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by Patricia Reding

  He approached, but couldn’t meet her eyes, uncertain what he could—what he should—tell her.

  “Someone sent the grut for—” He stopped short. “Ahhh . . .” He struggled to speak, surprised at the freshness and intensity of his emotions, even after all the intervening years. He swallowed hard, fighting against succumbing to his feelings. “Someone sent them for . . . my charge.”

  “Oh, Dixon, I am so sorry. I am so sorry I failed.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Failed! Oh, no! No, you didn’t fail. You took down the grut.” He grimaced. Should he say more? At what point did his story with Rowena end and Mara’s story as Oathtaker to Reigna and Eden begin? Cautiously, he reached for her hand. “It’s all right. You did right.”

  “What was his name?” she ventured.

  “His name?”

  “Your charge.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head, “my charge was a woman.”

  “What was her name?”

  He straightened his shoulders, then exhaled slowly. “Her name was . . . Rowena.”

  Watching him closely, her eyes narrowed. “So, she—Rowena—died then. Is that right?”

  “Rowena died, yes.” He looked away, not trusting what this onslaught of emotion might cause him to do, or to say. “But the grut didn’t kill her,” he added.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t remember her.”

  He smiled weakly. “That’s all right.”

  “I should have done more for her.”

  Now, he smiled more sincerely. “You did everything for her. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  She bit her lip. “Did I . . . pass out again?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Three days.”

  “The same as after the mountain lion attacked us.”

  “That’s right.”

  She turned and walked away, then stopped suddenly. She got down on her knees. She picked up a handful of dirt. Lifting her hand, she slowly opened her fingers, then watched sand sift through them and fall to the ground. She gasped.

  “What?”

  “It’s so similar, but so . . . different.”

  “Similar to what? Different from what?”

  “The sand in my dream. In the desert.”

  “You dreamed you were in a desert?”

  “Yes.” She stood. “And isn’t this funny? Those two young women at the compound . . . Reigna and . . . and Eden?”

  “Yes,” he urged. Dear Ehyeh! Was she with them?

  “They were lost there.”

  “Where?”

  “In the desert.”

  “What?” He willed himself to remain calm. “Ahhh . . . what do you mean, lost there?”

  “In my dream, they were lost in a desert. It seemed they were nearly dead when I came upon them, so I gave them our can—” Her eyes darted back his way. “I gave them our canteens! How is that possible?”

  What could he do? What could he say? But gracious Ehyeh, she’d been with them? And they were in danger? His heart pounded, seemed to skip a beat.

  “Well, maybe you . . . dropped them in the river and then dreamed that you left them in a desert. No doubt you felt bad about having lost them. I know I would have and sometimes dreams work that way.”

  “Yeeeessss,” she drawled, “I suppose that’s possible.”

  Oh, but where are Reigna and Eden? She has to remember—and quickly, if they’re in such danger.

  “Come on, now. Do you want to rest longer? Have something to eat? Or are you ready to go?” Oh, how he longed to hear her say that she was ready to go so long as he went with her. He held his breath in anticipation. Will she say it? Will she remember?

  “Sure. Yes, we can go now.”

  No, she still did not remember him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chaya wiped away her tears. She put her arms around Marshall and rested her head against his chest. Then she pulled back and looked up at him. “He’ll return soon, you know. He said he’d only be gone for a few hours.”

  He drew her closer and rested his chin on the top of her head. “I know.”

  “I’ve waited—just like you said. But Marshall, I don’t know if I can wait any longer.” She looked up at him again, then dropped her gaze. “One of these days, he’s going to go too far, and now that I’ve decided that life is worth living . . .”

  He placed his finger under her chin. He tilted her face up so that she could look at him. Then he leaned forward slowly, bringing his lips nearly to hers. He hesitated, his breath quickening.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “please.”

  He pulled away.

  “Please,” she repeated, her eyes pleading.

  He shook his head. “Chaya, to be careless now would be . . . madness.”

  “You said you had another premonition—that I was successful.”

  “Well, yes and no. I got no particulars, you see. There was nothing about what transpires afterward. That’s what my earlier vision was about—what happened after you escaped. I still can’t say if it’s safe for you. Besides, we saw from Cark’s paperwork that Zarek will arrive here soon. Surely, camp security will increase then.”

  She pulled away. “I see. If I stay here, he’ll kill me. It’s almost as though he knows his time is running short if he doesn’t just do away with me once and for all.” She turned back. “But if I do what’s necessary to save myself, then you’ll judge me and find me lacking.”

  He stepped closer, once again gazing into her shocking bluebird eyes. “That’s not true. That’s not why I’m cautioning you.”

  “It is true. I can see it. You can hardly even look at me, wondering what evil lurks here,” she said, her hand at her breast. “So, if I am successful in doing what I must to save myself, I’ll lose . . . you.”

