The Irda

by Linda P. Baker

  She collapsed into his arms, gasping and spent, but also exhilarated.

  Jyrbian supported her in the crook of one arm, his sword at the ready, but the few slaves left alive had fled. “Whatever you did,” he said, his voice husky with admiration, “it worked.”

  She said nothing, simply looked up and met Lyrralt’s gaze as he came over to them.

  “Are you harmed?” Lyrralt asked.

  She managed to shake her head and push herself away from Jyrbian.

  Blood was running off the bodies of the dead, pooling on the hard ground. The woods at the edge of the clay bank were charred, little trickles of fire still licking the dry leaves. Above the caves there were three lumps of charred black that vaguely resembled human forms.

  The only sound came from Nylora, who had knelt beside Briah’s body and was moaning. She touched her sister’s lifeless body at the forehead and throat and wrist, desperate to find some sign of life.

  It was obvious to the others that there was none. A row of neat punctures, encircled with blood, ran diagonally across Briah’s chest.

  Nylora looked up and saw Lyrralt. “Heal her,” she pleaded. She paused and touched the hole over Briah’s heart. Her fingers came away red and sticky.

  “I can’t,” Khallayne heard him whisper as he went over to Nylora.

  “You saved Khallayne,” she accused Lyrralt.

  One of the cousins leaned over and caught Nylora’s arm to pull her up, but she resisted. “You saved Khallayne! I saw what she did. I saw her use magic!” she screamed. “If you don’t heal Briah, I’ll tell everyone!”

  Lyrralt dropped to his knees in front of Nylora and grasped her bloody hands. “I can’t,” he said with anguish. “The gods have not yet granted me such power.”

  She jerked away from his grip, moaning, “This is what comes of Igraine’s free will.”

  “These weren’t Igraine’s slaves,” Jyrbian said gently, holding out his hand to help her stand.

  “What does it matter whose slaves they were?” She slapped his hand away and pointed at Jyrbian. “This is what comes of it!” She threw her short sword at him, but the weapon thunked onto the ground harmlessly.

  Lyrralt looked around. There was blood all around him, on his hands and his clothes. He could taste it in the air. The rune on his arm throbbed. He had to struggle not to give in to the whisper “Doom,” while they tried to console Nylora.

  Lyrralt stared at Briah’s body, his fingers clasped over his left shoulder. Khallayne gazed only at the scorched earth across the path.

  Jyrbian took charge. Only Tenaj was unaffected, alert and aware of the possibility of further danger.

  “We need to round up the horses,” he told her. “The slaves may have run, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

  Briah’s horse had been killed, and the others had disappeared into the forest. With a curt nod, Tenaj strode off, calling for Khallayne to help.

  Once found, the horses were nervous; precious time was spent calming them, while Jyrbian grew more agitated, sure that the group would be attacked again.

  “I’ll put Briah’s body behind me,” Tenaj said.

  Jyrbian shook his head. “No. I want the strongest fighters mounted separately, in case we’re attacked again.”

  Soon they had checked each mount for injuries and were ready to move. Eyes tearstained, Nylora took up Briah’s sword and the heavy rings from her sister’s fingers and climbed to her feet. “It’s Igraine’s fault. It’s his fault Briah is dead. And when we get home, I’m going to make sure everyone knows what he’s doing! I’ll make sure everyone knows everything!”

  Khallayne, her expression stiff, mounted without bothering to glance at the hysterical Ogre.

  A gong pealed, sonorous and stately, and five doors opened simultaneously onto the raised platform of the chamber of the Ruling Council. Five council scribes, stiff and formal with importance, entered onto the platform, carrying their writing trays before them.

  The audience, seated in semicircular rows ranging from the foot of the platform to the back of the room, placed their right hands over their left on the floor and bowed low over them. The most important families, or their representatives, were seated in the front, with the ranking members kneeling beside the center aisle.

  The room was full, the back rows crowded, as it had been since the Keeper had died the week before. Each morning, as many Ogres as possible crowded into the chamber, hoping to hear an announcement about the History.

