The Language of Souls

by Lena Goldfinch

  They’d all noticed how pretty she was, of course.

  Rundan had noticed too, from that very first moment when he’d caught her stealing in the grove, but he didn’t like the hunger he saw in the soldiers’ eyes as they tracked her progress through camp.

  One soldier muscled forward. “What will you take for the girl?”

  Other soldiers pressed forward, calling out insulting offers. They grabbed at the girl’s leathers and touched her hair. Their lustful stares sickened Rundan. They were animals. And they treated him as if they thought he was one as well, as if he’d take money for the girl. When she shrank from them, Rundan tucked her under his arm.

  She seemed so small now, much more slightly built, than when she was facing him so boldly at the river and insisting they stop for a drink. Now, with the fragile bones of her arm and shoulder pressed against him, he felt some powerful emotion flare to life in his chest, an urge to protect her.

  Looking around at the hard faces of the soldiers, Rundan knew he wasn’t the strongest of them and he couldn’t hold them off for long. Using all his might, he pushed through the throng and somehow managed to hurry her into his father’s tent.

  “Commander,” he said to the man inside who was seated before a tactical planning table. There were maps laid across it, dotted here and there with tiny figures chiseled from white, gray, and black stone, each representing their various armies. “I’ve found a trespasser.” He didn’t add that he’d caught her stealing. She was in enough trouble. As it was, his father would likely assign her a week’s work, perhaps washing their linens in the river.

  His father sat back and looked the girl over. “Her hair and skin are unnaturally dark.” His own features were as pale and impassive as usual. A hard man with a hard face.

  “Yes, sir.” Rundan squeezed the girl’s trembling fingers, wishing now that he’d ignored his duty and told her to run.

  “So, a foreigner trespasses on our training grounds.” The commander pinned Rundan with a gaze as sharp as an arrow. “And yet I sense you withhold information...” He let the words trail off, willing Rundan to confess.

  Rundan squirmed but refused to speak.

  “It matters not.” The commander rose with lethal grace and approached the girl. “Who do you report to?” he demanded.

  She swallowed and poured forth a thousand of her rolling, singsong words.

  Hearing her, Rundan’s gut clenched with worry. His father wasn’t a patient man, nor was he known for his tolerance. Even if you searched all of Oden, you couldn’t find another man who hated the Torrani more than his father did. Rundan couldn’t say he hadn’t known all this and yet he’d still brought the girl to camp. He’d traded her freedom for his duty. Worse, he admitted silently, he’d wanted to impress his father, to show him he could do something useful. Now look what he’d done. His pride was going to bring her pain.

  As the girl’s voice finally trailed off to a whisper, Rundan’s father approached and pushed up her sleeve, revealing a strange mark. “As I suspected, a spy.”

  The girl pulled away from him and watched him with wary eyes.

  “She could have lost her way,” Rundan said, knowing even as he offered the explanation that his words would be rejected.

  “From Torrani?” The commander practically spat out the name. “She bears a strange mark—that of a spy.”

  “But I’ve never seen such a mark. How—”

  “Enough! Take her to the palace court. And if you can’t accomplish this small task”—the commander sighed—“tell me now and I’ll call for one of my soldiers.”

  The palace court? Rundan tightened his grip on the girl’s fingers and she tried to tug away, making him aware he was squeezing much too hard. He loosened his grip but didn’t release her hand. What a fool he’d been to believe his father would assign her some small chore as punishment. But then he hadn’t known about the mark on her arm, or that his father would think she was a spy, which was utterly ridiculous. She looked incapable of hurting anyone. But those brutes in court wouldn’t care. All they’d see is a Torrani and she’d never have a fair trial, especially with his father claiming she was a spy. They’d throw her in the dungeon on his word alone. If she was fortunate, that is. They’d more likely execute her in the square.

