by Glenda Larke
Outside, she sank down in the shade of the tent, panting as if she had run a race. She doubted Davim would have been forgiving of either of them had he caught her eavesdropping on his conversation with Ravard. Especially if he remembered her from Breccia.
And now what was she going to do? She had to warn Kaneth, and soon. The sun was already low in the sky, and the shadows were long. He had to leave. With or without the other slaves, he had to go. She thought about the conversation she had overheard, wondering what was bothering her about it. Something to do with Ravard. It had been niggling at the edge of her consciousness as she had listened, but she couldn't decide what it was.
The trouble is I may think I speak Reduner well, but I don't really, she thought. It's not my language. I missed something. Some nuance of something. And I don't know what it was. She tried to capture the thought, but it skittered away like an ant lion sliding through sand. She turned to wondering about Davim, and why he hadn't sensed her water.
"So this is where you got to."
She jumped. Eyes closed, she had been so busy thinking she'd forgotten to pay attention to her surroundings. Ravard was looking down at her.
"It didn't seem a good idea to stay in there."
"It wasn't. I sent Khedrim to tell you to get out."
"The lad? He did try, but we have a language problem and there wasn't time."
He grinned at her, shaking his head half in mockery, half in reluctant admiration. "Me guts shriveled, thinking the sandmaster would rip us t'pieces-and then you weren't there. I felt your water in the wooden chest, but I couldn't believe you'd fit inside!" He chuckled, pulled her to her feet and kissed her on the cheeks, then the lips. Then he sighed, exasperated. "I can think of a lot of things I'd like t'be doing right now, but you'd best be gone. Go down t'the slave lines and stay there till I call for you."
She was furious. He knew he was going to kill the father of her child that night, and he could kiss her, pretend everything was normal?
He had spoken with Davim so blithely about Kaneth's death, not caring because he thought she understood none of it. Well, I understood every word, you spitless horror, she thought. In her anger, she wanted to claw his eyes out.
Instead, she asked, "Why didn't the sandmaster sense my water? Sandmasters and tribemasters are water sensitives, aren't they?"
He hesitated and she thought he was going to brush away the question, but in the end he said quietly, "You mustn't tell anyone that, Garnet. If you do, you'll die. He has some sensitivity, enough to feel a waterhole f'r instance, but it is weak. It's why he made me the Master Son, so I could help hide his weakness. His shaman covers for him, too. We do it 'cause he is a truly great leader and warrior, a man who will return the Red Quarter-no, the whole Quartern-to its former glory. He doesn't need t'feel water t'do that. He can have water sensitives like me do it for him."
She shrugged, even as she wondered whether he was warning her or threatening her. "It's nothing to me." One thing about being around Ravard so much; she was learning to be a good liar. After she left Ravard, she found Elmar without too much trouble. He was busy grooming pedes down in Davim's camp. None of the slaves was roped anymore, or even watched. Escape was impossible without a pede, water and supplies; leaving the dune without alerting the ring of sentries would be hard and pursuit would be immediate.
But we'll do it, she thought with grim determination.
She grabbed up a polishing cloth and a bag of beeswax and worked alongside Elmar while she talked.
"Do you know where Uthardim is?" she asked quietly.
"Someone came looking for him earlier. He's supposed to be a metalworker and they needed some weaponry sharpened." He grinned at her. "I reckon he'll be doing his best to thin some blades beyond what is wise."
"I've got to see him urgently." Quickly she outlined the conversation between Ravard and Davim.
"Withering spit," he snarled. "Listen, you had best look for Ka-Uthardim yourself. Look for the forge fire, that's where he'll be. Tell him I'm assuming tonight's the night for the escape then. I'll start telling our folk."
She nodded and slipped away. By the time she'd located the camp forge fire, the sun had almost set and most of Davim's men were heading toward the cooking pots in the main encampment.
Kaneth took one look at her face and barked, "Oh good-a pair of free hands. Can you work this for me?" He thrust a set of leather bellows into her hands and indicated where he wanted the air directed. "What is it?" he asked under the cover of the noise they made. He thrust a scimitar into the glowing coals.
