by Barb Hendee
He flinched in reflex. One hand rose sluggishly, trying to reach for his own neck, but she gently pushed it back down.
“They stole your purse, and you crawled back here to hide, in case they returned, and you slept . . . now.”
When she heard his breathing deepen, Teesha rose quickly and left. He would be safe there. But if anything happened to him after their encounter, that fate did not concern her.
In this same manner she had fed for years. And she always tried to pick the ones who’d not be around for long. Miiska was such a perfect place, with sailors and merchants coming and going. Occasionally, she killed one by accident when need and hunger overbalanced her careful control, but that had not happened in a long time. And if need had caused her to choose a local citizen of the town, she always buried the poor unfortunate, and Rashed blamed Ratboy whenever some mortal went missing. She saw no need to alter his perception.
Now she ran lightly along the shore, feeling the warmth and strength of the sailor’s blood, glad for her own innate ability to sometimes put the past and future from her mind and to live only in the moment.
“Teesha?”
She stopped in surprise, looking at the water and the wind in the trees above the shore.
“My love?”
Edwan’s empty voice echoed from behind her, and she turned. He floated just above the sand, his green breeches and white shirt glowing like white flame through a fog. His severed head rested on one shoulder, and long, yellow hair hung down his side all the way to his waist.
“My dear,” she said. “How long have you been there?”
“A while. Are you going home . . . already?”
“I wanted to check on the warehouse and see if Rashed needs anything.”
“Yes,” he said. “Rashed.”
Edwan’s visage changed subtly, as if the corpse image were no longer freshly dead, but had been lying in decay for a week or two. The glow of his skin was now sallow, whitened, with the hint of bruises from stagnant blood beneath his tissue.
Teesha lost the moment’s joy of strength and heat. She stepped lethargically up the shore and wilted to the ground against a leaning tree.
“Don’t brood. We need Rashed.”
“So you tell me.” Edwan was by her side, though she hadn’t actually seen him move. “So you told me.”
Together, they listened to shallow waves lapping at the beach. Teesha did not know how to respond. She loved Edwan, but he lived in the past, as did most spirits among the living, barely able to grasp the present. And she knew what he wanted. It was always what he wanted. He was the hungry one now, and with no true life to live, memories were all he had.
But it drained her so much, depressed her to do this for him. Every time he needed, and she relented, for the next five or six nights, it destroyed her ability to live only in the delicious present.
“No, Edwan,” she said tiredly.
“Please, Teesha. Just once more,” he promised—again.
“There isn’t enough time before sunrise.”
“We have hours.”
The desperation in his voice hurt her. Teesha dropped her chin to her knees and stared out to where the water disappeared into the dark.
Poor Edwan. He deserved so much better, but this had to stop. Perhaps if she showed him the sharpest of memories, played out to the end, he might be able to accept their current existence—her new existence.
She closed her eyes, hoping he’d someday forgive her for this, and reached out to him with her mind, reached back. . . .
High in the north above Stravina, snow fell from the sky more days of the year than not, and it seemed the clouds continuously covered the sun. Day or night made little difference, but Teesha hardly cared. In her tightly tied apron and favorite red dress, she served up mugs of ale to thirsty patrons and travelers at the inn. The place was always warm with a burning hearth, and she had a smile for whoever came through the door. But that special smile, as welcome as a break in the clouds when she could see the sun, was only for her young husband, working somberly behind the bar, making sure all was right and not one guest had to wait for an ordered drink.
Edwan seldom smiled back at her, but she knew he loved her fiercely. His father was a twisted, violent man, and his mother had died of fever when he was just a child. He had lived in poverty and servitude. That was all Edwan could remember of childhood, until he left home at seventeen, traveled through two cities, found a job tending bar, and then met Teesha, his first taste of kindness and affection.
At sixteen, Teesha had already received several marriage proposals, but she’d always declined. There was just something not quite right with the suitor—too old, too young, too frivolous, too dour . . . too something. She felt the need to wait for someone else. When Edwan walked through the tavern door, with his dark yellow hair, wide cheekbones, and haunted eyes, she knew he was her other half. After five years of marriage, he still rarely spoke to anyone but her.
To him, the world was a hostile place, and safety only rested in Teesha’s arms.
To her, the world was songs and spiced turnips and serving ale to guests—who had long ago become close friends—and spending warm nights under a feather quilt with Edwan.
It was a good time in life, but a short one.
The first time Lord Corische opened the inn’s door, he remained standing outside and would not enter. The cold breeze blowing openly into the common room was enough to set everyone to cursing, and Teesha ran to shut the door.
“May I come in?” he asked, but his voice was demanding, as if he knew the answer and was merely impatient to hear it.
“Of course, please,” she answered, mildly surprised, as the tavern was open to all.
When he and a companion entered, and Teesha could finally shut the door, everyone settled down again. A few people turned to look in curiosity, then a few more, as the first curious ones did not turn back to their food again.
