One of the men rubbed the small of his back and glanced around the tent. His gaze scraped over Ginger. He turned to another man, a tall officer, probably in his fifties, with a great deal of silver on the shoulders and sleeves of his uniform. The first man said something, and the tall one glanced at Ginger. Then they returned to their discussions.
After a few moments, though, they brought their war council to an end. The officers left in groups of three and four, still deep in discussion. The tall man remained and conferred with two younger soldiers who had far less silver on their uniforms. After they departed, the older man walked to where Ginger stood with the nomads. The giant nomad moved the point of his dagger against her back, and the stitcher and the driver flanked her, each holding one of her upper arms. She was trapped and vulnerable, unable to retreat.
When the officer reached then, the stitcher bowed deeply. “You honor us with your presence, General Yargazon.”
Yargazon inclined his head in acceptance of the formal words. He was staring at Ginger, however, and she flushed under his scrutiny. Her shoulder blades ached from being pulled back by the cord. She wanted to fold her arms over her torso, as if that meager effort could protect her against Yargazon’s formidable presence.
The general spoke in a voice like rust. “It appears, Ji, that I owe you an apology. I had assumed you exaggerated when you described her. I was wrong.”
The stitcher, who was apparently Ji, said, “Makes it worth the chase, eh?”
“Indeed.” Yargazon stepped forward and slid his hand into Ginger’s hair. “Is this color real?”
She looked up at him, unable to speak. With the giant behind her, Ji on one side, the driver on the other, and Yargazon towering over her, she felt suffocated.
The general yanked back her head by her hair. “I asked you a question.”
“Y-yes,” she said. “It’s real.”
“I’ve never seen such a color.”
Staring at him, she knew he was more dangerous than any sentinel. The sun had weathered his face and prominent nose, turning his skin leathery. Wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth, but he otherwise had the robust appearance of a man half his age. His uniform accented his height and powerful physique. Its stark black lines and silver ribbing gave him a shadowed aspect. The heavily corded tendons in his neck slanted into the muscles of his shoulders and under his stiff tunic. His expression had a steel quality, as if he had seen too many wars and killed too many men. Ginger shrank back and felt the nick of the dagger against her spine.
The general took her face in his hands. She froze as he bent his head. When he kissed her, she tried to pull away, but the nomads held her in place.
Yargazon took his time kissing her, stroking his thumbs on her cheeks and then her nipples. Then he pulled the undertunic up to her shoulders and touched her more. She tried to disassociate herself from it, as if she were someone else, but it was hard when her arms ached.
After a while he lifted his head. “Such sweetness,” he murmured. Stepping back, he pulled down her tunic. “You were a priestess in one of those temples, yes?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I serve the Dragon-Sun.”
“Do you now?” He seemed amused. “It is a quaint idea, to have sun priestesses bless and nurture people. Rather charming. Take a lovely, innocent girl, put her all alone in a temple, and then say no man may touch her. One wonders if the people of Taka Mal are deliberately provoking us or just plain stupid.”
Gritting her teeth, she held back the urge to tell him their temples didn’t exist to serve the whims of Jazid warlords.
He glanced at Ji. “She is the one who tended the body?”
“That’s right,” Ji said. “They brought it into the temple.”
Yargazon rubbed his chin while he considered Ginger. “What did you do with it?”
“It?” She endeavored to look blank. “What do you mean?”
“The corpse the miners took to you.”
She shuddered at the memory of when they had brought Darz into the temple, believing him dead. She didn’t miss the irony, that the nomads had spied on her, even invaded the temple, yet didn’t seem to realize Darz had been asleep in one of the cells, recovering from his stab wounds.
“I gave him the Sunset Rites,” she lied. “We cremated him.”
He spoke to Ji. “Can you verify that?”
“We didn’t see any smoke,” Ji said. “But they never carried him out for a burial, and his body wasn’t in the Sunset Room.”
“Perhaps next time,” the general said tightly, “you will take care of the burial yourself instead of hiding when you hear a few harmless miners.”
Ji’s gaze never wavered. “We completed our mission.”
“Your orders included burying the body,” Yargazon said.
“We’ve brought you the girl.”
“At an exorbitantly high price.”
“You’ve seen her,” Ji said. “She’s worth it, for the information as well as the pleasure.”
Information? What did that mean? Ginger had a sense of undercurrents here she only partially understood. The general and Ji were parrying. They continued their veiled battle of words, and she listened intently, though she hid her attention by acting dazed. The lives of women in Jazid were even more limited than in Taka Mal, but it offered an unexpected advantage; they didn’t seem to consider her presence a deterrent to their discussions the way they would have if she had been a man. She suspected it didn’t even occur to them she could pose a danger to their plans.
It was difficult to sort out the hierarchy between them. Yargazon was obviously in command, but the nomads weren’t soldiers. It sounded as if they were part of a covert sect he had hired to kill certain Taka Mal officers. At Sky Flames, the miners had appeared unexpectedly, forcing the nomads to hide while Harjan and the others carried the body into the temple.
