Chapter
One
Was it the hyatu who made the sun dance between the dappled shadows of oak leaves, using their guile to bedazzle Irian Highgren, or merely the weather? Irian swiped a forearm across his face as sweat stung his eyes. A foot in his crossbow’s stirrup, he hooked the bow string and locked it, placed his quarrel, and made no more noise than the swaying branches above.
Two hyatu stood arguing by a thornbrake, the sun glinting off the bead embroidery of their tunics, three hundred feet from the oak trees where Irian and five soldiers hid. Why were they there? Why now when no one had seen them in years? Savage bastards almost looked human, from a distance, until a person saw the golden beast-eyes.
Murdering, bastard scum. They’d slaughtered Irian’s grandparents by poisoning wells and burying the innocent under tons of rubble. Always the innocent and the helpless. The children, the old ones. Irian’s fingers tightened on the crossbow’s stock. Like his Daena. His Daena and that wizened thing she’d delivered from her womb, with its misshapen head and its limbs all wrong. Of course she’d died of the shock.
What of the blighted crops, withering in the ground so villages starved, the plagues of virulent sickness which had taken Irian’s parents? Hyatu wouldn’t fight like real men. They sought to hurt those who couldn’t fight back.
Look at these two, arguing no doubt about what new innocent’s soul to take. Heart thudding a drumbeat within his chest, Irian wiped more sweat from his face and flexed cramped fingers. He wouldn’t kill like they did. Clean and swift was his way. Unfortunately, King Leric would want answers for their presence.
Save one for questioning then. The other could die. With a hand signal, he ordered his soldiers to fan out among the trees. Irian raised his bow, steadied his breathing, and waited for his men to get in place. Both hyatu were of a height. Lithe as saplings, with ragged blond hair falling free down their backs. It didn’t matter which he chose. One hyatu ceased speaking and looked around, and in that moment Irian let loose; easy as bringing an animal down for his larder. A hyatu fell, the bolt driving through his back and into his heart. That one would not be rising again. No magic in all the world could bring even a hyatu back from such a wound.
His men rushed forward in a clatter of chainmail and weapons, Irian at their heels as the second hyatu let out a cry that echoed through the trees and shivered through Irian’s blood. The creature did not run, his yellow gaze settling on Irian as if he knew who had fired that bolt. He ignored the five soldiers and leaped with a savage snarl. While his men attempted to grab thrashing limbs, Irian withdrew his dagger.
Time slowed to moments as Irian picked his target, then stopped when a voice sounded inside his mind. He froze in horror as a stream of language filled spaces inside his head. He would not lose his soul to a conscienceless beast! He roared his fear and stabbed the hyatu in one shoulder while his men finally found the guts to drag the still kicking hyatu to the ground.
The creature howled then fell still, shock plain on his angular face. Breathing hard he lay, his body already shuddering from reaction to the iron. No soldier of March went without such a blade. If no hyatu had attacked in a long while, memory of their cunning ran in a man’s veins. From his belt, Irian took a set of manacles and locked them around the hyatu’s slender wrists, while one of his men went for the horses. When the creature groaned in pain, another soldier kicked him. Irian stared, his mind still reeling, then barked a sharp order for the soldier to desist. Irian mounted up then took the long length of chain
attached to the hyatu’s manacles. He dragged the creature behind him all the way back to March, loath to touch him again, his mind aching from the horror of invasion. Somehow the creature stayed upright.
Castle March’s wide grey curtain walls loomed before them. Set on a rise, a broad river behind it, the castle’s towers dominated the landscape of forest and rolling hills. Through the outer gate and into the outer ward they rode. Irian dismounted and tugged on the chain. Barely able to stand now, the hyatu staggered. He gripped the chain with both hands and straightened, defiance written over his pale features. Irian drew his broadsword and gestured toward the garrison and prison tower and when the hyatu did not move, poked him with the tip of the blade. A shiver passed through the creature before he turned and stumbled toward the arched doorway and down to the dungeons. He baulked before the ironbound cell specifically built to hold creatures such as this. Iron was the only thing which would contain them. Irian raised his sword and for a moment he thought the hyatu would fight, almost hoped he would. His body tensed, but then his shoulders slumped as though he could take no more. A spreading dark stain soaked his jacket. It was the iron which would do more damage than the wound and Irian had been careful where he had driven the blade. Avoiding the bars, the hyatu walked through the doorway.
With a shudder of distaste, Irian locked the cell door behind the creature, who collapsed onto a heap of straw. Only then did Irian feel safe. Not that the hyatu’s physical prowess worried the Lord Commander of March’s army, but any God-fearing man had a right to be concerned about his soul.
“What were you doing so close to March?” Irian demanded when no more movement was forthcoming.
A rustle of straw and the hyatu turned his head, golden gaze boring into Irian’s eyes. He spoke, but in no civilized tongue, a rill of words filled with enough hatred to make any man quail. Unsettled both by his gaze and the force of his words, Irian said, “You will join your companion soon enough, once you give me answer.”
The creature laughed, a bitter sound. He turned to the wall as the laugh changed to a harsh sob of breath somehow expanded by the cell walls. An animal with feelings? Irian doubted it, but he hesitated and into that pause a vision
came to fill his mind.
A woman lay on a bed, face pale as milk, every breath a struggle. Irian held on to one of her hands as blood no one could stop flowed from her body. By her side lay a tiny wrapped bundle still as stone.
Before he could gasp outrage and denial, the image changed to another place, another time. A quarrel sped through the air to hit a young woman through the chest. So real that Irian staggered back with the force. The sound of the bolt striking flesh, the cry of horror, the bursting of a heart, the brief agony of death and the parting of a soul as it rose to the winds, painted horror into his mind.
So real, that for moments he followed the spirit’s path where it hovered to embrace death. On the cusp of joining another’s soul he cried out in rejection.
“Dislike what you see? An unarmed woman who did nothing more than stand. A woman with no more chance than your wife. You shot her in the back. You kill without conscience, without thought.”
He dared to compare Daena with an animal? The keys were in Irian’s hands. Blind anger drove him to open the door, draw his sword and press the point into the hyatu’s chest.
It was wrong for the language of March to come forth from this creature whose face was all angles and slanted eyes. He studied the lean, pale features imagining different ways in which the animal might die. Though he hadn’t moved, the creature breathed as hard as he. His yellow eyes blazed anger, his mouth a thin line of hatred.
The passion in his accented voice pricked Irian’s conscience indeed, but reminded so recently of the helplessness of watching Daena die, a hyatu woman’s death brooked no sympathy. “One less to breed your foul get.”
The hyatu moved. He grasped Irian’s sword, chains clanking metal against metal. If Irian moved now the blade would cut fingers to the bone.
“Let go or suffer the consequences.”
The hyatu smiled. “Of what? Your kindness? Your courage? Your whole race’s courage? So afraid for your soul. Well it’s already damned, Commander Highgren.”
Sweat trickled down Irian’s back. He refused to let his hand tremble as the impact of his name echoed. “How do you know my name?”
“Can’t you feel me inside? I am delving into your darkest secrets, your strongest desires, your greatest nightmares. Ah, such guilt. Your grief for your wife is as false as your rage. Who is this pretty thing so prevalent in your thoughts? Dark eyes, dark hair? Shall I find her and stab her in the back? Or shall I take her soul and twist until she is mine to do with as I please? Shall
I take her….”
He screamed as Irian pulled his sword. Fool! Irian knew at once he’d been goaded deliberately. The hyatu wanted a quick death instead of lingering by poison.
“Not that easy,” Irian rasped. “I will not kill you fast but watch you wither to a weeping sore of ruined flesh while you beg on your knees.”
The hyatu stopped his scream with bloodied hands. Breath sobbed in his throat.
“Why were you so close to March?” Irian growled again.
Not truly expecting an answer, he watched with avid concentration as the hyatu bought himself under some semblance of control. It took phenomenal effort while his hands dripped blood.
“For the same reason which killed your wife and child.”
His voice was startling clear for a creature under such pain and duress. Unnatural. “To spread your poison?”
“Stand there and crow, Commander, but your delight will not last long.”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have done nothing except be a fool.”
Irian stared at him. “There are ways to keep someone alive far longer than they would like.”
“And there are ways of killing more subtle than a sword,” the hyatu spat, and turned his back.
Irian took a rag from his belt and cleaned his sword. “We shall see,” he said, and sheathed the weapon.
Before he could leave the dungeon a messenger came skidding to a halt before him.
“His majesty wants you, at once, my lord.”
What could be worse than hyatu? Irian hurried to the great hall of March where King Leric already sat at supper. Irian refused to look beyond the dais to the young girl the hyatu had seen in his mind. Leric handed Irian a message from one of the regular troops who kept close eye on March’s borders. More urgent than any hyatu, Oswith of Foll, a neighboring petty king, had raided three villages to the south, not only taking cattle but destroying homes.
Irian gave Leric his report on the hyatu, although in truth there was little to tell until Irian could persuade more words out of him. He might be gone for days, in which case the hyatu could well be dead by the time he returned. A pity in some ways. He left him in an old sergeant’s care as he prepared soldiers for a sortie into Foll. Tigh was steady enough not to be manipulated by a hyatu, he hoped.
#
The acrid stench of urine-soaked straw played contrast to Faella of March’s silks. As out of place in a dungeon as weeds in a knot garden, Faella’s yards of taffeta and her pearl-studded bodice were incongruous as thistles. Faella lifted a pomander of aromatic herbs to her nose. The princess’s sharp-featured face held a sneer of disgust as she studied the creature in the
ironbound cell. The prisoner’s wretched condition tore at Sera Ayabara’s heart no matter what he was, and Faella’s expression dashed any hopes of improvement to his circumstances.
“A just position for such a creature,” Faella said, lowering the pomander a fraction.
“There is nothing ‘just’ about letting a man rot in his own filth!” Sera said, the words bursting forth before she could stop
them.
Faella turned, lifting a plucked eyebrow, her coronet of royalty glinting in the light of a fresh-lit oil lamp. “You would spare pity on such a beast?”
Even knowing the danger of arguing with Faella, Sera stood her ground. A princess in her own right, even if from a much smaller kingdom than March, conscience would not let her remain silent. “How can anyone not spare pity? Do not our priests preach kindness and forgiveness to those less fortunate than ourselves?”
“Not to our enemies.”
The hyatu lay unmoving within the cell. “Why is this man an enemy when the last time hyatu warred upon us was a hundred years past? Why this man and not our neighbors who raided our kine and slaughtered our villagers not ten months since?”
“You question my sire’s commands?”
“I question the way in which this prisoner is treated, yes. I question the orders which keep a man chained in his own filth for something his ancestors did.”
“So you would welcome the hyatu to your bosom?”
“No, but has anyone asked him why he came so close to March?”
“I am sure Commander Highgren did not shirk in his duty, but if you are so keen to find out, why don’t you ask him?”
Sera glanced through the cell door. The prisoner was in no state to be asked anything and Faella well knew it. Used to the princess’s games after two years in court, Sera shivered with premonition of trouble. Faella twirled her ribbon, the smell of the pomander cutting through the stench of the dungeon in a waft of cinnamon and cloves.
“If he was released into better conditions, then perhaps I could.”
“It is treason to help them.”
“In the name of common decency? Look at him! How long is it since he ate food? Since anyone changed his straw? That blanket would better serve a hound.”
Still twirling the pomander, Faella’s eyes narrowed, calculating. She smiled. “Since you have uttered treasonous thoughts in my hearing, and care so much for an enemy of my father’s kingdom, I think it only right you help him. Guard!”
Sera frowned, unsure what Faella meant, although she knew it wasn’t going to be good. She should have kept her mouth
closed.
The guard arrived. Sera listened in growing disbelief to Faella’s orders. Of course the guard couldn’t question the daughter of the king, although to give him his due, he tried. Faella cut through his arguments, informing him she would tell her sire
what had occurred and leave it to his judgment if Sera should remain the seven days and nights Faella specified. In the space of minutes, Sera found herself on the wrong side of the ironbound cell, the door locked, and her protests unheard.
“Faella, you have no right to do this,” Sera said.
Regal in her pearl-studded bodice and gown of starched taffeta, Faella smirked. “I have every right. It is my sire who rules here and his subjects obey me as they would him. Of course, as soon as I have a moment, I will inform him of your words. Until then, enjoy the company you sought. I would be careful for your soul, though. Heaven knows I hope God protects you from damnation.”
Bitch. But she wasn’t so foolish to say it out loud and gain even more trouble as Faella walked away with a swish of taffeta across the stone floor.
Someone other than the king would notice her absence in a few hours and rescue her. Faella could not get away with this. Sera managed a shaky smile. King Leric would not let his daughter imprison a highborn lady for uttering a few words that hardly added up to treason.
Convinced of her rescue, Sera glanced at the prisoner behind her. When it was obvious that no one was going to release her immediately, it occurred to her to do something instead of stand here like a frightened rabbit. The hyatu was in no state to take anyone’s soul, or so she hoped, and besides, no one had ever sufficiently explained to her how they did that anyway.
With shaking fingers she reached out and moved aside a swath of matted blond hair, to reveal a face so begrimed by dirt she had difficulty making out any features. He didn’t wake, giving her a chance to examine the cause of her misfortune. Before she had a chance to complete her study, the guard returned. Good, someone had finally woken up, but apparently not to release her. He held no keys, was making no attempt to open the door, and no one had come with him. So what had Faella threatened him with? She’d had to have threatened him with something otherwise this made no sense.
Sera forced a smile onto her face. “When is Commander Highgren returning?”
“Not back for a week nor more, milady.”
“Could a message be sent to him, do you think?”
“Has to obey the princess’s orders, milady. Ain’t got no choice.”
Irian would have noticed she was missing at once, so that’s why Faella had the gall to do this, Sera was sure, and since her brothers were back home in Ayabara that only left Sera’s maid who Faella, no doubt, would threaten with something or lie to, also. Well, if she couldn’t do anything about her own situation for the moment, at least she might for the prisoner. She pulled a ring from one finger and handed it through the bars to Tigh and then gave him a list of what she wanted. She wondered if he would bring what she asked for.
He began with a fresh heap of straw loaded into a barrow. He unlocked the door and stood guard with a halberd of all things. He didn’t offer to help as Sera forked out the old and brought in the new. Mind you, how could he without dropping his halberd? He did deign to trundle the barrow away once he’d double-checked the re-locked door.
No simpering maiden, she wasn’t some brawny wench either. Pure determination moved the hyatu off his filthy bed and onto the fresh one. She wondered if Tigh would bring all the things she’d asked for and was gratefully surprised when he brought some hot water in a covered crock along with some washing rags. The blankets, herbs, drinking water, soup, bandages, and salve appeared as time passed.
She put aside modesty to undress him and wash the filth-caked clothes, ripping seams for later repair when she could not get past the manacles. When Sera had finished her doctoring and cleaning, she wouldn’t have left the hyatu if King Leric himself had come down to the dungeon. Fever rattled his breath with horrid and painful regularity. Tears threatened to fall as she dressed suppurating sores and untreated wounds. Manacles had turned the skin beneath into a festering mush. She managed to ease bandages under the metal, to salve wounds and drip a concoction of herbs down his throat, watching every swallow lest he choke. She even washed his hair in an infusion of tree bark to upset the lice. Sera needed no physician to tell her the hyatu was near death. If she could offer him some dignity, she might achieve something.
Exhausted from her efforts, she sat on her heels when she wasn’t bathing the hyatu to reduce his fever. Could hyatu really take your soul? Dusty tapestries and fireside tales weren’t enough evidence, and those tales were told to frighten children to stop them wandering from their cribs. She had argued with Faella about that lack of knowledge even before they’d reached the cell. Now she could only watch a man fight for survival. By the end of a long night, she wondered what drove him to such a fight. A woman, perhaps—a wife and children—did hyatu even have wives? Yet his dark clothes were beautifully
embroidered by someone and the dark blue cloth finely woven and dyed. His tall boots were of the softest leather and his shirt of the whitest cotton. If this was a beast then he certainly knew how to dress.
Morning arrived, or so Sera supposed. The lamp had long since burned out, but the darkness had lessened enough she could study his ravaged face. Fever delineated every angle of bone and flesh. An exotic face. She wondered what made
him hyatu rather than human. Yet there was, even in his fever, an inexplicable otherness about him she had no words to
define.
He muttered something and Sera sighed. The fever did seem to have abated a little. She soaked a rag and reached to bathe his face, only to find her wrist caught in a surprisingly strong grip given his illness.
Throat dry, Sera looked into uncanny golden eyes, lucid as day.
“Do not,” he said in a cracked voice.
Stung by his tone she said, “Unhand my arm and I will not.”
He did, with a suddenness that made her wonder if it had been voluntary. His eyes were closed again.
Damn. One touch and she’d wanted to run in fear of her life, which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Perhaps not when priests offered eternal damnation if you lost your soul and preached about the evil influences of magic.
Tigh turned up with a breakfast of bread and cheese and when she asked for more herbs he hesitated.
“Why bother, milady?”
“For a principle. It doesn’t matter what he is. The king’s hounds are kept better.”
“They be loyal to the king.”
She understood, or thought she did, but it no longer seemed to matter. “Could you take his chains off?”
“No, milady. Don’t you be fooled. Iron’s the only thing keeps him here, and that’s a fact. He’ll trick you without it.” And he hurried away as if afraid she’d ask again.
No one had bothered to search her in Faella’s haste to lock her in. Like many another lady, Sera carried a sewing kit at her belt. It contained thread, buttons, needles, pins, and a small pair of embroidery scissors shaped like a bird. If the iron was poisoning the hyatu then he would die. That fact nagged at her all through the following hours, until she looked at the simple lock holding the cuffs. An idea blossomed then flowered. She took her scissors to the lock and began twisting. It took a while, before the first cuff fell. After that, the second went more swiftly. She hid the cuffs in the straw and covered his limbs with his blanket. She trembled, terrified she had done something beyond recall.
For several hours nothing happened but at last he opened his eyes.
“People aren’t the same,” she whispered. “If nothing else, remember that.”
She didn’t know if he could understand, but he said, “Why?”
She knew what he meant. She laced her hands in her lap, studying the filthy, broken fingernails, not meeting his gaze. "It seemed an adventure. I wanted to do what no one else had, and talk to an hyatu. I suppose I thought myself some heroine, until reality and the dark set in. The bitter truth is I can't do anything except ease your circumstances, and that very little. They will hang you for a spy."
"Then they risk war.
Sera looked up. "Over one hyatu?"
"A king's son," he said, and closed his eyes.
If that was truth, it was a coin that might be used. Yet why had he not used it before? Sera stared at his angular face.
Tigh arrived and the hyatu remained silent. Sera pulled another ring from a finger. "I know you said Commander Highgren was away, but I must send a message to him."
Tigh shook his head, looking with regret at the ring. "Can't be done, milady. I'm sorry."
Damn Faella. Why now had the princess acted? Because of Irian, Sera's thoughts told her. Faella was jealous. But Irian wasn't interested in any woman right now, not after the death of his wife in childbed six months ago. Irian was her friend. A brother she could spar with since they'd known one another since childhood. Irian had lived with Sera’s family for ten years. Sera knew the princess to be calculating, but that clever? To wait until Irian was away and then trap Sera as
she had? But she would be free before Irian returned, so what point.
