by Donna Hatch
Pushing through her lightheadedness, Jeniah forced herself to keep working. Twist, pull, twist, pull, breathe, ignore the blood. Twist, pull, twist, pull, fight the nausea. The pain was so bad she nearly succumbed countless times, but she drew courage from her success in freeing her left hand. She could do this. She must.
Sobbing in pain and desperation, Jeniah mercilessly twisted until she yanked her right hand free of the shackle. Blood splattered her gown and dripped from the empty shackles hanging from the wall. Freed from the chains, she bent over, trying to control her breathing as fiery pain lanced her arms. Her hands were a hardly discernible mass of torn flesh. In places, the bone was visible. If her wrists had been any larger, she would never have succeeded. Certainly a grown man never would have.
She looked back out the high window. A faint hint of gray remained. There was still hope.
First, she had to escape this cell. The narrow, barred window sat in the outside wall about ten hand spans over her head—too high to climb to and too small to get through. She pulled on the handle of the door. Bolted, of course. There had to be some way to escape.
A rodent ran over her foot. She stifled a shriek as she jerked her foot away. Quickly, she snatched the squeaking creature by its tail and held it up. Its body contorted as it dangled from her fingers.
“You have done that too many times today, my friend,” she muttered with disgust. “Either you, or one of your brothers.”
From the other side of the door, she heard a voice. A key slipped into the keyhole and made audible click. The door swung open, its hinges squealing sharply. As a shadow appeared in the door, Jeniah flung the rodent at the intruder. A young man’s yelp of surprise replied. She lunged at the faceless shadow. Her victim wore the clothing of a guard but no armor or helmet.
She threw her elbow upward into his face. He cried out in pain, but before he could react, she spun him around. Using her body weight and all of her strength, Jeniah pushed the startled guard into her former prison. As the guard stumbled into the cell, she slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place. Amuffled yell of outrage sounded from the other side of the door.
Jeniah paused, listening. There was no noise other than the progressively more desperate sounds from the cell she had recently occupied. She crept cautiously down the hallway, passing moans and cries from behind doors to other cells, before she came to an outer door.
Remembering the commander’s chains around her neck, she removed them and let them fall. She attempted to blur, but pain shot through her body, and she paused to gather her strength. Had her injuries weakened her so much that she could not tap into her powers?
Unwilling to concede, Jeniah eased the bolt, cringing at the noise. She held her breath, opened the door, and peered cautiously out, listening for sound of alert. A portly Hanoran sat nearby, noisily drinking from a horn that had once belonged to a great animal. The guard sat next to a lone candle, but the rest of the room was steeped in shadows. Jeniah hugged the walls, keeping to the shadows as she stole to the outer door. A steady stream of warmth trickled down her hands. Her wrists throbbed in an agonizing pulse. Barely daring to breathe, she kept moving, stepping softly. She’d almost slipped around the guard when he lowered his horn and held it out without looking at her.
“Finish your rounds already? Come, boy, have a drink. It helps pass the night.”
She froze. He glanced her way and then took a double take. Surprise registered on his face. For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm her.
Praying the gloom and his drunkenness would prevent him from noticing her bloody gown, she sauntered toward him slowly, languidly, with a seductive sway to her body. “I’m here to help you pass the night another way,” she said suggestively.
His surprise was replaced by open lust, but then he hesitated. “I thought wenches weren’t supposed to come in here anymore.”
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
He considered. “No. But the boy might be back any minute.” He glanced toward the door through which she had come.
“Go see if he’s in sight yet,” she suggested. “Then get rid of him so we can be alone.”
The guard lurched to his feet and staggered to the door. When he stepped through, looking for his fellow guard, she gave a mighty push. As he tottered inward, she hurled her body against the door and threw the latch, locking him inside the prison hallway. His cries of fury were much more venomous than those of the younger guard. Jeniah paled at the terms of profanity he voiced.
