The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (8 page)

Chrisainne stopped in her room to change into a clean dress, but looking in a mirror she noticed that BlakeDown had smeared her makeup a bit. She washed her face carefully, reapplied her makeup, then put on the dress.

She found Theandrin out in the west garden, discussing their supply of herbs with the chief cook, a buxom, middle-aged woman in a simple peasant dress with her hair tied up in an unglamorous bun. The cook had made it clear she did not like Chrisainne, though Chrisainne was confident the woman had no inkling of her relationship with BlakeDown. Her dislike was probably based on some perceived slight. In any case, a chief cook in any high-ranking household wielded a fair amount of power, so Chrisainne always tried to be on her best behavior around the women. She stopped five paces from the two women and waited to be acknowledged, her eyes downcast. They took an interminably long time discussing herbs, but eventually Theandrin turned away from the cook and approached Chrisainne.

Chrisainne curtsied and bowed her head. “Your Ladyship.”

“Come Chrisainne. Walk with me.”

They locked arms and began strolling leisurely through the gardens, though Theandrin steered them carefully away from anyone else present. “So,” the older woman said. “What did you learn?”

Chrisainne had to be careful. If she appeared too knowledgeable regarding the deteriorating border situation, Theandrin might realize she had an acute interest in exactly that. The first lady of Penda was not stupid, and such realization could lead to other more damning conclusions. So Chrisainne must appear to be a girl with no interest in such matters, and clearly ignorant of the politics involved. And such a girl would not know which bits of information were the most valuable. Chrisainne said, “Your husband doesn’t seem to be concerned about the situation. Is it really that bad?”

“Oh girl, are you really that stupid?”

“But I don’t understand these things, my lady.”

“Well you’d better learn quickly. Did he say anything about ErrinCastle?”

Theandrin appeared to have accepted her pretense as a stupid, young girl. Now, give her something she already knew. “He did mention something about reviewing assignments for patrol lieutenants.”

“Yes, he’s been overriding ErrinCastle’s choices. Did he say why?”

Time to give her something she might not know. “He said something about wanting more forceful leaders in charge so they wouldn’t be pushed around by the Elhiynes.”

Theandrin stopped, turned and looked at her. Chrisainne met her eyes with a look of confusion. “Did he now?” Theandrin said.

“Yes, my lady. Is that important?”

“It’s his pride and his rivalry with Olivia. If she says black, he says white, and she’s no better. The men he’s chosen are not forceful; they’re just hotheads, and if we’re not careful this enmity will lead to open war. That would weaken both of us.”

Theandrin turned and began walking again. “But that’s not enough. I need more information than that. Keep at my husband, and learn what you can. But I’d also like to know what orders he’s given to that hothead Lewendis, so seduce him as well.”

That caught Chrisainne so off-guard she squeaked, “My lady!” She forced herself to calm down and said, “Surely you don’t mean—”

“Surely I do, child.”

“But Lord Lewendis is so . . .”

Theandrin smiled, was clearly enjoying Chrisainne’s discomfort. “He really isn’t very attractive, is he? Bit of a yokel, eh? But you’re not going to seduce him because he’s attractive, you’re going to seduce him to get information. And this is not a request.”

Theandrin smiled, released her arm, turned and left her standing there.

Chrisainne couldn’t speak, couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Lewendis! How could she get out of this? She couldn’t just pack up and leave. That would displease Valso, and BlakeDown would want an explanation, and Theandrin would give him one. No, she couldn’t run away from this. But as she stood there watching the older woman cross the garden to the castle proper, she realized that there was no practical reason to seduce Lewendis. She could learn from BlakeDown what orders he’d given the fellow, and Theandrin certainly knew that. In that moment Chrisainne realized that Theandrin’s decision to force her to seduce an unattractive bumpkin was simply an act of petty revenge. And if she didn’t do something about it, in short order Theandrin would probably have her on her back beneath half the men in Penda.

Chrisainne’s disbelief slowly turned into anger. She would take great pleasure in putting a dagger in the old woman’s back; no, in her gut so she could see her killer face-to-face. And with that thought, a possible solution occurred to her. If Theandrin were to have an accident, something tragic and lethal, that would solve all of Chrisainne’s problems.