"Seven days and nights with a man. What price your virtue then?"
Startled by the hyatu's rasping voice, Sera spun. "No one knows, I'm sure. She couldn't have got away with this otherwise. No doubt she's threatened or bribed the poor guard."
"You think she'll keep it quiet? I doubt it."
"You aren't a man."
He laughed, but the laughter turned into a wracking cough. Exasperated, Sera fetched a cup of water. She made to help but he held up a warding hand.
"Am I so abhorrent you cannot bear my touch?" Sera asked in irritation.
"Yes."
"You don't know me. Don't even know my name."
"I have no wish to."
"Did you tell Commander Highgren who you were?"
He paused, his face a grimace of hatred that set her heart thudding. “He seemed more interested in stabbing me."
Sera drew breath, studying the wildness in those golden eyes. For a moment she’d forgotten what he was. "What is your name?"
"I give that only to those I trust."
Hurt by his scathing tone she retorted, "I thought if we knew one another better, some understanding might be reached. Pride will not stop the hangman, knowledge might. We have hated one another for hundreds of years. Why? Why has it persisted when others have not? What did you do that we cannot see you without seeing an enemy?"
"What we did? So you presume."
The anger in his voice startled her. "Does it matter who did what? I just want to know why."
He hesitated and then said, "We existed where you did not want us."
Sera studied his face and the vivid golden eyes. There was a beauty to that face she could not deny. Yes there was anger, but did her imagination also read bitterness and hurt? "I do not believe you would harm me. I am not even convinced you can influence our souls."
"Then you are naïve."
She didn't answer. His eyes were closed, but of course he was weak from the fever. His shadowed face showed that well enough.
He was not what Sera had expected. He was right, she had been naïve, and stupid, to think she might succeed where others had failed. She did not believe she was the first to try. Arrogant, too, she realized. Safe and unworried in Castle March’s solar she had come down to this pit of darkness and been forced to think beyond her own little world of embroidery and simples and petty court politics.
She arose to pace, forgetting the straw that already laced her long gown. Was this the hyatu's danger, that they made one think? No, it had to be more than that. Did they understand thoughts as well as words? Thinking back, the hyatu had answered things Sera had not spoken aloud, but that might have been sheer intuition. He was intelligent and astute, but she shuddered at the idea of such an invasion, horrified by what else he might have read there.
Her thoughts came around to Faella again. Could the princess have planned this from the beginning, knowing Sera's avid curiosity and sympathy for anything in need?
"Oh, damn you," she whispered to the cell door as doubts flowed in. "You are dangerous indeed to make one look at oneself in such a manner." Still, it did not make him the monster her people claimed, just a clever man.
"K'sar Raheeth Tianon."
She turned at his voice.
"My name," he said in explanation, as though giving her a gift.
"Sera Ayabara," she said in return. "Thank you." And turned away. For some reason she felt like crying and did not wish him to see. Of course it was exhaustion, so she went to her pitiful corner and tried to sleep.
K'sar Raheeth Tianon remained tucked in his blankets. Tigh came and went without noticing the prisoner's lack of chains. He left food that Sera forced herself to eat. She knew that K'sar's fever had broken when she awoke to find him standing wrapped in his blanket. He seemed very tall from her perspective on the straw. Perhaps his gauntness emphasized it, but he stood taller than Sera's brothers. She read the determination on his face, though he remained pale and his lips trembled. He was still several feet from the cell door.
"Sit before you fall," Sera said briskly, in a tone she might have used with her brothers.
He turned too quickly and she stopped him falling. He released himself as though loath to touch her, but Sera said nothing, just made sure he got back on his pallet.
"Tell me this much," she asked when he was settled. "Did you intend harm to March?"
"No."
The conviction in his voice made him easy to believe; neither did he flinch from Sera’s gaze. "Then what were you doing here?"
"We watch over the land."
"So you were spying?"
"Only to make sure you encroached no further toward us."
"You don't live close by," Sera pointed out. At least she presumed hyatu didn’t since they were so rarely glimpsed.
"Close enough."
If that was evasive then she would let that one pass. "I can't help you if you don't help me. I don't wish to see you hang. Irian will listen to me."
"He isn't here."
"He will be."
"Not in time."
The flatness of his voice made her ask, "Don't you care?"
"Of course I care. I care that my people are safe."
"As I do."
"Then help me escape."
Stunned, Sera stared at him. It was the first real emotion she had heard from him, a heartfelt plea filled with passion.
"You ask me to betray my own people."
"Betray whom, Sera Ayabara? The girl whose petty jealousy will ruin your reputation? Imagine the doubts and whispers when you re-emerge. Oh, subtly engendered for sure. Hints here and there from Faella. The sidelong glances, titters behind the ladies' fans—can you not picture it now?"
"Stop it! You don't think I can rise above Faella? Who will believe this ever happened? I know my virtue is intact."
"But is your soul? How might I have influenced you?"
"You are cruel," Sera whispered, "and foolish. No matter my reputation, I cannot open a cell door without a key, and if I could, how would you escape the castle? There is a mile of greensward before the forest, just perfect for an archer's view. Besides which, you can barely stand."
"The iron's proximity hurts me."
"Why?"
"My body rejects it like a poison."
Sera hesitated, studying him, and said, "Tell me why I should even think about it."
"Because I spoke the truth. My death could start a war. My brother... my brother will not take my death lightly."
"Why should I believe you?"
He reached across and lifted one of Sera's hands. Startled, she kept still. He looked down at their hands, golden eyes shadowed. "I do not like to touch you because your thoughts pour into mine. I do not want your thoughts, Sera, and I doubt you want mine, but see them all the same."
Before she could pull free in alarm, images entered Sera's mind. Images of another place so unlike this cold, stark castle she knew she could not have imagined it. A place of trees and flowers and flowing waterfalls, beautiful houses in idyllic
settings. She watched the place destroyed by fire, the felling of trees, the killing, the futile protest of K'sar's people going
unheard.
Like a dream, images changed. A woman walked beside K'sar as they traversed the forest before March Castle. A quarrel whistled out of nowhere and K'sar's companion fell. Cries could be heard, the thump of men running. With a cry of anguish, K'sar ran at the people who had sent the quarrel, yet he was unarmed. Five men manhandled him to the ground where he fought until a pain like a red-hot poker cleaved his body. He screamed in naked agony as poison flooded his
system.
Through K'sar's eyes she saw Irian climb to his feet, a bloodied dagger in his hand. He cleaned it and then ordered the captive trussed and taken to March. K’sar had expected to die. Prepared for it before Sera came to give him hope.
Tears running down her face, Sera looked at K'sar. "Was the woman your wife?"
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again tears magnified the gold. "Not mine. My brother's," he whispered.
"I doubt Irian even saw it was a woman."
"You think it would have made any difference? You kill indiscriminately."
"Irian wouldn't..."
"You harbor dreams."
"We see each other as monsters but both are only trying to survive. We must talk to each other."
"Yes, but not here. Not in this situation where tempers are bound to fray. Do you think I could face G'dera's killer without anger?"
She saw the truth of it. Perhaps he did manipulate her soul, but Sera saw the necessity of his escaping. She had seen that first war through his eyes. She huddled in a corner, staring at the lock on the door, wondering if it would be more difficult than the chains. She had no idea how she could get K'sar beyond the guard. She took out her scissors and toyed with the lock. It was much stronger than the cuffs and would not yield. So absorbed in her task, she did not notice she had company until a voice said:
"You know, generally a key works much better."
Chapter Two
It was a good day. The road to Castle March lay wreathed in evening summer sunshine. Oswith of Foll was now minus, not only Leric’s cattle but some of his own, and no one had died.
Men’s anticipation grew higher the closer they came to home. Three weeks they’d been away. Camping under the stars wasn’t bad in summer, but a man’s own bed was something worth fighting for. That and a pretty girl. Irian smiled as the castle walls came in sight. He’d missed Sera, he realized. Not long ago she’d just been an annoying brat. Still was some days when she climbed one of her hobby horses, but she certainly had blossomed. In all the right places, too.
Irian stood in his stirrups to better see the back of the train where the wounded brought up the rear. Four injuries, all minor, and one of those come about because a damn fool soldier couldn’t stay on his horse when he’d tried
to separate a cow from its calf. A broken collarbone was easily mended. Indeed it was a good day.
The last stretch of road and the portcullis came in sight. Irian halted his horse until the last man was through into the inner ward and then a groom came to take the beast. Irian didn’t leave until men and equipment were away and the wounded before the surgeon. He’d already made a brief written report to King Leric. Later would see the details. Now all he
wanted was a bath, food, and a change of clothes, in no particular order.
As the last horse was led from between a cart’s traces someone cleared their throat behind him. Irian turned to see Tigh, the dungeon guard. Damn. For a little while he’d forgotten about the hyatu.
“Still alive, is he?” Irian asked.
“Aye, sir,” the craggy sergeant said.
“You have a problem, sergeant? Can’t it wait until I’ve bathed and changed?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
Irian removed his gloves and raised an eyebrow in question.
“There’s been, like, a complication, sir.”
Keen to get to his bath, Irian smacked his gloves against one thigh. Tigh flinched, clearly in a dilemma about something. “Out with it, man!”
“Tis the Lady Sera, sir.”
“What has the Lady Sera got to do with the prisoner?”
“It were the princess, sir. I couldn’t sees how to make it right, so I did as I’s told, but it ain’t right, sir.”
“What isn’t?” Irian cried in exasperation.
“The princess had the lady imprisoned with the hyatu.....”
Irian didn’t let the man finish. He ran across the courtyard and into the prison tower entrance, hurtling down the twisting stairs in frantic haste.
Imprisoned with a hyatu? Only Sera could have managed that. A highborn lady in danger of losing her soul to one of those beasts. He’d think about what Princess Faella had done after. Right now all he could think of was Sera.
Breathless, he reached the corridor before the archway leading to the dungeon room which housed the ironbound cell. He quelled the urge to call out Sera’s name and took a breath. Before he could walk in Tigh caught his arm.
Breathing in wheezes, the craggy gaoler gasped, “Sir! Just listen a moment will ye! Please!”
He listened in growing disbelief to Tigh’s tale. “I’ve stayed close, sir, listening like, making sure he didn’t do nuthin. He speaks a civilized tongue and he didn’t hurt the lady. Says he’s a king’s son and his death could start a war.”
“Does he indeed. Has he taken your soul, Tigh?”
The old sergeant blanched. “No, sir! and I doubt he took the lady’s either. He’s been too sick for that kind of
nonsense.”
“So now, for the first time ever, we have a decent hyatu? Tigh have your brains descended to your bollocks?”
Tigh straightened, offense written into his features. “Don’t think so, sir.”
Irian turned back to the archway. He walked through slowly. Sera didn’t look up from what she was doing. Something glinted in her hand and she was so intent she didn’t even notice him. A smudge of dirt decorated one cheek. Straw laced
her dark hair.
“You know generally a key works much better.”
Her busy hands stilled. She didn’t look up immediately but her cheeks rounded as she smiled. “I haven’t got a key,”
she said.
“Obviously not. Where were you thinking of going?”
It was an old game. One they’d played as children the many times she’d been disobedient enough for her grandmother to lock her in her room. It didn’t seem that long ago he’d treated her as a sister. Not anymore. Not for a while in fact.
“It’s just...”
“He’s convinced you he’s something he’s not and you felt it only right to free him. My darling girl, I’m sorry, but they do that all the time.”
"You were listening," Sera accused and looked into his eyes.
"No, but Tigh is blessed with a good memory. He told me of your conversations, among other things."
Irian held a great ring of keys he’d plucked from a wall hook. He glanced at the supine hyatu, selected a key, placed it within the lock, and turned. The door sprang open. Sera climbed to her feet, dusting straw from her dress.
"I stink," she stated, wrinkling her nose.
Irian began to smile. Actually she looked quite fetching with her tussled dark hair, but the smile left his face as anger came. He said, "You do, sweetheart, and for that, Faella is going to pay, king's daughter or no. Come."
Sera lifted her chin. "Not without K'sar," she said.
So the hyatu had a name. Irian paused. "Sera, no," he said softly. "This isn't one of your strays. This is a beast who wields magic as easily as you and I breathe.”
“Beast or man, does it matter? His death might cause war between us—is that what you want?”
“No! But you cannot believe him.”
"If Tigh told you of our conversations, how do you know he wasn't telling the truth?"
"Because that's how the sneaky bastards work. Doubt and manipulation are their second names. –What did you say his name was?”
She hesitated, but then she said, “K’sar Raheeth Tianon.”
“Then I know he's lying. K'sar Raheeth Tianon's been dead these past hundred years."
The straw rustled as K’sar climbed to his feet. Memory of this creature within Irian's mind remained vivid. Now he stood behind Sera, cowardly enough to use a woman as shield.
"I'd never heard the name before Faella left me here. How do you know it, Irian?" Sera asked.
"Because my great-grandfather killed him. It's not a name the Highgren's forget, since the bastard caused our first castle to fall in upon itself, killing half my family, including great-grandfather's first wife and baby son. There's even a pretty picture of grandfather standing over the filthy animal with a sword, about to deliver the death blow."
"What Lord Highgren so conveniently forgets to mention is that his grandsire built his castle on hyatu land without even asking it's owners. Directly over a holy site whose destruction brought starvation, illness, and death to my people," the hyatu said in his cutting voice. "He also neglects to say that the holy site was a spring bubbling out from bed rock, on which his foolish ancestor built the foundations of his castle. The castle collapsed because the ground underneath it was unstable."
His whole life, Irian had been taught the hyatu were not human; that they were beasts with far too much intelligence. No one had ever seen where they lived. It might be a hole in the ground for all Irian knew. The arrogance of this ones speech told another tale. Irian did know there was truth in the tales of magic and manipulation. Why would his own family lie about a castle collapsing around their ears and done by one hyatu with no more than a thought?
"Your lies might fool a naïve young girl; they have no effect on me. I have experienced your brand of manipulation. To engender an innocent’s sympathy is the lowest form of cowardice," he said, sarcasm matching K'sar's biting tones. "And you seem to have an inordinate amount of memory for a hundred-year-old tale—or is that just another rumor we hear?"
"If we live longer than you, man, it is because we live properly, and no, I am not a hundred years old, but the story was passed down as an example of human stupidity and excuse for their own mistakes. A classic apportionment of blame on
innocent people. Oh, how I applauded when I heard the tale. At least your grandsire's death was swift. History is consistent. I see the Highgren's killing ways haven't changed."
"Stop it. Please stop it," Sera cried. "If you want to quote examples, isn't this just another? Perhaps, Irian, your ancestors didn't know about the holy site. Perhaps they truly believed the hyatu toppled the castle. Perhaps if they had talked
it might never have happened?
"Can't you see what you are doing? You are both taking a position and defending it like vermin in a barn. You aren't discussing possibilities but declaring warfare before the army's even lined up. It takes two to fight a war."
"Yes, one to attack, the other to defend," K'sar cut in. "Should we just give you everything and be done?"
"I don't know! You are talking history."
"Am I history, Sera? But of course, every word I say is a lie. Perhaps I am a hundred years old—no, make that three—and remember the first time you took from us. If it's a hanging he wants to salve his conscience,
then let him go ahead. I'm sure I shall dance enough to amuse, while my brother plans retribution. Mayhap my brother can find another fault under this castle."
The passion in Sera’s hazel eyes was for the hyatu, not him. That hurt, that the hyatu had done that. Manipulating such an innocent was beyond reproach. He’d even called her by her first name--as familiar as a friend. Irian’s stomach clenched with hot anger.
During the conversation, both Sera and the hyatu had moved away from the cell door. He should have locked it after he’d let Sera out, but the iron should have held him. Except that his manacles were no longer in place. Had Sera removed them? Irian rested one hand on his sword hilt as Sera took another step--to get the hyatu even further from the iron?
Irian’s fingers tightened on the hilt.
The hyatu looked regal standing in the flickering light, his face a pale contrast to his dark clothing.
Sera touched Irian’s arm. "Irian, you know I am not that gullible."
"Not normally, no, but you'd defend a wolf for killing your favorite hound, if you thought it had reason."
Hurt filled her eyes. She lifted her chin. "Perhaps I would, if my hound had invaded that wolf's den and slaughtered its cubs. And would I be wrong?"
"It's not the same. You are wrong to make the comparison."
"Not so," K'sar said, "for are not the hyatu the wolves and humans the hounds? You misjudge on the basis of rumor and fear of what you do not understand."
"You attacked me,” Irian said with conviction.
"Because you had just killed a woman I loved!" K'sar cried. "And what did I attack you with, my brave human? Nothing but my bare hands. Five of you bore me to the ground, burning me with your foul accoutrements and stabbing me with your poison. Then you chained me like a dog. If I tried to escape by manipulating this lady, at least I did not stick a quarrel in
her first."
“God’s truth! You know well that I didn’t realize it was a woman. You were quick enough to rape my mind. Did you plan this once you knew who Sera was? Saw her in my mind, didn’t you?”
“Oh I saw your guilt for loving another when your wife was barely in her grave. Saw what you’d like to do to her body. You took the woman I loved, why shouldn’t I take yours? Her innocence was only fuel to my hunger….”
"Damn you!" Irian roared and lunged with a slither of steel.
A cry echoed around the dungeon, followed by shocked silence.
So focused on an enemy it never occurred to Irian what Sera would do. Too late for Irian to pull his blow, Sera had placed her body between him and K’sar. Desperate he’d tried to stop the momentum and had failed. When the blade sunk into flesh, fuelled by his anger, it was already too late. He’d reacted instinctively to the hyatu’s provocation.
Everything slowed, especially the horror of what he’d done. He stared stupidly at his hand on the hilt of his sword, wishing it wasn’t his; wishing so many things that would never be. He had to pull the blade from her flesh, but if he did that she would die even more quickly.
"Irian?" Sera whispered.
Her voice sank into his brain. He moved forward as though to take her in his arms, but K'sar spoke.
"If I let her go, she will die. I am all that is keeping her alive. For once, believe me, man."
Irian hesitated then stilled. "You can do that?"
"I might have saved her life, away from this iron. If I wasn't so weak."
"You goaded me!" It was a plea.
"You weren’t listening. I wanted your attention. This is so wrong. So wrong, Gods help me!” His voice was ragged, hoarse, filled with tears and pain.
“I have to pull the sword,” Irian said through his teeth. “I have to.”
“I have her pain,” the hyatu said, and for some reason, Irian believed him. The shame was even greater when he saw that his sword thrust had caught the hyatu as well.
Irian pulled. He dropped the sword to the ground, its clatter echoing on the ground like an accusation. Sera and the hyatu still stood upright, holding each other as close as lovers. Slowly, she turned in K'sar's arms. With trembling fingers she touched the bloodied wound in K’sar’s stomach.
"I can't..." K'sar began, then staggered. They sank to their knees, still close. It was as though someone had taken all the air out of Irian’s lungs. His limbs, his voice, his mind, nothing would work.
"Irian!" Sera cried urgently.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," Irian rasped as he knelt beside them.
