by Grace Draven
The promise of food already had him ceding victory to his nurse, though he found her companion’s remarks an interesting glimpse into Halani’s personality.
Halani pushed her shoulder under his good arm. “Don’t be afraid to put your weight on me. I’m stronger than I look.”
“Your mother said something similar.”
They took their time, aided by Halani’s friend. Malachus tensed the moment she touched him, though she showed no reciprocal reaction to him as she helped guide him and Halani to the wagon steps, where he climbed to sit on the topmost tread.
Whoever she was, she carried the favor and power of a fire deity inside her. Malachus glanced down at his fingertips to see if they’d blistered from touching her. The pads were smooth, unblemished except for the usual calluses. She wasn’t draga, then. Of that he was certain, but the sorcery of fire cascaded off her in an invisible stream, and not just the fire of hearth or camp. This was holy fire, the blood and spirit of a goddess gifted to a young human woman with a crone’s gaze.
Asil, her counterpoint in both age and demeanor, returned, this time bearing a tray with a plate of food and a chalice filled with ale. Malachus nearly leapt off the step in a panic as the tray jostled in her grip when she caught sight of the fire witch.
“Gilene, you came to visit!”
“Have a care, Mama.” Halani deftly rescued the tray. “I’ll take that.”
Gilene laughed and embraced the excited Asil. “Just for a short time.”
Halani offered Malachus a sweetly evil smile as she set the tray just out of reach and handed him a newly filled cup of tepid willow-bark tea. “Drink and then eat.”
He accepted the tea with a sigh, downing it in two gulps. He shuddered. The motion twinged the wound in his side. “Satisfied, mistress?”
She gently pulled his hand away from where he pressed it to his side. “Try not to shake so. And resist touching your bandages. You’ll dirty them faster than needed.” She took the empty cup, gaze sweeping over him. “I’m surprised you’ve been able to sit this long on the step. Does your hip not pain you?”
“Not as much as my neglected stomach.” He gestured to the empty cup. “My end of the bargain is met.”
“So it is,” she said, her smile fully blooming. She brought the tray to him, perching on the lowest step with it in her lap and within easy reach for him. It wasn’t much in the way of real food, just a bowl of broth, a large hunk of bread, and a piece of fruit, but his mouth watered in anticipation.
Halani addressed her friend as she handed Malachus a spoon, then the bowl. “Is Uncle behaving himself as your guest? If not, don’t hesitate to tell us.”
Gilene’s amused chuff made Halani flinch a little. “Hamod is Hamod. I’ve left him with Azarion to tend. They’re getting along well enough, if you don’t count two arguments and a challenge to a fight to the death. I think Azarion enjoys his company.”
This time Halani groaned. “It will be we who owe you a debt of gratitude. If you don’t mind, we’ll rescue you from him tomorrow.”
Malachus silently ate his food. The women talked freely in front of him of mundane things, exchanging comments over a shared history in which he had no part. In the end, it didn’t matter. These were not his folk, though he was indebted to them for their care of him. A debt he’d repay before he left to continue his hunt for the mother-bond. He’d forget all their names soon enough.
Untrue, a voice inside him argued.
Untrue indeed. He’d remember Halani of the Lightning and her jovial, peculiar mother, Asil.
Gilene hugged Asil again before giving Halani a quick nod and Malachus a measuring look, her gaze settling a little longer than polite on the places where the bandages didn’t cover the scars left by the lightning. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then. Stay to eat and have tea.” Her expression saddened. “It will be long and long before we do so again, once we depart the Goban market.”
Asil accompanied Gilene to the edge of camp, leaving Halani the task of filling a small bowl with water from a larger bucket placed outside the wagon and fetching towels. She set them down in place of the food tray and returned that tray to her lap.
Despite his earlier hunger, Malachus ate slowly, taking his time so he wouldn’t sicken. He hadn’t eaten this well in a long time.
