The Dew of Flesh Page 8

  Chapter 8

  Bitterness. The taste, like mud and sour bark, filled Siniq-elb’s mouth, breaking through the pain-rocked sleep that held him. Consciousness imposed itself on him, a sudden awaking that brought pain to make Siniq-elb howl, and then choke on the liquid being poured down his throat.

  Coughing and spewing, Siniq-elb tried to sit up, only to find himself restrained. He turned his head to the side, body shaking with pain, desperate for air. Panic blurred the room around him. Then his lungs were clear, and he sucked in breath, pressing eyes shut, grateful for the sudden rush of life.

  The pain diminished somewhat, although not much. Enough that it was bearable. His legs felt like they had fiery weights attached to them, hard to lift, as though pain itself weighed them down. Siniq-elb wanted nothing more than to sink back into sleep, where the pain had pursued him at a distance. A part of him resisted, though, urging him to take stock of his situation. After several more deep breaths, pushing down a scream rooted in fear and agony, Siniq-elb took control of himself.

  He opened his eyes and blinked away the tears. The room was dark, although a line of light against the far wall indicated a doorway. The air was thick with the stench of a sick-room: unwashed body, dried blood, fever-sweat. The smell knotted itself at the back of Siniq-elb’s throat, threatening to gag him. He hated sick rooms.

  Someone sat nearby, outlined by the light from under the door. Siniq-elb focused on his visitor, desperate for something, anything, that would help him understand what had happened.

  “Help me,” Siniq-elb said, his voice cracked and dry.

  A cool, moist hand found his forehead. A soft hand. Not a warrior then.

  “Please,” Siniq-elb said. “Where am I? What did they do to me?”

  “Tair bless us,” a soft voice said. “The fever seems to have broken. The healers did their work well. They always do it well.”

  “Father take me,” Siniq-elb said, then gritted his teeth. The pain rolled over then him, a sudden wave sharper, then receding. “What’s wrong with me? Where am I?”

  “Drink this,” the voice said. So soft. Like oilcloth on fresh-sharpened steel.

  One hand propped Siniq-elb’s head, and a moment later Siniq-elb felt the rim of a cup reach his lips. He drank greedily, tears of relief burning his eyes as the bitter water soothed his parched throat. So bitter, but he was so thirsty. When the cup left his lips, Siniq-elb almost begged for more.

  “What—” he started to ask again, but the words slipped away from him. The dark room shifted, its edges slipping past his eyes. The pain became a distant, attenuated thing, like a thread of fire that stitched him together. “What did they do to me?”

  When the voice came, its edges were blurred by the drug. “I’m so sorry,” the voice said. “They took your feet.”

  For a moment, Siniq-elb felt nothing but the slow sway of the room around him. The pain was so great.

  And then, in the shivering, drug-washed darkness, Siniq-elb began to cry. A too-soft, sweaty hand rested on his shoulder, while the voice said, over and over again, “I’m so sorry.”

  Even with the drugged water dragging him down, it was a long time before Siniq-elb’s sobs dwindled to the point that he could sleep. When he slipped into dreams, the last thing he heard was that voice whisper, one final time, “I’m so sorry.”

 

  When Siniq-elb woke next, the pain was less severe, and he found the cloth restraints had been removed. Amber light filtered in under the door—the light of dawn or dusk, staining the polished floorboards. Siniq-elb sat up, the world swimming around him, whether from the drug or simply his long time spent lying down, he did not know.

  He examined the room, inspecting each object in order. The bed in which he lay, finely carved wood supporting a plump mattress, with reasonably clean linens. A small wooden table supporting a glazed basin and a matching pitcher, both white with delicately painted flowers. Lilies, he thought. A table—more of a desk, really—with a padded chair and a neat row of books, although he could not read the titles. The door. And across the room, a window, the shutters pulled tight.

  When he had looked at everything else, after he had probed his wounded shoulder to find it vastly improved, after running a hand along his jaw to check the seir’s cut that he could not see—only then did Siniq-elb look down at his feet.

  They were gone. His legs ended just above where his ankles had been, the stumps so swathed in white linen that they looked like little hooves. Tears welled in Siniq-elb’s eyes, and he felt a black pit opening inside him, but he blinked quickly, fanning the spark of anger inside him. It roared to life, dispelling—for the time—the darkness. Dakel had done this to him. That meant that he needed find Dakel. And then he would kill him.

