The Traitor's Daughter

by Paula Brandon

  “The little bride has arrived,” Yvenza observed with pleasure.

  “And a most lovely bride she is,” the Traveler returned warmly, as if imagining that the decencies were to be observed. “Maidenlady, I greet you and offer my congratulations upon this happiest of days.”

  She looked into his eyes, crinkled smilingly at the corners, and saw only kindness there, at sight of which a pang of anguish pierced her heart. Help me! she wanted to shout at him. You represent the law, help me! Useless. He would take her for a lunatic if she tried it. Like everyone else in these parts, this man would defer to the will of Yvenza Belandor. And if by chance he did not, he would probably never walk out of Ironheart alive. Not trusting herself to speak, she inclined her head.

  “Happiest of days indeed,” Yvenza concurred tenderly. “Traveler, let us proceed.”

  “By all means. Let the bridal pair stand before me,” the Traveler directed.

  Jianna advanced as if walking underwater.

  “Bridegroom, get up,” Yvenza commanded. “Your shining moment has arrived, boy. Let’s see a bit of youthful bliss, shall we?”

  Onartino drained his tankard and set it aside. Rising unhurriedly, he took his place at Jianna’s side. Too close. She resisted the urge to sidle away. Slanting a covert glance at him, she once again took in his intimidating height and bulk; her head barely reached his shoulder. His brown hair was lank with oil; it did not appear to have been washed in recent memory. Allowing her eyes to drop to his hands, she saw that the fingernails were rimmed with black crescents. She looked away quickly.

  The East Reach Traveler was speaking, his voice pleasant and mellow, and she realized that he was performing the marriage ceremony. This seemingly kindly and genial person was in the process of tying her inextricably to a monster, and it was happening now. Her gaze shifted to the doorway and paused there, as if in expectation of her father’s materialization. Even now it was not too late for him to save her, and surely he would come; nothing could stop him. But the seconds ticked by, the Traveler’s voice burbled on agreeably, and Aureste did not appear.

  There was a lull in the verbiage, followed by the sound of Onartino’s flat monotone repeating the marriage vows and delivering the appropriate responses. And then it was her own turn, and still it was not too late. Her eyes flew instinctively to the face of Falaste Rione, but he was not looking at her. His expression was indifferent to the point of boredom, and his polite obligatory attention appeared to fix upon the East Reach Traveler. No help there. Why had she for one moment imagined otherwise?

  Another lull and then, as if at a distance, she heard her own voice uttering responses. Her mind shielded itself; she hardly knew what she said. Meaningless, all of it.

  No, not quite meaningless. When the Traveler voiced the traditional call for legitimate objections to the match, her breath caught and again she awaited miraculous intervention. And there was none. Nothing. No one.

  By the power vested in me by the Independent City of Orezzia, as recognized and authorized by the sovereign state of Taerleez, I pronounce you man and wife.

  The ceremony was completed. The Traveler regarded the newly married couple with a congratulatory air. An uncertain murmur of approbation tiptoed around the room.

  It was done. She was a wife. She felt no different—in fact, she felt very little at all—but a few spoken words had changed everything. In witness whereof, a large hand closed on her upper arm and she felt herself effortlessly shifted about to face her new husband. Jianna forced herself to look up into his face, which, as usual, expressed nothing beyond a certain purposefulness. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed, beaming naked defiance at him. His face did change then, the smallest of smiles ripening his full lips, and already the fear was starting to erode her protective numbness.

  Extending one arm, he clamped his right hand on the back of her neck and pulled her to him. Divining his purpose, Jianna stiffened and tried to turn her face aside, but the vise of his grip held her immobile as his mouth descended like an avalanche on hers. He was kissing her so hard that the pressure was painful. Then it worsened as his left hand shifted to the hinge of her jaw, knowledgeable pressure forced her teeth to unclench, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth.

  Disgust, helpless fury, and terror exploded inside her. Her eyes squeezed shut and she endured the unendurable.

