Dragon Tree (12 page)

Amie nibbled
on her lip. Was he testing her, testing her character, seeing if
she was desperate enough to deceive the man who had saved her life?
Was a lie by omission not still a lie?

Marak could
see the confusion and doubt in her eyes and he offered up another
small wedge of cheese. "You have to start trusting someone
sometime."

Yes,
she thought.
But in a household full of secretive
strangers...who do I dare trust?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Inaya had
assumed the bulk of Amie's care once her shoulder was on the mend.
Initially wary, the tiny dark-eyed woman conducted all of her
duties in utter silence, moving on small, soundless feet, seemingly
able to anticipate any request Amie might make before the thought
was formed. The faintest rumble of hunger was met by steaming bowls
of stew and broth. A licking of the lips brought forth an ewer of
water or wine. A hand raised restlessly to push a stray hair out of
the way resulted in the appearance of a horsehair brush and a strip
of colored silk to bind it into a long plait.

The boy,
Jibril, who shadowed his mother wherever she went, ran instantly to
crouch in a corner farthest away from where Amie happened to be.
His constant companion was the carved wooden horse, which he
clutched to his breast and whispered to as if it was a live
pet.

By the next
day, Amie could stand without the floor sliding out from beneath
her. By the day after that, she could walk the length and breadth
of her chamber several times in a row, and she could feel herself
growing stronger with each attempt. She did the exercises Marak
prescribed for her arm and she forced herself to eat whatever Inaya
put in front of her, whether she was hungry or not. The healer
still came to check on her several times each day, beginning early
in the morning when he brought a mulled brew of honey, wine, and
herbs that sent the blood surging through her veins like liquid
fire.

On the
eleventh morning, when Marak arrived with her morning libation,
Amie was already out of bed and dressed. Inaya had provided her
with a simple blue tunic with long belled sleeves. Her hair had
been brushed into a soft, wavy curtain that fell halfway down her
back. She was standing by the window embrasure, her face turned to
the outside even though Jibril had hopped up and closed the wooden
shutters moments before. A single, muted thread of sunlight came
through a crack in the panel, the stream of light dancing with
motes of dust.

“I have to
leave this place,” she said, not even turning to look at him when
she heard the telltale rustle of long robes dragging across the
floor. “I have imposed on Lord Tamberlane’s hospitality far too
long as it is.”

“To my
knowledge, he has not remarked on any imposition.”

“Nevertheless,” she turned her face slightly, revealing a
determined set to her jaw that Marak had not seen before, “you know
why I must leave.”

“You have been
here ten days and thus far no one has come beating on the castle
doors."

“My husband
will not stop searching for me. He will have discovered that I did
not die in the village and he will send more hunters to find me,
more killers, and yes, after they have searched the forests and
villages, they will eventually come here.”

“Perhaps you
credit him with more perseverance than he deserves.”

“He does not
give up easily. Especially not when...” Her voice faltered and
Marak waited, but whatever she might have added was dismissed on a
small shake of her head.

Marak
approached the window. The same thread of light touched on the
shadows inside his hood and for a moment, before he drew back, Amie
caught a glimpse of pale gray-white flesh, colorless lips,
pink-rimmed eyes. His features were sharp and angular. Waves of
snow white hair trailed to his shoulders and spilled out the sides
of his hood, yet Amie sensed the healer was not much above the age
of his overlord. Despite his affliction—or perhaps because of it—he
had a kind face with eyes that had seen and known much sorrow, and
had his skin been naturally dark, there would be no mistaking his
Saracen bloodlines.

“I must leave
this place,” she said again, turning to the window.

“If your
husband is as determined as you say, where would you go that he
would not simply follow and find you?”

“Friar
Guilford was taking me to a convent—the Holy Sisters of Mary
Magdalene. He deemed it far enough away in Exeter that I would be
safe, where even
my lord husband
—” she spat the words out
like pits from a melon— "would not dare violate the holy laws of
sanctuary.”

