The Eunuch's Heir (21 page)

“Perhaps if you rode on ahead, Ambassador, and prepared the welcome your prince deserves, he might spend a few more days with us?” Faedre was suggesting.

The back of Wolfram’s neck began to tingle, and his temples throbbed. To both sides, a good number of guards and deckhands stood idle, except for the few moving carefully to block his way. He did not know what they wanted, or what they would do to him, but he knew he must not let it happen. He rubbed absently at his forehead, and heard the jingle of bracelets as Deishima flinched for some reason. Their eyes met briefly, then he lunged for her.

In two quick motions, his arm went about her middle, while his off hand slipped the knife free. Lifting her effortlessly, Wolfram pressed her to his chest, holding his knife
at the ready. “Get out of my way, or this deck will run with her blood.”

Thunderstruck, Esfandiyar stood with his mouth hanging open, caught in a sick half grin, the rubies of his teeth winking in the evening light. Lyssa and Faedre, in midargument, both stared, then Faedre pulled back, her eyes flaring even as Lyssa leapt forward, pushing into the men at the plank. “Let us by or the girl dies!” she shouted.

This was not at all what Wolfram wanted, but Lyssa had thrust herself into it, and her powerful presence encouraged the men to swift obedience rather than defiance. Letting go their curved swords, they jabbered at her as they backed away.

Shaking his head clear of Deishima’s veils, Wolfram hurried after, passing Lyssa on the dock as she drew her sword, watching his back. With his captive flung upon his shoulder, Wolfram ran. Once clear of the Hemijrani dockworkers and animal handlers, he sheathed his knife and struck out for the eastern road, the one he’d mapped out for Dawsiir. Somehow, he hoped, he’d lose Lyssa and still make the rendezvous.

“What’s going on, Wolfram?” Lyssa’s strident voice demanded as she easily kept pace with him. “Were they trying to stop us leaving?” They cut through the fish market and up into town, brushing past disgruntled merchants and startled wives.

“I told you they were up to something, but you wouldn’t listen!” he called back, tightening his grip on Deishima, though she had not struggled. He spotted the gate and sprinted into the courtyard, then stopped and set down his captive.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting her go—I have to disappear.”

Lyssa shot out her hand and grabbed the girl’s robe. “You can’t do that—we have to know what’s going on.”

“Oh, now you’re interested? Great Lady!” Wolfram heard the sound of running feet from the streets behind, with voices calling out in Hemijrani. “Goddess’s Tears, Lyssa, let’s get out of here—if we leave her, they won’t follow.”

“Whatever it is, she’s got to know!” Lyssa swept Deishima onto her own shoulder.

“Lyssa—” Wolfram broke off, catching sight of Deishima’s eyes squeezed shut behind her off-kilter veil. She had betrayed him, hadn’t she? “Holy Mother,” he muttered, and they took off at a run.

THEY SLOWED
their pace after some time, and Wolfram began looking for the turning to the place Dawsiir would meet him. Lyssa marched on in grim silence, with Deishima a muffled form draped over her shoulder.

“Oh, Great Lady!” Lyssa cried suddenly, stopping short.

Wolfram spun back, his hand already on his boar knife. “What is it?”

“I’ve got Fenervon stabled outside of town—he’s been there since I left.”

“He’s a horse,” Wolfram replied, relaxing. “He’ll wait.”

She glared, and said, “We’ll take forever to get anyplace this way. If we can get mounts, we’ll be home in a couple of days. The stable’s not far from here, if we can find a place for you and the girl to hide.”

Wolfram drummed his fingers on the hilt of his knife, then sighed. “I know a Woodman’s clearing a little farther on.”

“Is that why we’re on this road, rather than the direct route?” Lyssa asked, closing the distance between them. Lyssa’s strong arm encircled her captive, and Deishima’s thick-soled sandals dangled limp, as if the girl had given up hope.

“The direct route, need I point out, is also the expected route, and the one that whole caravan will be following anyhow.”

Her wide green eyes searched him out, then she snorted her disgust. “I hate being lied to, Wolfram, but we’ll play this your way for now. We’ll talk about it when I get back with the horses.”

Claws of tension kneaded the back of Wolfram’s neck as he returned her stare. “I can hardly wait.” He started out again, watching the underbrush.