  Rundan forced himself to stand upright, head held high, and tried to think quickly. He couldn’t take the girl to certain death. Nor could he let any of his father’s soldiers near her. He remembered the men’s grasping hands and a knot tightened between his shoulder blades.

  “I’ll return her to Torrani, threaten her to never return,” Rundan offered. Though he wasn’t precisely sure how one would accomplish such a threat—what did he know of warfare?—surely his father’s imagination could supply the various tactics.

  “Or,” the commander mused, “you could kill her and leave her body outside Torrani’s walls to be found by her soldiers.”

  Kill her?

  Rundan recoiled at the thought, but carefully schooled his features so his father wouldn’t see his revulsion. “There’s no need to kill her, surely.” Noticing the thread of anger in his voice, Rundan drew a calming breath and continued in a more practical tone, “Besides, I’ve taken a vow—”

  “I’ve no use for the vows of a coward.” The commander twisted his lips, his nostrils flaring as if he’d smelled the stench of rotting meat. And there it was. The contempt, the disgust. Again. As commander, Father thought only of war. It was his greatest disappointment that Rundan had shown more interest in the ancient texts than blades.

  His father’s words came as no surprise, but, though he’d tried his best to harden his heart, Rundan still couldn’t stop the surge of fresh pain that coursed through him. How could they be father and son? It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered. Maybe some mistake had been made and Rundan had been born to another family and somehow dropped at his father’s door. Of course, his mother would argue otherwise.

  It might have even been humorous, if it had merely been a tale and not Rundan’s life.

  “What if I can prove her innocence?” he asked.

  “A charming thought.” The commander chuckled and returned to his seat.

  While his back was turned, the girl pointed to her sack.

  What, did she have more fruit to hand over? If she showed herself a thief now, she’d only be giving his father reason to kill her on the spot. Rundan shook his head sharply.

  When the commander swung his piercing gaze on them, Rundan slipped a familiar blank mask over his face.

  “Take her to the palace,” his father ordered, “or don’t return.”

  “Yes, Commander.” Rundan bowed and led the girl out.

  Solena began to tremble as her captor again dragged her past many lines of snow-haired soldiers. Back in the tent, she’d tried to show him she was a healer and could tend their sick or injured, but he’d silenced her. Now he was parading her before these soldiers. Hate flowed from them, these men who didn’t even know her.

  They’d kill a foreigner as quickly as they’d swat a gnat....

  Her breath clogged in her lungs.

  You have to get away.

  You have to get away.

  Now.

  Solena tested her captor’s hold. He wasn’t holding her as tightly now, which perhaps meant he’d begun to trust her. Either that or he thought she wouldn’t dare escape amid so many soldiers. She yanked free of his hold. Before he could grab her, she shot through a gap in the lines of soldiers and bolted for the river.

  “Nil stavit una!” one of the soldiers yelled out.

  Solena threw a glance over her shoulder and saw her captor and a dozen soldiers, all pursuing her.

  She sped up, running faster than she ever had. Her feet glanced across the slippery rocks, nearly making her lose her balance. As soon as she reached the riverbank, she dove cleanly into the water and was immediately enfolded in its icy grip. She gasped in shock, but struck out, using her most powerful stroke. She tried to
jet downstream, but the current was churning hard around her, tossing her like a twig.

  As she tumbled helplessly through the water, Solena winced as her knee struck a rock. The water swirled all around her, until she couldn’t tell which way was up or down. She had to get air before her lungs would burst. Making her best guess, she pulled for the surface, thrashing all the way, but it was no use. There was still no air. She tumbled again and again, striking against the rocky bottom. Her lungs cried out for air so loudly that she sucked in a mouthful of heavy water.

  No, don’t breathe in, she screamed at herself, but already her mind was fading. All her strength was flowing away. Drifting.... After living all her life in the sea, would she now die in the water?

  Someone caught her around the waist. In her panic, she was sure he was pulling her down. She tried to yank away, but her captor was too strong. He soon hauled her ashore.