Nothing about Lord Corische himself stood out as unusual. Not his chainmail vest and pieces of plate over padded armor, for soldiers and mercenaries were seen often enough. He was neither handsome or ugly, large or small. His only true distinguishing features were a smooth, completely bald head and a small white scar over his left eye. But he was not alone, and it was not Lord Corische the tavern guests stared at in any case. It was his companion.
Beside the smooth-headed soldier walked the tallest, most striking man Teesha had ever seen. He wore a deep blue, padded tunic covered in a diamond pattern stitched in shimmering white thread. His short hair was true black against a pale face with eyes so light she wasn’t certain of the color, like the smoothest ice over a deep lake.
The two men walked to a table, but the bald soldier still hadn’t taken his gaze off Teesha.
“Can I bring you ale?” she asked.
“You’ll bring me whatever I find pleasing,” the soldier answered in a loud voice, enjoying the moment. “I am Lord Corische, new master of Gäestev Keep. Everything here already belongs to me.”
When the villagers around them heard Corische’s announcement, hushed murmurs began, but all words were kept low enough not to be heard.
Teesha held her breath and dropped her eyes. Over a year had passed since the previous vassal lord had died of a hunting wound. No word of a new lord arriving had reached them in all that time.
“Forgive my familiar manner,” she said. “I did not know.”
“Your familiar manner is welcome,” Corische said quietly.
He did not look remotely noble to Teesha, but then she had rarely seen a noble in her life. Corische did have a look about him that fit these mountain lands, cold and possibly cruel to the unwary. But if either one of these two strangers were a lord, Teesha would have thought it his companion.
Corische’s striking companion did not speak. He even appeared detached, not listening to their conversation. After a slow gaze at the crowd, as if gauging for possible dangers, he settled back and ignored his surroundings.
“No, my lord,” Rashed answered flatly, as if this were a ritual simply to be completed.
“May I fetch ale, my lord?” Teesha asked politely, wanting some reason to move away from the table.
“No, I came for you.”
The answer stunned her into confusion. “Beg pardon?”
Corische stood up and pushed his cloak back. His skin was pale, but his shoulders and upper arms were thick beneath the armor.
“I have already been in the village a few nights, watching you. Your face is pleasing. You will come back to the keep with me and stay while I’m detained here. A few years at most, but you’ll want for nothing.”
Fear hollowed out Teesha’s stomach, but she smiled as if his request were an ordinary flirtatious remark.
“Oh, I think my husband may object,” she said, turning to go back to her work.
“Husband?” Lord Corische’s brown eyes moved beyond her and settled knowingly on Edwan—fragile, fierce Edwan, who was tightly poised, ready to jump over the bar.
“This is not the time, my lord,” Rashed said quietly.
A long moment passed. Then Corische nodded to Teesha, stood, and left without a word. Rashed got up and followed.
That night in bed, Edwan begged her to pack her belongings and slip away with him.
“To where?” she asked.
“Anywhere. This isn’t over.”
The small northern village was her home, and she foolishly insisted they stay. Two nights later, a local farmer that Edwan once quarreled with over the price of bread grain was found stabbed to death behind the inn. When Lord Corische’s men came to investigate, they found a bloody knife hidden under Edwan and Teesha’s bed. Rashed was there, seemingly overseeing the search, yet all he did was enter, sit at a table before the hearth, and wait. When the knife was brought out by Corische’s soldiers, neither surprise nor anger registered in his transparent eyes. He simply nodded shallowly, and the guards proceeded as if their orders had already been given.
Teesha was too stunned to cry out when soldiers dragged her husband from the inn in shackles. She saw Rashed’s eyes, and how empty they were, except for a twitch she couldn’t be quite sure of before it was gone again.
Before Teesha could lunge after Edwan, a third guard snatched her by the arms from behind. Lord Corische then entered the inn and stood patiently in front of her, waiting for her to give up her struggling.
For the first time, Teesha began to believe his crude appearance and rough speech were a disguise to mask some hidden self. There was no life in his face, no feeling at all.
“What will happen to him?” she whispered.
“He will be sentenced to death.” Corische paused. “Unless you come to the keep with me tonight.”
Had she been stupid or just naive? She had heard stories around the inn about nobles and their abuses, destroying the lives of others without concern. She thought such tales were merely exaggerations.
“If I come with you, he will live?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He did not let her pack so much as a spare dress. She was escorted outside to two bay horses held at the ready by one of Corische’s men. Corische mounted one, and Rashed the other. Edwan was nowhere to be seen.
“Rashed is your servant as well now,” Corische said. “He will protect you.”
Rashed leaned down and gripped her under the arms. He lifted her in front of himself as if she were parchment. Although horror prevented her from taking note of the moment, it came back to her many times later. On that night she was still Teesha the serving girl, who loved her husband and believed life consisted of songs and spiced turnips, Teesha the serving girl who couldn’t understand where her Edwan was or what was happening to him. Sitting sideways on the saddle, she leaned back and clung to Rashed’s tunic as his horse jumped forward.
The ride to Gäestev Keep took forever. With no cloak, the freezing air cut through her dress. Rashed did not verbally acknowledge her presence, but after she shivered once, he rode with both his arms covering hers to shield her from the wind. Corische rode on ahead, with his remaining soldiers bringing up the rear of the procession.
