Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  He couldn’t move. He thought he’d be sick again if he tried to shift his head, but the hands would not be ignored. They finally dragged him to his feet.

  “Eet atch in,” they growled.

  Through swollen eyes, Jerad saw the faces of the other Imo’ani. They were stiff, oddly blank, as if they’d reached their capacity for horror. No one looked at him, no one looked at the body of the girl, left face-down in the mud. They pretended as if nothing and no one existed.

  Except for Rees. Jerad caught the eyes of the other young man, staring at him without a drop of pity. Fool, he seemed to said, hating him, accusing him. Saying everything that Jerad wanted to say himself. She’s dead because of you.

  Jerad couldn’t let this continue.

  But what choice did he have? He had tried to speak out, and this was the result. Letti was dead, and he was immobilized with pain.

  Still, there had to be something he could do.

  Jerad was dragged stumbling across the camp, his body groaning with every step. The Northmen jeered him as he passed.

  They finally deposited him in front of Garden like a sack of bloody meat—which is exactly how he felt. He rose to his knees, determined not to waver. Determined not to throw up. To that effort, he swallowed a few times, eyes half-closed against the streaks of morning sun.

  The man was sitting on a log, opening and closing his right fist. The knuckles were bruised and cracked, and Jerad couldn’t help a little sliver of satisfaction.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Feddel,” Garden began. “You’ll guide us. You’ll find my thieves, or you’ll suffer in the most horrible ways I can fancy. Is that clear?”

  Jerad wanted to spit in the man’s face.

  But what help would that be?

  He glanced back at the slaves. Their eyes. The girl. No more horrors. Maker help them, no more deaths.

  Jerad saw it then: he could be brash and haughty, he could defy Garden every chance he had, and who would suffer for it? He would—and so would they.

  But if he played Garden’s stupid little game long enough to earn his approval, could he do a little good? Could he fight for them, be a wall for them? Anything to control Garden’s attention?

  He took a deep, painful breath. “I’ll find your thieves,” he rasped. “On one condition. You tell me what happened to Hyranna Elduna.”

  “Who?” the man snapped.

  “The girl. The one you left with.” The one who didn’t come back.

  “Ah, your pretty friend.” It was testament to the man’s state of mind that he didn’t even question Jerad’s boldness. He just shrugged, a bitter look crossing over his face. “She’s dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tandra Yourk

  FOUR DAYS AGO

  Smoke, that familiar curl of human habitation, licked the prairie horizon and bled into the scuffling clouds.

  Tandra Yourk was close. Their first Manturian town since Manquin. A chance to buy horses. To trade the cart. To get far and fast from those Terryn bastards who were chasing them—as soon as her nephew was himself again.

  The cart lurched over the grass, a box on huge creaking old wheels, with two slats for windows and El Yourk emblazoned on the side in faded blue. It was everything Tandra owned in the sorry world.

  Yet with the Contessa’s grudge like the sea itself, that Terryn Dal wolf would track them to the ten fires in search of her trader’s cart.

  Tandra had no choice. She’d have to sell the cart. Would have to sell the whole gods-be gone haul at the nearest town for a pair of quick horses and passage west.

  Her nephew groaned from where he lay stretched on the top of the cart behind her. After sleeping for a day and some, he’d woken up just that morning, muttered a few incoherent words, ate, drank, then slept again.

  “Aunt Tan?” His words were sluggish.

  She swayed with the roll of the cart. “Aye, I’m here.”

  He fell quiet. The silence filled with wheels and hoof-beats and the trill of blackbirds.

  Then he spoke again, clearer now, and softer: “Is he dead?”

  “Who?”

  “The man I shot. The . . . the Lendahyn.”

  “Kyr’amanu,” she corrected, remembering the stranger’s claims. As if that made any more sense. Kayr had fallen centuries ago. “And no. He shrugged off your bullets like so many spitballs and threw you fifty feet in the air with eldritch powers, is what happened.”

