Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  One of the witches extended a brown finger to a dark circle. “Oceotl.” She moved her finger to a squared-off triangle a couple of inches away from Oceotl. “Monequi.” The mountain where they’d entered Cemanahuatl from Kodu Riik. Reisil nodded. The witch moved her hand past and slightly left to a blue spot. “Atli Cihua.” She waited for Reisil to nod understanding. The map was instantly withdrawn.

  Now they lined up double-file again with Reisil just behind the two leaders. They led her out of the meeting house. Reisil carried Saljane cradled in her arms. Stars glittered above, and the moon shone full. All of the houses remained dark. No one spoke as they strode out of the village and back up the trail into the jungle. Reisil stepped carefully, too aware of the rocks biting into her feet and the unfamiliar wash of air on her exposed skin.

  ~I hope this is worth it, she grumbled. Having sorted out making wards, she wasn’t terribly concerned about the dangers of the forest, or of getting wet or cold. She had Saljane to help with food and her own magic as a weapon. The waste of time, however, seemed criminal. And what if she got lost? She tried to remember the map, but found that it had already grown hazy in her mind.

  When they came to the wardpost marking the boundary of the village, the two nahuallis in the lead stopped. They turned to face Reisil. One produced a clay jar. It was filled with a greasy orange substance. She dipped her fingers into it, daubing Reisil’s forehead, cheeks, chin, and breasts. It felt unexpectedly cool. When she was done, the other witch raised her arm, pointing meaningfully at the moon. Reisil nodded understanding. She had until the space of the next full moon to get there.

  Now the two women stepped aside, silent and severe.

  ~Not fond of good-byes, are they?

  Reisil strode away, not bothering to look back. Her bladder prodded at her, and she sighed. First thing was to find a bush. Second thing, find a place to spend the night. Saljane couldn’t see in the dark and carrying the goshawk would make for slow going. Third, craft wards against weather and predators. And then hurry.

  But as she climbed the trail, her thoughts fled to Yohuac and silent tears slipped down her face. Be well, she said silently to the night.

  Chapter 27

  Soka leaned against a wooden tie-rail, watching the sparring practice. It was late in the morning. He glanced at the leaden sky, feeling the passing moments like blood draining from his veins. He’d been cooling his heels for two weeks, waiting for his father’s decision. He dared not push. Too much was at stake. He crossed his arms, his muscles knotting. He was tense, strung tighter than a longbow. He’d kept himself busy these weeks by riding out with the Huntmaster, though Soka was an abysmal hunter. A fact that Prefiil no doubt reported to his father. Not that the Thevul would be at all surprised. He expected his son to be weak. After all, he’d had a soft upbringing.

  Soka had also ridden once to Raakin, his own holding. It was tenanted by a very capable steward—a third cousin on his father’s side. He’d spent the night, reviewing the logs and touring the land. And then he’d returned to Bro-heyek, where he’d spent his evenings dallying with a half dozen women, and dicing with the soldiers.

  Soka’s lip curled. He’d decided that he’d left his father too long alone. The Thevul found it only too easy to dismiss Soka from his mind. It was time to become a thorn in his father’s buttocks. He had little doubt his mere presence would grate painfully. The Thevul found their limited conversations at dinner barely tolerable. No more so than Soka. Just sharing the same air made him furious.

  Soka watched the squad of men hacking at one another with practice swords. They wore sleeveless gambesons made of heavy hide and padded inside with curly sheepskin. It had rained the evening before, and the ground was slick. Soka chuckled as one fighter ducked beneath a blow and slipped heavily onto his backside. His opponent leaped on top of him, pressing the dull point of his practice sword to the prone man’s throat.

  “Think you can do better?”

  “I could hardly do worse,” Soka said.

