Authors: John Marco
“I didn’t hurt her,” Gayle insisted, straightening his uniform.
“And what would you care if I did? You’re a bigger gog-lover than your father!”
Richius glowered. “Go, Baron. Leave my valley.”
“Your valley? You’ve been trying to take this place for months. Voris will eat you up in a day if we leave—”
A sudden screech tore from the corner of the room. Richius turned to see the girl lunging forward, a sharp stiletto in her fist. She barreled past Richius and collided with Gayle, bringing the stiletto down with a scream. Gayle howled as the knife skidded off his armor and across his arm, tearing open the leather and the skin beneath.
“Bitch!” he swore, batting her away. She fell back, dazed from the blow, and the stiletto dropped to the floor. Gayle stalked after her and she rose again, hissing and lunging at him with clawed hands. Richius hurried over and pulled her away, dragging her from the enraged baron.
“Get out, Gayle!” he ordered, fighting to hold her back. It was like holding one of Voris’ war wolves. She spat a string of Triin curses at the baron. Blackwood Gayle’s face contorted with rage.
“You little tramp,” he snarled. “You’re dead.…”
She kicked at him, driving her foot into his thigh. Richius hauled her backward, tossing her against the wall to get between them.
“Go!” he snapped. “Get out now!”
“Gog-lover,” Gayle countered. “You bloody little bastard …”
“I’m ordering you to leave, Baron.”
“If I leave, you’ll lose here, Vantran,” said Gayle. “I swear it, you’ll lose.”
“I’d rather lose with honor than win with your help.”
Gayle smiled sardonically. “Then lose,” he said, and left the room.
Richius looked back at the girl. She had sunk down, exhausted and dazed, and he could see her clearly at last. She was young. Barely eighteen, he guessed. Her hair was long and the bone-white of all the Triin. Almond-shaped eyes looked back at him, ripe with loathing, and around her left eye a purplish swelling was beginning to rise.
“Are you all right?” Richius asked again, reaching out to inspect her bruised face. She swatted his hand away.
“Ee sassa ma!” she yelled, pulling away from Richius’ probing hand and drawing her torn dress tighter around herself. “Sassa ma! Sassa ma!”
Richius fell back, startled. “No,” he said, holding his open palms out before him. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help.”
With the quickness of a cat she dove for her stiletto. But Richius was closer and brought his foot down on it.
“No!” he directed, reaching down to pick up the weapon. She inched backward, regarding him. She swore at him, but all Richius could decipher from the jumble was that she wanted no part of him. Yet something about the girl kept him from leaving.
“Stop,” he begged. “You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”
As if she understood him, the girl grew suddenly still. Her breathing slowed and her gray eyes narrowed as she watched him suspiciously. Richius forced a thin smile.
“Good,” he said. He let the hand with the stiletto drop to his side. “That’s better. Nothing’s going to happen to you now. We’re here to help.”
The girl looked at him blankly, the shade of shock drawing over her eyes. Richius had seen the look before, but seeing it on this young girl sickened him. He went to reach out for her again, but before he could he heard his name being called. The voice sounded far away. Richius recognized it immediately as Dinadin’s.
“They’re looking for me,” he said, half to himself. He knew she had no comprehension of his words, yet he didn’t want to stop talking for fear of losing her tenuous trust. “Can you hear it? That’s my name—Richius.”
The girl didn’t move, just stared at Richius fearlessly. He continued to smile at her.
“Richius,” he repeated, pointing to himself. “I’m Richius.”
For a moment the girl continued her empty silence, then suddenly her eyes widened with recognition.
“Kalak?”
Richius was horrified. “No!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Don’t call me that! I’m not your enemy. We’re here to help you. We …”
He stopped himself. She was still staring at him, her eyes blazing with pain and confusion.
“That
is
why we’re here,” he said mournfully. “But you’ll never believe it.”
Still the girl said nothing. Behind Richius, the sunlight streaming into the room was blocked by a figure in the doorway. “Richius?” called Dinadin.
Richius kept his frown fixed on the girl at his feet. “Yes?”
“Gayle and his men have gone, but the fires have gotten out of control. I think we should leave.”
Richius nodded. “Find Lucyler.”
“He’s already waiting outside with the horses,” Dinadin answered, stepping into the room. “Who’s that?”
Richius turned from the girl and walked toward the door, dropping the stiletto on his way. “No one.”
