White Jenna Page 20

  Jenna nodded.

  “Two lines of mice are better than one against this great cat,” Piet added.

  “And the dungeon?”

  “There is no way but from inside. That is why you go up the tower.” His pointing finger shifted two palms worth to the left, where the rock seemed to grow right out of the ground forming an impenetrable wall.

  “Kalas’ tower!” Jenna whispered.

  “How will you get up that, Jenna?” Petra asked.

  Where the rock ended, the tall brick cylinder rose straight up into the air. Not a vulture’s neck, Jenna thought, but a spear jabbing at the sky.

  “Slowly,” Jenna said. “And with a great deal of difficulty. But I will get up it all the same.”

  “If anyone can, you can,” Petra said in her ear. “The prophecy knows it. Alta will see to it.”

  Jenna looked steadily at the tower. It was at least a hundred feet high. Privately, she prayed that Alta had a very long arm. “When I get to Kalas’ room,” she said steadily, “I will put my knife to his throat and make him take me personally to the dungeon to set the king free. If there is blood this night, it will be Kalas’.” She spoke with the firm enunciation she had learned from listening to Gorum, but her heart beat erratically as she spoke. She was not nearly as certain as she appeared.

  “We will have the surprise this time,” Piet said grimly. “They think us all dead.”

  “We be having the right on our side as well,” Marek added.

  “Ah, lad, on the Continent they say: The mice may have the right but the cat has the claws. Whenever did right guarantee a victory but in a tale?” He stared ahead at the castle. “Do not be counting on the right. King Gorum did, and we buried him. I dinna want to bury you, too.”

  “Nor we you, Piet,” said Jenna.

  They waited until a shred of cloud covered the moon, then the women raced forward to the near wall, the men veering off toward the only gate.

  Jenna set off on her own, avoiding Petra’s attempt to catch her eye. If she thought about Petra or about all those who might be killed in the attempt on Kalas’ castle, she knew she would become paralyzed, unable to climb. She forced herself to think only of the rocks ahead.

  When she got to the precipitous stone, its sheer size overwhelmed her. At its base, she could see nothing above and nothing to either side but more and more stone, an endless wall of it. In the dark she could discern no handholds at all. Then suddenly the moon came out of its covering of cloud, and Skada was beside her pointing out the route.

  “There!” she said. “And there.”

  “An odd sort of greeting,” Jenna complained, tucking her braid down the back of her shirt.

  “We have no time for pleasantries,” Skada said, fixing her own hair. “And you are already breathing hard even before the climb.”

  “If I could appear and disappear under the light as you do,” Jenna said testily, “I would not need to breathe at all.” But nonetheless it was a good reminder that she had forgotten the first rule Mother Alta had taught her so long ago, that of proper breathing. She forced herself to think about the careful spider breaths for climbing. As she did so, she heard Skada’s breathing synchronizing with her own.

  Slow hand by slow hand, feet slotted into the shallow ridges, they began to climb. Every few moments they waited together, breathed together, gathered strength, then moved on up. The soft leather of their boots was scraped, their skin leggings had a hole in the right knee. Still they climbed.

  The moon suddenly disappeared behind another cloud and Skada was gone, but Jenna, so intent on the rock under her hand, foot, and face, never noticed.

  A minute later the moon came out again and Skada reappeared, clinging as Jenna did to the stone.

  “You breathe hard, sister,” Skada said.

  “In my ear, sister,” Jenna replied. “You are doing this to annoy. I wish to Alta you would stop.” But she slowed her breathing down again and found the climbing easier.

  The wall, shadow-scarred and crumbling, fooled both hand and eye. What seemed a chink was often solid. What appeared solid, a handful of dust. The mistakes cost them precious minutes, took them equally by surprise. Jenna wondered whether the others had reached their goals, the women scaling the far side of the castle, the men at the gate. But when she thought about them, her right hand slipped and she found herself desperately grabbing for rocks that kept failing to pieces beneath her. One shard cut deeply into her palm. She cursed, and heard an answering curse from Skada. With great concentration, she found another handhold and Skada’s sigh was a welcome sound.

