Mistress of the Wind (Arucadi Series Book 1)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “What you doin’ to this poor child?” The man called Pete advanced on Kyla. Lizzie darted around the men and ran outside.

  Kyla backed to the curtained doorway and wrapped the curtain around her.

  “Pervertin’ a young girl, that’s what,” the innkeeper thundered. “Look at her, the shameless whore!”

  “I was trying to make her tell me who came in here and stole my gold from my pack,” Kyla said. “Get out of here and let me get dressed.”

  “Little late to think of that, gal,” one man said, and the others guffawed.

  They grabbed for her. She dodged into the back room and in one quick motion snatched the pitcher, scooped water from the tub, and tossed it in their faces. They cursed and lunged for her. She hurled the pitcher at Pete. It hit him on the nose, bringing a howl of rage.

  She kicked at her attackers. One tall man grabbed her from behind and pinioned her arms to her side. She lowered her head and raised it, striking him beneath the chin with a force that knocked his teeth together and jerked his head back, making him loosen his grip. She kneed him and scratched his face and arms with her nails.

  The others caught her, dumped her head first into the tub of dirty water, and held her under until her lungs were bursting for air. They yanked her up by her hair and she drew in a frantic breath, only to be shoved underwater again while she was inhaling. Pulled up again, she choked and gagged as they hauled her out of the tub and threw her onto the floor. While she fought for breath and retched up the muddy water, they dragged her across the rough wooden floor into the dressing area. Splinters stabbed into her bare flesh. Pete sat on her, his beefy hands pressing her arms against the floor. The other four men stood around them leering down at her.

  “Shucks, Pete, you got her all dirty again,” one said.

  “She don’t stink like she did before,” another said, laughing. The others’ comments couldn’t be heard over the bawling of the baby and Ruffian’s frantic barking outside.

  Kyla gasped beneath Pete’s suffocating weight. Hot tears burned her eyes. She had no doubt what the men intended. Surely if Claid could change back and prevent it, he would, but he did nothing but wail.

  “Somebody kick that damn dog in the teeth and shut it up,” someone said.

  “While you’re at it, stuff a towel down the kid’s throat,” Pete added.

  Kyla squirmed in helpless agony.

  “Here, what’s all this?” The strident voice of the kitchen shrew sliced through the din.

  Pete didn’t move, but the other men turned toward the door. “We caught her corruptin’ little Lizzie,” one said.

  “She’s a thievin’ tramp,” the innkeeper declared. “We’re fixin’ to teach her a lesson.”

  “She don’t need that kind of lesson,” the woman said, coming to stand over Kyla, fisted hands on her wide hips. “I’ve sent Lizzie for the sheriff’s men, on account of that poor baby. I think she stole it. They’ll see she gets what she deserves. Ain’t no call to put yourselves down on her level.”

  With a loud shriek Lizzie appeared in the doorway. “The dog’s tore itself loose.”

  Kyla waited for Ruffian to throw himself onto her tormenters.

  “Where’d it go?” The innkeeper pushed Lizzie aside and peered out the door.

  “I don’t know,” Lizzie sniveled. “It ran away.”

  “Let it go, and good riddance,” the innkeeper snarled. “Did you get Ollie and Jake?”

  Lizzie nodded. “They’re on their way.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LINE’S END JUSTICE

  Pete got off Kyla and hauled her to her feet. “Hang on to her, boys,” he told his companions.

  They clamped their hands around her arms and twisted them behind her back. The more she struggled, the tighter and higher they yanked her arms, until she screamed. Pete grinned and walked forward to meet the two newcomers.

  Ollie and Jake were big men who looked so alike that they had to be brothers, maybe even twins. Both had mean little eyes set deep in fat florid faces. Both carried truncheons. One slapped his against his palm and stared greedily at Kyla while the innkeeper and Pete piled up lies about her.

  “She come into my place beggin’ food,” the innkeeper said, glancing at his wife. “Stunk to high heaven, she did. And luggin’ a near-starved baby. I don’t generally give charity, but I felt sorry for the baby. Wouldn’t want to see it die.”

