18

L azar had thought about closing his eyes to Ana but they seemed to have a will of their own. He saw her eyes water and he shook his head softly, willing her to be strong. Ana twisted her shoulder free of Horz’s curiously protective hand and wiped at her tears quickly, mouthing something to Lazar that he would never see, for the veil covered her mouth.

It was just as well, for it would have undone him.

The first bite of the Snake struck wildly across his shoulders and Ana watched Lazar open his mouth in a wide grimace, but no sound came out. She would never admit to the smiling eunuch, who was watching her and not the Spur, that she would rather be here focused on Lazar’s face than having to confront the damage at his back. Ana glanced toward Jumo, whose expression was blank, but she could read beneath it to the horror and the fear. He blinked as the whip was flicked back again for the second strike and she returned her attention to Lazar, who was breathing hard, his only way of steeling himself against the burning pain. The Snake bit again, and this time Ana saw its forked tongues curling around Lazar’s chest, ripping savagely through flesh as blood rushed to the open wounds and ran down his body.

She heard a sound of awe mixed with horror. She was not sure who made it and hoped it was Herezah.

Lazar closed his eyes now, squeezing them tightly, but still no sound issued from his mouth. Ana felt her heart racing—eighteen more to go—and this time she risked a glance up at Herezah. Ana saw only hunger in those dark, cruel eyes.

The third strike was clearly off target, some of the beads, with their sharply jagged edges, raking through Lazar’s hair, tearing the flesh of his scalp as Shaz inexpertly flicked the whip back. Ana noticed how horrified the young Inflictor looked. She could not see any of the damage, bar the wounds on Lazar’s side, but she could see the lifeblood coursing from the injuries and could imagine how ugly it must already appear. Shaz faltered as he drew a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his face. And still Lazar gave no sound.

The fourth stroke whipped cruelly around to Lazar’s belly as Shaz desperately tried to adjust the height of his lashing to avoid the victim’s head. Again skin tore and yielded bright blood, drenching Lazar’s white cotton trousers. Blood was running down his face too, joining with the sweat that had been caused by pain. Lazar’s freshly washed hair, once shiny in the afternoon sun, was now damp and clumped.

The fifth lash of the Snake won a groan, short and guttural. Salmeo smiled—he had obviously been waiting for Lazar’s breaking point. The Vizier was less obvious, merely glancing toward his bejeweled sandals, but there was satisfaction apparent in his face, Ana noticed. After the next five strokes, Lazar’s body gave little resistance, and although he made no further sound, he began to slump against the pull of the bonds that had once held him upright.

Halfway.

Ana saw that Shaz was panting, perspiration sheening his body. He cracked the whip again, his expression anguished. And as he dragged it back, his assistant handed him a cup of water, which he gratefully drained with a shaking hand.

No one offered Lazar anything but silent love or hate, depending on whom Ana looked at.

HE HAD COUNTED each shocking bite of the Snake, and with the mounting toll, he felt his strength being leached away with the blood that ran so freely now. By the eleventh, Lazar was losing the will to fight. He could no longer open his eyes and his throat was parched, his lips dry and cracked. Though he knew Ana was still in front of him, willing him to stay strong, urging him silently to prevail, he could no longer see her through the blur of the blood.

At first the pain had been searing and intense, the kind he knew how to withstand, if more vicious than anything he’d previously experienced. But now a numbness was coming over him—the body’s own weapon against the shock. It felt like a death creeping through him, as if his very veins were running with a killing liquid rather than life itself. Lights, incandescent and of all colors, were flashing behind his eyelids…was this death beckoning? It would be so easy to give in to it. Should he? Was that the fourteenth lash? He could no longer tell, could no longer count, could no longer hear anything around him. He wasn’t sure he could even open his eyes to bid her farewell. Sweet Ana. He had not meant to give his life, but if he had to, he was glad it was for her. He knew she was too young to be loved the way his treacherous mind tormented him with, but he knew, deep within his fractured heart, that she loved him too. He did not care that hers was a childish love, for a first love is always the sweetest, the most intense and pure.

