I am not adai. There is some mistake. It is a fluke, a chance accident. Nothing more.
I turned on my heel. Breaking the hold of his eyes on me caused a small, sharp pain, like a needle going into the skin. I was surprised there was not a sound—a snap, perhaps, or a ringing cut short like a chiming blade sinking solid into flesh.
I set about the task of checking the dead for useful items, though Redfist had already. I tried to tell myself to cease dallying, to keep my mind on what was occurring around me, to stop acting like a silly little spoiled G’mai girl. I would not lose my head because a man looked at me. He was a G’mai man, a s’tarei seeking an adai, and I was not what he wanted.
It was impossible.
How could I explain feeling his pain? Or the unsteady panic I felt at the thought of leaving him behind and perhaps falling victim to a lost twin's wasting sickness?
I cursed under my breath and ripped my mind from that line of thought. I would not let it be possible. I would search for an adai for this man, and hand the Seeker over to her when I found her. She would be a slight, beautiful G’mai girl, stranded through some quirk of fate and fortune. She would look up at him with large, dark, grateful eyes, and thank him in fluid G’mai while she clasped his hands.
I swore again, kicked a limp body—the frog-shaped man. They possessed nothing of consequence, and they were dead.
Sometimes I hated life at the sword’s edge.
Chapter 11
Wordplay
I set a punishing pace for the rest of the night, but I heard no complaint. In fact, Redfist seemed to enjoy it. He even whistled a little once dawn broke, a sad little Skaialan air I set myself to learning. Twas beautiful, if a bit crude, and I could imagine it played on a strinlin or a pipe. Darik said nothing, simply kept up, our pace enough even for him.
We stopped near noon, and I chewed a piece of flatbread while perched in the branches of a moss-cloaked toak tree. The barbarian and the G’mai conversed in low voices near a shrouded rock, and I did not try to hear what they said. They shared rations, and once there was low male laughter.
I had longing thoughts of strangling them both.
Once I was finished with my journeybread, I hopped down from the tree, landing softly, and set off again. They followed, and I moved faster.
I made for the coast road. I was confident we could handle bandits now, and the road would take a full day off the journey. There were tiny hamlets scattered along its narrow ribbon, fishing towns and the like, each with its charter declaring itself an independent entity, free of the Shainakh or the Hain. I could buy thread at one of them, to repair Darik’s shirt. If perchance someone had a tub and some hot water for rent, I would dearly love a bath. And some kafi—I missed kafi in the mornings, the smell of it, at least.
Arjux Crossing might even have a healer. Doryen Innkeeper would know. I could pay a healer to take the cut from Darik's shoulder.
As soon as I realized what I was thinking, I increased my pace.
I was soon running, leaping fallen logs, flashing through the forest, my entire mind taken with the problem of moving at top speed and avoiding pitfalls that could break a leg. Twas a relief, yet soon enough I was forced to stop, leaning against a tree, sweating and gasping and smelling my own sour scent.
I reeked of fear, a scent I associated only with the people I killed.
The forest here changed, the moss less verdant green and more smoky gray, hanging in long strings. Slashwood boiled up, a sign of clearing left to grow back. The undergrowth would make further travel difficult until we reached the road.
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. Sweat soaked through my shirt, chilling my skin. It was a cloudy day, the air still and hushed as if a storm approached. The air was full of salt and the green promise of rain. Of course, in this part of the Lan’ai Shairukh it rained six days out of ten, we had been lucky to escape a downpour so far.
Why was I afraid? I had only promised to find his adai, I had not promised to travel alone with him. I could look for his adai anywhere in the world. I would not fall prey to twinsickness. He was not my s’tarei. Twas as simple as that.
If I had any Power the dauq’adai might have spoken to me, and told me where to find his blasted adai. Then again, if I had any Power, I would not have met him at all.
Or would I? Maybe at a Festival, our eyes would have met, and maybe he would have offered me his hand.
How still and silent it was. Had I lost them? I had not meant to, I had simply bolted. Blindly as a coney chased by bellhounds.
