Shadows: Book One of the Eligia Shala (49 page)

Jenevra shrugged. “Hang them all from the trees as a warning, I think.”

It was her cool indifference that really chilled Brogan for the first time. He’d been around death in battle before, but this was different. The princess may well have killed the Diruthians in a fair fight—if you could call sixteen trained men against one girl fair—but no-one was usually quite so composed after this kind of fight. At the very least he expected some kind of wild excitement; the frenetic activity he’d marked before in men who’d survived overwhelming odds. Shadow Flight watched their Captain in silence, confronted with the same questions as their Sergeant.

Jenevra turned her horse to watch her mentor as Ki-Nimh dismounted from the wagon, strolling slowly along the line of dead men hanging over their horses. Ignoring Captain Tessier’s arrival with Baran, as Brogan swiftly reassured them that he didn’t think any of the blood was hers; she focused intently on Ki-Nimh.

Stopping at the eighth man, Ki-Nimh looked back at her. “I said no swords, didn’t I?”

“Not me, Ki-Nimh,” she answered. “His friend fell on him, pointy end first.”

“So you can’t claim this one?”

She frowned. “I was the one swinging his friend round into him at the time, so I thought it was alright … sort of by default.”

Ki-Nimh rolled his eyes, looking almost as disapproving as Brogan. “Temper, Nimh’a?” he asked cryptically, holding another man’s head up momentarily.

Chewing on the side of her lower lip, Jenevra nodded, avoiding his hawkish glare.

Stalking back towards her, his eyes took in the fact that she had pulled gloves on again despite the warmth of the late afternoon. “He has no face left, Nimh’a.”

“He annoyed me.” Her left hand clenched into a tight fist against her leg. Ignoring the flinty look he was giving her, she wheeled her horse around again, calling her Flight back to order, taking control again. “The Emperor wants people to know that bandits will be punished. String those men up, one from each tree, along the side of the road. As soon as we’re done, we’re heading to Virat for tonight. Tomorrow, we ride for Mirizir.” She cantered across to Baran and Tessier. “Why don’t you take your men ahead? We’ll catch up with you later.”

Before Tessier could open his mouth to object, Baran answered blandly for both of them that they would wait for her Flight; that having been Commander Rabenaldt’s original purpose in sending Tessier’s squadron along with Jenevra’s Flight.

With the exception of some of the younger recruits to Jenevra’s Flight, not too many of the men were particularly squeamish, but few were able to suppress a grimace as the last man Jenevra had killed was hoisted to swing beside his comrades among the trees.

As the Imperial Protector took her place at the head of the re-formed column she heard muttering among all the men, not just her own. Assured that they all took her far more seriously now than they had that morning, she set her heels to her horse and led them towards Virat at a steady canter, riding relaxed with the reins held negligently in her left hand, her right one resting on her leg. Only she knew that she was barely able to move it, having almost unconsciously beaten the bandit’s face to a bloody pulp.

 CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Virat was a large port, with a surprisingly well managed harbor and docks. As a result the surrounding city was unlike many others, being clean, tidy and generally regarded as safe for most people. The city planners had been far-sighted when building new areas, with specific designations for mercantile activities and general housing for the inhabitants of the city. Inns, taverns and hotels were strictly regulated and there was even an area on a hillside overlooking the harbor where most of the pleasure houses could be found—keeping the rowdier, some would say less-desirable elements away from the populace. Streets were wide and cleaned on a regular basis, as was the harbor itself, eliminating a large contribution to the normal stench of a port. All in all, Virat could even be considered a pleasant seaside city, and Jenevra pulled the men into line at the city gates confident that they would be registered and on their way to lodgings with the Viratians’ usual efficient flair.

The Gatekeepers of Virat were the first line of security. No-one passed them without registering first, and the Imperial troops were no exception. Although highly deferential to the princess, Prince Baran and Captain Tessier, they would not allow anyone to enter the city until every last one of them was listed and assigned to rooms throughout the harbor area.

Shadow Flight was assigned to the best inn on the main street leading to the harbor. Rather nicer than soldiers were usually assigned to, but with an Imperial Princess vouching for them, the Emperor’s seal on her papers, and the Chancellor’s son in her entourage, the gatekeepers didn’t want to offend. The Officers and Lord Menzetti were assigned to the same inn, with their men distributed around in nearby hostelries, and in reasonably swift order they were all departing to their respective destinations, keen to rest, eat and drink.