  A younger man sidled up beside him. He was shorter than Soka by half a head. His features were fine and narrow and his chestnut hair fell thick over his forehead. His clothing was finely patterned damask in green and yellow. The hilts of his sword and dagger were showy things made of silver and gold and set with sparkling rubies in the shape of a snarling bear’s head. He was Soka’s cousin, by his mother’s brother, and had fostered at Bro-heyek since soon after Soka’s departure to Koduteel.

  “I understood you didn’t have permission to carry a sword, as hostage to the court,” Valetama said, lifting one brow. “Boasting aside, perhaps you ought to be out there with them?”

  Soka smiled maliciously as he turned to look at Valetama. “And you, cousin, do you have no need of practice?”

  His cousin puffed up. “I have been trained by the best—your father. It would be cruel to pit my skills against these men.”

  “Perhaps you would like to teach me?” Soka drawled.

  Valetama eyed him narrowly. Soka could almost read his mind. His cousin was a snide, superior sort and had viewed Soka’s return like a baker finding a swarm of ants in his grain stores. He’d been suspicious and had made it his personal mission to keep a constant watch on the prodigal son. This was in no little way motivated by Valetama’s young bride, who seemed to find Soka enthralling. He was equally impressed by her blond locks and buxom figure. It only spiced his enjoyment that she belonged to Valetama. He smiled, remembering the stolen half hour the afternoon before. Ah, but she was delicious.

  “I would be pleased to teach you a lesson,” Valetama said now, flushing.

  “Very kind of you, I’m sure,” Soka said, following the other man out onto the grass and flicking back his cuffs.

  “You may want to put on a gambeson.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “As you wish,” Valetama said shortly.

  They took up a position away from the other men. They each drew their swords and daggers, saluting one another before settling down to spar. Valetama was quite good, Soka decided. And very predictable. He was a workhorse sort of swordsman, very good at the meat and potatoes, but not very creative when forced out of his routine.

  Soka met the other man’s attacks easily, feeling his muscles loosen and warm. After fifteen minutes, Valetama pulled back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

  “You’ve had some training,” he said.

  “Some.”

  “Well, then. Let us push a little harder.”

  With that, they began to spar in earnest. Soka was forced to move more quickly. But he’d learned from Metyein, who was the best in Kodu Riik. And he’d never softened his blows, or let Soka rest. He’d drilled him unmercifully. Soka had blossomed under his tutelage. He’d practiced swordplay hour after hour. And he’d learned. He was better than Valetama; he knew it. And soon his cousin would too.

  Slowly Soka took control of the match, moving more rapidly, stepping into patterns that had become second nature. He moved fluidly from one to the next. Their swords clanged a sharp staccato across the bailey, and the other men stopped their sparring to watch. Valetama dripped sweat. His damask clothing was scored from the touches Soka had made on him. He wheezed, stumbling and slipping on the muddy field.

  Soka was more tired than he cared to admit, but he didn’t allow it to show. But it was time to end this match. He stepped into a quick series of unrelenting, hammering blows. When the last swing of his sword would have chopped Valetama in two, he turned his blade, smashing the other man with the flat. His cousin dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. He held his right elbow and moaned.

  There was a smattering of applause. Soka ignored it, sliding his sword home and reaching down to help Valetama to his feet, picking up his sword and handing it back to him.

  “I think I am the one to have learned a lesson,” Valetama said dourly.

  “More surprises,” Soka’s father said.

  Soka started. How long had his father bee
n watching?

  “Right then, back to work. Standing about goggling won’t improve your skills any. Soka, with me.”

  Soka followed his father into the Great Hall. His muscles shook with his exertion, and his clothes and hair clung wetly to his skin. His father led the way to his office and motioned Soka inside. His father seated himself beyond the desk.

  “Sit.”

  Soka did as ordered, perching on the edge of the chair, aware of his dampness and filth.

  “Kohv?”

  He nodded and his father poured them both a cup from the clay carafe on his desk. He pushed the cup across the desk.

  “Interesting display down there. I’d have thought the Iisand would not have permitted you to carry a sword, much less learn how to use it,” his father said, tapping the sides of his cup.