  The scribes took up places behind the low tables of the council, but remained standing.

  After another sounding of the gong, four of the five members of the Ruling Council—Teragrym, Enna, Narran and Rendrad—entered from opposite doors and took their places at the long, low tables, leaving the center seat open.

  A moment later, the final member, Anel, entered from the center door and joined them. Her family held the king in traditional safekeeping and, therefore, she was the leader of the council.

  As a group, the five members sank to the soft linen cushions that protected their knees from the floor. Their elaborate robes fanned out in circles of bright color about their bodies, silver embroidered with white, palest yellow, bird’s-egg blue, a dark burnt umber the color of plowed earth, and, in the center, the leader, in a plain, unadorned red the color of rubies.

  “Who is the first petitioner?” Anel began the council’s official business with the ritual question.

  “I am, Lady.”

  A soft gasp went up from the audience. The speaker was not an aide, but Lord Narran himself. “I bring a matter of government security before the council, and I ask that the chamber be cleared.”

  Again a sound went through the audience, a barely voiced groan of disappointment. The council frequently met behind closed doors, but normally not on an audience day. However, the audience rose to go, filling the room with the sound of rustling cloth.

  When they were alone, even the scribes gone, and all the doors closed, Anel turned to Narran. “What, my lord, is so important as to warrant that kind of drama?”

  “This morning, I was given information which I feel we must act upon immediately, Lady.”

  Anel dipped her head slightly, granting permission for him to continue.

  “Is it about the History?” Rendrad asked.

  Narran shook his head. “No, it’s more serious than even that. I believe Igraine, governor of Khal-Theraxian, is responsible for the slave uprisings that have troubled us of late.”

  Enna half rose from her cushion. Though Igraine had been appointed governor by the whole council, Khal-Theraxian was in her domain. Her own winter home was in the province, not far from Igraine’s estate, and she was supplied with a healthy percentage of the levies. “Narran, you go too far! I know you’ve been jealous of Igraine’s improved production, but—”

  Narran, too, rose, his yellowish green complexion growing dark. “I do not—”

  “Enough.” Anel cut through both their angry voices with just the one softly spoken word. When they had both subsided, she spoke to Narran. “Have you evidence to back this claim?”

  “I have details of what he’s been doing. Once you’ve heard, I believe you will agree that he is committing both treason and heresy.”

  Enna clenched a fist on top of the smooth parchment that lined her table. “Heresy, Narran? Surely not!”

  “Heresy,” Narran repeated firmly.

  Anel sighed. “Then we must hear your details. If you’re right, we will send for Igraine.” She gave Enna a reassuring look. “He will be given an opportunity to explain himself.

  * * * * *

  “Lord Teragrym cannot see you now.”

  A young Ogre, wearing a tunic with the dragon logo of Teragrym’s family, tried to usher Jyrbian out of the small, private waiting chamber. The setting was intimate, lush, the gray stone walls covered by rich hangings, a small, cheery fire crackling in the fireplace, its reflection dancing on the marble of the hearth. Beside the
hearth was the stool on which Teragrym had sat in the audience chamber. It seemed like months ago, instead of only four weeks.

  Jyrbian brushed at his soiled tunic, at the bloodstains on his sleeves, and wished he’d taken the time to change before reporting to Teragrym. But the closer the group had come on their trek back to Takar, the more urgency he’d felt. Too many people knew what was going on, and Teragrym wasn’t going to reward him for information he might pick up in the dining hall.

  “Did you tell him how important it is that I see him?” he demanded of the Ogre, shaking free. “Did you tell him I’ve just come from Khal-Theraxian, and that we were attacked by a band of escaped slaves?”

  Not to be brushed off so easily, the younger one smiled politely, bowed, and readjusted his grip on Jyrbian’s elbow. “Yes, of course, I did. But the lord is very busy. Perhaps tomorrow …”

  Jyrbian gulped the glass of wine he’d snatched from a slave in the hallway on his way to Teragrym’s quarters, not caring that he appeared mannerless. The smooth, sweet liquid soothed his dry throat, his agitation.

