Lhaurel’s eyes locked onto Khari’s, and suddenly Lhaurel saw a small glimmer of triumph in them. Before she could react, Khari punched forward with her hilt and struck Lhaurel a resounding blow on the temple with the sword’s pommel. Lhaurel cried out in pain and sudden dizziness, blinking back tears and seeing stars. The flat of Khari’s blade came to rest on Lhaurel’s neck.
Lhaurel gasped, the smell of leather and sweat filling her nose and distracting her from the throbbing in her temples. “I yield. You win.”
Around them, the crowd clapped and a few even cheered. Tieran’s booming laugh carried over the din as Khari gave Lhaurel a tight-lipped smile and then removed the blade from her neck.
“Expect the unexpected, Lhaurel. Strategy before tactics. Maneuver before battle. Every action you take with the blade should either foil something your opponent is doing or else give you an advantage. The masters do both at the same time. Remember that.”
“And don’t forget when you’re beating one of the best after owning your own blade for less than a week that Khari plays dirty,” Kaiden interjected, his voice dripping with a mixture of sarcasm and mirth.
Khari shot him a withering look, but Lhaurel sent him a wan smile. Tieran laughed as most of the crowd dispersed to be about their other duties, some shouting consoling words to Lhaurel or congratulating Khari as they left.
Wincing, Lhaurel probed her temple with one finger. There would be a bruise later if there wasn’t one already. Her face on that side already felt puffy, and it hurt to blink. If she was lucky, Khari would offer to heal it later, but she doubted it. Her teacher felt that the marks were good reminders of what happened when your skill was not up to a level deemed acceptable. And Lhaurel suspected there was another reason behind it. One that dealt with her other training.
Lhaurel herself had not been able to master the healing art or do much else that Khari said was normal for a wetta. Kaiden said that it was typical for new mystics to struggle with their powers, but Lhaurel didn’t think they were talking about her particular challenges. More likely Khari was still curious about why Lhaurel could do things that other wetta couldn’t and why she was apparently incapable of doing things that were normal wetta skills. And the most frustrating part about it all was that Lhaurel herself had no answers to give.
She scowled and stalked over to where she’d stowed her things and bent to retrieve them.
Kaiden approached as she belted on her sword and settled it on her hip. “It was a good match,” he said. “Until she hit you, that is.”
Lhaurel scowled at him, but he ignored her.
“Anyway, I’ll have to catch up with you later. Sarial and the others got back while you and Khari were busy bashing metal sticks together, so I’m off to see what they found.”
All brooding vanished from her countenance in an instant. “I’ll come with you,” Lhaurel said.
Kaiden shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re not invited. They sent a runner for me earlier, but I decided to stay to watch the end of the match. Makin Qays will curse me to the seven hells for it, but I figured I’d get to see you roughed up a bit, and I couldn’t really miss that. Besides, Makin won’t start without Khari anyway.”
Lhaurel punched him on the arm as hard as she could. Considering that her arms were tired from her recent duel, it didn’t amount to much of a hit.
Kaiden winced dramatically and left with a half-hearted wave. As he passed Tieran, he tapped the man on the shoulder. Tieran nodded and followed him from the room.
Khari had already left.
Lhaurel sighed, put down her things, and picked up her sword. She might as well practice some more.
* * *
Lhaurel slumped into the sand sometime later, completely exhausted. A lock of her bushy auburn hair rested between her teeth, but she didn’t really notice.
“Are you alright?”
Lhaurel glanced to her right. Sarial stood there over the corpse of a sailfin, which was already half butchered. One of the recent raids had brought back so many corpses that they were working on them throughout the warren. Two neatly butchered carcasses lay barren on the sand next to her.
“I’m fine,” Lhaurel said, realizing the meeting must be over. How long had she been sitting there practicing?
“Good, I’d hate for you to have hurt yourself somehow. You know, I used to be afraid of these things,” Sarial said, kicking one of the sailfin corpses. “Massive teeth, the keening noise they make when they travel through the air, the packs.”
Lhaurel nodded.
“But then Khari had me do some butchering, and I’m not so scared of them anymore. I’m actually somewhat fascinated with them.”
“Fascinated? With these monsters?”
The older woman nodded, her expression growing grim. While Sarial was only a decade or so older than Lhaurel, her expression made her seem far older. “Well, yes. Haven’t you ever wondered how they can fly? Or why their flight is so jumpy and sporadic? I mean, creatures like these simply shouldn’t exist.”
“What do you mean?” Lhaurel asked. She had wondered about those things. Everyone had.
Sarial grinned and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. "Look here.” She pointed at the milky white sinew and metal-encrusted bone on the half-butchered corpse. “See these sinews? They hold a power that shocks, like lightning, but on a much smaller scale. When wrapped around metal, this power gives the metal a magnetic charge.”
Lhaurel’s face must have betrayed her confusion.
“Like what Kaiden can do. It makes it so that the metal can push off against other metals. So when the sailfin, or any of the genesauri, for that matter, starts crackling along those black spots, that means the shock is charging the metal. Kaiden says there’s a whole plateau of metal beneath the sands against which the genesauri push their bodies, making them fly, but only for as long as the charge holds.”
