Shim would keep watch outside and let her know if she needed to.
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. “But our Lord Barin—”
Mala interrupted them. “Will allow it.”
And if possible, would suffer the same fate as the guards. The captain wasn’t the only one who should have prevented the guards from raping these prisoners, but Mala wouldn’t make threats that she couldn’t be sure of carrying out. Earlier that day, when she had returned to the caravan to give Telani the salve, she’d learned from the other woman that Barin had ruled over Blackmoor since the days of the Destroyer—and that the warlord couldn’t be killed, though many had tried.
That couldn’t be true; even gods could die. But Mala wouldn’t test her blade against his neck today.
The guards hastily backed out of her way when she started toward the keep. Solidly built, the towers rose like spears against the night sky. The greasy-lipped guard rushed ahead—most likely to warn Lord Barin and to report what Mala had done at the pillories.
Mala gave the woman time and followed at a slower pace. As she passed through the inner gate, a chill raced down her spine. The rain? By Temra’s fist, she hoped it was. But the cold weight in her belly and the sudden urge to draw her sword warned her that this trepidation was nothing so simple.
She’d sensed magic before. Never had such an icy dread accompanied it, but she’d heard this reaction described by her mother, upon first seeing Anumith the Destroyer.
He wasn’t here. But either his sorcery was still at work, or someone here abused the same foul magics.
Perhaps it was someone who couldn’t be killed.
The lilting notes of a hornflute and the distinctive mossy fragrance of roasted constrictor greeted Mala at the entrance to the great stone hall. So the warlord was at his supper, too.
She paused between the stone columns at the head of the chamber. The hornflute player danced in the center, the silver threads in his embroidered tunic catching the firelight from the torches. On either side of the room, two darkwood tables ran the length of the walls, each heavily laden with platters of sugar-dusted fruit, steaming soups, and a portion of the roasted snake. The benches were filled—by courtiers, she judged. Intricately woven garments in bright colors adorned many of the men and women, and even those who were dressed more simply wore finer cloth than any Mala had seen outside the citadel.
At the far end of the chamber, thirteen men ate at a shorter table atop a stone dais. Lord Barin sat in the center upon a tall, carved chair—but even if he hadn’t chosen to raise himself above the others or wrap himself in yellow robes edged in gold, his position would have been impossible to mistake. The fanged head of the giant constrictor gaped open near his left hand, and the first portion of its roasted body stretched to the end of the table. The longest portions fed the courtiers at the other two tables, but the tail ended at the warlord’s right hand, as if the snake’s body had circled the room. The message was clear: even the very food these people consumed began and ended with Lord Barin.
Though he had ruled this land for almost thirty years, the warlord didn’t appear much older than Mala. No gray threaded his brown braids or his short beard, and his tanned skin appeared smooth and unlined, marked only by the sun tattooed around his right eye.
The cold dread in her stomach sharpened. That tattoo marked the sun god’s disciples. The Destroyer had been one, too—before claiming that he was Enam, freed from his fiery prison in the heavens and reborn. Not all who wore that mark believed it. But many did.
At the east wall, the greasy-lipped guard was speaking to a tall, wiry man dressed in simple robes. The marshal, perhaps, who would relay the guard’s news to Barin. Smug anticipation lit the guard’s face as she spoke, and her gaze upon Mala was that of a child’s tattling to an elder and hoping to watch the inevitable punishment.
Mala didn’t fear it. She strode past the columns. The sound of a sharp breath to her left made her glance in that direction. A dozen people sat naked and leashed, each one wearing a thick leather collar.
Hot fury exploded through the icy dread, but she forced herself to continue on. She didn’t know what purpose or punishment those people served. But she would find out.
Silence fell over the hall. His pale gaze upon her, Barin had raised his hand for quiet. For a long moment, there was only the light sound of her footsteps, the rustle of cloth as the courtiers shifted to better see her, and the faint crackle of the torches. The marshal bent his head to Barin’s ear.
She reached the dais. After a nod from Barin, the marshal straightened. His deep voice sounded through the hall. “Our glorious liege welcomes the High Daughter of Krimathe to Blackmoor!”
Mala hadn’t told them who she was, yet she wasn’t surprised that he knew. Rumors traveled the roads even faster than Shim did. “You were expecting me, my lord?”
He leaned forward slightly, his glacial eyes arrested on her face. His angular features were handsome, almost beautiful, yet she preferred the fanged grin of the roasted snake near his elbow to the small smile upon his lips. “It is said that a red-cloaked daughter of Krimathe has journeyed across the mountains on a quest, and that as she travels, she has been renewing alliances that have long lain fallow. When I heard of you, I hoped that your quest would lead you through Blackmoor. Do you intend to form an alliance with me, as well?”
Not in a thousand years, not as long as this man ruled this country. Alliances had only foundered because the Destroyer had corrupted so many royal houses, or killed them and replaced their heads with his own men—and because it had taken a full generation for Krimathe to gain the strength to look outside of its own borders again.
But Mala only said, “It is true that your predecessor, Karn of Blackmoor, was once a strong ally, and I hope that we might once again renew ties with your people. But I have also come for another purpose.”
“Your quest? And what is it?” His brows arched with amusement. “To kill more of my guards?”
“If necessary.”
“You must believe it is.” Indolently he leaned back in his chair. His golden robe fell open, revealing a smoothly muscled chest. More runes had been tattooed down his throat and across his pectorals, but Mala recognized none of the symbols. “As a daughter of Krimathe, you must be especially sensitive to such punishments.”
Because after the Destroyer had killed every man and boy that he hadn’t already enslaved for his armies, he had set his soldiers upon every remaining woman. But although Barin’s careless reference to the most horrific assault her people had ever endured steamed Mala’s blood, she would not be baited.
“I administer Vela’s justice,” she said. “And before we ever speak of an alliance, I must first know if I must administer it again.”
“Upon me?” Barin’s grin seemed to crawl up her spine and was answered by a few uneasy titters from the listening courtiers. “For what offense?”
Probably more than the one she was about to name. “You have men and women leashed in this chamber.”
“And you wonder if they are enslaved? Let me set your avenging mind at ease, Krimathean. To pay their debts, they have chosen to serve me in this manner.” He rapped upon the table. “Come up, Gepali. Your deliverer has arrived to rescue you from your labors.”