The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  They got out of the vardo, stretching their cramped muscles. Sigfrid looked around, startled. The encampment had changed. Before, all was relaxed disorder. Now the entire encampment was seated in a circle, staring at them. The dark skin of the Vistani glowed slightly under the moon, in contrast to his and Tristan’s milky faces. Several torches and the fire, fueled by dried horse-droppings, burned smokily, adding to the mysterious setting. There was a tense, hungry silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the night.

  Sigfrid swallowed, slightly unnerved, and glanced over at Tristan. The knight was familiar with the uncanny change the night brought to these people, for he had occasionally been privileged to join them in dancing by the fire. Now, however, there was no welcome in the magic, only hostility. He took a deep breath and strode forward into the center of the circle. It parted for him and Sigfrid.

  Madame Terza was waiting for them inside the circle, seated behind a table covered by a dark cloth. Two torches behind her provided illumination. Now clad completely in white, she seemed a ghostly manifestation of Justice. On either side stood two unsmiling Vistani. One was Konstantin, the other unknown to Tristan. Konstantin’s face was expressionless, and Tristan hoped he had been right to trust in the Vistana sense of honor.

  “Sir Tristan Hiregaard, you have demanded the right to trial,” stated Madame Terza. “If you are found innocent of murder, you may leave here freely and none shall bear you grudge. If you are found guilty, we shall leave you for the plains cats to devour. Your bones shall find no burial, nor your soul rest. Do you agree to these terms?”

  Tristan nodded.

  Madame Terza fixed her eye on Sigfrid. “You have come here as witness to Sir Tristan. Do you swear that you shall not protest whatever verdict I shall render?”

  Sig nodded. The night was chilly after the heat of the day, but he was sweating slightly. “So be it.”

  She redirected her attention to Tristan. “Speak.”

  Tristan did so, his voice clear and calm. The assembled Vistani murmured angrily when he told them about confiscating Amasa’s ra, but did not interrupt.

  When he had finished, Konstantin stepped forward. “I draw Madame Terza’s attention to what we know of Sir Tristan. He it was who made the first treaty with the Nova Vaasan government and our people. We are paid well for the services we render. We may come and go in the cities, unlike in many countries, where stones are thrown at us. Sir Tristan—” his voice thickened “—did not kill my son. It would avail him nothing and cost him everything. He has long been a friend to the Vistani. It would have been easy for Sir Tristan to hide the body, but instead, here he is, standing humbly for our judgment. I ask you, Madame Terza, to look well, and consider, and choose rightly.”

  “Our ancestors and I have heard the defender,” replied Terza. The other Vistana, a slim, nervous older man named Gianni, rose and began speaking rapidly.

  “Tristan Hiregaard has dealt well with the Vistani—when it suited him. Any gains we have made are far surpassed by the gains he has won for his country. Wasn’t he the one who decreed that Konstantin’s family should suffer for a full year?” He drew himself up and gazed fiercely at the crowd, encouraging the unhappy murmuring. “And the boy came to steal! A lowly Vistana daring to rob a castle! Perhaps,” Gianni said darkly, “the boy was indeed frightened to death—by Tristan himself! We have only one man’s word—and Amasa’s young, cold corpse. I ask you, Madame Terza, to look well, and consider, and choose rightly.”

  “Our ancestors and I have heard the accuser. Come forward, Tristan, and let us listen to the Tarokka.”

  Tristan accepted the deck of cards she handed him. They seemed unnaturally warm, almost hot in his hands. “Shuffle them until they are ready,” the Seer ordered. Tristan complied, feeling the cards rearrange themselves until, strangely and suddenly, they did not want to be shuffled further. He returned the strange, magical deck to Terza.

  By the dim, flickering orange light of the torches, he could see the first card. It depicted an armored warrior, kneeling and being knighted by a glowing sword. “The Paladin,” said the gypsy. “This is you, Sir Tristan. Hardly a card for a murderer, but the tale is not all told.”

  With bony fingers, she turned over the second card, placing it beneath the first. This one showed a young girl, craftily snatching a coin from a wealthy man and giving it to a beggar. The card was upside down. Madame Terza sighed heavily. “The recent past—the Swashbuckler, poor Amasa. He meant no ill in stealing from you, Sir Tristan.”

