by Dawn Cook
Strell’s mood shifted to a wary watchfulness. He wasn’t quite sure what to think of Lodesh, the supposed Warden of the abandoned city. Alissa had shown him the handsome staff he had given her—she had since hidden it in the kitchen behind the apples—and told him about her midnight tea party with Talo-Toecan and the Warden. Part of him was relieved he hadn’t been seeing things in the grove of ancient trees and that Alissa, not Bailic, had woken the city, but he didn’t like ghosts. The plains were full of them, making his skin crawl and his head hurt.
Even worse, every time he asked Alissa about Lodesh, she blushed and changed the subject. He couldn’t help the sharp, surprising flash of jealousy at the thought of someone other than himself charming Alissa, and Lodesh sounded too substantial to be a true ghost.
From the dark came a faint sound, pulling his gaze up and around behind him. He listened, frowning with the effort. It was the whisper of fabric against stone. Thinking Alissa was up and about, he frantically looked for a place to stash the plate. But his guilt turned to astonishment as Bailic’s outline hesitated at the top of the stair. “Bailic,” Strell muttered, brushing his shirt free of the brown of wayward spice. “I should have known.”
“Piper?” Bailic seemed uncharacteristically surprised as well. “I wasn’t seeking you.”
Unwilling to let Bailic loom over him, Strell gripped the banister and pulled himself to a stand. Bailic made his slow way down to halt on the last step. Strell eyed the fallen Keeper suspiciously, clenching his hand to hide his weakness.
“Your night is restless?” Bailic said, no hint to his emotion in his tone.
“Yes.” With a false impassivity, Strell stood before Bailic. None of his growing hatred showed, hidden behind years of dealing with contrary landowners and balky inn-keepers. Bailic had taken his finger, his music, his chosen way of life, but he would not take his pride.
“My night is restless, too.” Bailic’s gaze slid to the plate on the stair, and a whisper of a smile drifted over him. “She makes a wicked sugared apple, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
Bailic adjusted the long vest he wore open over his shirt and trousers. “She might make them for me, someday,” he said slyly, “if she agrees to act as my eyes.”
“She hates you, Bailic,” Strell said, his voice flat. “She won’t.”
Bailic’s eyes rolled to the far ceiling, an insulting sigh escaping him. “She didn’t tell you of our conversation in the hall?” Bailic stepped closer, a taunt eagerness in him that Strell didn’t trust. “I asked her to stay and be my eyes when the book is open. She agreed to consider it.”
Strell drew back, and Bailic laughed, a soft murmur of sound. “Don’t hold it against her,” he said. “She’s only looking out for her well-being. She knows I’m going to bring the foothills and plains to war. I can protect her.” His lips curved into a smile. “You can’t.”
His jaw clenched, and Strell’s grip on the banister grew to a white-knuckled strength. He wondered if the conversation had really taken place or if Bailic was goading him, trying to make him react so he could justify taking off another finger. It wouldn’t work. He wasn’t a child to be manipulated that easily. “She won’t agree to it,” he said. “She hates you more than I do.”
The fallen Keeper’s shoulders shifted, and he leaned confidently against the banister. His smiled deepened. “Really?” Stooping low, he retrieved the plate with the remaining apple. “I’m glad to have found you tonight. There is the small matter of your studies we need to talk about.”
Strell tried to make his step backward look casual. His missing digit throbbed in remembered hurt, and he pulled his hand close. Frustration burned as Bailic noticed and raised his eyebrows. Strell would nearly give his soul for five minutes with Bailic as his equal.
“Your skills seem to have reached another unfortunate plateau,” the Keeper said, his voice light as he took a bite of the apple. “You haven’t shown any progress this last week. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m trying very hard,” Strell said softly, his breathing shallow. “You said yourself I was doing third-year tasks. I can’t learn everything overnight.”
