She worked the tangles out of her hair with her fingers. A shrug was her only response to his comment.
Minutes passed before he spoke again. “What makes a woman take up the sword?"
She stopped her combing, stared into the darkness beyond the scarp's edge. How many others had asked that? What answers had she given? In Korkyra none but Oona knew her secret. Not even Aki, who had comforted her on occasion when the nightmares had become too intense and she'd awakened screaming, shivering, drenched in sweat, fighting for breath.
She was silent for a long time. It always took time to shake off the memories. She looked up; the slight crescent moon was slowly descending, taking its faint light. Kimon was little more than a shape in the night, but she could feel his gaze upon her.
“What made you take it up?” she countered.
“Money.” He said it with a peculiar, offhanded kind of sigh. “I decided to seek my fortune, being too restless for a farmer, too muddle-headed to become a merchant, and not nearly morbid enough for the priesthood.” He slapped his thigh. “So here I am."
“Did you find it? Your fortune?"
“Several times,” he affirmed. “And lost it. And, gods willing, I'll find and lose it several times more. After all, I'm still young.” He rubbed his hands together. “But you're dodging my question."
She thought about it. Why not tell him? This Kimon, this stranger, could do her no harm. There were others in Esgaria, in Rholaroth, and in Chondos who knew. The story followed wherever she went, and one day it would come to Korkyra. Why not tell it now, let someone hear it straight without the embellishments and exaggeration that minstrels and storytellers—or enemies—would inevitably lend it?
“Money,” she lied, “like you. I'm a mercenary."
“Not an assassin?"
The wind whistled suddenly around her, whipping her hair. When it calmed again, she answered. “I didn't kill Aki."
“I know."
She jerked around. “What?"
“By the three-eyed witch-goddess, woman! Most of the country knows Thogrin Sin'tell killed her. Most of Mirashai, anyway. They just don't talk about it. It offends their inflated senses of honor to admit their royal family can be as filthy and corrupt and greedy as the rest of us mere mortals."
She leaned over to make sure Tras Sur'tian still slept. “He'd slit your throat if he heard you say that,” she whispered.
Kimon shrugged. “What I can't figure is why the two of you are out here together. Even if you're innocent, a palace captain is oath-bound to bring you back. You've already been tried and found guilty."
She was only innocent of killing Aki. This stranger seemed to know nothing of Thogrin's murder. She decided not to enlighten him. Word would spread fast enough that Korkyra's throne was empty again.
“We struck a bargain,” she answered evasively. “I'll go back with him to Mirashai at month's end. First, there's business he's agreed to let me finish."
He yawned. “Looking for Aki?"
That brought her bolt upright. Her sheathed sword lay on the ground a quick grasp away. She glanced at it, then at him. “You're awfully well informed for a drifter."
He yawned again. “Come now.” He stretched full length on the earth and rolled to his side. “A half-blind fool could guess that. You were Aki's guardian, and Tras Sur'tian her most trusted officer. What else could it mean but that you think she's alive and you're looking for her?"
She looked away. “It could mean we're planning to avenge her."
“Which is it?"
She didn't answer. She wasn't sure herself.
“Maybe I'll just stick around to find out,” he said after a long silence.
She peered at his silhouette in the dark. “You don't know what you're getting into."
“When did that ever stop me?” he answered. “Ignorance is the supreme gift of the gods."
“Then you're lavishly bestowed, friend.” She hadn't intended to call him that, but he was offering his sword without questioning the risks. Harsh words or insults were unfit pay for such service. She had been a wanderer herself and knew what it meant to find friends on the road, someone to share supper with, stories or sometimes song, even an adventure or two.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Ride with us as long as you will, leave when you like, and no more questions. You proved yourself a useful ally in Shadamas and helped save my friend. I'll share what I have with you as long as it lasts. But I'll also warn you: none of us know what lies at the end of this road."
He made a gesture, barely visible. “All roads are the same, and we both know what lies at the end.” She heard a rustle, saw the partially exposed hilt of his sword. “This is the coin of our passage.” He lay back down and fell immediately asleep.
