Inherited Danger tdop-2

by Brian Rathbone

  If these people wanted to harm her, this was a perfect opportunity, yet no one rushed her or pressured her to move ahead. With renewed determination, Catrin stepped into the room and felt as if she had finally taken the first true step on her journey.

  The man who guided her turned and walked gracefully from the room without a sound. Those who remained issued a wordless command for her to lie on the stone slab, and she did so with trepidation, wondering what she had gotten herself into. Lying on her back, she saw a large spiral, painted in purple, on the ceiling. As she stared, it began to spin and looked as if it would suck her in. Still on her guard, she closed her eyes before it put her in a trance.

  Concentrating on the robed figures, she attempted to sense their gender. The hands holding the knives had looked decidedly female, but she ran her senses over them for confirmation. Now, knowing what to look for, she quickly confirmed her suspicion: both were female.

  The confirmation brought her some comfort. She felt more at ease with her fate in the hands of women. Still, it startled her when the women moved to her sides and the tips of their blades descended toward her. It took every bit of restraint she possessed to remain on the table. As the blades hovered a mere finger's width above her eyes, she hoped and prayed that she had not been duped.

  ***

  Rolling into a defensive posture, Chase squared off, planting his feet and flexing his knees. Quicker than he'd expected, Benjin charged in again and lunged, overextending himself. Seeing the opportunity to finally score a hit, Chase raised his sword for a mighty blow. Anticipating his move, Benjin spun in the air, landing his practice sword squarely on Chase's knuckles.

  "Too slow," Benjin said as Chase writhed on the grass, holding his knuckles and cursing. "You had plenty of time to strike me, but you had to draw yourself up like a hero in a fireside tale. Trust me, real battles are nothing like that. If I leave you an opening, take it, but don't leave yourself exposed in doing so. Understand?"

  In answer, Chase swung himself and kicked Benjin in the back of the knees. Benjin collapsed to the ground, and Chase approached with caution, ready for a surprise attack. Benjin groaned and held his knee.

  "I suppose I deserved that, but try to take it easy on an old man's knees, will ya?"

  Chase nodded, ashamed of himself for taking advantage of Benjin that way, and he offered his hand. Benjin clasped it and pulled Chase forward, planting his feet on Chase's chest and thrusting. Chase hurtled through the air and did a complete flip before landing in a not-so-forgiving bush. Two girls, not much older than Chase, watched from nearby, and they giggled as he climbed from the bush.

  "Perhaps you should try walking," one of them said with a smirk. "You fly like a stone."

  His face flushed, Chase returned to where Benjin waited.

  "Don't let down your defenses," Benjin said.

  Captain Longarm approached. "Takes time to learn such things, but you'll get it eventually. Those practice swords working well for you?"

  "That they are," Benjin said. "It'd be better if we didn't need them, but these are dangerous times. Thanks again for your generosity."

  "We do what we can," Captain Longarm said. "I fear you're right. I've got a bad feeling in my gut." His statement left tension in the air, and he coached Chase as Benjin squared off. Together they trained into the night.

  ***

  "Too much you look at bone and muscle," Vertook said as Brunson stood from his examination of the weanling. "Look at eyes. Look at heart. Look at soul. There you see true measure of horse."

  Trying not to offend Vertook, Brunson did as he said and was surprised by what he saw. Staring into the eyes of one weanling, he saw fear. In another, rebellion and pride. Off in a corner, though, was a weak-looking filly with short legs. Until then, Brunson had ignored the filly, figuring she was unsuitable for someone his size, but when he looked in her eyes, he saw love and loyalty and a yearning for someone to return those feelings. As he approached her, she trembled not with fear, but with what seemed like anticipation. Running his hands gently over her coat, she leaned into him.

  "Now you see, yes?" Vertook asked.