  As if to support his words, his wife stooped and picked up the wailing infant. She cradled it somewhat gingerly and rocked it while her husband continued. “The wife’s convinced she stole it. Even so, we guv ’er food and milk and sent her out here for a hot bath for her and the littl’un. And she repays the kindness by attackin’ poor Lizzie here.”

  “That’s a lie,” Kyla shouted. “I paid for the food and the bath and a room. With two gold pieces. While I was bathing, someone sneaked in here and emptied my pack and stole the rest of the gold.”

  “Gold! What a laugh!” Pete snorted. “Look at ’er! Where’d the likes of her get gold, I’d like to know? Look at the junk in her pack.” He kicked a battered pot, sent it clattering across the wooden floor. “Think she’d get gold from peddlin’ this trash?”

  “Look at her clothes.” The innkeeper picked up the tunic that she’d planned to put on. It had been none too clean even before it had been dragged through the muddy water on the floor. “That’s cleaner than what she had on when she came. Gold! Hah!” He spat.

  Kyla reached for the tunic. The innkeeper swung it away. “Turned her dog on us, too, she did,” he went on. “Big, nasty brute. The wife had to pacify it with a bone to save us from gettin’ tore up.”

  “The dog never hurt anyone,” Kyla said. “Not even when they kicked it. Please, let me get dressed.”

  “Ain’t lettin’ you loose for nothin’, slut,” said one of the men who held her.

  “Offered to sell herself, she did,” the innkeeper leered. “As if anybody’d touch ’er.”

  “They’re lying,” Kyla cried. “They stole my gold and they’re trying to cover it up.”

  “So ya had gold, eh?” sneered Ollie or Jake. “And jewels and silk clothes too, I reckon? All hid in a peddler’s pack?”

  “I’m no peddler. The gold was from the sale of a house I owned on the other side of Rim Canyon.”

  “Owned a house! That’s a good one!” Jake or Ollie guffawed. And Rim Canyon, where’s that? I never heard of no Rim Canyon. D’you mean Uncrossable Canyon? That’s even crazier. I suppose you’ll tell us the wind blew you across.”

  “I’m a windspeaker,” Kyla said desperately. “You have no right to treat me this way.”

  “Windspeaker! What’s that?” Pete said. “Full o’ wind is what you are.” He roared with laughter.

  “Don’t you respect windspeakers here?” Kyla cried.

  “It’s daft she is,” put in the innkeeper’s wife. “A real lunatic.” She rocked the squalling infant. “This baby’s stole, I’d wager. She allowed it wasn’t hers.”

  Ollie or Jake slapped the truncheon harder against his palm and licked his lips. “We’ll get the truth from her with a floggin’.”

  If only Claid would do something. And where was Ruffian? Her only friends had deserted her.

  “What’s these?” Jake or Ollie picked up a book that lay near him. “Somethin’ else she stole?”

  “Most likely,” the innkeeper agreed. “They’re old things and I doubt they’re worth much, but I thought I might haul ’em over to Old Man Stebbins and see if he’d give anything for ’em.”

  “They’re mine!” Kyla shouted. “You’ve no right—”

  Pete cuffed her across the face. “Shut up, slut.”

  Kyla’s face stung. Blood welled from a cut on her lip. Its metallic taste filled her mouth.

  “I figure that trash’ll bring no more’n what she owes me for the food and the bath and the cleanin’ up of this here mess,” said the innkeeper. “Not to mention payin’ for the hurt to poor
little Lizzie.”

  Poor little Lizzie! Kyla almost laughed. The innkeeper would never share his ill-gotten gains with the wretched servant girl.

  Lizzie squealed on cue. “Come after me like a crazy person, she did. Tried to strangle me. And I’d been nothin’ but good to ’er.” She sniffled righteously, and the innkeeper’s wife nodded confirmation.

  “We’ll show her we don’t take to her kind here,” Ollie or Jake said. “We’ll get the truth outa her, then lock her up till she’s ready to do some honest work.”

  The men passed her to Jake and Ollie, giving her no chance to flee. The two burly men lifted her. One grabbed her wrists, the other grabbed both ankles, and they swung her between them like a side of beef. “Slimy tart,” one said as they pulled her to the door.

