“Ah . . . Leila and Starros. Now there’s a battle yet to be fought.” Damin had done a rather good job of not dwelling on that particularly awkward situation for the past few weeks. But he couldn’t put it off much longer. They were only a few days from home.
Adham looked at him curiously, obviously wondering at Damin’s odd tone. “I take it that means you and Leila still aren’t formally betrothed?”
“Nor are we ever going to be, Adham. And I’m probably going to have the monumentally unpleasant job of breaking that sad fact to Mahkas when we get back home.” He smiled sheepishly. “It’s half the reason I’m out here stealing cattle with the Raiders, actually. I’m starting to think running away is a valuable and oft-maligned battle tactic that should be used much more often than it is.”
“I know I’m not a soldier, Damin,” Adham advised solemnly. “But if I could make a suggestion? If it comes to war . . . if you do happen to find yourself leading Hythria’s army . . . when you’re looking across a battlefield at a hundred thousand Fardohnyans and trying to think of something to rally the troops, keep that little bit of wisdom to yourself, eh?”
Chapter 67
One of the disadvantages of beating a man repeatedly with a mailed fist, Mahkas Damaran discovered, was that after a time he stopped looking like the man you wanted to punish and began to resemble nothing so much as a large black, red and purple hanging sack that had, miraculously, sprouted arms.
The Bastard Fosterling had passed out again, so Mahkas eased the chainmail glove from his hand, a finger at a time, and stepped back from the limp body hanging from the chains suspended from the ceiling of the cold cell. The young man was too weak to stand, even when he was conscious; his wrists were raw around the metal cuffs, bloody and bruised from holding his entire weight.
It was six days now since Mahkas had found The Bastard Fosterling attempting to violate his daughter. He had come to visit him every one of those six days. Come to punish him for his temerity.
Each day he vented a little more of his wrath on the hanging carcass that had once been The Bastard Fosterling and it would be a long time yet, Mahkas was determined, before he would allow the foul brute the blessed release of death.
“Call me when he wakes again,” Mahkas ordered the guard standing watch over The Bastard Fosterling’s cell.
“Sir,” the man replied, clasping his fist over his heart in a perfectly correct salute.
Mahkas frowned, sensing the man’s unspoken disapproval. It was a problem he had with all the Krakandar Raiders. Mahkas had told them what had happened. He had explained to them that The Bastard Fosterling had tried to rape his only daughter, but it seemed to have made little difference. At best, they seemed sceptical.
Mahkas knew exactly what the problem was. The Bastard Fosterling had grown up around these men. Many of them had trained him as a boy. They liked him. Trusted him, even. To make matters worse, he wasn’t just any old bastard—he was Almodavar’s bastard, and most of these men would have given their lives for their captain.
Perhaps it was better this way. There wasn’t a bruise, a cut, not so much as a mark on The Bastard Fosterling that Mahkas hadn’t put there. That, in itself, made him feel as if he’d in some way redressed the ill done to him and his kin.
But if the Raiders thought he didn’t notice who was slow to obey his commands, who was a little too quick to rush to The Bastard Fosterling’s aid when they thought Mahkas was gone from the cells, they were sadly mistaken.
Mahkas knew who was secretly defying him behind his back. He knew the mercenaries he would send on their way when their contracts came up for renewal on the Feast of Zegarnald, a few months from now. He knew the men who would find themselves on night watch for the next year without relief.
The worst punishment, however, he decided, would be reserved for those traitors who whispered to each other when they thought Mahkas couldn’t hear them. The ones who spread the vicious rumours that Leila and The Bastard Fosterling had been lovers for more than a year. The ones who smirked behind his back, claiming everyone in Krakandar had known about it except her father. The ones who sniggered and leered and whispered behind their hands, “I hear she was the one on top when he found them . . .”
