The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (5 page)

“I
think not!” Rithard answered.

Davron
shook his head in amusement, and lowered his hand to his blade. “I
think so. You have two choices. I take your patient, or I hurt you
and take your patient. How badly is up to you.”

“You
wouldn't dare.”

Davron's
face grew dark. He struck with blinding speed to grab Rithard's
collar and twisted it as he lifted him, one handed, off his feet.
“You misunderstand your situation and my resolve.”

Rithard
could barely breathe past the constriction.
How can he be that
strong? It's impossible!

Davron
held him for a moment, then dropped him to the ground and began
pacing back and forth, examining the various framed testaments
Rithard had hung on the wall of his office. “Your patient
conspired with foreigners. His reckless behavior has led to several
deaths, including your cousin, Marissa, and his
own wife.”

He
spun back to Rithard, one fist clenched as he went on, “And
the council punishes him with what? A slap on the wrist, and even
that will be called back after this mess! I won't have it!”

Rithard
rubbed at his neck, still finding it hard to breathe. “You
won't get away with this! It's madness!”

Davron
spat on the floor and slashed his arm through the air, dismissing
the thought. “Assault and kidnapping? Against treason, or
malfeasance and criminal abuse of power? I doubt I have much to
fear.” He hovered over Rithard, leering. “Of course, I
have no intention of yielding like a whipped dog, either. If they
want a war, then I will give them one, and it will be more glory
than Nihlos has seen in eons.” Davron paused, looking at
Rithard as a hunter might watch a deer. “So you see,
physician, in the grand scheme of things, you're a bit player.
Killing you to get what I want is the least of what I am prepared to
do.”

“Yes,”
Rithard sighed, nodding quickly. “I see that quite clearly,
now.”

Davron
reached a hand toward Rithard. “I'm glad we understand one
another.”

Rithard,
feeling woozy, had to admit to himself that he welcomed the
assistance, even if it was from the same person who had just
manhandled him. He took Davron's hand and rose to unsteady feet. “So
am I.”

“Good.
Now bring me my prisoner, and make certain he is pliable. I'm sure
you have the right drugs.”

Rithard
continued to rub at his throat as he tried to form a response. This
was all moving too quickly. He preferred to contemplate things
before acting, but Davron was not the contemplative sort. “And
what will I tell the family? They'll be here as soon as they know.
They might even be on their way here as we speak!”

“Then
you should hurry,” Davron told him, his voice cold and
uncompromising. “What you tell them is of no concern to me, as
long as it's far from the truth. I've no doubt that in due time,
I'll have to confront the weaklings and make a stand, but I would
have all the time I can to prepare.” Davron's stare was hard
as iron as he drove his point home. “Convince them, healer.
I'll be back for you if you don't. It may be difficult, but it's not
complicated.”

Rithard
drew in a shuddering breath and ran his hand through his hair. As
usual, his body reacted to fear of its own accord, but he did not
feel it as much as he might have shown. Already, his mind was
racing, generating strategies, rejecting some, cultivating others.

There might be a way
through. It's audacious, and treacherous, but there is a path.
“I'll
need some time.” As Davron opened his mouth to object, Rithard
held up a cautioning hand. “Not long. A half hour. If you want
this to remain secret, that's the price. I can do no better.”

Davron
ground his teeth, not liking this, but nodded. “A half hour,
then. No more. Get on with it.”

The
plan was devilishly simple. He would tell Aiul that he intended to
sedate him because he was behaving erratically and might be a danger
to himself or others. That would surely provoke him into precisely
the sort of frame of mind to justify the sedation, and Rithard would
have witnesses to it. From there, it would be a fairly simple matter
to switch him with a catatonic patient. Everyone knew Aiul had
suffered trauma to his head. His face had been covered in blood when
he had been brought in. It would be a simple matter to exaggerate
things, and convince others that it was worse than it had seemed
once he had cleared the gore away. Bandages would hide the face.