  Above them—way above—was the lighted window. Jenna knew that they had to be there before dawn because she needed Skada, both for the sword she could wield and the comfort she might give. She said so aloud.

  “Thank you for the thought,” Skada whispered, “but keep on climbing.”

  For a moment, Jenna stopped, put her right palm to her mouth, and licked the small, bloody shred. Skada did the same, almost seeming to mock her. Neither of them smiled. Then Jenna set her hand back on the rock and began the climb once more.

  Inches were gained at the cost of minutes. The wall did not so much fight them as resist them; their own bodies became their worst enemies. There is only so much stretch in the ligaments, so much give to muscles, so much strength in even the strongest arm and thigh. But at last Jenna’s hand felt along the top of the stone wall.

  “Tower base,” she whispered. But the moon was once again behind a cloud and there was no longer anyone to whisper to.

  “Alta’s Hairs!” Jenna muttered, using a curse she rarely allowed herself. She pulled with both arms, heaving herself over the top. Even the skins were little protection against the wall. She could feel the roughness of the stone through the hides.

  Rolling to her knees, she found herself staring at a large pair of boots.

  “Look up slowly,” came a voice. “I would like to see the surprise on your face before I strike you down. Look up, dead man.”

  From her knees, Jenna looked up slowly, never stopping her prayer for a sliver of moonlight. When she finally stared at the guard, his face was suddenly lit by a full and shining moon.

  Jenna smiled at him.

  “By Cres, you are no man,” he said, relaxing for a fraction of a second and starting to smile back.

  Jenna looked down coyly, a maneuver she had seen on the face of one of the serving girls in New Steading, and held out her hand.

  Automatically the soldier reached down.

  “Now!” Jenna cried.

  Startled, he stepped back. But he was even more startled when, from behind him and below his knees, he was struck by another kneeling form. He tumbled over and was dead before the blade came sliding out of his heart.

  Jenna hoisted the man’s body on her shoulder and heaved it over the wall. She did not wait to hear it land. When she turned to speak to Skada, Skada looked stunned.

  “What is it?” Jenna asked.

  “I … I have never actually killed a man before,” Skada whispered. “The knife went in and out and he was dead.”

  “But we killed the Hound,” Jenna pointed out. “And the Bear. And cut off the Bull’s hand which led to his death.”

  “No, Jenna, you did that.”

  “You are my dark sister. You feel what I feel. You know what I know.”

  “It … is … not … quite … the … same,” Skada said, pulling each word across her tongue with great difficulty.

  “No,” Jenna said at last. “You are right. I do not feel about this unnamed guard what I felt about the others. My hand does not remember his death in quite the same way.”

  They touched hands for a moment. “We had better resume the climb up that tower. This is just the first stop. If there are other guards …”

  Skada nodded.

  “And once daylight comes, you are of no practical use. If I die …”

  Skada smiled grimly. “You do not have to remind me. Every dark sister k
nows the rules of living and of light. I live as you live, die as you die. Only get up that wall. I cannot start without you.”

  Jenna stared up at the tower wall. The bricks were newer than the stone along the great wall they had just climbed, but the ravages of the northern winds had pulped part of the facade. Bits of the brick would crumble underhand.

  As they began the new ascent, whispers volleyed between them, though nothing so loud they would awaken any guards. Occasionally, they cursed. The curses served as a cup of borrowed courage might, strengthening their resolve and reminding them that anger would serve when purpose faltered.

  Jenna reached the tower window first, but only fractionally. Below one torn fingernail blood seeped. The cut on her palm ached. Her legs were beginning to tremble with the effort of climbing. There was a spot between her shoulders that was knotted with pain. She ignored them all, concentrating all her effort on the windowsill and the light filtering over it. Under her tunic, muscles bunched as, with a final pull, she hoisted herself up to the sill onto her stomach. The sill was broad and her legs kicked Skada’s head. All she felt was relief to be off of the wall and irritation with Skada.

