Return of the Exile l-3

by Mary H. Herbert

  “I cannot marry you if Malawaitha is betrothed to me.”

  “Why don’t you just take her as a second wife?”

  He hauled her to her feet and said, “You know Malawaitha. She would try to kill you at her first opportunity. No, she must be put aside in the Tarmak tradition, a Trial by Opposition, and you are the only one who can do it.”

  Linsha twisted her wrist out of his grasp and stood staring at him as if pinned by the gaze of a basilisk. How could she do this? If she bowed to his demand and challenged Malawaitha for no better reason than Lanther’s desire to be rid of an encumbrance, then she would violate her oath of honor as a Knight of the Rose. This was murder. Plain and simple. Rose Knights were expected to be the defenders of justice, not assassins.

  But if she did not agree, she was endangering the eight small lives she had sworn on her honor to protect. Both oaths bound her, and she would have to break one to keep the other.

  Her thoughts twisted around like snakes. Her lungs felt tight and heavy. Gods, she swore, where lay the path of honor? Where was the justice in this trap? She struggled for a moment over the problem of what Lanther would do if she refused. She knew his manipulative and cunning character well. There was no doubt in her mind that he would turn over the eggs to the priests for their foul rites and probably drag her back to the Missing City just to watch. Then what? Would he kill Malawaitha anyway? Dispose of her quietly later? Would her gesture to save the woman be for nothing?

  A clear image came to mind of Iyesta-magnificent, proud, gleaming in the sun. Her words came to Linsha’s mind as clearly as if the dragon spoke them aloud.

  Not as a Solamnic. I want your word of honor. It is stronger and more binding than your vows of Knighthood.

  Her personal word of honor had proven stronger in the past. It had saved Lord Bight and Sanction. It had prompted her to swear an oath to a dragonlord, and it had led her halfway across the world. She had vowed to protect those eggs. They were all she had left.

  Lanther saw the acceptance gather reluctantly in her turbulent green eyes. He strode to a guard, said something to him, and took the Tarmak’s tall spear. He shoved it in her hands. “Take this to her. Just say ket-rhild. She’ll understand.”

  Linsha took a deep breath and wrapped a hand around the spear shaft. In spite of the noisy revels around her, she was trapped in silence. She felt old, heavy, and damned with a sense of honor that tore her to pieces. With a slow step she walked up the stairs toward the Emperor and his daughter. They looked at her; their expressions registered surprise.

  She reached Malawaitha and looked up into her face. There was a cloud of envy, hurt, and anger in the taller woman’s features, and a dawning of understanding.

  Linsha bowed to the Emperor then she raised the spear overhead and shouted over the music and laughter, “Ket-rhild!”

  Startled Tarmaks close by fell quiet.

  Then Malawaitha snatched the spear out of her hands and raised it over her head. A piercing ululation, somewhere between a scream and a warcry, reverberated between the stone walls, cutting through the rest of the noise and music like a blade through soft butter.

  Linsha felt her blood run cold from the memories of that awful cry. She had heard too many variations of it in the Missing City and on the Plains of Dust. She looked out over the square, half expecting the entire male company to reply in kind and come charging up the stairs to hack her down where she stood.

  Malawaitha shouted something to her people that Linsha did not understand. But the crowd did. The Tarmaks roared their approval.

  6

  The Trial of Opposition

  Afec materialized beside her. Where he had come from Linsha had no idea, for she had not noticed him earlier. But now he stood beside her, his aged face clouded with worry.

  “A ket-rhild,” he said sadly. “Oh, Lady Linsha, why? What good will it do?”

  “I have to,” she said, her words edged with steel.

  The old Damjatt licked his lips. It was hard to read his expression for his features were blurred in shadow. “The Akkad-Dar has forced this,” he guessed, his voice held low. “He wants to be rid of her.

  Before she could answer, Lanther bounded up the stairs and bowed low to the Emperor. He spoke quickly-too fast for Linsha to follow-and gestured toward the Tarmak woman with obvious concern.

