by Ed Greenwood
Though she’d put mirth into that sentence, and now paused for laughter, only Galaerra—weakly and hesitantly, soon stumbling to silence—obliged.
Orivon smiled; it seemed as if one want this Maharla bitch was going to have was enthusiasm from her fellow crones, a little willing loyalty.
Maharla, it seemed, was not loved.
“Yet all of these tasks I set you, sisters,” she said more coldly, obviously displeased by the reaction around the table, “pale before the greatest task we must all undertake. Those who attacked us used spells that were more powerful than ours. Both beasts like the dung-worms and near-beasts like the gorkul, as well as warblades in plenty, appeared within our wards in many places, somehow—and that ‘somehow’ can only be magical—bypassing our wards and alarm-spells and guardian spells. We must control our spellrobes very tightly, from this moment henceforth. We must know at all times their aims and loyalty to us, and their skills and what spells they have ready. We must spur them—with whips and the Scourge of Olone, if need be—to craft new and more powerful spells, so that no invader will ever be able to just ‘appear’ within our halls—inside the Eventowers, sisters!—again!”
Maharla was almost shouting now but suddenly her voice became calm, a silken calm that made Orivon’s skin crawl, as she almost purred, “It is customary—as most of you are well aware—that we all speak at length, openly and freely, around this table. Yet this once, with a foe still at our gates and open butchery still adorning our halls, I ask—command, if you must have it so—you all to keep silent. I shall be calling each and every one of you to private audience with me—soon—to discuss these tasks I have identified, and other matters. This converse is now at an end, but I ask you all to remain for a very short time, now, as I attend to a matter that my predecessor neglected, against my advice, for far too long.” Her voice sharpened. “Stand, Taerune of Evendoom.”
Something moved, in the narrow column of view Orivon could see, and he dared to ever-so-gently pull the cloak over his face taut, so as to peer better through its weave.
What he saw was his longtime tormentor swaying up out of her seat, her obsidian face pale and set with pain—and no wonder! Her left arm was missing, just below the elbow, and where it had been severed, her leathers were melted and burned.
“You fought for our House as valiantly as any warblade,” Maharla announced. “More valiantly than some, I’m told. When your arm was lost in the fray, you took it upon yourself to order a spellrobe of our House—Raereul, now our most senior and accomplished spellrobe—to sear your … stump so that you might continue to fight for Evendoom. When Raereul quite rightly hesitated to obey an order that came not from a battlelord or an anointed sister of this House, the heir of our House, the ever-irresponsible Jalandral, gave the spellrobe the same order. Thereby wasting a spell that could have slain more of the foe, and prolonging a life that had displeased Olone long enough.”
“What?” Taerune’s cry held more incredulity than fury—and more fury than fear.
“He will receive appropriate punishment soon,” Maharla continued, as if Taerune had not spoken. “You remain, for us to deal with here and now.”
“Are you seriously suggesting, before all the sisters around this table, that members of the pureblood Evendoom are no longer to be healed? So that they may continue to serve the family and Olone? Even if I am deemed unsuitable to become an anointed sister, I am breeding stock, to put matters bluntly, and therefore something valuable to the family, not to be disposed of on the whim of one crone, however exalted her rank! Family assets belong to the entire family, and the Rule—about which I should not have to remind you, Eldest!—is quite explicit: All of the crones of our House have a vote in how assets are used, and disposed of!”
“I am well aware of the Rule, presumptuous youngling,” Maharla said, sneering, “but it seems you need to be reminded of something we all learn at an even younger age: that your, ah, condition is an affront to Olone, a stain upon this House that grows, bringing divine displeasure upon us all with every breath you take while it continues!”
“So heal me, as is my right as a pureblood Evendoom, and your obligation, Eldest, unless you renounce your office and authority here and now, to so serve the third-blood heir of Evendoom!”
