Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  This Reisil wrinkled her nose at the soft sage-colored cambric, fingering the green ivy embroidery around the cuffs of the tunic and the hem of the skirt. The fine threads snagged on the rough skin of her fingers. She pulled them back with a grimace. It was delicate work, made for a noble lady. Hardly the kind of garb in which to go fighting nokulas and wizards.

  She chuckled at the image, then gave a little shrug. Someone had gone to a lot of effort and trouble to present her with something special. It would be unforgivably crass and rude to complain.

  She picked up the tunic, and then noticed the grime on her hands and arms. Her hair was stiff and gritty with dried sweat and mud, and she didn’t doubt that she smelled like she’d been wallowing in a pigsty.

  “It would be a crime if I wore this before taking a bath—with a wire scrub brush,” she announced, then looked over her shoulder at Yohuac, who was turning his slippers over in his hands, a look of unertain incredulity on his face. Like his clothing, the slippers were midnight-blue watered silk with orange and yellow embroidery. Reisil laughed out loud at his bemusement.

  Yohuac’s brows angled down in a frown, and then he smiled slowly, the tension draining visibly from him.

  “Dirty or not, there’s nothing too fine to touch your skin,” he said. His eyes snared her in a net of fire and Reisil shivered, her mouth going dry. The more time they spent together . . . The feelings she had had for Kaval and Kebonsat were nothing like the storm of emotions that Yohuac sparked inside her.

  And equally futile, she reminded herself, shifting her gaze away. He was going to return home to be the champion he was bred to be. And that was that.

  She drew a steadying breath, pushing away the loss tightening around her throat. He wasn’t gone yet. They still had time. And if there was one thing she’d learned since becoming ahalad-kaaslane, it was that you didn’t waste time mourning for the future. You just got on with the present, taking gladly what the Lady offered while it lasted.

  She met Saljane’s ember gaze, the goshawk perched on the headboard of the bed, feeling the bird’s silent amusement.

  ~So, I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t be smug.

  ~The fledgling matures.

  Reisil stuck out her tongue at Saljane, who bent to preen her feathers.

  “Reisil?” Yohuac had come to stand behind her, ignorant of the exchange. He caught her hand in his and pressed his lips against her knuckles. “Do not be angry. I—” He broke off, searching for words.

  Reisil’s fingers tightened on his. “I’m not angry. And you don’t have to explain.”

  “I want to.” He pulled her after him as he picked up his pack from where it had been deposited in a corner. He settled onto the bed with her, levering Baku’s head to the side. The coal-drake whoofed but allowed himself to be pushed a few inches. Yohuac dug in the pack, pulling out a makeshift pouch that Reisil had constructed from the corner of a blanket and strips of rawhide. He untied it and emptied the contents into a pile on the bed.

  There were two heavy beaten-gold earrings shaped in hoops. There was a geometric pattern etched in them. There were three gold bands—two for his wrists, one for his bicep. The fourth was a melted blob. Reisil had used it to store magic when destroying the cages holding the plague-healers and then Baku. Then there was a series of beads made of wood and metal. These were intricately carved. Some were enameled and painted, while others were plain. All in all, there were probably thirty of them.

  Yohuac swept the beads up into his fist, staring down at them. “There are elders in the tribes who wear hundreds of these,” he said, emotion making his voice thick. He pinched his lips together and then let the beads fall between his fingers. “The first bead is tied into a boy’s hair as soon as it is long enough to braid. This is his name, his family.” He touched two beads. “Then more are added as he grows—they mark his prowess and his deeds.”

  Yohuac’s face contorted and he pushed the beads into the pouch. Reisil said nothing. It wasn’t as easy as braiding them back into his hair. She could see that. He’d lost something. The wizards had stolen it. And growing back his hair did not solve it.

  Yohuac drew a heavy breath. “A man marks his life by his beads. A man who loses them is chiltoc. He is . . .” Yohuac frowned, searching for words. “He is suspended—between. He loses his name, his family, his tribe, all his belongings. He has no status at all. He must now prove his worthiness. If he does, his tribe may invite his return, give him a new name, and he may begin anew. If not, he must leave. He may try to prove himself to another tribe. It is rare that any other will take someone who has been so careless, however.”

