The Jackal of Nar (90 page)

“Certainly not,” said Najjir. “But do you not know he loves you, Dyana? He has spoken about you for years, every time he came to the valley. There are many women who never get the love of their husband. Can you not see how fortunate you are?”

The conversation was wearying. Dyana took the time to stretch her aching back before answering. “I know I am more fortunate than most women, even though I had no choice in husbands. But I would not have married Tharn if I could have avoided it. And you already know that.”

The older woman smiled. “We are women, Dyana. It is not our place to make such decisions for ourselves. When I was very young I thought my husband the most terrible of men. I had heard he had conquered the valley and that he was cruel. And when we learned he was looking for a wife, all the girls in my village were afraid. We were told he would be riding through our village to find a wife, and our parents made us dress for him and stand there while he inspected us. All of us prayed we would not be his choice. But do you know what happened?”

“Should I guess?”

Najjir laughed. “I was younger than you are when we married, and I was so afraid. Yet as I grew older I realized he knew what was best for me, and that he had chosen me for a reason. Just like Tharn has chosen you, whether you believe so or not.”

“Najjir,” said Dyana gently. “I am not like you. I am glad you are happy with Voris, but I think women should be free to make these choices for themselves. Why should I honor a decision made by my father when I was a girl?”

“Shhh, Dyana. Do not speak such lies. You’ve been around that Naren man too long, I think. He has poisoned your mind.”

“No,” said Dyana. “I have always been different. Do not blame Richius for what you dislike about me.”

Najjir seemed hurt. She rested a hand on Dyana’s shoulder and asked, “Am I so harsh? If so forgive me. I never meant to
offend you. And I do not dislike you, Dyana. To be true it has been wonderful having you share my chamber. I feel like a girl again, talking to a sister.”

Dyana lowered the basket and sighed. “Then why so many questions, Najjir? Why do you talk to me as if I were some fool?”

“Because I worry about you, and the decisions you make. Choices can be dangerous for a woman, Dyana.”

“What do you mean?”

Najjir leaned forward. “The child is not Tharn’s,” she whispered.

Dyana started. “Did Voris tell you that?” she asked.

“I do not need my husband to tell me something so obvious. Shani has her father’s eyes. She has Kalak’s eyes.”

It was an accusation Dyana hadn’t expected. Najjir had never been so bold before. Dyana picked up her basket distractedly, then held it out for Najjir.

“Is this enough?” she asked stiffly.

Najjir nodded. “It should be.”

“And how do I use it? Just rub it on his back?”

“Gently, yes. But Dyana, please listen to me.” Najjir reached out a hand and snared her wrist.

“No, Najjir,” said Dyana, wrenching away. “Please. I have heard it all before. From Tharn, from my women back at Falindar, from everyone. I do not want to talk about it anymore.”

She started back for the castle.

“Dyana, stop.” Najjir seized the basket, and a handful of leaves toppled out. Dyana dropped to her knees, snatching up the leaves that had fallen. Najjir hovered over her, waiting for her to rise.

“Give me the basket,” Dyana ordered. “I have to get to him quickly.”

“There is time,” said Najjir. “I want to talk to you first.”

“Later.” Dyana reached for the basket but Najjir pulled it away.

“Even before you came here, everyone knew the stories of how Tharn’s wife had birthed a child that was not his. We all thought you had been raped, but that is not so, is it? It was Kalak.”

Dyana put her hands to her ears. “Stop.…”

“I can see it when you look at him. Even Voris knows. You are in love with him.”

“I have to go. Please …”

Still Najjir held the basket away. “He is a Naren, Dyana. A murderer. Kalak killed my son!”

“That is a lie!” Dyana cried. “Richius would never have murdered your son. Not knowingly.”

Najjir’s face crumbled. Slowly she handed the basket back to Dyana. “Then it is true,” she said. “You defend him. You do love Kalak.”

Dyana didn’t know how to respond. She took the basket and dropped the few leaves that had spilled back into it. Najjir made no attempt to snatch it away.

“Have you been with him?” Najjir asked.

“No.”

“Good. It must stay that way. If Voris knew—”

“Voris knows all he needs to,” said Dyana coldly. “And nothing will happen. You must trust me, Najjir.”

