Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  At last Kebonsat whispered an order to rest. Dumen and Ledus remained by her side as she settled on a rock. Black-haired Ledus offered her a piece of journeybread. He smiled encouragingly as she took it and ate, glad to have something to fill her stomach. He then offered her his water bag. She drank gratefully.

  Kebonsat came and squatted beside her. He held himself stiffly apart, not meeting her eyes. His voice was terse, lacking any emotion. Emelovi frowned again, surprised at her reaction. This was the way she’d wanted it, wasn’t it? Certainly she missed him, missed his friendship and the way he made her feel when he looked at her, as if she were the only one in the room. But he’d betrayed her. She found herself shushing the shrill protest. What was betrayal? He’d wanted her safe. Yes, he’d lied. And no, she wouldn’t have come if he had told her the truth. But if she were honest, that fact wasn’t anything she was proud of. In the last months, she’d come to understand her duty to Kodu Riik, to her people. If not for Kebonsat, she would have let Aare continue on, knowing he’d turned from the Lady, knowing he was hunting the ahalad-kaaslane and betraying his people. Worse, she would have let him prostitute her to the sorcerers, to whomever he wanted. The thought made her cringe hotly from herself. Much as she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t, and the knowledge repulsed her.

  The only reason she was here was Kebonsat. She still didn’t like that he’d lied to her. But because of him, she’d shaken off the habit of helplessness she’d cultivated under Aare’s dominion. Because of Kebonsat, she’d found courage and purpose.

  “The next bit is going to be hard. Are you ready?” he asked in a low voice.

  “When you are,” she said softly, wanting to say more. But this was not the time. She didn’t know when would be. Or when he’d be willing to listen, if ever.

  She examined him closely in the gloom, not liking what she saw. He’d changed. There was a recklessness about him, an edginess that reminded her of Soka. As if he were constantly dancing on the edge of a cliff. As if he no longer cared about his own safety. It worried her. The lack of information about Ceriba only made things worse. The agony of knowing Aare had her, but being unable to rescue his sister was driving Kebonsat mad. Emelovi could see it. Her own frigid anger had not helped settle him down. She wanted to offer him comfort. But between them was a fence of thorns. One of her own making. And she didn’t know how to tear it down. She drew a breath. Later. There would be time later when this was all over. She contented herself with the promise that she would put things right then.

  “We’ll find a place to hole up before dawn,” he said. “But it’s going to be a hard climb. Can you make it?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded and rose, making his way to the front again. Emelovi watched him go, her heart tight.

  Kebonsat was right. The climb became steeper, the ground more slippery. Soon Emelovi was covered with mud, her fingers scraped and bruised from scrabbling for handholds. The night sky began to lighten as dawn approached. Kebonsat turned around a massive boulder and up a narrow path out of the gully. There was only room to go single-file. Emelovi gripped the rocks on either side, pulling herself up on the craggy path. At least it wasn’t muddy, she told herself.

  Suddenly the twang of an arrow string shattered the silence. She heard the clunk of arrows battering the rocks, and the sodden thump of those that found their targets. Ledus grabbed her, shoving her down into a crevice and shielding her with his body. There were shouts. The clang of swords. More twangs, more clunks and thuds.

  Emelovi trembled. A few feet away, between the rock and Ledus’s arm, she could see Dumen’s wide, staring eyes, an arrow protruding from his neck. He looked startled. Bile rose in Emelovi’s throat and she retched.

  “Hear that, boys?” a voice shouted close by on the rocks above.

  Emelovi froze.

  “Someone’s off his feed. Now which of you done that to th’ poor sod?” Mocking laughter echoed in the gray air. “C’mon out, now. Don’t be shy. We’ll be gentle. I promise.” More laughter and then the sounds of booted feet on the trail. Emelovi wriggled backwards. Ledus thrust his dagger at her.

  “Take it,” he ordered. “I’ll hold ’em best I can.”

  And then he stepped away, around the corner. Swords clanged. Shouting. Emelovi pulled the dagger from its sheath and held it in both hands. They shook. Nothing she could do would make them stop.

  “Cowards!”

  Emelovi’s breath caught. It was Kebonsat.

  “Come on out and fight like men. Or do you do all your killing from behind in the dark?”

