Path of Honor (30 page)

Metyein sloughed his languid air and leaped down the remaining steps.

The sisalik whipped around, raising himself up on his hind legs and tail and preparing to strike with his formidable claws.

Metyein took a step back and knelt down. “What is it, Esper?”

The sisalik swayed in the air and then dropped to the ground. Foreboding eeled up Metyein’s spine. Looking into the sisalik’s staring yellow eyes, he wished fervently for his sword. All he had were two daggers hidden in his boots and his belt-knife.

“Where is Juhrnus?”

Esper flung himself onto Metyein’s arm, his claws digging bloody gouges into Metyein’s skin as he clambered up onto his shoulder, curling his tail tightly around Metyein’s arm.

“All right,” Metyein gasped, pain racing along his skin. “Where to now?” Esper made a low growling sound in his throat. A flash of memory made Metyein stiffen. “He went outside, didn’t he? It was too cold to take you. Did he go out the front?” Metyein stepped in that direction. Esper tensed, digging his claws deeper, the growl turning into a yowl.

“Not the front? I didn’t see any sign of him when I came in, so he didn’t likely go out an east entrance. He wouldn’t have left you here if he was going out the west side. That leaves just the northern entrances. So, through the kitchens or one of the solars?”

Metyein took a step toward the kitchens, and Esper didn’t fight him. He sped quickly along the corridor until he reached the kitchen warren. There were only three doors leading outdoors. Two were on the opposite end of the kitchens: one leading to the well and herb garden, while the other opened into the wide chute connecting the kitchen to the stables and slaughter yard. The third was closer, near the root cellars. Metyein headed for this door first, his heart pounding as he saw the door cracked open, its bar lying on the floor.

Metyein yanked it open, gasping as the wind crashed against his chest. Ice lashed his face like a knotted whip. He ducked his head against the assault and shoved outside. Esper made a thin yowling sound like tearing metal and pressed his belly against Metyein, clasping tighter with his tail and claws. Metyein hardly felt the pain as he shuffled across the icy path. He quartered the first garden area, stomach clenched against the discovery of another bloody body. But he found nothing, the wind-driven ice making him blink and tear. He squinted, scrubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

As he passed through the gate to the next garden, he felt Esper slump against him. Metyein swiveled his head to look at his passenger. The sisalik looked pitiful, ice crusting his hide. His eyes had become mere slits. Despite Esper’s sudden easing, Metyein couldn’t leave off his search. Something had been very wrong with Juhrnus—he could be safe enough for the moment, but danger might still lurk. Remembering those who had hunted him and Soka through the Jarrah Gardens, Metyein trotted forward, slipping on a patch of ice and landing heavily. Shining pain burned up his thigh and into his hip.

“Skraa,”
he muttered through gritted teeth. He clambered to his feet, breath hooking in his lungs as he tested his weight on his injured leg. Nothing broken. Trickles of blood from Esper’s claws made icy tracks down his chest and back. He shivered, finally becoming aware of the cold.

He edged against the lee of the wall and coaxed Esper off his shoulders, half pulling him into his arms so that he could press the sisalik against the warmth of his chest. It had to be warmer than sitting exposed on his shoulders.

A glow at the end at the corner of the wall caught Metyein’s attention. He crept down the wall, hunching into the darker shadows. Two figures stood at the end of the garden.

Metyein crept closer, feeling for his knife. Juhrnus faced the sorceress. He held his hands out to the sides as if showing he was unarmed. Metyein was too far away to see her expression, but the glow radiated from her, sharp and bright and unforgiving. Juhrnus spoke to her. She answered, one hand sweeping through the air. Then the glow around her began to shrink and grow misty. Juhrnus stepped forward, standing just beyond the edge of her light. Slowly it faded altogether, and Metyein could no longer see them. But Esper remained calm, snuggled against his chest.

Metyein sat a moment, wondering what to do. Juhrnus seemed to have the situation in hand and remaining on the cold ground did not appeal to him. With a sigh, he made his slow, surreptitious way back along the wall, through the gate and the next garden, and back into the kitchen. The door remained unbarred. Metyein slid through and pushed it closed, dropping down the dim cross-passage and into a pantry. He nudged a pickle crock near the door so he could see down the corridor, and sat down shivering to wait.

