Glenda Larke: Stormlord rising

He swallowed, then looked from her to Kaneth and back. The moment stretched taut, every warrior poised on the brink of explosive action. Ryka's gaze never shifted from Ravard's. If he gave the order to kill her, he would probably succeed, although he would doubtless die as well.

He moved first. He lowered his chala spear. "I will never rest until I have killed you," he rasped, and it was to Ryka he spoke. She was the focus of the unrelenting blaze of his stare, but the words were for Kaneth as well because he added, "Until both of you lie dead at my feet." He snapped an order to one of the men on the ground and the men lowered their spears and sheathed their scimitars.

Ryka felt her power drain away. The water splashed on the roadway. She was shaking, trembling in reaction.

Ravard turned his mount away from the gate, and the column began to follow. Under the watching eyes of the men on the walls, they started to circle the city to the east in order to head toward the dunes. In front of the gate, no one moved until Ravard and those at the head of the column were out of sight.

Then Kaneth, still seated on his mount, leaned toward Elmar. He swung his pede prod and struck the pikeman with a blow that would have sent Elmar sprawling to the ground if he hadn't saved himself by grabbing for the segment handle. He swayed and righted himself, but made no move to retaliate.

Ryka blinked, bewildered. Watergiver's heart! What was all that about?

Kaneth moved then. He urged his mount forward to her side and slipped down to the ground. Ryka didn't move. She wasn't sure she could.

His hair had grown, covering the worst of his head scars, and the burn on his face was fading. With a hesitant hand, he reached out to part the coverlet she had wrapped loosely around Khedrim to protect him from the sun. He touched the tiny chin with a fingertip. Then he looked back at her.

"Ryka," he said. "Oh, Ryka."

Scarpen Quarter Warthago Range, foothills How long had he been there? He was no longer sure. Already he had lost track. Watergiver help him, how would he be able to tolerate this? To tolerate the powerlessness of it! No one to command or respect him. No one in fear of him. No one anticipating his whims.

Just endless days of boredom, stretching out ahead… Eight years! And no guarantee he would be freed even then. Using his crutch, he paced the floor, dragging his injured leg. Up and down, up and down.

When he read, the books only reminded him of what he had lost. When he slept, he dreamed of women now out of reach. When he dreamed of Terelle, of her body, he could never carry the dream to fruition. Frustrated, roiling with anger-yet with nothing to vent it on. If he shouted at the world, there was no one to hear.

He'd locked Shale up like this. The Gibber brat hadn't gone sandcrazy. But then, the mother cistern had been luxury to a dirty Gibber urchin. He, on the other hand-he was a rainlord!

But Shale had escaped… There must be a way for me to do the same…

Davim. He had to rely on Davim. Davim would come, Shale would be punished, and he would be released… That Gibber brat would never be clever enough to bring down the sandmaster, the idea was laughable. Davim would come. And if he didn't, Laisa would. Senya would make sure of that.

Senya, of course. She must be his hope. The sand-brained brat was in love with him; she'd made that clear enough.

It was just a matter of time. Of patience. And he had always been a patient man. He had prided himself on his patience. Besides, he still had one more arrow already fitted to his bow. One more way to control Shale. All he needed was to get out of here. When he sensed water approaching, he rushed to the grille. Visitors… He didn't care who it was. His desperation to see someone, anyone, was overwhelming. And it could be Davim and his men. Hope rushed into his throat spasming, choking him with anticipation.

But it was the last person he wanted to see.

Iani rode over the hill alone. He approached the grille, then sat watching Taquar impassively from the back of his pede. "I have a present for you," he said. He took a parcel wrapped in bab matting and threw it onto the ground so it rolled up against the grille. And then he turned his mount and prodded it back the way he had come.

"No!" Taquar called. "No-wait!" He gripped the bars of the grille. "Iani-please, come back-"

Iani did not even bother to glance over his shoulder.

Taquar took a deep breath. How could he lose control like that? He was the Highlord of Scarcleft. He would be strong. He was strong. He would not beg.

He stood erect, his hands clutching the grille, a spider caught in an iron web not of his own making, and watched the man ride away.

He knelt at the grille and tried to pull the parcel inside. It was just too large to fit through the squares of the grille, so he put his hands through and started to unwrap it. As the last wrapping fell away, he sat down on the ground with a thump, his heartbeat skidding violently in his despair. A stench of rotting meat tainted the air.

"No," he moaned. "Nooooo-"

Davim's head stared back at him, mouth grinning wide to mock the man behind the bars.