by L. Penelope
“No, sir. Dishes are almost done. Once the spy gets his rations, I’ll be back to my chores.”
“Wargi, finish the dishes for the lady, then throw some crusts at that vermin outside,” he barked.
Wargi stood and gently removed the dishrag from her hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. He looked embarrassed and began tackling the pots in the sink.
“Come, rest your feet a moment, dear girl,” Tensyn said.
She could think of no way to refuse, and so took the seat offered, cringing as Tensyn slid uncomfortably close to her.
“Beauty such as yours should never have to look upon that filthy Elsiran. Wargi, find a bag to cover the pig’s head with.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jasminda shot a quick glance toward the porch but couldn’t see Jack from her position. Tensyn launched into a long and meandering tale of his valor during the Seventh Breach, of the vast number of Elsirans he’d killed and the accolades he’d received from the True Father. Every so often, he would twirl the tips of his mustache and pause to check her reaction. She’d never thought herself a good actress, but she strove to appear impressed.
He finished his story, and she bobbed her head enthusiastically, eyes wide as saucers to portray her awe. He then gave a great yawn and announced he was off for a nap. Jasminda slumped in her chair, exhausted, and noticed Wargi had slipped away at some point. She stood to retrieve the extra food she’d set aside for Jack before heading out to the porch.
He sat propped against the railing, looking like a discarded scarecrow with the sack covering his head. She knelt and uncovered him. He blinked at her, then frowned.
“I was rather enjoying the privacy.”
She bounced the bag in her hand. “I can put it back if you like.”
He yawned, stretching his shoulders as far as he could with his arms tied. His shirt remained open, and she watched the muscles of his chest bunch and flex. Though he was bruised and scarred, she couldn’t draw her eyes away.
Silence stretched between them, and she realized he hadn’t missed her stare. Her cheeks grew warm and she ducked her head, pushing the bowl of mashed turnips toward him. He picked it up and awkwardly shoveled the spoon into his mouth with his bound hands, then turned to her with raised eyebrows and a grimace.
“Those are the herbs,” she said, voice apologetic. “They’re bitter, but good for your healing.” Her Song was nearly depleted. She would have to wait until later in the afternoon to be strong enough to help him again.
“I need your help,” he said, only speaking once he’d fully swallowed his food, unlike the Lagrimari soldiers. “With the cornerstone.”
She shook her head, recalling the vile energy coming from the tiny thing he claimed was a map. “I don’t want anything to do with that rock.”
“You don’t have to read the map, that doesn’t require a Song. I can do it. All it takes is a bit of blood.”
Jasminda shivered. “Blood?”
“I tried it before. Just a drop, and you’ll see the path unfold in your mind. Landmarks, trails, the whole journey runs in your head like a photoplay.”
Unease was an army of ants marching across her skin.
“But only an Earthsinger can fortify the cornerstone,” he continued. “And you are the only one available.” His eyes were all earnestness, gently pleading with her.
But the soldiers, her home, the taxes, the constable. Jack didn’t know what he asked of her. In less than a week, she would have to either accept her grandfather’s terms or leave her home. Appealing to the Taxation Bureau in person would require traveling across the entire country, and she had neither the money nor the means to do so in time. There wasn’t really a choice open to her, much as she hated to admit it. She would have to sign and return the papers before the auction and could not both journey through the mountains with Jack and meet the magistrate in five days.
“There has to be someone else. I can’t—I have to…” A pulse of energy stole her breath. She shuddered and squeezed her eyes tight.
“What is it?” Jack asked, leaning toward her.
“I don’t know. Magic, I think.” The faint sensation was not dissimilar to the crawling unease that had overtaken her when she’d touched Jack’s map. But this was different. This felt like it was coming from the house. She sucked in a deep breath, rose, and slipped back through the door.
The kitchen was empty, as was the main room beyond. Both bedroom doors were closed, but as she approached, voices rose from her parents’ room.
