Blackdog (61 page)

Waking brought Pakdhala a horribly pounding headache, a fevered burning in her throat, and the certain knowledge of where she was. A great curtained bed. The wind blew in off the lake through the pierced shutters, carrying the scent of the Lissavakail, the cool sweet waters. The sunlight made dapples on the blue and green marble mosaic of the floor, a rippling water pattern. Home, and in her own high room.

“Her Holiness is awake.” The voice was a whisper. Cloth rustled, people rising. Pakdhala could not turn her head, but she managed to roll her eyes. Women—girls her own age—were getting to their feet, clustering round. So many mountain-born faces looked alien, blankly untattooed, snub noses, absurdly cropped hair. They wore gowns of indigo. Priestesses? She knew none of them.

Ah. The new crop of novices Tamghat had collected. Hostages, they said in Serakallash, or worse. Perhaps those confined to the temple were the lucky ones.

“Let us help you, Holiness.”

What kind of a ridiculous title was that? She tried to mouth a protest, could not even mew. They propped her up.

Her hair was damp, combed out into a rippling sheet, cool cascade down her back. She was clean, skin-tinglingly clean, like after a good scrubbing and oiling in the baths. She was scented—reeked—of some perfume, heavier than she would ever choose, more Immerose's style, or Varro's, and even the barbarian Northron didn't bathe in it. Beneath that she could smell rainwater, warm, flat, empty, and harsh soap more fit for scrubbing floors. No wonder her skin hurt. Did—she would not even think the name—did they mind the smell of camels so much? They had bathed her in water from the rooftop cistern. Why? To keep her from the lake? She had been so long from the lake and now she could smell it, could almost touch it—almost. Not quite. She might as well be on the desert road, and that was surely not right, when she
was
the lake.

She was naked. Something lay on her throat. It wasn't her amulet pouch with the stone from the lakeshore and the other from the Sayanbarkash; it didn't slide down to the familiar touch on her chest. Hands on her throat, silk sliding, Bikkim's scarf being drawn away—

—Bikkim.
Oh, Bikkim. Tears started in her eyes, rolled down her face.

The girls twittered and scurried for towels, washing their traces away, soothing her. It would be all right. She was ill. Lord Tamghat had rescued her. She was safe now. The demon could never come at her again. She would soon grow well and strong again, now that she was home, safe in the Lake-Lord's protection.

Did they really believe that? Shut away inside herself, she could not tell truth from dissembling in their chittering minds.

They dressed her, bending knees and elbows, heaving her up and back and around like a jointed wooden doll, and she burned with angry shame at so many hands on her nakedness.

“What about that?” one girl asked, touching her neck.

“That's part of the spell protecting her,” another girl said. “Weren't you listening? Don't touch it.” The first girl snatched her hand away.

Something Ivah tied there. The Blackdog might have killed Ivah by now. Part of her hoped for it, part pitied her, cast off so brutally. That was not what a father should be. She had been so much happier in her life than poor Ivah.

“Come now, Holiness.” They walked her over to a carrying-chair, a throne with long lacquered poles for the shoulders of bearers, sat her in it and discretely fastened sashes around her waist and chest, tying her in like a baby. Delicate satin slippers, pearl-sewn, were put on her feet. Too tight, pinching her toes. Silk gloves for her hands, hiding scars and calluses and bitten nails, hiding the glimpses of tattooing that might show at wrists. The silk caught on the roughness of her skin. Then they brought out pots of paint, oily cosmetics, and began to colour her face. She groaned and tried to tilt away.

“She wants to see,” said one. “Let her see. We're just making you pretty, Holiness,” she explained. “The Lake-Lord will find a way to get rid of those ugly desert tattoos, don't worry. He can do anything.”

“These came all the way from the Nabbani Empire,” another girl said, waving a carmine-tipped brush in the air. “I'd hate to think what they cost.”

They were old and stinkingly rancid. But a girl brought a mirror in a mother-of-pearl frame and tipped it to show Pakdhala her face.

“See?” she asked. “You probably don't recognize yourself, Holiness. You're so pretty now.”

