Authors: John Marco
Dyana sank down beside the woman and put her arms around her shoulders. “What happened?” she asked carefully. “Did he …?”
The question trailed off. Najjir followed her meaning. “No,” she answered. “He did not. He might have, but I screamed and frightened him. Then I left him. I think he wanted me to go.” She turned to Dyana and her eyes widened. “He is mad, Dyana. Kalak is mad.”
Dyana stiffened. “He is … troubled.”
“You were not there. I know. I saw his eyes.”
“But he did not hurt you?”
Najjir looked away. “No. He merely watched me. I do not think he could have hurt me, he is so …”
“Kind?” Dyana suggested.
“Alone,” corrected Najjir. Her head slumped and she began to weep, great sobs rising up from her belly. Dyana tightened her embrace and held the woman, rocking her and coaxing out the tears until they ebbed enough for speech. “I cannot go on like this,” said Najjir. “I cannot. Kalak is not my lord. He never could be. I …” She choked on another sob. “I want my husband back.”
Dyana let Najjir weep, but in her heart she rejoiced, redeemed by Richius’ refusal of her friend. Najjir might think him mad, but she was wrong. It was not insanity that drove him. She had seen brutes who would have forced themselves on a protesting woman. But not Richius. He was the truest man she had ever known.
“Will you let me take you inside?” asked Dyana.
Najjir didn’t respond.
“Najjir, you will be sick if you do not warm yourself. Please, come inside. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.”
“I do not want to see him,” said Najjir. “I cannot be with him, Dyana. I cannot.”
“Be still, Najjir. You have nothing to fear from Richius, you know that. Remember, we were the ones that made him see you last night.”
“I was wrong,” said Najjir. “I would rather have no master than him. Please, Dyana. Tell him this for me.”
“Oh? And what will happen to you? And your family? No, Najjir. You need Richius. He is the lord of this valley now.”
Najjir’s face darkened. “It should have been Jarra,” she said bitterly.
“But it is Richius. And if you do not want him to touch you, he will not. I promise you that. But you know what will happen to you if you are without a lord. You will be prey for any man who comes to claim you. And Richius won’t be able to stop them, because you will have renounced your loyalty to him.”
“I do not know what to do, Dyana,” she moaned. “I am afraid of him.”
“You were the one that made me take you to him, Najjir. I have done that for you. He will not harm you, but you do not want to believe that. What you must understand is that he wants no part of this lordship, but he has no choice.”
“He could leave,” said Najjir sharply.
“He could,” Dyana agreed. “And forget Voris’ request of him and forgo you and your family, leaving you to be snatched up by some cruel farmer, and the valley to be torn apart by fighting. But he will not do that, because he is a man of honor.” Dyana rose and stared down acidly at Najjir. “Maybe someday you will see that.”
Dyana turned to go, then heard Najjir’s desperate plea.
“Dyana, wait, please.…”
“No, Najjir,” Dyana snapped. “What did you think I did for you last night? I love Richius. You know that. But you made me bring you to him so that he would protect you. Now you want him to forget about you, after I have explained to him what will happen if he does? No. I will not do it.”
“Dyana, I cannot be his woman. I cannot bear the thought of it.”
“Then tell him yourself,” said Dyana coldly. “I want no part of it.”
She turned and strode away, but had taken no more than three paces before a fiery pain tore through her temples. Her knees buckled and she shrieked, putting her hands to her head and shutting her eyes. Behind her she heard Najjir’s cry, felt the woman’s worried hand grasp her shoulder, but still she sank into
the muddy bank, blind and in agony as a disembodied voice thundered in her head. The blurry image of Tharn’s face flashed through her mind, a phantom at once flesh and ethereal. The mouth was moving, the broken teeth chattering words, garbled sounds punctuated by an animal’s roar and the throaty click of an unknown dialect. Dyana tried to stand, moaning as the images flooded her mind. Najjir’s hands were there, bearing her up.
“Dyana!” came Najjir’s terrified voice. “What is it?”
“Tharn,” choked Dyana. She opened her eyes and still saw the phantasm face of her husband. “It is Tharn. He is here.”
J
arra awakened Richius with a single word. Dyana.
It was all Richius needed to break the hold of sleep. He followed the Dumaka through the halls as he hastily buttoned up his shirt, the dirt of the yard scraping his bare feet. Out near the gate he saw Dyana lying with her head in Najjir’s lap. A small crowd of women had gathered around them, eyeing Najjir in her nightclothes. Dyana had her eyes shut while Najjir brushed a gentle hand across her forehead.
