The Jackal of Nar (78 page)

He thought of her often in those days while he waited for her to flower. He took her memory with him to Nar and thought of her as he watched the imperial ladies rouge themselves until their faces were red and drug themselves incoherent. And upon his return he thought of her still, and told his Drol tutors of the
lovely wife awaiting him. He had bragged on her, and when she broke her father’s vow she had given him only one choice. So he hunted her.

Tonight, he hunted her again. She was his wife now, and that meant he owned her. If his body would allow it, he could have forced himself on her anytime he wished it. But he no longer wished it. Perhaps this was love.

She shared the hall with her nurse and handmaidens, he reminded himself, and so moved as quietly as possible to her door. Carefully, he tucked his cane under his armpit and reached for the latch. She never locked her door, for he did not require her to do so as many husbands would. It was a small token of trust, and he supposed she appreciated it. His useless hand turned the knob slowly, losing its weak grip before finally twisting it open. A telltale creak whined from the hinges as the door swung open and the light of his candle swept inside.

Nervously Tharn entered the room, closing the door behind him with the weight of his shoulder. The latch shut with a quiet click. He surveyed the bedchamber. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, lighting Shani’s crib. The baby was sleeping soundlessly under her swathe of blankets. Dyana’s bed was against a far wall. He could see her dozing, unaware of his intrusion, her arms bare, her hair falling around her. An aching thundered in his breast, setting his skin aflame. The candlelight flickered on her white flesh, exposing her perfection.

He lingered in the moonlight. He felt ashamed and juvenile, like a curious boy kept forever from manhood. Yet he could not leave her, and he thought again of Richius Vantran, and how he too suffered under the same bewitchment. But Dyana knew she was his wife, and that gave him title over her and dominion. Even with his broken body, she was his forever. He wondered darkly if she were his reward for delivering his land, or just another of his patron deities’ cruel jests.

Quietly, he stalked to the bedside. Dyana stirred, her eyelids flickering against the candlelight. Quickly he shielded the flame, blocking it from her sight. He had thought she had settled back to sleep when her eyes popped open. Tharn took a hurried step away from the bed. Dyana started with a shallow cry and drew back against the headboard.

“No,” Tharn whispered. “Do not be afraid, Dyana. It is me.”

Dyana’s eyes narrowed. “Husband?” she ventured. “Is that you?”

“It is,” admitted Tharn, embarrassed. “I am sorry I frightened you.”

“What is it?” asked Dyana, sitting up. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” answered Tharn. He could see she was confused and stepped back to the bedside. She squinted at him, dazed and maybe a bit frightened, and he wondered just how ghastly he appeared in such murkiness. Dyana pulled the sheets closer around her body as she stared at him.

“Husband? What is it?”

Tharn could hardly answer. All the courage that had taken him this far vanished in a flash, abandoning him to the same puerile anxieties he always felt around his wife. He started to stammer a response, but abruptly stopped himself.

“It is nothing,” he said finally. “I just wanted to see you before I left. Be well, Dyana.”

As he started back toward the door Dyana called after him.

“Husband, wait,” she pleaded. “Tell me what is wrong.”

Tharn hovered near the door, watching his wife’s impossibly deep eyes. He put the candle down on a dresser and inched closer to her bed. Dyana had dropped her fearful look and now seemed only concerned.

Concerned,
thought Tharn. Like Richius had said.

“I am leaving in the morning,” he said. “For Chandakkar.”

Dyana nodded uncertainly. “I know.”

“I am your husband,” said Tharn. His lip began to tremble. “Have I been a fair one, Dyana?”

“Yes,” said Dyana quickly. She waved him closer and took his hand. Her touch burned. “More than fair. You have been a gentle husband.”

Tharn frowned. Gentle was not what he hoped for tonight.

“And you are happy here?” he asked. “And is the baby happy?”

“I am happy,” said Dyana. There was enough sadness in her tone to tell she was lying. “Shani is healthy and growing. Yes, husband, we are both well.”

“In the morning I will be leaving,” he said again desperately. “Maybe for a long while. It is a bad road to Chandakkar.…”

Dyana stared at him, clearly puzzled by his words. “You must
take care of yourself. Be wary. Listen to your cunning-men, and do not ride too hard. Rest often.”

