The Shadow’s Curse (18 page)

Raim had been there. He had been so close to her. They had . . . they had kissed, and it had all happened so quickly that she could barely remember if the touch of his skin had been just a dream. Maybe she had hallucinated his appearance. That had to be less insane than the thought of him actually being here, with her, and then leaving without her by his side.

And if he had any sense, he would be heading south, without another thought of her. The likelihood of her seeing him ever again . . .

Staring at his wide-eyed, bright-red face, Wadi realized Khareh was the only person who cared about seeing Raim as much as she did. She wanted to love him; he wanted to kill him. She spoke the next words quietly, but Khareh was listening. ‘I tried to get him to make a vow to me too, but he wouldn’t.’ Then she regained her senses. She remembered whom she was talking to. She flew at Khareh, and began pounding at his chest, before the shadow swept down on her and pulled her away. ‘He wouldn’t let me have a part of him!’ she sobbed. ‘He wouldn’t let me have any of him because you already have too much! It’s all your fault.’ She launched herself at him again then, but it was half-hearted, the emotion already leaching her muscles of their power. The shadow let her loose, and she collapsed against Khareh. She beat at him with her fists but to her surprise he just held her until she stopped, too weak to continue. Too surprised maybe, to feel the tenderness in his touch.

She pulled away from him, and looked up into his face.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know what it feels like. I just wanted to see him too. I just want him to be here.’

There seemed like an intense war of emotion struggling on Khareh’s features: anger, sadness, betrayal, hope. Wadi tore away, disgusted with herself. She withdrew into the corner, curling up into a ball in the ground, not even caring that the shadow stood between her and Khareh. A part of Raim stood between them.

Finally, an emotion won on Khareh’s face. Anger. It would always be anger because Khareh knew almost no other feeling. ‘And now he has left me for good. He could have stayed here and explained himself, but he chose to leave. Again. He will pay for his foolishness. My guards are after him. He won’t escape me again.’ He looked down on Wadi in the corner. ‘Get up.’

‘What?’

‘I said, get up! You’re not staying in this cell any longer. If you had been with me then I would have seen him too. Then we would both be in the same position.’

Wadi considered resisting, but the thought of being kept in the cell any longer while Raim was out there made her stomach heave. She scrambled to her feet. Two guards stepped up to rebind her wrists. She stumbled after Khareh, who was striding back upstairs.

Altan was waiting for him at the top.

‘Has he been found?’ Khareh asked. Desperation tinged his voice.

Altan shook his head. ‘There’s no sign.’

‘We’re on the steppes, for Sola’s sake! No one just disappears on the steppes. I’ll send spirits after him. I’ll send the army! If we found Mermaden, we can find Raim.’

‘My Khan, may I speak freely?’

Khareh gestured his agreement with an impatient wave.

‘Mermaden still needs to be made an example of. He is a threat to your reign by his refusal to acknowledge your leadership. On the other hand, Raim is a traitor on the run. He has no followers to speak of; he is weak and dumb as an ox. You have all you need of him in your spirit-guard, who has already proved more useful to you than the boy himself. He can run, but no matter where he runs to, we will find him. Tonight, let your priority be Mermaden.’

Wadi could read the confusion warring on Khareh’s face.

‘Don’t let him – or
her
– distract you,’ Altan said, with a pointed look at Wadi.

As if a mist cleared from Khareh’s eyes, his shoulders dropped and his breathing calmed. ‘Fine. I won’t.’ He turned to look at Wadi, and she could see that any trace of a different side to Khareh had gone. ‘You hear that? Raim is nobody. He can run around the steppes like some poor lost sheep if he wants, but you should remember that I am the wolf. And the wolf always wins.’

The party was wretched. Raim was not mentioned again, and Khareh seemed too busy being entertained by twirling fire dancers, dancing women and horse games that tested each rider’s skill, to care about his friend on the run.

They were sitting on a low platform of wooden planks, raised up just off the ground by small boulders. Great spits of roasted goat hung over open fires and vats of fermented mare’s milk and Rago wine were being passed around the hungry horde. Even though the Baril had been loyal to him, Khareh seemed to have no qualms about raiding the Pennar monastery’s stores of food to feed his army.

