The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (56 page)

“I’ll wait,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me. I have to . . . to decide if I am the woman you love, or if it is some ideal you have made, a Ninianee that belongs in one of Erianthee’s Shadowshows, not this – this Ninianee.” It was difficult to say, and she began to tremble, not from cold but from the emotions rising within her.

His lips on hers began a melting kiss, one that joined them as surely as magic bound the Outer Air to the Great World. There was tenderness and passion in the kiss, as well as hope mixed with foreboding. He embraced her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, and after a slight hesitation, she closed her arms around his waist, her pulse beating so powerfully that she was surprised he couldn’t hear it. Finally the kiss ended, but he still held her close, his lips against her hair, and she didn’t let go of him.

“We have a long way to go tomorrow,” she said some time later. She let go of him, standing in spite of the dizziness that had taken hold of her.

“We do,” he said, his face puzzled.

“We had best bank the fire and get to bed, before the room gets cold again,” she told him, trying to sound matter-of-fact, though her breath caught as she spoke. They had lain in the same bed together since the last full moon, and although they had clung together for warmth, they had carefully avoided anything that might have led to greater intimacy. Now she wondered if that would ever happen again. She chided herself for being foolish, reminding herself that many men would have expected much more from her before now.

“As you wish,” he said, getting to his feet as unsteadily as she had. “I’ll do the fire, shall I?”

“If you would,” she answered, feeling unaccountably skittish. It was so difficult to look at him that she didn’t try, concentrating instead on tending to the packing away of their few dining supplies. She opened the chest and stored their bowls and the cleaning-cloth, then went to the door leading to the byre. “Do you think they need anything more? They’ve been fed and they have water, and you’ve put their blankets over them, but – “

Doms came away from the fireplace, moving up behind her with firm steps. “You don’t have to worry, Ninianee.”

She rounded on him. “About what?”

“About tonight. I won’t make demands of you that you aren’t ready to meet. And I know you’re not ready. You think you will discharge your obligation to me, but I . . . I don’t expect – and I don’t want you to use your body to balance our debts, whatever you conceive them to be.” I’ll sleep beside you as I have done, and you needn’t worry that I’ll expect more than rest.” He spoke gently as he studied the curve of her mouth, the light of her eyes.

“You’re being very . . . generous,” she said, the doubt back in her voice.

“No, I’m not,” he said firmly. “I don’t want you to wake in the morning, thinking, well, at least that’s over.”

She blinked, because that very thought had just been going through her mind, “Don’t you want – ?”

“I do, but not as a reward for anything I have done, or as a means of avoiding other matters between us. I don’t want you to give me your body but not your spirit; flesh is sweet, but spirit is a treasure.” He saw her bristle. “When I am what you want, not something you accept instead of what you fear, then I will be overjoyed to spend the night – and the daytime – exploring your passions and my own together.” He took her hands in his, holding it without force. “But that time hasn’t come yet, and I’m prepared to wait.”

“What if the time never comes?”

“It will.”

She tossed her head. “That wasn’t what was bothering me,” she lied. “But it is good of you, whatever your motives.”

He shook his head and gave a single, rueful chuckle. “Yes. You aren’t ready.”

“Then what will happen tonight?” She held her breath as he answered, certain that anything he said would be important to them both.

“Tonight, we sleep. If you can’t sleep,” he said easily, “you can tell me about how you were as a child, about your life, about your dreams, and I’ll tell you how my father and I became alienated, and why I stay away from the Drowned World for long periods of time, singing songs and doing entertainments. You can tell me about your first Change, and I’ll tell you why my half-brother is a fool.”

“Why do you want to know these things? Why would you tell me about your life?” she asked.

Doms’ smile glinted. “Because that’s what people do when they’re falling in love.”

