Nastaran nudged Sakihan’s ribs, sniggering. “Proper rabbit, ain’t she?”
“I’ll show you a rabbit!” Anjita snarled, charging at the pair of mercenaries. Nastaran’s back-hand sent her sprawling. She rose immediately, spitting curses. Sakihan knocked her leg from under her while Nastaran grabbed her hair, fist raised.
Shivne-Mage held out a hand. “Enough.”
The mercenaries released Anjita, backing away silently. She collapsed. Bast’s eyes were lowered, but he held his ground only a pace away from Munayair, rope still clenched in his fist.
“Don’t have them stop on my account.” Anjita rose to her knees and wiped blood from her nose.
Taichar seized Anjita’s chin and tilted her head to study the spells on her neck. He paid special attention to the white moon pinned to her collar, marking her as a keeper. The long silence raised goosebumps on Munayair’s arms. He sighed and released Anjita to avoid her biting teeth. Shaking his head, he backed away. “I’m afraid I’ve seen all I need to,” he said. “There is only one fate for a witch.”
Munayair’s whole body went cold. Everyone had heard what happened to adepts within the fortress at Tsai-chuul. She had hoped never to find out if the rumors were true. The mages stepped away to convene in whispers, Mehan standing at attention beside Taichar’s elbow.
“We’re going to be fine, Naya,” Anjita whispered.
“Shut it,” Nastaran advised, raising a threatening fist. Anjita lifted her battered face and glared.
“Stand away, mercenary,” Shivne-Mage murmured. Nastaran fell back. The two tall, white-swathed forms loomed. Munayair’s throat closed and her limbs dragged.
Taichar-Mage said, “Somewhere in your hearts, you know this punishment is just. No matter how cleverly you have hidden from the truth, it is still truth. We have it in us to show leniency, even mercy. If you cooperate.”
Eyes dark with anger, Anjita bared her teeth. “I’ll cooperate,” she spat, “when a full array of keepers descends on your little army, ties you to a post, and burns you like the heretics you are. You think you’re safe here? The Marble Hall has eyes everywhere.”
“Oh, little witch,” he chuckled. “Your defiance is adorable. You never wondered why you can’t contact your fellow witches in the Marble Hall? Puzzled by your inability to activate the juyios entrusted to you by the head of your order? We couldn’t have you calling for help, could we?”
Munayair’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. The mages had sabotaged equipment from inside the Marble Hall? To do that, they would have to … Her heart was pounding. They would have to have spies inside the Hall itself. Servants, chelka—even among the adepts themselves.
Anjita glowered. If she had reached the same conclusion as Munayair, she showed no sign of it. “Speak plainly, khuttoch.”
Taichar-Mage shook his head in amusement. “Our agents rendered your juyios useless on the night of your blasphemous sacrament to Lady Usurper. At every road leading out from your precious Hall, our men have gathered hundreds of your so-called ‘innocent’ sisters. All this was accomplished as easily as plucking fruit from a summer vine. Soon all of them, like you, will face their fate.”
As plain of speaking as even Anjita could have wished. A white roaring swelled in Munayair’s ears. Anjita’s eyes filled with helpless tears, hands clenched into fists.
“Denounce your pagan gods and allow yourselves to be cleansed.” Zealotry animated Shivne-Mage’s youthful face. “We will end your lives quickly. We have no love of torture, especially not on children like yourselves.”
“Never,” Anjita spat.
Taichar-Mage backed away, shaking his head sorrowfully. Munayair’s teeth clenched. She knew well enough what cleansing meant. The mages would cut off the hands of an adept, stripping them of their powers. Then they were burned, or so the tales said. She supposed she would find out for herself soon enough.
“There is another option.” Shivne’s eyes burned. He crouched before Anjita and gestured towards the Great Cypress. “Bring us the Night Watcher. Then your crimes will be pardoned.”
Anjita’s voice was thick with loathing. “A witch’s test? Crazy if we dare, dead if we don’t? No thanks.”
Shivne-Mage turned to Munayair, eyes narrowed into slits. “And you, quiet one?”
Swallowing, she lowered her gaze away from the flat black of his eyes. “No, thank you,” she choked out.
Shivne raised one eyebrow, then reared away. “Then we have no choice. Will any here denounce these pitiful creatures, so they may be corrected?” He spoke in ritual, measured tones.
