The Road to Hell - eARC (44 page)

The trouble was, the fools he needed to scream at were either dead, prisoners of war, or over 85,000 miles from where he sat, on the far side of Hell’s Gate and being
damned
chary about sending timely reports back to their superiors. The only other candidate handy was Jasak Olderhan. Brith Darma was sinkingly aware of where that was likely to end, and he hated the thought of trashing the career of an officer who showed as much promise as Sir Jasak. But that was for later. For now, they still had a difficult and exhausting inquiry to get through and the witness of the moment was trembling, wiping her face with her hands, and trying desperately to regain her composure.

“Master of the Sword,” Brith Darma said, tone gruff to hide the emotion in his voice, “please be kind enough to fetch a chair for this lady.”

When she stared at him, he said, “Like you, I give respect when and where it’s earned. You and I are enemies. I can’t tell you how profoundly I regret that, but neither of us can change it. Not at this point. But you’re a worthy opponent—and, so far as I can tell, an honorable one—and I won’t add to the burden on your shoulders by treating you harshly when you’re intensely distressed. Particularly since your distress is for one of
us
.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, almost voiceless.

When the Master of the Sword brought a chair, she sank down onto it, trembling. When the stoic, stone-faced Master produced a handkerchief from his blouse pocket and handed it to her, fresh tears welled up and her second “thank you” was entirely voiceless. She dried her eyes, got her snuffles under control, and took several deep, calming breaths.

Then she surprised him again.

“May I reassure my husband that you’re not torturing me, in here? He can feel my distress and it’s driving him nearly frantic.”

Both officers flanking Brith Darma hissed softly under their breath. So did Brith Darma. Jasak Olderhan’s report had mentioned a strange mental connection between this woman and her mate, but he hadn’t thought to see it demonstrated so quickly.

“Master of the Sword, allow Jathmar Nargra to enter.”

The instant the door swung open, Brith Darma braced for assault. Jasak Olderhan and Gadrial Kelbryan were grappling with Jathmar Nargra, who was trying to reach the door, apparently intent on
kicking
it down while a ghastly combination of terror and rage blazed in his face.

The massive Master of the Sword whipped his sword out of its scabbard and braced himself for assault.

“Let him enter!” Brith Darma called out sharply.

The Master of the Sword snarled a curse under his breath and retreated, backing up with sword held at the ready. He kept himself and his blade between the crazed prisoner and the officers of the board.

“Hundred Olderhan! Let him go!”

In the instant, Jathmar exploded through the open doorway. He swept his wife into his arms, jerking her off her feet and dragging her out of the interrogation room. She was speaking urgently in a language that was not what Gadrial Kelbryan had recorded. She was clearly trying to reassure him, because the wild rage gradually seeped out of him. He shuddered. Set her on her feet. Buried his face in her hair.

When he lifted his face again, it was a mask of helpless agony. He brushed wet strands of hair out of her eyes where her upswept hair had come loose and been plastered to her face by her own tears and his. He was whispering her name. Over and over. Just her name. Brith Darma was so shaken, he couldn’t even look away. When Fleet Third Kordos started to speak in an undertone, the earl lifted a hand, warning him to silence. He didn’t want
anything
setting off that man’s hair trigger.

He wished to hell he’d worn his own sword.

When Jathmar had calmed sufficiently to release his hold on his wife, and the look he turned on Brith Darma and the other officers might have frozen a sun. Silence hovered, and the earl neither moved nor spoke. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was provoke the Master of the Sword into disemboweling the Sharonian.

Shaylar spoke again and touched his face, turned it back to look down into hers. At length, he nodded and caught her face in both his hands, pressing a gentle and desperate kiss to her lips.

Brith Darma said in a low whisper, “If either of you even
suggests
we try to continue questioning her alone, I will personally loosen your teeth.”

“No argument from me,” Kordos muttered, and Githrak merely lifted one eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Intelligence officer murmured. “The amount of information I just took in was extraordinary. Although I must admit, I’d prefer the next burst of data to come with a little less personal peril. I don’t suppose anyone thought to set the automatic defense wards around our bench?”

Brith Darma slid one hand carefully to press the stud under the lip of the table, just above his lap. “Oversight remedied.”

When Jathmar released his wife from the kiss, Brith Darma judged it safe enough to address the man directly.

“Mr. Nargra?”

The knives leapt back into the Sharonian’s eyes as he jerked his gaze up to meet the earl’s. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there in the open doorway, glaring at Brith Darma and gripping his wife tightly again.

“Mr. Nargra, I will say only this. I have the deepest respect for your wife, her courage, and her strength. I won’t even ask you to leave her side for the rest of this session. In fact, we would vastly prefer for you to stay with her.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

That single word was harsh with hatred and suspicion.