  “That I know,” the knight replied.

  “But tragedy stepped in. The cards do not yet mark you a killer, but the tale is not all told.” She drew a third card, placing it to the left of the Paladin, and clucked her tongue. “It would seem the cards have some advice for you, Sir Tristan.”

  The picture on this card was beautiful, but slightly sinister. A young woman, a wizard, stood looking over six dark books. One arm reached, perhaps to open the tome. The Invoker. “There are things that man was never meant to know. Dark magics, evil powers that no one, not even the desperate, should rely upon. This card is your near future. Stay away from such temptations, Sir Tristan, as you value your soul. But the tale is not all told.”

  The fourth card was turned and placed above the Paladin, and this time not only did Madame Terza gasp, but so did the watching Konstantin and Gianni. A man swathed in a dark cloak covered with glyphs turned away from the viewer. “There is a Traitor in your future,” Madame Terza warned. “Someone close and trusted—a friend, or your kin, I cannot say—will turn on you. Guard yourself well and keep a watchful eye on all. But the tale is not all told.”

  The final card was turned over. One wizard knelt before another, who leaned on a staff and was clothed in white. Both regarded a large book, but their eyes were fixed on each other. The Diviner. “This card represents your allies in shaping your future,” said the Seer. “All good magic and knowledge will help you. Work for the greatest good, wisely and well, and you may yet find a chance of defeating your Traitor.

  “There is but one more task I must undertake before I pronounce your sentence.” She turned abruptly on Sigfrid and made a quick signal. Gianni stepped behind the young man and placed a blade to his throat. Sig gasped, but wisely made no move. Tristan, too, was forced to stay his natural impulse to defend his friend.

  “Lie to me, Tristan, and he dies. Did you kill Amasa?”

  “No,” replied Tristan at once. But the Vistana did not remove the glittering dagger from Sig’s throat.

  Madame Terza turned a card and nodded, satisfied that Tristan had told the truth. But she obviously had a second question, and from the cruel smile on her face Tristan knew he would not like it. “Do you like our people?” she demanded.

  Tristan was confused. “I—respect the Vistani and their ways,” he stammered. The blade pressed closer to Sig’s throat, and a dark drop wandered down his pale neck.

  “But do you like us?”

  Tristan didn’t know how to answer. If he lied, he had no doubt that Madame Terza would know it, and Sigfrid’s life would be forfeit. But if he insulted the Vistani, wouldn’t the result be the same?

  “No, Madame Terza. I don’t.”

  For a long moment, the tableau froze. Then Madame Terza cackled and waved her hand. Gianni stepped back from Sigfrid, and the young man’s hand reached to gingerly explore his still-whole throat. “You’re very honest for a politician. That is why we have dealings with you. Go home, Sir Tristan. You’re no murderer.”

  Rozalia stared after the departing figures of the giorgios as if she could burn holes in their backs with the fury of her gaze. She held her tongue until they were out of earshot. She would not shame her father as he had shamed the tribe. Once they were safely away, she whirled angrily on Konstantin.

  “I am ashamed to be your daughter!” she exploded. The crowd had not yet dispersed, and several heads turned. Weeping and keening were expected sounds from a family with a tra
gedy on their hands; angry accusations were not. “You defended that cursed giorgio even after he killed Amasa!” New tears burst forth, tears of anger and grief combined.

  “Rozalia,” came Konstantin’s voice, sharp with strain and warning, “think of your mama. She has been through enough this night. Your accusations—”

  “Are justified!” shrieked the girl. Several more people had begun to form a little ring around them. One spoke up now.

  “It was your father’s duty to defend the accused, Rozalia. Besides, we know now that he wasn’t guilty.”

  “I don’t believe it for a moment! He tricked us, that’s all, just like he tricked us into selling our freedom for a few gold coins! He is a lying, two-faced, blind, self-satisfied giorgio. How he ever stood in the circle for trial I shall never understand or forgive. He blasphemes our ancestors, demanding Vistana justice for a Vistana’s murder!”

