Dragon Tree (19 page)

She had not
taken her eyes off her husband, and had been able to follow de
Langois’ progress across the draw and beneath the barbican bridge,
moving from arrow slit to arrow slit, studying him as long as she
could before changing quickly to gain an unbroken view through
another slot cut in the stone.

When the
horses and riders passed beneath the portcullis, she had stood over
a murder hole and stared down at the tops of their heads. Watching
her, seeing how the loathing had altered the landscape of her face,
Marak had actually felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

He had been on
a ship once, in the ominous moments before a thunderstorm struck,
and had witnessed the lightening-like bursts of energy that
flickered and danced across the yards and mast. He had felt as
though he was in the presence of that same crackling tension, that
same excruciating stillness as he watched Amie staring down through
the murder hole. He saw her nostrils flare, as if she could smell
her husband’s clothes, his hair, his body stench as he passed
beneath and Marak suspected that if she'd had a pot of scalding oil
at hand, she would have emptied it over his head without a
qualm.

When the last
rider had passed beneath, she crossed to the opposite side of the
tower and peered once again through the arrow slits, watching the
men ride across the outer common toward the keep.

“Are you still
so willing to offer yourself up in sacrifice?” Marak asked softly.
"Will you again ask Lord Tamberlane to give you back to your
husband so that your conscience might be appeased?"

He head gave a
slight turn. Her hands were clutched into tight little fists and
when she turned fully around, her eyes were flooded with bright
tears, making the color so intense he found them almost painful to
meet.

“I don't know
what else to do,” she said quietly. "I have already caused more
hurt than I can bear to think about."

“Will you not
allow yourself to put a small measure of faith in Ciaran?”

“Ciaran?”

Marak smiled.
“Even slayers of dragons are given human names at birth. His is
Ciaran Richard Edward Tamberlane. Whereas yours is not Amaranth.”
The statement was met with instant suspicion and his hand waved to
dismiss it. “A small talent I possess for reading words on lips
when distance prevents me from hearing them. But the fact your
husband asked about you by another name allowed Lord Tamberlane to
admit, truthfully, that he knew of no one by that name, for he
would sooner pierce his own tongue with a wooden spike than twist
it around a lie. It is a flaw that has cost him dearly many times
in the past.”

“Elizabeth,”
she admitted on a soft sigh. “My name is Elizabeth, but my father
did indeed call me Amaranth, that much was not a lie.”

“Then I shall
continue to call you Amaranth, though I suspect by the look on your
face, your strength of purpose is beginning to fade a little."

She blinked
and a tear splashed over her lashes and trickled down her cheek. "I
cannot go back and I cannot stay here. I will not be the cause of
any more deaths, and death will surely come to Taniere if Odo even
suspects I am within these walls."

"Then we must
give him no reason to suspect it.

Whatever
strength she had mustered had, indeed, begun to wane and the slope
of Amie’s shoulders grew more pronounced. The color that had
burnished her cheeks had ebbed and the shimmer in her eyes turned
to fear and uncertainty.

“You are safe
so long as you stay out of sight,” he assured her quietly.

“You do not
know Odo de Langois. Or his men. They peek through crevices and
listen at keyholes. If he suspects I am here he will find a way to
search every room and question every man, woman, and child within
the walls."

"Then we shall
have to make you invisible while he is here."

“Invisible?
You have that power?” she asked in a whisper that was partly
disbelieving, but at the same time partly hopeful.

Marak laughed.
“Would that I did, Little One, then we could all go safely about
our business. Alas, my powers extend only to making people see what
they wish to see.”

“I do not
understand.”

“Do you trust
me?”

It was the
second time he had asked the question and Amie did not hesitate at
all before nodding.

“Then wait
here. I need to fetch some things from the stables but will return
upon the instant. Will you do this much for me?”

She nodded
again.

