The stable behind the hotel wasn’t a place Vanita would normally visit, but she made her way there now. A man in high boots greeted her as she approached.
“Good afternoon, m’lady,” the stablemaster said with a courteous nod. “How can I be of service?”
“Your best palfrey, and make it quick,” Vanita snapped.
“You ride alone?” The stablemaster arched his eyebrows.
“Just shut your—”
Vanita stopped, exhaling slowly. Girl, you have a lot of flaws.
She continued more kindly, “Yes, I will be riding alone today.” The stablemaster shrugged and brought the horse. Vanita mounted like the experienced equestrienne she was and ambled into the main street.
An hour later she was well outside Manacho, having departed through the northern gate that faced away from the sea. Like all of Likuria, Manacho’s city limits stretched west and east in a coastal strip. The mountainous region to the north was primarily agricultural, dotted with quaint farming villages. Past the olive plantations, vineyards, cork groves, and orchards, the land became rougher and more wild. The forests were infested with homeless vagabonds. Vanita wondered if she would run into any bandits.
Steep hills rose on either side of the road. Vanita turned her horse into a thicket and dismounted. The ride had done little to lift her spirits. Every time she noticed the pleasant warmth on her shoulders or the fresh spring air, the thought of Anastasia suffering in the oubliette caused the accusing voices to return. Unbearable guilt pressed down on Vanita, forcing her to consider things she had never thought about before, things like morality and evil and the virtuous life. Anastasia of Chiveis—an excellent woman if ever there was one—had demonstrated a different way to live. It was attractive. For the first time ever, Vanita was asking questions about the state of her soul.
Is there really just one God? she wondered.Anastasia had believed so. She had called him Deu. Vanita’s mind returned to the breakfast the two women had shared with Dohj Cristof at his palace. Anastasia had described Deu as “loving and powerful and very holy.” Great! Just what I need! A God who’s holy enough to hate me for what I’ve done and powerful enough to get me for it!
“No, he loves you, Vanita.”
It was Anastasia’s voice that uttered the words. Vanita heard it inside her head as clearly as if her friend were standing next to her. She knew it was exactly what Anastasia would have said.
Could it be true? Could that God love me?
A stream ran through the place where Vanita had stopped. She went over to it and knelt at the water’s edge, drinking from a deep pool. The water lay quiet and still as Vanita stared at her reflection. The face that gazed back was unquestionably beautiful. The men of the world were mesmerized by it, while the women were insanely jealous. An unbidden thought sprang to Vanita’s mind: I am desirable . . .
No! I’m detestable!
She smacked the water with her palm, splashing droplets on her gown and making her reflection disappear in the turbulence. Vanita got to her feet as anguish gripped her like a vise. Scenes from the courtroom played themselves out in her mind. She remembered Teofil standing on the dais, so handsome and self-assured as he made the deadly confession that would set Anastasia free. And then Anastasia had refused to accept it! Her radiant beauty as she relinquished her life was more than Vanita could comprehend. Such resplendent joy was not of this world. Clearly Anastasia loved Teofil beyond measure, and he loved her like that in return. What kind of love suffers death for a beloved? Stunned, Vanita realized she had never demonstrated anything close to such an act of self-giving. She wondered if she was even capable of it.
The palfrey grazed on the lush grass. Vanita walked over to the animal and removed a saddle valise from its back. When she left the hotel an hour ago, she had intended to flee the crowded city and take refuge in some plush country inn. Now, however, that plan seemed utterly self-centered. Vanita realized bigger issues were at stake than numbing her guilty conscience. An idea began to coalesce in her mind—not something selfish or escapist, but noble and redemptive. Is there a chance Anastasia might still be saved? Could she survive in that horrible place until . . . until . . . what? How could this be done?
Vanita racked her brain for a solution. The answer struck her with sudden clarity. Of all the people in the world, the one most capable of finding a way is Teofil! What if I sought his help? Maybe Deu would lead me to him?
No! That good God wouldn’t have anything to do with filth like me!
