by Cat Bruno
Her booted foot kicked at it, sending the women backward and the last arrow to weakly drop beside her.
The fall was not a high one, and, when she stepped toward Makeena, the woman’s eyes were open and clear. One of her legs was twisted beneath her, broken no doubt from the fall. When the queen reached for her bow, Syrsha lunged, grabbing it before Makeena could.
Steps away lay the thickly muscled woman, moaning, but alive. Syrsha could hear Otieno and Aldric screaming her name, but she did not look to them. She knew what must come next.
The large woman’s face had a bloody gash across it and several of her teeth were missing. Beside her, a polished bow, reflecting the orange light of the morning sun, was cracked in half.
“On whose orders did you shoot?” Syrsha demanded, lowering the tip of the sword until it lay across the woman’s throat.
In a voice that trembled with pain, but without fear, the woman spit blood at Syrsha’s boots and yelled, “You chose to call for the kyzkua and knew what to expect.”
Stepping closer, her sword tip unmoving, Syrsha, her voice low and rough, cried, “Three times you shot at me after I had finished! On whose orders did you do so?”
A trickle of blood spilled down the woman’s neck.
“You might have survived the kyzkua, but you will not survive the morn,” the Queen’s guard hissed at her.
“Only once more will I ask,” Syrsha warned as Otieno and Aldric neared, their heavy footfalls pounding with urgency.
Struggling to stand, it was Makeena who screeched, “Attack!”
When Otieno pulled Enyo from his back, Syrsha laughed, and the howling sound drummed across the field.
“Stay your hand, Akkachi,” she growled.
Knowing he would not understand, she pointed toward the other archers, including Liang. Their arms hung at their sides, empty.
“They will not heed her order. By Sythian rule, I am kin now.”
Her words, loud and billowing, were the words of a girl no more.
To the fallen archer she again asked, “On whose order did you shoot?”
“You insolent bitch!” the woman shouted. “Do you think we did not see the darkness in you nor know what it meant? You are not kin, nor will you ever be! I care not that you have crossed the finish line.”
Makeena, realizing that the others had not obeyed her command, called again for the Sythians gathered to take up their bows. And, again, they refused.
Syrsha paid her little heed. She heard nothing but a soft pounding, sounding much like the rumbling of a coming storm. Her eyes grew heavy, filling with a blood-stained haze, one that she could not blink away. Her mouth watered, warm and ready. Her hands, gloved and hidden, burned with the embers of fire unleashed. Her body ached with need and longing.
Through lips that trembled, she screamed, “You are not mistaken! I am not kin to you, for you are no longer Sythian. I name you both as breakers of vows. For that, you have lost kin-right.”
Had she been her father, she would have sheathed the sword. But as her mother’s daughter, she did not.
As Syrsha, she lowered her blade, removing it from the archer’s neck. Through the tint of mist, she watched the woman drop her chin and sigh.
Syrsha’s sword pierced the woman’s heart before any could stop her. Blood, red and shining, trickled slowly down the archer’s light-colored vest, dampening her curls and pouring across exposed breasts.
Beside her, Makeena wailed, until Syrsha cast her gaze to the queen. As she walked toward her, silence spread, thick and heavy, and even the sunlight dimmed to shadow. Syrsha tried to speak, to accuse the woman of plotting her death, but her tongue swelled, making speech impossible.
When she was near enough to Makeena, Syrsha kneeled. Her lips were moist, and the smell of blood filled her nose, sweet and tempting. Still she fought the urge of the wolf as she swung her blade, opening the queen from breast to navel. Within moments, blood covered Makeena’s vest, seeping onto her naked skin. What was once sun-kissed was now splattered red.
Syrsha had not heard her pleas. She rose, wiping her blade clean on the edge of her pants. Overhead, the skies cleared, radiant light shining upon her again. She did not know how long that she stood there, staring across the field, to the west, and to Cordisia, across the sea.