* * *

Rai Pareo was looking a bit green as he stumbled into Poyneilum Zhanf’s chamber, out of breath and disheveled. Gone was his courtly hauteur – his clothes were in disarray, and there was a scrape on his cheek that was dotted with blood. His respect was minimal, more habitual than courteous. He coughed, almost gagging, then visibly steadied himself. “Magsto Zhanf,” he said, his voice three notes higher than usual. “Magsto. You must – “

The afternoon sun filled the room with pale light, and the evening chill was already in the air making the chamber a bit too cold for comfort. Zhanf was busy with a revelation-spell, and held up a hand as signal for Pareo to wait while the last of the spell was completed. He finished the incantation, then made the required gestures, flicking a spark off the end of his fingers. As he saw the small poof of blue smoke arise from the cerements of the spell-mummy, he nodded his satisfaction and turned to Pareo. “What is it, Imperial Secretary?” His respect to Pareo was truncated, for he was alarmed by Pareo’s appearance.

“I’ve been out to the North Tower. I was looking for . . . nothing terribly important.” He seemed abashed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why are you here?” Zhanf asked, wondering why Gaxamirin’s Secretary should be in that part of the Castle, and why he should look as if he had been in a fight. His suspicions mounted.

“I found something . . . Something . . . “ He sat down on the nearest chair as if his legs had failed him.

“Pareo, are you ill?” Zhanf asked.

“Shaken,” he answered. “Badly.”

Zhanf came toward him, his face carefully blank. “What has shaken you, Pareo?”

“What has happened?”

“I went into the North Tower,” Pareo said, and was silent again.

“Why were you there?” Zhanf asked, hoping to encourage Pareo to talk. “What were you doing?”

“I had something to check on,” Pareo said remotely. “It’s not important.”

“And what happened?” It was an effort not to goad him, but Zhanf saw that Pareo was profoundly distressed, and so he pressed no harder.

“Terrible.”

“Yes? What was terrible?” He put his hand on Pareo’s shoulder and was surprised to find the man was shaking. “Hoftstan Ruch will be here shortly. If you want to wait until he arrives – ”

Pareo began to laugh, the sound high and grating. He kept it up for about a hundred heartbeats, then went silent. “Skinned and quartered,” he muttered, his terror increasing.

“Someone was skinned and quartered?” Zhanf asked, appalled at such an idea. “In the North Tower?”

Pareo nodded repeatedly. “I found him. In pieces.”

“Who was it?” Zhanf demanded. “Whom did you find?”

It took Pareo a short time to summon up the courage to answer. “Ruch.”

Zhanf paled. “Hoftstan Ruch?”

Again Pareo nodded. “In pieces.” He retched, doubling over. “The blood was dry and turning very dark. The smell – ” He gagged at the memory. “May Zaythomaj, the Retributionist, serve the same to his murderer.”

Zhanf thought back to the last time he had seen Hoftstan. It had been the night before, while the spell-hounds were making their nightly round of the Castle, when they had had their usual evening meeting to review the events of the day. Hoftstan had said nothing then about visiting the North Tower. What had taken him there? He knew he should send for the Captain of the Night Guard, for Senijer ae-Miratdien ought to know something about this. “I want you to show me. At once.”

Pareo struggled to get to his feet. He was even more pale than when he had come into the room, and his hands were shaking. “I can’t go back in that tower, Magsto. I just can’t.”

“You won’t have to.” Zhanf took a small faceted mirror and thrust it into the depths of the sleeve of his gaihups. “Come. I need to see for myself what you have found.” He tugged at Pareo’s arm unapologetically. “Now. Before someone else finds it and the whole Castle gets into a uproar.”

Pareo tried to nod his agreement, but he lagged behind Zhanf, clearly reluctant to be drawn back to the hideous sight he had described. “I . . . I’d rather not.”

As Zhanf closed the door of his quarters behind them, he said, “This isn’t a matter you get to choose. You’re coming with me. And I will summon one of the guards to accompany us.”

“Why must I come with you?” Pareo was whining now, and so unlike his usual comportment that this commanded Zhanf’s attention.

