In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  Her breath quickened then developed into laboured gasps. The presence of the goddess lay heavy upon her, all the holy power channelled through her and into the focus of the sword. The ruby light spread past the altar and across the floor to lap at the walls of the altar room. Crimson bathed the walls and disappeared past the limits of physical sight.

  Ellaeva still felt it though, creeping through the halls, filtering through the bare cells in which the priestesses lived. Sweat beaded on her brow and ran down her face in rivulets. A drop formed in the end of her nose, distracting her with an impending sneeze. She wrinkled her nose against the itch and hardened her concentration. The sword allowed her to tolerate more of the goddess’s power than she could unaided, but her strength fast approached its limits, the slow, weary burn in her limbs a precursor to dangerous exhaustion.

  The drop of sweat fell from her nose. Waves of fire radiated from the wound on her back. Her breath came now in shallow gasps and her chest burned with effort. With one last surge of will, she pushed the light to the far edges of the cloister in one tumultuous rush.

  She swayed with the effort and clung to the altar for balance, still holding tenuously to the ward she’d forced into place. The protection wasn’t yet sealed, and if she lost hold now, she’d be forced to start over. No strength remained for that endeavour.

  “Ahura bless this ward,” she gasped. With one trembling hand, she touched her fingers to brow, lips and breast in the benediction of death.

  The ruby flared in response. For one long moment, the brilliance forced her to squint. Then the light died and the room returned to normal. The flames of the multitude of candles appeared wan in the wake of the bloody light. And the goddess was gone.

  “Incredible. Such holy power.” The abbess’s voice was keen with interest.

  “You have no idea the dangers of having a god inside your head.” Leaning with both hands flat on the altar to keep her upright, Ellaeva shot the abbess a glare. She swayed and forced herself to stand straight and tall. “I must go now. The spectres can no longer enter here, but the same cannot be said of the rest of the castle.”

  Three steps from the altar her knees buckled. She caught herself with one knee braced against the floor and her fists planted to either side.

  The crone called out in a tremulous voice, and the priestess who’d bound Ellaeva’s wounds poked her head around the door.

  “Help her on her way,” the abbess said, beginning to gather up the candles from the altar.

  The priestess manoeuvred her shoulder under Ellaeva’s arm and hauled her to her feet. Heat flushed Ellaeva’s face as she teetered on her feet, kept upright only by the other woman.

  “Are you all right?”

  Ellaeva grit her teeth against a particularly sharp stab of pain as they shuffled out of the bright altar room and back into the shadows of the halls. “I’ll survive, although right now I might wish I wouldn’t.”

  The silence stretched as they inched through the tunnels at a pace so slow even the drifting of clouds across a sky could outpace them. They waited while the door priestess unlocked the first door, then moved through in awkward tandem.

  The clang of the iron portal closing behind them rang sour in the darkness.

  “Are we safe?” the priestess asked finally, as they approached the iron doors marking the end of the cloister and the limits of the seal Ellaeva wrought. The hooded priestess waiting here swung the door open without question.

  “So long as you stay within the cloister.” Ellaeva stepped forward as the echoing squeal of the opening door’s hinges fell silent. The dark opening gaped before her.

  Outside this place lay everything dangerous... including Lyram. With the crone’s admonition ringing in her ears, she could not forget him.

  If I had to be a priestess, why couldn’t I be this type, living safe within a temple? Why do I have to be the one who faces all the demons in the night?

  She’d never asked for this life. The decision was made for her, when she was too young to understand. By the time she really understood the shackles binding her, they were too tight to be undone. A longing filled her, for all the things a young woman might have or hope for, and none of which she could choose even if she wanted. The sweetness of a first kiss. Simple laughter in the company of friends. The adoration of a baby gazing into her mother’s eyes. A man to cherish her. A mother’s embrace, lost so far in the past she’d no memory of such an event. Even just an afternoon carefree enough to pick flowers.

