The Jackal of Nar (62 page)

“I’m too tired to argue,” said Richius despondently. He rolled over and blew out the candle, so that all he could see was Lucyler’s pale face in the doorway.

“Rest well. I will see you in the morning,” said Lucyler gently, then silently closed the door.

Richius listened to the booted feet disappear down the hall, until all he could hear was the distant cry of wind and his own rhythmic breaths. Closing his eyes, he nestled his head back against the mattress, trying to push Dyana from his thoughts. Yet his mind’s eye was filled with her. Tonight he would lie awake and think of her in the arms of his enemy, and torture himself over the sweetness of their love-making.

• • •

The great feast of Casadah was to be held in the giant banquet room on the ground floor of the citadel, close to the kitchens and the greathall-turned-orphanage. All day Richius watched the transformation of the citadel, marveling at the women scurrying through the halls balancing trays of strange dishes, and at the men who came through the gates of the place burdened by the carcasses of freshly killed animals. Children scrambled underfoot, excited by the sounds and smells of the coming celebration, and folk from everywhere in Tatterak streamed into the citadel laden with baskets of their best. Musicians played on unusual pipes and sang their foreign, haunting songs, and holy men walked through the crowds telling stories and leading fiery prayers to Lorris and Pris, the gods for whom the day was consecrated. And all prepared themselves for the same thing Richius anticipated: the coming of Tharn.

It had been a quiet morning. Lucyler showed Richius the sights of Falindar, carefully avoiding the subject of Dyana and remaining conspicuously quiet about Tharn. They had gone to the very top of the citadel, to stand upon its wondrous roof garden and try to guess just how many miles they could see. The Drol had been given a flawless day for their holiday. The sky was a cloudless blue, and the gentle spring sun painted the hills and the sea with its brilliance. From their mountain perch they could see the endless plains of Tatterak stretching outward, halted only by the ocean that crashed against the citadel’s founding cliff. And they watched the processions of pilgrims come—whole families on foot and wanderers on horseback—until by noon the road was choked with them and the common areas around the castle rang with the din of happy celebrants. The exotic scents of unknown herbs and seasoned meats drifted through the castle’s many halls, and outside in the yards teenaged Triin wrestled playfully with Kronin’s warriors and cajoled their female peers with displays of boyish charm. All was perfect, just as Lucyler promised—except for one thing.

Dyana was nowhere to be seen.

Not that Richius had expected to see her. He had guessed by Lucyler’s shiftiness that he would not be seeing her until he first
spoke to Tharn, and that wouldn’t happen until after the feast. Perhaps tonight, he told himself anxiously, and did his best to relax into the mood of the day. When the feast finally came near sundown, he was famished from an afternoon of sightseeing. They watched in the crowded courtyard as the sun began to vanish behind the mountain peaks, the moment, Lucyler explained, when the feast of Casadah could begin. The great gathering finally hushed as they anticipated the coming of their cunning-man.

“We can go inside now,” said Lucyler. “There is only enough space in the banquet room for some of us. The others will feast out here.”

“Where will Tharn be?” asked Richius. “I want to see him first.”

“He will speak to the people after the feast. Come, Kronin will be waiting for us.”

Richius followed Lucyler into the citadel and down the halls packed with people, who viewed him with only passing curiosity. The banquet room was on the side of the castle nearest the ocean, a fair walk even when the place was empty, and they had to push their way across the floor, carefully navigating the maze of knees and elbows. When they finally reached the banquet chamber they found that it too was swelled to capacity, its huge windows all but invisible behind a curtain of white Triin flesh. Richius felt a passing uneasiness. The place was swarming with saffron robes, the favored garb of the Drol caste. There was a sprinkling of Kronin’s blue-jacketed warriors, but for the most part it was a hive of yellow. Richius paused at the doorway, suddenly losing his prior appetite. They were all men, with long white hair like Lucyler’s and serious expressions on their faces, and the only females in the room were modestly dressed serving women who floated daintily through the group with platters of steaming food.

Were all these sober men Drol priests? Richius hadn’t expected to see so many. Gradually he inched into the room, hoping to go unnoticed until he found Kronin. The tall warlord was at the other end of the chamber, talking loudly with a trio of his men. Every head in the place turned as the first of them sighted Richius. The talking thinned to a curious murmur.

