by John Marco
To the astonishment of Onikil and the others, Varl dropped down from his horse. He knew that he had a grudge to settle with Bern. It wouldn’t be much of a fight; Bern looked exhausted.
“Fate above, Varl, what are you doing?” barked Onikil. “Let someone else deal with this old dog.”
“Stay on your horse and stay out of it,” Varl told him. “All of you, don’t do anything.”
He took a step toward Bern, then another, glancing at the Liirian soldiers in the yard behind him. Like his own men, they made no move to stop the coming duel. Varl slid the beret off his head and tossed it toward Onikil, who caught it with quick hands. Then he took his own sword from his belt, holding it in two hands before him.
“When you’re ready, Colonel . . .”
Varl’s politeness intrigued Bern, who gave what might have been a smile before raising his weapon. He stepped out of the gateway, pausing just a few yards before Varl. Varl stepped to the side, one foot over the over, stalking around his enemy. Colonel Bern twisted fluidly, following his every move. Varl didn’t want to toy with him. He leaped forward, sweeping his sword, prepared to unleash a deadly volley. The first blow clashed against Bern’s blade, the second did the same. But just as the third strike curved around, Bern’s sword fell away. A deliberate act to be sure, and done too quickly for Varl to halt his killing blow. His sword hacked at Bern’s midsection, slashing through his uniform and carving open flesh. The old man winced in agony, staggered back, and let the blade drop from his fingers, crumpling onto his back. Varl stood over him, stunned.
“You . . .”
His own blade slackened in his grip. Bern was looking up at him. Gasping, the Liirian nodded. Varl took it as an act of thanks.
He nodded back to the dying man, lifted his sword again, and mercifully decapitated his fallen foe.
Up in his quiet chamber, Baron Ravel no longer bothered staring out the window. His life as a Liirian noble was concluded, and so it made no difference to him what was happening in the courtyard or in the streets of the city he had tried so hard to make his own. He had regrets, but these he didn’t dwell on either. Instead he spoke to Simah, his last adored possession, and told her how she might get mercy from Jazana Carr. The Diamond Queen had a soft spot for women, and if she pleaded and made a good case she might be spared. He told her too that she should make sure the other women in the castle were safe. He told her also that he loved her. He was speaking like a drunkard and ended his talk with Simah by telling her that she was free.
“You’re no longer a slave,” he told her. The room was dark, but he could tell that she did not react to this bit of news.
“Do one last thing for me,” he said, “then you may leave me.”
Simah did as Ravel requested, and prepared a warm bath for him.
It was nearly midnight by the time Jazana Carr reached Ravel’s castle. With her came a contingent of body-guards, trotting royally through the streets of the vanquished city while the rest of her mercenary army secured Andola for the occupation and spread the word of Baron Ravel’s defeat. Except for her own forces and a few overly curious peasants, the streets were deserted. Jazana could see faces peering out from the shutters of the homes she passed, striving to get a glimpse of her. She had had this same experience so many times it no longer bothered her, yet she realized that this time was different—this time, they were Liirian faces.
The struggle had been harder than she’d supposed, but Andola was hers now. She had her first toehold in the land of Thorin Glass. Pride surged through her, and she thought of her father as she rode through the streets, and what that lecherous beast would think if he could see her now, not only a queen but a conqueror. It was a good dream, and Jazana kept it in her mind as she approached the castle. There she found Count Onikil, who bowed deeply as she dismounted. A handsome man, Onikil had been loyal to her from the start, throwing off his fealty to Duke Rihards as easily as a cloak. That made him untrustworthy, but Jazana didn’t mind. She knew that money animated Onikil, and was not afraid of him.
“Count Onikil, where is Rodrik Varl?”
“Inside the castle, my lady. He asked me to bring you to him when you arrived.”
“And Ravel? What happened to him?”
The count’s lips twisted. “Hmm, perhaps, my lady, you should see that for yourself.”
“No riddles, Onikil . . . is he dead or does he live?”
“Oh, he’s quite dead, dear Queen.” Onikil put out his hands. “Please, let me show you.”
