The Ruby Guardian

CHAPTER 13

The wagon was horribly hot and stuffy, and Kovrim squirmed from the itch of rivulets of sweat pouring down out of his hair, past his face and neck, to tickle the skin beneath his shirt. His thirst was severe, made more unbearable by the thick bit still filling his mouth. He had tried to dislodge the gag with his tongue at various times throughout the morning, but it wasn't going anywhere, so he sat there, glum.

Kovrim blinked as the wagon bounced and sent a particularly irritating droplet of sweat right into the corner of his eye. The salty perspiration burned, making him shake his head in frustration. The maneuver only succeeded in causing more rivulets to trickle down out of his damp, matted hair.

"Sorry, sir," Hort Bloagermun said, coming out of his own stupor. The grizzled veteran leaned forward and, with his own hands locked in more conventional steel restraints in front of himself, used the sleeve of his own shirt to wipe away the worst of Kovrim's sweat, trying his best to help keep it from running into the old priest's eyes. Kovrim was grateful for the gesture, though the beads of perspiration would be running again soon enough. He nodded in thanks.

The old priest looked around the wooden box that he shared with five other Crescents. All of them were secured similarly to Old Bloagy, with manacles locked about both wrists and ankles. Their clothing was soaked through with sweat, and a couple of them looked very much the worse for wear. Kovrim knew that they would begin to grow ill if they weren't given water soon. They had been crammed into the nearly lightless box wagons since early morning, cruelly sealed up inside the heat traps with nothing to assuage their thirst. Kovrim imagined that the Crescents in the other wagons weren't faring much better.

With no way to see the height of the sun in the sky, Kovrim had no clear idea of how long they had been traveling, but he guessed it had to have been at least three hours. And though he did not know exactly where the survivors of the sinking of Lady's Favor had come ashore, he knew that they had to be near the city of Reth, just based on old maps of the area he had often studied. Besides, he had overheard one of the soldiers loading them into the wagons mention that they would reach their destination near noon. Though the old priest feared what would become of them after they arrived in that independent city, he welcomed their arrival if it meant getting out of the baking oven of a box in which they rode at the moment.

As if he were a seer, Kovrim detected a change in the sound of the wooden wagon wheels and of the feel of the ride. They had moved off of dirt road and onto stone pavement, a sure sign that they had neared the city. He listened carefully, detecting the unmistakable sounds of crowds beyond the wooden walls of the box wagon, and they were growing louder. Then the wagon rumbled through a shadow, for the sun was briefly blotted out where it shone through the narrow cracks in the wood panels, and Kovrim knew they had passed through the city gates of Reth. It was not long after that that the wagon drew to a halt.

"It sounds like we've arrived… wherever it is we are," Old Bloagy said, trying to peer through a small knothole. "Looks like a courtyard, but I'm not sure," he added.

Outside, Kovrim could hear a general commotion as orders were shouted and men moved about. Someone began to work on the latch that held the door at the rear of the box wagon shut, and in another moment, the portal swung downward, letting glaring sunlight shine in. Along with that brightness came a blessed breeze, cooler fresh air that wafted in. Kovrim sighed in profound relief.

The six members of the Sapphire Crescents climbed out of the wagons and descended the slanted door, which served as a sort of gangplank. The prisoners congregated in a group, breathing in and exhilarating in the open air, thankful to be out of the box. Nearby, the rest of the Crescents were being offloaded in a similar manner.

Kovrim took a moment to peer about at his surroundings, wondering where, exactly, they had been brought. It appeared, as Hort had claimed, to be a courtyard of some sort, for high stone walls surrounded the cobblestoned area on every side. One wall was pierced with a gated opening, beyond which Kovrim could see a street teeming with people and shops and carts. In front of him, however, a large edifice rose up, dominated by a high tower in the very center that was four or five stories tall. Kovrim recognized it immediately as the Palace of the Seven, the central keep of the government of Reth.

