“How many people live down here?” he whispered to Yaala.
“A couple hundred, maybe more. No one counts.”
“That’s a lot of people to feed without getting any work out of them.”
“Oh, we work for our keep. She needs us to keep her magical toys active. She also needs us alive as hostages for the good behavior of her followers.” A half smile quirked at the woman’s mouth, as if she knew something Yaassima didn’t.
“Hostages? Can we be ransomed? If there are so many of us, we could break the lock on the gate and charge the guards. It would be easy to storm out of the palace in a group.”
“I’m not ready for that.” She waved him to silence as two men carried a third to the ledge three tunnels to the left. Silently, they heaved the inert body into the boiling mass below them. The body fell a long, long way, diminishing in size to a pinpoint before it touched the boiling rock. Instantly the internal fires of Kardia Hodos consumed the body.
Powwell’s heart leaped into his throat as he imagined how the flames would burn away his own flesh and dissolve his bones. He knew the man must have been dead before being consigned to the pit. His fears kept seeing himself down there—alive, forever dammed to be eaten alive by the fires.
No one said a word for one hundred heartbeats. Then Yaala raised her voice in a curious ululation, high-pitched, wordless, sad, and triumphant at the same time. Around the pit, the other watchers took up the strange sound until they drowned out the constant roar of the boiling lava and the yeek, kush, kush behind them. Powwell’s throat worked convulsively. He had to add his own cries to Yaala’s.
A curious sense of relief and completion came to him as soon as he let loose the ancient mourning cry. He continued the wail almost eagerly.
At last, Yaala held a single high-pitched note for several heartbeats.
Abruptly, all the inhabitants of the pit fell silent. The absence of sound hovered for a moment, then the roars of the pit rushed back, louder than ever.
As one, the people of the pit turned and walked back into the tunnels.
“For now, that is the only escape from the pit,” Yaala said.
Myri pressed her back against the cave wall near the ground level exit of Yaassima’s palace. Smooth rock formed most of the corridors, almost perfectly circular tunnels with packed dirt on the floor. Black dirt, black walls, bleak and lifeless. Outside, the crater was filled with redder dirt and rocks—equally bleak but filled with life-giving sunlight and fresh air.
Irregular shadows draped the curving passageway in darker shades of black and gray. Beneath the torches, mounted into iron brackets at regular intervals, the shadows crawled away into a bilious gray green—real fire, burning green as it should. The Kaalipha didn’t waste her bizarre magic on light panels in the passageways and rooms where she seldom appeared. She saved her tricks for the times she could make a great show of her power.
A black-clad guard rounded the curve from the direction of the main doorway into the palace. Myri recognized him as one of the men who usually patrolled the interior corridors closest to Yaassima’s suite. He whistled a jaunty tune. A satisfied smile relaxed the lines around his eyes that usually betrayed his acute wariness. As he walked, he tossed his belt knife in the air, watched it spin, and caught it again by the hilt. Then he grasped the tip with the other hand and repeated the trick.
All the elite personal guards of the Kaalipha practiced this movement whenever their hands were idle. Few in Hanassa doubted their expertise with the weapons. Those few usually ended up dead.
The guard didn’t look right or left as he passed Myri, still whistling, still tossing his knife as if it were a harmless child’s toy.
When he moved out of her line of sight, Myri headed toward the main door as silently as she could, letting her soft indoor shoes whisper across the packed dirt-and-stone floor. Kalen was off exploring the kitchens and possible servants’ entrances. Myri needed to know the routine of traffic in and out of the main entrance. She had to find a way out of the palace once they rescued Powwell.
Recovering from Amaranth’s birth, Erda’s drugs, and staying out of Yaassima’s way had kept her close to the royal suite for the past three weeks. Without the mind-clogging potions she had found a gap in Yaassima’s watch-fulness in the suite. But here . . . ?
Myri kept to the shadows beneath the torches. All of the brackets marched along one side of this passageway rather than alternating sides to eliminate shadows. This was a security lapse she didn’t expect of Yaassima.
