The Jackal of Nar (67 page)

“Damn you, Tharn,” he hissed. He couldn’t even return to Aramoor and plot his vengeance on the cunning-man. Dyana and Shani were here, hostages against any military retribution. “Dyana,” he groaned. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.”

“You must go back. You must leave us here, Richius.”

“How can I leave you with this madman?” he asked. “God, she’s my daughter!”

“Tharn is not mad,” she said mildly. “He looks after me, and he has promised to care for Shani, too. He knows that she is your child.”

“Are you certain about this? Is there any chance she is his?”

“None,” said Dyana. “You have seen how ill he is. He is not able to be with me, Richius. That is why my rooms are not near his.” She smiled, trying to cheer him. “Please believe me. I have learned much about him. His illness has changed him. He is kind and gentle, like you. And I am not afraid of him.”

“But you don’t love him.”

Dyana shrugged. “No. But I know he loves me. Shani’s birth was hard. I was close to death, I think. But he stayed with me
through it all. He did not care for himself, but watched me and slept by me.”

“Casadah,” said Richius. “That was when the birth started, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Dyana with a shudder. He could tell she was still weak from the ordeal and that the memory of it was painfully fresh. “Shani was born the morning after. I do not remember much, really. There was so much blood, and Tharn was talking to my women, telling them to help me. He thought I would die. I thought so, too. But he stayed with me. He was there when she was born.”

“When I was in Aramoor I used to dream about you,” Richius said softly. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, but you were all I could think about. I was so angry with myself for leaving you, for letting you down. And then when Arkus said he was sending me back to Lucel-Lor, I told myself that maybe you would still be here, and I could find you and take you back home.” He laughed. It all seemed so pathetic now. “My God. What a fool I am.”

“No,” said Dyana. “You did more than anyone could have. Somehow I knew when I met you that you would find a way back here. But it is over now, Richius. We have separate lives. I am Triin and you are Naren, and we are both wedded.”

“Yes,” Richius admitted. “Wedded.” He thought of his bride back in Aramoor. She would be waiting for him, worrying. He knew he didn’t deserve Sabrina any more than she deserved the curse of a neglectful husband. But Arkus had cast both their fates for them, just as Dyana’s father had written her future when she was a mere girl. They were all game pieces being moved whimsically across a board, unable to still the hands of their masters. He stared listlessly at the floor, searching for an answer that never came. “What shall I do?” he said softly.

“Leave us,” said Dyana firmly. “We will be well here, I promise. Tharn is good. And he cares for me. You must go home to Aramoor. You must do as Tharn asks. Can you do that? Can you stop this war?”

“No,” said Richius. “The emperor won’t listen to me.”

Dyana looked at him oddly. “I do not understand. You told Tharn you could help him.”

“Tharn thinks that because I’m a Naren king, Arkus will care what I say. He’s wrong. Getting Arkus to change his mind is impossible.”

“But you will try, yes?”

Richius was silent. He was very quickly becoming Tharn’s whore, and the thought of helping the freakish holy man made his insides clench. But now there was Dyana and his daughter to consider. Things were different, just as Tharn knew they would be.

“Richius,” ventured Dyana carefully. “Tharn is very wise. He would not ask this of you if it were not important. He has brought peace to Lucel-Lor. He is—”

“Please,” said Richius, cupping his hands over his ears. “Not you, too. I can’t bear it. Everyone is convinced he’s some great man. Forgive me, but I don’t see it.”

“Not a great man,” Dyana corrected. “A good man. You do not know him, Richius. He has changed, I swear it. He is like he used to be, when we were young. He cares about his people. We are everything to him.”

“Lucyler tells me he thinks his gods deformed him. I think he’s just diseased. What do you believe?”

“I think he is touched by heaven,” replied Dyana. “I think the gods have made him special. And I think he knows this, and it has humbled him.”

Richius shook his head in disbelief. It was as if they all suffered from some mind-dulling dementia. Did the past mean nothing to them? Slowly he rose from the floor and peered once more into Shani’s cradle. The infant fidgeted.

“My daughter,” he said sadly. “How can I leave her? You ask the impossible of me, Dyana.”