“I will.” Taichar came towards Anjita. He bent and took her chin again in his hand. She glared as he spoke loudly. “I, Batiin Taichar, learned disciple of the Order of Tsai-chuul, do denounce this witch for her crimes.” He lowered his head to place a kiss on her cheek, and she attempted to headbutt him.
Next someone stepped forward to denounce Munayair. Raising her head, she met the brown eyes of Mehan, Chanda’s freckle-faced twin. The world swung around her. His round nose and stubborn chin both resembled his sister’s, but none of Chanda’s fire shone in Mehan’s gaze. He spoke in a rote drone. “I, Mehan Das, initiate to the Order of Tsai—”
“Mehan,” she whispered. “Chanda is here.”
He stopped, jaw working.
Her heart thudded. She reached with bound hands to touch his arm. “She needs your help.”
Mehan’s eyes widened, and he jerked away as if she had drawn a knife. She wondered if he had heard her and opened her mouth again when Bast yanked on her restraint, throwing her off-balance. She landed painfully, pebbles cutting into her palms.
“Naya!” Anjita cried, jerking against her own captors.
“Mehan—”
But he drew back, disgust flooding his face. “Don’t touch me,” he cried, wiping at the arm she had touched. “You filthy—witch!”
Munayair looked up to see Shivne-Mage’s eyes on her, a faint line between his eyebrows as if she were a new species of slug to be categorized. Taichar-Mage’s eyes flickered from her to Mehan with a worried frown. Bast shook his head frantically at her.
Mehan spoke loudly. “This witch is trying to dishonor me, but lies only sully the souls of those who are deceived by them.” He took a deep breath, thin chest expanding. “I don’t know any Chanda.”
A faint sob touched Munayair’s ear, but Chanda did not appear even to her eyes. Mehan hesitated before crouching again. “I, Mehan Das, initiate to the Order of Tsai-chuul, do denounce this witch for her crimes.” She flinched as he laid a brief kiss on her cheek before withdrawing.
“The crime,” Taichar-Mage said, “to practice magic as a woman, in clear blasphemy against our most noble Father. Since you are both guilty, we will deliver you to the sacred hall of Tsai-chuul.”
Anjita raised her head, eyes burning with inward flame. Seeing the deadly intent, Munayair opened her mouth to—what? Cry a warning? Interfere? Fast as a tiger, Anjita knocked Sakihan aside, aiming a blow at Shivne-Mage with her bound hands. Without changing expression, he held out a hand and she halted mid-rush, falling to the ground with a grunt of pain, fingers digging into the dirt. At the same moment, a fresh wave of choking stink struck Munayair, and she fought back waves of nausea, vision blurring with tears.
“I can see you are going to be trouble.” Shivne twisted his hand, and Anjita rose, trembling in every limb. He brushed tangled hair from her eyes. “I suppose I’ll have to take steps to subdue you.”
She raised a bruised face, lips twisted, even as a white line of fear ringed her eyes. “How do you do that?” she managed to gasp, “without touching a spell?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Look into my eyes and find out.”
Anjita glared. Shivne-Mage gestured to Bast. “Bring the other one as well. We can’t have any more trouble.” Munayair braced herself, and Anjita’s lips peeled back over her teeth, but before either of them could do anything, an unexpected voic
e cut in.
“No!”
Everyone turned in astonishment. Bast blinked, as if even he couldn’t believe he had spoken. “I mean ...” He shuffled his feet, avoiding Shivne’s gaze. “She asked to come here to save her friend, but her name weren’t even on the list—don’t seem right.”
Taichar-Mage shook his head. “I commend your compassion, goodman, but it is misplaced.” He raised a hand, and Nastaran and Sakihan stepped forward, ready to take Munayair’s rope.
Bast’s jaw protruded, and he stepped in front of Munayair, brawny arms crossed over his chest. “I said, you ain’t having her.”
A guffaw burst from Nastaran’s throat. She and Sakihan rushed Bast, weapons swinging. He darted aside—dodged Sakihan’s first jab and grabbed the spear as it passed, knocking him to the ground. A white-patched guard jumped forward, hands outstretched. Bast met Nastaran’s slash, turning it aside, and shouldered the third mercenary into the dust. He stumbled on his lame leg but rallied as he turned to meet a second attack from Sakihan. More mercenaries hurried forward, cursing and shouting. All this had happened in less than ten heartbeats, and Munayair stood frozen, staring.