What was going on out there?
The sorceress had come close to killing. Juhrnus, sending Esper into a frenzy. Metyein had no doubts. But why? And how had Juhrnus stopped her?

J
uhrnus stood still as a granite plinth, waiting for the blow that must come. He hardly felt the wind or the ice melting down his collar.

~You are my heart
, Juhrnus sent to Esper, feeling his
ahalad-kaaslane’s
terror and having no way to assuage it. Tears spilled unashamedly down his cheeks. There was nothing more precious to him than Esper. He’d nearly lost the sisalik once. How could he put Esper through that agony of loss?

He found his tongue. “Allow me to apologize for offending you,” he said in a carrying voice to cut across the wail of the wind. He stared into the sorceress’s eyes. They were hollow, empty, as if she’d withdrawn into depths he could never hope to reach. A coldness emanated from her, colder even than the blade of the wind and the flail of the ice. Juhrnus felt its numbing grasp creeping up his legs, circling his thighs and swallowing his hips.

“I did not know that
Abi
was an insult. Menegal-Hakar used that word for you so publicly.” But even as he said it, Juhrnus heard the lie in his voice and knew that she would too. For the thread that bound them together was one of kinship.
We are somehow alike.
She valued honesty. He knew that as if she’d said it aloud. She valued honesty, and she despised deception. He thought of Sodur.

“That’s a lie,” he said bluntly. “I heard the way Menegal-Hakar used that word. I knew it was an insult. So I used it, hoping it would upset you so that you’d let something slip.” He couldn’t help the mordant grin that quirked the corners of his lips. He’d learned something, all right. More than he was likely to survive.

Cold continued to crawl upward, over his groin, circling his ribs. Pain struck him as the cold gnawed at his heart. Agony flashed down his left arm, and his knees buckled. He dropped to the cobbles, clutching his chest and gasping. From far, far away he could hear Esper, but he could not make out the words. He sobbed, feeling their bond beginning to splinter and crack. He forgot the sorceress in that moment as he grappled to hold Esper close in his mind.

But she had not forgotten him.

The wind and battering ice ceased as if a door had shut, and Juhrnus felt himself suddenly warm, as if sitting beside a roaring fire. He stood up gingerly, his mind fisted with Esper’s. The sorceress stood over him, her eyes still glittering and hard, but the smoke circling her head was gone, and she did not appear so brittle. Juhrnus stood up, speaking low in the quiet sphere of the spell.

“Thank you. You saved my life.” Which wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t tried to kill him. But Juhrnus was grateful anyway.

She nodded, her marble expression unchanging. Finally she spoke. “It means ‘slave.’ ”

How could that be? His throat went dry. If she was a slave, what kind of powers would her masters have? What had Sodur and his friends brought to Kodu Riik?

“I should thank you. I had thought I was no longer susceptible to that insult. I don’t know why your repeating it should have—” She broke off, collecting herself. “You have taught me I must be more on guard. If the
pengakum
had noticed my anger, how I so easily lost control . . .” She licked her lips, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her hands together.

“If you are a slave—”

“I am not.” The light around her flared brighter, and wisps of purple coiled around her knotted hands.

Juhrnus spread his own hands apart. “I don’t understand.” He spoke slowly, as if appeasing a lioness who hadn’t yet decided if she was going to eat him or not.

She eyed him haughtily, and for a long moment he didn’t think she was going to respond. At last she spoke. “The
pengakum
may address me as they see fit. It is not the worst thing they have done, or will do.”

“Why do you let them?” he asked, sudden anger burning in his throat. His eyes dropped to the flat bands at her throat and wrists. Shackles.
“Ganyiks.”
The last was uttered with loathing, making her eyes widen.

“You are angry. For me?” She stared at him, and he flushed, unable to look away. Whatever the thread was that bound them together was making him stupid. Still, a powerful hatred coursed through him for the men who’d put those shackles on her, who called her slave.
It’s not the worst thing they have done, or will do
. He swallowed bile.

