“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered, pushing closer to him.
“Hurting you!” he roared. “I’ll kill you!”
“Then kill me!” She went still in his grasp. “Ask her, then kill me if I’m lying. I’ll sing my song of death quickly and lie quietly under your sword.” She pressed into him harder.
He allowed it. He crushed her to him so hard that the knots in his belt scraped her skin. He twisted his fingers in her hair and yanked her head back.
“Ask her. Unless you’re afraid to hear the truth. Unless you’re willing to accept her with the scent of a human’s hands still fresh on her body.”
“What are you saying?” Jyrbian rasped.
“The truth. I’ve seen things. Before you decide who you want, you should know the truth. Ask her. I’ll wait.”
Jyrbian looked at her. He stepped back so suddenly that she stumbled. “I’ll be back,” he almost hissed.
The conviction in her voice didn’t waver. “Not to kill me.”
“I may kill you either way,” he vowed.
He found Everlyn in Igraine’s tent, sitting on a camp stool at the makeshift table where Igraine kept his maps. A stub of candle on a piece of bark provided some illumination, warming Everlyn’s face with a soft glow. In a shadowed corner Jyrbian could discern a figure underneath a blanket that must be Jelindra, breathing rhythmically.
“Is she sleeping?” he asked.
Everlyn nodded. “You seem better.” When he appeared not to understand, she pointed at his leg and said, “You’re not limping anymore.”
He shrugged, indicating that his injury was of no consequence.
“What’s wrong?” She stood and moved closer to him, nearer the flap of the tent, away from the sleeping figure. Still speaking softly, she laid her hand on his arm and repeated the question.
“Everlyn …” He almost walked away. For a moment, he thought, I cannot live with knowing. But he had to know. “I have to ask you something. I have to … Is there—? I’ve been told—”
He saw the truth in her eyes, the sadness, the fearful anticipation, even before he could finish the question. He knew the truth of Kaede’s words.
“It’s true! You are sneaking out of the camp to meet someone.”
“Yes.” She said it quietly, softly, without any regret.
If she’d a tinge of remorse … “Who?”
She shook her head and looked away.
Weeks of watching and waiting washed over him like fever. “Why do you meet in secret like thieves?”
Again she shook her head, but he already knew the answer. “So it’s true!” he hissed. “You turn me away, ignore my every smile, refuse the touch of my hand, for a slave.”
“He’s no slave! He’s a … a being with a heart and a soul, the same as you and me.”
Her quick defense, her easy tenderness, fanned his anger. A dagger slid into his belly would have caused no more agony.
“Jyrbian, I’m sorry. I know this is not easy to explain, but … once I knew him … I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help but love him! I couldn’t help but—And now, I don’t know what to do.” The words began to pour out of her. “I don’t know where to turn. We could never live with my people. And his kind hate the Ogres so. They’d never accept me.”
Every word was a thorn driven into his heart. Yet, he wanted her to go on, wanted whatever intimacy she was willing to share, wanted to be the one to whom she revealed her heart.
She glanced up, saw his stricken expression, the warring of emotions on his face. “Jyrbian, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. But he has worn my heart … from the day he saved my life …”
“Eadamm,” he breathed. He remembered the way the slave had spoken to her, that morning in her father’s home, the way she had looked at him. He realized that Everlyn would have stayed at Khal-Theraxian if the slave had not advised her to go. He whispered the name again, tasting hatred and jealousy on his tongue.
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “He’s been following us, protecting us. His people have been harrying the king’s troops in the mountain passes. That’s why they haven’t followed us so far.”
He barely heard the last words. She was offering him crumbs. “Do you think you could ever love me?” He saw the answer in her eyes before the whisper had died on his lips. He understood before she murmured a sound.
She lifted her hands slowly and rested them on her belly. “I bear his child.”
He reached for her. She stepped into his embrace, resting her forehead on his arm as if putting aside a heavy load. “I don’t know what we’ll do, where we’ll go so that our child can be raised without hatred and pain.” He closed his eyes and felt a deathly stillness creep over him, a peacefulness such as he’d never known before.