“I’m impressed,” Halani said. “I expected I’d have to warn you not to wolf it down.”
“That would be a waste if I retched it.” He finished the last spoonful of soup. “This is good. Did you make it?”
Halani gave a delicate snort. “Had I such a skill, I’d have monarchs worshipping at my feet. This is Marata’s doing. He cooks for the camp most of the time.”
“Ah, the big man with the hatchet.”
“You remember?”
The memory of a man the size of an ox storming toward him ready to butcher him like a pig was emblazoned on his mind’s eye. “Hard to forget.” He peered closer at his empty bowl. “Tell me I didn’t just dine on some other poor bastard who made your cook angry.”
Her eyes widened before she burst out laughing. “Marata will happily cook most anything, but I think he draws a line at people.”
He liked her laughter, admiring the way it rounded her cheeks and turned her pensive gaze blithe. “You should laugh more,” he said. “Laughter suits you.”
As quickly as her humor appeared, it disappeared behind a guarded look. A heavy silence fell between them, Malachus wondering why his remark had ended their fragile camaraderie.
Halani took his empty bowl and cup, stacked them onto the tray, and set it aside before grabbing one of the towels she’d brought earlier and dunking it into the water.
“Your feet are filthy,” she proclaimed in a voice no longer lively. “You’ve already soiled a month’s worth of clean bedding. I’ll be in fear of my life if I let you lie down on the new blankets with mud caked up to your ankles.”
He didn’t argue, only watched the top of her head as she bent to wipe his feet clean. The darkness gathered around them, kept at bay by the flicker of small fires lit within the camp as families gathered near their wagons to eat or finish a final task for the day.
A larger fire crackled to life at the camp’s center. Malachus caught glimpses of it beyond the inner circle of wagons, a merry conflagration that invited folk to gather and socialize around its light.
He curled his toes when she ran the wet towel along his arch. “Why are you doing this?”
She scrubbed at his shin. “I just told you. No muddy feet in the wagon or . . .”
“No. Not the foot bath, though I appreciate it.” Malachus touched each of the spots where he’d been shot with arrows. “These. All of this. It’s no easy thing to save someone from dying and nurse them back to health. I’m a stranger with no ties to you and yours.”
And they were human. In his experience, humans didn’t help each other without expecting repayment.
Her hand rested against his ankle, slender fingers encircling it like a shackle. She resumed her task. “Life has little enough worth under the Empire’s rule. Maybe my worth lies in my ability to help someone else.” She spared him a quick glance. “I don’t want to become what the Empire would make of us. So this is more for me than for you. You just benefit from my rebellion.”
Liar, he wanted to say but didn’t. She could spin and weave her reasoning into a tapestry, but he’d never believe her. This woman possessed a compassionate streak as wide as a river. It made her admirable, beguiling. It also made her vulnerable to unscrupulous parasites who’d use that kindness to their advantage.
“You should be careful with your kindness,” he warned.
“I’m always careful,” she countered. “Though I’m not always kind.”
Once more silence fell between them as he pondered her reply and she finished rinsing his feet, declaring him clean enough to ent
er the wagon.
“I want to check your wounds and repack the poultice,” she said as she helped him inside. “Hopefully your wounds haven’t poisoned since I last looked. That you don’t have fever is a good sign.”
Malachus might not have fever, but he was bone weary, and he suspected there was something more in the tea Halani brewed than just the vile-tasting willow bark.
She propped him up with blankets and pillows, promising to return with the poultice and extra bandages. The scents of honey and herbs teased his nose once more when she set the bowl down and carefully unwound the bandage swaddling his chest.
She silently cleaned away the remnants of the herbal pack and examined the wound, leaning in for a closer look. Her fingertips were cool on his skin as she pressed around the sliced edges where her knife had widened the wound so she could reach the broadhead.
Malachus tucked his chin to his chest to better see what had caused her sudden intense scrutiny. “You look as if you’ve discovered a jewel buried in there.”
