In the Skin of a Nunqua (18 page)

19

An Interrogation

B
ayla listened to
the old monk speak without sentiment, his fingers interlaced over his chest. “Your father is dying of sickness, Rega. If you wish to see him one last time, you must return to the castle. He lies in bed waiting for you. His reign is at an end.”

The commanders of the camp stood around the snarling dragon, carved by Aiden on the stump near her feet. She swayed and grasped Vittorio’s arm for support. The wolf that she possessed paced back and forth in the trees. First Pirro, and now her father. Death was a reasonless, unstoppable wind.

“We leave tonight for the castle,” Commander Gy said.

“We can’t leave tonight,” Shanti said. “Nunqua attack at night. We’re safer here. Guards can be positioned around the perimeter of camp, twenty men at a time. No guards will be at the far posts. It’s better to leave in the morning. The men can get some rest and food.”

“This area is crawling with Nunqua,” Jun said. “If we stay here, we’re easy targets.”

“Nunqua see ten times better in the dark than Willovians,” Shanti said. “If we travel at night, we’re dead. They probably followed you back to camp and are waiting.”

“Which is why we have to leave. Tell me, Shanti. I cut open a warrior’s stomach, and he laughed as he was dying—said I didn’t kill him. What did he mean? And why are they after you?”

She closed her eyes. “It means Caravey is with them.”

“General Delartay?” Gy frowned.

“Yes.” Shanti said to Bayla, “I suggest you keep that uniform on. They won’t expect the crown princess of Willovia to be wearing the dirty uniform of a soldier. Switch horses with someone, Rega. Your stallion is a sure sign of your status. If we’re lucky, they don’t already know you’re here.”

Bayla looked at the monks. She wanted to run from the robed ghouls, her demonic blue shadows, her escorts to the grave. She must know. “Are you here to chronicle my death?” she asked the monks. “Is my father really dying, or is it a story concocted to disguise the real reason you’re here: to witness my demise.”

An inscrutable smile played on the old monk’s lips—a show of sympathy that seemed patently false. “We’re here to take you to your father, that’s all.”

Commander Gy took the pipe out of his pocket and rolled it over in his hands. “We stay at camp tonight and leave tomorrow morning. That’s final.”

*

Tobain clasped his hands behind his back and wandered around camp as an outsider. Soldiers hid in bushes, behind rocks, and up trees in anticipation of an attack. He carried no weapons, yet devices of death were everywhere: bows and arrows, swords and shields, knives, and fatal traps to ensnare anyone attempting to enter the camp by stealth. Quiet tension permeated the woods. Tobian remained a serene oasis clad in blue, like a stream of water passing through a thicket of thorns. He was a student of life, not a combatant.

What did the Nunqua look like? Were they hideous beasts with cloven hooves, cats’ eyes, and burnt skin? Storytellers scared children and adults alike with tales of the Nunqua: half-animal, half-devil atrocities that collected souls by cutting off the hair of their victims. God had cursed the wicked Nunqua with spotted skin and lips red as blood—the sadistic Nunqua who tied their prisoners to trees, inflicting a thousand cuts with poisonous blades. The poison did not kill immediately; it took days for the toxin to eat away the victim’s brain and slowly stop his heart. Tobian wanted to see a Nunqua face to face, to know if the stories were true. A wolf, lying on its side in the shade of the pavilion and panting, watched him.

Are you a soldier dressed to look like a monk?” Bayla asked.

He turned toward the princess, whose face was clouded by sorrow. “Excuse me?”

“Are you a soldier, or a monk?”

“I’m a monk, Rega Bayla.” He bowed, glancing at her dirty boots and scruffy uniform.

“You don’t look like a monk. You look like a soldier. What’s your name?”

She was testing him. “I have no name.”

“Then what shall I call you when I see you at the castle?” No animosity tainted her words.

“You may call me your humble servant.” They must have made an odd pair, he thought: the princess in the uniform of a common soldier, and him in the robes of a learned man.

Her eyes darted behind him, seeing . . . something. She took a step backward. The wolf sprang to her side. “I shall see you at the castle, then.”

“Rega.” He bowed again as she hurried away. The crown princess of Willovia was not what he had expected. The old monk slunk next to him, glaring greedily at Bayla.

