"But that's barbaric!"
"Oh, Lowinn! It is very little different from what you propose to do, only your way will allow her to embarrass you in public first. Now, let me finish. Once the act is completed, the woman usually settles right down. With Castandra, the change would be even more dramatic, because you will have shown her that her fear, what caused her to reject this marriage, was unfounded! She would willingly walk the aisle with you then."
"I don't know. I -- "
"Think, Lowinn! Do you want to drag her into the temple in chains? Do you want her shrieking out her refusal of the vows in front of the altar of Shador? What a spectacle! And later, when she finds that she had nothing to fear, will that be the end of it? No! She will hate you then for having allowed her to embarrass herself. You know how refined Castandra likes to appear. The titters will drive her mad. And there will be nothing that you can do for her, no way to save her from the humiliating smirks of every noble and commoner in Lhant. Do you want my sister to become a laughingstock?"
"No. Never! No, but --"
"No buts, Lowinn. Listen. I give you my permission. Take her, for Shador's sake. Do it tonight. Spare her another two months of unreasoning fear, a lifetime of humiliation."
"I should speak with Caldan."
"When? My father has been summoned by the Queen. Who knows what she has in mind? I am the only one here that can give you consent, and I give it freely."
"I don't know! I'm so confused…"
"Here," said Andor, refilling the duke's empty goblet, "Have another glass of wine. It will clear your head."
Everfast gulped it down without tasting it. "Gods! It's like rape," he mused.
"Nonsense. Here, it is marriage. Lowinn, I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think that my father would approve. Think of it as you would, oh, teaching a child to swim. So she fears the water? Will you be stern, make her go in, and show her that there is nothing to fear, teach her how to survive in, even enjoy, the water? Or would you give in to her fear, and then live with the guilt when she drowns? It will truly spare Castandra a great deal of anguish. You want to do that for her, don't you? Are you so selfish that you will not overcome this silly squeamishness for her sake? Don't you love her, Lowinn?"
"I would do anything for Castandra! Anything! But this -- how can I be certain that this is what she needs?"
"Trust me, Lowinn! Would I do anything to harm my own sister?"
o0o
Filthy. She never felt so soiled in her life. Shuddering with revulsion, Castandra wiped away the blood with the end of a bolt of white cloth. Her blood.
I could strangle you with this, Lowinn, she thought. I could do that and bring down ruin on us all.
Lowinn lay on his stomach, one fat arm flung out so that his hand dangled over the edge of the bed. He had reeked of wine and serkweed, and in his lust and drunkenness had taken her feeble attempts to repulse him as nothing more than token resistance and responses of a willing lover.
But she had recovered from her own drugging more quickly than had he. Now Lowinn was the helpless one; with no weapon but a goose-down pillow, she could smother him with ease. But, who was the real rapist here?
Not Lowinn; she was sure of it.
'Now we are married,' he had breathed when it was over and he slipped into sleep. Mor kulti. Forced marriage. Women in the highlands were the equal of men in most ways, but not in that one. It was too important that they breed, that they add to the declining population. But many women feared. Childbirth for the Kyr was more than travail; all too often, it was death. If a woman refused what should be a good cross and her suitor and family insisted -- mor kulti.
Andor must have told him, then given consent in her father's absence. She could not believe that her sire himself would have agreed. Too much would be revealed, it would twist the law too far from its intent, and, there was no need. No need, because she realized with chilling certainty that, given time, he could have, would have, talked her into it. Shocking, to come to terms with this, to see in such cold light his utter control over her.
She marveled at her lucidity. Amazing, that she could still think. That her heart still beat, that she could feel the night's chill on her bare legs, that all these things still went on, when she had been so certain that she must truly die after what Lowinn had done to her. Die or go mad. She did not die, and she did not feel mad. She felt--
Dirty. She longed for a tub of steaming water, to scrub every inch of her skin until it was raw and pink. But no world held enough water to wash away what made her feel so unclean.