“I do. But this love of yours is doomed. Kalak is Naren, and you are already married to a Drol cunning-man. You could be killed for what you are feeling.”

Dyana laughed bitterly. “Killed for what I am feeling? This is the life you would have for your daughters? Najjir, I was not made to serve a man, even a great man like Tharn.”

“But you can be happy, Dyana. As I am.”

Dyana slid down onto the grass, wrapping her arms about her knees and looking up at Najjir. “Happy? I have never been happy. Not since I was a girl. Not since I knew what it meant to become a woman.”

Najjir dropped to her knees beside Dyana. “And what is so horrible about being a woman? I am not unhappy. I accept what I am.”

“And that is why we are different. You can be happy being a slave. Not me. Not even to a husband who is fair. And Richius …” She broke off with a smile. “You do not know him, Najjir. No one here does. He is special. I knew that when I first met him. When I am with him, I feel like an equal. I feel like I belong.”

“A dream,” chided Najjir. “You are young and heartsick. I am sure you mean no more to him than any other.”

“You are wrong,” said Dyana sharply. “He has given up everything for me. There were enough women in Nar for him to bed, but he returned here for
me.
”

“Then he is heartsick, too. He is not so much older than you, still young enough to be fooled by infatuation. Do not destroy everything you have for him, Dyana. He will not be there forever. And think of the child. What sort of life can she have with a Naren for a father? She will never—”

“Najjir, I have never planned on deceiving Tharn. He wants only my loyalty, and I will not break that. I know I can never be with Richius.”

Najjir dropped her gaze. “I hate him,” she said. “But I do not hate you. I am sorry for you.”

“Do not be.” Dyana rose. “And you are wrong about him, Najjir. I wish you could see that. I wish your husband could see that. He is a good man. He deserves more than your hate.”

“My hate is all I have had since Tal died,” said Najjir simply. “Do not take it away from me.”

There was nothing Dyana could say to that, so she thanked Najjir with a nod, then turned and went back toward the castle, leaving her friend to search out more of the forest’s remedies. Dyana navigated the narrow path back to the castle carefully, emerging from the woods within minutes. Castle Dring loomed large in front of her, shadowing the yard. She entered the keep. The women of the castle looked at her oddly as she passed and made whispered comments to each other. Dyana ignored them. Of all the women she had met in the castle, only Najjir had made an effort to welcome her. While the others tended the warriors of the valley, she tended Richius alone, and she knew the attention she lavished on the Naren was raising more than a few eyebrows. Still, she had made an attempt to join them. When the first of the wounded had returned from the front, she had offered her help and had been uniformly rebuffed. Now, four days later, she wasn’t about to explain herself to the gaggle of gossipers who would rather their men die than receive aid from the hands of a harlot.

Fortunately, she found the hall leading to Richius’ chamber empty. A tiny tremor of excitement ran through her. He would be so pleased she had found the leaves. Now that his back was firm enough to touch, the ointment would be a relief. She knocked on the door.

“Richius?” she asked lightly.

A hoarse, sleep-deprived voice answered her. “Come in.”

She opened the door. Richius was lying on his stomach with his raw back exposed. He was propped up on his elbows with a pen in his hand, fussing over a small book. His hair was oily, and the smell of perspiration assailed her, but his tired eyes brightened when he recognized her.

“Dyana,” he rasped. “Did you find them?”

She showed him the basket.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighed. “Thank God.”

“Najjir showed me,” said Dyana, going to the bedside. “She is sure it will help. I hope she is right.”

“Me, too, but go easy on it, all right? My skin still feels like it’s on fire.”

“I will be careful,” she said. She sat down on the bed and examined his back. It still horrified her to see his wounds. They were worse than any burns she had ever seen. Even Tharn’s lash marks seemed minor in comparison. There was no bleeding anymore, but the skin remained the color of an apple, a luminescent red with flaking scales of dried pus. Meandering furrows ran from his shoulders to his waist, carved into his flesh by the insatiable acid.

“I am going to touch you,” she warned. “Be ready.”

