The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  “Look over there,” he said, pointing at the valley. “See the fires of your friends, who camp at their ease rather than search for you.”

  She frowned, her features half-concealed in the play of luminous light and shadow. “Do you think such a lie will torment me? Do they not need rest and time to attend the injured?” She hesitated, half-turning away. “I—I thank you for not killing them all.”

  Surprised, he almost laughed. “Lady, I did not spare them to please you.”

  “What do you want with me? You’ve slaughtered half my escort, killed my handmaidens, and carried me off like some kind of prize. Why steal my necklace while leaving the wagons untouched?”

  “So you noticed that despite a raging battle.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “None of your business.”

  She drew in her breath in a sort of gasp and bowed her head. “I see. A political hostage. We thought the—there would be someone else at risk.”

  “It would take a bolder army than mine to abduct the empress.”

  Lea’s gaze widened. “By whose order am I taken?” she asked.

  “You think I’m not acting on my own initiative?”

  “No. Who is behind you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course! What is this about? What does your master seek to force my brother to do?”

  Shadrael had to admire her directness, even if he felt slightly miffed by her assumption—however true—that he served someone else.

  “Will you not answer?” she persisted. “Why keep it secret?”

  “If you knew, how would that satisfy you?”

  “Do you know whom you serve?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then who?”

  “None of your business.”

  Although her eyes were veiled by night he could feel their direct stare. “Will you please return my necklace?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Is Captain Hervan in your employ? Is that why he brought me into your trap?”

  “Gods, why so many questions?” Shadrael burst out.

  “Would you rather I screamed and cried?”

  Frowning, he touched a dried tear track on her cheek with the tip of his gloved finger. “Do you always shed pearls when you cry?”

  She drew back, lifting her hand to brush at where he’d touched her face. “None of your business.”

  He nearly laughed, but curbed his amusement. Abruptly he lifted her off his horse and set her on the ground. “Walk about. Stay quiet and keep well away from the men. I don’t need to explain why.”

  She stood in the snow, shivering a little under her cloak, and hesitated, her face a pale oval moon in the darkness. She stared at him a long while, silent and intent. Finally she turned and stumbled away through the snow.

  Aware that he could recapture her easily if she chose to run or hide, Shadrael nevertheless watched until she entered a stand of scrubby pines and left his sight. He’d expected a pampered, hysterical princess, one who would scream at the sight of him or perhaps offer coy wiles in a bribe for her freedom. Instead, what kind of maiden was this, he wondered, to spin magic inside the bleak ruin of the Hidden Ways, to thwart his own spellwork, to withstand the terror of her abduction and the murder of her attendants with calm courage? She had even dozed for a while in his arms, displaying a kind of trusting innocence—or stupidity—that disconcerted him.

  A ploy to gain your sympathy, he warned himself. She was the clever, unpredictable kind of captive who would cause as much trouble as possible. Already she’d certainly knocked his plans awry. It was bound to happen again, perhaps several times, before he delivered her and collected his payment. Then she could lead Vordachai a merry chase, and good riddance.

  The soft sound of approaching hooves muffled by the snow caught his attention. Without turning his head, he flicked his hand in permission for Fomo to join him.

  The centruin reined up at his side and drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the valley spread before them. “Faure’s hell!”

  “The valley’s old curse clutches at us,” Shadrael said, lying to save his pride. “See how we’ve scarcely left it.”

  “Demon’s luck,” Fomo said hoarsely, and spat in disgust. “We’ve gained almost no distance. How far must we go to escape it?”

  Shadrael did not answer.

  Fomo pointed at the camp. “Looks like the curse is glued to those poor morts we left alive. Figured by now they’d have tucked tail and run to Brondi for help, bleating all the way.”

  There was no hesitation in Fomo’s tone, no indication that he was picking his words with care. Shadrael, on edge and ready to strike, realized that his centruin had swallowed the lie. A bleak, mirthless smile curled Shadrael’s lips. So here he was, obliged to dance along a precipice of artifice and trickery, pretending they must journey to Ulinia the hard way, in quick march, for sound strategic reasons.

