Empire of Night (18 page)

A
shyn and Guin stood by a tree, far enough from the road to hear only the murmur of voices and the clatter of wagons. Tova lay at Ashyn's feet. Daigo was, as always, with Tyrus, who was . . . elsewhere.

“I don't understand it,” Guin was saying. “There's a freedom to dresses that trousers simply don't have. I don't care if women may wear trousers now; I cannot wait to be out of these.”

“Trousers are certainly better for horseback riding. Nor would I want to walk any great distance in a dress. But I'll admit I'll be happy to put one on again. And the ones at court are certainly prettier than any pair of trousers. I've had fine dresses, but those were quite spectacular.”

“Tell me about them,” Guin said.

While Ashyn was playing a role, chattering with her “maidservant,” Guin clearly found the conversation to her liking.
Ashyn had to admit it was not particularly a chore to talk about pretty dresses. The ones she'd been given at court
had
been the stuff of dreams, though at the time, she'd been too worried about the children to enjoy them properly. Now, as she waxed eloquent on the fabrics and cuts—and Guin responded with increasing delight—she was so caught up in the conversation that she forgot it was staged.

When Ronan darted toward them, winding his way through the elm grove, she grinned at him . . . and then caught his expression of alarm, forgetting that this too was part of the act. Fortunately, by saying “What's wrong?” with genuine concern, she was playing her role.

“They're still hunting for the prince,” Ronan said, not lowering his voice. “We need to get him out of here.”

“Where will we take him?” Ashyn asked.

“I don't know. Just get on your mount and let's go.”

He waved for them to ride away from the road. Ashyn fumbled getting onto her horse as Ronan helped her, urging her to hurry. Over his shoulder she caught a glimpse of a man sneaking through the trees. It was the youngest of the three bounty hunters. There was no sign of the other two. Tyrus had expected they'd split up to cover more ground.

As Ronan helped her, Ashyn “slipped” and “accidentally” kicked him in the face. Admittedly the script of their performance did not specify such an action, only that she delay getting onto her steed, but at least it meant his
oomph
of surprise and annoyance was genuine.

The young bounty hunter continued moving toward them, faster now, spurred on by the certainty they were too
preoccupied with their escape to notice him. In turn, he was too preoccupied to notice the figure slipping up behind him.

“Stop there,” Tyrus said as he pressed his blade to the back of the bounty hunter's neck.

When the man's hand fell to his sword, Tyrus said, “I'd rather you didn't do that.”

“You'll not allow me to defend myself? You truly are a coward, aren't you, boy?”

There was no shock in Tyrus's face at that. Just quiet grief, as if, despite his words, this was exactly what he'd feared.

He allowed the man to withdraw his sword. Ronan rocked forward, his hand on his own blade.

“No,” Tyrus said. “He's right. He's a warrior, and he's my father's man. I must allow him to defend himself.”

Which was, of course, ridiculous. What was the point in ambushing someone if you were going to let him draw his sword?

The bounty hunter withdrew it slowly, as if considering whether he truly wished to fight an imperial prince. Then, the moment it was free, he wheeled and lunged, hoping to catch Tyrus off guard. Tyrus met his thrust, their swords clanging. Then Tyrus's blade circled back the other way, faster than the bounty hunter could recover from the clash, and when Tyrus's sword slashed his arm, he hissed, eyes rounding in surprise. The cut was deep enough to draw blood. He swung his blade, but Tyrus evaded easily.

“Are you quite certain you wish to do this?” Tyrus asked.

The man sneered. “You expect me to surrender because you landed a lucky blow? Yes,
your highness
, I wish to do this.”

He lunged at Tyrus and the fight began in earnest. It ended with the bounty hunter on the ground, blood soaked through his tunic in three places and his trousers in two. Tyrus had a nick on his elbow.

“The prince is no coward, as you see,” Guin said.

Tyrus quieted her with a look. When the man started to rise, Tyrus put his sword tip at his throat. “I gave you the chance to do this civilly. Now we'll do it like this.”

The man looked over his head, taking in Ronan, Ashyn, and Guin. His gaze fell to Tova then to Daigo, as the wildcat slid to Tyrus's side.

“So the whore left you her beast?” he said.

Ashyn stiffened. Tyrus did, too, but hid his reaction faster.

“If you mean—” Tyrus began.

“You know who I mean, boy. The fact that you still care for her beast—and her sister—suggests you're too big a fool to even realize what she did to you.”

“Perhaps. Enlighten me. Please.”

“She betrayed you. Seduced you, then sold you out, all at her lover's command.”

