Vordachai plucked a dagger from his belt and threw it at him. Instinctively Shadrael jerked to one side. It missed, thudding into the battered council table and quivering there while Shadrael tried to catch his breath.
“Liar,” Vordachai said harshly.
Humiliation clawed deep into Shadrael. He clenched his jaw, refusing to speak, while his feelings burned severance away. Without its support, he felt his strength draining swiftly. The truth lay between them, and he hated Vordachai for forcing him to acknowledge it.
“You’ve come this close to dishonoring a sacred festival,” Vordachai said. “All for a lie. If you wanted to die you would have let me kill you.” He pointed at the dagger still projecting from the table. “And now what’s it to be? A grand execution? One more chance to wear your armor and medals, to walk through the sunlight casting no shadow and frightening dogs and small children before you put your neck on the block? Wrong, brother! I’m not giving you that satisfaction.”
Surprised, Shadrael frowned at him.
“No,” Vordachai said, staring him down. “You don’t deserve a hero’s beheading.”
“Then you’re throwing me over the cliff as you promised,” Shadrael said with a twist of his mouth. “I was just going to save you the trouble—”
“Shut up! You may have been a hero once, and there was a time when I even admired you, but that’s gone. You are nothing to me—no hero, no legion commander, no praetinor, no valiant warrior. I see only a liar and cheat, a traitor too filthy to wash pigs. And so I’m giving you a traitor’s end.” His eyes met Shadrael’s firmly, cold with contempt. “I’m turning you over to the legion in Kanidalon, where you’ll be charged with Lady Lea’s abduction.”
Astonished, Shadrael stared first, then scowled. “Now, just a—”
“It’s decided.”
“You can’t do that!” Shadrael protested angrily. “You fool, you’re behind the plot. You’ll be condemning yourself with me.”
“Will I?” Vordachai asked. “Who will believe you, Shadrael? You’re a broken officer with a dishonorable discharge. A known bandit, wanted for crimes in several provinces. A traitor who abducted the emperor’s sister and turned her over to sworn enemies of the empire for payment.” He shrugged. “Name me in the plot if you dare, but my standing with Pendek is better than yours. There’s no proof against me, but when the lady is ransomed she can testify against you.”
The idea of being denounced as a traitor and led back to New Imperia in chains filled Shadrael’s mind with memories of the Terrors, when men had been hunted down ruthlessly and tortured for their actions under the reign of shadow. A traitor’s death was the worst . . . Penestrican magic burning away his entrails while he hung, still alive, from the gibbet. He would swing there day after day, wracked with unspeakable torment while the Reformant priests tore asunder the last bit of spell holding his soulless form together. They would send him to an unspeakable hell and leave him in a place worse than the nine curses of Mael.
“No,” Shadrael said, dry mouthed. “You will not do this.”
Vordachai didn’t bother to argue with him. Sighing, he called for his guards. They poured in, surrounding Shadrael with drawn weapons while his wrists were bound. A Choven ward was hung around his neck, its magic tormenting him already.
“Vordachai!” he shouted.
But the warlord turned his face away and would not watch as they pushed Shadrael from the room.
Chapter 15
Too stunned to weep, Lea was hastened back to her cell by an escort of frightened Vindicants led by Urmaeor, who kept stinging her with quick, angry bursts of magic. Her jailer, pallid and round eyed, flung open the door and she was pushed inside.
“I warned you,” Urmaeor said furiously from the doorway. “I warned you not to resist him!”
Wearily Lea turned to face him. Twilight was closing in, yet she hardly noticed or cared. Her lungs were aching as though she’d inhaled ground glass, and she felt almost too weak and dizzy to stand, yet she forced herself to meet the priest’s angry gaze. She knew it was pointless to explain; there was nothing she could say or do that he would heed. Urmaeor was tight-lipped and rigid, his emotions pouring off him with such intensity she feared he would blind her as he’d threatened. But she refused to show fear. What was done was done. It was not her fault.
