Tesharna felt a wave of unease go through her at that, at the way the man seemed not to be cowed in the slightest by standing before her, but she pushed it down. It would not do to appear weak now, not at all. Besides, was she not the Chosen of Shira and blessed with the goddess’s favor? What need, then, did she have to fear such a one as this, a man in ragged clothes, stained with the juices of rotten fruits and the dust of the road still covering him? True, he had bested countless Redeemers, killed them in what had been, if the reports were true, closer to outright butchery, but Tesharna was no clumsy soldier with a sword. She was the most powerful ruler of the age.
She glanced at Captain Nordin, and the man nodded, shoving Alesh forward. “Kneel before your Chosen,” he barked.
The others did. A woman, one Tesharna did not recognize but who was possessed of a beauty that made a surge of jealousy rise in her. A Ferinan man, and another who she recognized all too well as Eriondrian Tirinian, the only son of the Tirinian family, one of the most—until recently at least—well-respected of the noble houses of Valeria.
But Alesh did not kneel. Tesharna fought back that unease which threatened to rise again at the look not of defiance, but of determination in his eyes as he studied her as if there was no one else in the room save the two of them. With a growl, the captain kicked the man in the back of the knee. Alesh’s leg buckled, and he did go down then, falling to one knee, yet his steady gaze never wavered.
Tesharna rose, schooling her features carefully and even managed a small smile. “Ah, it seems the fugitives have been found at last. I am sorry it must end this way,” she said, “but you have given yourselves to the Dark and so have sealed your own fate. After all, there is no place the shadows may hide that light will not reach, given time.”
She expected him to argue, to call her a liar, to scream that it was she who served the Dark, and she was ready for it. But he did not. Instead, he only knelt, watching her, and Tesharna thought again of how much this man before her had changed since the last time they had met, how much he had…grown. He was within her power, surrounded by her guards, yet he did not seem afraid. He seemed angry. A cold, unforgiving anger that manifested in his steely gaze.
She faltered in her step for a second, for she had been moving closer to the prisoners, and she did not like the look in the man’s face, not at all. You are the most powerful woman in the world, she told herself, the most beautiful. The most deserving. There is nothing here for you to fear.
“Have you nothing to say?” she asked him, forcing a confidence into her voice that she did not feel. “No entreaty for mercy? No denials?”
Still he said nothing, only watched her, as if he knew something she did not. That was ridiculous, of course. The man must only be struck dumb by his own failure, the fear of what he knew must be coming stealing his speech. But he does not look dumb, she thought, and he does not look afraid. She pulled her gaze away from the man, choosing another instead. “And what of you, Eriondrian Tirinian? Have you any words to say in your own defense?”
The nobleman glanced up at her, and he at least had seen better days. There was a large knot on his forehead, and a bruise on one of his cheeks. “Would it make any difference, if I did?”
She smiled, this being more along the lines of what she had expected. “I suppose not. After all, you have given yourself to the Dark and have turned away from the Light. There can be no salvation for you, not any longer.”
“You’re wrong.”
They were the first words Alesh, had spoken, and Tesharna nearly started at the power, the strength in them. “What?” she said, hating the breathless quality of her voice.
“No one,” Alesh said, “may venture so far into the Dark they cannot find their way back to the Light again, if they choose. Olliman, your leader, taught me that.”
Tesharna snarled. “Olliman, the man you conspired to kill, do you mean?”
He did not respond, only watched her, letting those words, words she had heard Olliman utter on more than one occasion during the Night War, speak for him. Tesharna had been looking forward to this moment, to watching these fugitives cower before her, to watching them recognize her power over them. She had planned what she would say, how she would make them weep, make them beg for a mercy that would not come. But things were not going as planned. Not at all. She glanced at Bishop Orren, the old man showing none of the arrogance she associated with him, not now, but standing with his shoulders hunkered, his eyes studying the floor, and she felt another wave of worry rush through her.
Suddenly, the game had lost much of its interest for her. She had an urge to tell the guards to kill them now, anything to rid herself of the weight of Alesh’s eyes on her. But no, that she would not do. Shira would want to see them suffer, and Tesharna wanted to see it as well. The man might be arrogant now, might be calm, but few remained so when the torturers began their work. Pain had a way of making a man forget his ideals quickly enough. Tesharna had seen it before, and she promised herself she would see it again, in this one. And when finally he succumbed to the pain, when he became little more than a beast, then she would lean into him, would smile and tell him it was she who had brought his doom upon him. But before she might call on her goddess, she had to rid herself of Nordin and those others who still believed her a loyal servant of the Light.
“Captain Nordin,” she said, “you and yours may leave. Send Sergeant Petrax and his men in—they should be waiting outside in the antechamber.”
The gray-haired man frowned at that, and she wasn’t surprised. Captain Nordin was the leader of her guards in the city, but she had made it clear that Sergeant Petrax and his other, special men were under no command but hers. He had expressed his distaste for the arrangement in no uncertain terms. “Chosen,” he began, “perhaps it would be better if—”
“Perhaps, Captain,” she interrupted, “it would be better if you did as I commanded and did not think to question me.”