  “That’s stupid,” Reisil said hotly. “Careless? You were taken prisoner by the wizards when you were trying to rescue me! I’d call that heroic.”

  He fingered the armbands and earrings. “These were gifts.” He pushed them back inside the pouch, tying the rawhide and tucking it in his pack. His fingers lingered on the flap. “It does not matter. I must still do what I was born to do—win the pahtia and become Ilhuicatl’s son in the flesh. Anyone can compete, even a chiltoc. I have no need of a name or tribe.”

  Reisil took his hand between hers. She didn’t know what to say. Words seemed inadequate. Finally she said, “If it counts for anything, your name is written on my heart. I don’t think you can change that.” She smiled impishly, trying to break the heavy mood. “Not even if you cut your hair again. Or take a bath. So if you were worried about that . . . don’t.”

  He grinned. “Do you say I smell?” He picked a chunk of dried mud from her hair. “The tiger laughs at the skunk’s stripes.”

  “At least I didn’t already get my clothes dirty,” Reisil said, sniffing and pinching her nose. Then scrambled away with a giggle when Yohuac tried to tickle her.

  “How about I tell them we’re awake and see if they’ll take pity on us?”

  “More likely they’ll not let us out until we do bathe,” Yohuac pointed out. “But perhaps we can hurry them up. And food. Don’t forget to ask for food.”

  Reisil went to the door. A girl sat against the opposite wall, embroidering. Seeing Reisil, she scrambled to her feet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” She caught herself and stopped, then began again with a speech she’d clearly practiced. “I have been assigned to help you with anything you need. As soon as you are feeling ready, I am to notify the Lord Marshal and—”

  “The Lord Marshal?” Reisil interrupted.

  “Yes, ma’am, Reisiltark, I mean,” the girl answered, paling and clutching her embroidery ring to her chest.

  “I don’t understand—the Lord Marshal Vare? Here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no. He’s our Lord Marshal, not that other one.” She sounded both proud and more than a little in love.

  Reisil nodded thoughtfully. “I would be grateful for a bath and some food. Could you arrange that?”

  The girl nodded eagerly. “Be just a few minutes,” she said, and then trotted off, her skirts swirling around her ankles.

  In twenty minutes, a wooden tub had been set in front of the hearth and filled with steaming water. The fire had been stirred so that the flames danced in furious abandon. Yohuac insisted that Reisil bathe first.

  “Mmmm,” she said, as he ladled water over her, rinsing away the soap. “I have missed baths.”

  Much as she wanted to soak, Reisil traded with Yohuac as soon as she was clean. She hoped the promised food would be arriving soon. She dressed quickly, helping to rinse Yohuac, then tackled her hair. She picked up the comb that had been left beside the clothing. There was also a silver hair clip.

  She yanked at the snarls, muttering annoyance. It seemed that she’d torn out as much hair as not. “I think I’d like to shave my head,” she announced, throwing the comb at the wall.

  Yohuac bent and picked it up. “You must have more patience,” he said, combing gently through her hair.

  Reisil closed her eyes. “It is much better,” she agreed. If
she could have purred, she would have.

  She didn’t know how much later it was when there came a sharp rap on the door. She woke from her doze with a start. “Is it the food?” She yawned as her stomach rumbled.

  Soka and Juhrnus entered, bearing two heavy platters loaded with steaming dishes. They were followed by Nurema, who carried a brace of fat rabbits, gutted and skinned for Saljane. Behind her came Metyein, walking stiffly upright. Kebonsat and the Vertina Emelovi brought up the rear.

  Reisil responded to their various greetings with an absent wave, her attention narrowing on the succulent smells emanating from the food platters. She snatched the one from Soka, taking it to the table and tucking into the food ravenously. She burned her tongue on the stew, and gulped milk to cool her mouth before plowing ahead. Yohuac settled across from her.

  “They certainly look better,” Juhrnus commented dryly, “though their manners could use a little work.”