“Do not be worried,” said Lucyler confidently. “You are Tharn’s guest tonight.”

Richius tried to harden his expression and they moved through the gathering toward Kronin. There were two conspicuously empty chairs near the warlord. A grander chair was beside Kronin’s own, no doubt meant for Tharn.

“Did you speak to him last night?” asked Richius.

“I did. And now you will see why I’ve kept secrets from you.”

Richius said nothing more, satisfied that he would soon have some answers. The talking in the chamber politely resumed. When they reached Kronin, the warlord stretched out his hands and greeted them loudly.

“Gaaye hoo, awakk!” proclaimed Kronin, looking around the room defiantly. He took Richius’ hand and pulled him forward, placing an unexpected kiss on his cheek.

“Kronin greets his cherished friend,” explained Lucyler with a chuckle. “And he wants everyone to know it.”

“Shay sar, Kronin,” said Richius, carefully pulling back his hand. The warriors whom Kronin had been speaking with dismissed themselves with flowery bows. Kronin bid them to their chairs, then sat down, his jewelry jingling like chimes. Richius sat next to the lord of Tatterak, grateful to have at least one ally in this room full of Drol. He leaned over to whisper in Lucyler’s ear.

“Are all the men Drol cunning-men?”

Lucyler nodded. “They have come to celebrate this day with their leader. You should feel honored, Richius.”

“I suppose,” replied Richius dully. In a strange way he did feel honored. Voris wasn’t here, and neither were any of the other warlords who had been loyal to Tharn during the war. Other than the cunning-men, only he, Lucyler, and Kronin were present, three men who had dedicated themselves to Tharn’s destruction. Now Lucyler and Kronin wore smiles in the presence of the revolutionary, and the mystery of it all was about to be revealed. Shortly he would meet the man who had stolen his love and murdered Edgard.

Bring him on
, he thought coldly.
I am ready.

The scores of cunning-men took their seats at the round tables. The voices stilled. From outside the banquet room an anxious murmur grew among the Triin gathered in the hall. Soon the murmur became an impassioned cry.

Richius knew that his nemesis was near.

He tried to still his thundering heart with a few slow breaths,
but the electricity of the moment had charged him. The chorus outside the banquet chamber intensified, droning on and on as the minutes passed and Tharn moved through the crowd toward his waiting cunning-men. Endless shouting and hopeful voices, all ringing out in praise for this man who had brought them war and widows. To Richius the sound was unfathomable. Never once had he heard such devotion for a leader, even in the heady days of his father’s reign.

And then the chorus suddenly ebbed, as if Tharn had stilled it with a wave of his hand. The eyes in the banquet room fixed on the hall beyond, and the cunning-men rose silently from their seats. Kronin and his warriors did the same.

“Rise,” whispered Lucyler, getting to his feet. Richius got up, waiting for a giant to step into the chamber. What he saw instead made his jaw slacken.

A stooped figure appeared in the doorway, one atrophied hand clutching a cane that shook beneath his weight. He was dressed in the saffron robes of a Drol holy man, his face partially covered by a hood that did little to obscure his poisoned features. He pulled himself with evident pain across the smooth floor, his gnarled walking stick barely supporting his drooping frame and the palsy-stiffened leg that dragged behind him. His face was a diseased mask of scars and sores, and his scalp was bare in parts where the tangled hair had fallen out in clumps. Two dark eyes shone from the depths of the cowl, and the lips that curled around the malformed jaw were spotted with yellow blisters. Tharn’s left arm dangled at his side, its hand tightened into a useless club. Like the lepers and wounded veterans he protected, his body was a shattered, shambling mound of crooked bones and cracked skin, and when he moved his anguish projected itself to all who watched him struggle. It was as if old age had heaped all its worst maladies upon one young man, wrecking forever the good looks nature might have intended. To be complimentary was to say he was grotesque.

Richius watched with forced effort as Tharn dragged himself slowly through the banquet hall, amazed at the sight. How had this broken thing inspired the Drol to victory? It seemed impossible. And in all the stories he had heard of Tharn, never once had such infirmity been mentioned. Surely a man so deformed would have had names other than “Storm Maker.” Tharn the
Hideous would have been more apt, for it looked like he could hardly summon a cup of water, much less a storm. Richius understood with sudden clarity what Lucyler had been hinting; there was no way this man could share a bed with a woman. For him, the simple act of walking was exhausting.

