The Jackal of Nar (65 page)

“My country is a better place than most in Nar.”

“And you have a life for her there? Lucyler has told me you are already married. What will Dyana do in Aramoor?”

Richius frowned, unable to think of a retort. “Let me talk to her. I am willing to let her decide.”

“You know little of our ways,” said Tharn. “Women do not decide such things. But you may speak to her, in time.”

“I don’t have time, Master Tharn. I must leave for Aramoor soon, by the morrow if possible. There is business waiting for me. And you know of what I speak.”

“I do. It is why I have asked you here. Lucyler tells me you have no influence in your Empire. Is this so?”

“Not entirely,” Richius lied. He knew it was the only chance he had.

“Are you willing to use it for us?”

“I’ve named my price. Release Dyana, and I will speak to Arkus for you. More than that I can’t promise.”

Tharn leaned closer, his expression earnest. “You must do your best, King Vantran. Tell him there is nothing here for him. Tell him it would be dangerous. Say what you must.”

Richius nodded agreeably, all the while remembering he had told his emperor all this and more. There was nothing anyone could say to Arkus to turn his mind from invasion. One could speak to the emperor of lives, but that would be meaningless to a man who thought of death as a worthy end for his enemies.

“It will be difficult,” said Richius. “Arkus thinks you have magic. And after all, you do.”

Tharn looked away, hiding his face. “My gift is no use to your emperor.”

“It’s more than just your
gift
, if that’s what you wish to call it. He thinks there is magic in Lucel-Lor to heal him, to keep him alive. He’s obsessed with it, and he’ll do whatever he can to take it.” Richius folded his arms, studying Tharn. “I’m willing to try for Dyana’s sake, but you should be making ready, Master Tharn. Arkus may simply come without me.”

“No, no, he must not,” croaked Tharn. “Lucel-Lor has peace now. You have seen it.”

“That means nothing to the emperor. You would be wise to consider the proposition from Liss. If you can join with them, you should.”

Tharn was shaking. “No. No more war! I will not fight again.” He clutched at Richius with his twisted hand, grabbing at his sleeve. “You must do your best. You have a duty.”

Richius snatched back his hand. “Duty? You presume a great deal. This isn’t my war; I didn’t start it.”

“Your duty is to Aramoor,” pressed Tharn. “I know you want to stop this war.”

“All I want is Dyana!” roared Richius, springing to his feet. “She’s the only reason I’m here. I don’t care about your ideals or your country anymore, and I don’t owe you a damned thing. Nor will I feel guilty if Nar crushes you,
Drol.
” He spat out the word like a curse. “If I do this thing it will be for my own sake. So what’s your answer? Will you let Dyana leave with me? Because if you don’t, I promise you ruin. I’ll do everything I can to see that Nar destroys you!”

Tharn reared back, amazed at the outburst. “Such rage,” he whispered. “Why?”

“Why?” sneered Richius. “You have murdered almost everyone dear to me. I would rather see you in hell before helping you, but I want Dyana freed.”

“I am no murderer,” said Tharn defensively. “And I know about your father. You are wrong about this.”

Richius gritted his teeth. It was the same infuriating lie Lucyler had claimed. “No one else could have done it. My father was loved in Aramoor.”

“Beloved kings are assassinated more often than tyrants,” said Tharn. “And I know in Nar it is not so uncommon. Why can you not believe your emperor capable of this crime?”

“No,” retorted Richius. “I might have thought that, too, but my steward saw the killer. He was Triin.”

Tharn shrugged, obviously unconvinced. “Sit,” he requested gently. “We argue for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” said Richius, taking his seat again. “Everyone says you’re a man of peace now, but I’m not convinced. It was you who started all the bloodshed. I might be the only one left who remembers that, but I know it’s true. My friends died because of you. How do you have the courage to ask anything of me?”

“I am shameless,” said Tharn. “Everything I do is for my people and my gods.”

“Pretty words,” said Richius. “But they don’t change the past. This is your mess. You let the spirit out of the bottle. You used your magic and the whole world saw. Now Arkus wants what you have, and he’s not going to stop until he gets it.”

“Do not speak to me of magic,” growled Tharn. “When I was in Nar, everyone thought I was a sorcerer because I was Triin! Your people are ignorant. They see magic in everything they cannot understand.”

