Reisil smothered her grimace at the sound. “Then I’ll see you in Honor. Soon I hope.”
The last was said with frowning worry. Less because of Soka, and more because of the journey to and from Cemanahuatl. Though the nahuallis would certainly help her all they could, who knew how long it would take to learn what she needed to know? If she would find the answer at all?
And then the long journey back . . . She could return too late to save her friends and Kodu Riik. The thought burned in her stomach.
“I’ll not spend any more time in Bro-heyek than absolutely necessary,” Soka declared, trying to reassure her, reading her expression as concern for his reliability. “Preferably not longer than a single hour,” he added darkly, his blue-topaz eye turning hard.
“So long as you get what you came for,” Reisil said. “Honor needs it.”
“What they need,” he countered, swinging up onto his horse, “is a miracle. I’ll leave that part to you.”
Reisil said nothing as he and his four companions rode away north toward Bro-heyek. None of them turned to look back. She bit her lip, hearing Soka’s last words echo in her mind.
“Best not tarry,” Yohuac said in his low voice. “Our journey will not be a swift one.”
The western slopes of the Melyhir Mountains were covered with sparse grasses, prickly pear, and sage. A few juniper and spruce trees were huddled in creases and in the lee sides of hulking boulders. As Yohuac and Reisil climbed higher, the air grew thin and dry. It was hard to breathe. At last they passed through a notch between two great, snow-covered peaks, and plunged down the eastern slopes into a wide, flat valley with winding streams and red-stemmed willow thickets. Wapiti and smaller, fleet-footed white-tailed deer grazed along the valley bottom, flicking their ears at the biting flies and gazing in mild surprise at the two intruders.
Baku pounced out of the air and crushed one of the big wapiti to the ground, tearing the flesh from the animal with powerful jerks of his head. Saljane sailed down to join his feast. Reisil was surprised. Since she’d rescued him from the wizards, Baku’s mind had been spiny against her own, and he rarely offered more than terse responses to her overtures. But he seemed to have developed a fast friendship with Saljane.
She glanced at Yohuac, who was watching the two feeding on the wapiti. His face was troubled. He never spoke of Baku. The conversation between them was always silent. Sometimes Reisil wondered if they spoke at all. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the telltale, faintly cross-eyed look on his face that usually accompanied such communication.
“How far, do you think?” she asked, breaking his reverie.
Yohuac started. “Not more than three or four days. We must cross into the next mountain range.” He pointed to the blue-misted mountains rising in fading blue layers from the opposite side of the valley floor. “I’ll know better once we find the trail. Baku . . .” He trailed off, turning his head away. Then, with obvious effort, he turned back to her. “Baku will remember better than I do, I am certain.”
They said nothing further as they picked their way between the willows, across the weave of streams, to make camp at the base of the mountains. They went about the business of setting up camp without speaking more than a bare handful of words.
For Reisil, silence was a balm. Throughout the long journey from Honor, she’d never let her mind rest. She’d practiced the wards. She’d pestered Yohuac for information about Cemanahuatl and the nahuallis, and spent hours contemplating the problem of Mysane Kosk. When that grew stale, she returned to tinkering with the wards. The task had kept her mind busy, too busy to think about what was to come. It kept her from feeling the bite of her greatest fear—what if she couldn’t find a solution? What if she failed?
She glanced down at her hands as they turned a duck on the spit. They were calloused, tanned, and scarred. She’d always thought of them as healing hands. She remembered Kvepi Debess’s pronouncement in the wizards’ stronghold—how long ago? Only weeks? It seemed like lifetimes. He’d said she wasn’t really a healer. Her skill, her calling, her gift, was to destroy. Reisil sighed. He was right. She couldn’t heal the plague, but she could grind a hundred men to sausage with hardly an effort. It was . . . monstrous.
A sickening feeling made her stomach lurch and spread wintry fingers to encircle her heart. She closed her eyes. It might be so. But there was no time now for guilt. When Kodu Riik was safe . . . there would be time later to cry over the thing she’d become.