It
was a gamble, to be certain, but one he had to take. Perhaps,
despite his best efforts, he would be caught. It was likely, even.
At least Davron would be exposed at that point, and perhaps think
twice about carrying out his threats, provided he believed Rithard
had made a genuine effort.

As
for that, there was no predicting what Davron would believe or do.
Rithard was only certain of what would happen if he refused to
comply.

It
had gone spectacularly well. Aiul had erupted like a volcano,
shouting at the top of his lungs, trashing the room, and fighting
like a caged beast as Rithard and five orderlies struggled to hold
him in place for the nurse to inject him. It was unfortunate that,
at the last moment, Aiul had gotten an arm free and shoved the nurse
hard enough to send her crashing to the floor. On the way down, she
cracked her head on a table, sending a spray of blood across the
tile. That had played to Rithard's advantage, to be certain. She was
a fine witness to Aiul's irrational, violent behavior, but she
hadn't deserved it. As Aiul succumbed to the drug, Rithard had
rushed to her aid, and the rest of the staff came just in time to
see him begin stitching her wound.

Once Aiul was safely locked away, the rest had been easy. Rithard
had shuttled some of the staff out of the immediate area with claims
that it was for their safety, others with the simple argument that
it was improper for them to see the heir to House Amrath in such a
state. They had all heard the fight, seen the blood, and the rumors
were spreading like plague. No one suspected a thing.

Davron
had offered a cool nod of appreciation as he took charge of his
prisoner. One of Davron's men, a slave named Salastin, had arrived
while Rithard had been busy arranging the affair, and the two men
from Noril had dressed Aiul in armor and drug him out between them,
just two soldiers bringing their drunk friend home.

It
never ceased to amaze Rithard how easy crime was, if one had a head
for it and a desire to break the law. No one ever watched too
closely, and everyone saw what they wanted to see.
I would have
made a most excellent murderer.

This
crime, of course, was a bit more difficult. Davron and perhaps
others knew the truth, which was always dangerous. It might come
back at him some time, and Narelki would surely want his head, but
Rithard had leverage there: he knew with certainty that she had been
behind the first attack on Lara, the one that had set everything
else into motion, and he would use that knowledge to save his skin,
should it come to that.

Narelki had covered her tracks well. Even Rithard might never have
worked things out without a crucial data point. Her only real
mistake was overestimating her thugs' intelligence. The fools had
been stupid enough to seek charity care for the wounds Aiul had
given them in the very hospital he ran! Fortunately for them, Aiul
had been busy elsewhere. Unfortunately for Narelki, Rithard had been
the one to treat them, and was able to connect the pieces as the
rest of the information came to light.

Everyone
talks, not intentionally, but they volunteer data for gossip, or to
cover a lie. A group of slaves chattered quietly about the Matriarch
sending Slat on an errand the night before, certain it was to
arrange a rendezvous with a lover, though none had seen such a
suitor arrive. Rithard's patients were tight lipped about the source
of their injuries, saying only that there had been a fight. The
wounds were obviously blunt force trauma, and Aiul's favored weapon
was a mace. Caelwen recounted over a drink how dreadfully tired he
was, having tailed Kariana the whole evening. Aiul himself had ever
been willing to volunteer his thoughts on his mother's meddling in
his relationship.

Means.
Motive. Opportunity. And the only other possible suspect, Kariana,
was accounted for by a trustworthy source. Therefore, Narelki had
sent them.

He'd
had no proof, nor had he felt the need to find any. But he had
shared the knowledge with his mother. Until recently, he had
harbored some small guilt about that. It had seemed prudent to
mention to
someone
, in case things got out of hand, and he
could hardly bring it to anyone in Amrath, much less to Caelwen.
They were long and fast friends, but Caelwen would have demanded
action, and Rithard had wanted nothing of the sort. No, it was best
to keep it in the family.

And
if half his family happened to be spies and traders of information?
His mother would benefit, if she could find proof, and Prosin would
keep the knowledge quiet until it was important enough to share.

