“Holder Corday,” Titus said, turning to him, “is this acceptable to you?”
“I told you she’s staying.”
“Then let us begin.”
They pulled Lisen off Pharaoh and pushed her roughly ahead of them. With her hands still bound behind her—seven days in total by her count—and the hood over her head, she worried she’d trip and fall on her face. The terrain was rocky enough. Finally, one of them grabbed her and led her forward, and the voices of new people joined those of her four captors. Still in Garla given the travel time, she believed they’d reached their destination.
She was forced to sit down on some sort of hard, uneven seat—a rock she assumed by its feel. Old voices and new spoke in Thristan, sometimes in frantic exchanges, and she was left to sit there, alone with her head in the hood that continued to bind her powers.
“Well, let’s see what you’ve brought us,” a woman’s voice said distinctly in Garlan, and Lisen’s stomach began to burn. She knew that voice, had lived with it for nearly a month and a half. And if that voice belonged to the woman she believed it belonged to, her chances of surviving had just dwindled down to whatever was the negative of nothing.
Ariannas sat up straight, preparing to face the inevitable unveiling. Her hair was shorter; her face, likely filthy from sweat and grime. But she suspected her nemesis from Thristas would have no difficulty recognizing her. Creators, I’m screwed, she thought, and I’m definitely not getting out of this alive. Not that she’d actually expected to. She’d pretty much resigned herself to that. And yet, she’d held on to a sliver of hope, hope that had now slammed up against despair at the first sound of Ondra’s voice.
She squinted as light assaulted her eyes. This was the first time the hood had been removed in the daylight. No, not daylight, she realized as her eyes started to adjust. An enclosed space of some kind, with indirect light.
Ondra let out something in Thristan that by the sound of it had to be a curse. She looked around at her cohorts and said things that sounded like questions to which they responded quickly. Finally, she turned back to Ariannas who still had to squint a bit to focus in the unaccustomed light.
“Lisen of Garla. Imagine my surprise. Did you know that Korin’s told everyone you’re dead?”
“To him, I guess I am,” Lisen replied. She felt small, anything but a leader of people, and believed that the consequences of her actions might have finally found her—humiliation and then death at the hands of an anything-but-simple Thristan woman.
“And yet, these friends of mine assure me that you’re the Empir. I’ve tried to convince them that they’re mistaken, but they insist it’s true. So, tell me, Lisen of Garla, are you Empir Ariannas?”
Lisen considered lying but feared that in her mentally vulnerable state she’d be anything but convincing. She sat up even straighter, accepting her fate with as much dignity as she could muster. She was an Ilazer, after all. “Yes.”
Ondra stared at her a moment, perhaps expecting Lisen to elaborate, but when Lisen remained silent, Ondra spoke. “Now that is ironic, don’t you think? The Empir of Garla within arms’ reach for over a month, and I didn’t even know it. How courteous of Korin to keep your secret and how courteous of him to keep it still.”
Ondra paced back and forth a couple of times, then paused and turned to her companions. Now Lisen could see that Rika was here with her, and beside him stood one of the Elders from Mesa Terses. The rest—her abductors—remained unfamiliar. Ondra spoke in Thristan again, barking something out which Lisen assumed were orders, especially when everyone left the cave, even the Elder.
“That’s quite a horse you have,” Ondra said when they were alone. “Means a lot to you, I’d wager.”
“He was a gift.”
“A gift worthy of an Empir, I suppose.”
“I suppose.” Lisen feared where Ondra might want to take this.
“I’m going to have to rethink our plan. There are some tasty variables set on the table, variables not available before, but available now.” Ondra squatted down in front of her. “Tell me, Lisen of Garla…oh, excuse me, my Liege…Empir Ariannas, have you ever heard of Mantar’s Child?”
