peer out at a small enclosure, a neglected jungle surrounded by blank stone walls. This weed patch was known as the herb garden, and no doubt some long-ago queen of Tryfors had nurtured herbs there as a time-out from her royal duty of breeding princes, but the moment Saltaja had first seen it, years ago, she had known it to be accursed ground, dedicated to the Old One. In today’s gloom and drizzle it seemed more baleful than ever.
Yes, it must be done there.
Back at her room, Saltaja found clothes all over the floor and Guitha sitting staring at the wall because she had been given no specific orders to tidy up. She would not even eat now unless told to do so. Saltaja was still hitting her when Brarag arrived, panting as if he had run all the way up the tower and back.
“Hostleader … not presently in the … palace, my lady … drove off in his chariot, short while ago.”
She almost blurted out a curse but caught herself in time—her curses worked better than most people’s. Obviously Therek had gone to the hill because in this weather he could not watch Orlad’s murder from his tower. Death and corruption! Was that a trap?
“ Bring me Huntleader Fellard! Now! Right away! Tell him it’s urgent.”
Huntleader Fellard Lokison, commander of Fist’s Own Hunt, was young to be so senior, even nowadays, when Stralg had stripped the Face of older Werists. He was also an arrogant fool. Yesterday he had deliberately snubbed Saltaja, leaving her standing on the beach when he drove away in his chariot with Fabia. To insult his hostleader’s sister like that would have been stupid even if the rumors of Saltaja being a Chosen were unfounded. Since they were not, he was about to pay dearly for his folly.
He strode in, offering Saltaja a mocking smile and a devil-may-care nod instead of a bow. He was tall and lean, typical Werist arrogance sparkling in typically Vigaelian blue eyes. With chiseled jaw clean-shaven and scalp gold-stubbled, he would have been winsome had his face not been marred by four vertical claw scars that had left his mouth twisted. Saltaja, perversely, found this model of beauty marred quite appealing. He folded his arms and watched with no visible alarm as she advanced to meet him, bare feet on stone floor.
“My lady? You asked to see me?”
“Good of you to come, my lord. Flankleader, wait outside, please. Allow no one in.” Guitha was still there, but she would notice nothing. “I need your help, Huntleader.” The moment she came within range, Saltaja immobilized him.
“You will obey me,” she said, taking a grip on his arm.
No response, except eyes rolling in sudden terror.
“You will obey me!” She was pushing power into solid muscle and meeting equally solid resistance. A most determined young man! But she had no time for pity. “In the name of holy Xaran, I command you!”
The shock of hearing that forbidden name collapsed Fellard’s resistance like a bubble. Mumble: “I will … obey you.”
Better! “Kneel!”
Werists knelt to no one, not even to holy Weru Himself. Horrified to find himself obeying, Fellard sank slowly, like some forest giant toppling, but his knees struck the flagstones with a crack that made Saltaja wince. He stared up at her, eyes stretched wide, face white and slick with sweat.
She peered into his mind. It was hard to make out anything through the surging waves of terror, but she could not entrance him yet, not until she had found her way around. Fear … the source of fear … and the object of it, which must be she. This was probably his pain center … she jabbed and he responded with a gasp of agony. Anger? … a twist there and she had him shivering like a horse in fly season. And that must be his sex? Yes, a touch or two there and he moaned with delight.
Now she could put him into a trance and inspect the rest of his mind. Very tidy and precise it was, with motivations ranked like the onyx pillars of Jat-Nogul. She poked the most
Yes, it must be done there.
Back at her room, Saltaja found clothes all over the floor and Guitha sitting staring at the wall because she had been given no specific orders to tidy up. She would not even eat now unless told to do so. Saltaja was still hitting her when Brarag arrived, panting as if he had run all the way up the tower and back.
“Hostleader … not presently in the … palace, my lady … drove off in his chariot, short while ago.”
She almost blurted out a curse but caught herself in time—her curses worked better than most people’s. Obviously Therek had gone to the hill because in this weather he could not watch Orlad’s murder from his tower. Death and corruption! Was that a trap?
“ Bring me Huntleader Fellard! Now! Right away! Tell him it’s urgent.”
Huntleader Fellard Lokison, commander of Fist’s Own Hunt, was young to be so senior, even nowadays, when Stralg had stripped the Face of older Werists. He was also an arrogant fool. Yesterday he had deliberately snubbed Saltaja, leaving her standing on the beach when he drove away in his chariot with Fabia. To insult his hostleader’s sister like that would have been stupid even if the rumors of Saltaja being a Chosen were unfounded. Since they were not, he was about to pay dearly for his folly.
He strode in, offering Saltaja a mocking smile and a devil-may-care nod instead of a bow. He was tall and lean, typical Werist arrogance sparkling in typically Vigaelian blue eyes. With chiseled jaw clean-shaven and scalp gold-stubbled, he would have been winsome had his face not been marred by four vertical claw scars that had left his mouth twisted. Saltaja, perversely, found this model of beauty marred quite appealing. He folded his arms and watched with no visible alarm as she advanced to meet him, bare feet on stone floor.
“My lady? You asked to see me?”
“Good of you to come, my lord. Flankleader, wait outside, please. Allow no one in.” Guitha was still there, but she would notice nothing. “I need your help, Huntleader.” The moment she came within range, Saltaja immobilized him.
“You will obey me,” she said, taking a grip on his arm.
No response, except eyes rolling in sudden terror.
“You will obey me!” She was pushing power into solid muscle and meeting equally solid resistance. A most determined young man! But she had no time for pity. “In the name of holy Xaran, I command you!”
The shock of hearing that forbidden name collapsed Fellard’s resistance like a bubble. Mumble: “I will … obey you.”
Better! “Kneel!”
Werists knelt to no one, not even to holy Weru Himself. Horrified to find himself obeying, Fellard sank slowly, like some forest giant toppling, but his knees struck the flagstones with a crack that made Saltaja wince. He stared up at her, eyes stretched wide, face white and slick with sweat.
She peered into his mind. It was hard to make out anything through the surging waves of terror, but she could not entrance him yet, not until she had found her way around. Fear … the source of fear … and the object of it, which must be she. This was probably his pain center … she jabbed and he responded with a gasp of agony. Anger? … a twist there and she had him shivering like a horse in fly season. And that must be his sex? Yes, a touch or two there and he moaned with delight.
Now she could put him into a trance and inspect the rest of his mind. Very tidy and precise it was, with motivations ranked like the onyx pillars of Jat-Nogul. She poked the most
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