  The room still spun if he moved his head too quickly, but Siniq-elb’s stomach roared, and the room still stank of sickness. To judge by the pain that blossomed in his legs as he shifted them, the stumps were in no condition to be bumped around. For a moment, Siniq-elb stared at the ground that now seemed so far away from him. How did one move without feet?

  After thinking through a few possibilities, Siniq-elb twisted around, gasping as pain flared in his legs. He slid forward, chest down, taking his weight on his arms. His injured shoulder protested, but the pain was muffled now, more like the soreness of an unused muscle. As he lowered himself, he twisted, bringing his backside down onto the wooden floor. Carefully, he swung his legs down, making sure to keep them from brushing the desk or chair.

  Sweat beaded on his bare chest. Siniq-elb leaned against the bed, his body aching. He was exhausted and he had done no more than get out of bed. Hopelessness opened up again inside him, but Siniq-elb stoked his anger. He would not be beaten this easily. Not by a su-esis coward. Not by that traitor Natam.

  As he sat there, catching his breath, Siniq-elb realized that, aside from linen under-clothes, he was naked. It was a poor start for his grand plan of revenge, and a self-mocking smile crept onto Siniq-elb’s face. Dakel would not be very intimidated by an unclothed cripple.

  The door swung open, and only Siniq-elb’s fast reflexes kept it from striking his injured legs. He swung them into the air, heart pounding. A stout man, folds of skin hanging at his neck and on the back of his arms, stood in the doorway, his mouth open in shock. Dark, unkempt, foreign hair stuck up all over his head, as though to mirror his amazement. He carried a stack of something in his arms, but Siniq-elb could not make out what from his position on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. Siniq-elb remembered the voice. Soft. Weak.

  Siniq-elb glanced through the doorway, around the squat man. Only a corridor, but he caught the edge of a tall window. He needed to get to the window to have a better idea of where he was.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Glancing up at the man, Siniq-elb was surprised to see that there was genuine concern in his face.

  “I’m sitting down. What are you doing?” Siniq-elb asked.

  “Bringing you breakfast,” the stout man said. “The healers said you’d be awake today. I figured you’d want some food when you woke.” He gingerly stepped between Siniq-elb’s legs and set the pile on the table. From the top of the pile, he took a tray with a dented cover, which he set to one side. Almost immediately, the smell of bacon and freshly baked bread flooded the room. Siniq-elb’s stomach growled. “Rather nice breakfast, actually,” the stout man said, puttering with the tray. “Milk-bread with honey, soft as a cloud. Bacon with enough fat for a king. Blossom-apples.” As he spoke, the man’s sagging jowls tugged up into a smile. He seemed within a heartbeat of devouring the meal himself.

  “Alright then,” Siniq-elb said. “Food. You’ve made your point. What else?”

  The smile vanished, and the stout man licked his lips—whether from anxiety, or hunger, Siniq-elb could not tell. As he spoke, his eyes darted to the wooden tray again. “Khylar said . . . he told me to help you. You know, to get y
our bearings.”

  Siniq-elb stared up. Khylar. Not Dakel. That didn’t mean much; he had not expected Dakel to stay in the Garden. He beckoned, and, flushing, the stout man bent down and set the tray on Siniq-elb’s lap. The smell ran through Siniq-elb, carrying with it echoes of home, of cooking in the field with his squad, of normalcy. Heart pounding, Siniq-elb tore off a piece of bread, warm honey running down his wrist, and shoved it in his mouth. Flavor and texture, the sweet bite of the honey against the soft bread. It was like he had never eaten before.

  “Who’s Khylar?” Siniq-elb asked as he chewed another piece of the bread.

  The stout man licked his lips again, eyes sliding across the room to rest, for just a heartbeat, on the food. Siniq-elb noted the gaze. The loose skin, the way he spoke about food. For whatever reason, this man was going hungry more often than not. Siniq-elb slowed his ravenous eating—in part, to keep some of the food visible, tempting the other man. In part because the bread and apple sat in a lump in his stomach, and his body did not seem to know what to do with the food.

  “Khylar?” Siniq-elb asked again. He licked honey from the inside of his arm, but never took his eyes from the stout man.

  “He’s the su-esis in charge of the Garden,” the stout man said. With a look of despair, he sat down, turning his face away from the food.

  “What’s he like?” Siniq-elb said.

  Face averted, the stout man shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough. Keep your head down and he might not bother you.”

  “You don’t sound like you believe that.”

  The stout man shrugged.