I guess we'll be guests of the mayor and the senate, Kovrim thought, wondering what sort of connection Lavant might have with the rulers of Reth that he could arrange such.

After all five wagons were unloaded, the entire group of Crescents-plus the pair of druids who had been captured during the attack in the night-were herded together and escorted by a dozen soldiers toward a narrow door set in one side wall.

The prisoners marched toward the door and inside into blessed coolness, each man shuffling along with short steps due to the inadequate length of chain spanning the distance between their ankles. Kovrim nearly tripped at one point, but a nearby guard reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him.

Inside the doorway, they encountered a somewhat steeply pitched stone ramp leading down, flanked on either side by alcoves occupied by additional guards. The guards eyed the prisoners impassively as they trotted past, and Kovrim could see that a large portcullis could be dropped near the guard post, preventing anyone from descending deeper into the route-or trying to escape, he understood.

The ramp turned a little farther on so that it doubled back. At the bottom, Kovrim and the other prisoners found themselves in the middle of a large, low-ceilinged chamber that was dimly lit by a handful of torches. It smelled strongly of sweat, human waste, and staleness, and the old priest knew they had arrived in the prison.

The prisoners' guards began to rapidly separate their charges into smaller groups again, sorting them into sets of four. Kovrim wound up in the same group with Hort and the two druids. Their guards pushed them off to one side and stood nearby while the rest of the soldiers were similarly sorted. Once the process was finished, they were marched through a narrow doorway and down a hall that Kovrim saw was lined with cells. The lighting in that area was even dimmer than out in the main room, but as far as he could see, the cells in that wing of the prison were empty, for none of the wooden doors had been pulled shut at the moment.

Making sure no one else sees us here, he thought, or talks to us.

That notion was ominous in Kovrim's mind, but he shunted it away for the time being and allowed himself to be led into one of the cells, along with Hort and the two woodsmen. As their guard stepped back and prepared to shut the thick wooden door with the tiny, barred window, Kovrim mumphed at the man and made a gulping noise while he tipped his head back slowly, miming drinking. The two druids closed ranks with him and began nodding their heads, obviously agreeing with his plea.

"What?" the guard said, staring at the gagged men with no recognition in his face whatsoever.

"I think they're trying to tell you that we haven't had any blasted water since dawn," Hort said, "and they need a drink, lad. What do you say?"

The guard eyed Kovrim suspiciously then nodded once and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding thud.

"I don't know if it got through his thick skull or not," Old Bloagy complained, sitting down in the straw that was strewn across the stone floor. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try again when he comes back."

It turned out that the guard did come back, only a short time later, accompanied by two other guards and a sergeant. One of them was carrying a waterskin. They all entered the small cell and arrayed themselves in front of Kovrim where he and the two woodsmen sat.

"I have orders not to let you three speak," the sergeant said, gesturing at the harness strapped onto Kovrim's head, "but I'm not one to give a prisoner more than he's due in punishment, if I can help it. They say you are all dangerous sorcerers and will try to ensnare our minds with your devilish tongues, and that we can't listen to you speak."

Off to one side, Hort snorted in disgust. "He's no more a stinking sorcerer than I am a flying pig, son. As for them other two, I can't say, but if you don't give them water, they'll die, sure as the sky is blue."

The sergeant glared at Hort for a moment then turned back to face Kovrim and the other two. "If I have one of my men here release you long enough to drink, I have to have a promise from you that you won't say anything." Kovrim began to nod, and the other two sitting near him did, too, and just as eagerly. "Now, Thak and Jervis are going to keep their blades ready, and if you try anything, they'll run you through in a heartbeat. Is that clear?" Again, all three gagged men nodded.

