Ammey McKeaf

by Jane Shoup

“She must have been,” Zino continued, playing now to the crowd. “Did she not nearly die protecting her people?”

  Two different men moved in and began setting various bowls and instruments on the table next to her. She felt herself weaken with the realization that they were going to torture her. Or perhaps torture would be a threat if she did not say what they wished.

  “I am Nafino Zephyr, senior counsel to the king,” the first man spoke again.

  With his reptile eyes and pointy beard, he looked like the devil. In fact, he was the devil. She suddenly knew it. He was the devil and Marko Corin was his minion. Zephyr was watching her for a reaction, so she was careful to give none.

  “Sit,” he commanded, incensed by her lack of response.

  Obviously, they had the power to do whatever they wanted to her, so she took the few steps necessary, which was not easy, and sat.

  The sight of her fear and her dignity caused Marko to feel a potent combination of remorse and anxiety, but it was too late. He’d ordered her marked in front of all these men. Mehr looked over at him, willing him to commute the order, but Marko ignored him. Damn it, it was too late.

  “Bring in her people,” Zino spoke up.

  Ammey’s breath caught. She heard the order repeated and then there was a shuffling of footsteps as a group of people were led in and made to stand in her sightline. It took several seconds before she recognized the villagers of Daleog. They looked thin and frightened and exceedingly shocked to see her. Catherin was not among them, but the rest of them seemed to be there, including Nasim.

  “Lady Jade,” Zephyr said with a mocking formality, “who is your king?”

  So this was how Corin was forcing her to pledge her allegiance and whatever else he wished her to pledge. “Marko Corin,” she said, looking directly at him. She would say what he wished, but he would know how much she loathed him for it and how little she meant it. “King of Bellux-Abry.”

  “You will refer to him as the king of Azulland,” Zephyr said.

  She reeled as she understood their ultimate purpose.

  “Which he soon will be. You will swear your allegiance to your king or your people will die, one by one.”

  “I swear it,” she said without hesitation or emotion.

  Zephyr smiled slowly. “I see the defiance you speak of,” he said to Corin.

  Corin turned his head and looked at Zephyr with narrowed eyes. A warning?

  “Obviously,” the older man said, looking back to her. “You will say it and then you will prove it.”

  “Jade,” Mehr spoke up for the first time. “It has been decided that you will be marked. Your arm,” he clarified. Nafino Zephyr had turned a livid scowl on him, but Mehr didn’t seem to care. “The Uraz,” Mehr continued, “symbolizes greatness and is worn with pride by our best warriors. However, it is, I’m sorry to say, a painful process.”

  Ammey remembered Ulima’s description. She clutched her hands together to conceal their shaking.

  “And you will bear it in silence,” Zino took back over, “or your people will die.”

  “However, if you bear it in silence,” Mehr said. “They’ll go free. A show of mercy from our king.”

  Ammey’s gaze shifted to Corin, wondering how much pleasure he was deriving from this. Oddly enough, he looked anything but pleased. He looked miserable.

  A man with stringy gray hair and a long, brown coat came at her with a terrible looking instrument and two other men moved in to help restrain her.

  “She should have something to bite on,” Mehr said sharply.

  “I think not,” Zino rejoined. “That would interfere with the demonstration of loyalty. Besides, she’s proven herself to be a warrior among warriors. I’m certain she can do without.”

  She felt nauseous from fear as a man ripped the sleeve off her gown. Her breathing was fast, her chest abruptly rising and falling with it. Must not cry out, she chanted in her head. Her arm was lifted and then she felt burning pain as a sharp instrument stabbed through layers of skin. Unwittingly, she cried out.

  There was a hesitation, a moment when all breath was held, and then Zephy gave a curt nod. An executioner swung his sword and decapitated one of the prisoners, a middle-aged woman.

  Several people subsequently cried out and there was more than one muffled scream. Two ladies in the hall fainted, and those around them rushed to their aid. There was the sickening sound of someone gagging and then vomiting and a man hurriedly left the hall, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

  Marko drew himself up, turned and quietly addressed Zephry.

