Empire of Night (19 page)

S
omeone gasped. Moria didn't turn to see who it was, didn't dare look away from Halmond as his hand swiped for her again. She caught it with the blade while footsteps pounded on the dirt floor. She saw another hand swinging down at them, and she thought,
I'm dead. They caught me attacking my guard, and now I'm dead.

But the hand grabbed Halmond instead, catching him by the back of his tunic and throwing him aside.

“Get him out of here. Now!”

“He's hurt, my lord.” Another guard's voice. “He needs a healer—”

“Then get him one someplace else. Preferably the next cell. Where he will remain if he survives.”

Moria looked up to see Gavril, fairly shaking with rage. She saw that and perhaps, if it had been her first day here, she would have wept from relief. She'd have seen that rage and
thought,
See? He does care for me. Things are not as they seem.

But it was no longer that first day. She'd suffered Halmond's torments for five days. She'd been under Gavril's care for five days, and he'd not even looked in to see how she was faring.

If he was furious now, it meant nothing except that Halmond had betrayed his trust.

So now she looked up at him and thought of the dagger still in her hand. His gaze was fixed on the guards carrying Halmond out. He didn't see her, lying at his feet, close enough to leap up and . . .

Her fingers tightened around the handle.

“Don't,” he said. He didn't even bother to glance down.

She rose slowly, tensed to spring, bloodied blade clutched in her hand.

“Moria . . .” He looked at her then. “You don't want to do that.”

“Oh, yes.” She met his gaze. “I do.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he turned away, his hand rising to rub at his face as he sighed. She threatened his life and he only sighed, as if she'd called him a foul name.

“Perhaps you do, but it won't help,” he said. “If you raise that blade, I'll pull mine, and we both know how that turned out the last time.”

“I'll do better.”

He crouched in front of her. “Even if you manage to kill me, Keeper, what good will that do? You wouldn't leave here alive after that. You're no martyr. You want to punish me, and you want to live. You cannot do both. Not now.”

He waited for her to respond. He expected her to respond. To make her case for killing him.

This was the Gavril she'd come to know, after getting past the snaps and the snarls. The young man who couldn't carry on a conversation without turning it into a debate.

Except he was right. She wanted to punish him. But if she did it now, she'd die for it.

She laid the dagger on the floor. He took it. As he rose, she did, too. She felt the prickle of cold air and looked down to see her shift torn down the middle and soaked in blood. When Gavril saw her, anger seeped back into his eyes. He tightened his grip on the dagger.

“What did he do?”

Moria reached for her clothing and started putting on her tunic.

“What did he do, Keeper?”

She pulled on her trousers.

“Moria?” A warning edged into his voice, that anger seeping through. “What did he do?”

She reached under her tunic, ripped her shift free, and tossed it aside. “I'll need another of those, if it's not too much trouble.”

She started to turn away. He caught her by the wrist, gripping hard, only to let her go almost as quickly, backing up fast, as if she'd burned him.

“Moria.”

“He brought me water to bathe. In front of him. Wasn't that kind?”

Gavril swallowed hard. “Did he touch you?”

She didn't answer.

“Moria, answer my question or I swear by the ancestors—”

“He did not succeed in whatever he intended to do.”

His mouth opened. He hesitated. Then he snapped his mouth shut, and, teeth clicking, turned and marched from the cell.

Moria sat cross-legged on the floor of her cell. What else did she expect? At least she wouldn't need to worry about Halmond anymore. Unless whoever took his place decided to avenge him.

She sighed. Not quite the proper reaction, but there was no sense weeping and raging over her predicament. It would only waste energy she might need. She lowered herself to her blanket and clutched her wildcat figurine and was closing her eyes when the door opened again.

Gavril walked in, followed by two guards.

“Come,” he said. “You'll have new quarters.”

For a moment, she considered being contrary and saying that she liked these quarters just fine. But there would be self-pity in that, too. A sulking child, still smarting from his betrayal, crossing her arms and being stubborn.