  “Just so. And they do smell better,” Soka replied with equal gravity. “Though to be sure, it is difficult to keep clean in such barbaric accomodations.” He flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve, which was made of utilitarian broadcloth died green and covered by a leather jerkin.

  Reisil couldn’t help but laugh at his mincing aristocratic tone, spraying crumbs back onto the table.

  Soka sniffed and looked down his nose. “Barbarians,” he repeated.

  Reisil giggled again, but didn’t answer, too hungry to join the banter. All the same, she felt good. She felt like she was home. Her mind flashed back to her time with the wizards, and she went still at the memory. For a while, she had been . . . comfortable. At home. The wizards had respected her, welcomed and encouraged her.

  It wasn’t that they hid their true natures. She could have seen, if she wanted to. What else should she have thought when Kvepi Kaisivas blithely dismissed Reisil’s killing of a hundred wizards in Patverseme?

  She should have known. It had been everywhere to read. But she hadn’t wanted to. She wanted the peace that had seemed to pervade the stronghold. She wanted the warmth of friendship without demand.

  She wanted to be a coward.

  She closed her eyes, hating the memory of herself. Of the way she had sought to earn their praise even as she pretended to despise it.

  Yohuac’s foot bumped hers beneath the table as he shifted himself in his seat, recalling her to the present. Reisil began to chew again, no longer tasting the food, eating by rote, her hand tightening on her fork until the wood began to bow with the press of her thumb. She forced her fingers to relax, one by one.

  Resolutely she brushed aside the recriminating whispers that buzzed insistently inside her skull. She’d not behaved well. She admitted it. But in the end, whatever her feelings, she could have done nothing different. To have any hope of saving Kodu Riik, she had had to learn how to use her magic, and how to read the rinda. She had had to make the wizards trust her, make them believe in her.

  She swallowed and took a bite of buttered bread, savoring the yeasty flavor. She’d done what was needed, and Yohuac had forgiven her. Even Baku understood the necessity, whether he was ready to forgive or not.

  “Let them eat,” Metyein said in a thin voice that cut the threads of Reisil’s meditations. He sat on the bed, leaning gingerly against the headboard. His face was pinched and his eyes were sunken and heavy, as if he’d not slept. “We’ll tell them all our adventures and by then they’ll be ready to tell us theirs. There’s no time to waste.” He looked at Kebonsat. “And we’d better start with the plague.”

  Morning dawned a brilliant, warm blue. A mist rose from the muddy fields. The valley bustled with activity, from women and children tending the fields and trying to mend the damage of battle, to men hauling bodies away. It was a most disorganized and chaotic scene. Perfect for Tapit’s purposes.

  He picked his way toward one of the stockades. The image of a pair of talons clutching a spear had been carved into the green beams above the gate, then painted brown. The gates themselves were open. A wagon was cocked sideways just in front, one wheel sunk to its hub in mud. The guards argued with the driver, even as people swarmed in and out around them. Tapit’s lip curled involuntarily at the disorder, even as he took advantage of the guards’ distraction to slip through the gates.

  Once inside, he walked briskly across the commons to a long building that was clearly a barracks or dormitory. He entered purposefully, as if he belonged. Inside his eyes swept the racks of bunks, all deserted. He paced down the aisle until he found an empty one on the top. From beneath his cloak he pulled his roll of bedding and spread it out, setting his bundle of clothing at one end to act as a pillow.

  He then drew his dagger and pricked the side of one finger with expert deftness. Blood welled in the wound. He smudged it on his chest, over his heart, and then along his neckline. He murmured words and the blood flared and suddenly on his chest he wore a green triangle emblem with hawk’s talons clutching a spear in brown. The blood on his collar had transformed into a crude stitching of green ivy.

  Tapit examined his handiwork, nodding satisfaction. He then made his way back to the entry. Before he opened the door, he closed his eyes, sensing the rinda painted on his face with his own heart’s blood mixed with pine sap—they wouldn’t easily wash away.

  His lips tightened in something like a smile. They remained strong. With the thick flows of magic swirling through the valley, no one would notice them. At least not from farther than three or four paces. Not even Reisil, powerful as she was. She wouldn’t know he was there until he was ready.

  Tapit allowed himself a long, slow smile and then opened the door.