  Salvo Voreskae watched Jade go stark white. “She’s going to faint,” he remarked.

  Marko turned back to her.

  She was close to fainting, so close that she did not even react to the next stab, or the next. When the pain sharpened with full consciousness, she squeezed her eyes shut. She felt scalding tears run down her face, but they belonged to someone else. Her body belonged to someone else. Her life was not her own. Had it ever really been? A woman had just died because of her, a woman who’d done nothing to deserve such a fate, but at least she was free now.

  Pain can be blocked from the mind, David whispered.

  It was his voice, but, of course, it wasn’t real. It was merely a memory she was recalling. He’d been badly bloodied in a match and still he’d gone on and on. Afterward, even as battered as he was, he’d soothed her, dried her tears. “Pain can be blocked from the mind,” he’d explained. “It hurts worse for you to see than for me to take the hit. I swear it.”

  How? How do you block the pain?

  “You concentrate on the match, on your goal.”

  She could hear him talking to her, as if he was standing right behind her. Her goal, that the villagers go free. It was only pain. She could endure it. She was enduring it. Each stab was a white-hot stab of agony. It was a flash of color in her mind, as bright as a starflit. She would endure each one, assign it a color, and store it in a make-believe lantern. And it would be beautiful. Her flesh would forever be marked and ugly, but she would choose not to acknowledge it. Instead she would picture her lantern of endurance.

  Oh, but the pain!

  Her stomach muscles clenched. She attempted to lift her free hand, knowing she was going to be sick.

  “Yes, Lady Jade?” Zephyr said as if amused by the gesture.

  She was going to beg for a moment, but the pull of nausea was too strong and she wretched. She hadn’t eaten all day, so there was little on her stomach to come up.

  “That happens,” Zino said lightly.

  She vomited until she dry heaved. When it was over, a guard cleaned up the mess and she was repositioned in the chair. The room seemed to tip and spin. Had the marking continued? Her arm was held and there was pressure, but she couldn’t feel it. Or could she? She refused to look at Zephyr or the man standing next to him. Instead, she looked at Mehr, who looked upset and disgusted. One day she hoped she would have the opportunity to thank him for his compassion.

  Eskarne watched the blood flow from the woman’s arm, wishing she could derive some pleasure from it. If only she could concentrate on the woman’s misery, rather than Corin’s. She had never seen him look more distraught.

  “You look fit to kill,” Gitana whispered to her.

  Eskarne let out a breathy huff. “Because he honors her!” Everyone knew only the best and most loyal of Corin’s warriors got to bear his mark on their right arms. His women were branded differently, with a small symbol on the back of their hands.

  “Would you choose to be so honored?” Gitana asked dubiously. “Even getting this,” she said, holding out her marked hand, “was terrible and we were allowed opium before.”

  “Look at him,” Eskarne whispered.

  Gitana finally understood. Eskarne adored Marko Corin, and, for years, he had favored her. Eskarne still resented Corin showing favor to any other woman. Even his wish to punish the golden-hair captive had filled Eskarne with hate and jealousy. Now t
hat he looked upset by it, she was nearly beside herself. His grip on the arms of his chair was such that his knuckles had turned white. But if he hated it so much, why had he ordered it?

  Zino’s lips were pressed into a thin, hard line. “Rub in some ink,” he ordered.

  Ammey heard the command as if from a distance.

  Pain can be blocked, David said.

  “He is right,” Milainah said.

  Ammey was astonished to see Milainah standing in front of her. It was Milainah and yet, somehow, she could see through her to Corin. She tried to focus on the seidhkona’s silver eyes.

  “Your brother has great courage, and so do you,” Milainah said.

  Grit was being rubbed into her raw and bloodied flesh. She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on Milainah.

  Pain can be blocked.

  Can be blocked.

  Blocked.

