Tarashana by Rachel Neumeier (little red riding hood ebook TXT) 📕

once. He was streaked with sweat and dust. Dark welts crossed his back and his arms; they had used a whip to make him run. His breathing was fast and ragged; his body shook with the force of his breathing. He did not look up.

Aras asked him, speaking softly and clearly, “What kind of flowers does your grandmother like best? Ah, a pretty garden. Where is that house? What a pretty child, what's her name? Na-nai, that’s short for something, ah, Sehanai, that’s a pretty name, a girl, your sister? How old is she now? Oh, are they all your sisters? Can your father afford good dowries for so many? Ah, there he is. What’s his name?” He leaned forward, gripping his scepter tightly. “Esau, I’m sorry to ask it of you—”

Esau stepped forward and hit the young man across the face, several times, open-handed slaps, not very hard. He did not have to do it harder than that. I knew how disorienting blows like that would be, especially for a man already exhausted and desperate. I thought if the assassin had wanted kinder treatment, he should not have tried to shoot the king’s nephew and scepter-holder with a poisoned arrow. This was true. But it was not enough for me to like what was being done to him.

I could see now—it was obvious—that Aras had done things of this kind before. I should not have been surprised. I knew he had been a scepter-holder and a warleader for a long time. Of course he must have faced this necessity many times.

If he were not a sorcerer, this would have been very much worse. Sometimes it is impossible to make a man answer questions he would rather die than answer, but usually it can be done. Without sorcery, it would take much longer and require much more cruelty. But I still could not like what he was doing. Treating the assassin in this way must hurt him, and of course it was hard on the young man. I had never before found reason to regret that Aras had sworn never to put his will on anyone for any purpose. But if he had not made that oath, probably he would not have to use cruelty in this way.

Almost at once, I thought again. In another way, that kind of sorcery would be even worse than this. In almost every way, that would be much more cruel. Of course he would not do it. Even if he had never sworn so strong an oath, he would not do it.

Aras did not glance at me. All his attention was on the assassin. He said, every word precise and sharp-edged as a blade, “Kerren, your father would be ashamed.” That was worse than anything he had done so far; that was something only a sorcerer would have known to say. I flinched, and the young assassin caught his breath in a gasp, and Aras sat down again—I had not even noticed he had risen to his feet until then. He braced his elbows on the table, lowered his face to his hands, and breathed slowly and carefully for a long moment.

The young man, unable to stand, was still kneeling. But now he lifted his head and glared up at Aras with such violent hatred that I took a step forward and set my hand on the hilt of my knife.

Aras did not seem to notice. Looking up again, he said, “Your father’s name is Hoeren Sotetas Rahavet. Where does he live? Avaras? No, of course not, how stupid of me. You were one of Lorellan’s thralls, weren’t you? Of course you were. That's why you hate and fear sorcerers so much that you attempted to kill me despite the risk. Your family is from the county of Lorellan. What town? Garasanet? Tarasan? Ah, Pitasosa.” He set his scepter down on the table, gently, and leaned back in his chair. “Hoeren Sotetas Rahavet of Pitasosa.”

The young man closed his eyes, sagging.

“Ryo, please give him some wine,” Aras said.

I knew why he asked me to do it. He meant to make it plain to me that it was too late now to kill the assassin. He was showing me that he did not care now whether I came close to the young man. Even though I understood that, I said, “No.”

Aras looked at me. Everyone looked at me. Even the young man looked up.

I said, “I do not like anything about this. I wish now I had killed him when he asked me to do it. If you want to give him wine so you can more easily see the secrets he is trying to keep from you, do it yourself.”

One of the soldiers moved quietly to the sideboard and poured wine into a goblet. He held up the fragile glass and said, “Pewter or wood is better if you want me to make him drink it, my lord. He’ll break this in a hurry.”

“If this was all his own idea and he was working alone, he’ll drink it,” Aras said. “If that’s so, then there’s nothing left to conceal. His family’s lost; his father’s name will give me all the rest. He knows that. Kerren Rahavet ... Kerren Avera Rahavet, drink that. Don’t refuse, or I’ll assume you have something else important to hide and I’ll go looking for your friends and accomplices as well as your family.”

When the soldier held the goblet to the young man’s mouth, he drank some of the wine. Then he spat a mouthful at Aras and jerked his head sideways, smashing the goblet with his forehead. Splinters of glass flew everywhere. There was no point to that defiance, it was a stupid thing to do, but in his place, I might have done the same.

“Don’t hit him,” Aras said, stopping the soldier, who had begun to raise a hand. Spitting is