  "I think I do," Brunson said, surprised by his own heart's reaction to the filly. When Vertook had come to him, boasting of the Arghast way, Brunson had been skeptical, believing that his ways were the only ways to properly raise animals. Now he began to wonder if he'd been blind, for much of what Vertook said seemed to be true. Swallowing his pride, Brunson vowed to learn what he could from this stranger, and he felt a new journey was about to begin.

  He watched with anticipation as Vertook approached each weanling, looking at their eyes only. When he settled on the colt that had seemed prideful and rebellious, Brunson failed to hide his surprise.

  "Like me, this one is: stubborn but strong, willful and defiant. Farhallian is his name. What is filly's name?"

  "I hadn't thought of a name yet. I suppose I'll have to think of something suitable."

  "Think? No. She tell you her name. Look in eyes and ask; then you know."

  Not certain Vertook was serious, Brunson knelt down before the filly, wondering if he were being made to look a fool. When he met her eyes and asked her name, though, he was shocked to have something immediately pop into his mind, and he knew it was right. It was not simply a name for the filly, it was her name: Shasheenia.

  Vertook nodded and smiled when Brunson spoke the name. His voice an awe-filled whisper, he repeated it over and over, feeling its rightness.

  Shasheenia.

  Chapter 10

  The stench of fear can be cleansed only by eliminating its source.

  - -Datmar Kahn, assassin

  ***

  The feel of cold metal against her skin was the most frightening thing Catrin had ever experienced, but she was not cut or stabbed, and none of her blood was shed. She kept her eyes closed and her breaths shallow as the blades glided across her taught flesh. Starting with her eyebrows, they carefully and skillfully shaved her. Cool air brushed the newly exposed skin left in their wake. Bits of loose hair tickled her face, but she was afraid to flinch as her mind filled with visions of sharp knives biting deep.

  Her hair fell away silently, without pain or struggle, but Catrin felt as if she were being assaulted. The robed women continued their ministrations until her head was completely shaved.

  Upon completing their task, they helped Catrin stand. After helping her undress, they wrapped her in a warm, soft robe. When not bearing knives, the women seemed much less threatening. She sensed empathy and caring from them, and when they led her through a door in the opposite wall, she followed with a mixture of anticipation and wonder.

  They emerged into a long corridor lined with doors on both sides, all of which were closed. Darkness shrouded the far end of the hall, hiding what lay beyond. The women approached the first door on her left, and it opened silently with the slightest push. The hallway beyond was dimly lit by the reddish glow of a small fire. Around a bend was what looked like a natural rock formation, though many of its features appeared to have been shaped by skillful hands.

  Pools of clear water filled the room, a haze of steam shifting above them. Near the edge of the largest pool stood another stone table, but this one was topped with a soft pad. The women silently instructed her to disrobe and climb atop the table, and Catrin did so with less inhibition than she would have expected. Her embarrassment dissipated, and she found it liberating.

  As she lay on the table, though, a chill tightened her flesh, and she wished for a blanket or something to cover her. Looking about, she saw the women use wooden tongs to remove a variety of smooth stones from the steaming water. They lined the stones along the pool's edge and, using their slender fingers, appeared to test the temperature of each. When they were satisfied with each stone, they placed them under and around her with care. Catrin reveled in the heat emanating from the stones, which were now in her palms, under her feet, and behind her neck, and still more were coming.

  Soon
Catrin wished she were wearing some sort of clothing just so she could take something off. The heat permeated her skin and soaked into her body. Sweat poured from her, and she wondered if she would shrivel into a dried husk, but she continued to shed water, beads of sweat sliding down her face and the length of her body. As the stones cooled, the women replaced them with hot ones. The purge was intense, and Catrin licked her parched lips.

  After they removed the stones and returned them to the hot pool, the women brought basins of water that had been soaking in the hot pools. They dipped soft cloths in the water and cleansed the sweat from Catrin's body. As they helped her up, she grew dizzy, but the spell soon passed. She donned her soft robe again and gratefully accepted a large of mug of water. It was cool and sweet and tasted delicious.