How odd that he could remember his so well. Lazar thought he had buried the memory of Shara too deep to lift it free again. Loving Shara had been so easy—youth made it easy and carefree and filled with such brightness that he never imagined it could be tarnished. But life had taught him that even the most radiant of treasures could be dulled. And now, just when he had allowed himself to believe otherwise, life was teaching him that same harsh lesson once again.

He envisaged his legs giving way, but unsure whether this had in fact occurred. He no longer felt connected to his body. Had he called out? He had no idea. Lazar wanted to believe he was still standing rigidly against the post, taking the punishment, but he suspected his stance was not nearly so proud as it had been. The sense of weakness he felt frightened him.

He began to tremble, became aware of it because his teeth were chattering, jarring him into a sense of wakefulness that served only to reinforce his belief—now a certainty—that he was dying. A rush of anger blazed through him at the notion that his death would give Salmeo and, no doubt, Tariq, great satisfaction—and that anger brought a measure of clarity to Lazar’s dulled mind, allowing him to hear Shaz counting his seventeenth stroke. Seventeen! He had almost made it. But death was whispering gleefully to him. The Valide would not be so smug about his passing. She might be enjoying his suffering but she would not be smiling when he died, for who then, would protect Percheron?

Lazar felt himself withdraw fully. He suddenly felt himself tiny, retracting into his soul, which he must now relinquish to the gods.

It was time. Give in, Lazar, he heard himself beg inwardly. Let go.

And then a new voice, cutting shrilly through the pain and despair. Lazar! You must live. Fight it. For her…for Ana, if not for yourself. Live, damn you. In his agony, Lazar could not tell whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman.

Who? was all he could muster in response.

“Last stroke!” he heard, the voice sounding very far away. Was that the Inflictor? What had been the boy’s name?

I am Iridor, said the intruder. You are done, Lazar. They have finished with you—but we have not. We need you. Promise me you will live. Swear on Ana’s life!

I swear it, Lazar thought he might have replied as he slipped into the void of unconsciousness.

JUMO HAD WATCHED, traitorous tears betraying his usual stoicism, as his master sagged so deeply that only the bonds around his wrists prevented him from slumping fully to the ground. He had watched as Lazar’s knees buckled at the thirteenth vicious stroke and heard as Lazar called out Ana’s name on the sixteenth lash. Jumo saw all tension leave Lazar’s body at the final bite of the Snake. His great friend had surely just yielded his life.

Jumo looked deliberately toward Salmeo, who sought permission from the Zar to end the proceedings. Boaz, white-lipped, nodded and then stomped away, acknowledging no one, leaving his mother in his wake. Herezah barely noticed her son’s departure, Jumo noted, for she could not tear her eyes from the ruin of the blood-soaked man.

Jumo slanted a glance at Ana. The terror in her eyes pained him but there was nothing more he could do for her as she was hurried away from the carnage, blood spattering the veil she wore.

“You may remove the Spur,” Salmeo said carefully. “Thank you, Inflictor,” he added, tossing a purse at the feet of the trembling Shaz.

Everyone retreated from the courtyard in silence, leaving Jumo to look upon the mess with only Shaz and his younger, equally shocked assistant.

“Have I killed him?” Shaz choked out.

“He breathes,” Jumo said with an intense relief that lasted only a moment. The Spur’s breaths were slow and weak; he was very near death. “Water!” Jumo commanded, and the younger boy rushed away as Shaz approached, crouching and then falling to his knees beside the man whose flesh he had flayed. Bright bone shone through the bloody mess.

“Will he survive?” Shaz begged Jumo.

Jumo shook his head. “I cannot see how.” He spoke in a monotone, not wanting to share the depth of his hurt with anyone.

Shaz began to wail softly, rocking backward and forward on his knees. “I told them I wasn’t ready. I begged them not to force me do it but Rah made me.”

“Rah?”

“The Deputy Inflictor. He was told to claim illness.”

“What? When?”

“This morning, after he told me of this flogging. Felz, our superior, is away.”

“Ah,” Jumo replied, nodding as everything fell into place. “Salmeo suggested Rah be sick, you mean?” Shaz nodded through his haze of tears. “Help me cut him down,” Jumo said, suppressing his fury. None of this was the young fellow’s fault.

Before they could cut Lazar free, the assistant returned with a bowl of water and rags. Using his fingers, Jumo dripped water through the cracked lips of his unconscious friend, praying silently to his god that this life would be spared. Lazar coughed weakly but it was the gladdest sound Jumo had ever heard.