  “Brave words from a man hidin’ in them rocks. But then all your friends is dead. Say! I got an idea! Why don’t you save us a bit o’ trouble. Come out and let us give you a chance to dance for your freedom. No arrows. Just steel.”

  No! Don’t do it! Emelovi cried silently.

  “All right then,” Kebonsat said, and Emelovi heard the scrape of his boots on the path. “Here I am. Let’s see what kind of men you are.”

  Emelovi knew he was giving her a diversion and buying her time to get away. Reason told her there was no way Aare’s men could have known they were going to be here, that she was among them. It was just bad luck. They’d probably walked into a patrol.

  The sound of swords clashing rang in the morning air. Emelovi started. Then she crawled out of the crevice. She stepped carefully around Dumen’s body and inched up the path. Ledus lay across it, a gaping wound in his chest, his intestines spilling out onto the ground. Emelovi’s gorge rose again and she pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing hard. The other four men who’d been between her and Kebonsat were crumpled dark heaps, arrows sticking out of them like porcupine quills. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she hurried past, toward the sounds of fighting.

  She rounded a corner and then ducked back into the shadows. Kebonsat stood in the middle of half a dozen men. His sword whirred in the air, faster than she could see. He ducked under a blade and drove his own deep into a man’s stomach. The man toppled as Kebonsat smoothly pulled free to block another man’s feint.

  It was a dance. An awful, macabre dance. Emelovi watched in terror as one after another of Aare’s men fell with horrible wounds. It never occurred to her to flee, to abandon him.

  Kebonsat kept swinging in silent fury. Crimson streaks appeared on his arms and legs, on his chest. Blood ran from a slice across his cheek. But his energy seemed boundless. He leaped and swung, ducked and rolled. He slammed the pommel of his sword into one man’s jaw and rolled off him as a blade cut through the air where he’d been standing and chopped through the man he’d punched.

  No one spoke. There was only the clang of metal, grunts of pain, the rasping pant of effort, and the whimpering of death. Soon there were three men facing Kebonsat, then two, then one. This last had more skill than his brethren. He parried and feinted, his sword flashing with deadly intent.

  The fight ended so quickly that Emelovi didn’t understand what her eyes told her. Kebonsat tripped and Aare’s soldier drove down in a powerful, hammering thrust, the edge of his sword shining in the moonlight. Kebonsat rammed himself at the man’s legs. The soldier’s blade slammed into his back. Emelovi screamed. There was a crunch of bone and both men fell, with Kebonsat landing on top of the other. He lifted his arm and drove his dagger into the soldier’s chest.

  No one moved. Kebonsat remained as he’d fallen. Emelovi heard the sound of stricken breathing and smelled the foul stench of blood and body waste. She hesitated a bare second and then stumbled across the muddy battleground, dropping to her knees beside Kebonsat. Blood flowed from the horrible wound in his back. Emelovi could see the gleam of bone peering through from his shoulder to his hip. She gripped his shoulder.

  “Kebonsat? Can you hear me?”

  There was a guttural moan and then nothing more. She pulled her hand away. It was sticky with blood. She stared down at her hand and then back at Kebonsat’s limp body, fear turning her to stone. The wound on his back was a fatal
one. She knew it. She could see it.

  Suddenly a noise erupted from her, like a wolf snarling. She lunged to her feet, looking for something to bind him, to stop the bleeding. Reisiltark had returned. She could heal him. All Emelovi had to do was keep him from dying before Reisiltark could save him.

  She’d lost her father. She wasn’t going to lose Kebonsat too.

  Chapter 40

  Kedisan-Mutira watched from behind the curtain wall as Metyein’s decapitated head spun and hit the floor with a sodden thud. For a moment, no one made a sound. Then Menegal-Hakar made a sweep of his hand and muttered something. The headless body dropped to the floor, blood spurting from his neck. The Lord Marshal staggered back to sit stricken on the edge of his desk. Aare swore furiously.

  “You’re going to pay for that insolence,” he declared to Soka, red blotches blooming on his cheeks.

  Soka wiped his sword clean on a tablecloth and sheathed it deliberately. He turned. “Do your worst,” he said, a queer light shining in his eyes.

