* * *
Cale checked the breathing of the unconscious Kashi again, then settled back by the fire, scowling. From the looks of those dark circles under the bloke’s eyes and the general pallor of his skin, the inconsiderate bastard was probably going to die on him without so much as a hint as to what he’d done with the girl. No doubt Eevlina was right, blue Outlander eyes were bad luck. Nothing went his way these days.
The Kashi groaned. Cale glanced uneasily at him, then, judging the skimpy fire to be in need of more fuel, limped into the brush to search for dead wood. A few minutes later, he had as much as he could carry in his free arm and returned to the fire. He paused to lay the wood down, then froze.
The Kashi’s goldish eyes were squinting at him over the dying flames. “Don’t I . . . know you?” He hitched himself up on one elbow.
Cale snatched up the sword and thrust the point against the tender hollow of the other man’s throat.
“Oh.” The Kashi sagged back against the ummit saddle and closed his eyes. “Yes. Sorry about the—foot.”
“Sorry?” Cale leaned over, watching with satisfaction as the steel nicked the pale skin. “You think that makes it all right?”
Running fingers back through his golden-brown hair, the man sighed. “I would offer to heal it, but I’m afraid I’ve . . . never been much of a . . . healer.” He opened his eyes and blinked up at Cale, his brow furrowing. “You wouldn’t have some . . . tea, would you? I’ve . . . the most amazing . . . headac . . .” The golden-brown eyes rolled back and his head sagged to one side.
Damnation! Cale fingered the gold and silver runes engraved on the ornate hilt. How much time could a man be reasonably expected to waste holding a heavy sword at a fellow’s throat when the fellow did not have the decency to wake up and be properly terrified? He swung the sword tip away, then eased himself back to the ground, holding his broken foot out stiffly before him.
All he wanted out of this sorry rascal was information or a decent fight, and at this point, he wasn’t feeling over particular as to which. Well, what was that stuff Eevlina was always boiling up for headaches? Assafra root? If he wanted any satisfaction out of this lazy scoundrel, he was going to have to pep him up a bit.
“Now don’t you go thinking you can get away,” he said severely to the unconscious man. “I’ll be back shortly, and you’d better be ready to do some fast talking!”
He limped off into the trees, scanning the ground for tiny saw-edged assafra leaves.
* * *
Alyssa?
The ancient oak-framed mirror slipped from Alyssa’s hand onto the flagstone floor, shattering into a thousand useless slivers. She stared down numbly at the scattered glass, then forced an unsteady breath into her lungs. Yes, Dervlin?
Darkness and damnation, woman, bring me my account books this minute!
I’ll be right there. Placing one hand on the breast of her new dark-green silk gown, she fought back her sickening panic. When had the old fool recovered enough to use his mindsenses again? Why hadn’t someone warned her that Dervlin had made so much progress?
Glancing down at the broken mirror, she sidestepped the silvery shards, lifting her full skirts. His accounts, she thought, then shuddered. No doubt there would be a great deal in them of which he would not approve.
Stopping by his huge wooden desk, she rolled back the top and removed the thin brown books from the third drawer. Laying her hand on the smooth leather bindings, she hesitated, wondering if she could somehow keep them from her husband for a little longer.
Jarid had promised he would return in just a few days. She thought of her “nephew’s” strong embrace and felt the warmth return to her body. Jarid had planned everything down to the last detail. She had only to hold Dervlin off for a few more hours and then Tal’ayn would fall into their hands like a ripe callyt.
Alyssa!
She started, then closed the drawer with a bang. I’m coming.
Tucking the books under her arm, she fled into her bedchamber. What could she use to gain some time? She jerked drawers open and turned over the contents in an almost mindless panic. Then she found the small gray bottle still hidden in the trunk at the foot of her bed.
Anisei . . . She lifted the bottle out, and then paled. Jarid had administered a draught of the sedative to the old man on that night, but it took precise measuring. Too much and he would die of anisei poisoning and any healer who attended him would diagnose it with no problem.
Alyssa, quit sneaking around and get in here!
Her fingers closed convulsively around the small square bottle. Strengthening her shields, she slipped the sedative into her pocket. You must be feeling much better, she said lightly, and pushed open the door of his bedchamber.
Dervlin perched on the edge of his great bed, thin white legs dangling, scowling at her. “No thanks to you,” he said sourly.
Feeling the heat in her cheeks, she said nothing and passed him one of the account books; allowing him to see her distress only made him worse. She turned to leave.
“Oh, no, you sit down until I have a chance to look everything over.” He waved one hand at the day couch.
She settled on a silk cushion by the hearth, arranging her silk skirts into graceful folds, though why anyone had bothered to teach her the fine points of ladylike behavior when her family meant to give her into the hands of this monster remained totally beyond her understanding. Restlessly, she twirled the huge green kori-crystal on the Alimn birthring around her middle finger, watching as he scanned the line of entries. “Would you care for something to drink, my Lord?”
His finger stopped halfway down the page, and then the old man narrowed his eyes. “Thought you could hide this, did you, you conniving little nit?”
