A Woman Warrior Born Page 6

Traversing the valley side, Breea paused often to rest. Every step meant pain. A stumble was lancing agony. The prickling tingle in her finger never faded.

  Well past midday, she limped out onto a high promontory of rock jutting over cliffs the color of rusted iron, and sat in the sun to eat some sugar fern. Below, the river voiced a distant, endless roar as it swirled and surged around red-stone boulders. Upvalley the northern bastion of glacier-draped Limtir Mountain towered, an immensity that challenged the very sky, even from eight leagues away.

  Behind her, storm clouds piled high over rugged peaks, glowing in the afternoon sun, dwarfing even Limtir Mountain in scale, though not much closer than in the morning. Wondering why the storm had paused in its approach, but grateful, she hobbled back into the forest.

  Evening came dark and fast with clouds, and Breea pushed hard to get to a shelter tree she knew. As the first patters of rain blew in on the toes of the storm, she staggered up to the immense fir and slipped through its thick skirt of branches. Once inside, she gratefully sagged to the needle duff.

  A gust of wind kicked the walls of her tree shelter, urging her to action before the rain began in earnest. Outside, she gathered soft boughs from young Gamanthea-Dur. It was difficult with only one arm to cut and gather. After three loads, bellowing thunder and slashing rain sent her stumbling back to her shelter.

  It was completely dark within the tree, but she knew the space well, having created it herself years before. For a while she lay on her piles of boughs, resting. Wetness drooling from her blood-soaked shoulder bandage made her shiver, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had no material for another dressing.

  By feel she found dry tinder in its rock shelter beside the thick hearthstone she had spent a whole day bringing to the tree. After brushing a deep layer of fir needles off the hearth, she soon had a small fire going with wood from the shelter’s cache. After arranging her bough bedding between hearth and tree trunk, she sat and ate the last of her ferns while the bird cooked on a spit fashioned of branches. She considered the lichen by firelight. What was it? And who was helping her? They had saved her life, of that she was sure. White-caps were rare and potent. The whole of Limtir’s herb rooms might not have so many as she’d already eaten. But who? Why do so much, then vanish? With a sigh, she ate the lichen, grimacing at its bitter taste.

  The scent of wood smoke and roasting bird filled the air as wind and rain lashed the forest outside. Breea leaned against the trunk of the tree, basking in the warmth of the fire, and remembered finding the tree with her father in her thirteenth summer, building it the next year by herself when he was away visiting Rana; then, his mixture of pride and fury when she showed it to him: pride in her ingenuity, and anger that she had spent the summer wandering the mountains alone.

  She reached out and turned the bird, and with force of will kept her thoughts away from memories of nights she and Ambard had shared here. One thought refused to be willed away, however, and her eyes were drawn to the glinting medallion. What would Ambard think of her after all that had happened? A hand went to her chest, fingers running under the dirty strips of bandage to the cracked scabs of the fang-shaped wounds the medallion had left. Somewhere inside, a spark flared. Breea dropped her hand and turned the bird again.

  Licking her fingers after eating, she dropped the legs she’d saved for breakfast into her sling-stone pouch. Drawing a dagger, she lifted the medallion by the vine, and looked at it grimly. A quick motion cut the vine from the stick.

  The vine was cold in her hand as she pushed apart branches on the lee side of her tree. It was dark beyond, though she could hear the wind chasing rain through the forest. A branch cracked, and lightning flashed once, giving her a split-second view of the forest. Thunder shook the air. Gritting her teeth, she stepped into the chill rain and flung the medallion hard to make sure it landed more than thirty paces from the tree. Back inside, she stacked four thick logs on the fire, burrowed into her bed of boughs, and was instantly asleep.

  Once in the night she woke and listened to the rain and whistling wind. Water was dripping through the branches now, making an occasional hsst in the coals of the fire. She put more wood on, and curled against the dry trunk of the fir.

