In the Skin of a Nunqua (23 page)

*

Alone in his room, Tobian reached into his robe and pulled out a single glass beaker filled with black potion—the one he had stolen and hidden in the folds of his robe after retrieving his glasses.

The ceiling swirled overhead. He placed the beaker in a drawer, then pulled out a mirror. His skin had lost all color. He placed the mirror on top of his nightstand, then crawled into bed with his robes on. He would tell Baylova that she would ride out to battle, and so much more. The power of the monks was about to be obliterated.

Tobian fell into a long sleep without dreams. When he woke, he picked up the mirror to find he had resumed his normal shade of tan. But his eyes were rimmed in red.

24

Poisoned

J
un lifted his
mug from a table sticky with spills inadequately wiped up. He tasted his drink. It wasn’t watered down as he had expected. Only a few men were in the dirty tavern tonight, playing cards and losing their daytime troubles in strong liquor.

The barmaid, bored by the lack of customers, sat next to him. “You look like you could use some company.” She had almond-shaped eyes, short hair, and none of the silly body paint that women wore. It was easy to see that the exotic beauty was not hired for her ability to serve drinks and keep the place clean. “Business has been slow ever since the war started,” she said. “Are you a soldier?”

“Yes,” he said.

“So’s my husband. He left at the beginning of winter. Haven’t seen him since.”

They talked to pass the time. She would occasionally get up to wait on the other men absorbed in their game or their troubles, but would always come back to continue her conversation with Jun.

When the bar had emptied, the barmaid invited him up for a drink. “Just a drink,” she said, “nothing more.”

Jun looked into those pretty almond eyes and knew she was lying. He followed her up the stairs. She poured them some wine while he examined her room. The bed, wardrobe, desk, table, and chairs were much nicer than the furnishings in the tavern. Cleaner, too. She brought him the drink and remained close. He watched her lips as she lifted the cup to them but didn’t swallow. Her face tilted upward, enticing lips wet with wine, wanting him to take a taste, but he knew better.

“Stupid girl,” he said.

She backed away, still playing the game. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to. I’m sorry.”

Jun locked the door, certain he didn’t have much time.

“What are you doing?”

He opened the drawers of her desk and rummaged through the contents, searched through everything in the room.

“What’s going on?” she said.

He found nothing of intelligence value, nor any traces of drugs. He hoped she hadn’t put something in his drink earlier while they were downstairs.

“I made a mistake,” she said. “Please leave now.”

Jun knew that if he left through the same door he had come in by, his throat would be slashed. The men in the bar had never
looked
at the beautiful waitress. Hell, he was involved with a woman who wore poisonous darts and knew how to handle a sword, and
he
had looked. Jun had known he was in trouble the moment she sat down with him. Three Willovian soldiers had disappeared from this inn, and she was the obvious bait. The barmaid dressed too expensively, acted too haughty, to be working in such a squalid establishment. The one window in the room opened to a deserted street below. If he jumped, he could break a leg.

“I can save you.” Her face took on a look of superiority that detracted from her beauty. “Just stay with me tonight, tell me what you’re doing here, and they’ll leave you alone.”

“Who are they?” Jun said.

“They’re only interested in information.”

Jun thought about taking her hostage but didn’t think it would make any difference. He searched through her clothes and quickly found a few thin scarves. She ran for the locked door. He stopped her from leaving and covered her mouth. She bit the palm of his hand. Jun bound and gagged the woman with her clothes, tying her to the bed. Then he opened the window and jumped down to the hard cobblestones below.

He wrenched his right knee, causing a sharp pain that increased with every step. Limping down the street, he sought the safety of a crowd. The silhouette of a man came into view. Other men came out of the dark recesses of the buildings. Jun took a knife out of his coat and hid it in the palm of his hand, the blade against his forearm.

Spotted Nunqua advanced toward him, swords hooked to their belts. “Trying to escape a jealous husband?” someone said.

“Willovian!” a familiar voice with a thick accent shouted enthusiastically. “He’s the one who cut me in the Hedgelands. Disappointed to see me, eh? Perhaps you thought I was dead.”

Jun couldn’t take on all the men who surrounded him, but he might survive a fight against only one. “Let’s finish it now,” he told the warrior. “Just you and I. A fair fight.” It was a ploy to stay alive. His vision blurred. “Jus’ you an’ I.” He crumpled to the ground, the knife still clutched in his hand.