“I strongly
doubt he would dare violate the walls of Taniere Castle... if,
indeed, he could reach them.” At her frown he smiled. “The castle
sits upon an island, surrounded entirely by deep water. The only
access is by a narrow draw that can be raised or lowered at a
moment’s notice.”

Amie shook her
head. “Walls do not deter him, neither do narrow draws or moats, or
locked and bolted doors. If he suspected I was here, he would find
a way inside, then he would burn the castle down and slaughter
everyone within it.”

“That would
seem excessive even for a man smitten through the heart with
devotion—a condition I gather your husband did not suffer
from?”

She chewed a
moment on her lip before looking up. “He was smitten with the
promises my uncle made—promises of influence and wealth.” She
hesitated and drew a deep breath. “I have not been entirely
truthful with you, Healer. I did not simply run away from my
husband. I... I attempted to kill him. I thought I had, in fact,
and as God bears witness, it might well have been better for all if
I had aimed better with the candlestick."

"You hit him
with a candlestick?"

"I attempted
to crush his skull. It proved to be thicker than expected."

Marak tried
not to smile. “Murder with a candlestick would be a heavy sin to
bear. You would have carried the burden with you the rest of your
days.”

“The burden
would have been a small one,” she assured him with yet another
surprising show of intensity. “Easily managed.”

“I see.”

His response
bore neither condemnation nor revulsion. A faint hint of curiosity,
perhaps, and Amie bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“It was not a
marriage I sought, nor was any attempt made to make it so. After my
father died, my uncle became my guardian. He was a kind man but
weak and in poor health. When Odo de Langois petitioned for my hand
in marriage, with the full blessing of the Prince Regent behind
him, Uncle had little choice but to agree. He had no idea what kind
of man Odo was. I... had no idea such animals even existed," she
added quietly. "He expected me to... to see to his every disgusting
pleasure and when I refused or would not obey upon the instant, he
beat me. The first time he did so, I attempted to leave, but was
caught and dragged back before him. After that, the cruelty grew
worse, and more often than not, he bound me hand and foot and took
what he wanted despite my screams and pleas." She paused again and
shook her head, making a delicate coil of hair bounce against her
cheek. “I could not bear it. I simply could not have endured
another moment. Nay, I would have drawn a blade across my own
wrists had the candlestick not been handier. It was in my fist
before I knew it and in the next instant, he was lying in a pool of
blood beside me. He will not forgive the insult to his pride or to
his person. He will keep hunting me. Stone walls and battlements
will not stay his hand.”

“Lord
Tamberlane might.”

“I doubt his
generosity would extend so far as to risk losing his castle, his
life to protect me.”

At that, Marak
laughed softly. “It might surprise you to know what he has risked
and lost for far less.” After another pensive moment, he said,
“Come. If you are feeling strong enough, perhaps you would care to
venture outside your room and see for yourself what lies beyond
these dreary four walls?”

Amie glanced
at the door. The notion was tempting, for she was beginning to feel
like a bird trapped in a cage. On the other hand, she felt safe
here. For the first time since her marriage vows had set her on a
long, dark path into hell, she almost felt safe.

Safe. With
perfect strangers. One an albino who did not even react to the
confession that she had tried to murder her husband; the other an
enigmatic knight who slew dragons and blushed at the sight of a
woman weeping.

“Come,” Marak
said again, shifting to one side and stretching out his arm by way
of further invitation.

Steeling
herself, Amaranth moved slowly ahead of the robed seneschal and
walked toward the door. It opened onto a stone landing, which led
down a corkscrew staircase to the floor below. Her feet were bare,
as would befit a peasant girl, for only noble ladies were accorded
shoes. The stone was rough beneath her soles, not to mention cold,
but it was a small discomfort compared to the anticipation of
seeing what lay at the bottom of the winding steps.

There was only
one way to exit the tower and she followed the narrow corridor
until it led through a stone arch that opened into the great hall.
The latter was an enormous, cavernous chamber, fully a hundred
broad paces long and fifty wide. The ceiling rose three storeys
above and disappeared into a gloomy realm of crossbeams and stone
arches, misted gray from the smoke that came from the two large
fires that smoldered at either end of the room.