My breathing lost its harsh tearing quality, and I shivered. The air was absolutely still, cold creeping into my skin.
This deep in a dark part of the forest, tall trees reached toward the sky, swordfern and milkyweed carpeting the space beneath between the smaller hunched shapes of slashwood peppering the forest floor. Great boulders thrust up, each cloaked with moss and fallen leaves.
I kept my back to the tree and waited.
Eventually, I heard the near-silence of Darik’s approach. He appeared, followed by Redfist. The barbarian’s eyes were ringed with dark smudges, and he moved stiffly. I felt a burst of guilt, strangled it. I had not forced them to follow me. I had told them to go away and leave me be.
I was not responsible for either fool.
I set my shoulders, seeking to ignore the small voice that informed me they were simply seeking to act honorably. I had saved Redfist’s life, or so we thought at the time.
Darik looked much the same, except he was pale, and the sleeve of his shirt flopped, caked with stiffened blood.
They came to a stop, and Redfist coughed a little. “Well, are we resting here, lass? I think I smell water.”
I pointed. “That way. I was thinking deeply, and did not hear you fall behind. My apologies.”
“None needed.” Redfist waved it away. “Well, then, let’s find a streamlet t’fill our flasks and a good bivouac, eh? I wouldnae mind some food, either.”
“I will hunt.” It was the least I could do. “Make a fire, I will find you.”
Redfist nodded, prodded at Darik. “I can hunt,” the G’mai man said, his dark eyes on me. “You look pale, Kaia.”
“You are wounded, I am not,” I said shortly. “Besides, tis my turn to bring a few coneys or a treeleaper. Find a defensible place, if you can.”
He nodded a little. “The wound is a small matter.”
I glared at him. “If you do not wish to do as I say, you may choose another path to travel. Clear, Darik’aan?” It was a pun on his name, meaning stubborn. A word often used for balky beasts and children.
“Very clear, Kaia’li’ta.”
He meant to put an additional pun on what he already had called me, Kaia’li, a small, sharp precious thing. The inflection he used made it into “temperamental,” the word for a high-strung horse. Still, I started, as if pinched in a sensitive spot.
“Merely Kaia.” Kaialitaa, brave little beauty. The name my mother had given me. It was a beautiful name. Kai could mean sharp, or brave, and the extra a added the “beautiful” meaning. G’mai are addicted to poetry, wordplay, exchanges of sharp insults, and pretty turns-of-phrase.
I did not wish to play this game with him. I turned away.
“Why do you not ask my name?” he asked in G’mai. “Are you afraid?”
I did not answer. I did not trust my tongue.
Chapter 12
Never Push A Pinquill
I found the stream, broad and deep enough for troutfish, and spent a chilly half-candlemark or so with my arms submerged, tickling them out of the water. I lost two, cursing inside my head and quieting, before I caught four beauties in a row. I gutted them and sang my short prayer of thanksgiving. I found a handful of long grass and improvised a strap to tie around their tails, carried them back to where a curl of smoke rose from a well-laid fire.
I did not have to seek very hard; I could hear Darik’s presence like wind in the trees. I was quickly growing accustomed to i
t.
I had to halt this soon.
Could I?
When we find his adai, he will go his way and I will go mine. If I grow fevered ‘twill only teach me not to be silly. I have suffered fever before, and always survived.
Yet I was G’mai. What if, after so long spent away from my native land, I had fastened onto the first s’tarei seen? I did not know if such was possible, and I had no one to ask.
A familiar quandary.
I found a small stand of pipriweed and another small stand of curya, took a little bit of both. I was growing heartily tired of meatroot.
I stepped between two boulders, greeted by the sight of Redfist sprawled on his back, fast asleep. Darik had a flattened piece of toak bark and some meatroot he was tearing the small roots from to prepare for cooking. “I thought you would bring fish. Tis a large stream.”
“It is,” I agreed. “More meatroot. I am glad it is in season.”
“It likes the damp.” He glanced up at the sky. “It may rain.”
