* * *
As expected, the rain brought in the crowd. The fall storms, he’d learned, were common in this region and could last for several days, though naturally Zara didn’t mind this one bit. And according to Martha, the winter snows had much the same effect on business. “Of course, since you arrived, it’s twice as busy as it used to be,” she’d told him during one of their now-customary suppers together in the kitchen.
In truth, it was their conversations as much as anything else that had prompted his confrontation with Zara. Martha was fearless, with a strong sense of right and wrong. He would most assuredly miss her when he left. She had become his first real friend here, and the only reason he was not completely disgusted by Lamoria.
As he stared out over the common room, a sense of hopelessness closed in. When he had first arrived, the Oak and Amber had seemed like a haven and Zara his salvation. Now it was the exact opposite. It had become a prison and she his jailer. But he needed to keep moving forward. The vision the stranger had shown him burned always in the back of his mind. He required information, and to get it, he couldn’t spend every day and night in some dilapidated tavern at the edge of nowhere. The dirt-covered faces he saw pouring cheap ale into their swollen bellies simply fed an urge to just grab his belongings and run out into the storm and never look back. Was there somewhere in this world that didn’t reek of stale spirits, unwashed bodies, and urine? One could grow accustomed to most odors, or at least after a time find them tolerable. But this foul stench wasn’t among them.
While strumming out the first song, he noticed Durst looking over at him. The man was smiling. Genuinely smiling. Never before had he regarded Lem with anything but undisguised contempt. An uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach. This can’t be good.
As the night wore on, so his sense of foreboding continued to increase, in part due to Durst’s persistent smug looks in his direction. Had his hands not been so practiced, he would have made mistakes from sheer distraction.
He was preoccupied enough not to notice a new face among the patrons until well into the night. The man was sitting alone at a table just off to Lem’s right, near a support beam. Dressed in a deep blue jacket with gold buttons, he had wavy, shoulder-length black hair, and his fingers sported several gold rings. His features were different from those of most of the townsfolk—angular jaw, with an aquiline nose and narrow, blue eyes—and his complexion was much darker than most. When Lem did finally notice him, the newcomer smiled and raised his mug, giving him an approving nod. Strangers in the tavern were not entirely uncommon, but the wealth displayed set him well apart from the dust-covered travelers Lem had seen previously.
Lem nodded in return, wondering if perhaps his gratuities for the evening might amount to more than the usual copper or two and a few drunken words of admiration. Zara emerged from the crowd, but rather than coming over to Lem, she sat down with the newcomer. The two of them began chatting, although it was clear that the man was more interested in listening to Lem than speaking to Zara.
By the time the last note was played, the tavern was still mostly full. Over the course of the evening, Zara had come and gone from the stranger’s table several times. Lem could not help but notice that although the man always held a mug in his hand, he didn’t appear to drink. Lem couldn’t blame him. He had tried the ale once and very nearly emptied his stomach.
Normally, Lem made a point of returning to his room immediately after a performance. If he did not, he was sure to be goaded into one final song that invariably turned into five or six more. He preferred to be alone, anyway. This time, however, the man at the table waved him over. Lem considered ignoring the invitation—he was quite tired—but the prospect of extra coin compelled him.
“You have quite a talent,” the man said, gesturing to the seat opposite.
“Thank you,” Lem replied, giving a slight bow.
“My name is Farley. And you are Lem, correct? Or did that scamp Zara tell me wrong?”
“No. That’s my name.”
“That woman. I’m surprised she didn’t have that oaf of a bartender throw me out.”
Lem creased his brow. “Why would she do that?”
“Because I’m definitely not the kind of person she would want around someone like you.”
“What do you mean?”
Leaning back in his chair, Farley clasped his hands behind his head, a broad smile splashed across his face. Even his bearing, with a level of confidence and ease unlike the customary slump-backed despondency exhibited by the locals, was unusual. “You really are about as naïve as they come, aren’t you? Zara is making a fortune off you. The last thing she wants is for someone to snatch you away.”
“And you are such a person?” Lem asked, just a hint of skepticism showing through.
Farley raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re not quite as naïve as I thought. It’s good to doubt. People are liars.”
“So I’ve learned.” Lem caught sight of Zara talking to a group of patrons. She had not yet noticed that he was sitting with Farley. Durst, however, had noticed and was watching them intently. “What can you offer me?”
“Straight to the point. I like that.” Farley leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I own a small traveling theater troupe. I would like for you to come and work for me.”
“As what?”
“As a musician, of course. What else? I have musicians in my employ. But no one with your talent. You see, people’s tastes have changed over the past few years. They don’t want long productions. The trend is for short skits, and we can manage three per night. But the intermissions are killing my business. I need someone who can keep the crowd entertained while we prepare the next play. And from what I heard tonight, I think you’re perfect for the job.”
Lem noticed that Durst had left the bar and was now whispering into Zara’s ear. “How much will you pay me?”
“More than Zara, I can assure you.”
At that moment, she looked over, her face contorted with anger.
“How much?” he pressed.
“Five silvers per night.”
Before Lem could respond, Zara arrived at their table, wearing a tight-lipped smile.
