01 - The Compass Rose Page 14

  This time Stone came to himself in a bed that didn’t move. Sunlight filtered through closed shutters into a room stifling with humid heat, worse than that in camp at the Adaran city because the air did not move. He sat up, moving slowly against aches worse than any hangover he’d ever known. The rattle of chains reminded him where and what he was. A prisoner of the Adarans en route to their capital for questioning.

  Khralsh, he hurt. Every muscle in his body, down to his smallest toes had been wrenched out of place, twisted mercilessly and put back wrong. He was thirsty. Squinting through the dim light, he saw a pitcher, a basin and a cup of heavy stoneware sitting on the square table beside the bed. Stone summoned his strength and reached for the pitcher.

  “Thirsty?”

  The voice startled him, almost knocking him flat on the bed again. Stone rubbed his eyes and gradually brought the lieutenant into focus. Joh Suteny. In command of Stone’s escort.

  “Do you want water?” The lieutenant reached for the pitcher and cup. “Will you drink?”

  Stone nodded. He rubbed his eyes again, trying to rub away the ache without success, then swung his feet carefully to the floor. He wouldn’t try standing yet, not until his thigh muscles stopped twitching. His mouth felt sand-scoured and he reached eagerly for the water Suteny handed him.

  He drank deep before attempting to speak. “How long?”

  “Do you remember disembarking in Turysh?”

  Stone nodded, drank again and handed the cup back for more.

  Suteny filled it. “That was two days ago.”

  “What happened? Who beat me?” Stone tried a smile to show he was joking. Gods, even that hurt.

  “No one.” Suteny didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. “You were walking along the dock, and out of nowhere you went into some sort of screaming fit. Convulsions. Are you prone to convulsions?”

  “No. I’ve never had one before. Wouldn’t be a warrior if I did. I’d lose my caste.”

  “Oh?” Suteny’s eyebrow went up, asking without actually asking.

  Stone didn’t speak. No one liked to speak of that, of what happened to a casteless male, and he was no exception. Especially since, as a prisoner, he had lost caste already. He didn’t even want to think about it. When the silence stretched, he shrugged, hoping that would distract the Adaran, and drank his water.

  “Are you hungry?” The lieutenant stood. “Do you think you can manage meat?”

  Even his teeth ached. The thought of chewing tough beef made them ache more. “I feel half-starved. I could eat something soft. Fish, maybe. We are on a river, aren’t we?”

  “I think that can be arranged.” Suteny studied Stone in the dim light. “Do you feel ready to travel?”

  “Walking?” He couldn’t manage that.

  “Not for a few days more. Another short journey by boat.”

  Stone nodded. He could sit on a boat.

  “Good.” The lieutenant nodded in a brusque salute and vanished.

  By the time they left the boat in the next town a few days later, the aches had left Stone. He had no trouble mounting his horse once the leg shackles were unfastened. Of course, his hands were bound and a soldier held the chain attached to his wrists as well as the lead rein to his horse. He was still a prisoner. A valuable one, apparently, for Suteny had a soldier ride to either side of him whenever there was room on the trail in case he had another fit. They were supposed to keep him from falling. Stone just wanted it all to be over.

  They reached Arikon, a city as impressive as any in Tibre and far more beautiful, though if they’d asked him, he’d have denied it. Stone was sent to a guest chamber in the company of his escort, rather than to a dungeon cell. It surprised him, even though the chamber was small and modestly appointed. And in relative comfort, they waited.

  Joh held on to his temper as he strode through the web of corridors that made up the Arikon palace complex. It was far past midnight, he was tired after spending all day on horseback and he had never had much patience with secrets and intrigue. He did, however, have extended experience at holding his temper. As one of only ten men promoted to officer rank in the Adaran army, he’d had to learn that long ago.

  He thought he’d left the Summerglen Palace two corridors and a courtyard back, which should put him in Winterhold Palace if he hadn’t taken a wrong turn somewhere. He ought to be coming up on his goal, a neglected chapel. The next corner brought him to a doorway.