Shortly after, they crossed the brook he’d been expecting and found the subtle signs of the Woodmen’s path. Dark was already falling among the trees, but Wolfram followed the path like a tracking dog. They ducked under branches and weaved among the trees, accompanied by quiet protests from Deishima as her veils or trailing braids snagged on the grasping trees. At each stifled cry, Wolfram flinched, and Lyssa growled but they did not speak.

The clearing itself was ringed with tall and ancient trees, their thick roots forming deep crevices as they reached toward the brook bounding one side. A shallow pit at its center was the only sign of its frequent occupation. The last of the evening light filled the place like a temple in the woods, and even Lyssa gaped upward at the enormous trees. After a moment, she shook herself and deposited Deishima between two upthrust roots at the base of the tallest tree.

Dirt marked the girl’s white robes, along with little dots of blood where twigs had scratched her. Torn veils and ragged braids covered her face, and she made no move to clear them away but huddled against the tree with her shrouded knees drawn up and her arms around them. Wolfram felt a twinge of regret for the mess made of her glorious hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and popped them open again with a start. Kneeling, he pulled free one of Deishima’s small, dark hands. “Where are the bracelets? Bury it, Lyssa, what happened to her bracelets?”

“What does it matter?”

The girl’s arm was rigid in his grip, even as she pressed herself closer to the tree.

“What have you done with them?” Wolfram leaned in to her, stroking the veils and braids from her face.

The whites of her eyes flashed, and she turned her head sharply, a tiny gasp escaping her. “On the trail,” she whispered. “Every so often, I dropped one.” Her chin rose a little as she said it, her eyes darting to glance at him, and away again.

“Holy Mother—she’s marked the trail.” He drew her up by her arm, but Lyssa stopped him.

“I’m going back that way, Wolfram, I’ll find them. Maybe I’ll make her eat the bloody things when we reach Lochdale.”

“Give me something to tie her hands.” He dropped her to the earth again.

“What’ll she do to you? Look at her—she’s scared out of her mind.”

“She’s magic, didn’t I tell you?”

“There’s only my sword belt, and I’m not leaving that.” Lyssa glanced around the clearing, then back to the prisoner. She grabbed a handful of veils and braids, and drew out a sharp knife.

“No!” Wolfram said, in spite of himself. He sorted a long scarf from the tatters of fabric and set about tying Deishima’s arms.

“I wasn’t going to hurt her, Wolfram.”

He straightened up, looking down on the dark braids. “What would the Lady think if you cut her hair?”

“What would She think of your snatching the girl to begin with? Maybe you should have thought of that sooner.”

“I said we should let her go—she got us off the boat, that’s all I wanted.”

“So now you’re regretting this?” Lyssa shook her head. “You’re the most hypocritical person I know.”

“Just because she’s our prisoner doesn’t give us the right to abuse her.”

“I never held a knife to her throat, Wolfram. And you’re the one who wants her bound.”

“Of course, you’re right. Aren’t you always right?” He met her gaze, pressing his fingers into his temple to drive out the headache building there.

Lyssa grunted her reply. “I’m off then, if you can handle the scary sorceress. There’s always your knife if she gets too rowdy.”

“Go then.” Wolfram crossed his arms and turned sharply away, listening to the crunch of Lyssa’s retreating footsteps.
Why had he stopped her? Whatever the Hemijrani had planned, this girl stood in the thick of it, her patient teaching merely a way to prepare him. And the tension between himself and Lyssa was nearly unbearable. After years of wanting her attention, he couldn’t tell whether turning her down had been strength or weakness. He couldn’t tell whom she despised more—him for the desire that nearly swayed her or herself for giving in.

Wolfram stood in the clearing feeling like a fool, the demon tearing through his insides with no way to vent his simmering anger. When the chill began to reach him, he cursed himself for having neither cloak nor blanket, and turned to Deishima once more.

She lay huddled in the notch of roots, her bound hands pulled close to her, her breath beginning to show misty puffs in the moonlight.

The sight of her twisted his insides and nearly drove away the demon. He’d be lucky if she survived the trip to Lochdale, or wherever Lyssa would take her after Dawsiir brought him a horse. Watching her shiver, Wolfram longed to run again, off into the woods to hide his shame. For all that he had done wrong in the past, he wasn’t sure he had truly felt ashamed before. He should have, he knew, but this act of tearing the sheltered princess from her life, dragging her into a foreign land—this was surely the most unforgivable thing he had ever done. If she had been frightened by the touch of his hand upon her hair, what must she be feeling now?

He cleared his throat, but she only curled farther into herself. “I’ll make a fire,” he said, his own voice sounding harsh and hollow.

