“What about horses?”
“Now, if you want those, you’ll have to kill those boys. We can’t haul lumber without horses.”
“We can trade this one.”
“You’ve ruined that animal. If it doesn’t die, it’ll be lame.”
Tyrus glanced at the men, who gathered in a tight knot around their wounded friend. They glared at him. He half hoped they tried to kill him, and he could justify stealing their horses. Part of him was tired of running; he wanted a fight, but taking his frustrations out on laborers lacked honor. Tyrus of Kelnor was not a bandit, not yet.
Ishma said, “Leave them their horses.”
He said, “It’s not so simple.”
“These people don’t deserve that.” She turned to the old man. “Is there a way over the mountains, into Roshan lands? A path that horses cannot take?”
He scratched his chin, shaking his head.
Ishma placed a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes implored. “We need to escape by foot. If you had to run from them, where would you go?”
The man hunkered down in the light of a doorway and used a finger to draw a crude map in the dirt. He spoke of a ridge that would be dangerous to pass—but the snows had melted—and a valley and a river. If they followed it, they would be in Roshan lands but miles from an outpost. There were small camps throughout the region, miners and lumberers; in the valley, there would be farmers. Ishma listened, and Tyrus caught enough. He watched the men carry their friend to another cabin.
The old man asked, “So, who is chasing you?”
“Bandits,” Tyrus said.
“Not many in this region.”
Ishma said, “You know the ones who attacked us?”
“I do, yeah. Can’t say I agree with it, killing women and children, but Azmon did worse, I figure, when he burned down Hurr.”
Tyrus grabbed Ishma, “We need to leave.”
“Will you tell them it was us?” Ishma asked.
The old man kicked his drawing and shrugged. “I won’t have to. You broke Dain’s nose. They’ll know as soon they get here.”
“Take this.” She unclasped her necklace. “In exchange for the blankets and food.”
“It’s too much.”
“Use it to barter for your life. They won’t like that you helped us. Tell them my guardian forced you, and I felt guilty.”
The man offered more for the necklace, a cloak that would not fit someone of Tyrus’s size, but it was better than the gown Ishma wore. They went behind the man’s shack and slipped into the woods. Ishma carried the blankets, and Tyrus strapped the pork to the saddle. After they put some distance between themselves and the camp, Tyrus used the blankets to bundle things together.
He said, “We need to keep moving.”
“I don’t have your runes. I’m exhausted.”
“You want to sleep and wake to the Hurrians?”
She grunted a negative, a strange sound coming from a young queen. Tyrus slung his sword and picked her up, finding her heavier than she looked but bearable. He hoped the joints in his armor didn’t pinch her too bad.
“What are you doing?”
“The horse can’t carry you anymore. Rest if you can.”
“You can’t haul me up a mountain and fight Hegan.”
“No, I can’t.” He hiked the hill. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Put me down.”
“We run if we can, and fight if we must.”
They crossed the mountains, which grew colder as they went higher. Their path was not a pass, and there was still snow on the ground but nothing deep enough to turn them back. The horse lasted two more days before Tyrus butchered it for meat. He pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, and Ishma protested that they could take longer breaks. They cut the blankets into makeshift clothes, cutting out straps to tie them into place and insulating them with leaves. Since Ishma had a useless gown, Tyrus gave most of the wraps to her. As they hiked the mountains, he forgot what warmth felt like.
Cold seeped into his bones.
One day, they waited behind a shield of rocks, a slight break from the mountain wind. Ishma kept saying they were farther out than Tyrus thought and they could risk a fire and real sleep. He ignored her, watching the path below until he saw them, distant but real, purple cloaks.
“There they are.”
“Your eyes are stronger; are they on foot?”
“They are, but they have horses too. They won’t give up. They want you.”
“We are both prizes.” Ishma rubbed her shoulders. “They can humiliate Azmon with either of us. Come; let’s go.”
In the Red Tower, Tyrus sat in his room, reliving the memories, and doubting his decisions. He might have waited to kill the horse, or tried a different route. His mind was like a wheel caught in a deep rut. He knew he should let the past die, but the mistakes were impossible to forget. Ishma deserved a better guardian. He tortured himself with regret and blamed himself for the abuse.
III
Einin paced in front of a tower window with Marah on her shoulder. The child yawned away her nap while Einin hummed fragments of a song. The entire melody eluded her, but she remembered her own nurse, a wide-shouldered woman with big arms, singing it. Each time she passed the window, she checked the plains for monsters. Marah rubbed her eyes.
“Peace, child, you must sleep.”
Marah shook her head. The child did that, answered questions that a one-year-old should not understand.
“Please, just a short nap.”
Marah shook her head again.
Einin hated herself as she glanced out the window again. Hundreds of times a day, she checked for an army and chided herself. One day the beasts would come, though, and she should accept that eventuality. What else did the tower offer? She learned Nuna, changed diapers, fed Marah, and waited for an invasion. Marah’s chin drooped, but she had stubborn eyes.
“Let’s see what Dura is doing.”