  He looked . . . insane. And murderous. Kedisan-Mutira knew that look, knew the fatalism and recklessness that drove it. It was the mirror of her own soul. Her fingers curled into her palm. Neither Menegal-Hakar nor Waiyhu-Waris could touch her anymore. They’d failed to make her reveal her true power. And now it was too late for them. They didn’t know it yet, of course. She’d bided her time. But now . . .

  For weeks since the visit of that presence had woken her, she’d been on edge. The thread that bound her to Juhrnus had changed. He was still there, but not the same. He was elusive and yet constantly with her. She dreamed of him. She smelled his scent in empty corridors and felt his touch when she was alone.

  When she’d come to Kodu Riik, she’d hoped to make an alliance, to begin establishing her base of power so that she would be a dominant force in Scallas. And then she’d met him. And now none of the rest seemed to matter. Her eyes swung back to the Lord Marshal’s dead son. She frowned. Metyein had been Juhrnus’s friend. She looked at Soka, at the newly crowned Iisand and the two sorcerers flanking him, their expressions gloating.

  Something snapped inside her.

  She stepped into the room, the charms on her chain robe chiming. Beneath it she wore a thin shift. She was not cold.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t use grand theatrics. She didn’t need them. She looked at Menegal-Hakar and with a thought she invoked the charm she’d hung on the hem of his robe when she’d risen from her bed after passing her penakidah. He burst into flame. The fire burned only him, not even scorching the carpet.

  Kedisan-Mutira ignored his screams, ignored the stench of his charring flesh. She looked at Waiyhu-Waris. He was muttering, working his fingers together. She curled her lip. He was weak. So very weak. Another charm, another thought, another invocation. His body erupted in a second column of flames. Kedisan-Mutira watched the two sorcerers burn with silent satisfaction. She did not hate them for the things they’d done to her—for the things they’d made her do—in the course of the penakidah. That was only what was expected. She hated them for failing to see her. For their weakness and for not realizing they were weak.

  She turned, suddenly realizing that the Iisand was speaking.

  “Yes?” she said absently.

  “You did this?” He sounded loud and scared.

  “Of course.”

  The Iisand made a strangled noise and Kedisan-Mutira focused on him, stroking the place between her breasts where the thread connecting her to Juhrnus was anchored.

  “What are you doing? I have promises, assurances from your Kilmet. You are here to serve me.”

  “I serve Dahre-Sniwan, who rules the heavens with a frigid hand and curses his enemies with unrelenting heat. He is all-knowing and all-powerful. He is the light and the wind and the water. He is ice and lightning,” she said evenly. Then her voice dropped, and smoke the color of blackberries coiled around her fingers. “I do not serve you.”

  As she spoke, she approached so that she brushed up against him. She called in the cold, dropping the temperature of the air so her breath frosted on his cheek. “If Menegal-Hakar or Waiyhu-Waris or the Kilmet made you promises, then you can take it up with them. But here is my promise, puny man,” she said, resting her fingertips lightly on his chest and pushing him back to sit in a chair. She detached a charm from her chain robe and set it on his knee. The silver wire was shaped like a snowflake. She ran her finger over the surface, binding and invoking the spell in the space of a heartbeat. She knelt so that she could look directly into his eyes. “When that falls, then your protection spells will turn on you and you will die, just like the Lord Marshal’s son. No one else will be able to move it for you. No one can touch you. Just like Menegal-Hakar promised.”

  She pushed to her feet, turning to Soka. “Well enough?”

  He nodded. “Nothing will ever be enough. But it will do.”

  “Then let us go. I feel others coming. Wizards.” She spat the word. “Your people will need help.”

  “We need a wagon,” the Lord Marshal grated suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. Soka caught his arm and steadied him. The older man was still gray and his hands shook. “I won’t leave Metyein here.” His voice broke on the last. He caught himself with an effort. “Samles will arrange it.”

  Kedisan-Mutira nodded. “Tell him to hurry.”

  Reisil could feel the press of the magic against the shields like the weight of an ocean. It made her teeth ache and the marrow of her bones shudder. With every step they took, the feeling grew worse. And this without the nokulas trying to stop them. She shuddered. They had a long way to go.

  “Please, Lady, help us if you can,” she murmured.