“Mind your tone,” Bailic warned as he brushed his vest free of the fallen sugar crystals with a free hand. “It’s up to you how fast you learn. The tasks are third-year only because the Masters were jealous with their secrets. I’m not.” He smiled benevolently. “I’m very generous. And I won’t wait twenty years for you. You will have that book open by summer.”
“Summer!” Strell said, aghast. “That’s impossible.”
“I hope not, my piper, for your sake.” Bailic took another bite with a mocking slowness.
A thick feeling of helplessness, of being trapped, welled up in him. It was a feeling Strell wasn’t used to, and he nearly panicked at the unfamiliar tightness about his thoughts. He backed away, remembering the humiliation of being under Bailic’s ward, unable to do anything but watch as the Keeper removed the first joint of his finger as easily as Strell might a dandelion head.
But pain came to pass, and his music was already dead, killed in his effort to keep Alissa safe. It was a sacrifice he didn’t regret. What did it matter now if he had nine usable fingers or eight? Bailic’s threats of more mutilations were empty. Strell drew himself up with a new courage. “You’ve taken away everything I cared about already,” he said, his voice harsh.
Seeming unruffled, Bailic took another bite of the apple, his attention focused entirely on the sweet. “Not quite everything,” he said. “It’s foolish to become attached to anything, especially that girl you brought with you.” He placed the last bite of apple in his mouth and chewed reflectively. “I do believe I’m going to keep her.”
Strell’s eyes widened. “She won’t stay once the book is open,” he said, as much to assure himself as deny Bailic’s claim.
Bailic pushed the plate at Strell until he took it. “I never said she was going to like the situation. I only said I’m going to keep her.” He turned as if the conversation were over and took a step upward.
“You agreed to leave her alone,” Strell said as he followed him. “You got the cursed book. Leave her alone!” he shouted, not caring if he tempted Bailic’s anger or not. The Keeper paused, and Strell came to an abrupt halt below him.
“The agreement with Talo-Toecan ends when the book is opened,” Bailic said. “I’m not going to break my word.” Leaning over him, Bailic whispered, “I don’t need to. But what if she should knock on my door—again? Who am I to coldly turn such an innocent from my chambers—a second time?” A white eyebrow rose. “I’ll not be accused of being rude.”
Strell’s throat tightened. He couldn’t attack Bailic. The man would take his entire hand off. But his guile and distractions weren’t working anymore. He couldn’t protect Alissa from this! Strell’s blood pounded in his temple, and he took a ragged breath. He couldn’t do anything! “I won’t let you keep her,” he gasped out, and Bailic shook his head.
“Silly man,” Bailic taunted. “You’ll probably be dead. It depends entirely on how fast you open the book.”
“Threatening her won’t encourage me to open it,” he said, the hurt from his nails digging into his palm breaking into his awareness.
“I think it will. Open it fast enough, and I may reconsider. The longer it takes, the more—fond—I’ll become of her.” Bailic smiled. “Study hard, Piper.”
The taste of failure was as dry and bitter as ash. Bailic’s eyes were upon him as he trembled from frustration and helpless anger. His body demanded he rise up and fight, but the memory of pain and the promise of Bailic doing worse to Alissa kept him unmoving.
Appearing smug and content, Bailic watched him struggle with his emotions, clearly aware that Strell was just strong enough of will to keep from attacking him. The mad Keeper stepped close, and Strell’s heart pounded as he kept himself from moving. “One last thing,” Bailic whispered. “It’s true I never break my word, but s
omehow I always get what I want.” He leaned forward until he was a finger’s width from Strell’s ear. “Somehow . . .” he breathed, and the rich scent of spice washed over Strell. Snickering, Bailic spun about and continued up the stairs, leaving only his last, condescending look to linger in Strell’s memory, taunting and ridiculing him.
Standing alone in the moonlight, Strell took a quick, ragged breath and tried to gather his scattered soul. He could do nothing. Bailic would take everything from him, and he could do nothing to stop it. He knew he could make it to the coast, but Alissa wouldn’t. He could leave to save his life, but he wouldn’t abandon Alissa. Only now did he understand. He wouldn’t risk his life for Alissa if his emotions stopped at simple affection. With an emotion that struck him deep, Strell admitted it was for love.
