Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  Walk away, a small voice in his head urged. Say they’re wrong. Tell them it’s not Crysander.

  Walk away. Now.

  “How much?” Elezaar heard himself asking, even though the voice of reason in his head was shouting at him, telling him he was a fool. Crysander brought this on himself! He betrayed Ronan Dell! If he’s suffered all these years, it’s not your fault!

  “He’s not for sale.”

  Elezaar turned to Tarkyn. So that’s their game. Betrayal.

  “What do you want from me?”

  The blind court’esa chuckled. “You used to be such a self-centred little thing, didn’t you? Too much of the good life has weakened you, Fool, softened your resolve. There was a time you cared for nobody but yourself. Look at you now. All pampered and favoured like a fat, neutered house cat and with just as much balls.”

  “Just tell me what you want, Tarkyn.”

  “Nothing too difficult. Just some information, that’s all.”

  “I won’t betray my mistress.”

  Tarkyn leaned back on the cushions and smiled confidently. “Yes, Elezaar. I think you will.”

  “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” The blind slave reached beneath the table and brought out something that chilled Elezaar’s blood. He placed it on the lacquered surface with a sinister smile.

  “Remember this? You should. It’s a souvenir from Ronan Dell’s palace.”

  Elezaar stared at the nightmare Tarkyn had placed on the table, feeling his bowels turn to water at the sight of it. Carved from a single piece of polished horn, the instrument was about a foot long, tapered at the point, which was barbed and serrated, sculpted to inflict as much damage as possible on whatever orifice it was inserted into. Wrapped around its length was a twist of jagged wire, the barbs sharpened to deadly points, a modification Ronan Dell had added himself when the instrument’s initial novelty had begun to wane.

  “He used it on all those young slaves he was so partial to, didn’t he?” Tarkyn asked in a conversational tone, leaning forward to pick it up. He turned it over in his hands, holding the dreadful tool with extreme care for fear of slicing his own fingers open on its wickedly sharp surface. “And you watched every blood-soaked moment of it, didn’t you, Fool, playing the lyre for your master like a good little pet, while Ronan Dell got his kicks making his victims suffer. Did it ever bother you, Fool, that you just stood there while those poor children screamed and cried and eventually bled to death?”

  Elezaar said nothing.

  Tarkyn Lye pushed the instrument across the lacquered surface of the table leaving a long scratch in its wake. The resulting screech set Elezaar’s teeth on edge. Venira’s doorman ominously pulled on a familiar thick leather glove, similar to the one Ronan Dell used to wear when he—

  Oh gods! No! He can’t mean to . . .

  “Bekan,” Tarkyn ordered, relaxing back against the cushions. “Tell Crysander to bend over. I want to see how much fun we can have with Ronan’s special little toy.”

  “NO!” Elezaar cried desperately, as Bekan reached for the deadly instrument with one hand, forcing Crysander face-first onto the table with his ungloved hand. “For the gods’ sake, Tarkyn! No!”

  “But you just told me you’d never betray your mistress,” the blind court’esa reminded him, apparently unconcerned.

  Bekan picked up the instrument with the hand protected by the leather glove. Crysander lay there, unresisting, waiting with the fatalistic acceptance of a man who had been tortured so often he no longer understood why; only that he must endure.

  “I respect your loyalty, Fool. You can go, if you like. We’ll just have a bit of fun for a while, and then we’ll probably be off, too. Not a good idea to be out after slave curfew at the moment. Not with plague in the city. Carry on, Bekan.”

  “Call him off, Tarkyn!” the dwarf begged, unable to think of any other way to stop the torment these men had planned for his brother. The vacant, accepting look on Crysander’s face was the worst of it. His eyes stared blankly at Elezaar. He was beyond shame, beyond humiliation. Even beyond normal human emotions, perhaps.

  Sensing he was on the brink of victory, the blind court’esa held up his hand to halt Bekan. “Give me a reason, Fool.”