“You’ve done very well indeed,” his mentor breathed. “I’ve been in the presence of the princess many times at the castle. I watched her grow up. Rega Bayla has never approached me, talked with me of her own free will, asked my name.” The covetous look on the old monk’s face turned to spleen. “Never.”

Bayla was quite the combination of sweet and dangerous. Tobian wondered what would be recorded about her in the history books for generations of monks to come. Why was so little of her future recorded, anyway? Would Baylova be a beneficent ruler or a tyrant? Would she be queen at all?

War with the Nunqua was coming to Willovia. The young man killed in the Hedgelands would not be the last to die. Tobian wanted to tell Rega Bayla about the future, the things he had read in the leather-bound books. But he was just an apprentice, sworn to secrecy, with no control over the timing of the revelations. His mentor was right: information could be a powerful thing. But the old monk had forgotten to mention that it could also be a burden.

*

Darkness slithered into camp, the threat of danger riding its back. Shanti didn’t join the soldiers on guard. They viewed her warily because of her half-breed status and her absence from the game when the Nunqua attacked. She watched Jun command the men to ensure that the area was secure. He gestured in silence, his orders harsher than normal. Jun entered his tent and left the flap open. Now was her last chance. She might never see him again. Her desire for Jun exceeded her fear of rejection. She went into his tent and closed the flap. He stopped packing things into a bag and faced her.

Last chance
. She had to know, even if it meant making a fool of herself. Shanti removed her sword and wristlet and placed them on the bed.

“You’re full of secrets,” he said.

“So interrogate me.”

“You’re a spy.”

She shook her head. “They asked me to . . . but I chose to disregard those orders.”

“The Nunqua won’t attack tonight, because you’re here. All our efforts are in vain.”

“I don’t know if they’ll attack.” She wanted to wrap herself around him like a blanket, but did he feel the same way? He had to. Even in this awkward situation, the pull between them was unmistakable.

“You call him Caravey; everyone else calls him General Delartay. He did more than train you to be a warrior. You’re different, unique. You had a relationship with him.”

Time for the truth, no matter how painful. “Three years ago,” Shanti said. “It was a mistake. I was naive, stupid. Caravey demanded I return to Willovia to gather information for him. Tricking him into thinking I would follow his commands was the only way I could escape. After spending all that time training me, Caravey wouldn’t permit me to leave without a reason that suited his purposes.”

“So you are a spy?”

“That was never my intention,” Shanti said.

“Willovian or Nunqua? What are you?”

“Both. I had nothing to do with Pirro’s death, I swear it.”

“If they’re after you,” Jun said, “why kill Pirro?”

She could think of only one answer. “Gitonk. Caravey wouldn’t have given such an order unless the war was already under way. Gitonk’s more thug than soldier. He idolizes Caravey and wants attention. I suspect Gitonk murdered Pirro.”

“War?”

“If the monks are correct and King Magen dies, the Nunqua plan on invading Willovia.”

“War?”

She nodded.

“You knew about this and didn’t tell anyone? You’re making it very hard for me to trust you.”

“A woman addicted to beetle wings foretold the death of King Magen years ago, and I didn’t believe her. Until now.”

“What about this warrior Gitonk?” Jun said. “I cut open his stomach, and he said I didn’t kill him.”

She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to talk about Caravey now that she was so close to Jun. “Caravey has built a reputation for himself as a ruthless and cunning warrior, but in reality, he’s a healer. He will heal Gitonk, as he has done before. Warriors under Caravey’s command do not fear death; they fear only Caravey.”

“How do I know you’re not tricking me?” Jun said.

Shanti lifted her hands. The skin of her fingers changed as she remembered the cruelty she had endured: the flesh, blistered and cracked until it resembled the wood of a tree with the bark peeled off. “He forced my hands into a fire until I screamed, and then he healed me.” She made visible a scar that ran from her cheek to her chin. “He cut my face with a sword when he thought I was using him to advance my own intentions, and then he healed me.” She pulled up her shirt to show him the scar on her abdomen. “He stabbed me with a knife the day before I left the Nunqua to come to Willovia, and then healed me yet again, giving a warning that some fates are worse than death.” She pulled down her shirt to cover her scarred belly. “Why would I be faithful to Caravey?”