  Morning was called by the trilled complaints of bark wrens scolding something nearby. Breea lay uncomfortable and cold among the branches, but did not want to move. The gurgle of the stream and the calls of the birds soothed her. Living wood and warm life brought with their patterns a familiar peace. With a start, she realized that she was listening, and with a clarity she’d never experienced. In wonder, she let her awareness expand, running full into the ice-dark void of the medallion. Nausea welled, and her stomach heaved, spiking her abdomen with pain.

  Panting, wanting fresh air and light, she rose from the bough bed using the tree trunk for support. Moving stiffly, she pushed through the wet branches of the fir, shivering as cold droplets sprinkled her bare skin. She stepped into cool morning air, and stopped. At her feet was another bird, feathers ruffled but dry.

  Breea examined the near ground. There was no sign. Not even the rain clinging to the grass had been disturbed. A chill of wonder caressed her skin. All around, the forest was quietly getting busy with morning pursuits; sunlight scattering through the treetops, flowers opening, birds chirping, two squirrels scolding, a light wind rising. It looked like any day, but awe suffused Breea.

  Kneeling to pick up the bird, she whispered to her invisible benefactor, "Thank you."

  After washing her face and hands, she sat on a rock in a swath of sunlight, tied back her hair with a bit of braided bear grass, then enjoyed her grouse legs from the night before. After taking a long drink from the stream, she took the fresh bird and her vine-stick in hand, and went looking for the medallion.

  It lay beneath a broad shield of milky ice. Breea frowned and drew a dagger, striking the ice with the pommel to test its strength, stumbling back as the ice shattered with a crash, showering her with fragments. Swallowing, she gingerly flipped the hateful thing to the stream to refreeze it to her stick.

  By midmorning she was walking along the river, backtracking her flight down the valley, and by evening she had pushed herself to her river crossing. When she spied her cloak on the forest floor, she tossed away the medallion and walked up to where she had forded the rushing river in her desperate flight. Cutting a piece of leather lacing from a boot, she tied the grouse’s feet together, then hung it from a thin branch out of easy reach of scavengers. Mindful of her wounds, she shook out the bearskin, laid it down fur side up, and, exhausted, rolled herself into it, not bothering with food or fire.

  Early morning was cold. The empty sky was dark blue with the brightest stars still visible. A stiff breeze whistled down the river. Breea pulled her feet inside her cloak and hugged it tighter around her. Though the fur was damp, the night had been the first she’d actually been warm all through.

  An oshhawk cried on the wind, barely audible over the river sound. Pulling her hood over her face, Breea closed her eyes. No reason to get up yet. Wait for the sun like any sensible animal. The oshhawk cried again, closer.

  A hawk calling before the sun rose? Cautiously, she raised her head. The other bank was a pattern of tree trunks variously black to pale gray. Birch leaves fluttered in the wind, and the roar of the water drowned most sounds. She studied one place on the bank, then the next, moving upstream until she reached the limit of what she could see, then scanned back down.

  She listened. Many warm creatures moving there. Perhaps it was a herd of deer. She tried to extend herself farther, but the swirl of the river and flow of wind swept away her awareness.

  The oshawk called, and her eyes snapped to the location. Her neck was beginning to ache, but she ignored it, staring at the place where the sound had originated. Movement. A shadow figure detached from a tree trunk and flitted to another. Downstream a black watermouse called out, and Breea spied a wide shadow that had not been there moments before, crouched am
ong boulders.

  She knew that form! Struggling up, she stood and cried, "Bay-ope!"

  Pain wouldn’t let her stand straight, but she waved vigorously with her good arm.

  The shadow did not move, then it rose and leapt into the water with a tremendous splash. The forest bank came alive as dozens of cloaked figures emerged and began crossing the river. Others leapt with armed bows to boulder tops and other vantages to cover the crossing.

  Holding his axes above the water, Bay-ope plowed across the river and met Breea at the water’s edge with a hug. Ignoring pain, she held him with all her strength, eyes tight. An ax fell to the ground, and one giant hand touched her back and very gently pressed her into him.