“As long as tis not raining swords.” I made the traditional swordseller’s reply, laid the troutfish down next to him. The pipriweed and the curya followed. “I weary of being attacked.”
He made an affirmative sound, setting the meatroot on a smallish flat rock they had built the fire against. It would cook them nicely, and if he put the troutfish atop the toak bark and I could find another piece of it, we could broil the fish between with little effort.
He held up another piece of the bark. “I found it.” Quiet, a restful voice.
I swallowed what I intended to say and retreated to the other side of the fire, a welcome warmth working back into my stream-chilled arms.
Tis not possible. The voice inside my head repeating it so loudly and often now seemed thin and unsure. I sighed, lowering myself down. There was long grass here too, the huge boulders ringing this campsite kept the trees back enough to make a clearing. The canopy of branches overhead might block a light rainfall too. All in all, a good place to spend a night.
I slid down to lay on the grass, with a sigh. My leg hurt. I did not wish to see what the bruise looked like now. I grimaced a little, and let out another sigh. Sometimes the rest is worse than the moving, after a battle.
“Your leg,” he said. “High up. When did that happen?”
“A Hain. Kicked me during a fight. Tis nothing.”
He nodded, laid the fish down with finicky care, and balanced the toak bark atop the meatroot. He placed the second piece of bark on the top, weighted it all down with a handy rock. Then he added another piece of deadfall to the fire, making it snap and hiss. “What is your truename, Kaia’li?”
“You will not tell me yours. Why should I tell you mine?” My tone was sharper than necessary, a warning. If there was a fragile truce between us, it could still break with the wrong word.
“If I told you mine, you would be forced to tell me yours. I wish to avoid forcing you.” He examined the fire critically. They had made a good job of it. Smoke and heat would make the troutfish a delicacy.
“You could not force me. Tis not possible.” I am Kaia Steelflower. I am not forced, not if you wish to remain breathing.
He shrugged. “Still. There is a saying in G’mai: never push a pinquill, or an adai.”
My teeth gritted together. I knew that saying, and hearing it in commontongue obliquely unsettled me. “I am not adai. I cannot be. I was born without Power.”
“Are you so certain? Who is your mother?” He returned to G’mai. It almost hurt to hear the pure language used so softly. The way he spoke it was close to a caress.
I set my teeth to endure it. “Dead,” I informed him, curtly. “I tire of this.” Yet I had spoken in G’mai, and used the wrong inflection—the personal, instead of the communicative.
As if I was an adai. His adai.
I am weary unto death. It makes no difference.
He smiled, something wonderful to see. No, he did not belong in the trackless forest. “Rest, then.” His inflection was the most intimate one possible. “I will keep watch.”
“You are wounded.” I stifled a yawn. I forgot to change my inflection again, still spoke as if he was personally known to me.
“A scratch. Not worth your worry, Kaialitaa.” A singsong, so soothing I almost missed my truename being spoken. As it was, I only felt a faint alarm.
“How did you…” I was warmer, and sleepy, and the smell of cooking was wonderful too. A sellsword learns to take sleep where she finds it, especially after a night battle and a day of hard travel.
“Not hard to guess, you looked so amazed. Tis a beautiful name.” It seemed I could feel his eyes, even when I closed mine. “A beautiful name for an adai.”
I. Am. Not… I began, once again, to think something I did not believe. I fell asleep halfway through.
Chapter 13
Hunger Is The Best Sauce
“Food, lass,” Redfist said, and I sat up, rubbing at my eyes.
“How long did I sleep?” The sleepsand was not bad but I still felt groggy, as if I had just achieved dreaming and been rudely shaken loose.
“I do nae know, K’ai, I was asleep meself. D’rik woke me.” The barbarian had washed his face, but still looked worse for wear, his linen shirt limp and leather vest darkened with sweat. His trousers were distinctly dirty.
I did not look any better. My braids were full of leaves and dirt, and blood marked my clothes. My fingernails would have been grimy if not kept so ruthlessly short. I smelled now of sweat, blood, dirt—and fish. A more unappetizing bouquet would be hard to imagine.