“If a man has been brutally killed, I’d be a fool to go alone to the place where his body lies. I’ll bring a guard for protection, and you to answer any questions I may have. What if you are the one who killed him, and this is all a performance for my benefit? No? I need to see the place for myself, and if the spell-mirror exonerates you, then I will ask your pardon for my suspicions. But I will want you to answer my questions.” He held up his long, bony finger. “Don’t tell me that if you were in my place, you wouldn’t do the same thing.” He moved more quickly now, rushing down stairs and along corridors until he reached the North Door that led out toward the inner paddocks. “Is this the way you came?”

“Yes,” mumbled Pareo.

“Why were you out here?” Zhanf asked, attempting again to find out Pareo’s reason for visiting the North Tower.

“I had . . . something to do,” he said, once again unwilling to answer directly. “I won’t do it now.”

Glancing up at the inner battlements, Zhanf let out a shout. “You there! Machrin

Jeth!”

The young officer leaned over the parapet and called down. “Magsto Zhanf! What is it?”

“If you will come with us to the North Tower, at once? Thank you.” He turned to Pareo. “Tell him nothing – do you understand?”

“I’ll stay quiet,” Pareo vowed, relieved.

Now that they were in sunlight, Zhanf could see that Pareo’s dark hupslan had a smear of blood over his left knee, and there was a stain on one wide sleeve – nothing like the amount of blood he would show if he had cut up a body, but enough to lend credence to his report. Clearly the secretary was shaken. But, Zhanf reminded himself, that deed was done some hours ago – plenty of time for Pareo to kill, bathe and change, and then stage his discovery, complete with his own simulated distress. He saw Jeth coming toward them. “Thank you. I fear I may need your services for some little time. Whom have you left in charge?”

“Demantheon Elerot and Wixerin Berianoroz. They’ll handle anything that comes their way.” The young officer said confidently. “They don’t really need me.”

“Let us hope they won’t,” said Zhanf grimly, and set off toward the North Tower, Pareo three steps behind him and looking miserable. As they got nearer to the tower, Zhanf asked, “Where is he?”

“In the arming room under the watch platform,” said Pareo. “All but the head.”

“And where is that?”

“On the stairs leading up to the platform.”

Jeth was so startled he nearly stumbled. “Head?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Zhanf, “if what Secretary Pareo here tells me is the truth.”

“Head?” Jeth repeated.

Zhanf continued on in silence, moving quickly to the base of the tower. “No one is to enter or leave this tower until I say otherwise. Is that clear?” He looked directly at Jeth. “You will come up with me now and as soon as we have ascertained the accuracy of Pareo’s claim, I will decide how we’re to deal with this.” To Pareo he said, “You wait here. If you leave, we will find you.”

“I won’t leave,” said Pareo, his voice now colorless as the weathered bench where he chose to sit. “I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Zhanf made no answer to this. He flung open the door and went toward the wooden staircase leading to the arming room above them. As he set foot on the first tread, the presence of malice possessed him, and he steeled himself for what lay ahead. As he climbed, he caught the first metallic whiff of blood. Behind him, Jeth faltered. “Stay with me, Jeth.”

“That I will,” said Jeth in a quavering voice.

As he emerged in the arming room, Zhanf saw blood – pools of it, now dried and dark – standing on the rough planks of the floor. The walls were festooned with sprays of it, and even the ceiling had spatters of reddish-black across it, like grisly, torn ribbons. Next to the stairs lay a torso, limbs hacked off and the abdomen marked with gaping wounds, testament to the fury that had been visited upon him. His right arm was laid out straight at the wall, pointing north. His left arm was pointing south. Hoftstan’s right leg was under the stairs up to the platform, pointing east, and the left pointed west. “It’s very bad,” he warned Jeth as he stepped carefully into the havoc of the arming room.

Jeth’s eyes widened as he had his first look at what lay in the arming room. He made a sound in his throat, but continued to climb. “This is very bad, Magsto.”