by Jenna Glass
More than one of the gathered soldiers visibly lost interest when they got a closer look, a couple of them curling their lips in distaste and disappointment. Mairah was caught between relief and despair, for though she didn’t want to be regarded as prey, the quick dismissal of men who were no doubt starved for female companionship of any kind still stung. The people of Women’s Well had grown accustomed to her looks and gotten most of their staring and sneering out of their systems within the first few days of her arrival. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to have her disfigurement so blatantly remarked upon.
One of the soldiers stepped forward to block her path, looking her up and down most rudely. He looked like just the sort of man she would expect to find stationed at such a remote outpost—big enough to be intimidating, with an ill-fitting uniform with frayed cuffs and several layers of stains. His face was baked practically black from the sun, the skin dry and flaky and cracked, and his eyes were dull with boredom and, perhaps, stupidity. These were not the cream of the Aaltah military, by any stretch of the imagination.
The soldier hawked and spat—just in case she hadn’t already gotten the message that he was uncouth and proud of it. “You’re a long way from your abbey, Sister,” he said. “Do you have permission from your abbess to be traveling out and about?”
“If so, the abbess should have given her a sack for her head to spare the populace this sight,” one of his men muttered loudly, much to the amusement of the rest.
Unfortunately, Kailee’s tutoring was effective enough that Mairah could understand both men’s words. It should not hurt her feelings to have this lout insult her looks, and yet Mairah’s throat tightened, and it was all she could do not to turn away to hide her face. Anger followed swiftly on the heels of pain, lending strength to her spine and helping her find her voice.
“I am Mairahsol Rah-Creesha,” she said with all the dignity she could manage, “and I am the Abbess of Khalpar.”
The soldier snorted, and several of his cohorts laughed, though Mairah thought surely her accent revealed the truth of her words. No abigail in Aaltah or Grunir—or anywhere else on the mainland—would have an accent like hers.
“Abbess of Khalpar, eh?” the soldier mused, licking his lips and showing his yellowed teeth. “I’m the Lord Commander of Aaltah, myself. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He sketched a mocking bow, and his men fanned out around her, surrounding her. One of them said something that made the others laugh again. Mairah figured it was just as well she didn’t understand those particular words. Fear obliterated the pangs of hunger and the exhaustion that had filled her mind for the last hours, her heart pattering against her ribs. She wondered if these brutes were familiar with the effects of women’s Kai. There was no question that if the Curse weren’t in effect, she would soon be beneath them, no matter how homely they might deem her. She didn’t much care what the Abbess of Aaltah’s spell was called, but right this moment “the Blessing” seemed more apt after all.
“You are aware of what will happen if you touch me against my will,” she said in as calm a tone as she could manage. “Trust me, you do not want to see women’s Kai in action.” She said it in Parian—her understanding of Continental might be improving, but she was still a long way from being able to converse easily—but the word for Kai was the same in both languages. She could see from the narrowing of the leader’s eyes that he had a good idea what she’d said. And that he knew perfectly well the consequences of slaking his lusts.
There were more comments from the soldiers who surrounded her, none of which she understood, but she was sure they were not complimentary. The leader looked her up and down once more, his nose crinkled in exaggerated disgust.
“You wouldn’t have been worth the effort even before the Curse,” he sneered. “But you are a witch and a whore, and you belong behind the walls of an abbey.”
She heard the scuff of a footstep behind her, and as she tried to turn to see what was happening, someone slammed into her back, shoving her roughly facedown into the dust of the road. She cried out in pain and surprise.
Someone stuck a knee in her back, and her wrists were brutally dragged together and bound with a length of coarse rope. She closed her eyes and offered no resistance, though that didn’t make the soldiers any gentler. Rage simmered in her blood, blending with the remnants of fear. She was the Abbess of Khalpar, and these brutes were treating her like some common criminal! She imagined what their screams would sound like as a whip tore their backs to shreds, but even as she entertained the pleasant fantasy, she knew they would face no punishment for their harsh treatment.
She should be taken to Aalwell as a visiting dignitary. Or at least an honored guest and emissary from the Kingdom of Khalpar.
When her hands were firmly tied, she was hauled to her feet once more, her robes and skin now thoroughly coated in dust and dirt, which stuck to her sweat. Her knees were shaking, her whole body weak with hunger and exhaustion and despair.
The leader barked some orders that she could not hear over the pounding sound of her pulse, and one of the soldiers grabbed her arm and dragged her, stumbling, across the bridge and into the Kingdom of Aaltah.
* * *
—
Alys had never seen her son looking this angry before, and considering his behavior since Jinnell’s death, that was saying a lot. Between his vigorous training at the Citadel and an adolescent growth spurt, he was now almost a full head taller than she, and his shoulders and chest were full of wiry muscles that spoke of strength, if not bulk. His father had been slender and not especially imposing in frame, but Corlin was growing into a different sort of man entirely.
Those wiry muscles of his were all clenched tight with anger as he leaned ever so slightly into her personal space. If it were anyone other than Corlin, Alys would have been intimidated by the aggressive body language—and perhaps she should have been anyway, for her son was clearly not the quiet, reserved boy she’d raised.