Vanita’s soul felt as unclean as the pile of droppings at the horse’s feet. She let out a desperate cry, wanting to show the Creator she was sorry for her treachery, yet not knowing how. At last she shook her head and blinked away the tears. She marched over to the brook again. After lighting a small fire, she removed an ivory-handled razor and some soap from her valise. The razor’s steel edge glinted in the sun. Its purpose had always been to make her body appealing. Now she had a different use in mind.
Kneeling beside the stream, Vanita lathered her hair. Without stopping to question herself, she lifted the razor to her head and shaved it clean to the scalp. Her long, blonde hair fell into the stream and floated away amidst the suds. When the job was done, Vanita reached toward the remains of her little fire and rubbed ashes upon her shorn head.
“Mighty Deu, this is the sign of my repentance,” she whispered with her chin upon her chest. “I don’t know anything about you, but Anastasia says you’re forgiving. I know I need forgiveness—I’m covered in sin! I can’t stand it anymore. I want to make this right. Help me find Teofil. And help us get Anastasia out of that hole!”
Vanita collected her things and buckled the valise behind the palfrey’s saddle. Though she wasn’t sure where Teofil was right now, she had heard the judge sentence him to exile from Likuria forever. That meant he would soon be led away in chains, and the roads leading north were few. It might be possible to locate him. Vanita grabbed the reins and a tuft of her horse’s mane, then put her foot in the stirrup as she prepared to swing into the saddle.
A man’s rough voice suddenly spoke from the forest: “Don’t move!”
But Vanita did move. Dropping her foot, she collected her wits in an instant. She turned around with a confident expression on her face. The fat man emerging from the forest didn’t know what to make of that. He had obviously expected her to cower.
“I suppose you think you’re going to rob me?”
“How you gonna stop me?” the man demanded, brandishing an ax.
Vanita put her hands on her hips and flashed the man a cocky smile. “I’m going to stop you by suggesting an even better idea.”
Every step along the road was torment to Teo. Every minute that passed was an intolerable delay. Every league journeyed north took him in the wrong direction. An entire day had passed since Ana had been dropped into the oubliette, and the thought of her suffering in that claustrophobic hole was more than Teo could stand. She was trapped underground enduring extreme agony while he—the one who had promised to take care of her always—could do nothing about it.
Deu, keep her alive until I can get there!
The detachment of six Likurian soldiers had departed on horseback with their prisoner soon after the trial. They had camped in the woods and resumed their northward journey in the morning. Teo would have fought to escape, but there was no chance. His wrists were in chains. He had no weapon. All he could do was hope to reach the boundary of Likuria soon. The judge had exiled him from the realm, though Teo had no intention of leaving as he had been commanded. As soon as he was turned loose, he would sneak back to Manacho to rescue Ana. I have to get her out of that hole! Teo ground his teeth at the maddening delay.
Around midday a thunderstorm rolled in. Teo’s cloak had been left in his cottage at Nuo Genov, so he was soon soaked to the skin. When the rain finally let up, the commander of the Likurian detachment ordered a halt. After conferring with his pathfinder, he signaled for Teo to dismount and step forward.<
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“This is the boundary of Likuria,” the commander said gruffly. “The road runs through wilderness, but if you keep going north and pass through the mountains, you’ll reach the open plains of Ulmbartia. Do not ever return to our land, on pain of death.”
Teo held out his wrists. “At least remove my chains. Show a bit of the human decency your kingdom claims to have.”
The commander’s eyes narrowed. He turned to two of his men and jerked his thumb. “Throw this guy off the road and let’s go.”
The pair of soldiers seized Teo by the wrists and ankles. With a tremendous heave, they launched him over an embankment. Teo hit the ground with a thud that knocked his wind out. He went rolling down the hill through the undergrowth until he came to rest in a small clearing. Spitting out debris, he sat up. He looked around for something with which to tap out the pins that held the manacles shut. As he picked up a rock to do so, a menacing voice startled him, sending a chill down his spine.
“So, Teofil of Chiveis, did you think I had forgotten you?”
