She squinted, peering out over the plain below to check the progress of the approaching rider.
From her vantage point on the hill she could see far to the west from where she'd come. Not that the hill was so high. An amused smile creased her lips. Mountains, the locals called these hills of the Kithri region. Overgrown anthills, maybe, big mounds of dirt with a smattering of grass, here and there a tree that pushed up from the rocky soil. But mountains? The Creel chain in Rholaroth, those were mountains. But not the Kithri.
The rider was closer now, hurrying at a gallop.
She'd made it easy enough, not bothering to hide her trail. He'd been following her since shortly after dawn, and she'd urged Ashur along just fast enough to beat him into the hills. It would be easy enough to lose a foe in the Kithri if she needed.
The unicorn munched noisily on a scraggly stand of wildflowers. “Glutton,” she accused, pouting. “I've had no breakfast, either.” He ignored her and chewed another mouthful.
She stretched out on the bank, leaned over the water, cupped her hands, and drank deeply. The water rushed down the hill, gurgling as loudly as her empty stomach. Another long drink would quiet her insistent gut. She wiped her lips and sat up.
The rider reached the foot of the hill. He saw her, hesitated, and then started up. She nodded slowly, waited while his mount climbed the gentle slope. She didn't bother to rise but moved the scabbard of her sword so it rested in her lap.
He drew to a halt before her.
“Hello, Tras,” she said evenly. “Fine day for an outing, is it not?"
The sun glinted on the metal rings sewn to his armor, on his shield, the hilt of his sword. The scarlet cloak he wore fluttered in a light breeze. His closely trimmed white beard fairly sparkled beneath the rim of his bronze helm.
His sword hissed out. “I arrest you for the high crime of regicide. Get up."
She remained seated. “Take off that helmet, Tras.” She kept her voice calm. “In this heat your brains must be baking. Climb down awhile. The water's very good.” She dipped her hand in the stream, raised it, spilling shining droplets between her fingers. “Its source is a spring at the summit."
He shifted nervously in the saddle. “Is it also bewitched? That's what you are, isn't it? A witch? That's how you killed Thogrin."
“That was sorcery,” she corrected, “not witchcraft."
He removed his helm, cradled it in his shield arm. By the intensity of his gaze she knew his anger was genuine. But something else lurked there: fear. He was afraid of her.
“Sorcery, witchcraft! What's the difference!"
She dried her hand on her trousers. “A great difference,” she replied. “A witch's power comes from within.” She tapped her chest. “She doesn't need spells or talismans or potions. Those are the tools of the sorcerer. He finds power in objects or words and taps that power to work his magic. Now a wizard,” she continued, “is something else. He chums up to a god or a demon, and when he needs a favor he just asks."
Tras Sur'tian raged. “Damnation! Who cares? You've killed my king, and possibly my queen before him, and you've got to pay!” He leveled his sword as if he meant to run her through.
She got slowly to her feet, taking her scabbard in her right hand. “Thogrin Sin'tell was at least partly responsible for Aki's disappearance. He probably planned it."
“Liar!” he accused. “You killed Aki with your witchcraft or sorcery or whatever, and then you came back for Thogrin! I saw that thing, that hand with the burning fingers! And I heard those screams, like the nine hells had opened to suck my liege lord down! You've tried to destroy the very soul of Korkyra by striking at its monarchs!"
“You're an utter ass if you believe that!” Her own temper suddenly burst free. “Your precious Thogrin—and I spit on his name—needed Aki out of the way so he could seize the throne for himself! He confessed it before I stilled his wretched, evil heart! And he had an accomplice. Thogrin told me his name and where to look for him. If you think you can stop me”—she fixed him with a cold stare—“think again. Or before this hour's done one of us will be sleeping in the land of Gath!"
“You think you can frighten me with the chaos god's name?” he shot back. “You've brought more chaos than any of your night-dwelling heathen deities! Stop you?” he thundered. “Woman, I mean to kill you if you don't surrender that sticker and return with me to Mirashai!"