She did not recognize herself. Gold crown, though not any of the ones the avatars traditionally wore, something new with…what were they? Skulls? Animal skulls? Yes, bear skulls, worked in among filigree flowers with turquoise petals. What did bears have to do with the lake? Silky hair, tiny red mouth, rice-powder face, arching black brows, black outlines to her eyes…a temple dancer in Marakand, maybe. Not her. Red and indigo silk, sewn with turquoise and gold beads, heavy on her shoulders. Rope of turquoise wound round and round her throat and
there
, just a glimpse of a plain, ugly cord, spun of what looked like hair, lumpy with knots, tight against her skin under the turquoise.

She needed to get that off. If she could get a knife—and hands to use it, hah. Well, if she fell, if she scraped herself over some edge…not much chance of that.

Pakdhala slumped, not even able to scowl as she brooded ways and means. Hefty Grasslanders came to carry the chair on their shoulders. Down many stairs and outside, and she continued to slump, not meeting anyone's eyes, traitors all, as she was paraded swaying and jouncing past a courtyard of new stonework, a courtyard filled with silent sisters. Many she knew. Too many were missing. Many Tamghati were interspersed among them, watchful, women and men alike, Grasslanders and Northrons and Serakallashi. Only the foreigners were armed.

Tamghat paced at her side, splendid in gold and white silk. She lowered her eyelids, not to see him. His hunger burned her. Even not looking, she felt him like a fire, his desire pulling at her, drawing her in.

“Look on your people, Great Attalissa,” Tamghat murmured. “See how they welcome you home.”

Eyelids fluttered open.

Sisters bowed. Old Lady bowed, and looked up smiling, triumphant. “My lord,” she said to Tamghat. “My lady.”

Pakdhala writhed, in her heart. She managed a twitch.

“My dear,” said Tamghat, and he leaned in towards her, a hand on the back of the throne. Now it was clear he did not want to touch her. Not yet, she thought. “What is it? Does your illness pain you?”

Her gaze met his eyes. Pretty eyes, golden-brown, long-lashed, earnestly concerned. Did he think she could not see through him to what the Blackdog had seen? Flesh and bone were a husk encasing a creature of fire. She turned her eyes away and surprised on Old Lady's face a look of bitter…jealousy? A glimpse, then, just a glimpse, and emotions she had not understood on the surface of her child's mind fell into place. Luli had desired this, Luli had brought Tamghat here. Luli had told him of the secret tunnel, and Otokas had died.

Her mouth worked, throat on fire.

“Did you want to say something to your servants, dear heart?” Tamghat purred. “Don't fear. Your illness will pass; your voice will return. Here, whisper it to me.”

He bent nearer still, so she felt his breath on her cheek. She would have spat if she were not so dry, desert dry. She would have screamed “traitor” at the priestesses, but that was not true of all, and she knew Tamghat would not let that word out.

“Water,” she croaked. Tea was what she craved to soothe her throat, smoky-thick and sweet-salt with camel's milk and sugar, but…water.
Water
was what she needed, water was what they kept from her. Water was what she lacked, woman that she was and not yet come into her divine power.

She was severed from her lake, from herself, from her water.

“Her Holiness wishes water,” Tamghat translated, and she repeated it, louder, a flaring agony, desperate to be understood.

“Water. Please.
Water.”

“Fetch Great Attalissa a cup of water from the well,” he ordered, pointing to one of the young sisters, and the girl bowed and scurried away. “From the well, mind you—pure and fresh.” She was carried back and forth some more, women reaching, hesitantly, towards her, never touching. The girl returned from her trip to the well-court with a blue glass goblet.

Tamghat put the cup to her lips, tender, solicitous, tipped it gently and gradually and she gulped the water with greed. Her throat ached with it, but it did ease the pain.

“Thank you,” she said, voice still a breath, but not so croaking. She meant the thanks for the girl who had brought the cup.

“You're very welcome, dearest,” Tamghat said. “Is there anything else you wish?”

Had any of them truly heard? “Rest,” she said, another breath.