Teo glanced around, unable to identify the speaker. He scrambled to his feet with the rock in his hand—his only weapon. “Show yourself!”
The shrubbery parted, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the clearing. He wore a black chain-mail hauberk. His right eye glowed yellow like a cat’s. Teo felt his mouth go dry.
“What do you want with me?” Teo put an aggressive edge in his voice, but he knew he was in deep trouble.
The Iron Shield laughed as he stared at Teo with his hands on his hips. Somehow the man’s laughter seemed to echo within his chest, as if many voices were contributing to the sound. “What do I want? Let me tell you, Teofil. Over the next few days I intend to get to know you very well.” The Iron Shield’s face darkened into a scowl. “From the inside out.”
The tall man beckoned over his shoulder toward the forest. A gaggle of six or seven shamans erupted from the underbrush and grabbed Teo. The shamans lifted Teo’s body and suspended him from a stubby tree branch by the chain linking his wrists.
The Iron Shield clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the distance as if musing on some perplexing thought. “The oubliette is indeed a horror,” he said at length. “What do you know of it, Teofil?”
Teo remained silent, so the dark warrior continued. “It prolongs death over many hours, even days. There is no terror like being enclosed in that tight space. Soon the victim’s muscles begin to cramp, and the body longs for a change of position, yet there is no relief of the pain. Thirst is enormous. Fear is intense. The victim wallows in his own filth. A more gruesome death could not be devised.”
At these taunting words, fury rose within Teo. He grunted and thrashed, but it was no use. The Iron Shield nodded as he saw Teo’s distress. “I know what you’re thinking, my friend, and you are correct. All of this is happening right now to Anastasia. She has been in torment for a day already, and her sorrows will not let up any time soon. The oubliette will draw out her suffering to the very end. Perhaps you can keep her agony in mind as I take you apart over the coming days.”
“You’re a fiend. A monster.”
“Oh, yes,” the Iron Shield replied in a deep, reverberant voice. “Yes indeed we are.”
The dark warrior slowly approached. He was tall, so despite Teo’s suspension from the branch, their faces were even. The Iron Shield stared at Teo and leaned close, his cat’s eye giving him an evil aura. His expression was deviant and malicious. Suddenly the man kneed Teo in the groin. Though Teo didn’t wish it, the pain caused him to cry out. Nausea overwhelmed him. He gasped and spat bile from his mouth.
The Iron Shield laughed again. This time there was no false pleasantry in his voice, but only the sinister gloating of a sadist who relished his work. He motioned toward one of his henchmen. “Go get the instruments,” he said, “and let us see what Teofil of Chiveis is made of.”
The shaman returned with a set of knives, claws, hammers, and even a pair of pliers that could be worked with two hands. The Iron Shield placed a stick in the pliers and crushed it. “Crudelitas vis est,” he said, then started forward with a sneer on his face.
Teo set his jaw and steeled his resolve. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He would endure the torture as long as he could without giving his enemy the pleasure of breaking his spirit. One thing was certain: the pain was going to be extreme. Teo’s heart raced as the Iron Shield opened his instrument of evil.
Thock!
An arrow glanced off the Iron Shield’s helmet, while another snagged in his hauberk. The warrior whirled and drew his mace, but the attackers did not show themselves. Several shamans lay on the ground, their bodies bristling with feathered shafts. Teo watched, stunned, as a barrage of arrows filled the clearing with a whizzing sound.
“Retreat!” the Iron Shield shouted, dashing to the forest with his few remaining men. Judging by the number of arrows being loosed, the shamans were sorely outnumbered.
Teo waited for an arrow to come flying toward him, but none did. Though he listened for the sounds of battle in the woods, he heard nothing. Evidently whoever was loosing the arrows had no intention of engaging in hand-to-hand combat. They were content to shower the Exterminati with deadly missiles from their hiding places. Hoofbeats retreated into the distance, and then all was silent. Teo hung helplessly from the tree.