Events
of late, however, put things in an entirely different light. One
might even call his sharing of that secret prescient. As it turned
out, his mother
had
found proof, and according to her, the
only person she had told was the Matriarch of her House.

Rithard
poured himself a drink and grimaced at the thought. Maralena Prosin
was a wicked harridan, and had brought considerable shame to the
House with her aggressive power plays.
It will be a fine day when
she finally comes across my table. Then we'll see if she actually
has a heart at all.

He raised the glass to his lips
and paused, suddenly feeling as if he had been struck in the head
with a hammer. His hand went numb as realization coursed like
lightning through his nerves, and the tumbler of liquor slipped
through his treacherous fingers to dash against the floor.

Rithard stared at the amber
liquid and the myriad glass fragments, as if they might, given time,
form legible words that could help. “Mei,” he gasped,
his voice hoarse with emotion.

She engineered the whole
thing, and now I'm holding the bag.

A
season in hell is a timeless expanse. Without the sun or moon, days
bleed together into weeks and months with no clear demarcation. Time
becomes fluid, pooling in eddies, even seeming to loop back on
itself on occasion.

Aiul
marked the passing of the days by the pronouncement of the guard:
“The Traitor lives.” Or he imagined so, at any rate. Who
knew if the first meal came in the morning, or at midnight? There
was no reason to believe the schedule was consistent at all, and
many to believe the reverse, if his suspicions of late were true.

He had decided after a while
that it was his captor's intent to drive him to suicide, a
convenient means of circumventing the Elder’s orders that he
not be killed. It was, he conceded, a cunning plan, one that might
actually succeed if he allowed it. Resisting at least gave some
sense of purpose, and so he counted the days as best he could.

At first, he had assumed he
would be found soon enough. Surely his mother was looking for him,
or Maranath? But as the time passed, stretching by his reckoning to
months, his doubts had grown. Perhaps he wasn't even in Nihlos
anymore. Rithard might have even told them he was dead.

Aiul felt his skin burning as
rage swept through him at the thought of his treacherous second.
My
own cousin! How could we have ever trusted his tainted Prosin blood?
The rage passed as quickly as it came.
Who knows if he had
anything to do with it? He might be dead, or imprisoned as I am.

Aiul
felt as if his head were swelling toward explosion. A brief, bizarre
symbol flashed in his vision, brilliant red. He had seen it many
times before, and knew what it meant, but by the time it came, there
was no changing things.

He
leapt from his cot and hurled the mattress to the floor, his voice a
meaningless roar. It was frustrating to have nothing to smash but
bedclothes. He spied the heavy metal tray from his previous meal and
seized it up, then began battering it against the cell door.

“
Who are you?”
he screamed. “What do you want from me?”

It was not the first time he
had resorted to a tantrum to attract attention. The guards, while
not visible, were indeed nearby, within earshot at least, because
they responded quickly to his outbursts, and this time was no
exception.

The guards did not speak, and
covered themselves and their faces with armor, but they were clearly
different men at different times. There were discrepancies in size,
posture, and movement. Some seemed apathetic, others amused, and one
actively hostile. It was Hostile who came down the stairs, his face
hidden, but the rage in his deep blue eyes gave him away.

Aiul pressed his head against
the metal door and glared at the guard through the eye slit.
“Release me, dog!” he growled.

Hostile slammed a mailed palm
into the door. Aiul jerked backward, teeth ajar from the impact. The
guard chuckled darkly, which was more reaction than Aiul had seen
from any of them before.

Wary, Aiul looked through the
slit again, careful not to actually place his head on the metal.
“Mei as my witness, I'll kill you for that some day!”

The guard chuckled again, but
there was no humor in it, nor in his eyes. “Why stop with Mei?
Why not make a deal with the Dead God, eh?” He kicked the
door, setting it ringing again. “You're going to need more
than one god to get out of here, Traitor. “

“I will!” Aiul
roared, slamming his fists against the door from his own side in
fury. “I'll bargain with Elgar if it means I taste your
blood!”