When Jana came back to report, I had already thought what to do. I spoke quickly and softly, afraid at any moment the men would return to the castle for food, that Michaela or another woman would come down to check on us, that Reynaldo would trespass in my mind and learn my plans, as I could not learn his. We were lucky. Everything remained quiet in midday stupor, as Jana repeated my instructions and shifted her feet, eager to be out and doing.
I let her go, all the while berating myself for risking my child’s safety. Resuming the one-way communion, I experienced the feeling of Jana wading nonchalantly into the herd of grazing goats. The scrawny animals, intent on cropping the coarse grass and chomping at the tall weeds, ignored the interloper, only sidling away when she came too close. Jana, as I had instructed her, had picked up a milking bucket from the corner of the hall where the goats were penned at night. She crouched down to examine the individual animals, looking for nanny goats.
When she found a nanny with a promising heavy bag, Jana stood still for a minute, remembering the next step I had rehearsed with her. She nodded to herself as she recalled it, and untied the animal’s rope from the peg, winding it around her hand and shortening it. The goat resisted as she was dragged backwards by Jana’s action, but Jana was too strong for her. Jana had tried her hand at every kind of work there was at Aranyi, only shooed away from the more dangerous tasks, and she had handled farm animals three times the size of these scrawny creatures.
Jana wrapped the rope around the peg and tied it in a secure knot. The goat, held by a short length of rope attached to her hind leg, was trapped with Jana wedged between her and the peg. Jana squatted low, squirting milk in the direction of the pail. Most of it hit the target. Pleased with her success, my daughter could not resist practicing a skill she had recently acquired, aiming a teat at her mouth, squealing with laughter when the thin stream wouldn’t reach so far but splattered her breeches and boots.
I could feel her strong childish desire rising up again, to run, to explore, to enjoy her freedom. I had prepared for this beforehand, impressing upon her the need to conquer it, while I told her what to do. “You must help me, first,” I had said. “If I allow you to wear beeches, it’s to do a soldier’s job, not to run and play like a silly girl.” Oh, I knew how to manipulate my brave, serious, daughter.
Before I had to exert more telepathic influence, Jana’s sense of duty reasserted itself, returning her attention to her mission. Going from nanny to nanny, Jana collected half a pail of milk. It was the best I could hope for, since they would all have been milked early this morning, before being let outside. When she had finished, carrying the pail low by its handle, Jana sighed like an office worker on the first day of spring weather, and returned with resolution to her job in the great hall.
Back inside, Jana followed the itinerary we had mapped out. Everything was still quiet, the few women and toddlers dozing in the stuffy air, as she walked toward the chickens’ enclosure and opened the little gate. Here there was more danger. The hens squawked at her intrusion, the rooster fluffed up his ragged feathers and raked at her booted feet with his claws. Jana stood still until the birds lost interest. Then she moved quickly, knowing they would be up in arms again soon. She felt under every nest, every likely pile of straw. With the coop in an uproar, she scurried out, shutting the gate behind her.
The nursery woman looked up, awakened from a nap. “What’s all that fucking noise?” She saw Jana racing away. “Bloody boys. You keep away from those chickens, you little bastard.” She made no move in pursuit, knew a boy was impossible to catch.
Jana pounded down the stairs, breathless and laughing, pushed into the unlocked door. I closed it quickly, turned the squeaky bolt, my inner flame pulsing with its eerie blue light as I worked. I was shaking, faint but jubilant. “You darling,” I said. “Come here, you fearless commando, let me give you a hug.”
Jana grinned with pride but kept her distance. “You’ll break the eggs, Mama.” She put down the pail of milk, felt inside her shirt. She brought out six tiny eggs and set them down carefully on the ledge beside the smear of wax from the old candle.
I lifted the pail, my hands and arms trembling with the weight. Jana helped to steady it while I swallowed in great gulps. It was warm and thin, but it tasted like nectar to me. I drank half of what Jana had brought. “Now you have some,” I said, “before I hog it all.”