“My God, what’s happened?” asked Richius as he rushed through the throng. He knelt down beside Dyana. “Dyana, what is it? Are you ill?”
Dyana shivered. Finally she opened her eyes. “Tharn,” she whispered. “He is coming.”
Richius looked at Najjir but the old woman shrugged. The crowd began murmuring among themselves. Richius turned to glower at them.
“Get away, all of you.” He gestured to the Dumaka. “Jarra, get them out of here.”
Jarra began shooing away the curious crowd. Richius bent over Dyana. Her skin was hot, misted with perspiration. A wild panic fevered her eyes.
“Dyana,” he said gently. “I’m here. I want you to tell me what’s wrong. What about Tharn? Is he talking to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “And no. I see him, but I do not understand.
He is in my head, Richius. It hurts, it hurts.…”
“What hurts?”
“He is coming,” said Dyana. “Very near. Others are with him. Beasts. He is talking to me, shouting.…”
“Easy,” crooned Richius. “Don’t speak. We’ll get you inside.”
He tucked his hands beneath her legs and shoulders and lifted her gently from the ground. Listlessly she wrapped her hands around his neck.
“He cannot talk,” she moaned. “He tries, but he cannot. He is ill, I feel it.”
“I’ll take you inside. You’ll feel better. Quiet now, quiet …”
“Very near,” she said again. “I must wait for him.”
“Wait for him in bed,” said Richius, and carried her out of the yard through the castle gates. Jarra and the confused Najjir followed, shadowing him through the hall until they reached the bedchamber Dyana shared with Voris’ wife. The Dumaka waited at the threshold while the others stepped inside, and Richius placed Dyana lightly on her bed. He pulled off her long boots, drew the covers over her, and watched her shut her eyes.
“Tharn looks for me,” she gasped. “But he cannot find me.”
“If he’s coming he will be here soon enough,” said Richius.
“Try to rest. It will pass. I’ll wait here with you. Nothing will happen, I promise.”
“My mind, he is inside it. He does not know.…”
“Dyana, please. Try to be still.” He took her hand and patted it. “Close your mind to it. I’m not going to leave you.”
He glanced over at Najjir, who was watching their exchange with a sorrowful expression. She looked away as their eyes met. Carefully Richius slipped his hand out of Dyana’s.
“I’m right here,” he assured her, but slid off the bed and went over to Najjir. He had hardly noticed her garb, the same shift she had worn to his room the previous evening. Now she looked lost, more like a girl than a woman. Deep lines of fatigue and worry scratched her face. Richius stood before her and opened his arms.
“I am sorry about your husband,” he said.
Najjir took a flustered breath and said something he did not understand.
“She asks that you forgive her,” Dyana explained.
Richius shook his head. “No. There is nothing to forgive.”
Najjir’s expression softened. She bent her head in a bow, then went over to Dyana’s bedside. The two women spoke for a moment, and Najjir leaned forward and lightly kissed Dyana’s forehead. Dyana gave a little laugh as Najjir rose and left the room. Richius watched her disappear through the door before going back to Dyana’s bedside.
“What did she say?” asked Richius.
“She told me I was right about you,” she answered. Her gray eyes opened again and she regarded him. “I know you did not touch her, Richius. I know what happened last night.”
Richius brushed a strand of hair from Dyana’s face. “And you? How are you now?”
“Better, I think. Tharn is gone. I cannot see him. But he was calling to me, Richius, looking for me. Something is wrong. He is ill; he is weak. His mind would not focus on me. I could feel his pain, his fear. Oh, Richius, what is it?”
“I don’t know, Dyana,” said Richius. “But if he is near we will find out soon. Now close your eyes and try to sleep.”
She closed her eyes and tilted her head into the pillow. Before long she had slipped into a shallow sleep. Richius remained at the bedside, watching quietly. Tharn was near. He had used the same magic he had taught Lucyler to enter Dyana’s mind, but somehow the jolt had been unfocused, overwhelming. Perhaps it was as Dyana guessed. Perhaps he was ill and crying for help. And what were the beasts chasing him? Lions? Or had they already raked their claws over the cunning-man’s body, and his last scream was echoing in Dyana’s brain?
