She stared, beyond words.
He leaned his head against the bars. “It was the demon,
beshala
. It stole not just my leg from me. It stole my power as a man as well.”
“You mean—?”
A bitter smile touched his lips. “No,
beshala
. All of my body is intact, save for my leg. But it might as well not be. No passion, no matter how strongly I feel it, can cause me to stir as a man should. It has been thus ever since that day Xemeth and I first found the demon, and I knew its touch.”
It was too cruel. Lirith tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a sob. “So the one gift I can give you is the one that means nothing to you.”
His coppery gaze found hers, held it. “No,
beshala
. You have given me the greatest gift I could ever have asked for. What man ever truly knows his fate? Yet here is my own fate, made manifest as you stand before me. So what if it is bitter? At least I know it, and it is mine.”
She pressed her own face to the bars, so close to his she could feel the heat radiating from his cheek, touching her skin like the most intimate caress.
“I will love you forever, Sareth.”
“And I love you this moment,” he said.
They stayed that way until a knock sounded at the door.
“It’s time, Miss Lily,” came Tanner’s voice through the bars.
The lock turned; the door opened. Without a word, Lirith turned and left her heart in the shadows behind her.
35.
Durge knelt amid the sagebrush, leaning close to examine the dead lamb. The sun jabbed through the thin mountain air like a hot knife, and horseflies lurched around in drunken circles. Vermin had only just begun to discover the little white corpse. A few more hours in this heat, and Durge knew that would change.
“Do you think it was wolves or coyotes, Señor Dirk?” asked the man who squatted beside him. He was wiry and compact, his hair black and his skin a wind-worn brown. His name was Manuel Dominguez, and Durge guessed he came from the Dominion of
Meksako
, which Sir Tanner said lay to the south of
Yewessay
.
Durge studied the pattern of wounds that penetrated the lamb’s woolly skin, exposing flesh and bone. There were long gashes on the creature’s back and deeper punctures in its right side. The throat was the worst; it had been savaged so brutally the creature’s head twisted backward, attached to its body by only a grisly cord of bone and sinew. The other two lambs had shown similar patterns of mutilation.
“This looks to me like the work of wolves,” Durge said, pointing to the lamb’s shredded neck. In Embarr, there were huge gray wolves that came out of the mountains to prowl the moors in winter, and he had seen the damage they could wreak upon sheep or kine. “But the wounds upon its back look more like those made by a great cat.”
Dominguez looked up. “Would a mountain lion come so far into the valley?”
Durge rocked back on his heels and shaded his eyes. Dominguez’s small sheep ranch was in the middle of the sage-covered plain that blanketed the floor of the valley; the mountains were two leagues away, perhaps three.
“One might come so far, if it were hungry,” Durge said. “But it makes little sense that a lion and a wolf should work together. And I do not think these marks were made by an animal at all.” He pointed to the deep wounds on the creature’s side. “These look as if they were made by a knife. Did one of the men who work for you begin to butcher the creature?”
Dominguez shook his head. “I have no men who work for me, only my sons. And I was the first to find the lambs.”
What he saw confounded Durge. This creature had been slain by talon, tooth, and knife—each weapon wielded seemingly by a different creature. Even stranger, why had the predator not fed upon the lamb after killing it? He brushed his fingers over the dirt around the lamb. It was hard and dry; there was no trace of blood. Perhaps the slayer had fed after all. But what creature killed only to drink blood? No animal Durge knew of behaved in such a manner.
“I will tell the sheriff what has happened here,” Durge said to the rancher as they stood. “I imagine he will send men out to hunt for the animal that did this.”
Dominguez nodded, his brown eyes filled with gratitude. “I thank you, Señor Dirk. My ranch is small, and so is my herd. A man offered not long ago to buy my land from me. If I lose many more sheep, I will have to take his offer.”
Durge felt sympathy for the rancher. In Embarr, there was no greater shame than to be a freeman without land, save to be a serf or a beggar. “Who is this man who offered to purchase your land from you?”
“I do not know his name. He came from over there.”
Dominguez pointed to the east. Durge squinted and could just see it in the distance: a split-rail fence stretching for league after league, and beyond it the shapes of barns, stables, and a gigantic house with many wings and pointed spires that made Durge think of the finer manor houses of Eldh. A local lord must live there. That made sense. It was cruel but not unusual for a nobleman to buy the land of a freeman who was in debt to him, and then allow the man to keep working the land he had once owned, thus turning him into a serf in all but name.