Sera lifted a hand, touched his lips. "It's all right."
He caught her hand, enfolding it. "How can you...?"
"Say that? Because I know you didn't mean it. Listen. Please listen."
It took him several moments to breathe, to make his heart start beating again. He got himself under some semblance of control. His voice shook but he said, "I'm listening."
"Then listen to K'sar also. Faella did this because she was jealous of our friendship. That doesn't matter now. What matters is that I learned so much and I haven't time to tell." She laughed softly, a whisper of sound. "I so wanted to be the
heroine of the tale, prove everyone wrong. And I would have. Promise me you will listen to K'sar."
He would promise her the world if only she would live. "I promise."
She smiled, which nearly broke his heart. Then she turned back to the hyatu. "You can let me go now."
The hyatu smiled back although Irian could only imagine the effort that took. "I have my own promises to extract." He looked at Irian and for once, Irian did not avoid his golden gaze. "Man, go to my brother. Tell him not to seek revenge. This was my own fault as much as yours. That G'dera died with his name on her lips, and that any punishment I am due I have received tenfold. Tell him to forgive me for loving them both too much. Swear you will do this."
Swear to a hyatu? Go to them? The idea was unfathomable, but he knew Sera watched him, could feel her hazel gaze on his face. He would do it, for her, not for the hyatu. "I swear by my sword, but I don't know where to take the message."
"I will show you in your mind. Don't be afraid."
Irian was long past fear. Pictures came into his mind. Pictures he barely acknowledged, still unsure if he could carry out the promise. He didn’t deserve to live and knew it. When K'sar had finished, he turned back to Sera. "Thank you Sera
Ayabara, for believing me. For your kindness to a troubled soul." Then he crumpled, leaving Sera kneeling. She cried out and Irian gently pulled her into his lap. She looked up at his face. Guilt made it difficult to meet her eyes.
"It has to be for something. Don't waste it," she said. She shuddered as though cold. He’d seen too many men die on battlefields. He knew how they drifted. He clutched her more tightly. "You know... we never kissed."
No, they never had, and now ... that would be all he ever had from her. He bent forward and kissed her gently, and tasted the copper tang of blood. He tried to smile but his lips trembled as he fought back grief.
"Sera!"
His voice seemed to call her back for a little while. "I so wanted to leave my mark. To have people say, Sera Ayabara
did that."
"Oh, you have, my darling girl," he said. "You've left your mark upon me, indelibly written in stone. I will go to this hyatu's place. For no one else but you."
A tear fell on her face. His. He reached out to wipe it away and she sighed and stilled. It took Tigh and three others to part him from the knife he tried to use on himself.
Chapter Three
Never had the great hall of March Castle seemed so long as when Irian Highgren strode its length to the raised dais at the far end. Silence fell as guards opened the double doors for him to enter. Sympathy showed in their eyes but they said nothing. Irian squared his shoulders and began his walk past the trestle tables seated with courtiers. A minstrel had been playing in the upper gallery. Even his lute fell quiet on a discorded note.
Irian did not look right or left as he trod the rushes. The scent of lavender and fennel rose as his feet crushed herbs; they could not take the stink of death from his mind. They never would. Not now.
King Leric waited on the dais, seated on his wooden throne to dispense justice. Out in the inner ward a rope creaked where it hung from a scaffold. Irian expected to see it closely before day’s end, but first he had a tale to tell. He came to a halt several paces from Leric. Evening sun beamed down through the stained glass windows above and behind Leric, making
colored patterns on the stone dais.
Faella sat between two ladies to Leric’s right. One of those ladies should have been Sera Ayabara but her seat had already been filled by another.
Instinct was to slap the sneer beneath Faella’s nose and shake the bitch until her bones rattled. That, or kill her. Sense had Irian Highgren bottling every emotion he possessed so that his words came wooden and forced from a throat parched as ashes.
The usual sounds of men and women talking, of clattering plates and whining dogs ... even the dogs fell silent as Irian told what led to him killing Sera Ayabara.
Some gratification came on the heels of the king’s clouded expression, but nothing could ever atone for a young woman’s death. A spark of life that had held so much promise and now was gone. The promise of a love that would never
be....
King
Leric’s face betrayed his emotions. Thick eyebrows lowered over his eyes, mouth narrowed to a grim line behind beard and moustache. His meaty hands clenched on the arms of his throne.
Irian finished his tale, sparing himself nothing. His guilt would not allow it. Leric took a breath and turned to his daughter who sat at a long table to Leric’s left. Her sallow face turned whiter than lilies.
“Is this true?” Leric asked his daughter before the whole court.
“She spoke trea....”
“Is this true!” Leric thundered.
Fear trembled at Faella’s lips, yet she had the courage or callousness to lift her narrow chin. “Yes. I ordered her
imprisoned.”
“Come here.”
Faella hesitated. Irian watched without pity as Faella approached her father’s throne. A loud crack echoed across the great hall, rising to the hammered beam roof high overhead. Faella cried out and fell to her knees, one hand to her burning cheek. A hound howled, low and afraid, sensing the anger.
“A young woman lies dead, because of you,” Leric said in a low voice.
“Not by my hand!” Faella protested.
“Silence! You have done and said enough without my authority. Your petty jealousies led to this. Out of my sight! You will be confined to your rooms until I decide your fate. Out!”
She opened her mouth, but one glare from her father and she closed it, scrambling to her feet and backing away. The door of the great hall boomed as it closed behind her. Irian heard her footsteps as she ran down the stone corridor outside.
The king’s anger held the court in silent anticipation. Irian walked into that tension and knelt before his king. He unsheathed his sword and laid it crosswise on the step before the throne and waited, head bowed. He hated that sword. A baby wailed somewhere distant, quickly hushed. The king’s breath came harsh as he controlled his fury, the stink of sweat permeating the hall as those listening awaited his judgment on his commander’s fate.
“You made a promise to this hyatu?”
Irian raised his head. “Yes, Sire, on my sword.”
Leric sighed. He leaned forward and picked up Irian’s long sword, turning it over between his hands so that the sun reflected along its lethal length. Leric’s gloved hand fisted around the hilt. He rammed the sword into a crack on the step before him. In one swift move he stomped on the upright blade. It snapped up near the hilt and clattered to the floor.
Irian swallowed. “What of my promise to the Lady Sera, Sire? I am guilty of her murder, but others might carry the promises
out.”
“You would defy me and go to these hyatu?”
“I swore the message would be delivered, Sire.”
“To a hyatu.”
“My sworn word, Sire. To both.”
For a long time Leric did not speak, until restless feet rustled in the hall. Still Leric contemplated his answer, refusing to be
rushed.
“Your punishment is this. You will go to the Lady Sera’s family in Ayabara and tell them of these events and take her body to them. You will take my daughter with you and ask, nay beg, the Lady Sera’s grandmother to treat her as she sees fit. Then you will go to this hyatu’s brother.”
Irian drew breath. He’d expected the scaffold. Somehow this was worse. Throat dry, he asked, “What do I say to this
hyatu?”
“What you will. This is no overture of peace, but neither will I start a war over an error. The Lady Sera was not wrong. Our hatred of one another is long past explanation. This... creature did no harm to the Lady and for that I would know why. We do not war on women, Irian, yet two women lay dead. How did that happen? Ignorance. I will not remain ignorant.”
“How many men will I take?”
“Ten of your choosing as far as Ayabara. Then you will go on alone. You leave at dawn.”
Irian climbed to his feet, bowed and turned.
“Irian.”
He turned back. Leric held his eyes. “I expect you back, Lord Highgren.”
Denial sung in his heart. He stared at the broken sword. He was glad. He did not want it.
“Irian,” the king said again, softly.
Irian picked up the broken sword. He saw nothing as he walked from the hall, just a picture in his mind of sharp metal cleaving a woman’s flesh over and over; the copper scent of blood, the taste of it on her lips. The shattered
halves of the sword cut into his fingers. It seemed just.
* * *
Within a temple built from a circle of trees, Tresar Tianon stood, hands out-stretched, pleading to the deities of earth and
air.
Head flung back, Tresar cried, “What have I done! Both of them?”
Lerai, friend and messenger, knelt behind him. Tresar turned to see tears running unheeded down Lerai’s face.
He could not keep the horror from his voice. “Gods of star and sky, Lerai? How?”
Lerai climbed to his feet and placed his hands on Tresar’s shoulders, offering what small comfort he could. “If I had answers I would share them, my friend, but I don’t. K’sar he ... we felt his death on the winds. There was no blame in his song.”
T’sar squeezed his eyes shut. “G’hera?” He whispered his wife’s name.
“One moment her song rode the winds, then was gone. I’m sorry Tresar.”
He knew Lerai meant the words yet they seemed so trivial, so indequate. A shudder ran through Tresar, a sob he could not contain. A broken sound of a loss he could not yet fathom or take in while his heart broke with the pain.
The gods refused answer, and though he sought both G’hera and K’sars’ souls upon the winds, it was as though they had never been. His cry of anguish flung the birds into a red-streaked sky. He watched their flight against the stained sky,
wondering if K’sar and G’hera’s souls flew with them.
Tresar sank, exhausted into the tree litter. “Do—do my parents know?”
“They await you, Tresar,” Lerai said gently.
Of course, they would know how distressed he would be; how much he’d loved both brother and wife. They were right to send Lerai. Tresar nodded and scrubbed at his eyes. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand through his hair. Even in
grief he remained a prince.
From the temple’s central point within the city to his parent’s house he saw little as he walked the familiar tree-lined paths without seeing. Even as he trod a path of herbs and their scent curled up to reach his nose, he took notice only because G'dera had loved chamomile. Beyond the gardens the door to the house stood open, a tradition among the hyatu to allow a soul a final farewell. Tresar went through and up a curving staircase. His parents waited in their private rooms. He found them with his youngest brother, Beran and his sister Casuli. Casuli’s face was dry yet her eyes were over bright with unshed tears. Beran said nothing. His father sat, face grim and set. Only Shahanon, his mother, still wept silent tears. Tresar
went to her first. She held him tightly as though she dare not let him go.
“What do we do?” he whispered.
“Nothing until we know more,” his father said, his voice gruff.
T’sar turned from his mother’s arms. “Nothing?” he asked in disbelief. “Isn’t it obvious humans killed them?”
His mother laid a gentle hand on his arm, plucking at his sleeve. “Lerai does not know for certain. He searched—you know he would have searched—but he found nothing. And K’sar’s death-cry held no anger.
“Tresar, listen, even if you don’t wish to right now. If G’hera died of some accident, then K’sar might have taken his own life in
grief.”
He studied his mother’s golden eyes. “You do not believe that.”
Shahanon walked away from him and over to a window and stared out at the mountains beyond the city. Her shoulders shook with her grief but her voice was clear. “What I want to believe and what might have happened are not the same. Do we risk our people and send an army into March? No, Tresar. No matter our grief, we cannot. No matter our anger. He was my son and G’hera your wife, and yet....”
“Then I will go alone.”
“I forbid it,” his father said, his voice clashing with Shahanon’s denial.
“No, Tresar,” she said, turning to face him. He saw fresh tears on her face. “Can you say you will be rational? I could
not. Lerai will take more people and try to discover what happened. Until then, I beg you, stay with us.”
They denied his every request to go and finally he gave in though it hurt him to do so. Yet his protests only hurt his mother more. He left, and as he walked down the stairs, Casuli caught up with him.
“They did not deny me,” she said softly. “I will go with Lerai.”
“And have them risk losing you, too? You know why they denied me.”
“You are heir.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And Beran is unsuited. They dare not let you go even though it is their love which forbids it.”
He hesitated and then pulled her into a rough embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, and then could say no more. Her scent reminded him too much of G’dera. He returned to the temple in the wood and prayed to find the killer of
his wife and brother, and uttered his vows of vengeance before the gods so that none could deny them when it came to the
reckoning.
As overcast as his mood, the day bore down on Irian with lowering clouds and the threat of rain; he bit his tongue as the men loading Sera’s coffin slipped in the mud and nearly dropped the casket. Anger that came too readily made him look away when the same men loaded another coffin beside Sera’s containing both h’atu bodies. His glance fell on Faella. The princess stood in Castle March courtyard, covered from head to foot in dark maroon velvets, her pale face a sharp contrast to the cloth. She’d opted to ride rather than be conveyed in a carriage for the ten day journey to Ayabara. That didn’t endear her to Irian. As long as she didn’t hinder the journey, he intended to ignore her.
Once the coffins were loaded, Tigh climbed into the driver’s seat, the old soldier insisting on the task. A groom brought Faella a palfrey as a servant girl climbed beside Tigh. For propriety the maid had been brought along, yet her eyes were red rimmed from weeping; the girl had been Sera’s maid and wished to return to Ayabara. Irian didn’t blame her and hoped Faella would be sensible.
Upon Irian’s signal, the small cavalcade set out, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestoned courtyard changing to thumps as they crossed the drawbridge. Irian glanced back. Leric hadn’t even come to a window to see his daughter off, and only soldiers walked the battlements.
The road outside was slick with autumn mud but not enough to hinder horse or cart. Irian led, glad to be out in front and not have to talk other than to issue orders. Since Sera’s death he’d barely had time to think. A good thing, perhaps, for now his mind sought ways he might have changed events, but what ifs solved nothing. Instead, he remembered Sera as a child, when he’d seen her as nothing more than Michos and Sever’s annoying sister. Time and years had changed that until he’d become her defender. Then he’d been sent to March to become a soldier and they’d drifted apart until they’d met again in Leric’s court. That had not been long after his wife’s death. Still reeling from that, Sera’s had been a comforting shoulder to lean on. Still he’d thought of her as Michos’ skinny, tomboy sister, not as a woman. Not until she lay in his arms dying by
his hand. Hindsight would bring nothing back nor overcome foolishness.
A shudder filled with guilt ran through his body. Irian’s horse jinked as his fingers tightened on the reins. He soothed the beast without thought. Tonight they would head for Fordingham and an inn. There would be nights when the cold ground would be their only comfort, but not this close to March.
Irian glanced across at Faella, who sat her horse stiff-backed, staring straight in front. Bitch, was all he could think of her right now. Jealous bitch. Jealous of others happiness. He’d never have looked at her were she not Leric’s daughter. She wanted
what she could never have, and when she couldn’t get it was as spiteful as a child. No wonder she remained unwed at eighteen summers. Not even a prince had asked for her hand.
Around March were soft rolling hills and farmland; easy travel for the first few days and nights. Then came a forest to traverse and a broad river to cross before they reached Ayabaran lands. A messenger had been sent on ahead with the news of Sera’s death. Would her brothers even wait for her body to arrive? He would not have.
Reins in one hand, he touched the smooth pommel of his sword. He carried the broken pieces still, having vowed to himself never to use a sword again. He carried an unstrung bow and quiver for defense. His palms bore the scabs of fresh healed cuts. They smarted as his horse began to sweat. He did not want to forget what he was capable of. If Sera’s brothers killed him, it seemed justice, even with King Leric’s admonition he return. A coward’s way to fall on his sword, yet that did not preclude someone else’s.
Irian shook himself away from that dangerous path. He had two promises to fulfill.
The journey to Fordingham remained uneventful. As did the next two days with only an autumnal shower to discomfort them. Faella said not a word, which suited him. He wasn’t yet sure he could control his temper.
The fourth night saw them camping in Baramay Forest. Soldiers set up tents, tied horses to lines and lit a central bonfire. Faella kept to her tent, sending the maid out for the venison from a deer one of the soldiers had brought down earlier.
Tigh came to sit beside Irian at the fire. Irian’s soldiers had the sense to keep away, judging his mood accurately.
The old soldier kept silent company for a while, and then said, “She won’t thank you for brooding, sir. T’wasn’t the lady’s
way.”
“You knew her better than I?” Irian retorted.
“Pretty lass had spirit. Could see that without looking,” Tigh said, and shoveled a forkful of venison into his mouth.
She had. He remembered the time she’d climbed that damned wall, and another when she’d hidden a hound puppy in her room to save it a beating for chewing her grandmother’s favorite seat cushion. Then there were the baby birds she attempted to raise, and the tears when she failed.
“Best let it out, sir. Does no good inside.”
What? He nearly asked, but he knew. He wasn’t a man who wept, at least not outwardly.
“You were there,” he said on a breath.
The fire crackled. Sparks rose into the night. Tigh munched, then put his platter down and his fork back on his belt. “Think I don’t blame myself for leaving her in there? Knew it wasn’t right but . . . me go against a princess’s orders? Should ‘ave gone to the king. Should ‘ave gone to someone.”
He held out a ring. Irian took it.
“Twas ‘ers. Always meant to give it back after.”
Irian twisted the jewel between his fingers. “This would feed your family for a year or more.”
“Guilt feeds no one but misery. So don’t you go doin’ nothing stupid, sir. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Tigh climbed to his feet and found his blanket by the fire. Irian stared at the flames for a long time. Maybe it was just the smoke that made his eyes blur.
* * *
Irian knelt before Beatrix Ayabara, aware that Michos and Sever stood either side of her like hounds held back by leashes. It had been hard to tell Leric what had happened. With Michos and Sever watching him it was terrible. He wished one of them would break whatever hold Beatrix has laid on them. He’d rather have fought. Worse was the disappointment in Beatrix’s eyes and the silent tears that ran down her wrinkled cheeks. She’d lost her daughter to a fever, and now Irian had killed her granddaughter. Michos gripped his sword pommel white-knuckled. A muscle ticked continuously on Sever’s cheek.
Beatrix drew in a ragged breath. “Leric sent Faella to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“To do with as I see fit.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“To go to these h’atu and deliver the message I was given.”
“Why would Sera defend such a one?” Michos asked.
“Because it was her nature to do so. I thought he had manipulated her, but in the end, no, I don’t think so. She wanted to prove a point, that h’atu aren’t the creatures we name them, and she was right. This one was well-spoken.”
“A prince?” Sever asked.
“So he claimed, and that his death might start a war.”
“Then why does Leric send his murderer?”
Irian looked up and met Beatrix’s eyes. “For the same reason he sent Faella to you. To show his contrition.”
“Then he sends you to your death.”
“Do you think I care?” he ground out, at the end of his control.
White-faced, Michos stared down at him. “I know you would defend Sera to your death. Otherwise you would not be standing there. I know you too well, Irian.”
He faced Michos. “Do you? I’m not sure I know myself anymore. I did not hesitate to kill a h’atu woman.”
“Did you know it was a woman?” Beatrix asked.
“I didn’t even stop to find out. She was h’atu and that was all that mattered then.”
“And now?”
“Sera was never a fool, ma’am. Impulsive perhaps but not a bad judge of people. We are afraid of the h’atu because they can see into our minds. We have labeled them beasts, saying they could take our souls, thus damning us. Is that the truth, or a tale passed around campfires? I don’t know, and Sera deserves that I find out the truth.”
“Then you won’t go alone,” Michos said.
“King Leric said....”
“It wasn’t only you who caused Sera’s death, but Faella and the h’atu himself by involving her within his tale. My sister, Irian. If just one of us had been at March this would never have happened, but we weren’t. We can all blame ourselves in various ways, but one person isn’t or can’t be responsible. If the h’atu hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t been called away, if Faella had
been a different person . . . no, Irian, you cannot shoulder all the blame. We will leave in the morning—Grandmother?”