14
“Ouch,” Alissa whispered as her needle slipped. She glanced at Strell kneeling beside the fire and stuck the side of her finger in her mouth. Trying to disguise that she had pricked her finger again, she reached for the teapot on the hearth.
“You all right?” he asked, not looking up from the pot of glaze he was stirring.
“Um-hum,” she murmured. Topping off her cup, she hid her embarrassment by taking a quick sip. They were spending their evening in the dining hall, and the small arc of firelight did little to illuminate the empty walls. Bailic’s tray had been delivered, and as long as they were quiet, they would have the Hold to themselves for the rest of the night. A pile of green fabric lay on her lap. She was making Strell another shirt, as she had nearly two new outfits for herself in her room. Talon was in the kitchen watching for mice. Kestrels generally didn’t hunt after dark, but no one had told Talon that.
Alissa leaned to set her cup down on the floor, wondering if her finger was going to stop bleeding anytime soon. Her gaze drifted past the darkness to the stark walls. The long tables made the room seem all the more barren. There were no rugs, no wall hangings, nothing. She hated the emptiness. Bailic had stripped this room along with most of the Hold. She thought he had left the curtains covering the expansive windows to block the morning sun rather than any desire to soften the walls. Wards kept out the wind and cold. When not covered, the windows showed a wonderful corner of the snowy garden.
“You know,” she said, breaking their companionable silence. “This would be a nice room if we brought up a rug or two from the annexes. We could even bring up a couple of more comfortable chairs.”
Frowning, Strell met her eyes. “Bailic wants the Hold empty. He likes it that way.”
A smile crept over her as she imagined the dining hall as it could be. “A little table would be nice for setting the tea on,” she said. “And a footrest.”
“Not a good idea,” he warned, continuing to stir the glaze.
Alissa examined her finger and resumed her stitching. “Bailic doesn’t come in here anymore. He only took everything out to try to find my book. He won’t care.”
Strell said nothing, but he shook his head and settled further on the backs of his heels.
Mildly peeved, Alissa decided she would bring up at least a chair from the annexes, even if she had to do it herself. Sitting on these monstrosities of hard wood was becoming painful. They were all straight-backed, with no cushion at all.
Strell exchanged his pot of glaze for another, mixing it gently to gauge the consistency as it thickened. Alissa watched him with a faint sense of sorrow. Their nights had become decidedly quiet since Bailic removed half of Strell’s finger. Strell had replaced his practice of music with the occasional retelling of a story or working on his paints and brushes. Once constant and exasperating, his jests were now few and far between. She would give anything to hear a bawdy tavern tune, sung with the sole purpose to embarrass her.
Strell was being foolish, she thought. There was no real reason he couldn’t play something. He could shift the music up the scale and work around that note completely. It had been almost two weeks. He was being a stubborn plainsman, thinking the lack of a segment of finger made him less. He hadn’t even let her see his finger, except the one time with the clay. She lowered her head and smiled privately. While teaching her, he had set his pride aside.
She laced another stitch and paused. Perhaps all he needed was a push? Setting her stitching down, she rose and started for the kitchen. Her pipe was in the pantry where she had left it after her and Strell’s dinner out in the firepit last fall. She never played it anymore. Next to Strell, she sounded pathetic.
Strell looked up as she reached the black archway. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” she said mysteriously.
Talon blinked at her in what looked like annoyance as she entered the dark kitchen in a scuff of shoes. There was a skitter of noise as the mouse Talon had been watching for scurried into hiding. “The mice will be back soon,” she promised, finding her pipe right where she had left it, tucked behind the apples with her staff. Not sure what his reaction would be, she half hid the pipe with her body as she returned to the fire.
Strell glanced up as she settled herself back in her chair. She knew he had seen it as his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed. A splash of glaze slopped over the edge of the small pot as he stirred it too hard. “I’ll get that,” Alissa offered, snatching up the rag she used to protect her hands from the hot teapot and kneeling beside him. “Hold this for me,” she said, extending her pipe to Strell.