“That bastard hurt Aunt Shelvon,” he grated through clenched teeth, his voice rough with emotion. Alys wondered absently when Corlin had started referring to Shelvon as “Aunt Shelvon,” or if he was doing it now only because he thought she was more likely to give him what he wanted if he demonstrated his deep affection for the woman who had helped spirit him out from under Delnamal’s nose. “He does not deserve a quick and merciful death!”
Corlin was not the first person to have objected to her decision to hang Shelvon’s attacker, though none of her royal council had been so passionate in their arguments. She didn’t doubt the mercenary deserved the worst punishment the law could mete out, but she had promised him mercy, and she feared breaking her word was a dangerous precedent to set. She did not want to become a creature of wanton and casual cruelty, as Delnamal was. But she did not think that argument would hold any sway with Corlin, so she tried what she hoped would be a more convincing tactic.
“Shelvon is far too sweet and gentle a soul to want to see anyone suffer.” She allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Besides, he still has the humiliation—and she the satisfaction—of knowing he was bested in combat by a woman.”
Corlin growled in frustration, his eyes flashing. She supposed she was lucky he’d decided to brace her in her office—with a closed door between them and any observers—or she might have had to consider taking him to task for his disrespect of his sovereign princess. Parents and children fought all the time, of course, but when those arguments involved a sovereign, they had to be kept private. On more than one occasion during her rebellious childhood, Alys had been thrashed for daring to argue too loudly and publicly with her father the king. But she wasn’t sure she had it in her to punish Corlin for his behavior, no matter how inappropriate.
“It isn’t enough,” Corlin spat, and though his face revealed only rage, there was a thread of anguish in his voice. “De
lnamal killed Jinnell, and you’ve done nothing about it. Now you’re just going to let some lowlife traipse into Women’s Well and attempt a violent kidnapping of one of our citizens and get away with it!”
Corlin was leaning into her space even more, and no matter how well she understood what was driving him, no matter how much sympathy she might have for his feelings, there was only so much she could tolerate without losing any respect he might still have for her.
“You need to take a step back, my son,” she said, staring up into his eyes with what she hoped was an implacable expression.
“Or what?” he asked, leaning in even more until they were almost nose to nose. “You won’t even give a scumbag mercenary the justice he deserves, so what will you do to your own son?”
Alys refused to be intimidated or retreat, although the anger that radiated from him was an almost palpable force, and there was some part of her that was no longer sure he had the ability—or the desire—to control himself. She hoped none of her disquiet showed on her face as she continued to hold her ground.
“You may be my son, but you are also my subject and a cadet of the Citadel. If you do not take a step back right this minute, I will report you to Lord Jailom—as I would any other cadet who dared to disrespect his sovereign—and you can see how much my tender feelings toward you soften his punishment.”
Alys watched as a storm of emotions twisted her son’s face until she could hardly recognize him. Her heart broke for him even as she forced herself to meet his gaze from behind a mask of implacable calm.
“You show mercy to a criminal who would have abducted one of your closest friends,” he said, shaking his head. “You let Delnamal sit on his throne unhindered after he murdered Jinnell for pure spite. And yet me, you threaten.”
“When you’re treating me like one of your fellow cadets whom you hope to intimidate with your size and fury, then yes,” she said, voice still sounding far calmer than she felt. “Take a step back, and we can talk like reasonable adults. That is the way you want me to view you, isn’t it? Like a reasonable, responsible adult rather than like a child throwing a tantrum?”
To Alys’s immense relief, Corlin finally took an exaggerated step backward, rolling his eyes and suddenly looking much more like a fourteen-year-old boy. It was like there were two Corlins both living within the same skin—the adolescent boy with a good heart; and the bitter, angry grown man he might someday become. It was Alys’s duty as his mother to mold and shape him into the kind of man she could be proud of—and who could be happy—but she was at a loss as to how to accomplish it when his mind and his heart were so thoroughly closed off to her.
“Shelvon’s attacker will pay the ultimate price for what he tried to do,” Alys continued. “And I assure you, my son, that I have no intention of letting Delnamal sit on his throne unhindered indefinitely.” She reached out and grabbed Corlin’s shoulders, squeezing them hard as she let her own anger and hatred shine in her eyes. “One day, he will die, if not by my very own hand, then by my order. And I can promise you that for him I will show no mercy. There is no death too slow and too hard for a man such as he.”
Unfortunately, Corlin was in no mood to be appeased. He did not pull away from her grip—though she might have expected him to after she’d just made such an issue of him invading her personal space—but there was no softening of his expression, either.
“Those are just words, Mama,” he said with no small amount of disdain. “We’ve yet to do anything to threaten Delnamal’s rule, and until we do, you can say all the words you want and they will mean nothing.”
Alys shook her head and released his shoulders, reminding herself that at fourteen, she hadn’t exactly been a bastion of patience, either. It was hard for a boy his age to grasp a revenge that might well be years in the making.