“Yes, Michos, you may go with Irian.” The old woman climbed to her feet. Sever held out an arm and she placed her hand on it. “Now we would spend time with my granddaughter. I will deal with Faella later.”
* * *
Not only Michos and Irian traveled, but Tigh as well. The old soldier drove the cart carrying the two h’atu bodies. Irian didn’t see Faella again, for which he was glad. He didn’t envy Beatrix’s task. He doubted Sera’s grandmother could redeem the girl, and felt pity for Leric, who had no other heir.
Irian followed the map K’sar had implanted within his mind. At the time, Irian had been too distraught to think about how K’sar had done that, but as he rode with Michos, he did wonder. As he wondered about many things. Had K’sar spoken the truth about his great grandfather’s castle? If that was a lie, or at least a misunderstanding, then was Sera right about the h’atu?
“Deep thoughts, commander?”
Irian looked across at Michos, who rode beside him. That was difficult when every time he looked at Sera’s brother he was reminded of what he’d done. Michos had the same dark hair and laughing brown eyes, and Sera’s impulsive nature.
“I looked in your library last night. I could find little about the h’atu, which I did not find surprising. What I did find surprising was that our own history is so brief. Tigh said that this h’atu prince said we came from elsewhere—what did he mean by that?”
Michos shrugged. “A land across the sea maybe.”
“Then wouldn’t there be a reference to that—to our ancestors?”
“Never thought about it.”
“No. Nobody does. Isn’t that odd?”
“Bad enough managing this life, never mind what happened before our time.”
True enough, but a mystery all the same. “This K’sar said it was their land, that we took it from them.”
Michos narrowed his eyes. “So? Laws of war and conquest. What difference does it make?”
Oh to be so simple. That was Michos all over.
“How far’s this place anyway?” Michos asked.
“Western Rim.”
“Yes, you said, but the Western Rim covers a few acres or so,” Michos said with a wry grin. “In the mountains or the foothills? Bad country that, so I’ve heard. Ever thought to ask how your h’atu got to March? They have horses?”
Sometimes keeping up with Michos was hard work. He thought back. “Not that we found.”
“Ten day journey on horseback or thereabouts. What’s so important they travel to March in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” Irian said reluctantly.
“Then you don’t know what they were after.”
Irian gazed off toward the mountains. A haze surrounded their snowy peaks, a reminder that winter was not far off. He had no answers because, as Sera had said, no one ever talked to h’atu. Who was to blame for that? Both sides, he supposed.
“He wasn’t even armed,” he said quietly. “Neither of them were.”
“Do you need a sword to take a man’s soul?”
“Then why didn’t he take Sera’s?” Irian asked, looking at Michos. “He had every opportunity. He did convince her to help him escape, but he didn’t touch her, I swear. Tigh kept a close watch. He would have pulled her out, princess’s orders or no if he thought Sera in danger.”
Michos glanced over at the old soldier driving the cart. “Should have done anyway. Why didn’t he?”
“Faella threatened him, told him she’d already told the king and that Sera was to stay. He didn’t know any better and I wasn’t there to ask.”
#
K’sar’s mind map was accurate. Ten days after they set out the trio came the lower slopes of the Western Rim Mountains. The weather closed in on them, sending icy runnels of sleet down on their heads. Cold and miserable, that night they made camp beneath some pines, away from the wind as much as possible.
Next day brought sunshine and frost as they picked their way through a dense forest of evergreens. There were plenty of forests they’d ridden through on their way to the mountains, but none gave Irian the shudders like this one did. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Forests always possessed an eerie light as the sun made its way down past the branches and needles, yet this one made him think of ghosts. The trees here were ancient, ribbed and tall and whispered to one another as they passed. It soon became evident that getting the cart through without finding an established path was going to be impossible. After negotiating yet another trail around close-packed trees, Irian called a halt in a small glade by a stream.
“Your map doesn’t show paths, then?’ Michos asked sourly as he rubbed down his sweating horse.
Irian thought about it as he picked out his horse’s hooves. “Doesn’t ‘show’ anything as such. Just kind of pulls me in the right direction. If I go wrong it nudges me until I’m right.”
Michos stared at him. “And you trust it?”
Irian straightened up and stretched his back. “Got us this far, didn’t it?”
Michos looked up at the sky. “Tis only just past noon. I’m going to scout ahead and see what I can find—hunt maybe. If this is their country, follows there must be a road of some sort.”
“Does it? When we spoke about the fact they didn’t have horses.”
“I’m still going to look.”
Michos wasn’t under his command, he couldn’t stop him, although he wanted to. Instinct still told Irian that he was on the right track, he just couldn’t explain how. He glanced across at Tigh who was still unhitching the horse from the cart. The old man looked exhausted and not for the first time Irian wished he hadn’t brought him, but Tigh held as much guilt as he did and he hadn’t been able to gainsay him.
As Michos walked off into the trees, Irian hitched his horse to a tree and began collecting deadfall. Soon he had enough to start a fire, and when it blazed, called Tigh over.
“Michos will bring us something back to eat. Rest.”
“Horses ain’t fed yet,” Tigh said.
“I’ll do it. Sit down, Tigh and get warm. You look like death.”
Tigh looked affronted but he didn’t argue too hard. Irian broke out the nosebags and fed the horses some oats. He checked their legs but despite the bad terrain they all felt fine. He got some hot water boiling over the fire and made some tea while they waited for Michos to return.
The sky began clouding up before night fell. Irian looked worriedly at Tigh and then pulled the canvas off the cart and made a rough shelter before more sleet fell on them. Michos still wasn’t back as the light failed. Wind began whistling through the trees, eerie at first and then frightening as the trees thrashed. Irian checked the horses were secure, stamped out the fire and
then huddled with Tigh beneath the canvas, holding onto it lest the wind pick it up and blow it away.
Hail fell in noisy sheets, plunking against the taut canvas and soaking the ground around them. Even under the trees the horses jinked and fidgeted as the small white balls pounded them. Irian had to shout at Tigh to make himself heard. Tails to the wind, the horses kept their heads down. He couldn’t do more for them. Where was Michos? Taking shelter if he was sensible. Irian didn’t like being under trees during a storm, but there was little choice unless they ran for it, and Tigh sat shivering beside him. Irian moved closer to the old soldier to give him some of his own warmth, although that was little
enough.
The wind didn’t lessen any time soon, if anything it seemed to increase, until Irian thought they might be better off underneath the cart. As he thought it, the wind snatched the canvas away from his hand. The coarse material flew upward, the strings breaking. As it flapped like a giant bird across the glade the cloth spooked the horses, who tugged at their tethers in panic. One of them reared, snapping the hitching line. Irian ran but they cantered off between the trees before he could catch any of
them.
“Be back by morning lookin’ for their oats,” Tigh bellowed at him, and then collapsed into a wracking cough. Irian hauled him under the cart, which wasn’t much shelter as the wind whistled underneath, but was better than nothing. He lay back to back with Tigh all that night. Exhaustion claimed him eventually and as the wind finally lulled he fell asleep.
Morning brought sunshine and frost again. Irian hauled himself out from under the cart and looked around. The canvas hung limply halfway up a tree. If he felt like it he would climb and get the wretched thing later. Right now he needed something hot inside him and no doubt Tigh did more than him. He left his own blanket over the soldier and gathered up more deadfall. There was plenty about. More difficult to find the small cauldron he used for heating water, but he did eventually, buried under some pine branches. His saddle and pack were still beneath the cart, so he fetched them out and scooped some water from the stream.
“Where are you Michos?” he asked as the water began to boil, but only a lonely hawk answered him flying high above the trees. He let Tigh sleep for a while longer. It was hard to wake him, but he seemed better once he sat before the fire and drank some tea. After the tea they gathered their things together and left them in the deep shelter under a spreading pine, and then went in search of both the horses and Michos.
Pine needle litter and frozen ground didn’t leave many tracks.
“They’d make for grass or water,” Tigh said after their first unsuccessful foray. “Surprised they didn’t come back on their
own.”
Irian agreed but he didn’t say anything. Nothing about last night’s storm had seemed right. There wasn’t any sign of Michos either, and although they searched most of the day they found no sign of man nor beast. When they got back to camp it was to find their gear gone. Irian kicked a tree in frustration.
“Make our way out this forest?’ Tigh asked.
“Michos would have left a sign if he’d taken the gear.”
“Aye.”
“So we’re being watched. We’re blundering around like a pair of infants in a maze. For all we know Michos could be lying hurt somewhere.” Irian sat down by the remains of the fire. “I’m not going anywhere. Someone’s playing games.”
Tigh joined him on the damp ground. “Still got flint and tinder?”
Irian produced it out of a pocket. “Might as well be warm then, while we wait.”
They sat on their damp backsides watching the flames until Tigh remarked, “Mite early for an owl.”
Irian had heard the sound too. He fed a twig to the flames. “Maybe they have early owls on the Western Rim.”
“Maybe he could catch us a mouse or two. I’m getting damned hungry, I know that much.”
Irian smiled. His sword belt lay by his side. Despite the useless blade he kept the weapon close. He reached out a hand to gather it up. An arrow whistled past his hand and pinned the leather belt to the ground.
Tigh eyed the arrow. “Mighty cleaver owls they have around here.”
“Very accurate, yes.” Irian raised his voice. “I seek Prince Tresar Tianon.”
“Why, man?”
The voice came from just behind them. “I bear a message from his brother.”
“Prince K’sar is dead.”
“Yes.”
A rustle and a light thump and a h’atu walked out in front of them. Tall, blonde and golden-eyed, he held a knocked bow in one hand. “How did he die?”
“Of that I would speak to his brother.”
“Then you must come to Taeraven.”
Irian glanced at Tigh. “Not without my companion. Another of our party became separated from us during the storm last
night.”
“We know of him. He is well.”
“And the horses?”
For answer the h’atu lowered his bow and whistled. Six more h’atu came out of the trees. All tall, golden-eyed and slender.
“Two will stay with the old one. You will come with me.”
Irian hesitated, unwilling to leave Tigh among strangers.”
“Reckon my soul ain’t worth much,” Tigh said with a shrug.
“He will not be harmed,” the h’atu said.
Irian bent to pick up his sword belt. The h’atu lifted his bow in warning. “You go unarmed. You will take no steel or iron into h’atu land.”
His arrow tips were fire-hardened, Irian had already taken note.
“I’ll look after it, sir,” Tigh said softly.
Irian stared once at the sword sheath then nodded.
The h’atu set a brisk pace through the trees. Irian tried to keep up, but the h’atu knew every twist and turn and root. Not graceless or unfit, Irian was a big man more used to riding than this near run. Winded and cursing under what breath he had, pride nevertheless forced him on. He missed seeing the half-buried tree root of an alder that the h’atu nimbly jumped.
Something cracked; a sickening sound of bones parting as he tripped, the pain shocking. When his head connected with a rock it was a blessing.
* * *
There was too much time for thinking while Lerai and Casuli went in search of truths. Too many what-ifs and might-have-beens—too many questions that might never be answered. Too much time to brood.
Tresar trained with bow and arrow, and though he never missed the target, his mind lay elsewhere. Why had G’dera gone with K’sar? The true answer, not the one she’d handed out for all to hear. He had known K’sar loved her, and that it
was more than brotherly love, but he’d trusted K’sar would never overstep the boundaries of loyalty and family. Had that also been true of G’dera? The idea drove him half-mad, that he might never know. Let them rest, his mother had advised, but though he prayed, he could not.
Lerai’s summons drove him to his knees. His bow fell to the ground as h’atu came running to help him, but he bade them be still so he might listen.
“I’m coming,” was what he sent to Lerai, and went to his parents.
“Lerai and Casuli have met a man who has a message from K’sar. His last words. Yet accident has befallen the man and he might die. I must go.”
This time they did not argue. Irian and Michos had wondered why K’sar had had no horses. Hyatu did not need them, for they travelled the winds, at one with the world they inhabited. As much mental as physical, hyatu did not question what the gods gave them, but they did use it. To ride the winds was thought and belief. To believe oneself in another place. Tresar could picture his destination from Larai and Casuli’s minds. He could imagine his body as light as the wind and let the slightest breeze take him. So he linked with Lerai who drew him toward him, and while the journey was not instantaneous, it was quick.
* * *
“What happened?” Tresar demanded of Lerai as he knelt by the fallen man.
“He tripped over yonder root, broke his leg and cracked his head.”
Lerai already had a fire built and water boiling and had stripped the man of his clothes. Casuali sat nearby looking exhausted. She had used what healing powers she possessed to keep the man alive, but she wasn’t strong enough.
“He stinks like a sewer,” she said sourly, “but I did what I could.”
“Thank you,” Tresar answered, his mind already engaged with the wounds. The man’s thigh was fractured, which was bad enough, but the head wound was worse. He hesitated, knowing the healing would be dangerous. Let it lie, his mother had said, but he could not. He needed to know what this man knew of K’sar and G’dera. He debated just keeping him alive long enough to get that message.
“Do we know his name?”
“Irian Highgren,” a voice said.
Tresar turned to see another man behind him. An old man, craggy faced and tired-looking. “Tell me why I should save his
life?”
“He’s a good man.”
“Is there such a thing?” Casuli asked.
“He didn’t have to bring you your prince’s message.”
“Why did he?” Tresar asked.
“Because he lost someone he loved, too, and that were your brother’s fault.”
Irian Highgren didn’t have time for long explanations right now, but here was enough mystery to engage Tresar. “Everyone leave but Lerai,” he said.
“Don’t kill yourself for a man, Tresar,” Casuli warned. “Whatever message he bears, it isn’t worth it.”
“I won’t,” he said softly.
* * *
Someone whispered Irian’s name. Like a child playing hide and seek, Irian heard the voice from a distance, hidden and secretive, so he hid, as children do, a smile on his face, wondering who it was – Sera or Michos or perhaps Sever.
He hid behind a tree, hands either side of the trunk. A beetle ran over his fingers but he kept still lest he give his hiding place
away.
A face appeared in the leaves above him – narrow and golden-eyed. Startled, Irian stepped back.
“Do not be afraid, Irian,” the face said.
Irian recognized that voice. Must be dreaming, he thought quite rationally.
“No, this isn’t a dream. How much do you want to live, Irian Highgren?”
The answer should have been easy; that it wasn’t gave him pause. He stared back at the face. Memory reminded him of the last time he’d seen such features, but they weren’t quite the same.
“Who are you?”
“Tresar Raheeth Tianon. Prince of Taeraven. You wanted to speak to me.”
Confused, Irian looked away. Yes he had and he remembered why, but this didn’t feel right. He’d meant to meet this prince face to face, to explain himself, what had happened. This felt wrong. He looked around. He was within a forest, but he wasn’t sure where.
“Where am I?”
“Do you remember falling?”
Yes he did, and a startling pain. “Have you taken my soul?”
Tresar laughed. “Because we can see within your minds does not mean we can take your souls. That is a fallacy invented by narrow-minded men. You wanted to know where you are. You are in the same place that you fell. Not only have
you fractured your thigh but you have cracked your skull. My sister sent for me, because without healing, you will die.”
“You’re in my mind?”
“Yes, but I cannot heal you without your permission.”
“What else do you see in my mind?”
A sigh whispered through his brain. “Only the guilty of conscience so worry about the contents of their thoughts. Do you have much to hide, Irian Highgren?”
From you, plenty. It wasn’t what had happened recently, but the thought of someone dredging through his most private thoughts and memories was horrific. Those moments with his wife....
“Fool, do you think that is what we do?”
“How can I know?”
“Point taken. But we waste time. I asked you a question – do you want to live?”
Did he? Not long ago his wife had died, and now Sera, but he had promised both Sera and K’sar that he would talk to the h’atu. And the truth? He didn’t want to die.
“Then I will heal you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Speed up your own body’s healing capacity. I’m sorry to disappoint you but h’atu magic uses only natural elements. No soul stealing, arcane implements or demons. Enough talking, man. Just relax.”
* * *
Irian opened his eyes to find a woman watching him. Sharp faced as a fox, she stood, arms folded beneath neat breasts, a look of blatant hostility in her tilted eyes.
“Do humans ever bathe? You smell worse than a boar’s wallow. If we had clothes to fit you I’d burn the old ones. I am surprised you do not all die of plague and disease.”
He’d had better awakenings. He made to sit up but the woman moved and placed a hand on his chest. “No. My brother healed the bones, your body must do the rest. Though why he should concern himself with a druiksis, only the gods know better.” She brushed one hand against the other as though she found touching him distasteful. Perhaps she did given her remarks. He resisted the temptation to inhale, staring instead at the woman. Whatever a druiksis was it sounded insulting.
“Do even h’atu who travel the road for ten days smell of flowers?”
“They carry soap with them.”
Someone had laid a pillow behind his head. He leaned back against it. “You are K’sar’s sister?”
“You are free with others’ names.”
He sighed, too tired to fence with her. “I meant no offence.”
“Is that what you told K’sar and G’dera?”
“Sister,” a new voice chided.
Her face flushed along the sharp cheekbones.
“Casuli, leave us, please.”
Defiance marked her features. She pursed her lips, let out a heavy sigh, and then walked between the trees, back rigid with annoyance. The new h’atu watched her go and then leaned against a tree in a similar pose to the one she had used. Dark
shadows of weariness ringed his golden eyes, his face tight with exhaustion. Gold was not a cold color, yet this h’atu’s eyes held no warmth.
“You healed me only to hear K’sar’s message,” Irian guessed.
“Why would you be willing to bring it?”
“I swore I would.”
“Why?”
His head ached. “Because ... people died who should not have.”
“Who killed them?”
Irian swallowed and looked the h’atu in the eyes. “I did,” he said simply, “but listen before you kill
me.”
“Go on.”
He did, in terse sentences, leaving nothing out of the sorry tale.
“So you came to fulfill your promise to this Sera, not K’sar.”
“No. I came to redress a wrong. I can’t bring any of them back. None of it should have happened, but it did, and I’m prepared to pay the price of that.”
“With your death?”
“If necessary, yes.”
“Do humans take their lives so lightly?”
“No, but they are prepared to pay for their mistakes.”
“How does your death repay me for lives cut short? How would your death repay my people for past crimes? You think highly of yourself Commander Highgren.”
Irian studied the h’atu prince’s face. Drawn even more by tension and emotion, he held himself upright by will alone, so Irian thought. Grief marked his eyes, and bitterness.
“Sera wished that we learn to talk to one another. Her life was worth a thousand of mine. It is her wish that I came
here.”
“And your king?”
He hesitated, mortally tired, his head pounding. He was a man of war, the subtleties of politicians and philosophers were beyond him.
“He did not wish a war between us,” Irian said, and when he looked around again, Tresar Tianon had gone. He closed his eyes. Thirst nagged at him. By his pallet sat a flask. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for it. The scent of his armpits reached him. He almost smiled. He did stink, and didn’t know why he was still alive to appreciate it. He’d seen death in the h’atu’s eyes. Why had he not carried it out?