It was obvious he wanted to say something more, but instead the captain gave a single, sharp nod, motioning his men toward the door.
“Captain?” Tesharna said as they reached the door.
He turned back, “Yes, Chosen?”
“Leave Rolf. I may…require him.”
The captain’s face betrayed no emotion, no inkling of what he thought of that, and he only bowed before giving another nod to Rolf. “Of course, Brightness.”
“Chosen,” Rolf began, calling her by her title as he never did in her quarters, and there was something almost like fear on his face now, “maybe I should go with the captain and—”
“No,” Tesharna said, pleased at the man’s obvious discomfort, “you will stay, Guardsman Rolf, as I have ordered.”
He opened his mouth as if he might say something more, perhaps to give her some excuse as to why he must go as he had so many times before, but he thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut. “Of course, Chosen.”
The captain and the other guardsmen left, and moments later Sergeant Petrax and six of his men entered, closing the doors behind them. They did not kneel or bow as the other guardsmen had, but that was alright; these were special men with special privileges, and Tesharna now, as always, cared nothing for their honors, only their efficiency. An efficiency which they had proven much over the years, though they had recently displayed an inarguable lack of results in finding the Tirinian household.
Unlike her regular guards who wore fine white armor and golden capes, Petrax and his men wore dark, stained leather tunics and trousers and looked more like a group of thieves and murderers than guardsmen. Of course, they had been both of those things at one time or another. Rolf—like most of her regular guardsmen—was noticeably uncomfortable at the sight of them, but that was alright, maybe better than alright. Rolf would experience much discomfort today as the truth of Tesharna and her power was revealed and being near Petrax and the others was the least of it.
“Sergeant Petrax. How goes the search for the Tirinian family?�
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“Nothing yet, Chosen.”
Tesharna glanced at Rolf, seeing if he noted that even these men, these dangerous, hard men of which he was clearly afraid, used her title. “Well,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Not that it matters much in any case. Perhaps this one knows where they are,” she said, smiling at Eriondrian Tirinian, the nobleman’s face pale with fright at the apparent mention of his parents.
“If he knows,” Petrax answered, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes, “then you’ll know soon enough.”
Tesharna nodded, moving her smile to Alesh, the man’s face still stony and unreadable. “Well, then, Sergeant. I guess you’d better ask him. Before the day is out, I want any who are not loyal to me within this city dead.”
The man bowed slightly. “As you wish, Chosen,” he said, but it was clear that he would have no difficulty following the order. A dark man, was Sergeant Petrax, a cruel one. But also a useful one.
***
Rion watched from where he still knelt as the man, Sergeant Petrax, drew a dagger from his belt and started toward him. He told himself to relax. He told himself they’d expected something like this, expected Tesharna to not have shared her true allegiances with every one of her guards but to have a few select of those which she trusted who also worshipped Shira. It had been Alesh’s thought, and Rion had been forced to admit it had seemed logical, at least at the time. But logic lost a lot of its meaning when there was a man walking toward you with a knife, and he found no comfort in the fact that everything was going, more or less, according to plan. After all, the plan could just be shit, couldn’t it?
Alesh gave him a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not yet, then. Which also made a kind of sense. Alesh would want to give time for Captain Nordin and his small army to get as far away as possible, too far to hear Tesharna’s shouts for help, if they were able to pull off what they intended. Just then, though, Rion thought he was the only person likely to be shouting in the near future, and he wondered if Alesh planned to wait until the sergeant started lopping pieces off before making his move.
They’re only bluffing, Rion told himself. After all, Tesharna will want to let the captain get far enough away too, for she won’t want to give away what she has planned or that she has betrayed the Light, either. At least, he hoped so. But the man moving closer to him didn’t seem like he was just bluffing, not at all, and the wide grin on his face wasn’t much of a comfort.
The man had nearly reached him, the dagger he held seeming to grow in Rion’s vision until he could see nothing else, until there was nothing else—then, suddenly, the wide doors to the audience chamber burst open.
Everyone—including Rion—spun to see a man standing in the doorway. He held what appeared to be a length of metal with a hook on the end, the kind of tool used to tend to fire places. Blood dripped from it onto the floor and the two guards which had been stationed outside lay unconscious on the floor to either side of him.
Rion glanced at the man’s face and blinked in shock. “O-Odrick?” he said.
The blacksmith winced as if embarrassed then started to answer, but Tesharna beat him to it. “Kill him!” she screamed, and the sergeant and the other men drew their swords and started forward. It’s now or never, Rion thought, we can’t ask for a better distraction.
Alesh gave Rion and the others a grim nod as he moved his hands in a certain way and the knot—tied by Marta and not Bishop Orren—slipped away as if by magic, the rope that had bound him a moment before falling to the ground. Rion and the others did the same, following Alesh as he rose. And then it began in truth.
Chapter Thirty-Two
At first, Tesharna couldn’t understand what she was seeing. Sergeant Petrax and his other men all moved toward the newcomer who stood in the doorway. As soon as their backs were turned, Alesh and the other fugitives rose, and the ropes which had bound them fell away as if by magic.