  Carved and painted black briars twined up the pillars on either side of the pale gray door and tangled together on the pediment above. The sight of them broke Joh’s stride, forcing him into a stutter step to maintain his balance. It was a chapel to the mysterious Western face of the One. No wonder the place was deserted.

  And no wonder the Barinirab Master had chosen it for a meeting. Joh had been told that the Master had a fine and sardonic sense of humor. Drawing the white hood of his cloak farther down over his face, Joh entered the chapel.

  He scarcely had time to look around himself before a tall figure wrapped in a black cloak stepped from the shadows cast by the candles flickering on the white marble altar. Someone still cared for this place, unless the Master Barb had lit them himself.

  “Give your report, Renunciate.” The man’s voice was a raspy croak, disguising itself against identification.

  Joh bowed low. “Master. The Tibran appears to have no magic whatsoever, whether of the West or any other compass point. He may be mad, or simply ill.”

  “But the mark—does he have the mark?”

  “He has a mark. Whether it is a godmark, I do not know. It’s on the back of his neck, red, like a birthmark or a scar.”

  “In the shape of a rose?”

  “I could not say.” Joh had studied the thing endlessly, trying to decide. “It’s round. A circle. It could be seen as a rose—or most anything else that shape. Truly, Master, the man is—he’s no more than any other poor unfortunate who cannot control his own mind.”

  The black hood moved as if the head inside nodded agreement. Joh could not see even the shadow of a face inside it, and it made his skin crawl.

  “Very well,” the cowled figure said. “I accept your report, Renunciate.”

  “Master.” He bowed again and turned to go.

  “Wait. One more matter. It is believed by the High Council of the Order of Barinirab that you are ready to become an Initiate. Do you agree with this assessment?”

  Once more Joh bowed, deeper than before. Many members of the Order never advanced beyond Renunciate. He felt the honor deeply, though he wondered whether he deserved it. His belief seemed shallow compared to the few other Barbs he’d met.

  He had joined because the Order was one of the few organizations admitting men and he thought it might help his advancement. But the Order’s teaching about West magic made sense to him. How could death be anything but evil? And the teaching fed his almost insatiable desire to learn. The more he learned, the more he wanted to know. If he became an Initiate, what new things might he learn?

  The Master apparently took Joh’s silence as agreement. “You will be contacted.”

  Recognizing dismissal, Joh departed gratefully. He had a long trek back through the palaces to his charge and his bed. He would be contacted. Sometime before then, he needed to decide what his answer would be.

  “Five days.” Kallista paced the confines of the small guest chamber in the palace complex where they’d been lodged, feeling like a caged wolf. If she did not escape soon, she might just bite something. “They’ve kept us waiting five days while they consult. Who knows what that means? Who are they consulting? Seems the logical person to consult would be me, wouldn’t it? After all, I am the person these things have happened to. I’m the one who cut down all those Tibrans. But no…”

  She waggled her hips and her fingers, mocking the one courtier who’d condescended to tell them anything and pitched her voice into its soprano range. “The Reinine is a busy woman.”

  She droppe
d it back to normal. “I know she’s busy. We don’t have to talk to the Reinine. A general would be fine. Or a colonel. A prelate. No, better yet, a scholar. Someone who’s studied things like this and knows what’s going on.

  “It’s Fourthday already. If they don’t see us tomorrow or Sixthday, it will be the week’s end again and we’ll have to wait three more days before anyone will do anything.”

  Torchay stopped sharpening his blade, the big blade this time, so big it probably qualified as a short sword. “What do you expect me to do about it? I can’t very well march down to the high steward’s office, hold a point to his throat and demand an appointment, can I?”

  “No.” Kallista flopped back onto the bed, spreading her arms wide in a careless sprawl. Five days of waiting after the rush to get here had Torchay’s temper as sore as hers. “All I expect of you is to listen while I complain.”

  “I’m like to go deaf with it,” he grumbled.

  She laughed. “If you go deaf you won’t have to listen to me anymore.” She twisted on the bed until she could poke him in the arm with her unshod toe.

