A/N: Sorry, I tried to get this finished sooner, but I was working all weekend—just a note, working retail at Christmas sucks! Any way, here's Chapter fourteen—the last one! cries The Epilogue is up too, a double whammy!
God, I loved working on this fic even when I hated it! It's a pretty big accomplishment, if I do say so myself. And don't worry! I've got ideas for at least one chapter fic and about five one-shots right now; I just have to see which one decides that it needs to be written next.
Anyway, go ahead and read! And don't forget to review! Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, & Etc.
Disclaimer: I wish I owned them! Sadly (but not too sadly, since she does so well with them), Tamora Pierce owns the characters and settings, not me; I just like to take them out a play with them, as you know!
Lingering Ghosts
Himura Seraphina
Chapter 14. Justice
Though he loved and valued his Gift, and the thirst for knowledge which seemed to accompany it and had led to the path of a black robe, there were times in which Numair wished for a different Gift. In particular, the gift of Healing would have been useful on numerous occasions in which his own powerful magic was next to useless. Because of that, and his intense dislike of having to stand by, helpless, in any situation, Numair had studied until he found a way to be useful to healers. With his Gift, he was able to fuel and amplify that of the Healers, allowing to work beyond the normal reaches of their magic and increasing the effectiveness of their spells. Thus he found himself in on of the Rider's tents, aiding Quint while the younger man worked on the minute muscles in the arm of one of his comrades, preventing the boy from losing the use of his arm.
As Quint straightened, wiping his brown of the sweat that had gathered there, Numair heard a change in the voices and sounds of the camp. His own brow creased as he recognized the tone of confusion and concern in the indistinct murmurs he could hear.
"We'll, that should be it—what's that?" Quint asked worriedly. "It sounds like something's wrong."
"Let's go see," Numair said, already reaching for the tent flap.
Outside, the voices were clearer, and coming from the direction of the picket lines. Several other Riders were jogging in that direction, and Numair followed, his long legs covering the ground—especially when he heard the distinct sound of fearful and enraged horses.
Riders and Own tried to calm their mounts, who became steadily more agitated despite all efforts.
"Is something wrong with them?" Quint demanded, heading for his own pair of mounts.
Numair felt his stomach clench, something hot and dark growing in his belly. Rahim approached him.
"I do not know what is wrong with them—could they be sick from their injuries? Daine did heal them—perhaps we need her again."
"She's not here?" Numair demanded—and the feeling of dread and panic grew.
"No—she was deeply exhausted, and wished for nothing but a bath and her bed when I sent her to the inn," Rahim replied. Over the end of his words, a single trumpet-like call filled the clearing, rising over even the other horses. Numair knew, even before he turned to see a grey dappled pony rear, hooves flailing as the picket line she was on snapped.
"Daine," he whispered, hardly aware that he'd spoken. Rahim, along with Raoul and Buri, who had approached, heard the soft tone, and the single name it spoke.
Numair's paralysis broke and he spun, to come face-to-face with the three commanders. "It's Daine—something's wrong, it's the only reason the horses—especially Cloud—would act like this!"
As one, all four ran for the inn, leaving the chaos of anger and panic behind—and racing for its cause.
Daine eyed her enemy, half-kneeling, half-crouched, her injured left arm cradled across her chest. The wound was deep and bled steadily, if slowly.
She could thank a damp spot on the floor for her life. Vanel had slipped when he had rushed forward, slamming his shoulder into the wall and giving her the extra moment she needed to roll away from him, placing her back to the wall. Now they watched each other across the length of the room, both considering how to go on.
She knew that saw was in serious trouble. As before, Vanel stood between her and the door, a bared sword in hand, and every intention of hurting her. Now, however, she not only knew that she didn't have enough magic left for another shape change, but she was bleeding from not one, but two wounds; in addition to the deep sword wound that ran the length of her arm, from the back of her shoulder nearly to her elbow, she had broken the stitches in her previous wound. Both wounds burned fiercely, and left her with one nearly useless arm and one partly useless one.
Vanel panted heavily from rage and fear. He had been unprepared for her shapeshifting, and was still stunned by it.
"Rikar always said you were a demon," he snarled. "It seems he was right."
"You and Rikar are cut from the same cloth—the only difference is he's just a deluded, fanatical fool. You though—you're a deluded, immoral fool, who thinks he can get away with anything because of his father's title." His face darkened. "You can't possibly think that, even if you do rape and kill me, you could get away with it? If you aren't arrested immediately, it'll be because you're dead—between Raoul and Numair, there won't be enough of you left to bury."
"Do you think they really give a damn about you? You're nothing but a bastard—and a whore just like the one that bore you. The knight might be angry, but only because I interfered with his authority, not because of you. And the mage? Why should he care? He'll have found another mistress inside of a month."
It was Vanel's cruel words, his attempt to demoralize her that in fact fueled her. She would not let this corrupt bastard end the life she'd fought to build; she wouldn't leave Numair alone with the pain of losing the one he loved, or the guilt she knew he'd feel if she died. Damn him, Vanel was not going to win!
"Did I say deluded? I should have said mad—you know nothing of them, or me." Holding out her right hand, she focused entirely on it—all her dwindling magic, all her determination—and watched the change come to it slowly, haltingly. Soon, in place of her own human hand, she bore a bear's paw—complete with vicious six-inch claws.
She saw his face pale, his eyes bulge at the sight. Demoralization and intimidation worked both ways; with his eyes on her new appendage, she reached down—and scored deep, raw wounds in the wooded floor, the sound of claws on wood harsh.
Blindly, Vanel charged her, slashing with his blade like an untrained page but still managing to score a few shallow slices—just as Daine managed to leave five angry furrows in his arm. On a howl of pain, the noble leapt back, gasping for breath and eyeing her with terror—and maddened rage.
