Amana Read online

  Amana

  By

  Sarah Ashwood

  Electronic Edition

  Copyright © 2011 Sarah Ashwood

  Cover art by Dara England

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Excepting brief review quotes, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real events, locations, or organizations is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my husband, Steven, who makes life incredible. And for my mother-in-law, Karen, who always asks how my writing is going.

  Amana

  “Really, my Thane, I must protest. To cancel the Midautumn Eve celebration now, so soon after your latest tax increases, is unthinkable. The people could not bear it!”

  His steward was like a honeybee. Always hovering about, buzzing peskily in one’s ear. As a bee with a hidden stinger, the short, squat man deserved to be carelessly batted to the ground. Or perhaps trapped beneath a sturdy thumb and slowly, carefully, painstakingly squashed…

  Reclining in his gilt and carved chair, the young Thane permitted a brief, pleasured smile. Behind him, his steward buzzed ceaselessly as his master entertained mental images of Bors squeezed beneath a winepress, blood like thick grape juice oozing from his crushed flesh.

  “Not to mention,” Bors droned on, voice rising as he realized his master’s focus had strayed afar, “there is the matter of your half-brother, Frenyc.”

  “What?”

  The mention of his sibling’s name caused Elfric to sit up. Like a dozing peasant interrupted from his midday nap by the call of the workhorn, Elfric blinked rapidly, his diverting vision of gloating over Bors’ corpse dispelled.

  “What of Frenyc, scribe?” he growled, unable to cloak his irritation. Zounds, but the mere mention of Frenyc’s name was enough to—

  “Your brother, my Thane, still lives,” Bors answered, tones noticeably chilled. The man despised being reminded that, despite his current lofty status in Dragorhold, he’d once earned his bread as naught but a humble scribe.

  Hence, Elfric’s occasional pointed reminders.

  “Of that, I am well aware,” snapped Elfric. “Why spoil a pleasurable day with talk of refuse?”

  As a dart, mayhap? Like his use of scribe?

  “Because, my Thane, power shared lies not easily.”

  “Power shared?” Elfric thrust back his heavy chair and rose to his impressively full height. “There is no sharing of power between my brother and me. Not only is Frenyc an oaf—” He set to pacing, kingly yellow cloak swishing about his black boots. “—He is an oaf wedded to his blade and incapable of any thought besides the battlefield. Why,” he snorted, “I doubt he’s lain with a woman in years.

  “Besides which,” he continued, “Frenyc is also my father’s bastard. And you know as well as I, dear Bors, that a bastard cannot claim the throne.”

  “No more may a son guilty of patricide,” Bors returned quietly.

  Elfric halted. Turned, slowly, to face his steward. Bors’ eyes gleamed triumphantly, freezing his master’s blood. For an instant, rationality deserted Elfric. His tongue lay thick and heavy in his mouth.

  “Oh yes, my Thane,” Bors went on, icy tones now warm and taunting. “I know. I know your vile secret.”

  In three quick strides, Elfric had closed the distance between them. Catching the former scribe by the neck he lifted him off his feet, pinning him against the stone wall in a swift movement worthy even of Frenyc’s undeniable physical prowess. Feet kicking, fighting for purchase, Bors gasped, “Elfric, don’t—”

  “Give me cause to forbear,” the young Thane whispered hoarsely. “Why should I not kill you now and eternally silence your lies?”

  “Frenyc. Fr—Frenyc…”

  “Yes, Frenyc?”

  “Frenyc will know,” Bors wheezed.

  Straightway, Elfric released his prey, lurching backwards to stare at the crumpled steward with the horrified loathing with which one might eye a viper.

  “What do you mean? What has my brother to do with this? Do the two of you conspire against me?”

  Bors, breathing hard, managed to rise. With shaking hands, he smoothed back his ruffled grey hair.

  “Young fool!” he spat. “Am I so witless? Frenyc loathes the very sight of me. You forget it was I who cursed to teach him his letters.”

  Had the situation been any less grave, Elfric would have voiced amusement. As it was, he restrained himself to a sardonic, “Well do I know. Proceed.”

