The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 24: Under the Gallows, Part 6

 "Gods damn it, Barthim, that's enough!" Carala's voice rang out, rough with command, the wolf prowling barely beneath the surface. Barthim turned his head toward her, panting, his eye swelling shut, Silenio sprawled and moaning beneath him. He nodded to her, standing up and giving her a bow before turning back to the prince.

"I am thinking your sister is right, good Prince. Say 'yield.' For her sake and yours, too."

"I yield," Silenio said thickly, his voice barely recognizable. "Yield, yield, please, no more."

Barthim smiled. "Cass -- more rope."

Carala looked none too pleased as Denisius and Barthim set about binding her brother, hauling him to his knees and bracing his hands at the small of his back, but she had to admit she didn't see much of a choice in the matter. Having seen with her own eyes what Barthim could do to a full-blooded werewolf with his bare hands, she knew he had been comparatively merciful to Silenio.

"You fucking traitor," he sneered to Denisius, spitting out a tooth. Denisius sighed, shaking his head at Carala as he tightened the ropes at the Prince's wrists, Vos watching on with his sword drawn. The soldiers looked away, seeming humiliated by their Prince's defeat . . . but also grateful Barthim hadn't turned his attention to them.

"I'm sorry, Cara," Denisius said as he stood up. "And I wish we didn't have to do this, your highness. But you really need to listen to Ammas."

All of them looked to the cursewright. Ammas had shed his ruined robes -- it occurred to him he had been through quite a few sets of clothing since the Princess had shown up at his door -- and had his shirt open down to his navel, inspecting the injury to his belly. The cut was shallow and not in need of stitches, but it had bled freely before the flow ceased. Slowly he approached the beaten Silenio, retying his shirt and crouching down in front of him, the hilt of his dagger curled loosely in one hand. 

Carala stared at him, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Barthim had broken off at her request. Whether Ammas would be so indulgent she was not at all sure. Knowing what she knew of Silenio's actions against the Mourthias, she wondered if her brother was not in far more danger from Ammas than he was from Barthim at his worst.

"Your highness," Ammas said softly. "How long has it been? Twenty-one years, I think. The Ruby Hall at Tymalus, wasn't it? The banquet celebrating your first command."

Silenio glared at him, or tried to with one of his eyes swollen shut, but said nothing.

Delicately Ammas grazed the point of his dagger along the campaign medals that hung from Silenio's breast. Around him he could hear his companions seeming to hold their breath as one, Carala most of all. Blood roared in his ears, his heart pounding and his throat dry. This was a moment he had fantasized about for decades. He did not believe he had ever felt so murderous, not even that day in the temple garden, contemplating poisoning or stabbing Carala when she was helpless before him.

"Yes," he said, that softness still in his voice. The dagger touched lightly against a tiny string of topazes depending from a deep blue ribbon. "This was it. That little series of skirmishes in the Scorched Desert. My only campaign with you. I wish I had told you how delighted I was to be leaving your command." Suddenly he sliced at the medals, the topazes spilling to the floor. "Tell me, Prince Silenio, which one of these did they give you for murdering Jan?"

"Ammas, no," Carala almost moaned. Barthim's expression had turned deeply uneasy. Vos and Denisius looked as though they would rather be anywhere else, and even Casimir was watching Ammas with a degree of fear he had not felt for the cursewright since his apprenticeship began.

Ammas looked down at his feet, his hands curling into fists. "No, what?" he muttered, raising one eye to Carala.

"Don't hurt him anymore. Don't hurt my brother. Please." Their eyes met. He saw no trace of the wolf. The sight of those eyes, that mouth upturned into a tender smile instead of the trembling curl of terror he saw now, the look of affection in her face as she lay naked beside him in the cell at Mourthia House, all returned to him. Unable to bear it he twisted around to look at Barthim. A sudden and totally irrational surge of rage at the bouncer flooded him.

"And what do you think?" he spat. "Hethmar this and and Hethmar that. Tell me, Barthim, what does the Hethmar have to say about killers of children?"

"Nothing good, Ammas," Barthim replied softly. "But I am thinking Carala is right. He is beaten. You need do no more to him. And there is much we must learn from him."

"Gods damn you, Barthim -- "

"Ammas." Barthim lay an enormous hand on his shoulder. "This man has done you much wrong. More wrong than could ever be atoned for in a single lifetime. But we are being given only one lifetime to atone for anything. And do not forget, he was shaped by his father, just as you were, and so much as our princess was being shaped by her mother." His voice fell low, his head craning toward Ammas's ear, a whisper meant only for him. But Carala heard every word perfectly, and perhaps Barthim knew it. "And the Hethmar has much to say when a good soul is begging for another's life. If you would honor what there is between you and Carala -- if you are truly wanting it to be more than what it is -- then think long on what she is asking of you."

Ammas clenched his eyes shut, head drooping down til his face was completely unseen. For minutes he stayed that way, his fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger so tightly his knuckles gleamed white, the wolf scars on his hand standing out in relief against reddened flesh. Silenio watched him uncertainly, blood dripping in a slow trickle from his shattered nose and split lower lip.

"All right," he said at last, looking up, his eyes glittering. "Your highness, I will do as your sister requests. I will show you the mercy that your family has never shown mine." He turned his eyes toward Carala, his heart loosening at the relieved smile on her lips, but wanting her to understand that this was not a gift. "I do this because I have sworn myself to Carala, but also because I want two things from you. If you do not give me what I need, then there will be no mercy. Do we have an understanding?"

"My men will never let you -- "

"Prince Silenio, I don't cherish murder, but if I have to kill you I have no intention of letting these men leave this place alive." The soldiers began to grumble nervously, only ceasing when Vos cuffed one on the ear. "My errand is too urgent and my patience for your foolishness is too limited. Now we can speak like men, or you can prepare yourself to cross the Ravens' Veil. Which will it be?"

Silenio scowled at the floor, took a moment to spit out a mouthful of blood, and finally turned his one good eye to Ammas and nodded, though a mulish expression burned in his battered face.

 "Good," Ammas said quietly. "Now, the first thing I want: you must take it into your heart that I am working for your sister's benefit. I have risked life, limb, and worse to cure her, and I will continue to do so until I've cleansed her of the wolf's blood. Tell me you can accept this, and put aside this idiocy that I've been working with the Swiftfoot wolves."

"Why should I believe you, cursewright?" Silenio replied with a pained, bitter laugh. "Your whole order betrayed the Throne. Your own father conspired to kill the Emperor. Our father, in case Carala has forgotten -- "

"I have forgotten nothing," Carala said angrily. "And I know more than you do, more than you ever told me, more than we were ever taught. Listen to him, Silenio."

"It's all right." The calmness in his own voice surprised Ammas. Carala regarded him curiously, a warmth returning to her eyes. "Your brother has a point. No, Silenio, you have no reason to believe me. But tell me, what do you plan to do if you kill me and take Carala back to Talinara? Have you any idea? Have you heard anything of how she might be treated?"

"The Madrenites, or Mother Galena -- "

"Do the Madrenites possess a cure? Or the priests of the Graces?"

"I don't know. Thray thinks -- "

"If Thray had a cure, I think we would know it."

"He knows something," Silenio fumed. "Refused to tell me, kept hinting he had some knowledge no one else did, that smug bastard."