She had to escape. Andor would destroy her in his envy. Who could tell what might come after, with her father gone, perhaps forever?
Castandra racked her brain, hoping that her new degree of desperation might sharpen her wits somehow. Andor had been very careful. The room, seven stories up, was locked and nearly bare except for the latest gifts from Everfast. Her coursers were locked in the kennel with the others and his guarded the hall. She would never get out that way, and her brother would only laugh if she used Lowinn as a hostage. No, she must leave by the window somehow. She looked longingly at the bolt of cloth in her hand. Not enough to lower her to the ground. No doubt Andor had thought of that as well.
But how far would it take her? Quickly she tied one end of the cloth to the leg of the bed, then dropped the other out the narrow opening. Out she slithered, clutching the cloth. Heights did not disturb her, and like most Kyr, she knew how to handle a cord and a sheer surface. She did not dangle from her makeshift rope; instead, she crouched horizontally, taking tiny steps backward down the side of the keep.
All too soon, she reached the end of her line. Literally. No window opened beneath hers. She peered into the dark; something glimmered slightly above and to her left. Water pooled on a stone window ledge? The sorceress pushed herself lightly out into space. Back and forth, like a fluttering white pendulum against the black stone of Hawkshold, each time the swing a bit farther, until she could see the opening to her left.
Within the next pendulum stroke, she made her decision. There were only two choices, really. Stop herself, and climb back up the rope and into Andor's power, or try for the window. She chose freedom, though any mistake would surely be her last.
It was remarkably easy, or so she thought until she let go her line and her momentum flung her like an unloved doll against the stone floor of the empty fourth-story room. Impact drove the air from her lungs; daggers of pain stabbed deep into muscle and bone.
Yet she rose in an instant. Swiftly, lightly, she ghosted to her room, drew on a pair of leather breeches and a jacket, and bundled a cloak in her arms. Weapons and food she had none, only the jewelry that Lowinn had given her. Those riches, useless here, would serve her well if she could make it to the lowlands.
She did not dare to take a horse from the stable; Andor would surely have those guarded. Nor could she risk using one of the secret tunnels that honeycombed the rock within and beneath Hawkshold. The catacombs served as a repository for records and knowledge, always they were alive with Kyr reading, inscribing copies, doing research, adding to what was known. It would have to be the front gate then, and on foot.
o0o
Andor sat on a chair in his father's study, his feet propped up on the hearth and his fingers laced neatly on his chest. He smiled as he watched the fire. Hours had passed since he had helped Lowinn up the steps and into the room where his unwilling bride awaited. The lowlander had been very drunk; Andor doubted that he even noticed that his darling Castandra had been drugged to immobility. But he didn't doubt that the duke had done what he had set out to do. No, Lowinn had waited far too long to possess his darling Castandra--perhaps he ought to write a gracious note of thanks to his father as well as the Queen, for allowing time to whet the duke's appetite to such a fevered pitch.
Of course, he deserved some credit as well. It had no doubt helped that he had given Lowinn enough serkweed to send a gelding into fits of lust.
W
ell, he would allow the lovebirds until morning to exhaust their passion for one another. There was no hurry, he was not tired and he was having a marvelous time just imagining his sister and Lowinn, together.
Of course, his father would be furious. He hoped the Queen would not be too involved with other pleasures and forget to tell him.
o0o
Through the window, Andor watched the sky outside cycle from black, to grey, to peach, to blue. "Oh, Castandra, look," he said to the study walls, "Your first sunrise as a married woman. Isn't it romantic? What? Lowinn is blocking your view? Ah, those lowlanders--all randy as rabbits, you know. Even the old, fat ones."
He stood, and his dogs stood with him. "Shall we stop by to pay our respects to the newlyweds?" he asked as he bent over to scratch Bone and Smoke behind the ears. "Yes? All right, but we will listen at the door first, just to be certain that we don't interrupt anything."