"Are you supposed to do that?" she asked.
He grinned at her. "No, it weakens the blade. But no one is watching and the metalworker has gone off to eat."
She glanced around. The nearest Reduner warriors were picking through a pile of mended weaponry. Quickly she told him what she had overheard. "I've already let Elmar know. He thinks we should all leave tonight. He's telling the other slaves."
He gave her a long stare then, and withdrew the scimitar. She stopped the pumping of the bellows and the coals darkened. He took the weapon over to the work table and started hammering at it with little concern for the health of the blade.
"Everyone goes," he said. "Or as many as we can take. I'll kill Ravard when he comes to kill me. Then I'll bring the slope of the dune down on Davim's camp. That will be the signal. Tell Elmar that. Your job is to organize water and food and tell the women. I have to be up at the shrine in a moment."
He glanced upward. The holy stone was a black shadow against a red sky, a finger of rock pointing upward. Closer at hand, the Reduners at the pile of weapons walked away, talking among themselves.
Kaneth turned back to her, to say something further, but changed his mind as someone else approached.
Ravard's shaman stopped by them, his face shadowed by the hood of the cloak that he had pulled over his head. He spoke in his own tongue. "It's time. The dune god awaits your prayers."
Ryka glimpsed a fleeting expression of distaste on Kaneth's face and looked away. He knows he is going to kill the man tonight.
Kaneth laid down the scimitar and walked to where he had flung his cloak over a tent guy rope. The way he moved then told her he had snatched another sword from the pile of weaponry in passing, hiding the theft within a swirl of the cloak. The shaman was too busy glaring at her to see, too busy wondering what she was doing there, pondering whether he should scold her for it. He would pay for that mistake.
She could even feel the stirrings of pity as she began to walk away.
"Lady." She halted and turned back. Kaneth was standing there, his cloak hitched over one shoulder, his head tilted in the way she knew so well, the glow of the sky illuminating one half of his face, the unscarred half. For a moment she could pretend he was the handsome man she had once known. "I am so sorry," he said, his tone formal, the words laden with deeper meaning. "I profoundly regret that I do not remember what ought to have been remembered and celebrated. I hope-I hope you will not hold it against me."
By way of answer, she moved her hand to cover the bump of their child. "Never," she said, and wondered why it sounded far too much like a goodbye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Scarpen Quarter Caravanner route and Pahntuk Caravansary Something was sparkling up ahead. Little twinkles of light, pinpricks in the still harsh light of a desert day just coming to a close.
"Alabasters," Sardi said with certainty, shading his eyes as he stared down the track. He was older than Terelle, but his youthful enthusiasm made him seem younger, at least to her. She'd shared his mount all the way from Samphire to the Scarpen, and sometimes she tired of his overt exuberance. Still, it was hard not to like Sardi.
She looked down at her clothing, a borrowed Alabaster robe. As they rode, the mirrors flashed irritatingly. "I'm sure you're right," she agreed. "But where are they coming from?"
"The Bastion sent out spies to Pahntuk Caravansary as soon as the messages arrived. Just to check if it
was a trap. They'll be coming to tell us what they found."
"Oh." She wasn't surprised; when she had met the Bastion she'd come away with the impression that he was an astute old man, not given to making impetuous decisions. Inwardly she sighed, remembering the city and the many questions she had that had never been answered. If she had formed any opinion of Alabasters, it was that they were secretive.
The Bastion had passed on the latest news Samphire had received, though, messages from the Scarpen via the Gibber. Breccia had fallen to the Reduners. Cloudmaster Granthon was dead. The new stormlord, Jasper Bloodstone, was now in Scarcleft. Other than that, they had not been able to tell her much about what was happening elsewhere, and they had been secretive about their own affairs. There is so much I need to tell Shale, so much I want to ask.
Sardi twisted in the saddle to grin at her. "Oh, good! Father has given the signal to stop for the day. There's a caravansary up ahead!"