  He purposefully ignored the older man’s clumsy efforts to stumble his way to a nearby chair. Only after sitting and pouring himself a measure of wine from the decanter upon the table did Bors speak.

  “Frenyc and I have no affinity, my liege, of that you may be sure.” He tossed back the wine, reached to pour himself more. “Yet, because we lack love for one another doesn’t mean we do not share any common hatreds.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Meaning you.” Belatedly, he added the requisite, “My Thane.”

  The tidings of his half-brother and steward’s odium came as no revelation to Elfric. Nor did it inspire any sense of revenge. No, oddly, he was almost…pleased. This news but firmed a hitherto half formed resolve to do away with them both.

  “Come to the point, Bors,” Elfric now demanded, shoving these contemplations away for later deliberation. “What has my killing you to do with my brother?”

  “Frenyc detests you,” Bors stated flatly. “Often, I have heard him pontificate on the injustice of you—a lover of poetry and lyres—being heir while he, a great warrior and what the Thaneship truly needs, is denied the throne. Were he to discover the depths of your perfidy, he would surely hie himself back to Dragorhold.

  “I need not add,” Bors did add with a smirk, “that your own palace guards stand little chance against your brother’s forces.”

  Elfric pinned the fat honeybee with a glare, not deigning to comment. “And?”

  “And,” Bors summarized, should you, er, dispose of me, I’ve set in place safeguards to ensure word will reach your brother. He may have no mind for letters, learning, and intrigue, but at warfare he excels. You, my Thane, will pay for two murders—that of your father, and of myself.”

  “And then my brother would, I presume, simply assume the title of Thane, the true heir being deceased.”

  Bors shrugged. Elfric refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “I see two hindrances to your plan, scribe.” Coolly, he strode to the table where Bors was seated. Defiantly, he propped one well-oiled boot on the edge of Bors’ chair and leaned over to pour himself a measure of wine.

  “Which are?”

  His steward squirmed as far from the boot as his bulk and the chair’s arm would allow.

  “One, you cannot prove the blame for my father’s demise lies on my shoulders.” Elfric swished the wine in his goblet, the gesture bespeaking a complacency he didn’t feel. “Two, even should your nefarious scheme come to pass, the people of this realm will never accept my father’s bastard as Thane.”

  “Ah, and isn’t that where the genius of Thane Delfrac’s eldest son is crippled?”

  Annoyed, Elfric slammed his goblet down on the table. “Speak plainly, scribe!”

  Leering, pudgy Bors heaved himself inelegantly from his chair. “I’ve proof of your patricide. A witness. A weapon—the vial.”

  Elfric’s breath hissed sharply through his teeth. Impossible! The whoreson must be lying. He’d been so studious, plotting every jot and tittle of the scheme with laborious perfection. Surely, Bors was lying…

  “Furthermore
,” his steward went on, clearly enjoying his triumph, “you claim your father’s people will never accept his illegitimate son. I say, beware, young Thane.” Bors’ sharp gaze glittered a warning. “Your father was well loved as Thane. Drunken and dissolute he was, but easily pleased, even handed, and easy to be entreated.

  “You, my Thane, are none of these things. Already the people condemn the reforms you’ve instigated, the burdens you lay upon them, the taxes you increase.”

  “Is that all this is?” Elfric exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “Are we back to our original discourse on Midautumn Eve and taxes?”

  Bors half-chuckled, shaking his head. “Shrewd you are, my Thane, but you know nothing of the common people. Not of their needs or wants. By now, they dislike you. Intensely. Should word reach their ears concerning the truth of your father’s, shall we say, untimely demise, dislike will swiftly change to loathing.”

  Again Elfric slowly turned, leveling a harsh stare on his steward. “Do you threaten me, old man?”

  “Never, my Thane, only hear me out,” sought Bors, holding up a placating hand. “Should the people loathe you, the path lies open for Frenyc. Never mind his need of courtly polish; he’s a skilled warrior with multiple victories. For this, the people respect him. Moreover, despite the shadow overhanging his birth, he is also your father’s son, and far more like his son in many ways than, I may say, you.