  So relieved Tarkyn had stopped Bekan before it was too late, Elezaar wanted to cry. He hung his head in shame. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  I am betraying my princess. For the sake of a man who may or may not be my brother. I am betraying my princess. The tragedy was, Elezaar knew in his heart that he probably would have given Tarkyn what he wanted even if the old slave had been a total stranger. The days when he could witness such evil and remained untouched by it were long past.

  “That’s better,” Tarkyn said, smiling triumphantly. He waved his arm and Bekan put the instrument down.

  With a shove, the doorman sat Crysander back down on the cushions and began to take off the leather glove. The slave’s expression didn’t change. Fear didn’t meld into gratitude. Crysander simply didn’t care.

  “I had a feeling you’d get my point. If you’ll pardon the pun. Have a seat, Fool. We have a lot to talk about. At least, you do, at any rate.”

  Twenty-five years. I am throwing away twenty-five years of faithful service to a woman I love. A woman who has protected me, respected me and trusted me so much that she let me teach her children.

  And for what? A sick slave Alija probably found in the markets a month ago.

  But try as he might, Elezaar couldn’t bring himself to leave. He couldn’t walk away while that damned thing sat on the table and another innocent victim waited on the pleasure of a sadistic bastard like Tarkyn Lye. Not again. He could never go through that again.

  Not even for Marla Wolfblade.

  “What do you want to know?” Elezaar asked in a flat, defeated voice.

  “Let’s start with what really happened to Wrayan Lightfinger,” Tarkyn Lye suggested.

  Chapter 63

  Astrange sort of calm descended on Mahkas Damaran after he got over the initial shock of finding Leila sitting astride The Bastard Fosterling, moaning like a cheap whore. The Bastard Fosterling no longer had any other name, in Mahkas’s mind. The being who was once Starros no longer existed.

  He was The Bastard Fosterling now. The ungrateful whelp, who had first seduced, then corrupted Mahkas’s beloved daughter. He’d replayed the scene in his mind over and over, adjusting it until it fitted with his preferred version of events and it was now much easier to recall.

  It was fortunate, Mahkas told himself as he rubbed at the little scar on his arm, that I arrived before The Bastard Fosterling could actually penetrate my daughter, having now accepted this new and far more palatable memory as the truth. It would have been most regrettable if Damin had come home to find a baseborn servant had spoilt his prize. The gods must have been on his side, Mahkas knew, otherwise he would never have had second thoughts about asking The Bastard Fosterling to speak with Leila about Damin and followed him into the servants’ wing, a place Mahkas rarely visited in the normal course of events.

  Well, he was speaking to her, all right! Fortunate that Mahkas had arrived in time, before anything worse could happen.

  There was a knock on the door which he ignored, too busy pacing the rug in his study, rubbing at his arm, making sure he had all the facts clear in his head before he faced either Leila or The Bastard Fosterling. He was a fair man, he reminded himself. A good man. Nobody would be unjustly accused of anything in his city. The Bastard Fosterling would have to die, of course, that was a given, and Leila would have to be shown the error of her ways, but Mahkas was certain this whole thing could be cleared up quite easily.

  He would talk to her, he decided. He would explain to her how wrong she was to allow herself to be so easily beguiled by that slick-tongued scoundrel, and how there was no real harm done. Damin was away—thank the gods—and with luck might never even learn any
thing about this awkward little incident. Leila needed to be punished, just a little, to make sure the lesson was well learned, but once that was done and The Bastard Fosterling was dead . . . well, everything could go back to the way it was before.

  “Mahkas!” a muffled shout came through the door. “I insist you let me in, this instant!”

  He sighed. Bylinda was out there, all upset for no good reason. Perhaps the fact that she was a merchant’s daughter gave her an unhealthy empathy for the common man which, even after more than twenty-four years of marriage, she’d never been able to shake entirely.

  He would explain it to her, too, he decided. After he’d spoken to Leila.