He froze, and she looked up from the flagstones. “Take it,” she insisted, and he lurched to a stand, the pot of glaze clutched in his hand like an excuse.
“No.”
The harsh denial surprised her, and she felt a touch of anger. “You’re being silly,” she said. “Not every song uses that note.”
Strell’s face went hard. “You have no call to say anything about this,” he said, his voice so cold, she was afraid she had gone too far.
“But your finger almost reaches,” she pleaded from the flagstones.
“Almost isn’t close enough.”
“Look.” Alissa wiped up the glaze before it could stain and got to her feet. “Just hold it for a moment. Show me how close it comes.”
His jaw gritted as she stood before him, but he didn’t back away.
“Burn you to ash, Strell,” she cried, frustrated. “Your finger is half gone. Hiding it or ignoring it isn’t going to make it come back! I just want to help. It’s my fault Bailic did that to you.”
She caught her breath and turned away. “It’s my fault, and you won’t even let me look at it. You won’t let me try to help,” she whispered, realizing why she was so adamant he play again. It was because of her that he lost his music. She would get it back for him.
Strell shifted his balance. “It’s not your fault I can’t play,” he said stiffly. “I’m not a piper anymore. There’s no reason for you to look at it. It healed fine.”
A flash of misplaced anger went through her. She spun back and grabbed his hand. “You’re acting like a child,” she accused. “Let me look at it.” Strell pulled his hand away, making her more upset. “Let me see!” she shouted, taking his arm and pinning it between her arm and her body.
Strell started to pull away, and she gripped his arm all the tighter. She gave him a severe look over her shoulder before turning her attention to his hand. It was as strong as she remembered, brown from the sun with knuckles thicker than hers. His fingernails were cut close and had a rim of clay under them. His skin was warm, rough with calluses. It reminded her of her papa’s hand.
Her anger slowed as she leaned to inspect his smallest finger. Only the first joint had been removed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. It had healed well and clean. Strell could have done worse, she thought, loosening her grip as he pulled gently away.
She put the pipe in his hand with a firm determination. “Show me where your finger hits the pipe,” she demanded.
Strell dropped his head, the pipe in his left hand. “Alissa,” he said softly. “Let the wind take it and go. I�
��ve tried to play. I can’t.”
“I know. I heard. It wasn’t that bad.”
The look he gave her was almost frightened. “You heard?”
She nodded. “Show me.”
His head shook and he backed up a step. “I’m not going to play.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she said, feeling her pulse race. She would hear him play, even if it took until sunup.
Strell glanced down at the pipe and licked his lips.
“Show me how short that finger is,” she said.
He frowned, his brow creasing in a defiant pull. Immediately she softened. “Do this once for me,” she said, “and I’ll say nothing more about it, even if the Navigator brings his Hounds to earth.”
Strell rubbed a hand across his head. He glanced at her suspiciously, moving to sit upon the flagstones. Swallowing hard, he grasped the pipe properly, holding it so it was clear he wouldn’t play it.
Alissa sank down beside him. He started to pull the pipe away, and she grasped his arm, shifting until she was so close her leg touched his. “Hold still,” she said, leaning over his hands. Her gaze intent, she examined his comfortable grip on the pipe. His fingers curved naturally, leaving a definite gap between his smallest finger and the last hole. The smell of desert was on him even though it was midwinter. Her shoulders eased in the reminder of the summer’s warmth. “It’s not that much too short,” she said softly.
Immediately Strell pulled from her loose grip. “It’s enough.” He extended the pipe, and when she ignored it, he set it between them.
“Your finger would reach if the hole was on the side instead of the top,” she insisted.
“But it isn’t, is it,” he said bitterly, taking up the fire irons and jabbing at the fire.
A wave of heat billowed out. “So make a new pipe,” Alissa said, tired of his sulky mood.