On the floor she spied his sword. She picked it up, knowing that her skill would be pitifully inadequate if she were forced to fight anyone with even basic skills, but at least she wouldn’t be completely unarmed. Her wrists sent searing pain shooting up her arms, and she coughed again. Her weakness was gaining on her. She crept down the flights of stairs separating the prison towers from the rest of the castle. Coughing stopped her several times, but she pressed on. She reached the main floor and had almost passed the servants’quarters when voices neared.
Jeniah opened the nearest door and took refuge inside the room. She leaned heavily against the door, praying they would pass by without stopping.
A small cry of alarm sounded from behind her and she whirled to find three women staring at her in fear. They clung to one another, whimpering.
“Quiet!” she ordered with a low voice. “If you make a sound, I will kill you.” She brandished her sword with more bravado than she owned. One of the women fell into a swoon at her display of bravery and force. Or it might have been her blood-spattered arms and gown. She probably looked like a ghoul. The other two women wrapped their arms more tightly about each other, nodding, wide-eyed in fear.
One of the women put a hand to her enlarged belly. “Please don’t hurt me or my baby,” she pled.
“Who are you?” Jeniah asked, softening.
“The king’s concubines.”
“Cooperate, and I won’t harm you. Call for help and—” she wiggled the sword at them “—I assure you I’m quite capable of using this.” She didn’t confess that she’d only had a few lessons and probably wouldn’t be able to defeat a child with a stick.
Their eyes moved to the sword and the concubines nodded meekly.
“Tie her up.” Jeniah used the sword to point to the woman who had swooned and lay motionless on the floor.
The pregnant woman gasped.
“You. Sit down here.” Jeniah ordered the mother-to-be as she indicated a nearby chair. “You.” She pointed her sword at the other women and then indicated the prostrate form. “I said tie her up. And gag her.”
They both obeyed. The pregnant woman sat in a chair and watched fearfully while her companion used veils to tie and gag their unconscious friend.
“Now, tie her up, too.” Jeniah ordered. After her instructions were carried out and the mother was trussed, Jeniah motioned to a remaining chair. “Sit.”
When the woman obeyed, Jeniah stood behind her, veils in hand. “If you make any move, I will kill you and your friends,” she warned menacingly.
The woman stifled a sob and nodded. Watching for any resistance or tricks, Jeniah cautiously lowered her sword and looped the veilaround her, first tying her to the chair, then binding her hands so they could not move. Before she gagged the terrified woman, Jeniah moved to face her.
“I need Hanoran clothing. Where can I find some?”
The woman moistened her lips, fear mirrored in her eyes. “There is a chest of clothing against the far wall.” She motioned toward it with her eyes.
Jeniah gagged her and went to the chest. Cautiously, she opened it, wary that she might have been deceived. Inside lay clothing made up of mostly filmy veils. She stripped off her torn and bloodied gown and stepped out of it. After glancing back at her captives several times, she managed to duplicate the way the veils were worn enough to make a passable imitation. She made one last appraisal of her bound victims.
Jeniah washed her face in a
basin of water. The water refreshed her, cleared her mind, and removed the dirt, grime, and sweat a courtier or concubine would not have. The water in the basin turned nearly black. Partly to protect her wrists and partly to avoid being noticed, she washed and then wrapped them with strips of cloth, gasping at the pain. Then she wrapped the blade of her sword with several more veils in an attempt to make it appear a women’s bundle instead of a weapon.
Perhaps with her dark hair, and dressed in the clothing of the Hanorans, she would blend in with the conquerors, especially under cover of night.
She listened at the door and then slipped out, nearly running into a guard coming down the corridor.
“My lady,” he greeted her in surprise as he snapped to attention. “You aren’t permitted to leave the rooms after dark . . .”
He broke off as he scrutinized her face.
Jeniah bestowed a dazzling smile upon the guard. He blinked in confusion.
Taking advantage of his bewilderment, she placed her finger to her lips. “I’ll be right back, never fear. And I would be most grateful for your discretion. Most grateful.”