One
Was it the hyatu who made the sun dance between the dappled shadows of oak leaves, using their guile to bedazzle Irian Highgren, or merely the weather? Irian swiped a forearm across his face as sweat stung his eyes. A foot in his crossbow’s stirrup, he hooked the bow string and locked it, placed his quarrel, and made no more noise than the swaying branches above.
Two hyatu stood arguing by a thornbrake, the sun glinting off the bead embroidery of their tunics, three hundred feet from the oak trees where Irian and five soldiers hid. Why were they there? Why now when no one had seen them in years? Savage bastards almost looked human, from a distance, until a person saw the golden beast-eyes.
Murdering, bastard scum. They’d slaughtered Irian’s grandparents by poisoning wells and burying the innocent under tons of rubble. Always the innocent and the helpless. The children, the old ones. Irian’s fingers tightened on the crossbow’s stock. Like his Daena. His Daena and that wizened thing she’d delivered from her womb, with its misshapen head and its limbs all wrong. Of course she’d died of the shock.
What of the blighted crops, withering in the ground so villages starved, the plagues of virulent sickness which had taken Irian’s parents? Hyatu wouldn’t fight like real men. They sought to hurt those who couldn’t fight back.
Look at these two, arguing no doubt about what new innocent’s soul to take. Heart thudding a drumbeat within his chest, Irian wiped more sweat from his face and flexed cramped fingers. He wouldn’t kill like they did. Clean and swift was his way. Unfortunately, King Leric would want answers for their presence.
Save one for questioning then. The other could die. With a hand signal, he ordered his soldiers to fan out among the trees. Irian raised his bow, steadied his breathing, and waited for his men to get in place. Both hyatu were of a height. Lithe as saplings, with ragged blond hair falling free down their backs. It didn’t matter which he chose. One hyatu ceased speaking and looked around, and in that moment Irian let loose; easy as bringing an animal down for his larder. A hyatu fell, the bolt driving through his back and into his heart. That one would not be rising again. No magic in all the world could bring even a hyatu back from such a wound.
His men rushed forward in a clatter of chainmail and weapons, Irian at their heels as the second hyatu let out a cry that echoed through the trees and shivered through Irian’s blood. The creature did not run, his yellow gaze settling on Irian as if he knew who had fired that bolt. He ignored the five soldiers and leaped with a savage snarl. While his men attempted to grab thrashing limbs, Irian withdrew his dagger.
Time slowed to moments as Irian picked his target, then stopped when a voice sounded inside his mind. He froze in horror as a stream of language filled spaces inside his head. He would not lose his soul to a conscienceless beast! He roared his fear and stabbed the hyatu in one shoulder while his men finally found the guts to drag the still kicking hyatu to the ground.
The creature howled then fell still, shock plain on his angular face. Breathing hard he lay, his body already shuddering from reaction to the iron. No soldier of March went without such a blade. If no hyatu had attacked in a long while, memory of their cunning ran in a man’s veins. From his belt, Irian took a set of manacles and locked them around the hyatu’s slender wrists, while one of his men went for the horses. When the creature groaned in pain, another soldier kicked him. Irian stared, his mind still reeling, then barked a sharp order for the soldier to desist. Irian mounted up then took the long length of chain
attached to the hyatu’s manacles. He dragged the creature behind him all the way back to March, loath to touch him again, his mind aching from the horror of invasion. Somehow the creature stayed upright.
Castle March’s wide grey curtain walls loomed before them. Set on a rise, a broad river behind it, the castle’s towers dominated the landscape of forest and rolling hills. Through the outer gate and into the outer ward they rode. Irian dismounted and tugged on the chain. Barely able to stand now, the hyatu staggered. He gripped the chain with both hands and straightened, defiance written over his pale features. Irian drew his broadsword and gestured toward the garrison and prison tower and when the hyatu did not move, poked him with the tip of the blade. A shiver passed through the creature before he turned and stumbled toward the arched doorway and down to the dungeons. He baulked before the ironbound cell specifically built to hold creatures such as this. Iron was the only thing which would contain them. Irian raised his sword and for a moment he thought the hyatu would fight, almost hoped he would. His body tensed, but then his shoulders slumped as though he could take no more. A spreading dark stain soaked his jacket. It was the iron which would do more damage than the wound and Irian had been careful where he had driven the blade. Avoiding the bars, the hyatu walked through the doorway.
With a shudder of distaste, Irian locked the cell door behind the creature, who collapsed onto a heap of straw. Only then did Irian feel safe. Not that the hyatu’s physical prowess worried the Lord Commander of March’s army, but any God-fearing man had a right to be concerned about his soul.
“What were you doing so close to March?” Irian demanded when no more movement was forthcoming.
A rustle of straw and the hyatu turned his head, golden gaze boring into Irian’s eyes. He spoke, but in no civilized tongue, a rill of words filled with enough hatred to make any man quail. Unsettled both by his gaze and the force of his words, Irian said, “You will join your companion soon enough, once you give me answer.”
The creature laughed, a bitter sound. He turned to the wall as the laugh changed to a harsh sob of breath somehow expanded by the cell walls. An animal with feelings? Irian doubted it, but he hesitated and into that pause a vision
came to fill his mind.
A woman lay on a bed, face pale as milk, every breath a struggle. Irian held on to one of her hands as blood no one could stop flowed from her body. By her side lay a tiny wrapped bundle still as stone.
Before he could gasp outrage and denial, the image changed to another place, another time. A quarrel sped through the air to hit a young woman through the chest. So real that Irian staggered back with the force. The sound of the bolt striking flesh, the cry of horror, the bursting of a heart, the brief agony of death and the parting of a soul as it rose to the winds, painted horror into his mind.
So real, that for moments he followed the spirit’s path where it hovered to embrace death. On the cusp of joining another’s soul he cried out in rejection.
“Dislike what you see? An unarmed woman who did nothing more than stand. A woman with no more chance than your wife. You shot her in the back. You kill without conscience, without thought.”
He dared to compare Daena with an animal? The keys were in Irian’s hands. Blind anger drove him to open the door, draw his sword and press the point into the hyatu’s chest.
It was wrong for the language of March to come forth from this creature whose face was all angles and slanted eyes. He studied the lean, pale features imagining different ways in which the animal might die. Though he hadn’t moved, the creature breathed as hard as he. His yellow eyes blazed anger, his mouth a thin line of hatred.
The passion in his accented voice pricked Irian’s conscience indeed, but reminded so recently of the helplessness of watching Daena die, a hyatu woman’s death brooked no sympathy. “One less to breed your foul get.”
The hyatu moved. He grasped Irian’s sword, chains clanking metal against metal. If Irian moved now the blade would cut fingers to the bone.
“Let go or suffer the consequences.”
The hyatu smiled. “Of what? Your kindness? Your courage? Your whole race’s courage? So afraid for your soul. Well it’s already damned, Commander Highgren.”
Sweat trickled down Irian’s back. He refused to let his hand tremble as the impact of his name echoed. “How do you know my name?”
“Can’t you feel me inside? I am delving into your darkest secrets, your strongest desires, your greatest nightmares. Ah, such guilt. Your grief for your wife is as false as your rage. Who is this pretty thing so prevalent in your thoughts? Dark eyes, dark hair? Shall I find her and stab her in the back? Or shall I take her soul and twist until she is mine to do with as I please? Shall
I take her….”
He screamed as Irian pulled his sword. Fool! Irian knew at once he’d been goaded deliberately. The hyatu wanted a quick death instead of lingering by poison.
“Not that easy,” Irian rasped. “I will not kill you fast but watch you wither to a weeping sore of ruined flesh while you beg on your knees.”
The hyatu stopped his scream with bloodied hands. Breath sobbed in his throat.
“Why were you so close to March?” Irian growled again.
Not truly expecting an answer, he watched with avid concentration as the hyatu bought himself under some semblance of control. It took phenomenal effort while his hands dripped blood.
“For the same reason which killed your wife and child.”
His voice was startling clear for a creature under such pain and duress. Unnatural. “To spread your poison?”
“Stand there and crow, Commander, but your delight will not last long.”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, I have done nothing except be a fool.”
Irian stared at him. “There are ways to keep someone alive far longer than they would like.”
“And there are ways of killing more subtle than a sword,” the hyatu spat, and turned his back.
Irian took a rag from his belt and cleaned his sword. “We shall see,” he said, and sheathed the weapon.
Before he could leave the dungeon a messenger came skidding to a halt before him.
“His majesty wants you, at once, my lord.”
What could be worse than hyatu? Irian hurried to the great hall of March where King Leric already sat at supper. Irian refused to look beyond the dais to the young girl the hyatu had seen in his mind. Leric handed Irian a message from one of the regular troops who kept close eye on March’s borders. More urgent than any hyatu, Oswith of Foll, a neighboring petty king, had raided three villages to the south, not only taking cattle but destroying homes.
Irian gave Leric his report on the hyatu, although in truth there was little to tell until Irian could persuade more words out of him. He might be gone for days, in which case the hyatu could well be dead by the time he returned. A pity in some ways. He left him in an old sergeant’s care as he prepared soldiers for a sortie into Foll. Tigh was steady enough not to be manipulated by a hyatu, he hoped.
#
The acrid stench of urine-soaked straw played contrast to Faella of March’s silks. As out of place in a dungeon as weeds in a knot garden, Faella’s yards of taffeta and her pearl-studded bodice were incongruous as thistles. Faella lifted a pomander of aromatic herbs to her nose. The princess’s sharp-featured face held a sneer of disgust as she studied the creature in the
ironbound cell. The prisoner’s wretched condition tore at Sera Ayabara’s heart no matter what he was, and Faella’s expression dashed any hopes of improvement to his circumstances.
“A just position for such a creature,” Faella said, lowering the pomander a fraction.
“There is nothing ‘just’ about letting a man rot in his own filth!” Sera said, the words bursting forth before she could stop
them.
Faella turned, lifting a plucked eyebrow, her coronet of royalty glinting in the light of a fresh-lit oil lamp. “You would spare pity on such a beast?”
Even knowing the danger of arguing with Faella, Sera stood her ground. A princess in her own right, even if from a much smaller kingdom than March, conscience would not let her remain silent. “How can anyone not spare pity? Do not our priests preach kindness and forgiveness to those less fortunate than ourselves?”
“Not to our enemies.”
The hyatu lay unmoving within the cell. “Why is this man an enemy when the last time hyatu warred upon us was a hundred years past? Why this man and not our neighbors who raided our kine and slaughtered our villagers not ten months since?”
“You question my sire’s commands?”
“I question the way in which this prisoner is treated, yes. I question the orders which keep a man chained in his own filth for something his ancestors did.”
“So you would welcome the hyatu to your bosom?”
“No, but has anyone asked him why he came so close to March?”
“I am sure Commander Highgren did not shirk in his duty, but if you are so keen to find out, why don’t you ask him?”
Sera glanced through the cell door. The prisoner was in no state to be asked anything and Faella well knew it. Used to the princess’s games after two years in court, Sera shivered with premonition of trouble. Faella twirled her ribbon, the smell of the pomander cutting through the stench of the dungeon in a waft of cinnamon and cloves.
“If he was released into better conditions, then perhaps I could.”
“It is treason to help them.”
“In the name of common decency? Look at him! How long is it since he ate food? Since anyone changed his straw? That blanket would better serve a hound.”
Still twirling the pomander, Faella’s eyes narrowed, calculating. She smiled. “Since you have uttered treasonous thoughts in my hearing, and care so much for an enemy of my father’s kingdom, I think it only right you help him. Guard!”
Sera frowned, unsure what Faella meant, although she knew it wasn’t going to be good. She should have kept her mouth
closed.
The guard arrived. Sera listened in growing disbelief to Faella’s orders. Of course the guard couldn’t question the daughter of the king, although to give him his due, he tried. Faella cut through his arguments, informing him she would tell her sire
what had occurred and leave it to his judgment if Sera should remain the seven days and nights Faella specified. In the space of minutes, Sera found herself on the wrong side of the ironbound cell, the door locked, and her protests unheard.
“Faella, you have no right to do this,” Sera said.
Regal in her pearl-studded bodice and gown of starched taffeta, Faella smirked. “I have every right. It is my sire who rules here and his subjects obey me as they would him. Of course, as soon as I have a moment, I will inform him of your words. Until then, enjoy the company you sought. I would be careful for your soul, though. Heaven knows I hope God protects you from damnation.”
Bitch. But she wasn’t so foolish to say it out loud and gain even more trouble as Faella walked away with a swish of taffeta across the stone floor.
Someone other than the king would notice her absence in a few hours and rescue her. Faella could not get away with this. Sera managed a shaky smile. King Leric would not let his daughter imprison a highborn lady for uttering a few words that hardly added up to treason.
Convinced of her rescue, Sera glanced at the prisoner behind her. When it was obvious that no one was going to release her immediately, it occurred to her to do something instead of stand here like a frightened rabbit. The hyatu was in no state to take anyone’s soul, or so she hoped, and besides, no one had ever sufficiently explained to her how they did that anyway.
With shaking fingers she reached out and moved aside a swath of matted blond hair, to reveal a face so begrimed by dirt she had difficulty making out any features. He didn’t wake, giving her a chance to examine the cause of her misfortune. Before she had a chance to complete her study, the guard returned. Good, someone had finally woken up, but apparently not to release her. He held no keys, was making no attempt to open the door, and no one had come with him. So what had Faella threatened him with? She’d had to have threatened him with something otherwise this made no sense.
Sera forced a smile onto her face. “When is Commander Highgren returning?”
“Not back for a week nor more, milady.”
“Could a message be sent to him, do you think?”
“Has to obey the princess’s orders, milady. Ain’t got no choice.”
Irian would have noticed she was missing at once, so that’s why Faella had the gall to do this, Sera was sure, and since her brothers were back home in Ayabara that only left Sera’s maid who Faella, no doubt, would threaten with something or lie to, also. Well, if she couldn’t do anything about her own situation for the moment, at least she might for the prisoner. She pulled a ring from one finger and handed it through the bars to Tigh and then gave him a list of what she wanted. She wondered if he would bring what she asked for.
He began with a fresh heap of straw loaded into a barrow. He unlocked the door and stood guard with a halberd of all things. He didn’t offer to help as Sera forked out the old and brought in the new. Mind you, how could he without dropping his halberd? He did deign to trundle the barrow away once he’d double-checked the re-locked door.
No simpering maiden, she wasn’t some brawny wench either. Pure determination moved the hyatu off his filthy bed and onto the fresh one. She wondered if Tigh would bring all the things she’d asked for and was gratefully surprised when he brought some hot water in a covered crock along with some washing rags. The blankets, herbs, drinking water, soup, bandages, and salve appeared as time passed.
She put aside modesty to undress him and wash the filth-caked clothes, ripping seams for later repair when she could not get past the manacles. When Sera had finished her doctoring and cleaning, she wouldn’t have left the hyatu if King Leric himself had come down to the dungeon. Fever rattled his breath with horrid and painful regularity. Tears threatened to fall as she dressed suppurating sores and untreated wounds. Manacles had turned the skin beneath into a festering mush. She managed to ease bandages under the metal, to salve wounds and drip a concoction of herbs down his throat, watching every swallow lest he choke. She even washed his hair in an infusion of tree bark to upset the lice. Sera needed no physician to tell her the hyatu was near death. If she could offer him some dignity, she might achieve something.
Exhausted from her efforts, she sat on her heels when she wasn’t bathing the hyatu to reduce his fever. Could hyatu really take your soul? Dusty tapestries and fireside tales weren’t enough evidence, and those tales were told to frighten children to stop them wandering from their cribs. She had argued with Faella about that lack of knowledge even before they’d reached the cell. Now she could only watch a man fight for survival. By the end of a long night, she wondered what drove him to such a fight. A woman, perhaps—a wife and children—did hyatu even have wives? Yet his dark clothes were beautifully
embroidered by someone and the dark blue cloth finely woven and dyed. His tall boots were of the softest leather and his shirt of the whitest cotton. If this was a beast then he certainly knew how to dress.
Morning arrived, or so Sera supposed. The lamp had long since burned out, but the darkness had lessened enough she could study his ravaged face. Fever delineated every angle of bone and flesh. An exotic face. She wondered what made
him hyatu rather than human. Yet there was, even in his fever, an inexplicable otherness about him she had no words to
define.
He muttered something and Sera sighed. The fever did seem to have abated a little. She soaked a rag and reached to bathe his face, only to find her wrist caught in a surprisingly strong grip given his illness.
Throat dry, Sera looked into uncanny golden eyes, lucid as day.
“Do not,” he said in a cracked voice.
Stung by his tone she said, “Unhand my arm and I will not.”
He did, with a suddenness that made her wonder if it had been voluntary. His eyes were closed again.
Damn. One touch and she’d wanted to run in fear of her life, which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Perhaps not when priests offered eternal damnation if you lost your soul and preached about the evil influences of magic.
Tigh turned up with a breakfast of bread and cheese and when she asked for more herbs he hesitated.
“Why bother, milady?”
“For a principle. It doesn’t matter what he is. The king’s hounds are kept better.”
“They be loyal to the king.”
She understood, or thought she did, but it no longer seemed to matter. “Could you take his chains off?”
“No, milady. Don’t you be fooled. Iron’s the only thing keeps him here, and that’s a fact. He’ll trick you without it.” And he hurried away as if afraid she’d ask again.
No one had bothered to search her in Faella’s haste to lock her in. Like many another lady, Sera carried a sewing kit at her belt. It contained thread, buttons, needles, pins, and a small pair of embroidery scissors shaped like a bird. If the iron was poisoning the hyatu then he would die. That fact nagged at her all through the following hours, until she looked at the simple lock holding the cuffs. An idea blossomed then flowered. She took her scissors to the lock and began twisting. It took a while, before the first cuff fell. After that, the second went more swiftly. She hid the cuffs in the straw and covered his limbs with his blanket. She trembled, terrified she had done something beyond recall.
For several hours nothing happened but at last he opened his eyes.
“People aren’t the same,” she whispered. “If nothing else, remember that.”
She didn’t know if he could understand, but he said, “Why?”
She knew what he meant. She laced her hands in her lap, studying the filthy, broken fingernails, not meeting his gaze. "It seemed an adventure. I wanted to do what no one else had, and talk to an hyatu. I suppose I thought myself some heroine, until reality and the dark set in. The bitter truth is I can't do anything except ease your circumstances, and that very little. They will hang you for a spy."
"Then they risk war.
Sera looked up. "Over one hyatu?"
"A king's son," he said, and closed his eyes.
If that was truth, it was a coin that might be used. Yet why had he not used it before? Sera stared at his angular face.
Tigh arrived and the hyatu remained silent. Sera pulled another ring from a finger. "I know you said Commander Highgren was away, but I must send a message to him."
Tigh shook his head, looking with regret at the ring. "Can't be done, milady. I'm sorry."
Damn Faella. Why now had the princess acted? Because of Irian, Sera's thoughts told her. Faella was jealous. But Irian wasn't interested in any woman right now, not after the death of his wife in childbed six months ago. Irian was her friend. A brother she could spar with since they'd known one another since childhood. Irian had lived with Sera’s family for ten years. Sera knew the princess to be calculating, but that clever? To wait until Irian was away and then trap Sera as
she had? But she would be free before Irian returned, so what point.
