And free to be killed.
The thought that he might be dead was… what? Certainly not devastating in the way Amethyst’s death had been. She hated him for the way he had tethered her with his painted magic, for the secretiveness that deliberately obscured her origins. She disliked the sly pleasure he took in other people’s troubles. His death would not sadden her, but she grieved that it might sever the only connection she had to a distant family she had never known. Her thoughts of Russet’s fate were not the worst that plagued her, though.
The worst moments of each day came when her thoughts returned—again and again—to Shale. Her last glimpse of him had been of his face, pale and grim, surrounded by a swirl of fighting men, a spray of blood dappling his skin and clothes. Apart from that, her most vivid memories of those moments were of the noise: the clash of blades, the heart-wrenching keening of wounded men, the confused shouting and grunting, the cold voice saying “Kill her.”
She still did not know how the fight had ended. Taquar had never told her what the outcome was. When Taquar’s men had not returned that day to Amethyst’s house as quickly as he had expected, he had locked Terelle in the water-room and left the house. She had tried furiously to escape, clawing and battering at the door with the only implement she had—the wooden water scoop—without success. Several hours later, some enforcers had come for her and escorted her to Scarcleft Hall. She had been locked in the room she now occupied and had not seen Taquar again. No one told her if Shale had escaped with Kaneth, or indeed if Nealrith and Kaneth had succeeded in leaving the city. No one told her anything, and every question she asked was ignored.
The idea that Shale might be dead gnawed at her, hour after hour, but she had to accept that it was possible. Anything was possible, and it was the not knowing that was the worst. She and Shale: they had squabbled, he with reasoned coolness and she more with hotheaded passion, but part of her had revelled in the joy of the relationship, in the wonder of her first good friend. Nor had she been blind to the way he looked at her sometimes, with the hint of something more than friendship if only she would give the word. Haunted by memories of the lust of men who came to the snuggery, she had hesitated. And now it was too late.
Part of her had been deeply touched by his last promise, no matter that it had been rendered ineffective just moments later. He had said he would look after her, that she would never want for water.
And now? Now the days dragged by in boredom and in fear of a future she could not foretell.
It was a relief when Taquar finally came to see her.
Yet she had never met anyone who frightened her as much as the rainlord did. The cold flatness of his eyes, the calculation in his gaze. He was handsome, true, and sensual, but in a way that disturbed rather than attracted, and there was no heart there, none.
Waterless souls, how could Shale have lived with only this man for company for so long?
She faced him from the far side of the room, at first unable, in her terror, to speak. Behind him, two other men entered carrying a small desk, a chair and some writing implements. They placed these at Taquar’s side and left the room. “I want you to write a letter for me,” he said without preamble.
She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “Who—who to?” She put her hands behind her back to hide the way they shook, and wondered if he carried a knife like the one he had used on Amethyst.
“To your friend Shale Flint.”
Her relief was so intense she nearly dropped where she stood. Shale was alive. And Taquar did not have him.
When she did not move or speak, he beckoned her to the chair. “Sit down. You can write, I believe?”
She had started to move forward, but stopped dead then. “How—how can you know that?” Her fear was so tangible she was wearing it like an extra skin.
“There is little I don’t know about you, child. I have even spoken to your sister. Viviandra, is it?”
“She’s not my sister.”
“No? She seems to think she is.”
“Her parents took me in. No more than that.”
Have you hurt her?
She did not dare ask the question aloud. For Vivie’s sake, she did not dare show an interest.
“Hmm. No matter.” He indicated the chair. “Sit. This is not a hard letter to write, because every bit will be the truth. You can put it in your own words. I don’t care how you say it.”
She sat and pulled the parchment towards her. “And if I refuse?” She had to put her hands flat on the desktop to stop their trembling. Her palms left damp marks on the bab wood.
Once I write it, will you kill me?
“It matters little. I could write it myself, saying the same things. I just thought that if you put pen to parchment, it might have a little more immediacy. I want you to tell Shale that you are my prisoner. Tell him how that came about. Tell him that I have told you that I will kill you slowly and unpleasantly unless he finds some way to escape Breccia City and come to me. Make it sound a little dramatic, if you would. Then tell him that a man called Bankor, an apothecary on the tenth level of Breccia, will help him escape if he needs help. I think that’s all.” He gave her a faint smile that was bone-chilling in its indifference. “Simple.”
“Why haven’t you done this before?” she asked. Anything to defer the moment of decision as to whether to acquiesce or not.
He blinked in surprise at her temerity. “That is none of your business!”
She stared back.
He chuckled. “Ah, why not? I wanted Granthon to teach him cloudshifting first. Once he knows how, he is of use to me. And I have heard that Granthon now has help shifting clouds, so I assume Shale is now a stormlord. It is time to get him back.”
“He won’t take any notice of a letter,” she said, amazed that she sounded so matter-of-fact. The thumping of her heart was painful; the sound of it drummed in her body. Surely he could hear it. “Why should he? I scarcely know him.”
“We shall see.”
“Well,” she said, “I hope you don’t really mean it. It is not particularly nice to be told that you are going to be tortured to death. Shale won’t care, but I do.” Bravado. Stupid. It wouldn’t get her anywhere.
He laughed again. “Not nice? I am not a particularly
nice
man, Terelle.”
“Where’s Russet?” she asked. “Did you kill him?”
He shrugged. “I have no interest in him as long as he lies quiet. My seneschal will kill him if he turns up, though—just to tidy things up.”
