“That’s not what you’re doing. You’re feeding him part of me.”
“Better your breath than your blood,” Urmaeor said calmly, and pointed at the passageway. “Go.”
She realized that the moans coming from Lord Barthel’s chamber had stopped. “That’s what he wants, isn’t it? My life? My essence? To keep himself alive, like some kind of—of—”
“You have more than enough vitality to spare,” Urmaeor replied. “Now, do you want another lesson? Or will you leave my master in peace?”
Too horrified to stay there longer and face the sick truth, Lea fled.
Chapter 14
The mesderah horn blew from one of the fortress towers higher up the mountain, its low wail signaling the end of prayers. Still wandering the garden paths, Shadrael heard a sudden babble of voices and laughter as people spilled from the chapel just over the south garden wall.
He concealed himself in the shrubbery just in time to avoid a pair of women hurrying along the path. Dressed in finery, one was his sister Nachel, holding the hand of a skipping child. She swept the little fellow along so fast his small feet barely touched the ground. But when the child dropped his toy, so bright and new it had to be a Mrishadal gift, he wrenched free with a wail and came running back for it. He saw Shadrael standing silent and motionless in the bushes, and froze, his young eyes wide and unsure.
Shadrael lifted his finger to his lips and smiled. The boy smiled back, then ducked his head shyly and ran to catch up with the women who were now calling to him.
Probably he would tell them he’d seen a stranger, Shadrael thought. But perhaps Nachel and her companion would be too preoccupied to listen.
Impatiently he waited in hiding until he heard music strike up in the larger courtyard. Lutes, he thought, accompanied by the sprightly tootling of panpipperies that heralded the coming of Oued’Fiet and his sack of treasure. Family, guests, and servants alike would be gathering to greet the legendary figure of nameid folklore. Oued’Fiet would enter through the massive gates, leading a tame sacred deer with tiny burning candles tied to its antlers. He would carry his leather sack from child to child, pronouncing a blessing on each one before pulling out a gift, typically a piece of colored sugar to suck on or perhaps a tiny deer carved of wood. All sentimental nonsense, Shadrael thought.
Emerging from the shrubbery, he brushed small leaves from his shoulders and strode on past the splashing fountain. He’d dawdled long enough. His body was tiring, and his heart was sore. It was time to end this.
Even so, his mind filled with the old stories often told about his mother, of how—proud and unwilling—she had been brought to Bezhalmbra to marry his warlord father in an arranged match. She would speak to no one at first, would not eat, would not drink, would not even look at his father who’d tried daily to woo her.
But when she saw the gardens, it was said that her fierce heart softened. She had smiled for the first time since setting foot in Bezhalmbra, and allowed her new husband to lead her along the fragrant paths, showing her its many wonders. From that day forward, the marriage prospered. And she had borne her husband three children, two sons and a daughter. She had taken Ulinia into her heart, and she had made it her home.
For years she sewed Shadrael’s undertunics of fine linen, and sent them to him by courier. She died the year Shadrael was given his triumph in Imperia by Emperor Kostimon. He did not think his mother had ever known that he lost his soul playing shul-drakshera as a young, foolish new officer. Her letters to him had held pride in his accomplishments, victories, and promotions.
And this is the price I now must pay for that glory, Shadrael thought bleakly. The reckoning comes to us all.
Ahead, he saw the end of the path, where a bench stood nestled against the stone wall. He climbed atop the bench and stood with his hands pressed to the gritty, sun-warmed stone. Short of breath, weary from his exertions, he gazed over the wall at the sheer, plunging infinity of the abyss below him.
There was, he thought grimly, no need to cut his own threads of life when all he had to do was drop.
The healer’s accusation roared in his mind, but Shadrael forced it away. With a soul, with a chance, Shadrael might have listened to him. As it was, he had nothing. The Vindicants had stoned his last hope.
Mesmerized, he stared down into the endless chasm. He could hear nothing but the singing of wind across the mountain slopes and the thunder of his heartbeat.
Then there came the harsh cry of an eagle.