“That’s—that’s interesting,” Lhaurel said. She hadn’t meant it to sound so doubting, but Sarial immediately stiffened.
“I can prove it.”
Lhaurel backed up as Sarial stretched out one hand and wrapped it around one of the metal encrusted bones. A nimbus of white and red seemed to glow around the woman, and suddenly her hand crackled with brilliant white energy.
The corpse lifted off the ground.
Lhaurel gasped, raising a hand to her lips. The nimbus around Sarial faded, and the corpse crashed back to the sand. The woman sighed and sank to her knees, breathing deeply.
“You’re a—” Lhaurel asked, searching for the right term.
“A relampago, yes.” The tone of the woman’s voice made it clear that Lhaurel should have known this.
“So you . . .”
“I can create the same energy the genesauri can.” Sarial’s tone was blunt. “What do you and Kaiden talk about when you’re together? Or is talking not something you two do?”
Lhaurel blushed but felt her temper flare at the same time. Sarial couldn’t be jealous, could she?
She held up a hand before Lhaurel could respond. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset like that,” Sarial said softly. “I did a little too much charging that corpse. It takes a surprising amount of energy to get one of those to lift up.”
Lhaurel frowned and waited for more of an explanation.
“I am Sarial. I lead the mystics. Tieran is my brother.”
Lhaurel nodded but didn’t ease her frown. She knew who the woman was, even though they’d never been introduced. Did this woman really think she had a chance with Kaiden?
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“I’m used to not being believed. People tend to find my ideas a little strange.”
“Well, I believe you now. They really are a—um—fascinating.” Lhaurel grimaced as she said it.
“It’s hard to admit, isn’t it? But that’s not even the most fascinating part. Since Kaiden and Khari have neglected their duties with you, I’ll have to teach you some of this myself.”
Some of Sarial’s fatigue seemed to have vanished. She smoothed some of the sand near her and began to draw, speaking as her finger traced out a design.
“The Roterralar—well, really the Rahuli—have three distinct abilities. The wetta.” She drew a teardrop shape. “The relampago.” She drew two jagged lines that crossed behind the teardrop. “And the magnetelorium.” She drew three parallel lines behind the teardrop as well, centered on the fat part of the drawing. “Three elements working together for the good of the people. All three of these elements—metal, water, and energy—are present in the genesauri, too. There’s a symmetry to it.”
Lhaurel studied the drawing. It seemed oddly familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen it before.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
Sarial shrugged. “I really don’t know. I just know there’s a connection.”
Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Lhaurel picked up a waterskin and played with the stopper. It sloshed around inside the leather. She could feel it churning, pulsing. Mirroring her thoughts.
“So you’re a wetta, then?” Sarial asked, though it was obvious she already knew.
Lhaurel nodded.
“Good, we can always use another healer.”
“You’re a—relampago, was it?”
“Yup. I can manipulate energy to an extent. Outside of battle it’s not much use to anyone. I mean, we can make glass, but outside of pretty ornaments, what good is glass?”
“How does energy make glass?”
Sarial laughed, though it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Glass is just heated sand. When you run energy through sand it heats up and melts into glass. The genesauri, do it too. Genesauri nests aren’t really nests at all. When they crackle with energy, it melts the sand and forms a thin glass tube. Then sand gets blown into it but stays loose instead of getting all packed together.” She got to her feet, legs a little wobbly. “Well, I need to get back to my work.”
Lhaurel nodded, getting to her feet as well. “Thanks, Sarial.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me to never be afraid of what others think of you.” She smiled wryly.
Sarial gave her an odd smile, obviously not sure how to respond, and then left.
Inside herself, Lhaurel laughed.
* * *
The tent flap rustled as Taren stepped inside, his cold eyes taking in the small dark room and alighting on Marvi’s still form along one side of the room. She watched as his silhouette drew near and reached out a hand to wake her.
“I am awake, Taren,” she said.
He grunted, unsurprised at having found her awake.
She half sat up, curiosity overcoming her tiredness. Since becoming Warlord, Taren had not spent much time within the camp. As was customary, he’d spent a large amount of his time with the other Warlords, boasting of past conquests and forming new alliances or renewing old rivalries. In Marvi’s opinion, it was inevitable that men would take any excuse they could find to swill down some wine and brag about highly embellished deeds of yesteryear. But she had expected other things from Taren. Especially after all she had done to aide him in his quest. She had, after all, killed her husband for the man. And helped him bypass her own sons for leadership of the clan.
“Get up, woman. The clans are all gathering at the well.” His voice was gruff, and Marvi detected more than a trace of irritation. Or arrogance. It was hard for her to tell with Taren sometimes.
“What’s going on?” she asked as she rose and pulled on clothes that lay near the bed.
Taren ignored her and pushed out the door into the night outside.