They were now trapped in a stalemate: Daine would not give in, not be cowed, and Vanel couldn't wound her badly enough to overcome her. She could not escape—her reach wasn't long enough to harm him, even with claws, without putting herself in lethal reach of his blade, and he was still between her and the door. More than that, though, she knew that Vanel could not let her live—his purpose here had been to take a twisted revenge on Lena, Rahim, and Raoul, and also to reassure himself of his own views on the world. The fact that he was unable to 'punish' her, or rape her, only increased the uncertainty and lack of power he felt from his failed attempt with Lena. It was either kill her, or have his own world, self-opinion and worth, his personal philosophy shattered. In his eyes, she could not live.
She refused to die.
Unfortunately, while Vanel was a fool and an immoral bastard, he had a great deal of self-preservation; he knew the damage she could do with her claws, and wouldn't get close enough to let her use them—unless he lost his temper.
"Pathetic," she sneered, drawing on every drop of disgust and rage she felt towards him—it was a very great deal. "This is the second time a nearly unarmed woman has beat you, even with a sword. No wonder your father locked you away in the keep like a naughty little—you've all the skill and strength of one."
"Stupid bitch," he snarled—but didn't come forward. "You don't know anything! How could you? You just an ignorant bastard from a meaningless village!"
"If the village is meaningless, and you rule over it, doesn't that make you meaningless too? And I might be ignorant, but I know how Lena marked you with nothing but a dagger—turned you down, refused your advances, and then defeated you like a green recruit in a training exercise."
"I would have beaten her! I would have made her pay! If her barbarian lover hadn't come!"
She laughed. "Rahim? He beat you even worse than she did!"
"Like a coward! Sneaking up on a warrior, just like a desert savage! I could have beaten him, too, as soon as I got my sword."
His face was red, so deep a red she was certain he didn't have a drop of blood anywhere else in his body. In another minute, she was sure, he'd be foaming at the mouth—so much the better. "But Raoul came."
"Traitor! Taking the side of that low-born whore and her savage lover over mine—a fellow noble! Bastard!"
"You aren't Raoul's 'fellow' anything—you're a coward and a rapist, and he's a knight of Tortall—and he had you whimpering like a dog." He was close, so close, to losing it. "Lena and I laughed—she said you next to wet yourself when he got a hold you."
With a nearly inhuman cry of rage, Vanel charged her, sword held before him like a lance. She stood her ground—
—until the last moment, when she shifted to the side, just enough to dodge the blade. With a sick thunk, the first three inches of the tip sunk into the wood of the wall, trapping the sword. Vanel looked baffled for a heartbeat, but his mad anger still held sway, and he fought to draw out the blade.
With the last of the strength in her left arm, she reached out, grabbing the sword blade just below the hilt, ignoring the bite of steel into flesh as she held the weapon immobile. She pushed herself up, her right arm and the bear's paw at the end arcing up towards Vanel. She had only one chance to fell him—
—except he wasn't there. She fell forward with her own momentum when she struck at empty air, losing the tremulous hold on her partial shape change. Pain and the tunnel vision that battle brought left her stunned and baffled, her eyes flickering madly, looking for her enemy. She found him, across the room, against the wall.
Her vision cleared, and the world returned. As it did, she saw that Vanel wasn't merely against the wall, but pinned there by the angry glares of Raoul and Buri, as well as their respective blades—and black and silver fire, which held him dangling two feet off the floor.
She struggled to her feet, only to fall back to her knees. "Wha—"
Jumbled voices assaulted her ears, but she could hardly make them out, until one rose over the rest.
"Daine?"
She turned away from the sight of Vanel. Rahim stood by the door—warped and splintered from his shoulder against it—but it was the man only a few bare feet from her that drew all her attention. His face was drawn in worry, and he held a hand out towards her, as one did an injured and wild creature, trying to draw it to you so you could heal it.
"I—I'm alright. He didn't—he wanted to, but—he didn't—" She looked up at Numair, imploring, seeking, as the last of her desperate strength fled. "Numair?"
He leapt forward and caught her as she slumped, still conscious but limp and trembling from the aftermath of the last quartermark—which had seemed to be an eternity. His voice, the words indistinct, but the tone soothing and reassuring, washed over her. She closed her eyes on a sigh. "I'm alright." It was not a question or an answer, but an affirmation. She was safe, in his arms; she was alive. She was alright.
Numair barely remembered the journey from the encampment to the inn, nor Rahim and Raoul slamming their shoulders against the bathhouse door. He didn't remember using his Gift to rip Vanel away from the corner, where he'd half-believed he's see Daine's lifeless body.
But he would never forget the way she'd looked, her lips drawn in a snarl as she searched, wild-eyed for her attacker; the way she'd been blind to himself and her friends. He'd never forget the sight of her, kneeling, sweat and blood mingling to run down her arms, pooling on the wood beneath her.
He barely knew how to approach her; she'd seemed so like an injured raptor; dazed, pained, weak—but still ready to fight, to beat it's wings against any hand, friend or foe. He'd have expected her to either attack, or simply break, if he touched her. So, when Raoul and Buri demanded if she was alright, he ignored them, and held out a hand to her, letting her accept or refuse it as she chose.
"I—I'm alright. He didn't—he wanted to, but—he didn't—" she struggled to reassure him—even in her injured state—and the knowledge the Vanel had not raped her caused some of the burning panic he'd felt from the moment the first horse had seemingly gone mad had faded slightly. Then she had implored him, her strength vanishing to leave her completely limp, eradicating his concern over approaching her. More of his lingering fear had vanished as he held her close, safe and alive.
Even as he cradled her close, he could feel her blood soaking into his shirt, feel the shivering of her body—and anger came in to fill the gap that fear had left. He turned his gaze to where Buri and Raoul held Vanel, and spoke harshly. "Get him out of here, before I finish it—and him."
With a nod, Raoul hauled Vanel towards the door roughly, ignoring his protests and slurs. Rahim joined him, and between the two Own, they half-led, half-dragged the noble from the bathhouse.