“Enough.”
Shivne’s voice wasn’t loud, but it rearranged Munayair’s guts into knots. At the sound, Bast froze, limbs spasming, tendons in his neck standing out. The spear fell. A moment later, Nastaran sunk a fist into his solar plexus and he folded, retching, facedown in the dirt.
“You’ve finally outlived your usefulness, Bast.” Nastaran raised a dagger.
Taichar-Mage held up a hand. “Don’t kill him—Saana-Mage has expressed interest in studying him. Tie him with the adepts to be shipped upriver in the morning.”
A moment later, Munayair stood next to Anjita, and they both looked into Shivne-Mage’s bottomless black gaze. He smiled, clasping their shoulders with a fatherly gesture. As he did, the choking feeling of sinking into water was back, stronger than ever before. “Don’t fight it, my dears. Deep in your hearts, you’ve known all along the cause of the adepts was biased and blasphemous. Accept justice for your crimes. No more repressed guilt and rationalization. Think of the relief!”
“You’re right,” Anjita murmured, tears standing out in her eyes. “It is a relief.”
Munayair started, but tried to mask her surprise and not look at Anjita. Shivne was working some kind of spell, that was clear, to trap their minds into believing a lie. It was working on Anjita—why else would she say such nonsense? But for some reason, the spell could not touch Munayair. She fought back surprise and fear—whatever happened, he had to believe it was working on both of them.
She murmured as an echo, “Such a relief.”
Shivne spread his hands to encompass the woods, the mercenaries, the barrier. “Everything we do here is in service of the greater good. If you cannot see that, the error is yours.”
“The greater good,” Anjita whispered, and Munayair mouthed along with her. She still wanted to retch with the stench of his magic in her senses, but nothing compelled her against her will. She watched in horror as Anjita’s face went slack, eyes unfocused, limbs dragging. If their captors hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have collapsed on her face. Munayair hurried to follow suit, arranging her features into a stupor, falling to her knees with a sigh. Her heart thundered—had anyone noticed her deception?
More to the point, why hadn’t his compulsion worked on her?
Shivne-Mage tilted his head. His eyes lingered on Munayair’s tear-streaked face, and fear shot like an arrow through her guts. Does he know? Av, help me, please! How can I fool him without you?
Taichar gestured. “Take them to camp and keep an eye on them. Don’t let the boatman hurt anyone, even himself. Saana prefers his projects alive at first.”
Dropping her gaze, Munayair found Bast staring as his hands were tied roughly behind him. His face was as white as chalk, eyes burning with a fervid, almost manic light. She turned away, fear pounding along with her heartbeat. Mehan peered over Taichar-Mage’s shoulder, a slight frown on his face.
Chin lowered to his chest, Shivne-Mage eyed Munayair. “Keep a close eye on this one as well,” he murmured. “She has the markings of a witch, but not the trappings. Curious. And yet ... there is something ...”
The mages disappeared into the trees a moment later, cloaks swirling. Mercenaries surrounded them, hauled them upright, and began to drag them back towards camp. As they marched through the trees, Anjita whispered, “Such a relief. A relief. A relief.”
Chapter 27: Perfect Trust
Sorath hung low over the trees when the mercenaries tossed Munayair and Anjita into a tent without tying them up. Bast, bound hand and foot, crouched with head bowed to chest. Nastaran and Sakihan sat inside the door, playing with dice while chewing betel and spitting into the dust. Crates lined the walls in haphazard piles.
“Are you all right?” Munayair inspected Anjita’s black eye and split lip.
Anjita smiled, wincing. “I’ve gotten worse, don’t worry. Gods, Naya, isn’t it a relief? I feel so ... light.”
Lowering her voice, Munayair said, “We need to get out of here.”
“Leave?” Anjita cried. “We must face justice.”
“Jita—” Munayair bit her lip. “Listen to me. The mage lied to you.”
Anjita sat back. “What?”
