He knelt down. "Ward?"
But when he knelt, he turned into my father and I curled into a ball. Father was angry with me, and I knew that his anger always hurt.
After a while the door opened and shut, and I was alone.
If I burrowed under the straw that covered the floor, the demons couldn't find me. Terror was my closest friend; my room was rank with the smell of it. The only hope I clung to was that if I could hide long enough, I knew the dragon would come and save me.
4—TISALA
Some stereotypes are useful. Certainly I've never met a dishonorable Oranstonian, nor a Shavigman who wasn't happy to fight.
Tisala paced the confines of Ward's room. Waiting here while someone else dealt with her problems was harder than the role she'd accepted in her father's little plot—which was just what Ward had thought it to be.
It had been her father who proposed it, Alizon had been none too happy about her knowing everything—his plans were more than Ward had guessed. Enough more, she hoped, for her father and others she cared about to triumph over Jakoven. But Ward had been brutal in his dismissal of Alizon's rebellion, and his recital had had the ring of truth about it.
She'd been too long among men who grasped every straw as a great hope and built a house of it. Everything she knew of Ward told her that he saw the world as clearly as any. If he saw disaster, she was afraid he was right.
It was too quiet.
A keep always has noise: people going about their lives, the clash of weapons as the Guard trained, the creak of wagon wheels. With the king's troops here it should have been louder than ever. But there was no sound here at all, not since the tremendous booming cracks of wood on wood, and Tisala was growing even more nervous.
She sat down abruptly, fighting the dizzy exhaustion that claimed her at unexpected minutes. Some aspect of the magic Oreg had used to help heal her, Ward had explained.
The soreness was mostly gone, though her left hand ached. Oreg warned her it might not ever have much strength, but he'd been pleased that she could open and shut it completely. She'd been pleased that it was still on her arm. She remembered distinctly wondering whether she should try to cut it off herself before the bandits attacked her. She hadn't realized she was so close to Hurog.
She pushed back her hair wearily and clung to the carved post of the nearby bed to stand, knowing that if she stayed in the chair she'd fall asleep no matter how anxious she was.
Ward's tunic hung over the end of the post. There was a salt-sweet smell that clung to the fabric, a smell that lingered in his bed as well.
Would she have come here if it weren't for that compelling memory of an afternoon spent riding and joking?
Ward probably had such afternoons often. But no man before had ever teased Haverness's daughter, who could outfight, outride, and, mostly, outwrestle anyone. No man had ever flirted with her before. Perhaps she'd misinterpreted, perhaps he'd just been polite. But at least he didn't see an abomination when he looked at her.
Well, she wouldn't embarrass him by hanging all over him. She knew how to be a comrade in arms, someone men were comfortable with. She wouldn't make a fool out of herself. She pulled the fabric of his shirt against her nose and breathed in deeply, all the while sneering at herself for acting like a silly girl half her age.
The door opened and Tisala dropped her hold on the shirt, adopting a defensive stance as Stala strode in. Tisala relaxed as she realized the woman hadn't seen her sniffing Ward's shirt.
"Ah," said Stala briskly. "We've much to discuss. Lord Duraugh will be here in a few days and we need to decide what to do with you. I expect Duraugh will strip Hurog of every soldier here and take them to Estian, but we've got to keep you safe as well. How are you feeling?"
His aunt's voice was quick and biting—from habit, thought Tisala, and not any particular irritation.
"Better than I should be," she answered. "What has happened that Lord Duraugh needs Hurog's men? Where's Ward?"
"The king's troops took Ward with them to Estian to stand trial—no, no, girl," snapped Stala impatiently, "don't look like that. As far as I could tell they didn't have a clue you were here, and Ward kept them out of the keep. It had nothing to do with you." She gave Tisala an assessing look. "Do you know why Ward was fighting in Oranstone five years ago?"
"Four years," corrected Tisala before she could stop herself. Clearing her throat she continued before Stala could wonder why Tisala would keep track of how long ago it had been since she'd seen Ward. "Because the king threatened to imprison him in the Asylum—he and Tosten were just talking about it." The thought of Ward in one of those barren little cells she knew all too well made Tisala feel ill.
Gods, she thought, he won't last long.
Stala said, "Ward won enough acclaim for stopping Kariarn's invasion, the king couldn't very well declare him mad, not then. But time has passed and Ward hasn't done anything else remarkable. People forget. Unlike the general populace, though, Jakoven has a long memory, and a grudge against the family of Hurog. It's not your fault they took him. If anything, from what Ward told me, it sounds as if you are a victim of the king's ire with Hurog rather than the other way around."
Tisala took a step away from the bed, impatient with the weakness that caused her to sway unsteadily. "You can't let them take him to the Asylum. Have you ever been in it?"
Stala shrugged, but Tisala could tell she wasn't happy. "I didn't let them do anything. Ward decided he'd go with them and gave the rest of us our orders. I'm to make certain you're safe." She narrowed her eyes and grabbed Tisala just as her knees gave out. The older woman's firm grip propelled her back into her chair.
Stala's voice softened. "He'll be fine, lass. Our Oreg is trailing them. He won't let them do anything to Ward—gods help them if they try. Oreg doesn't have Ward's fine political sensibilities. Tosten's gone for Duraugh—and that man is as sly a politician as ever was bred from this family. If Duraugh can't get him out by negotiation, Oreg can get him out with power. Ward's safe enough. Don't fret. We just need to decide how to keep you safe."
Keep her safe? Would Ward have gone with them if he hadn't had to worry about her? Tisala shook her head firmly. "I came here because I was hurt and needed a place to hide while I healed. I can keep myself safe. Give me some food and I'll be fine. You don't have to do anything more for me—but" — she leaned forward—"maybe I can do something for you."
"Oh?" Stala pulled a chair up and sat close enough for soft conversation. "What can you do for us?"
"Much of my work these past years for Alizon has been with people not in favor with Jakoven, such people who have a tendency to end up in the Asylum." There, that was as fine a line between lie and truth as she'd ever trod. "As a result, I know a lot about the Asylum and how it operates. If politics don't work, and someone has to break in to get him out—I can help."
If the Hurogs were more loyal to the royal house than Tisala believed, she might just have signed away everything she'd worked for. The Hurog family had strong ties with tradition, and tradition had them supporting the king no matter how he treated them. Tisala was betting that Stala and Ward's uncle loved Ward more than they loved tradition.
"Most of the people imprisoned there are people of little consequence or power," commented Stala. "At least now."
Tisala forced a smile. "Most of the people who support Alizon are people of little consequence. But there are a growing number of them."
Stala let out a breath. "Right. I won't stop you leaving as soon as you wish, but waiting for Duraugh might be better. He knows when a mouse sneezes in Estian; he'll know how to use your information."