And still there was no sign of Edwan. Had he already been dragged off to some damp cell?
The keep loomed ahead, and her fear shifted to her own fate. It was an imposing construction of stone, a squat and wide tower with a stable and guardhouse built against its sides. When Rashed lifted her down, she considered running but had no notion of where to go, and she feared what would happen to Edwan if she did run.
The inside of the keep looked as bleak as the outside. No welcoming fires burned, and the bitter wind was exchanged for the bone-chilling cold of air trapped within stone walls. No pictures or tapestries hung on those walls. Old straw covered the main floor. Stone steps running around the inner wall led to the unseen upper levels. The only furniture visible was a long, cracked table and one massive chair. Two small torches on the wall burned to provide light.
Lord Corische did not notice her chattering teeth and walked past her to lay his sword on the table. Torchlight glinted off his smooth head.
“Ratboy,” he called out. “Parko.”
The timbre of his voice dropped to an echoing, angry growl. Skittering, running feet on the stairs made Teesha unconsciously pull back behind Rashed. Two strange men—or creatures—entered the room.
The first looked like a street urchin, covered with dirt down to the surface of his teeth. He could have been a boy or a young man. Everything about him was brown except for his skin, which she glimpsed beneath smudges of grime. The second figure, however, terrified her instantly, even more than Corische.
An emaciated white face with bestial eyes that sparked in the torchlight looked as if it were carved from bone. Strands of filthy black hair hung down his back beneath a tied kerchief that she guessed had once been green. But it was his movements that frightened her most. Quick as an animal, he darted into the room, springing off the steps before reaching the bottom. He caught himself on the table and used his hands to propel himself around, smelling at the air.
His eyes settled in her direction, and he lunged across the room, stopping halfway, neck swiveling and craning as he tried to see her behind Rashed.
“You do not wait to greet your master?” Corische said coldly.
“Forgive us,” Ratboy answered in a lilting tone. “We were preparing the woman’s room as you asked.”
His polite voice belied the hatred and mischief in his eyes. Parko dropped low to crouch on all fours and did not turn to face Corische.
“Woman,” Parko said, nodding.
The numbness of Teesha’s emotions faded as she looked about at the pit into which she’d been cast. These were the kind of men who served her liege lord? Where were the fires? Where were the guards and the casks of ale and the food?
Rashed stepped forward, exposing her to view. He crouched down to Parko’s level.
“You cannot touch her, Parko. Do you understand? She’s not for you.”
The odd, gentle quality in his tone surprised Teesha. “Woman,” Parko repeated.
“He does not need your warnings,” Corische said, removing his cloak, “and you forget your place.”
Rashed stood and stepped back. “Yes, my lord.”
Corische then turned to Teesha. “I am not cruel. You may rest for a night or two before taking up your duties.”
“Duties? What are my duties?”
“Acting as lady of the keep.” He paused for a moment, then laughed as if he’d finally understood some elusive joke. The sound brought Teesha’s dinner to the base of her throat.
“If I am to be lord here,” Corische continued, “I must have a lady, even a floor-scrubbing tavern wench like you.”
That was her first hint that Corische har
bored no desire to play lord of Gäestev Keep. Most feudal overseers were assigned fiefs as gifts from nobles wealthier than themselves or from their own liege lords. But what did Corische want from her? She knew nothing of ladies or playing at nobility. She looked again at Ratboy and Parko in confusion. If Corische surrounded himself with lowly creatures in order to feel more important, then why enlist someone like Rashed? And why bother with a woman to play at being lady of the house?
She was locked in a filthy tower room that night and left to shiver with no fire and only a thin, moldy flannel sheet as a blanket. No one came all the next day, but the following night, she heard the door unlock and was caught between relief and terror. Rashed entered with a tray of tea, mutton stew, and bread, and he carried a cape over one arm.
“It’s freezing in here,” she said.
“Put this on.” He held out the cape as he set the tray on the floor in front of her. “The keep is ancient. There are no hearths, only a fire pit in the main room. I found wood and lit it. Some heat might rise, but do not go down there without the master or myself.”
She couldn’t tell if he was being kind or just instructing her in one more rule of the house. Then she realized it didn’t matter. He seemed the closest thing she had to a friend in this vile place. Unwanted tears ran down her cheeks.
“What about Edwan?” She stood, taking one step closer to Rashed. “Will he be released soon?”
Rashed was silent for a moment, not moving, his eyes staring at the wall behind her.
“Your husband was sentenced this morning and executed at dusk.” He said it without any change of tone in his voice. He turned toward the door, preparing to leave. “Do you wish to sit by the fire?”
A kind of madness tickled Teesha’s brain.
“Do I wish to . . . ?” She began laughing. “You bastard.”
For nothing—she’d come to this nightmare pit for nothing, and Edwan, who deserved a peaceful life more than anyone she’d known, was dead simply because some twisted lord fancied his wife. The vicious comedy of it all became more than she could bear. Death was far preferable to this existence.