  “Out of the way.”

  “It is your legs that are at fault,” Skada answered huffily. “My head only moves in a limited direction.”

  Pushing herself up, Jenna tumbled them both off the sill. She caught hold of a lantern to stop the fall and dashed them both against the floor. The lantern landed first and went out; the fall seemed to take forever.

  Voices scrabbled around Jenna in the dark.

  “I have him,” someone cried and Jenna felt her arms seized. She was pushed to her knees, the sword belt slashed from her waist. Struggling did no good; it only forced her arms up higher behind her till she was sure they would break. She relaxed into the hold, waiting.

  “Light the torches, fools,” came a command. The voice was soft, but no less powerful for its softness.

  A torch was lit, stuttering to life. It was held over Jenna’s head. An odd scrambling sound from the corner made the voice from the darkness add: “There’s a second one, double fools. And idiots, all. Bring the torch over there.”

  Two men, one with the torch and one with a drawn sword, ran over to the corner but the strong light disspelled all shadows. Only along the far wall, where no one but Jenna looked, were a bent leg, a quick turn of head.

  “There is no one, Lord Kalas.”

  “Just a trick of light,” Jenna said smoothly. “Would I have been captured so easily if I had had a companion? I come alone. I am always alone. It is …” She hesitated thinking of the right word to cozen him. “It is my one conceit.”

  The men brought the torch back and held it close to Jenna’s face.

  “It is the White One, my lord Kalas,” the man with the torch said. “If we have her as well as the prince, the rebellion is all but over. They say …”

  “They say … they say altogether too much,” Kalas said. “Let me look at her. Why, she is scarcely out of childhood.” He laughed. “I had thought her a grown woman. She is but a long-legged, white-haired colt.”

  Meanwhile Jenna looked at him, past the glare of the torchlight. She had heard many things about him from Carum and Piet, and none of them good. But could this faded coxcomb, with the dyed red hair and the dyed red beard that only emphasized the pouching under his eyes, be the infamous Lord Kalas of the Northern Holdings? How could he be that wily toad they all so hated and feared?

  “I’m not interested in what the others say, but you may be fascinated by what that late, lamented, sniveling princeling Carum—who calls himself Longbow for no discernible reason—says about you.”

  Jenna controlled her tongue, thinking quickly that Kalas had put Carum’s name in both the past and the present. But the guard had not. Was Carum dead? It was not possible. She would have known, she would have felt something if he had died. Late. Lamented. Perhaps Kalas was referring to the title of prince and not the man himself. Garunians liked to play with words. She allowed herself to smile up at her captor, showing him nothing of what she felt.

  “And shall I tell you what the very late and not at all lamented Bear had to say about you, you dyed rooster?”

  “Ah,” Kalas whispered, “not a child then. A woman with a woman’s wiles. I should have known you even had you changed your hair color. Longbow’s White Goddess. He said your mouth opened as quickly as your legs, like most women of the Dales.”

  “Carum would never …” She closed her mouth, feeling like a child, indeed, to have fallen for such a trick.

  “A man on a rack says many things, my dear.”

  “Few of them true,” Jenna added.

  Kalas leaned over and put his hand lightly on her head, as if to stroke her. Instead he pulled the braid out of her shirt and yanked.

  “Girls playing at women have a certain kind of charm. Women playing at girls another. But women playing at warriors bore me.” He pulled a smile over his discolored teeth, yellowed with piji. “And you, for such a pretty girl, do it badly. Your prince is in the dungeon, not my chamber, so all your climbing has been for naught …” He tapped her right knee with the flat of his blade. “Except to strengthen those comely legs.”

  “By Alta’s Hairs …” Jenna began, hoping that by swearing she might better disguise her feelings.

