The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  Bewildered, she frowned up at him. “But once I’m delivered, will I not know my captor? Will I not know who holds me for ransom? What does it matter? Politically, I am—”

  “There’s more at stake here than money,” he broke in. “Your brother’s empire will stand or fall because of you.”

  Stunned by what he was saying, she rallied. “I have not that much importance.”

  “You hold a brother’s heart in your hands.”

  “But—”

  “Mael’s eye! Will you not see? He’s generous, weak, and inexperienced. He should have gutted his council and planted his foot on the empire’s throat while everyone was stunned. Mercy and timidity do not keep a throne.”

  “Caelan is not timid! And how would you know how to rule?”

  “To begin with, I’m no ex-slave, crawling out of the gladiator’s pit to cuckold the true emperor and steal his throne.”

  Lea slapped him hard. Her hand stung from the blow, and the red imprint of her hand glowed briefly on the pallor of his cheek. For a moment he didn’t move. They glared at each other, black eyes clashing against blue; then he gripped her arm so hard she thought he would crush it.

  She felt sick with pain, but she wouldn’t cry out. “Liar. Slanderer,” she said, gasping out the words. “Nothing you say is true.”

  “You know only his court. You never saw him prancing around the empress as her so-called protector.”

  Anger made Lea struggle, but he held her pinned. “Elandra isn’t like that. She wouldn’t! And my brother is the best of men. You don’t know him!”

  “Don’t I?” The commander’s low laugh drove a chill through Lea. “I’ve been served a dish of his mercy. I’ve eaten well of his cankered reforms, and I will spit on his name as long as I have breath.”

  Understanding flooded her. She stared at him, feeling a horrible kind of pity. “You’re one of those driven from the army. You would not swear your oath to him, and you were discharged.”

  “Oh, that’s a pretty way to phrase it,” he said savagely.

  Her chin went up. “A commander of brutes and lurkers, a man who takes amusement when his own men die in agony, a servant of the shadow god—why should you be treated kindly? Why should you be kept in the army, to work your evil unchecked? The reforms were necessary and right!”

  “If I were not being paid hundreds of ducats to bring you in safely, I’d break your neck for that.”

  She heard the rawness in his voice and believed him. Appalled by what she’d said to him, by the risks she’d taken, she dared say nothing else.

  “You’re worth a fortune to me,” the commander said. “But how much more will your brother pay to free you?”

  “Do you plan to ransom me for yourself? Cheat your employer?”

  For a fleeting instant the commander looked amused, but then he sobered. “No. I’ll do what I’m hired to do. Nothing more.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Do you think this is only about money? Do you really think the emperor has only to toss his treasury down in payment, and you’ll be released?”

  She met the commander’s black eyes, so close, blazing into hers. Her mouth trembled, and this time she could not answer. He kissed her, hot and hard, then stepped back from her in abrupt release.

  She hardly knew what to think. The kiss had been violent, not tender. Even so, it had robbed her of breath, of thought. She hated him and all that he’d said. She hated his masculine arrogance that believed he could control her with lust.

  His fingers, she saw, had left angry red marks on her wrist, like brands. Those would fade, but not his words, not his brutal possession of her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and despised herself for trembling.

  “I warn you, for your own good,” he said, his voice sounding more normal now. “Keep quiet, and do what you’re told. Make an effort to see and know as little as possible. There’s nothing you can do for your brother and his court, no warning you can give, no escape you can attempt. Stay a pawn, Lea. Obey their instructions.”

  “Whose instructions?” she cried. “Who dares this?”

  “Take no larger part than what they ask of you,” the commander continued grimly as though she hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps you’ll survive this. Perhaps. Gault knows your brother won’t.”

  Chapter 17

  Boiling with rage, Shadrael strode away from the white-faced girl. As he crossed the camp, the men stopped their foolery and scrambled out of his path. Ignoring them, Shadrael quelled Fomo’s attempt to speak to him with a stony look, and plunged through the undergrowth toward the stream.

