Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 20

  'He needs to sleep,' Coren said flatly. 'Let him seek a bed among your men, and take your counsel with me tonight, Hasan, for what good it will do either one of us. I am tired myself, and devoid of ideas.'

  Hasan grunted, and turned his back to the castle. 'Come, then. Rudel shall rest, and think until he sleeps; you and I, Coren, we will eat and speak together. I do not believe that the King's Shadow is helpless, here on the borders of the King's country...'

  Jemel sat still on his camel and watched them go, thinking that the King's Shadow was not helpless, no, only outplayed and defeated, his powers blocked by a greater. Hasan would learn tonight, Coren would teach him; an army was no more use than a magician, if you did not dare to use it. So long as the 'ifrit watched her, Julianne's life was forfeit however they approached the castle. And Elisande was somewhere, doing something, he had no way to find out where or what; and Marron ...

  Wondering how he should pass the night, sure that there was no point in his trying to sleep, he turned to gaze at the

  prohibiting gates again; and would do so unrelentingly while other watchers came and went around him, while they ate and talked and slept perhaps a little, and so would be the first to see them open.

  9

  Out of All Shelter

  No sunlight ever broke into the cell through that single slit of a window, high though it was; high only to her, Julianne thought, high only in here. Out in the yard, she fancied, it would lie at ground level, and the height of the castle's walls must keep it in perpetual shadow. All her days were grey and her nights were black dark, punctuated only by the ceaseless glare of the 'ifrit s eyes which cast no light but seemed rather to suck it in, to make both day and night darker.

  Terror had abated long since, under the dragging weariness of immeasurable time. She knew herself to be bait and nothing more; neither Morakh nor the monster had any interest in her, except to keep her here and well guarded. Once in every day the door would be opened and she would be brought food, hard bread and dull flat-tasting water in a wooden beaker. Until now it had always been the Dancer himself who brought it; today, though . . .

  Today she'd been playing games in her head, dreaming rescue, not with any hope of its happening but only to pass another weary hour, to find some way to break the endless monotony. She didn't need to close her eyes any more, in order to dream; it was better not, indeed, because sometimes in the private darkness of her mind she thought that the 'ifrit was looming over her, its patience at last exhausted, its hot gaze searching for her soul and its jaws already reaching for her throat. Then her eyes would snap open again and she would be shaken and scared again, little comforted by the sight of the creature still crouched where it always was crouched, quite unmoving and unmoved, only watching and watching.

  So she dreamed awake when she could, she dreamed alert; and today she had dreamed of the door swinging wide and a hero striding in to slay the monster and whisk her off to freedom. Not the first time for such dreams, not the hundredth; the chill numbing shadow of these days was bearing heavily on her spirit, grinding the blaze of her imagination down to its last fitful glow, where the only thought that survived was the thought that somehow she might escape this place. She couldn't do it by herself, she needed rescue, and so she dreamed of heroes.

  Hero-fathers, hero-husbands, hero-friends: she didn't care, she wasn't choosy. Any or all of them would be welcome. She was past worrying about them now, long past praying that they not come after all. The nobility of self-sacrifice was something else that she'd lost, had let dwindle slowly far beyond recovery. All she yearned for now was a miracle, a breath of hope that could rekindle the fading spark that was herself, that was so drained by the 'ifrit's relentless stare and the unremitting ache, the slow slow grind of time against her bones.

  She had gazed at the door and seen it shatter, seen the twisting fury of Elisande s djinni in its frame and the small solid figure of Elisande herself in the passage beyond, her hand cocked ready to cast a knife that would transfix the 'ifrit s eye and kill its glow, drive deep into its skull to kill the creature entirely.

  She had gazed at the door and seen it shine with gold, bright enough to dim even the fierce red of the 'ifrit's glare; she had seen the spectral figure of her father walking through it, holding out his hand and drawing her into his mystery, leading her away before monster or Morakh could find any answer to him.

