Keshik became aware that he could move his mouth. ‘A gift?’ he asked. ‘What sort of gift?’
‘What would you like?’
‘What I want is something you cannot give.’
‘I think you would be surprised at what I can offer.’
Keshik’s mind filled with an image — an image of a beautiful, fair-skinned face, high cheekbones flushed with pink in the chill northern air, flamered hair, eyes that sparkled like cut emeralds. He looked down. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You cannot give me the one thing I want.’
‘Perhaps the second thing you want?’
Another image flashed into Keshik’s mind — a very different face with black skin, pale hair, a silver eye, twin scars. He looked up. ‘There was something,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I want to kill a man.’
‘You do not need me for that, Tulugma Swordmaster,’ Sondelle chided.
‘This one I do.’
‘Does he have a name, this poor individual?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Describe him for me.’
‘Fast, strong, uses a Warrior’s Claw. One eye is silver …’
‘I know him,’ Sondelle interrupted. ‘He is beyond either of us now. He will die, but neither by my hand, nor yours, Swordmaster.’
‘Then you have nothing I want, sorcerer.’
‘You have no idea what I can offer you.’
Keshik gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Can you raise the dead?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘And what must I do?’
30
Aesla led them north through the arid farmlands of Lac’u. The vast farms of the dry wasteland were famous throughout the world. The extensive system of irrigation channels, together with the system of locks and pumps, had turned a barren desert into fertile land that stretched far into the inhospitable north-west.
Originally, the farms had all been individually owned and operated by small family groups, but as the need for water grew with the expansion of the farmland, the Wings of Vogel took over, turning it into a single, country-sized farm. Dotted about within the farm were communities charged with the daily operations. Roads cut across the open plains and fences separated the different crops. Every day, whole armies of peasant workers — some free, some in forced labour — toiled to provide Lac’u with its food and wealth. The whole system had slowly evolved to become both efficient and lucrative, bringing Lac’u its wealth. With its access to the Silvered Sea, it also had trade routes.
In all the wars that Lac’u had endured, no one had ever set a torch to the sprawling fields. Every attacker knew the importance to the world’s food supply of the Lac’un farms. Anyone fool enough to destroy the farms, or even attempt to do so, would face the wrath of every other country and be wiped out of existence, as was the fate of the ancient Scarens.
Now that he was aware of the source of his nagging unease, Slave found the days easier. Ileki was right about his having a disciplined mind, and with a little effort he could wrestle his panic down to a manageable level — during the day at least.
The night was a different problem altogether.
The knowledge that the black velvet sky extended up and out forever gnawed at his mind. At night, he could not see the world around him, could not see anything that might be hunting him in the blackness, could not discern its approach from the myriad noises of scuttling creatures, not to mention the assorted grunts and other sounds of his fellow travellers. Every night was a tense time of brief, interrupted bursts of sleep alternated with moments of wide-eyed alertness. His only place of refuge was under the Sana’s carriage. The closeness, the comforting feel of a roof, helped calm his mind.
It also brought him close to the Sana.
In the days after they had talked in her carriage, he had not been able to get her out of his mind. He put himself into positions where he could watch her whenever she left the carriage. Sitting beside Ileki driving the carriage, with the Sana barely a couple of paces behind him, knowing he could neither see nor talk to her, was disturbingly troubling.
Whenever she spoke to someone, he felt a pang of something he did not recognise. It felt like pain but was different somehow.
At night, when he lay under her carriage, he could hear her walking around, hear the rustling of her skirts as she changed, even hear her soft sleeping sounds. When she lit the lantern inside, the light shone through a few cracks in the floor, giving him a fleeting glimpse of a leg or foot as she moved about the carriage. At such times, he felt guilt, but it was a guilt he enjoyed.
For her part, the Sana was either unaware of, or unconcerned by, his attention. She never moved out of his line of sight, even after their eyes met, which they did often, but neither did she acknowledge his gaze. Slave was confused.