  Bushes plucked at his cloak and scraped across his armor. He shoved his way into the clear and paced up and down beside the shallow rivulet, his boots crunching over a gravel bar before sinking into soft dirt beyond it. There, almost in the water, he halted, glaring sightlessly at the golden-leafed trees dotting the hill on the other side.

  What in Beloth’s name had possessed him to kiss her? Furious with her, furious with himself, Shadrael clenched his fists in a desire to strike something, anything. It was the kind of thing a fool would do; a green, untried recruit was trained better than this. Hostages destined for ransom were to be left strictly alone. Gods above, if he couldn’t control himself, how could he demand it of his men? The lust in them for her was like a constant stink in his nostrils, while he—he was no better.

  All he’d wanted to do was smash that gentle innocence of hers, strip her of her calm little brand of courage and show her…show her…

  What? he wondered bleakly. What had he to teach her? She knew he was evil, knew his men were worse than beasts.

  For days, she’d defied his expectations by being a model prisoner, docile and obedient, making no complaints, no demands. The pace he’d set was a brutal one, and there were evenings when he’d lifted her off his horse and seen the purple shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Even then, she’d not whined or begged him for anything. Nor had she played any tricks, such as casting spells or bashing his skull with a rock in the dead of night.

  So why this furious need to shock her, goad her, and punish her? Why? Because she was pretty, and gentle, and good? He’d brought desperate unhappiness to her blue eyes, and left her pale and shaking—not in fear of him, but in disgust. He’d driven her to lose her temper; he’d cornered and harried her gentle spirit until she fought him, even struck him, this girl who’d probably never spoken an unkind word before in her life. What kind of pride could he take in that?

  Gault above, but she was even trying to find good in him, depending on him at least to remain a civilized officer and man of honor in her presence. And now he’d smashed that as well.

  He’d not wanted her friendship, or even her liking. But that look of horrified revulsion in her gentle eyes was worse than anything she could have said. He felt like a whipped dog, yet despite his remorse he could not turn back and undo his cruelty. An apology was unthinkable, however much his upbringing, his very honor, demanded it of him.

  If I had a soul, I might be worthy enough to kiss the hem of her robe, nothing more, he thought. But I haven’t even that.

  Resolutely he shut off such thoughts. There could be no turning back, ever. To harbor even a single regret was to unbolt the door to insanity.

  A harsh croaking sound caught his attention. Looking up, he saw the gray raven of the Vindicants sitting on a nearby tree branch. His bitterness turned against the priests. Still spying…still shadowing his every move in hopes that he might yet deliver his hostage to them.

  Well, he’d taken Vordachai’s gold—although it was but a fraction of the promised payment—and given his bond.

  The priests had offered him nothing at all…yet everything.

  Snarling, he abruptly picked up a stone and hurled it at the raven, frightening the ghostly bird away.

  He could not believe them capable of giving him another soul. They were not gods. They had no such power. Yet he wanted to
believe. Because he’d met Lea, he wanted to believe it desperately.

  “M’lord Commander?”

  It was Fomo’s rasping voice, almost a whisper, sounding very cautious indeed.

  Startled, Shadrael swung around with his dagger drawn, but when he saw his centruin standing there with hands held up in appeasement, he relaxed and sheathed his weapon.

  “A good way to find my blade in your heart,” he said.

  Fomo’s small eyes were wary. “Didn’t come on you by stealth,” he said hoarsely. “Swear it.”

  It was a lie, but Shadrael nodded as though he accepted it.

  “Permission to speak, sir.”

  “What is it? Scout report?”

  Fomo shook his head. “The hunters are coming in. They’ve bagged several wild goats and a few hares.”

  “So we’ll eat well tonight,” Shadrael said impatiently. “Is that all?”

  “There will be more than enough food for tonight. Do we pack the extra meat with us, or leave it behind?”

  “Gods, Fomo, since when must I to tell you how to carry out your own duties?”