Numair set Vanel from his mind—for now—knowing Daine needed him with her more that she needed the bastard who'd hurt her dead. He held her as close as he dared, trying to warm her as she couldn't stop shivering, despite the warm air of the room. He didn't realize that he was rocking her gently, murmuring gently to sooth her as he would a child. All he knew was that she'd managed to raise her arm enough to bury her fingers in his shirt, clinging with all her remaining strength.
Buri came over with the towels that had lain in the corner. Without taking his eyes off Daine's face or releasing her, he wrapped one of the bath sheets around her, covering her bare form. Buri pressed the other to the long gash on her arm.
"She's bleeding pretty badly, Numair; she's even broken the stitches from earlier." The concern was obvious in the K'mir's voice and face as she watched the towel in her hands become stained with her young friend's blood.
"She needs Quint. Numair raised a hand to stroke her cheek. She was deathly pale. "Daine? Can you hear me, magelet?"
"Ummm," she managed as her eyes half-opened, then fell shut again. "Numair."
"Yes, sweet. I'm taking you upstairs now; you need a healer."
"Hurts."
At her childlike tone, he winced and leaned down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. "I know." Shifting her, taking a more secure hold on her trembling form, he stood, moving towards the door. He barely noticed Buri walking alongside him.
Her blood was on his hands, his clothes. He could hardly bare it.
This wasn't like the injuries she sustained fighting bandits, or defending Tortall; it wasn't anything like seeing her suffer from exhaustion and weakness after draining her magic. All of those were painful, and hard for him to witness. He often wished he could shield her from pain, and grief, and loss; despite that wish, he knew that, given the chance, he could not do so. Daine's strength, her willingness to fight and defend, to do what was right even as she struggled to decided what was right made her the woman he loved more than life. So he only helped her heal—as she did him when he drained himself of his Gift serving Jon and his realm.
This, however, was different. Injuries from battle were expected and understood; those she fought did so for their own purposes, whether for their own country, or to protect themselves from being arrested, as with bandits. Vanel had not hurt her in battle; he hadn't been fighting for a purpose, or out of fear or even greed. He had attacked Daine—had marked her flesh with steel because of his own belief that he had the right to take what he wanted, to place himself before all others. Because he believed she was worthless—this beautiful woman who held so much warmth and loyalty, love and humor wrapped in practicality and selflessness.
"Thought I'd—be like others—village girls—too afraid to fight—a whore—since I'm—bastard—" she murmured, her words broken and hardly coherent—but clear enough for Numair's rage to grow, fueled by her unknown support of his own furious musings. "Fought—wasn't about t'—let 'im touch me—die first—" Once again, Daine fought to open her eyes, the lids opening just enough for her gaze to met his from under her long lashes. The dazed gleam in her blue-grey orbs receded for a moment, leaving her gaze clear as she said, softly, "Didn't want t' die—I won't leave y' 'lone."
As her eyes fell closed, this time sending his love into true unconsciousness, Numair drew her closer than ever. "Nor I, sweet. I won't leave you alone—and I won't lose you."
Forgetting Buri's presence, he stared down at his love's relaxed face even as he took the stairs to the second floor. In the same calm, gentle and determined tone of voice, he added, "And that bastard will pay."
Buri swallowed hard, agreeing with him—but still unnerved by that tone.
She woke slowly, curses burning her tongue, and then the air, as aches and pains assaulted her, each making itself known with increasing violence as she became aware and awake.
"Such language," a female voice spoke quietly—shocked, amused—and just a touch impressed. "Did ye learn that in Tortall as well, then?"
Startled by the unknown voice so close to her, Daine shot up in bed, alert, wary—and groaned deeply as the her bruises and cuts sang even more fiercely. She also dislodged Kitten, who had been resting across her ankles—and who now chattered fiercely at her.
"Ah, well that was daft."
Daine opened her eyes to glare at the woman beside her bed. "You startled me—what did you expect me to do when I heard a stranger nearby? Lay still and maybe let an enemy slit my throat?—Kitten, enough!"
Nonia looked appalled by the reference, and regretful, as the dragonet curled up in a ball, muttering darkly. "Ah—I'm sorry, then—Master Salmalin an' th' others warned me not t' surprise ye while ye slept, or woke up. I forgot, I s'ppose."
Daine glared a moment longer, then sighed. "Forget it. What are you doing here?"
"Yer healer, Master Quint, asked me t' keep watch on ye. He did a fine job of fixin' ye up, by the way—ye'd be in a much sadder state now if he hadn't."
Memories, which had not been far from the surface, swamped Daine, her aches seeming to grow as she remembered receiving them. Taking a deep, calming breath, she regained control, focusing on each injury so she could assess the damage.
A heavy bandage covered her left arm from shoulder to elbow, the linen gauze extending to cover her shoulder blade as well. Beneath the bandage, she could feel the pull and itch of stitches. Another wrap wound around her right bicep, covering the wound he had received at the bandits' hands. Dozens of aches, some minor, some the deep pain of bruises that went to the bone, were scattered along her torso and limbs, including her right hip and knee, and along her shoulders. She knew it was from the fall she'd taken after losing control of the wolf-shape. She'd had no control on her landing, and hadn't been able to fall properly, or roll to disperse the impact, and the bruises were mostly from her impact with the ground. She considered herself fortunate that she hadn't sprained, pulled, or broken something in the fall.
Slightly more worrisome was the bandage on her left hand; she remembered grabbing Vanel's blade with it, though she'd gripped it just below the hilt, where the edges were much blunter and less likely to do damage. Carefully, she flexed her fingers, relieved when they all responded. She felt a tug on the wound, and a mild burning, but nothing to make her think she'd done anything irreparable to it.