With that, the sergeant nodded to his men and stood back while one of the guards produced a key and unlocked the harness of the man to Kovrim's left. The other two held their short swords out, each one standing to one side, ready to ram the blades into his neck or gut if he should try anything untoward. Once the druid had managed to work the thick bit out of his mouth with his tongue, he sighed in relief but said nothing, then took the proffered skin in his mouth and drank deeply. After he had gotten his fill, the guard shoved the bit back in his mouth. The prisoner groaned in frustration, but he did not fight as the guard rebuckled the harness and locked it.

Then it was Kovrim's turn, and he waited patiently for the soldier to remove the hated bit. When the nasty leather came out of his mouth, he sighed, working his jaw a few times to get some feeling back into the aching muscles. With his hands still locked inside the steel balls, he leaned forward toward the waterskin and sucked great mouthfuls of cool water in, letting some of it spill over and run down his chin. He even managed to splash some on his head, letting it dampen his hair, before the guard yanked it away again in exasperation and put the bit back against his lips. Kovrim hated the thought of allowing the soldier to restrain him again, but he knew there was no way he could convince them otherwise without getting skewered, so he grudgingly acquiesced, hating the sensation all the more after the bit was back in place.

Once his drinking privileges were over, Kovrim moved off to a corner of the cell and settled down to think. The soldiers let the second woodsman have his drink, and Hort got to finish off the skin.

"We'll be back to try that again with some food," the sergeant said. "As long as you mind your manners, we'll keep this up. But any funny business, and those harnesses stay on." Kovrim nodded and slumped even further against the wall as the quartet of guards departed, locking the cell door behind them.

Hort moved over beside Kovrim. "This isn't right," he said, shaking his head. "They've got no cause to keep us locked up in here."

Kovrim shrugged, unable to speak and explain to the man that he was the victim of political maneuvering, even if he were inclined to reveal such.

The man's been a soldier for forty years, the priest realized. He wouldn't deal well with the idea of a high priest letting him be killed just to rid himself of a few rivals, Kovrim thought. Why disillusion him now? Kovrim considered the possibility of escape again, wondering if he could verbalize his transportation spell fast enough for the magic to take effect before he was run through by the guards. He decided that it might be possible in a few days, once he showed sufficient compliance, for them to let down some of their wariness. Of course, it would all depend on the two druids, he realized. If they tried anything, it could ruin it for all of them.

Kovrim wanted desperately to make it clear to the two woodsmen that they had to wait, to bide their time and not ruin the chance, but he had no way to communicate with them. He didn't even see any way to act through Hort as an intermediary.

Filled with despair, Kovrim sighed and tried to stretch himself out on the stone floor, wondering if he could get comfortable enough to sleep. Hort, sensing that the old priest wished to be left alone, wandered to the far side of the cell and sat. The two woodsmen had done likewise. In the quiet, Kovrim could hear other soldiers talking, and he felt somewhat sorry for Hort, who had been unlucky enough to draw three cellmates who couldn't converse.

The old priest drifted off to a troubled sleep, interrupted once for a feeding. The process went similarly to the drinking, except that it took longer, and he was last in line in that particular case. He was surprised at how demeaning it felt to have someone else place bits of food in his mouth, but with his hands imprisoned, he had no choice. Afterward, he returned to his napping.

A long time later, Kovrim was awakened by the soft sound of his name being called. He looked up and saw a face staring at him through the bars of the door.

It was Junce Roundface.

Emriana's chest felt like it was bound in iron bands, slowly tightening, crushing her. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, and her heart thudded rapidly. She couldn't believe the words that Grozier Talricci was telling her.

Vambran and Uncle Kovrim, dead, drowned at sea? It couldn't be! Emriana felt like she was being sucked into a whirlpool, dragged down, down, into the depths of the Abyss.

"So, with Hetta and Xaphira as well as your older brother all deceased," the horrid man said, "Quindy and Obiron, as Evester's descendants, are the rightful heirs to the estate. And since they are not of age yet to properly run the family business, the responsibility falls to Marga. And she," Grozier finished, smiling warmly at his sister, who was sitting in a chair looking positively smug, "has agreed that I should share the responsibilities as guardian for them, administering the household for them until such time as they are ready to handle those affairs themselves."

