Steelflower in Snow

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Then the rhythm changed, and his voice dropped, slowing even more into a lament. Kaia Steelflower, he sang, who came to her friends’ aid despite heat, ice, dust, assassins, or witchery…and was the loneliest of all beings, because she walked ever alone.

  I sagged against the mattress, the pillows, and stared. The fire pop-crackled, working into the rhythm of his strumming, and I flushed hot, then cold. Had I my strength, perhaps I would have risen, taken the gittern from him, and stove in its belly as my own had been crushed by Dunkast’s foul gloves. And cast it into the fireplace, as well.

  Pesh is an unlovely language, but somehow he made it match each note, dropping into harmony where another singer might have taken an easy thread. Singing in tradetongue required flexibility, this required…something else. He was at his best, our lutebanger, when he made the instrument of his mother-tongue work against itself and the melody besides.

  Ever, ever, alone, the refrain echoed, ever and always alone, for I come to my friends, but I do not let them climb to me.

  He did not look at me; Gavrin gazed instead at the shuttered window. Mirrorlight described his cheekbones, touched his mouth and his quivering throat as he held the notes, and he must have been listening to Janaire’s humming of G’mai counting-songs, for there was a familiar pattern behind the words. The chorus repeated, twice, and each time the scar on my chest ached, a strip of fire matching blackrock’s deep secretive fire.

  Finally, his fingers limped on the strings, and the song turned harsh. Blood on ice, a crimson rose, and the words spiraled to their conclusion.

  It is lonely in the snows, he sang. So lonely…The harmony resolved, the final line spilling like snowmelt through numb fingers.

  I will come if you call, but I will not let you climb to me.

  He held the last syllable for a short while. When it failed, for his throat seemed somewhat full, he laid his hand flat upon the strings, stopping the resonance. Gavrin did not look at me. He simply stood, cradled the gittern, blinked a few times against the swelling salt in his eyes, and left, closing the door gently upon an invalid.

  I lay rock-still, beam-straight, fist-clenched, and too weak to rise or to call out. The Yada’Adais, teachers of Power among the G’mai, can drive a point home with a single look, an inflection, a syllable. The Hain fighting-masters use a blow or a parable, thieves everywhere a knife and sharp sarcasm.

  Now, I discovered, a half-Pesh lutebanger could do it with a song.

  Deepcrack Freeze

  Smoke rose from the scars of Kalburn still, the entire city under a thin grey pall as the sky cleared and temperatures plummeted afresh. I pushed the woolen baffles aside and peered between shutter-slats and the layer of ice upon glass. The Keep rose high above a white blanket cupped in the valley-palm, and the distant mountains looked near enough to reach in a day’s ride, the space between their knife-edge and the eye turned crystalline. The slice of the Old City I could gaze upon showed little damage, and the broad backs of torkascruagh flooded it once a day, driven to the Great Market to cleanse its expanse.

  Did they smell my blood upon the cobbles? They were fat and sleek despite the cold, those tusked creatures, for the battle-dead vanish into their maws. Kroth’s elder brother, the trickster Ferran, sometimes appears in their stories as a hefty, red-eyed torkascruagh with golden testicles, attended by his wal’kir as they cleansed the battlefield. Sick-eaters, the Skaialan call them. To fall in combat and be consumed is an honor to them, though a Shainakh, with their corporeal afterlife, would shudder at the notion.

  Only the Black Brothers were not granted the mercy of cleansing. Their headless bodies, stinking and running with blackened juice, hung from the Old Wall, suspended from gibbets and thus dishonored.

  “You shall catch cold,” Janaire said, softly, in respectful G’mai. She sat near the fire, frowning slightly as she plied her needle upon black cloth—one of Atyarik’s shertes, mending with quick, delicate stitches. Her braids, looped over her ears, were decorous and glossy, and she looked little the worse for wear except for the shadows under her dark eyes.

