Princess Reviled

by Butler, J. M.

  "And how would you get out of the cage then?" Staiyl demanded, his voice strong though his face turned ashen as he stared at her gun.

  Friell nodded. His own expression hardened, the fear seeming to fade. "No one comes out this way. You'd starve before anyone found you. A far more painful death than the quick peace of a dagger."

  Amelia rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be ridiculous." She waved her hand, then steadied herself against the bars. "How do you think I got out of these shackles? I know how to pick locks. The only reason I am asking you to unlock the door instead of doing it myself is because I can't exactly pick the lock without handling you two first. And dealing with you in this situation seems to mean I'd have to kill you. Now come on. I don't want to shoot you, but so help me, I will."

  Staiyl fell back a step, his features tightening. He stammered. "Wh—what's that with your eyes?" Friell's face whitened.

  Amelia restrained a sigh. It wasn't until she'd pretended to be a Machat that she had really attempted brazen lies while maintaining eye contact. Always before when at the clinic or speaking to Uncle Joe, she had avoided eye contact when lying. The little flash of red wasn't much. Easy to blame on a change of light or the imagination, especially if she wasn't looking directly at someone. But it seemed it was a little more noticeable than she had hoped. "My eyes get a glimmer of red whenever I'm trying to decide whether it is worth it to let someone live or just save myself the time and kill them." She stared at both more intently. Friell and Staiyl flinched. "So get moving."

  Friell removed the keys from his thick leather belt and sorted them out, the polished circlet rattling. His hands trembled as he thrust the dark key into the lock. Staiyl watched. The locking mechanism turned with a loud clank, then the door popped open. Friell stepped back to rejoin his comrade.

  Stooping down but keeping her eyes on the two, Amelia lifted the fallen shackles. She tossed them on the grassy soil and then stepped out herself, one intentional step after another. She could feel as queasy and weak as she wanted on the inside so long as her exterior remained ice calm. Once her feet struck the soft grass, Amelia motioned with the gun toward the shackles. "Throw your weapons aside along with the keys. Throw them toward that stump. And then you're going to pick up those shackles and chain yourselves together."

  Both obeyed. Staiyl shook his head at her as he fastened the chained cuffs to his own wrists. "Why could you not have cared for Libysha? How did we wrong you? You could have prevented all this tragedy with your great and powerful weapon."

  Amelia scoffed bitterly, remembering her own thoughts on that point. "Believe me or don't, but I actually tried. Bullets aren't nearly as effective on Vawtrians as they are on Awdawms." The odd emotional tone of her memories threatened to set her even more off balance. She motioned toward the cage before the feelings could rise any stronger. "Now both of you get in there and move to the back. Don't try anything. At best I'll shoot you in the legs and leave you crippled."

  The two Ayamin did as ordered. Once they were inside, Amelia picked up the fallen rope. She then blocked up the lock and tied the door shut in a series of complicated knots. "With some effort, you'll get that off," she said. Scooping up the keys, she then tossed them into the nearest tree. They settled in the crook of the third branch up. "Getting those down won't be easy, but it's possible. However, there is one added wrinkle." Amelia holstered the gun in her sash. "I can't have you two following me, so I am putting bombs in the wagon as well. Do you know what bombs are?"

  They shook their heads.

  "They make fire and explosions as great as a dragon's attack." Amelia moved to the front of the wagon. Out of sight, she unharnessed the horses. She then made a great production, slapping the underside of the wagon. "If you get out of that cage before the moon rises, this whole wagon will explode in flames more powerful than a dragon's. But if you wait," she brought the horses around so she could see them once more, "you'll be fine. You'll get out. Get the keys and be able to walk back. You'll probably be back in Telhetum by lunch tomorrow if the nearest town can spare some horses for you. But I will be long gone to the otherlands where I was supposed to be all this time."

  "You're thinking about killing us," Staiyl said flatly.