"You're such a liar," Emriana snarled, trying to stare daggers through Grozier. "You had something done to Xaphira, and your thugs tried to do it to me, too, and you know it!" she shouted, her voice nearly rising to a scream. The girl turned desperately to the other occupants in the room, silently pleading for someone, anyone, to stand with her against the man who was succeeding in usurping her family estate. "Please," she pleaded. "Don't let him do this."

But the only people in the sitting room at that time-other than the house staff, a couple of Grozier's own guards, and the ever-present Bartimus-were Marga, who looked entirely unsympathetic, Nimra and Mirolyn Skolotti, who were in no position to do anything, and Ladara, who was weepy-eyed. Emriana's mother sat near Hetta's body, sobbing quietly and looking miserably at her daughter from time to time. The girl knew Ladara would never lift a finger to do anything, had never done anything except meekly follow Hetta around like a devoted sheep.

"There is nothing for anyone to do," Grozier said, a hint of mocking in his voice. "They all realize that this is proper. With Marga's blessing, I have the right."

Emriana looked at her sister-in-law. "How could you?" she said accusingly. "We gave you a home, always treated you like part of the family. This man is responsible for Evester's death! Your husband. My brother!"

Marga let her smile deepen. "I would not be too ferocious in my accusations, if I were you," she said coldly. "It would not be a difficult matter to have you and your mother thrown out of here."

Emriana let her jaw drop, dumbfounded. "This is my house!" she shouted. "It belongs to me more than to either of you!" And the rage got the better of her, and she darted across the room, one arm drawn back, ready to pound the woman smiling smugly at her.

The girl got within a couple of paces, but Grozier's men interceded, preventing her from reaching her target. They latched onto her arms and yanked her back as she kicked and flailed. Oh, how she wished she had learned more of Xaphira's skills. She longed to kick and punch like her aunt had been able to, to strike the two men hindering her from reaching her real quarry. She longed for one of her throwing daggers. They would not block one of those, she was sure. She could not understand how they could have such loyalty to a man such as Grozier Talricci, a man without honor.

"Stop it! Stop it," someone said from behind Emriana, and cool hands were on her shoulders, gently but firmly drawing her back, away from the two men, away from Grozier and Marga. It was Jaleene, using a soothing tone that she had often employed when Emriana was a child. The girl felt like a child right then, helpless, surrounded by condescending adults who said nice things merely to humor her. Emriana gave another hateful glare at Marga; then she looked at Grozier.

"You cannot remove me," she said flatly, as though it were a fact that deserved no argument. "And I will see you undone, before you can ruin my family's name and honor. I won't permit it," she spat.

Grozier lunged forward, his hand drawn back as if to strike her. Ladara shrieked, and Marga had to reach up to restrain the man. Still, he came very close to reaching the girl, and despite herself, she cringed the slightest bit. He saw her reaction and smiled.

"You are nothing," he said at last, jerking free of his sister's grasp and straightening himself. "You will mind your manners, and you will obey my rules in this household every day, without fail. I will know where you are at all times, and you will have guards posted outside of every exit to your rooms at night. There will be no more of this sneaking about, interfering with the work of adults. Oh, and you will hand over that infernal pendant that your brother gave you. I have better uses for it than you ever will."

Emriana felt her eyes widen. Her hand went to her heart, where the pendant hung inside her shirt, nestled between her breasts. Vambran's birthday present. Vambran, who was dead. "No." she said. "You may not have it."

Grazier's eyebrow shot up. "Those are the conditions by which you may remain on the premises," he said, shrugging as if it were the most expected thing in the world. "If you defy me, you will be removed, by force if necessary. Choose now."