A little later she was gratefully slipping off the pede and helping to set up camp outside the caravansary walls. There were pedes to clean and water, cooking to be done, mounts to be hobbled and set free to graze, water to be fetched. She was only halfway through her normal chores when Messenjer called her into the caravansary to meet one of the men who had ridden in from Pahntuk.
The man who rose from one of the daub benches in the public room was a tall, thin, middle-aged Alabaster with kindly eyes. "This is Feroze Khorash," Messenjer said. "A special envoy of the Bastion. He'd like to talk to you."
The name seemed familiar, although she couldn't think where she might have heard it. After they'd exchanged greetings, Messenjer left and for a moment there was an awkward silence until Terelle asked, "The stormlord who sent the cloud messages-is he in Pahntuk?"
"No. Just his army. Men and women from all over the Scarpen and some Gibber folk, too. They are being trained by some of the rainlords under Lord Iani Potch."
Her heart pitched, leaving a sick feeling behind. Oh, Shale, when do I get to see you again? She had been dreaming of it, but it wasn't going to happen any time soon after all.
"Have a seat," Feroze said. He sat down watching her, concerned. "Ye don't look well."
"Where is he?" she asked, too agitated to be polite. So sand-brained. We scarcely know each other…
"In Scarcleft with Lord Taquar. Together they are stormshifting."
She paled. "I was hoping-" But she couldn't go on.
"I wouldn't worry too much. Lord Jasper is a very resourceful young man, and he is in contact with Lord Iani on a regular-"
"Lord Jasper? I meant Shale Flint!"
Feroze blinked. "I'm sorry. Who is that?"
"The-the person who sent the sky messages." It must have been him. Only he knew I cheated at Lords and Shells…
"Ah. Then I think he and Lord Jasper must be one and the same person."
While she was still trying to take that in, he added, "I looked for ye once, ye know. Least, I assume it was ye."
"For me? When? Where?"
"A few cycles ago. A caravanner once told us he had seen a Watergiver man and a girl. In the streets of Scarcleft. Do ye remember seeing an Alabaster trader?"
The day she'd met Russet for the first time, an Alabaster man had bowed to her. Russet had said he recognized her by her tears. She had forgotten all about that. Now, as Feroze reminded her, she wondered, Recognized me as what? A Watergiver?
"Yes, I remember."
"He told me about seeing ye. The next time I was in Scarcleft, I looked for ye-but I was attacked and had to leave in a hurry. I met Jasper on that visit. At least, he said his name was Jasper. Is your Shale from the Gibber? About nineteen or twenty years old?"
She nodded. "There was an Alabaster he talked about. A salt merchant. Of course! That's where I've heard your name before! He helped you to escape Scarcleft. We were hoping you'd get word to the old Cloudmaster. When we didn't hear anything, we thought you hadn't made it. He was upset." And he is the Scarpen's only stormlord after all…
The man stared at his knees. "I failed him. I was injured and ill and suncrazy. The pede took me to Portennabar, on the coast. I was sick for a long time. A long story and some day I will tell it, but not now. In the end I did get to Breccia, arriving just in time to see the Reduners scaling the walls. I turned my pede and headed for Samphire, to take the news." He reached into his purse. "Look, I still have this. He gave it to me, but I kept it. It was far too valuable a present and I have looked forward to the day I can return it."
He was holding a gemstone in his fingers. It was the size of a sandgrouse egg, green in color and flecked through with splashes of red. Still unpolished, it was rough and dull.
Had Shale mentioned that to her? She couldn't remember.
He changed the subject. "Terelle, why don't ye join me on my pede tomorrow? I am sending my companions back to Samphire to tell the Bastion and the councils what is happening, but I am riding back to Pahntuk with ye all. Messenjer says ye are troubled about your waterpainting powers. Perhaps it would help to be talking to me about it." She accepted Feroze's invitation, and for the final two days' ride to Pahntuk Wells she mounted his pede. He used a driver, and sat with his back to the man, facing her. It made talking easy and she wondered why she'd never seen anyone do it before. Sardi grinned broadly every time he glanced their way, so he thought it was a huge joke; his brother's sour face told another story, obviously thinking such behavior was not appropriate for a man of stature. Feroze didn't care what anyone said. Terelle found herself liking him more and more.