  The freedom to choose for herself which of those things she did and did not want.

  Tears pricked her eyes, and she took her first step toward the portal, shaking off the thoughts. To her surprise, the priestess stayed with her.

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “I’d be surprised if you could walk without me,” the other woman said.

  The priestess had a point, and Ellaeva kept her silence as they traversed the tunnels back to the stairwell. Once there, she unhooked her arm from the other woman’s neck and clung hard to the wall. The stairwell was narrow enough that she could reach both walls at once, and so arranged she took the first step, then paused, looking back.

  “Thank you,” she said. No priestess of Ahura had been so kind to her in a long time. Tears threatened again, and she blinked them away. Her life allowed no room for weakness.

  The priestess’s eyes held a deep compassion. “We are all beloved of our lady. If you need me again, ask for Oriella.”

  Ellaeva nodded and climbed the next riser, carrying her out of sight of her sister. Her back still throbbed, and bone deep exhaustion swept over her. She wavered on the stairs before catching herself. Sleep. If only I could sleep. If she slept, maybe she would wake from this nightmare.

  It was a fantasy she didn’t often allow herself to indulge in; the idea that one day she might wake to find the last five, ten, and now fifteen years, were only a dream, the most horrific of nightmares. Of course, she never did, and she never would. This was her reality. That other was nothing more than a destructive dream.

  She climbed the stairwell to the well room where she collapsed on the cool floor. The priestess had brought her to the eastern gate-tower stair, not the western, where she’d entered.

  “Your holiness?”

  Ellaeva started, her hand swinging immediately for the sword she was too exhausted to use.

  In the shadows, a tall, thin man stood with his hands folded at his waist.

  “Everard?”

  Lyram’s aide advanced towards her. “I’ve been looking for you. Galdron said you might have gone into the catacombs. Are you well? I’m afraid I must beg a boon.”

  As soon as Ellaeva cracked her eyes open to the familiar sight of her rooms, Everard’s words came back to her.

  A boon. What did he want?

  When he’d realised the extent of her injuries and exhaustion, Lyram’s aide-de-camp had refused to say more and helped her to bed instead. Except for a few words to warn him of spectres in the catacombs, the spirits of the dead hopelessly enslaved to the necromancer’s will, the conversation was brief and she’d been asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  She closed her eyes and pulled the blankets over her head. If only she could stay here a little longer. Lying here, on her side, her back almost didn’t hurt.

  Curious that Everard hadn’t offered to send for Leinahre. She’d have refused the woman’s help, but he didn’t know that.

  Sighing, she threw off the bedclothes and eased herself to her feet. What was the time? Light streamed through the small west-facing arrowslit, bright enough for late afternoon.

  A night’s rest and more left her refreshed, and though the wound in her back pulled as she rose and dressed, it no longer stabbed the same fiery agony into her flesh with each twinge and tug. Ahura’s chosen healed fast, although rushing into another battle anytime soon would be unwise.

  With one hand on the door, she paused. Should she look for Everard or Lyram? She shru
gged. If the aide’s request could wait while she rested, he could bide a little longer. On the other hand, she hadn’t seen Lyram since the attack on the enemy camp, and she needed an update on the siege. And then of course there was Kastyn.... She really should try and find out what he was up to.

  Her feet tap-tapped on the stairs as she descended with quick, light steps and emerged into the courtyard. The bright sunlight made her squint. In the moment it took her to adjust to the light, a boulder crashed into a wall, and she jumped. The sound of the impact deafened her. Soldiers moved around the courtyard and milled on the walls. Though the castle wasn’t under attack, agitation thrummed through the guard.

  “Your holiness!” Galdron appeared from nowhere and seized her arm in a shockingly hard grip. Almost immediately, he released her, and a red flush crept up his face. “Apologies, holiness.”

  She waved the indiscretion away. “What is the matter, captain?”

