by Cat Bruno
Shaking his head, Otieno told her, “I know little of him, but he did attempt to warn her of Delwin’s plans. Has Blaidd arrived in Rexterra?”
“Aboard a ship in a little-used harbor in northern Rexterra. He and Blaze await the healer and will see him to Litusia,” she explained.
She noticed concern cloud over the diauxie’s eyes and recognized that it had come after the mention of her cousin.
“His task is simple,” she insisted. “And even Blaidd should not have trouble making certain that Pietro finds Kennet without issue. He is Tribe and has some skills, plus the Islander travels with him.”
Otieno did not need to tell her that he did not like the plan, for it was she who had stated just as much. Only Aldric seemed to believe it sound.
“Will you visit Jarek within a few days to ensure that all has gone as he hoped?”
“I will have Aldric ward me when next I visit. It is but a short ride from the home of the Queen’s kin.”
He grabbed for her and asked, “You plan to time-walk, Syrsha? That would be unwise and unnecessary. In the time that I spent with Jarek, I came to see what he would become. The boy wears his honor in truth.”
“He is no boy,” she huffed, grabbing a chunk of snapping meat. “Both you and Aldric think of him as some child who followed you about in awe and envy. He is a man grown, one who spends his days with a man who would see me dead.”
For moon years she had listened as the men spoke of Jarek as if he was made of gold and marble. While she had spent days covered in Cossiman sand, blood and spit, he lived in the Grand Palace, with a gleaming steel sword in his always-clean hands. Each time she visited, he smelled freshly of a mist-soaked dawn. His hair was always shorn close, and his skin gleamed bright, painted gold by the Rexterran sun. Even his sky-stamped eyes reflected a rapturous beauty when he looked upon her flickering image.
In the last moon year, Syrsha would only visit after making certain that her armor was polished and her face scrubbed. She did not admit such to the Islander and tore into the musk deer until she stopped thinking of how Jarek last appeared.
It was not until Liang sat down next to her that Syrsha looked up from the spit of meat.
“What has you so angry? You have sucked the bones dry, Syrsha.” Liang teased, her words uneven and gruff as they would always be from her injury.
“I would just as soon arrive in Tian,” she grumbled. “I am growing weary of so much travel.”
“We are a half-moon from my homelands if we make haste,” the girl told her.
For the last few days, Syrsha had looked upon Liang suspiciously, and conversations between them had become rare. After her last visit with Jarek, it had been decided that they would continue to Tian, yet Syrsha had not misspoken. She wanted little more than to return to Cordisia and to see the Tribelands, the only home that remained to her and one that she had not visited since she was a babe. Since leaving Cossima, no place seemed as if it fit. Syrsha’s life pulse struck hard against her sweat-stained tunic. Never before did she feel so lost.
Throwing the blood-stained, wooden stick onto the fire, Syrsha stated, “You must choose what it is that you want, Liang. If you seek vengeance, then you must go your own way once we reach Tian. We will see that you are equipped and give you coin, but I do not want to be here more than three moons. You have been a good friend to me, and your warnings before the kyzkua kept me alive. But you led us here falsely, and, for that, I would just as soon depart.”
The accusation had been days in the making, yet Syrsha had struggled to confront the woman over her deception.
With pleading eyes, Liang stared at her and stuttered, “I did not mean to fool you, Syrsha. When I told you of Makeena’s plans, I had no thoughts for what you would do next. I only meant to keep you alive.”
“Then why not tell me that you wanted to come east only to kill your father?”
“I was not lying when I promised warriors could be found in Tian!” Liang cried. “You have need of an army, and I had need to return to my homeland. It was for both of us that I suggested we make way to Tian.”
“How long would you have us follow before you admitted that you knew of no combat master, Liang?” Syrsha roughly demanded.
“I need not know of any personally, Syrsha, for there are many in Tian who would teach you. Each province has its own temple or school. I know this land, and I know what Tian can offer one such as you.”
“And who is that?” Syrsha snorted. “What is it that you think I am, Liang?”