  It was her first kiss. Often in the past she had dreamed of the moment, her mind spinning roseate fancies wholly divorced from the present reality. Once upon a time she had actually looked forward to this. Along the edges of her mind ran the words of Reeni, murdered by the man who now ruled her: … like a nightmare you can’t get out of … a husband is like a rutting boar pig that owns you. And it was all true.

  He released her abruptly and she drew an unobstructed breath, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. And this is only the beginning. Her eyes scanned the assembled witnesses in search of outrage, consternation, or even simple disapproval, but found none. The faces about her reflected joviality, for the most part. There were even a few guffaws. Apparently these people perceived Onartino’s demonstration of raw dominance as the appropriate enthusiasm of an eager groom. Perhaps they even told themselves that she enjoyed it, maidenly coyness notwithstanding. But no, that couldn’t be true of everyone present. Her eyes flew once again to Rione’s face and this time he was looking straight at her, clear grey-blue gaze taking in everything, seeing all that was being done to her, and unmoved by it. She told herself that he seemed troubled, for an instant persuading herself that it was true. But then he turned aside, addressed some remark to his nearest neighbor, who shrugged and chuckled, and she finally recognized his essential indifference. He liked her well enough, probably pitied her somewhat, but he wouldn’t alter the course of his life on her account.

  Well, let him enjoy his life as best he could. In view of his association with the Ghosts, it was a doomed little rivulet anyway. She would save herself without his assistance.

  Too late. Trapped.

  There were people milling about her; she heard a babble of voices and understood that they were expressing the conventionally joyous sentiments. And she wondered if they were deliberately mocking her, for surely all present, with the possible exception of the East Reach Traveler, recognized her for the sacrificial victim that she was. The servants and guards saw everything, knew everything. White Nissi, with her peculiar gifts, certainly knew. And above all, Falaste Rione understood her plight, but he was as heartless and hypocritical as all the rest, for here he came with a pasteboard smile and mouthful of platitudes to grasp the hand of Onartino, who endured the familiarity with unwonted affability.

  “You’re losing your little infirmary skivvy, boy,” the groom announced. “There are better uses for her now.”

  “No doubt. My visit has concluded, in any case. I leave Ironheart tomorrow morning.” Turning to Jianna, Rione recited unexceptionably, “Madam, accept my felicitations. Allow me to express my happiness on your behalf together with my warmest wishes for your future contentment and prosperity.”

  The words struck like daggers. The pain sliced through her and the tears rose to her eyes. She fought them down again. He probably did not mean to torture her. He thought that she would do well, at least no worse than countless other brides in less-than-ideal circumstances. He told himself that she would come to terms with her new life. But if she did not, her misfortune was no concern of his.

  “I thank you, Doctor,” she heard herself reply. She met his eyes, which somehow seemed not to see her. She had no idea what her own expressed. “I am grateful for your kindness, and your regard means much to me.”

  He inclined his head courteously and his expression, if any, was lost. Then he stepped aside and a grinning gaggle of servants pushed forward to offer their compliments. And then, inevitably, Yvenza was there, her smile radiating maternal benevolence.

  “Dearest children,” she intoned, “you have filled my heart with joy. Sweet Jianna, at
long last I embrace you as a true daughter.”

  She did so, and Jianna stiffened but controlled her instinctive recoil. The symbolic assault ended and she felt herself released.

  “Now and forever.” Yvenza’s eyes glittered. “Know that you are ours.”

  “And now that it’s official—” Onartino snapped his fingers sharply, snagging the attention of the nearest servant. “Take her upstairs and put her in my room,” he commanded. “Stand guard at the door until I get there.”

  “Come, come, son,” Yvenza remonstrated, amused. “Contain your ardor. There’s plenty of food laid out. Let your bride eat and refresh herself; she’ll surely need all her strength. Gwetto has his fiddle in tune, we’ll have some dancing. The occasion demands no less.”