“I don’t believe I heard you correctly, mistress. Is that truly what the True Father desires?” Tensyn spoke softly. Jasminda strained to hear. “We have gone through much to recapture the prisoner.”
“Do you question your king’s commands?” A woman’s voice, deadly and elegant, came from behind the door. Jasminda froze and used what was left of her Song to seek out the speaker. But the energy gave no clues. She sensed only one person in the room—Tensyn.
“No, certainly not. I just want to be sure that I understand my orders. I live to obey.”
The woman scoffed. “Then follow my instructions. And when this tantrum he calls a storm clears, you and your men return to Sayya. You will be rewarded for your diligence, Sergeant. I will make sure of it.”
“Th-thank you, mistress.”
Jasminda rushed back to the kitchen, her mind a whirl. The soldiers had claimed their radio equipment was broken. Had that been a lie? But the woman’s voice wasn’t staticky like it was being sent over the airwaves. It had been as clear and crisp as if she’d been standing in front of Mama’s mirror, speaking directly into Tensyn’s ear.
The sensation of bad magic had faded now that the conversation was over. Though the Lagrimari had all lost their Songs, it was obvious that some kind of spell was at work here. The sort that left a bitter taste on Jasminda’s tongue.
What had the mystery woman’s instructions to the sergeant been? The men had wanted to bring Jack back to the capital alive for questioning, but perhaps now that had changed.
Dread danced dangerously down Jasminda’s spine. She needed to come up with a plan to save Jack and remove these men from her home. Before it was too late.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A boy, having accidentally stepped into a nest of vipers, cried out to the Mistress of Serpents for aid.
Serpent turned the vipers to glass and entreated the boy to leave the nest without breaking the glass. For it is you who have entered their home without invitation, she said. Why should they change their nature in their own home?
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Night had fallen, and the cool breeze sighed across Jack’s heated skin. Raucous laughter swelled inside the house. Jack winced when something heavy crashed to the ground. Guilt for his part in leading these men to Jasminda’s home had not waned. And now it sounded as if they were breaking the place apart.
He smelled Jasminda’s presence before he heard her footsteps. She crept up the back steps to kneel beside him. Her palm slid across his forehead, and he pressed into the touch. Another loud thunk resounded from within the house, followed by rising voices.
“It sounds like a tavern in there,” Jack said.
“It is.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“They discovered my father’s gin. They’re three noses into the still.”
There were few things more cruel than a drunken soldier. Jack rolled his cheek back into her hand. “I am sorry for it.” The men’s intoxication would not bode well for them.
Jasminda’s fingers skated across his scalp, soothing the dull ache in his head. The breeze picked up, whistling a warning in the air.
“How much longer will the storm trap us here?” he asked.
A shifting of clouds revealed the moonlight, illuminating her pensive expression. “Another twenty-four hours or so.” Her vivid dark gaze drove into him. “Do you think you can walk?”
He rose onto an elbow, searching her inscru
table expression. “I believe so. Are we going somewhere?”
A knife appeared in her hand and with a snick, his ropes were cut. “They’re all distracted now. I think we should try to get you out of here.”
Shock momentarily froze him, but he shook it off and rose to his feet. She wrapped an arm around him, helping to support some of his weight. Jack was grateful for it; much as he hated to admit it, he needed the aid. His wounds and bruises complained noisily, but he ignored them, focusing on finding his footing.
“What’s the plan?” he asked as they stumbled down the back steps.
“Stay alive.” He wanted to grin at her response, but instead pursed his lips at the shooting pain that stabbed his chest. He boxed it away and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
The two of them sank into the shadows cast by the moonlight, keeping to the tree line, and skirting the side of the house with quiet steps. Inside, discordant voices began a bawdy drinking song.
They had just rounded the corner of the house when the front door slammed open. Jasminda’s arm turned to stone around him. Jack held his breath. The moon blessedly chose that moment to sink behind a cloud, leaving the yard in darkness. It was too dim to identify the man who lurched forward, but he walked straight toward them, stopping a handful of paces away before a thick-trunked dogwood. If he looked to his right, he would see them standing stiff as statues, trying to blend into the night.