"Quint healed yer hand quite a bit, an' th' mark on yer right arm, so's you'd have use of it; th' bigger cut he stitched up, with some healin' t' stop the bleedin'. And there's a healing' spell laid on all of 'em, and a minor one on th' rest of ye, so ye mend faster," Nonia explained. "He left th' bruises for now, but for th' spell; said ye were well used t' havin' 'em, and he was t' drawn from all the healin' t'day to do it—there's still a few in th' camp that need tending later on."
Daine absorbed that, nodding in perfect understanding—healers, especially one in the field, tending soldiers, had to be expedient and efficient with their Gift. A healer who wasted magic healing bruises might have nothing left for a life-threatening injury.
Suddenly, realization sunk in. "Nonia?"
"Aye?"
"Why are you here?"
Nonia frowned at her. "I already told ye—don't you remember?"
"Of course—I meant why are you, specifically, here?"
"Because I asked t', of course." At Daine's flat, disbelieving look, Nonia looked away, focusing on Kitten. "She's a lovely thin', isn't she? An' a bit like a human child—all mischief an' temper an' curiosity."
"Nonia."
"I did ask t' stay—ye needed a healer to be with ye, and yers is still needed at th' camp with th' others. I thought it best for all." She looked quickly at Daine, then away. "An' I wanted to—to thank ye."
That left Daine speechless for nearly a full minute—a very difficult feat. "Thank me? For what?" she finally managed.
"For th' bandits—helpin' to stop 'em. An' for Lord Vanel." When Daine looked blank at the last, the older midwife sighed.
"I've more than one girl come t' me after he was at 'em—most of 'em wouldn't have even thought t' fight, even if they didn't say him 'aye' or 'nay'. They didn't do a thing t' stop 'im—but he still hurt 'em a fair bit. There's been a few, too, who came t' me a month or two after, carryin' more than marks as a reminder, an' wanted help with that as well."
Daine said nothing, knowing, from her ma, that such an admission was not lightly made, even to a woman—and never to a man. Though it was women who were midwives, and women who carried children, men like Rikar and Hakkon would have rural midwives killed for such doings—in places such as Snowsdale, even the charm against pregnancy that Daine wore was not openly used or carried; after all, sex should only be between husband and wife, and was meant to produce children. A charm against it, or abortion of a pregnancy, only fuelled, or was the result of, promiscuity—at least in the rigid and controlling views of a number of men.
Even her ma, who had never followed the strict rules of the community she lived in, did not openly do what Nonia had implied; the healer had made a confession that left her, quite literally at Daine's mercy. A single word of it, and the woman would likely be killed by the people she served.
Daine relaxed slightly, and nodded for the other woman to go on. Nonia did, her own fine tension fading when Daine made no reference to the dangerous information. "There was nothin' much for us t' do about 'im, what with Lord Brenen as th' magistrate. Brenen, he's a fair lord, but he would never take sides against 'is son over a village maid. But ye," she went on, "ye can speak against 'im, an' Brenen'll have t' turn Vanel to the King's Justice, as yer friend's'll threaten to take it t' the king—ours an' theirs. He'll finally be punished, an' everyone'll know what he is, and what he's done. So thank you."
"I'm glad Vanel will be punished—but I do wish I could have managed in another way, one that didn't ache so much." At Nonia's chuckle, Daine sighed and leaned back. "So, Vanel will face the King's Justice?"
"Aye, for attackin' a delegate of another land on Gallan soil. They're talkin' on it now, downstairs—a trial like, t' see if they can convict 'im now, or if they have to take 'im to the king."
"Huh, that's right—Raoul has the right to demand his immediate execution, as long as there's proof he harmed me."
"There's plenty of that," she muttered, nodding to Daine's bandages.
Daine was about to agree, when the truth came crashing down on her. She sat straight up again, ignoring Nonia's wide eyes and protests, grabbing the woman's arm. "Who's talking on it? Who's down there?"
"Half th' town, all that'll fit in th' common room, an' the baron an' the knights, Lord Brenen, some of th' Riders and those King's Own of yours, an' the commanders of 'em—oh, an' Master Salmalin. Here, now, what are ye about? Ye've lost too much blood to be up an' about!"
Daine ignored the healer, struggling out of bed. As she stood, a wave of dizziness struck her, and she was forced to close her eyes while it passed. After a moment, she opened them again, ignoring the weakness and shakiness of her limbs while she cast about for her clothes. She was unaware that she was swearing under her breath.
"What's this about, Daine? Have ye gone daft—ye'd think the inn was afire, or someone was about t' die!"
"Someone might," she ground out, grabbing the only article of clothing in the room beside the nightshirt she was wearing, her grey dress. She assumed that Nonia, very traditional in dress, would have set it out in case she needed to get to the garderobe. She fought to remove her nightshirt, cursing her lack of mobility with her arms.
"Stop that! Ye'll pull yer stitches—again!" Nonia helped her with the shirt, but only because it was already half over her head. "Who might die?"
"Vanel! Numair'll kill him, given half a chance." She grabbed up a loincloth and breastband, struggling into both.
"Why?" Nonia was truly puzzled.
"Don't tell me you haven't heard that we're betrothed? I thought it was all over the village."
"Aye, 'is words with Hakkon are well known. But—"
"Nonia," Daine said flatly, knowing she needed the healer's cooperation to get dressed and down the stairs without hurting herself. "I ripped down part of an Imperial Palace seeking revenge when I thought he'd been killed—before we were involved as lovers." At Nonia's wide-eyed expression, she went on. "Numair threatened to tear out Hakkon's tongue for insulting me—and I assure you, it wasn't an empty threat. When he's in a rage, Numair can do damn near anything to protect those he loves—what do you think he'll do to a man who tried to rape and kill me?"
Nonia stared at her for a minute, before silently picking up the gown and holding it up above Daine's head for her to slip on. Once it was, she reached for the laces.
"Daine," she asked hesitantly. "Isn't Vanel t' be executed in any case?"