“Because I have no desire to see the results if we goad you into attacking us to defend her. I do not want to watch you die, sir.”

That caught him by surprise.

“Master of the Sword, please bring in a second chair.”

“No, Sir.”

He stayed right where he was, sword drawn and held in defensive posture between the threat and three of the highest-ranked—and currently unarmed—officers in the Arcanan military. Brith Darma didn’t swear aloud; nor did he say, “It’s all right, Sword Master, I’ve set the wards.” Instead, he said, “Quite right. My apologies. Hundred Olderhan?”

“Yes, Sir,” the younger officer said crisply, swinging up an empty chair from the waiting room and depositing it beside the one Shaylar had abandoned. When he stepped back into the waiting room, past Jathmar and his wife, he spoke quietly. “I gave you my word, Jathmar, that they weren’t hurting her in here.”

The prisoner’s gaze locked with Hundred Olderhan’s. “Physically, no. You’re in no position to judge
anything
else.”

“No. But I am in a position to guarantee your safety.”

Shaylar said something soft, too soft to hear, even if she’d been speaking in her astoundingly good Andaran. Whatever she’d said, Jathmar gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

“Very well,” the prisoner said in a low growl. “I’ll hold you to that guarantee.”

The young officer smiled. “I know you will.”

That smile and those words were exactly the right touch, at exactly the right moment. That, alone, told Brith Darma what he needed to know about Jasak Olderhan’s judgment under pressure. It was a damned shame, he thought bitterly, because there wasn’t a prayer that they could do anything but recommend a full and formal court-martial. Some days, Horvon Fosdark, Earl of Brith Darma, Commander of Wings, genuinely hated his job.

Chapter Twenty-Three

January 11

Gadrial peered at her reflection with critical eyes. The burgundy silk gown the duchess had ordered her private dressmaker to run up for her was a glorious confection, but she was in no fit state to truly appreciate it.

Yesterday, after the long day waiting on the Board of Inquiry, she’d finally accepted the duchess’s offer and taken a suite in the Portalis ducal apartments, which stood so much closer to the Commandery offices used by the Inquiry. This morning her hostess had provided everything she needed. Nor was Sathmin Olderhan alone in “looking after” her.

Many of the Olderhan staff might believe Shaylar and Jathmar were the villains the news painted, but not one believed the slanders whispered against Jasak Olderhan. They’d helped raise that boy into a man. And now they clearly very desperately wanted Gadrial to like them. It was almost overwhelming how well they were treating her. This dress wasn’t just from the duchess, and she knew it. Yet as much as she appreciated their remarkable welcome, it was impossible for her to respond the way she knew she ought to. However hard she tried, she simply couldn’t see past the horror of what the Union of Arcana’s Commandery might do to Jasak.

She gave her reflection a brave attempt at a smile. It failed miserably, so she gave up, closed her eyes, and covered her face with both hands.
Help me get through this day, Rahil
, she prayed.
And please, I beg of you, help Jasak. He’s not Ransaran, but he needs your help.

Needed it desperately…

Gadrial slipped off the burgundy silk. She’d hoped it might cheer her up a little, but her eyes were so damp she was afraid of dripping on the dress and ruining it with water spots. Given what the duchess had paid for it, she didn’t want to ruin it the first time she took it out of the closet, and she’d forgotten to ask the designer if the silk had been treated to repel water. She wasn’t sure of the wording for spell that would accomplish it, either, which made her wary to experiment on so expensive an item.

So she dutifully stripped it off, hanging it carefully in the closet where a magic field kept garments floating at the perfect height for the wearer, kept any of them from touching and wrinkling any others, and served, as well, to repel dust, moths, and anything else that might nibble on them. She’d never seen a closet like it,
ever.

Before the news had come, night before last, she’d vowed to build the spells necessary to replicate it in her own closet, at home. She still intended to do that. She really did. Just as soon as her life settled down enough to make going home again, possible. That threatened to start the faucet flowing again, and she drew a deep breath to calm herself, pulled out a suit to replace the burgundy silk, and dressed quickly.

She’d already planned a whirlwind of a week, meeting with her Academy staff, with the duke and several of his political supporters, and with Halathyn’s widow. When the summons for the Board of Inquiry came immediately, she’d canceled or delayed everything she possibly could—except for Mahritha vos Dulainah. Halathyn’s widow would actually have understood if she hadn’t come. The woman’s generosity of spirit overflowed even now, and she’d done her very best to comfort
Gadrial.
If Halathyn had been her second father, Mahritha had been her second mother, and she’d watched that second mother’s eyes fill with tears at last when Gadrial told her Halathyn had named the very last universe he would ever explore in her name.
That
was what had finally broken her composure, and Gadrial wished desperately that she’d had some miraculous piece of magic to wash away the pain of Halathyn’s death.

