger approached. “Cark wants you.”

  “All right.” Marshall turned back to his friend. “See that you keep those papers on you at all times.”

  “Is there trouble here?” the messenger asked.

  “Oh, no. Are you taking over for me here?” Marshall asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Just remind everyone to keep their papers close and ready for added inspections. Cark is concerned someone will try to pirate building materials.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve no idea why.”

  “We’re off, then,” Jerrett interrupted. Seemingly oblivious to the rain, he jogged back to his wagon, jumped up, took the reins back from his companion, and then set off.

  “You’d better hurry,” the messenger said, gesturing toward Cark’s residence.

  “Right.”

  Marshall stepped out from under his shelter. The cold rain stung. He ducked his head, scrunched up his shoulders, and ran.

  When he arrived at Cark’s place, a guard opened the door. “You’re to wait here,” he said, as Marshall stepped inside.

  “Got it.” Finding a stack of towels on a side table, the Oathtaker picked one up and wiped off his face, then ran it over his hair.

  “Good. You’re here.”

  He turned to the voice.

  “I have business I need to attend.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cark folded his arms, resting them on his oversized midsection. “I need you to do some guard duty today.”

  “Certainly, sir. Where am I to report?”

  “Right here.”

  Marshall glanced about, but saw no one. “Sir?”

  Cark, dressed as usual in his partially buttoned uniform, approached. He ran his hand over his bristly head. “My wife needs— That is, I need my wife guarded here.”

  “Sir?”

  “As I said, I’ve business to attend.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I advise you to ignore her.” Turning away, Cark grabbed a leather bag sitting on the floor near the door. “I can’t be too sure of anyone around here. You know what they say? When the cat’s away . . .” Turning back, he glared. “It’s against my better judgment really, but I’ve decided not to have her accompany me this time. That’s why you’re here. But know this: if you lay a hand on her . . . I’ll kill you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you need anything, let the outer guard know. He’ll see to it.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Cark walked to the door, then turned back. “Be careful of her. She’s not to be trusted.”

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow evening, at the latest.” The man stepped out, then closed the door. Moments later, he re-opened it. “Keep this locked,” he ordered. Then he left, this time slamming it shut.

  Marshall stood at one of the barred windows that flanked the front door. Pulling the curtain aside, he watched Cark approach a horse, laboriously mount, and then ride away. Rainwater sloshed in his wake.

  The Oathtaker looked about. All was still. Never having seen beyond the entryway before, he considered a careful search of the place. He might learn something. Then he heard a faint sound. Curious, as he could not identify its source, he walked down a hallway to his right, but found nothing unusual there. He went to the next hallway, which led to the kitchen. Still, he found nothing. Finally, he approached the stairway. Tentatively, he made his way up, grimacing as each step creaked beneath his weight.

  When he reached the upper landing, he listened again for the sound.

  There it is.

  Three wood-paneled doors, one to his right, and two to his left, all stood closed.

  Where is Chaya? Is that who I hear? Is she . . . crying?

  He followed the sound to the last door on the left side of the hallway
and then knocked gently.

  The sound stopped, abruptly.

  “Chaya? It’s me, Mansur.”

  Moments later, the door opened. There she stood, tears lingering on her face.

  “Oh, dear Good One!” he exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

  Dressed in a simple light cotton gown, her bare arms revealed the clear bruising imprints of hands and fingers in shades of black and blue. Welts of red encircled her throat.

  His eyes met hers. As happened each time he saw them, their flash of blue, the intense emotion he found in their depths, startled him.

  “I swear I could kill him,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Cark left me to guard you.” Tentatively, Marshall touched a bruise on her face below her left eye. Her lips, split open, quivered. Even in her current state, her beauty shook him. “I’m so sorry, Chaya,” he said as his fingers brushed against her swollen lips.

  She pulled back and turned away. “There’s nothing to be done. I’ve tried everything. I’ve succumbed to his demands. I’ve fought him. I’ve encouraged him to kill me. Imagine wanting to die.” She looked up, as though searching in the air for answers. “But I can’t get him past that point.” She turned her gaze back. “There’s no getting away from him,” she whispered.

  “I can’t believe that. There’s got to be a way.” Gently, Marshall took her arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I have a special healing ointment you can use.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t bother. It would just leave a clean slate for him to begin all over again.”

  “Chaya,” he said, pulling her arm softly, encouraging her to look his way, “I’ll help you. I promise.”

  Her eyes pleaded with him.

  He fought back conflicting emotions. He wanted to help her to escape. He wanted to stay near her. Though he could not say why, she made him feel something new, different, and deep. He’d never experienced such an emotion before. Even through all his years with Lilith, and notwithstanding his duty to keep her safe, he’d never felt for her what he felt for Chaya. Yet his greater duty was to discover what he could about Zarek’s plans and the danger those plans posed to Oosa in general, and to Reigna and Eden, in particular.

  “I swear it,” he said.

  “Huh.” She pulled free of his hold. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “Come on. Let’s go down. I don’t want to be found here if anyone comes in. They might . . . you know . . . misunderstand.”

  “You can go.”

  “No. Please, come with me. We’ll see to your injuries and then maybe we can come up with a plan.”

  “He’ll kill you if you try to help me.”

  “I’ve done harder duty.” Marshall gestured for her to follow. “Come on down now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re so different . . .”

  “Let’s go. We’ll put our heads together.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He made his way back to the ground floor. The minutes passed quietly.

  Finally, Chaya’s footsteps sounded out upon the stairs. Once at the bottom, she looked up at him.

  It was as though he saw her for the first time. He longed to hold the exquisite creature before him, to keep her safe.

  “There must be some place we can talk,” he said.