  She would not accept my thanks, but she spent her time in the room, mending or repairing gear, occasionally chiding me to stay in bed or eat more heavy, greasy Northern food. Darik arrived at nightfall to relieve her watch, and I did not ask how he spent his days, for the cold hung upon him, and the smell of effort. Sparring outside with the Skaialan warriors did not dull the rage in him.

  I would have found his silence uncomfortable, if it had not been so similar to my own. He spoke upon nothing but commonplaces, and I…

  I longed for my dotani. Or my knives. The floor was bruising cold, but I stretched every candlemark, loath to lose flexibility. Janaire had wrought well; the scar did not pain me. I was simply weak, and the thin daylight brought inside by mirrors, bright enough to sting the eyes, paled in comparison to the world outside the window.

  “I shall not,” I murmured. “It would ruin your fine work.”

  Not a day trudged through its endless, tooth-gritting candlemarks that I did not make some reference to my debt. She accepted with a nod each time, the graceful politeness of an adai. This time, however, she looked up from her needle-wielding. “You do not have to keep thanking me, Anjalismir Kaia. The deed is its own reward.”

  “A sellsword pays what is owed.” The proverb had no sting in G’mai, especially with my inflection so honorific. I scratched under my braids, loose and looped to keep the mass of hair from tangling as I lay abed.

  “Mh.” A noncommittal noise, and she returned to her sewing.

  It irked me. What did she seek to prove? Gavrin’s refrain echoed in my head. I knew my temper was none too sweet, and the rest of me followed suit. Why did they attach themselves to me, if I was so terrible? Of course, Janaire and Atyarik were not attached to my sherte-strings. It was Darik they followed, their princeling wandering far afield. And I had not asked the minstrel to come along. Diyan…well, the Vulfentown wharf-rat knew a steady meal and a lack of brutality was worth a great deal along the Lan’ai Shairukh coast. Redfist, of course, knew the value of a blade.

  Were they friends if I was merely useful?

  A knock at the door was too blunt to be a G’mai, and too definite to be Gavrin. Redfist swept the heavy lumber wide, Diyan bouncing in past him, and my relief was short-lived, for the boy’s wrist was wrapped in a bandage and Redfist looked grave and glowering.

  “What happened?” Of course I barked the word, as if we were upon a Shainakh training-ground.

  “Oh, cha, just a rikky-spit.” The boy grinned, shaking a fringe of dark hair from his broadening face. “Dree teachin me sword, says I’m too old but he do a mun fae o’it.” He was too old to begin G’mai training, of course, but soon he would be large enough for a longer blade.

  “Come, let me take a look.” Janaire rose, and soon enough was fussing over the injured wrist while Diyan grinned hugely. Ignored again, I returned my gaze to the window.

  Redfist bent to peer past my ear, out the shutter. He smelled of the skauna’s heavy oil, and fresh outside air as well. “There’s to be a Council called,” he murmured, passing news as one does along a line of ranked blades, with the mouth hardly moving. “Such a thing has not happened for many a year.”

  I let the baffle fall, closing us back in a mirror-lit cave, and half-turned. “Is there doubt over what course to pursue?”

  “Nay.” He stood too close, but the healthy heat-haze from him was welcome. “Tis all but agreed. It waits only upon ye being well enough to attend, K’ai.”

  “I see.” I did not take the step away that would have removed me from his radiating heat. “You wish an ally present.”

  “Oh, I’ve plenty allies, lass, especially now. What I wish is a friend there, to watch me back.”

  My cheeks turned to flame, and I had to breathe out, steadily. Had Gavrin sung to them? They did not know Pesh, of course, but…he could well explain.

  The fire made a crackling, comforting noise. �
�The swelling is not bad,” Janaire said softly. “You’ll mend.”

  “Much thanks, lady.” The urchin swept her a bow, its lightness showing D’ri had, indeed, been teaching him how to move. “Tarik and Dree bringing up dinner. Say it’s not your’n, but will do.”

  “And Gavrin?” she inquired.