  Mag grunted. “Well, my head agrees on that.”

  “Gods be, you’re lucky it’s not more. Remember this, next time you’re itching to shoot something.”

  “He was going to attack you.”

  “Aye. And the first sensible thing to do is shoot ‘em dead? No tries to figure things out peaceful-like? S’at what those Terryn bastards taught you?”

  Mag sat up with a scowl, rubbing his head. Feathery blonde hair and a boyish charm made him look even younger than his twenty-two years, but it did nothing to fool Tandra Yourk. Three years a spy in Terryn Dal, rubbing shoulders with scum, lies upon lies, and every shadow out to get you—she knew what that could do to a man.

  “What works and what’s right,” she continued. “And killing a man for lookin’ bad at you just ain't right. Trust me, Mag Yourk, that kind of thinking will kill you dead, one way or another.”

  Mag clenched his jaw. “You think I wanted this? I went because I had to.”

  “S’at a fact?”

  “It is, I’ll have you know!”

  “Oh? And what happened to making a name for yourself, being on your own, all proud of yourself and all that?”

  “Stop being so damned smug!” Mag cried. “Not everyone can just cut-and-run like you.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, you meant it. You’re still mad with pa ‘cause of that business with the money.”

  Tandra’s stiffened. “That is none of your business. But for the record, I couldn’t care a hen’s foot for a single penny of that lot, and it certainly wasn’t worth dragging you into danger. Your father’s a drunk fool and a coward.”

  Mag snatched her arm, fingers like claws into her old skin. “You can’t say that.”

  “I just did.”

  “No, you can’t just say that.”

  “Why? You’d say anything different?”

  Mag paused, bunching his fists. “That’s not the point.”

  “Right, Mag. Here is the point: case you haven’t looked around, you’re not exactly in a good place. Sure, your own fool choices had a hand, but your father’s schemes nearly got you killed. And yes, he asked me to come to Terryn Dal, but if he wasn’t a coward, he’d have come and got you himself. You take my advice, the first thing you do when we get back to Marrentry is get the hell out.”

  “And go where?” Mag’s voice was bitter.

  “Anywhere. Your mother’s family in the West Isles.”

  She heard a grim laugh. “That’s not anywhere, it’s nowhere.”

  “It’s quiet. It’ll keep you out of trouble for a spell. Even if you get out alive, you won’t be able to breathe near Terryn Dal, or Hon for that matter. Besides, don’t you got a sweetheart out there?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Good. Go find her. Maybe you’ll discover you like it after all. Trust me, a life scratching the underbelly of the Manturian Isles isn’t for you.”

  He laughed, grim and harsh, and Tandra wasn’t sure she liked the sound of it. “How do you know what’s good for me? You don’t know me. You’ve no idea what I’m doing, what I did.”

  “Oh, you told me enough. You stole that shiny stone from one of the most dangerous people in the Isles, and you think you can trade it for assurances. You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not.” He reached into his belt. “Look, Aunt Tan, I—” He stopped. His face went ashen. He stared at her, paralyzed with a sudden horror.

  “Gods be, what?” she cried.

  “Aunt Tan, did you take it?”

  �
��Take what?” she frowned.

  “Take it? It, it, the . . . the . . . the stone.”

  She turned her brows in. “The Contessa’s stone? God’s be, what would I want with that daffy thing?”

  “Swear to me you didn’t take it!” He snatched her arm, blue eyes wild and trembling.

  “Nephew, I swear, by Krunyn’s eye. Look, you know me. I wouldn’t take it.”

  His breath was coming fast, chest heaving so hard, she thought he might pass out. “Then did you . . . did you put it somewhere?”

  “No, I didn’t touch it, Mag. What’s wrong?”

  He started to pat himself, to dig into his pockets, the folds of his shirt, around his belt. “It’s . . . gone.”

  Tandra grimaced. “Such things, Magellan Yourk, have a habit of abandoning one at the most inopportune moment. Take my advice: forget it and move on.”