He enjoyed her touch, the way her hand glided lightly over the wound’s perimeter. His thoughts strayed to wondering what it might be like to know the touch of Halani the lover instead of Halani the healer.
“I might be less surprised had I spotted a pearl or ruby nestled in there,” she said. “You heal remarkably quick.”
Draga magic had done its work, though the risk had been high and life-threatening. His lie of suffering a curse would stand him in good stead should he battle again for control of his body while he convalesced among the traders. Until he left, he’d pretend ignorance of his extraordinary abilities.
“Your surgery skills are impressive.” The flicker of doubt in her eyes didn’t fade at his compliment. “And your poultices strong.” He remembered the earth’s hymn resonating in his head when Halani had knelt beside him in the mud. “Maybe you harvested earth magic along with your herbs.” A stillness descended on her like a prey animal waiting for a predator to pass. Her features shuttered, and for the remainder of her examination, she only spoke to order him to turn, lift, shift, and sit up as she changed bandages, cleaned his remaining two wounds, and repacked poultices.
It was probable she no longer wished to converse. The tea had taken hold of him in a grip that made his limbs heavy and his eyelids weightier than anvils. “What did you put in the brew?” he asked, his words slurred.
Halani helped him lie back and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. “A touch of kratom to help you sleep through the pain.”
He wanted to tell her not to drug him again. He was already vulnerable, and the kratom’s narcotic power muted the draw of his mother’s artifact. The pull was still there but buried under a lethargy that sank him into the bedding like a stone.
“No more,” he murmured, fighting to keep his eyelids up so he could meet her eyes. Mourning-dove gray, compassionate but resolute, and full of secrets.
She stroked his brow, pushing back strands of his hair from his forehead. “No more unless you say more. I will ask next time.”
That she understood what he tried to convey in those two words pleased him. He wanted to thank her but the drugged sleep overwhelmed him, and the world went dark again in the wagon.
He awakened once, groggy, thirsty, and with a mouth that felt stuffed full of wool rovings. Outside, low voices spoke near the wagon’s open door. The draft swirling over him was chilly but welcome. The effort to open his eyes proved more than he wanted to expend. He was content to lie still and listen, his growing awareness of his surroundings and increasing clarity sharpening his hearing so that indistinct murmurs became precise words and individual voices.
Two men and a woman spoke in turns. Malachus recognized them, though he could only put a name to Halani’s voice.
“I don’t care for the idea of bringing a stranger, a cursed one by his own admittance, into our territories. What if he’s an Empire spy gleaning whatever information and weakness he can find and reporting it back to Herself?”
Malachus was neither a spy for the Krael Empire nor a native son, but even he knew whom the man referred to when he mentioned “Herself.” The empress was known throughout all the world. And judging by this speaker’s tone, deeply loathed by some.
“Then he’s one piss-poor spy considering the trouble he’s landed himself in.” Halani sounded tired. “Besides, what does the Spider or her spies care about a band of free traders? I don’t expect you to welcome him, but I won’t abandon him. He’s healing incredibly fast. I, Asil, and possibly Seydom or one of the other men can stay here long enough to get him well enough and send him on his way. We can catch up with the rest of the caravan as it travels to Domora. Three people and one wagon can move a lot faster than an entire camp with all its livestock and supplies.”
“Cutting his throat and tossing him into the sedge would do away with such annoyances.”
Malachus admired the man’s pragmatism, if not his bloodthirstiness. The draga inside him slowly uncoiled from its hard-won torpor, alert to a possible threat.
The second man’s voice was far milder than the first, even a little amused. “I don’t think Halani will appreciate one of us knifing her patient after she just worked so hard to save him.”
The first man exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “He can stay for now. We’ll keep a close eye on him. If he starts smoking and setting people’s clothes on fire, I’ll succeed where his attackers failed.”
Don’t count on it, friend, Malachus thought.