  Splashing sounds rose above the river roar, and Breea opened her eyes to see elite Tomeguard in forest garb rushing out of the river, water streaming from clothing and armor, securing the bank, and moving swiftly into the forest behind her. Raising her head she saw that Bay-ope was scanning the forest with savage intentness.

  "He’s dead."

  Bay-ope looked at her.

  "I killed him."

  As he looked Breea eye to eye, his bruised features softened with belief and he said, "My feet are getting cold."

  Breea frowned and stepped away from him to look down. He was standing calf-deep in the water with her on the bank. Grinning, he stepped up onto the shore.

  He ordered a fire made, then took his own woolen cloak from his pack and wrapped Breea in it. Taumea came running up, and after taking in Bay-ope’s sign of "quarry dead," looked to Breea. Nine years of friendship let him read in her face and body the tale of her flight and battle and victory. The haunted tension in her eyes cut through him like a blade. He knew what experience made such eyes, but his own were brilliant with an intensity of relief and admiration Breea had never before felt from him. He stepped close, opened Bay-ope’s cloak, and drew out her right arm, gripping her forearm. After a moment of surprise, she gripped his in return in the greeting used exclusively among elite Tomeguard. Men nearby paused in their work to look at the pair.

  They stood thus, Breea struggling to control tears, Taumea’s fingers firm on her arm while Bay-ope retrieved her bear cloak and draped it over a stone beside the freshly crackling fire. Taumea helped her to the fur-covered seat. Bay-ope knelt beside her and arranged his cloak to expose her wounds. He cut away the blood-stiff strips of her blouse with the assuredness of one long accustomed to dressing wounds, but without Yavay’adil’s deftness of touch. Breea didn’t care, and basked in joy. Her dearest friends had come to rescue her.

  Her finger tingled as a guard brought the medallion to show Bay-ope. His thick brows drew together as his gaze swung from the medallion to the fang-shaped wounds on Breea’s chest.

  Under her breath, Breea said, "Take it away."

  A flick of Bay-ope’s fingers sent the guardsman downstream a ways.

  Baleho, an old elite who had been the lead of her father’s personal guard, strode up, and kneeling on one knee, cupped Breea’s cheek in a rough palm. His hand dropped to her good shoulder and squeezed. Tears sprang up in Breea’s eyes once more, and she dropped her face to hide them. Baleho stood, looked at Bay-ope, then Taumea, and each nodded with the tiniest of head movements. All three looked at the young woman between them, their faces determined and grave.

  Baleho left to rejoin his squad. Taumea cut branches, built a tripod, then hung a small pot of river water to heat. A few minutes later, he had her grouse spitted on sticks as well, then offered her cheese, hard bread, and a wineskin.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw elite flitting in and out of vision, patrolling and watching the surrounding forest. It comforted her but was irritating as well. The beast was dead. Why act as though there was yet something to protect against?

  Ice crept down her spine. A quick look confirmed. The men were working a T’Bane, Thieves’ Bane, an overlapping pattern of patrols and concealed watchers that was used to hunt master thieves. And assassins. Having drilled the pattern in her own guard training, she could see that where she sat was the center of this trap. She looked at Bay-ope. His nose was flatter than before and most of his face was puffy with sickly yellow edges, his eyes ringed in black and purple, but his expression was one of calm concentration as he worked on her injuries. Occasionally, he would glance up to watch a guardsman report silently with signs. Taumea tended the fire and was a comforting presence grinning at her whenever she looked his way. Outwardly they were at ease, but beneath the relaxed grace of their motions there was a core of deadly anger, bound by iron discipline.

  Breea straightened her back, and her good hand drifted to a dagger hilt, confirming its position without looking. Bay-ope pretended not to notice, and dug into his pack for some fresh mendwort, tossing the bundle to Taumea.