  Gently, he took her arm and pulled her closer. “I’m not judging you. I’d do it myself if I could. A man like Cark doesn’t deserve to live. He has no compunction about bringing pain and death to others, and you of all people would be justified in doing what you plan. Your freedom ought be yours by right; it shouldn’t be necessary that you have it only through violence. But Chaya, don’t you see? I can’t tell you that you’ll be able to get away from this madness—and I can’t help you. My hands are tied. That’s why I—why we—have to be so careful.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” She sighed. “You’re here for information. You can’t take any chances that might expose your true identity because that could risk the safety of others.”

  “Chaya,” he whispered, “please try to understand. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. But we both must use care here. If we’re caught . . .”

  “I know.” She looked away. “I’m sorry. I do understand, Marshall, I do. I’m just frightened, I guess. I’m afraid of what will happen if I do—afraid of what might happen if I don’t. I’m afraid I’ll not be able to do what must be done when—if—an opportunity presents itself. I suppose, in truth, its not like I’ve actually held off so far. I simply haven’t had the chance. I haven’t caught him when . . . Well anyway, I believe I have to take whatever opportunity comes my way.”

  He directed her to a nearby chair, then sat facing her. He leaned in, his forearms on his thighs. He reached for her hand and then intertwined his fingers with hers.

  “Chaya, I understand. I think you’re right—that there’s only one choice open to you here. I just—”

  A sound came from outside the front entrance, interrupting them.

  The Oathtaker stood. He stepped toward the door even as Chaya rushed toward the stairs and started up them. When mere steps away from the bottom rung, she turned back around so that it appeared she was just entering the room, rather than just leaving it.

  The door opened and in walked Cark. His eyes quickly surveyed the room.

  “Oh, it’s you. I thought I heard someone,” Chaya said.

  Marshall held his arms out for the armload of paperwork the man carried. “Here, let
me,” he said.

  Cark glanced at his wife as he deposited his load into the Oathtaker’s arms. “Something you want?”

  “I just wondered if you got that ointment for me that I mentioned.”

  He snickered. “Well, it’s nice to know that my darling wife missed me—that she finds I fill some purpose, however small.” He grinned maliciously. “No, I didn’t. I never made it to the apothecary.” He turned away. “Maybe next time.”

  Without another word, she turned and left the room.

  “Well?” Cark asked Marshall.

  “Mortal Cark, sir?”

  “Was there any trouble?”

  “Oh, no, she keeps her distance. Half the time, I’d wonder if she was even here if I didn’t know that there’s no means for her to esc—to leave.”

  Cark’s eyes narrowed, as though measuring whether Marshall intended for his words to convey any judgment. “Deliver those to my office. Then you’re excused.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After dropping the papers off where instructed, Marshall returned to the front entrance. He opened the door.

  “Oh, Mansur,” Cark called.

  He turned back.

  “You’ll be delighted to know that we have a special visitor coming to Camp Cark.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Emperor Zarek will arrive soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, he’s coming to inspect the new building. It’ll be done soon, you know.”

  “That’s good. I can get started right away on plans for a welcome event.”

  “Ahhh, good idea. It seems his son will accompany him.”

  “His . . . son? I was unaware he had a son.”

  “Yes, so was I. And so, it seems, was Zarek.” Cark laughed. “But it turns out that some of the emperor’s men brought the young man to Chiran recently, after he claimed he was Zarek’s son. Word has it that someone in a position to know, identified him by a birthmark.”

  Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “That’s wonderful for Zarek. Does this son have a name? Perhaps we should prepare something special for him.”

  “Hmmm . . . let’s see, what was it?” The man scowled. “Oh, wait a minute, I made a note of it.” He retrieved from his pocket, a crumbled piece of parchment. “Here it is.” He opened the fragment, spread it across his chest to smooth it out with his hand, and then held it up. “Yes . . . here it is. It seems he’s called . . . ahhh . . . Broden.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Zarek’s entourage consisted of nearly fifty people: his personal assistants; guards trained and outfitted for his protection; his secretary, Gonen; nearly a dozen slave women; his spiritual advisor, Brother Pestifere; cooks; kitchen staff; butchers; bakers; and more—including Sally and Janine who, notwithstanding their longtime residence in Chiran, the emperor didn’t trust enough to leave behind. He preferred keeping them near. At his insistence, Broden also accompanied the group, along with his tutor, Striver, and the women assigned to him.

  As Broden rode to Striver’s right, with Yasmin, Farida, and Mouse, following behind, Striver tested him on the passages from Serving Daeva that Pestifere had, the day before, assigned to the young man to memorize.

  He glanced toward the wagon designated for the priest’s exclusive use. Zarek insisted his son spend time daily with the man to study. Initially, Broden resisted. But he quickly discovered that while Zarek allowed him some leeway when it came to such things as choosing his own tutor, he’d enter into no negotiations with regard to his studies of Daeva.

  At the outset, Striver estimated that the journey from Fallique to Camp Cark would take about a fortnight. Though only a few days into the trip, Broden already wearied of traveling—and of his studies. Every time Pestifere’s eyes fell on him, a shiver ran through his being. Even when free of the priest’s gaze, he sensed the spiritual leader’s presence, like a heaviness that rested upon his chest, making breathing difficult.

