The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  A sense of urgency grew in him. Something was drawing him on through the dark, its strength increasing as he advanced, and he gave himself over gladly to that power, recognizing the imminence of revelation. The unseen presence was still close behind him, but he did not fear it, perceiving only reassurance there.

  The absolute darkness darkened impossibly and the deep places in his mind, slumbering undisturbed throughout a lifetime, stirred to reluctant life. The impressions seeped in and he could neither sort nor comprehend them, but knew that they would guide him.

  They did so. His disengaged self rode intangible tides. Then he caught the first flutter of identity somewhere in the void, and he strained toward it.

  The object of his search was drawing near, the shape and texture of her mind clarifying by the moment. The clean vigor of her thoughts reminded him of green growth in springtime. Nearer yet, close enough to catch the fragrance of youth, close enough to catch her intelligence, her fears, and finally her awareness of his approach. She knew him, she was reaching toward him. She wanted and needed his help.

  As soon as he could find her.

  She was very close now, so close that he caught the essence of her surroundings, the persistence of stone, the obstinacy of iron, the warm solace of aged wood. He could taste it all in the echo of her thoughts.

  What was left of his consciousness impinged on hers and a sense of familiarity thrilled deeply through him, but he still could not identify her. He knew only that the sum of his hopes resided in her deliverance. His need flung him wildly through the dark, where he lost his way, lost all contact with her mind, and found himself alone in black nothingness.

  But not quite alone, for that silent presence with him from the start was with him still, its mute reassurance calming his angry confusion. Perhaps it could guide him back to her. He reached out toward the other, but the darkness was impenetrable, its weight intolerable, and now it absorbed him into itself.

  * * *

  He woke to find himself slumped in a chair, the restraints gone, his brother patting his face with a cold, wet cloth. Water trickled down his cheeks.

  “Stop that,” he commanded, distantly surprised to hear his own rich voice emerge small and dull.

  Innesq obeyed. “Sit still. Rest,” he advised.

  “What did you learn?”

  “Presently.”

  “Now.” His voice was still too weak, and he repeated more forcefully, “Now.”

  “Very well. She is alive. You caught a distinct resonance of her existence, which I was able to interpret.”

  Alive. Aureste expelled a sigh and allowed his eyes to close. The surge of relief that swept his mind failed to renew his strength. He was indescribably tired, and a headache throbbed behind his left eye. He longed for sleep, and there was no time for it.

  “She’s safe, then?” he demanded. Silence, and he opened his eyes to search his brother’s still face. “Well?”

  “She does not perceive herself as safe,” Innesq admitted.

  “What do you mean?” Frustration generated internal heat. “Why don’t you speak plainly? Has she been hurt? Is she in danger?”

  “That is unclear.”

  “Inadequate. I want an answer. What good is this precious art of yours if it can’t serve Jianna?”

  “Aureste, you condemn without understanding. You would do better to hold your peace and allow yourself time to recover.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t enjoy the luxury of time. I’ve a daughter in need of rescue, a matter that hardly seems to rouse your concern. Return to your experiments, then. It’s clear that the life and safety of your niece count for nothing.”

  “You do not mean that. It is only your fear and anger speaking.”

  “Have you added mind reading to your little repertoire of magic tricks? Next summer you might set up a booth at Three Islet Fair.”

  “Perhaps,” Innesq agreed without rancor. “Have you any more insults burning for utterance, or are you ready to listen?”

  “To what? You’ve already told me that you have no answers. I’ve wasted enough time here. Now I’m going out to find her.” Aureste rose to his feet. A wave of dizziness rocked him, the workroom spun, and he dropped back into the chair.

  “You will not go anywhere just yet,” Innesq observed.

  Aureste blinked. His sight was curiously dim, but he could still make out his brother’s face, grave and composed as always. “How long—” he began.

  “Hours have passed. It is night.”