“Lay those wet rags against his back,” Jumo directed, checking again that Lazar breathed. “There is nothing we can do for him here. He will need a physic’s attention.” The two young men set to. “Do it gently,” Jumo cautioned unnecessarily.

As Shaz carefully placed a linen against Lazar’s wounds, his eyes widened. “Sir, look,” he said, nodding toward the Spur’s back.

Jumo, who had been focused on checking Lazar’s pulse, glanced at his friend’s injuries. “What? I know they’re bad.”

“No, look,” Shaz said, more fear in his voice now. “There,” he said, pointing and gently wiping blood from the back of Lazar’s neck. Strange bright streaks traversed the Spur’s unbroken skin. “What could it be?” Shaz asked.

Jumo blinked slowly with resignation. So the palace had not intended for the Spur to survive. “There is only one thing that leaves livid marks like that,” he whispered, his voice filled with rage. He looked up at Shaz. “Poison.”

The young man shook his head in desperate denial. “No, sir, not me. There was no poison on the Snake.”

Jumo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain, Shaz?”

Again the youngster balked. “I don’t know, sir. I swear it. I was given no instructions to poison the whip. To my knowledge no one tampered with it.”

Jumo saw a new shiver overtake Lazar’s body. The evening was warm but his body felt cool. The Spur was past shock; he was dying. There was no time for recriminations. “Pick him up,” Jumo ordered, and both youngsters obeyed wordlessly, carefully lifting the Spur by his arms. “Lay him over my back!” Jumo commanded, bending slightly.

Shaz hesitated. “How will you manage?”

“Don’t worry about me, Inflictor. Worry about yourself and whether your head will still be connected to your body after the Zar hears of this,” Jumo growled. Without a farewell, he left the Courtyard of Sorrows and its stench of blood and betrayal.

For a thin man, Jumo was deceptively strong. He was all hard muscle and tough sinew and this was not the first time he had carried his master in this fashion. That previous mercy dash had saved Lazar’s life. Let it be so again, he prayed. He hoped his legs would stay loyal and not buckle as he began to run with his heavy burden.

At first he hardly recognized that it was Pez shouting to him. Jumo was so focused on moving his feet forward that he didn’t hear his own name being called. The dwarf had to grab him, drawing him to a halt.

“Quick! I have a cart,” Pez said. “We must take him to the Sea Temple.”

Jumo wore the expression of a man in deep shock. “He’s been poisoned,” he declared.

Pez nodded gravely. “I figured as much. Come, time is against us.”

Jumo carefully laid Lazar on his belly in the back of the cart. “He breathes,” he noted in a faraway voice.

Pez squeezed the loyal man’s arm. “He’s strong of heart, mind, body. If anyone can survive this, he can.”

Jumo nodded, his throat closing on a dry sob. Odd questions roamed through his mind as they traveled; who was responsible for the poisoning, why did someone want the Spur dead, would he recover, and if he recovered, would Lazar remain at the palace? Would he want to find the perpetrator or would he simply leave Percheron, return to the nation that truly claimed him as its own? Jumo guided the donkey as if from memory, for he was certainly not concentrating, while Pez, in an effort to clear a path, ran ahead of the car, squealing and throwing nuts at the people they passed.

Jumo finally found his voice. “Why do you suggest the Sea Temple?” he called.

“We’ll have help there. Hurry, Jumo.”

They said nothing else as they weaved an exasperatingly slow path through the afternoon crowds. Though they had covered Lazar to hide his identity, many passersby still glanced into the back of the cart, raising their eyebrows as they saw the shape of a man beneath the light linen. Pez began to whistle tunelessly, pulling rude faces at the onlookers; Jumo ignored everything but the hammering of his heart, willing the donkey to go faster through the throng. Finally they were out into more open pathways and the beast could make quicker progress.

Standing on the steps of the Sea Temple was the priestess he had seen on the first occasion Lazar had visited the temple. She was shading her eyes against the glare of the sun, waiting for them anxiously.

“Quickly,” she urged. “Lay him down by the altar just inside. Let Lyana look upon him.”