"Seven days and nights with a man. What price your virtue then?"
Startled by the hyatu's rasping voice, Sera spun. "No one knows, I'm sure. She couldn't have got away with this otherwise. No doubt she's threatened or bribed the poor guard."
"You think she'll keep it quiet? I doubt it."
"You aren't a man."
He laughed, but the laughter turned into a wracking cough. Exasperated, Sera fetched a cup of water. She made to help but he held up a warding hand.
"Am I so abhorrent you cannot bear my touch?" Sera asked in irritation.
"Yes."
"You don't know me. Don't even know my name."
"I have no wish to."
"Did you tell Commander Highgren who you were?"
He paused, his face a grimace of hatred that set her heart thudding. “He seemed more interested in stabbing me."
Sera drew breath, studying the wildness in those golden eyes. For a moment she’d forgotten what he was. "What is your name?"
"I give that only to those I trust."
Hurt by his scathing tone she retorted, "I thought if we knew one another better, some understanding might be reached. Pride will not stop the hangman, knowledge might. We have hated one another for hundreds of years. Why? Why has it persisted when others have not? What did you do that we cannot see you without seeing an enemy?"
"What we did? So you presume."
The anger in his voice startled her. "Does it matter who did what? I just want to know why."
He hesitated and then said, "We existed where you did not want us."
Sera studied his face and the vivid golden eyes. There was a beauty to that face she could not deny. Yes there was anger, but did her imagination also read bitterness and hurt? "I do not believe you would harm me. I am not even convinced you can influence our souls."
"Then you are naïve."
She didn't answer. His eyes were closed, but of course he was weak from the fever. His shadowed face showed that well enough.
He was not what Sera had expected. He was right, she had been naïve, and stupid, to think she might succeed where others had failed. She did not believe she was the first to try. Arrogant, too, she realized. Safe and unworried in Castle March’s solar she had come down to this pit of darkness and been forced to think beyond her own little world of embroidery and simples and petty court politics.
She arose to pace, forgetting the straw that already laced her long gown. Was this the hyatu's danger, that they made one think? No, it had to be more than that. Did they understand thoughts as well as words? Thinking back, the hyatu had answered things Sera had not spoken aloud, but that might have been sheer intuition. He was intelligent and astute, but she shuddered at the idea of such an invasion, horrified by what else he might have read there.
Her thoughts came around to Faella again. Could the princess have planned this from the beginning, knowing Sera's avid curiosity and sympathy for anything in need?
"Oh, damn you," she whispered to the cell door as doubts flowed in. "You are dangerous indeed to make one look at oneself in such a manner." Still, it did not make him the monster her people claimed, just a clever man.
"K'sar Raheeth Tianon."
She turned at his voice.
"My name," he said in explanation, as though giving her a gift.
"Sera Ayabara," she said in return. "Thank you." And turned away. For some reason she felt like crying and did not wish him to see. Of course it was exhaustion, so she went to her pitiful corner and tried to sleep.
K'sar Raheeth Tianon remained tucked in his blankets. Tigh came and went without noticing the prisoner's lack of chains. He left food that Sera forced herself to eat. She knew that K'sar's fever had broken when she awoke to find him standing wrapped in his blanket. He seemed very tall from her perspective on the straw. Perhaps his gauntness emphasized it, but he stood taller than Sera's brothers. She read the determination on his face, though he remained pale and his lips trembled. He was still several feet from the cell door.
"Sit before you fall," Sera said briskly, in a tone she might have used with her brothers.
He turned too quickly and she stopped him falling. He released himself as though loath to touch her, but Sera said nothing, just made sure he got back on his pallet.
"Tell me this much," she asked when he was settled. "Did you intend harm to March?"
"No."
The conviction in his voice made him easy to believe; neither did he flinch from Sera’s gaze. "Then what were you doing here?"
"We watch over the land."
"So you were spying?"
"Only to make sure you encroached no further toward us."
"You don't live close by," Sera pointed out. At least she presumed hyatu didn’t since they were so rarely glimpsed.
"Close enough."
If that was evasive then she would let that one pass. "I can't help you if you don't help me. I don't wish to see you hang. Irian will listen to me."
"He isn't here."
"He will be."
"Not in time."
The flatness of his voice made her ask, "Don't you care?"
"Of course I care. I care that my people are safe."
"As I do."
"Then help me escape."
Stunned, Sera stared at him. It was the first real emotion she had heard from him, a heartfelt plea filled with passion.
"You ask me to betray my own people."
"Betray whom, Sera Ayabara? The girl whose petty jealousy will ruin your reputation? Imagine the doubts and whispers when you re-emerge. Oh, subtly engendered for sure. Hints here and there from Faella. The sidelong glances, titters behind the ladies' fans—can you not picture it now?"
"Stop it! You don't think I can rise above Faella? Who will believe this ever happened? I know my virtue is intact."
"But is your soul? How might I have influenced you?"
"You are cruel," Sera whispered, "and foolish. No matter my reputation, I cannot open a cell door without a key, and if I could, how would you escape the castle? There is a mile of greensward before the forest, just perfect for an archer's view. Besides which, you can barely stand."
"The iron's proximity hurts me."
"Why?"
"My body rejects it like a poison."
Sera hesitated, studying him, and said, "Tell me why I should even think about it."
"Because I spoke the truth. My death could start a war. My brother... my brother will not take my death lightly."
"Why should I believe you?"
He reached across and lifted one of Sera's hands. Startled, she kept still. He looked down at their hands, golden eyes shadowed. "I do not like to touch you because your thoughts pour into mine. I do not want your thoughts, Sera, and I doubt you want mine, but see them all the same."
Before she could pull free in alarm, images entered Sera's mind. Images of another place so unlike this cold, stark castle she knew she could not have imagined it. A place of trees and flowers and flowing waterfalls, beautiful houses in idyllic
settings. She watched the place destroyed by fire, the felling of trees, the killing, the futile protest of K'sar's people going
unheard.
Like a dream, images changed. A woman walked beside K'sar as they traversed the forest before March Castle. A quarrel whistled out of nowhere and K'sar's companion fell. Cries could be heard, the thump of men running. With a cry of anguish, K'sar ran at the people who had sent the quarrel, yet he was unarmed. Five men manhandled him to the ground where he fought until a pain like a red-hot poker cleaved his body. He screamed in naked agony as poison flooded his
system.
Through K'sar's eyes she saw Irian climb to his feet, a bloodied dagger in his hand. He cleaned it and then ordered the captive trussed and taken to March. K’sar had expected to die. Prepared for it before Sera came to give him hope.
Tears running down her face, Sera looked at K'sar. "Was the woman your wife?"
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again tears magnified the gold. "Not mine. My brother's," he whispered.
"I doubt Irian even saw it was a woman."
"You think it would have made any difference? You kill indiscriminately."
"Irian wouldn't..."
"You harbor dreams."
"We see each other as monsters but both are only trying to survive. We must talk to each other."
"Yes, but not here. Not in this situation where tempers are bound to fray. Do you think I could face G'dera's killer without anger?"
She saw the truth of it. Perhaps he did manipulate her soul, but Sera saw the necessity of his escaping. She had seen that first war through his eyes. She huddled in a corner, staring at the lock on the door, wondering if it would be more difficult than the chains. She had no idea how she could get K'sar beyond the guard. She took out her scissors and toyed with the lock. It was much stronger than the cuffs and would not yield. So absorbed in her task, she did not notice she had company until a voice said:
"You know, generally a key works much better."
Chapter Two
It was a good day. The road to Castle March lay wreathed in evening summer sunshine. Oswith of Foll was now minus, not only Leric’s cattle but some of his own, and no one had died.
Men’s anticipation grew higher the closer they came to home. Three weeks they’d been away. Camping under the stars wasn’t bad in summer, but a man’s own bed was something worth fighting for. That and a pretty girl. Irian smiled as the castle walls came in sight. He’d missed Sera, he realized. Not long ago she’d just been an annoying brat. Still was some days when she climbed one of her hobby horses, but she certainly had blossomed. In all the right places, too.
Irian stood in his stirrups to better see the back of the train where the wounded brought up the rear. Four injuries, all minor, and one of those come about because a damn fool soldier couldn’t stay on his horse when he’d tried
to separate a cow from its calf. A broken collarbone was easily mended. Indeed it was a good day.
The last stretch of road and the portcullis came in sight. Irian halted his horse until the last man was through into the inner ward and then a groom came to take the beast. Irian didn’t leave until men and equipment were away and the wounded before the surgeon. He’d already made a brief written report to King Leric. Later would see the details. Now all he
wanted was a bath, food, and a change of clothes, in no particular order.
As the last horse was led from between a cart’s traces someone cleared their throat behind him. Irian turned to see Tigh, the dungeon guard. Damn. For a little while he’d forgotten about the hyatu.
“Still alive, is he?” Irian asked.
“Aye, sir,” the craggy sergeant said.
“You have a problem, sergeant? Can’t it wait until I’ve bathed and changed?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
Irian removed his gloves and raised an eyebrow in question.
“There’s been, like, a complication, sir.”
Keen to get to his bath, Irian smacked his gloves against one thigh. Tigh flinched, clearly in a dilemma about something. “Out with it, man!”
“Tis the Lady Sera, sir.”
“What has the Lady Sera got to do with the prisoner?”
“It were the princess, sir. I couldn’t sees how to make it right, so I did as I’s told, but it ain’t right, sir.”
“What isn’t?” Irian cried in exasperation.
“The princess had the lady imprisoned with the hyatu.....”
Irian didn’t let the man finish. He ran across the courtyard and into the prison tower entrance, hurtling down the twisting stairs in frantic haste.
Imprisoned with a hyatu? Only Sera could have managed that. A highborn lady in danger of losing her soul to one of those beasts. He’d think about what Princess Faella had done after. Right now all he could think of was Sera.
Breathless, he reached the corridor before the archway leading to the dungeon room which housed the ironbound cell. He quelled the urge to call out Sera’s name and took a breath. Before he could walk in Tigh caught his arm.
Breathing in wheezes, the craggy gaoler gasped, “Sir! Just listen a moment will ye! Please!”
He listened in growing disbelief to Tigh’s tale. “I’ve stayed close, sir, listening like, making sure he didn’t do nuthin. He speaks a civilized tongue and he didn’t hurt the lady. Says he’s a king’s son and his death could start a war.”
“Does he indeed. Has he taken your soul, Tigh?”
The old sergeant blanched. “No, sir! and I doubt he took the lady’s either. He’s been too sick for that kind of
nonsense.”
“So now, for the first time ever, we have a decent hyatu? Tigh have your brains descended to your bollocks?”
Tigh straightened, offense written into his features. “Don’t think so, sir.”
Irian turned back to the archway. He walked through slowly. Sera didn’t look up from what she was doing. Something glinted in her hand and she was so intent she didn’t even notice him. A smudge of dirt decorated one cheek. Straw laced
her dark hair.
“You know generally a key works much better.”
Her busy hands stilled. She didn’t look up immediately but her cheeks rounded as she smiled. “I haven’t got a key,”
she said.
“Obviously not. Where were you thinking of going?”
It was an old game. One they’d played as children the many times she’d been disobedient enough for her grandmother to lock her in her room. It didn’t seem that long ago he’d treated her as a sister. Not anymore. Not for a while in fact.
“It’s just...”
“He’s convinced you he’s something he’s not and you felt it only right to free him. My darling girl, I’m sorry, but they do that all the time.”
"You were listening," Sera accused and looked into his eyes.
"No, but Tigh is blessed with a good memory. He told me of your conversations, among other things."
Irian held a great ring of keys he’d plucked from a wall hook. He glanced at the supine hyatu, selected a key, placed it within the lock, and turned. The door sprang open. Sera climbed to her feet, dusting straw from her dress.
"I stink," she stated, wrinkling her nose.
Irian began to smile. Actually she looked quite fetching with her tussled dark hair, but the smile left his face as anger came. He said, "You do, sweetheart, and for that, Faella is going to pay, king's daughter or no. Come."
Sera lifted her chin. "Not without K'sar," she said.
So the hyatu had a name. Irian paused. "Sera, no," he said softly. "This isn't one of your strays. This is a beast who wields magic as easily as you and I breathe.”
“Beast or man, does it matter? His death might cause war between us—is that what you want?”
“No! But you cannot believe him.”
"If Tigh told you of our conversations, how do you know he wasn't telling the truth?"
"Because that's how the sneaky bastards work. Doubt and manipulation are their second names. –What did you say his name was?”
She hesitated, but then she said, “K’sar Raheeth Tianon.”
“Then I know he's lying. K'sar Raheeth Tianon's been dead these past hundred years."
The straw rustled as K’sar climbed to his feet. Memory of this creature within Irian's mind remained vivid. Now he stood behind Sera, cowardly enough to use a woman as shield.
"I'd never heard the name before Faella left me here. How do you know it, Irian?" Sera asked.
"Because my great-grandfather killed him. It's not a name the Highgren's forget, since the bastard caused our first castle to fall in upon itself, killing half my family, including great-grandfather's first wife and baby son. There's even a pretty picture of grandfather standing over the filthy animal with a sword, about to deliver the death blow."
"What Lord Highgren so conveniently forgets to mention is that his grandsire built his castle on hyatu land without even asking it's owners. Directly over a holy site whose destruction brought starvation, illness, and death to my people," the hyatu said in his cutting voice. "He also neglects to say that the holy site was a spring bubbling out from bed rock, on which his foolish ancestor built the foundations of his castle. The castle collapsed because the ground underneath it was unstable."
His whole life, Irian had been taught the hyatu were not human; that they were beasts with far too much intelligence. No one had ever seen where they lived. It might be a hole in the ground for all Irian knew. The arrogance of this ones speech told another tale. Irian did know there was truth in the tales of magic and manipulation. Why would his own family lie about a castle collapsing around their ears and done by one hyatu with no more than a thought?
"Your lies might fool a naïve young girl; they have no effect on me. I have experienced your brand of manipulation. To engender an innocent’s sympathy is the lowest form of cowardice," he said, sarcasm matching K'sar's biting tones. "And you seem to have an inordinate amount of memory for a hundred-year-old tale—or is that just another rumor we hear?"
"If we live longer than you, man, it is because we live properly, and no, I am not a hundred years old, but the story was passed down as an example of human stupidity and excuse for their own mistakes. A classic apportionment of blame on
innocent people. Oh, how I applauded when I heard the tale. At least your grandsire's death was swift. History is consistent. I see the Highgren's killing ways haven't changed."
"Stop it. Please stop it," Sera cried. "If you want to quote examples, isn't this just another? Perhaps, Irian, your ancestors didn't know about the holy site. Perhaps they truly believed the hyatu toppled the castle. Perhaps if they had talked
it might never have happened?
"Can't you see what you are doing? You are both taking a position and defending it like vermin in a barn. You aren't discussing possibilities but declaring warfare before the army's even lined up. It takes two to fight a war."
"Yes, one to attack, the other to defend," K'sar cut in. "Should we just give you everything and be done?"
"I don't know! You are talking history."
"Am I history, Sera? But of course, every word I say is a lie. Perhaps I am a hundred years old—no, make that three—and remember the first time you took from us. If it's a hanging he wants to salve his conscience,
then let him go ahead. I'm sure I shall dance enough to amuse, while my brother plans retribution. Mayhap my brother can find another fault under this castle."
The passion in Sera’s hazel eyes was for the hyatu, not him. That hurt, that the hyatu had done that. Manipulating such an innocent was beyond reproach. He’d even called her by her first name--as familiar as a friend. Irian’s stomach clenched with hot anger.
During the conversation, both Sera and the hyatu had moved away from the cell door. He should have locked it after he’d let Sera out, but the iron should have held him. Except that his manacles were no longer in place. Had Sera removed them? Irian rested one hand on his sword hilt as Sera took another step--to get the hyatu even further from the iron?
Irian’s fingers tightened on the hilt.
The hyatu looked regal standing in the flickering light, his face a pale contrast to his dark clothing.
Sera touched Irian’s arm. "Irian, you know I am not that gullible."
"Not normally, no, but you'd defend a wolf for killing your favorite hound, if you thought it had reason."
Hurt filled her eyes. She lifted her chin. "Perhaps I would, if my hound had invaded that wolf's den and slaughtered its cubs. And would I be wrong?"
"It's not the same. You are wrong to make the comparison."
"Not so," K'sar said, "for are not the hyatu the wolves and humans the hounds? You misjudge on the basis of rumor and fear of what you do not understand."
"You attacked me,” Irian said with conviction.
"Because you had just killed a woman I loved!" K'sar cried. "And what did I attack you with, my brave human? Nothing but my bare hands. Five of you bore me to the ground, burning me with your foul accoutrements and stabbing me with your poison. Then you chained me like a dog. If I tried to escape by manipulating this lady, at least I did not stick a quarrel in
her first."
“God’s truth! You know well that I didn’t realize it was a woman. You were quick enough to rape my mind. Did you plan this once you knew who Sera was? Saw her in my mind, didn’t you?”
“Oh I saw your guilt for loving another when your wife was barely in her grave. Saw what you’d like to do to her body. You took the woman I loved, why shouldn’t I take yours? Her innocence was only fuel to my hunger….”
"Damn you!" Irian roared and lunged with a slither of steel.
A cry echoed around the dungeon, followed by shocked silence.
So focused on an enemy it never occurred to Irian what Sera would do. Too late for Irian to pull his blow, Sera had placed her body between him and K’sar. Desperate he’d tried to stop the momentum and had failed. When the blade sunk into flesh, fuelled by his anger, it was already too late. He’d reacted instinctively to the hyatu’s provocation.
Everything slowed, especially the horror of what he’d done. He stared stupidly at his hand on the hilt of his sword, wishing it wasn’t his; wishing so many things that would never be. He had to pull the blade from her flesh, but if he did that she would die even more quickly.
"Irian?" Sera whispered.
Her voice sank into his brain. He moved forward as though to take her in his arms, but K'sar spoke.
"If I let her go, she will die. I am all that is keeping her alive. For once, believe me, man."
Irian hesitated then stilled. "You can do that?"
"I might have saved her life, away from this iron. If I wasn't so weak."
"You goaded me!" It was a plea.
"You weren’t listening. I wanted your attention. This is so wrong. So wrong, Gods help me!” His voice was ragged, hoarse, filled with tears and pain.
“I have to pull the sword,” Irian said through his teeth. “I have to.”
“I have her pain,” the hyatu said, and for some reason, Irian believed him. The shame was even greater when he saw that his sword thrust had caught the hyatu as well.
Irian pulled. He dropped the sword to the ground, its clatter echoing on the ground like an accusation. Sera and the hyatu still stood upright, holding each other as close as lovers. Slowly, she turned in K'sar's arms. With trembling fingers she touched the bloodied wound in K’sar’s stomach.
"I can't..." K'sar began, then staggered. They sank to their knees, still close. It was as though someone had taken all the air out of Irian’s lungs. His limbs, his voice, his mind, nothing would work.
"Irian!" Sera cried urgently.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," Irian rasped as he knelt beside them.