Slipping into the woods by the trail, Wolfram foraged for deadfall. As he snapped a branch, something froze him, sending the prickles of the demon back along his spine. He listened and heard nothing. Still tense, he snapped another branch, and moved to add it to his load, but found himself listening again. Was it a breath he heard from the darkness? He laughed to himself. His own breath, or a sob from Deishima, perhaps.

The stillness of the dark oppressed him, weighing down already dark thoughts, and he began to move a little faster. The tension building in his shoulders became an agony.

Again he stopped, rolling his head side to side to try to relieve the taut muscles. Again he listened.

Something shifted softly in the pine needles down the path.

“Lyssa?” he asked, his voice coming out as a whisper. He cleared his throat, and called again, “Lyssa?”

Twigs crackled, feet scuffed on the path. Something large approached him in the darkness, leaving a rank new odor in the still air.

Every nerve in his body seemed to quiver. His heart pounded. Some small animal part of him urged him to run far away, or at least scramble up a tree or hide in the brush praying to be saved. Whatever it was passed him by with no hesitation. Slivers from the branch stung his hands, and he ran: straight for the clearing.

Deishima shrieked even as he came.

In the moonlight, a huge shape crouched. Breathy growls issued from its throat, and its hindquarters tensed, bunching for the leap as the long, striped tail lashed.

Wolfram yelled, striking the tiger with the branch he still clutched. He threw himself between it and the hollow where Deishima struggled to rise.

The tiger surged forward, its breathing rising into a snarl, spreading its whiskers back from wicked white teeth.

It knocked Wolfram hard against the tree, his stumbling feet catching in Deishima’s robes.

He smacked the branch across its furry cheek, breaking the feeble weapon, his off hand searching his belt.

Pulling back, the tiger struck out with an enormous paw.

For an instant, he felt the grit of its pads, the brush of the fur—then the terrible claws tore into his face, flinging him aside.

As he fell, he wondered if the demon had been torn from him at last. He struck hard against the tree, bouncing back to the ground, the breath knocked clean out of him. Gulping desperately for air, he waited the killing blow.

Dimly, through the blood, he saw the creature turn. The unnatural hunter didn’t stop to finish him. The boar knife slid into his hand, and he forced himself to move. Getting a leg under him, he launched himself against the soft flank.

Deishima was shrieking—had she begun again or never stopped?

His knife bit into striped fur to the flesh beneath, and the tiger snarled, twisting to meet him.

Wolfram fell aside, his heels scraping the dirt to push him away.

This time, the tiger came after him with terrible, deliberate grace. Such a weak sting was hardly worth its notice.

Still struggling for breath, Wolfram faced the monster. He slashed at its upraised paw, causing a flinch, and—it seemed to him—a toothy grin. Blood streamed down the right side of his face, but there was no pain, not yet.

The tiger pounced, Wolfram rolled, barely dodging its forelegs.

Even as he did so, the tiger turned its head and lunged.

Moist breath steamed Wolfram’s side. A drop of saliva burned his skin as the teeth tore into him, sinking through muscle, scraping the bone of his hip.

A scream ripped through him. Again and again he slashed the tiger’s face and neck until their blood mingled in a red stream.

Darkness passed over him in waves as he began to shiver. He thanked the Lady for the hot bulk of the tiger pressed against him, keeping him warm. He wanted to sob, but his raw throat would admit no sound, so he was left gasping, his blood-streaked hand still clenched around the knife. His other hand buried itself in the thick fur, hanging on.

A ghostly figure hovered, weeping and wailing like an animal.

The forest crashed around him, then a sweaty man replaced the ghost, gibbering at him.

One of his eyes didn’t work. He blinked over and over, confused by the ringing in his ears. He clung to the pelt of the dead animal. “My kill,” he told the sweaty man in
Hurim—the language of Woodmen. “This is my kill,” he repeated, the words emerging on a stream of blood.

Strong dark fingers gripped his hand, tugging at the pelt, and Wolfram slashed at them. The man yelped, catching his fist and prying free the knife. He bent over Wolfram’s face and spoke carefully, fiercely.

Wolfram whimpered as the first claws of pain worked their way through. He shook so hard that his fingers worked free of the fur and would not obey him. Pain racked his body, and seared at his face. Blood from his torn cheek seeped to the back of his throat, and Wolfram gagged. With what little strength he had, he prayed for darkness. But darkness brought a howling face—pale and wide, the mouth flapping with terrible laughter.