Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 (10 page)

'When the cry went up for an army to reclaim the Sanctuary Land for the God, he was the obvious man to lead it. He was created Due de Charelles for that purpose, because the lords and churchmen who declared themselves for the venture would yield to no lesser rank. It's a courtesy tide, Charelles is a lump of rock in the ocean which offers no better harvest than gull-droppings, but a duke is a duke regardless.

'So he went to war again, this time with thousands in his train, but I was closest. It was a hard journe
y, and a harder fight: many battl
es, many deaths, a great deal of evil on both sides. But he held the army together, lords and church, until we had won Outremer. The Ekhed had governed the land for centuries but they couldn't stand against us, they retreated to their kingdom in the south; the Sharai fought us tribe by tribe, and tribe by tribe we drove them back into the desert.

'Then there would have been trouble, as all those ambitious men fell to quarrelling over the spoils; but my lord and friend summoned the Conclave. He called the nobles and prelates into one building, the Dir'al Shahan that had been the greatest temple in Ascariel; he made them leave their weapons in the porch, he locked the doors with his own hands and pocketed the key, and he made his own divisions of the land. He told them who would govern where, he showed them on maps, he drew the boundaries himself. In the course of one day he created the five states that you know and gave them to the most powerful of the lords. To the Church he gave nothing. He knew what trouble that would bring, and so he allowed the Ransomers their castles, and he made his own son Duke of Ascariel; that boy was always the Church's man, more than his father's.

'Himself he declared King of Outremer and demanded oaths of allegiance and fealty from all, would let no one leave till they had sworn. Then he sent them out, and locked the doors again behind them. All that year, while the Kingdom settled into its new name, he was seen seldom outside the Dir'al Shahan; since then, never. For forty years he has ruled from isolation. I am his Shadow, I speak for him, but even I see him rarely and only when he summons me. I used to be his friend, but now? I am not sure.'

How does he eat and dress,
Marron wanted to ask,
who serves him?
The
question seemed trivial, though, against the sense of loss he heard in the others voice; so he asked another, an easier question instead. 'You have named him a man, a warrior and a diplomat; how was he made a magician, then, where does he take his power from?'

'That I do not know. I've never had the temerity to ask,'
and neither should you, if I do not.
'He has great power, but the source of it is as secret as his life. He summons me, or more commonly he sends me; I do as I am bid, no more than that.'

'And if he summon you today, this morning, now? Would you go, would you abandon your daughter to serve your King?' It was a question that turned and turned in Marron's mind, duty against love. He had answered it himself, he thought, both one way and the other; both had felt wrong, treacherous, bringing a deformity to the world. Both had broken what should have been most strong, had spilled what was most precious.

'Marron, when he summons me, he doesn't offer choices. I have abandoned my daughter before, remember? On the road to the Roq, and at other times too often to count. Not to such peril, I confess — but yes, I would go. I would have to.'

All the more reason to find Julianne quickly, then, and rescue her if they could. Marron had another thought, though, another question. He didn't believe that the King's Shadow had not had the same thought
himself, but still he had to ask.
'Can you speak to him? From here, I mean, right now?'

'Not outside the Kingdom, no. He speaks to me, where and when he chooses. He has sent me from Marasson to Rhabat and further; I am only his Shadow, with a shadows strength.'

'Well, if he speaks to you before we have her safe, could you not ask him to summon Julianne, the way he summons you?'

Coren smiled faintl
y. 'Oh, I could ask. I will ask, if the occasion arises. But will he answer me? I do not know. Years ago, yes - he would have risked his own life, perhaps his whole army for a child in danger. He has changed, though, since he came into his new title. Great strength and great responsibility will change any man; you know that, Marron, you have been changed yourself. Believe me, when I say that his alteration outweighs yours by all the distance of age and authority that lies between you.'

Forty years, and a Kingdom:
Marron
could believe that, without difficulty. He thought it ought to change a man beyond recognition; he thought that perhaps it had, by the touch of regret in Coren's voice. A friend lost, and perhaps a daughter too - they ought to command more than a touch, but the King's Shadow kept his humanity as hidden as his master, or tried to.