Sera lifted a hand, touched his lips. "It's all right."
He caught her hand, enfolding it. "How can you...?"
"Say that? Because I know you didn't mean it. Listen. Please listen."
It took him several moments to breathe, to make his heart start beating again. He got himself under some semblance of control. His voice shook but he said, "I'm listening."
"Then listen to K'sar also. Faella did this because she was jealous of our friendship. That doesn't matter now. What matters is that I learned so much and I haven't time to tell." She laughed softly, a whisper of sound. "I so wanted to be the
heroine of the tale, prove everyone wrong. And I would have. Promise me you will listen to K'sar."
He would promise her the world if only she would live. "I promise."
She smiled, which nearly broke his heart. Then she turned back to the hyatu. "You can let me go now."
The hyatu smiled back although Irian could only imagine the effort that took. "I have my own promises to extract." He looked at Irian and for once, Irian did not avoid his golden gaze. "Man, go to my brother. Tell him not to seek revenge. This was my own fault as much as yours. That G'dera died with his name on her lips, and that any punishment I am due I have received tenfold. Tell him to forgive me for loving them both too much. Swear you will do this."
Swear to a hyatu? Go to them? The idea was unfathomable, but he knew Sera watched him, could feel her hazel gaze on his face. He would do it, for her, not for the hyatu. "I swear by my sword, but I don't know where to take the message."
"I will show you in your mind. Don't be afraid."
Irian was long past fear. Pictures came into his mind. Pictures he barely acknowledged, still unsure if he could carry out the promise. He didn’t deserve to live and knew it. When K'sar had finished, he turned back to Sera. "Thank you Sera
Ayabara, for believing me. For your kindness to a troubled soul." Then he crumpled, leaving Sera kneeling. She cried out and Irian gently pulled her into his lap. She looked up at his face. Guilt made it difficult to meet her eyes.
"It has to be for something. Don't waste it," she said. She shuddered as though cold. He’d seen too many men die on battlefields. He knew how they drifted. He clutched her more tightly. "You know... we never kissed."
No, they never had, and now ... that would be all he ever had from her. He bent forward and kissed her gently, and tasted the copper tang of blood. He tried to smile but his lips trembled as he fought back grief.
"Sera!"
His voice seemed to call her back for a little while. "I so wanted to leave my mark. To have people say, Sera Ayabara
did that."
"Oh, you have, my darling girl," he said. "You've left your mark upon me, indelibly written in stone. I will go to this hyatu's place. For no one else but you."
A tear fell on her face. His. He reached out to wipe it away and she sighed and stilled. It took Tigh and three others to part him from the knife he tried to use on himself.
Chapter Three
Never had the great hall of March Castle seemed so long as when Irian Highgren strode its length to the raised dais at the far end. Silence fell as guards opened the double doors for him to enter. Sympathy showed in their eyes but they said nothing. Irian squared his shoulders and began his walk past the trestle tables seated with courtiers. A minstrel had been playing in the upper gallery. Even his lute fell quiet on a discorded note.
Irian did not look right or left as he trod the rushes. The scent of lavender and fennel rose as his feet crushed herbs; they could not take the stink of death from his mind. They never would. Not now.
King Leric waited on the dais, seated on his wooden throne to dispense justice. Out in the inner ward a rope creaked where it hung from a scaffold. Irian expected to see it closely before day’s end, but first he had a tale to tell. He came to a halt several paces from Leric. Evening sun beamed down through the stained glass windows above and behind Leric, making
colored patterns on the stone dais.
Faella sat between two ladies to Leric’s right. One of those ladies should have been Sera Ayabara but her seat had already been filled by another.
Instinct was to slap the sneer beneath Faella’s nose and shake the bitch until her bones rattled. That, or kill her. Sense had Irian Highgren bottling every emotion he possessed so that his words came wooden and forced from a throat parched as ashes.
The usual sounds of men and women talking, of clattering plates and whining dogs ... even the dogs fell silent as Irian told what led to him killing Sera Ayabara.
Some gratification came on the heels of the king’s clouded expression, but nothing could ever atone for a young woman’s death. A spark of life that had held so much promise and now was gone. The promise of a love that would never
be....
King
Leric’s face betrayed his emotions. Thick eyebrows lowered over his eyes, mouth narrowed to a grim line behind beard and moustache. His meaty hands clenched on the arms of his throne.
Irian finished his tale, sparing himself nothing. His guilt would not allow it. Leric took a breath and turned to his daughter who sat at a long table to Leric’s left. Her sallow face turned whiter than lilies.
“Is this true?” Leric asked his daughter before the whole court.
“She spoke trea....”
“Is this true!” Leric thundered.
Fear trembled at Faella’s lips, yet she had the courage or callousness to lift her narrow chin. “Yes. I ordered her
imprisoned.”
“Come here.”
Faella hesitated. Irian watched without pity as Faella approached her father’s throne. A loud crack echoed across the great hall, rising to the hammered beam roof high overhead. Faella cried out and fell to her knees, one hand to her burning cheek. A hound howled, low and afraid, sensing the anger.
“A young woman lies dead, because of you,” Leric said in a low voice.
“Not by my hand!” Faella protested.
“Silence! You have done and said enough without my authority. Your petty jealousies led to this. Out of my sight! You will be confined to your rooms until I decide your fate. Out!”
She opened her mouth, but one glare from her father and she closed it, scrambling to her feet and backing away. The door of the great hall boomed as it closed behind her. Irian heard her footsteps as she ran down the stone corridor outside.
The king’s anger held the court in silent anticipation. Irian walked into that tension and knelt before his king. He unsheathed his sword and laid it crosswise on the step before the throne and waited, head bowed. He hated that sword. A baby wailed somewhere distant, quickly hushed. The king’s breath came harsh as he controlled his fury, the stink of sweat permeating the hall as those listening awaited his judgment on his commander’s fate.
“You made a promise to this hyatu?”
Irian raised his head. “Yes, Sire, on my sword.”
Leric sighed. He leaned forward and picked up Irian’s long sword, turning it over between his hands so that the sun reflected along its lethal length. Leric’s gloved hand fisted around the hilt. He rammed the sword into a crack on the step before him. In one swift move he stomped on the upright blade. It snapped up near the hilt and clattered to the floor.
Irian swallowed. “What of my promise to the Lady Sera, Sire? I am guilty of her murder, but others might carry the promises
out.”
“You would defy me and go to these hyatu?”
“I swore the message would be delivered, Sire.”
“To a hyatu.”
“My sworn word, Sire. To both.”
For a long time Leric did not speak, until restless feet rustled in the hall. Still Leric contemplated his answer, refusing to be
rushed.
“Your punishment is this. You will go to the Lady Sera’s family in Ayabara and tell them of these events and take her body to them. You will take my daughter with you and ask, nay beg, the Lady Sera’s grandmother to treat her as she sees fit. Then you will go to this hyatu’s brother.”
Irian drew breath. He’d expected the scaffold. Somehow this was worse. Throat dry, he asked, “What do I say to this
hyatu?”
“What you will. This is no overture of peace, but neither will I start a war over an error. The Lady Sera was not wrong. Our hatred of one another is long past explanation. This... creature did no harm to the Lady and for that I would know why. We do not war on women, Irian, yet two women lay dead. How did that happen? Ignorance. I will not remain ignorant.”
“How many men will I take?”
“Ten of your choosing as far as Ayabara. Then you will go on alone. You leave at dawn.”
Irian climbed to his feet, bowed and turned.
“Irian.”
He turned back. Leric held his eyes. “I expect you back, Lord Highgren.”
Denial sung in his heart. He stared at the broken sword. He was glad. He did not want it.
“Irian,” the king said again, softly.
Irian picked up the broken sword. He saw nothing as he walked from the hall, just a picture in his mind of sharp metal cleaving a woman’s flesh over and over; the copper scent of blood, the taste of it on her lips. The shattered
halves of the sword cut into his fingers. It seemed just.
* * *
Within a temple built from a circle of trees, Tresar Tianon stood, hands out-stretched, pleading to the deities of earth and
air.
Head flung back, Tresar cried, “What have I done! Both of them?”
Lerai, friend and messenger, knelt behind him. Tresar turned to see tears running unheeded down Lerai’s face.
He could not keep the horror from his voice. “Gods of star and sky, Lerai? How?”
Lerai climbed to his feet and placed his hands on Tresar’s shoulders, offering what small comfort he could. “If I had answers I would share them, my friend, but I don’t. K’sar he ... we felt his death on the winds. There was no blame in his song.”
T’sar squeezed his eyes shut. “G’hera?” He whispered his wife’s name.
“One moment her song rode the winds, then was gone. I’m sorry Tresar.”
He knew Lerai meant the words yet they seemed so trivial, so indequate. A shudder ran through Tresar, a sob he could not contain. A broken sound of a loss he could not yet fathom or take in while his heart broke with the pain.
The gods refused answer, and though he sought both G’hera and K’sars’ souls upon the winds, it was as though they had never been. His cry of anguish flung the birds into a red-streaked sky. He watched their flight against the stained sky,
wondering if K’sar and G’hera’s souls flew with them.
Tresar sank, exhausted into the tree litter. “Do—do my parents know?”
“They await you, Tresar,” Lerai said gently.
Of course, they would know how distressed he would be; how much he’d loved both brother and wife. They were right to send Lerai. Tresar nodded and scrubbed at his eyes. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand through his hair. Even in
grief he remained a prince.
From the temple’s central point within the city to his parent’s house he saw little as he walked the familiar tree-lined paths without seeing. Even as he trod a path of herbs and their scent curled up to reach his nose, he took notice only because G'dera had loved chamomile. Beyond the gardens the door to the house stood open, a tradition among the hyatu to allow a soul a final farewell. Tresar went through and up a curving staircase. His parents waited in their private rooms. He found them with his youngest brother, Beran and his sister Casuli. Casuli’s face was dry yet her eyes were over bright with unshed tears. Beran said nothing. His father sat, face grim and set. Only Shahanon, his mother, still wept silent tears. Tresar
went to her first. She held him tightly as though she dare not let him go.
“What do we do?” he whispered.
“Nothing until we know more,” his father said, his voice gruff.
T’sar turned from his mother’s arms. “Nothing?” he asked in disbelief. “Isn’t it obvious humans killed them?”
His mother laid a gentle hand on his arm, plucking at his sleeve. “Lerai does not know for certain. He searched—you know he would have searched—but he found nothing. And K’sar’s death-cry held no anger.
“Tresar, listen, even if you don’t wish to right now. If G’hera died of some accident, then K’sar might have taken his own life in
grief.”
He studied his mother’s golden eyes. “You do not believe that.”
Shahanon walked away from him and over to a window and stared out at the mountains beyond the city. Her shoulders shook with her grief but her voice was clear. “What I want to believe and what might have happened are not the same. Do we risk our people and send an army into March? No, Tresar. No matter our grief, we cannot. No matter our anger. He was my son and G’hera your wife, and yet....”
“Then I will go alone.”
“I forbid it,” his father said, his voice clashing with Shahanon’s denial.
“No, Tresar,” she said, turning to face him. He saw fresh tears on her face. “Can you say you will be rational? I could
not. Lerai will take more people and try to discover what happened. Until then, I beg you, stay with us.”
They denied his every request to go and finally he gave in though it hurt him to do so. Yet his protests only hurt his mother more. He left, and as he walked down the stairs, Casuli caught up with him.
“They did not deny me,” she said softly. “I will go with Lerai.”
“And have them risk losing you, too? You know why they denied me.”
“You are heir.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And Beran is unsuited. They dare not let you go even though it is their love which forbids it.”
He hesitated and then pulled her into a rough embrace. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair, and then could say no more. Her scent reminded him too much of G’dera. He returned to the temple in the wood and prayed to find the killer of
his wife and brother, and uttered his vows of vengeance before the gods so that none could deny them when it came to the
reckoning.
As overcast as his mood, the day bore down on Irian with lowering clouds and the threat of rain; he bit his tongue as the men loading Sera’s coffin slipped in the mud and nearly dropped the casket. Anger that came too readily made him look away when the same men loaded another coffin beside Sera’s containing both h’atu bodies. His glance fell on Faella. The princess stood in Castle March courtyard, covered from head to foot in dark maroon velvets, her pale face a sharp contrast to the cloth. She’d opted to ride rather than be conveyed in a carriage for the ten day journey to Ayabara. That didn’t endear her to Irian. As long as she didn’t hinder the journey, he intended to ignore her.
Once the coffins were loaded, Tigh climbed into the driver’s seat, the old soldier insisting on the task. A groom brought Faella a palfrey as a servant girl climbed beside Tigh. For propriety the maid had been brought along, yet her eyes were red rimmed from weeping; the girl had been Sera’s maid and wished to return to Ayabara. Irian didn’t blame her and hoped Faella would be sensible.
Upon Irian’s signal, the small cavalcade set out, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestoned courtyard changing to thumps as they crossed the drawbridge. Irian glanced back. Leric hadn’t even come to a window to see his daughter off, and only soldiers walked the battlements.
The road outside was slick with autumn mud but not enough to hinder horse or cart. Irian led, glad to be out in front and not have to talk other than to issue orders. Since Sera’s death he’d barely had time to think. A good thing, perhaps, for now his mind sought ways he might have changed events, but what ifs solved nothing. Instead, he remembered Sera as a child, when he’d seen her as nothing more than Michos and Sever’s annoying sister. Time and years had changed that until he’d become her defender. Then he’d been sent to March to become a soldier and they’d drifted apart until they’d met again in Leric’s court. That had not been long after his wife’s death. Still reeling from that, Sera’s had been a comforting shoulder to lean on. Still he’d thought of her as Michos’ skinny, tomboy sister, not as a woman. Not until she lay in his arms dying by
his hand. Hindsight would bring nothing back nor overcome foolishness.
A shudder filled with guilt ran through his body. Irian’s horse jinked as his fingers tightened on the reins. He soothed the beast without thought. Tonight they would head for Fordingham and an inn. There would be nights when the cold ground would be their only comfort, but not this close to March.
Irian glanced across at Faella, who sat her horse stiff-backed, staring straight in front. Bitch, was all he could think of her right now. Jealous bitch. Jealous of others happiness. He’d never have looked at her were she not Leric’s daughter. She wanted
what she could never have, and when she couldn’t get it was as spiteful as a child. No wonder she remained unwed at eighteen summers. Not even a prince had asked for her hand.
Around March were soft rolling hills and farmland; easy travel for the first few days and nights. Then came a forest to traverse and a broad river to cross before they reached Ayabaran lands. A messenger had been sent on ahead with the news of Sera’s death. Would her brothers even wait for her body to arrive? He would not have.
Reins in one hand, he touched the smooth pommel of his sword. He carried the broken pieces still, having vowed to himself never to use a sword again. He carried an unstrung bow and quiver for defense. His palms bore the scabs of fresh healed cuts. They smarted as his horse began to sweat. He did not want to forget what he was capable of. If Sera’s brothers killed him, it seemed justice, even with King Leric’s admonition he return. A coward’s way to fall on his sword, yet that did not preclude someone else’s.
Irian shook himself away from that dangerous path. He had two promises to fulfill.
The journey to Fordingham remained uneventful. As did the next two days with only an autumnal shower to discomfort them. Faella said not a word, which suited him. He wasn’t yet sure he could control his temper.
The fourth night saw them camping in Baramay Forest. Soldiers set up tents, tied horses to lines and lit a central bonfire. Faella kept to her tent, sending the maid out for the venison from a deer one of the soldiers had brought down earlier.
Tigh came to sit beside Irian at the fire. Irian’s soldiers had the sense to keep away, judging his mood accurately.
The old soldier kept silent company for a while, and then said, “She won’t thank you for brooding, sir. T’wasn’t the lady’s
way.”
“You knew her better than I?” Irian retorted.
“Pretty lass had spirit. Could see that without looking,” Tigh said, and shoveled a forkful of venison into his mouth.
She had. He remembered the time she’d climbed that damned wall, and another when she’d hidden a hound puppy in her room to save it a beating for chewing her grandmother’s favorite seat cushion. Then there were the baby birds she attempted to raise, and the tears when she failed.
“Best let it out, sir. Does no good inside.”
What? He nearly asked, but he knew. He wasn’t a man who wept, at least not outwardly.
“You were there,” he said on a breath.
The fire crackled. Sparks rose into the night. Tigh munched, then put his platter down and his fork back on his belt. “Think I don’t blame myself for leaving her in there? Knew it wasn’t right but . . . me go against a princess’s orders? Should ‘ave gone to the king. Should ‘ave gone to someone.”
He held out a ring. Irian took it.
“Twas ‘ers. Always meant to give it back after.”
Irian twisted the jewel between his fingers. “This would feed your family for a year or more.”
“Guilt feeds no one but misery. So don’t you go doin’ nothing stupid, sir. She wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Tigh climbed to his feet and found his blanket by the fire. Irian stared at the flames for a long time. Maybe it was just the smoke that made his eyes blur.
* * *
Irian knelt before Beatrix Ayabara, aware that Michos and Sever stood either side of her like hounds held back by leashes. It had been hard to tell Leric what had happened. With Michos and Sever watching him it was terrible. He wished one of them would break whatever hold Beatrix has laid on them. He’d rather have fought. Worse was the disappointment in Beatrix’s eyes and the silent tears that ran down her wrinkled cheeks. She’d lost her daughter to a fever, and now Irian had killed her granddaughter. Michos gripped his sword pommel white-knuckled. A muscle ticked continuously on Sever’s cheek.
Beatrix drew in a ragged breath. “Leric sent Faella to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“To do with as I see fit.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“To go to these h’atu and deliver the message I was given.”
“Why would Sera defend such a one?” Michos asked.
“Because it was her nature to do so. I thought he had manipulated her, but in the end, no, I don’t think so. She wanted to prove a point, that h’atu aren’t the creatures we name them, and she was right. This one was well-spoken.”
“A prince?” Sever asked.
“So he claimed, and that his death might start a war.”
“Then why does Leric send his murderer?”
Irian looked up and met Beatrix’s eyes. “For the same reason he sent Faella to you. To show his contrition.”
“Then he sends you to your death.”
“Do you think I care?” he ground out, at the end of his control.
White-faced, Michos stared down at him. “I know you would defend Sera to your death. Otherwise you would not be standing there. I know you too well, Irian.”
He faced Michos. “Do you? I’m not sure I know myself anymore. I did not hesitate to kill a h’atu woman.”
“Did you know it was a woman?” Beatrix asked.
“I didn’t even stop to find out. She was h’atu and that was all that mattered then.”
“And now?”
“Sera was never a fool, ma’am. Impulsive perhaps but not a bad judge of people. We are afraid of the h’atu because they can see into our minds. We have labeled them beasts, saying they could take our souls, thus damning us. Is that the truth, or a tale passed around campfires? I don’t know, and Sera deserves that I find out the truth.”
“Then you won’t go alone,” Michos said.
“King Leric said....”
“It wasn’t only you who caused Sera’s death, but Faella and the h’atu himself by involving her within his tale. My sister, Irian. If just one of us had been at March this would never have happened, but we weren’t. We can all blame ourselves in various ways, but one person isn’t or can’t be responsible. If the h’atu hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t been called away, if Faella had
been a different person . . . no, Irian, you cannot shoulder all the blame. We will leave in the morning—Grandmother?”