  And what of Aja? Breea’s worry was a physical ache, but she was afraid to ask. Either they were sparing her further pain for as long as possible, or there was no cause for concern. When the time came, they would tell her, she trusted them for that, and made herself relax.

  When the water boiled, some was poured into a wooden cup to steep tea, Yavay’adil’s by the smell of it. Taumea put mendwort into the remaining pot water along with scraps of clean linen. After they boiled, Bay-ope used the hot cloth to clean her shoulder wound as she sipped the tea. He took out a suture kit. Taumea went to one knee on her other side and took her hand. She gripped it tight, knowing what was coming. Bay-ope’s needle poked sharp through the tender skin on the edge of her shoulder wound and she gasped. The suture twine slid through her flesh, and she closed her eyes. Taumea began a wandering banter to distract her, but she found the pain, given what she had so far endured, to be bearable in a way she’d never known. She looked over to watch Bay-ope’s technique.

  "Won’t be as pretty as Yavay’adil’s," he rumbled.

  "Scars mark a warrior," she replied.

  He grinned without looking up. It was an old saying between them. When Breea began her guard training, she had been distressed about the bruises and cuts. The other girls in Limtir teased her ruthlessly, but Bay-ope had made her proud to get hurt. Her father had been appalled each time she glorified some bruise or other damage, but never enough to take her out of the training. She used to wonder about that.

  Bay-ope tied off the suture, then carefully cleaned and bandaged her other wounds as Taumea tended the fire and roasting bird. Wound dressing done, Bay-ope wrapped her with his cloak in the Nana style, crossing it over each shoulder, covering her to her waist, leaving her right arm free.

  When the grouse was done, she tore into it, ravenous even after the bread and cheese, and watched as Bay-ope spoke quietly with Taumea, Baleho, and other elites.

  As the fire was doused, Bay-ope carried her across the river on his back and strode into the forest with her still hanging on. Right arm looped around his neck, she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and let the rhythm of his stride lull her. An urgency that she did not question moved him to carry her the entire way up the mountain.

  At midday they approached the boulders that hid the entryway to the secret passage, and a few more elite appeared from hiding, three rising to dismantle a well-concealed ballista set among boulders above the entry. Breea slid down from Bay-ope’s back, stifling a groan as wounds and sore muscles shrieked.

  Lufrek, an elite scout, emerged from the entry. His eyes widened upon seeing Breea, then he bowed crisply to Bay-ope.

  "The Run is clear, sir. Clawn and Phaerfrin have gathered most in the wall kitchens, and the Voicemen will sound muster by your horn. Map details are spread thin now, pairs mostly, jumpy, regulars only. Uur has dropped the ceilings on nine and eight and played them easy other junctions, so none have reached ten level. Captain sits in the Tetr’s Chambers, reading is the word. Keeps his best close. Ashtu, Hov, Rotel, Mavksh. Pran was sent downroad yestermorn, full group, to seek word of you. The Meric emissary was sent packing."

  Breea reached out for Bay-ope, her fist clench
ing in the leather of his sleeve. SaKlu was in Aja’s chambers? There was only one way for such horror to pass.

  Bay-ope looked down at her, and said, "She is alive. How do you think we knew where you had gone? Once we pass through, you will go to Yavay’adil’s, where he tends to her."

  Relief rippled through her. Aja was alive. Wounded, but alive.

  Bay-ope said to Breea, "Stay with the Tetr."

  Candles were passed out and one lit from coals carried in a firebox. So much had happened in recent days. Plans were engaging, and she wondered what all the story was.

  Lighting her candle with his, Taumea said quietly, "SaKlu ordered Bay-ope, the Tetr’s guard, and others out of Limtir to garrison and ‘protect’ the village and valley."

  He came after me, instead, Breea thought.

  It came to her all at once that every one of the men who had come for her were either her friends or what was left of Ajalay’s personal guard. Three had been her father’s own guards. Men whose loyalty would extend beyond death. Her love for these men, these old friends, swelled. But it was no time for hugs and affectionate words. She nodded somberly.