  The scarred centruin held his ground. “No, Commander, that’s not what I’m asking. If we’re about to return to the Hidden Ways, we can’t take meat with us.”

  Shadrael bit back another reprimand. Fomo was right. The raw flesh would spoil instantly, and it would draw every demon and creature subsisting there straight to them, probably in attack.

  Of course, Shadrael knew that Fomo really wanted to know something else, and this was his oblique way of asking.

  “I’m waiting for the scout’s report,” Shadrael said. “Meanwhile, feed the men, and give the extra to the lurker.”

  “It won’t fight unless it’s starved,” Fomo said.

  “I know.”

  “Brute’s got no sense. It’ll gorge until it’s unable to move. We supposed to carry it with us?”

  “No.”

  Fomo grinned, showing his bad teeth. “The men won’t kill it. No one wants lurker stink on his sword blade.”

  “It should have deserted with the others,” Shadrael said. “We’re better off without it.”

  “Might follow us in a day or two.”

  “Not with the Crimsons on our trail.”

  Fomo’s amusement faded. “Those damned harwots.” He spat. “Staying close as leeches.”

  Unable to shake them off, and unwilling to lead them straight to his brother’s stronghold, Shadrael had instead turned up into these rocky hills of Kovria, where the flinty ground made tracking next to impossible. Short of killing the girl, there was no way he could think of to negate her effect on the Hidden Ways. Twice more had he opened them and led his men through, and both times they’d emerged far short of their mark, with Shadrael so exhausted from the effort that he could barely function. And much to his astonishment, pursuit had always caught up with them. Necria magic could not reach this far, which meant the Crimsons were using some other kind of guide, perhaps even Lady Lea herself, as a means of following them.

  The rest today had been ordered because the men needed it, but also for Shadrael to determine if his latest trick had finally lost their pursuers.

  “Sir! Centruin Fomo! Commander!”

  Both Shadrael and Fomo turned as one of the scouts came running up to them. Winded, the man stumbled to a halt, struggling to catch his breath.

  “Your report,” Shadrael said impatiently. “Quickly, man!”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve made the pass, and they’re coming up from that direction.” He pointed.

  Shadrael grimaced to himself while Fomo swore.

  “How fast are they moving?”

  “Pretty fast.” The scout considered. “I think they’ll reach us by nightfall.”

  Shadrael and Fomo exchanged involuntary looks. “That’s faster than I expected,” Shadrael admitted.

  “Unless you’re planning to lead ’em straight to the warlord’s gates, we’ll never have a better place for ambush,” Fomo said.

  Shadrael swept him an arrogant look. “Why do you think I’ve waited?”

  “Aye, that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear!” Grinning, Fomo saluted him. “I’ll give the orders.”

  “Get the men fed and strike the camp. We’ll attack just before dusk. From the lookout point I showed you earlier.”

  “Yes, Commander!” Fomo grinned happily. “Old times, ain’t it?”

  “Centruin.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Shadrael met Fomo’s gaze. “This time, we leave no survivors.”

  Lea knew something was afoot from the moment the centruin came striding back through camp and issued orders to the men skinning the freshly killed goats. The dice games were rolled up and tucked away. Tents and shelters came down. Packs were stacked neatly. Everyone seemed to be ignoring her as she made her own small preparations for departure by gathering her damp articles of laundry where she’d spread them on a bush to dry and folding her heavy cloak in a way that would make it easy to carry.

  She knew, of course, that her valiant cavalrymen had not deserted her, but were following doggedly despite the commander’s efforts to lose them. Perhaps they were closing in today, or perhaps the commander was preparing some new trick against them. Too many disappointments already had taught her not to hope too much, but she sensed the approach of opportunity. When it came her way, she intended to be ready.

  Her fraught emotions had been folded as neatly as her cloak and would be dealt with later. The commander’s cruelty, his slurs and threats against Caelan, her most beloved brother, had hurt especially. Determined to thwart him and hoping to avert more bloodshed, Lea intended to escape, however she could.