  As if summoned, the lutebanger appeared, knocking twice at the door and sliding inside, smoothing his shapeless hat and brightening at the sight of Janaire. I turned back to the baffled window, studying the nap of figured cloth. Who had woven this pattern, I wondered?

  “Ye’re quiet, K’ai.” Redfist, his thumbs in his belt, loomed where he had planted his boots. I could not decide if his sheer size was comforting, or if I felt as a sapling in the shadow of a much larger tree with matted, reddish branches. “Does yer wound pain ye, then?”

  “Not much.” The…discomfort…lay elsewhere. I told my knees they would have to wait to loosen, and they obeyed grudgingly. “How long does the treecrack last?”

  “A moonturn, perhaps a tenday after that.” A single, mountainous shrug. He was still in a kelta, but at least he’d combed his beard. “Hard to tell. Ferran rules it, and he is a bastard.”

  I attempted levity. “Does your Dunkast pray to him?”

  “Looks like he prays to none but his own bloody self.” Redfist glanced aside, a bright blue flash. We shared the look of two old sellswords hearing campaign news, and judging whether or not our own skins would be pierced in the meanwhile.

  It was pleasant to find something still familiar, in this new world I found myself inhabiting.

  In short order, Darik and Atyarik arrived, the latter bearing Janaire’s tavar’adai so she could dine as a traveling adai, in comfort. Behind them were servants loaded down with more, and it seemed they were determined to eat here.

  I pushed the cloth aside again. Redfist said no more, and moved away. Rooftops below, smoke and the busy scurrying of those whose work it was to build, repair, feed, clothe.

  My only trade was the sword, and it does nothing but kill. And you do not accumulate trade-siblings like a merchant, or favored customers like a courtesan or innkeeper. It is not a life meant for building, whether physically or…otherwise.

  Certainly you could sing with fellow irregulars, dice with them, spar and curse at or fish them out of mud-holes, laugh at their jests or bloody their noses when they made one witticism too many. But precious few of them are friends. Even fewer will stand between you and a bolt, or play wounded-coney to buy you time to retreat, sacrificing their own chance at escape.

  Even those who did might turn on you later, when one of their gods whisper-burned in their fevered heads, or simply because if there was one constancy in the world, it was that people, of whatever land, clawed to their own advantage. The rarity was those who did not.

  I will not let you climb to me. Would it be better, I wondered, if I could craft of song of my own, to tell Gavrin it was not that I did not wish to?

  That it was simply, merely, I did not know how?

  I was the one ever climbing, and the end was never reached. Easier to keep a shield-wall of distance, and retreat, seeking only companions who could not wound me.

  If you do not care, they may harm only your body, not the rest of you.

  There was quiet laughter behind me, and the good smell of heavy fare. Their shared circle of dinner was warm, and complete, and utterly closed to me. I was ravenous, but I lingered at my post, watching the sudden winter night fall from the mountains across the Old City. Kalburn was full to bursting, the Keep storehouses flung open to feed those who had come from every corner of the Highlands to shake off a false king’s yoke. The treecrack freeze gripped firm, and fatal.

  When it ended, the hunting of Ferulaine would begin.

  * * *

  To be continued…

  Glossary

  Several languages are represented, among them G’mai, Shainakh, Skaialan, trade-pidgin, Antaiin, Hain, and Clau.

  A’vai – Again.

  A-thatch, thatch’n – Displeased, insulted, angered but not to the point of blows

  Adai – Female G’mai

  Adai’in – good instinct

  Adai’mi/sa – My adai/Lady adai (honorific)

  Adarikaan – shining blade

  Adjii – Adjutant

  Albestrkha – alabaster

  Alhaia – Clau greeting

  Baia – pungent plant/herb; “poor man’s woundheal”

  Bakaii – illicit lover

  Ban’sidha prutaugh – ill-tempered whore

  Boydhar – a species of bird

  Cha – (Pidgin.) Expletive, inquiry, agreement, spare syllable.