She had heard movement outside her tent earlier but had simply written it off as one of the patrols sweeping through camp a bit too vigilantly for their own good. She had meant to have words with Taren about that later but never got the opportunity. Now, as she pulled the tent flap door out of the way and stepped out into the cool night air, she realized that the sound had been the noise of the camp emptying. She joined the throng of people hurrying from their tents, all headed in the same direction. Warriors were scattered amongst the throng, carrying swords or spears, but they were sparse. More common were women wearing the yellow shufari or mothers with children clutching sleepily at their mother’s skirts. She nearly knocked Saralhn over as she hurried to catch up to Taren.
“What’s going on?” Marvi asked, grabbing Taren on the shoulder.
He spun around and backhanded her across the face, knocking her to the ground.
She fell hard, clutching at her bruised face, eyes wide with shock more than fear or pain. No one even stopped to see if she was alright or to help her to her feet.
Taren stood over her, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other pointing down at her. “Never touch me again, woman,” he said, voice soft. “You are no longer the Warlord’s wife. You do not wear the blue.”
Cold anger flashed through her, but she quelled the bitter retort on her lips.
She no longer wore the blue shufari, it was true. Instead she now wore the white of a widow, the same as so many others. But Jenthro had not defined her before. Authority was earned. She had put Taren in the position he was in now. She could just as easily take it back away from him or allow it to be taken from him. Her expression hardened, and in her mind, she began planning her first moves.
“As you wish, Warlord,” she said, her eyes hard as ice. Whatever passion she had felt before was gone.
Taren grinned wickedly and turned back around, disappearing into the crowd.
Marvi made to get to her feet and felt a pair of hands grab her right arm from behind to help hoist her up. Marvi looked over her shoulder. Saralhn stood there, supporting her weight. In the light of a passing torch, Marvi could make out a large purple bruise on the young woman’s cheek.
She pulled her arm free and dusted off her clothes. “Go,” Marvi said curtly.
Saralhn nodded, melding with the passing throng.
Taren stood atop the speaking stone at the exact center of the Oasis. He looked out at the assembled masses that were huddled together in familial and clan groups. Marvi noted that the Frierd were short on numbers, but the Sidena were fewer still. The journey to the Oasis had cost them dearly.
What was Taren doing leading the meeting?
He reared himself up and began to speak. “Brethren.” His voice boomed out through the darkness. “I have called this gathering to share with you glad tidings before fell news. There is hope once more for our people.”
Somewhere in the crowd, someone yawned loudly, and another voice called out, “If it’s not about special fruit that can make you fly, it’s not good enough to get us out of bed.”
Taren’s face remained outwardly calm, but Marvi, who was studying him closely, saw the tightening of his jaw, the set of his shoulder.
He grinned through tight lips and continued onward. “This is the defining moment of our civilization.”
His soft voice quieted the crowd as easily as if it had been a thunderclap.
“And with as much magic in it as your special fruit.” Taren drew a small knife and began to idly trim his nails while he talked, not looking down at his hands while he worked. “I ask you, brethren, how is it that we take down a sailfin? How do we defend ourselves against genesauri when we are not walking the stoneways or here within the Oasis? I answer for you. We band together. Two or three warriors pool their talents and skill to fell the foul beasts, each one defending and protecting the other. The strong survive and the weak are left to die.”
There was a murmuring note of agreement from the crowd. Many of the warriors were nodding. The women mostly had their heads down, tending to tired children, though even those that had no children seemed intent on the intricacies of the sand at their feet.
Marvi, for her part, pressed careful attention to every word. What was Taren about? He was getting powerful if no one had
stopped him yet. Too powerful, maybe, for her to take down.
“Unity,” Taren continued. “It is a lifeline against futility and loneliness. It is a flame of hope against the darkest night. I will never be able to describe the joy of being faced by death and having one of your brethren spit in the devil’s eye and bring you back to life again. We are brothers-in-arms against danger. Protectors of each other.”
The yawner from earlier repeated his prior show of boredom. It was a large man with a thick black beard and long hair tied back behind his ears. He was muscular and tall, if a little on the uglier side. The moonlight highlighted the silver scars that scoured a line down the middle of his nose, giving him an ethereal cast.
Taren pointed at him with the dagger he’d been using to trim his nails. The people around the man shied away as Taren spoke.
“You there, warrior, speak your mind.”
The man grunted and shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to another. It was obvious that he didn’t like the attention he was getting, nor did he want to speak, but pride forced him to respond.
“What do you want, man?” he asked, his voice a deep rich drawl. “I know yeh don’t want nothing to do with unity. Yer just making a show of all this since yer a new Warlord. Cut out the crap and get to the point.”
Marvi let out a small silent whistle of grudging admiration and incredulity. The man had no small amount of courage. Maybe he wasn’t half bad to look at. The scars gave him character.
Some of the women who had had their heads down glanced up for a moment, looking to see who had spoken.
Atop the speaking stone, Taren regarded the man coolly and then turned slowly where he stood, raising his hands high, one hand still clutching his dagger. “What do we do when there is a sandtiger amongst the flocks?” He fell silent, waiting for the crowd to respond.
“Chase it away,” several voices shouted.
Taren smiled and shook his head with a small chuckle. “A temporary solution at best. What do you do?”
Sharani series Box Set Page 21