They were the ones Mahkas intended to silence permanently. Perhaps a raid over Krakandar’s southern border to steal some of Rogan Bearbow’s precious sorcerer-bred horses? The Warlord of Izcomdar crucified poachers who tried stealing his stock and left them hanging by the roadside (a tactic Mahkas had borrowed and used himself, to great effect, on more than one occasion in Medalon).
Mahkas could always claim his Raiders were on an unauthorised mission. He could deny any knowledge of the raid and even thank Rogan for putting the miscreants to death.
The more he thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. Old Rogan might be dead, but his son was cast in the same mould as his father. And his sister was currently sheltering here in Krakandar from the plague. He’d have no reason to suspect Mahkas of any wrongdoing at all. For that matter, Tejay would probably champion her host as being an honest and upstanding man. She must have been impressed with the way he’d dealt with this awkward situation.
No daughter of Rogan Bearbow’s, Mahkas was certain, would even question the need for discipline.
Mahkas sighed as he turned for the door, wishing he’d been half as successful with Leila as old Rogan had been with Tejay. No one heard so much as a whimper of protest when her father arranged her marriage to Terin Lionsclaw. And look at her, the mother of four healthy sons, waiting in the safest place possible during the plague before she could return them to their home and their father.
What secret of parenting did Rogan Bearbow know that has eluded me? Was I too soft on Leila as a child? Should I have whipped her before this? Should I have restricted the contact she had with her mother?
Maybe that was the secret. Perhaps this was Bylinda’s fault. Tejay’s mother, as far as Mahkas could recall, had died giving birth. She’d not been corrupted by a whining woman’s touch.
I will forbid Leila to see her mother, Mahkas decided, relieved to think that none of this might be his fault, after all. It’s too late to undo the damage, perhaps, but at least I can prevent the rot from spreading.
Satisfied that he finally had an answer to his failure as a parent—one that left him blameless—
Mahkas looked back at the pitiful, unconscious thing hanging from the chains. Not feeling quite so romantic now, are we, old son?
“He’s to have no food or water,” Mahkas added, as an afterthought. No point in making it too easy on him.
“If those are your orders, my lord.”
Mahkas glared at the Raider. “You disapprove, Sergeant?”
“I was just thinking—”
“I don’t pay you to think, man.”
The sergeant squared his shoulders before replying. “I was just thinking, my lord, that if you wish to keep the prisoner alive, to enable you to punish him sufficiently for his . . . crime, then you should at least allow him some water. He’ll be dead from dehydration soon if he keeps on like this.”
That was actually quite a valid concern, but Mahkas was reluctant to admit this self-important sergeant might have a point. “Water him then, if you must,” Mahkas ordered after a moment, with ill grace. “Just don’t let him die.”
“Sir?”
“He’ll die when I decide he’s repented sufficiently, Sergeant. And when I’m here to witness it.
Not a moment before then, do you hear?”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Mahkas turned and headed for the stairs that would take him to the upper level of the cells, past another half-dozen disapproving Raiders on guard duty. Perhaps the sergeant should be one of the men sent to Izcomdar on the horse-stealing raid, he thought. That should take care of his insolent attitude.
Mahkas emerged from the barracks, a little surprised to find it was almost sundown. He must have been down in the cells for hours. The
wind was icy as he walked across the plaza towards the palace, the promise of spring a distant hope yet to be realised. As he approached the palace steps, he was a little annoyed to be met by a delegation of two, consisting of his wife and his niece, both of whom were refusing to accept that his way of handling this terrible situation was the only possible way to deal with it.
“Uncle Mahkas,” Kalan began, in her very best, most reasonable tone, as he reached the top step.
He appreciated his niece’s efforts to avoid turning into the screeching harpy his wife had become this past week, but remained unmoved. “Please, Kalan. See your aunt back to her room and leave me be. I have work to do.”
“You must let me see her, Mahkas!” Bylinda cried, falling to her knees, clutching at the hem of his cloak. “She hasn’t been allowed food, even warmth, for over a week! You’re killing her!”