"No, please don't," Ladara sobbed from her position next to Hetta's body. Emriana thought she was talking to Grozier, that the woman was finally finding the courage to stand up to someone on her behalf, but when she turned to look, Ladara was gazing at her, not Grozier. "Don't cross him, Em," her mother pleaded. "You're only a child. You cannot survive out beyond House Matrell. Do as he says!"

Shock and hurt flooded through the girl all over again. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell her mother just how insulting she was being, but then she snapped it shut again, realizing the futility of trying to get her mother to understand anything beyond her own clinging needs. She shook her head sadly and turned away.

Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself to walk, to turn her back on everything that she had grown up with, had loved, for the sake of pride. The notion of leaving the house forever terrified her. She had no idea what she would do, where she would go, but she would not stay and live under Grozier Talricci's thumb. She'd be damned if she'd ever do that.

Em, came a faint voice, Hetta's voice, from inside her head. The girl froze, wide-eyed again, staring at her grandmother's still form. Em, come to me. The sound of her grandmother calling to her stunned Emriana, but before she realized what she was doing, she padded across the floor to where her grandmother lay at rest.

Ladara apparently thought that her daughter was coming to her, and she reached out to envelop Emriana in a hug, but the girl shrugged clear and knelt down next to her grandmother's head instead. She gazed at the elderly woman's face, so still, so serene. She couldn't believe that Hetta was dead. She seemed asleep, though there was no rise or fall of her chest.

Em, take my hand, Hetta's voice commanded. Confused, unsure if she was hearing things or imagining them, Emriana slowly reached out and took her grandmother's two hands in her own. They were icy cold to the touch, and the girl almost recoiled in revulsion, but it was her grandmother, her sweet, adorable Hetta. Emriana clasped the two frail, wrinkled hands in her own and squeezed them.

Voices or no, I love you, she said silently, letting the tears fall freely. I miss you already.

Take the ring from my finger, Em, Hetta's voice instructed, and it was clearer, louder than before. Emriana nearly gasped aloud, but she calmed herself and looked at her grandmother's hands. There, on the fourth finger of her right hand, was a silver ring with a ruby set into it. The moment that Emriana closed her own hand about it, she felt a surge of energy, felt another presence inside her body.

Quickly, Em, slide it off my finger. You must take the ring with you, Hetta said as though she were another voice in Emriana's head. Stunned but trying desperately to remain cool and collected, Emriana bowed over her grandmother as though she were offering up a final good-bye. She tucked both of her grandmother's hands into her own and discreetly slipped the ring free.

Don't lose it, Hetta said. I'm inside it. A feeling of joy surged up in Emriana then, for she knew she wasn't imagining any of it, that somehow, her grandmother's essence, her spirit, was safely stowed in the ring. Get out of the house, now, Hetta said. It's not safe for you. Defy him, and leave.

The girl subtly pocketed the piece of jewelry then rose to her feet She turned to face Grozier. "Go to hell," she said with the most conviction she'd ever felt about anything in her life. Around her, everyone gasped.

"I'll see you there," Grozier sneered, but Emriana had already turned away, and was walking out of the room. "Guards, make sure she leaves the premises at once," he ordered.

"Em, no!" Ladara called out. "Come back! You mustn't do this!"

The girl ignored them all, though the pain in her mother's voice made her cringe. She realized she had come to despise the woman's timorous nature, but she nonetheless felt self-loathing for hurting Ladara. The woman was, after all, her mother.

You can't help her right now, she admonished herself. You must save yourself, first.

With those words to bolster her courage, Emriana hurried out, practically sprinting to her own room. The guards behind her began to trot to keep up.

If Grozier has his way, I won't even be able to take any belongings, Emriana thought, won't get much opportunity to pack.

In her room, the girl slipped on a different pair of boots, discarding the single one she had on her foot. Then she snatched up a satchel and threw an extra outfit inside. She also dug a pouch of coins out from a cubbyhole in the back of a drawer in her dresser. She was just turning to exit when a box on her bed caught her eye.