When she told him her story, what Russet had done to her with his paintings shocked him so much there were tears in his eyes.
"I never thought I would hear of a Watergiver lord misusing his power like that. It is despicable! Are ye feeling ill now?"
"No. I followed his advice and it seems to work. I can feel the tug of my need to be in Khromatis, but it is more annoying than sickening."
"He's a wicked man. Or crazed."
"And yet you are all asking me to use my waterpainting powers to kill. How do I know if that's the right thing to do? Messenjer says the powers come from God and cannot therefore be evil."
He snorted. "Messenjer is a dear friend of mine, but he can also be a sand-brained fool. Any of God's gifts can be misused. Ye must indeed be careful and use its magic sparingly. But it can also be a sin not to use it, too."
"That's what the Bastion said, too. And Physician Errica. Everyone seems to ignore the fact that I don't believe in your God! I have always offered water to the Sunlord."
"I don't know much about the Sunlord," Feroze admitted, "but I can tell ye that Ash Gridelin was only ever a Watergiver like your mother was, or Russet is, so I doubt the Sunlord has any validity except what men have made of him for their own ends."
"That's terribly blasphemous."
"To a Scarpen waterpriest, doubtless. To an Alabaster or anyone from Khromatis, the idea of Ash Gridelin being an emissary of the sun is laughable. It all depends on where you were born, really."
Terelle frowned, thinking.
After a while he continued, "In Khromatis, everyone who can move water and anyone who can shuffle up a waterpainting is called a Watergiver. They are the Lords of Khromatis. Ash Gridelin was one of these nobles, not a Quartern man at all, as ye are taught. A restless man, an adventurer who dreamed of exploring the world. Against all laws, he strayed into the Quartern. He went to Alabaster along the way, which is why we know about him, then on to the Scarpen and Gibber. He is a historical figure to us, appearing in our histories as a real man. He met the Bastion of that time, upset several prominent families with his dalliances with their women. In fact, several Alabaster families-including my own-can trace back to him as an ancestor."
She stared at him, wide-eyed with shock, and he laughed. "He was just a man. Not a particularly good man. He stayed in the Quartern to be helping a land suffering because of its water shortages. He taught people to be rainlords and stormlords."
&n
bsp; "That's withering spittle! You can't teach someone to be a stormlord. Even a water sensitive is born that way. Only the Sunlord can grant that gift!"
"Well, I have oversimplified things, I admit. Yes, one is born with the talent. In the Quartern, though, no one was born with any talent at all, until Ash Gridelin. The first stormlords and rainlords and reeves were all his descendants. That was the way he saved the Quartern. Until the first children grew up and he taught them how to manage their powers, he was the only stormlord."
She blinked, taken aback. "You're saying-?" She gave a bark of skeptical laughter. "He must have been prolific!"
"He was."
"That's ridiculous!" she said, exasperated.
He didn't look in the least offended, saying, "Ah, but we have proof of the origins of Ash Gridelin. Did Russet ever tell ye about the naming of people in his land?"
Terelle nodded. "He said they were-" She halted, then whispered, "Oh."
"Ah. I think ye see the connection now, right?"
"He said people there are named for colors. Ash and Gridelin. They-they are both types of gray. I never thought of that. All right, so he might have been from Khromatis. But the ancestor of all water sensitives? Sandblast it, how many children did he have ever?"
"Oh, about a hundred, I believe. His seed was known to be, um, effective. Most of those born were water talented to some degree or another."
"A hundred?" She was horrified. "That's-that's-"
He cut her short, which was probably just as well. She had been going to say disgusting.
"He saved the Quartern and its people from dying of thirst from his generation onward. Most of his children were born to Scarpen folk, but there were Gibber and Reduner and Alabaster children, too. Your friend Shale must come down through the Gibber line."