Jumo grimaced. How many more gods would they call upon today to save Lazar? He hefted his friend once again over his shoulders and felt intense relief to hear the man groan softly. The flight of steps up to the temple entrance felt like a mountain with Lazar’s weight on his body and the suffocating crush of fear within himself. Inside the sanctuary it was cool and serene, the silence and darkness calming Jumo slightly as Zafira fretted, pointing to the altar.

“Over there, please,” she insisted.

“You have a bed, surely?” Jumo suggested, angry at her.

“Do as Zafira says,” Pez said gently.

Jumo knelt and rolled Lazar as carefully as he could off his shoulders. Pez and Zafira guided Lazar onto his belly once again. The linen covering fell away and Zafira’s hands flew like startled birds to her mouth, covering a cry of appalled shock at the sight of the Spur’s injuries.

“Oh, Mother,” she wept. “Help this soul, guide us in this.”

Jumo gritted his teeth, suddenly feeling helpless. “The poison will kill him before the wounds,” he growled.

“Do we know what type of poison?” Pez’s question snapped the priestess out of her stupefaction. Both Pez and Jumo heard her knees protest as she lowered herself beside Lazar. Fresh water and linens were already prepared and waiting. Zafira squeezed out the first linen and began her gentle toil.

Jumo shook his head. “I don’t, but I think Shaz is innocent of treachery.”

Pez sighed. “I think we can assume that Salmeo is behind this. I wonder who else.”

“Not Herezah,” Jumo offered somberly. “Are you aware of her fascination with Lazar?”

Pez knelt too. “I’d have to be blind and deaf as well as daft not to be. You’re right, she would not have sanctioned this. Lazar’s too important to the realm, anyway. Herezah might be ambitious and wicked but she’s far from stupid.”

“The Vizier?” Jumo offered as they watched Zafira gently cleanse Lazar’s back.

“Give him this,” Zafira said softly to Pez.

“What is it?”

“It will bring a small measure of comfort. I can’t risk putting him to sleep until we know more about the drug used on him. Jumo, help me clean away the blood—I need to see him more clearly.”

As Jumo knelt to help Zafira, Pez continued: “Tariq does not have access to the Inflictors or their weapons. No, if this hasn’t come from Herezah, and I think you’re right in that, then it is all Salmeo’s work. He alone can give such a command.”

“Shaz seemed to know nothing of it.”

Pez shrugged as he dribbled the concoction into Lazar’s barely parted lips, grimacing as most of it ran down the side of the Spur’s mouth. “Why would he? He is simply the unfortunate one who will take the blame. I imagine even his superiors are pawns in this.”

Jumo cleaned the last of the old blood from Lazar’s back. Now the Spur’s wounds seeped bright, fresh lifeblood from the gentle new attention.

“Most would perish from this alone,” Zafira muttered. She gently traced the livid tracks of the poison. “It moves very slowly. I have no idea what it is.”

“So what do we do?” Jumo asked, frightened all over again. Why had he thought an old priestess and a dwarf could save Lazar’s life? He should have brought his friend to a city physic, he berated himself. Helplessly, he hung his head just as a shadow darkened the entrance of the temple.

“I’m sorry,” Zafira said from the ground where she knelt. “You’ve come at a trying time, as you can see.”

“I do see.” The new visitor was a woman. She was soft-spoken and her voice had a musical quality as she asked, “May I come in? Perhaps I might help?”

Jumo watched the hooded figure step out of the doorway, where she was encircled by the light of the sun, into the shadows. Although she was petite, her presence seemed to pulse with an aura of authority. Somehow none of them could deny her access to Lazar.

She knelt beside him, making a soft sound of concern. She pushed back her hood and Jumo noticed first her pale hair, which he assumed must have been golden when she was young. As she turned to face him, he saw that the woman was indeed older, skin like beautiful ivory parchment, unblemished except for the handsome lines of time. Somehow she seemed familiar, though Jumo could not determine from where. The deep kindness she conveyed as she looked at him eased his despair even though her words did not. “He will slip beyond us within hours,” she said gravely.

Jumo felt his heart sink. “Can you help him?”

