Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) (34 page)

Ironwall’s gate opened. Tyrus saw Dura in her red robes, with students and guards. Fifty people greeted them, and he decided their talk could wait. Ishma seemed stricken at the sight of Dura approaching.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You have nothing to fear. The Red Sorceress won’t hurt you.”

“I… don’t want to be a prisoner again.”

“You won’t be. I didn’t free you to be a prisoner.”

“No more interrogators?”

“Did Azmon set them on you?”

“He did things to me.”

Tyrus wanted to ask what but was torn between curiosity and protecting her dignity. Her voice sounded odd, coarse. Tyrus stepped closer as though to shield her from something, but he knew not what. She pulled aside part of her grimy dress and showed the runes on her chest.

“He etched you?”

“He punished me.”

Tyrus wanted to comfort her, but she was despondent. There were no tears or melodrama, only vacant eyes in a haunted face. They were not the same eyes he remembered, and he hoped he had not imagined them. Maybe in his memories, her eyes were greener. She seemed older, worn out by her ordeal. When she leaned into him and hugged him, that electric sense of closeness was absent. His armor kept her warmth away, and he took care not to pinch her with the shoulder and chest plates. He should have expected as much. They had both changed in the long years since the mountains.

“You are safe, Ishma.”

“Don’t leave me with the Red Sorceress.”

“I will stay at your side.”

She smelled wrong, unwashed, damp, soiled. Royals were given better cells than that tower. Ishma should have worn silks and had her hair brushed. Even locked away in a dungeon, an empress was treated better than this. He couldn’t believe it, and his anger rose. Azmon should know better.

“We will take care of you,” Tyrus said. “A bath and food and a change of clothes; it won’t be long, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

The moment warmed him and gave him hope. She was still in there, somewhere, and maybe with time the old Ishma would return. He kept the thoughts to himself. Wanting more from her so soon after her rescue was selfish. For now, the two of them faced the world alone, again, and it made the old memories vivid. He had triumphed against impossible odds, like one of the old songs of long-dead heroes. Success made him feel young.

Lilith-Ishma held Tyrus close, but her attention fell on the black gore seeping from the flyer’s head. She hungered for that ichor, needed to kneel next to the thing and lap at its blood. The anticipation of the fluid touching her tongue both thrilled and repulsed her. Old memories told her the beasts were not edible. The flesh was poison, but hunger overrode fear. She clung to Tyrus until she controlled her urges.

Fear of Dura helped. She watched her approach, an ancient woman bent over and leaning on her staff. The deep crimson of her robes highlighted her gray hair and pale skin as though the robes aged her and raised the question, when would the old witch die? Lilith needed a shield from Dura, so she mimicked a meaningful stare with Tyrus with prolonged eye contact and a flutter of her lashes. In his mind, she had to be the great lost love, vulnerable still, in need of protection. His face softened under her gaze, and she hated him more: so weak and gullible.

“Don’t leave me with the Red Sorceress.”

Tyrus whispered pleasantries that she ignored. Her fear was not an act. She watched Dura approach and fought an urge to grow her claws. The violent thoughts had to be controlled unless she wanted her eyes to glow. First, she must find the heir. Then she could kill these idiots. That meant fooling them longer than she had tried before. She wasn’t sure if she knew enough about Ishma, and she had a moment of inspiration—no one knew Ishma the prisoner. They remembered a queen and empress.

“I should have known you’d succeed,” Dura said. “One day, you won’t. You’ll take a risk too many, and fate will punish you.”

Tyrus said, “That is the way fate works.”

Lilith decided she would speak as little as possible. She was the frail Narboran whore, abused and battered. The hardest part was suppressing a triumphant grin.

Dura touched her ragged smock. “Can you fly in that? Isn’t it cold?”

Lilith looked down, ashamed of her attire.

Dura’s boney old fingers probed Lilith’s skin, hands, and face. This was the moment Lilith feared, a sorceress that rivaled Azmon probing the fake flesh hanging from her bones. She flinched when Dura took her chin, and Dura apologized.

“You have no frostbite. That’s good. You remember me?”

“Dura Galamor, of the Red Towers.”

“I was younger when I married you. It’s been a long war.” Dura pushed a strand of hair away from Ishma’s face. “But you haven’t aged a day.”

Would that be the mistake that doomed Lilith? She waited for the chill of sorcery, for Dura to touch the other world and become powerful. All she could do was grow her claws and gore the woman’s throat. The beating pulse in the neck attracted her, and she wondered what she tasted like. Did sagging wrinkles and liver spots taste different? She might kill Tyrus in the confusion, but it would cost her the heir. Thoughts of failing Azmon made her tremble.

“She’s exhausted,” Tyrus said. “They kept her chained to a wall.”

“Yes, of course. Come.” Dura gestured for them to follow. “The Gadarans want neither of you in Ironwall, but my tower is my domain. I have a private bath and servants, nothing as grand as Old Rosh, but you can feel human again.”

Lilith halted mid-step. The idea of bathing shocked her, and she questioned the truthfulness of the phrase. Would it make her feel clean? She had loved water once, in her real life, and had another memory of a girl swimming in a lake. How long had it been since she had enjoyed a good steam? She couldn’t remember enough of her old life to know.

“Come. There’s nothing to fear,” Dura said. “And it will take hours to unknot your hair.”

Lilith wanted to bathe, but despite the distance from Shinar, she still felt Azmon’s will pushing her toward Marah.

She asked, “Where is Marah?”

“All things in good time. First, we will see to your wounds and clean you.”

“I want to see my daughter.”

“Of course you do. But you’ll frighten the child. She is safe. You are in seraphim lands now.”