  “Fine joke on them if they can’t leave,” Fomo said.

  “Better if they do,” Shadrael said.

  “Maybe they’re too stupid to run. Think they’ve sent for reinforcements?” Fomo asked. “That why they’re waiting?”

  “They’re required to report their situation to the nearest imperial official.”

  “Regs.” Fomo spat. “Can’t do nothing in the army without some rule about it. But it don’t look much like they’re doing anything they should. Maybe things are different for cavalry, what with their fancy ranks and pretty uniforms.”

  Something touched Shadrael, a fingering of darkness, featherlight in touch. He frowned. “Someone in that valley is using magic.”

  Fomo uttered a hideous wheezing sound that passed for laughter. “What for? Are the light eaters doing a little prance to their—”

  “Quiet.” Shadrael felt that elusive touch again, weak but a definite summons. Someone was weaving a spell, its tracings like the crisscrossed slime tracks left by a slug on garden leaves. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder at his men. “It’s necria magic. They’re calling the dead.”

  “The hell they are. To track us?”

  “Perhaps. Better watch the men. Some of the casna may be affected enough to answer that summons.”

  “Is it that strong?”

  “No, it’s weak and crude, but if I felt it, some of the others will, too.”

  The centruin turned his head to stare at Shadrael through the moonlight. “I’ll see no one obeys it. If they’re coming after us, you want us to set up another ambush?”

  “Did you plant the false trail?”

  “Three dropped swords of Thyrazene make, and a pouch with orders to take her to the Viermar himself.”

  Shadrael frowned. “I told you to name a lesser dragon lord, not the chieftain.”

  “Viermar sounds better.” Fomo shrugged. “More threat of war that way.”

  “Anyone who’s met the Viermar knows he’s senile and toothless, with no intention of starting a war.”

  “Got sons, ain’t he? Sons chafing to fight, and seize power and glory for themselves. Those bleating sheep in the Imperial Council won’t take time to think this through.”

  Shadrael grunted. In his opinion, Vordachai’s simple little plan to abduct the girl and point the blame at his neighboring province, the always unpopular Thyrazenes, was the kind of naive tactic anyone could see through. Might as well write VORDACHAI OF ULINIA IS BEHIND THIS in the mud. Only, Fomo was right, Shadrael thought. Who on the council was going to put reason before emotion with a girl like Lea at stake? Simple, crude, naive little plan. Either it would work perfectly or it would lead the Imperial Army right to Vordachai’s portal. You keep on wishing for war, elder brother, he thought. The odds are improving that you’ll have one.

  “Could have done a better job of it if we’d killed all of them,” Fomo said. “Could have torched a few corpses, made it look like dragon burns. Set it up real nice.”

  “I suppose you’d be happier if I’d let the men wear Thyrazene gear
and come leading a dragon on a chain.”

  Fomo grinned, his scarred face hideous in the moonlight. “Now, there’s a thought. Have a little fun with them, eh? But, gods, I wouldn’t have taken that pretty-boy captain for a shadow user. Very clever, sir, bringing us out of the Hidden Ways as soon as he started trying to track us through them. Very clever.”

  Shadrael said nothing. If that’s what Fomo wanted to believe, it served his purpose well enough.

  “You want us to set up camp here, sir? We can kindle some bright, pretty fires, really visible to any lookout in the valley, and lure them up. Finish ’em off, and be done.”

  “If I’d wanted a complete massacre, it would have happened at the time of ambush,” Shadrael said coldly.

  “This plan of the warlord’s is muck,” Fomo complained. “And watching you, m’lord, having to stick to it, even when we know better ways, fair makes me sick. Better to have killed ’em all and taken the girl straight on through the Hidden Ways. Hard on the men, sure, but quick and tidy. No messing about with false trails and planted evidence.”

  Shadrael drew a deep breath, tired of Fomo’s chatter that kept prodding the sore spot of his failure with the Hidden Ways. The furies and whispers buzzed inside his head. He craved more killing, wanted to slaughter every living creature around him. In an effort to control himself he tried to sever, but there was only rending pain and a flash of vertigo that made him slump forward and clutch at his horse’s mane to keep from falling.