Jana took a few swigs and stuck her tongue out in disgust. “Yuck,” she said. “That tastes like horse piss.” She never wasted a chance to talk like a soldier. With typical childish pleasure at a revolting idea, she added, “I bet they use that bucket for—”
“No, they don’t,” I said as I examined the eggs. Two of them would make one normal egg. I picked up the biggest, tipped my head back, and cracked the egg into my open mouth. A few bits of shell went down along with the unbroken yolk and the white. Clear, viscous strings stretched from my chin to the shell, and I wiped them away, licking my hand. I took another egg, repeated the process. The rest I would save for later.
I looked anxiously at Val. The poor diet had changed my bright, inquisitive, talkative little hellion of a boy into a docile, pathetic baby. “Open your mouth and close your eyes,” I said to him. He would never swallow a raw egg except by trickery.
Jana’s smile changed to a scowl. “I didn’t get them for him,” she said. “He’s all right. He can nurse.”
I wanted her to understand. “Sweetheart,” I said, “all the nursing makes me weaker. If he can eat something, it will make things better for me, too.”
Sorry now for her unintended hurt, Jana turned her back in defeat.
I cracked the egg into Val’s open mouth. He swallowed automatically, then opened his eyes wide in outrage. “Wasn’t that good?” I said in a high, artificial voice. “Yum, yum!” I rubbed his stomach. “Yummy in your tummy.”
“That did me greatly disgust.” Val, his trust in me betrayed, spoke in formal speech. He clamped his lips against any further indignities and turned his head away. In a few minutes he fastened onto my sore nipple again, sucking for dear life. I felt like the goats, underfed and over-milked.
Hoping to return Jana to her happy mood, and searching for a way to decrease the hatred between my two children, I told my daughter there was something we had to get clear. Jana stared at my stern voice. “Papa tells you about his battles, doesn’t he?” I began. “And you listen to his men.”
Jana agreed, sitting beside me in friendly companionship, relieved to have avoided a lecture, and glad to be discussing something interesting. “They always win,” she said. “They’ll fight Reynaldo and his bandits and kill them all.”
“Yes,” I said, hoping the last statement was a prophecy. “They have won all their battles up to now. And do you know why?”
Jana gave the question a great deal of thought. “Because Papa knows everything about fighting,” she said. “He teaches them.”
I accepted this explanation. “And when Papa decides they’ve learned enough, he lets them wear the Aranyi uniform,” I said. “Even if they’re not Aranyi by birth. Even if some of them don’t like each other, even if they come from families who have a blood feud between them. Isn’t that right?”
Jana nodded uneasily. She could see a little of where this was going. “Papa says they must learn to fight as a unit. He says that when they pledge to Aranyi all personal enemies must be put aside.”
“Enmities,” I said. “That’s right. Now, you see my point, don’t you? You, and I, and Val, are part of Aranyi.” I held out my left arm with its deep, puckered scar of the marriage brand. “I pledged to Aranyi when I married Papa, but you had no choice. You were born Aranyi.” I stared into my daughter’s cold, pale eyes. “Yet I think you’re proud to be Aranyi, aren’t you, even if you didn’t choose it?”
Jana took the bait. “Of course I am!” she shouted while I shushed her. “Aranyi is the best.”
“Well, then,” I said, “Val is in the same position. He’s Arany
i by birth, whether you like him or not. And no matter how you feel about each other, you are both on the same side. Enemies of Aranyi are your enemies. You are not each other’s enemy.”
Jana looked ready to cry. “But,” she began. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but I read her unspoken thought. Val’s not a soldier. He’s not good for anything.
I spoke to the thoughts. “I’m not a soldier, either. And right now I’m not good for much. But look how you helped me, just the way an Aranyi soldier would help another who was sick or wounded.” I waited while Jana pondered the implications. “We’re Papa’s family,” I said before her attention wandered. “All three of us. We’re Aranyi. And we’ll work together here and get out of this together.”
“And Niall,” Jana said. “Niall is Aranyi, too. He’s part of the family.” She spoke as if I had deliberately omitted him.