The woman would not sob or beg. She had earned her Sythian-rights in full. Instead, Syrsha’s questions only calmed her, erasing the uncertainty from Liang’s voice.
“You are either nushen or yaoguai. Although, the sensei would tell me that I have spoken in error. The truth must lie somewhere in between the two, I suppose. I have vowed to follow you all the same, Syrsha. Demon or goddess, you are woman still, and Sythian-kin by right.”
The woman did not need to tell her what the Tiannese words meant, for Syrsha knew them without assistance. But, like Liang, she knew the answer not.
Rising from her seat beside the crumbling ashes, Syrsha called out, “Decide within the hour. We are near enough to Tian that I can find my own master. You will either follow us, or you will find your father and kill him.”
With that, she rushed to her tent, a reddening haze darkening her vision. Her hands warmed, and Syrsha nearly let the flames be called. Instead, she thought unwittingly of Jarek. He had been abed, she remembered, unclothed and half-awake. The memory stained her cheeks, and she shook her head to free herself from the image, unsure why it was he that she now thought of. With little else to do, Syrsha hurriedly readied her gear, admitting to none but herself her additional reasons for wanting to return to Cordisia.
When she had packed her limited supplies, Syrsha joined the others, searching for Sharron as she neared. She spotted the dark-haired woman untying her mount and haltingly walked to where she stood. There was not a time that Sharron had not tried to serve as mother to her, but Syrsha had never allowed herself to grow close with the woman. Now, moons past her sixteenth year, Syrsha understood how much Sharron did to keep Caryss’s memory ever-present. Time-walking helped her remember who Caryss was, yet Sharron was more of the North than Caryss had been, since much of her childhood had been mind-locked. And so Syrsha had come to value Sharron’s tales of Eirrannia and greatly enjoyed hearing of the land she would once lead.
But it was not of Eirrannia that she needed to learn.
Biting at her lip, Syrsha mumbled, “Might I ask something of you? Something that I do not want the others to hear.”
With a tug at braided reins, Sharron nodded. “Of course, Syrsha. You must always know that you can ask anything of me.”
Syrsha’s eyes did not move from her boots as she explained, “I would have asked Liang, but I know not if I should trust her or not.”
If she would have glanced toward Sharron, Syrsha would have noticed the woman’s mouth shift downward and her eyes darken with sorrow. She saw neither, but continued, “I know so little of anything beyond swordplay and healing.”
“What is it that you wish to understand?”
After another hesitation, Syrsha sighed, “Of life, I suppose. For nearly my whole life, I have known no one near my age. Only in time-walking have I been able to watch how others live, including Blaidd. He makes friends wherever he goes and is well-loved, especially by women.”
The healer’s eyes were clear and focused as she said, “We have done you a disservice by keeping you so isolated. You are a woman, or nearly so, and have had no chance to be just that. If I could advise you of one thing, and not have Otieno or Aldric here to listen, I would tell you this: take this moon year to live as Syrsha. Not as Kali or as faela or Rexaria. Forget that you are Wolf. Forget that one day you might be queen.”
“Sharron,” she half-whispered, “Is it normal to have one’s thoughts overcome unexpectedly? I used to think of
little except how to improve my strike or how to better aim the bow. Of late, I think of silly things.”
“Silly things?” Sharron laughed, less serious now.
“Like how tangled my hair has become or how dirtied my tunic is,” Syrsha reluctantly admitted.
The healer began to tell her how little it mattered how she looked while they traveled, but suddenly stopped. After a moment, Sharron added, “What you worry over is all quite normal, Syrsha.”
“If I am to be queen, I should not allow myself to be concerned with such foolishness,” she objected.
“If you are to be queen, you must allow yourself to understand those you seek to defend. You are more than just Tribe. You are mortal, too.”
With an unexpectedly thick voice, Syrsha asked, “Do you think my father ever loved my mother?”
Rarely did Syrsha speak of such and Sharron embraced her quickly.
“I was at your mother’s side the night that you were born,” she reminded her quietly. “And I was there when the High Lord first laid eyes on you. I watched the way he looked upon Caryss that night, Syrsha, and know not what else to call it but love.”