  Quick as thought, Fomo was off his horse and helping Shadrael dismount. When Shadrael sank to his knees, Fomo scooped up handfuls of snow and pressed them to his commander’s burning face.

  “Easy, m’lord,” he whispered hoarsely. “Easy now. Let it go out of you. Let it go.”

  The snow seared Shadrael’s flesh at first, then felt blessedly cool. The furies died down, muttering in the deepest recesses of his mind, and he drew a breath of relief. Full awareness of the world came back to him. He blinked his vision back into focus and drew an unsteady breath.

  “You’ll do now,” Fomo said, giving his shoulder a little pat. Then the centruin stiffened. “Here!” he rasped out. “What’re you looking at?”

  Shadrael jerked up his head, his face dripping with melted snow, and saw Lea standing a short distance away. She was staring at him with a troubled face, and undoubtedly she’d seen it all.

  Humiliation flared through him, and at that moment he hated her.

  “Ain’t you ever seen donare shakes before?” Fomo asked, his voice harsh and challenging.

  “Is he ill?” she asked. “Is he wounded?”

  Shadrael could not bear it. He struggled to his feet, despite Fomo’s restraining hand, and glared at her. “Go over there!” he said, his voice strained and unnatural. He pointed toward the trees. No longer did he care that he’d told her not to go near the men.

  She obeyed, walking slowly toward the trees, pausing once to glance over her shoulder at him. When she was finally out of sight, he lowered his hand and bit back a groan. The pain in his chest was like a knife twisting around and around.

  Fomo steadied him. “It’ll pass,” he said in reassurance. “It’ll pass.”

  Eventually, it did. Shadrael pulled away from his centruin’s support and turned to fiddle unnecessarily with his horse’s tack, tugging at buckles and checking the saddle girth. He felt hollow inside, drained dry, dissatisfied, and restless.

  “A bad one,” Fomo said, offering gruff comfort. “Not the worst, though.”

  “No,” Shadrael forced himself to say. “Not the worst.”

  He remembered it involuntarily, that day in the midst of a ferocious fight against Madruns, when the world had gone black and he’d been so lost in killing madness that he nearly had not emerged again. He’d been told that he’d killed five of his own men who tried to pull him away from hacking his dead foes into pieces. That, he did not remember. Only the queer, shaking aftermath and nausea, the burning, almost uncontrollable urge to keep killing and killing until his body failed him and his brain bled dry.

  This, he assured himself, was not that bad. But someday, he feared, he would no longer be able to come back from the madness. Some donare died of seizures. Others went slowly insane and had to be killed. Others managed themselves well and lived long, successful lives. Before the destruction of Beloth, Shadrael had walked a sure, very controlled edge. Now, struggling without shadow support, he felt himself teetering, losing his balance. One day soon, he would fall into the abyss.

  I need a soul, he thought, struggling against desperation. I need it to quell this, to give me a chance of survival.

  Contempt for such a weakling thought filled him, and he shoved it away. There is no going back, he reminded himself. What’s done is done.

  Wiping his face with the crook of his elbow, he slowly grew aware that Fomo was talking.

  “Could split the men at dawn, with you and our main force taking the girl on to Ulinia as planned,” the centruin said. “Me and the rest could make big tracks toward Thyrazene, lead those fools a good, long chase.” He paused a moment to give Shadrael a sly look. “Of course, the men would want to be paid up front, but I’d see that they didn’t abandon the job.”

  Shadrael spun around, striking Fomo in the face with the back of his hand.

  The centruin went to the ground, catching himself on one knee and hand. “Commander, I was—”

  Shadrael kicked him, knocking him onto his side. “Did I ask you to plan strategy?”

  “No, Commander. I just—”

  Not daring to use magic to punish him, Shadrael picked up Fomo’s dropped whip and lashed him with it. Three vicious strokes, effectively placed.