She touched the dark kerchief hiding her hair. In her old leaf-green gown over a simple shift, she hoped to pass as another servant. Any glimpse of her white-blond hair, so similar to Yaassima’s, or the jewel-toned silks Yaassima had given her to wear, would identify her to the regular inhabitants of the palace. She needed anonymity to scout an escape route.
Multiple footsteps echoed loudly around the tunnel walls. A shimmer of reddish orange light signaled the infiltration of sunlight, so different from the green flames of the torches.
Sunlight, air, freedom. She longed to dash forward and experience life once more. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she knew she could take all three of her children with her.
A side passage opened in the wall opposite her. She dashed across the widening tunnel and secreted herself in the unlit corridor.
A merchant laden with bolts of fabric spilling from his arms staggered past her. A laughing guard walked beside him, picking up brightly colored silk that trailed behind the merchant. New clothes for Yaassima. Good, she would be occupied for several hours while making her selection from the fire-green, bay-blue, and blood-red cloth.
Right on the heels of the merchant and his escort came three women. They wore ordinary sturdy gowns and kerchiefs over their hair. They must be part of the huge staff of servants Yaassima maintained. The Kaalipha never allowed a servant to perform the same chore in the same rooms as the day before, except for Haanna. Yaassima’s mute personal maid seemed to love her ruthless mistress blindly. Mealtimes and menus varied widely. No one had an opportunity to detect patterns and routines for laying traps against the only person in Hanassa who maintained any degree of power: Yaassima.
Myri watched a continuous parade of people in and out of the main entrance for a few more moments. Servants, guards, merchants, and outlaws in search of favors all passed through the same portal. Would so many people come this way if there was any other way in or out of the palace?
Her heart sank.
Keep yourself safe from Televarn, Nimbulan. Please be careful. I can’t come to you yet. She checked the magical umbilical that connected her heart to her husband’s. It appeared stretched and thin, as if the distance between them had grown beyond the physical separation. The pulses of her heart and his counterbeat pushed strongly back and forth, though, with little delay. She wished she understood the nuances of the connection better. The strength of the cord and the heartbeats told her only that Nimbulan lived, and that he loved her.
Was that enough to rebuild their marriage? She didn’t know. She’d answer that question when she saw him again, and gave vent to her anger at his leaving her alone and vulnerable. First, she had to find a way out of this horrible city of crime and death with her three children.
She edged closer to the cave opening that formed the main entrance. If this truly were the only way in or out, she had to know what security measures Yaassima employed. She kept her eyes on the floor and her extra long fingers folded within her skirt. No one looked at her twice.
Through her lowered lashes she watched as the black-uniformed guards stopped each person entering the palace. Two guards stood to the side of the portal, hands on their swords. They wore three or four other, shorter knives stuck into their belts, their boots, and protruding from their cuffs. Chains crossed their chests and slings dangled from their shoulders. Two other men carried metal tubes the length and thickness of one of Nimbulan’s small wands, in addition to the multitude of weapons.
>
An outlaw swaggered up to the entrance. Myri recognized him as a cutthroat who had stood in line for a job yesterday in the Justice Hall. Yaassima had denied him any assignment, especially his request to waylay a caravan from SeLenicca bound for Rossemeyer.
The cutthroat flashed a broad smile to the guards, revealing broken teeth beneath his drooping mustache. Myri knew a moment of recognition. Where had she seen him before yesterday?
Casually he saluted the guards and stepped into the cave as if he had every right to enter without scrutiny.
Before he had gone a second step, Yaassima’s trusted men clapped their strong hands around his arms.
“You know the rules, Piedro,” one guard growled, not releasing his grip.
The two men with wands placed themselves in front of and behind Piedro while the other two maintained their hold on the outlaw. They waved their wands over Piedro’s entire body.
The wands blasted out an ear-piercing shriek. Myri clapped her hands over her ears. Every person within sight froze in place. They remained locked in position as if the shrill sound had numbed their will as well as their hearing.