“It’s a ruse!” Bishop Orren shouted. “A ru—” His words cut off as Alesh wrapped his arms around the bishop’s neck almost casually then gave a savage twist. Tesharna heard a crack, and the bishop fell to the floor, lifeless.
Tesharna tried to shout at Sergeant Petrax, to give him warning, but in her surprise she couldn’t seem to get the words out, and she was still trying when Eriondrian Tirinian moved behind the sergeant who was only just beginning to turn. Before he did, the nobleman snatched the dagger from Petrax’s hand and buried it in his neck.
This isn’t right, Tesharna thought wildly. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Petrax stiffened, his body going impossibly rigid as if he’d been struck by lightning, then Eriondrian ripped the blade free in a spray of blood. Petrax’s men turned, only just becoming aware of what was happening with the prisoners. One rushed at the Ferinan, his sword leading, but the dusky-skinned man spun, and the next thing Tesharna and the unfortunate soldier knew, the Ferinan’s attacker was flying over his head, his sword falling from his grasp as he did.
No, Tesharna thought frantically, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.
But it was happening, and no amount of denying would change it. Even as she watched, Alesh swung a blade—she thought it might have been the same one the Ferinan’s adversary had dropped, but in the madness of the melee before her there was no way to be certain—for it to cleave deeply into the head of another of Petrax’s troops.
The unfortunate man stood with a confused expression on his face for several seconds, as if he were a child whose tutor had given him a particularly difficult problem. Then he collapsed to the ground at Alesh’s feet.
It wasn’t until she hit the wall that Tesharna realized she’d been backing up in her surprise and shock. There was a mewling sound from beside her, and she glanced over to see Rolf, the guard’s eyes wide and terrified, pressed against the wall nearby. Tesharna wanted to say something to him, but everything seemed to be happening at once, and she couldn’t make her mind—once famed for its military genius—work. A thousand battles won due to her strategies over the years, yet now her thoughts seemed to have been cast into a deep fog, and try as she might, she could see no answers within that gray mist.
For those decisions she had made, those movements of troops and resources which had cost hundreds of lives, had often saved thousands, were always made within a warm tent in the center of an army of men willing to die to protect her. Decisions made not in the heat of battle, but over a warm cup of tea.
Petrax’s men struggled desperately to the last, but it was over in minutes just the same, for the three men fought like some demons of myth, and even the newcomer pitched in, making use of a strength that was shocking despite his size, and heaving the last of Petrax’s men against the stone wall with a resounding crash.
Then it was done, and Tesharna’s troops lay scattered on the floor of the audience chamber like broken dolls, dead or dying. Alesh turned to her, watching her with that same, placid expression.
Something about that look, that arrogance, cut past the fear that had taken hold of Tesharna, and she felt anger, dark, hungry anger welling within her. “You,” she hissed at the man. “you have ruined everything.”
He said nothing, only kneeling unhurriedly and pulling a sword—currently embedded in the chest of one of the dead men—free before rising once more and starting toward her in measured, unhurried steps.
“You think to challenge me?” she demanded. “Do you not know who I am? You are nothing to me, boy. Nothing.”
He did pause then, but the expression on his face was not one of fear, not even one of anger, as she might have expected. Instead, it was sadness. “As my parents were nothing?” he asked, his voice so soft that had the rest of the room not been silent—the dying men whose moans had filled the air a moment before having succumbed to their mortal wounds—she would not have heard.
“Your parents,” she spat. “Fools, both, just as you are a fool. You will die here, just as they died in that forest so long ago,
boy, and I will be granted my reward. Rolf,” she said, turning to the guardsman, “kill him!”
Rolf started as she called his name, and he turned to look at her with wide, wild eyes. His sword still sat in the scabbard at his side, and he made no move to grab it, instead shaking his head slowly as if in a daze, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.
“Rolf,” Tesharna said, “protect me. I am your Chosen, your lover—save me!”
Instead, the guardsman only backed away further along the wall, shaking his head as if to deny not just her but all the events of the last few minutes. Tesharna felt a stab of pain lance through her. She had told herself Rolf loved her, must love her, for she was the most beautiful woman ever to have lived. But the look on his face now was not one of love but fear and, slowly, as she watched, becoming one of mild disgust.
“You c-can have the old bitch,” he said, looking at the man Alesh and those others gathered behind him. “I…I won’t stop you.”
Old bitch. Tesharna found herself even more stunned and overwhelmed at the man’s words than she had been at the sudden violence. Rolf, the man whom she had loved, whom she had believed loved her. Old bitch. The words played over and over in her mind and heartache and abandonment erupted in her, pain greater than any she had ever known before, any she had believed a person could know. He had rejected her.
She latched onto that thought, holding onto it the way a woman might hold on to a thick tree in a terrible windstorm, and there her scrabbling, frantic thoughts found purchase. Slowly, the fear and pain changed, turning to something darker. He had rejected her. She screamed then, not with sadness or pain, but with fury. “How dare you?” she demanded of the guardsman. She raised her hand, calling on the powers of the Dark, the powers Shira had given her, and Rolf stiffened, a querulous expression on his face.
The Warriors of the Gods Page 36