Was it compassion she saw in his expression, or pity? She took a step toward him. “Are you going to put me in jail?”

“No.”

She took another step closer to him. “Are you going to tell Commander Kyros what I’ve just told you?”

“Yes,” Jun said.

“Don’t,” Shanti said. “Not everything. Tell Kyros about the invasion and the war but not about Caravey and me. That’s personal information meant only for you. I’ll inform Commander Gy and the Guardians of Willovia of the Nunqua’s plans to invade.”

Shanti took a final step until she was as close to Jun as she could get without touching him. “Will I see you again?” she asked.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and his eyes no longer had that hard, questioning look about them. Shanti closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. Their first kiss might very well be their last, but she didn’t care.

Jun put his arms around her and deepened the kiss.

Relief intermingled with other feelings that swirled in her system. Time had no meaning; her will was lost in a sea of emotion. Footsteps passed by the tent.

“You need to go,” Jun said. “We can finish the interrogation at a better time.”

“Is this how you interrogate all your informants?”

“Just you,” he said.

“Where are you going after this?”

“After what you’ve just told me about invasion and war, I really don’t know. I’ll find you, I promise.” He kissed her until they were once again pressed together in a prolonged embrace.

A twig snapped outside the tent. More footsteps. Hushed voices.

Jun released her, and Shanti gathered her weapons. She left the tent, not caring who saw. No lamps lit the darkness, and she dilated her eyes. Bayla, Gy, Leanna, and the monks sat inside the pavilion with other soldiers. Men crouched under bushes or lay prone on the ground, prepared for the worst.

Shanti went to her tent and stretched out on the cot. Sinful, sweet thoughts centered on Jun: the feel of his body, arms holding her tight, mind-numbing kisses. Jun wasn’t pretending to care about her in order to get information. Was he?

It couldn’t be.

*

No Nunqua attacked, and morning brought a sense of relief and discontent. Aiden, a leather pouch of coins strapped over one shoulder, and sword strapped to his back, approached Bayla. She sat alone on a log, feeding the wolf scraps of raw meat. Tents were being struck all around them, and soldiers stowed bundles in carts. The wolf padded around Aiden’s feet and waited to be petted like a tame dog.

“Did you win a bet?” she asked, her voice flat.

He jingled the heavy pouch. The money from the wager would go to whoever guessed the correct date Commander Jun and Commander Shanti got together. The bet seemed tactless now, insignificant. This money was going to a far worthier cause. “I’m taking donations for Pirro’s family.” Every soldier had contributed to the fund, the commanders giving a larger share.

She laughed and wiped away a tear. “I’m the richest person here—in all Willovia, for that matter—yet I have no money to give. They took me away from the castle with just the clothes on my back and my horse. Tax collectors and advisers handle the royal funds.”

“It’s okay.” He longed to put his arm around her, but she was the crown princess—and a witch. “I just wanted to say good-bye.”

“I can have him buried in the royal catacombs in a place of honor, wrapped in silk winding sheets, in a tomb carved by the finest craftsmen, with rare incense burned at the funeral.”

“It’s a generous offer, but I’m sure Pirro would rather be buried near his family.” He watched her toss a piece of meat into the air. The wolf caught it in its jaws and gulped the morsel down. Aiden could hardly believe she was touching the remains of a dead animal—something she would not normally do. Her father was dying, and Bayla seemed hollow, on the edge of insanity. More than ever, he wanted to comfort her but kept his distance. Something dark seethed inside Bayla—a blackness that she needed to spit out before it grew and swallowed her whole.

“Good-bye, Rega.”

“Aiden, please, you can call me Bayla.”

*

Caravey touched the mythical dragon carved into the stump. Willovians—even out here in the middle of the woods, they managed to flaunt their presence with artistic flair. It was one of the things he admired about them. He picked a yellow leaf off the ground and gazed upward at the canopy of leaves soon to color themselves in autumn splendor. Warriors dressed in black explored the Willovian encampment. Holes in the ground served as markers to show where tents were placed; dirt paths gave clues to the soldiers’ daily activities; guard posts had been hastily covered with brush. The pavilion remained. The Willovians hadn’t burned it, because a fire would have exposed the camp’s location sooner.