Handing her horse over to Laio’s capable care, Jenevra slung her pack over her shoulder and followed Ki-Nimh into the inn; noting his subtle palming of the Order’s token to the innkeeper. Within moments they were shown to comfortable, airy rooms on the first floor.

Dropping her pack onto the floor, Jenevra opened the window, scanning the walls and buildings in the immediate vicinity for escape routes and accessibility. Satisfied with what she saw, she ran at the high bed, twisting as she jumped to land, sinking, into the thick feather mattress. Lying back with a soft, satisfied groan, she smiled slightly at herself.
I must be getting soft. This feels really good.

Using one foot to hold the other, she kicked her boots off, letting them fall to the floor. She felt as though she had just closed her eyes when she heard a gentle tap on the door. “What?” She couldn’t even raise the energy to lift her head as the door opened.

“Princess?” Baran’s deep voice sounded almost apologetic.

“I’m asleep.”

“Kian wants to talk to you.”

“I’m not listening.” She stuck her fingers into her ears and closed her eyes again.

Baran walked across to the bed, waiting with his arms folded until she squinted one eye open again. “He wants to talk to you now,” he pulled her wrists gently to get her up. Seeing that she had no intention of moving, Baran decided to take more direct action and picked her up bodily, carrying her into Ki-Nimh’s room over his shoulder. Depositing her onto a wooden chair next to a small table, Baran sat on the opposite side of the table. Captain Tessier was also there, seated in a comfortable chair with a large glass in his hand already.

“I called the Captain and Prince Baran to join us because you said they knew about what happened the other night,” Ki-Nimh began. He pointed to a large bowl of streaming water on the table. “If I’m not mistaken we probably need to start by getting your hand in there for a while though, don’t we?” He ran one hand across his long chin as she nodded ruefully.

Baran held his hand out for hers.

“I can do it myself,” she objected.

“Just give it here, Jenevra, and stop arguing with everything will you?” Baran was uncharacteristically grumpy. Peeling the glove off carefully, Baran swore under his breath. Her hand was swollen, cut and bruised like she’d been pounding on a rock for hours, small splinters of bone visible in two or three places. Using a small knife to remove the bone fragments, which he assumed were from the soldier’s face, Baran pushed her hand into the hot water.

Ignoring him, Jenevra turned to Ki-Nimh. “Can we please just get on with this? I was hoping to sleep some time soon.”

“It will take as long as it takes, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh was at his most infuriating; hands folded up inside his sleeves, a pained patient look on his face.

It felt just like being back on the Island, except Misha wasn’t beside her. Even Tessier’s glance seemed cold and distant now. Jenevra sighed.

“ … So, that brings us up to the point where you explain why you dared to take a Master’s sword into your possession, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh’s voice was cold again as they entered their second hour of talking through recent events. The sun was finally dying, filling the room with that deep honeyed glow that only comes from a summer sunset.

“Misha and I are … were … equal. Well, pretty much anyway.” Jenevra began, wandering back and forth in front of the fireplace, her hand washed and bandaged. “He hadn’t taken part in the battle, so I knew he would be less tired than me.”

“That’s no excuse, Nimh’a.” Ki-Nimh said.

Exasperated, Jenevra began pacing again, until Ki-Nimh caught her sleeve. “Calmly!” He ordered.

Scowling, she continued, twisting the ends of her sleeves between her fingers. “I know I don’t often get tired, as such. But the whole battle rush thing; you know what I mean. Misha didn’t have that going on. I knew he’d have the edge on that count. I had to have something that would even it back up … maybe even give me an advantage. You were hurt; and I’d just used the talisman to give you a bit of a boost of energy which sort of drained me a bit more. And that was weird too,” she broke off again, looking at her mentor puzzled. “I mean, how did I do that? I have no idea, it just happened. Is that normal?” She waved her hands, dismissing it as unimportant for the time being, missing a flash of sorrow and concern deep in Ki-Nimh’s eyes.

“So, anyway, I figured that you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it. I was using it to fulfill an Oath, and I made all the proper prayers and things over it before I took it, and when I put it back.”

Ki-Nimh grunted, whether in approval or not she couldn’t tell.

“It was the only thing I could think of Ki-Nimh. Seeing me with a Master’s sword might have placed a doubt in Misha’s mind; given me almost an equal chance.”

“It didn’t look very equal from where we were standing—not when he sliced you across the front: or when he stuck that sword through your side,” Blaise noted dryly.

As Jenevra explained the dim remembrance she had of the fight on the beach, Baran and Kian’s expressions changed. “You heard the song of the sword?” Baran breathed reverently. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“It was really peculiar. Every stroke created a sound.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain really. I couldn’t hear anything else; not the sea, not the weather. Even when Misha got that cut in, I sort of heard it rather than felt it.”

