Dust, and heat, and the Sun in my eyes. The carrion stink of death on my skin, and my heart playing racehorse as I staggered, and slipped, and cursed still more. And heard the hoofbeats behind me—
I shook my head, took a long swallow of wine. “So. If he calls for me, I should at least go visit. He may have a commission for me. As long as tis merely an assassination and not the Danhai, I would be willing.”
“Life at a sword’s edge.” Kesa shook her golden head. “I am glad I am no sellsword.”
“I share that gladness.” I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Why had I left it down? Twas more irritating than I had bargained for. “I would hate to have to duel you, Kesa’li.”
It was a pale joke, but she laughed anyway. The shadow of the Danhai blew away; I was grateful to see it go.
Twas the fourth course—delicacies, fried stretchlegs and moonshells, tamburin fried in butter and garlinroot, sweet tarka in wine sauce—when we became serious. I finally asked the question. “So what is the real news, Jett?” I plucked a tamburin from the pan with my eating-picks. The discomfort of travel was long forgotten.
Jettero cast a nervous glance at Darik, who had just taken a drink of wine. For the fourth course it was a dry white freetown vintage, just vulgar enough to balance out the delicate tastes. “Why does your princeling not tell you, Kaia? I am certain he knows by now.”
My eyes, compelled, met Darik’s. He set his cup down, moved it along the surface of the table. Shrugged. The cut on his shoulder was mostly healed, I felt no betraying twinge in my arm when he moved. “It makes little difference. I go where Kaia goes.”
Let us not tread that road again. I set my own winecup down with a click. “The G’mai have given you a message, I warrant. What is it? The queen’s found you an adai? Or just pines for your pretty face?”
His gaze pierced me, a level stare more suited to a battlefield than a dinner table. “The queen’s Heir is dead, her s’tarei died defending her against the Hatai. The queen has named me provisional Heir until she has more issue. Which is not likely, as she is past childbearing age and the Heir—my cousin—was her only child.”
Shock loosed my fingers. My eating picks clattered against my plate. “Well. That is news.” I retrieved the picks, my eyes dropping to my bowl. “Tragedy indeed for the house of Dragaemir,” I murmured, in G’mai. “Accept my compassion.”
Kesa was very still to my left, and Jettero watched my face avidly. The silence began to grow predatory. When I could raise my eyes, I did.
“When do you leave?” I asked in commontongue. “And do you wish your Seeker returned to you?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “It is bad manners to mock at bad news.” He spoke still in G’mai.
Kesa’s face changed. She looked for all the world as if she was trying to keep from laughing, or gasping in shock. Jettero took a noisy gulp of wine. It did not break the tension.
“I have already told you,” Darik continued in commontongue, “where you go, I go. The palace means nothing to me. Let them have their halls and hangings. They did not lift a hand to aid me or my mother when I was young. Why should I aid them now?” He shrugged, Kshanti silk moving over his shoulders. “You interest me far more than any empty Throne.”
My throat closed. Gods. Why does he continue with this farce?
“That is truly wise of you.” Kesamine’s pale face was thoughtful in the candlelight. “But tell me, my lord prince, why do you follow the Iron Flower?” She was about to add aught else, but the look on my face must have stopped her.
Darik glanced at her, consideringly. “Do you really wish to know?” A slight smile touched his lips.
“Curiosity consumes me.” Her blue eyes glimmered through the black traced on her lids. “I have never seen a man chase Kaia for long. Her tongue is so sharp she has no need of a sword to keep them away.”
Darik shrugged. “Push your chairs back a little, then. I shall show you.”
Kesa and Jettero complied, scraping their seats back along polished wooden floor. I stayed where I was, frozen in place, staring at him. What was he thinking?
If I was truly his adai, I would know, would I not?
Without flinching, Darik held his hand out over the table. Directly over the candleflame, an arm’s length above.
A spot of warmth bloomed on my left hand. I set my jaw. His eyes locked with mine. “There is a drawback to being adai,” he said, calmly. “The adai feels the wounds of her s’tarei. Tis a reminder, not to be careless of her twin.” He moved his hand down slightly, and the warm spot in my palm grew hot.