But now the uncertain future loomed large, casting her in its bleak shadow. She could no longer distract herself from what was to come. Apprehension made her so nauseous that she had to force herself to swallow every bite she took. When she was done, the duck sat in her stomach like carrion. She sipped her mint tea, taking slow, steady breaths, her stomach bucking. Through their mental bond, Reisil could tell that Saljane was equally unsettled. They did not speak. It had all been said.
Later, as she curled up against Yohuac, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, she watched Saljane settle on Baku’s back. The yellow eyes of the copicatl glimmered like stars against the coal-drake’s black hide, inches from Saljane’s talons. So it had been since their journey began. Saljane and Baku guarding the magical snake. Neither trusted it.
Reisil tugged her cloak up under her chin, squirming close against Yohuac’s warm strength. He tightened his arm around her, his legs twining with hers. She smiled, a tight, thin curve that withered as soon as it bloomed. She closed her eyes, feeling anew the dull saw of uncertainty and fear. Deliberately she turned her mind to something else. Instantly she snagged on the other question that had been chafing at her: Where was Tapit?
Reisil squirmed, reaching under her to push aside the rock digging into her shoulder. Did the wizard still live? Or was he stalking them even now? Reisil’s skin tingled and her exhaustion dropped away as her muscles clenched. She held herself stiff and still, her gaze sweeping the valley.
Her wizard-sight revealed the landscape as if lit by a noontime sun. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then, Tapit was an exceptional hunter. A chill rippled through her and she pushed out of Yohuac’s embrace.
“What is it?” he asked, sitting up with her.
“Probably nothing,” she said, stirring the fire and sitting with her back to it and facing the valley. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.” With the wards, they hadn’t set a watch since separating from Soka and the others. Stupid . But if Tapit was out there, he’d missed his chance to take them unawares.
Yohuac hesitated a long moment, and then pulled his cloak about him and settled back down on the ground. “Wake me when it’s my turn.”
His breathing steadied into a slow, steady cadence. Baku chuffed and let out a deep sigh, stretching out on the ground. Saljane mantled and settled down to sleep.
Reisil blinked into spellsight. Baku sparkled with silver motes, as if he were made of night and stars. Saljane gleamed a soft, burnished gold. The copicatl was like an orange flame. Reisil glanced upward toward the sky, half expecting to see an ilgas floating down to trap them in its magic-deadening folds. But the sky was clear, except for a few curling wisps of silvered cloud.
She turned to survey the valley. The nokulas did not seem to have followed her either. That bothered her almost as much Tapit. Why not? Because they knew she’d return? Were they even now preparing an ambush?
She set her teeth, pulling her cloak tight and hunching against the cold. A memory seeped up from the darkness in her mind: Sodur’s warning. Of course they were. And if she thought getting to Honor had been hard the first time, it was going to be a whole lot worse the second.
It took Tapit more than two days to pick up Reisil’s trail—going east, not west into Patverseme. He was perplexed. Where could she be going? He followed her east, down into the Karnane Valley. It was an easy enough trail, marked by the vestiges of the workings of large magics. Not spells, he thought, his lip curling slightly. Witless smashing and bashing—all the fines
se of using a club to catch a fish. But, he admitted, surveying the stinking carrion covering a wide battlefield, effective. At least against helpless worms such as these men had been.
He yawned, glancing up at the sky turning sapphire with the lowering sun. He was only a day or so behind his prey. They’d turned north. It made no sense. Where were they going? And why?
The subtle tingle of a warding distracted him from his musings. He pulled up his horse, tilting his head and blinking into spellsight. He had a special talent for finding magic, for feeling it on his skin like a lover’s touch. Better. Intimate in ways that no lover could match. He gave an involutary sigh and forced himself to concentrate. Ah. There.
He found the wards protecting a copse on the top of a low hillock. He nudged his way inside the thicket of trees and leafy underbrush. The wards covered a small grassy patch between a triangle of silver-skinned birch trees. The shielding rippled with iridescent light. It was a strong warding. He reached out his hand, feeling the crackle of its energy. He nodded with professional approval; then he bent, squinting. What was this?