But today promised to be worse. So she dressed quickly, then spent a great deal of care over her face and hair, using cosmetic spells to tint eyelids and cheeks, to smooth over the dark smudges under her eyes, put there by sleeplessness and strain, and to repair her dry, bitten lips so they were moist and expertly shaded in her best, most flattering colors. For her hair, she wanted a simple, businesslike look and she murmured spells from the latest fashion crystals, grateful she could do the job, herself, rather than having to pay a Gifted hair and makeup artist to do it for her.

Of course, she could always borrow the Duchess’ in-house artist…

Gadrial sighed while her hair lifted itself into the upswept style from the crystal, tucking itself into the proper configuration. Once she had it smoothed to her satisfaction, she set the spell with a simple holding incantation and clipped her favorite bracelet around her wrist. She checked the results carefully in the mirror, then nodded, satisfied.

Sleek, simple, professional.

All signs of stress carefully obscured.

Except her hands, which shook. She dragged down another deep, desperate breath and told her eyes to stay dry.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not…
Word had come at dinner, last night. Without waiting for the Board of Inquiry’s report, Parliament had announced War Hearings and the Commandery had declared sufficient grounds to begin court-martial proceedings.

Jasak was being court-martialed.

She snarled a curse under her breath, snatched up her crystal case, and strode out of her beautifully appointed suite. The actual court-martial—the trial, itself—would run concurrently with a hellish schedule of Parliamentary hearings, both set to begin today.

Every single one of the “witnesses” who’d returned from the frontier had already given their preliminary testimony to the Board of Inquiry, which had been used as the basis for the decision to proceed with a formal court-martial. Now all the witnesses, including that snake of a Mythlan, Bok vos Hoven, would be questioned again—and again—minutely, as the officers of the court attempted to determine Jasak’s guilt or innocence on a number of charges.

That nightmare was scheduled to begin this morning, at North Hathak Army Base. This afternoon, it would be Parliament’s turn to poke and prod and drain them dry. They would undergo interrogation on that schedule for as long as it took to find Jasak guilty or innocent of the military charges and for the members of the War Operations and Intelligence Committee to obtain what they termed “sufficient information to pursue national defense,” keeping their personal lives on hold while they wobbled back and forth like marionettes on strings.

Rahil’s mercy, but she dreaded the next several days. Or weeks. Surely it wouldn’t last for
months?

She drew another breath and focused on what was on her plate for today. She’d never testified at a court-martial. She’d never been called before a parliamentary committee for official hearings, before, either. Halathyn had, in his capacity as a theoretical magister, several times, and she was trying to recall everything he’d said about the process, but her nerves were so jangled, it was difficult.

Her role today would be similar to his, with the emphasis being on what she’d seen and heard from the moment that first rifle shot had split the air on the morning Yurak Osmuna and Falsan chan Salgmun had shot one another. She had her notes, in the slim case she used to carry her PC, and held more of her research data on additional data crystals. She wasn’t sure she’d need it, but she wanted to be prepared if Parliament’s newest standing committee asked for particulars on what she and Halathyn had been working on.

What maddened her more than anything was that neither Jasak nor his father would comment on anything that was happening. They were perfectly prepared to discuss the general news, to share her fury at the obvious distortions in the journals and public crystals. And they made no bones about their wrath at the way Jasak’s
shardonai
were caricatured and demonized in those accounts. But she couldn’t get a word—no one single, solitary
word
—out of either of them where the implications for
Jasak
were concerned!

She’d thought she’d come to some acceptance of the way she felt about Jasak Olderhan. The way she felt about living in his world. But during the past five days, the Jasak she’d known during their long journey had utterly vanished. She didn’t even know the cool, remote stranger who pretended to be the same man she’d ended up kissing so passionately during their final run into Portalis. The tears prickled again, and she swore savagely under her breath and told them to go right back where they’d come from.

It didn’t work.

She was busily engaged in the mortifying business of scrubbing her cheeks fiercely dry with the backs of both hands as she stepped into the magical drop-field that wafted her from the fourth-floor bedroom suites to the ground-floor area where meals were taken, visitors were met, and life was generally lived. Even with a direction finding spell, she could barely find her way around beyond the immediate environs between her assigned suite and the dining room.

