Between (27 page)

Z
ee, Warlord of Surmise, knowing he would be punished for his absence, was nevertheless far from the feast, deep in the dark and festering belly of the castle dungeons.

In total darkness, by sense of touch alone, he fitted a key into a rusty lock and shoved open a heavy stone door.

“Who’s there?”

“Be easy, it’s just me.” Pulling the door closed behind him, the Warlord lit the lantern he carried and hung it on a peg set high in the wall.

Duncan scrambled up onto unsteady feet. Traces of tears smudged his cheeks. “Forgive me, Warlord—it’s the light, making my eyes water—”

He had not been treated gently. His fair hair was dark with blood, his face swollen and distorted. The burn, untreated, oozed and had begun to fester.

“Darkness breeds fear—I felt you could use a little light.”

“And the news?”

“The dragon died.”

One ragged breath. Another. When he spoke, the young man’s voice was very nearly steady. “When is it to be?”

“Tonight, I’d guess. Soon. I am sorry. The Queen has returned—I can do nothing to stop this.”

“I understand.”

“You did right, Duncan.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. The woman?”

“I have no word on that.”

Duncan turned his back, and his shoulders shook. Only for a moment, though, and when he turned, his face was set and hardened. “How is it to be? Can you tell me?”

“There will be another—Flynt, the farmer. Stabbed the dragon with a pitchfork when it went for his daughter. The fact that the dragon was flying around apparently well and healthy when it left the farm and came to you has no bearing—the investigator says he drew blood and the dragon is dead. He will share your death.”

“Gladiators, you think? Me against the poor old sod?”

“Yes. I will see to it that both swords are sharp, understand?”

“You do us no good if you risk your own life.”

The Warlord sharpened his voice. “The swords will both be sharp—it’s already arranged. I’ve been to see Flynt. He understands.”

For the first time the boy’s voice broke. “I don’t know that I can do this thing, to kill in cold blood—”

“A kindness. There are worse things than death at the hands of a friend.”

The Warlord wanted to shake the boy’s hand, to offer comfort, but it was a cruelty to offer comfort where there was none. Too much kindness and the control might break. He couldn’t even leave the light, as somebody else would be blamed and punished and there was enough blood on his hands already.

“Good-bye, Duncan.”

“Warlord—”

He turned. The boy held his eyes. “I will die well.”

“I do not doubt it.”

He closed the door as softly as possible, then turned the key in the lock. One step at a time, running a hand along the wall for balance, he continued down the dark passage that he knew by heart, turned right, opened a door, and closed it behind him.

Here he again lit the lantern and hung it on a hook.

A small room, with little more than a narrow bed and hooks for his few articles of clothing. A mirror hung on the far wall, with a washbasin on a wooden stand. Crossing the room, he confronted his scarred face in the mirror. Even to him, it looked deformed and frightening. Women cringed away from him; men feared him.

He had no problem with this—he deserved nothing more. He was the Warlord of the kingdom; it was his sworn duty to guard the populace from the dragons, to train and protect the men who served under him. In this task, he failed. Again and again he failed. In the past he’d managed to save a few men like Duncan, despite the rigid edicts of the law. A severe punishment—whipping, the loss of a hand—had sufficed. But when this Queen returned and demanded an accounting of the kingdom, he’d known at once there would be no mercy. For anybody. Ever.

As for the woman he’d found in the forest—her coming might be blessing or curse and he could not tell which. He knew her from dream; had walked beside her, sword in hand, and protected her, slaying all that threatened to touch her. In his dreams he loved her beyond any honor or duty or sense of right and wrong.

But this was not dream, and he was sick to death already of injustice.

When he’d seen her in the woods, bruised, frightened, and still defiant, he’d had a problem with his breath, as though some magic had sucked away all the air. A weakness had come over him, a softness, inexplicable and strange. He had wanted to scoop her up in his arms, to gentle her fear, to bury his face in her hair and breathe in the scent of her. Racing back to the castle under the dragon shadow without raising a sword to protect her had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed.

He’d thought she would die in his arms, bleeding from the dragon’s talons, had waited for the inevitable spasms to twist her body, the burning heat. These things had not come
to pass. The woman had power and was keeping secrets. She had survived the dragon poison. Her eyes had changed color; her skin bore a pattern of scales. She’d dressed herself in the gown of a full-blood sorceress.

Tales from the mists of time past told of dragons with the power to take on human form, dragons that had taken human women for themselves. Rumor, myth, or so he had always believed. How could dragon blood, corroding and toxic, possibly run in the veins of a human?

Seeing what he had seen this day, he feared that truth lay hidden in the tales.

One sorceress was enough in a kingdom. They did not need another.

For now, he would watch and wait. His duty was clearly to the kingdom. If the woman had power, then perhaps she and the Queen would destroy each other, and the kingdom would be free. He would wait, let things take their course. If need be, he would kill her himself, no matter how his heart might beat against it.

But today carried enough heartbreak without allowing himself feelings about a woman loved in dream. Another dragon dead. No matter how well he trained his men, how diligently he sought to repel the dragons and keep them in their own territory—providing food sources in the mountains when game was scarce, beating the bushes to scare them off when they encroached on civilization—still accidents happened. Either people died because they did not offer resistance, or they died because they dared to defend themselves, or more commonly someone they loved.

For this, for his inability to prevent the deaths of good men who had committed no sin other than that of self-preservation or the protection of their loved ones, he exacted penance, marking the memory of each death on his own body. Staring down his scarred face in the mirror, he drew the blade of his knife down his right cheek, from just below the eye to the jaw. Blood welled, flowed over his face and down his neck, staining his tunic. He repeated the motion
on the left. One cut for each of the men who would die tonight. A small gesture: All the penance in the world was not enough.