  “Give me my clothes. Let me dress,” Kyla begged.

  “Bit late to turn proper,” the innkeeper said with a snigger, as he and the others trooped after Ollie and Jake.

  They dragged her through the inn and out onto the street. “The baby! Take care of the baby!” she screamed.

  After that she had no thought for anything but herself and her humiliation at being paraded naked through the center of town. Men clapped their hands over the women’s eyes or turned them around, but they themselves gawked shamelessly. Many trailed after Ollie and Jake, whistling and jeering. By the time her captors pulled her into an open square in front of a large stone building, they’d attracted a crowd.

  Amid hoots and catcalls she was set on her feet facing a tall post and shoved against it. Ollie and Jake yanked her arms high above her head, tied her wrists together, and bound them to the post. The rough stake pressed between her breasts, tearing the flesh. Someone kicked her feet into position on either side of the post and bound them in place.

  “She’s ready,” announced Jake or Ollie. “Fetch the lash.”

  Several minutes passed. Kyla cast about for something she could say or do to save herself. The wind! If she could sing the wind and beg its help, she could show these stupid louts what a windspeaker was. She had to calm herself, to close her mind to the taunts of the crowd. She lifted her voice, sent it soaring in urgent appeal.

  The wind remained colorless, lifeless, unstirred by her plight.

  “Cut that yowlin’.” Ollie or Jake smacked her head into the post. Pain shot through her skull. Her teeth slammed together, halting the song.

  Someone said, “Here’s the whip.”

  Behind her something whistled and fiery torment slashed across her bare shoulders. She shrieked, and the crowd applauded and shouted for more.

  “Tell us where you stole the stuff in your pack,” Ollie or Jake said. The other added, “And who you stole the baby from.”

  “I stole nothing. I’ve told you that,” she said, bracing herself. The lash struck again, and she clamped her teeth together to keep from screaming. The thought of giving this bloodthirsty crowd the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy sickened her. Nor would she confess to crimes she had not committed.

  She imagined Alair looking into his “far-seer,” seeing her plight, and transforming himself into a crow to fly to her rescue. Or Claid taking wolf form and bounding into the crowd, scaring them and ripping Ollie’s and Jake’s flesh the way their whip was tearing hers.

  No rescuer came.

  The whip laced her back with agonizing blows, and warm blood oozed over her buttocks and trickled down her legs. Forgetting her pride, she screamed and pled and cursed. Perhaps she even called out the confession they demanded; she no longer knew what she was saying. Still the lash sliced into her, bringing explosions of pain until she slipped finally into merciful oblivion.

  Icy water splashed over her face and into the open wounds on her shoulders and back, shocking her to awareness. She coughed and spluttered, and gasped at the raging agony. More slowly came the comprehension that she was no longer bound to the post but lying on her stomach on a hard, foul-smelling mat.

  She got her eyes open and turned her head enough to see a stoop-shouldered, grizzled old man standing over her holding an empty bucket and grinning.

  “Had a long sleep, you did. I was startin’ to worry.”

  Kyla tried to sit up, fell back groaning. “Who are you?” she asked in a voice that refused to rise above a whisper.

  “I’m a doctor, missy. Doctor Sam. Town pays me to tend to the prisoners and the workhouse inmates.” He set down the bucket, dug into a worn leather bag, and came out with a large jar. “Lie still. I’m going to rub some salve on your back. It’ll hurt going on, but in a little while it’ll make you feel better, plus it’ll help you heal.”

  He scooped a handful of yellow salve from the jar and bent over her. His breath stank of liquor and bad teeth. What kind of healer could he be? Still naked, she did not want this vile man to touch her. She tried to scoot away, but he grabbed her and held her while he slathered the greasy stuff over her wounds. She screamed as his rough hands assaulted the raw flesh.

  “Easy, now,” he said. “Easy. Gotta have this. Those are deep cuts, and if they mortify, you’ll get a fever that can kill you.”

  He rubbed harder and longer than necessary to spread the foul substance. His hands lingered on her sides and buttocks where the damage was less. She felt defiled by his touch and refused to look at him when he stood and spoke again.

