The Seascape Tattoo (26 page)

After the escape attempt, they were no longer in the same cell. The serving girl gave her tray to the attendant for Drasilljah, but the Red Nun served the princess directly.

“Princess Tahlia,” she said. “Dinner.”

There was a stirring within the cell. The guard opened the door, and the Witch entered.

The cell was almost bare, strewn with straw with a simple cot against a wall. A chamber pot. No window.

The princess lay on the cot, her face turned toward the wall. When she finally turned back, the Red Nun caught her breath.

Tahlia's expression was haughty, but anyone could see that the girl was close to cracking. That she was using all of her will to maintain a facade of strength and spirit. Shyena didn't want to see this. But once she did, the urge to comfort welled up in her.

And she had to repress it so that the guard would not detect anything.

“It is time to eat,” she said. The princess was fed only twice a day, so the hunger was real.

The girl watched the Red Nun through slitted eyes as she ate. “Is Drasilljah eating?”

“Yes. It is not our intent to starve either of you.”

“No, I don't think it is.”

“You will see that we merely wish you to be our ambassador to your great country.”

The princess mopped gravy up with her bread, wolfed it down. “Only a while ago, you weren't even admitting I was in Shrike. The story has changed.”

“Yes,” the Witch said. “There are always mysteries. Those of diplomacy are above me. I merely wish you to return to your home unmolested.”

The princess's eyes touched hers with a moment of inquiry. As the Witch had suspected, the others who served her used different language.

When the princess's eyes met hers, the Witch shifted to look back at the meat.

“It would be good for you to cooperate,” she said. “That would go better for everyone.”

“I will not write your letter,” she said. “I will not lie to my mother.”

“In time, I hope you will see that truth is a tricky thing. Do not let a scrap of paper stand between you and freedom.”

A scrap of paper. A statement that the princess had been rescued from pirates by the forces of Shrike and would be soon returned.

Of course she would. The Red Nun stood, straightened her robe, and left the cell.

*   *   *

The princess ate slowly as the door closed. The Red Nun had been … different this time. It was an oddness, and she didn't know quite what to think of it, or even what precisely had triggered that reaction. But … there it was.

Of course, if she wrote the note, the kingdom of Shrike would be absolved of responsibility in her kidnapping precisely as long as the princess was kept separate from her mother. At that instant, the charade would end, and war begin.

What, then, was the purpose? The letter was her death warrant: the instant she signed it, she was dead, and a sad message would reach her mother that pirates, or disease, or a storm had taken the princess.

But certainly they knew she would make that connection. They were not intending to starve her to try to make her sign it. What then was the purpose?

There would seem to be no purpose, unless the entire thing was a bluff. A stall. Something to distract her attention from what was really going on, the actual intent. Meanwhile, they were keeping her in excellent health. Giving her hope. Had not mistreated her.

Why did she remember stories about the fatted calf…?

And why had the Red Nun's eyes shifted again and again, looking at the meat? It was just a chunk of steak, two chunks, actually, a decent amount. She hoped Drasilljah had had as much—

She poked at the steak, and there, hidden under the gravy, was a folded slip of waxed paper.

She chewed more slowly, shifting her eyes to see if she was being watched. No, no one at the door. She set the tray down and walked carefully to the door, as if about to request a favor. No one there.

Back to the tray. There was no knife; she was expected to use her teeth. She peeled the folded bit of paper apart and unrolled it. In a cramped hand, she read the following words:

A friend is nearby. Remember a conversation on the balcony with one who could not admit he loves you. Have hope.

A friend? A conversation on a balcony? The princess blinked, trying to clear her mind. It had been horrible, being separated from Drasilljah. She hadn't realized how much she needed her old friend.

Her hands shook. Was this even real? And if it was …

Neoloth-Pteor. That was the friend.

The Red Nun had passed a message from Neoloth-Pteor? Did that even make sense, considering what had happened, all that had happened and been done?

And if it did make sense …

Have hope.

Then there was help nearby. The only reason she might write their letter for them was hopelessness. Under no circumstances would this note be given to her by someone who believed it would induce her to write and sign.

What if she was wrong? Make it: “Help is near. Go ahead, write the note. It doesn't matter…”

But if not. If no one reacted that way. If there was no increased pressure … then arguably she now had two allies: Neoloth and whoever had passed her the note.

If the Red Nun herself had passed it, if she had an ally
that
powerful …

Then, for the first time in weeks, she felt a shred of hope.

The princess pressed her hands against the wall. There were limits to imagination. She did not know what was happening to Drasilljah in the cell next to her. She wanted to communicate with her, reach out …

There is hope.

Was it even her old friend in the next cell? Drasilljah might be dead, or in another part of the prison. Anything was possible. She had to keep this to herself.

She ate, with more appetite than she had felt in a very long time. It was a terrible, wonderful meal.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

Mijista Wile

Aros guided Jade Silith's steam coach, enjoying the wind in his face and the smiles and expressions of admiration from the people they passed.

“Do you see the way they look at you?” she asked.

“Perhaps they are looking at you. The general's wife, the winner of the Goddess Day race…”

Her laugh was musical. In a younger woman, he would have thought it flirtatious. This was different. He knew what to call it but couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

“No, Kasha. My husband is loved and feared. And it is said that you jumped down into the tunnel to save him. Those who hate him hate you. Those who love him … love you.”

She touched his hand gently. A mother's touch, he thought.

He had been touched many times in many different ways over the course of his life. But to his horror, he couldn't remember a single touch from his mother. He imagined that it would feel … something like this.

