by Amy Raby
From within his shirt, Sashi made a sad mewling noise.
I’ll get you help soon, Janto told him. The poor creature had a broken leg. He’d wrapped it as best he could, and Rhianne had wrapped his bleeding shoulder. They’d tried to coax Whiskers back into her cage, but she had ignored them utterly, consuming her kill. In the end, they’d had no choice but to leave her there; they certainly didn’t want to become her next dinner. Janto wrote a note in multiple languages and pinned it to the door, explaining to his soldiers what was inside so they didn’t burst in on a wild, battle-crazed brindlecat.
“You’re bleeding through the bandage,” panted Rhianne. Her voice was hoarse, and she was having trouble breathing. “Look at the floor.”
Janto slowed to look, and grimaced. He was leaving a trail of blood.
She squeezed his hand. “You need a Healer.”
“We’ll find one.” His eyes lingered on her. The red marks on her throat were going to develop into some truly spectacular bruises if they weren’t dealt with soon.
She rubbed her neck, as if in response to his scrutiny. “Janto, you’ve got to speak to your commander. This attack on Kjall is beyond foolish. It can accomplish nothing and will only bring about a brutal retaliation. What are your people after? It is just vengeance?”
“Not vengeance.” He turned away, frowning. She didn’t know he was in charge. Of course she didn’t. He’d been so careful not to tell her who he was.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you. You don’t want bloodshed any more than I do. You’ve got to convince your commander to call this off. Do you know how Florian responded to the fish riots in Riorca? And that was nothing compared to this!”
He grimaced. She believed he was a hapless participant in this attack. What would she say when she learned he was the man who’d orchestrated it? As he looked into her earnest, worried face, a confession half rose in his throat. But his courage failed him, and he swallowed the words. He’d tell her later. First he had to get her to safety.
Up ahead, a pair of Mosari soldiers stood guard at the end of a narrow corridor. Thank the gods. Still shrouded, he ran past them with Rhianne into a larger hallway that lay beyond. He saw a familiar face.
“San-Kullen,” he called, releasing the shroud.
The war mage and the group of soldiers he’d been speaking to started, their gear and weapons jangling as they took in his unexpected presence. They looked equally surprised at seeing Rhianne.
San-Kullen dipped his head and came forward. “Jan-Torres. Sire.”
Rhianne’s hand tensed within his own. She knew a fair bit of the Mosari language and had not failed to note the significance of the title. Or perhaps it was the name. Janto kept his eyes on San-Kullen, afraid of what he might see on Rhianne’s face if he looked at her now.
“You’re wounded,” said San-Kullen, his curious eyes moving from Rhianne to Janto’s blood-soaked shoulder. “You need a Healer.”
“So does she,” he said, indicating Rhianne, “and Sashi. How goes the battle?”
“The worst fighting was at the southern gate, where we ran into soldiers in orange uniforms with a sickle and sunburst on them—”
“The Legaciatti,” said Janto.
“Fierce, fierce fighters,” said San-Kullen, shaking his head. “We lost a lot of men, but we overcame them. There was some ugly fighting at the servants’ entrance, but that’s over now, and resistance is scattered. There’s a team securing the north wing. We’re waiting on reinforcements, and then we’ll start on this one.”
“Have you got the emperor?”
“We do,” said San-Kullen cheerfully. “And unharmed. His guards didn’t put up much of a fight. I don’t think they’re very fond of him. We’re still looking for the son, the daughter, and the niece. Also, there’s a group of Kjallans who’ve barricaded themselves behind a door upstairs.”
Janto nodded. “This is the niece, so you can stop looking for her. I’ll—”
Rhianne’s hand slipped out of his own. He turned to see her flying from him, her syrtos billowing around her ankles, heading back in the direction they’d come.
“Rhianne!” he cried. Then to the guards, “Stop her!”
The guards shifted position to block her from the corridor. She did not slow but ran straight for them. They stumbled off to either side, allowing her through. Janto was perplexed and furious until he saw the guards’ faces and recognized that dazed look he’d seen on Micah.
