Blood in the Water (48 page)

“You’re still stiff from riding so far,” Branca said quickly. “Shall we sit? There’s a honeysuckle arbour this way.”

She ushered both women towards a gravel path shaded by leafy trees.

Trissa twirled the lacy parasol she now carried. “Do you walk here often?”

“It’s a good place to think undisturbed.” Branca replied with simple truth.

“Indeed.” Charoleia fanned herself with the silver-mounted spray of white feathers that had appeared in her hand.

Branca knew she mostly came here to meet housemaids and coachmen and all manner of folk who sold her their masters’ and mistresses’ secrets. All Charoleia’s secrets lay open to Branca now, and the choices that had brought her here. Here to the Physic Garden, secure in the very heart of Vanam. That was what Branca had to remember.

“There’s the new Apothecaries’ Hall.” She pointed to a roof just beyond the garden’s wall. “Naturally the School of Physicians are now building themselves an even more splendid home.”

“I must speak to Mentor Robarin, the anatomist.” Charoleia was concerned. “He promised me—”

“That can wait. Truly, it can,” Branca insisted. “Look, here’s the arbour.”

“How delightful.” A smile lit Charoleia’s face.

“What a wonderful scent,” exclaimed Trissa.

Branca breathed more easily, seeing both women successfully distracted.

If Charoleia began thinking too deeply, recalling something she’d left undone, her thoughts could outrun Branca’s fragile aetheric contrivance. If that happened, the older woman would surely wake to—

No. She mustn’t even think about that. “Why don’t we sit?” She indicated the wooden bench within the golden bower.

“Yes, let’s.” A faint frown creased Trissa’s forehead. She rubbed her hands together as if they ached.

“Have you ever brought a sweetheart here?” Charoleia teased Branca.

Where had that thought come from? For an instant Branca recalled bringing Aremil here, the very first day they had met.

“You were testing him?” Charoleia stared at her, troubled. “Wasn’t that cruel?”

“Perhaps, but I didn’t know him then.” Branca couldn’t imagine doing such a thing now.

But she mustn’t think about Aremil, not at all. If she did, she risked him finding her. If he reached through the aether when she was so tired, so scared, he could draw her into his own imagined sanctuary. Then Charoleia and Trissa would wake—

“You’re tired,” she said forcefully. “Why don’t you rest awhile?”

Charoleia looked uneasy. “I’m sure there’s something we should being doing.”

“It can wait,” Branca assured her.

“Just for a little while,” Charoleia capitulated, covering a yawn with her fan.

Trissa’s eyelids were already drooping. It was the thought of a moment for Branca to soften the bench with plump cushions. Soon Charoleia was drowsing beside her.

Branca waited until both women were soundly asleep before giving way to her growing fears.

How badly injured were they? Easing Trissa into this semblance of sleep was easier every time. Why did Charoleia never realise they kept tracing the same path through the gardens? If she had a grasp of even half her wits, she would never accept the absurdity of these boudoir furnishings or the foolhardiness of sleeping in the open like this.

Well, they were safe for the moment. That was enough. She had to find out what else was happening. Resolutely, Branca withdrew from the haven she’d woven with her Artifice. As her favourite corner of the physic garden dissolved, oppressive stone walls closed around her. She listened, tense, in case anyone was coming up this stair.

All she could hear was the rain drumming on the trapdoor above. Branca found herself promising Ostrin an offering, Dastennin too, just as long as this keep’s roof proved sound. Only a leak into the rooms below would give anyone a reason to come up the garret stair, to brave the storm to check the lead and the tiles of the roof outside.

As she shivered in the cold, she winced. Saving Trissa from that foul man’s beatings, defending Charoleia from his sadistic pleasures, meant Branca felt every blow, every burn, even though her own flesh remained unbruised. Every scream tore at her own throat. How much longer could any of them endure this?

