Allegiance (29 page)

The mention of Narian's name and his action in freeing London reaffirmed what I had never truly doubted—that Narian's love was steadfast and his loyalties were with me, despite the battle he was waging for the Overlord. I closed my eyes, taking a steadying breath, realizing as I did so that this was the most I had ever heard the deputy captain say about his time in captivity during the last war.

“I had already seen Miranna and knew where she was being housed,” London continued. “Leaving without her
wasn't an option, so I handled her guards and brought her with me. Once we were outside the walls of the temple, I stole a horse, and we rode double, virtually nonstop, back to Hytanica.”

I took advantage of the silence that ensued to raise a question of my own.

“What do you think happened to her in Cokyri?”

London studied me, and I had the impression he was trying to judge how much I could handle. Then he pushed away from the wall to stand before me.

“Let me tell you what I observed. Miranna was in the High Priestess's hands, and Nantilam provided her with a decent room, decent food and decent care. She was not harmed in any way within the walls of the temple.”

“That's what you observed. But what do you believe?” My heart thudded painfully against my rib cage as I waited for London's answer.

London sighed heavily before continuing.

“All right, let me tell you what I have surmised. When I went to get her, it was night and I was wearing a black cloak, and she was terrified of me. She spoke very little on our journey to Hytanica and slept even less and was quite afraid of the dark. All of this leads me to the certainty that she had, probably in the first instance, been brought before the Overlord. I believe she was in his custody up until the time she was used to pressure Narian, in which case she spent time in his dungeon. Beyond that, I will not guess.”

I struggled to breathe, for my lungs did not want to expand.

“She will recover, in time,” he promised, and he was the only person I would have believed.

The two men continued to talk while I retreated to the
back of the cave to check on my sister. Before long, London went to get his pack, and Cannan joined me.

“If Steldor rouses, he needs to eat. Wake Galen for assistance. I'm going out to stand watch.”

The captain said this normally enough, but his eyes flicked uneasily to his son's still form. I knew he had to be just as tired as the Sergeant at Arms, who had barely been able to stand, and I wondered what it was that kept him going.

I nodded my assent, and Cannan and London exited together, London carrying his daggers, hunting bow and quiver. It took me a moment to realize that, with all the men absent, occupied or incapacitated, I was, for the time being, in charge.

I gladly shouldered this responsibility, pleased to be of use. I had never been in charge of anything except the household staff, and I was experiencing an entirely new feeling—that of empowerment.

The firewood was still stacked against the wall, but almost everything else had been tossed about haphazardly. I organized the medical supplies that had been scattered during the rush to treat Steldor, even going to retrieve those that lay on the floor where London had tended to the wound. I rerolled bandages, corked flasks of alcohol and untangled the needle and thread that had been used for stitching. When these items had been stored away, I gathered the bloodied cloths and tossed them into the fire. I did not know if the cloaks could be washed, so I set those aside for the time being. The animal hides were stained as well but could probably be salvaged, so I left them by the cloaks. While I worked, I chatted to my sister, chronicling my actions, hoping she would at some point be drawn into a conversation.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, knowing she had not eaten
much when she had first awakened. “I should make more gruel in case Steldor wakes up.”

I looked to where my husband lay by the fire, doubting he was anywhere near the surface of consciousness.

“No,” Miranna murmured, bowing her head. “I'm not hungry.”

I considered her and saw a tear splash against the rocky floor.

“Mira, what is it?” I coaxed, hoping she would say more.

She sniffled once or twice, and it was so strange to see my perpetually bouncy sister crying that I couldn't think of any words of solace to offer. I knelt beside her and brushed my fingers through her snarled curls.

“I'm so confused, Alera. I—I don't know where we are or why we're here. I don't even know…I can't even remember what happened.”

“We are north of the city, in a hidden cave.” I explained, heartened by the fact that she had at least uttered complete sentences. “We had to come here to be safe. Our home… Hytanica fell, to the Cokyrians.”

“Father and Mother?”

My throat constricted, and I bit my lip, then I put my arms around her shoulders, not certain how to answer the question, not even certain that I could make myself give an answer. After a moment, she repeated her question, even more apprehensively.

“Mama and Papa?”

“They had to stay behind,” I choked out, struggling to maintain control, not wanting to frighten her.

“And what…what happened to me?” she said, huddling in my arms like a small child. “Everything is so jumbled. I remember going to the chapel. I thought…I thought Temerson would be there. But everything was dark…and someone
grabbed me…and I was choking.” She trembled and tears flowed. “I was so scared. I don't remember much after that, except that I was eventually taken to the High Priestess. And then London came.”