  Yohuac squeezed her hand, but said nothing. He couldn’t, she realized. Not and maintain the concentration he needed for holding the shield. Sweat dampened his skin and beaded on his upper lip.

  The crystalline landscape shimmered beyond the shield walls. Juhrnus kept pace with them, striding along easily. Reisil blinked into spellsight and gasped. As before, when she’d gazed down on Mysane Kosk from the overlook months before, the landscape and air were full of rinda chains, some floating, some gnarled into beautiful shapes. And Juhrnus—he was like lace, the rinda that wove him together was fine and tight and balanced. There was a polished quality to him that the nokulas lacked. And somehow, Reisil knew the difference was terribly important.

  As they drew closer to the core of the spell, the landscape inside Mysane Kosk became more and more fantastical. It was as if faeries had constructed a world entirely of rainbow ice. Some of the shapes were beautifully ethereal, while others were grotesquely twisted.

  They came to the outer edge of the city. It was like walking through sculptures of cobwebs, ice, and spun sugar. The road was opalescent and its power hummed through Reisil’s bones. The pressure of magic pushing against them was increasing. It came from the unwinding spell in the core.

  They remained on the road, guided by the strengthening tide. Yohuac and Baku were slowing. Their strength was waning. They bulled their way forward, fueled by stubborness alone. Even Juhrnus was beginning to struggle. Reisil found herself scratching at her skin, scraping away bloody strips. It did not assuage the furious gnawing inside her muscles, like voracious ants.

  Almost there.

  Strands of broken rinda chains flowed past Reisil, intermixed with half-formed spells made from nahualli rinda. Sometimes the chains looped around the broken structures, as if the nahualli rinda had summoned them, seeking a way to wholeness. But even as she watched, many of those couplings broke apart. Understanding hit Reisil like a bolt of lightning. Of course. That was why the nokulas had begun as human or animal. They had to. The rinda needed the wholeness of the living body to provide a stable foundation for becoming.

  The current of magic was becoming violent. It sheared around them in a tightening circle. They were almost on top of the place where the original spell was cast—like walking into the eye of a cyclone. Reisil cast
a nervous glance at the layered shield. It was beginning to falter. It flickered and shrank, becoming more a skin than a bubble around the three. Yohuac’s face was haggard and Baku’s hide had lost its luster.

  It wouldn’t do any good to lose the shield. She pulled up her magic and let her strength flow through her hand into Yohuac and Baku. The shield firmed. They pushed forward, between two towering structures made of amethyst crystal and covered with spikes. The ends burned brilliantly.

  They emerged into what must have been the town square. The air turned cloudy white and opaque, like milk. It was suddenly quiet here, the currents of magic disappearing. But the pressure of the magic was very tight, making it difficult to even breathe. Every step was like pushing through mud.

  They struggled forward, Reisil guiding them. She felt an intensity drawing her like a flame in the dark. She followed it, nervousness balling in her stomach. What if she couldn’t do it? What if the wizards attacked before she was through? What if the nahuallis struck from the other side? She tried to hurry faster, fighting against the sticky density.

  They emerged from the milky fog into a narrow open circle no more than twenty feet across. The ground was cobbled. The wizards had inscribed rinda on the stones in the shape of a spiral. But much of those had been eaten away, from the inside out. Magic spurted up from the center of it in a twisting geyser. It reminded her of the spell cast by the nahuallis when she’d first arrived in Oceotl. A maelstrom pinned in place by magic.

  The problem, Reisil realized, was that the magic from Cemanahuatl was filled with rinda that were constantly joining and shifting, searching for wholeness. They spewed violently from the well and knocked against the containment boundaries set by the wizards in the original spell. But the wizards hadn’t anticipated the nahualli rinda. Instead of bouncing harmlessly away, the nahualli rinda fastened onto the wizard rinda and tore the spell-chains free. Now nonsensical bits and snatches of mixed rinda spun and shattered against one another in a wild tempest, at the same time the containment shields were being eaten away. The boundary no longer contained the magic, and it flooded outward through the gap like spilled kohv. Except it didn’t entirely run away. The rinda pushing out of the well into Cemanahuatl called it back. The maelstrom formed. And it was steadily growing larger, fed by Cemanahuatl’s magic.