Once before, he had felt something like this.
She had been one of the sparring partners provided by his master; a tall, rangy woman with a hard, flat body. Her hair, like that of the Sana, was short for a woman, cut to just below her jawline. Unlike the Sana, she was coarse and abrupt, but every time they fought, Slave felt something different. He always looked forward to their matches, especially when they fought in dim light, rather than full darkness, because he could watch her fluid movements, the play of muscle under her tanned skin. He especially liked the hand-to-hand bouts when he could feel and smell her. His preoccupation nearly brought him undone on more than one occasion.
He never knew her name. One day when he had come to training, his master had her body tied to his work table, her chest cut open.
‘Come, Slave,’ he had said. ‘Come and see the wonder that is the human body.’
With a detached air, Sondelle had rummaged about in her gaping chest, explaining and lecturing as he went. When he handed Slave the still-attached heart to feel, he realised it was beating. Somehow, by his dark arts, Sondelle had kept her alive while he worked. As Slave held the warm, weakly beating organ in his trembling hand, Sondelle dismissed the spell and the woman screamed once in indescribable agony and died. Slave let the heart slip from his fingers. There were still times when he awoke to the sickening sound it had made when it splashed into her open chest.
It upset him that he could sometimes hear that sound when he looked at the Sana.
Sana Waarde and that long-dead, unnamed assassin could not have been more different. Where the other woman had been hard, Waarde was soft. Where she was dusky of skin, Waarde was fair to the point of paleness. Where she had jet black hair that hung lankly, the Sana’s light brown hair was always immaculately brushed and shaped. And where the assassin had had dark, intriguing eyes, the Sana’s eyes were as blue as the sky.
Slave’s confusion knew no bounds, but at least it helped keep his mind off the vast open spaces around him.
* * *
One morning, after a particularly taxing night in which Slave had taken the first watch and then been unable to sleep, they approached a wooded area. Aesla raised her hand to call a halt.
‘Piet,’ she called. ‘There is a trail through the woods. You ride north. Rene,’ she gestured, ‘you ride south. The rest of you, make camp.’
Slave clambered down off the carriage to go about his tasks, but before he could take two paces away, he was stopped by Waarde’s voice.
‘Slave,’ she said. ‘Wait.’
Ileki hesitated as well, then continued walking away, shaking his head slowly.
Slave watched as Waarde opened the back of the carriage and stepped down. As always, he tried not to, but could not help staring at her. The way her hair moved, the swirl of her skirts around her legs, the hint of a smile that hovered about her lips; he found her fascinating. She moved to stand close to him, resting her hand lightly on his arm.
‘Could you do something for me?’ she whispered.
Suddenly unable to speak, Slave nodded.
‘These woods are known for their, um … plants,’ she said. Waarde looked around conspiratorially before going
on. ‘When things have settled down a bit, could you take me into the woods to look for some?’
Again Slave nodded, still unable to formulate words.
‘Good,’ Waarde said, squeezing his arm slightly. With a final quick smile, she turned away and swiftly climbed the couple of steps that took her back into the carriage she shared with her brother. After watching the door close behind her, Slave returned to his menial tasks.
It never occurred to him to wonder why they were setting camp again so early in the morning. And, when he was finished, he slipped away with Waarde unconcerned that neither Piet nor Rene had returned from their separate scouting missions. It also did not concern him that he was able to walk away from the camp with the Sana without anyone seeming to notice or even care.
Once underneath the canopy, the temperature dropped dramatically. After the days of travelling through the hot, dry Lac’un farmland, the sudden cool was unexpected. Slave shivered, eliciting a soft chuckle from Waarde.
‘You have lived too long in the Lac’un heat,’ she chided. ‘Wait until we reach C’sobra. Then you will feel real cold.’ Her face went serious. ‘But the cool of this forest is why we are here.’
‘Why?’
‘The plant we are looking for only grows in cool places.’
‘What is it, this plant?’
‘Daven, of course.’
