3
3
The siege towers rolled forward slowly. The armored heads of picks thrust out of them as if eager to attack the walls and gates of Dravan. Hundreds of men strained to push the monsters forward. Overseers shouted cadence. Boys poured melted fat on the axles. They would reach the walls by afternoon.
“It is time, Tylara,” Trakon said. “Time and past time.”
She looked helplessly at him, then at the others: Cadaric, his son Caradoc, and Yanulf. “Have I no other advice?” she asked.
“You know mine, Lady,” Cadaric said. He clutched his bow. “There are no more shafts. As for me, as well to die; but it would be waste to no purpose.”
Cadaric’s son Caradoc opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his father’s look. The young man looked down at the towers in hatred.
Yanulf nodded sagely. “What choice is there? In a day they will be inside, and it always fares ill with the populace when a place is taken by storm.” He paused. “You need not stay, Lady. My place is with the acolytes in the caves of the Preserver, and we could find you a place there as well.”
“No,” Trakon said. “I will have a better bargain for her than that.”
Yanulf bowed. “I will not wait, then.” He turned to leave the battlements.
“I will send my son with you,” Cadaric said. “Perhaps Yatar will aid him to return to Tamaerthon.”
“And perhaps not,” Yanulf said. “But it is well to have young men as apprentices.” The old priest waved toward the armies below the walls. “Fools all. The Time approaches, and still men fight.”
“But not for long,” Tylara said. She turned to Trakon, but for a moment she could not find words. Finally she said, “Make a good bargain for our people.”
“I will. It will be for the best.”
Tylara stood at the battlements as Trakon went to the gate and hoisted the green branch of truce.
* * *
Her ladies dressed her, and one of Sarakos’ officers led her to the council chamber. She felt strangely light without mail and steel cap, and stranger still to be unarmed. Strangest of all was to see Sarakos in her place at the head of the table.
He looked young to be so powerful. He was a big man, but not fat; even his eyes showed strength. He was handsome, but she did not forget for a moment that this was the man who had killed her husband while others held him helpless.
His smile was not pleasant. “Welcome, Lady.” He stared at her and she shuddered.
Sarakos was not alone in the room. Guards held Bheroman Trakon. His shirt was open; there was blood on his bare chest. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“You are all traitors,” Sarakos said. “Traitors do not die easily, as you will learn.” He motioned to the guards. “Take that carrion out and kill him with the rest.”
Trakon shook off the guards and stood straight, although he winced to do it. “Is this how a Wanax keeps his promises?” he demanded. “You gave your word that the Lady Tylara and I—”
“Would marry,” Sarakos said. “After the traitors were killed. And so shall you be. Joined forever.” He turned and looked appreciatively at Tylara. “I can see why you wanted her. You may have to wait for her, but you will have her for all time when I am through.” He waved dismissal to the guards.
For an hour, Castle Dravan sounded with the screams of the dying. Tylara was forced to stand at the window and watch as her soldiers were killed; some beheaded, the archers used as targets for Sarakos’ crossbowmen, the officers flung from the castle battlements.
Then she was taken to Sarakos’ bedchamber, and another kind of horror began.
* * *
She heard the massive door opening and whimpered, trying to draw her knees tighter to her chest. She kept her eyes closed. Which would it be: the crone with the whip or Sarakos himself? She remembered his parting words; “You have not pleased me. I would as soon have a corpse. But before you die, you will please me. You will beg for the chance.”
“My lady.”
The voice seemed different. Familiar, and youthful. It was not Sarakos—
“My lady. There is little time. You must come now.”
She was afraid. Was it a trick? But the voice was urgent. She found the courage to open her eyes and turn her head, although she dared not hope.
She saw kilts—her own plaid—and looked higher. “Caradoc!” she cried. He reached for her and she let him help her stand. He gasped when he saw her back, and she leaned on him as he led her urgently out of the bedchamber. There were two dead men lying at her door.
* * *
The hour was early. They saw no one as they went down the back stairs to the large cistern below ground; then to the massive doorways that led still farther below; to the caves of the Protectors. The ammonia smell was strong. She hesitated, but Caradoc hustled her through and closed the doors behind. Two acolytes with torches came to help her now. Their faces showed disapproval of this invasion of their realm.
