“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.” Her glance at Kordos was cool and appraising. “I’ve never met such suspicious people in my life.”
“We’re suspicious?” Kordos snapped. “Your people launched a full bore attack through a portal-an attack that, unlike the affair you describe-most definitely wasn’t the result of confusion and a sudden encounter! It was clearly carefully planned before it was executed, and you massacred a complete company of our troops! And then, according to what little information we do have, your ‘negotiators’ murdered our envoys and their entire security escort. And you call us suspicious?”
For just an instant, Brith Darma thought they’d found the way to frighten her. The Voice’s face went parchment white and a tremor shook through her. Then she exploded.
“Don’t you dare sit there on your sanctimonious Andaran arse and regurgitate the same swill your ‘journals’ printed! Otwal Threbuch admitted your officer in charge of that ‘complete company’ of yours tried to kill an unarmed Sharonian officer asking for me-by name, damn you-under a flag of truce! That officer tried to commit murder.
“By all the gods and goddesses of Sharona, the bastards in that camp deserved what they got! Most of them had tried to kill me. Tried hard. If you expect me to feel sorry that some of those men were already wounded because I shot them, you’ll be waiting a long time for it. The only man in that whole camp I shed tears for was Halathyn…”
To Brith Darma’s horror, that was what broke her.
She stood there, shaking and magnificent, her eyes rimmed red, and wept while talking about roses made of light and childlike wonder and kindness to terrified, traumatized captives, and all the other reasons a whole civilization had loved Magister Halathyn vos Dulainah.
And the lie-detector light remained dark.
If this wisp of a girl was Sharona’s norm, Arcana was in desperate trouble, and he had a sinking, hollow-gut feeling that there were altogether too many people just like her on the other side of the portal she’d walked through before running into Jasak Olderhan’s platoon. She’d been wronged. Hugely-devastatingly-so. Worse, her people knew she had. And they knew Hadrign Thalmayr had exhibited the moral judgment of a jackal.
Worse, if her “Voice” ability functioned the way she said it did-if the rest of Sharona had received the terrifyingly accurate report of what she and her comrades had endured that he was sinkingly certain they had-there was only one way they could possibly respond. They’d be out in force, demanding blood vengeance, and he couldn’t find it in himself to blame them. Yet it was his job to defend the Union of Arcana and its vital interests. As disastrous a course as it was bound to be, the Union would have no choice but to fight these people, and it was up to him and his fellows to do that fighting…however much they privately sympathized with Shaylar, her husband, and their dead companions. They had no choice, and he wanted to scream at the utter damned fools who’d botched this so badly and landed Arcana in such a foul snare.
The trouble was, the fools he needed to scream at were either dead, prisoners of war, or over 85,000 miles from where he sat, on the far side of Hell’s Gate and being damned chary about sending timely reports back to their superiors. The only other candidate handy was Jasak Olderhan. Brith Darma was sinkingly aware of where that was likely to end, and he hated the thought of trashing the career of an officer who showed as much promise as Sir Jasak. But that was for later. For now, they still had a difficult and exhausting inquiry to get through and the witness of the moment was trembling, wiping her face with her hands, and trying desperately to regain her composure.
“Master of the Sword,” Brith Darma said, tone gruff to hide the emotion in his voice, “please be kind enough to fetch a chair for this lady.”
When she stared at him, he said, “Like you, I give respect when and where it’s earned. You and I are enemies. I can’t tell you how profoundly I regret that, but neither of us can change it. Not at this point. But you’re a worthy opponent-and, so far as I can tell, an honorable one-and I won’t add to the burden on your shoulders by treating you harshly when you’re intensely distressed. Particularly since your distress is for one of us.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, almost voiceless.
When the Master of the Sword brought a chair, she sank down onto it, trembling. When the stoic, stone-faced Master produced a handkerchief from his blouse pocket and handed it to her, fresh tears welled up and her second “thank you” was entirely voiceless. She dried her eyes, got her snuffles under control, and took several deep, calming breaths.
Then she surprised him again.
“May I reassure my husband that you’re not torturing me, in here? He can feel my distress and it’s driving him nearly frantic.”
Both officers flanking Brith Darma hissed softly under their breath. So did Brith Darma. Jasak Olderhan’s report had mentioned a strange mental connection between this woman and her mate, but he hadn’t thought to see it demonstrated so quickly.
“Master of the Sword, allow Jathmar Nargra to enter.”
The instant the door swung open, Brith Darma braced for assault. Jasak Olderhan and Gadrial Kelbryan were grappling with Jathmar Nargra, who was trying to reach the door, apparently intent on kicking it down while a ghastly combination of terror and rage blazed in his face.
The massive Master of the Sword whipped his sword out of its scabbard and braced himself for assault.
“Let him enter!” Brith Darma called out sharply.
The Master of the Sword snarled a curse under his breath and retreated, backing up with sword held at the ready. He kept himself and his blade between the crazed prisoner and the officers of the board.
“Hundred Olderhan! Let him go!”
In the instant, Jathmar exploded through the open doorway. He swept his wife into his arms, jerking her off her feet and dragging her out of the interrogation room. She was speaking urgently in a language that was not what Gadrial Kelbryan had recorded. She was clearly trying to reassure him, because the wild rage gradually seeped out of him. He shuddered. Set her on her feet. Buried his face in her hair.
When he lifted his face again, it was a mask of helpless agony. He brushed wet strands of hair out of her eyes where her upswept hair had come loose and been plastered to her face by her own tears and his. He was whispering her name. Over and over. Just her name. Brith Darma was so shaken, he couldn’t even look away. When Fleet Third Kordos started to speak in an undertone, the earl lifted a hand, warning him to silence. He didn’t want anything setting off that man’s hair trigger.
He wished to hell he’d worn his own sword.
When Jathmar had calmed sufficiently to release his hold on his wife, and the look he turned on Brith Darma and the other officers might have frozen a sun. Silence hovered, and the earl neither moved nor spoke. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was provoke the Master of the Sword into disemboweling the Sharonian.
Shaylar spoke again and touched his face, turned it back to look down into hers. At length, he nodded and caught her face in both his hands, pressing a gentle and desperate kiss to her lips.
Brith Darma said in a low whisper, “If either of you even suggests we try to continue questioning her alone, I will personally loosen your teeth.”
“No argument from me,” Kordos muttered, and Githrak merely lifted one eyebrow.