Involuntarily he lifted his gaze and saw the majestic birds circling on the wind currents. As a child he’d tagged along behind Vordachai, climbing to the cliffs where the large birds nested. They’d crouched behind rocks, watching until the adults flew away before venturing to peer inside the nests at fierce young chicks hissing and flapping their useless, stubby wings. Twice he and his brother had caught chicks and brought them home, attempting to train them for hunting, but unlike hawks these mountain eagles would not be tamed. Refusing to eat, they had pined and died, and after that Shadrael would not go back to the nests with his brother to capture more.
Now he stared out toward the horizon with tears stinging his eyes and a sense of longing for something he could not name.
Before him rose the mysterious, cloud-wreathed Dahara Peak, and to his right the less formidable slopes of Ismah Mountain gilded by fading sunlight. Somewhere between them, among the canyons and ridges and secret caves, lay the Valley of Fires, and somewhere hidden in that strange valley of frozen black rock was Lea.
Since the night he turned her over to the Vindicants, Shadrael had refused to let himself feel the crawling shame of what he’d done. He felt it now. He missed her so acutely it was like losing his soul all over again. An essential part of him had been cut away. Strange that he had been foolish enough, arrogant enough to believe she would not affect him. Without him realizing it, those weeks of daily proximity had worn down his defenses and won his heart. Even now he had only to close his eyes to see her gentle face, the trusting blue of her eyes. He could hear her voice, musical and sweet, asking him intelligent questions or speaking some courtesy to one of the brutes under his command. How gracefully she moved, even when performing the most mundane task. And her spirit, irrepressible despite everything he’d done and said to her, was as fine and perfect as a cut diamond. All the mud and filth smeared upon it could never cloud it or mar its value. Although Beloth knew he’d tried.
Lea had become a part of him, when he’d believed no one could ever matter. She’d maddened him with her goodness and infuriated him with her attempts to reform him.
Now, when he stood at the edge of what a man could endure, there was no need to close out thoughts of her, no need to avoid admitting what he’d done. His feelings opened a floodgate. He was bitterly ashamed of what he’d done to her.
Perhaps the healer was right and it was time to face the truth. At Ismah Pass, when she’d pleaded with him for mercy, he’d thought only of saving himself, of reaching out to the lie promised him by the Vindicants. He’d betrayed her out of cowardice and selfishness. There was nothing noble, nothing excusable about what he’d done.
In remorse, he drew the lock of her hair from his pocket and dropped it into the chasm below, watching the golden threads spinning out of sight.
Lea! he called silently with all his might, knowing it was too late. Hooking his elbows over the wall, he pulled himself on top of it. Lea, he called again, forgive me!
Awakening abruptly from a disturbing dream, Lea pulled her blankets tighter and lay shivering on her thin mattress. She coughed, frowning as she tried to catch her breath, and struggled to sit up so she could get more air. It was afternoon. The sun’s rays almost touched the bars of her window where she now lived among the ruins of some building half-fallen in. The Vindicants had made her a shelter apart from their caves, well away from them, although she was never left unguarded.
Her dream had been of Shadrael. He’d been calling to her, trying to tell her
something, but she did not know what it was.
Sighing, Lea rubbed tears from her cheeks. She seldom cried these days, for there were creatures here that fed on sorrow and misery. She had learned to bury her emotions where they could not be stolen, to feel as little as possible in order to bear her broken heart.
Most of the time she simply felt numb, as though the things said and done to her happened to someone else. She tried hard to daily recite the mantras she’d been taught by the Choven, to keep her quai strong. The priests had not been kind to her, but neither had they mistreated her in any serious way. They seemed a little afraid of her. The burns on Urmaeor’s hands, she’d learned, had come from his touching her. Now no one wanted to approach her too closely. They guided her with harsh words and magic, pointing and glaring whenever she had to leave her quarters.
A sound of bars being lifted from across her door alerted her. She straightened her shabby clothing swiftly and pushed back her hair before sitting straight and outwardly composed with her pale hands folded in her lap. Inside, her heart was racing. A sick, wild feeling of despair threatened to choke her.