“No.” Lisen lied. She’d heard of Mantar’s Child; she just didn’t know what it meant. Korin had mumbled it up on top of the mesa as he surfaced after the Farii, but he’d dismissed her when she’d questioned him about it. “What does it mean?” Maybe Ondra would tell her. Forget it, she’s never going to give that one away.
Ondra rose to her full height again. “You don’t need to know.”
“So what exactly do you want? Are you looking for ransom? Or, are you just going to kill me outright?”
With an audible hiss, Ondra moved away from her to the other wall of this part of the cave. Lisen noticed a small natural shelf there and realized exactly where she was. They’d brought her to the Khared. Too bad nobody in Garla knew about this place.
Ondra turned to face her. “Korin warned me about your venom.”
“I remember.”
“What do I want? Truth is I don’t know anymore. Everything changed when I lifted off your hood.”
“I’m not fool enough to believe that you’d spare me for sentimental reasons.”
Ondra laughed. “Not likely.”
They remained there—Lisen seated, Ondra standing—assessing one another.
“Tell me something, Ariannas. What did Korin tell you when he left Garla?”
“Ask him.”
“I did. He told me you were dead.”
“Then obviously he didn’t want you to know what he told me.” Lisen reveled in her ability to keep up in this lunge-and-parry game they played.
“All right, then. Why did you let him go?”
“He’s a free agent.”
“He’s a captain in your Guard.”
“My guards are not slaves.”
Ondra nodded and crossed her arms. “It’s said you killed your brother.”
“He killed himself.”
“They say you used magic to kill him.”
Lisen wanted to ask if Korin had told her that, because where else could she have heard it? But it did explain the drug in the hood. “I’ve heard there are rumors,” she said, “but I don’t trust rumors.”
“So what about this horse of yours?” Ondra switched subjects so quickly it left Lisen dizzy.
“Like I said, he was a gift.”
“An extravagant gift. Got an admirer, have you?”
“No,” Lisen barked back, giving too much away. Through exhaustion, frustration, the damn stuff they forced her to inhale and, yes, fear, her tart responses had finally abandoned her. She breathed deeply to regain her composure. “From a holder, on the occasion of my throning. I received other gifts far more valuable than the horse but nothing else I can take for a ride.”
“You’re good, little one. Rika!” And Ondra reverted to speaking Thristan, leaving Lisen to guess at what she might be telling her spouse and the rest of her troop.
Lisen didn’t like this. She didn’t like any of this. She wanted to go home. She yearned for Woodland Hills and her parents, but they existed only in memory. There was no Earth, and no loving parents awaited her at the end of the day. All that was left to her was a mother who’d abandoned her and a brother who was some kind of sociopath, and neither of them was around anymore anyway. This stream of thought passed through her as she watched all these strangers prepare this cave for habitation by eight individuals. And then she thought about her conversation with Ondra and patted herself mentally on the back; she’d held her own with this woman, at least this time.
“Nalin, just one more bite,” Bala pleaded.
He wished he could comply, but he felt like death, like a death that refused to die. Five days—is that right?—of the damn treatment for the infection in his leg, and he not only couldn’t eat, but he couldn’t think or see straight either. He knew Tanres came twice a day, usually before another treatment began, with reports o
f the continuing fruitlessness of their search for Lisen, but he wasn’t clear on what she told him because the cilla nectar from the previous treatment hadn’t worn off yet. Then, yesterday, he’d grown chill in the middle of a hot afternoon. The hermit healer had felt his forehead and pronounced him feverish, apparently a bad sign. Then he’d mentioned amputation if the treatment continued to fail, but Nalin wouldn’t hear of it.
“Nalin?”
“What?” He’d disappeared into his brain again.
“One more bite?”
He shook his head and pursed his lips. His stomach already protested what little he’d already eaten, and he couldn’t contemplate the thought of what another bite might do to him.
“All right, all right,” Bala conceded.
He looked at her concerned face, tried to focus on her features, so like Jozan’s yet so much softer, but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate. The haze of pain and nectar enveloped him, and he slipped away to a fluffy cloudy place of knowing nothing.