“That’s right,” I said. Niall’s inclusion reinforced the argument of my little homily. “Niall is Aranyi while he’s Papa’s companion. He’ll be coming with Papa to rescue us. And he’ll help us, all of us, even though he is Galloway by birth, not Aranyi.”
Jana hadn’t always been Niall’s champion. It had been a hard transition for her when Stefan left to start his own family. Stefan had been Dominic’s companion since before Jana was born, before Dominic and I had married. He had been like a third parent for Jana. And when Jana had barely turned four, he had deserted us, or so it had seemed, marrying Drusilla Ladakh and setting up his own household a full day’s ride away on his bride’s dowry land.
The timing had been less than ideal, coming not long after the arrival of the hated baby brother. Every day Jana had asked when Stefan was coming back. And Dominic, feeling rather deserted himself but too proud to admit it, had not been very helpful, answering her questions with sour clichés like “when streams flow uphill,” and “when there’s no snow in winter.”
A few months later, when Niall had joined the family, Jana had been standoffish at first, out of loyalty to her first love. Gradually, Jana decided to accept one of the newcomers. Niall, unlike the mewling infant, had attractive qualities. He could throw a knife backwards over his shoulder without looking, and hit a spot marked on the wall. He could ride a horse while crouched down on the side of the animal, one foot in the stirrup, and spear a rabbit or, possibly, a man. Dominic had forbidden Niall to show this trick to Jana any more, saying he was too old to risk a heart attack every time Jana went riding. Nor were Niall’s abilities all athletic. He was educated, could recite great chunks of epic poetry, or sing them in a warm baritone that brought tears to the eyes. He knew magic and card tricks, and could produce trinkets or nuts from Jana’s ears at unexpected moments.
In fact, Niall was perfect, and Jana had let him know it. If Struan was a hero, Niall was a god. And he was not too proud, at nineteen, to be pleased by such recognition. He called Jana the Queen of Swords, after a figure on a deck of cards, and he also called her his betrothed, in a high-pitched, simpering voice, so that Jana knew he was only teasing and enjoyed the game. He tugged at her skirts and ruffled her hair, and won her over so thoroughly that, when we visited the beloved Stefan at last, Jana had been smug. She, and Papa, had someone better now. No need to feel sorry for us.
“How can you think of marrying Struan,” I asked now, “since you’re betrothed to Niall?” I wanted to enter her game, to let Jana know there were to be no hard feelings over all the rough words that had been said in the past couple of days.
“We’re not really betrothed,” Jana said. “Niall is vir. He says he won’t ever marry a woman.” She spoke solemnly, with obvious pride at being entrusted with her god’s deepest secrets.
I doubted that Niall, mature though he was for his soon-to-be-twenty years, could be so certain. “I see,” I said, smiling. “Like Papa.”
Jana opened and shut her mouth, then let it pass.
I decided to risk standing up. The food, little as it was, had given me a brief surge of energy. We had half of half a pail of milk left, and three eggs. Supper, if I could hide it. If I could continue to eat I could restore my crypta’s strength, could be more than a sack of potatoes for Dominic to sling over his saddle on the way home. I put the eggs in the milk, set the pail behind the door. “When Michaela brings supper, eat in the doorway, so she won’t see behind the door,” I said to Jana.
Jana nodded. She understood things like that. “Let me go out again,” she said. “It was easy. I can get more food. I can find out things.”
“We’ll see,” I said. After tomorrow, I could hope for rescue. One more day to survive until Dominic got here. If things looked as safe as today, maybe I’d risk it. But I was never one to press my luck.
Jana spent the rest of the day quietly. She climbed to the window grate a few times, but there was little to see. Later, as the light faded, the men and women came back from their outdoor activities and the women prepared the evening meal. We heard the slap of bare feet on the stairs, Michaela bringing supper. Jana put the dress on over her shirt and breeches while I remembered her shorn hair.
I snatched up my cloak from the bedding straw. “Put this over your head,” I said in a whisper. “Like a shawl. If she asks, say you’re cold. And stay by the door.”
Michaela paid little attention to us. She had only one question for me. “Is it true that bracelet can’t come off?”
