In a Wolf's Eyes Page 3

  Stunned, I stared at him. “You wouldn’t.”

  He barked a laugh, a sound with no humor. “I’ve also been told I’m a scoundrel with few morals. I would.”

  “I could kill you the moment you healed me. Would you risk that?”

  That provoked a grin and a mild shrug of the broad shoulders. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, friend.”

  I sneered. “Maybe you’re lying. Prove to me you’ve got magic.”

  Rygel rolled his eyes, raising his hands upward toward heaven. “Lords above, grant me patience. He’s dying and he wants parlor tricks.”

  Sighing, he dropped his hands to his lap. “Very well.”

  He flattened his right palm, lifting it to eye level, and suddenly a bright flame danced merrily on his hand. “Parlor tricks.”

  A moment later, the flame danced across nothingness and lit upon his other hand. He quirked his brow at me over the fire. “More?”

  Suddenly, the flame divided, splitting apart yet growing until all ten of his fingers held tiny merry flames. “Not enough?” The chair upon which he sat rose slowly, lifting him and all the fires toward the ceiling. “How droll.”

  Before I could blink, the sword in my hand vanished, leaving my hand to grasp only air. It reappeared with no warning hilt down, deadly point up, under Rygel’s floating backside. He risked the blade splitting him asunder should his magic fail and gravity take possession of him. The sword would break out at the top of his head. I know I gawked, despite my attempt to control my jaw.

  “I could turn you into a toad,” he remarked, closely examining his flaming fingernails. “But that would kill you instantly. A toad could not sustain injuries like that and live. I have to wonder how it is you’re still alive.”

  The sword winked out and in its place a chamber pot sat, reeking a foul miasma that made my eyes water.

  “Enough.”

  My hand suddenly gripped the sword again and Rygel floated serenely back to the floor. The flames winked out.

  “Just so you know,” he drawled, a faint smile touching his lips and making his yellow eyes dance. “You haven’t the speed it would take to kill me.”

  I stared, completely baffled. “Why do you want to help me?”

  Pain killed the merriment I saw in his cat’s eyes. “Let’s just say I’m looking for redemption.”

  I laughed, a sharp bark that turned into a cough. I tasted blood, felt the dizziness and nausea creep closer. “Find your redemption elsewhere. Go save a prostitute.”

  “Prostitutes have their pimps. You have me.”

  “Slaves have nothing. Not names, not lives. We are worthless.”

  “No human life is worthless,” Rygel replied calmly. “You know that. All life is sacred.”

  As much as I wanted to disagree, I did know it. I knew it every time I killed a fellow slave in the arena. I cut my eyes away from his.

  “You are worth saving,” he went on. “I know things…you are one of the few decent human beings in this Federal shit pile. I knew it the moment I saw you out there.”

  “Save me for what?” I growled. “Save me for a longer life as a slave?” I fingered the leather collar and the jewels, marking me as the High King’s property. “Death is the only escape I’ll ever know.”

  “If you want to die so badly, why didn’t you let that monster kill you? One wrong move, one mistake, and it would’ve been done with.”

  I curled my lip. “I still have my pride. Here I can go out a champion.” I gestured about me at the walls. “Here, I can die quietly. Privately. Not for their entertainment.” I spat. Red tinged the spittle that struck the dirt floor.

  I coughed again, cold and pain stabbing through my gut. Not long now, I thought. Looking down at myself, I studied the long gash just under my ribcage. No doubt, the blade had nicked my lung. Blood still oozed, thickly, slowly. The other wound in my belly, from the Savage’s dirk, was nearly as bad, but had almost stopped bleeding. Glancing back up, I squinted through the growing dizziness at Rygel.

  “You still haven’t given me reason enough to let you work your—your magic.”

  He ran his hands through his wheaten hair, frustrated. “Perhaps I can buy you from the High King, set you free—”

  I laughed and choked on it. I turned my left shoulder toward him slightly, showing him my mark, a tattoo of a Crowned Lion eating a unicorn. He eyed my brand, the High King’s personal royal emblem. A scar from an opponent’s dagger a long time ago made the Lion’s snarl into a ragged sneer. “Once branded a slave, one is never unbranded.”