“There is no need. I have many strengths . . . ,” she murmured, her brow furrowing. He couldn’t read her expression, but the thread connecting them tightened around his lungs until he could scarcely breathe. She rubbed the heel of her palm between the hollow of her breasts. “What is this?”

She felt it too.

Suddenly she made a sweeping gesture with her arm. The light about her turned misty and began to shrink. Juhrnus stepped forward, closing on her, his nostrils flaring. She smelled of molten metal and sharp herbs. As his toes breached the edge of the light, the glow faded until Juhrnus could see little more than her outline in the darkness.

Dimly he was aware of Esper and Metyein watching. Then the two began to retreat back inside the palace. Juhrnus felt a wash of relief. They would be safe. He felt her eyes on him, felt the thread quivering between them like a plucked harp string.

“You should return inside. Your friends wait.”

“You knew they were there?”

“I am always well warned.” There was a tightness in her voice, something like fear or hate, and it pulled Juhrnus forward. He reached out, resting his hands on the edge of the silver collar. He felt her inhale sharply. Slowly he ran his fingers over the skin at her throat, sliding beneath her chain hood to caress her neck in feathery swirls.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice thready.

Juhrnus shook his head. “I don’t know.”

She flinched. “I don’t like to be touched.”

His hands stiffened. He lifted them away. “I apologize again,” he said, curling his shaking hands into fists. “I’ll leave you.” He took a step back, nearly crying out as the thread tightened, slicing through him like a wire. Another agonizing step.

Abruptly she began to speak, halting him in his tracks. “In Scallas, almost everyone has some power. But only
penakidah
have rights to own land, to serve the Kilmet, or to contract the
terjebak
for children. Most important, only they are permitted to practice the larger magics. But the process is . . . difficult. It involves many trials over many years.” She licked her lips, brow furrowing.

Juhrnus remained still, holding his breath that she would continue.

“The
penakidah
trials are designed to reveal the extent of a
penabidan
’s power. Scallas does not wish to become like Patverseme, gripped in the fist of a handful of too-powerful wizards. Too much or too little magic, and the candidate fails. I have achieved the stage of
penabidan,
which means I need only complete the final trials. The
pengakum
are required to offer these within the next three months, though they would begin tonight if they thought I wouldn’t pass.”

“They don’t want you to succeed?”

“Those who are unworthy or incapable cannot be allowed to succeed.” The tempo of her breathing increased.

“What happens if they do?”

She hesitated. “Your Reisiltark broke our spell tonight, didn’t she?”

Juhrnus was taken off guard. “Yes,” he answered finally. Who else could have done it?

“In Scallas, no one person would be permitted to hold such power. It is considered too dangerous. Such strength must be broken. The trials of
penakidah
are designed to force a candidate to reveal his true powers.

“My
pengakum
seek to be absolutely certain I am not hiding greater strength than I have shown. It is their duty. They must push me again and again in every way imaginable so that I will reveal any hidden talents. For while I wear these”—she touched the collar and wrist bands—“I am subject to their rule. Once achieving
penakidah,
these would be removed and I would be beyond their ability to contain—if I was hiding my true abilities. I could gather a faction of my own and soon become too powerful to resist. The Kilmet always favors the strong—as he must if he is to retain power—and until I was destroyed, my sect would hold ascendency over all others.”

Seeing Juhrnus’s repulsion, she waved her hand dismissively. “The tradition of
penakidah
has kept us from self-destruction. It limits our powers so that no mage rises up to dominate us. But it is also the root of our inability to defeat the Patversemese wizards. They are each as powerful as they can be. We are culled, like cattle and sheep, not to improve our bloodlines, but to breed out any real strength, any real power. We are forced to unite in our spellcasting, and since often the wizards do so as well, we are never enough to defeat them. And thus there are none among us who could create or break tonight’s spell alone, and never as easily as your Reisiltark.”

Silence fell between them again. Juhrnus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why she’d told him as much as she had. And he sensed there was more, but that she was struggling with it.