The spells contained rinda he’d never seen before. Jagged-edged and complex. A jigsaw puzzle of convoluted shapes, all hard lines and sharp points, patterned in geometric snowflakes. Elegant in simplicity and more than effective.
Tapit stood, considering. He could break the wards. He was certain of it. But he couldn’t reconstruct them. Reisil would know someone—a wizard—had been here. It would not be difficult to guess it was him. Tapit turned and retreated. The wards guarded something she wanted to keep safe until she returned, that was clear enough. Whatever it was would wait.
He caught sight of Reisil and her companions just after noon the following day. He still could not fathom their destination. Their hurried pace was curious, and Tapit was inclined to bide his time, see what they were up to. Five days later, Reisil, her lover, and the coal-drake split off from the other four, heading east. Hungry anticipation flamed inside Tapit. He reached down to pat the saddlebag containing the three ilgas he’d prepared. Then he frowned, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He could capture them easily enough. He didn’t doubt it. He had trapped more difficult prey. But his curiosity continued to prod him. What were they up to?
The mystery made him still his hand, though his prey grew lax with their watch. Tapit maintained a wide distance as he followed them high into the Melyhir Mountains. He constantly sniffed the air, searching for traces of magic, of something that would lure Reisil here. And the higher they climbed, the farther east they went, the more Tapit wondered how he would return them home when he captured them.
He winced, his teeth clicking together. Home. His lips pulled back in a bitter, exultant smile. Reisil had done her damage, but many of his brethren had escaped her attack. And they were waiting eagerly for him to return with her. She would help them repair and rebuild. She would be made to serve until she learned her place. As for her companions—Tapit’s nostrils flared. They had value too. And no one escaped from him. These would not be the first.
He scratched his bristled jaw, not having taken time to shave in more than a week. Still, there was a problem of getting her back. Or was there? Certainly she was looking for something that would help save or destroy Mysane Kosk and defeat her myriad enemies. Surely she must be searching for a magical answer, for nothing else could help. Eagerness quickened Tapit’s heart. What could it be? He wanted it. He had to have it.
Tapit smiled. Let her do the work. Let her think she was safe beyond his reach. She could retrieve her weapon and return to Mysane Kosk. When she did, he would spring his trap. He would have her, her lover, the coal-drake, and the weapon she was looking for. The hand resting on his thigh closed in a fist.
Bro-heyek was situated on a squarish bulb of land north of the Karnane Valley. It was divided from the the rest of Kodu Riik by a low, dull-edged parade of mountains at the northwestern end of the Melyhir Mountains, called the Sawtooth Range. These merged into another, more aggressive march of mountains known as the Tornaat Mountains. These peaks thrust up higher than any other in Kodu Riik. Their heights were never free of snow, and there were no roads through them. The steep, rocky slopes were daunting even to mountain goats.
The towering Tornaats ran north between Guelt and Kodu Riik, dividing the two countries and providing the western boundary of the Bro-heyek lands. North of Bro-heyek unfurled rolling farmlands that ended abruptly in high, sheer bluffs overlooking the cold waters of the Jartain Ocean. These same waters curled south, filling the harbor at Koduteel and flooding the fens and salt swamps east of the Karnane Valley.
Soka tasted the salt of the ocean in the back of his throat as he rode through a pass and began his descent out of the Sawtooths. The sunny slopes were heavily forested with redwoods whose boles were as wide as two horses nose-to-tail. The ground beneath was a dense mat of rust-colored needles, brightened here and there by leggy bushes sporting dark, wide leaves and brilliantly colored flowers. Soldier-jays squawked furiously at the five intruders.
Clano and Temles flanked Soka, watching the trees warily. Ahead, Ferro and Slatts rode point. It had been four days since leaving Reisil and Yohuac. Soka’s stomach tightened. Fewer than that to reach Bro-heyek. He blinked, his single eye feeling suddenly gritty.
The closer they came to his childhood home, the more Soka found himself sinking inescapably into the memory of the last time he’d seen his father. The day he’d been taken as a hostage to the court.
He’d been standing on the deck of a royal ship surrounded by men wearing the night-blue and gold of the royal house of Varakamber. He’d been a month shy of eight years old. He remembered searching for his father in the crowd along the dock, waiting for him to come, to rescue him.