Sweat broke out on Piedro’s brow, and he lost much of the high color beneath the dirt and beard shadow on his cheeks.
The four guards shoved the outlaw’s face into the cave wall. They stretched his arms painfully over his head. One of them tore the rough black shirt from Piedro’s back. He shook the fabric hard. Another guard poked and slapped the prisoner’s body. He pressed his fingers into every fold and crevice of Piedro’s trews until he came up with a small knife concealed between the prisoner’s legs near the groin.
He held up the palm-sized knife triumphantly. Grinning, he slapped his wand twice against a rock by the entrance. The metal chimed against stone but didn’t screech as it had earlier. The guard shouted: “Send two escorts. We’ve got one for the pit.”
No humiliating trial in the Justice Hall. Obviously, taking a weapon into the palace meant immediate punishment.
The crowd of people surrounding the entrance began moving again, talking quietly among themselves. A few cast sidelong glances at Piedro, still held hard against the wall.
One serving girl tried to slip outside without being searched. The vigilant guards grabbed her, too. But the wands remained silent, so they let her go.
Two more guards ran up and took custody of Piedro. The criminal screamed pleas and protests as they dragged him roughly into the dark interior of the palace.
Myri turned. They would lead her to the pit. If she remained silent and unseen behind them. She’d spent a lifetime eluding pursuers. The dragons had taught her many things, especially how to avoid detection.
“There you are, Myrilandel,” Yaassima said sweetly. She clamped her long-fingered hand firmly on Myri’s shoulder.
Chapter 15
“You seem restless today,” Yaassima said. A satisfied hum followed her words. “Perhaps you should have joined us last night. I found the spectacle of Kestra being raped—invigorating.”
Myri turned slowly under her warden’s hand, to face her. Yaassima’s emotions were dominated by sexual satisfaction. Nothing else reached Myri’s empathic talent. Yet she sensed dissatisfaction in the older woman.
“Did you need me for something?” Myri asked. She didn’t want to touch on the subject of Yaassima’s orgy or Kestra’s pain and humiliation.
“You need new gowns. The mother of my heir must appear as regal as I. I thought we burned that hideous peasant gown you’re wearing.”
The gown had served Myri well for a long time. Most of the people she dealt with in her normal life considered her choice of attire graceful and attractive. Yaassima’s clothes were too bright and clumsy for everyday wear.
“The people need to see you suitably clothed. I can’t decide between the ruby and the emerald for you.” Yaassima started walking toward the interior of the palace. She kept her hand firmly on Myri’s shoulder, compelling her to accompany her.
“I prefer the colors of the Kardia to jewel tones,” Myri said. She walked slowly, making the Kaalipha adjust her long stride to fit hers.
“Nonsense. You fade into the background. I want you to stand out in any crowd.”
Dragons prefer to remain unnoticed. Myri bit her lip rather than voice the thought. Safety lay in making Yaassima believe she took the drugs and didn’t have the will to defy her.
“Always remember the tremendous honor I do you in making your daughter my heir.” Yaassima threw her hands wide as if embracing all of Hanassa in her enthusiasm. “I think the red for the baby’s naming ceremony. Hanassa has such a majestic ring to it. She will grow into the name with proper training.
“My daughter’s name is Amaranth.” This was something she had to fight Yaassima for. She couldn’t allow the Kaalipha to engulf her identify or her daughter’s in grandiose delusions. Yaassima had no concept of reality beyond the walls of Hanassa and her own imagination. “If I must wear your fancy silks in brilliant colors, then I will wear purple.”
“Nonsense. There are no purple dragons. We wear only the colors of our kind. I have decreed it.” Yaassima’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Myri, trying to impose her will.
Myri stopped short. Rage boiled within her. “There are no purple dragons now.” Amaranth was dead and Myri dared not transform. There would not be another purple dragon until Shayla bred again. Even then, dragonkind might have to wait several generations for another purple.