  “No matter. I can—”

  “Hush. Listen to me. Jianna is alive. Your mind touched hers, and that contact furnished certain images—clouded, to be sure, but—”

  “What did you—”

  “Do not interrupt. Sit still for now or you will make yourself ill. Jianna is alive and probably uninjured; or at worst, not seriously injured. Her position is perilous, however. She is certainly held captive somewhere in the wilds of the Alzira Hills. She is just as certainly threatened with harm of a serious nature, but I do not believe that her life is in any immediate danger. There is no point in demanding particulars—I am unable to furnish any but one, which pertains to the nature of her prison. She is held in a rural dwelling of no vast size, but solid and impregnable as a fortress.”

  “A stronghouse, you mean?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is there anything more you can tell me?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Well. A stronghouse,” Aureste mused. “Somewhere in the Alzira Hills, between Vitrisi and Orezzia. That shouldn’t be so difficult to find.”

  “And then?” Innesq inquired. “You know better than I what would be needed to breach such defenses.”

  “A small army.” Aureste nodded. Renewed purpose lighted his mind, and his weakness began to recede. “Very well. I’ll raise one.”

  SIX

  “Pick only the purple ones with yellow stripes,” Yvenza Belandor directed. “If the leaf is still green or the stripes have gone to brown, I can’t use it. You understand me?”

  Jianna inclined her head.

  “Then say so.”

  “I understand you,” Jianna mumbled, eyes glued to the ground.

  “Speak up, girl. You have a voice. Are you too frightened to use it?”

  “I said I understand you.” Jianna’s head came up. “And you’ll be the frightened one when my father hunts you down.”

  “That’s better.” Yvenza’s smile bared a white palisade. “A small flare of honest defiance. Always preferable to a sullen humor. I can’t abide the sight of moping, sulky faces about me.”

  “I should think you’d be accustomed. You appreciate honest defiance? Enjoy this, then. No matter what you do, you’ll never get the better of Aureste Belandor. You’re no match for him, you can’t reach high enough.” Shouldn’t have said that. She was in no position to provoke her captor, who might easily order her beaten, maimed, or killed; or worse, might hand her over to that hulking brute of a son. It was impossible to view Yvenza’s iron-jawed face without seeing Onartino there as well; and impossible to think of Onartino without reliving the moment of Reeni’s murder. The fear and hatred flooded Jianna’s mind. Allowing nothing beyond false confidence to show on her face, she added, “And such power as you hold over me doesn’t matter. You may force me to work like a servant, but you can’t make me forget who I am.”

  “Rest assured, Aureste’s daughter, nobody forgets your identity. As for your complaints, they’re misplaced. Time you learned how to make yourself useful. Your days as a pampered pet have ended. Not every branch of the Belandor family tree is rotten and blighted as yours.”

  Liar! Father works hard in the family interests; he’s kept our House safe and successful through all the times of trouble. And Uncle Innesq mews himself up in his workroom for days and nights on end. What do you suppose he’s doing in there, playing at solitaire? Jianna said nothing.

  “Here you will work,” Yvenza continued, “as I would expect of
any prospective daughter. No doubt the concept is foreign, but you’ll learn, else go hungry.”

  Jianna replied with an indifferent shrug.

  “Cheer up, maidenlady. The work may seem menial, but you toil nobly in the service of the Faerlonnish resistance. What better means than that to atone for the crimes of your kneeser father?”

  Stifling the angry denial that would only amuse her tormentor, Jianna merely asked, “What do you mean?”

  “We here at Ironheart offer all possible assistance to the soldiers of the Ghost Army. As the newest member of our household, you will do likewise.”

  “I see.” “Ghost Army” was a popular term for the loosely knit bands of guerrilla marauders sworn to the expulsion of the Taerleezi occupying force. As far as Jianna was concerned, the Faerlonnish resistance comprised a gang of misguided zealots idiotically dedicated to a hopeless cause, but one consideration offered consolation. Sooner or later, her kidnappers’ ill-chosen loyalties would bring them all to execution. She might even witness Onartino’s public torsion.

  “You are looking quite pleased.” Yvenza favored her prisoner with a hard glance.

