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THE CORD SHIFTED ABOUT Tamaryl’s throat as he swallowed. His arms, crossed at the wrists behind his neck and bound by the cord, were growing heavy, but he could relieve the strain somewhat by bowing his head. That, he thought, was appropriate.
Where was Maru? Was he similarly bound in another cell, awaiting Oniwe’aru’s judgment? It would have been easy to take him. It would not have needed Oniwe’aru himself to trail Maru through the between-worlds.
Tamaryl could have fought, could have resisted his arrest. But fighting would have wounded them both and ultimately profited nothing.
The following sho and che had spread about him and closed, ready to fight but leaving the first blow to him. Tamaryl didn’t look at them but at Oniwe’aru, who stared evenly back at him. “Tamaryl’sho.”
As if by an unseen signal, the sho and che moved. Cords and chains settled about Tamaryl, making him wince as they drew tight and fed on him. He could have repelled them, could have fought them, but it would only delay the inevitable. And he did not want to appear a rebellious traitor when he did not consider himself one. He hoped to explain, to make them understand, and they would not hear him if he fought them.
Oniwe’aru stepped forward, and the others shifted so that they faced one another. “Is this what you wanted?” Oniwe’aru asked heavily.
“I knew it might come to this,” Tamaryl answered. “But I hoped it would not.”
Oniwe’aru’s expression did not change. “Still, this was by your choice.”
Tamaryl felt one brief moment of panic—no!—but he hardly had time to struggle before Oniwe’aru stretched out his hand. The effect struck him like hot irons as Oniwe’aru ripped the inherent magic from every fiber of his body. It was like having the power drawn from him for his binding in the human world, condensed and distilled into pure, unnatural agony. He arced rigidly backward, jerking in the hands of the Ryuven holding him, and begged for blackness.
It finally, belatedly, came.
Now, he was bound and imprisoned, drained of his power like any criminal. He hoped Maru had been shown mercy. He had only obeyed his lord of obligation, and that provided a measure of protection to nim. Surely he would not be punished too harshly.
A bolt rattled loudly, and Tamaryl raised his head, pulling at his shoulders. It was a che who came through the door, not Oniwe’aru. He carried a long, forked rod; they were taking no chances with the Pairvyn ni’Ai. He closed the door behind him and faced Tamaryl. “What did the humans offer you?”
The question surprised Tamaryl. He had not expected the accusation of being bought. “They offered me nothing.” He shifted and the chains across his chest, holding his wings close and immobile, bit at him. “Where is Maru?”
The che scowled. “You’re in no position to ask questions, or haven’t you noticed?”
Tamaryl gave him a sardonic half-smile. “Oh, and I thought the luxury of a locked door was due to my rank and honor.”
The bolt came fast. Tamaryl sensed it and tried to protect himself, but there was no real power left in him, and the energy sizzled through his weak defense and seared into his face. He gasped with the shock of it.
The che’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he had just struck the Pairvyn and would suffer no consequence. He stopped forward. “So you say you were not enticed to betray Oniwe’aru? You turned for the simple pleasure of it?”
Tamaryl could feel the weal swelling on his cheek. It would not heal without his power, and the implication of letting the che’s injury remain galled him as much as the pain. “I have always served Oniwe’aru and our clan to the best of my ability.”
“You fled the field and then interrupted a battle which had turned to our advantage!”
“I gave our people a chance to survive!” Tamaryl checked himself; he owed no defense to this che. “We can purchase what we need without risk to our own. Surely you can see the benefit in that.”
“I see you’ve closed opportunity for anyone below you to improve his station,” growled the che. “You shielded your own shank, afraid we would outshine you soon. But see where it got you? What is your position now?”
He advanced on Tamaryl, the forked stick ready in his hand, but Tamaryl could do nothing. At best it would be days before he regained his former strength, but his chains were fup-forged, burning away any returning power. He could only watch as the che moved forward. Grinning at his own manic daring, the che kicked Tamaryl—in his unprotected gut, first, and then again in his face as he grunted and folded.
The che laughed. “But I might profit yet by your attempts. I was one of those who captured the traitor. You’ve only aided me.”
The cell spun about him. A physical blow—the worst of insults. Two of them. And Tamaryl could only sit and bleed before him, like a chastised nim or even a human slave. By the Essence, he had not known he was so proud.
But why couldn’t they see what he had done? Didn’t Oniwe’aru know the good of it? Was he truly too offended at the slighting of his orders to recognize the greater gain?
The che regarded him with a disdainful sneer. “You’re not much now, are you?” He turned his back and went to the door. “What a sad end for a Pairvyn. But a fitting one for a traitor.”
Had they repealed the truce? Made it all for nothing? No, please, no—Essence within, let something have come of all this...
The iron bolt slid with an echoing finality, leaving him in the dark again.
TAEV CALLAHAN GLANCED around once more, assuring himself no one was near. It was falling dark, and anyone observing would be as difficult to see as he would be. But he was far from the road and near a rocky, unused part of the river, quite alone.
He stepped carefully onto a river rock and picked his way across the first third of the fast-moving water. Then he crouched and felt for a stick, wedged across two large stones, where it held firm a rope and the attached net. He withdrew it all, watching the netted leaves shed water.
The first bushel of dall sweetbud had been sold, and at stunning prices. The spreading plague had frightened those with coin enough to buy protection. It would not do for any of them to become ill after taking the new herb.
This was the eighth of the dispensers he’d destroyed. He would leave the others, as a few remaining pockets of flux would make the sickness more believable and spur a steady demand for the cure. He laid the dripping net across a flat rock and, with a moment of concentration to counter the wetness, set it aflame. He was careful to stay upwind, for bilgewort smoke could do unpleasant things.
When the flames had died, leaving only unrecognizable ashes, he kicked them smoking into the river and turned back toward the road.