  "What emissary?" she asked.

  "Meric," said Taumea. "Came with word that Kaul Kaul is sweeping Mericsland like a winter storm, burying all in its wake. In the east, only Carsythe stands."

  Bay-ope took his axes, one each from the guards who had carried them up the mountain for him, and hung them in holders on his belt, then let his gaze pass round the men standing or crouching among the rocks in a ring. Breea’s breath caught as she felt the wave of focused, enraged intent that rose silently among them.

  Flickering lights in hand, they entered the dark passage, Bay-ope leading, Breea next. One of the other Tomeguard carried the medallion too close and she rubbed her finger. Midway through to Limtir, a sharper tingle stopped her cold. Behind her, Taumea drew long fighting daggers, and the silent tunnel sighed with the whisper of blades being drawn, punctuated by the creak and click of crossbows being armed. Bay-ope halted, candle held high. After peering forward for threats, he turned to Breea.

  Stalking forward past him, she found shards of rock scattered across the floor. Beyond, a mound half filled the passage, all that was left of the last barrier she had dropped in her flight. Drifting strands of cold essence hung in the air and writhed slowly through the stone. She scrambled over the pile, shivering.

  No one questioned her as they followed.

  As they climbed into the network of passages within Limtir proper, Breea stopped in her tracks as eyes glinted at the edge of her light. She tipped her candle to pour out wax, and the flame grew. Uur strode forward silently and grinned at her, teeth bright in his tanned face. Bay-ope put his ax under the other arm and reached past Breea to grip a forearm with him. Taumea squeezed around Bay-ope and gripped arms with Uur as well.

  A flurry of hand-speak revealed to Breea the edges of a broad plan to retake Limtir. Then they moved forward into the library, where small groups of guardsmen vanished into dark passages and up and down ladders. So quiet and ordered were their movements that Breea hardly noticed what was happening until she was traveling with only five men.

  At the Heart, the main junction of the secret ways, the candles were burning low, and in their guttering light, Bay-ope took the medallion from the guard who had carried it up the mountain. It was now in a leather pouch with the shape of the medallion outlined in frost on its surface. He handed it to Breea.

  "You are the only one who can possess this."

  Breea accepted the pouch by the end of its tie thong, and wondered what he meant.

  "They are remapping the ways, so walk the Cat’s Path. Stay with the Tetr. We will deal with SaKlu."

  In darkness, using ladders one-handed, Breea climbed up to the tenth level. After resting at the top, she went left and walked down to the high Sanis Scholar living chambers at the far west end of Limtir.

  Voices echoed through the tunnel, and Breea froze trying to get their direction. Behind her, approaching. She ran to a ladder and climbed up among the giant beams of the roof-peak level.

  Men’s voices, very tense, arguing.

  A plainsman said, "No, I tell ye, this is the eighth, and we’re nearing the scriptorium. Look here."

  A Limtirian, with proper, formal speech, said in mild disgust, "That is not what you drew yesterday. This is drawn as seven. There, the open space for the Learnhall."

  The plainsman groaned, and cursed, "Death t’the One!"

  "You want us flayed?" the Limtirian said.

  "Oh, dismount you," said the plainsman. "I got more cause than most to curse Yash. Anyview, the Temple has no power here."

  "SaKlu does."

  "He’s no priest."

  "Are you sure? Would you speak so if one of his stood in my place?"

  "He’s of Rana," said the plainsman.

  "Religion is blind to political boundaries. Did you not hear his words at muster?"

  The plainsman did not answer. Torchlight flickered below as the men walked under Breea. They stopped and one used his torch to look up the ladder. Breea jerked back, getting a glimpse of the uniforms of Tomeguard regulars.

  "What is up there?" asked the Limtirian.

  "One if I know. We’re just bait, back in these tunnels. Our screams a warnin’ for the captain."

  "Then let us finish quickly," replied the Limtirian.