  Mahkas picked up the riding crop from his desk and walked to the door. He unlocked it and opened it, ignoring his wife who was still pounding on the carved panelling, demanding entry. She stepped back in shock as he emerged from the room. She wasn’t alone, he noted with a slight frown. His niece, Kalan, was with her, and Tejay Lionsclaw. Typical of the women not to understand what it was like for a father placed in this regrettable position. And that common-born sorcerer friend of Kalan’s was with them, too. Was there no escaping them?

  “Uncle Mahkas?” Kalan ventured cautiously as he walked into the hall. “Are you all right?”

  “Mahkas!” Bylinda called after him, when he simply walked straight past them. “Where are you going?”

  He paid them no attention, ignoring everyone as he headed for the grand staircase, slapping the riding crop against his thigh as he walked.

  “Mahkas!” Bylinda yelled, on the edge of hysteria. He was really going to have to speak to her later about making a scene in front of the servants. She was screeching like a fishwife.

  He took the stairs two at a time, filled with a deep sense of righteousness. This could all be sorted out so easily, he was certain. He just had to make sure Leila understood her position. Once he’d made that clear to her—and killed The Bastard Fosterling—all would be well.

  They followed him up the stairs, Bylinda openly sobbing now, as he headed along the hall. There were guards on Leila’s door—for her own protection, of course—who saluted sharply as he approached.

  Mahkas stopped in front of them and addressed the four men calmly.

  “You will guard this door,” he announced. “You will not permit anybody other than me to enter this room. Not Lady Bylinda, nor any other man or woman in this house, highborn or low, unless it is with my express permission. Is that clear?”

  The four Raiders nodded, a little uncertainly. Bylinda was running up the hall behind him, sobbing, calling his name. Mahkas continued to ignore his distraught wife, removed the key from his pocket and unlocked the door, stepping through and relocking it before Bylinda could reach him. He heard the guards moving to block her way. He heard her calling to him, desperately. To Leila.

  Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Instead, he turned to confront his daughter.

  Leila was in the bedroom, still naked, still in the state he found her several hours ago when he had torn her from the arms of her lowborn lover . . .

  No, he told himself sternly. She’s not to blame. The Bastard Fosterling did this to her. It was his fault. Leila is innocent, too naive for her own good. She just needs to learn what she did was wrong, that’s all.

  She needed to understand how much she’d displeased him, however, so he’d had everything but the bed linen and the furniture removed from her room; neither had he allowed any fire to be lit against the cold night, not even a candle. It was important Leila contemplate the foolishness of her actions without any distractions.

  Leila must understand that the most important lessons in life are always the hardest to learn.

  In the dim dawn light breaking over the city, Leila pulled up the sheet she’d taken from the bed to cover her nakedness, and glared at him, unrepentant. She was curled up on the window seat, as far from him as she could get. Her arm was badly bruised, he noticed. A reminder of how selflessly he had saved her from certain damnation in the arms of that treacherous, baseborn pig.

  “Are you feeling better, dear?” he asked sympathetically.

  “Where is Starros?” she demanded. “What have you done with him?”

  “The Bastard Fosterling is no longer your concern, Leila.”

  “I demand to see him!”

  “You don’t need to see him. He’ll be taken care of. It’s you I’m worried about, dearest.”

  “You don’t care about me!” she accused, turning to look out of the window. “You only care that I’m available to marry your precious nephew.”

  “Is that what’s worrying you, darling? Please! Don’t let it concern you! With luck, Damin will never even hear of this unfortunate incident. But if he does, then we’ll deal with it. I’ll explain everything to Damin. I’ll make sure he knows nothing happened between you and . . . him . Everything will be fine.”

  Leila turned to stare at her father. She looked horrified. “Have you completely lost your mind?

  You think nothing happened? Gods, don’t you see it even now? I’ve been sleeping with Starros for more than a year, you deluded fool! Did you hear me! A year! And everyone in the whole damn palace knows about it except you!”

  Mahkas shook his head, smiling. He walked towards her, the riding crop tapping his thigh in time with his denials. “No, no, no, of course nothing happened. I’ll explain to Damin—”

  “Are you deaf ?” she shouted, climbing to her feet to face him defiantly. “Starros is my lover, Father! And what’s more, even Damin knows about it. He’s known about it since the first day he arrived home!”