There was a gaggle of eager men to look after her horse. Jazana handed the gelding off to them and followed Onikil through the broken outer gates of the castle and into its courtyard, which was larger than she expected and filled with milling mercenaries. On the east side of the yard Liirian soldiers sat in chains, the last holdouts who had surrendered after the death of Colonel Bern. Onikil gave a count of the captured troops, numbering them at forty-three and telling her that they were already being interrogated.
“The ones that fled are on their way to Koth, apparently,” said the Rolgan. “To fight at the library, perhaps.”
It was not unexpected news, yet Jazana Carr winced. Like the now-dead Lord Dugald, she hadn’t expected the Liirians to remain loyal to their shattered country. As she passed the prisoners they eyed her with awe and hatred. Jazana looked away, preferring the sight of Onikil’s back to the cold stares. She was not apathetic. Those willing to join her mercenary army would be given good pay and respectful treatment. Those who refused . . . well, that was a decision for tomorrow.
“Where’s Rodrik, Onikil?” asked Jazana anxiously. She had expected to find him in the yard, but Onikil was leading her deeper toward the keep.
“Up in Baron Ravel’s chamber, actually,” replied the count with a little laugh.
He was vexing, but Jazana decided not to press him. Apparently, Rodrik had his reasons for bringing her to the baron’s chambers, and her curiosity spurred her on. They entered the keep—which like the courtyard was filled with Norvans now—and passed some of Ravel’s servants along the way. They were a harmless looking group, mostly women and old men, and all of them bowed and hid their faces when they noticed the Diamond Queen, dropping to their knees and almost quaking with fright. Embarrassed, Jazana barked at them to rise and get on about their business, for the castle looked disheveled now with all her men traipsing about, and there were many, hungry mouths to feed now that the castle was hers.
“I’m the new lady of the house,” she told an elderly maid locked in a curtsy before her. “Forget your old employer and remember my face.”
The old woman nodded rapidly then scurried away. Onikil guided Jazana Carr out of the area toward the stairs, a grand spiral of steps. Eager to be away from the Liirians, Jazana took the lead and hurried up the stairs with Onikil close behind. The count told her to go to the top, which was a good distance and had the queen quite tired by the time she reached it, and entered into a gilded hall that she somehow knew was Ravel’s private chambers. Here she found men she recognized, those mercenaries that were close to Rodrik Varl and had been in her employ for years. There were others with them as well—beautiful, well-dressed women that surprised Jazana when she saw them. All were young, pretty things with smooth skin and bright eyes, eyes that turned on Jazana Carr with dread as she approached. The women shrank away and Jazana leaned toward Onikil.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Ravel’s concubines, my lady,” replied Onikil. He watched the women with admiration. A playful smile curled his mouth. “We weren’t sure what to do with them, you see. With Ravel gone, they have nowhere to go. Normally . . .”
“Normally you would have made slaves of them and taken them to your bed, Count Onikil. But since I’m queen now you can’t do that.”
Onikil grinned. “Just so, my lady.”
“Disgusting. Great Fate, where’s that bloody Rodrik Varl?”
“Here,” came a voice from across the hall. From behind a grand and open door of c
arved oak stepped Varl. He wore no beret, and his red hair was matted with sweat and filth.
Jazana left Count Onikil at once and went to her bodyguard. Reaching out for him, she touched his face and smiled in relief.
“I should be angry with you,” she said. “I’m not.”
The weight of exhaustion on his face seemed unbearable. He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m glad you’re well,” he said with affection.
She squeezed his hand, grateful to be with him again.
“Why did you bring me up here, Rodrik? Where’s Ravel?”
“In here,” said Varl. He stepped aside so that she could enter the plush chamber, and when she did she saw another girl-woman. This one had blond hair and was younger than the rest, seated in one of Ravel’s expensive chairs with her eyes fixed on the elaborate carpet. She kept her hands clasped dutifully in her lap, not even bothering to acknowledge the queen’s entrance. Jazana was not offended by the girl’s silence; she supposed something awful had happened to her.
“One of Ravel’s?” she whispered.
Varl nodded. Beside the three of them, there was no one else in the room. “Her name is Simah. She’s a slave, or was. She says that Ravel freed her before he died.”
