Why? Because as Lala’s tutor they treated him better than the other slaves? He shrugged. “He had no way of defending himself and it seemed unfair.” Then, with daring, he added, “And he is still my king.”
Terrik shoved him hard in the direction of the keep before turning back to the platform. Fiori glanced over his shoulder to see the king slumped at the post, fresh blood dripping from his face onto his shirt. Fiori wondered if there’d been one miracle, might there be another? He would send prayers to the gods, fervent prayers.
His only hope was that Karigan could somehow bring help. He’d heard something of what had been done to her, so she could not be in much of a condition to do anything herself. Still, she had escaped. Had been rescued. If they, whoever they were, including a flying cat, apparently, could rescue her, surely they could help the king. He feared that if King Zachary remained in Second Empire’s clutches much longer, if he was subjected to whatever twisted designs Grandmother intended, it would be a greater blow than Sacoridia could withstand, for the king was the realm’s spirit and its soul.
“You are disgusting.”
Nyssa’s voice came distantly to Zachary, through a gray haze. He’d ceased caring about his surroundings, how he smelled, so caught in the miasma of pain and exhaustion was he. Until the shock of frigid water hit him. It stole his breath.
“Again,” Nyssa said.
He opened his one eye that was not swollen shut just in time for another bucketful of water to splash over him. He shivered uncontrollably. There’d been a crowd watching, he recalled, but the courtyard was now quiet, any onlookers pushed well back.
“Cut the rags off,” Nyssa ordered.
Guards came at him with bared knives and did just that. Trussed to the post, there was little he could do. The frigid air prickled his skin.
“Another bucket,” Nyssa said.
He braced himself, but gasped as the icy water cascaded over him. When he regained his breath, he saw Nyssa giving him a thorough look over.
“You’ve seen better days, haven’t you, King Zachary. Your ribs are jutting out.” Her gaze dropped. “By all accounts, your wife must be pleased with what you bring to the bed chamber. I bet she misses it. Too bad you are not the sort of man I am interested in.” Her gaze lingered downward, and he was aware of mockery and hooting coming from the remaining onlookers. “I’d be more interested in cutting off what you’ve got, but Grandmother says no.”
“Cut him! Cut him!” the onlookers cried.
She smiled, made some joke, then told him, “I suppose Grandmother has her reasons why I can’t, and it is not my place to question her.”
He fought the chills, but they were such a force they could not be repressed. They came out in a large shudder.
Nyssa laughed. “A little cold, eh? Well, we’re not finished. I won’t have you stinking up my workshop.”
She made some signal with her hand, and guards came forward with more buckets full of sudsy water, scrub brushes in hand. They were not gentle. He was thoroughly washed and rinsed, no doubt to the great entertainment of Nyssa and the watchers. There was nothing he could do to combat it, so he endured the humiliation.
When the guards dumped a final rinse on him, Nyssa stepped up again. “Much better. All rosy and pink all over. Well, where you aren’t black and blue.”
At her order, the guards untied him from the post and threw a blanket over his shoulders. He thanked the gods and wrapped himself in it. They marched him beyond the curtain wall, a ways into the woods, to a simple wooden building he presumed to be Nyssa’s “workshop.”
They unceremoniously forced him onto a table where he was strapped down with leather bindings, even his head. He struggled, but the leather was snug. To his relief, they covered him with the blanket.
Nyssa leaned over him so that they were nearly nose-to-nose. He tried to turn his face away, but the strap around his forehead prevented him. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze before Grandmother gets here, would we?” she said. “Sadly, I am not to touch you until she says so. I look forward to cutting you, which will sorely disappoint your wife and whoever else you lie with. That Greenie, perhaps? That was quite a reaction you had for so lowly a servant as a messenger. That’s why you acted up, isn’t it? Because of her?”
He fisted his hands. Refused to speak. He would not let her get to him.
She chuckled. “So determined you are not to give me satisfaction. How admirable. You are an honorable man, King Zachary. I like honorable men—they are so much more pleasing to break. You see, I will get satisfaction, even if I must wait. In the meantime, Grandmother will not begrudge me a little blood.”
She peeled his blanket away to reveal his chest. “I see your old arrow wound healed well enough. Yes, I heard about that. By the time all is well and done, you will be wishing that assassin had proved successful.” She then walked away, humming. He could not see what she was up to. When she returned, she showed him a whip with multiple thongs. She separated one from the others. The leather appeared to be stiff with crusted blood. She showed him the knot at the end of the thing, twisted with wire so the ends created sharp barbs. Barbs that had clots of skin adhering to them.
“This has tasted the blood of your Greenie.”
He started to bellow his rage, but it turned to a sharp cry of surprise and pain as she jabbed the barb into his chest and ripped it across and through his nipple. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, then to his revulsion, dipped her finger in the blood that welled up from the wound, and tasted it.
“This pleases me,” she said. “Is it not interesting how closely aligned pain and pleasure are? I cannot say I have tasted royal blood before. Your Greenie’s was fine, too.”
He strained against the straps.
“Yes, she is more than a mere messenger to you, isn’t she. Grandmother will find that interesting. Too bad your Greenie is gone.”
