by Dave Smeds
The old man winked. She smiled and went to visit her favorite oeikani in his stall. The buck snorted and lowered his head so that she could scratch the bases of his knobby antlers. She patted him, checked his mane for burrs and the gap between his cloven hooves for lodged gravel. Rictane or a stableboy had beaten her to it. He shuffled impatiently.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered into one of its ears. “We won't be riding today, much as I'd like to."
She returned to the tack room and its familiar, leathery smell. The shelves lost a quantity of bandages, needle and thread, ointments, cotton, and alcohol. Not so large an amount, however, that it would be missed among the supply needed to maintain a lord's stable.
A loose board at the rear of the stable permitted Lerina to squeeze out. She made it to the old outhouse and added her new booty to the satchel.
With the satchel looped over head and left shoulder, the flasks on the opposite side, and the basket cradled in arms, she almost bore more than she could manage. She had wanted to carry them on a saddle, but didn't dare risk taking an animal now. Even burdened so, she knew the grounds and made it to the forest without being discovered.
She had to stop frequently to rest her arms. Once, a gamekeeper happened along the path. She hid in the undergrowth until he had passed. The scent of salt spray increased. Her journey down the bluff was the slowest leg of all. With the extra weight, she didn't want to develop dangerous momentum.
She checked for observers before venturing into the ocean. The current dug away sand from beneath her feet, but she kept her balance. She set the basket on her head as the water deepened. The tide was near its lowest ebb, allowing her to wade the entire way, though she had to hold her breath for the final distance.
She emerged soaked, but the basket stayed dry, and the other items were sealed. Gratefully she lowered the basket to the sand, dropped the satchel, and entered the cave.
He lived.
He opened his eyes, and she saw recognition there, though he didn't attempt to speak. Without preamble, she uncorked one of the flasks and brought it to his lips. He drank one sip only, waited for it to flow down his throat, then sipped again. He stopped after a few swallows, but Lerina left the cork out, patient.
“Thou art the queen of all women,” he said softly.
Something in the way he used the High Speech told her it was his native language. Of all the lands where the Calinin had ruled, only the Elandri used the pure form. Lerina knew it from her childhood tutors, though she, like most Cilendri, tended to use the lower form.
“You're a smuggler,” she said.
He nodded, and gestured for more water. She gave it to him.
“What were you after in Cilendrodel?"
“Silk."
Of course. “How did you get through the Dragon's blockade?"
“I swam under it."
He seemed serious. She scoffed. “I suppose you intend to swim back with bolts of silk tied to your belt, through the reef?"
He smiled, tilting his head seaward. “My ship is out there. A boat was waiting for me, but I'm afraid I've missed it."
“What happened to you?"
“I was ambushed by Dragon's men in Eruth."
“Is there any way to contact your people?"
“No. I can't reach the rendezvous point like this. If I live, the boat will be there next month, or the one after."
Talking appeared to exhaust him. She let him have more water, then retrieved the other supplies from the beach. When she returned, he had lost consciousness.
She examined his wounds briefly. Withdrawing a rag from the basket, she applied antiseptic to the gash in his scalp.
He groaned, and woke up.
“The oeikani don't like this either,” she said. “But it's the strongest there is, and you need it. It numbs after a while."
“I wouldn't have guessed you were a healer."
“My lord's stablemaster made me learn everything about caring for my animal. I know how to clean and stitch wounds."
“Who are you?"
“I am Lerina Elb-Aratule. My father is head gamekeeper of Garthmorron Hold."
“Thy presence honors me."
She started to retort but considered his condition. Certainly her father was worth the pride, but perhaps she had spoken too vainly, as her elders frequently accused.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Call me Ethmurl,” he said.
“Is that your name?"
“Does it matter?"
She shrugged. “I suppose you have your reasons."
He allowed her to finish working on his head. The injury there was not critical, but Lerina needed to compose herself before she could face the prospect of the more serious spots. As long as they weren't bleeding, she would postpone it momentarily.
“I'm afraid this will leave a scar,” she said.
“I know."
“Why haven't you bled to death yet?"
He coughed. “A spell cast upon me slows my blood loss."
She looked at him oddly. “I'm going to get my thread."
He didn't wince as the needle went in. By that time it must have been only a small agony on top of many large ones, she imagined. He fainted before she completed stitching but she guessed that this was fatigue, and wondered how he could remain awake even for the short periods he managed. She moved to his chest. The cloth had adhered to the open flesh, despite the dunking in the ocean he must have taken in order to reach the islet. She had to peel it carefully free.
She sucked in her breath. The stabbing had been worse than she thought. He shouldn't be alive. She cleaned the long gash that ran along his ribs and got out the needle again. He woke at the first stroke.
“I'm sorry."
“No, it's not your fault. You have a gentle touch.” Still, tears welled in his eyes.
“I've never seen wounds this size stop bleeding by themselves. I've heard of this spell you mentioned. It's beyond the reach of most magicians. The kings of the Calinin nations pay dearly for the service."
“You're well educated."
“I can read and write. Don't change the subject. The spell we're talking about is even harder to maintain from a distance—how is it that your life is worth so much?"