“We are threatening his monopoly on Aalwood,” she reminded him. “We are cementing an alliance with Aaltah’s greatest rival. And we are helping that rival make it difficult for Delnamal to retain his access to iron and gems. We are continuing to develop new magic that will make us appealing trade partners for others who might otherwise refuse to trade with us for fear of angering Delnamal. We are undercutting him in every way we can. I know these all seem like minor, unimportant things, but if we add enough of them together, his rule will grow less secure. Remember, he always has about as much patience and self-control as you’ve shown me today, and he will not listen to anyone who tells him things he doesn’t want to hear. Today, he and Aaltah are an unassailable enemy, but we may find the situation very different a year from now.”
Corlin closed his eyes. “I don’t want him dead a year from now.”
“Well, I don’t, either!” Alys snapped, for there was only so much provocation she could take. “I want him here rotting in a jail cell imagining what creative method of execution I’m going to think up for him and dreading it with every fiber of his body. But as that is not among my options, I’m going to do what I can to make it possible in the future. Torturing Shelvon’s attacker to death will not aid in that cause.” She forced her voice to gentleness once more. “And keep in mind that Shelvon will be present for the execution. Do you think she would enjoy seeing a man tortured to death?”
And for the first time, Corlin actually seemed to listen to her, hear her. “No,” he whispered, his gaze now dropping to the floor. “She would be miserable.”
Alys practically sagged with relief. She felt as if she’d just been in a fight for her life, her body aching from the aftermath of all the tension. Somehow, miraculously, she had gotten through to Corlin this time. But it did not bode well that she’d had to work so hard at it, and she feared this minor victory would do little to sway the tide of the battle against Corlin’s demons.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Mairah had thought her journey from Khalwell to Women’s Well was miserable, but she hadn’t known what true misery was until the captain of the border patrol sent her to Aalwell in chains. She was “escorted” by two ill-bred, ill-kempt brutes who made no secret of the fact that they enjoyed hurting and humiliating her. They traveled by horse—no speedy, convenient cheval-drawn wagon this time—and instead of giving her a mount, they tied her hands to one of the saddle horns and forced her to stumble and stagger in their dust.
More than once on the long, agonizing journey, Mairah lost her footing and was dragged down the road, her robes and skin shredding with the abuse.
At first, they had pretended not to believe her when she claimed to be the Abbess of Khalpar. Ridiculous though their skepticism might be, she’d thought it was her status as a lowly abigail that caused them to treat her with such cruelty and disregard, that if only she could convince them of her true identity, everything would change. But as the days passed, she began to realize that they were fully aware of who she was; they just didn’t care. In their eyes, an abbess was no different from any other Unwanted Woman, and they clearly expected that no one would care that they’d mistreated her.
The guards rarely spoke to her except to mock her and bark orders, and it was hard to hear much of what they said when they were on horseback and she was struggling to keep her feet. But at night when they sat by the campfire—Mairah tied hand and foot and tethered to a stake like a dog—they practically forgot she existed. Most of their conversation was of no interest to Mairah, even when she could catch the words, but she eventually came to understand that she was being taken to Aalwell in chains on the orders of King Delnamal, who had apparently taken grave offense that King Khalvin had sent a delegation to Women’s Well in the first place.
Mairah reminded herself multiple times that she was carrying a potion that had the power to save her. (Or, more accurately, her captors were carrying it, for they had confiscated her potions and Devotional and thrown the Trapper spell into the river, thinking it was nothing but a pebble.) Surely when she reached Aalwell, she would have a chance
to speak to someone of importance, and when she told him about the success of her mission in Women’s Well, she would be released. Perhaps she would not be sent back to Khalpar—the continued mistreatment proved how much relations between Aaltah and Khalpar had cooled—but surely she could at least convince King Delnamal to let her perfect the formula and allow her to make use of whatever seers were available in the Abbey of Aaltah. It didn’t matter which king she convinced of her usefulness, as long as she gained her freedom.
Mairah cursed herself for not accepting Kailee’s offer sooner. If she’d had the courage to do that, she could even now be secure and free in Women’s Well. That freedom would not have come with a guarantee—if she’d felt sure there was a way to permanently make her unrecognizable, she would not have hesitated as she had—but it would be infinitely more pleasant than being bound and dragged around like a common criminal.
Every night, Mairah fell asleep fantasizing about the terrible revenge she would enact on every single person who’d wronged her, starting with the two soldiers who tormented her. But she had plenty of hatred left—for King Delnamal, on whose orders she suffered; for Norah, who had ruined everything when Mairah had finally seen a future worth living; for King Khalvin for setting this ridiculous burden on her shoulders in the first place…
The list was long and varied, and Mairah was fully aware that realistically, she could not easily have revenge against all of them. But on one of her long, uncomfortable nights trying to sleep on the hard ground while tied up, a new idea came to her.
Her tormentors carried with them not just the memory potion she’d made to enhance the seer’s poison, but also the potion she’d made for Kailee. It seemed she would never know whether Kailee had decided to try the potion and whether it had worked for her, but she did know that drinking it herself had made her Mindseye close. She had not had the time or attention to spare to think about what other uses such a potion might have, but now she had nothing more pressing with which to occupy her mind—and she had a strong desire to lose herself in thought to avoid wallowing in her misery.