Her blade whistled from the sheath. “Damn you, Tras Sur'tian!” she shouted, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “I called you friend!"
He brandished his own weapon. “You've killed my king!"
“Your king?” Her voice went shrill. “What of your queen? What of Aki? Did you hear nothing I said? She may yet live!"
His voice dropped a note. “Where?” With all the scorn he could muster, he added, “Witch!"
“In Kephalenia,” she answered, “there's a man named Onokratos, Thogrin Sin'tell's ally."
“How do you know this?"
She shook her head angrily. “I told you, Thogrin confessed it before he died. Is it so hard to believe a Korkyran noble could be as greedy and scheming as any other man? To be king Thogrin would have killed.” She paused, thoughtful. “He may have."
Tras Sur'tian's features seemed suddenly to soften. His shoulders sagged; the point of his sword wavered. “You pose quite a problem,” he said at last. “Do I believe you and go off chasing a criminal who may not exist except in your lies? Or do I settle for the murderess who committed her crime before my very eyes?"
“Trust your heart,” she advised guardedly.
He scoffed, but the anger ebbed from his voice. “But the heart lies; you've told me so yourself. I find it hard to believe a member of the royal family is capable of what you claim Thogrin Sin'tell has done."
The stern, threatening warrior of moments before was suddenly no more than a dejected old man filled with grief, pain, and confusion. His gaze flickered all around but did not fall on her, as if he couldn't look on her face.
Her own anger melted; she sheathed her sword. “I'll make a deal with you,” she offered. “If by one of the moon's cycles I haven't proved Thogrin's guilt, then I'll come back to Mirashai to take your judgment. There are two conditions to this."
He waited without speaking, his expression sufficient to admit his interest.
She held up a finger. “First, if I go back and the populace judges me guilty, you must promise not to let me hang.” She remembered too well the Hand of Glory and the hanged man who had made its magic possible. “Kill me any other way."
He nodded. “Second?"
“You're coming with me to Kephalenia."
“That isn't your condition,” he said. “It's mine."
She shrugged. “No matter. Evidence isn't always the kind you can carry back. I want your eyes so that I can have your voice in my defense. You'll clear my name when I've shown you what a dog your Thogrin Sin'tell really was."
“Speak no more ill of him,” Tras Sur'tian warned. He swung stiffly from the saddle and dropped to the ground. “For all you accuse him, he still wore the crown of Korkyra."
She hooked her scabbard to her weapon belt. “So did the bedpost when he slept at night, but I owe it no respect."
Tras hung his shield on the saddle, removed his gloves, kneeled by the stream, and set his lips to the water. It splashed over his face, drenched his beard and the ends of his hair. When he rose, his dour features were more composed.
He came to her side. “It's a fair bargain,” he said, “and we're friends again?” He extended his hand.
She stepped back. “No, you're my judge and jury, and I'll not clasp your hand while that remains so."
His brief smile faded, replaced by a look of deep hurt.
Unaffected, she met his gaze. “You demand a lot of your friends, Tras. Maybe too much. It's not out of any sense of duty or justice I made that bargain. I'm a paid mercenary—I owe no loyalty but what I give. If you returned to Mirashai without me, you would
feel dishonored. I know what honor means to you.” She paused, letting him feel the full weight of her words. “Or if we'd fought, one of us would be dead.” She looked away, turning her gaze to the stream, where the sunlight danced on the water. She sighed. “You see, I'm caught two ways in the same trap. Because I let myself care for Aki, I'm suddenly plunged neck-deep into some terrible danger; I don't know what the danger is yet, but by all the gods I can feel it closing in! And because I let myself care for you, I'm sealed into a foolish bargain that could mean my life.” She laughed suddenly, threw up her hands. “How much better off I was in younger days when I thought I could never love anyone!"
He came, opening his arms to embrace and console her.
She stepped back again, slapping his hands away. “No!” she shouted, then regained a measure of calm. “If I try very hard and apply myself to the task, maybe I can unlearn this habit of caring for others, and be damned to you all!"
