by Ru Emerson
Sudden realization set that aside: “Vess has Koderra.” Vess had Ylia. He sought the ruined city with far vision.
First sight showed him ruins: deserted, burned, torn ruins. But that was seeming. Lyiadd's spell, and a strong one, too, reinforced by focus stones embedded in the outer walls. It wasn't an easy spell to break through, even for him, but by dint of strong concentration he could see black-hulled ships tied to the quays, men and wagons going back and forth between the harbor and the main gates; Ragnolan fishermen casting nets up-stream from the City; smoke from many hearthfires; Sea-Raider women and children working small garden plots, or herding goats and sheep on the hillside.
The Tower was harder to breach, but he had it in the end. Two full companies of Ylsan guard lived there: Men sworn to Lyiadd and his House. Vess’ Ragnolers and Holthans, quarreling, gambling and drinking in their barracks or guarding the south walls. Sea-Raiders—younger men who followed Vess in open admiration or fear. Mercenaries from Osnera. The One guard me, that I can remain hidden and protect Ylia. In Yslar he had had the strength of Alxy and his companions to create the insubstantiality that had screened them all from the Three and their servants. Here, he was alone, for Ylia might not be able to help him and he dared not count upon her.
He must find where she was so he could reach her without delay. She was there; he sensed her with a relief that momentarily left him weak. There was a block on her Power, but she was alive. He sat back and closed his eyes; Koderra was gone. The sun was warm, the wind pleasant. He bad better take what energy he could. Using insubstantiality to walk through Koderra's gates would be foolish. Shape-changing was safer, for he would be lost in his flighted form, even from Vess. Surely he could reach the ravine in safety and from there find the hidden entrance to the Tower.
He was glad now he had taken so much time to read Galdan's thought. Neither of them had thought of Koderra, but Bendesevorian had gathered Galdan's slight knowledge of Koderra's secret ways along with so much else the man knew. Poor Galdan, I warrant he's sleeping well at the moment. Vess would of course know the escape tunnels but he was a cautious man; it was very unlikely he would have allowed the main tunnel to be blocked. Bendesevorian closed his eyes and began to concentrate on the change. He would know what Vess had done to Koderra before many more hours passed.
Ylia became aware by slow, fuzzed stages: She couldn't feel, though blurred sight confirmed she had fingers, and feet. Drug. A fragment of thought surfaced from the rabble of her mind, connected to nothing else, was gone again. The chamber was dark—Ah, Mothers, he hasn't put me back! Panic threatened to engulf her until she realized she could see shapes. In the cellar there was no light, ever. She could feel fresh air, too; there was a window somewhere.
She blinked rapidly and that brought a least moment of clear sight. This was a nice chamber. It had windows. The furnishings were good ones, well crafted. Why, then, was she seated on the floor, back against the wall, a soft hanging rubbing one bare forearm? She tilted her head back; she could not see the top of the tapestry, though her eyes weren't trustworthy, Drug It was a narrow tapestry. White wall on both sides, where she could almost touch.
Get up. She couldn't; her legs would not support her and her mind wouldn't hold the thought long enough for her to act upon it. She leaned back against the tapestry. Let her eyes close.
Silence. Silence that stretched a lifetime, two. Until a voice broke it. “Ylia,” it whispered. It made her ears buzz. She shook her head in irritation but the buzzing persisted, and so did the voice. “Ylia. Ylia. Listen to me.”
“Go away,” she whispered finally.
“No. Ylia. Listen to me.” It wouldn't leave her alone. She scowled. “I am here, Ylia. Listen to me. Can you hear me, Ylia?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Ah, no, I will never do that.” Silence. “Ylia.” The voice did leave her alone, long moments at a time, but it always returned to whisper her name. She clapped numbed hands over her ears, her head rocked back and forth against the tapestry; nothing blocked it. “Ylia. Listen to me.”
“Where are you?” There was no one near and everything else was a blur, laughter her only answer. Fight it, fight! She dragged herself upright, clung to the wall until her fingers ached. She could feel them, suddenly; it was fading, it was fading: The wall was there, she felt rough-hewn wood under the soft wool of the tapestry. Drug, she told herself, and this time it made sense. Vess had put a drug in her food. But no drag lasted forever.