  “That is enough, Rozalia!” Konstantin’s baritone boomed, drowning out his daughter’s tirade. She glared at him mutinously. Sneering, she snatched up her severed ra and threw it in her father’s face.

  “You shame me and all our ancestors,” she cried, her voice growing hoarse with emotion. “From now on, I do not share your blood! I do not share your campsite! From this moment, I have no father. He is dead to me, dead as the brother he failed to champion!”

  She spun on her heels and stalked to her vardo, slamming the little door shut behind her. Konstantin stared after her in stunned silence. His fellow tribesmen, too, were shocked and quiet. As far as all were concerned, the ancestors had spoken, and Tristan was innocent.

  At last Konstantin spoke. His face was haggard, as though he had suddenly aged many years. “This has been a tragic day,” he said, slowly picking up Rozalia’s discarded ra. He walked toward his own vardo with the slow shuffle of the incredibly weary. “Today I have lost my son and my daughter.”

  “Perhaps,” offered Orlan hesitantly, “she will change her mind. You know the ways of young ones.”

  Konstantin turned his head slowly to meet Orlan’s gaze. “After what she has said tonight, I am not sure that I could call her daughter again.”

  Inside her vardo, Rozalia was furiously searching through her belongings. Her anger was frenzied and demanded an outlet, and she was going to give it one. She had not been blessed with the gift of Sight, but she had other skills that she had discovered on her own—skills of which Terza would not have approved. An obsidian ball on a brass stand, dried herbs in leather pouches, candles colored in different hues, a length of rope for practicing knot magic—these she dug out of her trunk with a swift fury. Rozalia abruptly realized she was so hot with wrath that she was actually sweating heavily. She shrugged out of her cloak and blouse, spreading the former on the floor and piling the arcane objects randomly upon it.

  Naked save for her tiered, multicolored skirt, she sat down before her gathered trove of artifacts. Her breathing was swift, and perspiration made her dark skin gleam. She lit four candles and placed them at the corners of the cloak. The candles were red, red like blood. She set the obsidian ball on its base in the center; it was black, black as Tristan’s black heart. Rozalia licked dry lips. What else?

  Some of the herbs she had gathered were poisonous. Rozalia sniffed each pouch until she recognized the deadly plants. With a savage glee, she sprinkled their contents over the makeshift evil altar.

  “Punish him!” she cried aloud, to whom she did not know. “He who smiles with a kind face, then kills the children! He who makes good treaties, then despises us to our faces! Liar, false one, lord of a people who are too rich and fat and lazy to be wise! He treads with heavy foot, not knowing whom he crushes beneath his heel! Punish him, powers of vengeance! Be guided by my murdered brother’s spirit!”

  The girl seized the rope she kept for knot magic and, grunting with the effort, violently twisted it into representative tangles. One knot for destruction. One for vengeance. One for suffering. Suddenly, moved by she knew not what, she reached for her eating knife and brought the bright blade slashing down across her upturned left palm. The pain was surprisingly intense and sobered her somewhat, though her desire for revenge did not dim. Gritting her teeth, Rozalia let the drops fall onto the knots she had tied in the rope. She had heard about the power in blood magic but had never dared try it before. Now, leaning back and sucking the wound, she watched, bright-eyed, eager.

  Nothing happened. One heartbeat, two … Frowning, Rozalia poked at the rope—then screamed in terror. It leapt violently and then began to move, twisting sinuously with serpentine grace. On its own, it began to tie more knots, symbols that even Rozalia didn’t understand. Slowly at first, then faster, until the knots were twisting so swiftly her eye couldn’t follow it. For a few moments the girl watched with horror, then comprehension dawned. She threw her head back and laughed hysterically, then stumbled to her feet and opened the door.

  She didn’t care that she was half naked in the chill night air. She wanted to see her magic working, and she did. As she watched, her eyes bright with brutal satisfaction, a thick, unnatural fog began to grow above the camp. The stars vanished before that swirling black-gray mist, as if they had been devoured. Even the moon disappeared, struggling vainly for a few moments, then surrendering its pallid light. The fog descended, swirling gracefully around each vardo before obliterating it from view. And when it reached Rozalia, she flung her dark head back and opened her arms, shivering as its cool tendrils trailed over her body like the touch of a long-awaited lover.