  Fomo flinched under each blow, but he didn’t cry out. And when Shadrael stepped back, breathing hard, and flung down the whip, Fomo made no move to rise or fight back.

  Had he been a dog he would have been exposing his belly. Shadrael could feel the fear and resentment mingling in the man, a man loyal to him not through any genuine affection or respect but only because Shadrael had once saved his life and more than once saved his career.

  Now Shadrael stood over him, trembling in anger, afraid the madness might return, yet not quite caring if it did. He wanted to kick Fomo again, smash his ribs and kidneys and leave him puking in the snow, but fought off the temptation. As yet, he needed the centruin with him, unreliable or not.

  “So you’ll see the men don’t abandon the job.” Coldly he echoed Fomo’s words, while the rim of Fomo’s eye showed white. “So they’ll want to be paid first. Oh, very clever. I suppose you were going to next suggest that I leave the division of our force to you. That way, you could pick the best of the group, leaving me the dregs, take your payment, and scamper off.” He gestured. “On your feet!”

  Warily, the centruin obeyed. His scarred face wavered between expressions of appeasement and the desire to draw a dagger and fight.

  “Did you think me so ill, so weak, that I’d agree to such a scheme?” Shadrael demanded.

  “Commander, I—”

  “Silence!”

  Glaring, Shadrael watched while Fomo slowly straightened himself to attention. The harsh discipline of army training was holding, but Shadrael could see that discipline and training would not control this man forever. Despite his pretenses of concern, Fomo was like a dog, loyal only to strength, and ready to take advantage of any weakness. If Fomo ever, ever suspected that Shadrael could no longer utilize shadow magic effectively, he would attack, stealing the girl for himself.

  Great Beloth, just keep him useful until I finish this mission, Shadrael thought. After that, he did not care what became of the ungrateful wretch.

  “I wasn’t aware that I had to discuss my strategy for this mission with you,” Shadrael said, his voice raw with all he was suppressing. “Especially beyond what you need to know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve given you no permission to make suggestions.”

  “No, sir.”
/>
  “We’ll waste no more time with the Crimsons. No ambush, no leading them on false trails. They don’t know which way we’ve gone. The clues we’ve planted are enough to give them ideas. If luck shines on us, they’ll report back to the emperor or desert.”

  Fomo started to grin at that, then hastily wiped all expression from his face. “And if they don’t give up?” he asked.

  Shadrael curled his fists, and Fomo flinched.

  “Is this a discussion, Centruin?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We’ll continue to the top of that hill.” Shadrael pointed, ignoring Fomo’s indrawn breath. “If the men keep up a good pace, we should be able to take cover there in the forest well before dawn. Detail two men at the rear to brush out our tracks as we go.”

  Fomo hesitated, and Shadrael expected him to protest about how far the men had come and how tired they were, but the centruin wisely did not. “Got two, maybe three men won’t make it,” was all Fomo said.

  “When they drop, kill them and hide the bodies.”

  Fomo saluted. “Shall I bring the girl back to you now, sir?”

  “Let her walk.”

  Saluting again, Fomo picked up his whip from the snow cautiously, as though he half-expected Shadrael to strike him with magic. Moments later, Shadrael heard him cracking his whip and rasping out commands to get the men started. They groaned and grumbled. By the time Shadrael pulled himself into his saddle and joined them, the men were on their feet but not yet in order. Some were still munching on handfuls of grain, swigging water, ignoring Fomo’s commands.

  Shadrael drew rein in the trees, watching them, vigilant for any sign of mutiny. The girl was standing a short distance away from the men, staying sensibly concealed in the shadows beneath a tree. Apparently they hadn’t noticed her presence yet.

  Shadrael looked around, gauging how much moonlight they had left. Sniffing the air, judging the amount of wind, he scowled at the depth of snow. It would not be easy for his men to make the next hill in their present mood and condition. They were worn out from having marched that morning, lain in wait, fought a hard battle, and marched all this time by magic—exhausting in itself. If they weren’t allowed to rest soon he’d get nothing from them if they had to fight again, not that he planned for more combat to happen.