The Shadow’s Curse (3 page)

Vlad nodded. His hands shook, and his chewing became both more frantic and sloppier. ‘Except when he wanted to torture me. He’s a clever khan, I will give him that much. He thought he could use me – after all, I’m not only Baril, but Shan too, and Garus informed him that I knew about sagery. But I would never give that monster anything. Not after what he did to my daughter.’ Vlad took a shuddering breath and clutched at his side. Then, slowly, he lifted the edge of his tunic, all the way up to his armpit. Dozens of cuts littered his side, some of the scars puckered and gnarled.

Raim had heard of this form of torture, but never seen it in the flesh. Every hour, a different part of the body was sliced with a sharp knife, causing an endless stream of agony. Eventually, when all the skin was scarred or marked, they would start removing limbs. Luckily – if any luck could be found – Vlad’s torture hadn’t reached that point yet. Raim’s stomach turned.

‘The Khan gave me to Garus to see what information he could extract from me.’ Vlad dropped his tunic. ‘After Garus failed to learn anything, Khareh gave up and sent me to the prison. I think he disliked having so much blood on the floor of his yurt.’

Raim winced. ‘But I thought Garus was the most advanced sage the Shan had ever known – what could you know that he didn’t already?’

Vlad shut his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Loni looked up at Raim, concern deep in his eyes. ‘Don’t make him relive it. Not yet. Ask him again when he is stronger.’

Raim couldn’t help himself. ‘Tell us about Garus later. But what about Wadi? Is she still with Khareh?’

Vlad managed to nod, and Raim’s heart beat loudly in his ears. ‘Did you see her? Is she safe?’

Vlad only let out a groan in response, and Raim wanted to shake him in frustration. Loni put a gentle but firm hand on his knee. ‘We can learn more when we get back to the Cheren. He needs an experienced healer – and so do our other wounded men. We’re like sheep on a plain here, waiting for the wolves to find us. Wait until tomorrow.’

‘Grandfather, I cannot wait.’ Raim bit his lip. A plan had been forming in his mind for some time now, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to voice it. Now was the time. He looked out at the steppes, in the direction that the last of Khareh’s guards had ridden away. ‘I don’t think I will come back to the Cheren with you. I can’t have travelled all this way without even attempting to rescue Wadi.’ He had felt so sure that this was going to be the moment he would get her back. Not having accomplished that felt so wrong. ‘What if he is torturing her too? What if I am leaving her to this same fate?’ He gestured at Vlad. ‘I have to find her.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Vlad, one eye cracking open.

‘And why is that?’ snapped Raim.

‘She is being held by Khareh himself. Surrounded by every haunt and human guard you could imagine.’

‘But I can’t just return without even trying. Not when I’m already halfway there.’ A hint of desperation crept in at the edge of Raim’s voice.

‘No, that’s right. You cannot go back to the Cheren – you cannot waste any more time there.’

‘Then what?’

‘Raim, you are the only one close enough to achieving the kind of sage power Khareh has mastered. You are the one who could overthrow him. But you will never be able to do that with your scar. No one will follow an oathbreaker.’

Raim’s fists tightened into a ball, but he knew it was true.

‘Garus was right about something. I – and Zu – have both known things about sagery that no other Shan knows. And we knew something of the significance of that scar around your wrist that we never shared with you.’

Raim looked up sharply.

‘Have you heard of a group called the Council?’

Raim shook his head, and instinctively moved his opposite hand over his wrist, to cover his mark of shame. It was a habit born of instinct, and one he couldn’t shake.

‘Zu was a member. She was bound to not share all its secrets with me, but I know where you can find others who belong, who can grant you answers: the Baril. Go to the Amarapura mountains.’ He gestured to the shadows of the mountain range in the far distance. ‘You have a brother there, no? Go to him, and ask him about the Council. He might be able to help you. The Council can put you on your true path, and you will be able to rid yourself of that scar – and rescue Wadi.’

Raim gazed over at the Amarapura mountains.
Is the answer really there? Could I finally find a way to rid myself of this scar, once and for all?

‘Worth a try,’ said Draikh, in his mind.

But Wadi has to come first. I can’t leave her to Khareh’s torture.

‘Agreed.’