“The adepts aren’t blasphemous,” Munayair took her hand. “We don’t deserve to be tortured and stripped of magic. We need to leave while there’s still—”
Anjita jerked away. “You’re confused, Naya,” she said. “Shivne is doing what’s best for the world. We’re lying if we say anything different.” She sat back and folded her arms, the same stubborn Anjita she had been for eighteen years.
Munayair sighed. What was I expecting? she wondered. How am I going to get us out of here with her fighting me every step of the way? Tentatively, she probed the back of her mind where Avlingai usually waited. Any ideas? she whispered into the empty blankness. The lack of response was by now expected, but no less devastating. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. What if Avlingai was gone forever? If he could return, surely he would have already done so. Nothing had ever kept him from her for this long, not even when she had been deathly ill with the measles as a child. The silver-furred bear had haunted her fever-dreams, speaking words of encouragement. She had recovered after only a few days, when many of the other children in the clan had died. A miracle, her mother had called it. To hide her tears, she dropped her face to her knees. Av, I’m sorry. This is all my fault. If only I had done as you said in the first place and left. I brought all this on you and Anjita—my bad luck. My curse.
Her head jerked up as a distant commotion erupted, men shouting and horns blowing. Nastaran jumped, spilling carved pieces all over the floor. Sakihan ripped back the flap and called, “What’s going on? Another attack?” A gasp echoed around the tent, and Bast huddled into a smaller ball. His eyes squeezed shut and lips moved silently. Munayair turned to Anjita, but she was staring at the far wall.
Sakihan finally pulled a young man to a halt for an urgent conference, too low for Munayair to hear. Sweat stood out on the youth’s forehead, and he fumbled with his spear. He ran off as soon as Sakihan released him.
Munayair shifted so Tel’s weight rested against her thigh. She didn’t dare bring him out, but she tried to remember the glyphs on his forehead. Report. Spirits, had that only been this morning? Days hadn’t passed?
The flap twitched, and a figure ducked inside, slim in white. “Five holy names—” Sakihan’s spear was already half unsheathed. Then he recognized the intruder and blinked.
“What are you doing here?” Nastaran towered over Mehan.
Bast raised his head to watch.
Mehan’s breath came fast and his eyes were wide. “It’s—so loud out there.”
Nastaran’s grin widened ferally. “Thought I smelled something,” she sniggered. “Didn’t wet yourself, did you?”
Mehan’s shoul
ders stiffened, but he said nothing, crouching beside the door with eyes lowered. Nastaran settled back to the game but kept her gaze on the boy.
“Nast.” Sakihan indicated her turn.
She rolled the dice without looking away from Mehan. “You love being the mages’ favorite, eh, boy?” she sneered. “Sleeping in a big fancy tent, eating beef, learning to read?”
Mehan swallowed. “Yes.”
Nastaran whacked Sakihan’s shoulder. “You hear him, Sabri? This stable rat likes lording it over us. Hobnobbing with the high ones, never lifting a finger around camp.” She rubbed a hand through Mehan’s dark curls. He stiffened. Sakihan frowned out the door. Nastaran’s hand tightened, tearing at Mehan’s hair. Her voice roughened. “Even though he’s a half breed stinking of manure whose own mother didn’t want him.” She shoved him back.
“At least it’s manure I stink of, and not carelessness.” Mehan rose, a dagger glinting in his hand. Nastaran slapped at the twin sheaths on her hips. One was empty. Sakihan’s hand went to his spears.
“Careful, Sakihan.” An unexpected voice came from the back of the tent, where Bast smirked through his bruises. Shivne condemned Rohan for bringing the wrong test subject. What do you think he’ll do if you damage his precious prime candidate?”
Nastaran’s hand quivered around her remaining dagger, face purpling. “What are you about, kid?” she growled. “You ain’t got the guts to land a blow.”
“I don’t need to touch you to kill you.” Smiling, Mehan raised the point to his own neck. The mercenaries jumped back, and Bast muttered a curse. “You know who will come if a drop of my blood spills. And who do you think they’ll blame? A pair of mercenaries who can’t meet a quota, or their precious prime candidate?” He echoed Bast’s words with a hint of bitterness.
Sakihan’s eyes glittered. “You want something?”
Mehan nodded slowly. “Leave and forget you saw me.”
“Only that?” Nastaran chortled. “We won’t survive either way, lad. I’m plenty sure me and Sabri can take you down before you spill a drop, and you ain’t got backup.”
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