“I will miss you,” he managed to say. “I will miss looking at you. You are beautiful, Dyana. Have I ever told you that?”

Dyana looked away. “No,” she said awkwardly. “I am glad I please you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tharn sadly. “Very much.”

And then she looked up at him, and a sudden understanding dawned on her face. Terrified, he thought to leave, but she was staring at him in silent amazement, comprehending the thing he was hinting. Yet there was no revulsion in her eyes, only the endless mercy of womanhood.

“I am your husband, Dyana,” he stammered. “I … I care for you. I …”

Dyana did not let him finish. She rose from the bed and drifted closer, putting her finger to his lips. Tharn hushed. Anticipation roiled through him, quickening his heart and drumming in his temples. He watched as her lips curved into the most serene smile.

“And I am your wife,” she whispered. There was no dread in her eyes, only a kind of easy acceptance.

“Dyana,” he breathed. “I am afraid.”

“Do not be,” she crooned, taking his hand. “Nothing will hurt you. No more pain, my husband.”

He sat down on the bed and watched her, wide-eyed in the candlelight. She took a light step back and smiled at him, then pulled the straps of her gown over her shoulders. Tharn felt a dizzying rush at the sight of the smooth flesh. His mouth dried up, and in the moonbeams she was something holy, the light of heaven visiting earth. Her gown dropped to the floor and she stood before him in exquisite nakedness, beautiful and electrifying and perfectly crushing to his fragile self-image.

“We will be together tonight,” she whispered. “And I will thank you for taking such care of me.”

But when she came to him and began removing his robe, Tharn panicked.

“No,” he pleaded, clutching for her hands and pulling them away. “Dyana, I … I am afraid.”

“Be still,” she said gently. “I will not hurt you.”

“No, no,” he repeated desperately. “You have not seen me. I am a horror to look at, a monster.…”

“You are no monster,” said Dyana. Again she put her hands to his shoulders and gingerly started working down the robe. Tharn closed his eyes and felt the fabric being pulled down around his chest and arms. In a moment he was exposed to her, all his boils and ravaged flesh, and he dared not open his eyes for the stricken look he was sure he would discover. But Dyana did not gasp, nor did he hear her turn away. Instead he felt her warm palm press his naked chest. When he opened his eyes she was still with him, her expression as soft as the candlelight.

“Husband,” she said through a smile. “You have been very good to me. You were with me when Shani was born, and I have not forgotten that kindness. Let me do this thing for you.”

Tharn smiled back at her. “There is not much for you to do, Dyana. I am hardly a man at all.”

“Then lie with me,” she said. “Share my bed and let me hold you. You are so alone, my husband. I can see it in you.”

Tharn barely stifled a sob. “Oh, yes,” he groaned. “I hurt, Dyana. My body …”

“Shhh,” she directed, wrapping her arms around him. With the lightest touch, she placed his head on her shoulders. Tharn began to weep, sickened by what he was. He felt her hand brush his back and heard her gasp.

“They tortured me,” he explained. “They broke my knees.…”

“Easy,” Dyana crooned. “Easy.”

“And now look at me,” Tharn went on. “I am in such pain, Dyana. Why has this been done to me?”

“I do not know,” Dyana answered. “But tonight you are a man, my husband. A whole man.”

“I am not,” said Tharn. “I can never be again. I have done unspeakable things. I have so much blood on me, and I am damned.”

“You are a savior, husband,” said Dyana, stroking his oily hair. “You are touched by heaven. Lorris knows your mission. Have faith in him.”

Tharn wanted to scream. He had loved his patron once, so much that he had used his gifts for death. And yet the touch in him was a curse, a dark, purposeless ability he knew he could never use again. Richius was right. He could end the war with a
thought. But how much more pain could heaven punish him with? How much could he endure before madness conquered his sanity? He could rule the world with his gifts if he wanted to, he could think of stopping Arkus’ black heart just as he had the Daegog’s. But he had done that once, and the price had been this tortuous body. If he did it again, he was certain the price would be his soul.

“Dyana,” he said sadly. “I love you.”