  Chaabi – Clau stew

  Chedgrass – tall grass found in streams, silky with plump, pearl–like seeds

  Cor’jhan – suitor/betrothed

  Dauk’qua’adaia – Everstars (guide with constant light), guiding s’tarei to adai

  Dauq’adai – Seeker

  Dhabri – head-covering, headwrap

  Dolquieua – green rot, “the eating moss”

  Donjon – jail

  Dotanii – long and slightly curved, slashing blades with oddly shaped hilts meeting the hand differently than other blades

  Fallwater – shower

  Farrat – A ferret-like creature, but more closely related to cat than weasel

  Fatan’adai – telling the future

  Fuchtar – a common expletive

  Fislaine – an herb, pungent smell

  Haigradabh – An ancient word left over from the Darjani tongue, meaning something like laughter

  Haka – strong, clear liquor

  Hamarai – wall of silence

  Hamashaikhan – The Shainakh Emperor’s Elect

  Hath’ar lak – The sleep after a battle, also, a gift from a kindly grandmother or a quiet death in bed surrounded by relatives

  I’yah’adai – Literally, “power-exhausted”

  Ilel’adai – vision

  In’sh’ai – G’mai greeting or word of thanks

  Insh’tai’adai, s’tarei, ai – “As the adai (wishes), the s’tarei (performs).”

  Jada’adai – Twinsickness

  K’wahana – type of Clau bird

  K’yaihai – G’mai womanhood ceremony

  Kaahai – Bitch, female donkey, balky mare

  Kadai a’adai allai – G’mai battle–cry

  Kafa’adai – A G’mai scribe

  Kair’la – The same verb for sweet syrup-crystals dissolving in water, with insanity tacked onto the end.

  Kimiri – type of cheese

  Kiyan – Silver piece

  Lahai’arak – a complex mess of a battle, no victory for either side

  Lya-ini – G’mai, honorific for “agemate (of my cohort)”

  Malende – bad spirits

  Navthen – a chemical inside a clay ball that produces a hot burst of flame when mixed with ortrox that coats the outside.

  Piri-splitter cut – sword technique

  Qu’anart – smoked fish or mutton stew

  Rako – forest creature with a black mask and a striped tail

  Rheldakh – a Pesh bird-goddess, known to give succor to travelers

  S’tarei – male G’mai

  S’tarei’mi/sa – My s’tarei / Sir

  S’tatadai – a marshcat, a taller G’mai female

  Sadaru – ritual suicide

  Sh’yada’adai – the testing of a young adai’s Power

  Sharauq’allallai – outcaste, murderers, kinslayers; those the G’mai cast away

  Shaurauq’g’d’ia - a foul emission from the loins of a diseased demon

  Skai’atair - unclean, foul, outcaste, the dregs of a poisoned bowl, as well as assassin

  Stilette – a thin, sometimes flexible blade

  Strinlin – instrument

  Sunbrollaugh – patricide

  T’adai assai – “It is done.”

  Taih’adai – “Starseed” a teachin
g sphere

  Tamadine – a particular unit of soldiers

  Tannocks – idiots

  Taran’adai – Speak-within (telepathy)

  Tavar’adai – A combination chest/fireside seat for an adai’s comfort while traveling

  Tsaoganhi – A wandering people, much given to singing and mending

  Vavir – a drug made from the vavir weed

  Ya’hana – Tracks, tracking, a mark in snow, the bending of a blade of grass

  Yada’adai’s’ina – Literally, “student teacher”

  Yada’Adais – G’mai teacher

  Zaradai – witchlight

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks must go to Skyla Dawn Cameron and Mel Sanders; I wouldn’t have written Kaia’s further adventures without their encouragement. A great debt of gratitude is also due you, my faithful Readers.

  Let me thank you once again in the way we both like best, by telling you a story…

  About the Author

  Lilith Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, WA, with her children and a house full of strays. You can find more of her books at www.lilithsaintcrow.com.

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