As he faced himself in the mirror, it seemed in that moment that his image shifted, bent, until he looked into another face. The eyes were his own, but this face bore only a single fresh wound, horizontal across the cheek. As the Warlord leaned forward to look more closely, the other face did likewise. The mirrored eyes widened in surprise.

And in that moment the Warlord felt a shift, as though his dream self stepped out of the shadows and stood beside him—himself, but with a different set of memories, thoughts, and emotions. Only a moment, and then the sensation faded.

Only his own face, scarred and bloody, looked at him out of the mirror.

He turned away, blotting at the blood with a towel. He owed it to Duncan to witness his death.

After that he would do whatever needed to be done.

T
he priest’s words echoed through the silence in the hall.

No one spoke or moved.

At last Jehenna pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. “Nahl—you who serve as High Priest to the Dragon. Tell us, what shall be done to appease the gods, that no further harm shall come to the kingdom?”

“There must be a death.”

“But my people are at feast—”

“It must happen now, My Queen.”

Jehenna inclined her head, the personification of a deep and heavy sorrow. “The gods have spoken. You will all proceed to the arena at once.”

The words were too rehearsed, too planned.

A tumult of voices arose. Chairs pushed back. Courtiers jostled and pushed in a frenzied rush toward the door, abandoning their plates and the food spread untouched on the tables. Vivian stayed in her chair, Gareth still holding her arm. She was overwhelmed by the chaos, by the prospect of violence and the eagerness of the crowd to embrace it. Landon had disappeared, but she thought she caught a glimpse of fluttering rags vanishing through a doorway. Poe was nowhere to be seen.

Gareth got to his feet, closing one hand around her wrist. “Come.”

Vivian tried to twist away, but the hand clamped tighter. Her head throbbed. Cold sweat trickled down her back while her heart beat a rapid and uncomfortable rhythm. Her feet ached in the stupid shoes as she took a few running steps to catch up and ease the pressure on her wrist.

“Gareth, please. Let me go.”

He didn’t slow, or stop. Didn’t even look at her. “You are the guest of honor. We must not be late.”

Fear shafted into her belly. Being the guest of honor was not a good thing. Images of all of the tapestries and paintings flashed through her mind: maidens sacrificed to dragons, again and again and again.

She dropped to her knees, twisting her arm against the weak spot between Gareth’s fingers and thumb. She managed to break his grip, but before she could get back on her feet and flee through the crowd, his hands were tangled in her hair. A sharp yank brought her staggering up onto her feet.

“Every time you struggle,” he said, leaning close so she could hear him through the noise, “every insult you cast my way, somebody will pay. You. Esme. That abomination of a bird. Understood?”

She nodded, wishing she hadn’t eaten the soup after all as her stomach churned.

“Not far now,” he said, his voice pleasant and ordinary, as though they were taking a stroll in the country, as though he hadn’t just threatened her and those around her with violence.

He picked up the pace until she was forced to cling to him in order to keep her balance. They passed out of the castle through wide-open doors and walked under unfamiliar stars. Ahead lights blazed into the night sky, the mass of moving humanity pouring toward them and vanishing through a gate.

The gate opened into a giant oval, half football stadium, half coliseum. The entire structure was built out of stone.
Narrow stairs led down through row upon row of seats, many of them already filled. At the bottom, a twenty-foot sheer wall separated the playing field from the spectators. At one end of the field a red stone thrust up out of the earth. Fragments of chain hung from it, and in a wide circumference no grass grew, the earth burned black.

At sight of the stone, the voices in her head leaped to a crescendo, warning of danger.

As if she’d needed any warning.

She stumbled after Gareth, keeping on her feet with difficulty. The shoes had been difficult before; now they were dangerous. She was going to sprain an ankle, going to fall. People drew back as she passed, as if they feared contamination by a casual touch.

To her right, about halfway down, a banner and pennons waved—scarlet dragons on a purple background. Jehenna sat within an ornate private box, surrounded by courtiers and guards. Gareth led her on past, all the way down to the front row.

Ahead of them gaped the maw of a black pit. One last time Vivian thought about fighting. A swift kick to the groin, then run like hell.

Right. In impossible slippers, directly into a stadium full of loyal subjects who would never let her go. Besides, she had no doubt that Gareth would keep his promise of retaliation. If she was able to get clear, someone else would suffer.

And so she followed him down a dark and narrow staircase. A smoky torch sputtered at the bottom, dimly lighting a small box of a room that held a chair and a battered wooden table. The guard leaned over a nearly empty plate. At sight of Vivian and Gareth he sprang to his feet, wiping his mouth with one hand and saluting with the other.

“Open the gate,” Gareth commanded.

The guard nodded, lifted a wooden latch, and pushed open a panel exposing an expanse of grass bounded by a high stone wall. Above it rose row on row of seats filled with shouting faces. A hard shove against Vivian’s lower back
thrust her reeling forward. She fell heavily onto her knees in the damp sod. Heard the gate slam shut behind her.

The noise from the crowd intensified; flags waved, feet stomped.

Kicking off the stupid shoes, Vivian scrambled up onto her feet, dug her toes into the grass, seeking courage in the solidity of the earth beneath her. Only it wasn’t solid, not at all. The voices muttered about a vast network of tunnels beneath her, connecting chambers large and small. She could sense them, as she could sense the doors that closed and opened.

Esme must be down there somewhere. Duncan. Maybe Isobel.