At some point, Otieno began speaking to her, pulling her away, but Syrsha could not understand what he was saying and could do nothing but shake her head. Aldric reached for her, but she pushed him away, too. She watched as Sharron knelt next to the dead archer, but even then no words came from her lips.
It was only later, after Gregorr traced a rune across her forehead, that Syrsha returned.
By then, the other Sythians had followed Liang across the field and stood near enough for Syrsha to address them.
“Your queen ordered my death after I won kin-right. By Sythian law, her life was forfeit. Would you follow a queen who orders her own kin’s death?”
When none of the remaining Sythians spoke, she continued, “I entered the kyzkua without ward and without armor. From where you stood, you watched me finish cleanly, with only one strike across my shoulder. By right, I am Sythian now.”
A pale-haired girl with sea-kissed eyes called out, “Are you not kin-killer, too?”
Before Syrsha could answer, Liang yelled, “I saw Makeena order the strike after Syrsha had crossed. The dark one speaks the truth. By Sythian law, an attack on kin warrants death. Makeena had no plan to let the girl live.”
“How can you know that?” another cried, her voice split with uncertainty.
Slinging her bow over her shoulder, Liang answered, “Last night I overheard a discussion between Makeena and Gisela. Moon years ago word was sent from Cordisia seeking a dark-haired child with the blood of the old gods in her. Proof of her death would be rewarded in gold. Gisela, who was once priestess-trained, recognized the girl’s blood-taint, and Makeena has been hungry for gold.”
For several moments, all present quieted.
“Why is there a price on your head?” the pale-haired finally girl asked.
Syrsha paused, her thoughts still clouded and her tongue thick. It had been a struggle to speak, and she looked to Aldric for assistance.
With a nod, he explained to the Sythians, “The man who called for her death is responsible for killing her mother in an unprovoked attack. The woman was no warrior. She was healer-trained and no threat to Cordisia and no threat to him. Syrsha was a babe at the breast when her mother was killed and has not been able to return to Cordisia since.”
“What of her father? Is it true that he is of the old gods?”
“What is true is that Syrsha came here as friend and will leave as kin,” Aldric argued, his voice rising. “Either you will honor that or you will not.”
“We will need time to decide and to mourn our queen,” Liang told them, directing the others to prepare the bodies for burial.
Syrsha stepped back, away from them, as Liang called instructions to the Sythian women. The bodies would be buried here, with full Sythian rights for both and word sent to Odeena about what had occurred. It was becoming clear to Syrsha that she would no longer be welcome in Argeus or Odeena, despite her memories of her time there.
For the first time that she could recall, her path had been altered. Syrsha no longer knew what to expect., despite her earned kin-rights.
Once Liang had finished directing the remaining Sythians, she approached Syrsha, who now stood quietly next to Aldric. As the woman neared, Gregorr and Otieno joined the group as well, all appearing concerned.
“It would be unwise for you to stay here, Syrsha.”
The others would not look at the blood-speckled girl, though they stood by her side. Even Gregorr, who had so often been the one to understand her, said nothing. They all sensed that much had changed.
Syrsha nearly wept, but her wolf-blood was still running hot and the tears did not come.
Finally, Otieno spoke, in Common, for all to under
stand.
“We will depart at once. How many Sythians remain at the Argeus camp?”
After a moment, Liang answered, “Perhaps forty. I will return now to gather your belongings and lead your mounts away from the camp. It is best that you stay here and stay hidden. After that, you must hurry off, for I do not know how the news will be taken. Later, you must come again and claim kinship.”
“Why are you offering us aid?” the Islander demanded.
So that the other Sythians would not hear, Liang dropped her voice and whispered gravely, “I tried to prevent this outcome once I learned of Makeena’s plan. And I hoped that once the kyzkua was completed that the queen would not betray kin. But I was wrong. She would have killed the girl last night, but she knew that you would attack. So she planned to kill her during the race, where none could object. If you had fought back after, you would have all been killed no doubt, for Gisela rarely misses. But Makeena did not plan on the girl surviving, nor did she plan on what might next occur.”