“Her lover?”

“The Kitsune boy.”

“Ah, Gavril. I see.”

Ashyn stood, tense, ready to leap to her sister's defense, but Tyrus's expression said that he was not entertaining the accusation for a moment. He knew Moria too well for that.

“Yes, Gavril Kitsune,” the bounty hunter said. “He sent you his whore, and she played on your weakness for pretty girls. You've betrayed the empire, and you'll pay for that. Your father has promised it.”

Now shock did flicker over Tyrus's face.

The man laughed. “Did you honestly think he'd defend you? After what you did to his men? There's a bounty on your head, boy. Every man has been dispatched to hunt you down, and the one who does receives twenty gold as long as you're returned alive so the empire can see you properly punished. I hear Edgewood is no more, having been laid to waste by Alvar Kitsune, with the help of his son and the Keeper whore. So you'll not be exiled to the Forest of the Dead. But I'm sure your father will find a suitable punishment. The empire may even demand blood for what you've done.”

“He's done nothing,” Guin said, stepping forward.

Ashyn tried to grab her back, but Guin wrenched from her grip and turned on her. “You'll stand here and listen to these lies? You'll not say a word to defend him? To defend your sister?”

“Because she knows it will do no good,” Tyrus said, his voice low. “Listen and be still, Guin.”

“I'll not be still. How does the emperor leap to such conclusions when he cannot even have questioned anyone who was there? Everyone is dead.”

“Not everyone,” Ronan murmured.

“Yes, you survived, as did Ashyn and I. We'll all tell the same story. That Tyrus was betrayed by Lord Jorojumo. That Moria was captured by their forces. That—”

“Enough, Guin,” Tyrus said. “Please.”

“Oh, but she tells such a pretty tale,” the man said. “What have you promised these children in return for their lies?” He looked at Guin. “You are forgetting one other survivor, girl.”

Ronan shifted beside Ashyn, and the moment he did, she
knew who the bounty hunter meant. Ronan glanced over at her, worry drawing his lips tight.

“Simeon,” she whispered. “No, that's not . . . It isn't possible. He was there. He knows the truth. We sent him for help.”

“If you mean the young scholar, oh yes, girl, he helped. Helped the empire unmask treachery. He promised the prince he'd spread his lies so the coward would not slay him. But he is a man of honor. When he reached the court, he told the truth.”

“What story did he tell?” Tyrus said.

It was almost exactly as they'd heard, except for Moria's supposed role. The prince had been seduced and swayed by his false lover. She'd convinced him to march on Riverside, when the counselors and scholars had insisted Northpond was the proper target. In battle, Jorojumo had betrayed his emperor, working in league with Moria. Tyrus had realized what had happened and fled the battlefield while his men were slaughtered. Then Tyrus himself had murdered the counselors and scholar Katsumoto in hopes of hiding his cowardice. Finally, he'd commanded Simeon to court with a very different story.

“The prince would send a
scholar
to do that?” Guin said. “A man he barely knew? Not the Seeker or his scout here?”

Which proved, Ashyn admitted, that Guin was not as empty-headed as she seemed.

“The false prince didn't know that the scholar had witnessed him murdering the counselors,” the bounty hunter said. “Clearly, his highness underestimated his choice of messenger.”

Tyrus continued to interrogate the bounty hunter, but when Tova looked to the left, Ashyn's attention followed. The
hound's jowls vibrated with a growl, but before the first note of it erupted, Daigo sprang. He landed on a second bounty hunter as the man lunged out from a stand of trees.

Ronan wheeled. Tova barked and Ashyn saw a third figure run from the other direction.

“Ronan!”

She pulled her dagger and said, “Tova! Go!” Not a command but a release.
Help Ronan. Don't worry about me.
Tova hesitated long enough to be sure she had her blade, then he let out a roar and charged. The bounty hunter under Tyrus's sword tried to take advantage of the commotion to leap up, but Tyrus pinned him and then shouted, “Ashyn!”

She saw the figure burst from the trees and thought Daigo had lost his prey. But it wasn't one of the bounty hunters. It was another warrior, his sword out, running straight at her. Tova broke off his charge, leaped on the man, and took him down, but that left his former target running at Tyrus. Ashyn shot toward them, but she was too far away. Tyrus kicked the man under him, foot connecting with jaw in a sickening crunch as he swung his sword at the running bounty hunter, cutting the man's charge short with a spray of blood.

A fourth figure appeared behind him. Yet another warrior.

“Ashyn!” Tyrus said. “Take Guin! Go!”