  “Anda se, Rundan!” two soldiers called out to him. With hands like manacles, the soldiers grabbed her from his hold and thrust her face-down against the biting rocks. Her leathers clung wetly to her body and the soaked sack weighed heavily against her back. Cold rivulets of water dripped down her scalp and into her eyes.

  Solena coughed out great rushes of water. She had no air to groan aloud, no strength to fight against them. She hated their hands on her. An overwhelming urge came over her, making her want to scream at them and tell them to let her go, but she couldn’t even talk. Not that they would have understood her words, or listened to her if they could, but at least they would have seen her anger. She would have been doing something.

  The young man they’d called Rundan dropped to the ground and sat beside her, breathing hard. He said something to her, and she could have sworn she saw concern in his eyes, not anger. But that couldn’t be right. There was something wrong with her. The river must have weakened her mind, making her see things that weren’t there.

  The remaining soldiers gathered around and began stabbing their swords into the dirt. With a silence that was more threatening than loud voices, they measured their hilts and kept glancing at her. Solena watched with numb horror. They were going to kill her. After all that had happened—almost drowning, being freed from the river—she’d die by the sword. Then why save her? Maybe they wanted the pleasure of watching her die. Maybe that was why they’d fished her out of the river.

  Her captor, Rundan, barked out an order, but the other soldiers only laughed at him. Solena realized then how much younger he looked than the others, perhaps even as young as nineteen or twenty. Old enough to be a soldier, of course, but surely not old enough to be their commander. He leaped to his feet and bellowed at them until they fell back, some quickly and others with slow steps. He spat another string of guttural commands at the two soldiers holding her, and they released her, their manacle fingers slowly sliding off her arms, dragging cruelly against her skin.

  In vain, Solena tried to raise her head. Rundan came to her and knelt beside her. She watched him warily. When he whipped a blade from his belt, she jerked in surprise. In an instant, he snipped off her votif.

  “No!” The protest was torn from Solena’s throat, but it came out as barely a whisper. She watched in horror as he tied her votif to his belt. It bounced against his own votif with a tink tink tink as he moved.

  Solena’s fingernails bit into her palms.

  Without her votif, she’d weaken and die of pain. It was worse than death by sword, which would have at least been quick. A moment ago she’d been tempted to think him kind. Kind? She was a fool.

  Rundan pulled her to her feet. Every instinct inside Solena screamed to grab her votif from his belt and run, but she hesitated. She’d acted rashly earlier and nearly died in the churning river. Besides, even if she could have pulled away, she had no strength left. Her lungs ached. Her limbs felt as limp as waterlogged seaweed. She couldn’t run. She could barely stand. Since he didn’t seem intent on killing her, at least not immediately, her only choice was to wait for night and try to get away while he slept.

  Rundan didn’t dare take the girl to the tent he shared with three other soldiers, so he set her on a boulder inside the encampment and stood behind her, his hands heavy on her shoulders. Deep inside, he was shaking. If asked, he didn’t know if he could have named all the emotions running through him. Anger leapt to mind. He was angry at the men for gaming for the girl. He was angry with her for running away and nearly drowning herself in the river. For making him wet and cold.

  He was scared too, not for himself, but for her. Couldn’t she see he was trying to help her? Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe when she looked at him, she saw the same thing he did when he looked at the other soldiers. The thought sickened him. It made him tired and frustrated, and all he wanted was to get away from camp, as quickly as possible.

  He’d have to take the girl, as his father had ordered, and leave as they were, still dripping from the river, but they’d need dry clothes before nightfall or the mountain air would freeze them. He couldn’t loosen his hold on her though, not when the soldiers who’d played blades for her still hovered nearby, watching and waiting. They wouldn’t heed him a second time. Though he’d invoked the commander’s orders once, given another opportunity, they’d try to stake a claim on her. The sooner he got the girl away, the better for both of them.

  From his post behind her, he bartered with one of the younger soldiers to ready his horse and pack some basic provisions for them.