Not again, she thought.
The door swung open, and Urmaeor stood there, his eyes alight with anticipation, a faint smile stretching his lips. She could not suppress a swift shiver at the sight of him. How he enjoyed stealing her breaths. The very act excited him and obviously gave him a sort of sick pleasure. No doubt, had contact with her skin not burned his, he would have been forcing her to actually kiss him. The idea of it nauseated her.
“Lady Lea,” he said in greeting, sounding almost cheerful. “I am pleased to inform you that my master’s health has improved, thanks to you.”
Lea looked away. A scathing comment rose to her lips, but she no longer spoke without permission.
“I know,” Urmaeor said, his deep voice as smooth as oil, “that you share our delight.”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly.
“Then you will be eager to take the next step.”
Alarmed, she glanced at him and caught him staring at her the way a cat might a mouse, intent . . . predatory. Her mouth went dry.
Although she tried to suppress her emotions, Urmaeor’s smile widened. “Ah, there it is,” he whispered. “That tiny trickle of fear escaping your attempts to conceal it.” He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Delicious!”
Lea felt her emotions churning beneath her attempts to control them. She’d never been very adept at concealment and guile. Instead, she began to mentally go through a mantra of harmony.
“On your feet!” Urmaeor said sharply, distracting her. “Come at once. My master wants you.”
Her alarm intensified. Gathering her cloak about her thin shoulders, Lea obediently left her cell. She had lost weight. Her clothes were becoming too large for her. As she walked in the direction Urmaeor pointed, she shivered despite her cloak’s protection. Every passing day seemed to grow colder. She sniffed the air surreptitiously, finding it dry with no scent of snow. If the weather holds fair, Caelan will come, she assured herself.
The Vindicant settlement bustled with an air of new purpose today. The priests, well wrapped to shield their skin and eyes from daylight, much like lepers, seemed busy with myriad tasks. Instead of chanting, she heard conversations and the sound of hammering in the distance. A soldier, clad in mismatched armor and wearing his hair tied back to expose his blasphemous tattoos, swaggered into sight, leading a horse laden with supplies. Another soldier joined him. Lea heard them laugh, and one punched the other’s shoulder as they talked.
“The first of our army,” Urmaeor said, walking beside her. “Are you impressed?”
Lea shot him a swift glance. “A few mercenaries will cause my brother little trouble. He is served by the best.”
“The best have been discharged. The Imperial Army is left with nothing but weaklings and light worshippers,” Urmaeor said coldly. “No one fights as fiercely as a man who’s been wronged.”
Meeting his gaze, Lea could not help but think of Shadrael and his bitterness. Injustice had been done to him, and it had festered within him until he was raw with hate and anger, unable to change or move forward into a new life. She pitied him, for he had elected to believe lies instead of truth, but she refused to let herself wonder where he was now. He’d made his choice, and she must live with it.
And then she was inside the warren of caves and torch-lit passages that led to Lord Barthel’s chamber. After the sharp, clean air outdoors, she found the room fetid with stale, lifeless air and the stink of sickness. The chief priest reclined on his platform, a helpless, disgusting mountain of flesh barely able to move without assistance. To Lea’s eye, he looked more pallid than ever. Small wonder, she thought, lying down here in the darkness day after day.
Three priests in the brown robes of service were with Lord Barthel. One was swabbing his face with a cloth and smoothing his robes while the others busily cleaned the chamber. One of them was complaining about some matter in a voice that rose and fell in short, staccato bursts of unhappiness. “The ceremonial strella is going bad almost before I take it off the fire,” he was saying. “The bitter herbs rot as soon as they are stirred into the blood potions. It’s all because of her—”
Urmaeor cleared his throat, and the complaints broke off abruptly. The trio came scuttling out. The two carrying buckets would not look at Lea, but the one who had been attending Lord Barthel’s person glared at her, his face dark with dissatisfaction. He muttered something as he brushed past her and vanished into a dark passageway.