  "You hear anything of Bay-ope? He’s not been seen a twoday. Him and others. More’n half the elite, I heard."

  "Check your map. We will vanish as well if it is not accurate."

  The plainsman grunted and said, "You don’t vanish a man like Bay-ope."

  They passed too far for Breea to hear more. She fingered a dagger hilt, chewing on the disgrace and wrongness of having to hide from Tomeguard. She climbed down, and ran to Yavay’adil’s chambers.

  Listening at spy holes, she heard his voice, though she could see nothing because the holes had been covered from the inside. Unlatching the secret door, she tumbled into the room.

  Yavay’adil cried out, whirling. Ajalay, on Yavay’adil’s bed, gasped and fainted. Yavay’adil’s fear was swept aside by an expression of such relief and tenderness that Breea dropped the medallion pouch and rushed into his arms. He was warm and solid, and smelled of herbs and soap. She felt him tense. He let her go and brought her hands up in his. He sniffed at the bandages. He bent close, and following scent, unwrapped her cloak, exposing Bay-ope’s bandages, now bloodstained and dirty. Before he could do anything, Breea walked around him to the bed. Ajalay lay very still and pale. Breea sat on the bed and took her limp hand. It was cold. Only the slight movement of her chest proved that she lived. Breea felt the life failing in the woman who had been her mother for much of her life. She jerked with an idea, whirling on Yavay’adil, startling him again. He frowned at her in consternation.

  Breea said, "I must get her books."

  "She asked for them, but guards loyal to SaKlu hold us under the drum. He has ordered much of the Tomeguard downvalley, and the rest known to be loyal to the Tetr and Bay-ope to remain in their barracks in the wall. They obey because he is captain, though he calls himself ‘Lord’ now. Traitors loyal to him, and those simply afraid of him, maintain Limtir under his rule. Many still do not know all that has happened, but fear prevents them from speaking out. Come, you need new cloth on these."

  He tried to direct Breea away, but she paid him no heed.

  "I should watch over her."

  "And so you shall," replied Yavay’adil, pushing her away from the bed.

  In an adjacent room, he lifted off her cloak, and had her sit on a high table in the immaculately clean room. With swift, careful movements, he cut away all of Bay-ope’s bandages. Testing, bending, poking, he thoroughly examined Breea from head to foot, showing only a small frown at the odd shape of the wounds on chest and finger. A corner of his mouth quirked when he saw her stitched shoulder, recognizing Bay-ope’s hand. Sympathetic pain shone from his eyes as he e
xamined her bruised belly. He wondered what had done this to her, but didn’t ask. Breea was grateful, for she did not want to talk about the battle.

  After cleaning her wounds, he said, "Your blood is good. There is never fever in your wounds." He began to rewrap and immobilize her left arm.

  Breea shook her head and held her arm out of the way. Yavay’adil considered whether to insist, then did as she desired and left her arm free. Getting Breea to accept care she didn’t desire was like trying to train a cat not to hunt; pointless, and always disappointing.

  When he was done, his hand, dry and warm, rested on her good shoulder. Breea was aware of her nakedness only peripherally as she looked up at him. His white tunic was smudged with blood and dirt wherever Breea had touched it.

  "You need to bathe," he said. "I will have the water drawn. And send word to the kitchen. Rest."

  He left the room, bare feet silent on the rugs.

  Trying to sort out her thoughts, Breea flinched as a cry of alarm came from the bedroom. In a stab of adrenaline, she was sailing naked into the room armed with her daggers.

  Yavay’adil was stumbling backward, staring at the opened pouch on the floor.

  "He’s dead," said Breea.

  As the healer stared at the thing, understanding struck him, and he turned to face her.

  She nodded.

  "How? No. Now you must rest—and see what you’ve done?"

  Sitting her on the table once more, his fingers ran lightly over the linen covering her wounds, somehow judging the extent of new damage. He decided not to change the dressing, wrapped her with a blanket, then turned to a near table and picked up a comb and scalpel.