Chrisainne had never killed anyone before and knew she’d have to think carefully on the method and means, so she resolved to do her homework before taking any action. But she would need time, and she couldn’t stall Theandrin that long, which meant she couldn’t avoid seducing Lewendis, and possibly a few others, if Theandrin pushed it.

Very well, my lady,
she thought.
I’ll fuck Lewendis, but you’re going to pay for that indignity with your life.

8
Prisoner in a Dream

Rhianne awoke, frustrated beyond belief. Rafaellen and Kenna and the jackals all seemed to be conspiring to keep her from her dream Morgin. If not for the forest she probably wouldn’t even have kissed him. How wonderful it would have been if she and he had been on their own in that clearing, alone in the forest with no enemies or chaperones about. She could have had him all to herself.

She sat up on the couch where she’d been napping. Shortly after lunch she’d dismissed her handmaidens, then sat down, leaned her head back and closed her eyes, hoping to find Morgin in her dreams so she could warn him of the jackals. She wasn’t sure she needed to, since he was dead and lived only in her dreams. And in any case, it hadn’t been necessary since he’d somehow learned of them on his own. But still, she’d been happy to see him again, to touch him, to hold him.

The jackals! Certainly they were real. Rhianne had seen Magwa and her retinue with her own eyes, had heard her talk in that distorted imitation of a human voice. But were her dreams real? They felt real enough, and yet there was no question in her mind that she’d sensed Morgin die, and he didn’t have to be alive to haunt her dreams. And where was this Kingdom of Dreams if not on some level or plane of existence?

When Magwa and Valso struck their bargain to retrieve the sword, the bitch queen had said something about killing Morgin’s Benesh’ere alter-ego centuries ago. Had they faced one another as enemies in another life, in some far distant past, or dream? In this dream Morgin sounded as if he knew the jackals well and was not surprised that they walked upright like men.

She thought back and realized that in the last year and a half she and Morgin had been in each other’s presence for only two brief moments. The first had been last spring in the Great Hall when they’d brought Illalla back to Durin in chains, and Valso had stolen Olivia’s triumph by having his Kulls throw a beaten and bloodied Morgin to the floor in their midst. Rhianne had defied Olivia, had sat down on the floor of the hall and held Morgin’s head in her lap. He’d been semi-delirious, kept mumbling something incoherent about a
vast chasm of power
. And since then she’d only seen him that second time, less than a moon ago, high up the side of Attunhigh on a shelf of rock just outside the crypt of some ancient king, just before France—Salula—had killed him. Rhianne thought that Morgin might have some rather fantastic stories to tell.

“No!” she said, standing, shaking with anger and frustration. She would not be drawn once again into some misguided hope that he still lived. When that happened, it hurt so much to remember that he was truly dead. Her dreams were just dreams, that and nothing more, though apparently the place where all dreams began and ended could somehow hide that sword. If Morgin were truly still alive, and somehow hidden in the Kingdom of Dreams with the sword, Valso would have sent Magwa after
him
as well, with orders to capture or kill him. No, Magwa was after the just sword, because Morgin lived only in her dreams.

By the light from the window and the long shadows it cast, she knew she’d slept through a good portion of the afternoon. Shortly she would be called to dinner and she needed to prepare for that. She called in her handmaidens, had them change her gown, pin her hair up in the more formal style necessary for dinner, then freshen her makeup.

At dinner that evening Valso was rather expansive, playing to his audience of sycophants. That suited Rhianne nicely; had he made her the center of attention it would have thwarted her plans. She nodded politely when needed, was careful not to overcompensate by smiling too much, or being too pleasant, all the while her attention focused on the small roll of leavened bread near her plate. She tore it in half, nibbled on it a bit and concealed half of it in her hand as she lowered it to her lap. She’d chosen her gown because it had a small pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt. She slipped the piece of roll into it.

Later that evening, she hid it beneath the clothing in a small chest. She’d need more than just half a roll to survive when she made her escape. She was under no illusion that she’d be able to squirrel away enough to keep well fed, but she’d need something to take the edge off her hunger. She also had her eye on some of the servants’ clothing. If she tried to travel in the trappings of a lady of the court, she’d be discovered rather quickly. But she’d noticed where the servants hung their homespun clothing out to dry after a heavy rain. And hopefully she might also come across a coin or two she could steal. A piece here, a piece there, and soon she’d be ready to make her move.

