Chained Adept

by Myers, Karen

  “Stand up, now, you lazy woman.” He grabbed her right hand and hauled her up.

  “Another drink before we start.”

  He shoved an open canteen into her hand and she obediently drank, whereupon her body reminded her of other urgencies.

  She looked down and remembered the knotted cord holding up her too-large breeches.

  “Um, if you’re planning to strip me anyway, I’m going to need your help, as well as your assistance in… other matters.”

  A look of comprehension crossed his face. “Well, if I keep pouring water into you, what do you think I expected?”

  He waved his hand. “Let’s get the top off first, so it doesn’t stain everything else more than it already has. Then we’ll see how far down we have to go.”

  He flourished a knife. “From the saddle-kit. Good to have a knife again.” With it, he cut the shirt and tunic off her left side, and let her pull her right arm through on the other side.

  She glanced down and saw that her improvised breastband was soaked with blood. “That, too, I guess.”

  “Ah, nothing I haven’t seen before, Pen-sha. I’ll find you something else to use.”

  The top of the breeches were also sticky with blood, and it was easier to cut the cord than to try and untie it.

  “Now that’s a puzzle,” he said. “Didn’t find any spares in the saddle-bags.”

  “It’s only the top part,” Penrys said. “If we wash that and keep the rest dry, maybe I can just wear it damp.

  “Let me think about it. Meanwhile, off it goes. Everything.”

  She leaned on him as she hobbled over to a bush, throttling her embarrassment, but what else could she do? He held her right arm solidly and looked away while she did the necessary and escorted her back to the water’s edge, naked and cold. She thought for a moment of torches and snow.

  “We’ll start at the top and see what we find,” he said.

  He made her lean forward so that he wouldn’t soak the bandage around her neck, and he scooped water through her hair. She was shocked to see the red come out—she hadn’t realized how much blood there was.

  He wrung her hair until it stopped dripping, then took rags from the unstained back of her ruined clothing and wiped blood off of her face until she felt as scrubbed as a kitchen floor.

  The bandage around her neck was damp, now, but he left it in place as he started wiping down the rest of her. The worst of the blood was on her clothes, of course, but she was sticky everywhere.

  Cold as the water was, the thrill of being clean was better than any fire. He saved her left arm with its bandage for later and worked around it, while she held it up to keep it from getting wet.

  When the water finally ran clear, he asked, “Bandages now, or after I get the clothes ready?”

  “Do it now, let’s get it over with.”

  “Good girl.”

  He’d cleared a place for her to sit, on the laid-out bedroll from one of the horses. “You just slip into that and sit up.”

  He filled both canteens from the freshest part of the water, and brought them back, along with the rags he had prepared for bandages.

  “Now you hold that chain of yours, high as you can.”

  Penrys sat cross-legged in the bedroll and exposed from the waist up. She spread her right hand and used the thumb in front and the fingers in back to try and keep the chain rolled up as high on her neck as it would go.

  Zandaril cut the old damp wrapping off and patted at the damage with a fresh rag.

  “Not too bad, this is.”

  He tied a clean multilayer coil of bandage around the burns, and she let the chain roll down to lie against the top of it.

  He pointed at her left hand. “Ready?”

  She nodded and looked away while he unwrapped the bandage instead of cutting it off. When the bloody mess was gone, he began sponging everything clean under it.

  “I can stitch this, like for horses. It would be better, keep it cleaner.”

  She forced herself to look at what remained of the back of her left hand. From the lower left to the upper right below the knuckles, the Voice’s sword had taken everything in one slice. Her thumb was intact, longer now by a good bit than anything else. The back seemed wider, looser, and the feel of it turned her stomach.

  It ached and burned freshly now that it was exposed to air and water again without the support of the wrapping.

  “No,” she said hoarsely. “No sutures. Something will heal, I expect, and that will get in the way.”

  She looked away again. “Just make sure it’s clean and bind it tightly to keep the dirt out.”

  Pulling up her knees and leaning her head on them, on her right arm, she held her left hand out for him to work on and gritted her teeth.

  Eventually it was done.

  “Lie down, now, Pen-sha, and I’ll get everything ready for you. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “We’ll keep going today, right? All the way?” she asked.

  “All the way. I promise.”

  She let his words soothe her and she snuggled into the bedroll on her right side to the sound of the bubbling water.

  “It’s time.”

  Zandaril shook her shoulder gently and Penrys opened her eyes. When she checked, she found the sun had moved in the sky but it was still shy of mid-day.

  “I wanted to let you sleep longer, but I promised to see you back today.”

  Zandaril gestured at the clothes laid across the foot of the bedroll. “Come see your new robes, bikrajti.”

  He held up the breeches first. She recognized them, the same ones she’d been wearing, but the bloody top had been cut away and suspenders added, a neatly stitched leather strap permanently attached at the back and divided to cross over the shoulders.

  “We’ll have to tie it through the holes in front to make it fit, but I think this will work, and you don’t need to unfasten anything to take it off.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  He grinned. “Whoever this wizard was, he understood what to carry for a long trip on a horse. Spare stirrup leathers always come in handy, and a repair kit for tack.”