“Yes, Michos, you may go with Irian.” The old woman climbed to her feet. Sever held out an arm and she placed her hand on it. “Now we would spend time with my granddaughter. I will deal with Faella later.”
* * *
Not only Michos and Irian traveled, but Tigh as well. The old soldier drove the cart carrying the two h’atu bodies. Irian didn’t see Faella again, for which he was glad. He didn’t envy Beatrix’s task. He doubted Sera’s grandmother could redeem the girl, and felt pity for Leric, who had no other heir.
Irian followed the map K’sar had implanted within his mind. At the time, Irian had been too distraught to think about how K’sar had done that, but as he rode with Michos, he did wonder. As he wondered about many things. Had K’sar spoken the truth about his great grandfather’s castle? If that was a lie, or at least a misunderstanding, then was Sera right about the h’atu?
“Deep thoughts, commander?”
Irian looked across at Michos, who rode beside him. That was difficult when every time he looked at Sera’s brother he was reminded of what he’d done. Michos had the same dark hair and laughing brown eyes, and Sera’s impulsive nature.
“I looked in your library last night. I could find little about the h’atu, which I did not find surprising. What I did find surprising was that our own history is so brief. Tigh said that this h’atu prince said we came from elsewhere—what did he mean by that?”
Michos shrugged. “A land across the sea maybe.”
“Then wouldn’t there be a reference to that—to our ancestors?”
“Never thought about it.”
“No. Nobody does. Isn’t that odd?”
“Bad enough managing this life, never mind what happened before our time.”
True enough, but a mystery all the same. “This K’sar said it was their land, that we took it from them.”
Michos narrowed his eyes. “So? Laws of war and conquest. What difference does it make?”
Oh to be so simple. That was Michos all over.
“How far’s this place anyway?” Michos asked.
“Western Rim.”
“Yes, you said, but the Western Rim covers a few acres or so,” Michos said with a wry grin. “In the mountains or the foothills? Bad country that, so I’ve heard. Ever thought to ask how your h’atu got to March? They have horses?”
Sometimes keeping up with Michos was hard work. He thought back. “Not that we found.”
“Ten day journey on horseback or thereabouts. What’s so important they travel to March in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” Irian said reluctantly.
“Then you don’t know what they were after.”
Irian gazed off toward the mountains. A haze surrounded their snowy peaks, a reminder that winter was not far off. He had no answers because, as Sera had said, no one ever talked to h’atu. Who was to blame for that? Both sides, he supposed.
“He wasn’t even armed,” he said quietly. “Neither of them were.”
“Do you need a sword to take a man’s soul?”
“Then why didn’t he take Sera’s?” Irian asked, looking at Michos. “He had every opportunity. He did convince her to help him escape, but he didn’t touch her, I swear. Tigh kept a close watch. He would have pulled her out, princess’s orders or no if he thought Sera in danger.”
Michos glanced over at the old soldier driving the cart. “Should have done anyway. Why didn’t he?”
“Faella threatened him, told him she’d already told the king and that Sera was to stay. He didn’t know any better and I wasn’t there to ask.”
#
K’sar’s mind map was accurate. Ten days after they set out the trio came the lower slopes of the Western Rim Mountains. The weather closed in on them, sending icy runnels of sleet down on their heads. Cold and miserable, that night they made camp beneath some pines, away from the wind as much as possible.
Next day brought sunshine and frost as they picked their way through a dense forest of evergreens. There were plenty of forests they’d ridden through on their way to the mountains, but none gave Irian the shudders like this one did. He couldn’t put his finger on why. Forests always possessed an eerie light as the sun made its way down past the branches and needles, yet this one made him think of ghosts. The trees here were ancient, ribbed and tall and whispered to one another as they passed. It soon became evident that getting the cart through without finding an established path was going to be impossible. After negotiating yet another trail around close-packed trees, Irian called a halt in a small glade by a stream.
“Your map doesn’t show paths, then?’ Michos asked sourly as he rubbed down his sweating horse.
Irian thought about it as he picked out his horse’s hooves. “Doesn’t ‘show’ anything as such. Just kind of pulls me in the right direction. If I go wrong it nudges me until I’m right.”
Michos stared at him. “And you trust it?”
Irian straightened up and stretched his back. “Got us this far, didn’t it?”
Michos looked up at the sky. “Tis only just past noon. I’m going to scout ahead and see what I can find—hunt maybe. If this is their country, follows there must be a road of some sort.”
“Does it? When we spoke about the fact they didn’t have horses.”
“I’m still going to look.”
Michos wasn’t under his command, he couldn’t stop him, although he wanted to. Instinct still told Irian that he was on the right track, he just couldn’t explain how. He glanced across at Tigh who was still unhitching the horse from the cart. The old man looked exhausted and not for the first time Irian wished he hadn’t brought him, but Tigh held as much guilt as he did and he hadn’t been able to gainsay him.
As Michos walked off into the trees, Irian hitched his horse to a tree and began collecting deadfall. Soon he had enough to start a fire, and when it blazed, called Tigh over.
“Michos will bring us something back to eat. Rest.”
“Horses ain’t fed yet,” Tigh said.
“I’ll do it. Sit down, Tigh and get warm. You look like death.”
Tigh looked affronted but he didn’t argue too hard. Irian broke out the nosebags and fed the horses some oats. He checked their legs but despite the bad terrain they all felt fine. He got some hot water boiling over the fire and made some tea while they waited for Michos to return.
The sky began clouding up before night fell. Irian looked worriedly at Tigh and then pulled the canvas off the cart and made a rough shelter before more sleet fell on them. Michos still wasn’t back as the light failed. Wind began whistling through the trees, eerie at first and then frightening as the trees thrashed. Irian checked the horses were secure, stamped out the fire and
then huddled with Tigh beneath the canvas, holding onto it lest the wind pick it up and blow it away.
Hail fell in noisy sheets, plunking against the taut canvas and soaking the ground around them. Even under the trees the horses jinked and fidgeted as the small white balls pounded them. Irian had to shout at Tigh to make himself heard. Tails to the wind, the horses kept their heads down. He couldn’t do more for them. Where was Michos? Taking shelter if he was sensible. Irian didn’t like being under trees during a storm, but there was little choice unless they ran for it, and Tigh sat shivering beside him. Irian moved closer to the old soldier to give him some of his own warmth, although that was little
enough.
The wind didn’t lessen any time soon, if anything it seemed to increase, until Irian thought they might be better off underneath the cart. As he thought it, the wind snatched the canvas away from his hand. The coarse material flew upward, the strings breaking. As it flapped like a giant bird across the glade the cloth spooked the horses, who tugged at their tethers in panic. One of them reared, snapping the hitching line. Irian ran but they cantered off between the trees before he could catch any of
them.
“Be back by morning lookin’ for their oats,” Tigh bellowed at him, and then collapsed into a wracking cough. Irian hauled him under the cart, which wasn’t much shelter as the wind whistled underneath, but was better than nothing. He lay back to back with Tigh all that night. Exhaustion claimed him eventually and as the wind finally lulled he fell asleep.
Morning brought sunshine and frost again. Irian hauled himself out from under the cart and looked around. The canvas hung limply halfway up a tree. If he felt like it he would climb and get the wretched thing later. Right now he needed something hot inside him and no doubt Tigh did more than him. He left his own blanket over the soldier and gathered up more deadfall. There was plenty about. More difficult to find the small cauldron he used for heating water, but he did eventually, buried under some pine branches. His saddle and pack were still beneath the cart, so he fetched them out and scooped some water from the stream.
“Where are you Michos?” he asked as the water began to boil, but only a lonely hawk answered him flying high above the trees. He let Tigh sleep for a while longer. It was hard to wake him, but he seemed better once he sat before the fire and drank some tea. After the tea they gathered their things together and left them in the deep shelter under a spreading pine, and then went in search of both the horses and Michos.
Pine needle litter and frozen ground didn’t leave many tracks.
“They’d make for grass or water,” Tigh said after their first unsuccessful foray. “Surprised they didn’t come back on their
own.”
Irian agreed but he didn’t say anything. Nothing about last night’s storm had seemed right. There wasn’t any sign of Michos either, and although they searched most of the day they found no sign of man nor beast. When they got back to camp it was to find their gear gone. Irian kicked a tree in frustration.
“Make our way out this forest?’ Tigh asked.
“Michos would have left a sign if he’d taken the gear.”
“Aye.”
“So we’re being watched. We’re blundering around like a pair of infants in a maze. For all we know Michos could be lying hurt somewhere.” Irian sat down by the remains of the fire. “I’m not going anywhere. Someone’s playing games.”
Tigh joined him on the damp ground. “Still got flint and tinder?”
Irian produced it out of a pocket. “Might as well be warm then, while we wait.”
They sat on their damp backsides watching the flames until Tigh remarked, “Mite early for an owl.”
Irian had heard the sound too. He fed a twig to the flames. “Maybe they have early owls on the Western Rim.”
“Maybe he could catch us a mouse or two. I’m getting damned hungry, I know that much.”
Irian smiled. His sword belt lay by his side. Despite the useless blade he kept the weapon close. He reached out a hand to gather it up. An arrow whistled past his hand and pinned the leather belt to the ground.
Tigh eyed the arrow. “Mighty cleaver owls they have around here.”
“Very accurate, yes.” Irian raised his voice. “I seek Prince Tresar Tianon.”
“Why, man?”
The voice came from just behind them. “I bear a message from his brother.”
“Prince K’sar is dead.”
“Yes.”
A rustle and a light thump and a h’atu walked out in front of them. Tall, blonde and golden-eyed, he held a knocked bow in one hand. “How did he die?”
“Of that I would speak to his brother.”
“Then you must come to Taeraven.”
Irian glanced at Tigh. “Not without my companion. Another of our party became separated from us during the storm last
night.”
“We know of him. He is well.”
“And the horses?”
For answer the h’atu lowered his bow and whistled. Six more h’atu came out of the trees. All tall, golden-eyed and slender.
“Two will stay with the old one. You will come with me.”
Irian hesitated, unwilling to leave Tigh among strangers.”
“Reckon my soul ain’t worth much,” Tigh said with a shrug.
“He will not be harmed,” the h’atu said.
Irian bent to pick up his sword belt. The h’atu lifted his bow in warning. “You go unarmed. You will take no steel or iron into h’atu land.”
His arrow tips were fire-hardened, Irian had already taken note.
“I’ll look after it, sir,” Tigh said softly.
Irian stared once at the sword sheath then nodded.
The h’atu set a brisk pace through the trees. Irian tried to keep up, but the h’atu knew every twist and turn and root. Not graceless or unfit, Irian was a big man more used to riding than this near run. Winded and cursing under what breath he had, pride nevertheless forced him on. He missed seeing the half-buried tree root of an alder that the h’atu nimbly jumped.
Something cracked; a sickening sound of bones parting as he tripped, the pain shocking. When his head connected with a rock it was a blessing.
* * *
There was too much time for thinking while Lerai and Casuli went in search of truths. Too many what-ifs and might-have-beens—too many questions that might never be answered. Too much time to brood.
Tresar trained with bow and arrow, and though he never missed the target, his mind lay elsewhere. Why had G’dera gone with K’sar? The true answer, not the one she’d handed out for all to hear. He had known K’sar loved her, and that it
was more than brotherly love, but he’d trusted K’sar would never overstep the boundaries of loyalty and family. Had that also been true of G’dera? The idea drove him half-mad, that he might never know. Let them rest, his mother had advised, but though he prayed, he could not.
Lerai’s summons drove him to his knees. His bow fell to the ground as h’atu came running to help him, but he bade them be still so he might listen.
“I’m coming,” was what he sent to Lerai, and went to his parents.
“Lerai and Casuli have met a man who has a message from K’sar. His last words. Yet accident has befallen the man and he might die. I must go.”
This time they did not argue. Irian and Michos had wondered why K’sar had had no horses. Hyatu did not need them, for they travelled the winds, at one with the world they inhabited. As much mental as physical, hyatu did not question what the gods gave them, but they did use it. To ride the winds was thought and belief. To believe oneself in another place. Tresar could picture his destination from Larai and Casuli’s minds. He could imagine his body as light as the wind and let the slightest breeze take him. So he linked with Lerai who drew him toward him, and while the journey was not instantaneous, it was quick.
* * *
“What happened?” Tresar demanded of Lerai as he knelt by the fallen man.
“He tripped over yonder root, broke his leg and cracked his head.”
Lerai already had a fire built and water boiling and had stripped the man of his clothes. Casuali sat nearby looking exhausted. She had used what healing powers she possessed to keep the man alive, but she wasn’t strong enough.
“He stinks like a sewer,” she said sourly, “but I did what I could.”
“Thank you,” Tresar answered, his mind already engaged with the wounds. The man’s thigh was fractured, which was bad enough, but the head wound was worse. He hesitated, knowing the healing would be dangerous. Let it lie, his mother had said, but he could not. He needed to know what this man knew of K’sar and G’dera. He debated just keeping him alive long enough to get that message.
“Do we know his name?”
“Irian Highgren,” a voice said.
Tresar turned to see another man behind him. An old man, craggy faced and tired-looking. “Tell me why I should save his
life?”
“He’s a good man.”
“Is there such a thing?” Casuli asked.
“He didn’t have to bring you your prince’s message.”
“Why did he?” Tresar asked.
“Because he lost someone he loved, too, and that were your brother’s fault.”
Irian Highgren didn’t have time for long explanations right now, but here was enough mystery to engage Tresar. “Everyone leave but Lerai,” he said.
“Don’t kill yourself for a man, Tresar,” Casuli warned. “Whatever message he bears, it isn’t worth it.”
“I won’t,” he said softly.
* * *
Someone whispered Irian’s name. Like a child playing hide and seek, Irian heard the voice from a distance, hidden and secretive, so he hid, as children do, a smile on his face, wondering who it was – Sera or Michos or perhaps Sever.
He hid behind a tree, hands either side of the trunk. A beetle ran over his fingers but he kept still lest he give his hiding place
away.
A face appeared in the leaves above him – narrow and golden-eyed. Startled, Irian stepped back.
“Do not be afraid, Irian,” the face said.
Irian recognized that voice. Must be dreaming, he thought quite rationally.
“No, this isn’t a dream. How much do you want to live, Irian Highgren?”
The answer should have been easy; that it wasn’t gave him pause. He stared back at the face. Memory reminded him of the last time he’d seen such features, but they weren’t quite the same.
“Who are you?”
“Tresar Raheeth Tianon. Prince of Taeraven. You wanted to speak to me.”
Confused, Irian looked away. Yes he had and he remembered why, but this didn’t feel right. He’d meant to meet this prince face to face, to explain himself, what had happened. This felt wrong. He looked around. He was within a forest, but he wasn’t sure where.
“Where am I?”
“Do you remember falling?”
Yes he did, and a startling pain. “Have you taken my soul?”
Tresar laughed. “Because we can see within your minds does not mean we can take your souls. That is a fallacy invented by narrow-minded men. You wanted to know where you are. You are in the same place that you fell. Not only have
you fractured your thigh but you have cracked your skull. My sister sent for me, because without healing, you will die.”
“You’re in my mind?”
“Yes, but I cannot heal you without your permission.”
“What else do you see in my mind?”
A sigh whispered through his brain. “Only the guilty of conscience so worry about the contents of their thoughts. Do you have much to hide, Irian Highgren?”
From you, plenty. It wasn’t what had happened recently, but the thought of someone dredging through his most private thoughts and memories was horrific. Those moments with his wife....
“Fool, do you think that is what we do?”
“How can I know?”
“Point taken. But we waste time. I asked you a question – do you want to live?”
Did he? Not long ago his wife had died, and now Sera, but he had promised both Sera and K’sar that he would talk to the h’atu. And the truth? He didn’t want to die.
“Then I will heal you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Speed up your own body’s healing capacity. I’m sorry to disappoint you but h’atu magic uses only natural elements. No soul stealing, arcane implements or demons. Enough talking, man. Just relax.”
* * *
Irian opened his eyes to find a woman watching him. Sharp faced as a fox, she stood, arms folded beneath neat breasts, a look of blatant hostility in her tilted eyes.
“Do humans ever bathe? You smell worse than a boar’s wallow. If we had clothes to fit you I’d burn the old ones. I am surprised you do not all die of plague and disease.”
He’d had better awakenings. He made to sit up but the woman moved and placed a hand on his chest. “No. My brother healed the bones, your body must do the rest. Though why he should concern himself with a druiksis, only the gods know better.” She brushed one hand against the other as though she found touching him distasteful. Perhaps she did given her remarks. He resisted the temptation to inhale, staring instead at the woman. Whatever a druiksis was it sounded insulting.
“Do even h’atu who travel the road for ten days smell of flowers?”
“They carry soap with them.”
Someone had laid a pillow behind his head. He leaned back against it. “You are K’sar’s sister?”
“You are free with others’ names.”
He sighed, too tired to fence with her. “I meant no offence.”
“Is that what you told K’sar and G’dera?”
“Sister,” a new voice chided.
Her face flushed along the sharp cheekbones.
“Casuli, leave us, please.”
Defiance marked her features. She pursed her lips, let out a heavy sigh, and then walked between the trees, back rigid with annoyance. The new h’atu watched her go and then leaned against a tree in a similar pose to the one she had used. Dark
shadows of weariness ringed his golden eyes, his face tight with exhaustion. Gold was not a cold color, yet this h’atu’s eyes held no warmth.
“You healed me only to hear K’sar’s message,” Irian guessed.
“Why would you be willing to bring it?”
“I swore I would.”
“Why?”
His head ached. “Because ... people died who should not have.”
“Who killed them?”
Irian swallowed and looked the h’atu in the eyes. “I did,” he said simply, “but listen before you kill
me.”
“Go on.”
He did, in terse sentences, leaving nothing out of the sorry tale.
“So you came to fulfill your promise to this Sera, not K’sar.”
“No. I came to redress a wrong. I can’t bring any of them back. None of it should have happened, but it did, and I’m prepared to pay the price of that.”
“With your death?”
“If necessary, yes.”
“Do humans take their lives so lightly?”
“No, but they are prepared to pay for their mistakes.”
“How does your death repay me for lives cut short? How would your death repay my people for past crimes? You think highly of yourself Commander Highgren.”
Irian studied the h’atu prince’s face. Drawn even more by tension and emotion, he held himself upright by will alone, so Irian thought. Grief marked his eyes, and bitterness.
“Sera wished that we learn to talk to one another. Her life was worth a thousand of mine. It is her wish that I came
here.”
“And your king?”
He hesitated, mortally tired, his head pounding. He was a man of war, the subtleties of politicians and philosophers were beyond him.
“He did not wish a war between us,” Irian said, and when he looked around again, Tresar Tianon had gone. He closed his eyes. Thirst nagged at him. By his pallet sat a flask. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for it. The scent of his armpits reached him. He almost smiled. He did stink, and didn’t know why he was still alive to appreciate it. He’d seen death in the h’atu’s eyes. Why had he not carried it out?