For all the merriment that spun itself around her like a web, Wadi retreated behind a wall of solitude. She wondered if Khareh was being extra cruel, extra ruthless, for her sake. He was so intent on being that person – the cruel one, the evil one – it was impossible to believe he could be anything else.

Or maybe he was doing it to make sure that she would think of nothing but what was happening in front of her eyes. And Khareh was clever, so of course – he was right. She had never seen anything more horrific, but she couldn’t tear her eyes or mind away.

In front of them was Mermaden, the former ruler of Samar. He was stripped to the waist, bound to a post on his knees, his forked beard matted with dirt and sweat. He was not allowed to eat, but all the food was passed in front of his face, torturing him. Still the old warlord refused to show a hint of discomfort, and held his head high. Wadi was almost impressed. Khareh munched on a leg of meat, ripping at it with his teeth. He should have looked so undignified, but somehow he succeeded in looking powerful.

Wadi felt a low rumble in her own stomach.

‘Wadi, eat something! You’re allowed,’ Khareh said, in between mouthfuls.

She didn’t look at him, and didn’t reply. Her treacherous stomach rumbled again anyway.

He laughed and waved a meat-laced bone in her face, so that she had to pull back and away from it. She was hungry, but she wasn’t going to give Khareh the satisfaction of seeing her participate in the feast.

Eventually, to her relief, the food was cleared away. Khareh was red-faced, but while men around him were near to lolling on the ground – sated on too much food and too much fermented milk – he wasn’t close to drunk. That would involve him losing too much control. ‘Look at them all,’ he muttered, half to himself and half to her. ‘Disgusting.’

Then he stood and raised his hands up to the sky. It took a moment for the merriment to die down and for the men to notice that their khan was demanding their silence. Mermaden noticed though, and his eyes glared at Khareh.
Mermaden should be more careful
, Wadi thought.

Khareh clicked his fingers, and two of his shadow-guards, looking like swirls of grey smoke to Wadi, floated up onto the low wooden platform, carrying between them a large carpet. A few of the eyes around her bulged. Strange sights like a carpet moving of its own accord, were still so unusual – even though they were becoming more commonplace under Khareh’s rule.

Mermaden, at least, managed to remain unmoved. He would have only heard rumours of Khareh’s power, since he had never seen it for himself – nor had he witnessed the attack on his city. He had gone straight into hiding, and then fled.
Coward
. Wadi felt a surge of anger toward him.
You should have stayed and fought
.

‘Mermaden, formerly Lord of Samar, do you recognize this?’

Mermaden stared from Khareh to the carpet and back, but did not reply.

‘You should do. Look closer.’

His command was to Mermaden, but the strange tone of his voice encouraged them all to look more closely at the rug. Thousands of tightly woven threads formed intricate patterns that looped and swirled across its surface. Yet what immediately stood out was the fact that the rug had a hole in the centre of it – as if a portion of the pattern had been sliced out. Looking even closer, Wadi could see that Khareh’s own seal appeared at the top, a jaguar surrounded by a hexagonal green pattern. At the bottom was the symbol she had seen above the gate to Samar. The symbol that used to belong to Mermaden. This was the rug that was supposed to seal Mermaden’s promise-knot to Khareh. Even she knew that. She had spent many hours staring at the other rugs of fealty in Khareh’s possession, often the best alternative to having to look at the man himself.

Mermaden’s face lost some of its colour, and Wadi thought his impassive exterior was cracking ever so slightly.

Khareh noticed. ‘Ah, so you do recognise it.’ He raised his voice so the rest of the crowd could hear. ‘This is the carpet that I had specially commissioned from the Una tribe, to bear this man’s oath to me in the most honourable way possible.’ He looked down at Mermaden. ‘I am going to give you a rare opportunity, Mermaden. Pledge allegiance to me now, and I will spare your life. You can return to Samar and live out your days as my vassal, but with your freedom. What do you say?’

Mermaden struggled to his feet then, every muscle in his shoulders and back straining against the bindings of his wrist against the pole. He kept his gaze locked on Khareh’s, never breaking contact, and Wadi got a glimpse of the warlord who had ruled over Samar for so long.

