The Mountain of Kept Memory

by Rachel Neumeier

  Her father answered dryly, “I fear that just at the moment, a hysterical princess dashing about the palace with romantic ideas about daring adventure and dramatic rescues might prove inconvenient.” He pronounced every word of this statement with deliberate care, studying Oressa’s face. She bit her lip, fixed her gaze on the floor, and tried not to shiver. She had always been afraid of drawing her father’s close attention. Now that she finally had caught his eye, she knew she hadn’t been afraid of it enough.

  Her father added, “Oressa, I wish very much to hear every detail of your visit to the Kieba’s mountain. However . . .” He glanced at Prince Bherijda.

  “Yes, yes.” Bherijda sounded a little petulant. “I’ll see to everything. But I need you to keep the Keppa and all her magic out of my way.”

  “Indeed,” murmured her father. He gave Oressa one more thoughtful glance, then turned that same thoughtful gaze on the nearest of the scorpion soldiers. The man blanched, which indicated to Oressa that he was not entirely imperceptive, and bowed in acknowledgment of the unspoken order to keep Oressa both safe and secure. Then Osir beckoned to his men, and he and Bherijda and Erren and Kelian all went out, undoubtedly to see to the final arrangements they’d made to trap Gulien and Gajdosik.

  But not all of the scorpion soldiers left. Naturally. Two of them stayed in the room, guarding her, including the man her father had clearly assigned to that duty with his single wordless glance.

  On the other hand, that glance had been wordless. If the men didn’t actually have specific orders . . . Oressa glared at them. Then she stood up, tossed her head—she wished she’d had that bath, because a beautiful dress and clean hair dripping with pearls added a lot to haughty flouncing—and declared, “I am going to my room.” She started arrogantly toward the door, as though confident Bherijda’s soldiers wouldn’t dare stop her.

  But the man did stop her. He went further: he chained her to her chair. Oressa hadn’t expected that at all. She didn’t see how she could have expected anything so outrageous. The chain, hurriedly brought by the other soldier, was a pretty, ladylike example of the metalsmith’s art, its snug-fitting manacle made to look like a bracelet of pearls and copper, copper wire twisted decoratively around the slender steel links of the chain. This was disturbing: Who went to the trouble of making a pretty chain? Was it so common in Tamarist to chain up highborn ladies that every army carried a selection of chains made up to look like jewelry? Maybe it was. She could believe it. Or did only Prince Bherijda travel with such things in his luggage?

  “There,” the one soldier said to the other in lower-class Tamaj, his accent unfamiliar enough Oressa had to concentrate hard to understand him. “That’d make certain. Best take no chances with this’n. She’s been let have notions, you can see. Too easy with their daughters by half, them Carastindi, but any fool can see that Madalin king tain’t the kind to get on the wrong side of.”

  “Our prince’s got him wound up,” said the other man, but uneasily.

  “Best take no chances,” repeated the first obdurately. “Anyway, His Highness tain’t want the princess getting off on her own, neither, not sen he’s got her trained proper.”

  “Hst!” said the other man, glancing around uneasily. “Not so loud.”

  “Ah, no one’s here, and them don’t speak Tamaj any list,” said the first man, but he fell silent anyway.

  Oressa lowered her eyes, concealed her rage and fear, and composed herself to wait.

  The minutes dragged interminably, but it was not actually very long before Prince Bherijda returned.

  Oressa knew immediately that he’d caught Gulien and Gajdosik. She knew before he said anything. She knew before her brother and Gajdosik were brought in. She knew by the malice and satisfaction in Bherijda’s face. Even so, when he smiled at her triumphantly, she straightened her shoulders and blinked back in a show of meek bafflement.

  Prince Bherijda settled himself in her father’s chair and fussily straightened the lace on his sleeves. Then he waved his hand in a deliberately lordly, condescending gesture, and his men brought in first his brother and then hers.

  Neither her brother nor Gajdosik had been seriously hurt; that much was immediately obvious, so Oressa’s first terror was assuaged immediately. They were both on their feet, and she could see no obviously dangerous wounds and only little smears of blood here and there. Of course, Bherijda had wanted Gajdosik taken alive, and her father had ordered the same care for Gulien, but things happen in battle. Oressa’s relief was so great that she actually felt light-headed; she had to close her eyes and concentrate on her breathing or she would have swayed or fainted or burst into tears. She couldn’t afford to do anything so ridiculous, because everything else was awful.