“Should I suppose that Ravel is in here somewhere?”
“This way.”
Leaving Simah alone in the chamber, Varl led Jazana to an adjoining room, this one trimmed with marble and lit by dozens of candles. The scent of lilacs filled the air, and rose water jugs lined the walls and polished floor. It was a bath chamber, and in the center of the room was an enormous sunken tub, large enough even for a man of Baron Ravel’s giant size. Ravel himself was in the bath water, which was tepid now and turned an unusual rust color. The baron’s head hung backwards at a grotesque angle, his eyes open and gaping at the ceiling. He was naked in the tub, but Jazana could barely see him in the opaque water. What she could see was the odd, upturned angle of one of his wrists, resting on the side of tub, a great gash sliced through it that had long ago stopped oozing blood. A dagger rested on the floor nearby. The other wrist, similarly slashed, rested just beneath the water.
“What an unholy sight,” whispered Jazana as she inched toward the tub. She knelt down to inspect Ravel’s lifeless face. He looked miserable, as if his last hours had been unbearable. She even pitied him. “It’s not easy for a man to be bested by a woman,” she said softly.
She picked up the soiled dagger and shook it in the bloodied water to clean its silver shaft. Then she stood and went back to where Varl waited for her. His face was tight, as if he too pitied Ravel and blamed her for what had happened to him.
“Bite back whatever you’re thinking,” she warned. “I don’t want to hear it right now.”
Passing him, she returned to the main chamber where Simah the slave sat. There she dropped down onto one knee before the girl, forcibly took her hand and slapped the dagger into her palm.
“This,” she declared, “is yours now.”
Simah looked up. Her haunted eyes gazed into Jazana’s own. “My family doesn’t want me,” she said. Then, “I have nowhere to go.”
“You’re free now,” said Jazana. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that Baron Ravel freed you. That was my doing, child. Ravel may have made a whore of you but I have given you back your womanhood. Now, take that dagger and keep it with you always. Use it to remember how strong you are.”
Simah nodded as understanding slowly dawned. “What about the others? Will we be safe here in the city?”
“You don’t need Ravel to protect you anymore. This city belongs to me now.” Jazana Carr stood. “Rise,” she commanded. Simah did so. “Stay in the castle until you’re ready to leave. No one will harm you. You’ll be given new clothes to wear, whatever you need.”
“My lady,” Simah stammered, “I don’t understand . . .”
“You are free,” repeated Jazana. She took Simah’s hand and led her out of the chamber. “In time you will learn what that means.”
18
A SONG WITHOUT SOUND
Over the course of several weeks Lorn and his daughter Poppy settled into the rhythm of Koth’s great library. Like many of the places they had been since fleeing Carlion, the library had become a home to them, and Lorn was pleased with the time he had spent there. It had been months since he’d felt useful. He conferred almost daily with Breck, telling him about Jazana Carr, his experiences in fighting her, and what the defenders of Koth might expect from her war machine. To Breck, Lorn was a fount of insight. The information he passed to the commander was always met with thanks, and after a while the two forged a grudging friendship. Because most in Breck’s army still mistrusted Lorn, he was not often present in their meetings. Instead he usually spoke privately with Breck and sometimes his closest aides, leaving the lower-ranking men to wonder about him. Their mistrust did not offend Lorn. He admired the men who had answered Breck’s call. Against Jazana Carr they would quite probably die, and their willingness to do so demanded respect.
When he was not with Breck or alone jotting down journals full of tactics, Lorn spent most of his time with Eiriann and her father, Garthel. Because he shared a room with them he had gotten to know the strange pair more intimately than he’d known anyone in years, save his beloved Rinka. Living quarters were cramped in the library, and Lorn had only a corner of the room for himself, enough for a bunk and a small cradle for Poppy. As he had promised Eiriann that first night when he’d met her, he confessed his true identity to her early that next morning. By then Eiriann had already heard about it, and she surprised Lorn by not being shocked at all. While Breck’s soldiers continued to gossip about Lorn and his colorful past, Eiriann and the others planning to leave for Mount Believer were too preoccupied with their preparations to waste time with idle chit-chat. Lorn soon learned that there were thirty others like Eiriann and her father, all desperate people with various maladies who intended to make the trek across the Desert of Tears. While Lorn conferred with Breck and fretted over the library’s defense, these poor folk made cloth and gathered supplies and bartered for pack animals, all in anticipation of their departure.