“Now, now, Farley,” she said, taking a chair and moving it protectively close to Lem. “You wouldn’t by any chance be trying to steal away my prized musician, would you?”
“Of course not,” he replied with a disarming smile. “You know me better than that. I was just curious about how he had come to be in this out-of-the-way little town of yours.”
“Oh, I know you quite well,” she responded. “Lem here is what you might call a foundling. He would be lost without me. Isn’t that right, Lem?”
“Of course,” he replied, then rose from his chair. “If you will excuse me, it’s been a long night.”
Zara took his hand, gripping it a bit too firmly. “Yes, do that. A young man needs his rest.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Lem said, bowing to Farley.
“The pleasure was mine,” he replied. “I’ll be in town for another day or two. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”
“I would like that,” said Lem. Very much.
Pulling free of Zara’s hold, he threaded his way quickly through the crowd and back to his room. He felt a powerful urge to leave there and then, but that would likely cause a major commotion. Something to be avoided if at all possible. No, he would wait until morning. Zara was not an early riser. Neither was Durst. He regretted not finding out where Farley was staying. But a man like that should be easy enough to find.
Quickly packing his few belongings, he wrapped up his balisari and placed everything in readiness in the corner. His heart was pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Dimming the lantern, he stripped off his clothes and slipped under the blanket.
You should just pick up your things and walk right out, he told himself. She has no right to keep you here.
But the truth was, when Farley had mentioned “thi
s little town of yours” to Zara, he was more accurate than he knew. This was her town. At least in the sense that she was as powerful a person as one could find here. Should she decide to kill him, there would be no one willing to stop her. Nor would anyone dare to challenge her motives. He would be dead, and nothing would happen to her as a result—not a single consequence or modicum of justice. Another lesson he had learned shortly after his arrival. A merchant, over-served with whiskey, had made the grievous error of placing his hand on Zara’s backside without invitation. At the time she had appeared only mildly annoyed. But no one saw the man again, and his cart was found abandoned just outside of town. Rumors spread that Zara had watched while Durst chopped off the man’s fingers one by one, allowing him to bleed until he was nearly dead before slitting his throat. Lem had been unsure as to the veracity of the story, though Durst had made an off-handed comment a few days later that should Lem step out of line, he would add ten more fingers to his growing collection.
It took about an hour before he was able to quiet his mind enough to begin drifting off. The dawn could not come soon enough. Even if Farley were not being honest about the pay he offered—which was a distinct possibility—it was still a way out of Harver’s Grove.
He started to wonder what life would be like amongst a traveling troupe of actors. A small group of his friends used to put on plays around Vylari each spring, and occasionally he would tag along with them for a week or so. Those had been quite enjoyable days, even though he was a terrible actor himself. He’d rarely taken part in anything onstage, content instead to simply watch their productions and help behind the scenes. This new adventure, he imagined, would be entirely different. He would now have the chance to really see and learn about his new world. Then, with a bit of luck, he could locate the Thaumas and help prevent the image he’d seen of burning lands and dying friends from becoming a reality. The prospect was sufficient to banish any fear he had of Zara’s wrath.
A firm knock at the door startled him awake. A second, much louder thud had him sitting bolt upright, throwing off his blanket. Who in blazes could be at his door at this hour?
Durst’s harsh voice gave him his answer. “You want your pay or not?” he shouted, banging hard enough to shake loose bits of wood from the doorframe.
Lem stumbled to the door and cracked it open. Durst was smiling again, setting off renewed warning signals. He thought to push it shut, but a thick powerful arm shot out, shoving the door fully open and throwing Lem several paces back.
“I’ve been waiting for this.” Durst grinned, his massive hands clenched into fists.
Lem had no time to react. The first blow sent him flying over the bed and crashing into the far wall. Great waves of pain shot through his skull; for a moment he was completely blind. He could feel the floorboards shake as Durst rounded the bed. He tried to scramble to his feet, but another blow to the center of his back forced him down again. Initially he thought his back was broken. Only the realization that he could still move his legs told him otherwise.
“You’re lucky,” Durst snarled. Flipping Lem over, he gripped a handful of his hair. “I wanted to kill you. But Zara said no.”
Lem was helpless as another punch thudded into his cheek, then yet another to his eye. And still they kept coming, blow after blow, each accompanied by a loud grunt of satisfaction. How many times Durst pummeled him before he finally lost consciousness was impossible to tell. The last thing Lem remembered was the taste of blood filling his mouth and the sound of heavy breathing before the mercy of unconsciousness took him.
8
BETRAYAL OF THE INNOCENT
No longer will the heresy of the non-believer be tolerated and looked upon as innocence. We must purge ourselves of the disease that has infected our souls. The heathen and the apostate are to be looked upon as enemies of the people. All shall be brought before the Hedran and tried. Should a citizen offer food or shelter, they shall be charged with crimes against Kylor and subject to imprisonment and stripped of property.
Letter from Archbishop Rupardo Trudoux I to the Ralmarstad nobles
Mariyah woke, the vestiges of sleep still clinging to her eyes, making her surroundings appear out of focus. At first she thought she had been startled by a dream. But another loud bang at the front door said otherwise. Someone was there, and from the sound of it, determined to enter.