Durge bid the rancher farewell, then mounted the horse he had ridden from town and urged it into a canter. Sir Tanner kept three horses at the livery, and while they were fine animals, none had a fraction of the strength or heart of his own charger, Blackalock. He supposed Blackalock was still in the stables at Ar-tolor where Durge had left him. Would Durge ever return to Eldh to claim him again?
I imagine Blackalock will grow old and die waiting for you
to come back, Durge.
The gloomy thought occurred to him out of habit. It was his nature always to assume the worst; that way disappointment could never be a fact. Only, for some reason, today this thought annoyed Durge. What use was it to imagine Blackalock pining in his stall? Why should Durge not get back to Eldh? From what Travis said—and Durge had never known Travis to be anything but trustworthy—his friend Jack Graystone was a runelord, and little as Durge cared for magic, it was magic that had gotten them there, and surely such a powerful wizard could help them.
You will get back to Eldh,
Durge tried telling himself, and the thought felt strangely good.
You will find a way back, and
you will see your old friend Blackalock again.
Durge found himself grinning as he rode, although the expression felt oddly tight, as if the muscles of his face had all but forgotten how to work this way. Then an image flashed in his mind, and it wasn’t of a big warhorse. It was of a regal young woman with dark hair and sapphire blue eyes.
Durge’s grin shattered like glass.
You are a fool, old man. You are a doddering fool if you hope
one so young and fresh can love you.
Yet he did hope, didn’t he? Much as he wished he could deny it, the old Mournish woman who had read his fate was right. He loved Lady Aryn, foolish as it was, and he could sooner stop autumn from turning to winter than stop himself from feeling such tenderness for her.
Then maybe it is better if you do not return to Eldh.
And even though he knew that was a lie, he held on to that idea, letting it armor his heart. Because never seeing his home or his horse again was better than seeing the horror in her blue eyes when she discovered the truth of what he felt for her.
It was early afternoon by the time Durge rode back into Castle City. Elk Street bustled with people and animals like the bailey of a great castle, but for all its activity there was a pall that hung over the town like smoke. By now everyone in town knew of Lord Barrett’s beating. And while few seemed to care for the Englishman, many feared who this so-called Crusade for Purity might see fit to punish next.
Durge returned the horse to the livery, then walked to the sheriff’s office. He entered to find the front room empty; neither Sir Tanner nor young Deputy Wilson sat behind the desk. Perhaps one of them was in the jail?
As Durge started toward the back, a glint of light caught his eyes. He knelt. On the floor next to the desk lay a small glass bottle. It was empty, save for a few drops of some dark residue at the bottom. Durge picked up the bottle, then moved to the door to the jail and peered through the bars.
In one of the cells, on a wooden cot overlain with Maudie’s feather bed, lay Sareth. The Mournish man seemed to sleep more each passing day. Durge was no healer, not like his noble mistress Lady Grace, but he knew Sareth’s sickness was growing worse. If he stayed in jail much longer, Durge feared he might die.
Then again, if Sareth left the jail, his death was all but certain. The vigilance committee would hang Sareth by the neck the moment he was freed. Nor would any of Castle City’s folk stop them. Many of the town’s people had come to Sir Tanner these last days, asking him to release Sareth. Folk whispered that it was because Sir Tanner kept Sareth locked up that the Crusade had made its presence known by harming Lord Barrett. They believed things would only get worse until the Crusade lynched Sareth for the murder of Calvin Murray. Durge knew they were right on one count: Things were indeed going to get worse.
Other than Sareth, the jail was empty. There were no lawbreakers to imprison these days—no thieves, no swindlers, no drifters. The Crusade had run them all out of town. Or, Durge supposed, had shot them and pushed their bodies into ravines or off cliffs, even if their crimes were as simple as public drunkenness or petty theft. Durge believed men should be punished for their crimes. However, the Crusade for Purity seemed to offer but one penalty for any transgression, no matter how slight—or how imaginary.
Where was Sir Tanner? Surely the sheriff would not leave Sareth alone. Then Durge heard a faint sound: the clink of glass against metal. It had come from the shed tacked onto the side of the jail, where coal for the stove would be kept if it were winter. Durge moved to the narrow door; it was open a crack, and he peered through.
Sir Tanner stood in the shed, his back mostly to Durge. He bent forward, his narrow shoulders hunched as if in pain. Durge could just see two objects in his hands: a tin cup and a small glass bottle like the one Durge had found on the floor, only this one was full of the dark fluid. Tanner was trying to pour some of the liquid into the cup, but his right hand shook violently, and the bottle rattled against the rim. At last he managed to hold the bottle steady, and he poured several drops into the cup. Tanner lifted the cup, draining it. He stood perfectly still for a moment, then—his hands finally steady—he stoppered the bottle.