  “Near as I could tell, you were using a long strip of cloth over your breasts, yes? I hope this will work. Seems to me that’s got to go on first, and I’ve been looking forward to helping with that.”

  He leered at her as he picked up the cloth he must have sewn together from several shorter ones, and the good-natured badinage lifted her spirits as much as the brief nap.

  “Don’t get used to it. I’ll manage for myself, soon enough,” she said.

  Still, she laughed as she raised her arms and, with him fumbling and her helping one-handed, they managed to wrap a reasonable support around her and tuck in the ends.

  “Shirt next. No matter if it’s too big.”

  That slipped easily over her head and she let him pull her up by her right hand.

  “I’ve been wanting to see how these breeches will work out,” he said, as he helped her balance while she put one leg in, and then the other, and shoved her feet into her shoes.

  “No socks are better than wet socks, I think, and you’re not walking anywhere,” he said.

  The cut-down waist was in a reasonable position, and she had him tie the braces off in front so that the crotch was comfortable. She managed to tuck the excess length of shirt in without too much help from him.

  “You should turn tailor, I think,” she told him.

  “Carpet weaving is more respected, in my family,” he deadpanned.

  The borrowed tunic was snugged in with a new belt. “Let me guess—the other stirrup leather?”

  Zandaril nodded.

  She looked closely—he had unstitched the buckle from the old bloody belt and attached the new leather to it.

  He bored a hole for her once she had it on, and she felt like a new woman, despite her aching hand and throat.

  The horses were ready, she saw, and her spirits sank. How would she mount a
gain?

  Zandaril followed her gaze. “Ah, nothing to it. Same as before, only you’re stronger this time, and I won’t let you go over too far.”

  When he threw her up into the saddle, he was as good as his word, with a grip on her belt that anchored her as she settled.

  Then he mounted himself and took her reins again. She protested, but he ignored her.

  “If your horse shies at something, you may need a hand to grab with.”

  She felt a tinge of panic, and she waved her arm in its sling at him. “I can’t let this stop me from riding.”

  “No, no, Pen-sha, it won’t. Once it heals, however it heals, you’ll be able to use it well enough for lots of things—riding, too. But not right now.”

  They walked back onto the road and settled in to the rhythm of a long day in the saddle.

  CHAPTER 58

  “Did I tell you how well they did after the Voice released them?”

  Zandaril’s voice bubbled over with enthusiasm as he described his success at showing the captive wizards how to organize themselves to raise their own shield.

  “They only had half a day’s worth of lessons, passed mind to mind while touching. It’s remarkable what they were able to do.”

  She commented, “They were motivated, and they had a good teacher.”

  He looked back at her, startled.

  “Well, you are a good teacher. I could always tell the improvement in the students after you sent them back to me. They worked better for you, learned more.”

  She smiled at the surprise on his face. “In fact, wasn’t this what you wanted to do? Organize wizards? I don’t see how anyone could have done it any better.”

  He stopped his horse, and she drifted up alongside him on hers.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “My nayith, my masterwork,” he whispered. “Is that what you say, jarghalti?”

  She nodded. “I think so, anyway. For what that’s worth.”

  He kicked up into a trot and she followed, concentrating on sitting as comfortably as she could without jostling her arm.

  Eventually he slowed back into a walk, and they passed an hour or more alternating between the two gaits, trying to make time.

  Penrys dozed during one of the longer walking sessions. Images of the head rolling in the dust occupied her mind—the furry ears, like hers, now bloody, now dusty. The feel of his mind as it died, the surprise, the unknown language, the obscure skills.

  Zandaril jolting to a stop woke her fully, and he pulled them both to the side of the road as they passed Tlobsung’s camp at Harlin to let the traffic pass unimpeded. There were wagons of wounded wheeling into camp, she saw, and other men marching out, to the west.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Zandaril said, and they picked up a trot again, the westering sun behind them lengthening their shadows in front.

  It was still daylight, just, when they finally encountered the outermost scouts around Chang’s squadron.

  Their horses were tired, but the smell of other horses livened them up, and it was with straight spines that the two riders rode, exhausted, into the camp.

  Word traveled ahead of them, and both Chang and Tun Jeju stood outside the command tent and watched them stop and dismount, Zandaril, clinking from his tied chains, pulled Penrys off of her horse and supported her until her legs worked well enough.

  “I take it there’s news,” Chang said. “Better come in before you fall down.” He waved a trooper over to take their horses.

  They helped each other to chairs and collapsed.

  Tun looked them over. “Maybe we should reconvene in the healer’s tent,” he commented to Chang.

  Zandaril laughed and held out a booted and shackled leg. “A smith first for me, Notju-chi, and then both of us there, I think. But we can spend a few minutes here, on the way.”

  Tun waved his hand in encouragement.

  “The Voice turned into Neshilik,” Zandaril said, “and headed east. Tlobsung took his force out to meet him, north of Gonglik, and the Rasesni wizards from the temple school came to join them. There was a fight, several of them, but…”

  He looked to his right, at Penrys asleep in her chair, her damaged arm cradled in her good one.