He pulled his
hood back up over his head and, with the silence of a wraith, he
was gone leaving Amie alone with her thoughts. The fishy smell of
the lake water combined with the scent of perpetually damp stone
was suddenly oppressive and she sat on an overturned bucket before
her legs gave way beneath her. Her heart was pounding like a drum
and her wounded shoulder was throbbing. She felt physically ill.
Her stomach was roiling even though it was empty enough to rub on
her backbone. Leaning forward, she cradled her head in her hands,
breathing slow and deep until the waves of nausea passed.

This would not
do. It would not do at all to turn into a quivering heap of fear
now. From somewhere, nourished on tears and whiplashes, she had
found the courage to survive ten months of hell as a whoremonger’s
plaything. Surely she could survive a little while longer.

Ciaran Richard
Edward Tamberlane. The name popped into her mind unbidden. His
expression had looked utterly unforgiving when she had confessed
her duplicity and she did not expect it to improve over the next
few hours. She suspected that he would be more than anxious himself
to see her leave Taniere Castle. Nothing about his dark and
brooding countenance suggested she would have any measure of
success appealing to his sympathies... if, indeed, he had any.
Marak had said he would sooner rip out his own tongue as tell a
lie. Doubtless he thought very little of those who had no such
qualms.

Yet she had
seen that harsh, chiselled face soften over something so trivial as
returning a wooden horse to a child. At some time, in his training
for the priesthood, he must have been capable of understanding and
forgiving those with a weaker strength of will than he possessed.
Sometimes lies and deception were the only means to survive.

Marak
reappeared on the stone landing. He carried a thick bundle under
his arm, and in his hand a pair of doeskin boots still warm from
their previous owner.

“Your husband
and his men will be keeping a keen eye on the gates, the wards, and
the outbuildings The priest who helped you was a clever fellow by
altering the color of your hair, but we will need to alter the rest
of you.”

He unwrapped
the bundle and she watched as he produced a shirt, jerkin, and
woolen leggings. None were particularly clean and to judge by the
size, she suspected there was a young boy running about in stables
with naught against his skin but sunlight.

“‘Twas the
best I could do upon the instant,” Marak said, catching the dubious
look in her eye.

She shook her
head to dismiss his concerns and let the quilted blanket fall to
the floor. The nightdress she wore was straight and shapeless and,
at Marak’s suggestion, she left it on, ruched high around the waist
to fatten her up with a ring of bulk around her mid-section. He
helped her into the coarse woolen shirt and gave instructions for
the leggings—a garment she had never worn before and one that
required a thin leather belt to go about the waist to keep the
crotch from sagging down to her knees. The boots fit the best of
the lot, but were still several sizes too big, making her appear
clumsy when she walked. When the jerkin was added Marak stood back
to inspect and was satisfied with all but her hair, still a great
and glorious cloud of rippling rusty blonde waves.

She saw where
his concern was focussed and reached up, gathering the flown lot
into a single thick tail. With Marak watching, she divided the
glossy mass into three equal parts and began to weave them into a
plait, using her fingers to free the tangles as best she could.

When she was
finished, it was an improvement, and he said as much, but she could
see the hesitation tainting his praise and knew she would not
deceive anyone into believing she was a lad with a braid hanging
down to her knees.

“Do you have a
knife?”

The Saracen
produced one from somewhere inside a voluminous sleeve. Thinking
she meant only to sever the end of the braid, he was startled to
see her grab it at its thickest point near the nape of her neck and
saw the sharply honed edge of the blade back and forth. The skein
was severed and in her hand before he could question the merit of
the act, for a woman’s hair was her pride, a symbol of her station
in life. Many a noblewoman went her entire adult life without ever
cutting an inch.

“Well!” he
said. And then again, “Well.”

"It would have
been cut off in the convent anyway," she said, with a quiet little
ferocity. "I have just saved the good sisters the trouble."

She held out
the braid and the knife, her lower lip held firmly between her
teeth. He set the one aside, but took the knife and, after seeking
permission with an apologetic gesture of his hands, tried to give
her impulsiveness a more evenly trimmed appearance.