••••

The bindings that held Morgin’s arms behind his back were tight enough that his hands quickly grew numb. He considered spurring Mortiss into a run—she’d know what to do, and with the element of surprise she might yank her reins out of the sergeant’s hand. But without the use of his hands and arms it would be difficult to remain in the saddle during a mad dash down a small game trail in the dense forest. He’d probably end up with a broken neck, so he abandoned that idea, though he had no other options.

Mortiss spluttered, as if saying,
I’m not the one who got us into this mess.

He recalled the kiss he’d shared with Rhiannead that morning, and he thought he should feel guilt at betraying Rhianne that way, but it didn’t feel like betrayal. No, he’d kissed Rhiannead with a clear conscience, and he felt no remorse now. It occurred to him that kissing Rhiannead had been identical to kissing Rhianne. He thought of one, then the other, and tried to recall the feel of the young woman in his arms both times. They were indistinguishable, this Rhiannead and his Rhianne. His hands had held her slender waist, and he’d been so conscious of her small breasts pressed against his chest—

Mortiss neighed,
Keep your mind on the trail.

He said to her, “They’re identical in every way.”

She shook her head,
Of course.

He’d seen nothing of the shadowwraiths since returning to the camp that morning, but he sensed them now, fluttering just out of sight in the forest on either side of the trail. At least Rafaellen had heeded his warning of the jackal warriors, even if he had his doubts. Should an attack come, he wondered if the wraiths might help him escape his bonds.

By midday, when they stopped for lunch, his arms had grown numb to the shoulders. Two soldiers helped him out of the saddle, and while a third held a sword point beneath his chin, they removed his bonds. They sat him on a rock, his arms useless, floppy appendages, and as circulation returned he closed his eyes and grimaced at the sensation of a thousand needles puncturing his skin.

While they ate a quick lunch of hardtack, jerky and water, Morgin overheard bits and pieces of a short conversation between Rafaellen and his sergeant. Apparently the scouts they’d sent out that morning had not returned.

When they finished the meal the soldiers retied Morgin’s arms behind his back. Again, they boosted him into the saddle, but just before they rode on Rafaellen said to his men, “Shields up. Be alert.”

Rafaellen and his men each had a small shield strapped to the side of their horses. They unbuckled them now and raised them. The trail was wide enough for them to ride three abreast, so they sandwiched Morgin, Rhiannead and Kenna each between two soldiers. The soldiers on the left carried their shield on their left arm, and those on the right on their right arm, creating a wall of shields to protect them all.

As they rode, Morgin tried to be alert to every sound in the forest not of their making. And frequently he thought he saw some movement behind a tree a short distance off the trail. But nothing happened, and he realized he was jumping at shadows and the play of light in the forest, a foolish thing to do.

Mortiss neighed,
You’re frequently a fool, but not in this.

With dusk approaching Morgin tried be alert to every noise or movement without overreacting, and he heard the sound a heartbeat before he saw its cause: the unmistakable hiss of an arrow in flight. The shaft thudded into one of the soldier’s shields. Another arrow slammed into the side of a horse, and another into the back of a soldier.

“Forward,” Rafaellen shouted, and spurred his mount into a charge. The sergeant dropped Mortiss’ reins and they all followed. Charging down a forest trail under any other circumstances would be sheer idiocy, but they had to get out of range of the archers and Morgin knew Rafaellen had no choice.

With his hands tied behind his back Morgin leaned forward in the saddle, and prayed that he’d not be unhorsed and break his neck. But leaning down like that he saw very little and had to trust Mortiss’ instincts. He heard the clash of swords and shields and looked up momentarily, saw that they’d ridden out from beneath the rain of arrows and were engaged with mounted jackals.

The soldier on his right went down, opening up his flank. A mounted jackal warrior charged in and swung his sword in a flat arc. Morgin ducked beneath it and barely missed losing his head.