  “Hungry?” Siniq-elb asked. He was full now; too full, and he had not even touched the bacon. It would take time for his body to recover its strength, but making himself sick by overeating would not help matters.

  The stout man’s head whipped around, his mouth opening slightly. After a heartbeat, his face reddened, and he shook his head. “It’s for you,” he said. “You should eat it. You’re still not well.”

  “I won’t be well if I start tossing this up,” Siniq-elb said. He leaned forward, grimacing at the pain flaring in his legs, and passed the tray to the stout man. “Eat it.”

  “It’s—” the stout man said. “You won’t get food like this for much longer. A week, maybe. Until they think you’ve recovered enough strength to get by. Eat it while you can. Tair knows I ate every bite of mine and still thought it wasn’t enough.”

  The man was about to cry! Siniq-elb leaned back and nodded at the tray, but worry sparked to life inside him. What kind of place was this?

  “Eat it,” he said. “You’ve earned it, keeping watch over me while I was ill.”

  The food disappeared in a matter of bites, bacon and the honeyed crust of bread vanishing into the stout man’s mouth. After a few extra swallows, running his tongue around his mouth, the stout man stretched out, his head against the wall.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I shouldn’t have eaten that. A deed of charity isn’t a deed of charity when it’s repaid. Then it’s merely a transaction. You should not have to buy goodness.”

  Siniq-elb stared at him. A glutton and a philosopher? What help would he be in escaping the Garden? Siniq-elb immediately regretted having wasted the food on a man who cried over food and over-thought every action. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the expression of disgust from his face.

  “What’s your name?” the stout man asked.

  Even his voice was weak—a fine start for making allies! Siniq-elb gritted his teeth, drew a deep breath. Not everyone in this gloried place could be this weak. They couldn’t be!

  When he was sure his voice would not betray his frustration, Siniq-elb said, “Siniq-elb. You?”

  “Vas,” the stout man said. “You don’t sound well. The healers sent something for the pain; not as strong as before, I’m afraid, but it will take the edge off. Shall I prepare it for you?”

  The pain in his legs was growing; weariness settled over Siniq-elb, heavy as a wool blanket. He nodded. If this was the beginning of his time in the Garden, Siniq-elb had the momentary fear that it would not be long before he were as frail and simpering as this idiot. When Siniq-elb opened his eyes, Vas stood at the table, mixing something in a ceramic cup. He passed it to Siniq-elb, who drank it down in a pair of gulps. Bitter, like cheap wine, with something gritty.

  “So I won’t sleep from this?” Siniq-elb said as he passed the cup back.

  “No,” Vas said. “Many people pass much of the day in sleep, but we are not given drugs to do so. Some people just . . . sleep.”

  “Not you?”

  Another flush, and Vas said, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t stop thinking. Even at night, sometimes. My thoughts whirl around and around, like a fly in a bottle, and I . . .” He trailed off and gave a shrug.

  Silence fell for a pair of heartbeats. Running one hand through his short-cropped copper hair, Siniq-elb said, “Don’t suppose you brought any clothes? Or do they keep me naked until I’m well too?”

  Vas started, his cheeks as red as if Siniq-elb had kindled a fire in his face. He shifted the pile on the table and shook out a piece of brown cloth. “Only thing we’re allowed. I’m sorry.” He handed it down to Siniq-elb.

  A tunic, sleeveless, the color of dirt. Siniq-elb slipped it over his head, not bothering to adjust it. The Garden was a prison. A prison for heretics, for the unfaithful. He had to remember that. The tunic was just one more part of it.

  But if the Garden was a prison for the unbelievers, what was Siniq-elb doing there? What was Vas doing there, weak as he was? Siniq-elb had always done his duty—attending High Harvests, although he had avoided the street harvests as much as he could. He had served his god in the army of Khi’ilan. Never spoken against the eses or the tair. It had to be a mistake. His parents would come soon; Kishar and Gemel Ayaou were respected in Khi’ilan, the heads of a successful business. Leaders in the community of merchants, and still faithful to the tair—something all the rarer as foreigners established themselves in the city. His parents would take him from this place.

  Siniq-elb looked up at Vas, ready to ask the stout man what he had done to be imprisoned in the Garden. It seemed unlikely that a man who cried over food had the stomach to commit any serious crime, but Siniq-elb had mistaken men before. Natam was proof enough of that. Before he could speak, a bell rang.

  “Time for visiting hours,” Vas said.