“He is very close to death. I should have seen something like this coming.” This last she said beneath her breath but Pez’s sharp hearing caught it, and he frowned, puzzled. He glanced toward Zafira, who wore a similar expression of bafflement. They both snatched a look at Jumo but Lazar’s friend was concentrating deeply, his entire focus given over to the old woman.

“There is poison,” he confirmed, and she nodded, leaning close to Lazar’s back and sniffing. Then she nodded again, deep in thought. “I think this is drezden. A nasty, debilitating concoction. Normally, it’s administered orally to a healthy person—death follows within hours. It has a distinctive spicy smell, reminiscent of clove…can you detect it?” All three shook their heads dumbly. “You’ve all been a bit preoccupied,” she offered kindly. “In this instance the drezden has been administered topically via the weapon used to flog him. It is not an effective way to deliver the poison, but as you can see by the tracks, it is working, albeit slowly. This is our single hope.”

“He can beat it?” Jumo asked hopefully.

The old woman paused. “Unlikely, and his horrific injuries will probably kill him first.” She gave him a look of genuine sorrow. “I’m sorry, Jumo. We will try to save him, but you should know we will probably fail.”

Pez noticed that she used Jumo’s name, making a friend of him, and yet they had not been introduced. “Do we know you?”

“In a way,” she said, indicating that they should lay the wet linens back in place. “Those will need to be kept constantly damp.”

“I have never met you before,” Pez said, a soft challenge in his tone.

“Ah, but you have, friend Pez. Remember a red silk ribbon?”

His initial curiozity curdled to shock. The Bundle Woman! She looked different and yet, now that he thought about it, somehow the same. She was not as old as she had originally appeared to him.

“How do you know my name?” Jumo suddenly asked.

“I know all of your names. You are Jumo, this is Pez, and”—she bowed her head slightly—“here we have a sister, Zafira.”

“You are a priestess?” Zafira exclaimed, obvious delight in her voice.

The old woman smiled but said nothing until she looked down upon their patient. “And this is Lazar, whom we shall probably lose but not without a fight.” Her words reassured Jumo, even though he could almost hear the death knell for the man he loved.

“What have you given him?” the woman continued.

“The root of calzen,” Zafira answered, “to ease his pain, not that it can really deaden this sort of pain. I couldn’t risk a soporific.”

“The right decision,” the woman assured her. “I cannot do anything here. We have to move him.”

“Is it safe to?” Pez inquired.

“Lazar is dying, Pez. Nothing we do can make much of a difference unless I can get him to the Isle of Stars.”

“The leper colony?” Jumo exclaimed, voicing the shock Pez and Zafira also felt.

The stranger shrugged. “It’s safe and no one will find him there.”

“Is it not dangerous to risk the leper colony?” Zafira asked, unable to mask her incredulity.

“I doubt it. There are only a few inhabitants and none that will trouble us.”

“Who are you?” Pez demanded.

“Questions, questions!” The woman smiled and the warmth made their hearts feel instantly lighter. “I will answer them all but I have a precious man’s life in the balance. Please, help me get him to the island, although I suspect, Pez, that you should return to the palace.”

Pez knew he would be missed at the palace and that was courting danger. “Yes but—”

“Go, brother Pez. You cannot help Lazar any more than you have. I promise we shall get word to you, and besides, I gather I have some questions to answer for you.” Again her gentle smile prevented Pez from pushing further.

He touched Lazar gently on his blood-streaked face and then was moved to bend close and kiss his forehead.

“I shall see you again, my friend,” he whispered, and with one sad glance toward the others, he left the temple.

As he wended his way back to the palace, Pez pondered—among the many confusing aspects of today—the few moments when he was sure he had lost consciousness. It had happened during Lazar’s flogging. Pez realized that one moment he had been dashing at high speed from the temple to find Jumo again, and the next he was out cold on the roadside. No one had bothered with him and the dwarf had regained his wits slowly, uninterrupted by curious passersby. He could not account for the fainting spell, or what might have occurred during it. The sudden weakness made him uncomfortable.

And now the Bundle Woman returning to his life. Could she save Lazar? She’d convinced Jumo she could not, even though their friend still breathed, still clung to life. But she had soothed them all too. What skill, to comfort in the face of certain suffering.

Although Pez returned to the palace counting loudly in Merlinean, he was deeply confused and anxious, but no one noticed. It was what they were used to.