  “Alta’s hairs are gray and much too short to keep her warm,” the smooth, mocking voice replied. “And that is what we have you by—Alta’s short hairs!” He laughed at his own crudity. “But if you insist on playing a man’s game, we will treat you like a man, and instead of warming my bed—which you would doubtless do with little grace though youth does have certain advantages, even Dalian youth—you will freeze with the others in my dungeon.”

  Jenna bit her lip, trying to appear frightened, when actually the dungeon was the very place she wanted to be. Though she wanted to be there with both her sword and her dagger.

  “Ah, I see you have heard of it. What is it they call it?” He yanked her braid again, this time wrapping it three times around his fist and bringing his face close to hers. For a moment she was afraid he was going to kiss her. His breath was sickly sweet with the odor of piji. The thought of that mouth on hers made her ill.

  “They call it … Kalas’ Hole,” she whispered.

  “Enjoy it,” he said, pulling his face away. “Others have.” He turned from her so quickly, his lizard-skin cape sang like a whip around his ankles. Then he was gone.

  The guards pushed Jenna down the stairs, descending it quickly. Much more quickly, she mused, than the laborious climb up that wall.

  Her hands were so tightly bound behind her, she had lost the feeling in her fingers by the second level. The one consolation was that the man with the torch went ahead, and so the shadows of their moving bodies were ranged behind them. If he had been at the end of the line, there would have been a second bound woman on the stairs, with a dark braid down her back, leggings with a hole in the knee, and a head that ached.

  Jenna promised herself that she would do nothing to make any of the guards look back to where Skada was following; neither by a remark nor by a movement would she betray her.

  The stairs twisted round and round through the tower. When they began a straight descent, Jenna knew the tower had ended and the main part of the castle had begun. At each level, the air grew cooler and mustier. There were great wooden doors on either side, with a single barred window. As they passed, she could see pale patches at the windows, but it was only after the third that she realized they were faces. After that she lifted her head, turning toward the doors, so that whoever was inside might see and recognize her. She would not be buried in secret.

  At the stairs’ end was a final heavy wooden door barring the way. It took three keys to unbolt the door and when it was finally opened, Jenna was pushed in without further ceremony and the door locked behind. Not a word had been spoken the entire trip down the stairs.

  The dungeon certainly d
eserved its name. Lord Kalas’ Hole was dark, dank, wet, and smelled like the hind end of a diarrhetic ox. Even without ever having been behind one, Jenna knew the smell.

  To keep herself from gagging, Jenna turned back and shouted at the departing guards, “May you be hanged in Alta’s hair. May She thread your guts through Her braids and use your skull…”

  “I have never heard you curse before,” came a voice made almost unfamiliar with fatigue. “But you could at least try something original.”

  “Carum!” Jenna whispered, spinning around and trying to find him in the dark. “That we were put in the same cell.”

  “Oh, this is the special one, lady,” came another voice from the dark. “The worst.”

  It was not wholly black. Some faint light trailed in through the barred window in the door. After a bit she could distinguish some shadows, though she was not sure which was Carum and which the other captives. Of Skada there was no sign, but with just that splinter of light, Jenna hardly expected to see her. And she did not wish her dark sister the pain in her wrists.

  She felt fingers touch her shoulder, move down to her bound hands, and begin to work at her bonds.

  “Actually,” Carum whispered in her ear, “I think you have it wrong. I looked it up once. The curse is really: May you be hanged by Alta’s heirs, meaning the sons and daughters she bore. Not the long braids you copy. It was in a book at Bertram’s Rest. Still, I love your hair. You must never cut it. I mean to shake it free again in the light.”

  He was having trouble with the ropes around her wrists and she stood absolutely still to let him work on them, though her legs suddenly trembled. He smelled nothing like the Carum she knew, but she doubted she smelled very good either.

  Finally he got the knots undone and silently rubbed her aching wrists. “There. What good is my right hand tied?”

  “What good am I at all,” Jenna asked wearily, “if I am caught? At least I know you are alive. I had hoped to stick my knife in Kalas’ mouth and pick his piji teeth.”