Retribution (11 page)

Magali stared back at me, unable to
respond.

“No,” I answered my own question. “You know
very well I am ‘Gravina Aranyi, as true a wife to my husband as any
woman can be. Margrave Aranyi has forgiven my abuse; he understands
the cause. Surely, what a proud ‘Graven lord can forgive, others
can too.”

I had miscalculated. Magali gave a bitter
laugh. “No, my lady. We know how Margrave Aranyi loves you, what he
did to rescue you. He will put up with anything from you, just as
he accepted your short hair and your Terran ways when you were
married. And he will take you back now, insulted as you were, when
any other man would—”

She wouldn’t finish the thought and I decided
to push. No matter what I uncovered, better to know the truth.
“What do you mean, ‘insulted’?”

Magali’s mind held the conflicted thoughts of
a young child tagging along behind older ones in an escapade she
knew was wrong. “It’s what they’re all saying. They say you were–
insulted– and can’t bear to have a man touch you, and that’s why
you attacked your own husband.”

She had used the word Dominic had thought to
me, at the beginning of my captivity. To “insult” a ‘Gravina was to
rape her, defile her beyond reclamation. It was the reason I
carried a second dagger, the weapon that Dominic had taught me how
to use on myself if necessary. We had never really discussed what
constituted necessity.

“Is that what you think? That I was raped?” I
used the harsh word that applied to ordinary women, the word that
expressed the full reality of the crime.

Magali still wouldn’t look at me. “I don’t
know,” she whispered to the floor. The woman was behaving unlike
herself. She was a year or two younger than me, had been married
twenty-five years, had borne eleven children, and had the
forthright way of speaking that came from years of responsibility.
She had never been shy or reticent with me—until now.

“You mean you do think it,” I said. “And
you’re embarrassed to say so to my face, aren’t you?”

That got her attention. Her head snapped up,
her brown eyes glared at mine. “No, my lady. I’ll say it. They say
you were– forced.” She found a word halfway between the ‘Graven
euphemism and the brutality of the word I had used. “We all saw him
brought in, the silver-eyed bandit, the gifted one. They say that
he forced you when his plans failed, in order to get back at
Margrave Aranyi. And they think you– that you didn’t– that you—”
She was unable to say the rest of it.

“That I should have killed myself, to avoid
dishonor?” I finished the sentence for her, the words she couldn’t
bring herself to speak, and saw to my horror that I was right.

I thought of my bizarre homecoming two nights
ago, my distorted senses that had turned friendly people welcoming
me back from my ordeal into a frightening rerun of my captivity. I
had acted in a way that was entirely consistent with the
explanation my household had concocted. Reynaldo’s mental attack on
me in my dream, his voice that periodically intruded on me, the
conflation I was sensing between my captor and my husband—all this
had produced in me some of the same feelings a raped woman would
have, a shrinking from intimacy, an irrational shame at what had
been done to me.

What I had worried about six years ago, had
forgotten in the pleasures of marriage and family life, had finally
happened. I had run hard up against the Eclipsian, specifically
‘Graven, code of behavior that restricted me as a woman. When I had
first entered Eclipsian society, I had had initial trepidation
about what I was letting myself in for. All I knew then was that I
must always wear long skirts and a veil or head covering outdoors,
and must travel with an escort of armed guards. I was forbidden to
use a sword or even to touch one. I must be entirely faithful to my
husband, never so much as look invitingly at another man.

The adaptation had been so easy, the effect
on my life minuscule. It had all come naturally to me; I would do
these things anyway, whether they were rules or not. The clothes
were comfortable and warm. I had welcomed the protection of the
guards, even before my disastrous experience with bandits. I am
small and not athletic; fighting with swords has no more appeal for
me than boxing or the form of crippling gladiatorial contests the
Terrans call football. As for other men... It had been such a
joyous revelation to find Dominic, the only man who had ever
inspired love and passion in me. The idea of even casual flirtation
with anyone else was pointless, absurd in its total lack of
temptation. The only change I would not have chosen was growing my
hair long. Such a small concession to make for such great
happiness!