“You cannot be serious.” My throat was shuttered, the words were a hoarse croak.
“I am.” His hand dropped. The spot on my palm became scorching hot.
I fought to keep my fingers loose and relaxed. “You would cripple your hand to seek to prove a point?”
“I will not be harmed.” His tone was intimate, as if we were the only two in the room. “My adai would not allow it.”
He dropped his palm down into the flame.
Kesa gasped and stood up, her chair squealing along the floor. Jettero let out a curse.
I found myself on my feet, leaning half over the table, my fingers around Darik’s wrist. I had shoved his hand out of the candleflame and flung it back at him before I knew what I did. My left palm throbbed, spikes of agony forcing their way up my wrist. I had not moved quickly enough.
I swept my hair back, away from the flame. Looked at Kesa, looked at Jettero. And finally, I looked at Darik, cradling his left hand in his right. His swords looked up over his shoulder, twin accusers. And his eyes—
I had expected pain, in his black eyes. Shame. Instead, I saw triumph, and a fierce pride. His face was harsh in the soft light, and his jaw was set. The full beauty of the Dragaemir was upon him, and I saw how he would look in twenty winters or so, when time settled on his bones and brought him fully into his prime.
“You see?” He lifted his left hand. There was a red patch in the middle of the palm, but no blister. Perhaps I had been fast enough after all. “My adai. Tis not in her nature to allow me to suffer.”
I shook my left hand out once, briskly, snapping my fingers. “I will not have you continue—”
“Kaia,” Kesa snapped. Her eyes sparkled, an overflow of some emotion I could not name. “Sit down. I will have no more of this at my table. You are rude.”
“Oh, Mother’s tits—” I began.
“Sit down.” Her tone brooked no disobedience.
I will face sellswords and assassins, I will duel in the ring, but I would not cause Kesamine any shame at her dinner table. I was raised better. And I value her peace.
I dropped meekly into my chair. My hand gave one last livid flare, settling to a dull ache. No real damage, merely pain. “Kesa,” I managed, weakly. “Please.” You have no idea what this will do to me, when I lose it.
“We have not had sweetmeats yet.” Her earrings jingled as she raised her chin. “Thank you for that…illuminating spectacle, Your Highness. And I do mean that. Kaia never speaks of her people.”
He shrugged. His eyes never left me. Dull anger woke in my bones.
I grow weary of being watched so closely, princeling.
Jettero took another gulp of wine. “Amazing,” he said, as Kesa drew her chair back up to the table. “If you are wounded, she feels it?”
Darik nodded. “Tis the curse of the gifts we are blessed with. Kaia’li has more than most.” He picked up his wineglass, took a sip. Calmly, as if he were at a banquet and not about to ruin my entire life.
“This is mere callousness,” I said tonelessly. “When you find your true adai I will be left to wander alone again. You should not toy with me so.”
“Kaia—” Jett began.
Jett, if you make a snide remark now, I will call you to the dueling circle. I am angry enough. “Leave it be.” I made it to my feet again, slowly, like an old woman.
Kesa stared up at me with a strange expression
. Thoughtful and curious all at once, and tinted with…what? Regret? Envy?
Sometimes other races envy us. They do not know the heavy price of the twinning, or the pain when it is broken.
I did not dare meet Darik’s eyes. He had proved his point. “I will meet you on the dueling ground tomorrow, Dragaemir. Two candlemarks past dawn.”
I turned on my heel and paced across Kesa’s dining room. Silence thickened, vibrating with tension. The storm, forgotten by us all, stroked the sky with thunder and lashing rain. I could imagine ships at anchor swaying under the force of that wind. Wished I was on a ship, hauling on rigging, battening down, too busy with canvas and hemp and shouted commands to worry for anything but the next moment, and the next.
I put my hand on the doorknob. My palms were slippery. I did not fear him, did I?
No, I did not fear him. I feared what I might become in his eyes; and when he met his true adai, it would kill me to give up the dream of being a true G’mai, a daughter of my people.
A daughter of the Blessed. The girl I was before I left the borders of my land and became Kaia Steelflower.