He raised his hand, his fingers curling like clutched talons, and Lea braced herself for the strike. Instead, Urmaeor abruptly stepped back and gestured at the jailer. “Lock her up,” he ordered, and strode away.
The door slammed shut and the bars were dropped into place across it. Surprised, Lea plopped down on the edge of her narrow cot. She could not believe he had spared her, not after what had happened. The echo of Lord Barthel’s screams was still ringing in her ears.
She realized her heart was thudding almost as hard as when she first walked into the chief priest’s chamber. She caught herself rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand, rubbing and rubbing until her lips felt swollen and sore. Shuddering, she forced herself to stop.
It was very cold in her cell. In her absence someone had left an extra blanket folded on her cot. Drawing it about her as night gathered close, she felt no comforting warmth. The coldness lay inside her, a terrible draining of her very life force. With all her heart she longed to lie down and take refuge in the blessed oblivion of slumber. Yet she dared not. She knew she had to stay strong if she was to survive here. If she collapsed, the priests might decide her breath was no longer enough to sustain Lord Barthel. Once he started feeding upon her blood instead, she would be finished.
Accordingly, she forced herself to sit composed and silent until she heard the approaching footsteps of her jailer.
He set a tray on the ground, grunting as he bent down, and slid it through a narrow opening in the bottom of her cell door. Normally he backed away, but tonight he lingered at her door. “There’s poison in your food tonight,” he growled in warning. “Eat it, and you’ll be the one rotting away, not him.”
Listening to his footsteps trudging away, Lea marveled that he had chosen to warn her against the food. Especially since she’d burned his master.
The smell of hot food brought back unwanted memories of Lord Barthel’s fetid breath. Lea had been commanded to kneel before him, her face level with his obese one. He’d stunk of decay and putrescence and est-weed combined. At first she hadn’t known what to expect until he strained to put his peeling, fleshy lips close to hers. Wheezing and eager, he’d poised himself to catch every quick breath she exhaled. He’d fed and fed, moaning and whimpering to himself, pausing only to slurp and gasp for a few moments before resuming. He’d been coated with spells to guard him, slimy protections of shadow magic that made her sick to her stomach. But then he ceased to merely catch her exhaled breath and began to draw it from her, greedily, avidly. She had felt an icy coldness descending through her, and knew he was draining some vital part of her. She was smothering, fading . . . needing to break away, desperate to survive.
When she drew back, his delicate hands had been unexpectedly strong and quick. They clamped her head to hold her tight, and before she could struggle, his mouth transformed into an orifice with tiny, waving tentacles that gripped her face painfully, drawing the very life from her.
Not until she was actually fainting had he let her go, his mouth sliding away across her cheek like a slug leaving a wet trail. And he’d whispered to her in that shrill, reedy voice, “Delicious. Delicious! Come back to me tomorrow.”
It was then that white flames had erupted on his hands. He lifted them, blazing like torches, his eyes wide with horror. The tiny tentacles in his mouth fluttered frantically and then blazed white, too. He fell back, screaming, the smell of burning flesh filling that dank chamber. That’s when Urmaeor and the others had rushed in, shouting as they extinguished the white flames with clouds of shadow magic. And all the while, Lord Barthel’s mountainous body was jerking and quaking.
He’d moaned piteously t
hen, and she knew he was still alive, still in agony as the Vindicants sought to save him.
Now, sitting in her dark, cold cell, Lea broke down, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed. She tried to muffle the sounds, wanting no one to overhear her. Yet her grief and terror were such that violent sobs wracked her thin frame.
Never before had she harmed anyone. She had dedicated her young life to sustaining the principles of harmony, to living as peaceably with all living creatures as she could.
What had she become, to do something like this? Had she been truly Choven, truly of the spirit as she’d striven since adopting the teachings of Moab, she could not have done this terrible thing.
She could almost hear Moab’s quiet voice saying, “One does not fight violence with violence, or terror with terror. One transcends wrong and accepts.”