  “Lionel likes me,” he said. “I’ll agree to do anything he asks, then smuggle you from here—”

  “His ruthless Majesty will not let me go.”

  “Damn you, let me try!” he snapped. “You must have something worth living for.”

  I grew colder. Arianne. Like me, a slave. Perhaps she was even dead by now, if the gods are merciful.

  The chill increased, making me shiver. I suspected if I looked over my shoulder, I might see Usa’a’mah’s angel of death standing there. Patient. Waiting. Cold. I did not look.

  Blood seeped slowly, soaking into my cot. Weakly, I brushed my hair out of my eyes, seeing two Rygels, then three as my vision blurred.

  “Please, Wolf,” he murmured. “There’s hope, even for a slave.”

  “Wha—what do you know of slavery?” I snarled.

  Rygel stood so abruptly the chair slammed to the floor. His lips drew back in a fierce grimace, his teeth bared. “I am as much a slave as you.”

  “Liar,” I whispered. I had no strength for further anger. “You wear gold and silk.”

  From his belt pouch, he pulled a small vial. “You know what this is?” He waved it in my face. “It’s tros.”

  I knew of it. Many nobles of the court, even members of the royal family, used it for its pleasant and erotic sensations. Brutal certainly did. I heard it helped make one as lusty as a stallion teased by a mare in season. Rumors blossomed like wild ivy vines around the palace, tales of tros parties that resulted in great erotic orgies, whereby groups coupled in twos and threes and even fours. Unwanted pregnancies abounded closely on the heels of such parties, resulting in frantic races to witch doctors for the poisons that would kill the growing problems. It was also highly addictive. Men have died horrible deaths if they no longer took the tros. I had heard an untold number of stories of those that suicided, unable to cope with the symptoms of withdrawal.

  “I was betrayed,” Rygel went on, his voice hoarse. “By a woman—a woman I loved.” He barked a harsh cawing sound, a sardonic laugh. “By all the gods, how I loved her. She was my life, the song my soul sang to the gods above. I would have killed, or died, for her. Without my knowledge, she fed me small doses of tros, a tiny bit at a time. She put it in my wine, in my food, all with sweet words, with the luscious temptations of her body. I took all, paying no heed to the odd taste while her luminous eyes watched me.

  “One day, I found I could not live without it. That was when I discovered the truth. She was Brutal’s pet. His agent. She turned me over to him, and left without a backward look.” His voice broke, choked. His face turned aside, away from me, for a long moment.

  I waited, patient. What had I but time?

  He turned back after a long agonized moment and continued, facing me finally. A bitter smile twisted his aristocratic lips. “Brutal freely gives me all I need, supplies me with women…” His voice trailed off, choked by despair and humiliation. “Now I am his creature, forced against my will to do his bidding. If I refuse, I die.”

  His face flushed with shame and bitterness and self-loathing, he found courage enough to look me in the face. Tears glimmered in the cat’s eyes. “Lionel’s vile offspring made me his chief torturer. Perhaps you may remember Baron, Lord Kaine of Tintalgele?”

  A lord of a minor House in the north, Baron Kaine had humiliated Prince Brutal in the Royal Council of Lords by refusing to sign Brutal’s petition for more taxes and
taking half the Council members with him. A fisherman working his trade found what was left of Baron Kaine floating in the River Soare, half-eaten by fish, his face green and purple.

  “He was but the first,” Rygel went on. “I didn’t kill that poor wretch. I silenced his screams while I tortured him with magic. Brutal finally throttled him in a fit of temper.”

  He looked down at his hands, turning them over as he studied them. They looked like strong ordinary hands from where I sat, even if the nails appeared gnawed on. “These hands were born to heal. The magic in them is healing magic. I’ve nursed the sick, the wounded, and brought an end to suffering. Against my codes of honor, I used my knowledge of healing and human anatomy to cause agony.

  “Pray forgive me if I sound egotistical, but I am one of the most powerful wizards ever born. While there are many of us, few can match me. Using magic can make one exhausted, but with me only healing magic can wear me down. I can level this city with a thought.”

  “Why don’t you then?”

