The Traitor's Daughter (17 page)

Reach out with what?
No arms, no hands, but he tried anyway and a kind of convulsion rocked his mind; he thought he caught the sound of distant screaming. For a while he fought and floundered, the screams shrilling eons away, but his body remained elusive, reintegration unobtainable, and presently he abandoned the struggle. It was easier then, less infuriating, even comfortable to drift on alien currents of disembodied sensation. He might have allowed himself to relax into slack acquiescence but for the prodding sense of purpose. He could not rest; that much he knew on some unassailable level, and it was all that he knew.

On he went, and the memories cavorting about him burst into flame that overran the universe. The atmosphere was the color of molten steel, and he had no flesh but he burned. He would have turned back then, but the place he had come from was lost beyond hope, and there was still that nagging sense of purpose.

The fiery atmosphere extinguished itself and the hot light yielded to immeasurable darkness. He could see nothing, hear nothing, but perceptions that he did not recognize guided him and he moved with confidence, still seeking something, someone. He did not remember what or who, but he would recognize it when he found it.
Her
. When he found her.

A sense of urgency grew in him. Something was drawing him on through the dark, its strength increasing as he advanced, and he gave himself over gladly to that power, recognizing the imminence of revelation. The unseen presence was still close behind him, but he did not fear it, perceiving only reassurance there.

The absolute darkness darkened impossibly and the deep places in his mind, slumbering undisturbed throughout a lifetime, stirred to reluctant life. The impressions seeped in and he could neither sort nor comprehend them, but knew that they would guide him.

They did so. His disengaged self rode intangible tides. Then he caught the first flutter of identity somewhere in the void, and he strained toward it.

The object of his search was drawing near, the shape and texture of her mind clarifying by the moment. The clean vigor of her thoughts reminded him of green growth in springtime. Nearer yet, close enough to catch the fragrance of youth, close enough to catch her intelligence, her fears, and finally her awareness of his approach. She knew him, she was reaching toward him. She wanted and needed his help.

As soon as he could find her.

She was very close now, so close that he caught the essence of her surroundings, the persistence of stone, the obstinacy of iron, the warm solace of aged wood. He could taste it all in the echo of her thoughts.

What was left of his consciousness impinged on hers and a sense of familiarity thrilled deeply through him, but he still could not identify her. He knew only that the sum of his hopes resided in her deliverance. His need flung him wildly through the dark, where he lost his way, lost all contact with her mind, and found himself alone in black nothingness.

But not quite alone, for that silent presence with him from the start was with him still, its mute reassurance calming his angry confusion. Perhaps it could guide him back to her. He reached out toward the other, but the darkness was impenetrable, its weight intolerable, and now it absorbed him into itself.

* * *

He woke to find himself slumped in a chair, the restraints gone, his brother patting his face with a cold, wet cloth. Water trickled down his cheeks.

“Stop that,” he commanded, distantly surprised to hear his own rich voice emerge small and dull.

Innesq obeyed. “Sit still. Rest,” he advised.

“What did you learn?”

“Presently.”

“Now.” His voice was still too weak, and he repeated more forcefully, “Now.”

“Very well. She is alive. You caught a distinct resonance of her existence, which I was able to interpret.”

Alive. Aureste expelled a sigh and allowed his eyes to close. The surge of relief that swept his mind failed to renew his strength. He was indescribably tired, and a headache throbbed behind his left eye. He longed for sleep, and there was no time for it.

“She’s safe, then?” he demanded. Silence, and he opened his eyes to search his brother’s still face. “Well?”

“She does not perceive herself as safe,” Innesq admitted.

“What do you mean?” Frustration generated internal heat. “Why don’t you speak plainly? Has she been hurt? Is she in danger?”

“That is unclear.”

“Inadequate. I want an answer. What good is this precious art of yours if it can’t serve Jianna?”

“Aureste, you condemn without understanding. You would do better to hold your peace and allow yourself time to recover.”

“Unlike you, I don’t enjoy the luxury of time. I’ve a daughter in need of rescue, a matter that hardly seems to rouse your concern. Return to your experiments, then. It’s clear that the life and safety of your niece count for nothing.”

“You do not mean that. It is only your fear and anger speaking.”

“Have you added mind reading to your little repertoire of magic tricks? Next summer you might set up a booth at Three Islet Fair.”

“Perhaps,” Innesq agreed without rancor. “Have you any more insults burning for utterance, or are you ready to listen?”

“To what? You’ve already told me that you have no answers. I’ve wasted enough time here. Now I’m going out to find her.” Aureste rose to his feet. A wave of dizziness rocked him, the workroom spun, and he dropped back into the chair.

“You will not go anywhere just yet,” Innesq observed.

Aureste blinked. His sight was curiously dim, but he could still make out his brother’s face, grave and composed as always. “How long—” he began.

“Hours have passed. It is night.”

“No matter. I can—”

“Hush. Listen to me. Jianna is alive. Your mind touched hers, and that contact furnished certain images—clouded, to be sure, but—”

“What did you—”

“Do not interrupt. Sit still for now or you will make yourself ill. Jianna is alive and probably uninjured; or at worst, not seriously injured. Her position is perilous, however. She is certainly held captive somewhere in the wilds of the Alzira Hills. She is just as certainly threatened with harm of a serious nature, but I do not believe that her life is in any immediate danger. There is no point in demanding particulars—I am unable to furnish any but one, which pertains to the nature of her prison. She is held in a rural dwelling of no vast size, but solid and impregnable as a fortress.”