“I regret,” Maharla purred, the gloating tone of her voice making it clear she felt no regret at all, “to inform you, all-knowing little she, that all the healing magic of our House has been used, and our most powerful beneficial spells expended, just to keep the brains of the slain Telmoun, mightiest spellblade of our House, and Saharulae, Anointed of Olone, alive as they were taken from their butchered bodies and magically preserved in our precious healing font of the Goddess. Just now, there’s no magic left to heal you. As Olone wills.”
“That’s your excuse, Maharla?” Taerune stood defiant, eyes glittering. “Your way of getting rid of one of the two purebloods who’s stood up to you, all these years? I suppose this ‘appropriate punishment’ you plan for Jalandral will be your way of ridding yourself of the other!”
“Be still, maimed and unworthy affront to Olone!”
“Oh, do you take that authority for yourself, too?” Taerune’s voice was as strong and sharp as that of the Eldest.
Orivon shook his head in admiration, despite himself. So his Whipping Bitch stood proud under the lash after all, taking like harshness to what she’d visited on him!
“Sisters,” Taerune snapped, “be wary of this viper in your midst! If you let her speak for the anointed priestesses, too, and decide what Holy Olone likes and does not like, she will become a tyrant indeed—and doom all of you, one after another, finding fault and treachery as you have heard her do here and now, around this table, until she and she alone is House Evendoom. Then the doom of our family will be complete!”
Maharla strolled around the outside of the table, and came to a stop right beside Orivon’s closet, folding her hands as if she were a pious priestess. “You are not heard here, any longer,” she intoned formally. “You no longer have a name. You are not of Evendoom!”
“I am Taerune Evendoom. My heritage, self-appointed tyrant, is not something you can take away from me!”
Maharla’s smile was merciless. “Before we gathered here, I met with Chasra, Anointed of Olone, who admitted her treason to the Goddess and to this House, in failing to forewarn us of the attack. She accepted responsibility for what befell Saharulae, and accordingly threw herself upon the altar of the Goddess, naming, as she burned, myself as the Ruling Hand of Olone in Talonnorn. In the name of Olone, defiant youngling, I cast you out, and strip your name from you!”
“I see, Maharla. I see all too well,” Taerune said softly. “Evendoom is doomed. So be it. So you have murdered Chasra, and now, I suppose, you’ll murder me. In front of all the crones of our House, even after all the years I’ve served House Evendoom so well.”
“No,” was the cold response, as Maharla raised a hand, letting her sleeve drop. Everyone saw the scepter of Olone sheathed there—in the instant before it fired its bolt, and Taerune reeled and fell back into her seat.
A glowing chain of magic promptly encircled her throat, drawing her tight against the spired back of her chair, pinioned in place.
“It is because of your years of service, Maimed One,” the Eldest of Evendoom told her coldly, “that you’ve been allowed to live as one of us for so long, as grotesquerie has overtaken your arms—you bulge like a slave, Taerune!—and you fell farther and farther away from the favor of Olone. You were only a Turning away from being thrown out of Talonnorn even before these unfortunate events.”
Maharla turned and strolled back to her own seat. “It is because of your years of service,” she added in tones of gentle sorrow that fooled no one in the room, “that we’ve decided to grant you the mercy of taking your own life—rather than butchering you publicly, to the greater glory of House Evendoom.”
Reaching her place at the table, she added with a smile, “You kn
ow the Rule. And you are strong, and serve House Evendoom so well: You know what is right. And will do it.”
She turned her head and nodded to Galaerra, who rose and cast a knife onto the table in front of the trapped Taerune.
Then, her smile triumphant, Maharla raised both hands with a flourish, in the “I command you to rise” gesture used only by Ruling Hands of Olone.
The crones rose as one, Baraule and Klaerra both turning to face Taerune and drawing knives from their belts.
Maharla strode out, and all of the others followed, Baraule and Klaerra last of all, under Galaerra’s watchful eye. Taerune could have struggled to turn her head and look at them, but did not, staring instead across the room, at nothing at all.
There came the heavy rattling of the door being locked. Orivon tensed. Then he felt at his belt for the reassuring weight of his hammer, and relaxed again. Even if the lock was enspelled, the backs of these closets were but wood—he could smash through them and get out into the attic, if he had to.