  He stepped outside the room, and Siniq-elb heard him speaking in a low voice. A moment later he returned, two muscular eses in tow. Siniq-elb eyed the men. They could not be much taller than he, and though they were well-muscled, the seamless gleam of their chain mail told him that they had seen little combat, if any. Not much of a threat; even without his feet, he could still handle two of them.

  Without a word, the eses knelt on either side of Siniq-elb and picked him up. Heat flared in his cheeks, hotter than the sun, and anger rose to match the tide of humiliation. To be carried like a sack of potatoes! His legs dangled, the white-wrapped stumps sticking out like banners announcing his approach. Siniq-elb had never been shamed this way, not in his life. And he had never felt such anger—anger at Dakel, anger at the tair, anger at the world, that it would allow him to be brought to such a state. Even in the throes of a High Harvest, he had never felt rage like this.

  Blinking tears of shame and fury from his eyes, and praying to the gods-made-flesh that the eses had not noticed, Siniq-elb took control of himself. Their passage through the halls had been nothing but a blur; he could not have returned to his room even if he could have walked. He steadied himself, though, taking in the plaster walls, the murals—no people, all vegetation—and ahead, the wide double doors.

  The doors.

  He recognized those doors. Unreasoning terror gripped his throat. The last time he had been carried through them, Dakel had taken his feet. This time, Vas trotted alongside the eses, and though his sagging jowls gave
him a look of discontent, Siniq-elb sensed no fear from the man. He tensed himself; if something went wrong, he would not go without a fight. Not this time. He could draw one of the swords—the eses wore them within reach—and even a cripple, he was a better swordsman than any esis.

  A moment later they were through the door, sunlight—hot against Siniq-elb’s bare arms and legs—shining down on them. Great trees towered over the stucco walls, but wide swaths of short-growing grass provided ample opening for sunlight and warm breezes. Men and women filled the clearings, some lying, some sitting or standing; some in the brown of the Garden, but many more in ordinary clothing.

  “Maybe you could set him down over there,” Vas said. “I see some friends . . .” He trailed off as the eses ignored him, turning away from the direction he had indicated.

  “But—” Vas said. “Perhaps this isn’t the best spot, you know . . .”

  “Shut it,” one of the eses said. “He don’t like it, he can move himself.”

  The other let out a grunt of a laugh. Cheeks burning, Siniq-elb studied their faces as discreetly as he could. He would have his revenge on them, too, one day. Dakel would just be the first to pay. One had a crooked nose, and his lip was scabbed over where a lucky punch had split the flesh. Siniq-elb silently thanked whoever had had the courage to punch an esis. The other had thin, wiry blond hair around a bald patch on the top of his head. Crook and Bald, Siniq-elb named them. He would remember them, remember this moment.

  They set him down roughly, and only Siniq-elb’s caution kept them from knocking his wounded legs against the ground. Laughing to themselves, the eses wandered off to stand against the wall, under the shade of a gnarled oak. Siniq-elb glared at them, his face hot from the sun and embarrassment. They would laugh at him, mock him behind his back. Would they come fight him? He wanted nothing more than to strike someone, to make them hurt.

  If the eses saw him, they did not seem to notice, for they continued their conversation. Finally, when Siniq-elb’s anger had faded to a simmer, he shifted so he could take in the Garden. There had to be a way out. A pile of rubbish in the corner behind them, no more than a few paces away, but not high enough to climb out. The trees grew above the walls, some of the branches extending out beyond the courtyard. The walls were too thin for guards to walk them, and Siniq-elb saw no sign of guard posts within the yard itself. The forest was dense, he remembered that from his night passage with Dakel, but without the tall grasses, it would not offer as much concealment as he was used to.

  “You shouldn’t antagonize them,” Vas said, his voice pitched low.

  “What?” Siniq-elb said.

  “The way you glared at them while they were carrying you, and after they set you down. Lud and Hir can make your life a lot worse, and they’re just doing their job.”

  “They’re mocking me,” Siniq-elb said. “I’m the head of a squad in the army of Khi’ilan. I’ve done more to protect this Father-taken city, and the Father-taken tair, than they’ve ever even dreamed, and they laugh at me. I ought to call them out, right now.”