She crossed her legs, folded her arms, yawned, but sleep eluded her. She counted the stars, tossed from side to side. She sat up, finally, and stared the way they had come, imagining she could see a village burning, homes crumbling to ashes, children crying. She closed her eyes, but the vision remained. She was the cause. Her hands were torches, Hands of Glory, and everything she touched burned to ashes.
Was Oona sleeping? she wondered. Could she sleep?
* * * *
Dawn broke slowly in the east. Streamers of carmine chased away the last of the night. The morning air was crisp and warm, promising a scorching day. Frost jerked the cinch tight around Ashur's underside.
“I don't like it,” Tras Sur'tian grumbled.
“You don't have to like it,” she answered, then turned to glance around, hands on hips. Kimon's mount had wandered a bit, and the youth had gone to fetch it.
The sun had brought that surprise. In the light she'd discovered Kimon was no older than she was, possibly younger, though age was no measure of a man, she reminded herself. Yet he sounded, acted, older. She scratched her head and shrugged. Experience did that.
“We don't need him,” Tras Sur'tian insisted. “He's a drifter, no loyalties. What does he care about finding Aki's killers?"
“He's a sword,” she countered. Kimon came toward them, leading his horse. “Look, I won't argue. He proved his worth in Shadamas. That's enough for me. And he shared his food with us. As long as he wants, he has a place beside me."
Kimon was close enough to catch that last. He drew up short, gazed from one to the other. “Am I a problem?"
“No,” she lied, and shot Tras Sur'tian a look that threatened war if he contradicted her. “Get saddled. Kephalenia is a good week's ride, then who knows how many more days to find the man we seek.” She licked her lips. “And I'm hungry for meat. We'll have to do some hunting along the way."
“With what?” Tras Sur'tian snapped, not looking at her.
She sighed. Leather creaked as she climbed into the saddle. “I didn't get a wink, and you wake up grumpy.” She flashed a brief smile, then showed her teeth. “If you were a child, Tras, I'd spank you. As it is, just try to keep up, and maybe I'll teach an old dog a new trick."
Kimon laced his saddlebag in place, then his bedroll. “Perhaps he's been a palace guard too long.” He winked at her.
“You keep a civil tongue in your head,” she ordered before the old Korkyran could defend himself. “Nobody's singing your deeds in the taverns, yet."
Kimon looked properly humbled as he mounted. “Sorry,” he offered, and said no more.
Tras Sur'tian was last to mount. Frost gave them both a long look and sighed again. Maybe it was a mistake after all, letting this stranger ride along. She had enough on her mind without quarrels. Kimon had a quick tongue, and Tras a quicker temper, sure formula for trouble if she didn't keep an eye on them. Tras was a reliable friend and good right arm in a conflict. But Kimon was good company.
She rubbed her eyes. It would all work out. She'd make it work or break their necks.
The scarp sloped steeply downward to a broad, fertile plain. They rode the first few hours in silence. Then, of a sudden, Kimon began to sing. It startled her so, the strength of his voice, that she
nearly fell from the saddle. The sound of him filled the air, rolled over the land. The words were old, the melody older, a song of beginnings and adventures, of marching to war against limitless enemies, a song of striving and greatness.
She studied him as he sang. In the sunlight he had a fair face, deeply tanned, clean-shaven but for a slight stubble. He sat his saddle well, broad-shouldered and straight of back, lean at the waist. His hair, raven-black as her own, touched his collar. Where she was dressed all in gray, black silk clothed his frame. His boots and gloves were black leather. No beggar, this wanderer. She watched him ride, watched the muscles in his neck and throat as he sang. Though slender, almost willowy, there was strength and power in his body.
The song ended and another began. A Rholarothan tune, she knew parts of it and joined in. He turned, smiling, as her voice harmonized with his, and she returned his smile. Only Tras Sur'tian refused to sing. He glowered at them with a disapproving scowl that troubled her. She wished he would be joyous and share their mirth while there was opportunity. But the music rose in her, lightening her spirit. Tras would find his own peace in time, she hoped.