This was different. This was madness. To kill
myself—because of a crime committed against me? I could laugh at it
if it didn’t scare me.

Before we married, Dominic had asked me in
effect to lie about my background, to let people go on thinking
what my looks led them to believe—that I was at least
half-Eclipsian, the unacknowledged child of a ‘Graven lord. I had
agreed willingly, enjoying the sense of escape from an oppressive
reality, of being a Terran by accident, never really feeling like
one. But despite being a misfit on Terra, I had apparently taken at
least one of Terra’s freedoms for granted: the legal and social
equality of men and women. And I had the native Terran’s reaction
to this predicament: incredulity, an inability to accept that, by
becoming ‘Gravina Aranyi and enjoying the privileges of her life, I
had obligated myself to abide by all the rules that applied to her,
even to death.

I had whined to Niall that I might as well
have killed myself in captivity. It had been the voice of self-pity
then, the exhausted thoughts of the convalescent, when every little
effort looms in the mind like a grueling physical feat. Hearing it
from someone else—that was a challenge flung in my face. That was
war.

My head spun with rage. I literally saw red,
the red of Reynaldo’s bright hair, the red of his blood when it had
been fresh, on his legs and on his mutilated face, where Jana and
Dominic had cut him. It was inconceivable that Dominic would
seriously expect me to kill myself, raped or not. But I had known
instinctively to keep what Reynaldo had done to me a secret, to
spare Dominic the feelings he would be bound to have if he
suspected anything of Reynaldo’s mental assault. With the whole
household believing there had been a physical rape, Dominic would
be unable to avoid picking up the idea from someone’s thoughts. And
trying to prove that such thoughts had no basis in reality would be
next to impossible.

Despite being closer to death than to the
pathetic remainder of his life, Reynaldo was having his way—with
me, with Dominic, with all of us. As if my thoughts had brought us
into communion, I heard his voice in my mind, howling with that
sobbing tone I had detected earlier.
Amalie,
he pleaded,
you are mine now.
Die with me. It is not too
late
.

“No!” I shouted, making Magali jump and edge
toward the door. “No,” I said more softly. “I will not.”

I had one last chance, I saw, to make it
right between us, but my mind was blank of all strategy. Knowing
Magali’s thoughts gave me no insight as to what would appeal to her
wounded pride, her sense of friendship and trust abused, and I
didn’t attempt to find it. I simply held her by force of
crypta
, pulling her toward me when she would have been out
the door in a flash. She would understand something of what I had
suffered, I decided, before she leveled her final judgment on
me.

“You know,” I began in a falsely
conversational tone, “when the children and I were held captive, we
were surrounded by people—bandits and their women and children. But
it was worse than being alone in the forest, lost and threatened by
wolves or bears. Those people didn’t care for us; all they wanted
was to keep us alive long enough to lure Margrave Aranyi to his
death.” I had thought of what to say, had watched through my inner
eyelids as I spoke, to gauge the reaction. “And now that I’m home
it’s no better. So many people in this house, but all of them
avoiding me, even wishing me dead. They’re no longer my friends.
I’ve turned them all into enemies.”

Magali’s outrage at my choice of words gave
her courage. “No, my lady. Never that. Not your enemies.”

The clatter of hooves on the courtyard’s
cobblestones broke in on our scene like an intrusion of human
actors into a shadow play. Only a few minutes had passed since
Niall had kissed me and run downstairs, just time for him to saddle
his horse, load his baggage, and ride out through the gate for the
last time.

“You hear that?” I said. “That was the one
person, apart from my husband and children, who was on my side.
Gone for good now.” Her blank look was somehow exasperating.
“Niall.” Saying the name aloud felt like cursing.

“Niall Galloway? But surely you didn’t offend
him?” Magali had been fond of Niall, captivated by his good looks
and polished manners, from the moment he kissed her hand at their
introduction.

“No,” I said. “I have that much sense, at
least.” She could draw her own conclusions, that if I had not
driven Niall away, only one other person in the house could have.
“It’s all changed now. My home, my life, my family. Destroyed.”