“You’re in no condition to challenge me, Willovian.”

Hazy faces of warriors looked down at him.

“So you were at the camp in the Hedgelands,” a voice said. This warrior had no accent but spoke Willovian perfectly. He removed the knife from Jun’s limp grip. “Later, Willovian. You’ll have your chance to fight.”

How could he be so dumb to be drugged by the woman and trapped by the Nunqua? Why weren’t they killing him? Maybe they were, and he couldn’t feel the pain of death because of the drug. Nunqua were renowned for their expertise in alchemy.

His thoughts turned to the home where he had grown up and his mother, father, brother, and sister. Jun thought of his misspent youth, the many fights and conniving ways, and serving as a spy for Willovia. He thought of the secluded cabin left to him by his grandfather, and the times they shared there. He thought of taking Shanti to the cabin someday. Then he thought of the war and realized he would never see his family or Shanti again.

Darkness replaced his thoughts.

*

Lifelike images of Baylova’s ancestors lined the walls of the portrait room. The long-dead royals of Willovia peered down upon the living. Baylova and her advisers waited for the monk who had much-needed news of the war. The young man in blue robes entered, followed by his loathsome mentor. Only the liaison approached; the elderly monk remained by the door.

“Baylova . . .” The man with spectacles bowed.

She backed away and blinked. She had thought him a soldier once, when they first met at the camp. Then he was strong and healthy. He was different now—gaunt, sickly.
He’s one of them.
She tried to shake off the unexplained feeling of revulsion she felt for the young monk. “You have something to tell us?”

“I have come . . .” He struggled to speak. “. . . to apologize.”

From the door, the old monk stretched out his hand.

“I saw the future. I drank a potion containing the blood of your father.”

“No!” the old monk cried.

“This potion allows us to journey into the future.” The young monk stared down at the simple pattern embroidered on the hem of her dress.

“He’s crazy,” the old monk said. “My young brother has had a bad reaction to our medicines.”

“I will hear it!” The queen’s commanding voice did not fit her tiny frame.

“Lies! Just lies . . .” He stepped away from the door.

Baylova turned to Commander Kyros. “Shut him up.”

At Kyros’s command, strong hands gripped the parchmentlike skin of the monk’s spindly arms.

“Continue,” she said to the bespectacled young man.

“The bloodline of the royals of Willovia has been bartered to protect the country. This ancient agreement has been tainted. The blood is taken without consent, and only twisted outcomes arise. The monks serve not Willovia but only their own selfish interests.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“Your mother was powerful, as are you. She was chosen by the order so that the heirs of King Magen would inherit Serova’s power. Your blood—the blood of royalty combined with the blood of a witch—is coveted by the order, as will be the blood of your heirs.”

“You say you see the future, but you tell me only of the past.”

“The other monks cannot see your future. Their visions are being blocked. I saw Queen Serova in my vision. Her spirit protects you still.”

“So my future cannot be seen?”

“The monks have peered into the future of those closest to you. Serova permitted me to see only a little into your future. You will ride with the Willovian forces to battle the Nunqua.” His head remained bowed, red-rimmed eyes downcast.

“You have my protection,” she said.

“He’s lying,” the old monk said. “Baylova, you have to believe me.”

“Put him in a cell,” she told Commander Kyros, referring to the loathsome old monk. Then Baylova put her back to the old man and ignored his pleas. “I hereby disband the order of the monks. Block off their residence—”

“Impudent brat,” the old monk said. “You’re nothing without us. Nothing!” His screaming rant could be heard as he was dragged away. “You have no case against us. Our order has done nothing wrong. You, Baylova, have wrought the downfall of Willovia. The Nunqua were right: you are unfit to rule. Witch. Pestilent, venomous witch!”

Baylova spoke to the young monk. “Those robes do not suit you. You may stay at the castle if you wish.” She was grateful yet troubled by her aversion to his presence.

“Tobian. My name is Tobian.” He looked into her face. “Baylova, you may disband the order, but the monks will try to kill you as soon as you have an heir.”

She nodded, then walked regally out of the portrait room.

*

Baylova sat behind her father’s marble desk, in her father’s velvet-covered chair. Six flags hung from the walls of this room in the tallest tower of the castle, a noble falcon on a field of blue decorating the largest and most prominent.

