Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

43

Mhera wept.

She had been thrust into one of the wooden huts, and the door had been barred behind her with a jolt. Shaken, but unharmed, she stood there and stared at her surroundings with tears running down her cheeks, trying to gather herself around the ache in her chest. It felt as if her heart had been torn out. Every breath was agony. It was all she could do to remain standing.

There was a plain cot with a blanket. The one window was not barred, but was small enough that there was no hope of escape. Fresh air entered there, and a gloved hand had put a tin cup of water on the tilted sill with a bang a second after she'd been locked inside. She hadn't touched it.

Water. A cot. A blanket. A clean wooden floor, fresh air. She could not ignore the fact that this was much kinder a prison than that in which she had found Matei. She thought of how he had been that first night, crouched in the squalid cell with his own filth and no place to lay his head.

Perversely, she found her mind returning to their first full day in the forest, to the bloodstone.

Do you know what gives it its power, Mhera? My people's blood. Arcborn blood.

Mhera closed her eyes.

We had begun to lose any hope of seeing you yet alive. Word came back that there was a massacre at the mill.

What had happened there? What had happened at the mill Mhera had Seen in her scrying bowl? Blood and more blood ... there was no escaping the violence. And for the first time in her life, Mhera considered the blood on her uncle's royal hands.

On her own hands, the hands of a Daughter of Zanara. She had Seen the mill.

Mhera could not lie on the cot. Instead, she folded herself into a corner, clutched her wet blanket around her shoulders, and wept. All the while, her heart throbbed in her chest, a constant and steady ache reminding her how closely she was tied to the rebel king.

...

Mhera was left there for what seemed like hours, and it was the faceless ranger, Uachi, who came to collect her at last. He opened the door so suddenly he scared her half out of her wits. The ranger waited for no permission before he entered.

Mhera shrank back against the wall as the man's broad shoulders filled the narrow doorway. He was still garbed in his dark clothes, but had taken off the leather armor he wore. The daggers at his belt drew Mhera's eyes.

Uachi reached up and yanked his hood back, revealing his features to her for the first time. He lifted his stubbled chin to pull his nose and mouth free of the lower part of the cowl. He had a grim, bloodless mouth and dark eyes set beneath heavy brows. His hair was black, cut shorter than Matei's. His skin was darkened with some kind of pigment, like lampblack, from his brows down to the bridge of his nose and over the wings of his cheeks. This, perhaps, had served to conceal his features more thoroughly in the night. On his left cheek was a pair of straight lines and dots, etched into the skin in black ink.

Mhera saw nothing appealing or comforting in his face.

"Come. You are due at the longhouse for a trial, my lady," the man said. His inflection turned the words into an insult.

Mhera's fear numbed her to the barb. All she could feel was the terrible ache in her breast, the hollow, ugly place left raw with her parting from her first captor. She asked, "Where is Matei?"

Uachi ignored her. He produced a length of rope from a pocket and beckoned with two fingers. Mhera stared at the rope as if it were a snake, remembering it from her vision in Rhea's cottage. But she did not have to weigh the choices; she could go with him willingly, or he would come after her, a hulking and violent force in the small space. She crossed the room and presented herself to him.

Uachi seized her wrists and bound them together. The rope was tight, but not painfully so. Then, he took her upper arm and guided her out into the morning, dirt-crusted boots and all. The path was still wet and muddy, but he led her around the worst of it. Mhera lowered her head, letting the fall of her loosened hair obscure her face. She had no wish to look into the eyes of curious passersby.

Mhera did not see Matei anywhere as they approached the longhouse and went in. She was alone in a sea of unfriendly faces. Uachi escorted her to a wooden chair at the far right side of the room. Pushed roughly into the chair, Mhera sat with her tied hands clenched in her lap, too afraid yet to look around.

The place was abuzz with voices. It seemed to be a meeting-house of some kind; she had glimpsed a huge hearth blazing along one wall as she came in. The smells of boiling potatoes, roasting meat and baking bread competed in the air.

The pain in Mhera's chest and her anxiety killed any appetite she might have had after her long journey through the woods. The scent turned her stomach.

After a moment, she dared a glance up. Arranged all through the room were groups of folk, standing or seated at long tables. Most of them stole curious glances at Mhera, talking among themselves. She did not see Matei among them.

Panic thrummed in Mhera's veins.

"We are here today to discuss what to do with this Starborn woman, brought into our midst by Matei u Rhodana. Her name is Mhera, and she is the niece of the Corpsemaker himself."

Uachi's voice. Mhera looked over to see him standing near her. At his side was a lithe, dark-skinned woman dressed in a tunic and trousers. She stood with her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She cast only one look at Mhera. Disgust radiated from her.

Torr's voice came from the front of the assembled folk. "We already know what to do with her, Uachi. Let her head roll. Her blood is not worth the blood of our fallen, but let us see how the Corpsemaker likes it when we pay him in his own coin."

There were no tears now. Mhera was numb. She drew a slow breath. Goddess preserve me. Please, Goddess, preserve me.

The woman at Uachi's side spoke. "My sister Tenna died at the mill, and others beside her. And Rhodana—Rhodana met the sword not long after. This girl's death will hardly be payment for all we have lost, but it's certainly a start."

"I don't agree, Tryn." This was a softer voice. Mhera sought the source and saw a woman edging through the crowd. Her round face was dusted with freckles, a feature that was echoed in the design of her marke: a simple line of perfect dots. The woman extricated herself from the throng and boldly faced Uachi and Tryn. "Such violence, from those who claim to strive for peace? As we are all children of the Goddess above, show this woman mercy! Did she draw the blade across your brother's throat, Torr? Your sister's, Tryn?"

"You lost no one at the mill, Aun," Tryn said. "And have you not had your fill of binding wounds and closing the eyes of the dead? Let him taste the steel of our resolve. How quickly will he draw the blade next time? Piousness has served us poorly thus far. Had Zanara wanted us to show mercy, she should have sent us help when it mattered!"

Another woman cried out a protest to Tryn's impious remark. A man raised his voice in apparent agreement: "She blesses the Starborn and leaves us to rot!"

"We aren't here for religious debate!" Uachi shouted. Several people, including Mhera, flinched. "What of ransoming her? We could hold her and demand some price or boon. Or we could keep her as leverage in case the Corpsemaker takes any more of our folk—or to win back any he's taken who still live. She is costly leverage. The threat to her safety might very well still his bloody hand."

Aun was shaking her head. Tryn was nodding. Torr was muttering, talking to those around him, apparently still in favor of killing Mhera outright. And it was then that a voice rang out from the back of the chamber. It was not a shout, but somehow it cut through the noise, slicing and chill.

"How dare you."

Silence fell, as if that soft voice had been a clap of thunder.

Mhera could not see him at first through the crowd, but she saw the changes in the people's faces, in their bearings. His presence obviously commanded authority in this place. The crowd immediately parted to permit him entry, each of them looking back to catch a glimpse of the man.

Murmurs followed him like the gentle sound of falling rain. They were saying his name.