“You've been to Rholaroth?” she said when the second song ended. “Are you from there?"
“The ballad?” he acknowledged its origin. “I've been all around the Stormy Sea, even to Esgaria. By your accent, that's where you're from."
She winced but refused to yield to those memories. The morning was too nice, and the music had her feeling good. No morbid daydreaming, she promised herself. She was on the road again, the sun was high, the air fresh, and the company pleasant.
The next question slipped out. “How did you like Esgaria?” She clamped a hand to her mouth.
Kimon didn't see the gesture. “Friendly enough to travelers. Beautiful countrysides, too. The forests are fantastic, like none I've ever seen.” He scratched his chin. “Strange customs, though.” He twisted to face her. For the second time she noticed the sky blue of his eyes and the pupils that were like huge dark clouds. “I thought Esgarian women were forbidden to touch men's weapons? In fact, I heard they were killed for it. Yet, you must have trained since childhood; your technique is formidable."
Tell him, an inner voice urged. Tell him and be done with it. Purge yourself with one gushing confession and accept whatever scorn he decides to heap upon you. Then, maybe you'll be able to sleep nights once someone knows your sins.
But she turned away, shaking her head. Oona knows the truth, and the nightmares still come to haunt you.
“I trained in secret under the best teacher in my homeland.” That was truth, at least. The rest was evasion. “When I was old enough I decided to leave."
Kimon looked doubtful. “Just like that?"
“There was nothing to keep me.” She changed the subject. “Tras, how about another song? Something from Korkyra, this time."
But Tras was as sullen as ever. “Not a time for singing,” he grumbled. “A queen is missing, a king is murdered, the country has no ruler...” He hesitated and rubbed his belly. “And I'm so hungry I could eat my horse if we didn't have so far to ride."
She ignored his use of the word “murder,” but she did catch Kimon's expression. Well, she'd have to explain the past few days to him, but later. Right now, she spied the green darkness of a woodland glade. She'd been watching for such a place before the singing had made her forget her hunger. The evidence of the earth told her to expect such a place, for the grass was lush, the soil dark and spongy. That meant water, and water would mean game to hunt.
“I'm hungry, too,” she answered with a cheerfulness she hoped would infect her old friend. “Let's go eat."
Tras was not so enthusiastic. “What? Roots and tubers, leaves and grass and greens? I thought you wanted meat!"
She couldn't suppress a grin. There was something amusing in the griping grumping of this stiffly proper, almost starchy old warrior. Back at the palace he was so different, always so much in command of any situation, so dignified and disciplined, a soldier of true mettle. Now, he seemed much less. She wondered if Kimon's gibe were true. Perhaps Tras Sur'tian had grown too used to soft palace life.
“Just follow me, old dog,” she called, half-teasing. “I promised to teach you a new trick, and the lesson starts now.” She spurred Ashur and headed for the distant forest. Kimon followed with a whoop, and when she glanced over her shoulder she was pleased to see Tras Sur'tian chasing right behind, crimson cloak aflutter in the wind.
She smiled to herself. It really wasn't a bad start they were off to.
The woodland was small, but dense with wild foliage. She reined up at the edge. Her comrades halted on either side of her. Kimon's face was alight with laughter. The youth seemed to have a limitless capacity for finding amusement in everything, even a swift ride overland. Tras Sur'tian was all frowns. She made a face to imitate his.
He rolled his eyes. “Now what?” he challenged. “The horse is all sweaty, and I'm still hungry."
She clucked her tongue, threw a leg over Ashur's head, and dropped to the ground. “Watch closely so you'll remember in the future.” She took her rumpled cloak from her saddlebag and spread it over the unicorn's rump. “You see this section of the hem?” She pointed for them. “The thread, you may notice, is thicker.” She slipped a fingernail under one loop, got a hold, and yanked. What came loose was a handsome length of waxed bowstring. “An old Esgarian precaution,” she informed them. “Ruins the hem, but handy when you need it."
“Let me guess,” Tras Sur'tian said sarcastically. “You pull the bow out of your boot. Or do you conjure it from air?"