Redfist handed me a baked meatroot and a handful of walcress. The main course was troutfish, broiled almost perfectly, lying on a bit of toak bark. All other considerations became secondary.
We ate with good appetite, near the warm fire. Redfist settled down to my left, and Darik to my right. Darik ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully, but I wolfed mine. I did not care that I ate with my fingers. Some of the fish was a little too hot, but I cared little for that either.
“I know tis only fish,” Redfist said finally, after chewing and swallowing at least as fast as I did. “But tis the best fish I think I’ve had for a season or so.”
I made a wordless sound of agreement, because my mouth was full. I swallowed, and took a long drink from my waterflask. “All it further requires is a cask of mead.” I smiled, for once not thinking of walcress stuck in my teeth. “And a roaring fire, and a clean bed—”
“And a bath!” Redfist finished, over my laughter. Twas a companionable sound. Even Darik smiled.
I juggled the meatroot from hand to hand to cool it, my hunger abated a little. “Watch. Now you see —” I tossed it in the air, “now you do not!” I laughed, and Redfist’s eyes were gratifyingly wide. I leaned over, plucked the meatroot from his ear. “Ah, what is this you have? A fine earring, m’lord barbarian.”
“How did you—” His eyes widened even further, their green light and merry.
“You should see me toss knives.” I broke the meatroot open, a puff of steam escaped. I took a little of the curya Darik had scattered over the fish and stuffed it into the meatroot, blew to cool it. “I was the best in my House at the tossgames. Quick hands, you see.”
“Aye, I can believe it,” Redfist said. “And you, master Gemerh?”
Darik made a short clipped sound. “No time for games. Too busy training.”
I glanced at him. He paid attention to his food, eating neatly. I felt a little ashamed of my lack of manners, then angry because I should not be shamed. I had done very well for myself. I was famous on the Lan’ai Shairukh coast as the queen of thieves and a sellsword worth red Shainakh gold. So what if this G’mai who had probably never seen Antai thought me a mannerless lout?
“I wish I had, though.” Darik's tone turned wistful. “I would like that gift. It seems a gentle thing.”
My anger shamed me further. “I could show you how.” A grudging marker of the truce between us. “Tis n
ot so difficult.”
“Would you? Perhaps once we reach the town?” He brightened visibly.
My shame intensified. He sounded like a child promised a treat. “Perhaps.” I sought another subject. “This is a true feast.”
“Hunger is the best sauce.” Another G’mai proverb, but delivered hopefully.
I restrained the urge to spit. How could he sound so…well, placatory? “I hope we remain undisturbed. I may lose my patience.” I scanned the trees, as if bandits might leap forth at any moment.
“I would hate t’ see that,” Redfist grumbled, and I gave him a look that could have chipped a stone. “How much longer to a town, lass?”
“Another day to Arjux Crossing.” I settled into thinking aloud. “Tis a fishing town before that, I think. Maybe more than one. If we could have gone a little farther today we might have found one, but tis not likely to find an inn this far from the Crossing. The coast road is near, we shall make good time. The Crossing has an inn I know, and I will stay there at least a night. Vulfentown is another four days beyond, mayhap two by horse…but you cannot ride any shaggy pony they are likely to have in the Crossing; not enough market for horseflesh there unless you spend more coin than I would like. Perhaps you could find one in Shaituh, or further inland at Pesh.”
“Where be ye headed after Vulf’ntown?” Redfist split open his own meatroot.
“I cannot tell.” Tis truthful enough. “Eat, large one. I want a full night’s rest. Between the three of us, it means shorter watches and more sleep.”
“True,” Darik broke in. “Who takes the first watch?”
“I will,” Redfist said. “I’m rested.”
“Good. I will take second,” Darik did not look at me, staring instead into the fire. The light was kind to him.
“Leaving the last watch for me. Very well.” I was not thinking Very well. I was thinking something more like, Perfect. That would give me a start.
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