The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  Terrified, he threw himself full length, clutching at the grasses beneath him—the rocks—the ground—fingers scrabbling in search of solidity that no longer existed. In an instant the world had become an alien realm wherein he had no place. Here he was lost, helpless, and deeply unwelcome.

  It ended as abruptly as it had begun. The quivering ceased, the moment passed, and normal physicality resumed. For some minutes thereafter, he lay where he had fallen, body pressed hard to the chill, familiar ground, hands twined deep in the dead grasses. His emotions were manifold, but they did not include confusion. He knew what had happened, and why.

  Bearded face pale, forehead sweat-dewed, he climbed to his feet and resumed his interrupted trek, nerves braced against a repetition.

  On through the silent mists he trudged, the moist air darkening about him as he went, and now his path ascended sharply. Another tiny quake shook the hills, this one so minor that he kept his footing. A quarter hour of arduous climbing brought him to a broad flat shelf abutting a sheer perpendicular wall of granite. The path continued on through a narrow cleft in the wall, but the way was guarded. A pair of adult Sishmindri males stood there for all the world like human sentries. Both were fully mature and powerfully built, their brow ridges all but invisible, their skulls flat behind the bulging golden eyes. Their demeanor was singular: neither fearful nor servile. More surprising yet—they were armed, after a fashion. Faerlonnish law in every city forbade Sishmindris the use of weapons upon pain of death to the amphibian and heavy fine to the owner. But these two bore great clubs reinforced with spikes of chipped stone. Astonished, the traveler halted. Human and Sishmindris regarded each other.

  He had no idea how long the mutual inspection continued. The huge amphibian eyes told him nothing. At last he ventured to speak.

  “Greetings,” he offered in the guttural Sishmindri tongue.

  The golden eyes did not blink, but the air sacs fluttered, a sure sign of surprise. Not often did the Sishmindris hear their own language upon human lips. After a moment, one of the guards, if such they were, replied briefly, “Forbidden.”

  “I come in friendship,” declared the traveler, with more courtesy than he would have shown any human blocking his path. “I seek the summit of the Quivers.”

  “Forbidden,” the amphibian repeated.

  “Why?”

  “Ground of virtue,” the other explained. “Ground of power.”

  “Yes, I know. That is what I seek.”

  “Not here. Forbidden. Ours.”

  “Yours?”

  “Ours. Our people, our place. Our ground.”

  The traveler’s astonishment deepened. Never had he encountered the like. Sishmindris did not claim ownership of territory, any more than frogs claimed ownership of a pond, so far as he knew. But then, he had never conversed with frogs.

  “I do not challenge your claim,” he returned. “I want only a small space for shelter.”

  “No. No men. Ground of virtue, sacred ground of power. Ours.” The amphibian speaker lifted his club and puffed his sacs. “You go.”

  The traveler considered. The arcane technique at his command could undoubtedly win his way past the sentries. But the exercise would be lengthy, taxing, and certain to leave him depleted. He might ascend to the summit, there to set up residence upon a site richly infused with the energy of the Source; the Sishmindris could hardly stop him. But thereafter he would be their enemy. Their claim to ownership of the land was so hopelessly absurd and clearly doomed that it engaged his sympathies. Had humans barred his path, he would not have hesitated to deal with them as need dictated, but the amphibians were another matter.

  “And what do you do,” he inquired on impulse, “when the world becomes unreal?”

  “Wait, and trust in ground of virtue. Our ground.”

  “I shall seek elsewhere, then,” the traveler declared. “There are other possibilities.” And so there were, provided the arcanists of the Veiled Isles remembered the ancient cleansing procedures.

  “You go. Go.”

  “Farewell. Good fortune to you and your people.”

  Once again the amphibian air sacs fluttered in amazement and the hitherto silent member of the guardian pair now spoke up to inquire, “What is your name?”

  “I am called Grix Orlazzu.”

  “Seek in the north, Grix Orlazzu. There are realms of virtue within the Wraithlands. Go north.”