He ran after her himself, but after a few steps, he stumbled, too weak from his injury to catch up, and stared helplessly at her retreating figure. Images formed in his mind: Rhianne shot by one of his overzealous guards at the back gate; Rhianne caught by a band of troops, dragged into a room and raped.
A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’ve got her,” said San-Kullen. A brown and black streak flew after her in pursuit.
“Don’t let your cat hurt her.”
“Don’t worry,” said San-Kullen. “Marci velvets her claws.”
Janto clenched his fists.
The cat leapt past Rhianne, turned in midair, and landed facing her, hackles up, claws out, lips drawn back to reveal long, gleaming fangs.
Stop there, Rhianne, pleaded Janto.
Rhianne skidded to a stop and froze before the snarling feline.
San-Kullen’s eyes were bright with affection for his familiar. “Nothing to it.” He walked toward the pair, leisurely and unthreatening. He returned, gripping Rhianne’s arm. The cat, now calm, padded along behind them.
As Rhianne entered the larger hallway, Janto ran to her. “Rhianne, I can ex—,” he began.
“You gods-cursed liar!” she cried hoarsely, twisting in San-Kullen’s grip. Grimacing, San-Kullen moved behind her and seized both her upper arms. But that didn’t stop Rhianne from raging at Janto. “Augustan told me you were responsible for the attack. What a fool I was not to believe him. You made a traitor out of me!”
Horror trickled through him. Could he ever make her understand why he’d done this? “Rhianne, I—”
“I sold myself,” she hissed. “For the price of your life, I would have gone to the marriage bed with Augustan. And you came here with an army at your back to murder and pillage everything that matters to me?”
He blinked, trying to formulate a satisfactory answer. He didn’t have one.
“I’ll kill you!” she shouted, wrenching one of her arms loose from San-Kullen’s grip. “In the Soldier’s name, I swear I’ll kill you!” She lunged for him.
San-Kullen twisted Rhianne’s other arm until she cried out in pain, and neatly recaptured the first. He twisted both until she gasped and stopped struggling.
Janto shook his head firmly. “San-Kullen, don’t do that. She won’t hurt me.”
“The hell I won’t!” Rhianne cried.
There was a hitch in her breathing that suggested she was hurting somewhere. Janto longed to go and comfort her, but he didn’t dare.
“What shall we do with her?” asked San-Kullen.
Footsteps approached at a run. Tensing, Janto turned toward them, along with every other soldier in the room, but they were only fresh Mosari soldiers. “Looks like your reinforcements are here.”
“Good,” said San-Kullen. “And the prisoner?”
He looked sadly at Rhianne. Prisoner. He supposed she was. He could not explain himself to her now. The palace was not yet secure, and he was losing blood.
The new soldiers stared at Rhianne with predatory interest.
“You have rooms set aside for prisoners?”
San-Kullen nodded.
“Prepare one for her. I want a guard on her day and night—”
“I want to be that guard,” someone muttered behind him.
Janto whirled, only to see carefully schooled expressions of innocence on all the soldiers’ faces. “Two guards,” he amended. “The most trustworthy men you have. This lady is the emperor’s niece, a Kjallan imperial princess. It is essential to our plans that s
he not be harmed.” He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every soldier. “If any man harms this woman, despoils her in any way, or even threatens her, he shall be hanged. Is that clear?”
“Understood, sire,” said San-Kullen. “Is she zo?” He glanced at the dazed guards, who were beginning to recover their wits.
“She’s magical, yes. A mind mage.”
“Then we have to take her riftstone. Unless you intend to guard her with zo.”
Janto sighed. “We can’t spare zo. We’ll have to take the riftstone.”
San-Kullen shifted his grip so he was holding both her arms in one hand. Then he reached for the chain around her neck. Rhianne arched away, avoiding him, and aimed a backward kick at his groin. San-Kullen blocked it with his knee and twisted her arms again until she winced and was still.
Janto couldn’t stand it. “Release one of her arms,” he ordered.
San-Kullen pursed his lips in disapproval but obeyed.
Janto stepped forward and spoke softly to Rhianne. “If you want to hit me, go ahead. I won’t stop you, and I won’t hit you back.”