In her study, Dura pored over hundreds of sketches. Ink blackened her fingernails, and gray smudges darkened her cheeks. She cradled her chin with one hand and wrote with the other. The scratch of her quill filled the quiet room.
Dura asked, “Can you read the opening chorus of the First War of Creation by Cadgar Foespear?”
“Not yet.”
“You could do worse than Cadgar. He tutored kings in his day.”
“Do the clansmen read him?”
“Few read at all. Books are little comfort to the Hill Folk.”
“Then how does it help me?”
“I wish you would listen to Annrin and Klay. The Lost Lands are no place to take a child.”
“I cannot translate ancient scrolls.” Einin made a slow circle of the room. “I’m no scholar.”
“You’re educated.”
Einin sniffed at the remark. Dura seemed determined to ignore Einin’s breeding. Changing diapers was low work for someone who could read and write, but she had lost the argument too many times to try again.
“Let me help your servants stock the tower. Let me learn the language of the market.”
Marah struggled to free herself, and at Dura’s suggestion, Einin put her on the ground. Marah made frantic gestures at Dura, as though trying to pull one of her thumbs off.
Einin asked, “What does she want?”
“More blocks.”
Einin eyed the shelves, filled with black and white cubes that had silver embossed runes on their sides. Dura had taught Marah runes before she could talk.
Einin said, “She is obsessed with those black ones.”
“They are the easiest to learn.”
Her voice sounded harsh, contemptuous perhaps; the woman was hard to read. Einin stretched her back. Tightness pulled at the base of her spine. Dura gestured at Marah, and Marah repeated her first message by pulling at one thumb. Dura ignored her, provoking a
cry. Dura clucked her tongue and made a gesture, and Marah quieted.
“What did you say?”
“I threatened to take them all away. She needs more to finish her pattern, and I won’t give them to her because it isn’t safe.”
“What do you mean they aren’t safe?”
“They are like a wooden sword. A toy for children. The little one asks me for a real sword, and I won’t give it to her.”
“But how would she know to ask?”
“She is her father’s daughter. She will be nothing but trouble.”
Marah tossed papers into the air. They rustled upward and drifted down, only for Marah to toss them again. Dura guarded a few on her desk but reached for others and joined the game.
“She thinks to punish me by messing up my study.” Dura grinned at Marah. “Spiteful little brat.”
“I doubt she did it on purpose.”
“Look at that face. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Why do you teach her these signs?”
“Because she is too young to control her tongue. The mind understands the words. In another year, she will be speaking.”
“Another language for me to learn.”
“You sound put upon. Surely a lady of the court can appreciate the utility of a silent language.”
“I didn’t know sorcerers played with such things.”
“The lucky ones do. The younger they start, the easier it is to internalize the runes. She learns fast because she is a Reborn, and she reaches for things she cannot begin to control.”
“A Reborn what?” Einin worried about the strange symbol on Marah’s chest. She had been born with a white rune, ridges of scar tissue, just below her throat. “Whose rune does she bear?”
“They don’t always announce themselves.”
Dura’s wrinkled face betrayed no emotion, and she returned to her scrolls. Marah played in the paper. She had a talent for entertaining herself, and Einin hoped she tired soon.
Einin asked, “Why can’t I take her into the market?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“They’d fight harder if they knew her.” Einin had caught Dura’s attention and pressed on. “That’s why King Samos wants to hold the Blue Feast. The clans and mercenaries would fight harder for a Reborn.”
“They will.”
“Then let the people see her.”
Dura returned to her quill.
Einin said, “I have spent a year in this tower.”
“There are worse places to be.”
“Let me go to the market. Let me talk to real people.”
“Marah is from Narbor, not Rosh, you understand?”
Einin’s pulse pounded in her throat. “I do.”
“Some know Narbor is an ally of Rosh, but most do not. You must not provoke them. And we never mention her parents.”
“Then I can go?”
“With my guards.”
“How many guards?”
“Trust me, you’ll need help with the crowds.”
Einin should have enjoyed the fresh air, but Dura was right. Everyone wanted to see Marah. People gawked at the red robes and guards before crossing the streets to get closer. Guards held them at bay, and the press of bodies left Einin sweating. Heat rolled off the crowd despite a crisp mountain breeze. Einin pulled Marah’s head close to her body, shielding her as well as possible. Guards pushed them back, the sorcerers shouted, and the crowd swirled around them. Threats from Dura’s men thinned the crowd until they passed through a gate into another part of Ironwall and people noticed the baby again.
Voices shouted.
“Bless me!”
“Can she heal? Let her touch my shoulder.”
“Get back.”
“Let me see her.”
“Get back!”
Hours of toil later, they reached the market. Einin was exhausted and wanted to return to her empty room in the Red Tower. What she saw at the market left her unimpressed. The goods, the variety, were nothing compared to Narbor or Rosh.