He moved his hands slowly up her back, feeling the delicate bones, the thin layer of flesh through the silky cloth. His fingers touched her shoulders, slipped tenderly up to her throat.
She made one sound, an ecstasy so exquisite it could barely be discerned, before his fingers closed. She struggled almost not at all.
“Everlyn?” He eased her down gently and smoothed her hair back from her face, straightening the long strands until they fell prettily over her shoulders. “Everlyn?”
So still. So pretty. He placed her hands at her sides, touched her cheek. Her skin was smooth and warm. Her tunic was rumpled around her neck, and as he straightened it, a necklace fell out: a stone wrapped in fine silver wire, hung on a silver chain, shiny and black, shot through with red, and shaped like tear.
He yanked it from her neck, breaking the chain.
A sound, a soft chuckle, disturbed the silence.
He looked up and saw eyes staring at him from the darkness: Jelindra’s eyes, wild and mad.
“Get up,” he told her. “We’re leaving.”
The girl obeyed his orders, showing not the least hint of repulsion, though he walked with his arm firmly around her shoulders, so he could stop her if she made a sound.
He led Jelindra through the least populated areas of the camp. Kaede caught up with them at the line where his horse was tethered. “You said you’d come back for me,” she said accusingly.
He looked at her as though he’d never seen her before, yet he said, “Get our things.”
She stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, then rushed off. By the time he’d readied the horses, she had returned. She carried his bedroll and saddlebags as well as her own.
The sight of her snapped him back to reality. How long since—? His mind fled from the memory of soft skin against his fingers.
He looked around quickly. Still nobody had noticed them. “Stay here. Watch the girl. If she makes a sound, kill her.”
Kaede opened her mouth to question him, but he had already gone back into the camp, slipping silently among the sleeping Ogres.
He found Khallayne easily, quickly. She was buried in her blankets, only the top of her head showing, black hair spilling out onto the ground. He started to shake her awake roughly, then thought better of it and slipped his hand down into the blankets until her soft breath touched his fingers.
The soft skin of her cheek reminded him of another’s skin. He stroked her face gently, remembering soft skin and a sweet scent.
Khallayne woke, striking out at his hand. He clamped his fingers over her mouth, leaning down until his lips were against her ear. “Shhh, Khallayne, it’s me.”
She stopped struggling, and immediately he eased the pressure on her mouth, helped her to sit.
“No need to wake the whole camp,” he said easily.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He picked up her boots and held them out. “It’s the girl. I need you to come with me.”
“Jelindra?” Instantly, she was wide awake. She took the boots and pulled them on. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing. She’s just—wandered away from camp, and she’s frightened. Come with me.”
Khallayne stood q
uickly and grabbed her jacket.
“That way.”
As Khallayne started to move, Lyrralt stirred and sat up. His bedroll was only a few feet away. “Jyrbian?”
Jyrbian put a finger to his lips and shushed Lyrralt.
“Jyrbian, what’s wrong? Where’s Khallayne going?”
Jyrbian gave him a look such as Lyrralt had not seen since Takar, one eyebrow raised high, self-deprecating charm twisting his mouth. “It’s none of your affair, Brother, if you know what I mean. Go back to sleep.”
Jyrbian picked up Khallayne’s saddlebags and eased away into the darkness. Khallayne was almost to where he’d left Kaede and Jelindra when he caught up with her.
Kaede and Jelindra were mounted. Kaede was holding the reins to the other horses. The girl appeared even more docile, even more remote, than before.
“What’s going on here?” Khallayne wheeled on him.
“We’re leaving,” he said. “Mount up.”
Kaede tossed him his reins, her expression murderous.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Jyrbian,” said Khallayne.
“We don’t need her,” Kaede jeered.
Jyrbian responded to Khallayne as if Kaede hadn’t even spoken. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But if you don’t, you’ll find her body”—he paused and jerked his thumb in the direction of Jelindra—“left to rot on our trail.”