She hesitated, blade gripped in her hand. Then she looked at Guin, wide-eyed in shock. The warrior running for Tyrus saw Guin and veered off, heading straight for the girl. Tyrus swung at the man, but he was too far and couldn't reach without releasing the bounty hunter on the ground. His sword only grazed the man's arm.

Ashyn ran for him. Tyrus's eyes widened in horror as he mouthed something, likely
What in blazes are you doing?
Or possibly
Get your dagger up!
She was running straight at the warrior, her blade lowered. At the last moment, she reached out and shoved him. As he stumbled back, his blade nicked her arm. But the push did what it was meant to—landing him within Tyrus's reach. The first bounty hunter was rising again, blood streaming from his mouth. Again, Tyrus kicked him down, this time in the nose. His blade flashed as it cleaved into the warrior's arm, cutting clean through the bone and—

Ashyn staggered back as the warrior's arm flew through the air, sword still clenched in his hand. The warrior screamed and blood arced and all she could think was,
I need to bind it.
Bind the severed stump so he wouldn't bleed out and die.

But he must die. He dies or we die.

The shock of that hit her and she gasped for air, the warrior still gurgling with pain, stumbling toward his arm as if to retrieve the blade.

They were not playing with daggers. This was a sword fight. How did they test a warrior's sword? By making sure it was sharp enough to cleave through three corpses with a single blow.

“Ashyn!” It was Tyrus. That mighty swing had thrown him enough off balance for the bounty hunter to stagger to his feet, his ruined nose and jaw streaming blood, but his sword raised as he faced off with Tyrus.

Tyrus had his back to her and didn't turn, just said, “Take Guin and go! Now!”

She looked at Ronan. He'd dispatched his assailant and
was running to Tova's aid. Daigo had his target pinned and disarmed.

“Ashyn!” Tyrus's voice came harsh now as he circled with the bounty hunter, both looking for an opportunity. “Your sister!”

That's all he said: your sister. She knew what he meant.
Moria would want you to go. Moria would want me to make sure you go.

He was right. Tyrus and Tova—and perhaps Daigo and Ronan—were keeping part of their attention on her, ready to run to her aid. Which meant the sum total of their attention was not on their opponents.

Ashyn grabbed Guin and yanked the girl out of her stupor. She took her by the hand and ran as swords clanged behind them.

T
here was no escape from this place. None.

One might say that after five days in the cell, Moria's situation had improved, but when one was locked alone in a cold, dark cell, any change had to be for the better.

Her leg iron was off. The healer had apparently insisted her ankle was infected and needed to be free to heal. With that treatment came sponge baths and clean clothing every other day. Moria was also now getting three meals of rice and soup, and if the guard Halmond didn't bring them, she could actually eat. She had a clean blanket. Halmond had chastised her for soiling the last one, then taken it and said she'd have none until she was ready to appreciate it. The old woman had come the next day, realized she didn't have a blanket, and ordered Halmond to bring a new one.

That was the pattern they'd settled into. Halmond would
punish her—for no misdeed greater than existing—then the old woman would undo the guard's punishment. If he spit in her food and she didn't eat it, the healer presumed it was not to her liking and brought something else. If he pissed in the corner of her room, the healer thought the bucket had overturned and ordered someone to scrub the floor. When he kept snuffing out her candle, the healer replaced it with a lantern.

Moria never complained about Halmond. She had no idea whether the woman was in any position to have him reassigned, and if she wasn't, tattling on him would only make things worse.

But by the end of those first five days, she had a lantern, an extra blanket, regular hot food, and sufficient clean water. Compared to the initial hell, it was relative extravagance. And now that she'd recovered from her exhaustion and shock and hunger, she'd begun trying to figure a way out of her situation. Unfortunately, there was none.

The cell had no windows. From the damp and the stink of dirt, she suspected she was underground. There was one door. Every time it opened, it revealed Halmond, a serving girl, or the healer. The women were always accompanied by a guard. Whenever Moria looked through the open doorway, she saw two more warriors outside as permanent guards.

Now, hearing the scraping of a key in the lock, she tensed. While she had no way to tell time in this dark place, her life had fallen into a reliable schedule. That door opened only for two things—her meals and the healer's visits, which came every second day. She'd had her breakfast not long ago, and the
old woman had come yesterday. Meaning that door should not be opening.

Unless he's come. Gavril. Or his father. Come to tell me my fate.

Come to kill me.

When she saw Halmond, she almost exhaled in relief. That lasted only a moment before she caught sight of the murderous glint in his eye.

Moria's fingers scraped against the dirt floor as she struggled not to creep away.