  When they were far from camp, the young soldier Solena now knew as Rundan led her into a thick forest. There was no path to speak of, so they wound their way through the trees, heavy with the scent of pine pitch and damp earth. Rundan pulled her along with one hand and with the other led a pack-laden horse behind them.

  Solena fought him with every step, hating him. If not for him, she’d be searching the forests for wild tymia right then. She might have even found some by now. If she didn’t find it, Grandpeer would die. And if she didn’t break free and somehow get her votif back, she’d die.

  She hated them all, all those soldiers who’d surrounded her in camp. Every one of them. And especially the one pulling her along through the forest. He was the one who’d captured her in the grove. He could have simply warned her and let her go. But he hadn’t. He’d taken her to the army’s camp instead. And now he’d taken her votif.

  Perhaps worse than all of these things, he’d made her hate. She’d always prided herself that she’d never hated anyone. She’d been born with a gift for healing, something that had set her apart, made her special. Something she could take pleasure in when her memories of loss threatened to overwhelm her natural good humor. Healers took care of people. They were filled with compassion and concern. They sought to heal and not destroy. They certainly didn’t hate anyone. Now she could never say that again. He’d stolen that from her too.

  Rundan stopped suddenly and glared at her. He didn’t even bother to mutter at her in his own tongue, as if he couldn’t be bothered to speak. It didn’t matter; his meaning was clear enough to her.

  “You’re the one who took me captive,” Solena protested, her voice wavering slightly.

  Earlier, as they’d hiked away from the army encampment, she’d noticed several soldiers following them at a distance. By sunset, the last of them had dropped off their trail and turned back, which was something to be grateful for. Only now, as the sky grew darker, a bitter chill crept into the wind. Umber and purple streaks painted the sky above them. Under different circumstances, Solena might have admired the rich colors, but now she felt only the clammy chill of fear. By nightfall, her wet deerskin would freeze against her skin. Which was likely the reason for her captor’s relentless pace, she realized with a slight pang of conscience.

  Solena plucked at her damp tunic. “Do you have dry clothes?” she asked and pointed to the saddle bags slung over the horse’s back. Although she doubted he cared that she was shivering in her damp gear, especially if his plan was to kill her, she had to try.
/>   Rundan plucked at his tunic too and pointed down the path.

  Solena nodded in defeat and followed after him. She could hardly run now in her wet clothing and boots, with no idea which direction led to freedom. Even if she did escape, what good would it do? Her votif was still tied to Rundan’s belt, which left her with no choice but to stay close to him.

  He came to a mound covered with tangled briars and pushed through the barbs to pull her into a small cave. After some hesitation, he left her inside. She stood close to the entrance, keeping a close eye on her captor—and her votif—as he tethered his horse and removed its burden. After tending to the horse, he returned to the cave, where he built a small fire and opened his bags, unpacking each as carefully as any good healer.

  Solena continued to track every move he made. She leaned in closer when he began to remove clothing from the sacks. First, he held up a long-sleeved linen tunic that would easily cover her from neck to toe and then a woolen cloak, which was dry, where hers, which had been stuffed in her sack when she dove in the river, was still wet. He assessed her in one long sweeping glance, making her squirm, and set these items to one side. He delved into the bags again and pulled out leather leggings, a short-sleeved leather tunic, not unlike the wet one she was wearing, but man-sized and a pair of boots suited to his larger feet. These he set to the other side. There was one nyka, with a soft worked hide on one side and lush black fur on the other, but there were no other clothes.

  Rundan scowled with evident dissatisfaction at the two piles.

  Solena gestured to the pile she thought was hers. “For me?”

  He handed the clothing to her and waited.

  She motioned for him to turn around, but he shook his head and waved impatiently at the clothes in her arms. When she still hesitated, he grimaced, fingered the votifs on his belt, and then struck himself on the head with an imaginary rock.

  “I wouldn’t,” she assured him.