  Vas looked away and hunched his shoulders. An awkward silence fell between them. Siniq-elb turned his gaze to the other people in the Garden, wishing Vas would leave. Most of the people wearing the brown tunics sat clustered with normal-looking folk. Others strolled along the edge of the trees, keeping to the shade of the branches without passing within the woods themselves. Siniq-elb bit the inside of his mouth, anger rising. He could see some disfigurement—more than a few people in the Garden had rags tied across their eyes, and others were missing hands or arms. Perhaps the ones sitting had their legs taken; even as the thought crossed his mind, though, Siniq-elb saw a heavy-set man, hair gone to gray, push himself to his feet and straighten his brown tunic.

  “You’ll want to stay away from them,” Vas said, nodding toward a pile of brown and gray rags across the yard.

  “Who?”

  Vas frowned. “I don’t know their names—people here, they call them the hog-women, but it isn’t right.”

  “But you tell me to stay away from them?”

  “They’re in a lot of pain,” Vas said. “Sometimes, they act out. Hurt other people too. Just keep your distance.”

  A man with a strip tied across his eyes stumbled toward the hog-women. “What about him?”

  “Ishgh will be alright,” Vas said. “He’s just as mean, when he can catch you.”

  A spot of color, at the edge of Siniq-elb’s vision, caught his eyes. He turned and was surprised to see golden hair among the brown and green of the forest. Until then, he had seen no one else even close to passing through the line of trees. The person disappeared behind one of the broad-trunked chestnuts. Siniq-elb stared, waiting for the person to emerge. Long heartbeats passed, and then she stepped into sight.

  Hair like autumn sunlight spilled down the back of her tunic, which left bare pale, slender legs. For a moment he saw her face, oval and beautiful as the waning moon. Then she turned, winding deeper into the maze of trees, and disappeared from sight. When he could no longer see her, Siniq-elb let out the breath he had been holding, his pulse thrumming in the hollow of his throat.

  “Who was that?” Siniq-elb asked.

  Vas turned, followed the line of his gaze back into the woods. “Mece.”

  “Did you see her?” Siniq-elb said. “Tair around us, she is beautiful.” Inara would have had his eyes for staring like that. Tair fend, she would have his tongue if she heard him talk about another woman like that. She must have been worried sick about him by now.

  “I didn’t need to see her,” Vas said. “She’s the only one that goes back there. It’s bad enough they make us come out here every day, back to the same spot where they—” He cut off and gestured at Siniq-elb’s legs.

  “What does she do back there?”

  “Father take me if I know,” Vas said. “She won’t talk to anyone. No one comes to visit her. I’d be surprised if she’s said a single word since they brought her here.”

  “What did she do?”

  Vas glanced at him, his expression curious, and said, “What do you—”

  “Vas!” The growl tore through the conversation, low and full of anger. “Vas, you slimy piece of trash—don’t you ever keep me waiting like this again! Bring him over here.”

  Siniq-elb glanced around, trying to find the source of the voice. It came from behind them, but he saw nothing, so he searched the stucco walls for an open window. Vas, however, stared directly at the pile of trash—soiled cloths, dead branches and rotting leaves, broken dishes and trays. Siniq-elb looked more closely and then recoiled. Between forked branches, a bearded man glared out at them.

  “I can’t carry him,” Vas mumbled, glancing at Siniq-elb and flushing. “Besides, Agahm, it’s not right. You aren’t kind—”

  “Vas,” the man roared.

  Vas flinched and glanced at Siniq-elb. “He won’t let up until you go meet him,” Vas said. “He won’t talk to anyone except me, and then he always makes me promise to bring him the new people who are . . . chastised.”

  So not everyone was crippled. That was good to know. Siniq-elb glanced at the man buried in filth, and then at Vas. “Is he dangerous?”

  “No,” Vas said. “He used to be a craftsman, a carpenter. He won’t hurt you. At least—well, he won’t attack you, if that’s what you mean. He’s cruel, though. There’s so much pain inside him, you see, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

  Siniq-elb ignored the last words, as he ignored the fresh tears he saw in Vas’s eyes; that kind of weakness would get him killed. A part of Siniq-elb wanted a fight, even if it was only with the Garden’s bully, so he glanced at Vas and nodded. As carefully as he could, Siniq-elb hoisted himself up with his palms, raising himself just a few inches from the ground, and scooted forward. It took as much effort to keep his wounded legs from touching the ground as it did to move forward, and by the time Siniq-elb reached the pile of trash, his arms burned, and his wounded s
houlder measured out flashes of pain in time to Siniq-elb’s racing heart. Vas had walked slowly next to him, and the stout man sank to the ground with a sigh.