Magali was speechless at the bleak
assessment, standing in a helpless posture, attempts at retreat
forgotten.

“All the time I was held prisoner,” I resumed
the speech I had begun before, “I thought about was how wonderful
it would be to be home. I thought, ‘If I can protect the children,
and survive to be rescued, once we get home, everything will be all
right.’ ” I stared into Magali’s visibly softened face. “But it’s
not. I’m as alone here as I was in the bandits’ castle.” I put my
hands over my face as if weeping, with only a brief thought for the
theatricality of the gesture.

As I peeped out between my fingers, Magali
was staring shrewdly at me, guessing my need for reconciliation and
my inability to find the way to it. She moved to the chair beside
the bed, sat down with a flourish of petticoats and leaned close.
“Tell me,” she said, folding her hands in her lap like someone with
nowhere to go and nothing to do for the rest of the day. “All of
it. It will do you good.”

I settled back against the pillows. The tie
between us could not be so easily severed. “I’ll need water,” I
said, smiling at the change in her, “If I’m to talk so much.”

Magali jumped up eagerly, returning with a
full pitcher from the bathroom. “Now,” she said as I sipped from
the glass, “start from the beginning. You were on the north trail,
you and the children, Isobel and Katrina, and only a couple of
Ormonde guards.”

“And Wilmos.” I made sure to name Magali’s
son, who had helped to protect us on the road and had been wounded
in the battle, in order to stop the question I knew was coming. I
had told no one why I had put myself and the children in such a
vulnerable position. Until I found a way to tell Dominic, that part
of the story would remain a secret. “Wilmos was very brave.”

“Tell him, my lady. I know my son’s a good
soldier. But he’ll appreciate hearing it from you.” Magali wanted
the story. “How did it happen? Was it sudden, or did you suspect
you were being watched, or followed?”

Her expert questions prompted me along, from
the ambush in the road, through the long ride up the steep mountain
trail, the arrival at the bandits’ stronghold, and the many
deprivations and humiliations of my captivity. Magali has the
illiterate Eclipsian’s instinctive sense of narrative. Each time I
faltered or hesitated, her intervention got me back on track. From
my first dramatic development, the discovery of Reynaldo’s
crypta
, she was hooked, and nothing would distract her
attention.

“We saw the silver eyelids and red hair on
the villain!” she exclaimed, as if she had not referred to it
earlier. She had entered thoroughly into her role as the audience,
who are not passive listeners as on Terra but take an active part
in the performance, voicing their surprise at crucial points,
shouting encouragement to the good characters and hurling curses at
the wicked. The better the storyteller’s skills, the more animated
the spectators. “Imagine, a bandit with the gift!”

“Yes,” I said. “But untrained. He had no
prism, although he knew about them. He knew how to control me, by
taking my prism-handled dagger.”

“Oh, my lady,” Magali said in a whisper. “But
how—”

“I’ll tell you,” I said, “when we get to it,
not before.” Like Magali, I found myself enjoying the account,
learning to shape the events to make a good entertainment. When
dinnertime arrived, Magali brought our meals on trays with barely a
word of interruption. We were becoming friends again without having
to say it.

Only as I related my discovery that Jana had
been wearing Struan’s breeches and shirt and my decision to cut her
hair did Magali became uncomfortable. “But, my lady, surely the
bandits, Reynaldo, did that.” Her thoughts were so pointed and
readable it was as if she were trying to force them into my
mind.

What I had subliminally feared at the time,
what had made me withhold this truth from Dominic now, was openly
real with Magali. Here it was again, one of the strongest, most
inflexible taboos, against muddling, in any way, the strict line of
demarcation between the sexes. Even a child of Jana’s age was not
immune. Magali was trying to help me, urging me to retract the rash
admission of my guilt, guiding me to the only line of defense. I
was mistaken, of course. In my delirium that had led me to shout
false accusations at my loyal household, I had come to believe that
I had committed indecent acts that no mother would contemplate.