And so his Whipping Bitch had been delivered helpless into his hand, after all these years …
He smiled, and slid the cloak off his head to watch.
10
The Beast Remembers Its Name
All scores will be settled, and even I will learn shame.
Towers will totter, the hunter ride home at long last,
And the forest echo, as the Beast remembers its name.
—old Niflghar chant,
“When That Time Comes”
“Damn you, Maharla,” Taerune whispered raggedly, on the verge of tears. The empty room around her seemed to be listening, so she choked back a sob, and said nothing more until she’d fought down the urge to burst out weeping. “Olone damn you!”
She could do nothing about the tears she knew were running down her cheeks. The spell was fading already—Maharla might wield a holy scepter, but she was very far from knowing how to use it properly, or being worthy to do so—and for a wild moment she considered sitting here until it was quite gone, and then taking the knife and doing a little Maharla hunting.
No. She’d never get anywhere near the bitch, and Maharla had the sense of humor that would have her spellbind Dral or Ravan to kill their sister Taera. Slowly.
Tears did flood then, but Taerune bit her lip and kept grimly silent, shaking as she felt her sorrow drip off her chin onto the table.
Then she reached for the knife with the only hand she had left. It was trembling.
It was a good knife, heavy and fitting her hand well. Taerune hefted it, and then held it up and peered at it.
“You made this, my Orivon,” she whispered to the empty room, suddenly sure this was the work of “her” firefist. “Oh, Goddess, what will become of you now, my Dark Warrior? Are you even still alive?”
She shook her head, fighting back fresh tears. “Olone,” she cursed, and reversed the knife in her hand, tossing it and deftly catching it without looking, to plunge it into her own breast.
Which was when something large rose up from beneath the edge of the table, took her wrist in a grip of iron, and asked in a soft, deep, and unfriendly voice, “Want to live?”
Taerune’s eyes flashed wide. In an instant she was past that astonishment and glaring at him. She hissed wordless fury—and fought, her arm astonishingly strong.
Astonishingly strong, but as nothing to Orivon’s forge-tempered brawn. Disbelief warred with pain in her eyes, as they burned into his over the fading, pulsing spell-chain.
The knife trembled as she clenched her teeth, snarled, and threw all her strength against his, trying desperately to force the knife down into herself. Her breast heaved as she gasped, as if straining to meet the blade—and then, suddenly, she threw her strength the other way, trying to thrust the knife into Orivon’s face.
He grinned at it mirthlessly—and held fast, withstanding all she could hurl, even when Taera sobbed and rocked her body wildly in the chair, again and again, seeking to overmatch him and force the warsteel where he was determined it would not go.
At last she fell back, shuddering and exhausted, pain as well as weariness on her face. Orivon kept firm hold of her wrist, expecting a sudden thrust if he let go, but she just shook her head at him and opened her hand, letting the knife clatter back onto the table.
“Will you listen to me, Lady Taerune?” he whispered, sweeping the steel well out of her reach with one long arm. “And not try to slay me, or yourself, or cry alarm to all House Evendoom?”
“S-slave, I will,” she hissed back wearily. “What else is left for me but listening?”
“Nothing is left—here. For either of us. But what if we left Talonnorn?”
“What? Slave, are you oriad?”
“I’m not your slave, Nifl bitch. And I’m not oriad; only Niflghar have that luxury. We humans have to settle for going mad.”
Orivon thrust his face close to hers—close enough to feel the warning prickle of the waning magic around her throat—and snarled, “And right now, I’m not far off from being mad. I’m a human who wants his freedom, and I’m mad enough to work with the Nifl-she who flogged and lorded it over me for years, to get free!”
Taerune’s face twisted, incredulity ruling her. “What are you babbling of? Where would you go?”
“The village you nightskins snatched me from, when I was little. Up in the Blindingbright!”
“And what would I do there?” Taerune snarled back at him bitterly. “In my scant time of being raped by every man in your village, before you burned me alive?”