Rhianne glared at him, furious, but did not move. After a moment, she lowered her eyes.
He nodded, a little sad. He’d thought as much—she didn’t really want to hurt him. “I need your riftstone. It’s only for a little while. I promise you’ll get it back.”
Something seemed to break inside her. Her eyes closed, and her face crumpled. A fat teardrop rolled down her cheek.
“Please,” he added.
She removed the chain from around her neck and handed it to him.
He cradled the precious object in his hand. “Thank you. I swear this is not a betrayal. I’ll explain everything later.”
Rhianne stared at the floor.
He turned to San-Kullen. “When the fighting is over, she is to have anything she asks for, within reason. Food, drink, books—whatever, as long as it’s not something she can hurt herself with.”
“Yes, sire.”
“While we’re waiting on the room, show us to the Healers,” he said.
33
Rhianne found herself hurried along through the hallway, her arm gripped firmly by the Mosari war mage. His brindlecat loped on her other side, cutting off any possibility of escape. Her windpipe still burned from what Augustan had done to her, and as her breathing grew heavy from exertion, she gasped, unable to take in enough air.
“Stop!” cried Janto. “Look at her. She can’t breathe.”
The war mage stopped and had her sit, her back against the wall. She tried not to panic, and forced herself to breathe shallow and slow.
Janto approached, studying her, his eyes full of concern. “Can you bring the Healer here?” he asked the war mage.
“No need,” said Rhianne. “I’m getting better.” Her breathing was approaching normal, though every inhalation pained her.
“I could carry her,” said the war mage.
“I can walk,” Rhianne snapped, rising to her feet. The last thing she wanted was some strange Mosari soldier’s hands all over her. “Just don’t go so fast.”
They continued at a slower pace, with Janto turning back frequently to check on her. Not Janto. Jan-Torres.
Augustan had been a nasty, evil man, and she did not regret his death after what he’d tried to do to her, but he’d been right about one thing. She was a traitor. She’d freed this man, not knowing who he truly was, and he’d come back and invaded her homeland, killing who knew how many people she cared about. What was going to happen to Lucien, to Celeste, to Marcella, to the Legaciatti who protected her, the servants and slaves, the soldiers defending the palace? How many women in the palace were going to be raped tonight because of her foolish decision? And what about the citizens of the city of Riat? Janto’s—Jan-Torres’s—army had marched through there on its way to the palace.
Even Florian, whom she hated sometimes, she did not want to see executed. But Florian had ordered the death of Janto’s parents. Gods, what a horror! Janto had seen his own parents’ heads that day in the audience hall! It was understandable he should want to take his vengeance. But she would never forgive herself for the part she had played in allowing it to happen.
Gods, she was crying again. She swiped her free hand across her face.
Jan-Torres, staring back at her, looked as sad as she’d ever seen him. “Rhianne . . .”
“Say nothing.” She blinked furiously.
“We’ll have a long talk when this is over. I’ll explain everything.”
He’d talk to assuage his guilty conscience. Of course he would. But she understood already. He’d lied to her and betrayed her in order to save his country, or at least to take his vengeance on Florian and Augustan. He hadn’t hurt her deliberately; she knew that. But she couldn’t help feeling horrifyingly used. She’d slept with this man. She’d thought she loved him!
They’d arrived at a makeshift infirmary the Mosari and Sardossians had established in the Epolonius Room. The war mage directed her to an unused mattress on the floor while Jan-Torres disappeared into the crowd.
A short while later, he returned with another man at his side. “This is Mor-Nassen, one of our Healers. He’s going to see to your neck injury.”
The Healer studied Rhianne, shook his head, and turned back to Jan-Torres. “She’s stable. Sire, you’re still bleeding from that sword wound—”
“It’s nothing,” said Jan-Torres. “First Rhianne, then me, then Sashi.” He settled onto the mattress next to hers.
Mor-Nassen frowned and returned to Rhianne’s side. “Lie back and relax,” he ordered.
She complied, closing her eyes.