  “What is he saying?” Linsha said under her breath to Afec.

  “Lanther is opposed to a Trial,” the old slave whispered, fidgeting with his knotted belt. “He does not want to risk the Emperor’s displeasure.”

  A huge gust of emotion blew through Linsha, leaving her gasping somewhere between shrieking and tears. I’m not going to fight that cow over him. She can have him. The words rang in her head and beat to get out, but she bit her tongue hard. If she wanted the eggs, if she wanted to save the lives of those baby dragons, she had to follow through with this farce. But if Lanther didn’t keep his part of the bargain, she vowed she would skin him alive with a dull knife.

  Malawaitha replied in Tarmak in a long, furious harangue that involved many gestures toward Linsha.

  The Tarmaks below watched in fascination.

  The Empress approached from the crowd at that moment, and Malawaitha voiced her acceptance to the challenge again to the matriarch of the Akeelawasee. The Empress listened impassively.

  “She has the final word in this,” Lanther said quietly to Linsha. “She knows the two of you and will judge if you are fit.”

  “What if she says no?” she asked, watching the two women talk.

  “She won’t. She believes Malawaitha can kill you.”

  The Empress held up a hand to cut off Malawaitha’s impassioned flow of words then moved close to the throne to confer with the Emperor.

  “And you don’t?” Linsha said. “You’re not worried about me?”

  “My dearest Linsha, of course, I am concerned. Malawaitha is in superb condition while you are still suffering from the effects of the war.” He twisted suddenly and clasped her elbow in a tight grip, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the Empress and the Emperor. “But you are a child of destiny, Drathkin’kela. You must do this for our dynasty.”

  Linsha did not bother to reply. Dynasty be damned, she thought. The man was lost in his delusions of glory. She watched the imperial couple talk together and knew there was no need for suspense, for she was sure she knew the Empress’s response. The Tarmaks could not resist a good fight, especially one between an outsider and one of their own.

  Her face showed none of these thoughts when the Empress walked to her and stopped. “You have challenged,” the Empress said in her rough Common. “Malawaitha has accepted. What is the reason for this challenge?”

  Linsha stifled a powerful surge of irritation. By the gods, she didn’t want to do this. What was the point? Why couldn’t they just talk about this? She loathed Malawaitha, but not enough to want to kill her. Or be killed by her. Resentment, tinged with a red tint of apprehension, filled the look she flashed at Afec, the only one who seemed to be slightly sympathetic.

  “Est Sularas oth Mithas,” she whispered. My honor is my life-or death, she thought. Then she squared her shoulders. “I challenge for the right to be the Chosen of the Akkad-Dar.” She said it loudly for all to hear and listened in cold silence while Afec translated for her.

  The blood rose to Malawaitha’s face. Something hot and dark flashed in her eyes. Her strong body, her demanding personality, faced Linsha with thunderous malevolence. She smiled. She stepped back and with a powerful thrust, she jammed the point of the spear between two stones so the spear stood upright between the two women.

  “Drathkin’kela, you shall have time to prepare. Afec, take her and ready her for the Trial,” ordered the Empress.

  Readying her for the Trial, Linsha discovered, involved removing all her clothes in spite of her protests and painting her skin blue with the Tarmak warpaint. Although slave women applied the paint, Linsha found the whole operation to be em
barrassing and nerve-racking. Surely they didn’t expect her to go out in front of that crowd and fight in nothing but blue paint? Of course not, they replied, only the men did that, and they gave her a tiny loincloth and a fighting harness that held her breasts in place and left everything else exposed.

  While the blue paint tingled on her skin and slowly dried, she longed for her Solamnic armor with the kingfisher and the rose embossed on the breastplate that had been made especially for her. The breastplate, the greaves, the gauntlets, the helmet… everything had been lost when Thunder destroyed the Citadel. Now she was reduced to blue paint and a loincloth. Blue wasn’t even one of her favorite colors.

  “I don’t want to fight like this,” she told them, feeling peevish and nervous at the same time.

  The women did not understand her words and continued to rub the paint into her skin.