  “I’ll come back in the morning and do another application. I’ve told the sheriff you won’t be fit to work for two or three days, but I can’t promise he’ll listen. He hasn’t listened the times I’ve told him that Ollie and Jake get too happy with the lash.” He put the jar of salve back into his bag and lifted something off the floor near her feet. “Here’s a blanket.” He shook out a piece of dirty wool and spread the scratchy cloth over her back.

  “No!” she shouted.

  “You’ll need it tonight. Gets cold in here.” He picked up his bag and the water bucket, went to the door, and knocked on it until it clanged open.

  She caught a glimpse of Jake or Ollie’s fat face leering at her as the doctor stepped outside. Shuddering, she turned her head until the door slammed.

  She tossed the blanket off her back and sat up, gritting her teeth against the pain. She was in a tiny cell, cold and damp, with the reek of an outhouse. The bloodstained mat and dirty blanket were its sole amenities, other than a stinking metal bucket in the corner, in which apparently she was expected to relieve herself. The only light came from a narrow slit high in the brick wall. The heavy, metal-studded door had no knob or latch and could be opened only from the outside.

  She sank back onto the mat and sobbed. She’d lost everything. Her gold, her pack with her clothes and cooking gear, the books. Claid.

  What had they done with Claid? Surely he would have saved her if he could. For some reason he must not have been able to change. She hoped it was only a temporary helplessness brought on by near-starvation and not that in taking the form of a baby he had deprived himself of his powers.

  And Ruffian. Instead of protecting her as Claid had promised, he’d run away. That could only mean Claid had lost whatever control he’d had over the dog. She couldn’t bear to think of what could happen to the poor animal, running loose in this awful country with its iron monsters and its heartless people.

  Without Claid and without Ruffian she felt utterly desolate. She might as well have gone back to Alair and helped him with his crazy scheme against the mindstealers; she could be no worse off. At least without a mind she wouldn’t suffer, wouldn’t feel the terrible pain that flamed in her back.

  Alair. Again she thought of the ill-fated rescue that had led to all this misery. If only she’d never crossed paths with the mage. She’d saved him, and he’d ruined her life.

  No, that was unfair. The mindstealers had ruined her life. Alair had been right when he’d accused her of being too like the wind. She shouldn’t have forced Claid to change his form. Instead, she should have persuaded him to return with her to Starwind Peak. There she should have sat
down with Alair and learned more about his plan for destroying the mindstealers.

  She remembered with a pang of guilt that Dannel had said Alair was injured in an accident in his laboratory—an accident that somehow she had caused. She hadn’t even bothered to find out how badly he was hurt.

  Dannel was Alair. So the injury couldn’t have been serious, or he wouldn’t have been able to send Dannel to talk to her.

  Alair was her sole remaining chance. He could use his mage powers to learn her whereabouts and come to save her. Even if the rescue meant that she’d have to help with his scheme to destroy the mindstealers, if he were to suddenly appear in her cell and offer to whisk her back over the Rim, she’d be so happy to see him she’d …

  What? She dropped the question into the well of pain that spread across her raw and fiery back and drove the dream of rescue from her mind.

  She cried herself out and lay exhausted but awake, when the cell door opened and an older man entered. She caught up the ragged blanket and held it in front of her.

  “Supper,” he said, holding out a wooden bowl filled with a questionable liquid. He gazed at her incuriously and with no hint of compassion.

  Clutching the blanket with one hand, she took the bowl in her other. It bore a faint odor of chicken. “I’ll bring you a cup of water when I come back for the bowl,” the man said in a bored tone.

  He left, and she drank the broth. Salty with little other flavor, all that justified calling it soup were a few shreds of what might have been meat and a tiny piece of something green.

  Her cell had grown dark by the time her jailer returned. The broth had left her with a maddening thirst. She reached eagerly for the promised cup of water, gulped it down in three swallows, and tipped the cup to capture the last drops.

  “Could I have more?” she asked, handing back the cup.

  He shook his head. “That’s your ration for today. Lucky they’re feeding you. Doc Sam insisted on it, or they’d’ve made you wait and earn your keep first.”