"Yes—that's not the point." Impatiently, she let Nonia gather her hair up, tugging a brush through it and tying it back loosely with a ribbon. "Vanel deserves execution—but Numair shouldn't be the one to do it, not like this. He'd probably never regret it, but it would still weigh down on him, to take a life coldly, in vengeance instead of defense. It might be justified, but it would be a weight on his soul, and Numair is too much a peaceful man not to feel it. He can fight, he can kill—but he feels the burden of it. I don't want him to bear this one." She stomped her feet into her boots, and straightened to find Nonia watching her with a curious envy. "What?"
"Ye really love 'im."
"Of course I do—I'm marrying him, aren't I?"
Nonia shook her head wearily, looking her age. "It doesn't always—or often—work that way, lass. Come on then, ye're not takin' the stairs alone."
At the door, Daine paused, gripping the badger's claw and its accompaniments; Numair's ring never left her, but because of her shapechanging, she couldn't wear it on her hand. Right now, though, she didn't have to shift. The ring was a symbol, not only of betrothal, but of promise, and possession—and acceptance of both. Maybe…
Fumbling, she managed to get the ring off the chain, and slid it onto her left hand. It fit perfectly, as it had the first time Numair had given it to her. She remembered the expression on his face, in his eyes, when he'd done so; perhaps the sight of it on her finger again would help cool his rage. Deep down, she wanted it on her hand, a kind of shield, when she faced Vanel again. Whether it helped with Numair or not, she felt better for its weight on her hand.
"Let's go."
The tension in the common room was thick enough to cut, and Daine's appearance did not ease it. Eyes turned to her when she entered, but an equal number were on the scene playing out by the hearth.
Vanel was seated, Conrik and Relwyn standing over him, bound like a common criminal—a fact that did not please him in the least. His father stood, stern and forbidding, behind him—but somehow, still separate. Brenen had not turned against his son, but neither was he aiding him.
Raoul, Buri, Lena, Rahim and Evin, along with Marcus and Cedwin, stood facing the villain, with the village looking on. Numair also faced Vanel—but everyone in the room, including the Tortallans, gave him a wide berth. There were a number of uneasy glances thrown his way, and Daine could well guess why; even facing his back, she could tell that his expression cast the one he'd worn previously when confronting Hakkon into pale shadow—his cold rage was palatable, an aura that surrounded him as surely as his Gift did—and was nearly as visible.
She was surprised that Buri or Raoul weren't trying to calm him—until she noticed Rikar addressing the room in general. He was obviously supporting Hakkon, and Numair's combined anger at the two was more than any of his friends could hope to steady.
When she moved away from the stairs and through the crowd—strangely reminiscent of the first night of her return—there were stares and whispers. But this time, though no one approached her, and the voices weren't particularly friendly, neither were they hostile. Daine was reminded of Nonia's declaration of thanks over the bandits and Vanel. It was just barely possible that she was not alone in her revised opinion of Daine's sanity and worth.
Unfortunately, Numair and the others didn't notice her approach, and weren't distracted by the motion of the crowd. By the time she reached the edge of the crowd of observers, the tension had built too high—and was about to shatter.
"It is obvious what happened," Rikar was saying with the air of the righteous, absolutely confident that he was right—and that everyone would agree with him. "Daine invited Lord Vanel's attentions. This accusation is merely an attempt to save face by our guests—particularly Master Salmalin, who had been lured and betrayed by her. It is in her nature to lust, and to fuel the lust of men."
Daine bit down on her tongue to avoid letting lose with it; apparently, Rikar had cast her as the villain in this piece. She glanced at Numair—something Rikar, even in his righteousness, could not seem to do. She cursed inwardly at her lover's expression—flat and dark, with only his eyes revealing the depth of his anger. It was quite possible that Vanel wasn't the only one at risk of dying this night.
"Beggin' yer pardon, Priest," one of the villagers, a middle-aged man who had taken over the falconing trade of the area when Hakkon became headman, spoke up. "But that don't seem right, sir. Daine, she fought off th' bandits—was hurt doin' so. An' these folk," he waved a hand at the Tortallans, "say she's right honest, not one t' act so. An' she was fair hurt—bleedin' an' all from sword wounds. Timis said how th' bathhouse looked like a battle'd gone on. That don't seem like it was invited."
There were quiet murmurs of agreement, and several other villagers spoke up—from within the anonymity of the crowd—about Daine's participation in hunting the bandits. Daine was so shocked by the defense that she fell speechless, hardly aware of Nonia squeezing her good hand lightly. As a child, any accusation against her stood up on the basis of her birth—no evidence or fact overcame the label of 'bastard'. Now, however, that title seemed less important than her actions.
The irony of it was almost funny—she'd tried half her life to be judged by these people based on her own merit, not the circumstances of her birth. Now, that she'd finally seen that desire fulfilled, it was without design—and she no longer cared what they thought.
Still, it was nice to know that the villagers could look at her and see, not Sarra's bastard, but Daine—even if it took a bandit hoard of sixty to change their opinions.
Rikar's face burned red with fury at the defiance of the villagers. His confident tone eroded into an angry demand. "And who's word should we value more—the mad bastard get of a whore, or our lord's son?"
Of course Rikar didn't actually care about Vanel, only about the favor of his father and himself. He was hoping to secure more power through the support of the Lord Holder and his heir. He was so blinded by his desire to punish Daine for some imagined wrong, and but his lust for control and authority that he could not see that nothing could save Vanel now.
He turned to Hakkon, looking for his habitual ally. The headman eyed the crowd, and then let his gaze flicker over Numair and the expression the mage wore—before looking quickly away—and then back to the villagers. Unlike Rikar, Hakkon didn't find power through controlling and intimidating others. His authority came from his ability to give folks what they wanted—and to manipulate them into believing that they did want something. Whatever his personal feelings might be, the tide against Daine had turned—and Hakkon would not risk the opinions of the village to stand against it.