“Nalin?”
Why did Bala continue to distract him? He’d told her he didn’t want any more to eat.
“Nalin, it’s Lorain. I must speak with you. Now.”
He winced, and after appealing to the Creators to make her disappear or, barring that, to keep him from saying anything he’d regret, he opened his eyes.
“Lorain?”
“I know you’re not well, but that’s why I’m here.”
She’s here because I’m not well? I’m more useless than I thought.
“You can’t do this all by yourself, not under these conditions. You need to heal, not run a pointless search or a country.”
“Not pointless, Lorain,” he enunciated as carefully as possible. “We will find her.”
“And in the meantime, you’re putting all your energy on everything but yourself.”
“Lorain.” The words came slowly. “I have no energy.”
“My point exactly. Let me take over your duties. Just for now, of course. As potential regent for my son, I need to be briefed on everything anyway.”
“Lorain!” Bala’s voice rang through the room, and Nalin felt a smile try to break through the debilitating fever and his pain despite the numbing nectar. “Creator. I can’t leave this room for a minute without you barging in. Leave. Now. Everything is under control at the moment. And if, and I do mean if, the time comes when your contribution is required, you will be informed. Now get out and let him rest.”
“Fine.” Lorain raised her hands in surrender. “But think about it, Nalin, all right?” she added with no hint of remorse.
“Out!”
Eyes closed, Nalin could hear the scuttling of someone retreating from the room in a hurry. Creators, he hoped it was Lorain because if she were still here when he opened his eyes again, he knew he’d have to scream.
“Nalin, it’s all right now,” Bala said from beside him. His eyelids drifted open, and he smiled up at the face of the one who had comforted him through the torture. She wiped his brow with a cool cloth then turned to the door. Nalin knew all too well what that meant; Hermit Titus was back to treat him. “Commander?” Bala sounded surprised, and Nalin wondered if it was an odd time for the commander to show up for his briefing. He only knew the room was bright with sunshine, not what time it was.
“My lord,” the commander said and stepped to the end of the bed to stand in Nalin’s somewhat limited line of sight.
“Commander?”
“My lord, one of the search parties has found something. I’m riding out now to see for myself. I should be back by morning.”
“What? What have they found?” he asked, his voice pitifully weak. He could hardly feel frustrated anymore; his strength had drifted away, following in the footsteps of his concentration.
“A piece of jewelry.”
Nalin licked his lips. His throat was dry. “She doesn’t wear any jewelry, not anymore.” The disappointment barely grazed him in his stupor.
“Nal, it’s all right,” Bala whispered in his ear, then pulled away to continue in a normal voice. “If they’ve found something, it should be looked into. Correct, Commander?”
“It could belong to one of her abductors, my lords. Either way, they’ve picked up a trail as well. A few have moved off to follow it.”
“You’ll report to me on your return?” Nalin asked and wondered if the question were even necessary.
“Aye, my lord, the minute I arrive.”
Nalin’s muscles relaxed.
“Thank you, Commander,” Bala said for him, and he heard the commander turn and leave the room. “Here.” She brought the cloth back up to wipe his face. She’d carefully braided his hair to the left side a day or so ago, tenderly moving his head so she could get the sweat-soaked locks all on that side. It was good to get the filthy tangle off the back of his neck.
“My lord, it’s time.”
Nalin had come to despise those words and the man who spoke them. Hermit Titus had returned to hurt him once again, and weary of pain, fuzzy thoughts and fever, Nalin wondered how much more of this he could bear.
As Bala continued to wipe his brow gently—in hopes of cooling him down, Nalin assumed—Titus began the methodical task of removing the bandages placed there a few hours earlier. This was the routine, one which Nalin had endured for five days, something like ten times a day. His stomach wanted no more of the nectar, but without it, he could never hold still through the pain.