  “I’ve already promised her a dance. She remembers.” Onartino’s lifeless eyes met Jianna’s. “Let’s give her some time to think about it. Take her,” he directed. “I’ll be up presently. Right now, I want a drink.”

  The designated jailer loomed at her side. She would not give him an excuse to touch her. Spine straight, she wheeled and marched from the room, not allowing herself to look anyone in the face, not letting herself see Onartino’s brutality, Yvenza’s triumph, Falaste Rione’s indifference, the East Reach Traveler’s blind good cheer, or the jocularity of servants. Out of the room, back along the corridor that she had so recently walked as an unmarried girl, back up the stairs, and this time she needed no guide through the darkening second-story warren. She had lived at Ironheart long enough to learn her way through the nested chambers, and she knew exactly where she was going. Too soon the big oaken door that she recalled from her previous visit rose before her. Her guard opened it with a ludicrous affectation of courtesy. She went in and the door slammed solidly shut.

  She looked around her. The room was very moderate in size, even small. In keeping with all at Ironheart, its furnishings were spare, plain, and utilitarian. Oaken bed; washstand; wooden chest. No pictures, wall hangings, looking glass, or ornaments of any kind. No books, nothing to reveal the personal tastes or habits of the owner. No curtains at the one window, whose heavy iron grillwork precluded escape. The fireplace was dark, the atmosphere cold. A single lantern hanging from a hook sunk in the wall had been left burning; this unusual luxury was the sole apparent acknowledgment of the evening’s significance.

  He would be able to see her clearly in the lamplight. He would be able to see every inch of her. Jianna stood motionless, staring at the lantern. After a while the flame within blurred as if viewed through tears, but her eyes were dry and hot. Despite the chilly air her body was bathed in sweat, while a steel band seemed to compress her temples. In her mind’s eye the flame grew and spread, consuming the bed linens, the wooden furniture, the oaken door, and then all of Ironheart, or at least all that would burn.

  Not impossible. They really should have known better than to leave her that lantern.

  But then, what good would it do, with all the household awake and aware? The smoke would be noticed, the fire would be extinguished promptly, and she herself—probably already half suffocated—would be punished severely. No, the only chance lay in waiting until the dead of night—by which time, her husband would have claimed her.

  Better that she die. Better yet—better by far—that he die.

  At her hand.

  She would never escape the consequences, of course. Yvenza would destroy her slowly and horribly. Ridiculous even to consider. She had never committed a violent act. Surely she could never kill a human being.

  She could kill this one.

  Impossible, in any case. Onartino was huge and powerful. She could scarcely hope to overpower him.

  Unless she took him by surprise.

  Without a weapon?

  Her hot eyes raked the simple chamber. And there beside the dark fireplace stood a poker and small shovel. She darted to them and snatched up the poker. It was iron, solid and heavy. It would do. But she had to get it right. The first blow had to kill or incapacitate. Then, wait beside her cooling husband for hours, far into the night. And finally, when the world slept—take the lantern and start the fire, the great and glorious consuming fire. And perhaps a miracle would occur. Perhaps, in the midst of chaos, she might escape Ironheart, run away into the woods, and finally make her way back home. Not probable, of course. Very unlikely, in fact.

  But Aureste’s daughter might make it happen.

  Poker in hand, Jianna moved to the door and waited there, contemplating arson and murder.

  * * *

  Father and son faced one another across the table in the small dining room of the master suite, where the Corvestri family took its private meals. This particular evening, one family member was again conspicuous by her absence. The boy’s attention appeared to be fixed on his dinner, but Vinz could sense the imminence of a question—and his instinct proved sound.

  “How much longer will this go on?” Vinzille looked up from his plate to meet his father’s eyes squarely.

  Although he had been expecting something of the sort, Vinz was a little taken aback by the suddenness and directness of the query. Vinzille was only thirteen years old, but already a force to be reckoned with. And in another ten years? With his formidable arcane talent, his intelligence and strong will, not to mention his good looks, the youngest Corvestri was surely destined for greatness. The familiar sense of pride welled up inside Vinz.