He glanced around and then nodded, still wearing a puzzled expression. His eyes fell to her package of veils, but he did not question her further.
She moved down the corridor. She had been so focused on escaping that she wasn’t sure where to go. She knew that Captain Tarvok and a few Ardeene loyalists were somewhere in Arden, but had no idea how to find them. First, she must get out of the castle.
So far, she’d had the benefit of surprise and a lack of resistance by her opponents, but she needed surprise and stealth if she hoped to escape. What awaited her beyond the castle gates, Jeniah could not think about at the moment. One adversity at a time. If only she could blur. If only she could call her chayim.
She made her way up to the main part of the castle, staying near less-frequented common rooms. Each person she encountered was Hanoran, but none gave her more than a passing glance. Where were all her countrymen?
From nearby came the scent of food cooking, sending Jeniah’s stomach into unhappy grumbling. The next turn brought her to a corridor teaming with people, all carrying large platters of food. She was tempted to steal some food and drink, but a cry of alarm rang out, caught up by several voices.
The guards had been found.
Jeniah swallowed and forced her weak limbs to keep moving. She tried to blur. Again, pain exploded in her head. She slipped in among the servants, hoping she would blend long enough to find a way out. Weak with pain and loss of blood, she stumbled along with the hurrying people.
One group of armed men ran past without noticing her, but when a second set of guards came from the opposite direction, her luck ran out. She found herself face to face with a full complement of soldiers led by Commander Lalen. Prince Aragaëth.
Aragaëth appeared both relieved and angry. “At last. You have no idea what trouble you’ve caused me.”
“I apologize for having inconvenienced you,” she snapped.
Knowing it was futile, she released the veils around her weapon and let them flutter to the ground. She held her sword poised and ready in the defensive stance that Kai had taught her. Those times with him seemed long ago.
“You cannot win. Surrender.”
She tightened her grip on the hilt. “Kill me here if you must, but I will not suffer your king’s ceremony.”
“The ceremony must take place.” He took a step forward, his sword drawn and his expression determined.
Jeniah glared at him unflinchingly. To die here by his hand did not frighten her; it would spare her the death to which King Rheged had condemned her.
“I had almost begun to believe you were different,” she said bitterly. “I should have known there was no honor among savages.”
His eyes narrowed. With a quick lunge, Aragaëth stripped her of her sword, swept her feet out from beneath her and pushed her face-down on the floor, catching her arms behind her, all before her sword clattered to the ground.
Jeniah screamed in rage.
Aragaëth kneeled over her with one knee on either side of her, then sheathed his sword. He lifted one of her arms and stripped off the veils she had used as bandages. Turning her arm slightly, he examined her ruined wrists.
“That’s how you did it,” he said with both awe and pity.
She shrieked and twisted, bucking her body, trying to get at him, to claw out his eyes, but he had her effectively pinned. “If you allow me to be sacrificed in your father’s evil ceremony, you are as much a monster as he is. Don’t you see what you are doing? His magic is dark. Evil. The very thing you hate.”
“The sacrificial ceremony will take place,” the prince said coldly.
Distress swallowed her anger. Too numb to cry, she lay helpless on the floor.
Aragaëth hauled her up by her elbows. Surrounded by guards and with Aragaëth still holding her arms, Jeniah was taken through the narrow, dim, and winding corridors back up the stairs to the tower. When she stumbled, coughing, Aragaëth shoved her forward without mercy.
Aragaëth did not bother to chain her inside her cell. “It’s almost time.” He glanced back at the guards behind him and lowered his voice. “If you resist, they will hurt you worse. Cooperate, and this will all be over soon.”
“Over soon? An all-night torture?”
He turned to leave.
Desperation opened her mouth. “Prince Aragaëth, please help me. I know you oppose your father. Oppose him now. This magic you hate so much must be stopped.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Compassion? Hope? His face hardened. “The ceremony will take place, and the king will use you as he sees fit.” He exited the cell, his movements stiff and jerky.