‘I’m sorry Vlad, Loni,’ Raim said aloud. ‘I’m going to Khareh’s camp to free Wadi. That comes before everything – even my scar. Even if it means fighting against Khareh, his entire spirit-army and the Yun. Draikh and I can do it. I will not leave her to suffer whatever he has planned for her.’

Vlad stared at Raim for a long time, sending an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Then the man attempted to stand, waving off the helping hand that Loni offered him. He placed one hand on a shaking knee to support his weight, then with a groan pushed himself to his full height. Raim had forgotten what an imposing figure Vlad struck when he wanted to. But he resisted taking a step back, standing as tall as Vlad, the grass of the steppes waving all around them.

‘Go to the Baril. Discover the origins of your scar. Rid yourself of that burden. Become whole again, in the eyes of the people. Then you can carry out your mission for revenge.’

‘No. I want to rescue Wadi.’

Vlad looked Raim dead in the eye. ‘But what makes you so sure that Wadi wants to be rescued?’

Wadi sat at the hard wooden desk in the yurt and stretched the cramp from her fingers. The circulation had returned to her hands since they had last been bound, but it had been a long time since she had written for such an extended period of time. In the desert, there wasn’t much need for correspondence.

She was grateful that her father had taken the time to teach her to read and write as a child, as one of the few Darhanians who knew how. She knew that meant he must have been Baril at some point in his life, but not since she had been born.

Throughout all that time learning, she had never envisaged using her skills to become a scribe to a ruthless khan.

It saved her from being just a prisoner, at least.

A tug at her ankle as she attempted to cross her legs reminded her of that fact. A thick, coarse rope tied her ankle to a stake firmly embedded in the ground at the centre of the yurt. She had free rein within a predetermined perimeter. Long enough to get to the desk. Long enough to reach the jug of water that had been left for her. Long enough to reach the pile of cushions she slept on. Not long enough to reach the candles, which provided her a little light after the sun went down. Not long enough to reach the doorway.

Sometimes she imagined picking up a cushion and throwing it at the candle, setting the place ablaze. But then either she would be beaten as punishment, or burned alive. Neither of those options was appealing.

Her task had been Khareh’s idea, even though Altan – his vile adviser – had argued persistently against it. Wadi had quickly learned to avoid the scrutiny of the beak-nosed Altan, who had once advised Khareh’s uncle, before turning traitor to him and throwing his support behind Khareh. The only person in the entire camp worse than Altan was Garus – the snivelling, weak sage who had taught Khareh the secret of his craft: that he needed to break a vow. Where Altan was like a vulture, circling the carnage until it was safe to feed on the remnants, Garus was a rat scurrying for Khareh’s scraps on the ground. And it was Garus who had convinced Khareh to break his oath to Raim.

For most of the first month in captivity, Wadi had heard a man’s screams on the other side of the yurt’s thick felt walls. More than once, it had been enough to make her heave the contents of her stomach onto the carpets, imagining what the man must be going through, although she never gave Khareh the pleasure of seeing her discomfort. One night, she had heard the man scream a name – ‘Zu’ – and she realized it was Vlad being tortured. From the cackle that followed, she recognized his torturer: Garus.

She had tried to break through the walls that separated them, then. She had kicked at the frame of the yurt, trying to break off a splinter of wood and hack through the felt. But Khareh’s guards had been on her immediately, shortening her rope and securing it more tightly than usual.

Last night, there had been silence. No more screaming.

Wadi almost cried tears of relief, but then her stomach filled with dread. The lack of noise could only mean one of two things: Vlad was dead, or he had been sent away. She would never be able to help him. And he would never be able to help her.

Her last connection to her former life was gone. Raim was her only hope. But she didn’t know where Raim was, or if he was even in Darhan any more. The last time she had seen him, he had been trapped underneath falling rocks as a cave came crashing down around him.

Pain blossomed beneath her ribs, reminding her of Khareh’s brutality and recklessness – the memory of Khareh plunging the knife into her chest almost as painful as the moment itself. The wound could have killed her, but he had reassured her later that he had always known his spirit could heal her before she lost too much blood. Khareh played with life like it was a toy he could discard at any moment.