  Chapter 13

  Emelovi sat on a stool in the corner, trying very hard to be inconspicuous. She pleated her skirt between her fingers, burningly conscious of how oddly she fit into this company.

  Her eyes skipped to each of the occupants of the room. Metyein, his face drawn and gray. Soka, with his rakish eye patch and cutting tongue. Juhrnus, returning Soka’s feints with sardonic ease. Nurema, her eyes stormy, impatience written in every line of her body. Kebonsat standing near, silently reassuring. Yohuac, powerful and raw and forbidding, even as he ate like a starved dog.

  Emelovi’s gaze settled last on Reisiltark. She appeared much the same as she had in Koduteel. Ebony hair, pale skin, moss-colored eyes. She was beautiful, in a masculine sort of way. There was no fat on her, no soft curve to her chin or jaw or hip. This she had been in Koduteel. But she was different.

  Emelovi’s brow furrowed as she sought the alteration. In Koduteel, Reisiltark had been determined and fierce, but at the same time she’d been uncertain and diffident. Then Emelovi had felt a certain affinity with the other woman, as if they shared similar fears and frustrations. Like Emelovi, Reisiltark had held herself tightly in hand, flinching at noises and strangers. But all that was gone, burned away perhaps, in fires that Emelovi couldn’t imagine.

  Now Reisiltark crackled with energy. She seemed assured and in control of herself. Emelovi envied her the change. Envied the way the others leaned toward her, like sunflowers chasing the day. Even Kebonsat.

  Emelovi bit the inside of her cheek. And why shouldn’t he? Reisiltark was a match for his strength and swift mind. She was no wilting flower who needed care and support to survive from day to day. She didn’t need protecting. If Reisiltark’s father were missing, she would be out hunting him herself.

  Emelovi slumped, staring down at her hands. The pale skin covering them was scratched and blistered on the palms. She’d made them let her help load the wagons and empty the Fox stockade of its contents. She hadn’t done much. She’d tired quickly and had to rest often. The muscles in her legs and arms ached from the unfamiliar labor. And she was glad of it. The pain was proof of her contribution, minor as it might have been.

  It had given her a taste to do more. To do something more than sit in a corner while the others made plans and fought battles.

  The noise in the room dropped
suddenly. Emelovi raised her head, stiffening.

  “The plague?” Reisiltark asked sharply, setting her fork down, riveted on Kebonsat.

  “We aren’t sure,” Kebonsat replied.

  Reisiltark quirked her brows, her silence commanding. Emelovi sighed unconsciously. To have such presence—to be able to speak so, as an equal, amongst such men!

  “The captain from Wolf has a fever, weakness, headache. We’ve put him in Fox under quarantine.”

  At Reisiltark’s look of confusion, Juhrnus handed her a rolled map of the valley. She opened it, holding it above her food as she examined it.

  “I see.” She scanned the others above the edge of the map. “You decided to put the plague right in the valley?”

  “We won’t abandon our own,” Metyein said simply.

  Unseen, Emelovi nodded warm approval of his answer. Why couldn’t Aare be more like Metyein? Care more for Kodu Riik and his people?

  Reisiltark went back to examining the map. But she didn’t seem to disapprove of the decision. She lowered the map, rolling it up and handing it back.

  “When I was able to free Yohuac and Baku, I also freed some other people,” she said, with an odd inflection in her voice when she said people. Utter silence gripped the room as Reisiltark recounted her adventures, from breaking free of Koduteel to Saljane’s kidnapping, and the wizards’ unexpected welcome. Emelovi strained forward, enthralled.

  “I thought I had destroyed their stronghold and killed many of them. I had hoped it would give us some breathing room to stop what’s happening here. Because they aren’t going to give up Mysane Kosk easily. Whatever spells they did might have gone terribly wrong, but they’ve reaped the benefits anyway. They capture the nokulas and steal their magic to fuel their spells.

  “But that isn’t the worst of it.” Reisiltark paused, her expression smoky. Her lip curled. “I don’t know exactly what they are or if what they say is true, but the other . . . beings . . . I rescued from the wizards, they called themselves plague-healers.”