The Healer’s hands cradled her neck. She tensed, remembering the horror of Augustan’s hands there. It seemed ages ago, but now that she thought about it, less than an hour had passed since the attempt on her life.
Mor-Nassen’s touch was gentle, and she forced herself to think of other things. Quiet rides on Dice along tree-lined avenues. Swimming with Marcella in the imperial baths. The warmth of the Healer’s magic flowed into her body, and by degrees her pain began to ease. She had not realized how exhausted she was. Was that an effect of being nearly strangled to death? Her limbs melted into the mattress, and her mind began to drift.
She was vaguely aware of Mor-Nassen patting her and telling her she was going to be fine and moving on to Jan-Torres. She lay where she was, sinking slowly into oblivion. She had some notion that there were other people in the room, other injured soldiers. They were men she didn’t know—Mosari and Sardossians. She picked up disjointed fragments of their conversation, mundane and of little interest.
“Can you move your ankle in a full circle, like this?”
“They told me to leave the knife in. Said I’d lose less blood that way.”
“Is the pain up here, by this rib?”
“You’re going to him next, right?”
“No, it’s a little higher. Up here.”
Rhianne knew that last voice; she’d heard it many times. Was she dreaming, imagining things? No. It was real.
“Morgan?” she cried, opening her eyes and sitting up. She looked around, frantic. Where was he? There, about nine beds over. He looked pale and weak. “Morgan!” She leapt from her bed and made her way across the room, dodging mattresses.
“Rhianne!” shouted Janto.
The war mage and brindlecat intercepted her in an instant, the man seizing her arm and the animal snarling in her face. It was a grim reminder that despite the gentle treatment, she was still a prisoner.
“That’s my friend over there. I want to see him!” she cried.
The war mage looked questioningly at Jan-Torres, who was lying on one of the mattresses, shirtless. Mor-Nassen sat beside him, closing the shoulder wound.
“Let her visit her friend,” said Janto.
The war mage released her, and she hurried to Morgan’s side. “What happened?”
“I must be dreaming. Is it really you? Go
t myself shot.” He laughed, a weak sound. “Stewed to the gills, and I saw the invaders. Thought of you up in the palace, undefended with the attack fleet gone, and I turned my musket on them. Would never have done it if I hadn’t poured my wits out with the wine.”
She turned to a nearby Healer. “Why is he so weak? Has he not been healed?”
“He was shot in the streets of Riat,” explained the Healer. “We stopped the bleeding to save his life, but the bullet’s still in him. We’ll have to remove it surgically, which means more blood loss, and he’s lost a lot already. We’re not sure he’s strong enough, but we can’t leave the bullet where it is much longer.”
“Gods, Morgan.” Rhianne flung her arms around him—gently, so as not to hurt him.
“San-Kullen.”
Rhianne looked up to see Jan-Torres standing above her. His shirt hung loose about him, his arms were folded, and his expression was a dark thundercloud.
The war mage hurried to his side. “Yes, sire?”
“The princess’s room should be ready by now. Take her there,” said Jan-Torres. “We’ve lost enough time already, and we’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Janto watched, uneasy, as San-Kullen and his brindlecat escorted Rhianne out of the infirmary. He wasn’t sure why he’d reacted so strongly to seeing her hug another man. Normally he wasn’t prone to jealousy, even back on Mosar when Kal-Torres, competitive beyond all normal limits, had deliberately seduced his girlfriends, sometimes with success. Janto had been philosophical about it then, theorizing that if a woman chose Kal over him, he was well quit of her.
Somehow it was different with Rhianne, perhaps because that hug was how he’d hoped and expected to be greeted himself. He’d rescued her from Augustan and delivered her from Florian’s tyranny. But instead of welcoming him with open arms, Rhianne was livid about the invasion, and some other man he didn’t even know was getting her tender affection. Vagabond’s breath, why?
He’d have to figure it out later. One of his officers, the war mage Ruhr-Donnel, was striding toward him, clearly with something to say.
“Sire, we’ve got Lucien,” said Ruhr-Donnel. “You were right—he tried to sneak out, but we had men at every palace entrance.”