They had no idea Darz was alive. Incredibly, they had stood in the plaza less than two tendays later and watched him fight off the sentinels, never realizing they were seeing a man they had left for dead. With his beard, on a horse, Darz had looked too different for them to recognize.
Although the general censured Ji for his failure to bury the body, she had a feeling he agreed with the way they had dealt with the situation. But he was using it to claim that bringing “the priestess” was part of their mission, so he could question her. The nomads didn’t consider it a military matter. They served Yargazon by choice but had other livelihoods, including this transaction. Ji saw it purely as a matter of selling a commodity—Ginger—the general had arranged for him to acquire.
It was chilling how well they knew how to bargain. Both clearly understood the purpose of their supposed disagreement. Within moments they settled on a price, less than what Ji wanted, but an amount of gold coin and gems so large, it bewildered Ginger. She had never seen even a tenth that much wealth.
When they finished, Yargazon turned to her. “Were you the only witness to the cremation?”
She hesitated. If they had been watching the temple, they would know the miners guarding it had stayed outside that night.
“Yes,” she said. The shorter her answers, the better. She tried to keep her face blank, so they wouldn’t suspect how closely she was following all they said.
“What did you find on his person?” the general asked.
His person? “Nothing.”
He spoke sharply. “Answer my question. I want to know what you saw when you gave ‘sunset rights’ to this man.”
She was growing confused. “Nothing.”
His voice turned cold. “We’ve heard rumors of actions by the Taka Mal army in the area of your village. Are you people sheltering anyone? Do they have a base of operations?”
She shook her head. “I know nothing of such things.”
“You priestesses hold a high position among your people. Don’t expect me to believe you’ve heard nothing.”
“I’ve nothing to tell you.” She doubte
d the army had been in the area doing something hidden. “I don’t know anything about the military.”
The entrance flap of the pavilion rustled, and an officer pushed aside the canvas. “Permission to speak with you, sir.”
Yargazon walked over to him. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“I think we have all we’re going to get,” the lieutenant said. “We have scrolls for you.”
“Very well.” The general glanced at Ji. “I must attend to another matter.” Motioning at Ginger, he said, “Bring her. I’ll have my men get your payment.”
Ji drew her forward. She wanted to resist, but the driver took her other arm and the giant followed them, a looming presence at her back.
Outside, the sun was almost to the horizon. Ginger thought the dragon was truly a harsh deity to serve, that he would burn in the sky knowing such cruelty took place below him. She could hear his voice: I am a ball of fire, not the conscience of man. I cannot control the minds of you who call yourselves human. You are responsible for the deeds you commit, whether they be great or heinous.
Yes, she thought, they were responsible for their deeds. But it was the people like her and Darz who paid the brutal price of those who chose what was heinous.
18
The Tent
Yargazon and his aide walked ahead, conferring in low voices. Neither wore a helmet, nor did Ginger see other shapes she could use. They went to a small tent under an overhang of rock. As they reached the entrance, a ragged scream from inside shattered the evening.
Ginger stopped, terrified. This wasn’t the bloodcurdling war cry she had heard in the temple. It was a scream of agony.
The general and his aide went inside, and the nomads dragged Ginger after them. The interior was dim, lit only by one torch, and the overhang outside blocked what little of the aged sunlight might have filtered through the canvas. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust enough so she could make out the scene on the far side of the tent. A man was lying on a slanted surface, and several Jazid warriors were gathered around him. None of them wore helmets.
As her group approached, she inhaled sharply. The man wasn’t lying down, he was manacled to a rack that stretched him out, his arms and legs spread-eagled. What remained of his clothing was ripped and bloody, and welts crisscrossed his torso and legs. But she could make out enough to know he had worn a uniform with gold and red colors. He was an officer in the Taka Mal army.
One of the Jazid warriors came over to Yargazon and showed him a scroll. “We got troop and cavalry deployments, postings for twenty officers, and the names of two covert operatives, one in Aronsdale and the other in our army.”
Yargazon raised an eyebrow. “A Taka Mal spy is here?”
“Not here. He’s with a regiment in Jazid.” The man tapped one of the scrolls. “His location, cover identity and assignment are all here.”
“You’ve done well.” Yargazon glanced at the man on the rack. “You can take him down and finish matters. Make it quick, so he doesn’t suffer anymore. And cremate the body.”
Bile rose in Ginger’s throat. She had read accounts of military campaigns, but they always described battles, which invariably were either glorious or dire, depending on whether the historian was from the winning or losing side. They never revealed this side of war, the bitter stories of soldiers who lost their lives far from the field of battle.
The warriors released the Taka Mal man and two of them took him out of the tent. They had to carry him; he was incapable of walking. Tears gathered in Ginger’s eyes as she turned to Yargazon. “Can’t you let him live?”
The general answered with a softness that jarred with the orders he had just given. “Such a sweet, gentle priestess.” He put his hand under her chin and wiped the tear on her cheek with his thumb. “Are you really so innocent?” His expression hardened. “Or is it all an act?”
“An act?” Her voice caught. “Why?”