Everything had been different since he jumped down into the tunnels. The general had taken him into his inner circle and begun training him for better things. Personally.

Jade Silith had begun to request his presence as personal bodyguard at functions. He understood what this meant—he was being introduced to society, without direct claims of lineage.

The general's men welcomed him. He was known. And that made him just a little more uncomfortable, because while bonding with the general was a positive thing, maintaining a high profile was not necessarily a good idea. What if he was recognized by someone who could contradict his stated history? That could be a great deal worse than embarrassing.

That could be …

Well, he could imagine all the disastrous scenarios he wanted. But none of that would change the moment: he traveled at the side of a gracious woman who believed he had saved the husband she loved. Son or not, he had arrived.

“Where are we going?” he asked again. He had asked that question since the previous day, when she had requested his presence for a luncheon meeting.

She just smiled mysteriously. They were on the northern edge of the sprawling city, where a series of villas carved into cliffs rose above the waves. Their coach traveled up a narrow, winding road that invited disaster to a clumsy coachman. Aros was troubled little by heights, and Jade enjoyed the ride tremendously, laughing.

“I feel so alive,” she said, and looked at him with dewy eyes. “You bring something out in me, Kasha.” The gentleness in her eyes, combined with an odd mischief, gave him a momentarily uncomfortable reaction. If he had misread her reaction, if she was taking him to some kind of hideaway with the intent to …

His mind couldn't even quite wrap around that, but in the next moment he was convinced he was wrong. But there was something here, something secretive, and delicious …

What in the world?

The coach pulled up to the gate of one of the largest estates. They were at the back, with the villa built so that a front window looked out upon the crashing waves below. An impressive amount of work, certainly. Who could live here?

The coach came to a stop, and the two of them sat. Aros waited until his curiosity was overwhelming.

“What … do we do now?” he asked.

That mischievous smile grew wider. “Now you get out,” she said. “I will be back to get you this evening.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Had no slightest idea what this was about, but nothing about her manner or words suggested danger of any kind. Deep amusement, yes. But …

What was expected of him? Obedience, he supposed.

Aros nodded and stepped down from the carriage.

The carriage slid away—no horses, no sound but for a faint hiss—leaving Aros at the door.

That door was a huge slab of some heavy, dark wood that Aros didn't recognize. In the middle of it was a massive brass knocker, which he lifted and slammed down twice. The door might have been a bell or some other object designed to amplify vibration: it boomed, startling him.

After a pause, the door opened. A liveried servant, pale and bald and thin and aged, answered the door.

“You are Kasha? Then you are on time, sir,” the man said, and Aros repressed the urge to ask, On time for what? He stepped inside.

The hall within was long and masculine, with trophies and reminders of military campaigns and travels to foreign lands.

“The end of the hall, sir.” The servant gestured with a long thin arm.

Halfway down the hall was a painting of a man with a broad, strong face; gray mustache and hair; and a commanding air. A candle burned before the picture in a golden dish, a wick floating in an aromatic oil.

“My husband,” a voice said behind him. “He was a great man.”

Aros turned. A slender woman stood at the end of the hall, holding a burning taper to a candlestick. The hall grew less dim. “As his widow, I've been offered the privilege of the new light globes, but I admit that I don't understand how they work and prefer the old ways.”

She approached him, swaying beneath a transparent oversheath and a dark, clinging dress beneath. Her face was heart-shaped and lovely, her eyes wide and dark. She looked like a thoroughbred racehorse, in the sense that her skin was perfect, the fires within her burning brightly. She seemed both curious and filled with doubt.

“Madam?” he asked. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Yes, I imagine I do.” She turned languidly, either a natural motion or one practiced to perfection. She walked toward a distant light, and when he followed her, he scented a perfumed trail behind her.

By the serpent! What was this! His neck itched with danger, but at the same time he could not take his eyes off the swaying hips. She was perfectly made up and presented. The servant was nowhere in sight. She had been careful to inform him that her husband was dead.

What did this woman of means have in mind?

She led him to a window overlooking the waves. If he had been prone to vertigo, both the company and the view might have unmanned him.

She sat looking at him speculatively. The servant appeared and served them wine, allowing him to choose his cup first.

They sat in low chairs, facing each other, and she was playing a game, waiting for him to speak.

He hated the fact that he was motivated to speak first. “Who are you, and what is it you wish of me?”

“I am the wife of Major Sepphus,” she said. “And before I married, my name was Mijista Wile. Does that name mean anything to you?”

He searched his memory. What did he know of Shrike's nobility and wealthy folk? Had he heard the name Mijista? Or Wile? The second name rang a very distant bell, but he could make nothing of the connection.

“I'm afraid not,” he said. “And regret that. M'lady does not seem someone it would be possible to forget.”

She smiled, and a bit of the lady of the manor affect dissolved. “Yes. That would be the correct answer, no matter what the truth.”

His brows beetled. “What truth are you seeking? I've done some traveling, learned some secrets.”

“It is said you have no memory of your life as a child. Is that true?”

He nodded.

She frowned a bit. “Do you know the customs of Shrike? Or the Eight Kingdoms?”

“Some,” he said.

“I refer specifically to the betrothal customs among the wealthy and powerful. Children are game pieces, to be married or betrothed to the advantage of their families. Children are sometimes promised before birth.”

He scoffed, taking another drink. The wine was excellent! “And they have no choice in the matter? And they call me barbaric. Is that what happened with your husband? You were promised to an older man in exchange for political advantage?”

A darkness crossed her face. A private pain, perhaps, and he regretted what he had said. “Yes. But, as often happens, I grew to love him.”

“How long were you married … and what happened to him?”