“If your daughter is dying, it is by her own choice, my lady,” Mahkas replied, shaking his wife off disdainfully. “Now please, get a hold of yourself before the servants see you in such a state! Remember who you are!”
“Perhaps if I spoke to her, Uncle Mahkas? As her cousin and her friend, I might be able to point out the error of her ways, you know . . . woman to woman? Explain to her that life must move on.”
Mahkas shook his head sadly. “If only it was that simple, Kalan. But Leila refuses to admit the truth. Until she does, she will suffer as she chooses.”
Not wishing to discuss the matter further, Mahkas pushed past his wife and niece and headed into the palace. He left the two women standing on the top step, staring at him in despair, but paid them no further mind. And then he stopped abruptly. In a sudden flash of inspiration, Mahkas knew what he must do to bring Leila around. Kalan had just given him the clue.
It was so simple; he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He turned and beckoned his niece to him.
“Uncle Mahkas?”
“Perhaps your cousin does need your help, after all, Kalan.”
“Anything,” the young woman promised.
“Come with me then,” he said. “And we shall set this matter to rights, once and for all.”
“The Bastard Fosterling is dead,” Mahkas announced, standing at the door to Leila’s bedroom.
Kalan stood beside him. She knew his declaration was a lie. However, in keeping with the promise she had made on the way up here, Kalan did not contradict him.
Leila didn’t react immediately. She was curled up on the mattress, the thin bloodstained sheet he’d left on the bed her only protection against the cold. And it was icy in here. The room had been without a fire for six days now and the weather was still cold enough outside that she would be feeling it acutely. Her back was scabbed over, the worst of the bruises already starting to yellow at the edges. He pitied her now, his anger more about her ongoing stubbornness than her original crime.
“Did you hear me, Leila? The Bastard Fosterling is dead. Even if you still imagine you feel something for him, there’s no point now. He’s nothing more than a soon-to-be-forgotten memory.”
“I would know if Starros was dead,” she muttered after a time, so softly that Mahkas thought he might have imagined she spoke. They were the first words he had heard from her in days.
“Did you want proof?”
That got her attention. She raised her head to stare at him. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, red-rimmed from crying. Always a slender girl, she was thin to the point of being haggard. He’d allowed her no food, but she was able to drink from the stopcock in her bathroom, Mahkas supposed.
“What proof?”
Mahkas hesitated, then turned to Kalan. “Your cousin Kalan is here to swear that what I tell you is true. You’ll believe her, won’t you, even if you won’t take my word for it?”
Kalan glared at him, making no effort to hide her disgust at the lie he was telling his daughter.
Mahkas shook his head warningly. He’d explained to his niece—in quite explicit detail—what would happen if she uttered so much as a sound that threw his word into question. If you want your aunt to be allowed to visit Leila, you will do as I say, he’d told her. If you want your cousin to be clothed and warm and fed, then you’ll make her believe what I wish her to believe.
Kalan treated him to a hateful glower and then pushed past him, kneeling beside the bed to comfort her cousin. She took Leila’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently. “I’m so sorry, Leila.”
Not exactly the ringing endorsement he was asking for, but perhaps it was better than an outright declaration. It certainly got a reaction from his daughter. She began to cry, shaking her head in denial.
“It can’t be true . . .”
“You have to hold on, Lee,” Kalan told her. “You have to be strong.”
“Please, Kalan . . . tell me it’s not . . .” She was sobbing too hard to finish the sentence.
“My lord,” Orleon said behind him in the outer room, after coughing politely to make Mahkas aware of his presence.
The regent turned impatiently, wondering how the old man had got past the guards. “What?”
“You asked to be advised as soon as the raiding party returned from Medalon.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve just had word that Prince Damin, Captain Almodavar and the rest of the troops have entered the city, sire. And they appear to have some additional refugees with them.”
“Thank you, Orleon. That will be all.”
The old steward bowed and left the room with no further comment. Mahkas turned back to Leila and Kalan and smiled at them. “There! You see! Didn’t I tell you everything is going to be all right?