  He had excellent vision. "No. I'm debating whether you two are going to be able to follow instructions or whether you're going to cause more trouble." Amelia examined the back of the injured horse's leg. The cut ran deep along the inside of its fetlock. She opened the bag to remove some of the salve and wax and knelt beside the horse. It only took a few seconds to do the little she could. "I'm not sure how this happened, but this horse isn't too badly wounded. Even if she's not wandered off by morning, you shouldn't ride her. There's some strong inflammation there, and she needs rest." She wiped off her hands and took a swig from the flask of sugary chamomile-flavored medicine that had been provided for her. She pointed to the second horse, a grey mare with a shiny mane. "What's her name?"

  "Name?" Friell laughed slightly. "They're gelnon horses for hauling and messenger running."

  "They were just commissioned," Staiyl said. "I don't recall what their names are."

  "All right. Well, stay off the injured one." Amelia climbed onto the second horse and bit back a pained cry. As the medicine worked its way through her, the stiffness and unease would lessen. She hoped. Bracing herself, she turned her face toward the two Ayamin once again. "Remember to stay in the cage until the moon rises. Then you can leave. Please don't follow me into the otherlands. And, if I were you, I wouldn't recommend telling the king or Vorec anything about what happened here."

  With that, she tugged the grey mare's mane and urged her forward. The mare broke into a gallop.

  Amelia leaned low against the horse's back. With no saddle, bit, or bridle, she had her work cut out for her. But soon she got into a rhythm. Amelia counted to ten, released a sharp breath, gulped it in, and continued on. Every few moments fire and talons of pain ripped along her back. After almost a quarter of a mile, the medicine had taken its effect, and she found it both easier to breathe and ride. Alternating the horse's pace to allow her slower moments helped as well.

  "I'm sorry. I don't know what to call you," she said, patting the mare's neck. "I promise I'll get you back to your stable as quick as I can."

  The mare whinnied and carried on.

  Once they reached a broad but relatively shallow rock-bottomed river, Amelia stopped the mare long enough to let her drink her fill before turning her back toward Telhetum and urging her faster still. She didn't have a plan yet, but Elonumato help her, she'd figure it out by the time she got there. Unless He put something else planned to get those three out, even if it was simply the fact that Naatos was as stubborn as she and twice as vengeful.

  33

  Battling Death

  The darkness claimed Naatos. Through the half consciousness, he transformed his breathing, focusing on infusing his blood with oxygen and increasing his tolerance build. The huanna was nearing its end, but he still needed at least an hour.

  Rousing himself briefly, Naatos cut his palm with his own fingernails. The pain sharpened his senses for a moment but faded. In the span of his blink, the cut healed. Nearly there. He barely glimpsed his brothers before his head struck the stone again. He hadn't seen enough to determine whether either was progressing as needed. He fought to wake again but slid into a deeper darkness.

  How much time had passed? How much was left? He would not panic, not even for his brothers. No one was served by such weakness. Yet he could not fully shake that undercurrent. It crept through his mind, leaving a cold slithering trail, drawing with it images and impressions of both AaQar and WroOth dead and gone.

  Where was QueQoa?

  The thought occurred to him that he might reach for Amelia and ask her to call for QueQoa. No. He thrust that aside. It had been bad enough that he'd had to rely on her to find AaQar. Each return to the deep mindreading when she was in this state increased her danger. She had to be nearing the end o
f her strength in all areas soon. No. It would be miracle enough if she reached AaQar. Her connection with him was at least bolstered by their multiple interactions over the past days and even a few earlier. Each time a Neyeb spent time in contact with an individual, the bond between them developed. The connection was not of an ideal strength, but it was possible she could still find a way through. Reaching QueQoa would be far harder, practically impossible. No. If all had gone well, Amelia was on her way to the Tue-Rah and to Darmoste.

  Footsteps stirred him. Naatos cracked his eyes. Brown-booted feet stood near his head, then rough hands seized him. They dragged him from the cell, as someone commented on his weight.

  Weaklings, he thought. If not for the Machat, these wretched Libyshans would never have stood a chance at capturing, let alone killing him and his brothers. And now, insult of insults, the Machat were counted among their allies. He hoped that burned the Machat's sensibilities and consciences more than his pride. Always prancing about with their prophecies and foretellings and pushing and prodding people to the so-called better paths and telling people's wives to wait weeks before feshtashooning with them, acting like they and Elonumato knew better when they couldn't even prosper themselves and protect their own.