“Why are you doing this? What’s happened?”
“It’s your choice,” he said conversationally. “Her only use to me is as a hostage, to keep you in line. If you’re not with me … And before you think of casting a spell, are you willing to bet you could take care of both of us before one of us kills her?”
When Khallayne still didn’t move, he turned his horse and started to ride away. Kaede followed him, leading Jelindra’s horse.
“I wouldn’t do that, Jyrbian.” Lyrralt’s voice came out of the darkness.
Jyrbian spun, his hand moving to his sword, and found himself facing off against his brother and Bakrell.
“Why not?” Jyrbian asked softly. He dropped his hand from his sword hilt, with his palm open and ready, dangling at his side.
“They’ve found Everlyn.”
Jyrbian started at the name. Quickly, he regained his composure. Beyond them, in the lights nearest the tent, he could see agitated movement.
“What’s happened to Everlyn?” Khallayne asked.
“She’s dead. From the bruises and marks on her body, strangled.”
“Jyrbian?” Khallayne stepped forward.
He was reminded of Everlyn, stepping between him and the human at Nerat. The memory seemed etched in blood.
“What happened?” Khallayne asked. Hers was a voice of reason, of conciliation.
“Everlyn was seeing a human male, at night, outside the camp.” Kaede also edged forward, her voice brisk, cold.
“Seeing a human?” Lyrralt didn’t understand.
“He was her lover.” Kaede spat the word as if it were filth.
The others responded with shocked silence.
Before they could react, Jyrbian surged forward and grabbed Khallayne. He yanked her by the back of her tunic, up and over his saddle. Before she could recover her senses, he thumped her across the back of her head and she went limp.
Lyrralt started forward, stopping when Jyrbian reached with one hand for his sword. His horse danced, agitated by the extra weight and the tension around him. “Go back, Brother. Go back to your miserable friends. Don’t follow us. Don’t—”
“Jyrbian, don’t do this.” Igraine’s voice, choked with grief, interrupted the scene. “There’s been enough damage. Don’t do anything more.”
“You’re responsible for this!” Jyrbian retorted, eyeing the silent crowd amassing behind Igraine. “You! Preaching of better ways. But there is only so much we can change while still giving honor to the gods. Still honor our traditions. If you continue this way, the vengeance of the gods will rain upon your heads!”
He glanced at Kaede, the only person in the whole camp who sided with him willingly, and jerked his head in the direction of the mountains. He galloped away, Khallayne hanging limply on his horse.
Kaede started to follow, then stopped and turned back for a moment, yanking on the reins of Jelindra’s horse to control the animal. The child sat astride, much more docile than the horse.
“Bakrell?”
Caught by surprise, Bakrell opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
“You’re not going to stay here? There’s no reason anymore. We have what we came for.”
She waited, but Bakrell refused to meet her gaze. “No,” he said at last.
“You’re staying?” Kaede was incredulous, but when he didn’t speak to her again, she yanked her horse around and galloped after Jyrbian, leading Khallayne’s riderless stallion and the horse on which Jelindra rode.
The sound of the four horses, galloping through the dry grass, pounding the earth, sounded across the plain for a long time.
“We have to go after them!”
Tenaj was in favor of pursuit. Several others standing nearby rumbled agreement.
Lyrralt shook his head. “If you chase them in the darkness, they’ll kill their hostages for sure. Or you. It would be easy to set an ambush.”
Tenaj’s hand dropped from its customary set on the pommel of her sword. “Why did they take Khallayne and Jelindra?”
“I don’t know.”
Igraine, shoulders drooping, turned slowly back toward camp, but Bakrell blocked his way.
“Lord, please.” Bakrell fell to his knees before the older Ogre, hung his head in shame. “I must confess what I’ve done. I must tell you all that I know.”
Those who had been drifting back toward camp stopped. Lyrralt and Tenaj moved in closer. Igraine put a hand on Bakrell’s shoulder and nodded.