  “I will do so. Good-bye.” So saying, Grix Orlazzu took his leave. The mists swallowed him at once.

  NINE

  The boarhound lay motionless on the floor of his mistress’ bedroom. His eyes were closed, his body limp. A threadbare blanket had been spread beneath him; no other covering softened the bare boards. A few feet away a generous blaze crackled on the grate, another rare concession to comfort in that ascetic space. The dog’s external wounds had been bathed and dressed. A bowl of chopped meat sat inches from his nose, but the aroma did not wake him. Nor did the sound of his mistress’ voice, although she called his name often.

  Yvenza Belandor sat cross-legged on the floor beside the injured hound. She wore her usual plain dark gown, and her marbled hair was twisted into its usual knot. But her expression, comprising grief and anger, was uncharacteristic. Beside her knelt Nissi, colorless and insubstantial as fog, her face expressing nothing beyond trepidation.

  “Please,” Nissi whispered. “Please, Magnifica.”

  “No.” Yvenza’s eyes did not stray from the still canine form.

  “Only today.”

  “No.” Yvenza stretched forth a hand to scratch lightly behind the dog’s ear. Grumper never stirred.

  “Please. Please let me.”

  “I said no. Don’t try my patience. In any case, it’s too late. He’s done.”

  “No.” Nissi bent low and pressed her cheek to Grumper’s skull. She remained so for some seconds, eyes shut and hands pressing the dog’s muzzle, then sat up to announce almost inaudibly, “He is still here.”

  “Your fancy.”

  “His time is almost gone. The connection is like the ghost of a cobweb. But there is still something.”

  “If so, my voice will bring him back.”

  “He has strayed too far to hear. But he will hear me and perhaps he will come. If you let me call through the spaces that are not.”

  “You won’t. I give you no leave.” The other stared at her with enormous eyes, and Yvenza added sharply, “Don’t speak of this again. The arcane ways are not for you.”

  There was a long silence during which Nissi’s eyes sought the motionless canine form and remained there. At last, she ventured in the smallest of whispers, “But. I. Can.”

  “You will not.” Yvenza’s eyes and voice went steely. “You haven’t the right. Do you understand me?”

  The pale head bobbed. The pale eyes remained downcast.

  “The talent resides in House Belandor. So it has always been. But you are not a true Belandor, not the product of any union recognized by law. You have no right to the name, the wealth, the power, or the talent. Your use of the arcane skills is presumptuous. It is impertinent.”

  “It is natural to me.” Nissi’s response was barely audible.

  “And an insult to me. A reminder of something best forgotten. I do not suffer insults tamely, girl. You ought to know that by now.” No response was forthcoming, and Yvenza pressed on. “You will respect my wishes. You will abstain from all practice of the art so long as you reside beneath my roof. You will give me your word on this.”

  Nissi replied with a seemingly unconscious, almost invisible shake of the head.

  “In charity I have sheltered and fed you throughout the years. In return I am entitled at the very least to your respect and obedience. Should I fail to receive my due, I can’t be faulted for turning you out to fend for yourself. How far, I wonder, would your talents carry you on your own in the cold world? Would you like to find out?”

  Another tiny, voiceless negative.

 
“Then you will renounce the arcane art and its practice. I want your promise.”

  A couple of large tears spilled from Nissi’s eyes.

  “I don’t hear you,” Yvenza observed.

  “Roof.” The syllable seemed to fight its way past huge barriers.

  “What?”

  “Beneath your roof. Promise.”

  “I hope you aren’t trying to be clever.” The implied threat seemed almost an afterthought. Yvenza’s attention had returned to the boarhound. Grumper lay limp and inert as ever. His mistress laid a hand upon him. “Are you still here?” she asked in a softened voice that few human listeners ever heard. “Grumper, lad?”

  “No,” Nissi said. “I felt him leave a moment ago. He is gone now.”

  “So I’ve known for the past half hour.” Yvenza straightened. “That girl will smart for it.”