(Purple dragons have special destinies determined by forces beyond the wisdom of dragons.) Shayla’s statement rang through her memory. That special destiny had fallen to Myrilandel. She had become the link between dragons and humans so that human magic could be controlled and used only for the benefit of all.
“I will wear purple, or I will wear my old gown,” Myri said. While she remained in Hanassa, she had no other link to the dragons. She must wear purple, the same shade as Amaranth had worn on his wing veins and spinal horns.
Yaassima stopped on the first step up to their private suite. Her eyes narrowed and her fingers flexed convulsively. “You take your independence and defiance too far, Myrilandel. You will wear the gown I provide or you will wear nothing at all. And the baby’s name is Hanassa.”
Myri stared into the Kaalipha’s eyes, shoulders rigid and jaw set. They were bound together by that gaze for long moments, neither bending to the other’s will.
The sound of running footsteps down the steps broke Myri’s concentrated defiance. She dropped her gaze but kept her posture. Yaassima looked up, severe annoyance showing in her tightly compressed lips and the deep lines around her eyes.
Kalen skidded to a halt three steps above Yaassima. She clung to the walls of the narrow staircase to keep from falling forward from her abrupt stop.
“There you are, Myrilandel. Amaranth is crying. I think she’s hungry,” the girl said, out of breath. I found him, she sent to Myri telepathically. I know where Powwell is being held.
Myri shook her head, wondering how Kalen dared use mind speech in Yaassima’s presence. The Kaalipha might overhear.
She doesn’t have real magic, only gadgets and toys that make her seem all-powerful. That’s what Powwell says.
“I must go to Amaranth.” Myrilandel shook herself free of Yaassima’s hand that still rested on her shoulder.
“You may watch Maia nurse your child if you must. A monarch does not stoop to such messy, peasant activities.”
“Yaassima, you claim dragon heritage in one breath and deny it with your actions. Dragons nurse their own young for many years, until they are old enough and strong enough to hunt on their own. Yet you seek to deny me that same nurturing, instinctive to me. Which are you, Yaassima, dragon or self-serving outlaw?” Had she overstepped the line between safety and strength? Myri pushed away her fear of the older woman.
The Kaalipha’s lip curled upward in a snarl. Her fingers flexed as if tearing the flesh of her prey. “You have no need to explore the palace, Myrilandel. Yo
u must learn to keep the air of mystery and power, so the people we govern don’t lose their fear through familiarity. I have set boundaries within the palace. You will soon learn them. Maia and I will take complete control of the care of my heir, Hanassa.”
Myri looked hard at Kalen, wondering if the Kaalipha had overheard the girl’s telepathic message.
“Oh, and, Myrilandel, do not consider defying me on this.” Yaassima adjusted her tone to one of mild pleasantries. She pulled a long golden chain from the pocket of her gown. From the chain dangled a dragon-shaped pendant cut from a single crystal. “You will wear this amulet at all times, and I shall know where you are and who you talk to. I have assigned Nastfa and Golin to watch over you day and night.”
Curiosity glimmered in the back of Myri’s mind. Nastfa and Golin had been humiliated and tormented by Yaassima last night at the orgy. Their resentment toward the Kaalipha might be turned to help Myri escape with the children.
“Nastfa and Golin have a vested interest in staying close to you now, Myrilandel,” Yaassima continued. “They entertained me so well last night with their embarrassment that I have commuted their sentence. My women are still forbidden to them, but if you stray beyond the boundaries I have set, they may do with you as they wish. I promise you, they will not be gentle or kind.”
“You aren’t a very good king,” Konnaught d’Astrismos said matter-of-factly.
King Quinnault looked up from a copy of the newly drafted treaty with Rossemeyer to stare at him. The boy returned his gaze, stone-faced and unreadable. But the way he cleaned beneath his fingernails with his belt knife—the small tool every man carried—was too casual. Konnaught sought to pick a fight. Why?
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