  He smiled slightly. “Despite all, there are innocents here. Brutal owns me, but he doesn’t own my soul.”

  Inwardly cursing, I fought against unwilling sympathy. Another wretch victimized by Lionel’s foul eldest child. He was but one among hundreds, thousands. Why should I allow him to interfere? What was he to me? My death, my freedom, called to me in a strident voice. I yearned to be free.

  Gods above and below, his words haunted me. Friend. He called me friend. None since I was nine years old had anyone ever called me friend. Holy Seven, help me, I prayed, though I hadn’t prayed to them in a very long time.

  Before I knew, or found the will to stop, what I was doing, I let the sword drop from my hand. I nodded.

  “Do what you will,” I murmured. “Gods help both of us, you bastard.”

  Rygel dashed the back of his hand across his eyes and chuckled. “I am that too.”

  “Wh—what?”

  “A bastard. Base born.”

  What do I care what side of the sheets you were born on? Whether I gave voice to that opinion or held it silent, I’ll never know. I shut my eyes as he dropped to one knee beside me. His fingers gently probed the huge gash beneath my ribs. I caught my breath as another wave of pain stabbed through me. Rygel muttered under his breath, curses or prayers I could not hear. The dizziness grew and consumed me. Through my half-shut eyes, his wheaten hair seemed to glow with an odd nimbus.

  “Hold tight,” Rygel said through gritted teeth. “I’ll have you dancing again in no time.”

  My world exploded in fire and pain.

  Chapter 2

  The Blushing Bride

  Sipping my chalice of wine, I eyed the well-bred women who sought to imitate me, their future Queen, and smiled sardonically. Their attempts to curry favor with me over the last few months never failed to annoy me, especially now when their clothing copied mine. Kings, princes, lords and dukes, most under the shield of Khalid, but some not, gathered with the cream of Khalid’s aristocracy at High King Lionel’s court for Crown Prince Broughton’s thirtieth birthday celebration. As Broughton’s betrothed, I attended with an escort of Kel’Hallan warriors. I wore a red-bronze gown of silk that matched my hair, a simple robe that covered my front and back, yet left the sides open to view. Belted by simple gold chains, the gown left little to male imaginations.

  My people traditionally wore scanty clothing, whether in battle, the streets or in court. To see these high-headed women, many with fat rolls straining against flimsy silks, or with saggy sallow unhealthy skin showing through the gaps, made me roll my eyes before I could stop myself. These sweaty, repellent, stout matrons of the Federal court wearing traditional Kel’Hallan dress brought deriding snickers from my warriors. As well as several snide remarks from no few of their own husbands.

  Despite my usual familiarity and comfort with my homeland’s mode of dress, I felt naked and exposed here, in this place. The dress, while attractive, left me no place with which to carry a weapon. Not even the soft kidskin boots covering my feet and calves held room for a slim dagger or knife. At home, no such need to carry a weapon in court was necessary. However, the Khalidian court was more dangerous than a pit full of vipers. The skin over my back itched, as though feeling the weight of murderous eyes.

  I sniffed and turned my back on the ogling women, earning myself an amused glance from my cousin, Kel’Ratan. With High King Lionel and Queen Iyumi present on their thrones, no one could carry steel, save the daggers they needed to cut their meat. Thus, I was safe, at least from the threat of a dagger replacing the eyes. Kel’Ratan, dressed in a simple tunic of dark red silk and leather breeches, wore his dinner dagger on his left hip.

  “Only a few more hours, Highness,” Kel’Ratan murmured in my ear.

  Years of practice allowed me to glance demurely down with a small smile while muttering choice oaths under my breath. Oaths choice enough to be considered inappropriate for a royal court if one is considered the future Queen. My language usually caused Kel’Ratan to frown and follow that up with a lecture on more royal decorum. This time, Kel’Ratan only chuckled.

  “Crown Prince Broughton is watching you,” he said. “Behave yourself.”

  “It would appear he’s not the only one,” I replied, my lips hidden against my chalice.

  I took a small sip of the wine inside, a mellow fruity wine made from a local grape I had grown to like during my short stay in the Federation. I rolled the liquid around on my tongue for a moment, enjoying the sweet taste, before swallowing it and taking another.