He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips. She drew her head back sharply, but the idea of standing up again, of moving out of his reach, died when she saw the look in his eyes. Huckman. It was Huckman all over again. The horror of having her first-night sold. The revulsion and the terror back again.
He brushed her hair away from her face, sliding his hand down her cheek, outlining her lips with his thumb. This time she did not move, other than letting her eyes fall to the sheet of paper on the desk. When his fingers dropped away—an eternity later—she opened the ink well, dipped in the pen and began to write. As she worked, he stood at her shoulder and played with a lock of her hair. His touch slid up and down, feather light, stroking the strands over his forefinger, turning her hair this way and that so that the rich brown of it was burnished by morning sunlight patching through the latticework. To sit still and not flinch away took all her will; but she had nothing left for resistance. Nothing.
I’m not brave
, she thought.
I don’t even know how to begin to be brave.
And so she wrote the letter exactly as he had asked for it to be written. When she had finished, she handed it to him wordlessly, with a shaking hand. And part of her expected to die violated, there in that room. Against her will, her glance flickered to the bed. Then back to the sword he wore.
He read the letter through and smiled once more. “Your spelling is original,” he remarked, “but it is a good letter. I like the wobbly writing; it will be good for him to see your fear. We will see if it has the desired result.”
She shook her head. “I just told you it won’t.” She remained seated, staring at the desktop. “Shale is not a fool, and he doesn’t care about me.”
“Stand up, Terelle,” he said.
She did as he asked, without looking at him. She knew she was trembling but was unable to control it.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Reluctantly, she raised her head, to find that if she stared straight ahead, she was gazing at his mouth.
When did I get so tall?
she asked herself in inane surprise.
I don’t remember growing up.
He put his hands on either side of her face and raised her chin so her gaze met his. “I am not a cruel man, Terelle, only a ruthless one. I get no particular pleasure from hurting others and will not do so unless it brings me profit. I would rather keep you here until you have grown up a little more, to an age when I would find pleasure in your company. When you are old enough to understand your own sensuality.” He bent and kissed her full on the mouth.
She did not know what to do. She wanted to step away from him, wanted to express her revulsion, but was held in place by terror, by an upbringing that had taught her not to cheek her elders, to be respectful to those in positions of power and to pander to men who came to enjoy favours. One certainly didn’t slap their faces. But when his tongue pressed against her teeth, seeking entry to her mouth, she clenched them hard. He stopped the kiss immediately and stepped back.
“I—I don’t know what—what you mean,” she faltered. It was a lie; of course she knew what he meant. She had spent seven years of her childhood listening to handmaidens talk of their nights; she had lived another four next to a woman who daily rented out her children as whore and catamite. She knew
exactly
what he meant.
“No? Hmm. You will understand soon, I promise you,” he said, releasing her. He folded the letter and tucked it away in his pouch. “I suspect Shale is far too decent to abandon you, my dear. I should not worry too much if I were you.”
“And what am I to do in the meantime?” she asked, sharpening her fear to asperity with an effort. “Sit here with nothing to do all day while I grow up?” Silently she blessed the obvious: Vivie had not told him her real age.
“I certainly do not trust you enough to let you loose.”
“Could you at least let me have my waterpaints? Then I could do some paintings for you, for the palace. It would give me something to do. I am very good, you know.”
Watergiver’s heart, I sound like a wheedling brat.
He laughed outright. “I was correct—you are an extraordinary girl. And I wonder if you are as young as you say you are. I do not think I have been spoken to like this in years, not since Amethyst in her younger days. Very well. I believe everything that was in Russet’s room was brought here. I’ll see if the paints can be located, and I’ll have them brought to you. You can paint to your heart’s content, if it keeps you happy.”
For a breathless moment the name Amethyst hung in the air between them, then she said woodenly, “Thank you, my lord.”
He laughed again. “I’ll visit every now and then,” he promised and left her, without taking away the chair and table.
She collapsed onto her bed and gave way to gasping sobs. Her emotions had been rent and then flung in all directions. There was joy that Shale was safe in Breccia City, fear that he would indeed be idiot enough to take notice of her letter, terror that Taquar would torture her to death or simply kill her “to tidy things up,” tremulous delight that she would have her paints once more and therefore—perhaps—a way of escape.
And through all that tumult of reaction, she could still feel the slide of his fingers up and down her hair. The taste of him, of his lips, his tongue. The smell of him, of his lust, lingered in her nostrils.
Taquar was as good as his word.
That afternoon, Terelle’s waterpaints, together with eight picture trays and some of her personal belongings, were delivered to her prison. When she unpacked, she fingered the mirror Vivie had given her and choked with unexpected emotion. She had not thought about it since she had run out of Russet’s rooms, yet now that she had it back, she felt a wash of tenderness for her sister and for a childhood that no longer existed.
At the bottom of the bag, there was a scroll of paintings.
Russet’s portraits of her future, all of them. Taquar’s men had brought her the very paintings that trapped her within Russet’s plans for her life. She had her waterpaints and the possibility of freedom. She had Russet’s painted future for her. Surely there must be something she could do to escape both of the men who sought to command her life.
It was only later, when she began to think about how to do it, that she realised liberty was not going to be as easy as she had first thought.
You can’t put yourself into the future, Russet had said. He was right, she found. She did try. She tried to shuffle up a picture of herself standing on the thirty-sixth level—and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Her sharpened image did not appear; the paint did not move. It remained static; it looked lifeless; it felt dead. She could not influence her own future, at least not by projecting herself there.
What else could she do?
Kill Taquar.