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“You will learn of it shortly. Answer me now. Would you agree, Argana, that our son, Athol, is only a boy?”
“Aye, he is but sixteen. But he is nearly a man. You yourself have been seeking about for a suitable wife for him. You have said you wish him wedded soon. You wouldn’t want a boy to be a husband.”
“But he is still not of full reason. He is still easily swayed by those he admires, those he loves, those he trusts. Like you, Argana.”
“I trust that will be true when he has reached even your years, Lord Varrick.”
Varrick was silent, just staring at her, but Chessa wasn’t fooled, the insult had made him furious. Suddenly, a wind came from the wide-open shutters behind him. He was holding the burra, fingering its surface with his long white fingers. There was conversation all around her, low and frightened. Where was Cleve? She looked over at where Merrik and Laren stood, Laren holding Kiri. The little girl looked bored, but she stayed quiet in Laren’s arms.
Slowly, the winds died. Varrick said nothing until there was utter silence both inside and outside the fortress. He sheathed the burra once again at his belt. It was a quick gesture, a furtive gesture. She wondered if anyone else had noticed that he’d had the burra out when the winds had so suddenly arisen. “A mother has great influence over her children, particularly her sons.”
“Aye,” Argana said quietly, “that is usually true. But here at Kinloch, with you, Lord Varrick, it isn’t. Athol takes his direction from you and from no other. All here take their direction from you and none other.”
“Didn’t you call Chessa a wit
ch?”
“Aye, she is a witch. What of it? Did you not tell us that her father was Hormuze, the greatest magician you’d ever known?”
“Didn’t you tell your Athol that she was a witch and she would be better dead?”
“Nay, I didn’t say that.”
“But it is what you believe, is it not?”
Slowly, Argana turned and looked at Chessa. She was frowning slightly, as if she didn’t understand something that she should understand. There wasn’t particular dislike in her look, but confusion. “Perhaps,” she said, and it was clear to all that she was uncertain, that she didn’t know where Varrick was leading with all this talk. Chessa felt the flesh on her arms rise. She was frightened. Where was Cleve?
“Athol has told me that you ordered him to kill Cleve and all the visitors with him, including the child and Chessa. He has told me it wasn’t his fault. He was only following your wishes, your orders.”
“Nay, I did not. Cleve is your son. Why would I want to have one son kill another?”
“Ah, Argana, then you call your beloved son a liar and you want to see my knife slide between his ribs for his supposed treachery?”
Argana smiled. “That was well done, husband. My only question is why?”
Varrick didn’t answer. “Athol will learn honor. He will come to regret his actions of this day. He will no longer have a mother who incites him to violence, to betrayal.” He drew a long slender knife from his belt and slowly walked to Argana, who just stood there, staring at him, accepting.
Chessa couldn’t believe this. Argana, just standing there, watching him walk toward her, his knife raising, ready to come into her heart. All his talk, it had been to convince everyone that the mother had incited the son to violence. Chessa screamed, “Don’t you dare kill her, Varrick! By all the gods, what are you doing?”
She ran like a madwoman to Argana, shoved her aside, and stood blocking Varrick, whose right arm was raised, the dagger ready to plunge downward.
“I don’t believe you would do this. Listen to me, Varrick. You won’t kill her, damn you. I won’t let you. You will have to kill me first to get to her.”
Athol shouted, “Kill her, Father. Kill them both. Save me from the witch and from a disloyal mother.”
Chessa said to Varrick, her voice low and calm as his, “You see what you fathered? He deserves to die. By all the gods, I wish Cleve hadn’t stopped me. I would have plunged my knife into his black heart. His years don’t matter. He will but become more of a bully, a tyrant, a dishonest fool, as he gains years. And he is of your seed, yet you protect him. You blame the mother. Rather blame yourself, you miserable bastard.”
“Move aside, Chessa.”
“Ah, your soft, persuasive magician’s voice, Varrick. I won’t move. You won’t kill Argana. She has done nothing save call me a witch and what is wrong with that? You believe me a witch, indeed, you pray I am a witch. Place your blame where it deserves to be.”
“Move, Chessa.”
It was Argana, and she was trying to shove Chessa aside, but Chessa was strong, stronger than the woman who was taller and built more powerfully than she. Chessa didn’t move at all. “Nay,” she said, still looking directly at Varrick who was staring down at her, his one golden eye as bright as the most brilliant sun, the one blue eye dark and turbulent as the stormy sea, his body utterly quiet, the knife still held in his hand. “Be quiet, Argana, I won’t let him kill you and that’s that. Just be quiet. You will not die for your son. It isn’t right. I wondered where Cleve was, Varrick. I realize now that you sent him away. You feared if he were here, he would protect his sister. It’s true. He returned Athol to you for punishment, but you seek only to kill Athol’s mother. Why, Varrick?”
“Move aside, Chessa. Argana, wife or no, must pay for her betrayal. Death is her punishment.”
“Why, damn you, Varrick?” This from Merrik, who strode forward to stand beside Chessa. “You touch Argana and I will kill you here and now. Then I will kill that little beast that sprang from your seed.”