Damin is home. The Bastard Fosterling is dead. All this terrible nonsense can be put behind us! There’s nothing for you to worry about, dearest, not any more.”
“I hate you,” Leila sobbed, in too much pain even to raise her head again.
“Leila, you have to hold on a little longer,” Kalan urged gently. “Starros would want you to do that. He’d want you to hang on until Damin gets here.” Kalan was sounding quite desperate. She leaned a little closer to her cousin’s ear and added in a low, urgent voice, “Damin will make things right, Lee, don’t you see that?”
Mahkas unconsciously nodded his approval. That was good, reminding her of who she really loved. Knowing her fiancé was due home any time should encourage Leila to pull herself together.
And it seemed as if it worked. At the mention of Damin’s name, Leila lifted her head from her pillow and slowly turned to look at Mahkas; the first time she had willingly looked him in the eye since the day he’d beaten her. He didn’t flinch from her accusing stare. He had nothing to feel guilty about.
“Damin will be home soon,” she said. Her voice was ethereal, yet determined. She appeared to have suddenly made a decision about something.
Kalan stood up and looked down at Leila with concern. “Yes, he will.”
Leila smiled distantly and swung her legs around until she was sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mahkas was filled with relief. This obvious sign that Leila was emerging from her listless, defiant depression was most encouraging. He should have thought about telling her The Bastard Fosterling was dead days ago.
“I should get ready for him,” Leila said, rising to her feet. She stumbled and fell against Kalan, seemingly unaware of her nakedness.
Mahkas smiled with relief. “There you go! I knew things would be better as soon as you realised where your priorities lay! I’ll have someone sent in to re-lay the fire. And run a bath for you. And clothes. You’ll need something nice to wear to greet your fiancé.”
Leila struggled to hold herself upright against Kalan, who looked far from pleased at this inexplicable change in her cousin’s demeanour. “Just a bath will do for now,” she said, with a wan, remote smile. “A nice, warm bath. Damin’s barely at the outer gate, Father. I have time yet to make myself ready for him.”
“Did you want me to stay and help, Lee?” Kalan
asked worriedly.
She shook her head. “Just send someone in to run the bath. I’d like to soak in peace for a while.”
Mahkas yelled for a slave, beaming with relief. This was far better than he could have hoped for and vindicated his belief that the only way to deal with his errant daughter was to force Leila to see the truth. Now that she believed The Bastard Fosterling was dead, there was obviously nothing standing in the way of her recognising where her true duty lay.
At his summons, several slaves hurried into the room to arrange Leila’s bath. Another he sent to retrieve her wardrobe and another to light a fire and take the chill off the air. It would take Damin some time to get through the city to the inner ring and the palace. As Leila said, she had time.
One of the slaves helped Leila towards the bathroom, leaving Kalan staring after them, clearly unhappy. Mahkas thought he understood why, and smiled as he approached his niece to thank her for her assistance. Kalan was obviously uneasy with her part in the deception about Starros’s death, despite his assurances.
“You did the right thing, Kalan.”
“You made me lie to her, Uncle.”
“Good lies that make her see the truth can never be a bad thing.”
He watched Leila stumble into the bathroom and heard the rush of water coming from the stopcock. It would take a while to heat the water, Mahkas guessed, and fill the huge tiled pool. Time enough for all of them to get ready for Damin’s return.
“Are you going to let Aunt Bylinda in to see her now?” Kalan demanded of him suddenly.
“Later, perhaps,” he conceded. “When I’ve had time to explain things to her.”
“In that case, would you excuse me, please, Uncle Mahkas? I’d like to get ready to greet my brother, also.”
“Of course. You may go.”
“Thank you, sire,” she said politely with a small curtsey and left the room. Mahkas smiled, thinking that perhaps twelve years in the Sorcerers’ Collective had taught Kalan some dignity along with whatever else they taught there these days. She had handled herself very well indeed.
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