by Jeff Wheeler
“I am a hunter, Reome. You always teased me about that. I have hunted Colvin’s sister.”
“I must go inside,” Reome said, trying to pull away, but Lia gripped the edge of the basket tightly.
“What did Dieyre promise you?” Lia asked.
Reome showed her teeth. “I do not have to answer to you. This is where I work. If I do not return, they will look for me.”
Lia stepped closer, pitching her voice lower. “Did he promise he would claim the baby, Reome? Or will you abandon it as a wretched as you were abandoned?”
The look in Reome’s eyes was haunted. It spoke of misery, of sleepless nights, of tortured hopes. She struggled with her emotions, her face contorting with pain.
“How did you know that?” Reome whispered faintly. She trembled, her skin going pale. “I have told no one save him.”
Lia touched Reome’s arm. “Go back to Muirwood.”
Reome’s lip trembled. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “He will not…take me back…not after all I have done.”
Lia was not sure if she meant the local blacksmith or the Aldermaston. “If you stay in Comoros, you will die. So will the babe. It is true, Reome. You must believe me. A great sickness is coming. It will sweep over every land, every kingdom. There is only safety in Muirwood. The Aldermaston will take you back. I promise you he will. Did Dieyre promise to bring you to Dahomey?”
Reome sniffled and nodded. “He has a manor there. Better than this one. He promised I would never work. That I could live there and raise the child. I was told he sent for me. That I would leave on a ship. Tonight.”
Lia angered at the lie. She knew the truth as soon as Reome had spoken. She saw it flash in her mind like a blaze of lightning. “No. He will keep you here. You are the decoy. It is Marciana who is leaving tonight in your place. You are her disguise. Do you see my friend over there? The tall one in the shadows? He will show you a safe place to go. Where are they hiding her? In the keep?”
Reome shook her head.
“You must tell me.”
Reome flinched. “It will be my death if I do.”
“I will protect you. Believe that. I will take your place and go inside. Let me free her and you can both go back to Muirwood. Please, Reome. You must tell me where she is.” Lia pushed the thought at her – along with her will, her intentions, her desire to protect Reome and her child. The Medium throbbed in the air and softened the look on Reome’s face.
“The east tower. That one,” she said, pointing. “But Lia, you cannot get to her. She is guarded day and night by a man. He…he frightens me. He said he would kill me if I told anyone she was here. They say…he kills mastons.”
A kishion.
Lia sighed deeply. She clenched her jaw and nodded firmly. The Medium would protect her. She pulled on the basket. “Give me your shawl.”
“Lia, I know you are a hunter…”
“You cannot go back there, Reome. Muirwood is the only place you can save your child. Do you have any money?”
“I have a little.”
“Then go home, Reome.”
She bit her lip. “How do you know…that Dieyre is lying? He is a noble. He would not abandon me.”
Lia stared her in the face. “I know Dieyre better than you do, Reome. I know about his false promises. You see, he tried to kill me. Quickly, give me your shawl.” The urgency to rescue Marciana burned inside her, compelling her to act quickly.
* * *
In the courtyard at the center of the Lambeth grounds was a giant oak tree, leafless and dying. Maybe the choking air had finally destroyed its growth. Perhaps some wasting sickness had struck its branches which were huge and pointed every direction like a sharpened hedgehog burrowing in the mud. Moss grew on one side and clumps of mistletoe buds were thick in the boughs. It was a dead thing – a shell of a tree. For a moment, it reminded Lia of the oak forest surrounding Muirwood and a chill went through her heart. The scarf covered her hair and she had traded cloaks with Reome to hide her hunter leathers. She had no time to conceal her bowstave, so she had given it to Reome to hold and sent her away with the arrow quiver. Lia carried her dirk with the hand supporting the basket beneath and had her unsheathed gladius hilt in the other hand, the blade resting atop the damp garments but underneath the wrap to conceal it. She wanted two weapons ready when she faced the kishion.