Mortiss reared and slammed into the jackal’s mount, then charged past him and into the denser forest off the trail. Morgin clamped his knees into her sides as she struggled through thick brush, then broke into the clear. He heard the sounds of the battle behind him, looked back and saw that the forest had closed in about him. Apparently the forest would not allow him to return that way, though with his arms tied behind him, he and the forest were in agreement on that.

Rhiannead! “I have to free my arms and get back to protect Rhiannead.”

Mortiss ignored him. As she trotted away from the battle and the forest closed in behind them, the sounds of the fight diminished until he heard nothing but the wind rustling through the leaves of the forest canopy.

••••

Rhianne’s dream had turned into a nightmare. Several of Rafaellen’s soldiers were wounded or killed in the first moments of the battle, and in the chaos that ensued two jackal warriors separated her from the column. One reached out and tore the reins from her hands. The other leaned toward her, wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her from her mount. “You’re coming with us,” he said in the distorted, yowling sing-song of a jackal speaking as no animal was meant to.

She cried out as he lifted her and laid her across the neck of his mount like a sack of grain, then spurred his horse away from the melee.

This Rhiannead, this girl whose soul she rode in a dream, frustrated Rhianne to no end. She acted like a weak-willed child, and Rhianne would not allow that.

The jackal brought his mount to a halt and shoved her off his horse. She hit the ground off balance and fell unceremoniously to her knees, surrounded by mounted jackals.

“Did you find the blade?” their leader demanded.

“No,” one of them said. “Certainly, no one fought with it. And after we scattered them we searched their pack horses—nothing.”

The jackal captain cocked his head and asked, “Did any of you notice the one that was bound?”

“Bound?” one of his dogs asked.

“Yes, one of their own, riding among them with his arms bound behind his back.”

“Ya,” another said. “I saw him. Didn’t pay him no heed cause he was no threat. What about him?”

The jackal captain cocked his head the other way as if considering that question carefully. “There was something familiar about him, an old memory that wants to surface, but I can’t place it. And that horse of his, that mare; she had a nether scent about her, something old and familiar.”

“What are you saying?”

Their leader shook his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t like this.”

Rhianne sat there shocked beyond belief, while Rhiannead cried tears of frustration, her thoughts a maelstrom of questions. How could the jackal captain have recognized Morgin? This was just a dream; that wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Well then,” the jackal leader said, looking down at her. “At least we have her, and she’ll make a good bargaining chip.”

••••

Nicki recoiled from the disgusting little creature that stood in front of her. Dressed in filthy rags, it smelled worse than any sewer in Anistigh, and she feared that even being near it might infect her with some miasma. But when she saw that it dragged a sword behind it, her curiosity flared.

The little creature stopped in front of her, held out its hand and hissed in a cracking, guttural voice, “My knife. Give me my knife.”

At first Nicki didn’t understand what it meant, but then she realized her hand still clutched Rat’s knife to her breast. By that she understood that she still lay asleep in the inn in Norlakton, and she and this creature inhabited a dream.

She’d been too young when Morgin had first come to Elhiyne to understand any of the stories and descriptions of Rat, and by the time she’d been cognizant enough to do so, some years had passed and the subject just didn’t come up. She had never realized how truly degrading his existence had been, had even romanticized it a bit, made up an image of him in her mind’s eye: a clean and healthy urchin of the streets, with just a smudge of dirt here and there.

“Rat,” she said, “is that you?”

“My knife.” He shook the outstretched hand to reiterate his demand.

She hesitated, didn’t want to give up the blade. But it had originally belonged to him, and perhaps, in his hand, it would serve some purpose she couldn’t fathom. She reversed the knife, held it by its blade and extended the crude hilt toward him. He wrapped his fingers about it, then took it gently from her hand, as if concerned that he might cut her or harm her if he snatched it away quickly. She’d sharpened it carefully, and knew that it could cause a nasty cut before the cheap metal dulled.

Suddenly she and Rat stood in the midst of the Benesh’ere camp with whitefaces everywhere.

“They knew him,” Rat croaked.

Nicki slammed awake and gasped. She sat up, looked at the hand still clutched to her breast and saw that it held no knife. She threw on a robe, marched down the hall and pounded on the door to JohnEngine’s room until he answered, bleary-eyed and confused.