A ragtag band of men crept into the clearing with their longbows, perhaps thirty in all. The leader was a fat man with a scraggly beard. He walked up to Teo with a two-handed battle ax in his meaty fists. The man braced his legs and raised the ax above his head, then brought it down hard. The blow severed the branch from which Teo was suspended. He dropped to the ground, relieved to ease the severe ache in his wrists.
“You’re free to go,” the leader said, tapping out the pins in Teo’s manacles.
Teo was dumbfounded. “Who are you?”
The fat man grinned through his whiskers. “We’re what some call outlaws, though we like to think we have a law of our own.” His hearty chuckle revealed a row of brownish teeth.
Teo glanced from the leader’s face to the other men standing around. He felt grateful for their intervention, though he was also confused by the turn of events. “Why did you help me?” he asked.
The man held up a coin. “Money talks. A stranger offered us a ridiculous sum to spring you from those shamans on your tail. As soon as you show up in Manacho, we’ll get paid the rest of our reward.”
“Did the stranger say why he wanted to help me?”
“Funniest thing,” the bandit answered. “It wasn’t a man. It was a woman with a shaven head, covered in ashes.”
Darkness.
All was black, and cold, and tight.
No space to move. Barely enough room to breathe. The air was foul, and it stank of the crypt.
Ana was terrified. She had chosen this path freely, but now, having chosen it, she wanted it finished. She was ready to die.
Take me to you, Deu! Please hurry . . . I beg you . . . make it stop . . .
The panic of claustrophobia rose up for the hundredth time as Ana stood in the cramped space. She clawed at the walls that pressed all around. Her heart beat wildly, and her breath came in desperate pants. Sweat streamed down her face. Take me, Deu! Let it end!
Ana longed to lie down. Though she was exhausted, she could find no sleep, no respite from the horror. There was only one way to escape her plight. She prayed for death’s sweet release.
Her throat was parched. The saltiness in her mouth drove her mad. Her stomach rebelled at its load of seawater. She felt dizzy and hoped she would faint.
Help me, my God, help me!
Ana’s thighs ached from standing upright for so long. Her calf muscles began to seize up. She shifted her feet, and a rough piece of rope brushed her ankle, but nothing alleviated the torment in her legs.
Fleeting images raced through Ana’s brain. A smiling man with a gray-specked beard. A beautiful middle-aged woman
cooking supper in a familiar kitchen. Snowcapped mountains. A handsome young man reading from a book by the glow of a candle. His hair was thick and dark. His expression was tender. Oh, Teo, I will miss you!
Ana lost consciousness.
Something cool and wet against her face jerked her awake. Where am I? What is that? Water!
Ana pressed her lips to the wall of the oubliette. A trickle had seeped through the rock, and she lapped it up greedily. Its taste was cold and earthy, but it was satisfying. She kept drinking until she had sucked all the moisture from the wall. The water eased her thirst. Thank you, Deu. She remembered him and was glad.
Her legs were in agony. I want to lie down. If only I could lie down . . .
Will it ever end? How long before I go? I want to go. Take me, Deu! Take me to you . . .
The throbbing in Ana’s legs ceased. The exhaustion of her body slipped away as a warm light washed over her. She saw a gateway open up, and beyond the gate lay grassy hills. She stepped forward. A man stood there in a linen robe with a golden sash—a powerful man, full of love and glory. His eyes were ablaze, and upon his head were many crowns. The music of infinite worship surrounded him. He smiled. His hair and beard were white like lamb’s wool.
“You are beloved to me, Anastasia,” he said in a resonant voice.
The man held out his hand. It was scarred.
Ana reached for it, and the world of pain was no more.
The horse’s hooves pounded on the granite pavestones under a pale moonlight. The creature’s breath made wisps of fog in the cool night air. Its rider was pushing it hard along the road, for he was a desperate man.
Teo had set out for Manacho while the bandits stayed behind to harass the Iron Shield. Upon reaching the city, the borrowed horse would be returned to the bandit who guarded the stranger until she paid the promised reward. Teo didn’t know why the unknown woman was helping him, and he didn’t care. All his thoughts were focused on getting to the oubliette as quickly as possible to free Anastasia.
The Gift Page 25