Rikar's lips turned white with rage when he saw that Hakkon would not speak. He cast a dismissive glance at the headman before going on to speak: "Do not allow this appearance of valor to blind you to the truths you already know; that Daine is a bastard, and therefore her nature is corrupted. Remember that she did run mad—we all saw its results! If you need proof that under the surface she is what we have always believed her to be—what I have always held her to be—remember that she transforms into a wolf without the aid of a Gift! Only an evil creature could take the form of that beast!"
There was a quiet murmur in the room; most common folk were not fond of wolves, particularly farmers, who saw them as a threat to their animals. There were also people who truly believed that wolves were evil, creatures of darkness and cruelty. Daine was prepared for the small support that she had apparently earned among Snowsdale to vanish. Surprisingly, even as Buri looked about to speak, another of the villagers—Timis Masters, the innkeepers—spoke. "Ah, that's fair true, Priest—but she's also made herself other beasties as well—a bird and a cat, t' name a few. If she's evil 'cause of the shape she takes, then how come she kin take others? It's s'pposed t' be from a strange Gift, ain't it? Wild Magic, or some such?"
"Aye, that's what it's called," another villager said. "And didn't th' lass turn t' a falcon? Those beasts belong t' Mithros, don't they? Hawks an' eagles an' the like?"
"Birds of prey such as eagles and falcons are, indeed, associated with Mithros and the sun, just as the cat is associated with the Mother Goddess, and the moon," Cedwin said firmly, with an air of authority which drew everyone's gaze. "For that matter, Mistress Daine has a special affinity with horses, over which the Goddess also rules. She can, in fact, take the shape of any animal, and her ability to do so comes not from any pact with evil, as Master Rikar implies, but from a very natural source of magic."
The villagers seemed to accept that; the confirmation by one of their own was far more reassuring than anything that the Tortallans could have said. Daine was surprised by their easy acceptance of it, but perhaps seeing her change shape had helped—it was hard to deny such proof. She supposed it was good she'd shown off by taking several forms; however accommodating the villagers seemed to be now, if they had only seen her take a wolf-shape, things could have been sticky as so many of them believed that wolves were terrible animals. She could argue until she was blue with such folk about the wolves' nature, but it would do little good. Dunlath was one of the only places where people had come to understand her four-footed brothers, and it was truly unique.
As Rikar turned red, then white with rage, Marcus stepped forward while Daine wondered if she should step forward, possibly starting up a fight with Rikar and Vanel, or stay where she was.
"We have strayed from the issue at hand, which is that Mistress Daine was seriously hurt by Vanel of Border's Peak. Further evidence of Vanel's purpose is his attack on Lena Fletcher of the Riders only a few days past, during which he instigated a fight, and physically harmed Mistress Fletcher. At the time, he was informed that such actions—harming a member of a delegation from another realm—was an act of war. This is true—furthermore, as committing an act of war against another realm can be considered against the interests of this kingdom, and in violation of the treaty between our realms, these actions are also treasonous."
"Surely you can see that these accusations are false, Baron," Rikar said in an integrating tone, obviously attempting to regain control of the situation, even as Vanel protested—only to be silenced by Conrik's heavy hand on his shoulder. "The word of both these women can be considered questionable, and no other has spoken against Lord Vanel or accused him of such things."
There were several snarls from the Riders, and Buri spoke in a cold voice. "That's my soldier you're accusing of lying, Priest—watch yourself."
Rikar cast a dismissive glance at her, then focused back on Marcus, having decided that he was the only one who mattered. "The women of the Riders are—not what we could consider honorable. They have abandoned decency, and defied the order of nature in their pursuits. And the simple fact is that Daine has whored herself before—not only does she behave inappropriately with the mage Numair Salmalin, but she lives among the Riders—including the men. And I suspect she did so before being banished from the village: more than once I saw immoral behaviour despite her youth—"
His disgusting implication was cut off abruptly by a familiar sight—black fire around the man's throat. Daine cursed and started for her lover.
"I won't kill you for that just yet, priest," Numair said coldly, "but only because there are more important matters to deal with first. When they are settled, I will deal with you—in the meantime, hold your tongue."
Everyone in the room hesitated for a moment, waiting, able to see that Numair was riding the ragged edge of control. After a moment, Marcus spoke. "Ah, Master Numair? Perhaps you could release him?"
"I'm tired of his filth—I'm sure that Vanel can defend himself aptly."
The Baron considered that for a moment, but evidently decided not to argue. Rikar struggled against the magic that held him silent, clawing at the fire around his throat, only to freeze when Numair leveled a deadly stare at him. In silence, the priest fumed and brooded. More than one villager seemed to find the sight amusing, which only made Rikar's expression darker.
Calmly, Daine shook off Nonia and took the last few steps towards Numair even as Marcus turned to address Vanel. When she took the mage's arm, he turned his gaze abruptly to her, the dangerous anger softening slightly when he saw who it was. He wrapped an arm around her waist, supporting her. "You should be resting, sweet. What are you doing down here?"
"Stopping you from doing something foolish—but I don't mind you gagging Rikar. The look actually suits him."
He looked ready to protest and send her to bed when a number of voices interrupted, demanding to know how she was. Daine took a few moments to reassure her friends, and to detail her injuries to Marcus, even though he's already heard them from Quint. Most of her friends thought she should be resting—a sentiment she silently agreed with, as she was shaky and slightly dizzy, in addition to her aches. All she said, however, was, "Then we'd best finish this quickly, as I'm not about to miss it."
"Mistress Daine, if you don't mind, would you recount the events of the afternoon?" Marcus asked.
Beginning with the return to the camp, Daine relayed the entire thing in a calm, emotionless voice much like the one she reported to her commanders in; despite that, she refused to look at Vanel while speaking, not wanting the sight of him to bring images to her mind. More than once, she trembled slightly while speaking. Though it didn't show in her voice, she knew Numair absorbed each flinch, and that it fueled his anger. She tightened her grip on him, trying to reassure him.