They went through darkened tunnels, turning until she was lost. Finally they came to a larger room lit with another torch. Yanulf was there.
“The guards were drunk,” Caradoc said. “I killed four. No one else was awake.”
“We must be gone before they are found,” Yanulf said. The priest turned to the acolytes. “Fetch bladders.”
They stared at him in horror.
“Do you think Yatar prefers his secrets to the torture of his friends?” Yanulf snapped. “This lady treated us well. She will not reveal what she sees, nor will Caradoc.”
The acolytes hesitated a moment more, then left. When they came back, they carried inflated sheep’s bladders.
Yanulf pointed to a door in the chamber. “We will go through there. You must breathe only from the bladders, and you must hold your breath as long as possible. The journey is steep, and we cannot pause to rest until we are through the tunnels and outside the door on the far side. It will be dark. Is this understood?”
Tylara stared at him in confusion. She wanted to lie down, to rest, to sleep, to forget the pain in her back and the terrible pain between her thighs. Pain filtered the memories, but not entirely. “There is no need,” she said. “Give me your dagger, and—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Yanulf told her. “Do you think I have invited Sarakos to violate Yatar’s house and just let you die?”
“I may carry Sarakos’ child,” she said. “I’d rather be dead.”
“Time enough when you know. But it’s unlikely,” Yanulf said. He was thoughtful for a moment. “Very unlikely, even leaving out your virginity.”
The priests of Yanulf were said to know when women could conceive.
“Alive there is hope of vengeance,” Caradoc said. “For you and for my father. Until I see Sarakos gull-feathered, I will stay alive.”
“Come.” Yanulf handed her the bladder. “Before you use the bladder, breathe deeply. Many times.” He demonstrated. “More.” When he was satisfied, he motioned to the acolytes to open the heavy doors.
There were more doors beyond. These next were sealed with leather. Tylara felt the ammonia stinging her eyes, and even through the bladder she could smell the pungent odor when the last doors were opened.
Cold welled out of the caves. She took an acolyte’s hand and let herself be led into darkness.
* * *
There was no light at all. She felt the walls as they went through. There were shelves with baskets, and slabs of meat hanging below those. Between the shelves were slimy bulbous things, cold to the touch. Then there was ice.
They seemed to go on forever. The air in the bladder was stale, and her lungs ached so much that she nearly forgot her other pains. She was certain that she would faint from lack of breath, but at that moment they stopped. Light burst in from a door opened in front of them. They hurried through, past another door, and stood outside in the dying light of the night sun. To the east was the red of dawn.
There were horses. She felt herself lifted up behind Caradoc. She clung to him and they rode away. After a while, she fell asleep clinging to the archer. In her dreams, she had Sarakos flayed alive, and she smiled.
* * *
The true sun was high overhead when at last they stopped at a crossroads.
“We must hurry on,” Yanulf was saying.
“This horse must rest,” Caradoc answered. “Carrying double has nearly foundered him.” He reached up to help Tylara down, then led the horse to the watering trough that stood next to the stone heap. He bowed to the heap before allowing the horse to drink.
Tylara bowed as well. Crossroads were sacred to the Guide of the Dead. Then she turned to Yanulf. “Thank you.”
“Thank him.” He pointed at Caradoc.
“I have. But we would not have escaped if you had not—” she stopped herself.
“Broken my oath of secrecy?” Yanulf said. “Yes. Doubtless I will answer for that. But I spoke truly to the acolytes. Yatar cannot wish his secrets held at such a cost.”
“Where are we going?” Tylara asked.
Caradoc answered from behind her. “This is the east road,” he said. “Perhaps we will find the boy Wanax and the Protector. And if not—it leads home.”
Home. She looked to the east, but Tamaerthon was more than a hundred leagues, across salt flats and pirate lands. “There’s someone coming,” she said. She pointed eastward. Two men and a woman were walking up the road. The woman wore strange-trousered clothing like the men.