But what hope of rescue was there? For her to reach out to Aremil, she must abandon Trissa and Charoleia to their torture, and risk her own safety. She must keep that man Karn from remembering that he had captured her too. His recollections constantly threatened to break the bonds she had woven to constrain him, when she realised he hadn’t noticed her come to her senses, intent as he was on berating Charoleia for her treachery towards Hamare.

If he saw Charoleia and Trissa while her own thoughts were elsewhere, Branca knew he’d remember exactly how he’d used her to compel their obedience. Then there’d be nowhere to hide. This cursed castle was too small for anyone to escape a determined search. Should she use aetheric concealment to slip through the main gate and hide somewhere outside? Where, on this barren rock? Even if she did find some stunted shrub, she’d soon be wet through as well as chilled to the bone. Who would help Trissa and Charoleia if she died from exposure?

Besides, Branca wasn’t sure how far she could go before her aetheric hold on their senses would slip. The further away that frightening man Karn and his unpredictable duchess were, the harder it was to nudge their thoughts along the paths she wished. Reaching down to the dining hall, to read Duke Iruvain’s feelings and those of that Parnilesse lord, was harder still.

Branca’s stomach growled. So many of Lord Geferin’s thoughts centred on his dinner. That was pure torment while she was wracked with hunger and thirst. How long before such pangs overcame her mastery of Artifice? Mentor Tonin had once told her of imprisoned adepts who’d been left in hunger and filth to make sure that their bodily discomfort frustrated all their enchantments.

At least Lord Geferin’s lust for Litasse was straightforward, desiring her naked body responding to his caressing hands. Minelas’s appetites were a noisome confusion of pleasure and pain, shot through with exultation at his own daring and unnerving fear as to where his yearnings might lead him.

Gritting her teeth, Branca reached through the aether into the room below. Putting Trissa and Charoleia’s wits beyond harm was one thing. She still had to save their unconscious bodies from as much abuse as she could.

Minelas was hesitating over Charoleia. The entertainment of searing her flesh had palled. Now he wondered if he could rouse her with a subtle spark of lightning. He wanted to strip her entirely, to see her writhe beneath his crackling fingertips. Savouring the anticipation, he was thinking how he might justify his actions to Litasse. The longer he could hoodwink the silly girl, the more time he would have for his well-deserved and woefully misunderstood pleasures.

Were all wizards so revoltingly self-centred? Well, his utter absorption with his own satisfactions did make some things easier.

Bracing herself, Branca turned Minelas’s thoughts from the present to the past. He had all too many memories of abused and helpless whores. There had been that curly-headed maid in Col. The old woman selling her for each chime of the day had sworn she was a virgin. The child was nothing of the kind, but she was young enough to never have encountered anyone like Minelas. He’d indulged himself, fore and aft, his control like iron. Then he’d had her kneeling before him. Her terrified face glistened with tears. Soon it would be sticky with—

Branca left him to his erotic reveries, his hand absently seeking his own flesh instead of abusing anyone else’s.

If they ever escaped this awful place, a bath would cleanse them all. Trissa and Charoleia’s hurts could be soothed. Branca just hoped there was some aetheric enchantment that could scour her soiled mind clean.

She leaned her aching head against the cool stone. Aremil had learned how to rise above his infirmities, above the ceaseless pains that nagged him. The least she could do was ignore her own suffering. Maybe she could search for him at dead of night, when everyone was asleep? She wouldn’t have to constantly search their thoughts, twisting their intentions: Litasse, Karn, Minelas.

Once, long ago, in Vanam, she’d seen a trickster at the Summer Solstice fair. In the middle of a circle of canes, he had set a fine white plate spinning on each one, one after another until he had ten, twenty, more, all dancing at his command. As they had slowed and tilted, he had darted from one wobbling cane to another, quickening them once again.

Branca hadn’t thought of that jongleur in years. Why remember him now? Because she was frantically trying to keep so many things in play? When would her turn come to gather up all the spinning plates, letting the canes fall where they might? She couldn’t let a single plate break, not even the last.