“Have you brought her?” Lord Barthel’s shrill voice called out. Lea heard him wheezing and wallowing about on his cushions. “I cannot see her. Where is she? Urmaeor, have you made her ready? Completely ready?”
Afraid, Lea tried to turn back, but Urmaeor stopped her with a gesture. His cold eyes bored into hers. “Be quiet and do exactly as you are told,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll see you get more food tonight if you cooperate.”
Lea’s heart was thudding wildly. She fought the need to cough. “Am I to be bought so cheaply?”
He frowned, his expression suddenly ugly. “You—”
“Urmaeor!” Lord Barthel called querulously. “You promised she was ready.”
“And so she is,” Urmaeor replied, glaring at Lea. He leaned down to her ear and murmured, “You will not resist him. He is barely well enough for this, and you must help him.”
“I—”
“Hear me!” Urmaeor’s fingers dug into her arm. “Do what you’re told, and do it willingly. Any tricks from you—any difficulties—and I promise to leave you blind and dumb for the rest of your pitiable life.” He paused, his face set and cold. “And that is only the beginning.”
“Shadrael!” exclaimed a voice behind him. “Is there no blasphemy you will not commit?”
Startled from his thoughts, Shadrael spun around and found himself facing his brother.
Lord Vordachai, thickset and square in a scarlet tunic slashed with blue, his gold chain straining across his massive chest, stood in the doorway of the council hall, his bearded face as red as his garb.
“So this,” he said, stepping over the threshold as the guards closed the thick door behind him, “is how you repay my kindness. This is how you find yet another way to insult me.” Vordachai spread wide his thick hands, his face puckering with perplexity. “Attempting suicide—blasphemy!—during Mrishadal, staining my household with dishonor.”
“I—”
“I gave you shelter. I invited you beneath my roof, offered you my hospitality, and you do this to me.”
Shadrael shrugged. “I’m not exactly a guest here, am I?”
“Damn your black heart!” Vordachai said hoarsely.
“Vordachai—”
“No!” The warlord turned away from Shadrael, hunching his big shoulders. “I don’t want your mockery. I’m offended by this. I thought you could at least honor Mrishadal, but, no, you must defile everything.”
&n
bsp; Shadrael swallowed a sigh. “It’s nothing to do with you or the festival. I was—”
“Stop!” Vordachai broke in. “I shan’t hear your lies. Don’t you care who you hurt? If you want to waste your life, go out into the desert and do it far from my door, but this—do you know how much money I wasted paying that healer to tend you when I could have left you in the citadel to rot?”
“What? Purse-pinched again?”
Glowering, Vordachai stomped over and struck him. Shadrael went down hard, the blow making his head ring, and crashed into the sturdy leg of the table. He clung to it, gasping and tasting blood.
Vordachai loomed over him. “Get up!”
Severance held back any pain, but Shadrael did not want another beating. He hauled himself back on his feet, assisted by Vordachai, who gripped the back of his tunic and hoisted him with more vigor than compassion. Warily, still probing his cut lip with his tongue, Shadrael faced his brother’s ire.
Vordachai was not yelling, not slamming things about or breaking chairs. Steaming, his dark eyes narrowed to beady, intense slits, he stood clenching and unclenching his powerful fists, his jaws grinding together.
“I’m sorry the child saw me,” Shadrael said now. “But he doesn’t understand—”
“And that makes it all right, eh?” Vordachai said, sweeping this apology aside. “Our nephew sees you about to throw yourself into the chasm, and he won’t understand it? Even a young child knows what suicide means, you thickheaded dunce. And what of our sister? I have just left her crying fit to break her heart.”
“Nachel barely knows me. I was facing execution anyway.”
“I decide who dies here!” Vordachai roared, losing control. “Not you! I choose when, and how, and why. Not you!”
“Then, damn you, get it over with!” Shadrael shouted back. “Stop messing about with the festival and take care of your responsibilities. Bringing me into the palace, slapping me back together with potions and remedies . . . letting me see Nachel and the boy. That isn’t kindness. It’s cruelty, the worst torture of all. I just want it done!”
The Crown Page 14