  She had gazed at the door and seen it oudined with dim red fire, Marron opening a gateway that she could dive through into the land of the djinn, fast and easy and the way closed instandy behind her so that she would be safe with him in that strange and sunless country.

  She had gazed at the door and heard its bolts drawn back, had seen it open to her friend Jemel, his scimitar bloody in his hand and his eyes alight with battle; or else to Rudel, his clever fingers signing her to silence, to be swift; or else to her husband Hasan with his warriors at his back, or else wonderfully to her husband Imber in all his panoply of war, his laughing cousin at his side ...

  At last, she had gazed at the door and truly heard its bolts drawn back, had seen it swing open for real; and then she had gaped, gasped, reached to rub at her eyes to assure herself that this time she actually wasn't dreaming.

  There was light out in the passage, that must be falling through an open doorway or a wide embrasure; by contrast with the murk in the cell where darkness seemed to be woven into the very air, it was bright enough to dazzle. She needed a moment to blink her eyes clear, and a moment more to realise that the man who stood out there was neither Morakh nor any of her imagined rescuers.

  Realising that she knew him regardless, recognising his silhouette even before she saw his face - that was an act stolen utterly out of time. How long he waited, how long she stared - that was beyond counting, as the fact of it was beyond wonder.

  Then, slowly, forcing her mouth to shape his name and her voice to utter it, she said, ‘Blaise... ?'

  He stepped into the cell, she took an equal pace back; shadow engulfed him.

  'Blaise, what are you doing here?' He wasn't dressed as an Elessan sergeant now, rather as a peasant: a disguise, surely, and she kept her voice soft in response, but why Morakh should have let any peasant into the castle she couldn't understand. Nor why it should be Blaise who came to rescue her, when she'd thought him long since fallen out of her story, left behind at Roq de Rancon several adventures since...

  Both his hands were full; he held them out, and she took bread and water uncertainly. She was close enough to read his face in the dimness, and it might as well have been carved from wood. No wink or smile, not the slightest hint of a message, no recognition at all.

  Neither did he speak. His duty done, he turned and walked away. Julianne reached out to stay him, then drew her hand back to abort the gesture. She'd seen the shift of a shadow out in the passage: Morakh, perhaps, watching his new and bewildering servant, ready to snare her if she tried to slip away? That might explain his silence, his care not to reveal himself. He might think it enough that she knew he was here.

  And so it had been enough, at least for a while. Now she need not dream of rescue, now it was here - somehow, bizarrely - and she had all the strangeness of its source to marvel at, to feed her starved mind as she chewed mechanically to feed her uninterested body.

  She didn't give much thought to practicalities, how Blaise meant to steal her from the cell under the unending watch of the 'ifrit. If he were here - and he was, no fever-dream; she'd smelled his breath, she'd almost touched his fingers taking this goblet from him, she could still feel the warmth of his grip in the wood - then she had her miracle already, and the rest was mere detail. Any god who could conjure someone so unlikely into such a place could conjure the pair of them out as easily; no god would go this far and then betray her when she'd been so helpless. She felt safe already, and only cast into astonishment by the means of her salvation.

  So she had sat and dreamed again, but this time dreamed of herself outside the cell
, her hand clasped securely in Blaise's as he guided her to the wall where a rope lay coiled and ready, or else to the gate that he'd left unbarred and standing ajar. She had dreamed of stars and wind, of freedom, and not at all of Morakh rising from the shadows to challenge their escape.

  And later, after the cell had darkened, when she'd heard again the sounds of the door being unbolted she'd been certain that this was Blaise come back to claim her and to lead her out. She'd risen to her feet, heedless of the motionless 'ifrit, and his name had been half on her lips already when the door had opened and not he but two other men had come in, with a body slung unconscious between them.

  This time there was no light, in the cell or outside, but she was alert in darkness now, finding messages even in the movement of air. The bulk of their bodies crowding through the doorway and the sounds they made counted their number for her, and had her scuttling back against the wall just before she could betray herself with an eager whisper of Blaise's name.