The minutes ticked by and soon became an hour. Dyana barely stirred. Strands of silver hair dangled around her face, and her breathing was deep and serene. Richius stayed with her, moving off the bed to an uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner of the room, waiting for her to awaken but wanting her to sleep. It had no doubt been an exhausting night for her. It had been for him, too, and evidently Najjir as well. Two hours into Dyana’s slumber Najjir poked her head into the room, checking on her friend’s condition. She smiled lightly when she saw Dyana asleep, gave Richius a courteous bow, then left. She was the only visitor until Dumaka Jarra came.
The old war master knocked once on the door, but didn’t wait for Richius to call him in before entering. He went over to
Richius, saw that Dyana was still asleep, and whispered into his new master’s ear.
“Tharn.”
Dyana stirred a bit at the sound of the name. Richius stared at Jarra in disbelief. “Tharn? He is coming?”
Jarra nodded and pointed upward. “Uasit toa.”
“The watchtower?” asked Richius.
“Yes,” said Dyana groggily. She opened her eyes. “They can see him from the watchtower. He is coming.”
Jarra went on talking, half to Richius and half to Dyana, motioning excitedly with his hands as he spoke. Dyana sat up in bed, astonished by the tale. It was all too fast for Richius to follow.
“What’s he saying?” he asked impatiently.
“He comes with lions,” replied Dyana. “Dozens of them.
They are in the forest now and will be here soon.”
“How does he know it’s Tharn? Dyana, can you feel anything?”
“No. He has stopped trying to speak to me. But they show the banner of Falindar, Richius. It is Tharn.”
Richius got to his feet. “Then I must go to meet him. I must tell him what’s happened to Voris. Jarra, you should come with me. Dyana, tell him I want him with me.”
“I will go, too,” said Dyana. She tossed off the covers and flung her feet over the bedside. “He will be expecting to see me.”
“No, Dyana. You need rest, and we don’t know what kind of condition he’s in. If he wants to see you I’ll bring him here.”
“I will go,” said Dyana adamantly. “I am his wife and I must greet him.”
She left the bed and retrieved her boots from the corner of the chamber, pulling them on and talking to Jarra. The Dumaka nodded his understanding and eagerly straightened out his garments, wetting his lips as he prepared to meet the supreme Drol. Richius took hold of Dyana’s hand and led her from the chamber, and the three of them stepped out into the sunny yard. Another crowd had gathered there, including Najjir and her three daughters. The castle’s few remaining warriors had arranged themselves in a neat line, their jiiktars slung over their backs, their chests puffed out in homage to the approaching master of Falindar. But there was someone very special missing, Richius knew, and he dreaded telling Tharn of it.
As long moments drifted by, the crowd became anxious.
Richius looked at Jarra. “How near are they?” he asked. He formed the question in Triin. The Dumaka shrugged and gave an incomprehensible answer.
“The watchman in the tower said they approach,” Dyana explained. “The Dumaka was told they are close, that is all.”
They all had their eyes fixed on the path leading from the forest to the yard. The warriors were as silent as stones, while the modestly garbed women of the keep bantered lightly among themselves. Dyana shifted distractedly beside Richius, her thin face twitching nervously. Richius leaned closer.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “Nothing is going to happen. He doesn’t know anything.”
A rumble carried through the forest and the tops of the trees began to quiver. The sound and movement seized the crowd. The archway of branches stood empty and dark. A bizarre chorus issued from the woods. And then a head appeared, a monstrous thing with yellow eyes and a cavelike mouth rimmed with oversized teeth. Attached to the head was a giant body of tawny fur and a whipping tail barbed with ribboned spikes, and around the body were bands of leather riding tack supporting a stout saddle. In the saddle was a bronze-skinned man with hair the color of faded gold, and behind that man was Tharn.
Tharn, unmistakable in his red rags and soiled bandages, who crooked one arm around the lion rider’s waist and let the other dangle uselessly at his side. His diseased skin shone like curdled milk. The giant beast carried the two men into the yard and a parade of lions followed, each bearing another long-haired, leathered rider. Falindar’s banner hung from the muscled flank of Tharn’s cat, and the cunning-man lifted his malformed head as he saw the gathering in the yard. His eyes flicked from face to face, then came to rest on Dyana.
Yet there was something wrong in the way the eyes moved and the way the head tilted and the body swayed, almost uncontrollably, in the saddle. Tharn’s shoulders slumped with weariness, and there were scars on his face that Richius had never seen before. The bronzed rider drew the cat to a halt.