“What do you want, Gilliad?” she asked in her calmest voice, belying the panic inside. “Stop torturing them and tell me.”
“Tell you? Don’t you know? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Me.”
His features softened abruptly. To her horror, he smiled. “Yes, Jeren. You. Even defiled by the Shistra-Phail’s touch. Even with Khain’s mark on you. But I can’t have you now, can I?”
Never could, she longed to say.
Vertigern fell silent. She hoped he was still alive. Not really for his sake, but for Alyssa’s. For Elayne’s.
“Not anymore, my brother.”
Gilliad growled like an animal and advanced on her again. He didn’t pause to look at her, to listen to her, to take into account her struggles. He sank his teeth right into her shoulder, biting hard through flesh and into the muscle beneath.
Jeren screamed, straining in the manacles, trying to tear herself away. He released her, smiling like a maniac, her blood covering his mouth and chin along with his. White hot pain seared through her.
“At least you’ll have that to remember me by. Clean her up, dress her like a civilised Holter and bring her to the Soul Chamber. Bring them both. Vertigern can serve one last purpose with his blood.” He stepped over the weeping ball that was Alyssa, glancing down at her as an afterthought with a look of cold disdain. “Someone return her to her own chamber. Get her out of my sight.”
The servants were more terrified of Gilliad than Jeren, no matter how barbaric her appearance. Armed guards made it impossible for her to get out of the room and the cowed faces and frightened eyes of the women attending her stole the fight from her as surely as if Gilliad had cast an enchantment.
Still, she had to try. “You’ve got to help me get out of here.”
Blank expressions greeted this statement until one got up the courage to speak. “He won’t just kill us, if we help you.” The woman was older, her face drawn with concern. “He’ll take our families as well. He’ll give them to those creatures of his.”
Of course, he would. He ruled through terror and cruelty, just as she had known he would.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
One of the girls gave a sob and turned away, her shoulders shaking as she wept silently.
“If you leave, Lady Jeren, you condemn us all. And those we love,” said the older woman. Stern eyes studied the indecision on her face. “Please, my lady.”
That defeated her, more surely than Gilliad and his threats. She couldn’t let them die, not like Mina and Devyn.
Too many people have died for me. Someone else will come to take my place. Someone else... who’ll do it right.
The tattoo on her shoulder burned.
It wouldn’t matter, would it? Not now. One way or the other she was doomed. Gilliad on one side, Khain on the other.
And Shan... lost.
“Very well,” she whispered, bowing her head. The women gave sighs of relief and set about their assigned tasks, pulling out her gowns, pouring hot water and bath oils into the tub. Jeren walked to the balcony. This was the same room he had imprisoned her in before, when he had also held Shan captive. When life and freedom unrolled before her like a dream. If she could just grab it.
Well, she’d tried. At least she had tried.
What did it matter that she’d failed?
Jeren let them fuss and fret over her. She let take her Feyna clothes away and sat in the bath while they washed her. They cleaned her wounds, applied healing ointments and passed no comments on the bite mark her brother had given her when they dressed it.
Then one of them plucked at one of her braids, ready to undo it.
Jeren surged up to her feet, water sloshing everywhere and they cried out in alarm.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“My hair stays as it is.”
And uncomfortable silence filled the room. Eventually, the older woman spoke again. The others deferred to her in mute relief. “But my lady, that’s the mark of a savage.”
Jeren kept her face flat, reining in her anger. They didn’t know any better, did they?
But she thought of Indarin’s nobility, or Lara’s spirit and grace, and of Shan. Of all the wonders that went to make up her Shan.
The man she had sent away.
The man who had become a monster.
Her husband.
Jeren swallowed hard. “Maybe.” Her voice sounded much more certain than she felt. “Maybe, but I earned them. I’m keeping them. Don’t untie them.”
“Your brother will not be—”
Patience exhausted, Jeren rounded on her. “What’s your name?”
“Ilydona Fray, my lady,” she said with quiet dignity.
“Well, Ilydona, I don’t want to please my brother. Do you know what would please my brother when it comes to me? Do you know what he intends to do with me?”
Horrified silence greeted her. They looked anywhere but into her eyes.
And the pain of it made her eyes sting. “You do know, don’t you?”
Ilydona laid a soothing hand on Jeren’s arm. “We know, my lady. But what can we do about it? What can any of us do? He is the Lord of River Holt, the Scion of Jern. And his powers have grown vast. All we can do is endure.”
“Enduring isn’t enough.” Jeren stepped from the water and took the soft towel she was offered. She wrapped it around her body and pulled it tight.
Her hands tingled with magic, her anger setting in, humming inside her. Magic that she could use, surely, no matter how paltry others thought it.
The Seers had shown her that, though they had not meant to. Magic that could heal. Magic that could harm.
She knew what she had to do.
“Very well,” she told the servants. “Do it. Make me beautiful for him. Make me the Holtlady he wants. Dress me in finery, decorate me with jewels. Just get me close to him.”
That was all it would take, she assured herself.
Her fingers tingled at the thought and Khain’s mark on her shoulder throbbed with dark pleasure.
She just had to get close enough.
Night fell over River Holt and Jeren stood on the balcony of the chamber transformed. The finery formed a cold, hard shell around her. She had never looked so beautiful nor so unlike herself. Through all the preparations she never complained.
Holtladies don’t complain, Mina Roh had taught her, a lifetime ago.
Jeren felt the old regimens of duty closing over her like a coffin.
Then she felt it, the brush of another mind, another soul. Not human, not Feyna, not anything that should be in River Holt. She stared down, leaning on the rail while the wind played against her skin.
She couldn’t see in the darkness, not clearly, couldn’t push her vision to perform beyond its natural capabilities.
But the mind was still there and when it pinned its attention on her, a burst of joy, of elation, roared through her.
Naul?
She struggled to keep the shock to herself, blinked and tried to see more.
“Lady Jeren, are you ready?” Her escort of five guards stood waiting for her. Jeren dug her fingers into the balcony rail.
If Naul was here, who was with him? Had Elayne and Leithen brought help? Or was it—she hardly dared to think it—was it Shan and Indarin?
No. No, this would lead her nowhere. She knew what she had to do. The chance of surviving was non-existent. Hopes like this would just undermine her intent.
Run away Naul. Tell them if you can. Run as far and as fast as you can.
Whether the wolf-cub heard her, or even understood, she couldn’t tell. She turned, stiff-backed to face the guards. Even they looked ashamed.