The silence he had expected followed. But he was not angry with her. He knew that tonight she was loving him in the only way she could.

O
n a grim, gray morning, Richius and Dyana followed Voris out of Falindar. They had Shani with them, and less than a dozen of the warlord’s warriors to protect them. No one of consequence bid them farewell, not even Tharn, for the cunning-man had already left to begin his own arduous journey.

It was not a fine day for traveling. The perfect weather that had so blessed them had receded, leaving in its stead a gray drizzle that had them each soaked by the time they reached the bottom of Falindar’s wondrous mountain. Only Dyana and Shani were spared the misery of the climate. They traveled together in a small carriage that had once been the conveyance of the Daegog’s wife. Despite the carriage’s diminutive size, it had ample room inside its cab for Dyana and the baby, and it offered the privacy a woman with an infant needed. It kept them both warm and dry, even as their driver endured the inclemency outside.

The fog was murky on the hillsides that morning, and Richius watched it roll across the terrain with a genuine sadness. He was leaving behind the vastness of Tatterak for the claustrophobic forests of Dring, and his guide was a man who had once sworn to kill him. Less than a year had passed since he had left that place, swearing never to return, and there were still times when the
nightmares were fresh and as vivid as yesterday’s memories. Enduring it again would be an effort. He would have to remember that there was a stake involved.

All that first day Dyana did not open the sliding door to her litter. She remained inside, even when the rain slackened enough for her to enjoy some air, choosing the solitude of her own thoughts instead of the subdued chatter of her fellow travelers. It was as Tharn had said: she had become distant. Only when the caravan finally stopped for the evening did she emerge, relieving herself quickly in the woods and accepting some food from Voris. She thanked the warlord briefly, then returned quietly to the wagon. She didn’t even spare a glance to Richius, who ate alone that night with only his horse for companionship, and who slept apart from Voris and his warriors beneath a muddied blanket and a steady, melancholy drizzle.

That night, amid the buzz of crickets and the patter of rain, Richius could hear his daughter’s faint cries behind the thin walls of the wagon. He rested his head on the filthy earth and watched from afar as Dyana’s lithe silhouette lifted Shani to her breast. In the dark he was contented by her shadow, and his loneliness ebbed a little.

On the second and third days the rain deepened, and by the fourth day it seemed that the narrow road would become a swamp. They were near the border of the Dring Valley, in a region known as Agar Forest. The forest, Richius knew, was the infamous tract of land Kronin and Voris had clashed over for years, and he wasn’t surprised at all to see the warlord’s face clench as they rode through it. For Richius, it was the only source of amusement there had been since leaving Falindar. He had endured Voris’ gruff orders for him to keep up, and he was weary from lack of sleep. Lightning, who had twice the breeding of any of the other horses, kept pace with the caravan easily, never missing a step even as Voris’ own horse struggled with the dubious roadway.

Each night the same, tedious ritual took place. They would camp and light a cooking fire, and the warriors would prepare a simple meal. Dyana would stay alone in her coach, sometimes cracking the door enough for some fresh air but never speaking to anyone but Voris. Richius would gather up a plate of whatever unappetizing fare was offered, then sit alone with Lightning as
the warlord and his men caroused and laughed and generally ignored him. And all the while Richius chanced glances toward the wagon, hoping for a signal from Dyana and never getting one. It was an irritation he found unsettling, and by the fifth day he had had enough.

That day the sun finally made an appearance. Agar Forest was behind them, and the general attitude of the caravan was good. Dyana had at last opened the small door to her coach, letting in the sunlight. They were in the Dring Valley now, and Tatterak’s jagged, open spaces had become a fond memory. Another two days and they would reach Castle Dring. Richius decided to make his move.

Voris and the other warriors were ahead of Dyana’s carriage. The warlord was talking and gesturing to the surrounding terrain. His audience was enamored by whatever tall tale he was telling, and even the coach driver seemed to be listening. A good time to slip in close, reasoned Richius, and coaxed Lightning to the side of the coach. He stared straight ahead and cleared his throat. Dyana was reclining with Shani in her arms, but when she saw Richius she leaned slightly out the open door.

“Richius,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Me?” he asked coyly, not taking his eyes from the road. “I could ask the same of you.”