  Mag stared at her, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She saw it coming: the brows drawing together, the murderous spark. He dove at her, slamming her into the corner of the box, almost knocking her off. It was a blind rage. Unthinking and wild. Like his father.

  Tandra’s instincts kicked in. She twisted and tossed him over her shoulder. His own momentum carried him the rest of the way, head over backside off the cart, to land with a heavy thud in the grass.

  Calmly, she picked up the reins and pulled her big horse, Tums, to a stop. She replaced the hat on her head. She climbed down, easy and unhurried, and began walking through the waist-high Tsavin grass to face her nephew.

  She stopped two paces away. He was curled up on the ground, his hands making fists with his hair, as if he would rip every one of those blonde feathers from his own head. He was weeping.

  “Gods be,” she spat. “Get up!”

  “Leave me alone!” he sobbed.

  She clenched her jaw. This was one piece of drama too many. Bending over, she grabbed a fistful of his collar and hauled him to his feet. He tried to shove her away, but her grip was firm, and he only squirmed and struggled like a boy trying to get out of a whipping.

  “Stop it,” she said, without raising her voice. “What are you? A blubbering schoolboy?”

  “I can’t!” He was inconsolable. “I need it! Aunt Tan, I need it. I . . .”

  She slapped him. It wasn’t terribly hard, but hard enough to shut him up. The tears ground to a halt, eyes blinking stupidly like he couldn’t believe it.

  “You hit me.” The simple fact seemed almost too much for him.

  “I did, and I’ll do it again, if you don’t stop this foolishness. Gods of sea and stone, nephew, it’s a cursed trinket; it’s brought you nothing but trouble, as far as I see, and you should be mad happy it’s gone. At the very least, pull yourself together!”

  Her words seemed to restore the young man’s senses. He sniffed and wiped a hand across his face. Then slowly, he gave a nod.

  “Alright,” he whispered. “You’re . . . you’re right.”

  “Good,” she said, and released him. He staggered a little and rubbed a hand on his face, then nodded again.

  “I’m just . . . I’m gonna look in the cart . . . look around in case it . . . fell, or something.”

  “Fine,” she said. She folded her arms and watched as he moved mechanically to the back, unbarring it and climbing inside. She heard him moving things around, scraping, thumping as he searched. She tapped her fingers along her arm. How much trouble would this cause? Or would it finally prove to her nephew how foolish his machinations had been from the beginning, to risk everything for a bauble that could be lost in the grass? Because that’s what had happened.

  Her nephew had been telling her about the stone before the Kyr’amanu had woken up, then he’d stuffed it into the folds of his shirt. Not long after, he’d confronted the stranger and been picked up and hurled off into the sky. It had simply rolled out, lost to the trampled prairie grasses.

  She wrinkled her nose. It was probably better this way.

  The banging inside the cart intensified. There was a crash.

  “I didn’t say you could break every damned thing in my cart to find it!” she hollered as she marched to the back.

  There was silence. Nothing moved in the dimness. Her nephew had gone very still, almost curling in on himself, shoulders hunched, hands digging into the fabric of his woollen pants. And in so short a time he had made a staggering mess. Books, crockery, sacks, tools, a crate of root vegetables, two bolts of fine linen, and a jar of Imo’ani beads had all been scattered on the floor. A bottle of fine Ynasian wine, worth a small fortune in Hon, had been smashed, too, and it was soaking into the cracked boards like blood.

  For a moment Tandra was too shocked to be angry, then she leapt in and plucked two of the books off the floor. One was irreparably ruined by the wine, another had been doused along with a bolt of linen. She just shook her head.

  “This is my livelihood you’re pissing away,” she said.

  “Yeah, well that trinket, as you call it, was mine.”

  “Ah. Then it makes perfect sense for you to trash my wares.”