They’d been gathered in that dining room for a late supper when word had arrived. Jasak’s only comment had been that the court’s investigators had promised to be impartial, thorough, and scrupulously honest. He’d actually told her to
trust
the court’s officers!
Oh, yes, certainly
, she’d fumed through a haze of anger and horror.
Trust them. They’re impartial. Honest. They’ll reach the right verdict. Right. And if Jasak or his father or those officers expect me to believe
that
, they’re either arrogant or fools! Or both.…

She didn’t trust any of them. Not as far as she could throw them, which was about as far as she could pick up and throw this sprawling townhouse.
Trust
them? Hah! She didn’t even
understand
them. They were
Andaran
. She’d spent the entire night alternating between sobbing into her pillow and throwing the pillow—and everything else within reach—at the walls.

Court-martial!

He hadn’t done anything wrong!

Didn’t anyone besides her
see
that?

It had taken Gadrial a shame-faced hour, this morning, to repair the damage she’d wrought with spells that put the broken pieces of the Duchess’ lovely knick-knacks back together.

Now the drop-field set her gently on the ground floor and she set her teeth and stepped out into the corridor, heading grimly toward the dining room for yet another meal she didn’t feel like eating. When she’d tried to talk to Jasak after dinner last night, he’d taken both her hands in his, said, “I really can’t talk to you right now, Gadrial. Not until the court’s finished questioning you as a witness.” And then he’d kissed her—on the cheek!—and vanished through a side door.

She’d wanted to scream at him.

She still did.

When she reached the dining room, a waiting maid redirected her to “the breakfast room.” Gadrial hadn’t even heard of that room, since breakfast had invariably been served in the same chamber in which they’d eaten dinner and luncheon, but she followed the maid through a maze of corridors, expecting to find the entire family, comprising the duke and duchess, Jasak, his youngest sister, and Jathmar and Shaylar. Instead, she found the duchess, by herself.

Jasak’s mother glanced up when she halted in the doorway.

“Come in, Gadrial, dear,” she murmured, beckoning her over.

Uncertain what to expect, Gadrial crossed the sunny, cheerful little room—little by the townhouse’s standards, anyway—and set her PC case down on an upholstered chair no one would be using.

“Sit down, Gadrial,” the duchess said, patting the chair beside her own.

She took her seat with great hesitation and the duchess gazed at her, then nodded.

“Mmm-hmm, as I suspected. You’ve spent a night as miserable as mine. More miserable, I should expect, since you’re so unused to Andaran ways.”

“How could you tell?” Gadrial asked in a hoarse voice. “I was so careful, this morning, to erase the signs.”

“Yes, my dear. I know.” The duchess’ smile was surprisingly sweet. “But you’ve been a leading light at the Institute for years. All those breakthroughs in magic theory have had you in the crystals countless times. And this is the first time I’ve ever seen you—in person or in the news—when your makeup and coiffure have been perfect.”

“Oh.” Gadrial bit her spell-tinted lip. “In my defense, things in the lab can be messy, and I never quite knew when reporters might be stopping by.”

“But we know there are plenty of reporters watching now.” The duchess nodded again, gently. “And you care a great deal about what happens to my son.”

She nodded. And then, to her horror, the faucet started running again. She waved her hands in helpless apology, then gave up and simply accepted the linen napkin the duchess had rescued from the table’s place setting and handed to her. A moment later, Gadrial found herself in Sathmin’s arms, sobbing miserably. The Duchess of Garth Showma didn’t complain about the tears soaking her five-figure silk suit. Instead, she kissed Gadrial’s hair, rocked her, even crooned a soft little tune that reminded Gadrial—achingly—of home.

“Wh-where did you learn that song?” she quavered.

“Mmm? Oh, in Ransar, my dear.”

Gadrial sat up, astonished. “Ransar? You’ve been to Ransar?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave Gadrial a conspiratorial wink. “It was a perfect scandal in the family. I insisted—forcefully—on applying to the Ransaran Academy of Fine Arts and Magic. When I was accepted, I turned our household into a living hell until Papa finally agreed to allow me to attend. Poor Papa. He never did understand why it was so important to me.”

She tilted her head and peered down at Gadrial.

“I’m profoundly glad I spent those four wonderful, illuminating years in Ransar. Particularly now.”

“I don’t understand. Why particularly now?”

“Because, my dear, when my son finally recovers from his bull-headed, stubborn insistence on doing this his own way, without the slightest assistance or advice from anyone, he’s going to find himself in need of a new career and someone to help him put the pieces back together in a totally new configuration.”

“You think he’ll be found guilty?” Gadrial asked softly, and pain ran through the duchess’ eyes.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But in a very real sense, it makes very little difference, since Jasak’s military career is likely over, whatever the final verdict.” She bit her own carefully spell-tinted lip, allowing Gadrial to see
her
distress. “Even as an Andaran, myself, I’m sometimes appalled by the way our menfolk embrace the absurd code that regulates the way officers are allowed to function.”