“But are they wrong? I saw Lucyler do magic. He said you taught him how.”

“A simple thing,” scoffed Tharn. “If your mind was open, you could learn it, too. But no one can learn the trick of my evil power.” He looked away distractedly, turning his ravaged face to the floor. “It is the touch of heaven, and it is for me alone. I cannot give or teach it to your emperor.”

There was honesty in his voice. Though it was all nonsense to Richius, it was clear that Tharn believed it for his own misguided reasons, and there was a certain tragedy to the tale. Tharn was a devout Drol, a leader of his people, and yet he truly thought his gods had deformed him for using their gift to deliver his land.

“I will tell Arkus what you have told me,” said Richius, “if you let Dyana go.”

“Would you risk a war for a woman, King Vantran?”

“Would you?”

“Aramoor could be as hurt by a war as Lucel-Lor. Are you ready for that? And what of the things you have seen here? Lucyler has told me much about you. He says you were saddened by what you and your Empire did here.”

“What happened to Lucel-Lor didn’t happen because of Narens alone,” said Richius. “You were the one who burned the grain fields. You were the one who ordered the massacre at Falindar. This is your war as much as it is my emperor’s.”

“I admit that,” said Tharn solemnly. “I am not a perfect man. I have made mistakes.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Richius. “And you’re about to make another one, aren’t you? You have no intention of freeing Dyana, do you?”

“You speak as though she were a slave, King. She is not. She is my wife.”

“It’s the same thing to her, I’m sure.”

“I will not talk of this,” said Tharn defensively. “She is a woman. Her feelings in this matter are meaningless. We have peace, King Vantran. That is all you need to know. And you cannot deny it, can you? You have seen it.”

“That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?” asked Richius angrily. “Because you thought I would see the land at peace and be convinced to do as you ask.” He rose again, the fury swelling inside him. “You never intended to let Dyana go with me.…”

“She is my wife, King Vantran.”

“She doesn’t want to be with you! That’s why I was taking her to Aramoor, to get her away from you.”

“We were betrothed,” said Tharn unflinchingly. He watched Richius with his emotionless eyes, as if what he was hearing was utterly meaningless. “She intended to break her father’s vow.”

“I know the story. She was too young to know what was happening to her.”

“It is the way of things here, King Vantran.”

“No,” said Richius bitterly. “I was there when you stole her away, or have you forgotten? I saw what you did to her. That’s not the way things are here. You may be a hero to these others, but I know what you really are. You’re a coward. In Nar they call you the devil. I think they may be right.”

“In Liss they call Arkus the devil.”

“Then I am surrounded by devils, for you enslave Dyana like Arkus enslaves nations.”

“Are you certain?” asked Tharn. “You have not spoken to her. She might be unwilling to go with you.”

“Maybe,” admitted Richius. “But I want her to tell me that, not you. Let me see her. Let her speak for herself.”

“In time you will see her,” said Tharn. “But I must have your answer, King Vantran. Will you do this thing for us? Remember, it is the peace of Aramoor we speak of also. Many lives …”

“You’ve made your case, Tharn. My answer depends on Dyana. If she wishes to remain here, I will consider it. But if she wishes to go and you don’t let her, there will be no peace between us. And I warn you, if I find you have threatened her in any way …”

“There will be no threats,” replied Tharn coldly. It seemed to Richius that he had finally said something to offend him. Tharn twisted away from Richius, taking up his pen and returning his
attention to his books. “When she is ready I will send for you,” he said. “Think on what we have talked about.”

“And you do the same,” said Richius, going to the door. “There’s not much time. If the emissary from Liss is right, Arkus is finally wearing them down. When he does he’ll come for Lucel-Lor.”

Tharn waved him away in awkward frustration. “Good day, King Vantran.”

Richius strode out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him. He paused outside the chamber. Tharn’s breath wheezed from behind the door, followed by a trio of hacking coughs. Somehow the monarch had managed to keep himself together long enough to speak with Richius, and now the exertion of the conversation was plaguing him.