  Once he was out of this, he'd make sure Libysha paid the full price. As for the Machat, well, WroOth had always been more focused on their elimination. Tragic as Mara's and the children's deaths had been, the Machat could not be blamed. Kepsalon had begged WroOth to await confirmation, and the silencing that had tormented the Neyeb had struck the Machat as well. More importantly they had kept WroOth from the Levthro. For that he had some small respect and gratitude for the Machat. Nothing could have removed that madness, not even Killoth and his impressive mind-sealing abilities. The Machat's wisdom failed them beyond that. After their betrayal at the Tue-Rah, he had been more willing to concede to WroOth demands for vengeance and obliteration. Naatos's one insistence was that the deaths be relatively painless: neck snapping, heart piercing, swift venoming. But if his brothers died, if even one perished, he'd find slow deaths for all the Machat. Slow excruciating deaths with all the variety and horror he could manage. He'd practice on Libysha, starting with these guards here who hauled him more carelessly than a carcass for roasting.

  The two men dragged him up the stairs, leaving his legs and boots to thud behind him with each stone step. Behind him came another two struggling with WroOth. Beyond that two more with AaQar. AaQar remained as white as the fresh sheets he'd slept in. Naatos cursed. If they got out of this, he would kuvaste AaQar. After he had healed of course. What a horrid irony that would be if AaQar died from kuvaste because his younger brother was angry with him for not taking better care of himself.

  They emerged into the outer courtyard. Naatos kept his gaze mostly shaded, preferring they not know he was regaining both consciousness and strength. The huanna had nearly passed from his system but he could not yet shift. His healing, however, was almost entirely restored. And while he might have enough strength to escape with one brother, he could not rescue both. That was unacceptable.

  "Release the former Paras."

  Naatos scowled inwardly. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, the cadence and pitch of a Machat: mellow, calm, and almost melodic. He glimpsed a very short Machat with wild grey hair, golden brown skin, and coffee-brown striping along his face and neck. He was flanked by two Machat, a boy and a girl, scarcely over sixteen and clearly of his blood given the sameness of their snub noses and a tri-forked fern mark on their left cheeks. Umral. The last time Naatos had seen him, Umral had been a young man with chestnut and black streaked hair and a temper quite foul as compared to other Machat.

  The guards holding Naatos halted. "What?" exclaimed the one on the left.

  "This is becoming ridiculous." Vorec's voice sounded from the front of the large wagon. "We've locked dozens of you up and severed the bond. How much clearer can we make it that you're not welcome here? There are three dozen archers above and more in the towers and walls. Make even one move to free the skinchangers and you will die where you stand."

  Umral chuckled. "Oh, we are quite aware that we are not welcome. That's been made most clear. But duty requires that we warn you nonetheless." He clasped his hands on the top of his labradorite-topped walking stick. The iridescent blue knob complimented his slate, cream, and burgundy robe and loose trousers. "You likely won't listen—"

  "Because you're idiots," said the boy, arms akimbo.

  "Now, now," said Umral with a slight incline of his head. "We do not call people idiots, Selchon."

  The girl jutted her head up. "They're more callabots anyway," she sneered, emphasizing the C and the S. "So short-sighted and thick-skulled they can't reason at all."