“What did you do?” shouted Tadrius, from outside in the hall. His voice was panicked.
“What you should have done the moment you saw them.” Nora’s tone was hard and cold.
Mariyah scrambled to her feet and shook Shemi awake. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Grab your things.”
Shemi sat bolt upright, hand reaching for his knife. Realizing it was beside the bed, he rolled to the floor and snatched it up. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. But we need to go. Now.”
Barely had they donned their packs and pulled on their boots when the clanking of steel and stomping feet shook the house. Seconds later the door burst open, and a man carrying a vicious curved blade stormed in. To Mariyah’s eyes he was enormous, several inches taller than Tadrius, with lank black hair, leathery skin, and dark eyes that seemed to project malice and violence. Two more men were standing in the hallway, both armed with the same weapon. They wore tunics fashioned from steel ringlets, each with a gold eye within a black circle emblazoned on their chest.
Shemi shoved Mariyah behind him, knife at the ready.
“Unless you want to die where you stand, you’ll drop it,” said the man, his deep gravelly baritone sounding nastily like two rocks scraping together.
“What do you want with us?” demanded Shemi, unwilling to back down.
“You are to be brought before the Hedran,” he replied, with no hint of emotion, which in itself was frightening. “To be tried as heretics under Kylorian law.”
Mariyah knew she needed to act. Shemi would give his life to protect her. And from the look of the man, the fight would be swift and bloody.
“We will go with you peacefully,” she said, pulling at Shemi’s arm.
“We will not!” roared Shemi. “They have no right to take us anywhere.”
Mariyah slipped between them. “Please. Otherwise they’ll kill us.”
“You’d better listen to her, heretic,” said the man. “Or you both die.”
Shemi glared for an anxious moment, then allowed the knife to slip from his grasp.
The other two men burst in, each carrying a pair of shackles. Shemi’s pack was removed and their hands bound in front. The cold iron bit into Mariyah’s flesh as they were pulled into the hall and shoved roughly to a quick walk.
Mariyah caught sight of Tadrius standing in the living room, unwilling to meet their eyes as they passed. Nora was waiting on the porch, looking most satisfied.
Why would she do this? Surely it wasn’t because they did not worship their god? No one could be so cruel. But the venom in Nora’s eyes told a different story.
Shemi was not as restrained. “What kind of person are you?” he shouted, struggling to make eye contact. “We trusted you.” At this he was pushed forward, sending him face-first to the ground.
Mariyah could hear Shemi’s joints pop as he was lifted to his feet by the shackles, unable to stifle a cry of pain.
“Stop it, please!” But her words were answered by a hard thrust to her back that almost sent her down as well.
A wagon awaited them on the path that led to the main avenue. The strength of the men was terrifying; they were each lifted off their feet and tossed inside as if they weighed no more than children.
“Bring the farmer, too,” ordered one of the men.
“What?” cried Nora, her expression going from smug to outraged.
“Did he not offer them food and shelter?”
“Yes. But I explained this to your captain! He didn’t know they were heretics. We only learned later. That’s why I came to you. My husband has done nothing wrong.”
“If that’s true, then he’ll have the chance to defend himself to the Hedran.”
Nora threw herself in front of the door, hands pressed to the frame to bar their way. “You can’t do this.”
The man loomed over her. “You have children to look after, yes?” Nora nodded, her defiance melting away. “If you are taken, who will care for them?”
Nora lowered her head and stepped aside, allowing him to pass. Moments later he reemerged with Tadrius, hands also in shackles. Once he was loaded in, one of the men hopped into the driver’s seat while the other two stood to the rear, with a direct view of their prisoners.
“I’m sorry,” said Tadrius. “I truly am.”
The reins snapped, and the wagon groaned slowly forward. Nora was on the porch, leaned against the doorframe, weeping into her hands.
“What will happen to us?” asked Mariyah.
“We are to be taken to the Hedran,” Tadrius replied. “The court of the Archbishop. But I don’t know what they will do to you … or to me.”
“Why would your own wife do this?” asked Shemi.
Tadrius looked back at the men following. “I don’t know.”
Mariyah could tell he was afraid to speak. Obviously, Nora had not intended to put her husband in danger. Still, as the shackles dug into her wrists and she looked at Shemi, huddled up and in pain, she was finding it difficult to feel any pity for him.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“Keep quiet,” ordered the guard. “Or I’ll shove a gag down your throat.”
Mariyah thought it best to do as they were told. But she had no intention of submitting to this Kylorian law. She eyed Shemi, who was shifting his back against the side of the wagon, still in pain from his harsh treatment. They would find an opportunity to escape. They would. She had to tell herself this. What sort of penalties would the so-called crime of heresy incur? In Vylari, theft could see you confined inside your home for a time, or perhaps forced to work off the value of what was stolen. More serious crimes could be punished with exile into the wild, the duration set according to the offense. But something told her that punishments this side of the barrier would be more severe. How much more, she had no intention of finding out.
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