  “I’m not made for this.” A plaintive note crept into his voice for an instant before he stiffened into parade rest and firmed his voice. “I mean, I’ve held the walls as best I can, but I’m no tactician. I’ve had no new orders for forty-eight hours, and the commander cannot be contacted.”

  “Why not? Where is he?” Did he slip away into the enemy camp again to foolishly surrender himself? Surely he’d given up that notion. A hard knot of pressure grew in her chest.

  “In his rooms, but— Didn’t Everard tell you?”

  A gasp of relief escaped her lips. “Tell me what?”

  Galdron’s blank military expression slipped a fraction, then he resumed his stern mask. “A matter for another time. Holiness, I need you to survey the situation and provide instructions.”

  “What didn’t Everard tell me?” She followed Galdron only because he moved away and her only other choice was to shout after him.

  “A secondary priority,” he said, voice brusque, and refused to be drawn further on the matter as they climbed to the walls. “Right now, the most important thing is defending the castle. We can discuss the commander when the walls are secure.”

  The wind tugged at the plaid he wore over his armour and sliced through her robes, chilling her to the bone. A lazy wind, as they said here in Ahlleyn: one that cut right through because it was too lazy to go around. She shivered and huddled in the black cloth, trying fruitlessly to eke out more warmth as she stared out off the walls towards the enemy encampment as Galdron started his report on the castle’s situation. The trails of smoke from campfires etched pale lines against the washed-out blue of the sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds. No rain in those, but on the horizon loomed a more ominous storm front.

  She busied her hands straightening her robes, even as she tried to devote her full attention to Galdron and his recitation, while ignoring the quiver in her stomach. A mountain of issues, both great and small, had accumulated in Lyram’s absence.

  Why is he absent? Why won’t Galdron say?

  Food supplies were excellent following the successful raid, and the rations needed reviewing as a result. The list of dead and wounded from the sortie was better than expected—two dead and seven wounded, including herself, but four more lost whose fate was unknown. Also unknown was whether the messengers made it clear of the camp and on their way to the king or not. There was a report on oil stores—still good—and another on the state of the walls—holding firm. No further word had come from the enemy camp. There’d been one attack, with four cats this time trying to fling debris into the moat, and the catapults continued to pound at the walls, concentrating on the front gate towers where the Gallowglaighs, under cover of the cats were filling the moat. The roster still needed reviewing and updating to ensure that men were fairly rotated and rested as well as could be expected, and the wounded needed care in the absence of Leinahre.

  Leinahre’s absence rang warning bells. Had the woman gone into hiding after trying to poison her? Her behaviour was suspicious, but the slew of decisions Galdron expected her to make left her with no time to chase the problem, and so it would wait... as would Lyram.

  “Couldn’t Sir Janun make these decisions?”

  Galdron fixed her with a level stare. “Sir Janun has little more siege experience than I do. In truth, Everard was going to his suite to appeal for assistance when he stumbled across you and we decided to wait.”

  She nodded, still exhausted after her ordeal in the catacombs. “Well, we’d better find Leinahre and get her back to the wounded before we lose one to infection. She didn’t wander down into the catacombs did she?”

  If she were missing, maybe she wasn’t the poisoner. A sudden chill gripped her. Leinahre might have needed something from the stores in the catacombs. If she ran into a spectre... she’d have no chance.

  Galdron gave her another level stare, slightly frosty around the edges. “We know where she is. She just won’t come.”

  “What? Where?” Ellaeva’s voice grew grim. Is she hiding from me then? “I think I better explain where her priorities lie.”

  “She’s with the commander.”

  She tapped her foot, narrowing her eyes at Galdron. “You know where they both are but no one thought to fetch them? This is a siege, captain, not a stroll in the park!”

  Flinging her arms in the air, she turned on her heel and stalked across to the east tower. The stairs there took her down to the level housing Lyram’s and Janun’s suites.