  He found the words of Serving Daeva contrary to everything he’d ever been taught. Though tantalizing, intriguing even, in some way, they were internally inconsistent.

  “It’s almost noon,” he muttered, “time for my lesson.” He glanced toward the other travelers. “How do you do this, Striver?” he whispered.

  “Do what?”

  “How do you live under such . . . oppression? Pestifere says he’s teaching me so that I can fit into Chiranian society, perhaps follow in Zarek’s steps one day, but it’s all just about rules, and punishments, and death and . . . condemnation to anyone who doesn’t fully follow Daeva’s ways.”

  “Shhhh,” his tutor cautioned. He glanced behind. “Your ‘assistants’ may have been provided to serve you, but make no mistake—”

  “I know. I know. They’re Zarek’s slaves. But do you really think they’d say anything to him? Anything against my interests, I mean?”

  “No doubt he assigned them to you anticipating that you might open up to them, and that through them, he might keep track of you and your thoughts. Don’t forget, they owe the emperor their allegiance. He’d go to any lengths to find what he seeks—to acquire what he desires. He probably even holds their families hostage.”

  “What?” Broden’s expression conveyed a complicated mixture of confusion and disbelief.

  Striver held his gaze. “Didn’t you know? Most of the women who serve Zarek have no family. Of those who do, their parents are held responsible. If the women do not comply entirely, if they do anything or say anything against the emperor’s interests, their families pay a hefty price. The women want their families safe. It keeps them loyal. In turn, the families want their daughters safe—and that keeps them loyal. Most have no idea what really goes on . . .”

  “How did their daughters end up with Zarek?”

  The tutor bit his lip. “Well, many can’t afford to keep their daughters with them—the penalties are too high. So, they arrange positions for them. They hold on as best they can for as long as they can. But often, by the time the young women reach their teen years, their families have lost everything. Without other choices open to them, they sell their daughters into service. They’re under the mistaken impression that the young women will perform kitchen labor, farm labor—that kind of thing. Mind you, most Chiranian commoners differ significantly from those in authority. I suspect a few amongst them sell their children outright, hoping to profit, but they are the exception. By contrast, the families of Zarek’s officers and guards openly sell their daughters for financial gain.”

  “Sell?”

  “It’s become the fashion among those who’ve lived with the disgrace of having had daughters, to sell them—supposedly, for marriage. For many, it’s the only way they can recoup some of the costs they’ve incurred over the years in the form of tax penalties. And of course, those lucky enough to raise a truly beautiful young woman . . . Well, the price might even place them in an improved financial position.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “There are not enough women for the many men who seek them. So, some are sold for very high prices to those able to incur the expense. Mind you, the women are very much slaves, though they are considered the ‘wives’ of their owners who may have as many as they can afford.”

  “Huh.”

  The tutor glanced about. “The fashion started about . . . Oh, I don’t know, some years ago, anyway. When one of those in direct service to Zarek raises a girl, he takes great pains to have her taught all the arts considered important for an officer’s, or a soldier’s, wife. Frequently those with considerable financial means delegate the raising of their daughters, to others. Some of them don’t even keep the girls with them as they grow up. They don’t want to risk establishing any personal connection with them.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You can see why my wife and I tried to escape.”

  “It’s time!” came a voice from someone riding up at Broden’s side. It was the emperor’s secretary, Gonen, who kept everyone on schedule.

  Broden g
lanced at the man, who moved in spasmodic fits and starts. Then, “Ready,” he said as he guided his mount, Kishi, a midnight gelding with white forelocks, toward Pestifere’s wagon, the last one in the entourage.

  When they approached, Gonen lifted his hand, signaling the driver to halt.

  Broden dismounted, stretched his shoulders back, took in a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, willing the tension from his body, trying to grasp the calmness he’d need to mentally joust with the priest. He patted Kishi’s neck as the animal nuzzled him and nickered softly.

  “I’ve got him.” With a jerk, Gonen took the gelding’s reins.

  Broden stepped toward the back of Pestifere’s wagon. He fought against the visceral reaction he felt upon hearing low guttural moans coming from within. He called out his presence.

  The driver waited for the priest’s response, then lifted the heavy black tarp at the back of the wagon.

  Quickly, as he’d been instructed to do, Broden stepped up and into the wagon, after which the driver dropped the tarp back in place.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low inside light from the single burning candle. He turned toward the priest who stood facing the other way, his bare back evidencing wounds from his most recent, self-inflicted, flagellations. Fresh bloody gashes, crisscrossing ages old scars, dripped and oozed crimson.

  Pestifere donned his standard attire, a coarse, wool robe. He tied a rope of braided hemp around his waist, and then turned to face his visitor.

  A whip hanging on a wooden peg on the back wall drew Broden’s attention. It was the very one the priest used on himself. The end of it consisted of several individual leather strands, and at the end of each of those, was a sharp metal fragment.

  Broden swallowed quickly and repeatedly to still his sudden nausea, as a single drop of blood fell from one of the metal shards to the floor. Turning his eyes from it, he bowed as he’d been instructed to do.