Gingerly she reached out a finger and probed the flesh. At once he stiffened. He had cried like a baby when he had first awoken in the castle. Najjir had tried to keep him asleep by burning a herbal incense, but the pain had been too great. Even bandages had been too much for him to endure, so they had left the wounds exposed to the air, hoping they would dry without too much scarring. But just like the agonizing pain, the scarring had been unavoidable, and now his back looked like pulverized meat, so that even breathing was a labor. That he had fought on after being burned earned the respect of Voris and the other warriors, but like so many of Nar’s weapons the acid was insidious, and had waited until hours later to do the worst of its work. That night Dyana had not slept at all.

“How does that feel?” she asked, pressing her finger lightly into his skin. He winced.

“Hurts.”

Dyana forced a sunny tone. “Do not worry. Najjir promised
me this would work.” She picked one of the leaves from the basket and snapped it in two, drizzling the sap onto his back. There was precious little of the stuff. Resolutely she picked out another leaf and did the same.

“It’s cold,” commented Richius. “Feels good.”

“It should feel better when I rub it in.” As Dyana worked, she gestured with her chin to his book. It was open to a page filled with poorly penned lines and scratchy notes. What looked like a map dominated one side of the page. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“This is my journal,” he said. “I’ve been working on something. I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you about it.”

Carefully she squeezed more of the sap onto his back. “Is that a map?”

“Of Dring. Listen, Dyana, I’ve been thinking. I have some ideas about beating back the Narens.”

She cracked open the last leaf and spread the sticky sap on her hands. “Ready?”

Richius braced himself. “Yes.” He laid the journal on the floor and lowered his head.

“I will be careful,” she promised him again. He managed a broken smile.

She steeled herself, and with all the delicacy she could manage placed her sap-covered palms on his back. As she did, his entire body seized. Instinctively, her hands jerked back.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Richius, I do not want to hurt you.…”

He shook his head. “Go on. Do it.”

She replaced her hands. This time, the sticky stuff was colder. She could feel its coldness seeping beneath her fingernails. Gradually she moved her palms down his back, working in the rest of the sap, running her fingers over the scars and cavities cratering his flesh. Amazingly, Richius sighed.

“It’s working,” he said. “Sweet God, it’s working.”

He closed his eyes, letting her massage his tattered skin and smooth the soothing ointment into every tortured crevice. She worked gently, talking to him as if he were a child. The sticky lotion felt good on her hands, cool as autumn. She loved the way it felt between her fingers, and the way her fingers moved over his body. She loved his body. Battle had ravaged it, but it was still beautiful.

Her hands stilled.

Richius opened his eyes. “Why did you stop?” he asked.

“Because I am done,” she lied. “Better?”

Richius stretched. “Yes,” he said. “Much better. Dyana, thank you. That was unendurable.…”

She almost touched his cheek but checked herself.

“What is it, Dyana? Is something wrong?”

Dyana shook her head. “No, nothing. I will tell Najjir the leaves have helped you. She will be pleased.”

“I doubt that,” said Richius. “But thank her for me anyway.”

“Can you turn now?”

He maneuvered himself onto his side, leaning against his elbow. She saw how thin he had become. Except for his back, all the skin on his face and chest was the sickly shade of milk, and the bones in his shoulders popped out unnaturally. He had refused food since coming back from the front. It was time to get him healthy again.

“You must eat,” she said, going to the little table by the bed. There she found a cloth beside his washbasin and wiped the worst of the sap from her hands. “Let me get you something.”

“Wait,” he urged. “I want to talk to you first.”

He stretched out over the bedside and tried to retrieve the little book from the floor. She hurried over to him and picked it up.

“Don’t move too much, Richius,” she chided. “You might feel better but your skin still needs to heal. It will take time.”

“I haven’t got time, Dyana,” he said, accepting the journal and flipping quickly through its pages. “That’s why I’ve been working on a plan. Here, let me show you.”

Dyana knelt down beside the bed, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “You were supposed to be resting,” she said. “Now that I see you are strong enough to write, we can begin your lessons.”

“Tomorrow,” said Richius. “Or later tonight, if you want. But first I want to show you this.”

He stopped turning pages and poked at one, directing Dyana’s eyes downward. It was a map of the Dring Valley, badly drawn but legible. Little black marks showed the Narens surrounding the valley. In the center of the valley was rendered a watchtower, Castle Dring, while at the bottom of the page ran a collection of squiggles, drawn so roughly they resembled nothing Dyana could imagine. She gestured to them with her chin.