‘I thought you could only get it in C’sobra?’
Waarde shrugged. ‘It is more plentiful there, but it can be found in other places. Sometimes.’ She gripped his arm tightly as she led him deeper into the forest. Slave felt his ever-present unease fade the further in they went, as the trees formed a protective cocoon around him, giving him the illusion of being safely enclosed. Over his head, the canopy disguised the dangerous sky and beneath his feet, harsh rocky dirt gave way to leaf litter and ground-covering plants. He breathed deeply, enjoying the scents of life. Waarde smiled at him.
‘You like the forest, don’t you?’ she asked.
‘It’s better than the desert.’
Waarde sniffed. ‘That was no desert,’ she scoffed, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. ‘You need to travel south to see a real desert.’
Slave grunted in acceptance of her words, but could think of nothing to say. He continued to walk through the dim coolness of the forest.
After a while, he stopped and cocked his head to the side as a thought occurred to him.
‘Where does the water come from to keep all these trees alive?’ he asked.
‘Just ahead,’ Waarde said. ‘I’ll show you.’
Intrigued, Slave continued, increasingly aware of the pressure the Sana was exerting on his arm with her delicate hand.
The trees gave way to a clearing. It was about twenty paces across and was dominated by a pool of water. Its surface was smooth like glass and it smelled pure and, oddly, very cold. Slave shivered again.
Waarde removed her hand from Slave’s arm, leaving him with only the slight warmth of her skin that faded quickly in the chill air. He looked at her, but she was walking slowly away from him with a strange, faraway look on her face. As he watched, she started to unlace her bodice. Her fingers tugged at the cords that held her dress tight around her body. When she had sufficiently loosened it, she shrugged her arms out of the sleeves and allowed the richly coloured dress to slide to the ground. Captivated, Slave stared as she hastily, and without any trace of self-consciousness, divested herself of her clothing until she stood naked.
Slave had seen naked women before, but never in a setting remotely like this one. Always, the women had been either dead on Sondelle’s work table or fighting to the death in one of his master’s training routines. To see Waarde nude, alive and unarmed left Slave shaken, unprepared and uncomfortable.
His discomfort increased when she turned to face him.
‘I am having a swim,’ she said simply. With that, she crossed the soft ground and stepped into the lake. She squealed happily as she waded into the cold water until it reached halfway up her thighs, at which point she dived and surfaced again in the middle of the pool.
The Sana smoothed her hair back from her face and smiled at Slave.
‘Coming in?’ she asked.
Slave shook his head.
‘Coward,’ Waarde mocked. ‘Afraid of a little cold water.’
Slave scowled — he was afraid. He was unsure of what exactly, but he knew it was not the water.
‘Fine, then,’ Waarde said. ‘Stay there and brood. Stay hot and dirty for all I care.’
Slave stared while the noblewoman splashed and giggled in the pool. All the while he stayed alert for any hint of approaching danger but he heard nothing beyond the sounds of Sana Waarde having fun.
It seemed longer than it probably was, but finally, Waarde swam to the edge of the pool and rose from the water. She shivered slightly as the cool air caressed her body but made no attempt to cover herself. The Sana moved close to Slave and slipped her arms around him, pulling herself close to him. She tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his.
The sudden action caught Slave by surprise. He was not expecting anything like this and the sensation of her soft lips on his was startling, but not unpleasant. She murmured softly and opened her mouth. Slave went to pull away when he felt her tongue, but her hands had slipped up his back and were holding his head tightly. Slave had no idea what to do, but when he wrapped his arms around Waarde and held her tightly, she moaned. Beneath his hard, calloused hands her unblemished skin was unlike anything he had ever felt. He allowed his hands to slide over her naked back, exploring her perfect skin.
The sound of feet crashing through the undergrowth made the Sana gasp and leap away from him. Hurriedly, she snatched up her dress and used it to cover her nakedness. Irrationally, Slave wanted to snatch it away, but he turned instead to face the intruder.