  Marko blinked in confusion at the expression on Jade’s face as she looked into his eyes. It was searching and vulnerable. It was wounded and it made him ache worse than he had in years, since the deaths of his father and brother. Jade tried to raise her hand again, but she was already falling. The men around her caught and held her limp body.

  “We’ll stop until she regains consciousness,” Zino ordered.

  “No,” Corin countermanded. “Finish it! Make it as small as possible and get it done quickly. As if your lives depended on it,” he finished in a low, dangerous voice.

  Mehr looked at his cousin. “And the villagers?”

  “To the dungeon,” Zino said, glowering at Mehr, as if he was to blame.

  “She endured the marking,” Mehr argued. “In silence.”

  “Set them free,” Corin said.

  Zino balked. “Surely not, sire.”

  Marko glared at him until the older man faced front, fuming but silent. Mehr, too, stared straight ahead, careful to guard his expression as the villagers were led away.

  Marko crossed his arms and brought his fist to his mouth. “Get them out,” he ordered in a muted voice, his eyes never leaving Jade who, thankfully, remained unconscious.

  “Clear the room,” Voreskae ordered.

  Guards stepped forward, but no one needed urging. Zino also left, pinched-faced in his anger. Eskarne was among the last to leave, frustrated that she could not catch Marko Corin’s eye, try as she might.

  “You, too,” Marko said to Voreskae when the spectators had gone.

  “As you wish, sire,” Voreskae said. He made a speedy exit.

  “Go see,” Marko said quietly. “I want it stopped as quickly as possible.”

  Mehr walked forward to see Jade’s arm. He grimaced and then turned to face his cousin. “I can see it well enough. It’s the mark.”

  “It’s not filled in yet,” the stringy-haired man explained to Mehr. “You see here and here?”

  “But I can see what it is,” Mehr snapped.

  “Then, stop,” Marko ordered. He glanced at a guard. “Have her carried to her room and then find the physic and have him tend her.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “I want her to feel no more pain.” Jade was carried away and the others quickly removed themselves, leaving only Marko and Mehr. “You, too,” Marko said as he stared at the blood on the floor.

  “Me, too, what?” Mehr asked. “Leave you?”

  Marko glared at him.

  “I know you regret what was done,” Mehr said. “But it’s done. And some good came of it. The villagers went free and that was right.”

  “I do not wish to discuss it.”

  “Fine.” Mehr started off.

  “What do you think my father would think of me?”

  Mehr turned back to face him. “What do you think he would think of you?”

  Marko scoffed. “How like you to address a question with another question. But I asked the question to get an answer.”

  “He would love you, Marko. No matter what.” He paused. “And I think he would have had Zino and Voreskae strung up a long ago.”

  Under normal circumstances, Marko might have been entertained. Now, his gut churned too greatly with self loathing.

  The villagers did not truly believe they were being set free until they left palace grounds. “Move quickly,” Athalia called, assuming the lead. “I won’t trust the reprieve until we’re home again.”

  “Poor Margarite,” someone said, grieving for the decapitated woman.

  “She died quickly,” Athalia replied, knowing they could not stop or even slow down to mourn for their friend. “There was no pain.”

  “Why did they call Ammey Jade?” Kira asked.

  “Come, we must walk faster,”Hannah urged, putting an arm around Kira. “Your daughter is waiting.”

  “And we don’t want Ammey’s and Margarite’s sacrifice for naught,” Athalia added.

  Kira concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. She kept pace, but she felt so queer and so alone in that queerness. “I thought Ammey was dead,” she muttered.

  “We all did,” someone said behind her.

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Nasim spoke up.

  Kira looked over at the boy and reached for his hand, feeling a little less alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The mid-May day was unusually warm as a group of men including Richard McKeaf, Ciro Ayala and half a dozen others finished touring the construction of a military camp south of Lere. Wells had been dug. A kitchen and a stockroom were completed. A privies and a cistern system were in place. Tents were being made in a factory in N’awllah, and ten thousand would be ready by fall. This camp, located near the center of the country, would be the basecamp for all military operations for the People’s Army.