Tras Sur'tian drifted back toward his steed, looking much like a whipped mongrel. He gathered his reins but didn't mount, just leaned his head against the hard leather of his saddle.
Frost made fists of her hands and stared at the ground, letting her anger fade. At last she drew a deep breath. Nothing made sense right now. Perhaps she would think more clearly when she was in the saddle once more. There was a lot of road ahead before she reached Kephalenia.
She bent for one last drink from the stream's sweetness and noticed her reflection in a small pool that collected in the heel of one of her bootprints. Green eyes, deep as the Calendi Sea, regarded her with unshakable calm. Her only pretty feature, she thought. She dared not call them beautiful; there was nothing of beauty about her. She leaned out and took her drink, wiped her mouth, and gazed once more at her reflection in the print. Abruptly, she smashed the image with her fist, splashing mud on her sleeve. But enough water still filled the depression, and when the murkiness cleared those green eyes still regarded her, calm, aloof, serenely uncaring.
Strive for that uncaring, she told herself, then rose and climbed into Ashur's saddle.
Tras mounted clumsily, his armor jingling. “Kephalenia, you say?"
“Shadamas.” She fingered the emeralds in her pouch. “I've got an errand to complete."
“More important than finding Aki?"
She shot him a look; he withered and said no more.
She felt the emeralds again. In the hands of a skilled healer like Oona they might have power to save another child's life. The old woman cared deeply for that suffering little village boy who brought her wildflowers. And Shadamas lay in the general direction, if not exactly on the same road to Kephalenia.
She swore and cursed herself.
Care, care, care!
Who cared?
She clenched a fist and chewed her lip in exasperation.
Dusk had settled on the world by the time they neared Oona's poor shack. Tras Sur'tian's mortal steed had not been able to keep Ashur's constant pace. Time after time the old captain had begged to rest his foam-flecked mount. Each time, she had reluctantly complied, and Tras had glared suspiciously at Ashur and scratched his head. No doubt he'd recalled how this strange horse that seemed to need no rest had impossibly gored a man to death outside Mirashai's walls. Once, when he'd thought her out of hearing, he'd muttered, “Witch-beast!” She'd hid a secret smile at that.
They reined up side by side at the shack's front door. No light shone through the window, nor through the cracks in the old walls’ boards, nor did any sound come from within.
She called the old woman's name.
“Maybe she's not home,” Tras suggested when silence answered them.
Frost slid from the saddle. “Where would she go at this hour?” Even as she asked, she thought of a dozen possible answers. Oona had no fear of the dark. The hills loomed nearby, and many kinds of medicinal herbs could only be gathered by the light of the moon.
She looked up. A thin crescent hung golden overhead. The same moon as when Aki disappeared, she realized with a shiver. An omen? She pushed open the creaky door.
No light was required to discern the chaos inside. Jars were smashed, the contents scattered. Trunks and boxes were overturned. The old table and its only chair was broken, stools were shattered. On the floor she found the new candle she'd brought back from Kord’ Ala.
“Tras!” she shouted. “Tras!” She ran out the back door, flinging it wide. The small fire Oona kept always alive was only smoldering coals. She stared toward the hills and called Oona's name.
Tras Sur'tian came up behind her. “I found this in the dust out front.” He held the splintered head of a crude wooden hay rake. “Looks like she had visitors."
“They've taken her,” she said without further explanation. “The boy must have died. Gods damn them all, and I wasn't here to protect her!” She spun and smashed her fist through the bare plank wall, leaving a gaping hole. “I'm never where I should be!"
She ran back through the shack, kicking rubble from her path as she went, and through the front door.
“Where are you going?” Tras Sur'tian demanded as she climbed into the saddle.
“To Shadamas or to hell!” she shouted over her shoulder.
“But we detoured around it because you didn't want the villagers to know you were still in these parts!"
She didn't answer, just spurred Ashur into motion. Moments later, his voice rose over the rush of the wind as he raced at her side. “Never believed in hell myself!"
You may soon, she thought. Very soon.