When Tharn had made it halfway across the room, Kronin stepped forward and helped him the rest of the way to his chair. When he was sure his master was steady, Kronin released him, going back to stand beside his own chair. The crowd bowed their heads as Tharn raised his good hand and spoke.

A prayer, Richius guessed. Lucyler bowed his head with the others. Richius did not. He listened to Tharn’s emaciated voice, like the straining of some untuned harp, sickly fascinated by the broken sounds. Even speaking seemed to sap the man’s energy. He was not old, yet his voice was ancient, at times vanishing completely beneath the rasping of mucus. Yet he did not cease, but continued on with his prayer, finally lowering himself gratefully into his chair when he was done. When he was safely seated he bid the others to sit as well. Kronin clapped his hands, and the serving women in the corner came to life again. From outside the doorway several more women entered carrying a collection of instruments of ornate Triin design. At once the conversation sprang up again, and Kronin took his seat, a huge smile stretched across his face. He slapped Richius playfully across the back, forcefully enough to send his knees banging against the table. The warlord and Lucyler both laughed. Richius laughed, too, albeit nervously, and shifted his eyes around the room to where the women were setting up their instruments.

Typically Triin
, he thought cynically. The goddess Pris had done nothing to improve the lot of her gender.

The musicians started playing and singing and Richius began to relax, finally chancing a glance in Tharn’s direction. The master of the citadel was engaged in conversation with another holy man, over his shoulder. Richius leaned closer to Lucyler.

“Not what I expected,” he whispered. “What happened to him?”

“Later,” replied Lucyler softly. “When we are alone.”

“But—”

“Shhh.”

Tharn was speaking again. He raised his scarred hand and
gestured toward Richius, then to all the men seated around the circular tables. Serving women darted through the crowd, placing their platters of food before the hungry warriors. Kronin’s men began devouring the stuff as they listened.

“What’s he saying?” asked Richius. “Is it about me?”

Lucyler was laughing. “Yes, my friend. He is telling the cunning-men not to let your presence upset them. See how they look?”

It was true. The faces in the chamber were uniformly somber. Tharn pointed again at Richius.

“King Vantran,” he rasped awkwardly. It had obviously been a long time since he had spoken the tongue of Nar, and the words sounded foreign even to Richius. The cunning-man had none of Lucyler’s eloquence with the language. Tharn cleared his throat and started again, looking at Richius apologetically. “King Vantran. Welcome.”

“Answer back in Naren,” said Lucyler softly.

Richius straightened to address the monarch. “I thank you for the welcome, Master Tharn, and for your kindness in having me sup with you on your holiday.”

Tharn managed what looked like a smile. “These others do not want you here, King Vantran. This is what I was saying.”

Richius shrugged. “Then that is their problem, Master Tharn.”

A scratchy laughter roiled out of Tharn’s throat, followed by a fit of coughing. “It is, King Vantran.” He settled down and looked at Richius seriously. “You wish to talk, I know. Lucyler has told me you are …” He paused to think of the word. “Anxious, yes?”

“Very,” answered Richius.

“We will speak,” said Tharn. “Tonight. Now we will eat. Casadah, King Vantran.”

Richius turned to accept a cup of some steaming liquid from a serving woman. The drink was thick and foul, like peppered vinegar. He raised the cup to Tharn in mock salute.

You asked me to come, remember?
he mused. It upset him that Tharn was so willing to put him off, but he brought the cup to his lips and drank anyway. The hot liquid bit ferociously into his palate, startling him.

“What is that?” he barked, dropping the drink to the table and
cupping his wounded lips. He could feel the blisters already starting to rise.

“Tokka,” said Lucyler, enjoying his own cup with Kronin. “A spiced berry wine. You have to drink it carefully.”

Richius pushed the cup away. “Or not at all.”

“It is a traditional drink among the people of Tatterak,” warned Lucyler. He pushed the cup back under Richius’ nose. “Kronin will be offended. Drink.”