Part 39 (1/2)
”Perhaps less.”
”Then I shall be with the beautiful Iseabal tonight in my black tent. I will show her paradise,” he promised.
Daimhin chuckled. ”That ought to provide her a welcome change. I imagine she's weary of her tour of h.e.l.l.”
”Surely, you belittle your own charm, friend Daimhin.”
”Charm? I made no attempt to show her any.”
The boy made a clucking sound with his tongue. ”An oversight, my friend. One may often have by charm what he cannot take by force.”
The remark echoed in Daimhin Feich's head long after Sorn Saba and his men had galloped away toward Creiddylad with a Feich escort. Even now he felt suspicion curl in the back of his mind.
Perhaps he had let the young Deasach fool him. Perhaps the boy had hidden fey powers of his own and had manipulated Feich into letting the girl go. Perhaps the boy would now draw from her the power he had been denied . . . and perhaps he was just overly full of suspicion. Sorn Saba's philosophical comment might have been just that-the romantic rumination of a l.u.s.ty young man. Still, Daimhin Feich could not help but hear words behind the words and wondered if the Deasach fancied himself able to charm from Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke something more than willing surrender to his lovemaking.
When they camped tonight, he decided, he would ask Coinich Mor if there was any way he could know for certain.
For two days Iseabal had slept, rocked in the luxurious confines of her gaudy little wagon. She had wakened hungry once and been given some corn cakes and honey with hot tea. Some part of her registered that the food was delicious and nouris.h.i.+ng, but she didn't care. She was exhausted of mind and body, drained of spirit. On the second evening, early, she woke again, sensing the stillness of the wagon and the bustle of activity around it. She gathered her senses, pulled them back from some half-lucid dream in which she walked the woods and hills of home, unfettered and cleansed.
The wagon rocked gently and someone parted the rearward curtains and entered. It was not the solid Feich matron who had been tending her; the silhouette was too slender and decidedly male.
She tensed, jerking upright on her fleece-covered mattress.
The figure raised a hand. ”Please, don't take fright. It's only me-Sorn.”
She relaxed, but only slightly. The young Deasach had visited her once at Mertuile. She had been terrified of him at first, but the warm voice had soothed her and she had sat with him at the fireside, drinking mulled cider and talking. He had told wonderful stories of his boyhood in the court of his father, of his sister's coronation upon the loss of their parents in a storm at sea, of his falcon and pet lynx. She, in turn, had spoken of Nairne and her family, of Taminy and Aine. He had seemed pleased to listen. The cider had the potency of wine and she carried no memory beyond the warm fire and Sorn's watchful black eyes.
”Poor child,” he said now. He'd called her that before, too, though he was not more than a year or two older than she. ”Poor child, you look spent. Shall I leave you to sleep?”
”I only just woke,” she said. ”I've slept for days, I think.”
”Then you must be hungry, yes?” At her nod, ”I'll have dinner set out for you in my tent. First, you must refresh yourself. A bath, yes? A hot bath. Scented with the petals of desert roses. Would you like that?”
”I would, thank you. Is . . . is Daimhin Feich . . . ?”
Sorn came closer to the edge of her pallet, his long, slender fingers prying hers from the fleece covering she unwittingly wrung.
”No, no, dear Iseabal. I have saved you from Feich. He will trouble you no more-I swear it.”
She didn't believe him for a moment. Surely there was nowhere in the universe where Daimhin Feich was not. He was even in her dreams, turning them to nightmares. She had all but suffocated her aidan in fear of his loathsome touch-in fear that he could truly turn it to his own use.
”You try to trick me. He's here.”
He gripped her hands more tightly. ”No! I promise you, he is not. Listen, Iseabal-I made a bargaining with Feich. The aid of the Deasach I made in part dependent on his granting me your care. You are in my keeping now, Iseabal. Feich is set on other aims. If you touch my mind, you'll see I tell the truth. Trust me, Iseabal. Am I not speaking truly?”
He sat beside her, silent for a moment and, at last, she put out a tiny feeler of the aidan. Feich . . . was ahead of them on the sh.o.r.e rode, riding post haste to El-Deasach.
She made herself relax. ”Feich will reach El-Deasach before we do.”