Good
, thought Richius pettily. His brain was on fire as he began walking through the hall, tempted to kick in every door until he found Dyana. How dare that monster bring him all the way here only to rebuke him! Even Lucyler had tricked him. He cursed himself, hating his own love-blindness. It should have been obvious. Tharn had conjured a storm to take Dyana from him. Why would he give her back now when he knew Richius wanted peace as much as any of them? Angrily he thundered down the stairs of the south tower, his boots echoing like cannon fire on the stonework. Today he was a great fool, and every bone in him rattled with disgust.

Near the end of the hall linking the citadel’s two towers he found the stairway that led to his chamber. His thoughts remained dark throughout the steep ascent. It would be difficult to get Dyana out of here. Kronin’s warriors were everywhere, and Lucyler couldn’t be counted on anymore. Both the warlord and his friend had been turned by the charismatic freak, made forgetful of their bloody pasts by talk of peace. He was alone now, and would have to depend on his own wits to spirit Dyana away.

A few early risers passed him on the stairs, mostly women starting to attend to the citadel’s daily needs. They were traditionally dressed in their colorful but modest wrappings and long, dragging skirts that barely left their ankles visible. Their faces were mostly covered, too, shielded from the sight of all but their husbands by a clinging veil of silk. Whenever a man crossed their paths they always looked the other way, a custom Richius
found particularly galling this morning. He had stopped bowing to them days ago when he realized they would only ignore him, and the thought of Dyana in such a groveling role heated his already-boiling blood.

His room was near the end of the hall. When he approached it he paused. The door was ajar. Had he forgotten to close it?

Carefully he moved toward the door. There was sunlight in the room, creeping out between the passage and the wall. An unsettling quiet stilled the air. Someone was inside; he sensed it. Probably Lucyler. He would want to know how the meeting went. Richius pushed open the door, dreading the coming conversation and forcing a smile onto his lips.

A wizened ghost smiled back at him. Richius stopped in the doorway, stunned by the sight of her. She sat silently on his bed, her fragile hands clasped before her. To anyone else she might have been unrecognizable, but Richius knew her in an instant. Her name slipped from his lips in a tight sob.

“Dyana.”

Her smile broadened as he stepped closer, greeting him with wordless warmth. But this wasn’t the Dyana he had lost in Ackle-Nye. There was less luster in her eyes, less depth to the white hair. Her dainty hands shook a little, and her skin was too pale, even for a Triin. She seemed to be struggling to hold herself erect. Yet amazingly she was no less beautiful.

Richius went to her slowly, his throat constricting with emotion, and lowered himself to her feet. She put out her hands for him and he took them, kissing them twice before placing his head in her lap.

Dyana stroked his head for long moments, caressing his hair and calming him with her soothing touch. Words would not come. Too much emotion, the shock of it all, kept him bent like a frightened child, unable to straighten and face her. It occurred to him suddenly that he had feared her dead, and that he hadn’t dared to voice his fears, not even to himself. Now she was here, touching him again, and the perfume of her hands and thighs was fragrant and heady and irresistible.

“Dyana,” he moaned. “I’m sorry.”

“Be still,” she said sweetly.

And he was. Her voice was melodious, as it had always been in his dreams. Slowly he lifted his head, staring into her gray
eyes. An invisible burden showed in her face and the lines about her mouth. She was pale and unhealthy looking. Hair fell in limp threads about her forehead, and an unsteady tremor rippled through her hands. He reached out and touched her cheek. It was hot. She recoiled from his touch as if it burned.

“What’s happened to you?” he whispered. “What’s he done to you?”

Her smile was forlorn. “He is better than that,” she said vaguely.

He took her hand again, squeezing it gently so that it caused no pain. He could feel the troubling shiver in her fingers. “You’re ill. I can see it. What’s wrong?”

“I am just weak,” she admitted softly. “There is no more trouble.” Again she smiled, leaning back on the bed. “It is good to see you again.”

“Yes, it is. But how did you get here? Does Tharn know you’re here?”

“He does not keep such an eye on me. He thinks I am resting.”

“As you should be, no doubt,” said Richius. “Here, lay back.” He rose and took her tiny, slippered feet in his hands, lifting them easily and coaxing them onto the bed. Dyana complied, evidently grateful for the bed as she twisted to fit her body into the mattress’ contours. “Better?” he asked.

Dyana had closed her eyes. “It is better.”