“Her Holiness will rest now,” Tamghat declared. A gesture of his hand sent the bearers sweeping about. She saw him suddenly fling up his head, turn on his heel, staring into the sky, his eyes gone a murky red. His servants hesitated; even the ranks of priestesses looked up and around, wondering what he had seen. He wheeled back to the chair, struck the nearest bearer in the face. “Get Her Holiness inside, fools,” he snarled. “Do you think the monsters that desire her have given up? Spear Lady!”

A girl Pakdhala's own age bowed.

“I want archers on the walls. Shoot anything that flies over, even a pigeon. Her Holiness is in greater danger than you know.”

“My lord,” the girl said, unquestioning.

“Get her inside!” Tamghat snarled.

He was afraid, she thought, as he strode past her chair to the doorway—no, not afraid. Fiercely, savagely excited, like a hound about to be loosed on its quarry.

Monsters. She had felt something, some flicker of presence not the Blackdog.

Once they were inside Tamghat strode away among a guard of Tamghati, leaving bearers and girls to take her back to bed, with two
noekar-women
to watch over them.

They washed her face, undressed her, chattering the while of how lovely the gown for her wedding would be, and propped her on pillows, so that she had to stare at the opposite wall.

Could she even speak without Tamghat's will allowing it?

“Food,” she tried, and it took great effort, much mumbling and fumbling of her lips and tongue, to shape the word.

“But you must fast, Holiness,” a novice said, with a nervous glance around to check on the two warriors, who lounged one on the balcony, one sprawled in a chair by the door. They ignored the girl. “The Lake Lord says you must fast, to prepare for the ritual that will free you from the demon's thrall.”

“To prepare you for your wedding,” another girl said, sickeningly jolly. “You may have well-water, and millet beer with honey and spices, but that is all. To purify you from the corruption forced on you by the demon dog.”

Her voice dropped away at the end. Most of the others looked shocked.

“You shouldn't speak of such things.”

The girl cringed, again glanced at the
noekar.
“I beg your Holiness's pardon.”

Pakdhala blinked. It wasn't worth wasting her strength, demanding to know more. She could imagine what they had been told, and seethed with shame and rage on her father's behalf, on her own. How could they, they were not such babies when Tamghat came that they would have known nothing of the Blackdog.

“Bring Holy Attalissa a draught of the beer,” the oldest of the girls declared.

“It doesn't seem much to live on for a week, though,” another muttered, crossing to a table where a pitcher and goblet stood covered with a white napkin.

A week? A week of this. They meant to starve her to make her too feeble for whatever Tamghat planned.

No, that was good news. She had a week, a week to find a way to the lake. If she could gain just a little strength, could she crawl by night…?

The Blackdog would come before then. The Blackdog would be here by this very night, travelling as swiftly as it could. But Tamghat knew that as well as she. Otokas had said he could not fight the warlord; Holla-Sayan had a far more erratic and troubled bond with the dog. Sometimes she feared the dog would devour him altogether. He was less likely to be able to force reason on it. He would be killed and Tamghat would become the dog's host as he had threatened Otokas, as Otokas had thought he kept her from knowing. She had to act, if her father was going to see tomorrow. Somehow. Pakdhala shut her eyes, feigning sleep. She did not trust their honeyed beer. She needed strength, yes, but not anything that might further weaken her or cloud her thoughts, and beer alone on an empty stomach would be enough, even if it were not drugged.

“Her Holiness is asleep,” one whispered, when footsteps returned from the far corner of the room.

“Oh. Would the lady
noekar
like a drink? Should I offer…?”

“No! Fool! It's medicine for Her Holiness alone. It has herbs to help her rest. Get the sewing basket. We can finish the Lake-Lord's red robe while we watch her.”

Ah, so Luli had had her way, and the temple of warriors was reduced to a workshop of dressmakers.

Pakdhala let herself float on the hollowness of her hunger, tried to drift, slowly and casually, beyond the barriers that caged her. The Blackdog, a priestess…someone. Could she touch anyone at all? There was that flicker of presence again. And then Tamghat.

Sleep, Attalissa. You do not need to wander. You do not need to search for others. You have come to where you belong, and you are mine.

No!
But she slept.