“So how did Misha manage to get close enough to put his sword through you?” Ki-Nimh’s tone was cynical. “Did the song of the sword distract you and not him?”

She shook her head. “No, Ki-Nimh. I let him.”

“What?” Blaise slammed his cup down on the table. “You mean that was deliberate? You could have been killed!”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,” Jenevra said. “But he’d already cut me once. He was getting stronger and I wasn’t. The only way to win was to let him think he had a winning stroke.”

“Sacrificing a piece for the game, Nimh’a? Glad to see the chess lessons weren’t wasted.” Ki-Nimh almost smiled.

“I knew where his sword was aiming. I made sure I turned so it would enter where it could do least damage. Once his sword was trapped he knew he’d made a mistake—a really basic one—and he just took too long to think about his options. That’s when I killed him. It was the way it had to be. I didn’t know you were watching …” she smiled genuinely at Blaise, for the first time in days. “ … or worrying about me.”

Baran cleared his throat noisily, and took up the rest of the tale from what they had seen; describing the state Jenevra had been in rather vividly, hoping that it might soften the stony look on Kian Menzetti’s face as he watched his pupil.

“Tell me about the talisman again,” Kian prompted Jenevra softly. “Everything you can remember.”

Her smile fading again, Jenevra spoke quietly with Ki-Nimh, sitting at his feet, telling him everything she had felt during that day; from the light throbbing earlier in the afternoon to the violent pain that had torn through her as she killed Misha. She told him about the energy she had tried to impart, and the strange promptings she had felt to follow the directions the talisman was infusing her with. “Is it the talisman, Ki-Nimh?” she asked him. “I didn’t think it worked that way.”

During the telling Kian had looked unutterably saddened; but by the time Jenevra looked up into his face with her questions, his usual impassive mask was back in place. “This pain, when you killed Misha. Where did you feel it?”

Jenevra looked distant. “Right through me, Ki-Nimh, everywhere; like something was being torn apart inside.”

“It was,” Blaise interrupted. “You had a sword through you.”

Kian glared at him, snapping his fingers in front of Jenevra’s face to focus her back on him rather than responding to Captain Tessier. “Is it still torn, Nimh’a, or has it healed now? What can you feel from the talisman now?”

She shook her head, tapping her bandaged fist against her chest. “It isn’t healed. I can feel it. Is it because I killed another bearer? But I can feel the talisman again—like I could at first. D’you think it’s because I’m the only bearer left? Maybe what I’m feeling now is just you and me—maybe even Alvar or Oran—because I’m the only one who can?” She raised eyes full of sorrow to him.

“I don’t know, Nimh’a.” Kian lied, sighing heavily, the planes and contours of his angular face seeming etched in stone. He laid his hand gently on her head. “We’ll figure it out, child. Go to bed.”

Startled as much by the unusual form of address as by the sudden dismissal, Jenevra didn’t even argue, leaving the room quietly for her own. Her mind was too full to allow any thought of sleeping again yet, and she quickly changed out of the blood-stained shirt and trousers into clean, if scruffy, clothes; sliding out through the open window and dropping easily to the ground. Stopping in at the barn shared between several of the buildings nearby, she checked on the condition of their horses with Laio. Rubbing her own horses’ noses, and feeding them both carrots, she borrowed a spare pair of leather gloves from Laio. He was young enough that his gloves were just slightly too big, which allowed her room to hide the bandages without it being too noticeable. As they walked out of the barn together, they saw Sergeant Brogan coming out from another inn two buildings away to check that the young stable-lad was going to come in and eat.

Pulling a baggy old jacket she found in the barn on over her re-tied braid, hiding it from view, Jenevra pulled strands of hair out around her face and headed down to the harbor itself; sitting behind a large stack of lobster pots with her legs dangling over the edge. The evening was darkening from the dusty lavender of twilight into the cooler clear skies of night. The first stars were beginning to blink sleepily between the shut eyes of the twin moons just beginning to wax. Jenevra watched the bustle of the harbor slow and quiet from the rhythmic chanting of the freight carriers and loaders, to the low laughter of men leaving their ships for an evening’s entertainment ashore. A large ship to her left seemed more raucous than most; one voice booming out over all the others. If it was at all possible, she thought, this particular man might even give Admiral Massili some serious competition. There was something vaguely familiar about the ship, something that tugged at the princess’s memory, but she couldn’t quite place it.