“Do you truly wish to duel me?” Darik’s voice hit the walls like a slap. It was the second time he had raised his voice to me, and I could not feel satisfied that I had provoked him. Chair legs scraped against the wooden floor again. Had he risen? Was he prepared to come after me?
“No, I do not.” My throat felt thick, full of unshed tears. “But you leave me no choice, Tar-Amyirak Adarikaan imr-dr’Emeryn, Dragaemir-hai. You leave me no choice at all.”
With that, I escaped through the door, shutting it quietly but firmly. I had the last word.
I could not feel victorious, though. I only felt emptiness. The dream was over.
I would never be a true G’mai. Best just to end it quickly.
Chapter 21
Death Tomorrow, Talk Tonight
“Ye did what?” Redfist’s deep voice slurred with sleep. I had picked the lock on his door and brought most of my gear in silently, locked the door again, and tilted a chair under the doorknob. By then, I felt as if I could breathe again.
Perhaps.
“I duel Darik tomorrow, two candlemarks past dawn.” I poked him on the shoulder. “Wake up, barbarian. I go to meet my death tomorrow, the least you can do is give me some little conversation.”
The room was pale rose and cream, with a flower motif. Kesamine liked her rooms in themes, and her taste was exquisite. There was a simple Kshanti vase of palest blush porcelain on the mantel, with a spray of maati flowers made out of silk with stems of twisted cotton and wire. A wallhanging of pale embroidered risinflowers hung over the small table where Redfist had eaten dinner alone.
I envied his solitude.
Redfist sprawled bellydown on the bed, his hands dangling off on either side. His ginger-furred face was turned into a pillow, but I heard his groan clearly enough. “What have ye done now, lass?”
I ruined a perfectly lovely dinner and probably made Kesa very angry. “I just insulted the Heir to the Dragon Throne and challenged him to an open duel. Tomorrow.” I restrained the urge to poke him again, or shake him.
Redfist groaned. It was a sound loud and weary enough to move the bed. “Lass, why did ye do that?”
I tore a blanket out of its roll and spread it on the rug next to the fireplace. Picked up a saddlebag full of clothing and tossed it down to serve as a pillow, then slipped out of my swordharness and snuggled myself into the ready-made bed. I rolled over, curled myself around the aching hole in the middle of my belly. Darik had slept next to me for the past few nights, and I had not awakened in the middle of the night with my heart pounding and my hand reaching for a weapon.
No, I had slept as deeply and trustfully as a child. Now I found myself missing the silent warmth of him, just close enough to touch. “I do not know, Redfist.”
I was no stranger to men. I was no stranger to playing the game of conquest and courtship; I was no stranger to maneuvering the treacherous waters of breaking off a liaison. So why could I not break off this liaison before it started?
Because he is not merely a pretty princeling. He is G’mai. You told yourself your blood means nothing so often you almost believed it, until he came to remind you. If you must give up that dream again, Kaia, you will begin to bleed inside once more. This time the bleeding will not stop.
Redfist let out a disgusted snort. “Ye’re a spoiled child, K’ai. Always having to have yer way.”
“I saved your life.” You ignorant, smelly, halfwit barbarian. But I could not be cruel to him. He had merely been a coincidence. The hand of Luck lighting on me at last.
“An have bossed me aboot like me mums since,” he grumbled. “Now let me think, lass. Sleep if you like, but let me think.”
“Very well.” I closed my eyes. Sleep refused me. I shifted on the hard wooden floor—at least there were no rocks or thorny bushes here. And the fire was warm.
Very soon, Redfist began to snore.
Dinner curdled in my belly. A snoring barbarian. I wanted a deep bed and Kesa’s arms around me, the whispers and giggles of us sharing jokes and stories, maybe Kesa teaching me how Rijiin courtesans lacquered their nails, maybe me teaching her the proper way to throw a knife. Perhaps sharing gossip, perhaps more.
Instead I had a duel with my avowed s’tarei in the morning, and I had been unforgivably rude to Kesa in her own dining room. I would have to steal her a nice present to make up for it.
What had I done?