  Her brother and Gajdosik had both been bound, which wasn’t surprising, exactly, but still insulting because they were, after all, princes. They each stood between two soldiers, so one had to wonder what the point of the bonds was, except to shame them. Which, Oressa thought, was perfectly in character for a man who would chain up girls.

  Most alarming, though she looked for them, she couldn’t see any Carastindin people anywhere in evidence. Only Bherijda and his men.

  Gulien looked furious and haughty, which Oressa knew meant he was afraid. So was she.

  But Gajdosik looked worse than Gulien. He might not be badly hurt, but his face was bruised and his mouth swollen, and his hands were cut, and plainly some of his fingers were broken. But Oressa had seen him frightened, and he didn’t look frightened now. He looked murderously angry.

  Bherijda, in contrast, was clearly very pleased with himself. He leaned back in her father’s chair, his elbows propped on its carved arms, smiling, satisfied as a well-fed kitchen cat and, Oressa was sure, twice as cruel when he had someone in his claws. She wanted to seem helpless and ineffectual so when she actually did something useful, she’d take Bherijda and his men by surprise, except chained as she was, she couldn’t think of anything to do. Nevertheless, she jumped to her feet and took several steps forward, clutching her hands together and trying to look nervous and modest and not like she wanted to spit in Bherijda’s face. “Please,” she said pleadingly. “You won’t hurt my brother? Please don’t hurt Gulien,” as though the choice was entirely Bherijda’s and her father had never made any threat.

  Bherijda preened—of course he was the kind of man who liked to have girls plead with him. That wasn’t a surprise at all. “As you see,” he said, smiling, “your brother is quite well. Indeed, I have little interest in him.” He turned and faced the bound men, smiling deliberately at Gajdosik.

  Oressa was standing quite close to one of the scorpion soldiers now. She might have snatched the knife from his belt and stabbed Bherijda, except she was fairly certain the chain wouldn’t give her enough length to reach the prince. She wasn’t precisely certain how best to stab a man, but how hard could it be? She might have made her best guess about it, except for the chain.

  “What shall I do with you?” Bherijda murmured in Tamaj. He was looking at Gajdosik, but his voice was so low that Oressa wondered if he might really be speaking to himself rather than to his brother. He was still smiling, but it was a tight, wary smile with no humor in it. He said more loudly, to the soldiers, “Strip him.”

  The soldiers hesitated. Probably they were reluctant because Gajdosik was a prince, but Oressa thought maybe they were also just plain afraid of him, even though he was bound and unarmed and they were all big, strong men. She thought their hesitation was a measure of the rage that radiated from Gajdosik, invisible but potent, like heat radiating from sun-heated stone.

  Gajdosik didn’t move or take his eyes from Bherijda’s face. He asked in a low, tight voice, also in Tamaj, “Does your new ally know you make so free with your sworn word, brother?”

  For a long moment Oressa couldn’t figure out what he meant. It was Gulien’s expression that told her. She abruptly remembered that Bherijda had ordered his men both to Make any threat or promises
you must and Kill all his men. He’d given orders very like that, anyway, and Oressa had thought he’d meant, Kill the men if you must, but instead he had meant exactly what he had said. She closed her own eyes for a moment, swallowing. A whole company of Gajdosik’s men. And Gulien’s men: them, too, probably. The Kieba had spared them all, but Oressa was certain Bherijda hadn’t.

  Oressa hadn’t known all of the men, but she’d known some of them. Tamresk, who had been with them inside the Kieba’s mountain—he’d come through so much, and now Gajdosik’s own brother had killed him out of spite. All those men. Bherijda might have, must have promised to spare them if the two princes surrendered, because how else could he have taken them alive? But then he had slaughtered them all anyway. Oressa didn’t know it, but she was sure.

  “I beg your pardon. Did you mean to make a joke?” Bherijda asked, his tone smooth and amused, and repeated, more sharply, “I said, strip him.”