“A good question.” He glanced at the three warriors who still stood at the rack. “She was the one in the temple who tended the body. See what you can find out.”
With horror, she realized what they intended. As Ji took her arm, she panicked. “No! I have nothing to tell you. I swear it!”
“They always say that,” Yargazon told her. “And they always lie.”
“It’s true!” She struggled frantically as the interrogators laid her out on the rack. “How could I know anything?”
“You tell me.” He watched while they untied her arms and pulled them out onto the frame. Their lack of remorse chilled her; they worked with efficiency and showed no sign of humanity. She could have been an animal rather than a human being. The worst of it was, she did know things they would want—the existence of the dragon powder, and that one of their targets had escaped and was even now headed to Quaaz to warn the Taka Mal army.
The manacles dug into her skin, hard and unyielding. As they closed the shackles around her ankles, another crushing thought came to her; she couldn’t use her spells to attack, for she would be trapped in the blaze, as well, chained to the rack while the tent and everyone within it burned.
The interrogators stepped back. The nomads had moved away and were clustered by the entrance. Ginger stared at Yargazon, and he watched her with narrowed eyes, as if he had measured her behavior and found it wanting.
One of the warriors stepped out of view, behind the rack. A creak groaned, followed by the grate of gears turning. Ginger’s arms jerked, and the chains stretched her out. At first it didn’t hurt, but he kept cranking the wheel, stretching her farther, until she gasped. She felt as if she would be torn in two.
The general stood near her head. “You saw what happened to the last person we used this on. Better to tell me the truth now rather than make us do to you what we did to him.”
“I don’t know anything to tell you.” She stared up at him. “How could I?”
He motioned to someone behind her—and the wheel creaked. She cried out as the rack stretched her limbs.
“Eventually it will dislocate your joints,” Yargazon said. “But if you cooperate, I will take you off.”
“I am cooperating.” She choked out the words. “I don’t have anything to tell you. I swear.”
“What did you see outside your temple the night the miners brought in the body?”
“I was in the temple. I didn’t see anything outside.”
“What did the miners tell you they saw?”
“Nothing.” When Yargazon lifted his hand to the soldier behind the rack, Ginger said, “I swear it! They said nothing.”
“Nothing?” His voice cut like a knife. “You expect me to believe they found a dead man and said they saw nothing?”
She strained to recall what Harjan and the others had told her. “They thought he had been attacked.”
“By who?”
“They didn’t say. We didn’t know—no!” She groaned as the wheel turned. “It’s true. They had no idea who killed him.”
“You’re lying,” Yargazon said. “What did they see? Who did they tell? What did you see?”
“Nothing, I swear,” she said, desperate. “What could we see? It was dark. They found a body. They brought it to me. That was all.”
The general motioned to another of the interrogators, and the man went to the table where several objects glinted. She couldn’t discern what they were, but he picked something long. As he came back into the torchlight, she saw what he held: a cat-o-nine tails.
“No. Please,” she pleaded. “I have nothing to tell you.”
“Not that one,” Yargazon told him. “It leaves scars.”
Ginger hoped that meant he didn’t want her limbs dislocated, either. It wasn’t much help; they could cause her a lot of pain before the effects became permanent. But she would take anything that might help her hold out longer.
The man exchanged the whip for a leather belt. Yargazon gestured to the warrior behind the rack, the wheel scraped—and Ginger screamed.
So t
hey interrogated her. Yargazon kept up a relentless stream of questions: what did she know, what had they seen, what was the army doing, who were their contacts, what was she hiding. He asked about everyone his men had seen at the temple, the Dragon’s Claw, or the village. At first she thought he was looking for something specific, but she soon realized he was fishing for anything he could force out of her.
And she talked.
It poured out of her, between her screams and sobs, details of her life, her service at the temple, even how she cooked her supper and cleaned the fountain. She told them every detail of her trial and why they accused her of witchery—except the most important fact, that their accusations were partly true, she could do spells.
When they asked about Darz, she said she had married a village man who rescued her from the stake. She described every meal she had supposedly cooked for him during her last nine days in the temple. She told them he was a farmer, that he lost his temper when he drank, and how he had been a respected member of the village before he threw it away to save her from burning alive. And she knew the general couldn’t care less.
She didn’t tell them about the powder. She claimed an earthquake toppled the Dragon’s Claw. In an excruciating irony, they accepted her lies and thought her truths were false. Yargazon obviously had no patience with those who believed in sun dragons, witchery, or spells.
Never once did he ask her if Darz was alive. Somehow she kept from saying it, though so many times she barely stopped the words from spilling out with all the others. When she came close, when the revelations were mixed up in what she was saying, she switched into long descriptions of the most boring facts she could recall, the soap she used to clean floors, how hard it was to keep mice from eating the tallow candles, how the squash crops this year came in too early and tasted bad.
And the sun went down.
She knew when the night descended because power roiled within her. But even if she gained enough reprieve from the agony to focus a spell, she had no shape. It was too dark to see anything except the general and the man with the leather belt.