The Prince—no, the Heir to the Dragon Throne. Challenged him to a duel because…
Because if I allowed myself to think of him as mine, I would not be able to let him go.
Think of something else. Of Jett selling this tale to a songster. Jettero, curse him, would sell and sing the story of the Iron Flower losing her temper before the sweetmeats course. A welcome bite of irritation bloomed inside my head. Another Frozen Flower song. If I lived to hear it sung.
I was not certain I could push Darik’s control enough to make him kill me. I also was not certain I could make a lucky strike and kill him. Nor did I wish either outcome. I had told the truth: I did not wish to duel him.
I wanted what I could not even name to myself.
Thunder rolled and boomed. The rain began in earnest, sweeping in heavy waves like the sea’s fingers combing land’s fringes.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Probably Jettero’s, they were a man’s boots. Walking deliberately.
“I have done well for myself,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut and ignoring the warm trickles down my temples, vanishing into my hair. “Six rooms and seven waterclosets. A bedroom on the bottom floor. Linens hung in the Sun.”
I lay there, turning the words into a humming song in commontongue. Six rooms and seven waterclosets. A bedroom on the bottom floor. Linens hung in the Sun.
Is that what you wish for? I imagined I heard Darik’s voice, a cool murmur, right next to my ear. Speaking G’mai, of course, his voice shading the words intimately, comfortingly.
I sighed, rolled over, presenting my back to the fire. I could pretend the warmth was his. I do not know. I wished to stay in G’maihallan. I would not have left, had they not thrown me out. I longed for Power, for any scrap of it.
Why? His voice again. It was just my imagination. There was no harm in imagining, was there? You have enough to make the trees dance in the wind, enough to kiss a pair of dice into rolling the way you wish them to, enough to make a coin land the way you wish. Enough for a s’tarei, Kaia.
He would never say such things to me. They were not true.
I scrubbed at my eyes with my fists like a child. There was wetness on my fingers. What had I done? The rain beat on the wall of the inn, as if it intended to wash the town away. I was using my own facile tongue to dupe myself into thinking I was truly G’mai.
Shhh. It was comforting, his imaginary voice, far more comforting than I probably deserved. Just rest, Kaia’li, little
sharpness. All will be well.
I do not know what I want. Relief crashed through me like waves against cliffs. I was moontouched, crazy. I was imagining voices. Maybe G’mai without Power went insane, and I had been saved from that fate by shunning. Saved until I brushed against other G’mai, felt the Power in their eyes, heard the song of my native tongue again.
I fell asleep, cradling my dotanii in my arms. Twas strange, but I seemed to hear someone singing as if to a child. It was a familiar tune, the Lay of Creation, in a male voice. A G’mai voice, one that knew the right accents.
I slept.
Chapter 22
A Little Hunger
Dawn broke over the harbor in a glory of red. The inngirl Vavakha brought a tray of kafi to Redfist’s room. I was in the watercloset, and watched her set it on a table and look at the sleeping barbarian. She snorted, flipped her hair impatiently and stalked out.
Light leftover rain misted down from an infinite sky. The storm’s fury had been spent last night. It was a good omen, if one believed in such things.
I stepped cautiously out of the watercloset, crossed to the kafi pot, and poured myself a cup. It might well be the last cup of kafi I ever drank.
“What is tha’ disgusting smell?” the barbarian rumbled from the bed. “Lass, I would hae ye take th’ softie.”
He was not such a bad sort, after all. “The floor was well enough. At least there are no rocks. Will you be my second in the duel?”
“Duel?” The ginger-furred man pushed himself upright, blinked at me. “Were ye serious, then?”
“I was.” Have you ever known me not to be, even on such short acquaintance? “Two candlemarks past dawn. One of which you have already slept away, while I’ve oiled my sword and prepared my deathsong. Come, have a drink of kafi.”
“That’s kafi? It smells like burned stockings.” He rubbed at his face, then blinked and peered at me. “Did ye sleep here last night, lass? Ye must have. Ye must think me a right bastard.”
“Do you know you snore?” I smiled thinly; I felt a little more myself, with my hair rebraided and a duel to look forward to.
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