  The heavy iron-bound door to the commander’s suite barred her way, so she pounded on it with her fist. When nothing but silence answered, she drew her sword and used the heavy basket-hilt to hammer against the oak.

  Leinahre’s voice came through the door, almost lost in the fading knock of steel against wood. “Go away.”

  Ellaeva curled her hands into fists at the woman’s presumption at turning away those who needed the commander. They were at war! Lives depended on him—and on her! She quivered with suppressed fury. “I need to speak to Lord Aharris.”

  “I told you to go away.”

  Ahura’s chosen told to go away? She shoved open the iron-bound door so hard it struck the wall and rebounded into the flat of her palm. With her sword held point down in her other hand, she stepped inside.

  Across the suite, Lyram lay on his back in the bed, his hands pillowed behind his head. He turned to regard her as she crashed through his door, but no alarm registered on his face. His expression didn’t even shift a fraction from a look of dreamy-eyed contentment. She held his attention only a moment before he turned his gaze to Leinahre, who stood naked beside the bed.

  Ellaeva’s free hand flew to her mouth, and coldness ran through her, as icy as a bucket of snowmelt poured over her head, rooting her to the spot. The woman was gorgeous, without a doubt, with curves in all the right places. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin and a thick, musky scent hung on the air. Her lower lip trembled as her eyes locked on the sword clutched in Ellaeva’s hand, and her face turned ashen.

  As Leinahre shrank back in fear, Lyram abruptly came to life, surging off the bed.

  “Out! Get out!” he bellowed in rage, his voice echoing off the rounded walls of the room.

  Ellaeva faltered, falling back a step. In all the times she’d seen the commander angry, never had she witnessed an uncontrolled fury like this levelled at anyone. When she’d previously voiced her concerns about Leinahre, he shouted at her, but not like this. She shook her head, as dazed as if she’d been struck to the temple, and tried to make sense of the whirling thoughts.

  She retreated a step, and another, but he didn’t stop, and all of a sudden he slammed his fist into her chest. With a grunt, she stumbled backwards, the impact sending new waves of pain flashing through her.

  “Get out!” His shout sprayed spittle into Ellaeva’s face.

  Ellaeva opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. What could she possibly say? What could she do?

  Her body began to shake, and dizziness spun her head from the sudden rush of pain. She was too wounded to figh
t him, and he was too maddened to be reasoned with. Casting one last despairing look at Lyram, who was almost frothing at the mouth in fury, she fled out the door.

  “It’s not normal!”

  With his more eloquent arguments fallen on deaf ears, Everard had retreated into this litany.

  From her chair at the table, Ellaeva sighed, heartily tired of hearing it over and over in the hour since her return from Lyram’s suite. The charts spread on the table before her blurred, and she rubbed at grainy eyes, trying to refocus on the carefully marked enemy lines and the counters marking out troop positions and numbers.

  Rain splattered fiercely against the glass of the drawing room’s courtyard windows, and the thunderous crash of another boulder striking the walls echoed throughout the castle, even reaching here to the sumptuous withdrawing room at the rear. The besiegers had stepped up the bombardment as much as possible with only two catapults, but Caisteal Aingeal was so soundly built, with walls fifteen feet thick, that breaching the walls would still take months, if not longer. But the raid on their supplies must have hit them hard. They either had no supply lines or were on rations until supplies arrived.

  Probably the first. If Lyram was right and this siege was a political move against him, the small army at their gates walked a fine line between enough publicity to end the marriage negotiations and being noticed too early, before they secured Lyram. Playing on his emotions was a smart move. Someone knew him well and might have succeeded in convincing him to surrender, except no one had factored in her presence. Now the enemy had no fast way to end the siege, Lyram eluded them, and they were short on food. The undiscovered spy still worried her, but there’d been no more sabotage since the aborted attack on the gates. Instead, the catapult attacks had stepped up, and no doubt the enemy would attack the walls soon and try to seize the castle—and Lyram.