  The smell of bloody meat thrown on the fire repulsed her. She retreated deeper into the bushes, moving slowly to attract no suspicion. Someone would notice her absence soon, but if searching for her delayed them, so much the better.

  Her plan, simple and rather desperate, was to head for the stream, walk in it for a while to hide her tracks, then emerge onto one of the gravel bars and climb up into the rough hills and gullies if possible. Even without her gli-emeralds, she would try to call on the air spirits to conceal her. She believed that if she could simply hide for a while, that might distract the commander and his men long enough to give the cavalrymen a chance to reach her.

  Taking cover near the stream, she cautiously watched the clearing. In the near distance she could hear the men calling out orders and questions, their voices cheerful as they urged the meat to cook faster and laid wagers on who could eat it the rawest.

  Lea swallowed back her disgust. They would bet on which cloud could outrace another, she told herself, but if their foolery made them careless in watching her, so much the better.

  Still wary, she kept looking all around but saw no one, not even Tylik. Gathering her courage, she darted away from the brush and into the open, running into the icy waters of the shallow stream with a splash and heading upstream as fast as the ankle-deep water would permit. It was awkward, carrying her cloak and trying to hold her skirts out of the water, but she forged onward, her spirits rising with every step.

  The water ran scarlet with the dye from her red boots, as though stained with blood, and worriedly she hopped out onto a patch of gravel sooner than she would have liked to. The woods before her were thin, offering less cover than she wanted, but she sprinted toward them just the same.

  A shape glimpsed from the corner of her eye was all that warned her before she was tackled and knocked to the ground. A man’s weight slammed on top of her, heavy, bruising her against the unyielding soil. She cried out, despite her intentions; then his dirty hand clamped across her mouth, and she heard heavy breathing and a low-pitched snicker that made her go rigid with fear.

  “That’s right, Princess,” Tylik’s voice said in her ear. “You been watching me watching you all day now. Time we had us some fun.”

  Her outstretched hand caught up dirt, and she threw it in his face. Squalling
, he reared back and dug at his eyes, and she flung herself away from him.

  She got only to her hands and knees, however, for her skirts hampered her. Tylik caught her by her long hair, yanking her back cruelly into his arms.

  His embrace was unbreakable, despite her struggles. His sour breath panted hot on her ear and cheek. When he tried to turn her around to kiss her and tear at her bodice, she slapped at him, getting in a glancing clout on his ear that made him yelp. Her fingernails raked him, and he flinched back.

  Swearing, he glared at her, his eyes narrowed and mean. “If you want it rough, you can have—”

  A sword blade cut off his head, slicing through neck sinew, bone, and muscle in one swift blow. Blood splattered across Lea in a hot spurt, and Tylik’s head went rolling across the gravel like a grisly ball. Too stunned to scream, she looked up.

  The commander towered above her, silhouetted against the sky, his gory sword held aloft in his gloved fist. She feared he meant to strike her dead as well.

  Instead, he crouched before her, his black eyes murderous, his face raw with anger. “Are you hurt? Tell me! Are you hurt?”

  It registered then, how close she’d come to losing her head with Tylik, how close his sword tip had passed before her face.

  Shudders ran through her. She couldn’t catch her breath enough to speak. Her heart was racing hard, making the blood pound in her ears.

  “Lea! Answer me.”

  Something in his voice reached through her shock. She managed to shake her head.

  The commander gripped her hand and pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her knees dipped and wobbled.

  The barbed quai of death and killing engulfed her, and so potent was this man’s aura of violence that she felt dizzy, unable to regain her wits. Her gown was soaked with Tylik’s blood. The hot, fresh stench of it made her gasp for breath. She sank to the verge of a swoon, and the commander’s arm slid around the small of her back, holding her up.

  “You are hurt,” he said roughly, lifting her in his arms and carrying her farther up the bank. He laid her on a drifted pile of soft leaves, away from the gore, and crouched beside her. A crease etched his brow. When he smoothed her hair back from her eyes and brushed dirt from her cheek, his touch was gentle.