“And now? Will you be queen?” he asked.
Shaking her head, Liang told him, “I will lead you east to Tian. Where an even greater army awaits. If it is true that Syrsha needs fighters, then there is no finer place than my homeland.”
Her reply surprised them all, but none more than Syrsha.
“I will owe you much, Liang,” she whispered through swollen lips.
The woman shrugged, and then walked from them, back toward where Makeena and Gisela lay. It was then that Otieno grabbed Syrsha, his fingers tight around her wrist.
In a whisper so low that his voice cracked like breaking ice, he scolded, “What a fool you are, faela. Do you know what it is that you have done?”
His fingers were thick and strong, squeezing her tightly and causing her skin to redden. She could feel the roughness at the edges of his fingertips, skin hardened and sharpened from moon years of swordplay. Her own fingers twitched as he pulled at her, forcing her near, until she fell imprisoned against his chest. Across her forehead, the rune burned, as if written in fire. Weakened by its script, Syrsha could not pull free.
Her hand reached for it, trembling as she traced the adjoined triangles. Awakening. Gregorr had placed the rare marking hurriedly, as if she had been locked in a dream. But she had not been sleeping, as they both knew. She had been wolf, or nearly so.
Before she answered Otieno, she circled her fingers around the rune, calling upon it as her eyes darkened.
When Syrsha next looked at her Akkachi, her eyes gleamed bright, gem-like and sparkling.
Letting her fingers linger at the edge of her brow, she growled low, “It is not wise to use force when the bloodlust is upon me.”
He threw her from him with such force that she rolled into Gregorr’s legs. Dirt filled her mouth, and Syrsha spit to her side, wiping at her chin as saliva and blood dribbled across her lips.
Taking a step toward her, Otieno screamed, “Do you think I fear you, girl? That you can blacken your eyes and I will cower and run? You know nothing of who I once was.”
Behind her, Gregorr stuttered, as if he would interrupt. But it was Otieno who continued, shouting down at her as his boots bordered her face.
“You came here to find ally and leave as enemy!” he yelled. “You might one day be queen, but you will reign over an army of corpses if you let such bloodlust control you.”
In a lowered voice, the Islander warned, “We must leave at once.”
With nothing remaining to be said, he stepped over Syrsha and toward the mage. “Aldric, how many can you ward?”
The Sythians stood near their fallen queen, too far to hear what was being discussed. As Otieno backed away from her, Syrsha jumped up and wiped grass and mud from her newly made leather. There was another hand on her before she could reach for her sword, although the touch was light and sought to comfort.
In a lowered voice, Gregorr explained, “He is not wrong, Syrsha, and I will not always be near to calm you with runes. All Tribe must learn to fight the wont to attack. Had you remained in Cordisia, your father would have taught you no doubt. But you are here without his guidance and must learn self-control.”
His slender fingers rested on her arm. He had removed his gloves to write the rune, and his pine-colored skin appeared snake-like under the kiss of the morning sun. When he wrapped her in an embrace, Syrsha let her head fall to his shoulder, closing her eyes against the red haze. She said nothing, knowing that Gregorr’s words were true ones.
Just as she knew that she had wanted to kill Makeena and Gisela.
Pulling away from him, she half-sobbed, “Will you teach me to stop it?”
With a nod, he told her, “We will find a way, faela.”
Behind them, Aldric and Otieno discussed who would return to camp. Syrsha’s name had not been mentioned, and it was soon decided that Gregorr would remain as well. No one mentioned why she could not return to the camp, but she knew all the same by the way that they looked at her.
They think I will kill again, Syrsha thought, looking toward Sharron, who had yet to approach.
“I will stay with Syrsha,” the woman called. “Her shoulder must be tended to before we depart.”