“Here, Nal,” Bala said softly, and he allowed her to lift his head just high enough to accept the cilla from the cup which she placed at his lips. He tasted the mint as it slipped past his tongue, and after he swallowed it all, the bitterness took over. This was the part his stomach hated, the part that tied it into knots.
But soon the swirling consumed him, and his breath came in shallow wisps of blessed air. He basked in the soothing coolness of Bala’s ministrations and forgot for one brief moment the price he’d have to pay.
He felt a generous quantity of ointment drop onto his wound. With his eyes closed, he pictured it in his mind as a dollop of thickened water cold on his hot and swollen skin. Then Titus began the rubbing-in, a task that might have proved comforting to sore muscles or a pulled back. But Nalin’s open wound burned, and when he moaned, Bala leaned over from the chair to place her face next to his. She blew softly on his hot cheeks, his hot neck, his hot eyes, and finally she began to whisper.
“Ssh, Nal, it’s all right. Only a little longer.”
He moaned again, aware of her voice but unable to control his reaction.
“Easy, my sweet man. You are strong and courageous. More courageous than I could ever be.”
Another moan escaped his throat, and through the haze he focused on her voice.
“That’s right. You’re here. Here with me. This is where you need to be.” As she continued to whisper, her breath in his ear calmed him. He could survive another treatment as long as she was here.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
nobody can know
Ondra stood outside the cave and studied her comrades in the fading sun of twilight. Rika sat on a log working on starting the fire, while the others, including Elder Barok, stood around patiently awaiting orders. There were those who might wonder how she’d ended up leading this band of fighters, but everyone here knew she was the instigator, the innovator, the one who wanted Thristas free from Garla more than any of the rest of them.
“Jadda,” she said to her friend from Mesa Diri, “I’ll be back out for dinner shortly. I’m going to talk to our captive.”
Originally, they’d thought a ransom demand followed by execution to be the best plan, ransom paid or not, but everything had changed the moment she’d lifted the Empir’s hood off her head. For the next two days, Ondra had considered the options available to them now that she had Korin’s girl in her custody, and finally, she’d come up with the seeds of a new plan.
She headed through the connecting tunnels until she got to the one where they’d s
equestered the Empir, hood laced with the power-numbing gryl over her head and hands bound behind her back. Others had spent time in here feeding her, and they’d reported that she’d said nothing but had taken the food when offered. Now, Ondra prepared to face her captive and see if she could make the girl talk a little, get a few answers before taking any further action. So, she grabbed the torch from the wall outside the prison cave and launched herself inside.
“Well, little Lisen,” Ondra said as she entered and wedged the torch between two rocks. “You’ve been a busy thing, haven’t you.”
“Ondra,” the girl replied, “Korin won’t be pleased when he learns what you’re doing.”
“I’m sure he won’t and for more reasons than you think. But enough of that.” She stepped over to the girl and pulled off the hood. She wanted to study her eyes as they talked. Her face, legs and arms begrimed, the girl squinted in the torchlight. “So, tell me, Empir Ariannas, how exactly did you ascend to such a rank?” Casually, she pulled her shindah from its sheath at the top of her boot and sat down on the ground in front of the girl. The knife, with its sharp blade on one side, half-serrated edge on the other, extended the requisite three-and-three-quarter inches—shind length—measuring from the grip. She twiddled with it while they spoke.
“It helps to be the Empir’s Heir,” the girl said.
Ondra laughed, intending to unbalance the girl, just as she intended her playing with the knife to unnerve. It was all about the details, and she needed some kind of details from the girl, though she wasn’t quite sure what yet. “Why should I let you live?”
The girl sputtered a bit. Apparently the question surprised her, but she did manage an answer. “I spent more than a month in the desert. I know more about Thristas than any Empir has ever known. I’d want to keep me alive, if only for that.”
“You certainly are naïve. Don’t you understand? We don’t need you for that. Another Heir and his mother will give us what we want exactly the way we want it.”
Blooded (Lisen of Solsta Book 3) Page 15