Black iron
cressets were hung on the walls at regular intervals, but where one
torch was lit, the flame crackling and snapping up the stone wall,
the three between that and the next were dark, adding to the
murkiness of the shadows. Tall multi-branched candelabra stood at
either end of a dais which ran nearly the width of the hall, their
thick pillars of tallow candles almost succeeding in overpowering
the earthy stench of a century worth of dampness and smoke embedded
in the stone walls.

The only
windows were the archery slits carved high up on the walls and
useful only as nesting places for the birds that fluttered from
beam to beam. The rushes scattered on the floor looked and smelled
as though they had not been changed in months. Chickens pecked
around in the debris searching for crumbs while two enormous
wolfhounds sprawled below the dais crunching on well-cleaned
bones.

Seated alone
on the dais, his head leaning against the tall back of his chair,
was Lord Tamberlane. He had his eyes closed and one leg hooked over
a wooden arm. He looked asleep... or drunk... his dark hair fallen
over his brow like strokes of black paint. Amie would gladly have
whirled right around and gone back to her room if Marak’s hand had
not been firm on her elbow steering her down the three wide steps
that led into the belly of the hall.

The hem of
Amie’s borrowed gown caught on a rough edge of stone... a sound she
thought only she could hear... yet no sooner had the snag released
than Tamberlane’s eyes opened and his head came upright.

His first
reaction was a scowl. It stayed in place for several moments until
his eyes widened with recognition.

“See who I
have brought with me this morning?” Marak said casually. His hand
dropped away from Amie’s elbow and retreated into his long sleeves
as they stood before the dais. “Amaranth expressed a wish to
explore her new surroundings, and to thank you for your generous
hospitality.”

Tamberlane
unhooked his leg from the chair and straightened. The creases on
his brow deepened and he raked his long fingers through his hair,
pushing it back in blue-black waves as he scratched his scalp to
hasten his senses into returning.

“There is no
need to thank me,” he mumbled.

Amie stared at
the knight. She judged that she had been right with her second
guess, for his eyes were underscored and puffy, the whites marred
by spidery veins, the lids red and polished. His voice was rusty,
his movements stiff, as if he had spent the night sleeping in the
chair.

He also looked
decidedly uncomfortable beneath Amie’s scrutiny. She had no idea
why he should feel thus. He was the overlord, the master. He could
do as he wished when he wished. He could sleep here or in the
middle of the drawbridge if it took his fancy.

“Good my
lord,” she began, speaking softly but clearly. “It is indeed
necessary for me to thank you once again. You saved my life. You
have given me shelter, you—”

“More wine!”
Tamberlane said abruptly, beckoning behind him to where a lackey
stood in attendance.

A subtle lift
of Marak’s hand stopped the young man from coming forward.

“Amaranth
would also beg to demonstrate her gratitude in other ways,” he
said, nudging Amie gently on the arm. When she looked up, startled,
a thin finger crooked in the direction of the flagon sitting across
the board from Tamberlane. “She has recovered much of her strength,
enough so that she would ask the chance to make herself useful in
the household.”

Amie did not
need to be struck over her own head with a candlestick to realize
what Marak was attempting to do. If she proved herself capable of
blending in with the regular castle servants, Tamberlane would be
less likely to regard her as a burden or an intruder. It was
generous of Marak, and undoubtedly intended to make her feel the
need to leave was less urgent. At the same time, if she balked, it
would have the opposite effect of making her look like a sullen
ingrate.

The pressure
of Marak’s hand on her elbow was firm and, gathering the hem of her
tunic in her good hand, she stepped up onto the dais to retrieve
the pewter flagon of wine. It was heavy and as she filled the
knight’s cup, the ewer trembled and some of the wine splashed on
the table. Amie glanced at the knight and the shock of gazing
directly into those eerie green eyes rippled disconcertingly down
her spine.