  “He thought it unseemly that the heir of a noble house lack skills in that area. He allowed me to take lessons with his arms master.”

  “So you learned your skills from him?”

  Soka smiled bleakly, remembering the awkwardness and the rage he’d felt. “No.”

  “Then from whom?”

  “A friend.”

  “A very capable friend.”

  “None better.”

  His father turned to look out the open windows at the men practicing below. “Would that I had someone of such capability to school my men.”

  “Valetama is able enough.”

  “He’s quite good at what he knows. But he’s unimaginative.”

  Soka couldn’t resist. “He says he trains with you.”

  His father turned back around, brows arching. “Did he? Well, it is true. I suppose that makes me unimaginative too.”

  Soka refused to look away.

  “I have given some thought to this.” His father opened a drawer and pulled out the message from Emelovi and Metyein.

  “Have you?”

  Even as the words escaped, Soka’s gut twisted. What a time to antagonize his father. Prodding him would only make him shy off.

  Staring expectantly across the desk at his father’s grim expression, Soka held his breath, wondering if he’d failed Metyein.

  “I have decided to give you the metals you need,” Thevul Bro-heyek said abruptly.

  Soka’s stared a moment, uncertain that he’d heard correctly. But his father wasn’t through.

  “And I’ve decided that I am too much out of the way of the goings-on in the south. I will be returning with you to Mysane Kosk. I want to see it for myself. And I want to meet this new regime and see what I can do to guarantee its success.”

  Soka’s lips twisted. If Honor won, then his father won. It was only good business to come help. Metyein wouldn’t regret the addition of a blooded general, or new troops. If his father thought Soka would argue, he was to be surprised.

  “When can we leave?”

  “I’ve sent for the ores to be collected and sent here. It will take two weeks, and eight more to get there, if the snows hold off.”

  That would put them back at Honor a few weeks before Miidagi, the rebirth of the year. It left precious little time to forge weapons and train the men to use them. Soka blew out a quiet breath. He’d send Slatts and Ferro to Metyein with the news. He was about to stand and excuse himself to do just that when his father caught him off guard.

  “There is another matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Soka hesitated, suspicious.

  “It would be wise to establish an heir for you. I have selected your bride. You can be married at Nasadh, though the girl will not be unwilling to be bedded sooner. She understands the need.”

  Soka’s jaw dropped. His father rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively.

  “Close your mouth, boy. You’ve spread your seed here liberally enough in the last couple of weeks, but I want something on the right side of the sheets. Your brother is too young yet to marry, and you are about to go to war. Do your duty. Protect the line.” His tone brooked no argument. The terms were clear: Marry now, or there would be no metal for Honor.

  Soka stared in hot incredulity, biting back hard on his fury. But his father was unmoved.

  “Well?”

  He stood. “As you wish. Perhaps I might be permitted to bathe first?”

  “Don’t take overlong. Do you have any questions about the girl?”

  Soka shook his head. “What do I care so long as she has a scabbard to sheathe my sword?”

  His father shrugged. “Then I’ll have Roomila sent to your quarters. Perhaps she can scrub your back. At any rate, Valetama will be pleased you’re too busy to diddle his wife anymore.”

  Soka smiled derisively. “I don’t know about that. I have great stamina.”

  His father startled him with a bark of laughter as Soka retreated to the door. He paused on the threshold.

  “Have my new bride bring food. I’ll need my strength. And wine. A lot of it.”

  Soka’s wedding occurred the day before the caravan departed Bro-heyek. It had been two and a half weeks since his first night with his new bride, and to his surprise, Soka wasn’t entirely pleased to be leaving her behind. Roomila had turned out to be a brash girl, with a sharp tongue and a love of erotic sport. In fact, she was exactly the sort of woman Soka might have picked for himself, if he’d ever intended to marry. As it was, Roomila made leaving Bro-heyek more difficult than he expected. And now he had a reason to return.