  “With … black eyebrows.”

  “Aureste’s daughter, yes. When they bring her back, I’ll hamstring her. That should discourage future excursions.”

  “She … likes cheese.”

  “Does she? Perhaps I’ll ram three or four pounds of Westmarch Blue down her throat.”

  “She did not hit Grumper.”

  “What did you say?”

  “She did not hit him.”

  “How do you know?”

  Nissi studied the dead dog in silence.

  “Look at me.”

  Nissi’s lower lip quivered. Her small hands began to shake. Her ordeal was cut short by arrival of a servant bearing the news of Master Onartino’s return, accompanied by Falaste Rione, with the kneeser’s daughter in tow.

  * * *

  The rain ended well before they reached Ironheart, but Jianna remained soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone. The chill deepened as she beheld the stronghouse rising in all its solidity before her. Once again the urge to flee swept through her and she eyed the reins, wondering if she might snatch them from the doctor’s hand. But even as she watched, his grasp tightened, almost as if he felt or read her thought. The inexorable progress continued, bearing her to the side gate in the outer wall, through the gate and into the courtyard, across the courtyard and around the house to the front entrance, before which they halted.

  There had to be something she could do. Impossible that she, the daughter of Aureste Belandor, could sit there so passive, so acquiescent.

  The doctor helped her down from the horse. At least she did not have to suffer Onartino’s touch. Falaste’s assistance in climbing the low stone steps to the front door was actually welcome. Then they were through and she was back inside Ironheart, in the grim entry hall that was always dim even on the brightest of days, which this day conspicuously was not. And there was Yvenza advancing to meet them.

  She had attempted escape. The boarhound was dead. There would be consequences, possibly horrific. Jianna’s innards knotted, and she wondered if criminals facing death by torsion felt the same. The criminals were comparatively fortunate, however; they were not obliged to face Yvenza Belandor’s wrath.

  But Yvenza did not appear wrathful; quite the contrary, in fact. She was smiling as she approached, her eyes filled with hitherto unrevealed light and warmth. Never before had Jianna seen this woman display such natural maternal affection, nor dreamed that it was there at all. Then she saw that Yvenza was not looking at her son, had barely noticed his presence. Her radiant regard was fixed on the doctor.

  “Falaste, lad. Welcome home.” She extended both hands, which he took in his own, pressed lightly, and released.

  “Magnifica.” He addressed her with a mixture of warmth and deep respect.

  “How long shall we have you here with us?”

  “Several days at the very least.”

  “The more the better. You are needed. They’re clamoring for you in the infirmary. No one else will do.”

  “Any new admissions?”

  “Three within the past two weeks. Our Ghostly friends grow reckless and unlucky.”

  “Through anger, I think. I’ll look in on them at once.”

  “No, you won’t. Not before you’ve eaten and rested.”

  “Magnifica, that can wait.”

  “Ah, Falaste, that foolish large heart will be your ruin, one day.”

  There was something in Yvenza’s expression, her smile and her eyes, that struck Jianna as extraordinarily familiar, something that she had seen countless times. Familiarity notwithstanding, it took her a moment to place the memory. The look in Yvenza’s eyes as they rested upon the doctor was just the same expression that shone in her father’s eyes when he looked at her. A pang shot through her then, but even as she watched, Yvenza’s eyes shifted from Falaste to her biological son, and changed.

  “Well, boy,” the matriarch observed with a congratulatory air, “I see you’ve recovered the little runaway bride. Good work.”

  “Too easy,” replied Onartino.

  “Perhaps next time she’ll offer more of a challenge.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I suspect you underestimate your sweet soul mate here. Does he not, girl?” Doubling her fist, Yvenza struck suddenly and strongly.

  Taken off guard, Jianna made no move to block or evade the blow, which stretched her full length on the floor. Shocked and dizzy, she sat up slowly, cradling her jaw.

  “That’s for Grumper,” Yvenza informed her.

  “Magnifica!” the doctor remonstrated. He took a step forward as if to intervene.