This time,
when he stood back to make his inspection, he was pleasantly
shocked by the transformation. Her face was now surrounded by a
scruffy mop of reddish waves, some already curling in the dampness
against her neck. Her breasts were camouflaged by the bulky layers
of sheath, shirt and jerkin, the latter long enough to hide the
slimness of her hips. She looked much like the fourteen-year-old
lad he had borrowed the clothing from and he dared to swear she
could stand within ten paces of her own husband and he would not
recognize her. If she kept her face down and her eyes averted, that
is. The former was far too pale and smooth, the latter seemed to be
twice the size as before, the shade of violet blue impossible to
disguise.

Nodding to
himself, he unwrapped a final small parcel he had brought from the
stable.

“For this I do
heartily apologize,” he said, “but the smell should turn the most
persistent head away.”

Amie held her
breath as he smeared a clod of fresh horse dung down the front of
her jerkin. It was ripe enough to make her eyes water, but she did
not protest, not even when he cleaned his fingers on her sleeves
and bent over again, carrying dirt up to smudge on her cheeks,
forehead, and throat.

“Not perfect,
of course, but good enough to discourage anyone looking for a
slender blonde-haired noblewoman.”

"They will ask
questions of the people here within the walls. They will inquire of
knight and knave alike if any newcomers have been seen within the
castle grounds."

Marak smiled
gently. "Most knights herein have come to Taniere to avoid having
to answer too many questions about their own pasts and they resent
being asked about others. Of the knaves, not one in a hundred would
volunteer information to one of the Prince's men."

"Odo's men are
mercenaries and killers. As long as they have the taste of silver
between their teeth, they will hold this castle under siege until
there only skeletons manning the walls."

“Having seen
the look of the man as well as those he commands, I see no reason
to doubt you. And unfortunately, though I have come to enjoy your
company, I must agree that you should be away from this place—far
away—as soon as possible.”

She looked at
him with the first signs of relief, acknowledging that at least one
argument had drawn to a conclusion. The second, how to get off the
island unnoticed by the ring of men watching the moat and draw,
sent her to stare out one of the arrow slits again. "There must be
a way to get ashore unseen. Castles were built to keep people out,
not trap them inside."

Marak smiled
again. “There are catacombs beneath the castle, and tunnels which
lead beneath the moat and exit in the forest. One needs to know
which tunnel, of course, otherwise a person could wander for weeks
in the darkness and never find their way out... or back in."

Amie's next
question was smothered to silence as they heard the sound of
footsteps running up the stairs behind them. Marak raised a warning
finger to his lips and moved discreetly to stand in front of
her.

It was Roland,
his cheeks flushed from running.

“My lord
Tamberlane requests your presence in the hall,” he said to Marak.
“He also said—and quite specifically, as he made me repeat the
words twice—that you were to deal with the matter at hand as you
saw fit, but to deal with it swiftly for if he remains alone in
Lord Odo’s company overlong, he may be tempted to test the edge of
his blade on the bastard’s throat. Those were my lord’s exact
words.”

“I gather he
is enjoying his role of playing host?"

Roland nodded
at the sarcasm. "So much so that he wants extra guards on the
towers and keen eyes watching the men left on shore."

"I had best
hasten back to the keep without further delay.” Marak turned to
address Amie. “You may return to the stables, boy, and tend the new
foal.”

Amaranth
tucked her chin to her chest and started to walk past but Roland
reached out and grabbed her by a handful of the jerkin. “Nay, he
can come with me. They are in need of more varlets to carry food
and water to the tables.”

“In the hall?"
Amie gasped and glanced up at Marak. "Oh no. No, I think I should
stay here—”

Roland frowned
and clouted her sharply across the ear. “Puling cur! How dare you
question an order! Lord Marak should turn you into a blowfly for
your insolence! If I say you are to go to the hall, you are to go
to the hall, though by the look and stench of you, I’d not want you
carrying any platter of food that might touch my lips.”