“I know so little of who he was before she died,” Syrsha sighed, pulling away from the woman.
“You do not time-walk to see him?”
The question was asked delicately, as if Sharron feared the answer. Around them, Otieno and Aldric finished cleaning the campsite and attempted to avoid overhearing what the two women discussed. Liang’s tent had been folded and tucked into scratched and stained saddlebags, but the girl herself was nowhere to be seen.
With little time before they would need to depart, Syrsha hurriedly answered, “During the time that my mother stayed in the Tribelands, I can visit with little discomfort. But it has always been much more difficult to visit after we fled Cordisia. And the High Lord warns me overmuch to stay away.”
“He only seeks to protect you,” Sharron argued.
“As he often reminds me. Jarek and he both counsel me to stay gone from Cordisia, yet both claim to support my cause. Am I to always be a queen in name only, ruling nothing more than the dusty roads and dying fires of a life spent in exile?”
It was the same battle Syrsha had long fought, and, still, it was not one that she would win. Not even Gregorr believed that it was time to return.
“In a moon year, I will be home,” she proclaimed with some defiance, although it was not Sharron whom she should have told, Syrsha knew.
Unbothered by the outburst, Sharron tendered gentle advice, “Remember my words and forget you will be queen. There will be time enough for that.”
Unable to disagree, Syrsha nodded and walked away to find her mount. When she arrived, Liang was there, waiting. Her Tiannese features edged with questions.
No longer interested in conversation, Syrsha ignored the Sythian-kin and climbed atop her horse. For the ride, she wore light armor, but it was cleaner than it had been in moons and her hair was now neatly plaited and hung across her now-healed shoulder. No scar appeared where Liang’s arrow had struck. Like the others, she had grown thin over the last few moons spent in travel, but her arms were still sharpened with muscle. Before she ordered her gelding to a canter, Liang called out as she pulled her horse near.
“Some day, I will have the vengeance that is due, but, for now, I will remain by your side, Syrsha, if you will have me.”
“You would do well to remember how Makeena fared,” Syrsha warned, still angry at the girl’s lies.
“I am no Makeena, as we both know,” Liang hissed in reply as her cheeks reddened and her eyes flared black, thin and accusatory.
Her horse dancing beneath her, Syrsha stated, “Then prove it and find me a master worthy of my skills. Do not allow this trip to be for naught.”
She did not wait for a reply. But she heard Liang cry after her, for the woman was Sythian-made and no easy target. But she rode on, listening as thumping trots followed behind her.
Cossima had been home, and, despite her protests, Syrsha did not have the same longing to leave there as she now did to leave Tian. Something had changed, although she did not understand why Eirrannia beckoned so loudly of late.
“One moon year,” she whispered, clenching her teeth and kicking at her mount as the words slapped against a rising breeze.
*****
“How will anyone know that we have left the ship? Surely he doesn’t expect us to stay aboard for days while we wait.”
“That is just what he desires,” the hooded man answered with little concern.
Reaching for a mug of ale, Blaze cursed under his breath and complained, “I thought this would be my chance to gaze upon some Rexterran lasses.”
With a laugh that echoed from beneath the flap of his hood, Blaidd teased, “You seek to do more than just eye them.”
The two leaned against a splintered wooden railing that creaked under the pressure, yet did not sway. The ship was ancient, Blaidd had thought upon seeing it a half-moon prior, but the captain had promised that it was seaworthy. And it had been, as the group arrived in Northern Rexterra on time, despite a southerly storm that had lasted for half a day. Even Blaze appeared worried during the worst of it, but the Islander had not been sickened like Blaidd had. He would have much preferred to escape the ship altogether, but they still had to sail back through the Three Seas and across the Calitonias Sea to reach the Healer’s Academy. Syrsha had forbidden their travel across the Green Road as it was heavily guarded by Royal Guardsmen.
Again Blaidd explained how they had little choice and must stay upon the ship for another half-moon. On the morrow, the healer would arrive, he hoped, if his father had told him true.