She sighed. “Just bring your sword, Tras. Your brain isn't too keen today, so we'll test your muscle."
The men tied their reins to bushes. Frost never tied Ashur; he never wandered far. Then she led the way into the brush and soon found her bow: a stout young sapling, straight and strong and supple. “Cut it close to the ground,” she told Tras Sur'tian, “and strip the branches from it.” He drew his sword. She turned to Kimon. “Let's cut some arrows."
“What about tips?” he asked.
“Won't need them,” she answered. “We're after small game. Carve the shafts to points, maybe leave a bit of a barb. That'll serve."
They got to work. Soon there were nine branches stripped and lying on the earth. Using Kimon's dagger, Frost made her points and cut notches for the string to fit. Tras Sur'tian waited with the denuded sapling in his hands, flexing, testing its strength. She tossed him the length of bowstring, instructed him how to tie the loops so they wouldn't come loose when the bow was bent, then checked his work.
He examined her arrows. “We could fire-harden the tips,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “We'll have a fire when we've got something to cook over it."
“What about fletchings?"
Again, she shook her head. “I could spend the next week making perfect arrows, but I'm hungry now. I thought you were, too?” The look in his eyes told her she'd teased him enough. She raised on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. The impulsive act surprised her as much as it did him. She took the bow. “You prepare a good fire, and I'll bring back the rabbit. By the way, I only hunt; I don't skin the things.” She faked a shudder and was rewarded with the faintest flicker of a grin from the Korkyran. “Come on, Kimon."
They plunged into the woodland, leaving Tras to gather kindling. The smell of moisture was rich in the air. From the spongy earth she knew there would be water nearby. Birds scattered as they moved through the underbrush. Patches of wildflowers blossomed everywhere. The trees stretched upward, weaving branches in a lacework that threatened to shut out the sun.
“Are you a good hunter?” Kimon inquired softly when they had wandered some distance and found no suitable game.
She peered left and right into the undergrowth. “I've never hunted in my life,” she admitted. “But I learned the bow in the Aleppan War. I'm a good shot."
He stopped. “Better let me,” he said, holding out
his hand. “Shooting a nervous animal isn't the same as lobbing a shaft into an advancing army."
The half smile he wore irritated her, but she wouldn't let that show. She knew its meaning. Other men had made the mistake of underestimating her abilities. She'd taught them all hard lessons. She'd made the bow and arrows, not this smug young adventurer, nor the battle-wise career soldier. Without her, they'd be riding hungry a while longer.
He must have read her thoughts. “I mean no insult,” he assured her. “But hunting is a different skill from soldiering. Would you waste all day finding food when you could be after Aki's killer?"
She winced at the ease with which he assumed the little queen's death. Aki might be dead, but Frost kept hope, a hope that Kimon's and Tras Sur'tian's doubt made ever more fragile. Her hunger lessened; her desire to get back on the road grew stronger.
Yet they must eat, reason told her. She passed the bow and bundle of arrows. “All right,” she said, “I'll let you have the first shot.” She tossed her hair back. “But if you miss, I promise to laugh so hard Tras Sur'tian will hear."
Kimon took the bow. “If you do, you'll scare away any other game that might be lurking.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Then we'll all go hungry."
He moved out in front, letting her follow. She wished she had kept one of the arrows so she might jab his rump with the sharpened point. That prospect brought a mischievous smile. It was such a nice rump, too. A slow warmth spread through her. She watched as he moved, admiring his grace, the easy way he walked without making a sound, the way his gaze swept from side to side, the way he clutched the bow with the arrow notched and ready on the string. Yes, there was much about Kimon she liked.
They found a broad, lazy stream. Fat mushrooms grew all along the grassy bank. Frost bent down to study them. Edible, but full of insects. She wanted meat, anyway. If they didn't find any, they could come back for these.
“Tracks,” Kimon announced. “Several kinds of animals drank here.” He looked up at the sky, searched for the sun through the leafy canopy. “Wrong time of day now, but if we hide in a blind, something may come along.” He spotted a browning thicket. “There."
Skull Gate Page 9