  One of the women guided her back to the hall then walked straight to the opposite door. It led to a small room that contained only a sleeping pallet and chamber pot. The other woman arrived a moment later with a pitcher of water and a mug. Then they left, closing the door behind themselves. Left alone with her thoughts, Catrin spent the rest of the day in quiet reflection, trying to ignore pangs of hunger.

  ***

  In the oppressive heat of the forge building, the cold and snow seemed a distant dream. Sweat rolled into Strom's eyes as they waited for the molten blob within the crucible to reach what Gustad considered the optimal consistency.

  "Do you really think we can do this?" Osbourne asked.

  "Don't know," Strom said. "Milo said we just need steady hands, and I suppose we have that."

  "So much work has gone into making the glass; I don't want to ruin it."

  "No worries, my boy," Milo said from across the room. "You boys are just what we need to achieve the perfect pour. Practice it may take, but you will succeed, of that I am confident."

  "See," Strom said. "Milo believes in us."

  "Yeah," Osbourne said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but that's coming from someone who sets himself on fire at least once a day."

  "He hasn't gone up in flames today," Strom countered.

  "The day is young yet."

  Gustad bent down to peer into the small opening in the furnace, admiring the molten glass in the crucible. "I believe we are ready to pour," he said. "Remember, the key is slow and steady, and you must increase the rate of your pour as you reach the bottom of the crucible. Understand?" Strom and Osbourne nodded, though Strom wondered if his confidence were misplaced. He certainly had no reason to believe he and Osbourne were capable of a task that required such precision, but he was determined to try. "Steady now," Gustad said as they slowly eased the crucible out of the furnace, their arms hidden within long, thick, leather gloves.

  Despite their efforts, hot coals clung to the crucible and fell to the floor. "Don't let any coals drop into the mold," Milo said, his eyes wide with excitement.

  "Hurry now," Gustad said. "We must not let the glass cool. Begin the pour. Slow and steady, boys. Slow and steady."

  Strom tried to keep his hands from trembling, but the pressure was on him. Osbourne's task was simply to balance the long pouring rod while Strom regulated the rate of the pour. Slowly he began to tip the crucible. Like heated tree sap, the molten glass oozed from the crucible, and Strom tried to ignore the sweat that was seeping into his eyes.

  "Easy, now. Nice and slow," Milo said, moving closer to inspect the pour, his long robes gliding across the floor.

  "Increase the flow," Gustad said after most of the glass had left the crucible; only a small amount remained. "Steady now. Steady."

  Squinting, Strom tried his best, but his eyes burned, and the crucible wobbled slightly.

  "Blast!" Gustad said. "So very close. You nearly had it. Put the pouring rod and crucible on the rack."

  After replacing the rod, Strom turned and shook his head. "Milo," he said.

  Milo ignored him as he examined the glass cooling in the mold. "Not bad," he said. "Almost as good as what we've accomplished on our own-only a few bubbles. If only my hands did not shake with age, we could have had this done a dozen times."

  "Milo," Strom said more forcefully while trying to catch up with the monk who now paced the floor.

  "I wonder if we should change the shape of the crucible so we don't have to increase the rate of pour so dramatically-"

  "Milo!"

  "What is it, m'boy?" Milo asked, suddenly sniffing the air.

  "You're on fire again."

  ***

  The next morning brought two more robed figures, and Catrin sensed these were not the same women from the day before, but women they were. Acquainting herself with the aura of each robed figure, Catrin became more adept at the process. Using only her senses, she examined the robed figures with no apparent reaction from her subjects, but she kept her investigations brief and cursory, not wanting her exploration to be discovered again.

  They led her down the hall, past several doors, and picked a door seemingly at random. It led to a man-made chamber that housed another large stone slab, but this slab differed from the others in that it had a large cavity hollowed out of its base, which was filled with glowing red embers. The women helped Catrin from her robe and motioned for her to climb atop the table. Catrin ran her hand across the slab. It was quite warm. She seated herself on the end of the table and lay back slowly.