“Once we are free to depart from Tretoria, where will we go next?” Blaze asked, accepting that this journey would not be an entertaining one.
Blaze was a moon year older than Blaidd, but he was thick with muscle, for he had trained with bow and sword since he was a near-babe. He spoke Common well, although his words were accented with a swirling lilt, much like the man himself. He was charming and friendly and always ready for a drink or a game of chance. Much to Blaidd’s glee, Blaze had an easiness with women.
Remembering the cautious words from his father, Blaidd pulled his hood tighter, feeling the pulsing throb of the ward around him. There were Lightkeepers about in Rexterra, and, even here, a day’s ride from the King’s City, he could not risk being noticed. Nearly two moon years past, when Blaidd had left the Tribelands, his mother had weaved him the robe he now wore. His father, who had made him promise to wear it each time he neared Rexterra, had worked a ward into it. For the next half-day, Conall had been confined to his bed, weakened more than Blaidd had ever seen. Yet, the binding was strong, offering a shield against the magic that the Lightkeepers might use to track the Tribe and shielding him from the Dark God as well.
Blaze needed no such guard, for he was full-mortal, although a finer fighter than Blaidd, who had never shown much skill with the sword. Since his arrival in the Southern Cove Islands, Blaidd had practiced the short bow, and Asha had taught him much in a few moons. His mage-skill had never been strong either, although he could call for fire. As a child, his father had insisted that he learn how to track, a skill that seemed far too human, but he had long ago learned to never question Conall.
Blaidd knew himself well enough to recognize that he would not become a feared warrior or a talented mage. Yet, after his arrival in the Cove, the birthplace of his mother, his powers began to awaken. Within a moon, he had found his mother’s kin, the mother of her own, his nokoma. It was she who recognized the earth magic in him, and Blaidd had learned much during his time with her.
However, he could not yet call upon it at will. Instead, he needed Covian soil, and, worse, his own blood. Half-Tribe, he would never be accepted by the Great Mother without sacrifice. And so he traveled with two large urns filled with dirt from his nokoma’s gardens and a cask of Covian blood that she had gifted him. Blaidd had not asked f
rom where it had come, but suspected that it was her own, for she had not risen from bed to bid him farewell.
Neither he nor Blaze wanted to think on what could happen if urn or cask disappeared.
“Heyo!” Blaze yelled, throwing a leather water flask toward him.
Realizing that he had drifted off in memory, Blaidd answered, “After Tretoria, we find my cousin and bring her home.”
There was little that he could say that would surprise Blaze, for he was usually even-tempered. But his eyes widened and his smile faded at Blaidd’s words.
“We must return to the Cove for the rest of the army,” Blaze stammered with hesitancy.
“Aye,” he agreed. “But first we must find Syrsha.”
Noticing that Blaze still did not seem settled, Blaidd asked, “Are you afraid to meet her?”
Pacing across the narrow bow, Blaze’s words mixed with the salty, damp air as he answered, “If not for her mother, I would not be alive, and, for that, I owe her a life-debt.”
“You sound foolish,” the Tribesman grunted. “Her mother was a healer and saved many I would think. You owe her nothing but loyalty.”
“She has my loyalty, no doubt, but my aunt has made it clear that I must do all that she asks and more.”
Blaidd’s laughter was forceful and expansive, shaking him so strongly that he had to balance himself on the railing. Wiping at his eyes, he told the other man, “You think to be her serving boy? Or her bed boy?”
“I will do all that she asks,” Blaze retorted, his usual vanity gone.
Understanding at once that his friend was not joking, Blaidd rushed toward him and grabbed at his loose-fitting vest.
“You will not touch her in that way! Have any female that you would like, but not Syrsha. Not ever!”
His eyes burned black and hot as he screamed. His hands, pulling at Blaze’s vest, whitened in rage. Spittle dotted Blaze’s face, sepia and smooth.
A moment later, Blaze fought back, pushing at him and prying his fingers loose. They struggled, half-wrestling, until they both toppled to the ground, limbs locked together awkwardly.