It had been the second time she had been brought back from the brink of near-death by a spirit. Once by Draikh, after she had fallen from the tunnel exit of Lazar. Once by the spirit of Raim.

She wasn’t keen to try the trick a third time.

She reached instinctively to the pendant at her neck. One of her haziest memories of her time in captivity was just after she had been stabbed. Khareh had brought her to his yurt, where the spirit of Raim performed the healing. Khareh had tried to take the pendant from her then, but Garus had stopped him. Even through the cloud of pain, she heard him explain about the oath contained within the pass-stone: that any person who possessed it was sworn to return to Lazar. ‘Let the girl remain bound to that cursed place, like I am, your Eminence. You do not want that burden to bear.’

Since then, Khareh had rarely let her out of his sight. He had her trapped. She couldn’t just take off the pendant and leave it behind, and he knew it. Any attempt to abandon the pass-stone would make her an oathbreaker to the spirits within the stone. And that was something she could never allow. The taboo bothered her still. Even if the person who occupied her thoughts the most was an oathbreaker.

Raim. Had he made it back to Lazar? Or had the cave-in at the tunnel entrance wounded him? All she could remember was the fear as rocks came crashing down around her, the shock at seeing Raim hurtle through the sky off the tall cliff to be with her, the relief that he made it safely – and finally, the searing pain of Khareh’s blade through her chest. After that . . . she remembered nothing else but the yurt.

A flash of bright light interrupted her train of thought as the curtain into the yurt lifted. Wadi shielded her eyes and dropped her quill at the same time.

She recoiled as she recognized the silhouette of the man who entered: Khareh.

He slumped down on some scattered cushions opposite her. A shadow followed him inside, and took up his place at Khareh’s right-hand side.

‘Wadi, I can’t tell you what a day I’ve had.’ Khareh reached up and massaged his temples, before releasing a huge sigh. He then lifted his enormous jaguar-fang crown from his head and cast it aside, as if it were nothing. The crown rolled on the floor, until one of the fangs snagged on the carpet. ‘Being a khan is really tiring.’

‘You mean being a tyrant is.’

Khareh put a hand over his heart. ‘Wadi, you wound me.’

She rolled her eyes.

‘How are those letters going?’

‘Fine.’ Khareh’s request had baffled her. He had asked her to copy out letters that were to be sent to all the warlords in Darhan – most of whom likely couldn’t read. She might have risked putting in a line or two of warning, but Khareh had been clear about the consequences if she tried: she would be the one screaming in endless agony for a month.

Khareh’s eyes darted to his shadow.

‘Seriously?’ He said to the shadow. ‘He’s coming now?’ He paused. ‘Well, stop him. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

It disconcerted Wadi so much to know that the shadow Khareh was speaking to was the spirit of Raim. Part of Raim was in the room with them. Although she didn’t know if she had ever ‘met’ that particular part. She couldn’t imagine any side of the Raim she knew willingly helping Khareh achieve his plans.

The haunt hadn’t managed to relay the message fast enough, as the curtain moved again and from behind it appeared Garus’s pinched, wrinkled face, his head wrapped in an elaborate turban, his long robe made from fine silk and embroidered with luxurious golden thread.

Obviously he wasn’t missing Lazar one bit. There was no hint of the shabbiness Lazarites took a strange sort of pride in. He grew fatter every day that Wadi saw him, a second chin gradually filling out under his long beard, and occasionally he had the glassy-eyed look and hiccupping wobble of a man who was indulging too much in fermented mare’s milk, although today his gaze was clear.

‘My Khan, your great Eminence,’ he started, with his head bowed.

‘GET OUT!’ yelled Khareh from his position on the cushions. ‘I told you I didn’t want to be interrupted! Just give me a few minutes, you spawn of an oathbreaker.’

Wadi flinched from his anger, and so did Garus, who scurried from the yurt like a rat chased by a feral cat. Watching him, Wadi raised an eyebrow, despite herself. It was a small comfort that Khareh treated his closest advisers as badly as he did his prisoners.

‘Sorry about that,’ Khareh said. ‘I’m just so tired of his bleating.’ He rubbed his fingers against his temples. Wadi had to admit, he did look tired. Worn, even. Served him right. ‘At least the days of travelling should be over soon.’