  The stone seemed too hot on her skin at first, but as she eased herself down, the intensity seemed to lessen. Both women sorted through a tray of small vials; then they anointed her with hot oils. Each drop brought its own unique sensation, and a variety of pungent smells assaulted her senses. The mixture was heady, and it nearly gave Catrin a headache, but as she relaxed, the pain subsided. As the women massaged the oils into her skin, she relaxed further. Kinks in her stiff muscles seemed to melt, and she was amazed by how many places were sore. She'd felt fine before she lay down, but the women worked knotted and sore muscles she had been completely unaware of.

  They brought her water and gave her time to drink. When Catrin had had her fill, they motioned for her to lie back down, and she complied without complaint. The massage treatment had been wonderful, leaving her feeling limber and relaxed.

  She wasn't certain what to expect when they returned to her side, each holding some sort of narrow cone that was as long as her arm and appeared to be made of waxed cloth. After inserting the small ends of the cones into Catrin's ears, they placed her hands around them, making it clear she was to hold them in place. Catrin had begun to expect unusual things during the ritual, but she could not imagine what would come next.

  They returned, each holding a long piece of dried reed. They knelt down, and when they stood, the ends of the reeds were afire. Catrin nearly shrieked when the women lowered the flaming reeds toward the wax cones. Instinctively, she thought of her hair then realized she no longer had any. Tilting the cones forward, she saw flames dancing on the ends of the cones from the corner of her vision, but the waxed cloth burned slowly. A strange but not unpleasant sensation filled her ears, and she laughed. The hooded women just stood and watched the wax cones burn, but Catrin sensed their mirth.

  "I know you're smiling under those hoods," she said, and she stuck her tongue out at them. While they showed no visible reaction, she could almost feel their mental laughter, which made her smile. She tried to relax and trust the women not to set her head on fire, but it was difficult, and she was glad when they removed the burning cones from her ears.

  ***

  Within the halls of Adderhold he stood, the boy with no tongue. He watched as liveried servants prepared a banquet, but he knew it for what it was: a trap. Soon the nobles would arrive, dressed in finery and expecting to be treated as honored guests, and so some would be, but for others, there awaited a surprise.

  Keeping to the shadows, the nameless boy watched and waited, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it; there was nothing he could do to gain his freedom or to preserve the freedom of others. He was powerless, a slave, capable of littl
e more than serving his master, and to this fate he resigned himself. There was no one who cared for him; no one would come to rescue him from this prison of flesh and bone. He was alone-now and for the rest of his days.

  With a sigh, he moved through the dark corridors known to only a few and made his way to the banquet hall. Standing behind scarlet curtains with gilded trim, he hid, hoping no one would remember he existed. Once he had been brash and proud, but now all he wanted was to be left alone, to be forgotten.

  As the guests began to arrive, he watched, waiting to see who would show the signs. His heart beating faster with every arriving noble, he almost dared to hope, almost convinced himself that none would have real power. When the nobles began to take their seats and servants served the first dishes, it seemed his wishes had been granted, but he knew better. Nothing he had ever wished for had really come true, and he had no reason to believe things would change now.

  When servants rushed to escort a late arrival to the hall, he was not surprised to see a nimbus of power around the man they led. Dressed in lavish colors and bejeweled raiment, the man stood tall and proud. This was a man accustomed to power, both physical and political, but it was obvious he knew nothing of his real power, the very thing that made him, in this case, most vulnerable.

  With a shuddering sigh, the nameless boy retreated, not needing to see any more. He knew what was to come, and he could only lament. He was powerless-a slave.

  ***

  That night Catrin was led to a large room, most of which was taken up by a huge stone basin filled near to capacity with a colorful array of rounded and polished stones. Two pitchers of water and a jar for drinking were also present in the room, along with a few other amenities. On the edge of the rock basin was a single red rose. Her guides gave her no indication why it was there. Instead, as they left, they wordlessly instructed her to sleep in the stone basin.