She steadily returned his gaze, refusing to let his intense golden eyes make her flinch. “I’ll ring for some tea.”
Ignoring her, he returned to his examination, stopping only to mutter to himself occasionally.
The servant cautiously thrust her gray-haired head through the door after a moment. “Ketha tea,” Alyssa said stiffly. The old servant nodded and withdrew abruptly, like a tree barret bolting back into its hole.
Alyssa sat there, lacing her icy fingers together and listening to the low crackle of the small fire laid in the hearth until she thought she would go insane. All the while, her husband flicked through page after page.
When at last old Jayna used her broad back to push open the door and walked into the room with the heavy silver tray, Alyssa crammed a knuckle between her teeth to keep from crying out. Then she rose and reached for the tray. “I’ll take it, Jayna.”
The old chierra stared back at her with those unreadable dark eyes. “My Lady?”
“I said, I’ll take it!” Alyssa fixed the old woman with a frosty glare.
Jayna hastily bobbed her head and settled the tray in Alyssa’s hands. “Be there anything else I can do for you, my Lady?”
“You can leave.” Alyssa turned her back on the servant, and bracing herself against the weight of the heavy tray, walked over to set it on a bedside table. Behind her, she heard the door click shut. “Shall you have sweetener, my Lord?” she asked over her shoulder as she slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the cool square shape.
Dervlin only grunted. She palmed the bottle and removed the wooden stopper. How much? she asked herself, then heard Dervlin snort behind her back.
“By heavens, I’ll have your heads for this, both you and that over-eager nephew of mine! Who gave you permission to buy Old apple seedlings to replant the orchards?”
Feeling her stomach knot with fear, Alyssa knew she didn’t care if she did give him too much. Better that and then it would really be over just as Jarid had promised!
“Don’t you remember?” She fought to keep her voice from trembling as she poured the dark contents of the tiny bottle
into his cup of tea. “You planned the orchard with us, just before you—got sick.”
“Got sick? That’s a good one.” His heavy face creased into a scowl. “You were probably in on it with the little skivit, at that!”
She braced the steaming aromatic cup between her two hands and turned to pass it to her husband. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dervlin. You’re perfectly aware that the Lady Haemas and I have never had much in common.”
“Bah!” The old man stared at the cup for a moment. “Are you saying my daughter isn’t good enough for you?”
She sighed and allowed just a trickle of exasperation to leak through her shields. “Really, you mustn’t say such things.” She reached for his hand. “Now drink your tea while it’s hot. I don’t intend for you to exhaust yourself and have a relapse.”
He returned to his study of the account books, but didn’t resist as she settled the cup of hot tea into his hand. Then he stiffened. “Twenty measures of Pa Naud silk in various colors?”
Alyssa face went cold.
“This House hasn’t bought twenty measures of silk in the last three generations!”
“I won’t allow you to excite yourself this way,” she said coolly. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling more reasonable.” She turned on her heel.
She heard him slide off the bed behind her. “Just who do you think you are to walk out on me?”
Her hands clenched until her nails pierced the skin of her palms. Her breast heaved as she stopped, trying to control the hot-white anger that flashed through her. “I am your wife,” she said through stiff lips, “though, by the Blessed Light itself, I would give anything that I were not!”
The stoneware cup flew over her shoulder and smashed into the door in front of her. The dark tea trickled down in small rivulets to pool on the floor.
Alyssa fingered the empty gray bottle in her pocket, then wrenched at the latch and escaped into the hall.
* * *
Haemas rested on her knees in the wet grass, taking deep lungfuls of the clean night air. When her heart had slowed somewhat, she wiped her face with the back of one hand and found her cheeks wet with tears. Shivering, she locked her arms around her knees and wished for the warmth of a fire to take away the night’s damp chill.
Answering flamelets leaped up eagerly in the back of her mind. No! she told them angrily, I will not have it!
The flames remained, crackling stubbornly just out of reach.
Closing her eyes, she fought back panic and tried to remember what Kevisson Monmart had told her to do. The flames licked joyfully at the edges of her mind and the smell of smoke permeated the air.
Small sister-ter-ter . . .
She leaped to her feet and looked wildly around the dark glade. Inside her head, the flames laughed in little sizzling pops and blazed higher.
It is only your fear-fear-fear . . .
The echoing voice made her dizzy. She pressed her fingers to her temples.
. . . that makes them strong-strong-strong.
Heat charged through her body, at first merely warming, but then quickly progressing into a burning that ran from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. Yellow flames sprang up in the brambles and the foliage overhead. “Kevisson?” she cried, backing against a tree trunk.
Fear is not your enemy.
The flames’ hot breath came from all directions now. She cringed at the center of a fiery circle.
Fear is the little mother at your side, keeping you from harm.
Think of fear like a mother? She wiped the smoke-tears from her blistering face, then sank down against the tree and closed her eyes. She’d never had a mother. Anyah Killian Sennay had died nearly sixteen years ago giving her birth.
Know fear as an old and trusted friend . . .