“He isn’t joining our camp permanently and will be gone soon enough,” Halani replied. “I’m grateful for your support, Kursak.”
Malachus still didn’t understand Halani’s devotion to him, but he was glad for it. “As you say, he did Asil a kindness. That carries a lot of weight with me, though you’re on your own with Hamod when he learns about our latest guest. You know what he’ll say.”
“I’m hoping the Savatars’ hospitality will soften him some before he returns.”
The more mild-mannered man spoke once more. “You have to admit, it’s been a lot more peaceful in the camp without him here. Might do him—and us—some good if we sent him with the Savatar into the Stara Dragana for a season. And if you tell him I said that, I’ll say you lied.” Laughter followed his remark.
The Stara Dragana. In several of the old languages no longer spoken, it meant Womb of the Draga. One of several names by which the vast steppes were known. The birthplace of the first dragas, the burial grounds of many more. Malachus’s mother and the monks had told him of the steppe, where the bones of ancestor dragas rested deep in the earth.
If he found his mother-bond, he might well delay his return across the Raglun Sea to Winosia and visit the land of his ancestors, seek some tenuous connection to this foreign place crawling with humans who had done their best over the centuries to wipe his kind out. Malachus wondered what strange forces were at play that these same creatures succored him now.
Fate and fortune played an odd hand.
CHAPTER NINE
The outlawed magic market known as the Maesor bustled with commerce, all done in whispers and side-eye transactions accompanied by mysterious sign languages known only among a few. The business of sorcery fueled the market, along with the ever-present fear of being raided by the Empire’s martial forces. Gharek picked his way along the narrow avenues in a world caught between worlds, where the price of admission to the Maesor was paid in blood, souls, money, or magical items.
The sky above him was not that of the world he lived in day to day. This firmament was an acetous orange without sun, moon, or stars. The strange illumination gave the illusion of daytime.
Cobblestone paths snaked through the marketplace in no discernible order, dead-ending at walls or disappearing into shadowed closes only the foolhardy might venture into on their journey. Each paver sported a carved sigil that either glowed or hissed under the pre
ss of a footstep. Gharek kept his hand on the pommel of the dagger sheathed at his belt as he navigated through the strangely quiet crowd. Stalls hemmed either side of the paths, displaying goods for sale that were never seen in the regular markets. Demon blood in sealed jars, tapestries in which the warp and weft trapped a soul condemned to serve whatever master owned the textile, scrying cards cut from cured human skin lavishly painted to catch the eye and disguise their macabre origin. There were countless other things to fascinate, to repulse, and to barter, all of them a guaranteed death sentence for anyone caught with even a single one in their possession.
He passed a table where a woman with a tattooed face offered love potions, virility elixirs, and poison powders capable of felling a battalion with the sharing of one full teapot. She raised a hand to motion him closer, then thought better of it at the dead-eyed stare he leveled at her. He’d done things for the empress that left a stain on his spirit forever, but something about the Maesor, beyond its sorcerous purpose, made his skin crawl and his soul shudder. Eager to conclude his business here and depart, he picked up the pace to his destination: a lavishly draped stall whose entrance was guarded by a blind man with milky eyes and a dog that watched Gharek’s approach with ears swiveled forward and hackles raised in warning.
A low growl vibrated up from the dog’s throat, and the guard tilted his head in Gharek’s direction with a cloudy gaze. “I know who you are. What would the empress’s cat’s-paw be doing in the Maesor? Hoping to crucify or hang a few mages for Herself’s entertainment?” Gharek didn’t worry much when people recognized him. He wasn’t an Empire spy. He didn’t need to skulk in the shadows or pretend he was someone other than who he was. As the Spider’s cat’s-paw, having his reputation precede him worked in his favor. That this piece of human detritus knew him was of no importance.
“I’m here to see your master, Koopman.”
“Give me your hand,” the guard said. When Gharek hesitated, he chuckled, revealing teeth black with rot. “Give me your hand or you stay out here.”