Hysteria was now creeping into her voice, and I hugged her tighter, wanting so badly to cry along with her. I held back, instead pouring my emotions into our embrace. When she quieted, I tried to reassure her.

“It's early February, and spring will be here soon. I know it doesn't make sense right now, and maybe it never will. But it's over, and you're safe. And I'm here to help you.”

She didn't reply, but I stayed with her until her breathing slowed and she fell asleep. I wished I could stop worrying about her, but she was always tired, and she ate very little.

I was now the only wakeful person in the cave. Galen had not so much as shifted since he'd collapsed on his bedding, lying half on his side, half on his stomach, with his mouth open, and Steldor would have appeared cadaverous if not for his steadily rising and falling chest.

I eased my sister out of my lap and onto the ground, then hurried to retrieve a couple of animal furs, lifting her gently so I could provide some cushioning between her and the hard cave floor. Then I took a cooking pot and filled it with water to boil for the gruel. I went to our supplies to scoop some oats, stopping to examine the dried fruits in the hope of adding some flavor to the bland mixture. Raisins caught my eye, so I took a goodly portion of those.

I cooked enough for Miranna and me, plus some extra in case Steldor came to consciousness, then poured a little of the thin mixture into a bowl, sprinkling a few raisins on top. I ate in silence, deciding the gruel would be a bit more palatable at a thicker consistency and that the fruit wrought a definite improvement. Eventually, I moved to lean against
the rough side wall opposite Galen, positioned to keep an eye on both Miranna and Steldor, and trying to make myself believe the things I had told my sister.

AT LAST, SOMEONE STIRRED. I HEARD A MOAN and sat bolt upright, my eyes falling upon my injured husband. As I observed him, he tried to shift position but gave a small cry, and I hurried over, wanting to see how he was before I attempted to wake Galen. If it seemed I could handle Steldor myself, I would leave the sergeant to his slumber.

I called Steldor's name softly, trying to bring him to full awareness, and when his eyes opened to gaze blearily at me, I put my hand to his forehead, checking for a fever. I knew from when London had been injured that one of the main risks from such a wound was infection.

“How do you feel?” I asked, relieved that he was not overly warm.

He did not immediately answer, staring at me in confusion. Finally his eyes cleared, and my question seemed to make sense.

“I feel…” He faltered, speech itself difficult. Then he took a slow, deep breath and managed, “I feel like my gut was sliced open and lit on fire.”

I smiled despite the gravity of the situation, relieved that, unlike Miranna, he was still himself. My smile faded, however, as he clenched his fists at his sides in a spasm of pain. He turned his face from me, but his breathing was suddenly rougher. I wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but knew just from the fact that I was looking at the back of his head that he didn't want me to see his plight.

“I need something,” he pronounced after a time, his voice strained. “For the pain. Bring me something, anything.”

I looked toward the storage area I had just arranged, thinking of the various herbs that had been provided to us. Then I recalled Cannan's instruction that Steldor should eat. The captain hadn't said anything about painkillers, and I didn't want to harm the King by giving him the wrong thing. I suddenly felt less confident that I could handle the situation.

“Your father said it was important for you to eat.” I glanced at Galen, thinking I should wake him, but he was out cold. I hated to cheat the young man out of much-needed rest, so decided against disturbing him. “I really think it would be best if I brought you some gruel.”

Steldor sighed miserably, his dark brown eyes beseeching.

“Alera, trust me. I won't be able to eat unless—” He inhaled sharply, and his neck and jaw flexed in an effort to suppress a groan. “Just get me whatever we have,
now.
”

His expression banished my indecision, and I hurried to our supplies to gather every plant and herb in sight.

“What do you need?” I asked, sitting beside him and fumbling through the mishmash in my lap. “How about this?”

I examined a container and read the label.

“Will belladonna do?”

“That's a poison, dear. I'd prefer if you didn't give me that.” Even with his ghastly injury, his dry humor survived.

I quickly put the belladonna aside, not wanting to handle it further.

“This says crushed oak,” I continued, reading the label attached to a small pouch.

Steldor held up a finger to tell me I'd found something useful.

“Well, what do I do with it?”

I pushed the other containers, pouches and bundles of herbs off my lap as I awaited his directive. He seemed to find my complete ignorance amusing but did not laugh, aware of what that would cost him.