  “In the event,” he concluded, “of your secret escaping, methinks the people will not stay from thrusting you brother into the Thaneship.”

  Unconsciously, Elfric’s back had gone rigid. His hands were clenched into fists. A tic twitched in his left eye, and his nostrils flared in outrage. Visions of the fat honeybee squished in the winepress swam once more before his eyes. He bristled with wrath, knowing he’d been successfully outmaneuvered.

  “What do you want from me?” he whispered, choking on the words.

  “What does any traitor want, Thane? Power. Wealth—and, oh yes, Tishelle. Your sister.”

  Elfric’s brows flew to his hairline. He barked a laugh. “Tishelle? Why, she lacks nearly twice a score your age.”

  Bors’ face flamed with color. “She’s an unbroken filly, a haughty peacock, meant to be ridden and humbled.”

  “Oh, and you deem yourself worthy of the task?” He couldn’t help a snicker. “Better men than you, my fat scribe, have tried and failed. Tishelle is a wild rose, destined to bloom unplucked. Best you leave her to the elements to tame, and choose yourself a mare with less spirit to ride.”

  “Nay, but I will have her,” Bors near shrieked, as close to losing his composure as he’d been all evening. “She spurned me—publically. Mocked me manifold times before her silly companions. I will break her.”

  Thane Elfric withdrew a step, regarding his opponent afresh. No longer was he so formidable. Bors had a weakness: Tishelle, and his own vanity.

  String him along, he mused, and buy time to figure out a way of unraveling this mess.

  Calmer now, he asked aloud, “I give you my sister, and you give me what?”

  The red glow suffusing Bors’ face dimmed as conniving overtook memories of public mortification.

  “You give me Tishelle, and I secure you your throne.”

  Elfric’s ear was caught. “How?”

  “By calling one fully capable of eliminating not only Frenyc, your potential rival, but also any rumors and witnesses to my Thane’s ill-advised deed.”

  Elfric’s throat went dry with hope. “Who?” he croaked.

  “Amana,” answered Bors, leaning forward and speaking low, as if to utter the name aloud might summon the woman herself. “Amana, the most feared woman in the world.”

  “Amana,” Elfric echoed, equally soft. “Amana.”

  Brilliant! Why hadn’t he conjured the idea himself? Amana is the perfect solution. Silent. Untraceable. He glanced at Bors, smiled. Lethal.

  ***

  Amana.

  Amana…

  Amana.

  The name had become a chant, a drummer’s beat to which he marched. Literally, as he strode through the palace, the heels of his soft, ankle boots beating out the steps of her name.

  When occupied, he pushed thoughts of her away. In leisure, he sipped wine intoxicating with soothing meditations of Amana, the most feared woman in the world. At night, he dreamed of her. Perhaps he spoke her name in his sleep, for oftentimes he woke with it on his lips.

  Amana…

  She was the culmination of his life’s plans. Rather, she was the key to unlocking that full and complete culmination.

  She would come to Dragorhold. She would, quickly and efficiently, he supposed, rid the city of Frenyc. On that, he and Elfric had agreed.

  There, he congratulated himself. One problem solved.

  After that. Ah, after that…

  Bors’ smile bloomed.

  After that, the extra money his publicans had successfully leveraged from the people of Elfric’s realm would come into play. Such a witty scheme. Increase the people’s ire by subtly adding to the already heavy burden young, foolish Thane Elfric leveled upon them. His own handpicked publicans not only sent the money flowing into his secret coffers, but were handsomely rewarded for their troubles. So Bors grew rich while resentment for Elfric mounted.

  The young Thane had signed his own death decree. Either way, he couldn’t escape. By now, the people so despised him for his stringent rule that any spark was liable to set the kindling ablaze. Even if Bors hadn’t hit on this plan of hiring Amana, Elfric’s own stupidity would eventually do him in. Amana, however, was the much softer scheme. With Amana, he’d dispose not only of Elfric, but Frenyc, too. And he’d have Tishelle, securing his rise to power.