When she was finished, there were a number of dark looks directed at Vanel, and the Gallan nobles and knights had set expressions. Marcus thanked her, and then turned to Vanel. Only then did Daine glance at her attacker, refusing to be afraid of him, or her memories. Hadn't she proved by returning here that she could face the pains of the past and triumph? Vanel's face was flushed with anger, and his eyes flitted back and forth slightly, glancing at each angry or cold face.
"Vanel of Border's Keep, do you have anything to say in your defense?"
"I didn't do anything to her that she didn't want; they might fight, but all women want it, they're all whores under it all," he snarled, pushed beyond reason by being sided against. "Her protectors might say different, but she's just a common tart—it's her duty to submit to her lord. If she fought, it was because she didn't know her place!"
His words had the tone of ramblings, deluded and unhealthy, drawing disgusted, frightened, and angry glances. His father stared at him with a blank face, as if trying to convince himself that this was actually his son.
Daine was far too busy to notice.
"No!" she told Numair firmly, stepping between her lover and her attacker. "Numair, there's no point!"
"There's very much a point—he hurt you," Numair said flatly, taking a step forward. He ignored Raoul's retraining hand on his shoulder, but glanced down at her when she refused to move out of his way. "Daine."
"No," she said, her tone quieter, gentling. She laid a hand on his chest. "Listen to me—I know you want him dead. He will be; you heard the baron, he committed an act of war, and of treason. Raoul already promised to see him executed if he did anything like this—"
"And I'll see it carried out," the knight interrupted, "if I have to wield the executioner's blade myself."
"You see? He'll be punished."
"It's not enough," Numair snarled. "You didn't see yourself—Bright Goddess, Daine, you could have lost your arm! He was going to—"
"I know what he was going to try to do—I was there." She felt a little sorry for it when he winced, but felt justified when he closed his eyes, some of his icy anger fading. "That's the point, Numair—he tried, but I fought him. I know you want to protect me, Numair," she said softly. "I understand it. But I protected myself, I defended myself. You don't need to avenge me, because there's nothing to avenge. I never thought, even for a heartbeat, that he was right." Numair's eyes flew open, and she explained. "He said that I was just a bastard, that he was my lord—that it was my place and his right. Five, six years ago, I would have hesitated, Numair. I wouldn't have done nothing to defend myself, because that's not my way, but his words would have made me pause, would have seemed to have some grain of truth to them. I know now that nobles are meant to protect commoners; that who you are is based on your merit, your actions, not your birth. I learned that in Tortall, for you and my friends. I told you that I was glad we came here; that I had been able to move on, and put aside the past by coming back. Even after this, I'm still glad we came. I don't want you to hurt him because there's no need to; he'll be punished by his own laws and king, the ones he thinks give him the right to do whatever he wishes by right of birth. All I want now is to go home." She lifted her hand to his face, holding his gaze with her own. She'd seen his eyes go from burning midnight to warm velvet, and prepared to strike the death-blow to his desire for revenge. He would never think back to this time without being angry about it, but he wouldn't fly into a deadly rage, either. "We did what we came here to do: we fought the bandits, cleaned out their nest, and taught the villagers ways to defend themselves. The alliance between Galla and Tortall has been strengthened. I faced my past and accepted that they couldn't hold any longer; I even remembered good things, and met Lori again. Goddess bless, the villagers have even said that they don't think I'm a monster, or mad! That's a fair bit work, Numair, and now I just want to go home: I want get Cory settled in at the Palace, and help Onua and Sarge with the trainees, and make sure that the realm hasn't fallen to pieces without us. I want to take Jon up on his promise; three weeks at the tower, just the two of us, without war or immortals or Riders or well-meaning friends or treaty delegations. That is all that I want."
He ignored the presence of half the village, the Riders, their friends, and their enemies, resting his brow against her own, his own hand coming up to cup her cheek gently. "Alright, magelet," he murmured, drawing back to kiss her forehead. "That sounds just fine."
Marcus waited a moment longer, allowing the tender moment to hold, before turning back to Vanel, who sneered at the lovers. "Vanel of Border's Keep, by my authority as King's Representative, I hereby place you under arrest for treason against the Crown, and for acts of war against an ally kingdom. By my own decree you have no suitable defense for your actions, and as such I pronounce that you shall be executed for your crimes."
"You can't execute me! I'm a noble! The heir to Border's Keep!" Vanel raged, his eyes wheeling with fear—but also hate, as he looked at those who stood against him.
"Not any longer," Lord Brenen's voice cut across his son's ranting. "You have acted against everything that nobility stands for and have committed treason against the Crown we serve. It is in part my fault," he continued, a touch of regret in his stern visage. "I knew how you behaved towards the women of my lands, but ignored it. I acted as a father instead of a Lord Holder, and refused to punish you for what you did. Perhaps that is what fueled your belief that you had the right to act in any way you saw fit towards the commoners in these lands. But I will no longer protect you, and you will have to face your punishment without rank to shield you. I hereby disown you as my son and heir." He turned away in the silence that followed his decree. "The only deference you will have to your birth is that you will be executed by beheading instead of hanging, like the bandit prisoners; but you be executed, and at the same time as them. Gods have mercy on you," he added, "for I cannot." With that final pronouncement, Lord Brenen walked away from his former son, and out of the inn.
There was a long-held silence as the room stood in shock, before the quiet was broken by Vanel's enraged shouts; barely coherent demands and threats. Marcus gestured to the knights, who then dragged the struggling man to his feet and away, to be held in the inn cellar—which doubled as a cell at times—until his execution. There would be no trial, as there would have been in Tortall; Marcus, with his Crown Authority, had final say, and had already judged and sentenced Vanel. Painfully, Daine missed home, and could see that her friends did as well.