He almost whistled as he jogged up the stairs. This was power! This was revenge! But this was nothing, nothing compared to the pleasure to come. Count of Tarska, Duke of Talvni; land, wealth, titles, all these things that would be passed on to him paled by comparison to how they would be passed to him. I can't wait to see that precious composure of yours dismantled, Father, he thought. I cannot wait to see how the Queen decides to dispose of you. Some way slow and gruesome and public. I want to sit in the front row, I want to see your expression as you realize that it was I who did this to you.
I want to hear you scream.
Through the door he could hear Duke Everfast's thunderous snores. Andor pounded until the snores jerked themselves to a halt. He heard some muffled exclamation, and then Lowinn, rumpled and bleary-eyed, opened the door and asked for Castandra.
Andor felt suddenly chilled. "She is here, with you." But even as he spoke he saw the unrolled bolt, and he knew that she was not. He did not go directly to the window. Instead, he flung back the furs on the bed as Lowinn watched him stupidly. Blood. Good--the deed had been done. Even if his foolish sister did dangle by the neck from the material meant for her wedding gown, Talvni would still be his.
He looked out over the ledge. The white of the cloth showed stark against the black stone of the hold, and its knotted end hung far, far above the ground. Surely she hadn't dropped; a fall to the rocks from that height, and her broken body would still be there. "Lowinn, check under the bed." He heard the duke grunt painfully as he knelt to do his bidding.
"She isn't there."
Nothing else in the bare room could hide Castandra. How could she have escaped? A gust of wind twisted the yards of material, sending its length curling up the side of the hold, and instantly Andor had his answer. "Bitch!" he hissed through clenched teeth, then, calmly and aloud, "Come, Lowinn. Let us go collect your wife."
o0o
The gate was raised just a little. Just enough for one thin girl to slip beneath. Andor raised it farther and checked the tracks. Good. The fool was on foot. Mounted and with the aid of the pack, he'd run her down in no time.
Following Andor as the highlander packed provisions and saddled the horses, Lowinn wrung his hands and moaned over what a beast he had been. "What have I done?" he asked repeatedly, until the boy in disgust ordered him to his room to dress. Andor opened the door to the kennel. Two silver dogs shot by him, sudden as startled quail. Furious, he called to them to return, but they raced beneath the gate he had carelessly left half open and disappeared in a twinkling. Castandra's brace. Well, let her have them; they would do her no good. The rest of the pack would obey him.
o0o
She heard them in the distance. The full pack giving tongue; their eerie cries sent a ripple of fear down her narrow back. They bayed for her. She urged on her mount, but the chestnut mare, flecked with salty foam, already labored hard. Part of the semi-wild brood herd, her stolen horse was scarcely in condition for a long, demanding run.
What had she been thinking? What had ever possessed her to believe that she could escape, mounted on no more than an aging broodmare, from Andor and the pack of Tarskan coursers? It infuriated her to think that she would be beaten again, that her best effort might prove only an inconvenience to her brother.
She knew this place. Tavari and she used to play here; in their childhood, they would be great hunters, stalking deer or bear or boar or evil lowland poachers. Wild little Tavari, fearless and ferocious--what would she have done? 'I'll climb to this branch,' in her mind's eye, she could see her friend, a child, uncropped hair falling over narrowed eyes, scale fluidly up the tree, 'and when he rides by, I'll jump like a snow lion and my dagger will be like claws and just like that (snap of dexterous fingers) he will be very dead--you'll see!'
But, she had no dagger. And she would be a fool to think that Andor would fall for such a ruse, or that the hounds wouldn't give her away. And she didn't want to kill; she was too sad to murder, too tired to draw blood. All that she wanted to do was get away, to be left in peace.
Above the drum of her exhausted mount's hoofbeats, above the ever closer baying of the hounds, she could hear the roar of turbulent waters. She could throw herself into the river. That would give her peace--peace forever. Andor could go fish her battered body out of the Elder. Let him win.