Shouting and laughter rode the air, reaching them as they entered the village. A dozen bonfires lit the streets. People reveled and reeled like drunken idiots, mostly men and children, here and there a woman with her skirt slit to the waist or blouse pulled low to expose sweat-sheened breasts. A group of men called to the mounted newcomers, offering bottles and broken-toothed leers. One wine-muddled fool made the mistake of squeezing her thigh and offering more than just drink. The toe of her boot connected with his eye, sending him twitching in the dirt. His friends fell away, no longer laughing.
Frost and Tras Sur'tian rode on, but now to the villagers it was clear they hadn't come to celebrate. Like a ripple on water the revelers became quiet until only the raging bonfires gave hint of the gaiety before.
At the center of the village Frost drew up. Her heart went cold at the sight she saw there, the stake with bundles of wood piled high around it. Silently, she cursed the town, its people, their children, and all the children they should ever bear until the end of time.
Yet that fire, at least, had not been struck. Oona still lived, hidden somewhere, probably until that hour when the slender moon reached its zenith.
And longer, if I can help it, she swore.
The villagers began to press around her, their expressions sullen and suspicious. She regarded them coldly from the saddle, and when she spoke there was an edge to her voice that stopped the crowd in their tracks.
“Where is the old healer?” It was barely a question. Her tone was one of command.
“You mean the witch!” someone answered, and the mob took up the cry, shouting, “Witch! Burn the witch!"
She reached for her sword, but Tras Sur'tian caught her hand. Then he threw back his cloak. Perhaps no one could recognize its scarlet color in the shadows of the night, but the firelight glittered resplendently on the emblem of the royal guard that emblazoned his coat. “Bring out this woman called Oona.” His voice boomed over their heads, crisp with authority. “You must surrender her to me. King Thogrin Sin'tell himself has ordered her arrest."
Frost raised an eyebrow at that. She'd never guessed lying was one of the old man's talents, but that one rolled off his tongue as glib as could be. Shouting gave way to a low mumbling and grumbling as the crowd wondered what to do.
One man, burly with hair and muscle, wearing a leather apron, stepped to the fore. Frost recognized the blacksmith she'd seen when she'd passed through Shadamas before.
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��By all the nine hells we won't, bub!” he answered. “An’ we're none impressed by yer pretty clothes, neither. A king's order is supposed to come on a fancy paper with a big seal on it. I seen ‘em before. An’ yer not wavin’ one o’ them.” His voice was as deep and loud as Tras Sur'tian's, and its effect on the crowd was just as great. He turned to survey his friends and neighbors. When he looked back again his lips parted in a malicious smile. “So you better get outta here. We're not givin’ up no child-murderin’ witch!"
“We kin take care o’ her ourselves!” someone shouted.
“Tell that to the king!” another added.
“Fire! That'll take care of her!"
The sound rose like a tumult, the mob spoon-feeding courage to themselves with jeers and threats and insults. The blacksmith led them, shaking his fists.
“Where's the boy's parents?” Frost called over it all, repeating until they grew quiet enough to hear.
The blacksmith came close to her knee. His eyes burned redly in the firelight when he looked up at her. “Mournin’ for their dead son, where parents should be!” he answered.
She rose in her stirrups, slowly slung a leg over the saddle, and slid to the ground. Not an arm's length separated her from the huge blacksmith. His gaze bore into her. She met it dispassionately. “You count yourself a man among all these people?"
“Huh?” he grunted.
She echoed. “Huh? That's an animal sound, not a man's."
“Frost,” Tras Sur'tian tried to caution her. She silenced him with a casual wave.
“What'd'ya mean by that?” The blacksmith leaned forward, trying to intimidate her with his greater height.
She circled around him, showing him her back as she regarded the villagers one by one. “You don't sound like so much of a man to me,” she said over her shoulder. “You sound like an animal.” She imitated his grunt again, smiled for the gathering. When she turned back to the blacksmith the smile was gone. “In fact, you sound like an ass."
His face darkened, he puffed up his chest. “I'm more'n man enough for the likes o’ you!” he roared.
Skull Gate Page 7