“It is how it must be,” Dyana answered. “I wish there was another way, but …” Her voice trailed off with a shrug.

“I know,” said Richius. He reached down and lightly felt Shani’s tiny head, marveling at the sensation of her downy hair on his finger. In that moment she was more magnificent to him than the towers of Nar or the ancient forests of Aramoor or Falindar’s bright citadel. He would slay an army of Tharns for her, but he had no weapons for the fight. Silently he closed the cradle’s canopy.

“I want to see her again before I leave,” he said over his shoulder.

Dyana walked up behind him. “You are going, then?”

He nodded.

“Will you speak to your emperor?”

“I’ll leave in a few days,” Richius replied dully. “I want to give Tharn time to think about what I told him.”

“Will you, Richius? Will you talk to him?”

Richius turned and stalked away. But when he made it to the door he hovered there, unable to cross the threshold. Dyana was staring at him curiously.

“Richius?”

“For months I have thought about you, Dyana,” said Richius softly. “I’m like Tharn, obsessed with you, and I can’t find the strength to forget you.”

“You must.”

“I don’t want to. I’m in love.”

Dyana colored.

“It’s a foolish thing, I know,” said Richius. “But I had always hoped that maybe when I saw you again, you might tell me that you have thought of me these past months, too.” He tried to smile at her. “Have you ever? Maybe just a little?”

Dyana turned away. “It is not a thing to speak of,” she said icily. “I am married to Tharn.”

It wasn’t an answer, and the evasiveness of the statement made Richius hopeful. He took a tiny step closer to her. “Just a little, perhaps?”

Dyana did not turn, but her shoulders slumped slightly. “When I was carrying Shani, Tharn was with me always, caring for me and seeing to my needs. He was like a true husband to me. And when I was birthing, he nursed me and held my hand. But Shani has always made me think of you, Richius. Even when she was in my belly.” At last she turned to look at him, and her eyes were heavy with sadness. “You are not so easy to forget, Richius Vantran.”

Richius smiled hopefully. “Dyana …”

“That is my answer,” she said curtly. “It is all I can say to you. And if you love me as you claim, you will do this thing for me and our child. Will you? Will you talk to your emperor?”

Richius left the room without replying.

O
n Falindar’s bleak mountain, on the side that faced the sea, the cliff face dove down a thousand feet to the rocks and wash below. Almost nothing grew here, for the ground was rocky, and the view to the endless ocean was unobscured except for one remarkable tree. It was ancient, tall, and weather-gnarled, with coiled branches that never dropped their foliage, even in winter. Leaves of gold and summer green changed hue with the seasons, and its trunk terminated in a web of roots that burst from the earth as they struggled to crack their rocky foundation. No one knew how the tree had gotten here, or how it garnered nourishment from the soil, but it was widely thought of as a gift from the sky wraiths, those lesser Triin gods that floated above the earth and dwelt sometimes on beautiful mountains. Because of this and its peculiar fruit that ripened in the early spring, the tree was renowned among Triin, an artifact taken as proof that the gods existed and that they loved their mortal children.

Lucyler didn’t know if the tree was a gift from heaven or a trick of nature. He only knew that he loved the tree; that the tree gave him solace and made him thoughtful. In the days before the fall of Falindar, when he was the Daegog’s privileged man, he would come to the tree and pick off one of its citrusy fruits, savoring it while he watched the sea dash itself against the shore. Those had been carefree times, when all he had to worry about was his Daegog’s security and the boring press of daily life. Tharn and his revolution had changed all that forever, but the tree was still here and it still gave fruit, and it still made Lucyler ponder mysteries.

Today he needed the tree.

He reached into its thorny branches and plucked off a ripe red fruit. The branch sprang backward, startling a thrush and sending it skyward. It was a mild morning, a good morning to enjoy
the serenity of the mountain. He sat down on an outcropping, his feet dangling off the cliff wall, and gently began peeling away the fruit’s skin. A spray of juice struck his face and he smiled.

The sea was tranquil. He spied it as he ate, sucking out the tangy juice from the fruit’s segmented interior. Birds skimmed the ocean in their perpetual quest for food, and the sky above was azure and cloudless. The fresh scent of briny water drifted on the breeze, and the sun was gentle on his face—so warm that its touch made him sleepy. But he hadn’t come here to sleep today. He had come to think, for he was troubled, and the day’s excellence did little to leaven his mood. He had betrayed a friend, and the guilt of it was killing him.