The soldier unzipped his fly and began to piss. His stream was seemingly endless; how much gin had there been? Jasminda trembled.
Finally, the soldier finished and tucked himself back into his trousers. He turned toward the house, swaying on his feet. Jack exhaled slowly, ready to weep with relief, when the bloody moon broke through the bloody clouds, brilliantly illuminating the yard.
Yet, the soldier—Pymsyn he could see now—had his back to them, staggering toward the cabin. Jack swallowed. Just a few more steps. He counted them down as Pymsyn drew farther away.
On the porch, the soldier’s hand met the door handle. From the corner of Jack’s eye, he saw Jasminda blinking rapidly, watching the man’s every movement. They dared not move, out in the open as they were. Once the Lagrimari was safely inside, they could regain the cover of the shadows.
But instead of opening the door, Pymsyn turned around.
A bone-deep chill took over Jack’s body.
Pymsyn’s eyes widened. His alcohol-soaked brain took several moments to process before the connection was made. Jack spotted the moment it did, as recognition and outrage crossed the man’s face.
In that split second, Jack reacted. He pulled the knife Jasminda had used on his ropes out of the front pocket of her dress, where she’d slipped it. At the same time, he adjusted his hold on her to appear menacing and lifted the knife to her throat.
The maneuver was swift and left him aching. But by the time Pymsyn raised his voice to shout, to all appearances Jasminda was at Jack’s mercy. A hostage, not a savior.
“I forced you to do this,” he whispered. She struggled against him, though he sensed she was not playing along, but rather rejecting his plan. It did not matter, her tussling would only reinforce Jack’s story.
He held her tighter. The sweet fragrance of her hair filled his nose. He inhaled the scent as the soldiers streamed drunkenly out of the cabin.
Jasminda was wrenched away, taking her warmth and aroma with her. Blows from the angry soldiers came down thick and fast. Jack was sorry to have undone all her healing work—he hoped she would not be too angry with him over it.
The severity of the men’s punches paled in comparison to what he’d suffered when he’d first been discovered. A few days of rest and relaxation and several fifths of gin had turned the men soft.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Jack wheezed during a break in the action. Once again a foot to his midsection stole his breath. A kick to the head stole his consciousness.
CHAPTER NINE
Said the Master of Jackals to the soldier, A victorious warrior fights for one of three things: a righteous cause, a broken heart, or a noble death.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
“Have you been harmed, my dear?” Tensyn asked, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“I’m fine.” Jasminda fought to keep her composure. She was fine. Jack, on the other hand, had been dragged off back to the porch, insensible. She couldn’t tell for sure, but he might have been as bad off again as he was when he arrived.
Tensyn grabbed her chin to peer down at her. He was trying to appear attentive, but she couldn’t bear the touch of his skin.
“I assure you, he did not hurt me.” She stepped back out of reach.
Tensyn’s forefinger was bandaged. It hadn’t been so earlier. She was surprised he hadn’t asked her to come nurse him whenever he’d injured himself, though it was likely done destroying some valuable keepsake of hers.
She glared at him, holding herself back from railing against Jack’s treatment. Tensyn’s expression was loose and heavy lidded. He did not seem inclined to kill Jack at this moment—he had ordered his men to stop the beating in an outraged tone—but Jasminda remained unsure as to what she’d overheard earlier in the day.
Something tickled at her memory, but skittered away when she tried to bring it into focus.
“I will post a guard at your door tonight, to ensure your safety. You are under my protection, after all.” He bowed. It might have been more gallant if he hadn’t stumbled halfway through and messily righted himself.
“That isn’t necessary,” she said, fear spiking in her veins.
“Oh, I insist.” He glanced in the direction the men had taken Jack, his expression sobering for a moment. “That is a desperate man.”