For Lorn the arrangement was remarkably good. Eiriann continued to wet-nurse Poppy without complaint, happy to be useful and feel like a whole woman. It was a wrenching thing to watch at times, for the girl who had lost three children of her own became a surrogate mother to Poppy, and Lorn wondered what would happen when Eiriann left, and if she would be heartbroken if Lorn and Poppy did not go with them. The preparations the group had been making were nearly completed now. There was talk of them leaving for Mount Believer within days. Yet Lorn still hadn’t decided whether to go with them or not. He merely let Eiriann and her father go on thinking he would accompany them, for by some strange belief in Lorn’s morality Eiriann simply couldn’t fathom anything else. He was needed, she had told him, not just by Poppy but by all the infirm going to Grimhold.
Eiriann’s faith in Lorn seemed unshakable. Unlike Van and the others, she put no credence to his nickname King Lorn the Wicked, and she never once questioned him about his past or the ugly things he was purported to have done. While rumors swept through the library almost daily about how he had abandoned his men at Carlion or poisoned his friend Duke Rihards or let his own people starve, Eiriann ignored them all with a smile, sure that he had somehow changed and that the Great Fate, that mystical, remarkable force of Liiria, had brought him to them for a reason.
Sadly, Vanlandinghale did not share Eiriann’s faith. Since discovering Lorn’s true past, Van had grown distant and the two had seen each other only seldom in the subsequent weeks. Lorn realized that his friend—if that’s what Van was—had been occupied in becoming a soldier again and had little time to discuss what had happened. Although it seemed to Lorn that Van’s anger had dissipated, they remained estranged from each other, the fracture made worse by the fact that Van bunked with Breck’s soldiers instead of with the citizens, as Lorn did. Eventually, Lor
n gave up trying to speak to Van. He had promised Van to keep him informed about things but never had, and he supposed it wasn’t really necessary. Van had a purpose in life again and that was good. According to Breck, he was finally fitting in with the rest of the Royal Chargers.
Then, exactly four weeks after coming to the library, Lorn decided he needed to speak with Van. It was a decision forced on him by Eiriann, who informed him that she and the others were ready to leave and would do so in two days. As always, the girl assumed that Lorn would go with them. Unable to disappoint her, Lorn remained vague, but he realized a time of decision had come. He needed answers. He needed to speak with Van.
It was mid-afternoon and the day was surprisingly warm. Library Hill bustled with activity as Breck’s soldiers continued erecting defenses and training with their mounts and weapons. Women and girls washed clothes and hung them to dry in the yards, while men and boys from the city did the work of tending animals and stacking grain. Supplies continued to be brought in from the corners of Koth, for it was said that Jazana Carr had moved on Liiria and that a great battle was about to take place in Andola. The soldiers and the people they protected worked diligently to prepare the library for siege. Eiriann and the others—who collectively called themselves the Believers—continued their own preparations as if nothing threatened them. And indeed, they were unthreatened by Jazana Carr. By the time her forces arrived in Koth they would be long gone.
But would Lorn be going with them? Deciding between a fairy tale and the reality of slaying Jazana Carr was too much for Lorn to decide on his own. It surprised him that he needed Van to help make his choice. So Lorn went in search of Van, and after asking around discovered his friend hard at work mending an ancient stone fence on the south side of Library Hill. Van was all alone at his toil, working shirtless in the sun with a pile of stones and a pail of mortar beside him. Away from the others and kneeling near the stubby wall, he looked strange doing the work of a tradesman. But he also looked content. Lorn paused a good distance from his friend, watching him as he worked the mortar with a trowel, carefully eyeing its level before laying the heavy stones. Sweat ran down his bare back, which had been cooked red from the sun. Too involved in his work to notice the interruption, it was not until Lorn’s shadow crossed his view that he started. He turned around with trowel in hand, but his face fell when he noticed Lorn.