  This time the soldiers obeyed, drawing knives to cut Gajdosik’s shirt off his body. Gajdosik made no undignified attempt to resist them, but before they were quite finished with the shirt, Bherijda put up a hand to signal them back. His eyebrows had gone up. He walked around Gajdosik in a slow circle, studying the whip marks, red and angry against Gajdosik’s dark skin. Then he came back around to face him and asked, “Who did that?”

  Gajdosik answered tonelessly, without elaboration, “The Keppa.”

  Gulien looked appalled. Oressa hadn’t even remembered that he might not know about that—it had never occurred to her to tell him about it. She hadn’t wanted to think about it at all. When he glanced at her, she shrugged, meaning, Yes, sorry, I forgot, but who wants to talk about something like that anyway?

  Bherijda’s eyebrows went up again higher, but he didn’t look appalled at all, only surprised and doubtful. He said, “Well, I understand that she might feel the urge, but the marks seem months old.”

  “She provided a caduceus,” said Gajdosik, still in that flat tone. The word “caduceus” was the same in Tamaj as in Esse, apparently, which Oressa hadn’t realized.

  “Did she?” Bherijda walked around him again, then traced one of the whip marks with a fingertip. Another. “Why do this and then allow you the use of a caduceus?” Bherijda wondered aloud. Then, when there was no answer, “It’s a good idea, though. After all, that allows one to do it again.” He paused, perhaps to allow Gajdosik to respond. When Gajdosik did not answer, he added regretfully, “Though I have no caduceus, unfortunately.”

  Oressa was glad to hear it, under the circumstances.

  “I do have this, however.” Bherijda went over to a side table and came back with a riding whip, which he tapped lightly into the palm of his hand. He was smiling again.

  Gajdosik curled his lip. “Yes,” he said, speaking with slow deliberation. “I remember that whip.”

  Bherijda stopped smiling. Stepping to the side, he brought the whip slashing down across his brother’s back, once, twice, and a third time, so fast Oressa couldn’t even gasp. The welts were narrow, puffy, red edged with white, not as vicious as the gashes made by a wire whip, but awful enough.

  Gajdosik barely flinched, though his face tightened. He didn’t make a sound. Of course he didn’t; if he hadn’t cried out when the Kieba beat him, he would hardly scream now for his horrible brother. Bherijda raised the crop again, and Oressa cried, “Don’t! Don’t!” before she even knew she was going to make a sound, and Bherijda smiled at her and brought the crop down again, and Oressa screamed. Then she kept on screaming. She was appalled that it had taken her so long to think of the possibilities inherent in really loud screaming, but she put her whole heart into it now. She screamed as loudly as she could, as fast as she could draw breath. She backed away from a soldier who tried to grab her, and kept screaming.

  “Enough! Quiet! Be quiet!” Bherijda shouted at her, first in Tamaj and then in Esse. Oressa ignored him. He had jumped like a startled cat at Oressa’s first scream—everybody had—and now waved another soldier after her, but Oressa dodged that one, too, except the chain limited how far she could back up, and he caught her after all. She kept screaming. Her throat hurt. She didn’t care. The man put his hand over her mouth, and she bit him, hard, jerking her head to the side, trying to take a real piece out of his hand, and the man yelled and jerked away, and Gajdosik shouted, but Oressa couldn’t understand him, and then Bherijda hit her across the face with the riding whip.

  Oressa hadn’t seen the blow coming; she hadn’t even known Bherijda had run up close to her. The blow stung first, and then itched suddenly and fiercely—and then the pain blazed up, like a brilliant light flashing through the dark, like a line of fire laid suddenly across her cheek. Her screams cut off abruptly. This wasn’t a deliberate choice; she was too shocked to scream. She touched her face with trembling fingers, staring at Bherijda. He wasn’t smiling now. He was panting and furious.

  But it didn’t matter. Because the door was abruptly flung back so hard it crashed against the wall, and her father stood there, tall and grim, silhouetted against the light.

  Then he stepped forward, and the light came across his face so they could all see his cool, disinterested expression. He didn’t say a word. No one did. The silence in the room felt as deep as a desert night.

  The king glanced briefly around the room, taking in his son, bound; Gajdosik, half naked, new welts overlying the old marks of the Kieba’s whip; and the soldiers, all Tamaristan. Finally he turned to gaze thoughtfully at Oressa, with the welt across her face, and at Bherijda where he stood near her, with the riding whip still in his hand.