Dyana waited for Kalak to leave before daring to stir. Her body had become a frigid corpse. Dirt seemed to cover her. Her garments hung open and she clamped them shut with a fist, gritting her teeth against the tears.
Breathe
, she told herself.
Kalak is gone.
Or was he? Outside she could still hear shouting, but they were all Triin voices. Smoke seeped into the tiny home and fire crackled beyond the walls. She examined herself quickly. Her face hurt where the big one had struck her. She tested the bruise with her fingertip and winced. The contusion was swelling, closing off her eye and blurring her vision. She heard herself moan like a girl, angry and frightened.
And then she thought of her uncle. Where was he? Why wasn’t he looking for her? She stumbled to her feet, grabbing for the wall to hold herself up. Nausea washed over her so that she thought she would vomit, and she wondered if her cheekbones had been fractured. Carefully she inched along the wall toward the door, steeled herself, and peered out.
Smoke blotted out the sun. The horrible sounds of screaming assailed her. Children rushed by, wailing, and the sobs of the elderly poured through the streets. It seemed to her that the whole world was burning, that only her uncle’s modest house still stood unscathed. She staggered out of the doorway and onto the street, appalled at the devastation.
“Jaspin?” she called, peering down the avenue. “Jaspin? Where are you?”
An older woman she didn’t know spotted her. The woman
took a pitying look at her battered face and ruined garb and slid an arm around her.
“Child?” asked the woman. “Are you all right?”
Dyana nodded, unconcerned for herself. “I need to find my uncle. And my cousin …”
“Your face is bleeding,” said the woman. She smiled gently and tried to ease Dyana down. “Lie down. I will get something for your face.”
“No,” said Dyana. “Shani. Where is she?” Her words seemed to come from an enormous distance, and she heard how slurred her voice sounded. “Take me to her, please. I need to find her, make sure she is all right. She is little.…”
The woman blanched. “You are the one that lives with Jaspin.”
“Yes, yes,” said Dyana impatiently. She pointed toward her uncle’s house. “I live here with them. Have you seen them?”
“Oh, child,” groaned the woman, her face collapsing. She took hold of Dyana’s hand and squeezed.
“What is it?” asked Dyana. “Take me to them.”
“I … I will,” the old woman managed. “Come with me.”
She led Dyana through the frenzied streets, past the burning buildings and the hollow-eyed children, and past the huddled families. Dyana followed, all the tangles of emotion choking her so that she could hardly think. At last they came to another huddle, not far away from Jaspin’s home. Here she saw a few familiar faces, all long and drawn in misery. She heard the agonized groans of something at the group’s center. It sounded vaguely like a man. The old woman stopped and looked at her. She couldn’t speak but pointed toward the huddle.
Dyana pushed herself toward the group of people. She recognized Eamok, Jaspin’s neighbor. He glanced up at her as her torn dress brushed past his cheek. Angry recognition dawned on his face, and very slowly he moved aside to reveal the shaking thing at the center of the mass. As she had known, as she had dreaded, it was Jaspin, his body racked with sobs. Cradled in his arms was a tiny, pulverized body.
“Trampled,” she heard someone whisper.
Dyana peered down at the small figure, at the red-stained clothes pitted with horseshoe-shaped markings. The face was bloodied but intact—except for one eye that had popped out
whole from its socket and now stared obscenely in an impossible direction. All the strength in her evaporated. She slumped down next to her weeping uncle.
Little Shani was limp, a broken doll with disjointed, dangling limbs. Jaspin was moaning, rocking back and forth with his daughter cradled lifelessly in his arms. Dyana slipped an arm around him and squeezed him tight.
“My poor cousin,” she murmured. “My poor child …”
Jaspin tore away from her. Dyana toppled, hitting the ground with her palms.
“Get away from me!” cried Jaspin. “Devil!”
“Jaspin,” Dyana said. “What?”
Her uncle scooped the dead baby away from her, rising from his knees and towering above her. “Get away!” he roared. He picked up his booted foot and pushed it into her chest. Dyana toppled again.
“Stop!” she shouted. “Jaspin, what is it?”
“This is your fault! You cursed little witch!” He raised a fist, threatening to strike her. Dyana held her ground, and Jaspin’s anger imploded. “Damn you, Dyana,” he wailed, lowering his hand. “Damn you for doing this!”
“Me?” Dyana said. “It was not!”
“Look at my baby!” Jaspin screamed, holding out the child for her to inspect. “This is Tharn’s revenge on you.”