Martin had trained her well. She knew all the locations where to stab a man and kill in one thrust. She realized she might only have one chance to kill him. It was kill or be the victim herself. The Medium had led her to Comoros. Strangely, her life felt as if she were a small boat bobbing on a river rushing wildly through a maze of rocks and rapids. It pulled her quickly, no matter how she longed to slow it.
Her heart beat frantically as the porter opened the door and let her in. She did not acknowledge his curt greeting and merely tromped inside, clutching the basket to her bosom as she quickly surveyed the courtyard and saw the oak. The inner yard was a giant circle, grown with sod and ringed with cobblestones. She counted three doors giving access to the manor house from the interior, and one directly at the base of the tower Reome had pointed to. She took the pathway to the right and followed it towards the tower, her heart pounding in her ears. She wished she could have checked the Cruciger orb. Glancing at the upper windows, she noticed the heavy curtains blocking them. She had no idea what was happening inside.
A raven caw startled her and she noticed the black bird perched atop a flag spike. The building was larger than the Aldermaston’s manor house – it was two stories compared with one, and the towers rose to a third height, the main keep rising the highest of them all. The tower she sought was on the edge of the grounds, connecting to an outer wall with spikes fastened into the stone like a ridge of teeth. She crossed the path to the door and shoved at it with her basket. A porter opened the door and looked at her curiously. Lia glanced behind him and saw a stone stairwell ascending up the gullet. There were no other guards.
“Set the basket down by the brazier,” the porter told her. “I will carry it up later. They wish no interruptions.”
Lia nodded and carried the basket into the chamber and set it down by the brazier. She released the gladius blade resting in the basket but turned the dirk over in her hand to conceal it from him.
“Move along, girl.” He waved for her to leave the way she had come.
Lia walked towards the door and saw him glance outside and look at something that interested him. His distraction was all she needed. Her hunter training flowed back to her, filling her with knowledge. There was a spot on the back of the skull. With the dirk handle, she clubbed him there and his eyes rolled back in his head and she caught him as he fell and laid him out on the floor. Then she shut the door softly and glanced up the stairwell winding its way up within the tower. She could hear the murmur of voices, but could not discern any of the words.
Hefting the basket of laundry, Lia gripped the gladius hilt again beneath the wrap and started up the stone steps. Her leg throbbed with the effort. Doubts struck at her thoughts, but she batted them away. Having faced a kishion before, she knew that their training exceeded hers. The last time, she had been surprised and unprepared for the encounter. It had ended with her face down, drowning in a bathing tub. She grit her teeth, preparing herself for another fight. Part of her wished Kieran was there. Two against one would make it easier, but the porter door would not have opened if he had seen them both. She did not want to think about Kieran and what he was thinking about her at that moment. His expression was one of disgust when she had revealed her lackluster plan. Follow the Medium. That was all she could do.
As Lia made the loops up the stairwell, the voices grew louder. Torches hung in racks along the wall, lighting the way. At the top of the stairs, a wooden door barred the way. Lia’s hand trembled as she reached for the handle to pull it open. There was no crossbar on it and it opened to her touch. The voices became clear and so did the presence of the Medium. It fluttered
in her heart powerfully, bringing tears to her eyes once again. She recognized the powerful feelings, but it felt forced and not tamed.
“You must persuade your brother to join us,” said a man’s voice. “When the kingdom falls, do you think he will be allowed to keep his earldoms if he is on the losing side? Do you think he will keep his head? Lord Dieyre has promised him amnesty in return for your willing consent to be his wife. With his authority, I offer you his plight troth and will accept yours in return. You must promise to marry him when you reach Dahomey. His affection for you is sincere. Do not doubt that.”
“I love him, but I cannot accept him,” Marciana replied. Her voice was throbbing with emotion.
“Why not?” The voice was a sneer.
“He is not a maston.”