  It had been a long and unsettling evening, although Kelda wasn’t sure quite why. The strange fog had something to do with it. Nova Vaasa was a comparatively arid land. Rain was rare enough, and fog was practically unheard of. Still, the mysterious mist had driven more customers than usual to seek the cheery interior of the Clever Gray Malken.

  The inn’s sign depicted a contented gray cat, and the hostelry resembled its mascot. Pelts of plains cats and thick blankets draped the stone walls to cut the chill. Within, patrons crowded around the fire, reaching to it as though it could warm their very souls. The flames revealed strained, frightened faces, but the inn’s good ale and crackling fire held the outside at bay for a time.

  Tips have been exceptionally good tonight, thought Kelda. She was the only one who had volunteered to stay past her usual time but was reaping the benefits. Kelda was young, and if not exactly pretty, at least good-natured. The customers, strangely eager tonight for a reassuring atmosphere, failed to notice how hard Kelda worked to present a cheerful face. She would go home this evening with heavier pockets than most nights, but her false liveliness had tired her.

  It was late, well past the normal closing time. The innkeeper, Davin, had opted to stay open longer in order to take advantage of the number of customers. But now most of them had finally gone, taking a last drink to fortify themselves against that strange, swirling fog that lurked just beyond the reach of the torchlight.

  One last man lingered. Kelda silently wished him home; something about this man disturbed her. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. His clothing was standard garb for the town, though it didn’t seem to fit him well. The shapeless hat he wore pulled down over his eyes concealed his face, and he wore a sash of mourning green wrapped about his throat like a scarf. Lank brown hair escaped from the hat, and when he looked at her, Kelda could see small, sharp eyes glittering in the shadow that hid his features. As she busied herself wiping the tables, Kelda chanced a sidelong glance at the stranger. He was staring right at her, and she quickly glanced away, aware that her heart had sped up with a lurch. Again, Kelda wondered why this man distressed her so. She had been mauled and molested by bigger drunken louts and had shrugged the incidents off. This man had done nothing … except watch her.

  As she finished the tables, Davin piled the chairs atop them. The last customer, apparently unable to take a hint, continued to hunker over his mug. Finally, Davin walked over, his jowly face apologetic. “It
’s closin’ time, sir,” he said. “Much as we’re glad ye came, we must be after ye t’ leave.”

  “Oh, certainly!” The voice was deep, smooth, and polite, and Kelda recognized the accent of the nobly born in his tones. A wellborn? No wonder he didn’t want to be recognized, not in this part of town. Even now, as he rose and tossed an obscene amount of money carelessly on the table, he kept his face averted. Kelda realized that though his clothes were plain, they were very clearly well made.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you long,” added the stranger. He had, of course, and he knew it. With a slight bow that was more mocking than polite, he left. A puff of fog swirled in through the door, then the stranger vanished as if swallowed by the mists.

  “Ye go along home, too, Kel,” Davin said generously. “I’ve kept ye late enough as it is, an’ there’s one great lot of cleanin’ still t’ be done.”

  “All right, Davin,” Kelda said. “See ye tomorrow evenin’.” She removed her cloak from the pegs that lined the wall and draped it about her narrow shoulders. One hand went to her bodice and freed the small but sharp dagger concealed there. Kelda steeled herself for that strange fog, then went outside.

  Two torches placed in the ground outside the tavern flickered bravely against the all-consuming mist. Nervously Kelda tightened one slim hand about her cloak while, in the other, she gripped the dagger’s hilt. The moist chill still managed to seep through the fabric. Kelda shivered, whether from the damp or a strange unease, she couldn’t tell. She glanced down the narrow lane. Normally, the various shops and stalls would have their own torches, and Kelda’s way home was well lit. But this late at night, few orange lights gleamed to illumine her way. Even if they had, Kelda thought morosely, how far would torchlight carry in this monstrous haze? She took a deep breath, pulled her hood on, and began walking.