Jasminda shivered in the cool night. She was growing desperate herself.
* * *
She had no intention of falling asleep. Sitting upright on her bed, she kept her shotgun on one side and a long blade in her other hand. But her body ignored her intent, succumbing to exhaustion and its need for rest. Her eyelids drooped, and nothing she could do kept them from closing.
The tinkling of wind chimes—the makeshift alarm she’d hung on her door—was her only warning. A figure loomed above her in the dark. A beefy hand covered her mouth, stifling her scream. Fahl towered over her, reeking of gin. He was strong and had an iron grip on her face, pushing her back into the pillow. The hand holding her knife was stuck underneath her head, and Fahl’s other hand felt roughly for her nightgown and grabbed at the hem.
Jasminda kicked out, struggling, fighting with all her might, but Fahl was huge and heavy as he lay on top of her, fully immobilizing her. He eased up enough to continue pushing up her nightgown and then pawed at her thighs as she tried to clench them together.
The shotgun rolled off the bed, hitting the floor. Fahl chuckled when he saw it, launching a blast of alcohol-infused air into her face.
“Keep fighting, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s been months since I had any, and I don’t mind working for it a little.”
Jasminda stilled, unwilling to give this man anything he wanted. She hunted for an escape.
He fumbled with his trousers, pulling and tearing at them until his squiggly, limp penis emerged. He made a sound of disgust, then started stroking himself while pinning her down, one hand covering her mouth. Jasminda strained to see what was going on down there—and thanked the Queen he wasn’t making much progress.
The terryroot was doing its job. Her herb dictionary listed the odorless, tasteless, plant’s use for “wives wanting some peace from their husbands.” Her mother had laughed heartily when a young Jasminda asked what that meant, telling the girl that she would find out when she was older. Since the soldiers had arrived, Jasminda had been liberally dosing their food with the herb.
Growling in frustration, Fahl kneeled over her, angrily pulling on himself. Without his weight on top of her, Jasminda could now move her arm but didn’t know if she would be quick enough with the
knife. The moment of indecision cost her when he stood suddenly, grabbing her by the hair. She winced from the pain as he forced her down the stairs. Her side pressed against his giant chest, immobilizing her arm, but allowing just enough reach for her to slide the knife into her pocket.
“Ginko!” he whispered loudly. “Mate, where are you?”
An answering groan sounded from the living room. The door to one of the bedrooms hung open, revealing another soldier sprawled on the floor inside. Fahl pressed her onto the couch next to a groggy and very drunk Ginko.
“I’ve brought you a present, mate,” Fahl said. His pants sagged, and his flaccid penis hung out shamelessly.
“Eh?” Ginko replied, peeling open his eyes. He perked up when he noticed Jasminda. “What about the sergeant?” he slurred.
“Can’t hold his liquor.” Fahl grinned evilly, showing off his blackened, stinking teeth. His grip loosened for a moment, and Jasminda tore free with a shout, lunging off the couch toward the kitchen, jumping over furniture in her way. But Fahl and Ginko surprised her with their speed, catching up to her quickly and slamming her down on the kitchen table. She pulled the knife from her pocket and swiped out, slicing through a fleshy arm. A corresponding yowl rang out from whichever of them she’d cut.
She screamed a war cry and lashed out again, but a hand pinned her arm like a vise before the knife met its target. A blow to her face rattled her senses before her legs were pinned as well. She kicked and flailed with all her strength, but it felt like immovable rocks held her in place.
Ginko clutched her legs, nudging her nightgown up. Near her head, Fahl hadn’t stopped pulling at himself futilely.
“Perhaps this will go better if I stuff it down your throat.” He released her arms to grab her hair and tilt her head back toward him. His grip was tight enough to make her vision blur, but she focused on her newly freed hands. A little closer and she’d be able to reach the two sensitive sacks behind his drooping manhood. She would rip off whatever she touched and bite off anything that came near her lips.