“You should never have let her come,” said Eamok, Jaspin’s friend and neighbor. He was crying, too, and wore the same crazed expression as her uncle. “This is what she has brought on us, Jaspin. I told you she would!”
“It is not me!” declared Dyana. Her head was swimming. The stench of smoke polluted her lungs. “And it is not Tharn. They were Kalak’s men!”
Jaspin clutched his dead daughter closer to his chest. “Tharn is punishing you. He knows where you are!”
“He will come for us all now,” added Eamok, shouting to the crowd. “We are not safe.”
“Jaspin, please …” She reached out, but her uncle turned his back on her. “Please!”
“Do not speak to me anymore, Dyana. You are cursed. And, oh, I knew you were! I knew it! This is my fault!” His head dropped and he began to sob again over Shani’s body, and his
words ran together in a garbled blubbering. “You are not family to me anymore, girl.”
Stupefied, Dyana let her hands drop to her side. “It was not me. Kalak did this.”
“You brought them here,” growled Eamok. “You did because you are cursed like your father. It is Drol anger that brought them here, Tharn’s anger!” He grabbed at her torn lapel and shook her. “We should send you back to him ourselves.”
Dyana wrenched free and struck Eamok hard across the face. “Do not touch me!” she flared. “I will never go to him. Never! I would die first.”
Eamok stalked toward her. “And I would like to kill you. See what you have done? It is your defiance of your master that brings this death to Jaspin. He is too good to tell you this, but he never wanted you here!”
“Stop!” cried Jaspin. He turned slowly to face Dyana, walking over to her and showing her the tiny, fractured body. “Look at my daughter, Dyana. Look how they have killed her.”
Dyana could not look. Shani had been her uncle’s world. She had been the sun and the moon. Now he was alone, not only a widower but childless. What Jaspin had been was gone, probably forever.
“You’re a foolish girl, Dyana,” said Jaspin. “Tharn has learned of you.” He gestured broadly at the destruction around them. “All of this is a sign. He wants you. He does, and you cannot fight it.”
“And he is Drol!” thundered Eamok. “He can call the gods. He can destroy us. And if Tharn knows you are here he will tell Voris. The warlord will punish us.” He turned toward his friend. “Jaspin, send her away! Send her back to him now. Do not let her hide here anymore. He will come for her again!”
“You are all mad!” cried Dyana. She knew it was useless to argue with them, that they were all convinced that the Drol had powers. But all the rage in her was boiling over and she could not contain it. “Tharn is a cunning-man, nothing else. You fear nothing!”
“Listen to her, Jaspin. She loves the Narens like her father. Send her away!”
Jaspin came very close to her, and they stared into each other’s bloodshot eyes. Dyana’s expression was hard. She
grieved for the little girl, and it pained her that no one wanted her grief.
“Uncle,” she said evenly, tempering her ire. “Do not send me away.”
She had nowhere to go, and he knew it. She could never go to Tharn. And yet she could not beg her uncle. Not with the hatred she saw in his eyes.
“Some others are talking about going to Ackle-Nye,” said Jaspin. “Go with them, or go to Tharn, I do not care which. Just leave me.”
“Ackle-Nye? Jaspin …”
“They are leaving in the morning, Dyana. They don’t want to live here when Tharn takes over. I had thought you should go with them, and now I am sure. Dring is not the place for you. This is Voris’ land. We are his people. Go to Ackle-Nye. Go with the other Nar lovers.”
“But there is nothing there!” she said hotly. “Just refugees. Is that what you want to happen to me?”
Jaspin shrugged dispassionately. “I don’t care what happens to you, Dyana. I swear, you are just like your father, hardly Triin at all.”
Then he turned his back on her and left, still holding his child. He disappeared into the crowds and smoke. Eamok leered at her, tasting the victory he had sought since she had come to the village. And as Dyana watched her uncle leave, she realized he was the last family member she would ever see. Now she was truly alone. She put her arms around her shoulders and sank to the ground, letting the tears come.
T
he poppies that grew in the Dring Valley were enormous. In all his young life, Richius had never seen anything like them. Big and lush, the valley was overgrown with them, an oasis of color beside the bleakness of the trenches. Aramoor had poppy fields, too, but the crimson flowers of his home were
not comparable to the variety that sprang out of the earth here. The sight of the white and violet blooms made him sigh. The last few days had been wonderfully good.