The crushing burden of ruling Willovia weighed on her shoulders now. The Nunqua warrior had held a sword to her throat, the monks wanted to kill her and then drink her blood, Aiden didn’t want to be with her, and nobody told her anything concerning matters of importance. Everyone still treated her like a child.

She placed her hand over a piece of parchment on the desk. It bore the names of fallen Willovian soldiers and those wounded in battle. Commander Jun was listed as missing. Aiden must have sent a letter, telling Commander Jun that she had ordered an inquiry into Shanti’s actions of withholding critical information concerning the war. Jun was probably rushing to the castle to rescue Shanti now, to speak in her behalf at the inquiry.

How did that half-breed, that traitor to Willovia, manipulate everyone to come to her aid? Commander Jun, Aiden, the soldiers, and the royal guards all liked Shanti better than they liked their own queen. Even the Daughters of Fortunate Birth were captivated, eager to hear more of Shanti’s lurid tales of being sold as a sex slave. Killing Shanti would turn everyone against her. What could she do to make everyone love her? How could she end her troubles, find admiration and sympathy?

She removed a small container and dart from her pocket, both acquired from a seldom-used cave. Her funeral would be a grand, sad event. She envisioned the people of Willovia throwing flowers at her coffin, the whole kingdom wearing red in her honor. They would speak in hushed tones of their beloved queen, poisoned by one of her own advisers. And Aiden would be heartbroken. He would paint her portrait to hang next to the paintings of her mother and father. Two beautiful red rosebuds would be drawn on her hand, with thorny stems to signify what could never be between them. Aiden would love her again.

She opened the container and dipped the tip of the dart into the poison. Shanti would be blamed for her murder. After all, Shanti used darts as weapons, and she was part Nunqua.

Bayla poised the dart over her wrist. The monks had it wrong. They could not foresee her future, because she had no future. It would hurt, though, plunging the dart into flesh, suffering sickness, dying.
Damn it.
She laid the dart on the desk. Cold sweat seeped from her pores. Blood pounded in her ears. An odd coo sounded. No, it was a
whoo
—the hooting of an owl. A snowy white owl perched on a beam above a window. She could not control the animal with her power.

“Hidden witch,” Baylova said. “Madiza.”

The owl flew down to the desk, wings spread and talons open, ready to snatch the dart. Bayla hit the bird, causing it to drop and skid on the desktop. Documents and quills scattered to the floor. Bayla lifted her hand, clenched it into a fist in midair, and twisted. The owl’s screech sounded like a scream as it fell, its wing broken by Bayla’s power.

“Baylova,” royal guards yelled in the hall.

Bayla picked up the dart and jabbed the poisonous tip into her hand. The guards arrived just in time to see her pull it out of her palm. The white owl struggled to fly, but it tumbled off the desk, losing a feather as it crashed to the rug.

“Kill the owl,” she told the guards.

They scanned the room for signs of real danger.

“Kill it!”

The guard’s lance embedded into the owl’s breast, staining the feathers red. Baylova lifted her hand to her face. “What have I . . . ?” The pupils of her eyes rolled backward, and she fainted.

*

Five royal guards escorted Shanti through the halls of the castle: two guards in front of her, two behind her, and one beside her, squeezing her arm. They pushed her into a room and closed the door. Antlers, animal heads, and pelts decorated the trophy room. Two elephant tusks hung crossed over the mantel. Commander Kyros sat in a stuffed leather chair and stared at the fire.

“Baylova will survive.” He reached into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a white cloth. Kyros set the cloth on a table, opening it carefully. Inside were a dart, a lidded container, and a white feather with brown stains. “You’re the only person I know who uses darts as weapons.”

“I was not in the room when she was poisoned,” Shanti said.

“True, but there are windows in the tower, and a ledge for you to stand on.” He lifted the dart, holding it between his finger and thumb.

“That’s not one of mine.”

“It’s Willovian.” He put the dart down then picked up the small container. “There’s an entire crate of these darts, and more of this particular poison, located in the caves. You’ve been in the caves. Baylova brought you there to discuss castle security. You have a reason for killing the queen, and the means to do it.” Kyros returned the container to the white cloth, then picked up the feather. “But this? I don’t understand this. Why would Baylova order the guards to kill an
owl
?”