‘Ice and wind!’ Waarde hissed as her brother languidly strode into the clearing. She turned her back on him and started to dress.
The San smiled as he took in the scene. ‘Naughty, naughty, little sister,’ he scolded. ‘And you, mercenary, face death for daring to uncover the body of a noble.’
Slave snarled and drew his Claw. ‘I did not uncover her, she did that herself.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Slave,’ the San drawled. ‘But I suspect Aesla won’t believe you.’
Slave shrugged. ‘I don’t care whether she believes me or not.’
‘You might when she decides to execute you.’
‘There’s no one who could execute me if I chose to stop them.’
‘That I also do not doubt.’ The San looked towards where his sister was still struggling with her clothes. ‘Are you dressed yet?’
‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Just the dress, Waarde, don’t bother with all that other stuff.’
‘I had already thought of that.’
Slave glanced down to where all the various undergarments he had watched her remove were still scattered about. ‘Why do you wear all that?’ he asked.
Waarde fixed him with an icy glare. ‘I didn’t hear you complaining when I was taking it off,’ she snapped.
‘Did you happen to find any daven while you were undressing?’ the San asked with a raised eyebrow.
‘No.’
‘I did,’ the San said. He pulled a plant out of a pouch at his side.
Slave regarded the unprepossessing little plant with curiosity. It was dark green with small leaves and dozens of pale green bulbs ran along the stems. The San had clearly wrenched it out of the ground, as a clump of dirt still clung to the trailing roots. The Sana left the last of her bodice unlaced as she stepped forwards to examine the daven plant.
‘It is a good one,’ she said, reaching for it.
The San withdrew the little plant from her reach. ‘Enough to keep me going for a while,’ he agreed. Before his sister could comment, he plucked one of the bulbs from the stem and swallowed it.
‘You idiot!’ W
aarde gasped.
‘I will be fine,’ the San assured her. ‘I have done this hundreds of —’ He gave a strangled, gargling cry and fell to the ground. His whole body convulsed, then again, and again as the harsh drug coursed through his body. Every muscle, every sinew went rigid, wrenching his already tortured frame into unnatural spasms, turning his hands into claws, his arms into twisted parodies of human limbs.
Abruptly, he collapsed, face-down on the dirt. His mouth started to work spasmodically, opening and closing, drool pouring unchecked into the soil, his tongue bleeding. For a moment, he looked as if he were eating the ground. He retched violently and rolled over to stare up at the sky. Slave wrestled his eyes from the tormented frame on the ground to regard Waarde. The look on her face told him all he needed to know — this was not the normal reaction to the drug.
The San moaned softly and rose to his knees. Slave watched as the San rocked slowly, his moans building in volume until he was screaming at the sky. He raised his hands as if in supplication. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks and his breathing became laboured. His fingers started to curl inwards to form fists, but stopped, leaving them crooked, the tendons standing out hard against the soft skin. The San’s screaming shifted, dropping to a bestial yowl.
Abruptly, the sound stopped. The San dropped his unclenched hands to the ground before him and looked up, directly at Slave.
‘You,’ he whispered. ‘It’s your fault.’ The San’s eyes were clear and focused. He raised his hand to point directly at Slave’s face.
‘The mark of the Revenant. It comes.’ The San’s voice was resonant, powerful and commanding — nothing at all like his usual, almost effeminate, drawl. It came from deep within his chest, but sounded like it was being wrenched out, it did not flow naturally. Each pronouncement was preceded by a pause, together with a rasping, grating retch. ‘It rises, let all quake before its coming … Chaos bringer, it feeds … Warrior, it hungers … Its Beq goes before, to prepare, to spread abroad… The flames spread wide … The underdwellers rise … fleeing, raging … They seek the eye … The Beq … It lies beneath treachery … hidden beneath a friend’s bloodied hand … The Claw will strike all down … the Blindfolded Queen will speak the truth …’
Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms Page 23