“I'm the king of Elandris."
She tugged the thread harder than she had to. “You have a great deal of nerve for someone whose life is being saved."
He lost the smile. He said evenly, “Lerina, it's best that you don't know who I am, for both our sakes.” His expression softened. “I don't mean to seem ungrateful. I'd rather my enemies not know how I died."
She started. “What about the spell?"
“Spells can only do so much. You can only do so much."
“You aren't going to die,” she said strongly. “And you don't believe it either, or you wouldn't have lasted this long."
“I came here to die.” Abruptly, he contorted in pain. Lerina hesitated.
“Am I doing this wrong?"
“No, it comes and goes.” His eyelids sealed shut. Quickly Lerina crawled to the basket and withdrew a small vial. She placed it directly in front of his nostrils and uncorked it.
“Breathe this,” she said.
He obeyed. Within moments, he slumped. He would sleep for several hours. She recapped the vial and put it away. She had wanted to get more food and water into him before she did that, not to mention her reluctance to move him by herself to get at the wound in his back, but perhaps it was better this way.
She had stitched and bandaged all of his injuries by midday, but he still rested tranquilly. She created an acceptable bed out of sand with some of the blankets she'd brought, to which she gingerly moved him. She also removed his weapons and the remnants of his upper-body clothing, and swabbed away the crusted blood from his skin. For the first time, she was able to tell what he actually looked like. He was younger than she had guessed—no more than thirty. He was short of stature, but lean and powerful, black-haired, deeply tanne
d. She stroked his beard idly. His face contained a peace that hid when he was awake. He was a handsome man.
Who was he? The king of Elandris? King Pranter, she knew, had reigned for almost fifty years and was now over eighty years of age. His son was middle-aged. Yet whoever Ethmurl might be, he was important.
She checked his pulse, found it stable, and covered him with a blanket. Would he die and leave her with the mystery? She went outside. The tide was higher, leaving a sliver of beach between herself and the limit of the strongest breakers. The noise from the reef almost drowned her thoughts as she stared southward, toward Elandris.
Later she returned to the cave and lay down beside her patient. What did it matter who he was? She put the question away and dozed off.
* * * *
The chill of late afternoon fog violated her slumber. A mass of formidable grey billows boiled slightly offshore, preparing to envelop the coast.
Ethmurl was watching her. She felt it and turned his way. He shook.
“You have a fever,” she said, touching his neck. It was damp.
“Yes."
“I have to go. The fog will be in soon. You should let me bring back help."
“They would hang me. I killed one of your countrymen."
She remembered the townsmen at the hold. “Did he deserve it?"
He seemed surprised by the question. “Yes."
“Then that may save you,” she said.
He smiled kindly. “You are young, after all. I was beginning to wonder."
“You're too used to war, Elandri,” she answered stiffly.
“Yes,” he admitted. She let the matter drop.
They said nothing as she fed him in small bits. He had little appetite. She didn't force it, trusting the body's wisdom. Before long, the greyness crept forward.
“I have to leave before I'm missed,” she repeated. “I'll return tomorrow.” She laid the water and anything else he might require within reach, worried again by his trembling, and rose.
“Lerina?"
“Yes?"
“Why are you doing this? Why help me?"
She smiled gently. “Because I want to.” Then she turned and left the cave.
“Thank you,” she heard him say.
* * * *
As it often did, the fog clung to the land with honeylike tenacity. Lerina ascended into it as she climbed the bluff, immediately losing sight of the tree she had passed ten paces earlier. As she reached level ground, she heard the crunch of snails being squashed underfoot somewhere behind her.
She listened. The ground murmured under the impact of footsteps. Heavy ones.
She walked faster. A stream of fog flowed just above the mulch of the forest, hiding potholes and roots. Tendrils thrust out of the earth every other step to snatch at her. By the third stumble, she could taste the bile of panic on her tongue.
The footsteps behind her quickened.
Not far ahead, two great trees stood adjacent to each other, so closely placed that some of their upper branches, fifty feet higher, had united. The gap between the trunks permitted a small person such as Lerina to fit through without difficulty but would block the passage of anyone larger. She plunged into the space. Chill sweat stained her blouse. She ducked down, trying to quiet the heavy panting of her lungs.
A man hurried past, an opaque outline. She waited. His footsteps faded. Sighing, she began to catch her breath.
Two hands closed on her shoulders.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Mistress Lerina,” a familiar voice said. “What are you doing here?"
She turned and recognized the ruddy face of Barr, a gamekeeper, one of her father's men. The pounding of her heart eased.
The sounds on the path returned.
“Ascot!” Barr shouted.
“Ho?"
“I've found her."
Soon the heavy figure of Barr's son emerged out of the fog. Lerina recognized the shape of her pursuer.
“Thank the rythni you're safe, miss. Your uncle has been very worried."
“Come,” Barr said, squeezing through the trees onto the path. “Let's be on to the hold."