  Kel’Ratan’s eyes followed mine to a short round lord wearing gray silk robes trimmed in silver. He stood among a small throng of his cronies, a scowl etching his full lips, his hazel eyes bright with fury and hate. His fingers idly turned the pewter chalice of wine in his grip, the flaring candlelight dripping off its rim. He stared straight at me, ignoring the lively chatter of his friends around him. If looks could kill, no doubt I would be drawn and quartered on the spot.

  “What could he be so angry about?” I turned half away, as though my gaze happened upon him by accident. I bent my head to fix a fold of my dress, smoothed it, and then fixed another.

  “Lord Colvin of Watana,” Kel’Ratan answered, stepping between the wrathful lord and me, while making it appear as though he hardly moved at all. “Bar killed his prize bull. This particular bull was the product of many hundred generations of careful breeding and to hear it said, was the picture of absolute bovine perfection.”

  “I told Bar to stay away from the cattle,” I snapped. “He must have had bad luck hunting.”

  “The problem is,” my cousin said, a grin quirking his lips, “he’s just like you. Headstrong. Difficult. Obstinate. Need I go on?”

  I glared at him, but before I could spit another string of curses at him, Kel’Ratan bent to my ear. “Behave.”

  I sniffed and turned my back. I noticed a man standing alone, not far from the dais where High King Lionel and Queen Iyumi sat on their thrones, looking out over the packed throng of birthday celebrants. I had seen him around the court before, always alone, aloof from the courtiers and hangers-on. He watched the hall crowded with the cream of the Federal aristocracy, his expression neutral, distant. Despite his well-dressed appearance and the gold torque about his throat, he had the air of desperation around him, like a cur whipped and cringing, fearing a beating. The tightness around his mouth spoke of a deep and abiding bitterness.

  “Stay well away from that one,” Kel’Ratan breathed in my ear. “He’s more dangerous than anyone in the Federation or Kel’Halla combined.”

  “Who is he?”

  The man was tall and broad-shouldered, handsome in a disdaining sort of way, with thin lips and an aquiline nose. His eyes were odd, a cat’s eye yellow. Thick blond hair curled over his brow and down his collar, untidy, as though he were forever raking his fingers through it. His clothes of pale gold and brown were rich enough, and the torque around his throat told me he was a prince.
Was he a foreign prince perhaps? I suspected he might be a king’s son presenting his credentials to their Majesties. The spoiled aristocrats of the Federation did not wear torques. The diamond stud in his left ear no doubt cost a minor king’s ransom.

  “Rygel of Khassart,” Kel’Ratan answered. “The wizard.”

  I caught my breath. Everyone in the court, and perhaps even Soudan, knew of Rygel. Brutal’s pet wizard. Brutal’s chief torturer and, some said, executioner. By daring to offend the Crown Prince, one invited the attentions of Rygel’s puissant magic. Behind Prince Brutal, no man within the Federation was feared more than this one.

  “He’s addicted to tros,” he went on, his voice low.

  Rygel’s amber gaze drifted toward me, and I hastily glanced away, hiding the fact I had been staring openly. I sipped at my chalice, Kel’Ratan’s head near mine as he fussed with how his dagger hung in its sheath. Few in Kel’Halla were magicians, and those few restricted in their magic by laws and a fearful populace. If Brutal had a pet magician on a leash, how could I escape this awful marriage? I did not realize I had muttered aloud until Kel’Ratan’s voice muttered in my ear.

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  I turned back to Kel’Ratan, looking up his tall height into his eyes. “The question should be where have I not heard that name?”

  Kel’Ratan pursed his lips and shook his head. His thick red hair danced about his face and shoulders. Bright blue eyes regarded me seriously, his humor gone. Kel’Ratan was not just my cousin; he was also my protector, and my father’s ambassador to these dangerous Khalidians. Despite the ancient and bloody enmity between our two nations, my father seemed determined, at all cost, to bring an end to war and bloodshed. Kel’Ratan, the King’s nephew, was here with me to negotiate my hand in marriage to Broughton and seal the pact of peace between Kel’Halla and the Federation of Khalid.

  A marriage I did not want.