Vess—his voice! He was here somewhere, here in this half-darkened room, tormenting her! “Bastard cousin,” she whispered “where are you?”
“Why, here of course. Where else should I be but with you?” Vess lay on her bed, among her pillows. He smiled and his mind-speech rang through her. ‘Ylia, I can touch your thought. Is this not wonderful?’
The blood drained from her face. “Get out!” she screamed. The sound split her in half.
“Out? of this chamber?” He laughed as he sat up. “As you please, sweet cousin, but I would rather not. I am enjoying myself.”
“Get out of my mind!” Her legs were shaking, threatening to go from under her; she clutched at the wall, closed her eyes and fought the drag as she had fought for balance. Vess was laughing, trying to tell her something, laughing at her, but she heard none of it. And then nothing of his mind-speech as her inner shields slammed back into place. The effort left her half ill. Sweat beaded her lashes and burned her eyes. She scrubbed her face on her sleeve.
Vess sat up slowly, shook his head to clear it. He could not stand at first, and when he tried he fell back among the cushions. He lay there panting for several moments, then came across the room and caught her by the elbow. “How dare you?”
“I dare?” She forced a breathy laugh. “You've fouled my body, Vess, that had better be enough for you. My thought is my own!”
“Don't wager all your tossing sticks on that, cousin.” There was sweat on his face too; his black tunic reeked of it. He hadn't found it easy, breaking an AEldra's natural inner guard, even with Lyiadd's Power and the drug. And she'd hurt him, throwing him out. His face showed it; hers showed she knew. He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the key mining in the lock rattled through her.
Ylia staggered across to the bed and fell onto it. I cannot bear much more of this. How long before he decides to abandon his present, stupid quest, and calls upon Lyiadd for aid? Down in the courtyard, she could hear chickens and geese. It sounded like home. The drug was nearly gone, and she was suddenly terribly tired, horribly depressed. Home. I have no home. Only this. This and death. She was too tired to care, too tired and miserable even to weep. She closed her eyes and hoped for sleep, but it was long in coming.
She woke late to find a bowl of water and cloths; she stripped out of the silk gown and washed. The water was cool, faintly scented, pleasant against overly warm skin. She found a piece of bread in the basket on the table, used her fingers to smear it with cheese and ate it. Food seemed to lessen the residual effect of the drug; and she was hungry. The soup was curdled in the bowl but there was an apple. Vess had not forgotten to take the knife with him, of course. She bit off several large chunks, discarded the core and dipped apple bites in the last of the cheese. It didn't feel like enough food but it was better than none. She draped the silk gown across the foot of her bed, loosened the lacings on the undergown and fell back among the cushions. Sleep claimed her almost at once.
She woke to the grey light before dawn. Her heart lightened with it, and it took her a moment to realize why. Dawn in Koderra: her favorite time. So many mornings she had watched from her windows as the sun touched the always-snow-covered Foessa, moved down their unclimbable faces to sparkle on the Torth and turned the hillsides to golden. Koderra's walls always looked new, seen at first light. She had seldom missed a sunrise, though often she went back to sleep for another hour before Malaeth came to rouse her.
Malaeth—no. She couldn't. Take the moment, Ylia; pretend, i
f you can. A sunrise in Koderra; once you thought you'd never see another. Here is one for your taking, however you came by it.
And so she stood at the window, shivering in the undershift as first light slid down the towers, the walls, the long grass on the nearest hillside. That hill had been thick with Tehlatt, four years ago. For a moment, she saw them again; she closed her eyes, shook her head. The drug was still coming at odd moments to catch her off balance. “If it doesn't all go, if it damages me forever,” she whispered. But Vess would feed it to her again, and next time, he'd increase the dose. Or he'd feed it to her before the previous dose wore off, until she went mad or gave in to him. Or he'd fetch her to Lyiadd, or Lyiadd to her, and that would be the end of it.