  “Back there—in the kitchen. Cark gave all the servants the day off.”

  “All right. Let’s go then.”

  Her simple ash-gray cotton frock made her deep ebony hair and her bluebird-colored eyes, stand out, shockingly. She shivered.

  He reached for the shawl she held, opened it, and then draped it over her shoulders.

  She grasped its edges and wrapped it tightly around herself. “Who are you, really?” she asked. “I know you’re Oosian, and a follower, but . . .”

  He directed her to a chair. “Never mind about me.” He sat across from her, his hands on the table between them. “Let’s figure out what we’re going to do about you.”

  She put her hand on his. “No, I want to know. Tell me, Mansur. Who are you, really?”

  Looking at her hand, he said nothing, though he fought the urge to interlace his fingers with hers.

  She pulled back. “Well?”

  “I’m Oosian, as you know. I’m also . . . an Oathtaker. You’ve heard of them?”

  “Yes. Ophelie told me about them.”

  “Ophelie—your childhood nanny.”

  “Yes. So, who is your charge?”

  He grinned. “I see Ophelie taught you well.” He closed his eyes as he thought back in time. “I no longer have a charge,” he finally said, looking back at her. “I did once, but she’s . . . dead.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I know there’s a strong bond between an Oathtaker and his charge.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes, that’s right. But in my case, the bond was broken—and for good reason.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He told her a brief version of the story about Lilith, and about the actions she’d taken against Rowena and her daughters.

  “Oh my. What happened to them?”

  “Reigna and Eden? They’re in a safe place. I’m here seeking information about what Zarek might know of them, and of what his plans concerning Oosa might be. Camp Cark seemed a reasonable place to begin.”

  “So, I was right to trust you.”

  “I hope so. Now . . . onto you. We have to get you out of here.”

  She leaned back and sighed. “It’s no use. There are no weapons here—nothing I can use against him . . . or against myself.”

  “Please don’t say that. You said you wouldn’t do that.” He took her hand.

  She closed her eyes. “Mansur, sometimes I just . . . want to die,” she finally whispered.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Her eyes opened wide. She stared at him. “How can you say that? Look at me!” She touched the bruises on her face. “There’s no escape for me. Not without . . .”

  “What? Not without what?”

  “The only way I’ll ever be free of him is to kill him. If I don’t, sooner or later, he’ll kill me. Truly, I can think of no other way. Please help me.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “If I could just get a channel, I could kill him easily and silently. I even know where and how. His body wouldn’t be discovered for some time and I could get away.” She bit her lip. “Could you give me yours, Mansur? Please?”

  He caught his breath. If she killed Cark with his channel, he’d have to escape Chiran—and quickly. In that event, he wouldn’t get the information he sought. But if he helped her and stayed, his life would be in danger. His thoughts and emotions warred against each another. What was it about this woman that made him feel he might risk things he should not? Was he willing to gamble with his own life to help her? He sucked in his breath. Yes, to his surprise he realized, he was.

  “Never mind,” she said, interrupting his reverie. “I shouldn’t ask you for that. You could get caught and . . . I know the penalty.” She sighed. “I knew it couldn’t work.”

  He stood, approached the window that was barred to keep her inside, then looked out at the waning day and the rainfall. It seemed to reflect his deep sadness for her.

  Wagons carried supplies into camp. When a movement caught his attention, he watched guards near one of the buildings as they changed shifts. He frowned. He must be missing something. But what? Suddenly, realization came over him.

  He turned to Chaya, his expression serious, his jaw set. “There may be a way,” he said as he once again sat near her, then leaned in to relate his plan.

  “See there?” she asked. “It’s where he keeps his things.”

  Marshall peeked down into the darkness. “Let’s go.”

  With a ladder he found propped up, below, he headed down with Chaya following. At the bottom of the steps, a musty wet smell assaulted them.

  The O
athtaker lit a magic flare, then raised his hand to spread its light.

  Her hand to her throat, she gasped at the sight of it.

  He looked at the quail egg-sized ball of fire in his hand. “It’s a flare. It’s . . . magic.”

  “Ahhh . . .” She stammered in her surprise.

  “I’ll explain another time,” he said, grinning, “but for now, we’d best hurry.”

  She nodded, then looked about.

  Before them sat a desk covered in piles of papers. They both jumped when a mouse skittered across the top of it before slinking down the wall and off into the darkness.

  “Check the drawers,” she said.

  He opened one to find it filled with small burlap bags. He picked one up and untied its drawstrings. “Gold.”

  “I saw him down here, counting it.”

  “Where do you suppose it’s from?”

  She cocked her head. “I think he’s stealing it from Zarek.”

  He opened and closed the remaining drawers, finding them all stuffed with more coin filled bags. When through, he got down to look beneath the desk for any hidden compartments.

  “What’s this?”

  She crouched down near him. Her mouth dropped open. She glanced his way. “A tunnel?”

  “Seems so. Come on.”

  He brushed aside a spider web, then crawled through the entrance. Once inside, he reached back to assist Chaya.

  The tunnel entrance was low, but inside, they could stand. Mildew covered its dank, dark walls.

  “Where does it go, do you think?” she asked.

  “No idea,” he whispered. He put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh. Just in case someone is here.” He set out walking.

  The tunnel grew narrower at points, then widened again. At times, they were forced to crouch down, so as not to hit their heads on the ceiling. The occasional sound of a mouse or rat scratching away, met their ears, while the smell of rodent droppings and bat guano, filled the air. They continued on for nearly an hour.

  Suddenly, Chaya grabbed his arm. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing. “It’s an exit.”

  They marched toward it. When they arrived, not wanting to call any attention to themselves, should anyone be nearby, Marshall dropped his flare.