Soka swallowed, tightening his lips against the tremble in his chin, despising himself for his weakness.
At last his father had come. He’d swaggered up the gangplank, uncowed by the Iisand’s soldiers. He’d come wearing his sword and dagger and his mail coat. He was sandy-haired and slender, the bones of his face rather fine. But his slightness was deceptive. He was made of iron and diamonds. His eyes were the same piercing blue as Soka’s, with a commanding, unrelenting quality that made men quail before him. The guards holding Soka were no exception. They ducked their heads deferentially and stepped back, leaving Soka to stare worshipfully up at his father.
Thevul Bro-heyek stood, legs spread wide, square chin jutting, one calloused, long-fingered hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His beard was neatly trimmed, his earth-brown clothing plain and dusty from the day’s work.
Soka remembered swelling with pride for him. Thevul Bro-heyek was rare amongst the nobility, getting his hands dirty with his men, spending his sweat and blood on the land. This was the sort of man Soka wanted to be.
Had wanted to be.
His father had stooped. Soka had tilted his head back as far as it would go, blinking in the brilliant sunlight. His father squeezed Soka’s shoulder in a bony pincer-grip.
“Be brave, as I know you are. I will see you soon as may be.”
The words had jolted through Soka like blows, and his body jerked with the impact. His father was supposed to save him. Supposed to take him by force if necessary. Tears had blurred his vision and he’d savagely knuckled them away. His throat tightened and strangled his voice. But if he could have spoken, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to beg, to cling to his father’s legs and go home.
But as quickly as he’d come, his father straightened and strode away to the gangplank, turning and lifting his hand in farewell.
“Don’t let them cow you, boy. Have a mind for the blood that runs in your veins and make me proud. You’ll hear from me soon.”
And Soka had. When it came, the message had been all too clear. Was Thevul Bro-heyek proud now?
Soka reached up and touched his eye patch. What had become of his eye? He couldn’t imagine his father’s reaction upon receiving it. He doubted it had been a cause f
or mourning. Or that it had been the reason for Bro-heyek’s succumbing to the Iisand. It was more likely that the war had caused his father to behave himself. Soka was lucky not to be missing a hand. He thought of Aare. His cheek twitched and the muscles in his thighs contracted. Or his balls.
He flicked the poison bead from his cheek and caught it in his teeth.
Twelve years since he’d lost his eye, and he was coming back at last. Thanks to Metyein, he was a man—the kind of man his father couldn’t ignore. Soka touched the hilt of his sword. He would show his father exactly what kind of blood ran in his veins.
He called a halt in the early afternoon, setting up camp on the edge of the Old Forest. It filled the horizon between the mountains like a shadowy wall.
“We gotta go through there?” Temles asked, gaze fixed on the thick undergrowth and foreboding shadows beneath the contorted trunks of the ancient trees.
“Yes.” He drew out a map from inside a round, oiled-leather case and carefully rolled it out. “There’s a good road through the forest that will take us clear to Bro-heyek. Part of its borders are inside the Old Forest. We can be there in two days.” Not home. Bro-heyek hadn’t been home since the day Aare had stolen his eye. As far as Soka was concerned, he’d been orphaned that day.
“But—” Temles swallowed and then went back to work, furiously chopping the stray limbs from a log for the fire.
“But?” Soka pushed, knowing full well what was bothering Temles.
“It’s just . . . I’ve heard stories.”
“Have you? Do tell.”
“The Old Forest—they say . . .” Temles’s voice dropped, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Things live there. They’ll tear your heart out while you sleep. Rip your spine out and steal your soul!” His eyes had widened and he stared, face pale.
Soka smiled lazily, rolling up the map and standing. “Half of Bro-heyek lies inside the Old Forest,” he said. “And it’s true. There are things—beasts and sprites and likely hordes of demons inside that you don’t want to encounter. But the terrible truth is, the monster you ought to fear the most is the one we’ve come to see. So I wouldn’t worry so much about the ring of eyes in the night; I would worry about the dagger in your back at Bro-heyek.”
Path of Blood Page 19