At least she stood a chance of escape someplace else. So she rose and gathered her blanket.

“You'll not need that,” he said.

She hesitated. She'd planned to secret the wildcat figurine under it. Thinking fast, she bent and lowered the blankets to the ground, using the opportunity to slip the figure into her pocket, before following Gavril out the door.

“You'll note there are no windows,” Gavril said as he paced about the room. “There is one exit. It will be guarded by two warriors at all times. If you somehow managed to make it past them, you would find yourself in the middle of a military compound, home to sixty-three warriors. Your chances of escaping that are nil.”

Moria tried not to gape about the room. Five days ago, if she'd been given this cell, she'd have looked at the straw pallet on the wooden floor and thought how thin and uncomfortable it would be. She'd have looked at the stiff sheets and plain cushions, and thought how scratchy the fabric would feel, how lumpy the padding looked. She'd have gazed around the otherwise empty room, lit by four wall sconces, and wondered how she'd survive without going mad from boredom. Now, it all seemed luxury beyond reckoning.

She did not, however, fail to miss the lack of windows. Or the way the candle sconces were high enough that she could not grab one and use it to light something on fire. Nor did she miss the thick wooden door.

“It's a cell,” she said.

“What did you expect? You're a prisoner.”

“I mean, this is for captives. Presumably prisoners of war. Prisoners who've committed no greater crime than choosing the wrong side. Is that correct?”

He barely seemed to pay attention, clearly impatient to finish this transfer and be off. He gave a curt nod and said, “Yes, yes. Now—”

“Then why was I not here before?”

He paused and turned slowly toward her.

“I am exactly the sort of prisoner this cell is intended for, am I not?”

He stood there, saying nothing.

“What have I done to you, Gavril?” she said. “Besides being foolish enough to fall for your tricks. Even then, one would think you'd feel some debt of gratitude that I was not clever enough to expose you for a traitor before you could escape.”

He cleared his throat, as if to say something. But he didn't.

She stepped toward him. “What did I do to you to deserve being thrown into a dungeon cell? To be degraded and nearly defiled?”

“My father—”

“—put you in charge of my care. Which I'm sure was a dreadful bother, and perhaps you blame me for that, allowing myself to be captured. But there was no reason to leave me down there. Your father left my care to you. I could have been up here.”

“I ought to go.” He turned on his heel, heading for the door. “I have other obligations.”

“Is that your answer, Kitsune? Truly? To run from the question? Do you remember in the Forest of the Dead? When you told me how much you hated letting Orbec drag you away when the shadow stalkers struck? That it felt like cowardice? I thought then that no one could ever accuse you of cowardice. Which goes to show, I suppose, how little I knew you.”

He stood there, his back to her.

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “You did not know me at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, Keeper . . .”

He reached for the door. It opened before he could pull it. His father stood there. Gavril tensed.

“Father,” he said. “There was an incident in the lower cells. Moria—”

“I heard what our little Keeper did.”

Alvar walked in, nudging Gavril back, as if to prevent his escape.

“I apologize for my oversight in her care,” Gavril said. “Halmond seemed loyal, and it did not occur to me—”

“It did not occur to you that putting a young warrior in charge of a pretty captive might be unwise?” His father's brows shot up. “Sometimes, Gavril, I wonder how old you truly are. You are unbelievably naive when it comes to men and women. Your mother's influence, I suppose. It would be a perfectly fine quality in a daughter, but in a son?” He shook his head.

“Perhaps, Father, it was not naiveté, but the expectation that warriors will show honor.”

“Ideally, yes, but those who join the army of the emperor's enemy cannot necessarily be expected to behave like warriors.”

“Then, once again, I apologize for my mistake. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

Alvar looked at Moria. “He always seems to be rushing off, doesn't he? So many important things to do.”