‘I will never knot with you, you oathbreaker khan!’ Mermaden’s voice was a low rumble that built to a thunderous shout. ‘Your uncle should have killed you as soon as he knew he’d have his own heir. It’s the only way to deal with treacherous pretenders like you.’

‘I am not an oathbreaker, I am a sage!’ Khareh roared back, his voice louder than Mermaden’s. It was amplified as shadows swirled around him, raising him up above the platform, his arms outstretched and his head thrown back, cloak billowing in the wind. Wadi felt the breath leave her lungs, felt any warmth in her blood desert her as she observed Khareh’s enormous display of sagedom.

Even Mermaden cowered, his knees buckling beneath him.

Khareh descended again, and when both his feet touched the ground there was absolute silence.

‘I offered you the choice,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper – but no ear missed it. Then he turned to his army. A feverish buzz swept over the crowd, as they all began to talk about what they had just seen. ‘Every soldier here has witnessed that Mermaden has refused my knot. Should I show him mercy?’

‘No!’ cried the crowd.

Wadi was watching Mermaden. He was sinking now, sinking down into the floor – his former display of pride cracked and broken. His long beard was trembling, his mouth mumbling meaningless words.

Khareh looked down on the pitiful man. ‘Since you were a warlord, I will do you one honour. I will not spill your blood upon the ground.’

‘Thank you.’ The man’s voice sounded like it was being scraped across muddy ground, or as if his tongue had been stung by behrflies. Every word was preceded by a ragged breath. ‘May . . . may the gods shine down on your boundless mercy.’

‘Mercy? Who said anything about mercy? In my opinion, it would be a shame to see such a beautiful carpet go to waste. Now, at least, it can go some way to demonstrating the true extent of my justice. What could have been your salvation . . . now, will be your tomb.’

The reality of what was happening finally dawned on Mermaden. ‘No. No. Do not do this. I will promise whatever you would like, you may take my city, my oaths . . . please.’

‘I already have your city. I have your people. I have your lands, and your animals, and your forests. And as for the oath? I gave you the chance, and you refused it. A knot from you now would be worth less than nothing to me. No. You shall die.’

The shadows moved the carpet so that it was flat behind Mermaden’s back, encompassing his bound wrists and the tall wooden stake. Then they rolled it around him as he screamed. Khareh signalled with his hands, and drums began to play, and even their low vibrations grew to overtake the sounds of Mermaden’s protests. Wadi didn’t take her eyes off the warlord’s face as the carpet closed around him, encasing him in its knotted tomb.

Human guards secured it with ties used to strap down cargo onto camels’ back. Then they lifted one of the planks that formed the makeshift stage. They lay Mermaden down on the ground, and replaced the heavy wood on top of him, as if he were a boulder rather than a man. Khareh brushed his hands together. ‘Now that the coward has been dealt with, let us feast again! People of Darhan, I am your Khan! More than that, I am the Golden Khan! I will make our people the greatest under Naran’s great sky. I will control the world we live in. I will ensure that no one but a true Darhanian warrior rules these grasslands, and the lands we have yet to discover. This is our world!’

Cheers went up from every corner of the camp, and even more as word of Khareh’s speech spread to the outer reaches of the crowd. Khareh was cruel, but Khareh was powerful. And power was attractive. Power was magnetic. Power made people forget.

Wadi did not forget. Not as Khareh moved all of his entourage off the platform, and invited the main act of the night up: a pair of women who danced on the back of an enormous elephant wearing a headdress of elaborate crimson and gold, its grey hide decorated with thick ropes entwined with gold thread. The dancers wore lightweight tunics, which flowed around their bodies like water around a stone. They were a graceful duo, using the elephant’s vast size to balance and perform feats of daring that shocked and awed the crowd. The elephant was trained to perform its duty perfectly, lifting its feet in time with the hypnotic beat of the drums. As it stepped across the platform, the wooden planks creaked and splintered under its weight, but it never once lost its balance. A second elephant joined the first, and as the two enormous beasts performed their elaborate dance, the platform dipped and eventually broke, the snapping of wood joining the music like another instrument.

But all Wadi could think about as the elephants performed was the man trapped in a carpet underneath the central wooden slat of the stage, being trampled to a bloodless, and yet far from painless, death – and all at the hands of a merciless man.