  “Oh yes, so witty,” he breathed into the empty spaces of the room. Its finery and opulence gleamed all the more richly, congratulating him. Elfric considered himself quite the genius—little did the genius know how outfoxed he had been.

  Hire Amana, with Elfric’s agreement and coin, to dispose of Frenyc. Call in both his hold over Thane Elfric and his gratitude for conjuring up the idea of Amana and wed Tishelle. The obligatory year of mourning due a brother by his maiden sister might be dispensed with. After all, Frenyc was naught but old Thane Delfrac’s bastard, not even Tishelle’s legitimate brother. What was more, Tishelle was certainly no maiden.

  Bors snorted at the idea. He knew it, the whole castle knew it. No woman could keep Tishelle’s companions and retain her purity. Did he care? Assuredly not. She was but a means to an end. The revenge of taking her hand in marriage was sweet, naturally—how he’d pay back the silk wearing cow for her haughtiness then! Nevertheless, the importance of revenge was far eclipsed by the vitality of wedding Dragorhold’s heir.

  So.

  Frenyc dead, by Amana’s hand and deed. He, Bors, wed to Tishelle. And then—pay Amana to dispose of Elfric. With Elfric’s own coin, tax money skimmed from the Thane’s people. With Frenyc and Elfric gone, he, Bors, would be Thane by default: no woman could sit as Thane. It followed that, as husband to Thane Delfrac’s sole, living child, Bors would guarantee the power he sought.

  It was, he concluded, the wine loosening his limbs and smile, a scheme worthy of Amana herself. If only Frenyc and Elfric knew what he had planned for them, how they would fear.

  “Fear me,” he muttered aloud, fermenting on the idea, reveling in it. “Fear me. Not Amana, but me.”

  Amana, nevertheless, remained a vital part of his strategy. If only she would hasten to appear.

  ***

  Amana—when would she come? How would she come? How could they expect to know her? By what sign or token would she reveal herself?

  Thane Elfric’s circle of questions was distressingly repetitive, dancing within his head like village maidens around a maypole. Alack, answers were disturbingly absent, for the simple reason that information about the famed Amana was disturbingly vague!

  Only rumors of whispers abounded. Whenever a powerful nobleman, mi
nor noble, ruling monarch, or wealthy merchant was struck down, the deed—more often than not—was laid at Amana’s feet. Natural causes, most believed, weren’t trustworthy. Forget outward appearances: in cases like these, Amana was most certainly to blame. Consequently, over the past dozen years her reputation had grown as the most feared woman in the world.

  “Rumors,” Elfric comforted himself. Such as the horrendous stories of the assassin drinking her victims dry of blood, or slitting open chest cavities to thieve organs for use in mysterious black rituals.

  Nay, Elfric prided himself on being a sensible man. This Amana—she was no pagan fiend, she was either a great warrior or an extremely skilled assassin. Not to mention a wealthy one! Elfric had expected to pay a hefty sum when he set out to hire the most feared woman in the world. What he’d not foreseen was how hefty a sum! Nevertheless, when Bors reminded him the coins he paid would not only seal his throne, but secure his steward’s silence, he’d handed them over. But only half, mind: and that after demanding Bors show him Amana’s terse note promising to eliminate “the unworthy.”

  Elfric was not light brained. He was fairly certain his steward had been robbing and cheating him any number of ways. He turned a blind eye to the fact, relishing the sweet taste of victory on his tongue even as he now turned Amana’s note over and over in his hands. This was no forgery by Bors’. Soon, Amana would arrive, hired by his gold. Gold that—along with the extra sum he’d set aside—would secure his steward’s death along with his brother’s.

  ***

  Midautumn Eve: Dragorhold’s traditional harvest celebration. On this day, the Thanes opened the great halls, courtyard, outer bailey, and grounds of their massive stone castles. Villagers, peasants, farmers, and citizens from every walk and station of life poured in by the score, eager to celebrate another harvest and their Thane’s generosity. None were too low, this night, for Dragorhold’s feasting and dances. All were welcome.