I showed it to her, unconcerned by any darker implications. This was one thing they wouldn’t get from me. “When it’s new, it slides over the hand easily,” I said, proud of the technology I did not fully understand. “But the molecules of steel contract over time, until it’s a snug fit at the wrist.” I slid a fingertip under the bracelet, wedging it tight. “I’ll be buried wearing this bracelet.”
“That’s a waste of good steel!” Michaela said. “Don’t you ‘Graven have any sense?” She thought of the answer. “It’s because you lot have never been hungry. But you know what it’s like now, don’t you?”
I said that I did indeed.
After she was gone, I drank the rest of the milk and ate the eggs with perverse pleasure at the deception. I would sleep better tonight, with something in my stomach. But first I would make another attempt at reading Reynaldo’s mind.
I went more carefully than before, expecting the man’s deranged consciousness to sound the alert at any moment. He was wary as a hunted animal, reacting to any penetration with alarm, like a deer lifting its head at stealthy footfalls. I had learned to infiltrate people’s brains without betraying myself, but spying on Reynaldo was like fishing for sharks, to be pulled into the water and devoured instead by one’s prey. As I entered his mind at last, I stayed on the most superficial level of sight and sensation, waiting to see if there was any reaction before going deeper.
Tonight Reynaldo was relaxed and my intrusion was not detected. Lounging by his place near the front of the hall, he saw the young girl, Michaela’s daughter, running by as she helped her mother serve supper. “Come here, you,” he said, grinning in what was supposed to be a friendly way.
The girl hesitated, but Reynaldo was not to be disobeyed. As she approached, his foot shot out, hooking her leg. She fell heavily, the breath knocked out of her. Reynaldo knelt with his weight on her legs, preventing her from rising. “Where did you get that dress?” he asked, the transition from calm to rage so sudden I gasped in fear in my cell. He was so angry he could hardly spit the words out.
The girl was winded and afraid. She tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Reynaldo lowered his inner eyelids, a reptilian mask that frightens the ungifted even if it makes little difference to close-range thought-reading. I felt him use his crypta, picking the answer out of her consciousness. I could share his thoughts now, and the girl’s, with my own reviving power.
While I watched through her eyes, Reynaldo opened his breeches, the girl still pinned beneath him, and pushed up the skirt of her dress—my dress. He entered the girl roughly, without warning, worse than how most men would treat a who
re, while she screamed and struggled. He raped her, much as Dominic had raped him last night, mechanically, brutally, and this rape was very real.
I shuddered and recoiled from the girl’s pain, jumping out of her mind and into Reynaldo’s to spare myself. I felt trapped, unable to do the obvious sensible thing and sever contact with both of them. The girl tried to break free; when she knew it was hopeless she lay as still as she could, sobbing like a child, while the assault continued. A few men watched, laughing. Most people ignored the scene altogether.
Reynaldo sensed my presence in his mind—perhaps he had known of it all along—and spared a thought for me. I’m imagining it’s you, he said to the rhythm of his thrusts. It’s you I’m fucking. The thought extended his flagging potency. He lowered his head to the girl’s heaving chest, snuffling at the material of the dress. Your dress, your smell. You’ll cry like this when I do it to you.
When he was finished Reynaldo stood up, his chest puffed out with pride, as if he had accomplished something. He closed his breeches and signaled for an announcement, pointing to the pathetic creature on the floor, her legs still spread, blood showing between them. “Look here!” he said. Everybody’s head snapped around on command. “That dress is my gift to the girl. My gift.”
Michaela came to her daughter’s aid. She pulled the skirt down and caressed her daughter with what gentleness she was capable of. “You’re a woman now,” she said, as the girl continued to cry, clutching her knees, drawn up in a fetal position on the floor. “And cheer up. It won’t hurt so much next time.”
Reynaldo shoved Michaela away, grabbed the girl’s arm and forced her to stand. “All gifts come from me,” he said. “‘Gravina Aranyi, and her children, and her clothes and jewels, are mine because I knew how to get them. Whoever wants a share must earn it.” He slapped the girl on her rear and pushed her toward her mother.
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