  Trying to push back despair at how difficult it had been to cross even that short of a distance, Siniq-elb examined Agahm. Sticks and dead leaves littered the man’s beard, and eyes as hard as emerald stared back at Siniq-elb. The branches formed a rough shelter over the man, hiding much of his body, although the leaves that had once formed a canopy had long since disintegrated, becoming part of the general grunge that filled this corner of the courtyard.

  “Nice legs,” Agahm said, his beard parting to reveal brown and yellow teeth.

  Even prepared as he was for the man’s hostility, Siniq-elb drew back as though struck. Fire stirred to life in his cheeks; the words ripped open still raw wounds.

  “Don’t, Agahm,” Vas said. “That’s not kind, and Siniq-elb is still recovering.”

  “Good food,” Agahm said. “While you recover that is. Do me a favor, you crippled bastard. If you can somehow figure out a way to prop yourself up on those butchered stumps long enough to look like a man again, tie yourself a nice noose and hang yourself from one of those trees. Then I won’t have to smell those pus-filled wounds that are the only thing left of what used to make you worth half a breath.”

  Fury blazed to life within Siniq-elb. “What in the Father’s glory is wrong with you?” he shouted. “You’re in here too—you’re no better.”

  Agahm laughed until dry coughs ripped through his body. When he recovered himself, he smirked up at Siniq-elb and said, “That’s where you’re wrong, you worthless, legless piece of trash. You still think you’re something—I saw the way you looked at Lud and Hir. Think you can do something for yourself, maybe even escape. Think you didn’t do anything wrong to deserve being here.”

  Pausing just long enough to spit, Agahm continued, “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all trash here. You’re not a man; you’re not even a person. Better get used to it, or the eses will make sure to remind you.”

  “Enough,” Vas said, but his voice trembled. “That’s enough, Agahm. We all hurt, but part of being human is sharing that pain. We each have a duty to the others to lift these burdens.”

  Agahm spat again—the sputum tinged pink—and said, “Still eat so fast that it makes you sick, Vas? Still beg others for their food? Still cry when it’s gone and you shut yourself up in your room at night? Tair around us, might as well be a hog at an empty trough.”

  Siniq-elb was moving before he realized it, anger at the hateful man wiping away reason. He surged forward, fist darting toward the bearded face nestled among the branches. The stumps of his legs swung down as he moved, slamming into the ground. Pain ran through Siniq-elb, staining his vision red, and he fell to one side with a yelp. Tears blurred his vision. When the pain finally dwindled enough that Siniq-elb could wipe his eyes dry, he heard Agahm laughing, and the sound sent white-hot rage through him.

  “Are you alright?” Vas said, kneeling next to him. The stout man held Siniq-elb’s legs above the ground; in a moment of gratitude, Siniq-elb realized that Vas had kept him from hurting himself worse while he was in the thrall of the pain.

  Sniffling and coughing to clear his throat, Siniq-elb nodded. He felt like a child. Siniq-elb checked the bandages; there was fresh blood, but it did not seem to be much, and so he just nodded again, unable to meet Vas’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Vas said, nodding at Agahm. The bearded man’s laugh had degenerated into that dry cough.

  Without a word, Siniq-elb turned and, arms and back aching, scooted away. By the time he reached the edge of the woods, sweat had stained the tunic, and Siniq-elb’s hair was damp against his neck. Everything ached; the pain in his legs seemed a hundred times worse, as though his heart were determined to force drops of agony through the damaged limbs, and his injured shoulder ached so that Siniq-elb could barely lift his arm. Propping himself against a beech, its bark smooth against his back, he drew a deep breath and began to examine the yard again. It did not matter what Agahm said. Siniq-elb was a soldier, and more importantly, he was a man. He would escape, and then he would have revenge.

  Running his gaze over the walls again, searching for weaknesses, for possible impediments, Siniq-elb sucked in a breath as the far gate opened. Hope blossomed inside him, as hot as the sun above. Inara, her red-blonde hair done in a perfect braid, beautiful in a sage-colored dress that hugged her hips and accented her breasts, stepped inside the garden. Next to her stood her father, his thin beard gone almost entirely to gray.

  Inara. The woman he loved more than anyone else in the world. Seeing her was like water to a man dying of thirst. If anyone could help him, it would be her father. Lasgh’s contacts among the eses were practically legendary. The nightmare was almost over.

  Then, with a calm familiarity that cut deeper than any sword, Natam stepped through the gate and looped Inara’s arm through his.