  Torchay froze motionless. “Kallista, don’t.”

  She jerked her foot back and rolled to put her back to him. The wait had restored much of the ease between them, but not all of it. Not when she was forbidden the least teasing touch. Torchay was right, though. The least touch could hurt.

  “How is Aisse doing on her Adaran?” Kallista still had to be careful to concentrate on the person to whom she intended to speak to be sure she spoke in the right language.

  “Aisse speaks much Adaran,” the servant said from her corner. She tended to crouch there when Kallista started pacing.

  “Yes, you do. You speak very much Adaran. Good for you.” Kallista rolled onto her stomach and beamed at her.

  “I have a good teacher.” Aisse ducked her head to look at Torchay through her lashes. “He angers—gets angry, but he not—he does not…” She paused and switched to Tibran to ask, “What is hit? Beat?”

  Kallista had to ask Torchay, who had to tell Aisse the words. It was awkward to teach a language when she never knew which language she was speaking. They both sounded the same.

  They were advancing to more abstract concepts like kindness and cruelty, when a knock sounded at the door. Aisse answered it to reveal a palace functionary dressed in a vivid green calf-length tunic with short puffed sleeves slashed to show gold and blue satin beneath. Formfitting tights—one leg blue, the other gold—flashed from the thigh-high slits in the tunic. Kallista forced herself to smile at the woman without shielding her eyes against such brilliance.

  “Captain Kallista Varyl?” The courtier’s long brown hair was all loops and whorls swooping dizzily around her head.

  “I am Captain Varyl.”

  The courtier put her blue-clad leg forward and swept in a deep bow, complete with hand flourishes. “Naitan. I am Erunde Nonnald, fourth undersecretary in the Reinine’s Staff Command, directly serving under High Steward Huryl Kovallyk.”

  Feeling grubby and unkempt in her wrinkled duty-tunic and flyaway hair, Kallista made a leg and an equally elegant bow. “The pleasure is mine, Undersecretary,” she lied. She’d never cared much for bureaucratic types.

  “If the naitan pleases, Her Holiest Majesty, Serysta, Reinine of all Adara, awaits your presence and that of your escort, on the hour.”

  “On the—” Kallista blinked and glanced toward the window. The Summerglen tower clock could be seen from it, the bells marking the hours clearly heard. “On the next hour?”

  Erunde looked vaguely distressed as she gave a slightly smaller bow. “That is so, naitan. You have, I believe, half an hour to ready yourselves.”

  “Goddess,” Kallista swore. “Wait, you said ‘my escort’—does that mean my bodyguard alone, or both of them?”

  “I…” The courtier seemed to notice Aisse for the first time. “I do not know, naitan. However, on the side of caution, you might—”

  “Right. I’ll bring them both. If Aisse isn’t wanted, she can wait outside.” Kallista turned to Torchay who already had the wardrobe open, pulling out their dress uniforms. Fortunately, they’d been cleaned and pressed days ago in anticipation of this moment.

  “By your leave, naitan.” Erunde’s voice startled Kallista. She wasn’t gone already? Kallista dismissed the woman with a slapdash salute and continued with her business. It was Aisse who shut the door again.

  Twenty minutes later, Kallista and Torchay strode through the palace corridors at a brisk ground-eating pace that had Aisse jogging to keep up. Kallista tugged at her tunic. The heavy embroidery depicting the tree-and-crown of her home prinsipality made the front of the thing want to bunch up. The red-and-gold stag on Torchay’s black tunic gleamed in the late-afternoon sun. The honors and service awards attached to their gold-colored chain belts jingled madly as they walked. They had medallions recognizing service in every campaign they’d taken part in, and over the past nine years, they’d taken part in almost all of them.

  Kallista caught a glimpse of Aisse in the mirrors lining the wall opposite the tall windows. She still wore the same clothes she’d worn during their journey. They should have considered that the Reinine would want to inspect a Tibran and acquired better clothes for her, or at least trimmed the hacked-off hair into some sort of shape. But they’d left it too late.