“Mix it with wine and bring it to me.”

“How much?”

“Plenty.”

“But I don't want to give you too much—”

“Alera, I'll take the risk.”

His eyes closed again, and I stood, not wanting him to pass out from pain before he had eaten.

I grabbed a flask of wine and added what I thought to be a generous measure of the brown substance, then corked and shook the container to blend its contents. I was about to hand it to him when something else occurred to me.

“Will this put you to sleep?”

He growled and tugged at his hair with his left hand, evidencing his frustration.

“It might. Seems to me that would be a good thing.”

“Your father said if you woke, you should eat. I can't let you go back to sleep until you do.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, and I knew this was not so much in opposition to food as it was to the agony I was prolonging. “Where is my father?”

“On guard duty. He's outside somewhere.”

He dropped his hand and breathed.

“Just give me the drink, and I'll eat afterward. It won't knock me out immediately.”

This seemed reasonable, so I pressed the flask into his hand, waiting to see if he would ask for help, not wanting to insult him by suggesting that he needed it. He did not speak.

“I'll get the gruel, then,” I said, leaving him to manage on his own.

I had left the pot simmering over the fire, and put several spoonfuls into a wooden bowl to bring to him, sprinkling raisins on top just as I had for myself. When I turned around, he was propped on his left elbow, guzzling the wine, no doubt having swallowed a considerable amount of pain along with it. He drank until the flask was empty, then tossed it aside, motioning impatiently to me, not wanting to lie back down until he had eaten, as well. I could see the strain he was placing on his body and would have preferred he not try to brace himself in such a manner; however, I could think of no way to assist him without offending his pride.

He looked askance at the fare I presented to him but did not complain as he put away a few bites. I tried not to watch him eat, moving to stoke the fire, but I heard when he settled back down, and looked to see that he had abandoned the bowl after consuming only half of its contents. While I could hardly blame him for his lack of appetite, given his condition, I wasn't sure Cannan would think it sufficient. On the other hand, there was at least
something
in his stomach other than wine.

Within fifteen minutes, the alcohol and crushed oak had taken effect, and Steldor fell once more into a heavy slumber. Again, I was on my own, this time with little to occupy
me. I returned to the fire, stirring the gruel and adding more water so it would not become too thick. Thankfully, it was not long—half an hour at most—before Cannan returned to the cave. He stopped next to Galen and put a booted foot to the Sergeant at Arms' shoulder, shaking him awake.

“Enough beauty sleep,” Cannan said when Galen groggily opened his eyes. “Time to take a turn on guard duty.”

Galen struggled to his feet, nowhere near ready to rise of his own accord, while the captain walked toward me, casting a glance at his injured son.

“Steldor?” His voice was weary, gruff and worried.

“He woke. I talked to him and he ate some. Not very much, but some.”

“He seemed coherent?”

“Yes. Tired and hurting, and not exactly pleased with me, so definitely coherent.”

I suddenly remembered the painkiller I had given him and snatched up the pouch to show the captain.

“He asked for this, crushed oak, so I mixed it in some wine. It seemed to help, and he fell back asleep. I hope that's all right.”

Cannan was nodding before I finished speaking. “Good. I assume you managed without Galen, then.”

The sergeant was across the room next to the small waterfall, tossing cold water on his face, and appeared not to have heard a word.

“I don't think I could have roused him,” I said, with a touch of affection. “He was about as gone as were you.”

The captain went to Steldor, dropping to one knee and touching the back of his hand against his son's cheek, feeling for a fever. I scanned his face for signs of a problem, but there were none; he merely brushed a hand over Steldor's hair before leaving the younger man to his rest.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him, but he shook his head.

Galen was now approaching the fire, staring at the cooking kettle, and I knew I would not have to ask if he were in the mood to eat.

“He's good, so far,” Cannan commented as he passed the sergeant on his way to lay out a bed for himself near the cave entrance.

I ladled gruel into a bowl for Galen, adding the fruit, and he gobbled it down.

“Best slop ever,” he said with a slight smirk, wiping the back of his hand across his face. “Thanks.”

He headed outside to take up guard, passing the captain, who was already lying down in preparation for a long-delayed and much-needed break.

“Wake me if Steldor stirs,” Cannan called before allowing himself some rest.