“You have sworn to yourself that you will only marry a maston. But what a foolish oath to make to yourself, child. What will you do when there are no mastons left? Marry your brother?” The voice dripped with sarcasm. She heard an accent in the speech, and she recognized it as Dahomeyjan. “You are the price Dieyre demands. You are the only person who can save your brother’s life. Even now, he is under guard at Dochte Abbey in Dahomey. He is being treated fairly and courteously. But should you refuse this arrangement, he will be sent into the dungeons. There are serpents in the dungeons, my lady. If he were to fall asleep, he will be bitten and poisoned. Do not trifle with me, child. You must promise to marry Lord Dieyre. You must say it for it to be binding. You must agree.”
The Medium throbbed even stronger and as Lia opened the door, she heard Marciana sniffling and crying. The only light in the chamber was the light of fire. The air was thick and hot and smelled strongly of incense.
“I am thirsty,” Marciana moaned.
“Then drink some more cider,” the man replied.
“I will not drink it,” she said. “Water – just a little water.”
“Then tell me you will swear your betrothal to Lord Dieyre. I will bring you water. I will summon it fresh from a gargouelle. Cold, clean water to soothe your thirst. But you must first swear it. Or drink the cider.”
As the door opened slowly, Lia saw Marciana in a rich crimson gown with black and gold trim. There were ornaments of gold in her hair, which was loose and thick about her shoulders. The bodice of the gown was cut low in the Dahomeyjan style, similar to what Lia had seen the Queen Dowager wear. Marciana looked tortured – her eyes brim with tears. She shook her head, pacing the far side of the chamber where thick curtains blocked the sun. She crushed her fists against her forehead and sobbed, pacing, wracked with her feelings. Lia’s heart burned with anger.
The man in the room wore a black cassock. His hair was short and cropped and he had a disdainful look on his face. His eyes glowed silver as he turned and looked at Lia.
“I gave orders to leave the basket below,” he said in a sulky tone. The Medium swirled around Lia, enveloping her in ribbons made of iron. Fear exuded from the man. It made her think of Almaguer. She shuddered with terror at the feelings swarming her body. The Myriad Ones sniffed about her, so thick it felt the room was bursting with them. They swarmed around Marciana, sending their thoughts into her, willing her to bend to their will. Lia’s heart panged with compassion for Marciana. She knew what it felt like.
“I beg your pardon,” Lia mumbled, bowing her head. She skirted to the side to drop the basket near a brazier. “Would you like me to hang them to dry?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.
“Yes,” the man said impatiently. “If you must. Then leave us.”
There was a changing screen near the brazier and Lia walked to it and discovered several other garments – some thin chemises and another gown. She carefully withdrew the first damp gown and fitted it to the pegs on the changing screen so it could dry by the fire. Sweat ran down her cheeks.
“Will you answer me, Lady Marciana?” he said, turning his attention back. “Will you please explain to me again why you will not marry the Lord Earl? Do you not care for him?”
“I do,” Marciana said, sobbing.
“You think him not clever enough for you? He is too old and doddering for you? There are many a girl from your station who are forced to marry as children. The king orders them to be wed, despite their feelings. Can you imagine that? Being forced to marry a man at fifty as the Queen Dowager was forced to marry your dead king? You are being given a choice! A chance for wealth. A chance for power. A chance to have children who will love you and adore you. To be a mother, as you did not have one. Do you not long for that? To be a mother? To comfort and nurture a sweet baby. Can you imagine holding that son or daughter in your arms? Can you comprehend the joy of hearing its first cry?” The voice was mesmerizing and it filled Lia with hungers she had never experienced before. She slammed the thoughts away because they distracted and ensnared. They wove through the most delicate part of her feelings. But the threads were not pure in their intent.
“He can give that to you,” the man continued, his voice barely a whisper. “Even joys and pleasures you do not comprehend. Is it wrong to crave children, my lady? Can you imagine holding the child. Suckling him. Loving him. Does not your heart crave these things? Your baby. Your own. Will you not accept Lord Dieyre’s offer of marriage? I am not asking you to yield to the binding, just a promise that you will when you reach Dahomey. Let him declare his feelings for you himself. As I told you, he is no longer a prisoner of the Crown. He is not in rebellion against the throne, but a champion of the young king and an enemy of the usurper, Garen Demont. You know this to be true. He is the only one who can save you and thus save your brother. Can you be so selfish?”