Trust? Trust was a word she never thought of in connection with anyone except the oldest chierra servants. Jarid had always called her a “little skivit” because she was afraid of everyone.
Although you must let fear guide you, it should not control you.
She’d never been in control of anything, except perhaps that last night. Her mind cringed again at the memory of her father’s dead body sprawled at her feet; the flames inside her mind reached hungrily.
She wrapped her arms around her head. It was too much and she lacked the strength to care anymore. Let the flames burn her into ashes. No matter how far she ran, no matter what she did, nothing would ever alter the horror of what she had done.
He may yet live.
“What?” The soothing certainty of the voice gave her strength. Forcing open her eyes, she felt the flames retreat until nothing was left but wisps of smoke curling pale against the blackness of the night sky.
BITTER, fiery liquid burned down Kevisson’s throat. He choked, then flailed weakly at the slab of bark pressing his lips.
“Drink the rest of it, damn you, or I’ll hold your high-and-mighty nose!”
The slab tipped again, spilling the remainder of its bitter contents into his mouth. He pushed it away and gasped for air. “Stop—that!”
A shaggy haired chierra man sat back on a rotting log and regarded him with a pair of startling blue eyes. “Now, what did you do with that light-haired girl!” The fire shifted and spit sparks. Nightmare shadows flickered over the surrounding trees and brush.
Kevisson tried to sit up, but slipped back. His vision doubled for a second. “What in the name of Darkness is that bloody stuff?” The acrid aftertaste was nearly gagging him. “Ummit sweat?”
“I made it a bit strong on purpose.” Cradling a richly worked sword across his knees, the man looked affronted. “Though I suppose, properly speaking, I should have let you die rather than waste perfectly good assafra on the likes of you.”
“I think I would just as soon be dead.” Kevisson glanced over the man’s shoulder; he recognized the keiria thicket and a lightning-split trunk a little beyond, so he hadn’t been moved, and as nearly as he could tell, his captor was alone.
He reached out a tendril of thought for the other’s mind, then felt the world go muffled and gray around the edges. His energy reserves were too depleted. He sighed. “I don’t suppose your kindness could extend to some food? I seem to have—overextended myself.”
The chierra flicked the sword point into the bare hollow of his neck, drawing a bead of bright-red blood. “The girl, old sod, and none of your flashy Kashi tricks.” He lifted the sword higher, caressing Kevisson’s jugular.
Kevisson hesitated, remembering Jarid Ketral’s response to his query about Haemas—dead. Could that really be true? He tried his mental link to the girl, then broke off as his vision dissolved into gray fog again. “I . . .” His eyelids weighed as much as a entire mountain and it was a struggle just to breathe. From faraway, he heard vague rustles, heard the chierra swearing under his breath.
A few minutes later, something hot was thrust into his hand. “Now, sit up and eat, damn you.”
He forced open his eyes and juggled a piece of steaming whiteroot wrapped in the husk.
“Suppose that’s not good enough for the likes of you!” The man pushed impatiently at black hair dangling in his face, then balanced the heavy sword across his knees again.
Kevisson made himself sit up, then took a tentative bite. The cold knot in his stomach eased as he swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Don’t go thanking me, your lordship.” The man ran a grimy finger along the sword’s gleaming length. “I want the girl.” He scowled. “She’s worth a rare bit of gold, that one, and I’m not letting the likes of you cheat me out of it.”
Feeling his energy level beginning to rise at last, Kevisson settled back and chewed slowly. “I can find her, but I have to build my strength back up. Mindsenses take a lot of energy.”
The man glowered at him. “Is that so?”
He swallowed the
last of the whiteroot and began to sense the shape of other’s mind. Sifting at his surface thoughts, he picked out the chierra’s name. “Cale Evvri.” Kevisson wiped his hands on his breeches. “That is a chierra name, but you look more like an Outlander with those eyes.”
“There’s Outlander blood in my line.” The blue eyes narrowed. “But Outlander blood runs as red as any other.”
“Is that Ketral’s sword?” Kevisson tried to sift deeper into the other’s mind.
“The very same sword that were dropped on my foot.”
Kevisson glanced at the crudely splinted foot and winced. “Sorry.”
“You said that already.” Cale eased his foot to another position. “Are you going to find the girl for me or do I have to punch in that smug Kashi face of yours?” He frowned. “Although you do look darker than any Motherless Kashi bastard I’ve ever seen.”
Kevisson’s mouth tightened. “There are rumors of an old indiscretion in my family, too.”
“The girl, old sod.” The sword tip swung up to nick Kevisson’s neck just below his ear.
“All right, I’ll—I’ll take you tomorrow.” Kevisson felt his way through the other’s mind, trying for motor control. A wave of giddiness washed over him, but he fought it off. There! He found the proper synapses and flashed a message to the chierra’s arm to release the sword.
“Hold out your hands.” Cale fished in his pocket and came up with a leather thong.
His head spinning from the effort, Kevisson stimulated the synapse again.
“Damnation!” Radiating impatience, the chierra man seized his wrist and looped the leather thong around it.
Kevisson sank back, his head pounding.
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