Durge knew he had just seen something he shouldn’t. He slipped the empty bottle into his pocket and stole quietly to the front door of the office. Duplicity ran counter to his nature, but all the same he opened the front door, then shut it again loudly. He walked toward the desk, making certain his boots stamped on the floor.
Tanner stepped from the side door. “Hello, Mr. Dirk,” the sheriff said in his calm drawl. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon from the Dominguez place.”
“I believe I saw all there was to see,” Durge said, and he described the three mauled lambs the rancher had shown him.
Tanner’s eyes were sharp as he listened, although his face bore the shadow of weariness that was always present. It seemed he had grown thinner these last days; his suit hung on him as upon a tailor’s rack.
You should talk to Lady Lirith about it later,
Durge told himself.
If there is something wrong with Sir Tanner, no doubt she
will have seen it.
The afternoon was long and troubling.
Not long after Durge returned to the jail, Deputy Wilson arrived, his round cheeks flushed from running. There was some sort of commotion over on Aspen Street.
Leaving Wilson at the jail, Durge and Tanner jogged several blocks. They saw the crowd first, then pushed their way through to find a disconcerting sight. One of the storefronts that lined the street was completely gone. Only the rear of the building remained; broken planks and shards of glass littered the ground. Smoke drifted on the air, and Durge caught a sharp tinge of sulfur that reminded him of his alchemical experiments.
After questioning people in the crowd, Durge and Tanner managed to piece together what had happened. The building housed a gambling establishment run by a family from the Dominion of China, offering a game of chance called paigow. The building had been torn apart by an explosion—no doubt worked with the same volatile black powder that was used to make fireworks and break apart rocks in the mines.
Astonishingly, no one had been seriously injured in the blast. A few people passing on the street had suffered scratches from flying glass, but none of the members of the family that ran the establishment had been inside. Durge spoke to the head of the household, a tiny old man with a long white braid and eyes that were all but lost amid wrinkled skin.
According to the old man, a pair of men wearing black masks had entered the gambling parlor, which was closed at the time, brandishing guns. One of the men had forced the frightened family out back. After a few minutes, the second man had come running out, and the two strangers rode away, laughing and discharging their pistols into the air. Before the family could enter the building again, the explosion had ripped it apart.
“My daughter found this just before the men came,” the old man said, handing a paper to Durge. “It was nailed to the door, but I cannot read it.”
Durge looked at the paper. It read simply:
Thou shalt not
steal.
So it was another one of their commandments. But had not the Crusade just stolen everything from this family? It seemed the crusaders wished only for others to follow these commandments; they felt no need to follow the rules themselves.
“What does it say?” the old man said.
Durge crumpled up the paper. “It says these were evil men who did this.”
The old man nodded, eyes sad, and returned to his family. Tanner gave Durge a curious look as they headed back to the jail. “I didn’t know you spoke Chinese, Mr. Dirk.”
Startled, Durge realized the old man must have been speaking in a different tongue than the one spoken here. However, with the fragment of the silver coin in his pocket, it seemed to Durge that everyone spoke the tongue of the Dominions, even though he knew they weren’t.
Unsure what to say, Durge settled for saying nothing. Once at the jail, Tanner sent Deputy Wilson off on a number of errands, making sure the Chinese family had a place to stay, and arranging for workmen to clean up the debris left by the explosion. Durge wondered what Tanner intended to do. Surely the sheriff could work against this Crusade now that they had acted in such an open manner. However, Tanner said nothing, except to tell Durge to go home.
“I believe I would like to keep watch at the jail tonight,” Durge replied, eyeing Tanner’s weary face. “You can relieve me in the morning.”
“What about your supper, Mr. Dirk? And sleep?”
“Mrs. Vickery always makes food enough for two.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Durge knew Sareth would eat little. “And I feel I have no sleep in me tonight.”
Tanner looked like he wanted to protest, then he sighed, and it seemed weariness won out. “All right, Mr. Dirk. I’ll stop by the Bluebell on my way home and let Maudie know not to expect you. She’ll fret otherwise.”
Just as the shadow of Castle Peak fell across the town, Mrs. Vickery’s husband brought a tray to the door. (After the bottle was thrown at Durge, Tanner had begun paying Mrs. Vickery extra to have meals delivered.) Durge took it back into the jailhouse, woke Sareth up, and uncovered the tray.