  Bherijda began, “I—”

  The king lifted an eyebrow, and Bherijda stopped.

  Still without a word, Osir crossed the room. He glanced at the chain that led from the pretty little manacle around Oressa’s wrist to the heavy chair. Then he put a hand under Oressa’s chin and tilted her face to the side, inspecting the welt across her cheek. Then he turned at last to look at Bherijda with withering contempt. Oressa was fascinated to see Bherijda flush dull red under that dispassionate regard, like a boy called out for some shameful misbehavior.

  Reaching out, her father took the riding whip out of Bherijda’s hand and dropped it disdainfully on the floor, shaking his fingers as though he had touched something disgusting. The Tamaristan prince made no move to stop him and said absolutely nothing.

  The king walked forward, treading deliberately on the discarded whip, and went to Gulien. He studied his son for a moment, then said over his shoulder, his voice cool and flat, “No doubt, Prince Bherijda, you intended momentarily to inform me of my son’s arrival.” He held up a hand, checking Bherijda’s tentative response, and went on, with no more emphasis. “I see, of course, that you were distracted by other matters of greater consequence.” He turned to face Bherijda, lifting an eyebrow again in detached inquiry.

  “I—”Bherijda stopped.

  “Yes?” said the king, in a tone that really meant Don’t you think you’ve dug this hole deep enough? When Bherijda fell silent, the king added calmly, “I am so very gratified that you have recovered my son. Unharmed, I see.” He ran a thumb thoughtfully across Gulien’s bonds and then held out his hand toward the nearest soldier. After a moment the soldier realized what he wanted and warily put a knife into his waiting hand.

  The king cut Gulien’s bonds without a word, and without a word Gulien sank down to kneel at his feet. “Yes,” said the king in a very dry tone. “I should think so.” He paused, studying his son for a long moment. Then he touched Gulien on the shoulder, granting him permission to stand.

  Finally he turned to Gajdosik, who met his eyes for a moment and then consciously bowed his head.

  “I have heard,” murmured the king, “that you have magicked my son and my daughter, making them into your slaves.”

  “No,” Gajdosik answered quietly. “That is not true.”

  “No,” said the king. “I thought it seemed unlikely.” He paused, studying his priso
ner. He said, not taking his eyes from Gajdosik’s face, “Prince Bherijda, this prisoner is far too valuable to permit accidents to befall him.” He put no special stress on the word “accidents,” but merely went on. “I am certain you will permit my most experienced guardsmen to keep your brother safe under their eyes.”

  Bherijda made no answer.

  “Yes,” murmured the king. He crooked a finger at Gajdosik, Come. Then he laid a hand on Gulien’s arm and turned his head to gaze at Oressa. His eyes lingered on the manacle around her wrist until one of the soldiers hurriedly unlocked it, and at last the king tilted his head toward the door.

  Oressa had never in her life been so glad to accompany her father anywhere.

  CHAPTER 20

  Osir Madalin took all three of them to his own rooms—the tower apartment. This alone would have made it plain to Gulien, if he hadn’t already guessed it, that his father felt vulnerable and in need of greater security than the ground-level apartment could provide. So would the increased number of guardsmen at the foot of the stairs and again on the landing directly outside the apartment. Gulien knew all the men they passed slightly and believed them competent and loyal to the king and was both pleased his father had men he could trust about him and disheartened to see none of the guardsmen he had himself promoted.

  The king personally conducted them through the apartment to the largest sitting room. The room held several chairs. Osir took one of these, swung it around, dropped into it, rested his elbows on its arms, tented his hands, and gazed at them over his steepled fingers. No one else had the temerity to even look at a chair.

  The king studied Oressa’s face. He said, in a tone of cool inquiry, “Your screams appear somewhat disproportionate to your injury.”

  “Oh,” said Oressa, plainly startled, lifting a hand to her face and wincing. Her cheek must hurt quite a lot. That was obvious, but Gulien thought she had almost forgotten the injury for these few moments. Plainly the pain had now been recalled to the forefront of her mind. The welt certainly looked ugly enough: It ran from just above her lip almost to her ear, a vivid red line bordered by puffy white edges. But Gulien’s sympathy was at least half for his sister’s nervousness. Oressa sounded perfectly stupid, as she almost always did around their father.