“Who said anything about you coming to my village? You could have a new life among the Ravagers!”
She stared at him, mocking laughter in her eyes. “The Ravagers?” She went on staring, and then gasped, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Taerune Evendoom,” he snapped, “I am serious—and despite being a human, I have a brain, and can think as well or better than most Niflghar. I’m not a beast, I’m a man. But once out in the Dark, I’m lost; I need you. If you’ll be my guide and wits, knowing Nifl and the Dark as you do—or getting a map of the Wild Dark from somewhere in this castle, to serve us both—I’ll be your brawn, and get you out with me!”
“You’re oriad, man,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “They’ll catch us before we’re even out of the Towers! Nor do I want to leave Talonnorn—or go anywhere with a Hairy One! You humans stink!”
“Well of course we do, seeing as you don’t let your slaves bathe except when you want them doused in scents!”
The spell at her throat faded, and Taerune sprang from her chair like a striking snake, sinking her teeth into his wrist and lunging to reach the knife.
Orivon backhanded her, sending her flying across the table. The Nifl-she fetched up against a closet amid the wreckage of two chairs, hard enough to slam its door panel open with a shudder.
Shaking her head, she wriggled up from the floor like an angry eel, and raced for the knife once more.
Orivon sprang over the table and slammed into her, taking brutal advantage of her missing arm to get a hand around her throat and then step behind her, hauling her right off the floor to kick furiously but helplessly, strangling in his grasp.
“Will you listen to me?”
He shook her as he asked that question, hard enough to make her teeth clatter, and then threw her down onto the table and pinned her there, a knee on her hip and his hands holding her breasts like claws, pinning her down. “Well?”
“Kill me, man. Just kill me.” Her breasts rose and fell, or tried to, as she fought for breath. “I’ve been tormented enough!”
“Oh, no, you haven’t. You barely know what torment is! Why, if you’d felt the whip from my end, all those—”
“Orivon, there are whips in the end closet, by the door,” she hissed up at him, through fresh tears. “Scores of them. Choose those you like, and cut me apart! I’ll not resist you!”
Orivon looked up at the end closet, then back down at the helpless she
under his hands. Something was uncoiling inside him that he couldn’t name, something that broke his fury. “I … no. No.”
“Then let me have the knife, or kill me with it yourself,” the Lady Taerune whispered fiercely, staring up into his eyes.
Orivon let go of her, and stood back from the table. “I saw and heard everything,” he said curtly, “of the crones’ meeting, and … I—before Olone, do you truly desire to die more than you want to live?”
Taerune sat up, swallowing hard, and for the first time he noticed the spell had burned away the leathers at her throat, and seared the skin beneath.
Her eyes, as she stared at him, seemed to hold dancing fire, within the glimmering tears.
“N-no,” she whispered at last, and burst out crying.
Orivon stood watching her weeping, frowning a little in thought. He hated her—Thorar, how he hated her!—but if he treated this bitch like a human woman, like a friend, comforting and praising her, she just might turn away from seeking her own swift death and be of some use.
Thorar, he hated her, but …
He set his jaw, stepped forward, and put his arms around her. The Nifl went as rigid as a sword, just for an instant—and then collapsed back into sobbing, burying her face in his chest.
Awkwardly, Orivon held her, stroking her shoulder—the shoulder of the arm she’d lost!
“Thorar!” he snarled aloud, snatching his hand away and flushing hot. “Give me the strength!”
“Suh-suh-strength,” she fought to say through her sobs, clinging to his chest all the tighter, “you have, man. It’s-it’s everything else you lack!”
“Well, thank you, little bitch,” he growled, nettled. He put his anger into violently thrusting her away from him. And holding her at arm’s length, fingers sunk clawlike into her shoulders. Scowling silently, he watched her fight down her tears and master them.
She was still sniffling when he snapped, “So, again I ask: Will you work with me? To get us both out of Talonnorn? And win a new life—new lives—for us both?”