  Not sure what to think, but flattered and pleased, Breea sat very still as Yavay’adil cut her hair to even out the swath cut away by the Oregule. When he was done, he brought her a polished brass mirror. Though her long tresses were gone, she liked it.

  She tried to thank him, but he interrupted in an embarrassed tone. "When I began as an apprentice, Master Longat would let me tend a patient’s hair. Nothing else. Said I would kill anything not dead already. Rest, then a meal, and a bath." With a commanding gesture, he indicated the bed nearby.

  Obediently, she slid off the table, wincing as her feet hit the floor, and headed for the bed as Yavay’adil walked out. Ignoring the bed, Breea tugged on her ragged breeches and boots, then opened a chest that held spare clothing, and donned a tunic. She stripped her belt of its pouches and sword, leaving only the daggers, and put it on. Turning, she saw Yavay’adil watching her from the doorway. Their eyes met.

  He stepped aside, and she strode into the next room. Standing over the medallion, she looked past it at Ajalay. Stooping, she lifted it by the thong and held it toward Yavay’adil.

  "Hide it. As far away from her as you can."

  The healer came forward to take the pouch. As he walked away to the farther reaches of his rooms, Breea listened, feeling through stone and wood for anyone within the secret passage.

  It was empty, though she felt people in rooms beyond it and below, their warmth so clear she could distinguish breathing from heartbeat. After checking the pull of her daggers in their sheaths, she pushed in the hidden latch cover and opened the door. Extending her awareness until she felt the edge of the medallion’s warp, she stepped into the narrow passage. Closing the door behind her, she set off at a trot toward Ajalay’s chambers.

  After a hundred paces, a horn blew, muted by stone, and she stumbled to a halt. Cursing her lack of forethought, she leapt forward as a door opened behind, then slid to a stop as another opened ahead. Light spilled into the hall as beacon lamps were thrust in, followed by wild-eyed crossbowmen. They had been watching the tunnel through the spy holes! And she had ignored those in chambers along the way, thinking only of threats in the tunnels. The men stared at her in amazement, but kept their bows trained. Shouts and orders preceded a thunder of boots as more arrived from both directions.

  They forced her out of the tunnel into the rooms of a Third Sanis Scholar, who stood aside looking frightened and affronted. Crossbowmen, all regular Tomeguard, ringed her as if she were something dire, their faces near panic, and bloody-minded.

  Breea’s own fear burned into anger and took her tongue. "Who do you think I am, Hascht? Put down that bow."

  Hascht looked ashamed, and lowered his weapon. Others followed his example.

  A voice from the next room said, "That is the question, isn’t it? What are you?"

  Hov, a lieutenant in SaKlu’s inner circle, stepped in. Those with lowered bows raised them at once.

  Hov said, "Lord SaKlu would speak with you, Banea."

  A hard coldness formed in Breea, but she nodded curtly.

  In the corridor, four ballista were mounted to cover the stair, and the walls were lined with guards. Hov walked her past the ballista and through the shattered doors of Ajalay’s chambers and on to the door to her bedchamber. SaKlu sat within at a table in the center of the room. Ajalay’s wall cache was open, half emptied; the books, orbs, papers, and weapons heaped on the table. Hov shoved her forward and, backing out, shut the door behind her.

  Alone, with SaKlu’s eyes—narrow, intent, sliding over her, taking in every inch of her body.

  "Where is the beast?" he asked.

  Raising her chin, she replied, "Dead."

  SaKlu ignored her claim, and said, "You know what this is." He indicated the cluttered table. Using a crutch, he drew himself up. "Tools of Dauthaz."

  Breea struggled to keep her confusion from showing. What was he thinking? People were flayed in Yash for being Dauthaz. But this was not Yash. Who was he?

  Breea managed, "The Tetr-Sanis is not—"

  "Hov!" said SaKlu.

  The door opened and Hov stepped into the room, reaching for her, but she dodged away, putting her back to the far wall midway between SaKlu and the lieutenant.