Gavril's jaw tightened. “I
do
have many things to do, as you know, because you have assigned them to me. Including . . .” A wave at Moria. Then he hesitated. “Actually, while I do have an engagement, this incident raises an issue that we need to discuss.” He motioned to the door. “May we step outside?”

G
avril sent the guards away as his father moved to the common area just outside the cell. It was not easy to hear through the thick door, but Moria put her ear to it.

“We need to do something about Moria,” Gavril said. “And no, she's not coming to my quarters. Forgive me if I do not see women as spoils of war. I suggest negotiating with Tatsu in exchange for her return. She's a valuable prisoner but a difficult one. Best to get some benefit from her and be done with the matter.”

“You wish to see her free, then. Her captivity upsets you.”

Gavril sighed. “No, Father. Your obsession with making me admit to some attachment grows tiresome. It makes good sense to use her for negotiation.”

“Yes, it will, when Jiro has someone we want in return.”

“Until then, we keep her as our captive? So the next guard
she pulls a blade on can turn it on her, and we'll be guilty of a Keeper's death?”

“Is that what you're worried about? That she'll be hurt?”

“Blast it! No! What do I need to do to convince you that I don't care for her?”

“Bed her.”

Now Gavril's laugh was raw, frustrated, and angry. “How does that make any sense? Bed a girl to prove I
don't
care for her? Sometimes I wonder if you aren't as mad as—”

Moria heard the slap that cut him short. She heard Gavril gasp and stumble back, then a soft sound, almost like a growl, as he recovered.

“I apologize, Father,” he said, his voice tight. “Still, I will respectfully ask that you consider returning Moria. She's nearly killed one man. If the opportunity arises, she'll do it again, and she'll be harder to control now that she's out of the lower cells. It's difficult to properly secure anyplace here with so few men.”

“More are coming.”

“That may take a fortnight, a moon even. Until then, we have vulnerabilities. If Moria was to escape to the north part of the compound, she'd hardly encounter a single guard.”

“I think you overestimate your girl. In fact, I'd be willing to wager on it. How about we set her free right now? Tell her to attempt escape. See if she manages it.”

“As entertaining as I'm sure such an exercise would prove, neither of us has time for amusements. I only ask that you reconsider trading her to Jiro Tatsu. In the meantime, I have an appointment to keep.”

Gavril's father left with him. They hadn't been long gone before the old woman came to check Moria for injuries. Sure enough, she discovered several gouges and rising bruises where Halmond had grabbed her. As the healer tended to those, she muttered under her breath in her own language. When one of the guards dared stick his head in, she snapped at him as if he'd been the one to attack Moria. When he hesitated, she motioned lifting food to her mouth. He nodded and withdrew.

“I'm all right,” Moria said.

The woman kept grumbling. She pointed emphatically at the gouges and then stalked to the fresh pile of clothing she'd brought. She held up a new shift and shook it at Moria.

“I'm fine,” Moria said. “Truly, I'm—”

The woman jabbed a finger at the shift and gave Moria a look as if to say,
If you're fine, where's your old one?

“I
will
be fine,” Moria said. “Halmond didn't do anything.” Except humiliate her. Make her feel helpless and powerless. Remind her that she wasn't the Keeper of Edgewood here. She was just a girl.

The door opened again, and the young guard carefully pushed in a food tray, as if he didn't dare set foot inside. When he tried to leave, the old woman barked something at him. He clearly didn't understand the words, but he caught the meaning well enough and paused.

The healer looked at the food. Then she made a few gestures to the guard. He seemed to take a moment to understand, then nodded as he withdrew.

The old woman set the tray in front of Moria and glowered
at her, as if she was going to stand there and watch her eat every bite. Moria looked down at the plate. Sticky rice, a steaming pork bun, and dried persimmons. A simple peasant's meal, but better than she'd had in five days. She set on the fruits first, devouring them as if they were honey cakes. When the guard entered again, he had a pot of tea, a pear, and an apple. The old woman grunted her approval and, this time, waved that he could come in and set them on Moria's tray.