  Umral cleared his throat. "That's not much better, Zarao. Deep as we fear their foolishness may be, they can always prove us wrong, and they must be given that chance. It would be nice if they proved us wrong, would it not?" He returned his focus to Vorec and shook his head. "Forgive my grandchildren. None of us here are diplomats. We're stone masons and rock workers so our manners may be lacking. But you gentle Libyshans have gone and imprisoned all our diplomats, and all the rest have other tasks which require our time. Of course you may not realize that there are far more concerns at play than Libysha. Though it is entirely understandable how you might misunderstand that. Especially since we've given you so much attention, taken you all in, and helped you escape more than once. But oh yes." Umral tapped his walking stick to his forehead and smiled slyly. "It is as you have been telling people, Elder Commander Vorec. We did that to pay back a debt from generations past. Though I must confess having lived through it, I am ashamed to admit that we Machat actually thought you Libyshans were responsible for some of the atrocities. Especially since it was your old king who had that law about collecting the Machat tongues that didn't wag with words he approved of." Umral chuckled, shaking his head as if this was quite funny. "But I must be misremembering. I only saw it happen. But it doesn't really matter, I suppose. We wouldn't have held that against the current generation. That is not our way, and so much has happened between us since then. But what does it matter what we think happened when it seems that we owed you all along!"

  Zarao tugged his sleeve. "You're rambling, Grandfather."

  With a crooked smile, Selchon folded his arms. "Keep up with the history and everyone will be jumping in that pit to drown in mortar. Besides, the likelihood of them listening is less than five red straws in a hundred gold."

  "Patience, child, patience," Umral said easily. "It is our duty to warn whenever we can. Especially given the much greater implications. Now." He held his hand out to Vorec as if in acknowledgment. "I do recognize that we failed you and your people grievously. We owed you far more than we ever realized. But with that said, I hope that you'll take this warning of ours as seriously as you would have taken any other clearer ones we might have offered."

  "Enough," Vorec bellowed. "Hiram, Theron, Delphon—place these three under arrest and put them with the others."

  Umral swung his walking stick around, then made a tapping motion in the air to underscore his words. "Tut, tut, such rudeness. As you can see, we are unarmed. But it would do you well to listen before you throw us in with the others who have already tried to warn you. Elonumato knows why we try. You must release the former Paras into the Tue-Rah. Preferably before they wake. It's going to be far more difficult to keep them from committing grievous harm when they're conscious and riled. If you don't, a great number of innocent people will pay with their lives unless the former Paras have chosen to be reasonable, which is even less likely based not only on our foretellings but also past behavior. So let these three go and put them in the Tue-Rah. Nothing good will come from these plans of yours."

  Vorec slammed his arm at the gate. "Get them out of here."

  "I don't think I like Awdawms," Zarao said. When she folded her arms, she looked almost exactly like her brother.

  "Doesn't
matter if we like them. We are only responsible for what we do," Umral said. "But not to worry, Libyshans, we will not resist you. Just remember we warned you. And that one"—he pointed at Naatos—"will survive no matter what you do."

  "Really?" Vorec strode over and seized Naatos by the hair. "Thank you for the warning. I'm sure we can find a way he doesn't." He plunged his hunting dagger into Naatos's chest.

  Naatos barely restrained his own violent response. The blade sliced deep, buried up to its gold-trimmed hilt. Blood welled around the curved blade, but he let it flow, channeling his healing lower and around the most vulnerable portions. Though painful, it took only two breaths for him to heal all but the surface vessels, which he allowed to leak a while longer.

  The Ayamin took hold of the Machat. Selchon groaned loudly. "That was beyond foolish. All you'll do is make him angry."

  "I'll remove that blade before the mortar is poured," Vorec said. He gestured toward the gate with his head as he unsheathed a smaller slimmer dagger. "This one I'll remove now." He stabbed Naatos in the side three times more.

  Naatos narrowly avoided flinching though his muscles clenched. If the Machat intended to help, they needed to stop. Ordinarily pain like this would not have bothered him as much. Especially since it was far less than the pain of shifting or even mild kuvaste. But the arrogance of this Awdawm—

  "If you won't listen to them, then perhaps you'll listen to us." Two feminine voices spoke from behind Vorec. As Vorec moved back, Naatos saw two middle-aged Machat women clad in simple rust-brown surcoats over cream gowns. One had black stripes on pale skin with just a hint of yellow. The other's rich brown fern marks were only a few shades darker than her skin. The walnut ink stains on their fingers suggested they were scribes and messengers.

  Naatos almost scoffed, half amused. Were the Machat trying to stall the Libyshans? His side had already healed, and as the relaxing endorphins of repair spread from the wound, he wondered what their purpose was.