The captain's words meant that I was, once more, expected to stay alert on my own within our damp and dim refuge. I was thankful for the shafts of natural light that came from above, but they illuminated only the floor where they fell, and they shifted with the position of the sun. Our torches and the fire did not reach far either, and there were dark patches along the walls and in the corners. The silence within the earth was also of a different quality, more complete, for there were no bird sounds, no wind or rustle of branches, or even footsteps. Ours would be a chilly and dreary existence.

I had little to do as time marched onward. Seconds passed, turning into minutes, followed by more seconds and more minutes. My longing for something to occupy me increased, for my unfocused mind wandered in unpleasant directions. I did not like having this opportunity to reflect, for I could not help wondering if my kingdom still existed, could not
help thinking of my parents, my friends, my people, couldn't help thinking of Narian, who had saved London and my sister, but probably lacked the power to shield others, perhaps even himself, from the Overlord.

Then I remembered Galen's marriage of only a few months—he hadn't let a thing show, but inside he had to be aching. And back in the city, if Tiersia were still alive, she would have no idea where Galen was and would probably assume him dead. She would cause herself so much unnecessary grief. But was it unnecessary? Trapped out here, were we not as good as dead? We would never be going back. And that reality was more than I could stand to consider.

I came to my feet, determined to find something to do to ward off despair. Deciding I might feel better if I cleaned up a bit, I heated some water. If nothing else, my hair desperately needed to be washed. I ran a hand over my head, my fingers snagging on snarled locks that had escaped the bun I had fashioned before we'd left. I tried to release the remaining coils of hair, but had to tug repeatedly to get them to come loose. Some of my hair pulled out in the effort, and I let it fall into the fire.

My mane, as it could truly be called, presented a significant dilemma. Now that it was down, it made me cringe to feel it against my shoulders and back. It was beyond dirty, for it contained bits of twigs and leaves and was impossibly tangled in places. If I were going to attempt this, I would need to cut off the matted pieces. I pulled the dagger Steldor had given me from the sheath on my forearm, recognizing the incongruity in using the weapon he had unenthusiastically provided to shear some of the tresses with which he loved to play.

I carried the pot of hot water with me to the pool at the base of the waterfall, adding some cold so it would be the
proper temperature, trying to decide the best way to approach this task. I had nothing with which to brush my hair and nothing other than warm water with which to clean it. In frustration, I snatched up the dagger and hacked off one of my front tresses at the shoulder, letting it fall in a clump at my feet. I picked up the dark brown lock that was lifeless and devoid of sheen and came to a practical decision.

Tossing the lock aside, I gripped another handful of hair, likewise slicing it off. I continued, cutting it all, piece by piece, to the length of the first. After examining my reflection in the water, I took up the blade again, shortening my hair from shoulders to chin, the length at which the High Priestess wore hers. A gasp from behind startled me, and I swiveled to see that Miranna had awakened and was walking toward me.

“Alera, what are you doing? Your hair!”

I put a finger to my lips to remind her to keep her voice down.

“I had to do it, Mira. Come see, it's not so bad.”

She fell to her knees beside me and picked up a lock from the cave floor.

“But short hair…” she tremulously began.

“It will grow back.”

Miranna had been going to remind me of the associations there were with short-haired women in our kingdom. Shearing the hair above the shoulder was a common punishment for prostitution and other misconduct, identifying women who should be jeered and shunned. Although I began to feel nervous about what the others would think, I knew that I had done the right thing, the necessary thing. After a few weeks of living like this, my hair would have been unsalvageable anyway, and besides—what society did I have to judge me now?

“Mira, I think…to be sensible…”

I reached out and tried to detangle some of her untidy tresses, but she snatched the hair back, knowing what I was proposing.

“No,” she snapped.

“It's only hair,” I said gently. “And you'll be much more comfortable once it's shorter. You can braid and keep what I cut off.”

Water was pooling in her eyes, and I understood the reason—Miranna had always loved her hair. It was bouncy and beautiful, styled or otherwise, and she played with it constantly, twirling it around her fingers. Boys watched it swish as she walked, her friends adored fashioning it and it had been a source of regular praise from our own mother, whom Miranna was smart enough to realize we might never see again. Nevertheless, as I gazed at her, she nodded and turned her back to me, tears streaming down her face, and bottom lip stuck out like a little girl's.

I again took up the blade and began to cut, not making my sister's hair as short as mine. Shoulder length would be manageable, and yet leave her with some of the exquisite tresses she cherished. She cried silently while I trimmed strand after strand, until finally it was done. I raked my hands through the curls that remained, then tied them back using the ribbon that had held my bun in place. I wouldn't be in need of it anytime soon.