  Kallista’s queue felt strange after only two weeks of going without, but it looked better this way. Much more tidy. Kallista approved her own reflection and Torchay’s. His muscular arms, bare in the sleeveless summer uniform, almost glowed against the black of his tunic.

  They reached the crowded anteroom just as the clocks in all the towers began chiming in chorus. Torchay had to push a passage through to the front, for once needing force. Most times, people tended to melt away when they saw his bodyguard’s black-with-blue. They reached the doorkeeper’s post just as the echo of the last chime faded away.

  The doorkeeper frowned, her chins quivering in disapproval. “You should have been here at least a quarter hour ago.”

  “I only received word a half hour ago that my presence was required at this time.” Kallista refused to be bullied. She tugged at her black dress gloves.

  The doorkeeper hmmphed, but said only, “Did you bring the Tibran?”

  Torchay stepped aside and tugged Aisse forward. The doorkeeper’s chins quivered alarmingly as she looked the small woman over. “Very well.”

  They still had to stand waiting until after the clocks chimed the next quarter hour before the reception-room door opened and a brace of perfumed and bejeweled prinsipi swept out. From Gadrene, Ukiny’s prinsipality, according to the white-and-blue ship emblazoned far too frequently on their clothing.

  A man in a gray robe that did nothing to subdue the brilliance of the scarlet and sky-blue tunic and tights he wore beneath stood in the doorway as if guarding it. His eyes were surrounded with creases that said they’d seen it all and hadn’t been impressed with much of it. His mouth was set in straight lines of dissatisfaction. He had to be the doorkeeper’s superior, High Steward Huryl.

  Kallista had never met the man. She didn’t run in such powerful, expensive circles, but she’d heard tales of his astonishing rise. A man rarely received such an important governmental post, overseeing the palace staff and managing access to the Reinine. The task gave him monumental power. He had done it through efficiency and assiduous devotion to duty.

  She admired that in anyone, but it was particularly impressive in a man. Male passions tended to distract them—though they never had Torchay. But Torchay was a special case. She had never heard that Huryl abused his power either. He neither accepted nor demanded bribes to grant appointments.

  But seeing him now, Kallista didn’t think she could ever like the man, no matter how admirable his morals might be. He looked too sour to ever be good company.

  “Is the captain here with her party?” Huryl spoke to the doorkeeper while his eyes roved the packed antec
hamber.

  Kallista’s eyes narrowed. Huryl seemed to be hoping they hadn’t come. Why? He could have no reason to dislike her without ever having met her, and she could be no possible threat to his power. She had to be imagining it.

  “Yes, High Steward.” The doorkeeper gestured. Kallista stepped forward, Torchay just behind her left shoulder, Aisse trying to keep out of sight behind both of them.

  Huryl looked them over with the same dissatisfied expression he’d done everything with so far. “Very well.” He backed away, holding the door wide. “Come.”

  Kallista felt her queue as she approached the door, checking for neatness.

  “Stop fussing,” Torchay muttered. “You look fine.”

  She glanced at him, flashing a quick grin. “So do you.”

  And they were inside, proceeding down the length of a high, wide, endless chamber between two rows of white marble columns. The floor was an inlaid mosaic—stone, not tile—of green and gold twining cheerfully around and through the black-and-white marble geometrics.

  When they drew close enough, Kallista saw that the golden throne sat empty, a red velvet throw tossed carelessly over the arms. Huryl led them past the throne on its dais to a door hidden behind a tapestry depicting hunters flying hawks. Beyond it, they were ushered into a room like many Kallista had known, with maps and papers tossed onto tabletops, books crowding shelves, chairs scattered everywhere. It was a working headquarters. The furnishings were of more luxurious materials than Kallista was accustomed to, and the inhabitants smelled rather better, but the familiar scene relaxed the tension between her shoulders.

  The breeze coming through the open windows stirred the clutter on the wide desk. A slender white arm emerged from the cluster of fringe-shouldered generals, picked up a gem-crusted silver goblet and used it as a paperweight.

  Huryl cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN