***
Unable to Scream
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In the palace, Dryn sat on a long bench against the wall of a hall he was told led to the king's office. He impatiently waited for an audience with King Jonathan. It seemed it would be days before he received an audience. In two hours, only one messenger from the long line of seated men had been ushered through the ornate door at the end of the hall. There were several men in front of him and he wanted to scream with frustration. Surely six other noble houses were not facing the same... emergency as Lesandor.
In an attempt to bide the time, Messenger Bachet studied the medallion upon his wrist. Upon it, there was a great snakebird -a cockatrice curled about a great tree rising high above a forest. It was not so much a snake like bird as a serpent with an eagle's head and wings that sprouted from the coils near the head.
Even though it slept in the pendant engraving, it seemed more terrifying than the Stormwing Dryn had met could ever be. The man let out a silent prayer to Ganiel that the cockatrice would only remain a nightmare in the minds of men and never fly Tortallan skies. If it was already real, he prayed even more fervently that the God of Dreams would keep it asleep for eternity.
How the cockatrice could fly if it were a true being, Dryn had no idea, but he hoped he would never have to find out how it would lift a snake's body that stretched hundreds of feet long. He had an accurate idea of the pendant creature's actual size because he knew the tree it coiled around. It was the Giant's Tree in Lesandor's forest.
Legend had it that the forest was once an army of men led by their general who was half ogre. It descended upon his Duke's ancestors, but a great mage passing through the area had taken pity upon the Lesandors plight. With a sweep of his hand, a forest had sprung from the ground with gaping mouths.
Each tree swallowed a soldier and the largest ate the general. The Giant's Tree swelled five times the height and ten times the girth of the rest of the enormous ancient forest.
Bachet knew that story was no truer than the existence of the cockatrice, but doubt shadowed his face. There was some believable quality in the engraving, as if the artist who made the design so long ago had created it from reality, from a sight he had actually seen. The messenger hoped the artist had just been a talented one.
He pulled his mind from the image of the monster with great feathery wings outstretched to fill the silver pendant. It was not just a carving; it was the symbol of his duke. Dryn shook his head furiously. Duke Kirn was dead and no longer had any claim to Lesandor. The pendant bore Mira's family insignia. As the only surviving member, it was her symbol. She was his duchess, his world, and that world lay in his hands.
Onua and Krimise looked out to Corus. The ponies they rode grazed on the hill's tall grass. The city lying in the distance was lit up by the midday sun. The K'mir thought it was the best way to view the capitol. From a distance there was no chance of being robbed.
"Girl, have you ever gone through a crowded city before?"
"Always the forest was my home," the Scranran answered. "In the city, watch for what should I? Thieves? Child snatchers? Fear you that people might attack me to avenge those that Scranra's marauders killed? Change clothes to look Tortallan, should I?"
The horse trader cut her off. "Never change who you are, Krimise. Never hide. Besides, I think it would be a good lesson to Tortall that Scranra is not an entire nation of raiders and primitive tribes. If only the civilization of Northern Scranra was not so secretive."
Krimise seized the Kmir's arm. "How do you know of the North Empire? Tell me at once!"
"Ah, so your syntax is a ruse. I had thought you spoke like that on purpose."
The girl pulled Onua towards her, nearly dragging the woman from her horse. Krimise was surprisingly strong. "Answer the question."
"Rumor, legends of the Northern God-Empress, and the like. Besides, where else could a person like you come from? I've known Southern Scranran women and they were nothing like you. Your hair is white gold and your skin has a copper cast to it. Your clothes, though practical and of Scranran design, are too finely crafted and too vivid for a simple tribe to create."
Onua gestured behind her, to the trail they had taken from the Grimhold Mountains. "Most of all, during our travels, you have been most at home in the plains, lush forests, and towns we passed through. The Scranra the world knows is mountainous, very hilly and sparse at best. There are no cities in that region. You are obviously Scranran. I could only assume the legends of the Northern Empire that lived in great cities betwixt plains and forest were true and that you were from there. Now will you let me go?"
Krimise released her warily and Onua settled herself back in the proper upright position upon her mount. The girl asked the horse mistress, "What will you do?"
The woman laughed, "Me, nothing. Why should I care if your people prefer isolation? The Bazhir are the same way, only they kill to stay private. Oh, it's not done often these days, but there was a time when no foreigner could travel that desert and survive. What has this Empire of yours done but hide behind a near impregnable mountain range and a collection of bloodthirsty hillmen? Are you afraid Tortall would attempt to conquer you?"
"You did conquer the Bazhir," she replied quietly.
Onua sighed and replied, "The Old King did." When Krimise frowned in confusion, Onua winced apologetically. "I'm sorry, I mean King Jasson the Empire-builder. He was one of the most bloodthirsty ruler's Tortall has ever known. People wish to forget him so he is referred to only as the Old King now."
Onua smiled ruefully. "What I'm trying to say is: that was a rare bit of stupidity that Tortall must put up with forever. King Jonathan and his children would be murdered in their beds if they tried to conquer and deal with another hostile territory. Even though the Bazhir have decided to follow the King, there are still too many bandits, too many damned immortals, and too much land for the army to protect. If a real war is launched against Tortall, may all the Gods in every Parthenon to the last trifling spirit help us."
Onua smiled at Krimise. "Your people are safe; I have no reason to tell. But I must ask you one thing."
The Scranran looked at her, puzzled. Onua asked sweetly, "Do they sell horses?"
The girl laughed, shook her head, and the two took the train of ponies down hill to Corus.
In the damned waiting hall, the door finally opened and Dryn was up on his feet immediately. A boy in royal livery gestured to the man closest to the door. Bachet blocked the way before the other messenger got on his feet.
The servant wore a bored, somewhat exasperated expression. In a slightly nasal tone, he recited, "Sir, if you will return to your seat, the King or his aides will see to you in good time." The drudge repeated that line like a parrot after Dryn's protest, as if that one sentence explained everything.
A very long minute later, the messenger near shouted, "How many times must I tell you? It is urgent that my message reach the King immediately!"
The servant rolled his eyes and Dryn near boiled over. The young man looked at the messenger as if he were a foolish child. "Yea, your message is urgent. Just like the message of that one is urgent. The one that walked in afore you, his was important too. It was a demand that the debt of another noble to be paid to 'is master. I don't know what your message is, but it is hardly urgent compared to the dozens of pleas for Spidren extermination that come in a single month."
"Spidrens!" Dryn sputtered. He spent a precious moment recomposing himself before continuing, "And where, may I ask is the line for such emergencies?"
The boy laughed in a manner that was hardly polite. "What line? Such messages are dealt with immediately. Do you say you bear something of equal importance?"
The messenger lost what little control he had gathered. "Equal importance! Mithros condemn you, I did not risk my life, escape the claws of a damned Stormwing to be shuffled off to the side. As far as I can tell, these men can die of old age on those benches without ever sending their messages and their lords will not give a copper crescent."
"And you are any different?" The boy snatched up Dryn's precious scroll of parchment and tore off the seal. He unrolled it and studied it for a moment before turning it on the messenger. He exclaimed, "You call this important?"
Behind them, the other messengers made comments about Bachet's arrogance to think he was better than them. Dryn could hardly believe his ears.
"You've read that and you don't think it's important!" he cried in angry disbelief.
The servant sniffed, "I don't even have to read it. All I need to know lies at the bottom of the document. This message cannot be anything but trivial. The seal is of the general fief, not a specific noble. It's not even signed and made authentic by your lord."
"My duke is dead!"
The servant froze and the grumblings of the other messengers ceased. Dryn continued on, trying to pound the idea into the boy's head. "And Duke Kirnathan's late wife and their sons, all four of them. They were found murdered in milord's office, along with the six year old Mira, the only surviving Lesandor. Let me try to explain it to you in simple terms. Their hearts were cut from their chests, still beating as far as we may tell. Duchess Mira saw it happen and is going quite literally insane. Now if you will excuse, I have a duchess and a duchy to salvage."
He pushed the servant roughly aside and went through the door. Inside was not a King's office, but a small room with a few scribes and an official at a desk. They stared at him in shock. Did no one know about what happened at Lesandor? Sure the other messenger had arrived before him.
Dryn smiled lifelessly. "I assume you heard that."
One scribe nodded silently.
The messenger pointed at a door set on the opposite wall. "Is the King through there?"
The same young scribe answered again. She shook her head.
"Then I have two questions. Where is the guide that will escort me to the King and what is is the name of that idiot in the hall? If my Duchess is not saved because my message was received too late, I want him punished."
In Lesandor, things began to return to normal. The tasks of running and maintaining a duchy were willingly executed. The people dove into work to delude themselves that everything was fine. In the late duke's residence, however there was escape to normalcy.
The duke's advisor Morell took on the duties of decision making. A private dining room that the family had used for private meals had been transformed into a workplace for the overburdened man. No one could stand to be in the late duke's office, save one.
Duchess Mira refused to leave the room her family had been murdered in. She wouldn't eat or sleep anywhere else. Originally, the servants had tried to move the girl to her room while she slept. After the third time she awoke the moment they took her out the doorway, the idea was abandoned. They had all swallowed; then cleaned up the blood stains as well as they could and turned the office into a child's living quarters.
Every night there was an argument on who would be the girl's attendant until morning. No one wanted to stay in the office after dark. Eventually it came down to drawing straws –as it did every night.
Dorna cursed her luck. It was the third time in a week she had drawn the short piece of chaff. It would be her last. If she drew short again, when the mind healer arrived, he would have two patients instead of one. The maid impatiently looked from the clock above the fireplace's mantle to her charge and then to the clock again.
The timepiece had been one of Duke Kirn's most prized possessions. Most people –even great lords- were forced to judge time by hourglasses, the sun, town criers, and bell ringers. He had only needed to glance at it to know the time. It was quite addictive. Dorna checked the time about every two minutes. It was only an hour to Midnight.
The maid fretted at the time. She had wagered a large portion of her savings that the mind healer would come that evening and it was nearly over. However, it was not the loss of funds that bothered her. Dorna had no doubt in her mind that if Mira did not receive help by the time she had bet on, the duchess would be forever lost to them.
Dorna gathered her courage and walked to the small bed. The duchess struggled a little, trying to fight off nightmares. In her hands, she clutched a rolled up sheaf of paper. The maid slowly rearranged the blanket to cover Mira up to her shoulders, careful not to make it seem like she grabbed the girl's shoulders. She had learned not to repeat that mistake early.
The servant could hug, carry, even drag the child and she would never react. If anyone tried to hold her still, however, Mira would go into fits and try to scream. Try was the magic word.
For almost a week, Mira had not said a word. She had attempted to, but the words would never come out of her throat. On first day, the house staff had feared the silence had returned to claim the surviving Lesandor. That night, their fears had been dispelled. The duchess screamed in her sleep well enough.
Carefully, Dorna stroked her lady's hair, trying to drive away the nightmares. The clock began to peal softly, announcing the eleventh hour had begun. The girl's breath caught on the last few stokes, but she relaxed when there was only silence after the eleventh chime. The maid looked at the clock curiously. Had the clock struck twelve when the murders occurred? It was a chilling thought and she wondered if the maker of the wonderful piece of machinery could be convinced to change the clock to never chime twelve times again. Perhaps an extra long peal for Midnight and Midday, she mused.
Simple details like that were being taken note of everywhere about the late duke's residence. If it could be altered to alleviate their Duchess Mira's torment, even if it was a trifling thing like a clock's chime, then it would be changed.
Mira shifted and renewed her grip on the roll of papers. Her attendant longed to tear it from the child's grasp and toss it in with the hot coals of the brazier. Unfortunately, she knew the girl would react in a very specific way. Mira would awaken, go into fits, and try to scream, just like when she was taken out of the room, just like when someone tried to hold her still. The duchess was very protective of her drawings.
The entire staff was horrified with the Duchess Lesandor's drawing subjects. Pale, monstrous men hung in the air surrounded by strange hunchbacks wrapped in tattered cloth. Once, the girl's precocious skill at drawing had delighted the servants. In the past week and a bit, her deadly details pushed bile up and even out of throats. The pictures were growing more gruesome with time.
Dorna couldn't take it anymore. She crept to Duke Kirn's desk, skirting a rug that managed to cover most of the red stains upon the floor. Rummaging through the drawers, she searched for something she had seen once. After a time, the maid found the box and pulled out a few pieces of paper before returning everything to the way it had been before.
The servant looked at the drawings of an earlier, happier Mira. There was a unicorn, the spun sugar cockatrice desert from last Midwinter feast, a puppy, and a picture of the duke himself. All four were very accurate for a five-year-old's, pictures Dorna expected from a terribly talented young adult. The servant pushed thoughts of the duke from her mind and put his picture atop the mantle where Mira wouldn't see it. She did allow a moment to reminisce about the cockatrice. It had been a celebration of the duke's tenth year of running Lesandor and the mythological dessert had only been one of many crowning glories.
Rolling up the remaining three pictures, Dorna went to the bed and eased Mira's bad drawings out of her hand. Quickly, the young woman replaced them with the roll of paper. The duchess frowned in her sleep, but settled down after a moment.
Relieved, the maid went back to her chair and sat. She spread out the roll and studied the pictures. The first was one very much like the ones she had grown used to. A man's head smiled at her. His face was horribly wrinkled and pale. He had no hair. His eyes stared wickedly. Dorna thanked the gods it was only a crude sketch.
The second was simply a tiny blade with a long, thin handle.
When she looked at the final picture, she gasped, dropped it and ran to a pot in the room. Dorna vomited twice. She covered the pot with its lid. She went to a table with a nearby pitcher of water, a cup, and towels. There, she rinsed the bile from her mouth and washed her face, thankful that none had got on her clothes or the floor that time.
There was a shout from outside and the woman ran to the door and opened it. In a moment, an elderly man in healer's robes rushed towards her from around the corner. In a quite murmur that was a little short of breath, he told her, "I am Urjan, a palace mind healer. Is the Duchess Miraronwyn still asleep after that racket?"
Dorna nodded dumbly.
"Good. It will be best to start treatment as she dreams. Will you allow me access to Miraronwyn, governess?
She smiled at the man's mistake. How anyone could mistake a nursery maid like her for a governess was beyond her. "Yes, of course. But please, never call Duchess Mira by that name. Her birth name is only used when she has done something terrible enough to need punishing."
Urjan looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded his head. He walked into the office and looked around. He looked back at Dorna. "Is everything the way it was when she went to sleep?"
She shook her head and pointed at the drawings on the floor by her chair. "Those were in her hand," she said softly. The mind healer picked them up and looked over them without a hint of discomfort. When he didn't berate her about it, Dorna continued, "The drawings she holds now were in a box in the desk. They're from before. So is the one on the mantle."
Urjan plucked the duke's drawing from the mantle, studied it for a moment, and then put it in between the other monstrous drawings. He rolled them up and walked to the duchess. Just as the maid had done, he switched the set of drawings. He looked at the bright, cheerful drawings before placing them on the Duke Kirn's desk. He strode over the blood without a qualm. Dorna winced and Urjan looked back at her and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, my dear. I know my actions trouble you, but I am attuning myself to Mira's mind. She would think nothing of walking over those stains or using this desk and until I am finished with her, neither will I."
The elderly man took Mira in his arms and Dorna bit back her protest. He smiled at her again. "It was a good idea to switch the drawings. However, placing a friendly image in with those hostile ones is more effective. Mira should not forget what happened, but she must move on. Remembering her father as the happy man in her picture will help move that process along. You may leave, if you wish."
He closed his eyes and a faint, gray-green light began to glow about the two. Dorna was drawn into the light and for a moment, she felt at peace for the first time since that terrible silent night. She had been the sole guardian of Kirn, the Duke's youngest and namesake. She had sat all night at the poor baby's wake, trying desperately not to look at the sunken chest of the corpse. The light encouraged the nursemaid to let go. She agreed and her eyes began to tear. A tiny peal shook her out of it and she looked sharply at the clock as it began to chime Midnight. How had an hour gone by so fast?
Dorna didn't worry about it as she left the healer and his patient. She did have a hefty sum of money to collect on her bet, after all.
Dryn walked the halls of his duchess' residence slowly and thoughtfully. Had he arrived in time? Messenger Bachet didn't have the courage to find out. He couldn't take the possible bad news.
Eventually, he found his way to the kitchen. The staff loved that area. For one, there was a storeroom of food that was never barred to them. Also, the kitchen had an extra sort of sitting and dining room connected to it. That room was for their sole use. A hearty group crowded into it, sharing a late supper. The only time the servants stopped smiling was when they dropped money into a box at one table hoarded over by Miss Dorna.
Somehow, the young woman managed to spot him through the wall of people and cried out to him. "Dryn! You couldn't have timed your arrival better. My coffers and I thank you!"
He relaxed slightly at the outburst of laughter at Dorna's comment. The grateful smiles directed at him cinched it. The healer had come in time. Dryn grinned with relief. Dorna's next words knocked that smile off his face. "Where's Mathin?"
The crowd grew hushed when Dryn didn't answer right away. He looked at Dorna apologetically. It would have been hard enough to break the news to her alone, but in a crowd it was almost unbearable to talk. "Where's Mathin," he repeated listlessly, looking around the room for some face that didn't demand an answer to the gods-awful question. Swallowing, he said, "Corus never received the first message."
Most people accepted his bland statement and he was allowed to leave again. In the hall, Dryn set out to pace again. Steps echoed down the stone passage as someone ran to catch up with him. Dorna, having completely abandoned her money, grasped his shoulder and spun him around to face her. "Where is Mathin?" she said again. Dryn looked away and she shoved him into the wall. He let her.
He looked at the woman. Two weeks ago, she had seemed young to him. Two weeks had aged her and Dryn supposed she wasn't the only one. Once he had gotten past the idiot at that damned door in Corus, people had treated him with deference, as if he were suddenly ten years his own senior. Bachet watched Dorna look at him with pleading eyes. He felt old. Sighing, he took hold of her shoulders and guided her to an empty room. Sitting his charge down upon a stool in the workroom that housed Lesandor's finest looms, he turned away to look through the small window pane. Somewhere out there, he knew, there was a glorious spring night. It seemed like winter to Dryn.
He sighed and hung his head. "Mathin, as far as I can tell, is somewhere between here and Corus, on some side road not traveled by often. You know that idiot and his shortcuts. He's probably halfway to the City of the Gods by now." The old joke about Mathin's navigational skills fell flat. "I won't lie for you, Dorna. Mathin is most likely dead now. But we still don't know that for sure. The man is a survivor and that is the truth."
There was silence. Two weeks ago, Dryn couldn't handle a moment's quiet. Two weeks could change a person. Too soon, Dorna broke the blessed quiet. "Will you wait for Mathin with me?"
Dryn pulled her to her feet. "Of course. But shall we go save your moneybox from the thieves gathered in the kitchen first?" She gasped and raced out into the hall. A minute later, she hefted a meat cleaver in her hands as sheepish servants put back the money they had taken. Another minute later, Bachet carried the heavy box against his hip as he walked Dorna to her tiny room that connected to the nursery. Inside, he noticed that she had barred the door that led to the playroom. There were bad memories behind that door. Quietly, he asked, "How is our Mira?"
She looked at him and smiled. "Mira will be just fine."
With that little bit of shining hope, he bid the poor woman goodnight. Silently, he prayed to Mithros and the Goddess that they would be fair and not leave her pregnant with a dead man's child.
Ravri floated just above the trees, trying to sniff out the location of some rotted animal. In the week following her accidental purification, she had bathed in the putrefied remains of every dead thing she had found. The Stormwing began to doubt she would ever find a human corpse. As she searched, she reminisced about her glory days when the dead had covered the ground so thickly that she had been forced to dig to find the bloodstained earth.
The sound of crawling maggots, though incredibly faint, caught her ears. She dove through the tree line and landed on the ground, using the corpse as a perch. The scent of decaying human flesh delighted her. She tore apart the body with her claws and rolled around in the crimson mud. She feasted and laughed as the army of white maggots squirmed away.
A glint of light caught her eye and she lifted up a forearm to see the pendant shining there. "Hello, little cockatrice. Do you belong to the mortal child I nearly ate last week? He wore you, or at least your twin. Can I keep you, pretty?" Ravri realized what she had said and threw the arm away, down the desolate road. She was acting like a bloody newborn, coveting shiny objects like a damned crow. She was not one of the Dark One's creatures. She was not turning into one of His ravens. She had been her own master for millennia. She would not allow him to collect what remained of her blackened soul. Ravri burst through the crowns of the forest and screamed out the Stormwing cry of freedom.