Yes! The river! Drumming her heels against the laboring sides of the mare, she urged the animal upward. When her mount could run no more, she left her and scrambled up, high up, to the flat outcropping of rock where she and Tavari used to sun themselves on summer days and watch the Whitesnake plummet headlong off the cliff to join the Elder River, far below. She turned to look back, gulping for air as she removed her cloak and let it drop.
They were already upon her, Andor keeping the pack close at hand. She turned her back to him and looked down, far, very far below where the titanic wall of water met the swollen river. The spray sparkled with the late evening light, dazzling prisms, sun on rushing water, hypnotic, strangely familiar, sun on rushing water…
She jumped. Down, down, down, into the cataract, over her head.
o0o
"Bitch!" howled Andor. Sobbing pathetically, Lowinn knelt and clutched Castandra's cloak to his breast.
"We must find her," he blubbered.
The boy shot him a disgusted glance. "Do you really want to see her, Lowinn? By the time something downstream snags her, she will not look like your wife any more. Her face will be misshapen and ugly, caved in here and there and torn off to the bone in others. By the time we catch up to her, she'll be bloated and fly-blown and the smell will turn your stomach before you're even close enough to see what hideous things the scavengers have done to her."
"Stop it!" he cried. "Why are you so cruel? How do you know she is dead? The water may be deep, she may have missed the rocks and been able to swim to the shore."
"Lowinn, you are a fool, and so was she. This is not high summer; the river is swollen with melted snow. Even if the cold didn't stop her heart, she could have lasted no more than minutes. She is dead, Lowinn."
o0o
Icy impact. Cold beyond any cold. Tumbling over and over, fighting always for the surface, even when she could not guess which way the surface might be. At last, when it seemed her straining lungs would not endure another moment, she burst through the water. She was a strong swimmer, but the cold was already killing her and she could barely keep afloat when a silver head swept past on one side. Something warm on her cheek--Talisman; the bitch licked her face as she swam by. Her coursers! The sorceress grabbed the fur on the backs of their necks. The animals surged powerfully through the water, seemingly unaffected by the frigid temperature that sucked the very life from her.
They towed her quickly to shore. She clambered out of the water, shivering violently, clenching and unclenching her hands. If they failed her now, became too clumsy to start a fire, she would die; out of the water or not, her body temperature would continue to plummet. She forced her legs, leaden now, to lumber clumsily to the tiny cave. Be there, she thought.
It was, and all in
order. Her numbed fingers fumbled the sparkstone again and again as she tried to ignite the kindling, losing her deadly race with time. She could endure extremes of temperature better than any lowlander, but she by no means could thumb her nose at the elements.
At last, a spark, and then a tiny flame. She nursed it like a fragile infant, feeding it first on only the daintiest slivers, then twigs, then branches, until a full grown fire gnawed greedily at the dry logs that had been stored inside the shallow den. Her body and mind felt drugged with deceitful warmth; she wanted to sleep, but fire or not, to sleep now would be death.
The sorceress shed her clothing, using her teeth when her awkward hands would not grip. Mice had used Tavari's blanket, but the countess ignored the holes and dry little droppings and crouched before the fire, making a tent of the tattered blanket to catch and reflect back to her the heat of the fire. Omen and Talisman crept in and snuggled beside her, closer to the fire than even she dared. Their wet fur grew oddly warm. Steam rose up from their coats. She breathed it in deeply, feeling the warmth penetrate her lungs, warming her center.
She dreamed awake, remembering. The roar of the Whitesnake in high summer, years ago. Tavari, basking naked on the rock, hair long and plaited, one thin leg bent at the knee. "I'm hot."
"Mmmmm," Castandra acknowledged, turning a page.
"The Elder looks inviting. How long to get down there, right there, do you think?"
The sorceress looked up from her book. Already, her hair was white. Tavari wore that dangerous, anticipatory grin that Castandra had come to dread. "From up here? We would have to ride all day, at least."
"No. Not like that." Tavari stood and looked down over the edge. "How long--how long if I jumped?" She turned back to the sorceress, grinning hugely now. "How long would I have to feel it? How long would I fly?"
The Night Holds the Moon Page 28