Jeniah sank to the floor.
Moments later, the door opened again. Two sword tips crossed the threshold. Guards entered, followed by a woman dressed in silvery blue veils.
Tall and slender, she possessed an ageless, icy beauty, suggesting an age much older than she appeared. She had ghostly white skin and eyes that glittered deep and black. Such evil lurked in her eyes that Jeniah could not meet her gaze. A pervading sense of malevolence surrounded her, and Jeniah knew instinctively she was the most sinister kind of sorceress.
She spoke words Jeniah could not understand, her voice silky, frightening. The words hung, twisting and black, in the air. A dark presence invaded Jeniah’s mind, and unspeakable horror rose in her throat.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Inside Captain Tarvok’s tent, Kai laid down the missive and stared through the tent flap at Arden’s once-verdant hills. The sea lay out of view beyond a rise. Most of the snow had melted, but spring had not yet arrived. The countryside looked dull and barren.
The Ardeenes had set up camp a few leagues from the castle in a hollow deep in the forest. Sentries patrolled the perimeter. Tarvok had managed to raid enough supply huts to provide the rebels with plenty of weapons and food. They had built a formidable force.
Kai and the other Darborian knights had arrived at midday. His men immediately sank into an exhausted slumber, but Kai went into conference with Tarvok.
The Ardeene captain pressed a steaming cup into his hand. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Occasionally.” Kai took a drink of the brew.
A messenger entered the tent, nodded at Kai, and saluted Tarvok. “Sir, our spy reported that the princess was brought in this morning by a regiment of twenty-five Hanorans, all wearing white leather cloaks.”
Kai swore and began pacing. He’d missed her by a matter of hours. And now she was in King Rheged’s clutches. Kai could only imagine what the king would do to her. His hands curled into fists.
“Dismissed.” Tarvok turned to Kai as the messenger left. “All right. She’s here, as we’d suspected.” He paused and eyed him narrowly. “All is not lost, Darkwood.”
Kai reined in his frustration, hoping the captain hadn’t seen right through him. “It would have been too easy to inter
cept them before they arrived.”
“Nothing’s been that easy. Now we implement our plan.”
Kai nodded. “The castle fell before. It will fall again. Is the sea strike enough of a diversion?”
Captain Tarvok grimaced. “It appears to be at least attracting the Hanorans’ attention.”
“And the Govians are in position?”
“They only await our signal.”
The sun set as they ate a cold dinner, reviewed their plans, and then briefed the warriors. Then, dressed in full chain mail, Kai lifted the tent flap and went out into the night.
“Light the signal,” Tarvok ordered.
The bonfire leaped to life, and excitement rippled through the air as the remnants of the decimated Ardeene army assembled. Captain Tarvok mounted, saluted, and led his Ardeenes to join with the Govians in a frontal assault on the main gates. Kai and his Darborian knights followed at the rear of the company.
With the anticipation of battle coursing through his veins, Kai waited in the rear of the company as the Govians’ battering rams pounded on the gates. Catapults threw boulders, doused in oil and burning, at the walls. The bright moons lent enough light to illuminate nearby obstacles, but all Kai could see of the assault were the fiery projectiles.
When the first breech appeared, Tarvok let out a battle cry. The Govians and the Ardeenes charged through the crumbled hole in the outer city wall, and Kai took his men in with them. Once inside the city wall, Kai led his knights around the side of the castle, while Tarvok’s men engaged the Hanoran guards and fought their way to the main castle gates.
As they approached, Kai reined. “Listen.” He held up his hand as his ears strained.
A large feline materialized out of the darkness and loped to Kai. “Wait,” he said to his archer.
The feline slowed and stopped a few hand spans in front of Braygo. Its form shimmered and grew into Zayla.
She fixed a sober gaze on Kai. “The princess is being taken from the tower to the main courtyard. You have only until the moons join to get her out or they will torture and kill her in a ceremonial sacrifice.”