He was speaking again now, as his eyes remained fixed on the far horizon. 'It occurs to me, Marron, that I may perhaps be able to guess where Julianne has been taken. If they are wise, they will not cross the border; I do not know how the King would react to that, so certainly neither does Morakh, nor any 'ifrit. There is a place, though, that lies on this line, and a little outside the Kingdom. I don't understand why they would head there, but every bare sign we find suggests

it. There is nowhere else, at least, and I don't believe that they are running aimlessly, although I cannot see their purpose. Wake Elisande; this day may bring us answers, of a sort.'

4

Spirit Snares

Julianne knew where she was, now, at last; she knew what she had to fear.

She'd been frightened before - or had she? — when her body had not been her own, neither her thoughts: when she had felt her bones and muscles pull and shift all out of her control while her mind kept barely a thread's connection to what was real in the world, while it swam and sank in sickening oils, a haze of colours and shapes that meant nothing and touched her nowhere and yet were sickening regardless. She'd had no use of eyes or feet or fingers, her own skin had been alien to her and there was nothing in her head that she could claim. She had known somehow that she was moving; had she known also that she was afraid?

She couldn't say. What had come later - after she had been allowed her body again, after she had been let slip back inside her skin, when she ha
d fallen back on rough rock and
shivered frantically for more than the cold bite of the night and sobbed at the taste of harsh dusty air against her tongue and throat — what came then had been terrifying too, or so she thought now, looking back. There had been a creature, hard to see it clearly because of the way its black body sheened in the starglow but certainly it had been an 'ifrit, an 'ifrit with wings, longer and broader she thought than those that had attacked at Rhabat. Morakh had spoken to it, though she hadn't heard it speak nor ever heard that such spirits could; and then it had spread those wings and leaped from the clifftop - which was when she'd realised that there was a clifftop, and they were too close to the edge of it. Staring around in starlight she recognised the place, high above Rhabat and the Dead Waters, close to the temple and the tunnel's mouth. Marron had mentioned an 'ifrit, she thought, and a dead imam — but that was days before, and the 'ifrit had been defeated. Hadn't they
...
?

This one not, as it seemed. It had soared high, and swooped low; Morakh had hauled her to her feet, and she'd felt long claws bind themselves about her like a whip's coils as her body jerked like a whipped girl's, her neck snapped back, she was snatched abruptly into the air.

No comfort that Morakh was beside her, that they had this terror to share. She had dangled helplessly, eyes tighdy shut, an unknown distance above a ground she could not bear to look upon; she had filled her mind with a constant repetition, a desperate litany,
‘
have climbed a mountain. Besides, they want me living or the 'ifrit would not have made one cause with the Dancer Morakh nor he with it, therefore it will not let me fall Besides, it is dark down there and I could see nothing even if
my
eyes were open which they are not, therefore there is nothing to fear. My father taught me not to be afraid of the unknown, neither of anything I cannot change. Why fear a fall, where there is nothing I can
do
to prevent it? Besides — as
my
eyes are shut and the land is dark below — perhaps it is not so far below, perhaps this creature skims the dunes as a sea-bird skims the waves, and if I
fall it'll be no further and no worse than falling from Merissa. I miss Merissa. She gave me a smoother ride than this, and faster too; I was never scared to fall from her. Besides, I climbed a mountain
...

But had she been truly afraid or simply falling back into old habits, hiding from what was new, being scared of heights because that was so much easier than being scared of an 'ifrits claws around her belly, a dark and uncertain future? She couldn't say. All she knew was that the steady chant of her own voice inside her skull had lasted her from those first moments of flying until she was dropped on the sand, had kept her silent, had possibly kept her sane. If anything in this madness could have driven her mad, it was that first flight, and she'd survived it. Therefore - perhaps - she could survive whatever else might come, until her friends or her father or either of her husbands came to save her, as they must; for the only real certainty was that she couldn't save herself.

She had been dropped onto sand, and had opened her eyes at the shock of it to see the sun just rising over a rolling sea of dun and dusty dunes. Morakh was getting to his feet beside her; the 'ifrit was crouching a little distance off, fierce red eyes glowing in a body from a child's nightmare, glistening black and shaped for evil, too many legs and wings that wouldn't fold as they ought to in any creature of nature.