Lia looked at Marciana’s eyes. She was tortured, exhausted, and weak. How long had she been captive, living in the Stews, unable to know what happened to those she loved? The air was perfumed and cloying. Lia was sure the cider had been treated with other herbs or had been allowed to spoil and strengthen its flavor. The man in the black cassock, the kishion, manipulated her feelings with deftness and cruelty.
“I am so thirsty,” Marciana said with a tremulous sigh. She was begging.
“Then drink the cider,” came the reply and he poured some from a bottle into a golden cup and offered it to her. His back was to Lia as she started towards him stealthily.
“Water,” she pleaded.
“Just a sip, to quench your thirst,” he promised, holding up the chalice.
Lia pushed the dirk blade into his back. She knew right where to stab, right where his air would spill out. The fabric slit. Blood bloomed on her hand, warm and hot. He gasped, thrashing. His neck jerked around, his silver eyes burning into hers, sending her into a daze of panicked emotions as he died. In that instant, she could see into his frenzied thoughts, full of terror because the Myriad Ones would leave his body now.
He slumped to the floor and Lia let him fall. She lowered the shawl.
Marciana looked at her, puzzled, confused. Then her eyes widened with shock and horror. “The kishion,” she hissed. “Behind you!”
Lia heard the body swing down from the rafters and fall like a sure-footed cat. The kishion blocked the doorway leading out. She realized, too late, that the man in the black cassock was not the kishion after all. She realized also that her gladius was still in the basket.
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Broken
“Oh Lia, he will kill us both!” Marciana whispered. “He has not left me since Muirwood.”
The hunter is patient. The prey is careless. Lia swallowed, trying to contain her fear. She wished again, pointlessly, that Kieran was with her. Her mind raced as she glanced about the room, looking for a way to shift the balance.
“Stay behind me,” Lia said. The kishion started towards them with twin daggers in his hands. He had the same dead eyes she had seen before, a man utterly devoid of feelings. A scar ran down his left cheek. His eyes were blue, his hair cropped short. There was something in the look of his mouth, some rugged quality of his chin that told her he had survi
ved many fights and killed many – even women.
Lia glanced at the nearest brazier, remembering that it was fire that had destroyed her previous enemy. There were no Leerings in the tower, no stone sculptures, but there was fire and she had the Gift of Firetaming. It would not burn her.
She shifted to the right, keeping as much of the room between them as she could. The windows were all blocked by heavy curtains. The idea bloomed in her mind. Force the enemy to react to your plans, instead of reacting to theirs. She was not fully healed and feared the kishion’s skill at knife-fighting eclipsed hers. If she focused on her strengths, it would give her a better chance.
The kishion studied her, weaving closer, watching her feet as she moved, seeing which leg she favored. She grit her teeth, trying to keep from wincing at her throbbing leg. He was judging her abilities.
“I offer terms,” Lia said. “Will you negotiate?” She moved closer to the brazier.
“The challenge lures me,” the kishion replied. “Not the gold. Drop the dirk and I will kill you quickly. You murdered a Dochte Mandar. They will want you dead for that and it will not be a pleasant death.”
Lia darted as he spoke. She had hoped he would respond to her, to distract his mind from her true intent. The brazier glowed with burning coals and the black iron was white with ash. Flames filled its bowels and offered light from between the thick slats. It had four tiny legs keeping it up and Lia gripped the bars and shoved it over, spilling the flaming coals onto the nearest curtain. The metal was warm against her hand, but it did not burn her. The curtain erupted into a sheath of flames.
She tried to use the Medium to control the fire, but there was not even the spark of it in the tower any longer. It could never be forced by a maston, only pleaded with or persuaded. She was on her own yet still. Black smoke began to fill the room. The curtain blazed, sending fire up to the wooden rafters.