A weapon, any weapon—Kill yourself, and have done. If he somehow uses you to conquer Nedao! But a survey of the chamber showed no possibilities: no knife, no sharp utensils of any kind. There was nothing she could use to open a vein. The water bowl where she washed—not possibly deep enough to drown in. A very young child might force his way through the windows to fall to the ground smashed; she could not. She crossed the chamber, peered into her old dressing room, into the tiny latrine beyond it. Nothing.
Her shoulders slumped. “Go and dress,” she ordered herself, but for the moment it was nearly too much effort to move at all. Only thought of Vess coming upon her as she stood, laces undone, hair wild and loose, and half her body exposed, sent her back into the main chamber, snugging the underdress back into place as she went. The rose silk was no longer fresh, and one sleeve was stiff with dried blood; there was a tear in the right shoulder. The slippers—she finally found them under the table. No, nothing was fresh, but it was covering.
Be ready, she ordered herself. Any chance that offers, any at all, be ready to snatch it. For freedom? No, there would never be freedom for her, not now. It was better that Galdan never know what Vess had done to her, anyway. She bit her lip, fought tears.
A tap on the door roused her from a long, black Silence. “Enter,” she called impatiently when no one came. Who would wait for her permission here? But the woman who brought her morning-meal looked half-witted. Lady's chamber: One must seek permission to enter. Whatever her orders, She wouldn't know to behave any other way. She set the tray down, made a low curtsy and bowed her way out the door.
Food. Strength. Eat. Strength to find her way out of this chamber, into the lower halls. There would be a sword there, either for her hand or one she would throw herself upon. Soon, while she could still think to do it. While she had the will. Now, before I lose the nerve to do it. It should have frightened her, knowing she planned her own death and would carry it through. She was too tired to care.
There was a bowl of warm corn porridge, a ripe apple, two thick pieces of bread and a crock of near-white butter to spread on it—with her fingers, for they had not even given her a spoon for the porridge. There was a mug of cool goat's milk, a jug of water. The milk had an odd taste, but it took her a moment to place it: Someone was letting the goats graze on the pastures north of the city, there was an unmistakable tang of sage. She laughed faintly, a laugh that had an edge of tears to it. “The things you remember!” The taste stayed in her mouth until she washed it down with a bite of dry bread. The water was cool, tasted of the great wooden cisterns, but nothing else.
She stood, went to wash her face. And stopped, water dripping from her chin, eyes on the door. The old woman had come in with the tray, had set it on the table, had gone out again—"I did not hear the key. Gods and Mothers,” she breathed, “it's not locked!”
She stood frozen one long breathless moment. To touch the ring and find the door wouldn't move—Coward. Stupid coward! She strode across the floor with a step that twisted underskirt and silk around her calves; she caught up the hems and knotted them on one side. She gripped the heavy bronze ring. The door swung in silently. A step, a cautious glance to assure her there was no one in the hall; the key hung on its chain next to the door.
Go, now. A desperate urgency filled her; she fled. She hesitated at the head of the stairs: There was laughter down there. She threw herself downstairs at breakneck speed; caught her balance at the landing just before she crashed into the wall, and teetered at the head of the next flight.
But someone came from behind, someone who had been waiting in the shadow of the landing, and hands caught at her shoulders, spinning her around and pulling her off balance. When she would have cried out, they tightened hard around her upper body, driving her face into a rough cloth shirt, driving the air out of her. “Be silent!” a voice hissed; the accent was thick, the words, for a wonder, Nedaoan. Not Vess. It was all she could coherently think. She went limp. “Swear you'll be silent!” Silent? Why? She tried to twist free, but her captor picked her off her feet and carried her into the small library.
Brit Arren flung bits of cloth from Jers’ stool and dropped her onto it. “Your word, silence,” he said as she tried to catch her breath. She stared at him, pulled her mouth closed with an effort. “It's my death, if I'm found with you. I thought I wanted that at first. I do not now, there are more important things than dying.” He smiled faintly. “I wondered how I would reach you, but someone's gods are smiling on you, woman.”
Ylia shook her head. He was talking in curious circles, and his eyes weren't quite sane. Sea-Raider. Perhaps that explained the eyes. Hers didn't feel quite sane just now, either. But something filled him, something she might have been able to name if the Power were not dead. “Reach me? Why?”