  “Well, it’s a long story. We won, the Voice is dead, lots of people died. That part’s over.”

  He stood up. “Come to the healer’s tent, in a little while, and I’ll give you all the details, but I only know my side, not hers. She’s the one who killed him.”

  The lanterns flickering overhead seemed strange to Penrys. A tent, a large one.

  She was on a cot, and there were two more nearby, only one of which was occupied, by a sleeping man.

  Must be the healer’s tent. But I don’t remember how I got here…

  She overheard Zandaril’s voice. “I don’t need anything, Shiksupju-chi, I’m not pissing blood anymore.”

  I didn’t know he was hurt that bad.

  Everything felt clean. She was wearing the shirt Zandaril had given her, and not much else, but the pair of blankets over her kept her warm enough.

  She raised her hand to her throat and felt the flat bandage there over a layer of something oily. When she brought her fingertips to her nose, she couldn’t identify the soft, pungent scent. The burn was dull, now, not sharp and urgent.

  What would have happened if the fight had taken longer? Would it have burned through my throat altogether and killed me?

  She wished she could have seen the damage the Voice’s chain did to him, if any.

  When she lifted her left hand for inspection, she admired the clean and tidy work that had replaced Zandaril’s workmanlike wrapping. A padded glove, that’s what she needed—something to protect it without exposing it to stares. It didn’t hurt so much, just a throb with every heartbeat.

  What about the fragment of chain?

  *Zandaril?*

  “Here,” he called cheerfully, and he walked over to her in ragged boots free of shackles. “How are you doing, Pen-sha?”

  He hauled over a camp chair and sat down beside her.

  Coughing to clear her throat, she said, “What happened to our old clothes? I need the sheath, the one Tak Tuzap’s knife was in. You didn’t lose that, did you?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s important,” she insisted.

  “Let me go find it,” he said. “Be right back.”

  She lowered her head again, an apology in her glance in reply to the glare from the healer.

  “It really is important,” she muttered, defiantly.

  When Zandaril returned, Chang and Tun Jeju followed him, with Sau Tsuo and others from Chang’s staff, and the area was a flurry of activity as camp chairs were commandeered for all of them.

  Zandaril tossed Tak’s old knife sheath onto her cot. “This the one?”

  “That’s it. Look inside. Tell me if anything’s there. I had Dzantig shove it in, deep.”

  He picked it up again and stuck his own knife in to pry around. The point caught on something, and he dragged out the three-link fragment of the Voice’s chain, still stained with blood.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  At her nod, he held it out to her on the point of the knife, careful to avoid touching it with his bare hand.

  She plucked it off and dropped it casually in her lap.

  “Help me sit up,” she told him, and he arranged a backrest for her while she pushed herself up with her right hand. When he was done, she waved him back to his seat. Then, facing Chang’s council, she picked up the bit of chain and slashed the air with it in her hand.

  “Sennevi. It is done. This is what’s left of the Voice. Now, ask your questions.”

  It took hours, and her voice was hoarse before the end, but finally Chang’s council was satisfied.

  Penrys had listened with anger as Zandaril described his abduction and captivity. On her side, she’d been circumspect about exactly what had happened that night with the Mage C
ouncil, but she could feel Zandaril’s fury, unexpressed.

  Penrys waited until all the officers had left, then turned to Zandaril. “Are you really all right?”

  He waved off her concern. “That was just a beating, nothing broken, no permanent damage.”

  She looked at him skeptically. What was it like for you, waking up bound and waiting for the horde to descend? I can’t ask you, can I?

  She told him, “You know, Dzantig really did help me, ’cause he was so worried about you. When you went and made a friend to drink with, you probably saved my life, too.”

  “Good.” He gave her a hard look. “And what exactly did their council do to you, and how did you escape?”

  “I’ll tell you sometime,” she said. “The details don’t matter.”

  “I think they do, bikrajti. I think I owe Tak Tuzap your life as much as Dzantig, and I want to pay my debts.”

  “Poor Takka. I took his knife, and that little ax was an heirloom of his house. They’re both as gone as the rest of this.” She held up the fragment of chain.

  Zandaril looked thoughtful. “How big was this ax? Show me.”

  She sketched it out for him in the air and described the bison-horn grips and whirlwinds on the blade.

  He was still angry, she could feel it. “Those Rasesni have a lot to answer for.”

  She made a crooked smile. “They already did. Only two are left of the original five on their Mage Council, and think how they died.”

  “That’s a start,” he muttered.

  She adjusted her position in the cot, one handed, to ease her back. “Did you ever find out what Chang did while we were gone?”

  “Just what we expected—he bottled up the Gate and let the diplomatic answers wait for his own commanding officers to arrive. I think he was trying to avoid contagion from a wizard war he didn’t understand.”

  He looked down at her. “Tun Jeju told me privately that he thinks the temporary truce will hold for a while. I think everyone assumes Rasesdad will vacate Neshilik again, since they can. Not our problem, anyway.”

  “Time enough tomorrow for everything else,” he said, standing and leaning over her.

  He helped her slide down in the cot and she heard him settle back into his chair as she slid into a night of violent dreams and bloody death.