Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [8]
Aylaen stood blinking in the sunlight that hurt her eyes, holding on to her sister’s arm to help her walk. The women stared, white-faced, at the approaching soldiers and their commander, who seemed to know what they feared.
Zahakis came to a stop in front of them and said in formal and dispassionate tones, speaking slowly so that they would understand, “I have orders to remove both of you to the galley. You will not be harmed, I give you my word as a Tribune of the Third Legion. Be so good as to accompany my men in a peaceful manner and you will not be bound.”
“Go to hell,” said Aylaen.
“Sister, you can hardly walk,” Treia said in a low voice. Aloud she said, “Why are you taking us to your ship?”
“Because those are my orders, Madame,” said Zahakis.
Treia bit her lip. If Raegar was alive, he might be on the galley. “We will come with you,” she said, and she pinched Aylaen when her sister started to argue. “For once in your life, don’t cause trouble!”
Aylaen would have probably fought her captors if she had been strong enough to resist. As it was, she was already feeling faint and dizzy in the hot sun. Rather than appear weak, she suffered the soldier to grasp her by the arm and lead her across the beach and into the water.
Treia followed, accompanied by another soldier. At the sight of their womenfolk being taken away, the Torgun warriors raised a shout and jumped to their feet.
Zahakis ordered his men to keep going. “I’ll go deal with them.”
The water from the shoreline to the sandbar was only about hip-deep. The soldiers waded into the sea, hauling the women with them. Treia floundered through the waves, her movements hampered by the skirts of her long linen smock. She had taken off the woolen apron dress she usually wore over it. The summer days were hot, too hot to wear the overdress or her priestess robes.
The water splashed over her, soaking the linen chemise that clung revealingly to her body. One of the soldiers glanced at her and made a comment to another.
His friend gave a grunt. “I would not let Raegar hear you say that. He gave orders to treat these women with respect.”
“So he can enjoy them all for himself,” the soldier said with a leer.
“Raegar says this woman and her savage bitch of a sister are Bone Priestesses or something.”
“A boney priestess is nearer the mark,” returned the other soldier, and both men laughed.
Treia stared at them in astonishment. She had difficulty understanding the language of the men, for though many of the words of their language were the same as hers, the Southlanders spoke rapidly, the words seeming to slide off their lips as if coated with oil. Yet she had heard the name, Raegar, clearly. They had spoken of him as though they knew him. Something about giving orders regarding her and Aylaen. But how was that possible? These men were Southlanders. Raegar, though he had lived for many years in the Southland, which he called by their name, Oran, was Vindrasi.
Treia’s shock and bewilderment increased immeasurably when she was taken on board the Southlander’s galley. The soldier escorted her up a ramp. The moment she set foot on the deck, she heard her name.
“Treia! Thank Aelon you are safe!”
The voice was Raegar’s. The eyes were Raegar’s, but she did not recognize any part of the rest of him. He had shaved off his blond hair and beard, leaving his scalp and the lower part of his face white with a suntanned strip across his nose and eyes. He sported the tattoo of a serpent on his skull. He wore the same segmented armor as the soldiers, with the addition of a red capelet, adorned with serpents stitched in golden thread around the hem.
This strange Raegar strode toward her, his hands extended. He spoke to her as though nothing was wrong, as though the world had not changed.
“I am so glad to see you. I feared you would catch the flux. And Aylaen. I heard she was ill,