Bakrell swallowed. He began with his gaze fastened on the ground at Igraine’s feet. “My sister and I are of the last of the Tallees Clan, the clan of the Keeper of the History of the Ogre.”
Lyrralt gasped.
“My sister and I joined you partly because she thought someone here knew about what happened to the History.”
“I don’t understand,” Igraine said solemnly. “I thought the Keeper died a natural death.”
“That is what the council allowed everyone to believe. But Kaede believes there was a conspiracy. And she believes the Song is still alive. For our family, the Song has its own special … music. She hears it, still.”
Bakrell paused, cocking his head as if he, too, were listening to something far off. “I haven’t her abilities, but I must say, I agree with her. I think, if the Song were truly gone, there would be a … silence.”
“Go on,” Igraine prompted when Bakrell lapsed into silence.
“The Song drew Kaede here, to someone among us. But she wasn’t sure who. Two nights ago, she told me she thought Jyrbian was the culprit.”
“So you came here to find the Song,” Tenaj said coldly. “Is that all?”
“No. We also came …” He mumbled something.
“What?”
Igraine put his hand on Bakrell’s chin, tipping it back so he could see his face. “Don’t be afraid. No one is going to hurt you now. What is the other reason you joined us?”
Bakrell squared his shoulders. “We came on behalf of the Ruling Council.”
A gasp went up from the crowd, and there was a surge forward, but Igraine controlled everybody with a wave of his hand. “Continue.”
“Things are very bad in Takar,” Bakrell said. “The humans. Escaped slaves are everywhere in the mountains. When we left, there had already been three supply trains attacked and destroyed.
“There were many who didn’t approve of how the Ruling Council handled Igraine. They were incensed that an Ogre was punished for consolidating his profits. And they have become even angrier that the council seems powerless to stop the human attacks.”
; “The council sent out troops to find you. You met the first, and the second, and destroyed them. What you don’t know is that they have continued to send reinforcements. As far as I know, from the last communication from our contact, every one of them has been attacked and harried or destroyed. By humans. They thought that you were using humans for soldiers, because there were so many attacks by the escaped slaves, so many coordinated, planned attacks.”
“And that’s why they sent you?” Igraine asked.
Bakrell nodded. “They wanted information. Kaede volunteered to come.”
“But we haven’t been in communication with any groups of slaves,” Tenaj protested. “Surely you discovered that weeks ago.”
Bakrell started to tell them what Kaede had discovered about Everlyn, and the slaves who’d been guarding their flanks, since after the attacks in the mountains, but he couldn’t. Igraine looked old, immensely tired. His eyes were swollen with grief. Bakrell couldn’t add to his misery.
“Yes, we did. We realized that immediately. We stayed on, hoping to discover the truth of the lost History. And—” He hesitated. “There’s one other thing. Kaede’s—that is, we’ve—been relaying messages for a courier, messages to the council, with maps and information on your whereabouts.”
There was no response this time, no emotion at all from the broken and grieving refugees. They were stunned.
“We don’t know if the messages got through,” he said hurriedly. “We don’t even know if they were picked up as they were intended to be. We’d just leave them behind, marked in the prearranged way.”
Bakrell clutched Igraine’s hand. “Please, Lord, the reason I’ve told you all this is because I have made a decision. I want to stay. The longer we dwelt among you, the more convinced I became that yours is the right way to live. I know I’ve committed transgressions against you, but I want to stay.”
Wearily, Igraine patted his hands. “I can’t make that determination, Bakrell. Everyone will have to decide. But for myself, I welcome you. We have all committed crimes and atrocities. We have all suffered.”
As if suddenly reminded that Igraine’s only child lay cold and dead within the tent, the assembly broke up without any other words, forming into smaller groups. They silently drifted back to the tent at the center of the camp. There they built a pyre for Everlyn’s body and sang their songs of sorrow for Igraine.
The Irda Page 17