  “I realize the lord is busy, but I have news that I must pass on! Information about Governor Igraine—”

  “Not today.” The Ogre’s pleasant voice disappeared, became as cold as stone. “Lord Teragrym has heard enough of that one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The council has issued a warrant for the governor’s arrest. He has been charged with heresy.”

  Jyrbian was so surprised that he allowed the aide to push him out the door. Khallayne was waiting in the hallway. Unlike him, she had bathed and changed clothes, her long black hair brushed to a high gloss. She wore a silk tunic and embroidered vestrobe.

  She smiled politely, as if she barely knew him, and allowed Teragrym’s aide to usher her through the door.

  Fury welled up in him beyond his capacity. He could imagine Everlyn slipping through his fingers. His hopes for estate dashed. He threw the wine glass at the wall across from Teragrym’s door. Shards rained down upon the floor.

  Inside the chamber, Khallayne, pausing as she heard the glass burst, smiled.

  “What was that?” Teragrym’s aide asked.

  “Jyrbian venting his frustration, I would imagine.”

  Teragrym didn’t keep her waiting long.

  As he entered, she placed her hands on the floor, palms up and open in the posture of supplication, and bowed low. Only when the lord’s shadow had passed over her did she slowly sit up.

  Teragrym was seated before her on the stool.

  “Lord, I—”

  “You have come from Khal-Theraxian,” he interrupted.

  She hesitated, stammered. For the whole trip back, she’d rehearsed what she would say to him. She wanted what he could teach her, more than ever. She needed his sponsorship more than ever.

  The words had been rehearsed over and over again in her head even before she’d seen the bone-white ribbons on the city gates, the funeral colors for the Keeper.

  Now she had to struggle to find her voice. “Y—yes. I’ve b—been to Khal-Theraxian.” She struggled to regain her composure. “Some friends were visiting, and I went along. I’m sorry, Lord. Should I have informed you?”

  “Tell me what you saw there.”

  “What I saw—? I don’t understand. We saw the estate and the mines. Governor Igraine’s—”

  “Do not test my patience!” Teragrym snapped. “I believe you know what I mean. What did you see of Igraine’s behavior? Was there anything you would deem treasonous?” He hesitated, drawing that last word out, almost as if he expected to trap her.

  “Treason—” The word choked her, got lost in the quickening of her breath. “My lord, I …” An image of Igraine flashed through her mind, of him in the darkness saying, “Perhaps someday you will be in a position to benefit me.” But if she lied to Teragrym and was discovered … “I—”

  “Did you or did you not discern any treasonous activity?”

  “My lord, forgive me. You’ve startled me with so strong a word. We saw … I saw Igraine and his holdings. And I met his family. And he showed us his new methods for increasing production among his slaves.”

  “And did these methods strike you as treasonous?”

  She made her choice. Her allegiance had to go to Igraine. She took a deep breath. “No.” The word was out of her mouth before she realized it, irretrievable.

  Teragrym nodded, his expression unreadable.

  “Lord, about the test. I have something for your consideration.”

  “Test?”

  “You said if I could prove myself worthy, you would consider taking me into your household.”

  “I could not possibly concern myself with that now.” Teragrym stood. “I’m sure you understand. I have simply too much to attend to, with all this going on about Igraine.”

  “Going on?” She looked at him, stunned, disbelieving. Not interested in the test? How could he say he was not interested?

  “Yes. Igraine has been charged with treason and heresy. An envoy and guards have been sent to arrest him and bring him before the council. But surely everything will turn out fine, since you’ve been to his estate and seen nothing extraordinary.”

  * * * * *

  “Captain.” The envoy of the Ruling Council stood on the slope behind the tree cover, but where he could see Khalever, the estate of the governor of Khal-Theraxian. A blanket was draped over his uniform to keep out the dewy chill of the morning.