She sat up with a jerk. Had she fallen asleep? She couldn’t risk that, even for an instant. She should keep moving instead of sitting still. Standing up, her knees failed her. She fell backwards, her numb rump landing hard on the stone steps.

Light-headed, she barely noticed the pain. Tears trickling down her face, Branca hugged her knees. Hunger was a physical ache in her belly. Her tongue was sticky and foul. She had to find food and drink. She’d be no use to anyone if she collapsed in a faint.

Carefully, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and unlaced her boots. Aetheric enchantments were all very well but unshod feet would be quieter. She rose more slowly and this time the dizziness receded. She walked cautiously down the dark stair, one hand on the cold wall, making sure of each footfall. Slipping and breaking an ankle would be the death of them all as surely as her being captured.

She murmured the concealing enchantment as she peered warily around the corner towards the door where the other two women were imprisoned with Minelas in the garret. He’d have shot his pathetic little bolt by now. But the afterglow should leave him content long enough for her to sneak down to the kitchens. If there was any luck left in the world, he might even drowse for a while.

“
Fae dar ameneul, sar dar redicorlen.”

She walked quietly along the corridor. A single candle lantern shone at the top of the garret stair, its flame strangely sickly. She picked her way down the steps to the landing below. There was no one to be seen. All the servants must still be in attendance on the duke and duchess.

“
Fae dar ameneul, sar dar redicorlen.”

Speed was of the essence. She walked quickly towards the lesser stair spiralling down through the corner of the keep. All she needed was some bread, a sup of milk or ale. One hand steadying herself against the curving wall, she hurried downwards.

“
Fae dar ameneul, sar dar redicorlen.”

“Who are you?”

Branca stared at the old woman who’d rounded the spiral to bump into her.

“What are you doing up here?” The old woman’s grip tightened on her hand.

“
Fae dar ameneul, sar dar redicorlen
,” Branca breathed.

“What’s that you say?” The old woman shook her crossly.

“I came, with the duchess—”

Why had Mentor Tonin forbidden any talk of those enchantments rumoured to hide falsehood behind a semblance of truth?

“You’re no Triolle maid.” The old woman’s face wrinkled suspiciously.

Of course, she was the duchess’s waiting woman, who’d been deftly turning away questions downstairs when Litasse had come up to see Minelas.

“No, I came to serve the duchess,” Branca said desperately. “From Parnilesse—”

“Not with that Vanam voice, you didn’t!”

Branca’s lies foundered on a shock of recognition. This was the old woman who had menaced Failla. Pelletria, that was her name. She’d threatened to hand Failla’s baby over to Duke Garnot of Carluse.

“You’re some exile spy!” The old woman still had hold of her. She raised her other hand to slap Branca’s face.

Branca blocked the blow with her forearm. She wasn’t ready for the rush of fear that assailed her.

The old woman was terrified, for herself, for Litasse, even for that cold and empty man Karn. She detested Minelas, and feared him too, but her dread was more that their treachery would be uncovered. That somehow the wizard would escape Karn’s knife. Her only concern for Charoleia and Trissa was apprehension lest their bodies be discovered. They had to die as soon as Minelas was dead. There was no other way to bury this secret. She would send them to Poldrion with an excess of poppy tincture and convince Litasse that their injuries had carried them off, Maewelin forgive her.

Forget me. Forget us all. You don’t know who we are. You never saw us here.

In a panic, Branca shoved the woman away.

Never see us again, you murderous bitch!

The old woman’s hold broke and she fell backwards. The curving wall caught her before she could tumble far and she slumped in a dusty black huddle, gasping with pain.

Horrified, Branca went down a few steps. Old women were brittle. Had the fall broken some bone? She hadn’t meant to hurt her, truly, just to make her forget.

The old woman choked and her head lolled sideways. Branca was reaching for her. Now she snatched back her hand, appalled. Blood trickled from Pelletria’s nose, from her sightless eyes. Was she dead or merely stricken? Had Branca done this somehow or was it some unforeseen apoplexy?