  “Do you want to stay here or go to Raakin?” he asked her lazily, reaching for his glass of wine on the nightstand. Next to it was a pewter box, inside of which was the poison bead from his mouth. It had become too dangerous in their lovemaking. Beside him, Roomila sprawled on her stomach, her skin flushed and damp, her blond hair a glorious tangle down her pale back. The daughter of a local land-holder, she was strong-willed and clever. She turned on her side, taking the glass from his hand.

  “Raakin. I am your wife, now. I should have charge of it while you’re away.”

  “Mercenary. It could be lonely.”

  She shrugged, turning onto her back and rubbing her plump belly. “I’ll be dragged back here fast enough if I have a child. The Thevul will want to tuck the little heir under his wing. I may as well have a bit of freedom while I can.”

  “He may surprise you. He’s not got a good history of protecting the heir.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself at Raakin.” She sounded defiant, and Soka glanced at her in surprise. She prodded his chest with her finger, her nail biting into his skin, her words fierce. “If your mother had been alive, you can bet you’d still have your eye, and you’d not have grown up at court,” she said. “Your father may be surprised if he decides to take liberties with my child.”

  “You’re a lion,” Soka teased, rubbing his hand over her arm. But she pushed him away, sitting up with her hands on her naked hips.

  “This is no joke. You’re about to head off to who knows where and won’t likely be back for another ten years, if ever. You aren’t going to protect the child. Which leaves just me. And my baby isn’t going to become fodder for your father’s ambition. Not while I’m around.”

  Soka reached over and pulled her into his arms, surprised at the rush of feeling her words engendered, both guilt and admiration. He kissed her, rolling on top of her, holding her by the wrists as she struggled to be free. He raised his head.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she said, her chin jutting.

  “I’m not. I’m delighted my bride is so brave and independent. And you will have independence in more than just your fiery spirit. Before I leave I’ll make sure you have money safely hidden for whatever you need. In case of emergency. And I promise you this: If all goes well, I will return here for you.”

  She stared at him, her blue gaze like turbulent ocean waters. “And if all this is moot—if I’m not pregnant?”

  Soka brushed his lips against hers. “Then we try again. If you want.”

  “I’m your wife. Do I have a choice?”

  “With m
e? Always.”

  She smiled slow, her lips red and full. “Then you’d better get to work. We don’t have a lot of time left. And this is our wedding night.”

  Chapter 28

  Traveling back through the jungle was much harder than Reisil had anticipated. Her feet and hands were torn and blistered. Her skin was bruised and scraped beneath a layer of grime. There wasn’t anything she could do about it. When she tried warding herself from harm, she couldn’t feel the ground or the things her hands gripped. The result was that she could neither walk nor climb properly. It was like trying to scale ice. The best she could do was ward herself against weather and predators.

  Saljane brought back birds and rodents for Reisil to eat. More often than not, Reisil pushed them aside. Without a knife, she had no means to skin or gut them. Even if she felt like it. Her body seemed far distant. All its pains and demands were like fading echoes. She focused feverishly on moving forward, on getting to Atli Cihua. Soon she stopped only when exhaustion crippled her.

  ~Eat. Now.

  Reisil stared down at the creature Saljane had dropped on her bare lap. Blood dripped down her legs from punctures in the small animal’s hide. Reisil poked it. It didn’t move. Her fingers caught her attention and she turned her hand over and flexed, fascinated at the play of muscles beneath the filthy, scraped skin.

  Losing interest, she looked up, forgetting instantly about her hand and the furry body in her lap, dreamily surveying her surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. She was sitting on a mossy log. Volcano ants swarmed the ground and log on either side of her, checked by the invisible shield of her wards. Reisil watched them curiously. They piled over one another, their legs digging for traction on the wet wood.

  ~Do you hear me? You must eat. Saljane’s voice was stern and unrelenting.