It was the set of daggers Xaphira had given her. There were still two inside.

Emriana could hear Grozier down the hall, shouting at the two guards to bodily remove the girl. She glanced at the doorway, where the two guards stood, hesitating to enter a lady's chambers uninvited. Before they could overcome their sense of propriety and cross the threshold, Emriana snatched up the box, stuffed it in the satchel, and turned toward her balcony.

"Get her out of here, right now!" Grozier said from right behind the two guards. "She gets nothing!"

Emriana didn't wait to see if the house guards would jump to their work or not. She darted outside, onto the tiled porch where the smell of blossoms always hung thick in the air, and scrambled down the steps to the grassy expanse below. She heard the sound of footsteps on the tiles behind her and knew that Grozier had ordered the guards to follow her until she was well and truly off the property.

From the lawn, she scurried around the house, through an orchard, and down a side path to the main one leading to the front gate. Once she was there-still followed at a discreet distance by the pair of House Matrell guards-she slipped her hand inside her pocket and slid the ring onto her finger.

Grandmother? She projected. Is it really you? Are you truly there?

Yes, child, Hetta replied. I'm here.

Oh, Hetta! Emriana silently exclaimed, burbling with both excitement and trepidation all at the same time. What happened? You died!

All is not as it seems, Hetta replied. Magic can do strange and wondrous things, and we Matrells have access to our share of it. I have worn that enchanted ring for a long time. In the event of my death, my spirit would be drawn into the ring, rather than away to the afterlife. I'm a stubborn old bird and have no intention of leaving things unfinished. I'm here with you, and will remain so for as long as you need me, until we settle this.

Now. Something has happened to Marga, to the twins. I don't know what, yet, but I sense deception. Grozier is up to something, and Marga is not acting herself. Where is Xaphira?

Emriana's heart ached. I don't know, she confessed. She disappeared last night. I was attacked, nearly drowned. I tried to contact her with my pendant, once last night, once this morning, but she would not answer. She could feel anguish radiate from the presence inside her.

That is truly wretched news, Hetta said solemnly. But we have no time for that now. Xaphira's a strong girl. She'll survive without our help for the time being.

I hope so, Emriana thought.

Yes, that is all we can do for the moment. Hope. Right now, we must get away, seek help. I want you to go to the Darowdryn estate. We need their help. I have a lot to tell you along the way.

Grandmother Hetta?

What is it, child?

Did you know that Vambran and Kovrim are lost at sea?

Yes, the woman said, with a kindness and warmth that made Emriana want to cry. But do not believe it. Grozier Talricci is a snake filled with lies. Vambran and Kovrim may very well be alive. If they can, they'll get word to us.

My pendant! Emriana thought. I can reach them with my pendant!

Before Emriana had a chance to do that, however, a voice calling her name got her attention. It was Mirolyn, hurrying down the path toward the front gate. Emriana was almost to the end of the path, was almost prepared to step outside of her family home for perhaps the very last time. She turned back to the young woman, only a few years older than she.

"I have a message for you," Mirolyn said breathlessly as she caught up to Emriana. "My mother says to tell you that she remembers where she once heard the name 'Roundface.'"

Emriana turned to face Mirolyn, her heart filling with newfound hope. "Well?" she said, thinking that the news could be a lead to finding Xaphira. "Where?"

Mirolyn took a deep breath and said, "Her sister used to talk about a little boy where she worked, a youngster, the son of a courtier named Blackcrown. All the serving staff nicknamed him Roundface, because he had such chubby cheeks. 'Little Roundface,' they all used to call him. She doesn't know what the child's real first name was, but she thought that might help. Blackcrown, she said, and she was very certain."

Emriana tried to keep from sounding exasperated when she asked, "And where did your mother's sister work?"

"Oh, sorry," Mirolyn said, blushing. "It was at the Generon. She was a maid at the Lord's Palace."