  Her mind reeled under a crushing disappointment, all dreams forsworn. These men were as silent as Blaise had been, and they paid her as little attention, less. He at least had handed her a meal; they simply laid their burden on the floor and departed.

  Confused, distressed, she heard the bolts slammed shut and still stood where she was, hands and back pressed against cold stone, shuddering against the loss of hope. It took a while before she could move at all, a while longer before she was certain that the 'ifrit would not. At last, though, a rising curiosity overcame both fear and despair. A few short, stumbling paces took her to where the newcomer lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious or even dead, perhaps. She dropped to her knees beside him and reached out nervously to let her fingers discover what her eyes could not.

  It was a man, a young man to judge by his slimness, the smoothness of his face; not Blaise, then, at least there was that to cling to. She might have thought him a Patric, except that he wore the robe of a Sharai...

  Those two thoughts joined together, to suggest a name. She gasped in shock, fumbled for his left arm and found there what she had suddenly dreaded to find, twisting ridges of half-healed flesh.

  It was Marron, then. One more to rescue, one fewer to rescue her- but that was a fleeting thought, swiftly dismissed. This was Marron as she'd never thought to know him, Marron in a desperate condition. Not dead, no, she could feel the faint stir of his breath and a fluttering pulse in the depth of his unhealing wound; close to death, though, that she was sure of, and she'd never thought the Daughter would let him go so far.

  His hair was matted with a stinking sweat, his robe was soaked with it, and yet his skin was dry where she touched it, as though there were no more water left in him to be sweated out. It felt both cold and hot alternately beneath her palm, and stretched drum-tight across his bones. He'd always been brutally thin, but this was different. She thought his body was a battleground, with sickness surging through his blood, fever and chill at war; she wondered which one was the enemy. Unless they both were, and he was doubly infected ... ?

  That made a sudden sense to her, thinking of the Daughter and how it lived its strange half-life inside him. It was like a fever, like an infection, a burning that did not belong; and if he fell sick otherwise, of course it would fight that new invasion. If the sickness fought back - well, here was the consequence, and she thought Marron could not survive it unless help came soon. Small chance of that. He needed more than an ordinary healer, he needed wisdom and magic both, Rudel or Elisande, and she was far past hoping for miracles now. She did what little she could, moistening the hem of her robe in what remained of her water and wiping his face with it, but when she touched his brow a moment later she found it baking hot and dry again.

  She might have cried then from frustration at her helplessness, from the dread of having him die under her hands and the fear of what might follow with the Daughter; but a sound intruded from the passage, the soft scrape of bolts being carefully drawn back.

  She lifted her head, almost daring to hope once more, thinking that Blaise could carry Marron if he could only find a way out of this suddenly populated castle. For the second time that night she was certain of the sergeants coming; for the second time she was deceived.

  The door opened barely a shadows width and a figure slipped through, drawing it quickly closed again. Not Blaise, that much was clear even in the dark; this was someone slender, light-footed, a young lad or a girl. But who, and why...?

  'Julianne?'

  The voice was her answer, and her second miracle of the day.

  'Elisande!' It came out in a breathless hiss, almost on a sob. A moment later her friend had found her; strong arms wrapped themselves around her and dragged her unexpectedly back into a corner. She grunted in puzzlement, then understood as she heard the whisper of steel drawn, as she felt Elisande set herself between her and the 'ifrit.

  'Don't, don't worry. It doesn't do anything, it just sits there, waiting ...'

  'Maybe it's been waiting for me.'

  Maybe so; if it could see anything of the future as the djinn could, it should have known that she was coming. There was no movement from the creature, though, only the steady burning of its eyes.

  'I thought it was waiting for your djinni,' Julianne said weakly, and was astonished again to hear Elisande chuckle tightly.

  'So did Esren. That's why it didn't come to pull you out of here, sweetheart; nor Marron, nor your father. They were all scared of that accursed thing. That's why I had to come myself.'