He nodded. ”By days, perhaps. By the time we reach my sister's capitol, he will be so busy with his great plans he will not even notice you.” He put a hand to her face. ”He will not lay hands on you again.”
She put her hand over his in a wave of grat.i.tude. ”Thank you. I'm in your debt.”
”He terrifies you so?”
She shuddered. Terror was such a weak word when it came to Feich and his appet.i.tes. She had only just ceased to feel bruised and torn.
Sorn was reading her face in the twilight leaking through the curtains behind him. He shook his head. ”A monster, that one. I will try to help you exorcise his demon. You are an open wound. I promise you this: in my hands, you will heal.”
She was bathed in scented water, dressed in a soft billowing gown of pale saffron silk with a warm felt overcoat of cinnamon, and taken to a black tent at the heart of the camp. It was a large tent. It was clearly intended for more than one person, yet Sorn Saba was its only occupant. Upon a carpet of thick fleeces, lay a single, low pallet, its mattress thick and soft.
It was there they sat before a large, bra.s.s brazier and ate spicy Deasach food and drank spicy Deasach karfa. The tent was golden with lamplight and ornamentation-a mask and odd dancing figurines. The warmed air smelled pleasantly of food and spice and incense from the coals. They spoke, at length, of many things. She asked about the golden mask and figurines and Sorn told her of ancient ritual and belief. This was his father's death mask, and these, his family's patron spirit, Jamla, known for her grace and pa.s.sion on the battlefield, in the dance, in love. Sorn had added this last, glancing at her shyly.
Fruit was brought and wine, which Iseabal refused; the waljan did not drink intoxicants, she explained, but the karfa was lovely-wonderful. He ordered that a fresh pot be brought. The evening pa.s.sed gently, pleasantly-but the honeyed fruit and hot karfa seemed to take its toll on Isha's reserves of energy. Heavy-eyed and heavy-headed she heard less and less of what Sorn said, understood her own answers not at all.
He, solicitous, ma.s.saged her hands, her neck and shoulders, speaking to her softly all the while in that sweet, warm, patient voice. His mother used to ma.s.sage his aching muscles, he told her.
She could name no point at which she realized her senses were no longer hers to command, when she knew the fruit and the karfa-possibly all the food-had been laced with intoxicants, though none as potent as Sorn's voice, gently ordering her body to comply with his. She knew only that in the end, what Sorn Saba required from her was no different than what Feich demanded. It was less painfully gotten, that was all.
Sometime in the black of night, she came back to herself and was lost immediately to confusion. Chaos broke like ocean waves beyond the black walls of the tent, bearing a flotsam of curses, cries and the metallic clash of swords.
Beside her, Sorn jerked to awareness, scrambling for clothing. His hand fell heavily on her shoulder.
”Light!” he whispered urgently. ”Make light! Now!” He shook her.
s.h.i.+vering with fear, she cupped her hand and brought an inyx to mind; a tiny ball of light formed in the palm of her hand. In its glow, Sorn's eyes were huge and wild.
He had risen, pulled on his leggings and was scrabbling about his saddle for a weapon when the tent flap parted admitting a swarm of light and two men dressed in cloaks of deep crimson with edging of patterned yellow. One stood with sword drawn, the other carried a light-globe atop a wooden staff.
Iseabal stared, trying to comprehend who these Weavers of light might be.
Sorn came up from a crouch, a sword in one hand and what looked like a tiny cannon in the other. The leader of the marauders raised his free hand.
”Put down the weapon, boy. We've come only for the girl.”
Far from pacifying Sorn Saba, the words inflamed him. His face twisted in a leer of rage, he fired the little cannon. It discharged with a roar and a flash of fire, shattering the light-globe and plunging the tent into darkness.
Iseabal screamed as Sorn leapt upon her, pressing her to his side. She felt cold metal at her throat.
”Hex them!” he cried. ”Set a spell on them!”
Movement ceased and a voice out of the dark said, ”Iseabal, I am Rodri Madaidh. I mean no harm to you. Here is my proof.”
From the place where the voice rose a light appeared in the shape of a star-a gytha-on the palm of this stranger's hand.