  “Well, wouldn’t any right-thinking Faerlonnishwoman?” Jianna inquired guilelessly.

  “Patriotic sentiments upon the lips of Aureste Belandor’s own child. That is heartwarming. I trust we may expect your best efforts, then.”

  “With what? Plucking little purple leaves for the resistance?”

  “You haven’t troubled to ask the use of the little purple leaves.”

  Planning to work them into funeral wreaths? Jianna assumed an expression of polite inquiry.

  “They’re called kalkrios, and they possess narcotic properties,” Yvenza informed her. “When seethed and reduced, they yield the elixir kalkriole that offers painless sleep.”

  “You brew this elixir and somehow carry it to the Ghost Army?” Jianna inquired, her interest captured.

  “From time to time. More often the Ghost forces of these hills send their wounded to me.”

  “You mean that you harbor resistance people right here within your own walls?” Jianna’s surprise gave way to comprehension. She thinks she can say anything she pleases because I’ll never get out of this place to report it. We’ll see. Aloud she observed, “You must have them pretty well hidden.”

  “Astonished that Ironheart hasn’t yielded quite all of its secrets to your eager young eyes? Don’t worry, you’ll see them soon enough.”

  The promise was not intended to convey reassurance.

  “In the meantime, you’ve other concerns,” Yvenza continued. “The kalkrios. Work your way through the garden and pluck the leaves that are ready. Bring them to me when you’re done. I expect a full basket. Don’t take all day about it. And don’t try to stray from the house—Grumper won’t like it. Guard her, boy,” she instructed the dog, then turned and walked away. Grumper remained.

  Jianna stood watching her go. Evidently confident that the prisoner would attempt neither flight nor attack, Yvenza never bothered with a backward glance. Her casual assurance was insulting but justified. Only a few yards of weedy, uncultivated ground separated the garden from the edge of the woods surrounding Ironheart. Between Jianna and those woods sat Grumper.

  She studied the huge boarhound. Usually she was fond of dogs, and this one was quite regal, even beautiful, with his proud carriage and his deep, intelligent eyes. Under other circumstances she would have hoped to befriend him. Well, perhaps he was more susceptible than he appeared. It was worth a try.

  “Grumper. Grumper, boy,” she coaxed melodiously. “Here, Grumper.”

  His ears twitched.

  “I’m Jianna. I’m not a bad person, I mean no harm, you can trust me.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Come on, come over here, it’s all right.”

  He stared at her. She extended a cautious hand, which he ignored. His mournful eyes never strayed from her face. At least he wasn’t trying to rip her throat out.

  “I’m going to step into the woods for a moment.” She let her hand descend slowly. “Won’t be gone a moment. Nothing for you to worry about. There’s a good dog.” She dared a gliding step toward the trees.

  Grumper lowered his head and growled. Jianna hesitated.

  “Good dog,” she repeated without conviction. “GooddogGooddogGooddog.” She took another step.

  He made a snapping lunge, and his teeth clicked within a breath of her wrist. She gasped and shrank back. Grumper sank to his haunches, eyeing her alertly. Beyond doubt he could have bitten her had he wished.

  “All right,” she said. Her heart was pounding, and she wondered if the dog could hear it. “All right. For now. Next time I’ll try offering you some food. We’ll see if you’re really as incorruptible as all that.” Turning her back on him, she contemplated the shrubbery. Purple leaves with yellow stripes, Yvenza had told her. Resentfully she began to pick, dropping the small harvest into the wicker basket furnished by her captor. The leaves, she soon discovered, were guarded by needle thorns easy to overlook by reason of their extreme fineness. She could avoid them if she placed her hands with care and for a time she did so, pinching individual leaves between thumb and forefinger, plucking with great delicacy. The purgatorial minutes passed. At the conclusion of a minor eternity she looked down to find the bottom of the basket barely covered with a thin purple layer. At this rate she would hardly finish before nightfall.