  Mahkas kept shaking his head, tapping his thigh with the riding crop, refusing to listen to her lies. “You need to understand, that’s all, dear. I’ll show you where you went wrong, and then we’ll explain it all and Damin will forgive you. You’re only a woman, after all, so you can’t be expected to understand these things.”

  He was almost at the window now, and for the first time, Leila seemed to notice the riding crop.

  She hesitated and backed up a little. “Papa? What are you doing?”

  “If you can’t see the truth then I’ll have to show you, Leila,” he told her, pleased to see the dawning light of fear in her eyes. Fear was the first step in discipline. If she feared him, she would obey him.

  I must remember to tell my nephew that . . .

  “Papa!”

  She screamed as he pulled the sheet away to reveal her naked whore’s body—the body she had used to betray him with The Bastard Fosterling, the body she gave so carelessly without any consideration of what it might do to his plans.

  No, it’s not her fault, he reminded himself sternly. She just needs to learn, that’s all. She just needs to understand.

  He looked at his daughter dispassionately, knowing what he had to do, certain it was motivated by love and no other emotion—not rage or vengeance—just pure, untainted love. Leila had an arm across her breasts, the other over her mound, in a pitiful attempt to cover her nakedness in front of her father, trembling as she tried to back away from him.

  “Don’t try to fool me with false modesty, Leila. You weren’t afraid to show yourself to The Bastard Fosterling. Am I not entitled to see what you appear to be willing to let every lowborn servant in the palace take a look at?”

  Leila was clearly revolted by his accusation. “Do you even know what you’re saying, Father? Or have you completely lost your mind?”

  He smiled again, taking pity on her. It must be hard to confront the idea that you had so badly let down a father who loved you so much. No wonder tears were already spilling down her cheeks, and he hadn’t laid a hand on her yet. He raised the riding crop and slapped it into his left hand. Leila stared at it for a moment and began shaking her head in denial.

  “Oh, gods, papa . . . no . . .”

  “This is going to hurt me much more that it’s going to hurt you,” he told her as he advanced on her. “You know that, don’t you, d
arling?”

  “Papa . . . please . . .no . . . you can’t mean to . . .”

  “It will be better if you turn around,” he advised, not wishing to mark that lovely face. Damin wouldn’t like it if he left a scar.

  “Papa, please . . .”

  “Perhaps if you lay across the bed?” he suggested helpfully. “Then you’ll have something to hold on to.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Don’t make me hurt you more than I have to, Leila.”

  Somewhat to his disappointment, instead of doing as he asked, Leila sank down onto the floor and screamed for her mother as if she was five years old again. He could hear the ruckus going on outside the door as Bylinda tried to get past the guards. It would do her no good, of course. They were men. They understood the need for a father’s discipline.

  Leila continued to scream and call for her mother, whose frantic cries from the other side of the door grew even more hysterical. Losing his patience with his daughter now, Mahkas grabbed Leila by the hair and dragged her across to the bed, throwing her facedown on it. He ignored her cries for mercy, her pathetic cries for her mother; she even had the gall to cry out for The Bastard Fosterling.

  Full of righteous calm, he raised the riding crop and brought it down sharply across her back, a large red welt appearing almost immediately. She screamed, sobbing like a child, begging him to stop.

  He raised it again. And again. Each stroke was a blow for honour, each welt a sign of his love.

  Mahkas beat her until his arm ached. He didn’t know how long he’d been at it, but Leila had stopped crying by then. She just lay there, unresisting, making small whimpering noises, like a kitten looking for its lost mother. He looked down at her semi-conscious form with satisfaction. Her back, from her shoulders to her buttocks, was a bloodied mess, but she’d no doubt learned her lesson.

  It would be a long time before Leila Damaran defied her father again.

  Mahkas opened the door, a little surprised to find Bylinda, Kalan and Tejay still waiting outside.