Morakh had slipped straps from his shoulders, dropping a faggot of fuel, a waterskin, a bag of flour. He'd lit a small fire and baked desert bread on a stone; he'd tossed a portion to her and she'd choked it down like an obedient prisoner, despite its rank taste and her utter lack of appetite. Food was important, strength mattered. Might matter, at least, if ever she had the chance to call upon it. Water too, and so she'd swallowed grimly from the skin when he passed it to her, although the skin had smelled rotte
n and the water's slimi
ness had almost closed her throat against it.

He'd lain down to sleep, and so had she. No question of his binding her arms or legs to keep her there, no need for it; the 'ifrit had been watching, and spirit never slept.

She had eaten, she had drunk; she'd tried to sleep as well, but her body wouldn't be forced despite its aching weariness, nor would her mind be still. She had seen small creatures frozen in terror before a stalking cat; she had heard of captives so numbed with shock that they slept and slept and could hardly be roused, and seemed to sleepwalk when they were. She had envied them, yearned to imitate, but could not; might as well have been 'ifrit herself for all the rest she had.

Not that she would have been let sleep very long, not long enough. Morakh had allowed himself only two or three hours before he stirred, grunted, rose. Julianne had kept her head down, watching in disbelief as he'd assembled his baggage and slung the straps about him, not moving herself, not rearing up in protest until he'd kicked her to it.

'You can't mean to move now. Under that,' with a sweeping gesture to where the sun had been climbing towards its highest and its hottest. Already the horizon had been blurring till she could barely see where sand faded into sky; already the air was drying and burning her throat as the light dried and burned her eyes. No one moved on the desert, while their shadows were this short.

'We will be followed,' Morakh had said abruptly, the first words he'd spoken to her since he took her from Hasan
’
s chamber so long ago, last night. 'While they rest, we move. This will weary them.'

'Weary them, perhaps; it will kill us. Me, at least. Perhaps you can live on a mouthful of water in a killing heat, but I cannot.'

'It is cooler, in the air. We will fly high.'

Had that been meant to reassure her? Probably not. To discomfort her, perhaps; he might have noticed how shy she was of heights. But if he cared little for her reassurance, he likely cared no more for her discomfort. She was a duty to him - as she had been to Blaise on the road to Rhabat, and that really was a long time ago, half a lifetime it felt, two marriages — and he would shoulder her until she could be relinquished. Information only, she'd thought his conversation was, no hidden meanings either way.

She'd still had a bangle on her wrist, part of the bridal treasure that she'd been playing with when Morakh had seized her; she let that slip to the sand as a sign to whoever came in pursuit, and otherwise stood quiescent beside her captor and simply waited as he did for the 'ifrit's claws to snatch them again into the air.

And so it had gone, on and on: flights in sunlight and in the dark, with her body dangling and her eyes tight shut, her mind focused on simple breathing, on staying alive. They'd come to ground more often than she'd expected, though it could never be often enough for her. At every halt she had been given water; at sunset and sunrise the Dancer had made a fire, and baked bread. Her stomach had revolted, her throat had clamped, but she could be strong in this at least, she could force the vile stuff down. She'd tried to leave some token each time, though she had no more jewellery and the simple robe she wore had offered nothing that was clearly hers. A few threads picked from its hem and twisted together with hairs plucked from her scalp, the resultant string knotted into a crude double loop, the sign of the God in whom she had no faith at all: that had been the best that she could manage. Any woman of the tribes who travelled in the Sands would wear such a robe, of that deepest blue that filled the spaces between the stars; her people—Julianne's people now that she was married, married again, so newly married and how careless her husband was of her, to lose her so very quickly — the Sharai claimed it for their own colour, a gift from their own God. Any woman of the Sharai might have hair of such a length, and only a few shades darker than Julianne's; not for the first time in her life she could have wished to be a golden blonde, to leave a clearer message. But surely no woman else would leave the God's sign in this land, for any friendly eye that could find and read it
...