  And for a moment, for one blessed moment Julianne fancied that her coming was enough, that the two of them could slip out as cautiously as Elisande had slipped in, and still the 'ifrit would do nothing. An hour ago, they might have tried it. But, 'Marron did come, he's here.'

  'Oh, what?

  'On the floor there. Elisande, he's dreadfully ill, he needs healing...'

  A cold instant later she was squinting and covering her eyes against a flare of blue light, bright enough to scorch the inside of her skull, or so she felt.

  Elisande swore, and the blaze faded to a glimmer; when Julianne risked a glance, she saw a globe of witchlight hanging in the air above Marron's body, bright enough still to dazzle her dark-adjusted sight. Elisande had dropped her knife and was huddled down beside Marron, touching with gentle, questing fingers.

  Nothing Julianne could do there; she stooped to pick up the discarded blade, eyeing the 'ifrit warily. It might respond to magic, where it cared not at all for the girls. She didn't think it had moved, though, and certainly it wasn't moving now. It might even have retreated a little, from that sudden eruption of light; she thought its eyes seemed duller against the pale blue glow.

  Soon, too soon Elisande sighed, and turned her head to find her. Julianne knew what was coming, before her friend could find the words.

  ‘I can do nothing for him like this. I never could, when he had the Daughter in him. It resists, it won't let me in...'

  Julianne nodded. 'I think that's what's happening now, something has got in and the Daughters fighting it. But it's killing him, Elisande.'

  'I know.' Two short syllables should not be able to contain so much grief.

  'What can we do? Blaise is here, I saw him, but he may not be able to come tonight...'

  'Blaise will not come at all. He's with them, Julianne, I've seen him too and his spirit is snared somehow. We have to get Marron out ourselves, somewhere safe where we can release the Daughter and work on him. We should take him to Rudel, he's stronger than I am. We can carry him between us, he weighs nothing.'

  'Call the djinni, and it could carry us all.'

  'It would not come. I said, it's afraid of the 'ifrit...'

  'So am I. Do you think it will let us leave? It's watched me so long, I'm the bait in its trap, and the trap's not yet sprung. It wasn't set for you, at least.' She waited, had no response, at last said, 'Elisande?'

  'My blades have been blessed,' her friend replied at last, 'but two short knives would ne
ver be enough, against that monster. And no, I don't think it would let us leave. But listen. I was wondering earlier, what would frighten a djinni.' 'The 'ifrit, you said.'

  'Yes - but there's something more. You know how Esren was trapped in the Dead Waters, by a stone brought over from the other world. I think it would be terrified of being caught again. The 'ifrit use the same trick to control their ghuls, so we know it works on other spirit creatures; and the djinn and the 'ifrit are close kin, even if the djinn deny it...'

  ‘I don't understand.'

  'No, but trust me. In a minute, I'll ask you to do a thing; do it boldly, sweetheart. If you get the chance. It may be the only chance that Marron has.'

  And then she drew her other knife and touched it lightly to Marron's wounded arm, letting out a drop of blood, letting out the Daughter.

  'Elisande, what are you doing... ?'

  ‘I can't work on him while that's inside him; if it's loose, I can perhaps rouse him just a little. Besides, I need it free. Stand ready, Julianne - and watch the 'ifrit...'

  She was doing that already. It had stirred, in the moment of that first wisp's smoking up from Marron's arm; it was stirring yet, shifting claws and pincer-feet and the plates of its distorted body in countless, constant motions that still kept it exactly where it was, crowded into its corner. She'd have said it looked scared already; hoping to scare it further, she tightened her grip on Elisande's knife.

  She was scared enough herself: scared for herself, and for Elisande, and especially for Marron. With the Daughter free — and more than that, free of his control — they might all be in clanger. If she was right, though, his sickness would be free too to rampage through his body. Whatever sickness it was, that could right back against the Daughters strength and possession ...

  It had Elisande to face now, a different kind of daughter. The light dimmed further, as she focused; she had her hands clamped on either side of Marron s head, and a terrible determination on her face.