James West - Queen of the North

Earlier, Nesaea thought she had seen two figures farther down the shore. With all the chaos after the Lamprey had come under attack, then swimming for shore and getting captured-not once, but twice-Nesaea was unsure if she could trust her eyes.

“We have only ourselves,” Nesaea said against Fira’s ear.

Fira leaned away, eyes round in a face as white as the falling snow. Her usually full lips had shriveled down to pale blue worms. “What’s that mean?” she whispered back.

Releasing Fira, Nesaea caught the hilt of a dagger concealed under her cloak-the Kingsguard had been quick to disarm everyone under their watch, but they had not been thorough. “We’ll have to cut our way out of this trap, and make for the forest.”

“Are you mad?”

“What choice do we have? They came for Rathe. When they realize he’s not here, the questioning will begin. I shouldn’t have to tell you what that means for either of us. If I must choose between getting cut down or being held down while some brute has his way with me, I’d rather die with a blade in my hand.”

Fira nodded imperceptibly.

As Nesaea began twisting her dagger to break it free of the iced sheath, Edrik glanced her way and slowly shook his head.

Nesaea went still. Had that been a warning, or was he only trying to save his own skin? Before she found an answer, Edrik made a slight gesture to his fellows and, one by one, they slipped tiny golden flasks from under their robes and took a sip. Watching each of them grimace by turns, she wondered what they were up to?

“Ho the camp!” came a familiar voice from the soldiers tromping along the riverbank.

“Oh, gods,” Fira breathed.

Nesaea said nothing. The first she had heard that voice, the haughty speaker had been recounting the history of Skalos.

“Jathen,” Fira whispered harshly.

Nesaea nodded, a wave of trepidation filling her breast. Before Rathe had returned the monk’s so-called baubles, she had treated the Keeper’s Box and the Wight Stone with two substances that, when put together, created a destructive mixture. Doubtless, Jathen would not have taken kindly to losing such rare and powerful artifacts. She had never expected to see him again, but here he was, striding into view.

“His face,” Fira muttered.

“Oh gods,” Nesaea breathed, as the man halted to look over the captives. As his agate blue eyes swiveled, she saw a terrible scar across his brow, as if searing fire had washed over him. Alchemy was a thorny talent to master at best, and while Nesaea was a fair hand at it, something had gone very wrong. I ruined his face … a face most women would’ve found attractive.

Jathen’s eyes widened at the sight of Fira, then narrowed when they turned to Nesaea. “Milady,” he said, striding nearer. He was dressed as a lord ready for battle, with an ermine-lined green cloak draped over his broad shoulders, and a burnished steel breastplate embossed with a golden sun. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to find you here.” Though he spoke in a pleasant tone, there was a disturbing mixture of hatred and joy in his eyes that made Nesaea cringe.

“Brother Jathen,” she said, renewing her efforts to get her dagger free of the icy scabbard. “I’m surprised to see you.”

Jathen smiled warmly, as if greeting an old friend. “Duty calls, and we humble servants must obey, yes?”

“I suppose,” Nesaea agreed.

Jathen turned back to Fira. “Words cannot convey my delight in discovering you unharmed by the dreadful accident which befell your ship.”

“You call what happened to us an accident?” Fira snapped.

Jathen came within an arm’s length of them. Up close, the monk’s face showed even greater ravaging. Some scars suited men. Those he wore would do nothing to turn a woman’s eye, except away in pity. “A poor choice of words. Forgive me. Attempted assassination , it seems, was done here. Well, I’ve come to deliver the king’s justice.”

“I didn’t know the Iron Marches had a king,” Nesaea said, not liking the way he was looking at her.

“More’s the pity they don’t. Ah, well, I suppose it’s up to the justice of Skalos.”

Before Nesaea guessed what was coming, Jathen’s face twisted into a bitter sneer, and he caught a handful of her frozen hair. He yanked her head sharply to the side and leaned in close. His eyes were cold and bleak.

Fira lashed out, but one of the Kingsguard who had come with Jathen stepped in and dragged her away. Jathen barely paid them any notice.

He leaned closer toward Nesaea, turned his face one way, then the other. When he spoke, his breath was a warm puff of steam across her face. “Have a good look.”

“Did you suffer an accident?” Nesaea asked breathlessly, still twisting at the hilt of her dagger. She thought it had budged a fraction.

Jathen wrenched at her hair, forcing her head farther to the side and dragging her off balance. “ Accident? You cannot be serious?” With each word, he twisted harder, until Nesaea’s neck gave an alarming crack. The only way to relieve the pain was to drop to her knees. The relief was short-lived. He shook her like a dog worrying a rat. She abandoned her dagger to claw at his stones. Before she could reach him, he struck her across the mouth. A dull ringing filled her skull, and blood washed over her tongue.

“Leave her be!” Fira screamed, sounding far away.

The Lamprey’s crew began shouting against the abuse, but the ring of Kingsguard tightened. When Liamas tried to push through, a spear butt slammed into his belly, knocking him back.

“You name mutilating me an accident ?” Jathen’s fury raised his voice into a shriek.

“I’m sorry,” Nesaea said, searching in vain for a way to break free.

“Oh, milady , you have no understanding of the word!” Jathen raved.

Fira twisted in her captor’s grasp and raked her nails across his eyes. He cursed as she spun out of his hands. Before she could take the first step, his fist collided with the back of her neck. Fira staggered and fell, hitting the frozen rocks with a muffled sob.

“Fira!” Nesaea screamed, at the same time Jathen bellowed, “Enough, you fool! She’s mine!”

Stunned silence held for a moment, then Ostre and his crew attacked. Fists flew, spears swung, men fell. In seconds, the rebellion was over. Liamas and Ostre both lay on the ground, bleeding and dazed. At least one crewman was dead, the loops of his innards hung in rigid fingers. The Kingsguard forced the rest of the rebellious captives to their knees.

“Don’t mind them,” Jathen said against Nesaea’s ear. “You have problems of your own.”

“Kill me and have done with it,” Nesaea said, jaw clenching.

“Why ever would I foreshorten our time together, when I have so many questions that need answering?”

At the nasty tone of his voice, Nesaea’s hand stole once more to the hilt of her dagger. It was like trying to drag a boulder from the earth.

Jathen’s fingers twined tighter in her hair. “Whenever I look at my face, you see, I wonder what recompense such a grievous wound demands. Now I look at you, and wonder, what would such a pretty young woman cherish most about herself. What, I ask, is that one thing you could lose that would make you understand my pain?”

Nesaea stared into his eyes and saw something worse than death looking back.

Jathen pressed closer and gave a brutal squeeze to one of her breasts, while at the same time speaking in reasoned tone. “Perhaps, I think, cutting off your teats would be proper payment for what you did to me. But then, I think, perhaps not, for you could hide such wounds from the world, unlike me-lest I wear a mask.” His gaze mapped her features. “I tell myself I could take your eyes, maybe your lips. Or, perhaps, one of each? I expect there are those who would find such ravaged beauty appealing, even delightful. At worst, you could combine such imperfections with your other talents to great advantage in some lord’s great hall or king’s court.”