But I do not accept this evil, Lea thought, drawing an unsteady breath. I cannot.
And she understood something that she’d been trying to deny since the day that Commander Shadrael had abducted her. She was no longer a sheltered, spiritual creature delicately tethered to this world. She had changed, been forced to change, in order to survive. And however much her tender heart and empathy for others had made her believe she must escape all that caused pain and grief, however much she longed to live in peaceful serenity, embracing the good in all creatures, she’d learned that evil would not keep its place unless forced back.
A rustling sound outside her cell alerted her. Lifting her head, she listened. Something not human scratched at her door, whispering, “Sweet weeping. Sweet sorrow. Let me in. Let me in.”
Lea gathered the handful of pearls formed by her tears and crouched by the door. Pushing her food tray aside, she opened the bottom of the door and flung the pearls through the narrow space. Something squalled and spat, scrambling away with a howl of pain. She thrust the tray of poisoned food out through the tiny opening, slammed it shut, and began pacing back and forth across her small quarters.
Doubtless her fate hinged on whether Lord Barthel lived or died. Poisoned food was the first retribution, but she knew there would be others.
Her hand slid deep into her pocket and fingered the tiny gli-emerald she’d secreted there. Until now she hadn’t dared use it actively, fearing they would take it from her. But she knew now she couldn’t survive by remaining a docile, model prisoner. If she could not escape, then she had to thwart the evil here as much as she could. She had to hold them back, make them distracted or even fearful of her.
The Vindicants had set so many shadow guards and protections around her cell that she was cut off from the element spirits, but with the power of the gli-emerald she might be able to break those protections.
Her fingertip rubbed the tiny stone, feeling its warm energy tingling into her hand and restoring much of what Lord Barthel had drained from her. It was all she had, but despite its diminutive size it carried considerable power, enough to shatter Commander Shadrael’s magic, enough perhaps to destroy what gathered here. Even if she used it only once before they confiscated it, that was better than doing nothing. But she believed she would prefer to keep its use small and undetected, undermining their magic subtly . . . and for a longer length of time. The magical stone had been given to her for a purpose—what as yet she did not know. She would not risk its loss recklessly.
She thought of her brother, Caelan, who had set aside his Choven heritage in order to take up a sword. He had fought shadow for the cause of light, and he had prevailed.
Now it was her turn.
Surrounded by four Ulinian guards, Shadrael rode down a treacherous mountain switchback trail on a horse that feared him. They’d left Bezhalmbra in late afternoon, against custom, but Vordachai apparently could not bear to let him remain on Natalloh land a moment longer. With their late start, darkness had swiftly engulfed them. Now they picked their way down the perilous trail, hindered by the weak light of a moon on the wane. The men were as uneasy as the horses. They’d hung a Choven protection on him to mute his powers, and Shadrael supposed that with his brother’s usual lack of attention to detail he’d forgotten to inform his men that Shadrael was a shattered donare, barely able to hold himself together much less attack their threads of life.
Despite his bleak mood, he felt amused. Let them fear him in this last journey down the Jawnuth. Let them sweat and quake and hide their terror behind bravado. What did he care?
The horses snorted, spooking at the least movement, tossing their heads as the wind blew the men’s cloaks and fluttered the ends of their head wraps. Shadrael’s mount was the most nervous of all, flinging up its head and prancing on its toes as though it meant to bolt at any moment. Periodically it balked, backing its ears and stretching its neck as the man leading it tugged harder on the reins. Everyone cursed it, and Shadrael expected it to pitch him off into the chasm at any moment. That would, he supposed wryly, solve a number of problems.
As soon as they were well beyond the citadel’s walls, the guards cut Shadrael’s hands free and gave him his reins, permitting him to manage his recalcitrant horse himself. It was more a matter of practicality than the courtesy due a warlord’s brother, and certainly no chance to break free. Short of plunging to his death, there was nowhere Shadrael could go until they reached the bottom of the mountain.