In the uneasy atmosphere left by Vanel's departure, Daine spoke, nudging Numair. "I think you can let Rikar go now, love."
There were a few chuckles, and Numair scowled at the priest, who looked both desperate and outraged. On a sigh, Numair waved his hand, and the black and silver fire faded. Even as it did so, people were turning away to go about their business. Daine leaned against Numair, feeling her limbs weigh heavily with weariness.
"Demon-spawn! Witch!" the grating words sliced through the room, causing everyone to turn towards where Rikar stood, livid with anger and hate. He pointed to Daine, nearly shrieking instead of shouting. "You are a demon who corrupts men, beguiles them with lust and witchcraft to steal their will, just as your whore mother did!"
Everyone stared in shock at the man who had, apparently, snapped under the final weight of humiliation and distain. But even as Daine stepped forward to confront the man, tired of his slurs and wanting only to rest and heal so she could leave this place, Numair held her back. He had seen something in Rikar's face, and realization burned though him.
Before Rikar could speak again, Numair did. "You wanted Sarra."
Rikar, and half the room, gapped at him. The head priest shook his head in denial, but he'd seen confirmation of his deduction, and went on. "You courted her, didn't you? You wooed her, but she refused you—and then bore an illegitimate child by an unknown man. She not only denied you, but everything you offered, even stability, to be with another."
"I promised her everything!" he shouted, rationality gone, his long-held, festering anger revealed to everyone. "I thought she was an angel, pure and perfect—but she wasn't! She was a seductress who drew me in, toyed with me—she never let me go! She held me snared in her web, even after she took some vagabond to her bed and bore a witch just like her! I know what you are!" he raged at Daine. "I knew from the moment you were born that you were just like her! When you grew up, you cast your own lures, just like her!"
Numair stepped between Rikar and Daine, blocking her from his sight. "You turned the entire village against Sarra and Daine because of your own wounded pride—no one cast a spell on you, you damned fool. You trapped yourself by refusing to accept Sarra's decision, or to let go."
"She's just like her! When she came of age, she cast the same spells on me, ensnaring me yet again!" the priest went on, ignoring Numair's words. Daine felt sick at his last implication; she'd never felt comfortable under Rikar's gaze, especially when she'd gotten older, but she'd never seen the lust he said she'd 'spelled' in him. Numair was obviously just as sickened, as were a number of the villagers who understood the priest.
"She might look like her sire, but she's just like Sarra," he'd gone on to shout, and Daine suddenly understood how to silence him—and how to close the circle on her past in Snowsdale. If her and Ma's outcasting was because of her father's unknown origin, and if Snowsdale had finally seen beyond that fact, then she could close the chapter on this part of her life by revealing the truth.
She laid a hand on Numair's arm and stepped forward. He cast her a puzzled look, but she only squeezed his arm before facing the man who'd made her youth hell for his own purposes.
"Priest Rikar, you have badmouthed myself and my family for the last time. My ma did not seduce or enslave any man. She did not have an illicit affair with my da, and he was not a vagabond. He didn't abandoned her, and she didn't toy with him," she spoke louder, addressing the room, as well as all the accusations she'd heard over the years. She would tell the truth and wipe the slate clean, allowing everyone to understand and accept. "There is only one reason my parents didn't marry and it is this: My da is Weiryn, god of the hunt and the northern forests." A charged silence filled the room, and Daine felt Numair close to her, supporting her with his presence and his strength. Because of it, she forged onward. "If you don't believe me, I will prove it. I swear, by all the gods, that my da is Weiryn. I swear that I have heard this from his own lips, that he welcomed me into his home as his flesh and blood and acknowledged me before others. I swear this by the Mother Goddess and Mithros, by Mother Flame and Father Universe, and by all the other gods in the Divine Realm." Her voice had grown fierce with conviction and determination as she stared into Rikar's disbelieving, and then horrified, face. She raised her hands before her to draw the gods' circle over her heart, speaking as she did. "This I swear, and may all the gods strike me if I have lied in this. So mote it be," she finished, clapping her hands once, twice, thrice, in the traditional closing of a prayer or dedication to the gods.
Numair told her later what had happened. She had felt a warm glow, but everyone else had seen it, a golden cloud that surrounded her as a distant, resonant bell sounded, it's ring filling the room as it rang three times, the final tone lingering until the cloud around her vanished.
She felt slightly dazed; never had she done such a thing, and was unprepared for its effects. From behind her, she heard Numair speak.
"Gods' sworn oath spoken, acknowledged, accepted."
"Spoken, acknowledged, accepted," Cedwin and Marcus, as well as the Tortallans echoed, completing the formal witnessing of her oath.
Rikar collapsed, dazed, lost. Broken.
No one helped him.
She felt the eyes of the village on her but ignored them to turn back to Numair. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing her close and leaning down to murmur, "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I think so—but remind me not to do that again."
"'For it is the fate of the Godborn to bear injustice and suffering; only through the crucible of such are they forged into the instrument of the gods. Where Godborn walk, change follows, be it through the bringing of chaos or of order. Divine and mortal blood met and mingle, and they are of two realms, unique and alone in their nature in which ever world they walk.'" Cedwin's reverent words carried through the silence as he quoted from The Divinity of the Immortal Realms, an ancient text that Numair had given her to read after her own journey in the Divine Realm. Daine raised her eyes to glare at him.
"Thanks ever so for pointing that out; I already know that I'm far from normal."
She felt Numair hold her tighter, and Lena and Buri's hands rested on her shoulder. Raoul patted her head while Rahim bowed his head in silent acknowledgement. Evin grinned and said, with a tone that rang as true as the bell that had previously, "We wouldn't have it any other way, Horsemistress."
A week later, when the wounded Riders, King's Own, and their mounts were properly healed, the delegates and soldiers of Tortall returned home.