  Her stomach rumbled. The hour was early but she was already hungry. There would be no food until Yvenza’s demands had been met, and Yvenza wanted a full basket. Jianna willed her hands to greater speed. The basket began to fill, but soon she felt the jab of thorns and presently her fingers were dotted with red.

  An angry exclamation escaped her. Grumper stirred at the sound.

  “This is your mistress’ doing,” she told him. “I’m surprised she hasn’t stayed to enjoy the spectacle.” But Yvenza had not troubled to watch, had not even posted a human guard, evidently deeming a single boarhound quite equal to the task of controlling the prisoner. It was downright offensive.

  “She’s underestimated me,” Jianna assured the dog. “She’ll find that out soon enough. So will you, fleabag.”

  Grumper yawned.

  “I loathe you,” she announced, and resumed her labors.

  A chill autumn breeze punched through her garments, and she shivered. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry, and the basket was nowhere near full. Her hands flew, the thorns stabbed, and her blood welled from fresh punctures. Her anger deepened. Absurd and outrageous that she should endure this, when the only thing standing between herself and freedom was one ordinary dog. She was scarcely worthy to call herself Aureste Belandor’s daughter if she couldn’t manage to outwit Grumper.

  Breaking a twig from the nearest bush, she threw it toward the house.

  “Go. Fetch,” she commanded. “Fetch!”

  Grumper lay down, tongue lolling. If she had not known better, she might almost have imagined that he was laughing at her. If only she could lay hands on a good-sized stick or rock, she would knock the smirk right off his canine face. Her eyes ranged the ground and found nothing. Brute force probably wouldn’t serve, anyway—not against fangs of such length and whiteness. Force of will, then. The power of the superior human intellect.

  “Grumper,” she commanded with an affectation of calm authority. “Stay. You understand me? Stay.” She edged toward the woods.

  Instantly he was on his feet. A warning growl rumbled.

  She did not let herself hear it. “Stay,” she repeated firmly. Her air of confidence remained intact as she moved away.

  Too swiftly for her to attempt evasion, he sprang forward, seized a mouthful of her skirt in his jaws, and tugged powerfully, throwing her to her knees. Before she could rise he was on her, his weight bearing her to the ground.

  Jianna lay flat on her back, the boarhound looming over her. For an endless dog-scented moment, he stood staring down as if conside
ring her dismemberment, then withdrew a few paces and seated himself nonchalantly.

  Jianna sprawled paralyzed until the cold from the ground began to seep through her clothing, and then she sat up. Grumper watched steadily, but left her alone. She had not been hurt, but she was covered with dirt and her skirt was ripped. She was conscious less of alarm than acute embarrassment, coupled with the hope that human eyes had not witnessed her defeat. The wicker basket lay on its side a few feet from her, its contents scattered. Even as she watched, the wind sent the kalkrios traveling. On hands and knees she scrambled in pursuit. Only a few escaped. Barring dirt and discomfiture, she was not much worse off than she had been some twenty minutes earlier. Twenty extra minutes without food.

  She stood up. Her supply of initiative was depleted, but only temporarily. Turning her back on Grumper, she went back to work. Fresh blood beaded on her fingers, and the basket filled. When the contents approached the rim, she fluffed the leaves artistically and the job was done.

  “Finished,” she informed her guard. “I’m going back now. If you don’t mind.” And it seemed that he understood her well enough, for he made no threatening move, but paced gravely at her side as she made her way from the garden to the nearest gate in the solid stone wall girdling Ironheart.

  A sentry stood at the opening, a sentry of sorts, but certainly not a person that her father would have allowed to hang about so much as a back entrance to Belandor property. Here was no smartly liveried retainer agleam with polished steel. She beheld a slack-jawed, round-shouldered—menial was the kindest term to apply to the lout—bundled in drab homespun.

  He might be sharper than he looked, though. She would soon find out. Marching straight up to the sentry, she halted and offered her most winning smile, the one her father could never resist.

  “A word with you,” she suggested sweetly. “Your name?”

  He stared at her. Perhaps he was deaf. She repeated the question.

  “What for?” he demanded, narrow-eyed but not deaf.