No one chattered. It was too cold and dark for conversation, and Shadrael was in no mood to talk. His thoughts were busy, his heart still burning from the knowledge that for once Vordachai had seen the truth quicker than he could himself.
The healer had—under the close supervision of the guards—applied new severance to see Shadrael through this journey. His nourishment potion swung heavily in Shadrael’s pocket. None of this was kindness, of course. Shadrael understood that Vordachai wanted him strong enough to stand trial.
Damn you, Shadrael thought.
Shivering in the icy wind and feeling naked without his armor, Shadrael knew what he must do. He marveled that it had taken him so long to see his path, yet he felt calm and settled, as though on the eve of battle when all the strategy was set and the preparations done.
The coward’s way was closed to him. He scorned whatever temporary weakness had made him consider it. And he was not going tamely to the fate Vordachai had chosen for him. He would not be dragged to New Imperia in chains, and the usurper would never pronounce his death sentence; of that, he was determined.
Which left him with only one other true option: saving Lea.
Despite the effects of severance, Shadrael could feel exhaustion in his body, but it hardly mattered. His mind stayed focused and alert as he sought the opportunity he needed.
Between the last road checkpoint and the distant lights of the town, he found it.
The steep trail leveled out, merging with a wide trade road that was dry and dusty from much travel. The horses jogged into a trot, as though eager to reach Kanidalon and a stable. Wrapped and shivering in their cloaks, the guards stayed bunched around Shadrael and did not bother to bind his hands again.
Ahead, a caravan of merchants was camping next to the road. The wagons had been parked close together for security. The campfires were still burning, and people moved about, cleaning after their meal or talking, for it was not yet late enough for sleep. The fact that they had not pressed forward the last half league to Kanidalon announced that their wagons were empty of goods and their master was inexperienced.
The bandit in Shadrael assessed their numbers and longed to burst onto them, seizing their profits, but before he could even suggest it to his guards they turned off the road to skirt the camp. Even so, some of his guards were glancing toward the camp in curiosity, and Shadrael thought this was the best opportunity he was likely to get.
He opened his mouth to cajole his guards into stopping, but before he could speak the man in charge swore at the undergrowth, which was growing across their path in a thick, thorny barrier. When he tried to push forward, his horse shied back.
“Back to the road
, Hultul?” the man on Shadrael’s left asked.
“Not yet. There’s bound to be a trail through this thicket.”
“You’ll hunt it all night, and my bones are freezing,” complained the man on Shadrael’s right. “What good is this duty if we arrive in Kanidalon too late to enjoy the pleasures of Last Night?”
Listening to them argue, Shadrael smiled to himself. They had relaxed enough to forget he was their enemy.
“Wait here,” Hultul ordered, and turned his horse aside.
No sooner had he vanished into the night than Shadrael reached for the Choven protection around his neck and snapped the chain. It stung and burned his hand, but his state of severance enabled him to handle it long enough to fling it away. Leaning to his left, he plucked that guard’s dagger from his belt, plunged it deep through mail and surplice, and shoved the man from the saddle.
The man on his right shouted, but Shadrael was already twisting to attack him. His bloody dagger was deflected with a clash of steel. Aware that he’d lost the element of surprise, Shadrael kicked his nervous horse hard in the flanks. Neighing, it half-reared and bolted straight into the thicket before the others could do more than shout after him.
They came galloping in pursuit, but Shadrael yanked his horse around, letting it bounce and nearly buck beneath him as he stood in the stirrups to grasp a slender tree branch overhead. He swung himself up onto the branch, which dipped alarmingly before supporting his weight. His horse—reins dangling and stirrups flapping—shied off just before the pair of men came crashing through the undergrowth beneath Shadrael’s branch.
He dropped onto the closest, dragging the man from the saddle so that they crashed together into hard ground. By the time they’d rolled over from the momentum of their fall, Shadrael had cut his throat and scrambled away to rise and meet the attack of the remaining man.
The Crown Page 15