  The paint did have one advantage though, one she remembered from the wound she received in the ambush at Iyesta’s palace. A crossbow bolt had pierced her arm and caused a nasty wound, but Tarmak warriors had pulled the bolt out and slathered the blue paint on her wound. The injury had healed in less than half the time something of that sort usually needed. She suspected the blue paint had healing properties in it that bordered on magic.

  As soon as the paint was dry, Afec ordered the slave girls to leave. He looked her over critically for a minute or two, then he shook his head. Gently he touched the dragon scales hanging on her chain. “Malawaitha has a long reach. Do not let her get you in a strong grip. She knows how to break necks. If she has a weakness, it is her arrogance and a tendency to lean too far forward in her swings.” His lips thinned to a line, and he hesitated as if unsure if he should take the next step, then he said, “Wait here.”

  He was gone only a few moments. When he returned he was carrying a cup and a small stoneware jug. He unstopped the jug and poured out about two full swallows of a thick greenish-gold liquid. “This is a special drink the Damjatt devised for their warriors. It gives strength and clarity of mind and improves endurance.”

  Linsha eyed it dubiously. “Do the Tarmaks drink this?”

  He laughed. “The Tarmaks believe their own strength is sufficient and anything else is false. I fix this as a tonic for the slaves and the women during childbirth. But it does help, and tonight you will need all your skills and resources to fight Malawaitha.”

  “And kill her?”

  “It would be best now,” Afec told her. “If you do not, she will destroy you.”

  Linsha picked up the cup and stared at the contents. “What will the Emperor do if I kill his daughter?”

  Afec’s worry grew deeper. “I don’t know. He should abide by the law of the ket-rhild. But he is the Emperor, and his mood is often unpredictable.”

  How ironic would that be? Linsha thought. Lanther tricks her into killing Malawaitha so he can marry her, but the Emperor has her executed in a fit of rage and grief and Lanther is left alone with the eggs.

  “Thanks,” Linsha said dryly. Feeling queasy, she drained the cup to the dregs. The liquid slid down her throat in a warm slide that seemed to ignite a fire the moment it hit her stomach. Energy rushed into her bloodstream and sizzled into her muscles. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Let’s go,” Afec said. “Before that wears off.”

  He hurried her out of the palace and into the torchlit square where the crowd of Tarmaks and Malawaitha, now dressed in very similar garb, waited for her.

  Linsha stood on the steps beside the Emperor and bowed low to him and to the crowd. She looked out over the square and saw the Tarmaks had been busy while the slaves painted her blue. A large area in front of the palace steps had been cleared away and was now ringed with excited onlookers. Malawaitha stood in the center of the space gently swinging a long-handled axe in one hand.

  By the gods! Linsha took in a deep breath. Afec wasn’t joking when he said his tonic gave clarity of mind. The scene before her burned into her mind in sharp detail and magnificent color. Sounds were louder, clearer; the light from the torches and lamps shone brightly and dispelled the darkest shadows. She looked up over the palace walls and saw the brilliant streams of lightning dance across the northwestern sky. The storm had moved closer while she was inside, and she could feel the wind rising over the palace and could sense the approaching rain. The gathering energies of the storm tickled her skin like the souls of the dead, but this time she relished the touch and felt the power energize her rather than drain her. She lifted her arms to the coming thunderstorm and drew in a deep breath of cool air.

  This was a good night. If she was to die tonight, then so be it. But there was one thing she wanted to do. With the Damjatt tonic firing her body and mind, she took her thoughts and hopes and extended them far out into the night. She knew she was too far away to reach Varia or Crucible by way of the shared link in her mind, but she had to tell them whether they ever heard her or not.

  Varia, you are my friend, this night and forever. Crucible, forgive me.