And so Otieno and Aldric followed Liang and the other Sythians back toward Argeus, while the others waited for them to return with their belongings. Sharron wasted no time and quickly began wiping Syrsha’s arm, cleaning it of dirt and blood as the girl knelt at her feet.
As she washed the cut clean, Sharron stated, “You allowed the Tiannese girl to strike you where it would do the least damage.”
Her words sounded like an accusation, and Syrsha sighed, “I had hoped that once I was struck that Makeena would alter her plans.”
“And let you live.”
Syrsha agreed. “It was never my intention for this to be the way of things. I came here believing that I would leave as kin.”
Sharron poured a rust-colored ointment across her skin, causing white bubbles to erupt as Syrsha’s skin burned.
“So your memory of your time here was false?” Sharron asked, again dabbing at Syrsha’s shoulder.
For a moment she knew not what to say in response. Syrsha had believed that she would learn archery from the Sythians, just as she remembered Makeena. Yet something had changed, and, now, her path had become altered and her thoughts muddied.
“It seems that such is the case,” she told the healer. “Either I remember falsely or I have erred in coming here.” Trying to explain what she could not make sense of, Syrsha added, “I am unable to time-walk to where I have never been. Only what has already happened is open to me, yet there are some places where I have been more times than I can recall.”
After a pause, the healer asked, “How many times have you watched your mother die?”
Sharron’s words stung more than her ointment, and Syrsha gasped, again reaching for the burning rune. Beside her, Gregorr stayed silent. His hand, ungloved and stained, remained lifted.
Shrugging Sharron off of her, Syrsha rose and said, “Enough times to know that the memory is not a false one.”
“That is not what I meant,” Sharron sighed, reaching for Syrsha once again. “Here, let me finish.”
With a glance toward her shoulder, Syrsha stated, “From here, it will heal on its own. One of the better gifts my father has given me.”
They did not argue with her, but again Sharron spoke of her mother.
“Caryss begged me to teach you the ways of healing, faela. Tell me that you have not so soon forgotten how you helped me in Cossima. You are healer-trained even though you have never stepped foot inside the Academy’s gates. Do not forget the vows that we hold sacred.”
In a voice haloed in crackling anger, Syrsha cried, “What use is my mother now? Do you think I no longer recall who she was? Or what you and Gregorr have taught me? I know how to cease bleeding and how to thread a lacerated wound, yet it is my father’s blood and bone that calls me louder and guides my hand. The Wolf cannot be bound
by mortal vows.”
Sharron rarely chastised her, nor did the others, except for Otieno, yet Syrsha could hear admonishment in her words. I have disappointed them all, she thought. Without an explanation for why she had misjudged Makeena, even Syrsha herself could make little sense of why she had insisted on coming to Sythia. Two women lay dead, and her army had only increased by one, a single Tiannese archer. She could not shake the words of Otieno from her thoughts, and knew that she had made more enemies today than she had made friends.
“I just want to be gone from here,” she mumbled, coming free from the rune-daze that Gregorr had placed over her.
It was as much apology as she could offer, although she could not look at Sharron.
Less than an hour later, the others returned. Around her, hushed voices discussed what would next need to happen. A tingling pain tickled her beneath her boot as the blade of her atraglacian dagger burned. For a moment, Syrsha feared that a Tribesman was near, before realizing that it was only Aldric casting a shield of protection over the gathered group.
“I can cover myself,” she told him, knowing how difficult it would be for the mage to expel so much energy.
With a nod, he moved away from her, and Syrsha hastily drew upon the burning blade for strength until she felt a soft tremor coat her body. She could not recall where they had left their horses, yet now the mounts stood saddled and laced. Liang, she recalled, and had promised aid. It was the Tiannese girl who had explained the Sythian Queen’s plans, although she had appeared as surprised as any when Syrsha had struck at the watchtower. After the women’s deaths, Syrsha feared that Liang would no longer name herself as ally. Yet she had vowed to travel with them to Tian.
A land where Syrsha knew none and where her memory was empty. For that alone, Tian was tempting.