  A training camp was in full use at Stonewater Forge. With spring planting done, more recruits had come and the Forge was overflowing, so there was urgency to get this camp up and running.

  “Your brother approaches,” Ciro said to Richard, having spotted Dane headed their way.

  Richard strode out to meet him and they clasped hands.

  “Any news?” Dane asked anxiously.

  Richard knew he was referring to Ammey. “No. Nothing.” For two months, they’d sent out search party after search party. They’d offered rewards. They’d sent countless messages by carrier pigeon to get the word out, but there had been no sighting of her. Her disappearance had created an almost unbearable strain for all of them. “What about Isolde?”

  “He speaks the right words,” Dane replied with a shrug. “But that core of conviction in most men? I don’t think he possesses it.”

  Richard looked around. “What about the first load of tents and supplies?”

  “They’re being sent tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  Ciro joined them, thumping Dane’s shoulder. “Nephew.”

  “Uncle,” Dane returned. “Are you well?”

  “Enough for an old man,” Ciro replied. “You?”

  “Glad to get away from N’awllah for a day.” He looked at Richard. “How’s father?”

  “You know him. He stays at it eighteen hours a day.”

  “He has to,” Ciro said. “Or he’d be driven mad with worry over your sister.”

  “And training?” Dane asked. “How goes that?”

  Richard chuckled. “Anthony drives them into the ground. But they find their legs again.”

  “Enough reminiscing. Let’s eat,” Ciro said, starting to the kitchen.

  “What’s next here?” Dane asked his brother as they followed. “Did they say?”

  “Tents,” Richard said pointedly.

  “They will be here. I look in on the factory daily.”

  “They’re building some open sided structures with thatched roofs, in case there aren’t enough of them in time.” The savory smell of food wafted on a breeze and made their stomachs growl.

  “I miss home,” Dane said. “How would you feel about trading assignments?”

  Richard gave him a look. “If it was
anything other than Isolde.”

  ~~~

  Four handmaidens. Ammey had four of them attending her in preparation for Marko ’s visit this evening. Visit, she thought scornfully. She’d been informed of the nature of his visit. He was coming to bed her. They had phrased it differently, of course, but then they believed it was an honor.

  The first step of preparation was a bath. The twenty foot long bathing pool was hexagonal in shape with a sloped bottom, shallow in one end and deep in the other. She undressed and stepped into the pool. Running her hands over the surface of the water as she walked, she couldn’t help but notice her scarred wrists, but she made a point of never looking at her arm. She’d looked at the mark once and she’d nearly been sickened by it and all it represented. When she was in deep enough water, she submerged herself, enjoying the feel of the water’s tickling caress on her skin and scalp.

  She surfaced and turned in a slow circle. Her maids had left her alone, although the privacy wouldn’t last long. Floating on her back in the center of the pool, she stared up at the sky visible though the hexagonal window in the ceiling. Oh, to be a bird. The glass would magically melt away and she’d slip through and fly away.

  After her bath, her maids applied fragrant oil to her skin. She was nudged this way and that as the oil was rubbed on and massaged in. There was a time her body and her life had been her own. Not very long ago, the thought of handmaidens attending her would have been laughable.

  She was escorted back to her room by an entourage of proud, pretty maids and given a drink to increase her pleasure. Little did they know there would be no pleasure in what was about to happen, but explaining was as pointless as resisting and so she drank. Angering Corin had resulted in her being marked and an innocent woman being executed. He had repeatedly assured her that he would never allow her to be hurt again, but how could she trust him? She couldn’t. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps nothing really mattered. She was powerless and lost to her old world and everyone she loved.

  She realized a flute was playing. Her hair was brushed dry with a fuzzy-bristled brush. Despite the tugging, she finished her drink and another was poured. It was good and it was making her feel soft inside.