Fear of the seraphim appeared like agreement, a deep swallow and a nod. As they followed Dura to the gate, Lilith snatched glimpses of the clouds. The seraphim would not be fooled, and she wondered how active they were in Ironwall. They walked past dozens of walls as they hiked up the side of the mountain. At each wall, an iron gate closed behind them, and Lilith realized that escaping Ironwall with the heir would be the hardest trick.

Einin rocked in a chair, watching Marah nap. The room had a small slit of a window, designed for archers, and dust motes danced in the sunlight. The ray of light hit the wall but not Marah. She slept, oblivious to the world. Her face embodied such contentment, without worry or nightmares, that she made Einin jealous. Naps were simpler now that they were home. They had furniture, chairs, and proper beds with feather mattresses. Einin used naps to study, but this time, she risked disturbing Marah to stroke her white hair.

She tried to recall when Marah had become like her own daughter, but she didn’t remember a conscious decision. Like an illness, it had taken over by degrees. The sounds of the tower comforted, whereas before they had chafed. This place, like Marah, had grown on her. She still wanted to run, but good days were hard-won and should be cherished. From the doorway, she heard Dura’s staff ticking against the stairs.

Dura entered. “Tyrus has returned.”

“In one piece?”

“Mostly.”

“And you want me to find new homes for my guards?” Einin kept the rest to herself. The crone could be so petty. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“He did not return alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Empress Ishma is with him.”

Einin covered her mouth. Marah drew Dura’s attention while Einin worked her jaw. She had not thought she would see the empress again and assumed Azmon had killed her for treason.

“Where is she?”

“My servants draw a bath. She was kept in a tower, chained to a wall. It looks like someone used runes of misery to torture her.”

“Is she all right?”

“She is not herself. I thought you might help her dress, and we can introduce her to the child together. She is a frightful mess.”

Einin had stopped rocking, frozen. Part of her did not want to leave, but the hesitation cut deeper: she could not surrender her baby girl. Ishma would want Marah back. A wrenching sensation tore at her chest, making her gasp. She anticipated the loss as though Marah had died, and all her schemes involved running farther from Rosh, not bringing Ishma closer. A thought lessened her grief, though. Ishma would need a nurse, and Einin was the one she would trust. She could stay with Marah.

“You should go, help her,” Dura said. “You might bring her out of her shell, but brace yourself before you see her. She was not treated well. I can watch the child while you’re gone.”

“Thank you.”

The servants drew the bath, and Einin reintroduced herself. Ishma didn’t seem to recognize her, which hurt. After all their work to ferret Marah out of the Roshan Empire, Ishma offered little more than a glance. Dura had been right, though: Ishma smelled terrible. Einin guided her to the bath by touching her as little as possible.

On the lowest floor of the tower, there was a stone room without windows and a large porcelain tub decorated with gilt leaves. Candles glowed in the gold, and the bath looked like a lavish indulgence. The servants had filled it with boiling water, and the vapors filled the room until the air clung to the skin. Someone crushed cloves and rose petals into the water, giving the steam a pleasant aroma. Alone, together, they waited for the water to cool, and Einin helped Ishma out of her smock. She cracked the door to hand it to a servant.

“Burn this, and bring me a replacement. I’ll need more washcloths and a comb with wider teeth.”

She returned to see Ishma step into the simmering water. She had layers of grime caked to her form, so the once-creamy skin appeared mottled. She resembled one of the gray skins, animal men that wallowed in the swamps and never bathed. The grime wasn’t all dirt, either. Einin could have sworn some of it was dried blood, but in the strangest of places.

“Empress, the water is still too hot. You’ll scald yourself.”

“Nonsense. I’m fine.”

Einin went to her side and dipped a hand. She had to pull it back from water so hot that it bit. Ishma purred and stretched until her shoulders were submerged. A layer of gray silt rose to the surface, covering her figure. Einin could not fathom how the empress endured the burning.

Servants returned with washcloths and combs. Einin had never bathed her before. When she had been Ishma’s lady in waiting, she had dressed her, styled her hair and jewelry, and painted her face—but Ishma preferred bathing alone. Einin set to work on the hair, tugging and pulling and apologizing, but Ishma never complained. By the time she had unknotted most of it, they needed servants to drain and refill the water. More buckets of boiling water steamed the room, and Ishma climbed in without flinching. What little skin showed beneath all the dirt was bright red.

Einin washed away the filth. Ishma still had an amazing figure, and that surprised Einin. She would think months in a tower would age her or make her thinner. Her body looked like it had never given birth. Einin hoped to age half as well. Caked dirt eroded, and the bath muddied like a stagnant pond.

Ishma relaxed her head, closed her eyes, and lifted a leg for Einin to clean. Einin used the shoulder of her dress to dab at her forehead. She would need a bath herself, having sweated through her clothes.

“How long did the emperor keep you in a tower?”

“My… husband has a terrible temper.”

“I know. But—”

“Be quiet. I have not had a bath in a long time.”

“Yes, empress.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Ishma frowned at her but let the comment go. Einin went to work on the foot first, the caked dirt between the toes. A curious thing, Ishma’s toenails were perfectly trimmed. The skin was also healthy underneath the dirt. Einin had expected layers of dead skin to rub away.

Ishma asked, “Where is Marah?”

“With Dura.”

“And where is Tyrus?”

“I don’t know.”

“He said he would not leave me.”

“It isn’t proper for him; I mean, he can’t be at your side all the time. He doesn’t stray from the tower. The Gadarans aren’t fond of him.”

“I want to know where he is—at all times.”

“Of course, my queen. I will ask a guard to watch him. I am sure he is in the tower. When Dura doesn’t send him to train the men, he stays close to Marah.”

She reclined again. “Good.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“Who?”

“Your daughter.”

“Yes, of course.”