Nyori nodded, waving away his concern. "I am fine. The smoke from the fire has me lightheaded." Her head spun from the mention of Leilavin's name. The woman's chalk-white face and crimson eyes peered knowingly from Nyori's memory. What have I gotten myself into?
The others did not notice her discomfort. They called to the Norlander, who apparently was an admired storyteller. "What say you, Fregeror?" said Rhanu. "Will you let Micholas be our only entertainment tonight, or do you have a tale left under your belt?"
"Tell us of Reynar and The Three Wise Fools," someone called out.
"No, the Lion and the Dragon."
"The City of Glass!"
"How now?" Fregeror's voice boomed when he stood to tower over them. "I need no suffer you with such tales. Let the sniveling minstrels spew such drivel. I shall acquaint you of the legends of Norland, where true warriors are made. Let me tell you, my hardy fellows, of how mighty King Torsten did venture into the last Jonarr stronghold and slew the Lord of the Frost Giants, thus gaining the Stone of Dunnar and the glory of Norland." He rubbed his massive hands together as he prepared to relate his tale.
Nyori tried to listen but found the thrill she might have experienced had soured. The stories are all real, she thought, and I am in the middle of one. But I am no hero. I do not even know what tomorrow will bring.
The tales went on into the night, but Nyori found herself weary from the days of travel. The laughter and applause became murky and indistinct as she nodded drowsily before finally succumbing to the embrace of sleep.
Where darkness and weeping awaited her.
Chapter 8: Marcellus
"Evelina…"
Marcellus smiled at the sight of his wife. Her eyes lit with laughter, and the sunlight danced in the reddish-gold strands of her hair. She never aged in his eyes, always remained the same as when he first met her. Like the sun that warmed her face, she was dazzling as she held Alexia to her bosom.
Marcellus reached out for them, but the light brightened, blazed so intensely that it nearly obliterated her. Her eyes widened as she faded, her mouth opened in a voiceless cry. He squinted, stumbling as he clawed through swirling tendrils of dreary fog. When Evelina's voice finally reached him it was only screams, shrieks of such terror that he fell to his knees and clutched his ears to sever himself from the sound.
He awoke with a start, wincing from the sunlight that assaulted his eyes from a small barred window. The slatted rays painted his bed in glowing stripes. He groaned and tried to sit up. The effort of rising sent a wave of dizziness that nearly capsized him. The pain surged, exploding in his head with a recurring throb. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on his new surroundings.
The room was tiny, hardly more than a cubby. He lay on a straw mattress covered by threadbare sheets. A small table stood at his right side, and on it was a cracked porcelain vase. There was nothing else. Gritting his teeth, he threw back the sheets. The sight made him wince as though the wounds flared anew.
He was naked save for his loinclothes and crimson-spotted bandages. He counted five punctures; on his left shoulder, his left arm right through the bicep, his right side, and two in his right leg above the knee. It was not the first time he had suffered serious injueries, but the pain was no less for it. He settled agonizingly back on the mattress. Small wonder no guard stood in the room. He was going nowhere.
But his mind was uninjured and swirled with dark thoughts.
Gile.
Marcellus touched the wrapping around his head. The strike from the man's mace had been glancing, but the treachery much more painful.
How could I have been such a fool? I should have known he wouldn't hesitate to betray us! His fists clenched. If there were any balance in life at all, he would see the one-eyed man again. Yet Gile Noman wasn't even the worse of things.
Lucretius. Marcellus saw the king again in his mind, regal and unkempt, his bearing both royal and bizarre.
Was the king truly a madman? Had he no idea of what he had sent the Companions into? Where was this bastard of his? Was the lad slain, or even worse, had he ever existed? Marcellus' head pounded. Jaslin, Jolgeirr, and the other Companions. Had any of them escaped alive? Were any held captive as he was? The loneliness of ignorance crept upon him with unexpected intensity. He angrily scrubbed his eyes, ignoring the pain that jolted his arm.
You can't lie here sobbing like a scatterbrained child. You have to think.
His memory was a hazy blur of washed out images. He remembered little except painful flashes of his time from the battlefield to his current surroundings. He suspected he had been there for days, at least.
Keys jangled outside the door.
The handle turned, and a squat woman carried a tray of food inside. A shapeless black robe covered her entirely, contrasting with the wide white stole about her shoulders and a white wrap covering her head. Her face was plain and weathered, her deep-set eyes terribly sad. A faint smile touched her lips as she saw him struggle to rise on his elbows and sit up when she approached.
"So you live, and with spirit." Her voice was rich and thick with the accent of her native tongue. Bruallians had their own language, but she spoke the common Jenera for his benefit.
"We were not sure, but your will to live is stronger than the Death's whisper, it seems. You have lost much blood and will need to rest for as long as you can. My name is Matron Umalla, and I will attend to you." She stationed the tray to the side of the bed. On it was a steaming bowl of what appeared to be a stew of some sort, and a thick heel of bread. His stomach rumbled loudly, betraying his resolve.
"How long have I been here?"
"A few days." She lifted a large spoon of stew to his mouth. He realized to his shame that he was too weak to feed himself, and had to let her spoon-feed him like a child. The dark meat was strongly spiced and thick, unfamiliar to him but not bad in taste. He suspected horseflesh. The remainder of the stew was familiar fare — carrots, potatoes, and corn.
"You must not worry yourself with questions," she said. "Only with getting well. You are in Dragos, the heart of Bruallia. Lord Basilis had you transported to his citadel to recuperate, for he wishes you to be healthy before your execution. He is impressed by you."
Before your execution. The food lost its flavor, turned to ashes in his mouth by the certainty of her matter-of-fact words. Of course you're going to be executed. Did you think you were just going to be fed and sent on your way?
"Execution? I was on a rescue mission. What crimes am I charged with?"
"You and your men are accused of being assassins sent to slay our great lord." She eyed him quizzingly. "You say that this is not so?"
"Would you believe me if I told you?"
Her silence answered the question. Marcellus' voice grew ragged. "Where are my men? Did any of them survive?"
She hesitated for an instant. "Your men have been brought here as well. No more questions for now." The spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. He was shocked to see how fast it had gone. "In the mug there is milk, and I will leave the bread here. Tonight another matron will come to change your bandages and bring another meal. I will check on you again on the morrow."
She walked to the door and paused halfway through. "The door is guarded. Do not try to leave. For you, there is no escape." He heard pity in her voice, but firmness as well.
"Wait, sister."
She turned.
"You are a Matron dedicated in service to Deis. Why are you here aiding a tyrant and murderer?"