  “You stay where you are, Falaste, lad,” Onartino advised. Turning to his mother, he suggested, “Grumper deserves more. He was worth ten of her.”

  “No doubt. And he was worth ten of you into the bargain, so hold your tongue,” she returned, then met Jianna’s eyes and commanded, “Get up.”

  If she got up, Yvenza would probably hit her again. If she cowered on the floor, she would look craven. Before she had reached a decision, the doctor spoke again.

  “Magnifica, you should know that this maidenlady has been injured. She’s twisted her ankle and can scarcely walk.”

  “That’s convenient. Maybe I needn’t hamstring her after all. Perhaps a good whipping and a few days without food will do.”

  “You should also know”—Jianna ventured to enter the discussion—“that I did not beat your dog.”

  “Indeed.” Yvenza considered. “In that case, how did you get away from him?”

  In her eagerness to proclaim her innocence, she had failed to anticipate that inevitable question. Jianna felt her face flush. Her imagination churned uselessly. No remotely convincing lie or evasion suggested itself, and at last she replied, “I won’t tell you that.”

  “I urge you to reconsider.” Yvenza kicked her in the stomach.

  Jianna gasped and doubled, clutching herself. When her distressed breathing eased, Yvenza repeated the question. “How did you get away from him?”

  Jianna stared at the floor.

  “That first kick was scarcely a nudge. The next one takes out your front teeth,” Yvenza remarked conversationally. “A pity to spoil such pretty pearly whites, but I’ll force myself.”

  “She’s mine, I’ll handle it. With a good leather strap,” Onartino offered.

  “Shut up, boy.”

  “Maidenlady,” the doctor appealed, and his voice owned the power to draw her eyes from the floor to his face. “It is best by far to answer the magnifica’s questions and to tell her the truth. For your own sake, believe this.”

  She did believe it. Yvenza would not kill her at present, but the woman was certainly willing and able to inflict serious injury. And what good would it do to escape and return to Belandor House, maimed for life? In such circumstances as these, Aureste Belandor would surely counsel compliance or at least the appearance thereof. Tossing the hair back from her face, Jianna shifted her gaze to Yvenza’s eyes and answered coldly, “Very well. I drugged the dog with a sleeping potion.”

  “Kalkriole?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you ge
t him to drink it?”

  “I gave him doctored food pellets.”

  “ ‘She … likes cheese.’ ” Yvenza nodded to herself. “And then, when he was helpless, you picked up a rock and beat him to death.”

  “Then, when he was helpless, I ran for the woods.” Jianna arose with care. Her jaw and her midsection ached; her ankle throbbed. “If you won’t credit me with common decency, at least credit me with common sense. When I had the chance to get away, and every second counted, do you really think that I’d have tarried to beat an unconscious dog? Within a few yards of the household sentry, whose attention might easily have been caught by the sound of the blows? I’m not that stupid. As for the escape attempt itself, you can punish me if you will, but you can scarcely blame me. If you were in my position, Yvenza Belandor, you’d have done exactly the same.”

  They were all staring at her and Jianna wondered if she would be struck to the floor again or worse. At last, Yvenza inquired, with a certain sinister mildness, “And if you did not kill Grumper yourself, then whom do you accuse?”

  Your murderous brute of a son, most likely. Jianna’s eyes jumped to Onartino’s face, which was empty and blank as unused paper. He probably lost his filthy temper. Aloud she replied, “I wasn’t there, I didn’t see. I accuse no one.”

  “Not directly, at any rate.” For a glittering instant Yvenza’s eyes shifted to Onartino. He sustained the scrutiny unmoved, and her attention returned to Jianna. “Let us give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you tell the truth. Indeed, I suspect that you do. There remains the matter of your flight. The attempted desertion of your own betrothed, my poor devoted son. Did you mean to break his sensitive heart? We must see to it that such an act of cruelty is never repeated. My own thoughts lean toward your permanent disablement. Would that do the trick, I wonder? What do you think, niece?”