  He just kept nodding, like he wasn’t hearing her. Like he was in shock. She frowned and started cleaning up. What could she say? That he was an insufferable fool? She’d said that already. That he was acting like a child? She’d said that too. She set the wine-soaked books aside to dry—there might be something yet to salvage from them—and placed the others back onto the stack of Encyclopaedias. She righted the bolt of linen, picked up a hatchet and put it back in its place, started gathering some of the carrots and potatoes that were rolling around the floor.

  “He took it,” Mag said abruptly.

  She stopped and straightened.

  “What?”

  “That man, he took it.”

  Tandra stared at her nephew for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. As I said, such things have a habit of changing hands when you least expect. Cursed they are, and you’re better off without it. Let it be.”

  His eyes were blinking into space, unseeing. “No,” he said. “I have to get it back. It’s . . . it’s not an option for me.”

  “What’s not an option is heading in any other direction but east.” She jabbed a carrot at him. “We know the bastard who’s on our heels, right?”

  He said nothing.

  “Right?” she pressed.

  “Brit Garden,” he finally muttered.

  “Right. Which means if we go back, we’re losing time. Which means Brit Garden will have a better chance of catching us. Which means you and I will have a better chance of dying horrible, painful deaths a little sooner than we’d like. Is this figuring into your calculations at all, Magellan Yourk?”

  He shut his eyes. “Yeah, but it’s because of that thing we’re being followed in the first place, Aunt Tan. It’s for that thing I risked everything, and I would risk it all again if I had the choice.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  Mag just huffed and looked away. “You know why.”

  “Because your father lost everything. Because he sold you and Tannis to clear his own name with the Duke. And you owe him riches?”

  “I don’t owe him anything.”

  “That’s right. Nothing.” She softened and shook her head. “Look. When we get to Marrentry, I’ll talk with your father. I’ll tell him I . . . I sold it to some Ellendi trader, thinking it would put them off our trail. Then I’ll tell him you’re going away for a while, and I’ll make sure you get to your mother’s people myself.”

  “Just run away,” he said under his breath.

  “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? Picking daisies? Mag you can’t fix your father’s problems.”

  He straightened and faced her, trying to put on a brave face. “He’s my father,” he said. “I’m a Yourk. I can’t change that. I can’t just run away like you did. His problems are my problems, and this is what I have to do.”

  “And I’m sure you did an excellent job spying, with heaps of
dirt to pass on to the Duke. You did three years. You learned some things. Then you got made and had to cut. That’s not your fault, Mag.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” He laughed grimly. “I went to Terryn Dal for one reason: to figure out her secret, how she does it, how she just knows things no one should know. I had to watch everything. Everything I said or did, even when I was alone, because you never knew what she was going to learn somehow. She knows everything—everything. So I found a way in. I made a way in.”

  Tandra frowned. “You’re saying that stone you stole is her secret?”

  “I know it is. She uses it to spy on people, to send messages, I saw her do it myself. But I have to prove it. I have to . . .” he trailed off. “No one will believe me if I don’t bring the damned thing and shove it under their noses.”

  Tandra shook her head. “Mag, why didn’t you say all this before?”

  “I couldn’t.” He snorted. “So maybe I’m better at keeping secrets than you thought.”

  “What I thought is you’re a damned fool. That hasn’t changed. But at least this explains a thing or two.”

  Then she stopped and gave a single, bleak laugh. Mag stared at her.

  “Nothing here is funny!” he cried.

  “Oh, gods be. Mag, how in the ten fires did you figure out her secret when no one else could? You! Of all people.”

  He frowned. “Did what I had to, is all.”

  “She bed you?”

  Mag flushed and looked away, eyes bright with anger.

  “You poor fool.” Tandra sighed, feeling sorry for the kid. “You realize what you’ve done?”

  “I think I do,” he snapped. “Yeah.”

  “And you think she’ll ever stop hunting you? You think even the West Isles will be safe? They won’t, Mag Yourk.”

  “Don’t matter,” he said. “Don’t change a thing. I need that stone, and I need to get it to the Duke, and what happens next, will happen.”