  Not many weeks to go and fall would turn to winter. Already some of the higher mountain passes were impassable. Even at this lower altitude, the mornings and the evenings had grown cold.

  There were five guards accompanying him, one from each council member, just enough for protection from the dangers of the trail. Even those five had been hotly debated among the council, with Enna arguing that they could simply send a summons to Igraine. In the end, Narran’s report had swayed them. The envoy was glad for the protection.

  The captain of the guards strode over to him, carrying two cups of steaming tea. She needed no blanket, for the guards had winter uniforms with heavy cloaks.

  He accepted the tea gratefully and wrapped his cold fingers around the metal cup before sipping. “I think it would be better if you remained out of sight and allowed me to go in alone. After all, Igraine is the governor. We should allow him the dignity of obeying without coercion.”

  The captain, a female Ogre who was half a hand taller than the envoy, shrugged. “This is your mission.” She said it as if she didn’t envy him a bit.

  She took the cup back and walked with the envoy to his horse, then stood watching as he rode away into the woods. The sun was visible on the horizon when she spotted him emerging from the woods and heading toward the long drive that led to Igraine’s home.

  She went back to her troops, to check that they were faring well after another hard night on the trail. Like her, they were unaccustomed to nights spent in the wild, in the cold, but she was proud of the way they had adapted.

  It was late afternoon when one of the sentries came running to her and announced that he had seen the envoy returning along the same road from the house.

  “Was Igraine with him?” she asked.

  “He was alone, Captain,” the young one said breathlessly. “But I’m sure it was him. I recognized his horse.”

  Sometime later, the horse trotted up the trail with the envoy tied to the saddle, his head slumped backward at an impossible angle. The insignia of the Ruling Council had been ripped from the breast of his uniform.

  It took the council guard only four days to make the trip back to Takar. They arrived, exhausted, barely able to sit their horses, and went straight to the council.

  A second envoy was dispatched, with a guard of ten with instructions by Narran to take Igraine prisoner. A flurry of arrows took the guard by surprise before they ever left the woods on the border of the estate. One of the first lodged between the eyes of the envoy
.

  The guard was well trained, fearless, but with no enemy in sight, they had no way to fight. Only six returned to Takar.

  Khallayne had spent the days waiting, cautioning herself to be patient. A week after their return, she sent a carefully worded note to Teragrym, hinting that she might be able to break the impasse, but there had been no response.

  Though they had grown friendlier after the slave attack in the forest, Lyrralt had again ceased speaking to her. He had learned of her visit to Teragrym from Jyrbian, and accused her of trying to bypass him, deny him his proper reward.

  Jyrbian was surly and unapproachable, speaking to no one.

  So Khallayne played at board and card games with acquaintances, and wished the whole charade were over so she could return to Khal-Theraxian and pick up her studies.

  Anxious to get out of the castle, she enthusiastically joined the majority of the courtiers to attend one of the last slave races of the season. The day dawned bright and sunny and unseasonably warm. Half the city had turned out for the event.

  The huge oval stadium was filled with laughing, cavorting Ogres. The sound of so many packed into one place was as deafening as the sight of them, brightly bedecked in all the colors of the rainbow, was blinding.

  Normally, Khallayne would have an invitation from someone with good seats, but she hadn’t wanted to have to be charming and brilliant, so she had come alone, choosing to sit in her uncle’s reserved area. Though her mother’s brother had bought her place at court, she avoided contact with the family as much as possible. She hoped her presence would not remind him of the debt.

  The horn sounded the first event, and she leaned forward with the crowd to see the runners bolt out of their blocks. But today the runners appeared lackluster and apathetic. They showed little speed and loped along, obviously not interested in competing with each other.

  “Obviously, their trainers didn’t adequately explain the inducements,” observed the Ogre sitting next to her, a distant cousin in the city for a visit.

  Bored, Khallayne fanned herself. “How hard could it be to make them understand?” she responded. “Run or die. Win and live. It’s probably just because it’s the end of the season. The slaves are always tired toward the last.”