Something's happened. And I'm about to pay the price.

Halmond wedged in the door stopper with his foot. While the hall light shone in, he crossed to her lantern and lit it, filling the room with wavering light.

Without a word, he returned to the door and retrieved a bowl from the hall. A steaming bowl, like the one the healer brought. Moria tried not to smile. The old woman was coming early. That was the only surprise in this place she'd welcome. There was still no conversation between them—and no sign that one was possible—but the healer was kind. The hot sponge bath and clean clothes had become a luxury Moria dreamed of on the nights before the old woman's visits.

That's why Halmond was annoyed, then. Because Moria was getting a treat.

He brought the bowl and laid it beside her. Then he returned to the door, kicked out the stopper, and walked back toward her.

“Isn't the healer—” Moria began as she struggled to her feet.

“She can't come today. You'll bathe without her.”

“But it's not my day to—”

“It is now.” He shoved her shoulder. “Undress.”

She glared up at him. She didn't say a word, though. She understood. Something had happened, quite possibly something that had nothing to do with her, and this was how he was handling it. Venting his frustration by finding fresh humiliations for his prisoner. Well, he'd chosen poorly, then. She was no timid maiden, clutching her tunic together for fear some man might glimpse her breasts. While she knew better than to flaunt herself, she saw no shame in nakedness. Compared to pissing on her blanket or spitting in her soup, this was a punishment she could bear.

She started unfastening her tunic.

“What did you tell her?” Halmond asked.

She looked up.

“What did you tell that old crone about me?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“No? Then why has Lord Gavril summoned me to speak about you? And why did the messenger warn he was in a foul mood when he gave the order?”

She met his gaze. “I've said nothing. I know you'd retaliate if I did.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think you're clever, don't you? So much more clever than me.”

Moria bit her tongue against a retort. Even when she was civil and reasonable, he still found fault. Ashyn would say he was an angry man, an unhappy man. Perhaps so, but that wouldn't stop Moria from putting a dagger through him if she got the chance. Nothing excused humiliating and torturing a helpless captive.

“Are you still undressing?” he said. “Because if I need to
help you, you won't be able to wear that clothing again, and I'll not bring you anything new.”

Moria yanked off her tunic and trousers. When she finished, she was wearing a thin silken shift that fell to the top of her thighs. She reached over to take the cloth from the bowl of hot water. As she did, she tensed, waiting for him to tell her to remove the shift. He said nothing, and she didn't look at him—just took the lump of soap, rubbed it on the wet cloth, and began to clean her arms.

When she glanced up, he was staring at her. She'd been ogled by men before, but she was beginning to realize this was far more dangerous than having him spit in her stew.

Her gaze fell to his blades. Could she distract him and grab his dagger? If she could distract him,
would
she distract him?

Yes, she would use his ogling, if that was the path to freedom. But it was not. Even if she pulled his blade, the hall was guarded.

She lowered her gaze and put the cloth back into the bowl. “I'm done. The water's cold, and I'm quite clean. Thank you for bringing me an extra—”

“Finish bathing.” The growl in his voice warned her.
Tread carefully.

“I have. Thank you for bringing the water. I appreciate—”

He rose from his crouch so fast that her fingers automatically dropped to her side, where her blade should be. He was on his feet now, standing beside the water bowl.

“You'll not do it yourself?” he said.

“I truly don't need—”

He plunged his hand into the water and took up the soap.
He squeezed it, suds and ooze running through his fingers. Then he dropped the soap and advanced on her, his jaw set. He grabbed her bare knee. And she grabbed his dagger.

It wasn't planned. Wasn't even intentional. He yanked her leg, and she went for his blade, as if there was no other option. Even as her fingers closed on the cool handle, she knew she'd made a mistake.

It wasn't too late. She could let go and pray to the ancestors that he hadn't noticed. But nothing in her would allow him to touch her, because if he did it once, he'd not stop doing it. So she grabbed the dagger, and she plunged it into his gut.

He let out a howl and fell back. She yanked it out. Blood gushed, and he howled again. She gripped the dagger, ready to stab him again if he reached for his sword. But he only let out a snarl, grabbed the front of her shift and yanked so hard the silk tore.

His eyes rolled in pain and fury, his hand still wrapped in her shift, blood soaking it now as his wound gushed. He wrenched, as if to pull her onto the floor. She stabbed him again. She didn't know where. It didn't matter, truly, only that she stabbed him as he yowled in fresh pain. Still, he grabbed for her, and she was raising the blade again, ready to deliver the final blow when the door swung open.