  The owl’s dark eyes popped open, and her head swiveled around to look at her surroundings. Her location did not amaze her, for she was where she expected to be-in a cage hanging in the headquarters of the Tarmak commander in Missing City. But something had startled her out of a moment of sleep. She pivoted on her perch and glared around the room at the Tarmak guards that stood at the doors and at the officers that sat at a table laughing and drinking. It was late afternoon by the slant of the shadows on the floor, and the owl usually napped this time of day. Yet deep in the quiet of her sleeping mind she had heard a voice, a beloved voice of someone she believed to be long gone. She had only heard a single word, Varia, and it was enough.

  Linsha was out there far beyond the normal reach of their ability to communicate, and still she had found a way to send a word. Agitated, Varia fluffed her feathers and paced back and forth on the stick the Tarmaks called a perch. She would have to get out of this cage.

  “You, Dog!” one of the officers snapped. “That bird is awake. Feed her.”

  A Tarmak warrior stepped away from his position by the wall and slouched over to the cage. He pulled a dead mouse out of a basket sitting close by, opened the cage door, and tossed it in. Looking morose, he closed the door and resumed his place by the wall to wait for his next order.

  Varia made a chuckling sound that made the Tarmak whip his head around to stare at her. From what she could understand of Tarmakian, that particular warrior was serving a sentence for failure to perform a certain task. His punishment was to serve in the Dog Units as a servant, errand runner, cleaner of privies, or doer of any other distasteful task his superior officers could think of until he was properly chastised and remorseful. He had been put in charge of catching mice for the Akkad-Dar’s owl and feeding her whenever she was hungry. What he didn’t know, what most of the officers didn’t know, was that Varia could talk and think.

  She settled down her perch, hunched her head into her shoulders, and turned her round, wide eyes on the Tarmak warrior by the wall. She would give it some thought. There had to be a way out of this cage and out of this building, and once away she would seek help. Linsha was out there, still alive and still thinking of her. She had to get away.

  “Linsha,” Lanther said beside her. “It is time.”

  Linsha started violently out of her reverie, and the deep animosity she felt for him came snarling back. “If I die, wash this god-awful paint off before you bury me.”

  “The Tarmak burn their dead,” he said and handed her an axe similar to Malawaitha’s. He stepped back when she snatched it out of his hands.

  She stared at it for a moment, long enough to see it had a handle about two feet long and a blade with a long curve, then she glared down at the woman waiting for her. In a startlingly fast change of mood, her contemplation of the night ended and her fear vanished in a sudden onslaught of rage. Every pent-up frustration, every concealed irritation, every anger she had kept under control joined together and burst into
a firestorm that roared through her mind and burned away every civilized restraint she had. She thought to give a Solamnic warcry, but the sound that came out of her throat was a primal scream of fury that was more animal than human.

  Lifting the axe, she charged down the steps and attacked Malawaitha like a demon spawned of Chaos. The young Tarmak woman fell back. Malawaitha had thought she was weak and unwilling to fight, but now everyone knew otherwise, and after a moment or two of desperate parries, Malawaitha settled down and fought back.

  The battle was not pretty, nor was it fought with any rules. The axes both women wielded were sharpened to a razor edge, and the long handles could be used like a staff weapon or a club. Malawaitha had the strength and training of years in a Tarmak school. Her skills with the axe were better and her endurance was greater, but she was too accustomed to her practice drills and the limited scope of her experience with other styles of fighting to defeat the Rose Knight easily. Linsha, trained by Solamnic Knights and thugs alike, had a fighting style that spanned many skills and weapons. She fought with fist and foot and fingers and teeth, and she fought with such an inflamed fury that it surprised even herself.

  Deep in the center of the clouds of red rage that roiled in her head, Linsha kept a desperate grip on a small struggling core of self-control. She’d heard the term “beserker” before, but she had never experienced such a transformation until now. Her common sense whispered that yes, her rage was fueled from days of pent-up animosity, disappointment, loneliness, and guilt, but there was something more, something artificial that boiled in her brain and set her blood on fire. She wanted to damage Malawaitha, to spill her blood, and tear her to pieces by any means possible. It was both frightening and exhilarating.

  In the cooler, detached center of her self-control, a little thought said, Be smart. Use your rage to your advantage. Don’t give in completely to the fury.