“A stronghouse, you mean?”

“Probably.”

“Is there anything more you can tell me?”

“Not at this time.”

“Well. A stronghouse,” Aureste mused. “Somewhere in the Alzira Hills, between Vitrisi and Orezzia. That shouldn’t be so difficult to find.”

“And then?” Innesq inquired. “You know better than I what would be needed to breach such defenses.”

“A small army.” Aureste nodded. Renewed purpose lighted his mind, and his weakness began to recede. “Very well. I’ll raise one.”

SIX

“Pick only the purple ones with yellow stripes,” Yvenza Belandor directed. “If the leaf is still green or the stripes have gone to brown, I can’t use it. You understand me?”

Jianna inclined her head.

“Then say so.”

“I understand you,” Jianna mumbled, eyes glued to the ground.

“Speak up, girl. You have a voice. Are you too frightened to use it?”

“I said I understand you.” Jianna’s head came up. “And you’ll be the frightened one when my father hunts you down.”

“That’s better.” Yvenza’s smile bared a white palisade. “A small flare of honest defiance. Always preferable to a sullen humor. I can’t abide the sight of moping, sulky faces about me.”

“I should think you’d be accustomed. You appreciate honest defiance? Enjoy this, then. No matter what you do, you’ll never get the better of Aureste Belandor. You’re no match for him, you can’t reach high enough.”
Shouldn’t have said that
. She was in no position to provoke her captor, who might easily order her beaten, maimed, or killed; or worse, might hand her over to that hulking brute of a son. It was impossible to view Yvenza’s iron-jawed face without seeing Onartino there as well; and impossible to think of Onartino without reliving the moment of Reeni’s murder. The fear and hatred flooded Jianna’s mind. Allowing nothing beyond false confidence to show on her face, she added, “And such power as you hold over me doesn’t matter. You may force me to work like a servant, but you can’t make me forget who I am.”

“Rest assured, Aureste’s daughter, nobody forgets your identity. As for your complaints, they’re misplaced. Time you learned how to make yourself useful. Your days as a pampered pet have ended. Not every branch of the Belandor family tree is rotten and blighted as yours.”

Liar! Father works hard in the family interests; he’s kept our House safe and successful through all the times of trouble. And Uncle Innesq mews himself up in his workroom for days and nights on end. What do you suppose he’s doing in there, playing at solitaire?
Jianna said nothing.

“Here you will work,” Yvenza continued, “as I would expect of any prospective daughter. No doubt the concept is foreign, but you’ll learn, else go hungry.”

Jianna replied with an indifferent shrug.

“Cheer up, maidenlady. The work may seem menial, but you toil nobly in the service of the Faerlonnish resistance. What better means than that to atone for the crimes of your kneeser father?”

Stifling the angry denial that would only amuse her tormentor, Jianna merely asked, “What do you mean?”

“We here at Ironheart offer all possible assistance to the soldiers of the Ghost Army. As the newest member of our household, you will do likewise.”

“I see.” “Ghost Army” was a popular term for the loosely knit bands of guerrilla marauders sworn to the expulsion of the Taerleezi occupying force. As far as Jianna was concerned, the Faerlonnish resistance comprised a gang of misguided zealots idiotically dedicated to a hopeless cause, but one consideration offered consolation. Sooner or later, her kidnappers’ ill-chosen loyalties would bring them all to execution. She might even witness Onartino’s public torsion.

“You are looking quite pleased.” Yvenza favored her prisoner with a hard glance.

“Well, wouldn’t any right-thinking Faerlonnishwoman?” Jianna inquired guilelessly.

“Patriotic sentiments upon the lips of Aureste Belandor’s own child. That is heartwarming. I trust we may expect your best efforts, then.”

“With what? Plucking little purple leaves for the resistance?”

“You haven’t troubled to ask the use of the little purple leaves.”

Planning to work them into funeral wreaths?
Jianna assumed an expression of polite inquiry.

“They’re called kalkrios, and they possess narcotic properties,” Yvenza informed her. “When seethed and reduced, they yield the elixir kalkriole that offers painless sleep.”

“You brew this elixir and somehow carry it to the Ghost Army?” Jianna inquired, her interest captured.

“From time to time. More often the Ghost forces of these hills send their wounded to me.”

“You mean that you harbor resistance people right here within your own walls?” Jianna’s surprise gave way to comprehension.
She thinks she can say anything she pleases because I’ll never get out of this place to report it. We’ll see
. Aloud she observed, “You must have them pretty well hidden.”

“Astonished that Ironheart hasn’t yielded quite all of its secrets to your eager young eyes? Don’t worry, you’ll see them soon enough.”

The promise was not intended to convey reassurance.

“In the meantime, you’ve other concerns,” Yvenza continued. “The kalkrios. Work your way through the garden and pluck the leaves that are ready. Bring them to me when you’re done. I expect a full basket. Don’t take all day about it. And don’t try to stray from the house—Grumper won’t like it. Guard her, boy,” she instructed the dog, then turned and walked away. Grumper remained.

Jianna stood watching her go. Evidently confident that the prisoner would attempt neither flight nor attack, Yvenza never bothered with a backward glance. Her casual assurance was insulting but justified. Only a few yards of weedy, uncultivated ground separated the garden from the edge of the woods surrounding Ironheart. Between Jianna and those woods sat Grumper.