“I am not certain.” Brit Arren shrugged. Behind the carefully expressionless face, he was thinking furiously. If I simply let her run dawn those stairs, and Vess learned I was on the landing ... if I killed her myself ... no. The plan I had was a good one. She cannot read me, that much is obvious. Tell her anything, let her think what she likes. Get her back where Vess wants her. “There are those here who would aid you, but you may ruin all by being here, now.”
“Riddles.”
“No. If I had not stopped you just now—”
“I might already be dead,” Ylia said flatly. “Do you think I was unaware of that?”
“Not a pretty way to die.”
“Vess is killing me a breath at a time; is that prettier?”
Brit Arren shook his head. “We are wasting time, any moment your absence may be noted.” He tightened his grip on her arm. She twisted against his grip as she read the purpose in his eyes.
No. No! You cannot take me back there! I won't go! I can't!” Ylia caught at his hand with her free hand, sought his eyes with hers. “Can't you see what he is doing? He intends to turn my thought, to warp me, to make me betray my own people! Can you not understand that?”
Brit Arren shuddered. His pain was so intense even she felt it, Power-reft as she was. He pried her hand loose with unexpected gentleness, and she saw to her horror his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I know, woman, better than ye can imagine!” Ah, gods! In a breath, his whole world had shifted and only one course was left clear to him. “He will not do this to you; I will find a way to prevent it. I swear.” Ylia ran a sleeve over her own eyes, swallowed tears. Brit Arren pulled her to her feet, gripped her shoulders lightly between his hands. “You do not believe me. I do not blame you, and I admit I was not candid with you just now. My own reasons. If what you just said is true—” Silence. “Then I will do what I can for you. But there is no way out of this Tower, not with Vess here. Save death. And if I can wait for death until there is no alternative, you can wait, woman.”
“I cannot.”
“No? I am no man who understands women, I do not know gentle words. But you are different, swordswoman. You have fought, and killed, or so they say, and you see the world as it is. You have sworn oaths as men do. So. I swear I will free you, or I will bring you a blade to die upon myself.”
Ylia considered this. “I do not know your name.”
“Mal Brit Arren. Captain of—once Fury's captain.” His lips twisted as her eyes w
ent wide. “You have heard of me, haven't you? No matter. Here, I am nothing. Less than you are. Vess’ prisoner, a discarded toy. My vow holds, Ylia of Nedao.”
“I believe you.” She extended her hand. Brit Arren was startled but took it and gripped it as he would an equal's. Ylia sighed faintly. “Take me back before I lose my courage.”
He gripped her arm. “In case there is guard in the hall.” She let him lead her down the little stair, up the main stair and down the hall. Neither saw the shadowy figure hugging the wall, creeping toward the stair a step at a time. After me! Terror froze Jers’ heart as he heard them. Horror had imagined Vess following him stealthily through that open door, into the bedchamber and across to the bed where he had left his gift half-buried in cushions, or perhaps waiting to pounce on him as he emerged. He backed away soundlessly, then stopped and stared the way he'd come. Mal Brit Arren, and he has the witch! Jers clutched two-handed at his mouth to keep the laughter in.
At first he'd thought it Vess’ doing, the door open and her gone. It occurred to him only after he'd hidden the weapon and its note, after he'd reached the hall, that perhaps she'd somehow escaped. By the One, if she had, and Vess had found that paper! There was no signature, no proof Jers had written it—Jers would surely never call himself her friend! But Vess had ways of learning things. Unpleasant ones.
But now! She'd tried to escape and that beast of a Sea-Raider had caught her! Jers turned and fled, still trying to stifle a giggle behind trembling hands.
Brit Arren handed her through the door in silence and locked it securely behind her. She leaned against it, listening to the sound of his boots retreating down the hall. “Ah, gods and Mothers, what have I done? My one chance to die with a little honor intact, and I lost it on a half-mad vow! But I was fully mad to take it.”
She sagged, all at once exhausted. It took effort to walk across to the bed; she dropped down onto cool sheets and shook air into a cushion, plumped another. A third fell unnoted from her fingers.