“Gone?” he whispered.
She nodded and dropped something on his chest. “Something for you to remember her by.”
It looked like . . . Looked like brown braided hair. Karigan’s? What had they done to her? The rumors he’d heard of an intrusion on the encampment must have been a wishful dream—he’d been beaten into a stupor, then made to carry that log on his shoulders, and there was no accounting of what was real and what was not. Had they killed her?
“No . . .”
“No, what?”
“What did you do with her? Where is she?”
Nyssa shrugged. “Does it matter? Grandmother will be here soon and you won’t care about anything, not even your Greenie. Now, I am going to go check on my guards. You are a special prize, and there is no way anyone is going to get past our safeguards. No one will rescue you. You are ours to do with as we wish. You may be a king, but here you have no power. You are nothing.”
She turned and left him then, and as far as he knew, he was alone inside the building. The sting of the wound across his chest was nothing compared to the other abuses he’d received, but he didn’t care about himself. They could do whatever they wanted to him. What burned him inside was his rage, rage for whatever had been done to Karigan.
He fought his restraints anew, but they only seemed to tighten with his struggles. He sighed and relaxed. Karigan’s braid, if it was really hers, and he saw no reason for Nyssa to have lied about it, rose and fell on his chest with his breaths. How often had he wanted to stroke that long, brown hair . . . He closed his eyes, pictured himself doing just that, drawing her to him in a kiss . . . The pleasant vision gave way to imagining the many ways he’d murder Nyssa, how he’d defeat Second Empire, how he’d obliterate not only this encampment, but all of them so his realm could remain at peace.
Currently he was in no position to do anything. He would preserve his thwarted rage, use it when opportunity presented itself. If it ever did.
• • •
“Why didn’t you tell me about the braid?” Grandmother asked.
“I forgot about it,” Nyssa replied, “after everything happened.”
“You know I find such things useful when I work with etherea. Do not forget again.”
“I’m sorry, Grandmother. I won’t.”
“Of course you won’t, dear.”
How would Grandmother find Karigan’s braid useful? Did it mean that Karigan had escaped, after all? If she were dead, what use could the braid possibly be? No, she had to be alive. He must cling to that hope.
“He is feigning sleep,” Grandmother said. “I can tell. Young man, open your eyes.”
He looked up at the women who stood on either side of the table.
“Well, well,” Grandmother said. “The great king of Sacoridia, the warrior who has fought us on the border, does not look so impressive at the moment. No armor, no guards, no sword. You are just flesh and blood, after all, aren’t you.”
“He doesn’t talk much,” Nyssa said.
“That will change over time,” Grandmother replied. “Do you know I had to undo the entire scarf I made for Lala in the fall just so I had enough yarn to work on him?”
Scarf? Yarn? Then Zachary remembered that Grandmother somehow worked her magic into yarn, made spells of the knots she tied. The opening and closing of a door announced the arrival of someone else.
“There you are, Lala,” Grandmother said. “You will help me with the knots.”
A girl appeared in his peripheral vision, her expression neutral. Grandmother let this girl help with—with whatever she was going to do to him?
“Young man, I recommend you open your mouth.”
He did not.
“Now don’t be ridiculous and fight us on this. It is for your own good so you don’t bite off your tongue, and so we don’t have to listen to your screams all night.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Nyssa said.
“I know, dear, but other people like to get their sleep.”
When he failed to obey, Nyssa, who seemed unnaturally strong for her size, forced his jaw open. Grandmother dropped a thick strip of leather between his teeth to bite on. When she swept his blanket off and she and the girl started tying knots and placing them on his body, he understood why.
A VISION OF THE AVATAR
As Grandmother walked away from the king, his body arched in pain—as much as the restraints permitted, at any rate—she reflected it was a job well done. Lala’s work was nearly the equal of her own. Nyssa had retired for the evening to sit with Immerez, who was still recovering from the blow he’d received from the king, and now Grandmother would go to her supper. She barely nodded to the guards who surrounded the workshop. They would check on the king periodically through the night to ensure his heart had not stopped, or he’d gone into shock, always a danger with spells of this strength.
She walked absently toward the keep with the braid grasped in her hand. Lala, who’d been following her, ran off to play with some children. The king would suffer this night, and she acknowledged it was all little more than retribution for the pain he had caused her people. In the morning, she would rearrange the knots, which would alter the intensity and location of the sensation that his blood was burning through his body. There were other things she had in mind for him, as well, but for the moment, seeing him in excruciating pain was quite satisfying.
Now the braid, that might help her answer a question about the Greenie and her eye. A mirror, Immerez had described it. She was curious, very curious, but that could all wait until she had some food in her stomach.
• • •
The previous night, upon learning they’d the king in their midst, they’d slain a bull for a celebratory feast. Some of the leftover meat and preserved vegetables had been served in a fine stew this evening. Grandmother, her stomach warm and full, sat before the hearth thinking in pleasure how it was she who was comfortable and well-fed this time, and not the king. The guards brought her periodic updates. Yes, he was still in the throes of agonizing pain. No savory stew for him tonight, no soft bed, only pain. Retribution was a fine thing.