Two days had passed since he had spoken to Richius. Tharn had informed them both of his decision separately, and now it was up to Richius to decide what happened next. The discovery of his daughter had made Richius cold and distant. He didn’t come to meals, he didn’t speak with anyone, he didn’t acknowledge knocks on his door. Sequestered in his room, Richius took in the food left for him in the hall only when he heard Lucyler’s footfalls leaving. They all worried about him, even Tharn, but they didn’t press him, and they were ignorant about what was going on behind his chamber door.

My poor friend
, thought Lucyler mournfully.
I am sorry.

And he was sorry. Genuinely. He skipped over the last few weeks in his mind, playing over his tactics and looking for mistakes. His one great regret was that he had listened to the woman. Dyana was wrong to keep the news from Richius, Lucyler knew that now. He should have told his friend of the pregnancy the moment they met in the Saccenne Run. But Dyana had been adamant, and hopeful that Richius would not come at all. She explained that there was no sense in telling him of the baby if he decided not to return for her. It would only make him want to come more, and there was nothing for him here.

Lucyler frowned as he chewed on the fruit’s soft pulp. It had seemed good reasoning at the time. But Richius had reacted badly, and Lucyler was sure he was resentful.

“Damn,” he muttered. He shouldn’t have done it. Now his friend was lost to him, this fine, irreplaceable friend. Making it up was impossible; deception couldn’t be erased. They had had a
code in the Dring Valley, and had kept each other alive by following it. He had broken that code. He would miss Richius greatly.

And then, like a faint breeze, he heard him. Lucyler turned his head to see him standing some yards away, his arms hanging purposelessly at his sides. Lucyler licked the sticky juice from his lips, then waved Richius over.

“Sit,” he said as Richius’ shadow fell on his back. The shadow hesitated a moment before it moved. Richius sat down on the ledge carelessly, tossing his feet over the edge and staring blankly at the horizon.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Richius asked. He didn’t turn to look at Lucyler, but asked the question to the wind. Lucyler shrugged.

“I am not sure now.”

“Not good enough. Dyana told me she asked you not to tell me. Is that true?”

Lucyler nodded.

“And you listened to her? Why, Lucyler? How could you keep such a thing from me?”

“I said I do not know,” Lucyler replied. “She asked me and I did it. Maybe I was wrong.”

“You
were
wrong.”

Lucyler turned to regard his friend. Richius looked older now. Three days’ beard growth obscured his face and his hair was tousled and oily. Wrinkles creased his clothes and his eyes were sad. He sat with his shoulders slumped, his hands clasped loosely against his stomach as he rocked distractedly in the breeze.

“All right,” Lucyler conceded. “I was wrong. And I am sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. Dyana hoped you would not return, and she knew if I told you about the child that you would certainly come.”

“But you knew I’d come anyway,” said Richius. “You and Tharn planned it that way.”

“That is not so,” said Lucyler, shaking his head vigorously. “I never lied to you.”

Richius finally turned to look at him. “Didn’t you? I asked you if Tharn would let Dyana go. You never answered me. That’s just as bad as lying about it, Lucyler. Call it what you want, but
you let me go on believing he would free her.” His chin sank into his chest. “And that’s what hurts me most of all. I thought we were friends.”

Lucyler’s heart fractured. “Never doubt it,” he said quietly. “You are dear to me, Richius, whether you believe so or not. But I thought at the time Dyana was right. And perhaps she was. Is it really good to know you have a child here whose life you can never be part of? This did occur to me. I was not doing it to hurt you.”

“And what about Tharn? Did you know he wouldn’t let Dyana go with me?”

The question made Lucyler grimace. He wanted to lie, to extricate himself from guilt with a simple fabrication, but he screwed up his courage and said, “Tharn never told me he would not let her leave with you. But I suppose I knew it, yes.”

Richius’ head drooped a little more. Lucyler raced to explain himself.

“You have to understand. It was the only way to get you here. Would you have been willing to speak to Tharn if Dyana was not here?”