  "Rotel," called SaKlu, and another elite stepped out of the secret passage Breea had escaped down days before. The two men converged on her. She drew her daggers, crouching, raising them to guard, points vibrating with her fear.

  Hov and Rotel stopped just beyond her lunge range.

  Hov chuckled, sneering. "And who taught you to use those?"

  Breea remembered well her dagger lessons with Hov, but she answered, "Taumea."

  Hov’s face fell, but Rotel grinned and drew his long-sword in a motion so fast it was a blur, striking from the draw at Breea’s belly. Her dagger was there to parry, but his blade flicked upward from the belly feint. Her wounded arm failed her and his sword passed her guard, taking her on the right side of the head with the flat of the blade. Stunned, she tumbled to the side. Hitting the floor, she tried to roll and stand, but a boot caught her in the face, and she collapsed beside the wall, blood in her mouth.

  "Enough," ordered SaKlu. "Bring her to me."

  Pain and disorientation fogged the room, but daggers still in hand, Breea lashed out at a figure. The blade bit, and Hov cried out. The daggers were torn from her grip. Hard hands lifted her, threw her down on the cluttered table, and held her there.

  Blinking away tears, Breea gasped as someone poked the flaming ache on the side of her face.

  "An excellent blow," said SaKlu, leaning over her.

  Breea tried to raise her legs to kick, but someone gripped them tightly. She avoided looking into SaKlu’s eyes, and fought with all her skill to free herself, scattering books and orbs, ripping open the wound in her shoulder, but they knew every hold break and close-fighting technique she did, and kept her pinned to the table, though keeping her there had them breathing hard with the effort.

  "She is strong, Lord," said Rotel. "Be good for days."

  Holding one of her blue daggers in front of her face, SaKlu said, "Tell me how Dauthaz Ajalay summoned the other."

  He took the dagger and stuck it through Breea’s tunic at her neck and began cutting down.

  "Speak," said SaKlu, as the blade parted the fabric, his breath ghosting ac
ross her face.

  Breea turned her head away. Hands began pulling down her breeches. She screamed and thrashed.

  Essence ignited within—roiling like storm clouds made of fire. Burning, it rose, a billowing agony. SaKlu’s eyes widened, and he backed away as Hov and Rotel struggled to hold on. Breea’s scream rose to an inhuman piercing, then shredded as her agony went beyond endurance.

  She awoke to the stench of charred wood and burned flesh. Pain pounding to her heartbeat threatened to split her skull as she tried to sit up. She was stark naked, every wound on her body raw and bleeding.

  Crackling fires burned all around, creating a pall of smoke. A charcoal-black depression in the wooden floor radiated from her in streaks of flame and destruction. The table was gone, the tomes and items that had been on it scattered in heaps at the base the walls of the room. She looked for her attackers, saw a section of body, and turned from the smoking torso.

  Coughing, she crawled across the hot floor, searching for the blue weaving tome. A bookshelf crashed down next to her. Flames that seemed to have a life of their own began to dance and eat at the spilled books. Against a wall, she spied blue leather.

  Taking the book, holding it to her chest with one arm, she stumbled toward the secret passage as cries of alarm rose behind, and water hissed into the flames. She stumbled into the narrow way. Down its length it grew dark, and after a few turns she was lost. Her finger began to tingle. Orienting to it, she came to Yavay’adil’s secret door, opened the latch, and fell through.

  Yavay’adil hurried over and picked up her ash- and blood-smeared body, carrying her to a bed in the adjacent room. Blood that had been flowing freely from her wounds was beginning to congeal, but she was nearly oblivious to all but the pain that was beating her mind to senselessness.

  She tried to rise from the bed, saying through her teeth, "The tome..."

  Yavay’adil supported her head and raised a cup to her lips. "Drink," he said, holding her head up. Breea took a sip and felt herself relax. Pain dimmed, and she faded away.