  “Won’t you answer, Father?” Vinzille prompted.

  “You’re speaking of your mother’s absence from the table?”

  “Yes, it’s been days now. Why are you treating her this way?”

  You’re too young to understand. Another few years and you’ll be ready. The habitual response to difficult or embarrassing questions remained unspoken, for Vinz recognized with a pang that Vinzille was no longer too young to comprehend all too readily. He could scarcely explain the nature of his decision to discipline his wife, however. The boy should not be obliged to take sides.

  “Son, it’s my decision as head of the house, made for the good of the house. Also, it’s a personal matter between your mother and myself.”

  “That doesn’t explain much.”

  “I know it doesn’t. But you must respect your parents’ privacy, just as you’ve come to expect us to respect yours.”

  “I do. I will. Only she’s unhappy.”

  “Has she said so?”

  “No. I just know.”

  Vinz nodded. The bond between Vinzille and his mother was strong and close. Almost he might have envied it, but for his absolute confidence that his own link with the boy was equally powerful.

  “Neither of you will tell me what the matter is,” Vinzille persisted, “but can’t it stop now? Can’t she at least dine with us? I’m asking you to end the quarrel, Father. She doesn’t know that I’m asking,” he added hastily. “You mustn’t think she put me up to it.”

  “I know she didn’t.” Vinz pondered. By this time, his wife had surely learned her lesson. She would have heard about the assault upon Belandor House, the failure, and she would doubtless suspect his complicity, but it was too late for her to do anything about it—that threat was defanged, if in fact it had ever been a threat. Her liberation would please Vinzille. And, not the least of benefits, life would resume its normality, of which there had been too little of late. Yes, it was time to forgive her. “Very well,” he conceded. “At your request, the quarrel is ended. Your mother’s privileges are fully restored as of this moment.”

  “That’s more like it.” Vinzille’s eyes—green, speckled with brown, Sonnetia’s eyes—lit up. He started to rise from his chair. “I’ll go get her.”

  “No, not quite yet.” Vinz motioned, and the boy resumed his seat. “There’s something I want to talk over with you. An arcane matter.”

  “What is it?” Vinzille demanded, instantly engaged, his fascination with all things arcane temporarily superseding every other consideration.

  “I’m thinking of that e
pisode in the workroom, not so long ago. The animate corpse, our attempted communication with it, and the results. You remember what you told me?”

  “Of course, but I wasn’t sure that you would. You didn’t believe anything I said, you thought I was off my head, and I supposed you’d forgotten about it.”

  “I didn’t disbelieve you, I just wanted more information. And now I have some, more than I really want. Because, you see, the same thing happened to me. Yes,” Vinz answered his son’s wordless query, “now I know exactly what you were talking about. I was attempting a straightforward Absorption/Enhanced Emission—”

  “Without calling me? I could’ve helped, or at least watched.”

  “It was quite spontaneous,” Vinz hedged. “I don’t think you were anywhere about. And as things turned out, I’m very glad that you were safely clear of the disaster.”

  “You don’t have disasters. You’re always so careful to follow the correct procedure at all times, to take no foolish chances, to get every detail exactly right.”

  Which is why, unlike you, I’ll never be great. Aloud Vinz replied, “I did follow the correct procedure, I was careful as always, and the results were—impossible. The freakish contortion of the energy, the outlandish result—”

  “What outlandish result?”

  “The force that I dispatched to activate the Absorption was somehow dispersed in a violent, uncontrolled burst.”

  “You’ve told me that can’t happen.”

  “It can’t. The activity—the basic behavior of the energy that I touched upon—violated natural law that can’t be broken in our world. Can’t, but was.”

  “Yes, that’s what I felt that day in your workroom. Just what you’re saying. But you weren’t hurt, Father?”