She now studied the braid of hair in her hand, tied off at both ends so it would not unravel. It was really a rich gold-brown, she now saw, depending on the light. She pried out a few strands, carefully so they did not snap. Then she removed a length of undyed yarn from her pouch and started tying knots around the hair, knots of seeking, knots of learning.
Karigan G’ladheon. That was the Greenie’s name, according to Immerez, and she had been a concern to Weldon Spurlock, Grandmother’s predecessor. “G’ladheon,” derived from the Arcosian word for “betrayer,” galadheon. Hadriax el Fex, who had been Mornhavon the Great’s best friend and right hand, had taken the word as his name after he betrayed the empire by giving himself up to the Sacoridians during the Long War. Had Mornhavon’s servants killed Hadriax before he gave away the empire’s secrets, they would not be contending with his descendent now, and Sacoridia would be a much different place.
Likewise, they could have dealt with Karigan G’ladheon back at Teligmar, but Immerez’s camp had been attacked by a phalanx of king’s Weapons seeking Lady Estora, and the Greenie went on to prevent Second Empire from using the book of Theanduris Silverwood to destroy the D’Yer Wall. It seemed they were thwarted at every turn.
Where was Karigan G’ladheon now? Why did she have a mirror eye? What did it mean?
The others had been ordered to stay away so she could pour all her focus into the spell. When she was done, she gazed at her handiwork. The knots were misshapen, ungainly things, and rough compared to the delicate hairs. With one more request for the information she desired, she tossed it into the fire. The flames flared as they consumed the yarn, and she waited.
• • •
Very rarely did the visions come instantly, and this case was no different, but she remained patient. The fire kept her warm, and she sipped a cup of tea Sarat had set beside her. Soon, her patience was rewarded.
An image formed among the flames, of a young woman lying on her stomach, her back bare and ravaged. Grandmother viewed Nyssa’s work with admiration. Sweat glistened on the young woman’s skin. She appeared to be asleep or unconscious, neither unexpected from the trauma she’d endured. What Grandmother really wanted to see, however, was her eye, but she could only see one eye, and it was closed.
The vision rippled away into another and she found herself in an unusual setting, and she became cool as though someone blocked the fire. The lighting was sepulchral and glanced off hard stone and marble surfaces. As the vision clarified, she realized she was surrounded by sarcophagi. She was in a tomb, and by the statuary and other adornment, she knew this had to be the royal tombs, which lay beneath the castle in Sacor City.
Oddly, Karigan G’ladheon stood in an empty sarcophagus. Her form was . . . ghostly, and it appeared she was listening to something or someone Grandmother could not see or hear. She willed the vision to close in on the Green Rider. Such intention took great force of concentration, and even then, the power behind the spell could very well refuse her.
Her will prevailed, however, and the image of the Greenie grew closer, and Grandmother tried to steer around so she could see her face. The Rider was still ghostly, and her eye, the one Grandmother wanted to see, was covered by a patch. It was a disappointment, but it confirmed there was something about the eye that required concealment.
As she gazed at the Rider’s face, such a young face, she thought, it suddenly transformed. The young woman who stood before Grandmother was no longer a Green Rider, but a knight clad in gleaming armor, with a winged helm, and a lance and shield in her hands. Symbols moved across the steel as though alive. Grandmother
had seen a version of this image before. It was the dark angel, the avatar of the god of death. The figure raised the helm’s visor, and there was the face of the Green Rider, her visage cold and dispassionate, her mirror eye revealed. It flashed, blinding Grandmother, and then the vision was gone.
Grandmother rocked back in her chair in surprise, and rubbed her eyes. When she recovered, she clapped and laughed.
Her people gathered around her, alarmed. “What is it, Grandmother?” Min asked.
Casting spells and seeking visions could be taxing, but Grandmother only felt elated. She stood as though she were a much younger woman and clapped again.
“Not only do we have the king,” she said, “but I know who the death god’s avatar is!”
“It’s a who?” Min asked. “And not a what?”
“My dear, it has to be a who to function on the Earthly plane. We had her here, and we will have her back.”
“The Greenie or her friend?”
“The Greenie, Min, the Greenie.”
Grandmother could have danced. The Green Rider would be compelled to come back, drawn by two separate, but potent, forces. The first was her king. As soon as she was able, she would attempt to rescue him again no matter the peril, just as she had the Lady Estora back in Teligmar. If that was not enough, there was the second compulsion, the Aeon Iire. She would have to come in her avatar form. Either way, Grandmother and Second Empire would have her, her and that curious mirror eye.
She stooped and picked up the braid that had slipped from her lap when she stood. Nyssa had not known how fortuitous it was that she cut off Karigan G’ladheon’s braid. Not only had it given Grandmother the vision, but she had another use for it.
“Lala!” she called.
The girl ran to her from the kitchen.
“Where is my basket? Would you bring it to me, please?”
“Yes’m.”
Grandmother sat while Lala ran off, jubilant, almost giddy. Everything was falling into place for her people. She had the Sacoridian king, and soon she’d control the death god’s avatar, hence the dead. Lala soon skipped back into the great hall with the basket and set it at Grandmother’s feet.
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