Dura’s favorite student stayed at Einin’s shoulder. Larz Kedar was a plump man with a round face and a warm smile. Einin struggled to guess his age. He could be in his twenties or his forties. A gentle voice made him pleasant, but when he stopped smiling, guards jumped into action. Four guards stayed close to Larz. Einin caught glimpses of a dozen more working the perimeter.
She approached a stall with woven blankets, thick wool, beautifully dyed. She attempted to barter, but the merchant rushed through his words, and Einin caught fragments of what he said.
“You wish to buy?” Larz asked.
Einin pointed at a pattern she liked, but her eyes drifted past to another stall that had dried goods. She needed a way to get provisions without Dura’s small army noticing. Grinding her teeth, she realized accessing the market accomplished nothing. She needed a lackey.
Larz said, “Four marks.”
“Excuse me?”
“She wants four marks for the piece.”
“Is that a lot?”
He shrugged, and his cheeks dimpled with a grin. Maybe sorcerers did not haggle for goods, or she amused him. At least the guards appeared proud to guard a Reborn, and she might have pressed them into service if they spoke Kasdin.
“You are my translator?”
“Yes.”
“Only you?”
“At your service, milady.” Larz bowed. “Not many speak the languages of Sornum.”
Einin turned, taking in the market. Stone buildings surrounded the town square, and a few of them stood three stories tall. Carts with canopies filled the market. Blue pendants, banners, and streamers decorated everything. Spears, ornate and too large to wield, stood in barrels. Blue ribbons spiraled down their shafts, braided and attached to the barrels, forming artificial trees.
Einin asked, “When did they start decorating?”
“The king announced the Blue Feast yesterday. It has been a long time since we celebrated a Reborn. Do you want the blanket?”
“What? No. Apologize for me. It is too much.”
Einin trekked back to the Red Tower. She found comfort in her small victory. She had left her cage, but escaping Ironwall before Rosh laid siege to the mountains would be more challenging than she had thought. She would not repeat her past mistakes, running from Shinar without proper guards or provisions. As she waited for the escort to clear a path, her mind danced over a dozen ploys to buy what she needed.
IV
Einin had put Marah down to nap when an angry knock shook her. She jumped to the door, hissing for whoever was there to be quiet. When she opened it, she found Annrin covered in armor and weapons. Einin hushed her, stepped out of the room, and closed the door.
Annrin asked, “You summoned me?”
“I need more help.”
“You summoned me in the name of the Red Tower.”
Einin thought the name carried influence. “I did.”
“It looks like I am Dura’s lapdog. The ranger corps serves the king.”
“Please, keep it down. I just got her to sleep. She hates naps.”
“What does ‘the Red Tower’ want?”
Einin guided Annrin away from the door. She had prepared a decent story, as plausible as her situation could allow, and collected herself before performing the lines.
“In Narbor, my family owns lands, we have farmers and herdsmen. It cannot be that different from the families who manage the steppes. There must be ways to invest what I earned from the chargers: a small plot of land or a few head of cattle or sheep so that I can move out of this tower.”
“A few sheep?”
“I don’t understand your market. The means aren’t as important as the investment. I need more resources, and in Narbor that would mean land. Here, it seems to be sheep or mines.”
“You want to invest in a mine.”
“If it is less dangerous than livestock.”
“And what about the bone beasts?”
Einin had prepared a few answers to that question, but the disdain in Annrin’s voice stilled her. The line hadn’t worked.
“‘The bone beasts are unstoppable,’ you said. Now you want land?”
“Piles of coin collecting dust is a waste. I was taught my figures, and I should prepare for a longer stay.”
“Not only do you summon me like some page, but you ask me to anger the Red Sorceress? Have you lost your mind?”
Einin considered the question, having asked herself the same thing many times. A year spent cooped up in a tower with a newborn had left her desperate for human contact. She didn’t speak the language, and no one would help her with the most basic things. She needed sleep. She needed a real conversation. And she needed someone to take the threat of invasion seriously.
“I can manage lands. I can improve them, earn my way.”
“I won’t buy you a bolt-hole.”
“My family owned lands.”
“That life is gone. You cannot keep the Reborn in a private keep even if you could afford the men to guard it, which you can’t; it would anger the nobles.”
“Would any of them take me in?”
“Why would they risk angering the king or Dura?”
Einin grimaced and crossed her arms. She stepped away to clear her head. Annrin spoke down to her, and she took a calming breath. Everyone wanted to protect the Reborn. That gave her leverage. However, she had to tread carefully because she didn’t understand the politics. She assumed Dura served King Samos in much the same way that Annrin did. Einin thought of Dura as an advisor, but Annrin spoke of her as though she were a queen.
Einin said, “People will take risks to be Marah’s benefactor.”
“You might leave this tower, but Marah won’t. Don’t do this again. If you invite me, do it in your name, not Dura’s.”
“I apologize if I embarrassed you.”
“It’s not embarrassment.” Annrin struggled to talk. “The nobles do not like things they don’t own, like the rangers and the sorcerers. The shifting loyalties of the mercenaries infuriates them. If it looks like the king and the Red Tower are working together too closely, it causes problems. It angers the wrong people.”
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 9