He did, keeping his gaze down.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Whatever you need, my lady,” he said. “You only have to knock.”

“I'd like my daggers back.”

His lips twitched in a smile. “Except that, I fear.”

She was about to let him leave when she caught sight of the ink on his arms. Stylized dogs.

“The Inugami clan,” she said. “There was one of your family in Edgewood.”

“Orbec. He is—was—my uncle.”

“Gav . . . Lord Gavril has told you what happened to him then?”

“He has.”

Moria wanted to ask exactly what Gavril had said. It was not, she suspected, the truth. But she heard her sister's voice, telling her to hold her tongue. To be cautious. She'd not win allies in this place by turning them against the Kitsunes.

The young man continued, “My uncle spoke of you, my lady, in his letters home. He said he taught you to throw a blade.”

“He did.”

A faint smile. “All the more reason why I'd not return yours. I know my uncle's skill.”

“He was an excellent teacher and a warrior who died with honor. When I was brought here, I had two daggers. One was his. I took it to return to his family, but I haven't gotten the chance. If you want it, ask Lord Gavril. He'll see it's returned to you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The young man withdrew. When he was gone, the healer nodded, as if pleased that Moria had been so courteous. She motioned for Moria to eat while she examined her wounds.

The healer grumbled when she reached Moria's ankle, though it was in no worse shape than it had been down in the cell. Perhaps in the better light, it simply looked worse. The old woman bound it as Moria knelt, eating. Then she pointed toward Moria's foot.

“Walk.”

Moria lifted her brows. The woman's accent was so thick it was sometimes hard to tell when she was attempting words in the common language.

“Walk,” she said again. “Need walk.”

Moria waved at the small cell and said, “No room.” The woman motioned that Moria needed to go out, both for exercise and air.

Moria laughed at that. “I would truly love to, but I think I'm as likely to get that as I am to get my dagger returned.”

The healer snorted, as if she got the gist of Moria's words. A few emphatic gestures followed. None of them made any
sense to Moria. Then the old woman motioned for Moria to finish her food and tea as she gathered her things and departed.

Moria attempted to contact the spirits as soon as she was alone. One answered . . . and told her to be careful. Very unhelpful. Moria asked the spirit for assistance. When that failed to get an answer, she set aside all her dignity and begged. Finally, the spirit relented . . . and said she was safe enough. That was all. It did not know anything about Ashyn or Daigo or Tyrus or the children of Edgewood. Just a weak and random spirit, called forth by her pleas, unable even to act as her spy. Useless. Like 90 percent of the spirits out there. And the other ten never seemed to be around when she needed them, blast them.

It wasn't yet time for the evening meal when Moria's cell door opened again. Gavril walked in, followed by one of the guards that had accompanied him earlier.

“What's this you told Rametta about needing to walk?”

“Rametta?” Moria said. “I suppose you mean the healer. I don't know her name. Conversation is difficult when one doesn't speak the common language.”

“Oh, you two seem to be communicating just fine.” Gavril waved for his guard to come in and close the door. “Rametta is from my family's homeland. The old witch is too blasted stubborn to learn the common language, but as I'm sure you've noticed, she understands quite enough of it. About this walking nonsense—”

“It was her idea.”

His glower deepened. “I'm sure it was. Just as I'm certain you only wish to walk to stretch your legs.”

“What else would I do? I'm in an armed compound. There's no way for me to escape.”

“That won't stop you from trying.”

Moria sighed and lowered herself, cross-legged, to the floor. “Believe what you want. I would still welcome the exercise, even if it came with ten guards.”

“Of course, Keeper. Whatever you wish. Shall I return your dagger, too?”

“That would be lovely.”

She met his glare with a smile. He shook his head and turned to go.

“There will be no walks, Keeper. And I would suggest you not keep at Rametta about it or she'll go to my father. She was his nursemaid, and she has more sway over him than anyone ought. I don't need that kind of trouble.”