* * * *
The bearlike form of Ossatch Elb-Aratule loomed above her. Though Lerina had reached her adult height, she still felt child-size when confronted by him, especially when he assumed a mood of disapproval or anger, which was most of the time. As her family's eldest male, he was accustomed to obedience. She tried to draw herself up tall, earnestly missing the presence of her father, her first, and best, ally. An ember cracked loudly in the fireplace of Garthmorron Hold's great hall, where Barr and Ascot had escorted her as soon as they had arrived. Ossatch was the chamberlain and virtual lord of the manor when Lord Dran was absent.
Her great-uncle held forward her overtunic. The dip in the ocean hadn't quite washed out the bloodstain. “Where did this come from?"
“What were you doing in my room?"
“Don't be impertinent. If your mother were alive, she would have been frantic with worry—you gone all day with a murderer on the loose. You are my kin—I should know where you are at such times."
“I pricked my breast this morning with a kitchen knife. Would you like to see?"
Ossatch's expression blackened. “Answer my question. Where were you?"
“At the beach. I'm old enough to look after myself, Uncle.” They had had arguments like this before.
“The oeikani the man rode was found not far from the hold. I'll not have my niece about until I'm convinced it's safe. You'll remain in the cottage tomorrow."
“But—"
“No, Lerina. I have spoken.” He turned and stalked off, the echo of his footsteps measuring the sinking of her heart.
* * *
V
OMI AND PEYRI SERVED the twins a porridge made principally of millet and goat's milk, together with a small platter of dates; to drink, a choice of very strong coffee or either of two wines, one of the grape, the other of the pomegranate. The meal seemed strangely soft, but the twins did not complain. They were grateful not to have to deal with heavy foods yet. They ate only a little of the porridge, but over a long period of time made generous use of the liquids. Plain water, for some reason, was totally absent.
“Maybe tomorrow an animal is slaughtered to honor new husbands,” Fumlok suggested, as if to excuse the fare. “No time tonight. And to butcher is man's job."
The wives served the meal and remained unobtrusive, usually concealed behind a cloth purdah that segregated the tent into rough halves. The younger members of the family appeared not at all. For the moment, this social distance comforted the twins. The language barrier preserved them from the embarrassment of communication.
Fumlok stayed with them but didn't eat. Alemar suspected sharing food would create some sort of social debt the translator was reluctant to incur. Fumlok utilized the time to explain the implications of Elenya's lack of soul, a process hampered once again by his difficulty with the High Speech. He seemed unable to apply the subjunctive case, impeding his ability to convey abstract concepts. He tended to use the present tense regardless of what the context required. After most of an hour, however, the twins managed to distill out a rudimentary understanding of Zyraii mythology.
For as long as the tribe remembered, their dominant religious order, the Bo-no-ken, had taught that God created men and gave them souls as stakes in the Bu, the great game of life. A man sharpened and advanced his soul by conducting himself with honor, by contributing to the tribe's welfare, and/or by using his wisdom effectively. If he played the game well enough, after death his soul would pass to a new body to play the game again. If he dishonored or wasted a lifetime, he would return as a worm, animal, or other creature and endure whatever punishment in these forms that God willed, until he could become a man again. Warriors who died in battle, before they had lived enough of their lives for fair judgment, would automatically be reincarnated into a newborn of the same social status and similar phys
ical abilities.
As for women, they were created merely to produce more men and to raise the children so that men, the players in the Bu, would be spared this burden, which might distract them from the real tasks. Females had no souls, and it was not appropriate that women should participate in any activities that would interfere in the Bu, and inadvertently lessen a man's chance for a good incarnation.
Thus, the Ah-no-ken, the religious order responsible for the daily affairs and conduct of the people, forbade to women the teachings of history, the pursuit of theology, and professional crafts not associated with homemaking. Most of all, they were forbidden to be warriors.
“So, a male spider has a soul, but I do not,” Elenya stated wryly.
“I always thought something was missing,” Alemar said.
She poked him in the ribs.
Rubbing his side, Alemar asked Fumlok, “What happens to a woman if she does kill a man in combat?"
Fumlok licked his lips. “Such a thing never happen before. But ... they think of something."
“I'm sure they will,” Alemar said. “But I don't understand the reasoning. Why should a man be any less a warrior because his sister carries a sword?"
Fumlok scratched his ear as if he couldn't believe what he had heard. He attempted to answer the question from a different angle. “Men are given a great challenge by God, but He also provides us with gifts to help us. For sake of man, woman is created—to soothe, to feed, to propagate. Women are given only the one life. They are not knowing the completeness of being. Men must remember this and be grateful to Him. A woman's life must not be wasted—she is the seed of more life and the measure of a man's success. To let a woman die before her time is to spit at God. Zyraii know that women are sacred, so women do not need to carry weapons to protect themselves. This cannot change. Women must not be endangered in raids.” For Fumlok, the speech was eloquent; Alemar suspected he was paraphrasing.
Alemar sighed. “This is not what people in my homeland believe."
“Your people are wrong,” Fumlok replied. It was the first time the little man had seemed certain of anything. “They know it in their hearts. Do you make soldiers of your women?"
“Not often,” Alemar admitted. “But they are permitted to protect themselves. My sister would have died before now otherwise—today, in fact."
