Call the Rain

by Kristi Lea

  He rode with the easy grace of a man long accustomed to the saddle, his shoulders moving and swaying with the easy pace of his mount. He spoke again, quieter this time, as he scanned the path ahead of them. “How is your sister?”

  “Unchanged.” The word fell from her lips like the tear drops her borrowed eyes could not shed.

  He turned and their gazes met. Illista could not bring herself to look away. His sea-colored eyes reflected the unbroken white-gray of the wintery clouds that smothered the sky. Clouds with as little rain to share as she had tears. The bloodstone around her neck burned, singing her skin and pulling the cord around her neck downward. Joral's eyes probed hers.

  “What secrets do you hide?” His words were a faraway whisper, almost too soft for her to hear.

  “What do you mean?”

  With a loud crack, an arrow pierced the side of the wagon in the small space between the head of Joral's horse and the bottom of Zuke's seat. The horses reared, and Zuke's danced at the edges of its reins, making the wagon lurch and jerk.

  Illista was pitched forward over the tailgate of the wagon. She hit the ground hard and lay for half a second in the mud, breathless and stunned. Hoof beats thundered around her and she pulled her arms and legs into a tight ball, then crawled to the edge of the tall grass away from the threat of being trampled.

  A horse screamed and shadows flickered over her closed eyes. She peeked out and saw chaos. The two hunters from behind them raced ahead, bows drawn. She couldn't see Zuke or Joral, and the wagon sat stuck at a crooked angle teetering dangerously on a rear wheel. Zuke's horse was still tethered and he whinnied and pulled at the weight.

  She hunkered down in the shadows, clutching her sides and breathing hard. With a last cry, the wheel broke loose of the rut and raced away down the roadway.

  Quarie. Her sister was still in the wagon. She jumped out of the grass and hurried after the runaway cart.

  Chapter 7 Illista raced as fast as she could, pumping her arms and legs. She tried to shout, but either Zuke was no longer there or he could not hear her. Her Waki legs were powerful but short. This body was built for lifting and hauling, not for long sprinting.

  She ran until every breath was a dagger-pointed gasp and her sides heaved and she felt dizzy. She ran until she stumbled and fell face-down in the dust again and lay there with the taste of dirt and rock and failure on her tongue. She had no tears to cry. Not a single drop of moisture to spare.

  Someone would come back for her.

  Someone had to come back for her.

  Someone had tried to kill them.

  A blizzard of fear roared through her abdomen and she pushed herself to all fours and crawled for cover into the grass.

  Someone had tried to kill them. One of them. The arrow had narrowly missed Joral, right behind Zuke. Inches from her own head.

  The grasses here were taller than the Segra warriors with stalks as thick as her fist. But the stalks were lean and smooth without any leafy foliage to hide behind. She wormed her way in farther, away from the clearing. Away from exposure. Away from the path to safety.

  ***

  The pounding of his heart reminded Joral of the celebratory drums of the betrothal ceremony. But instead of befuddled senses from poisoned drink, his every instinct was alert and attuned to the sounds of the wind creaking in the tree-like grasses, to the taste of the dust in the air, to the scent of horse sweat and fear.

  He leaned forward in the saddle, rope curled lightly in his hand, guiding his horse around the side of the wildly careening wagon ahead. Zuke’s body lay slouched over, the reins tangling in the weeds and wheels underneath the cart. Joral brought his horse up alongside Zuke’s and tossed the looped end of the rope around the runaway horse’s neck.

  The coil caught, and Joral gave a slight upward tug. Just enough to show the horse that someone was in control. Carefully, he slowed his own horse down until both beasts were trotting, then walking, then still.

  Joral flung himself off his horse and leapt to the seat of the wagon. Zuke was breathing but with a swollen knot on his temple that was already blackening. Luckily he had fallen backwards into the wagon and not under the cart’s wheels. Still, a blow to the head was nothing to take lightly. Joral had seen more than one man seriously harmed with a blunt blow from a practice sword. He straightened his friend’s limbs out along the back of the wagon, and checked for broken bones.

  “Am I a puppet?”

  At the hoarse words, Joral nearly dropped Zuke’s foot.

  “Are my strings broken? Is that why you move me about like that?”

  Joral smiled at Zuke’s words. “Not a puppet, my friend. A corpse. I was shaking your lifeless body in the hopes of loose coins.”

  Zuke groaned and rolled himself to the side.

  “Easy. You took a nasty blow to the head. You didn’t happen to see what hit you?”

  “No, but I am glad it was not one of these.”

  Joral looked where Zuke was staring. There was an arrow embedded deep in the side of the wagon. He hopped down and walked around for a closer look. “I think this one was meant for me. Nearly caught the horse in the neck.”

  The shaft was unmistakably a Segra design with a slim shaft and grass fletching in place of feathers. There were few birds on these plains this year.

  “One of ours?” Zuke had pushed himself to sitting.

  Joral shrugged. “There are no markings. It could have been made by any of the Ken Segra. Or the Xan Segra. Or anyone who trades with either of us.”

  Zuke leaned over and checked Quarie’s sleeping form. She was still breathing, still so eerily motionless.

  Joral stilled as he scanned the contents of the back of the wagon. “Where is Illista?”

  Zuke shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Joral’s chest constricted as he pictured the body of the small servant girl trampled on the side of the road. Or shot with an arrow. “I have to find her.”

  Joral tucked his blades back into their sheath and swung his legs up and into the saddle. “Can you drive? Ride ahead and try to catch the caravan. I am going back to look for Illista.”

  “Which of us got hit on the head? Surely you don’t plan to ride back into an ambush.” But Zuke was already heaving himself into the wagon seat and collecting the reins.

  “Sumik and Hascek were back there too. When you reach the caravan, send help. I will be careful.”

  Chapter 8 In the silence of the grass, Illista heard water. Not the teasing crystal of the elusive rain. This was the gurgling, rushing noise of a great river. A very great river.

  From what she knew of the landscape of the plains, there was no such thing as a great river. A few tiny creeks, some barely more than trickles of water, fed the smattering of ponds that served as holy ground to the Segra people. This was a veritable desert when the rains were poor.

  But somewhere there was a river. She was sure of it. It sounded close. Closer than the lake they left behind. It was not possible for such a large body of water as a river to go unnoticed. Not possible for it to be a secret from the Ken Segra.

  She curled into a tighter ball, drawing her legs and arms close around herself for warmth. The tall mass of grass where she sat broke most of the winter wind, but it could not warm her freezing legs and chattering teeth. Only her bloodstone seemed to burn.

  The caravan would never wait for a lost Waki. Would they even notice her absence? Every passing breath that she waited hiding in the grass was step the tribe would take. Another step away from her. She had to move.

  She had to rest. The Waki were not built for running. The bloodstone throbbed in her palm. Her true self had longer legs. Her true self was light and spry and could swim for miles without tiring.

  Her true self was being hunted by Mulavi.

  She could stay along the fringes of the path, bloodstone ready to put back on if someone approached.

  She could stay here, hidden among the grass, forgotten and alone until Mulavi found her.
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br />   Illista shot to her feet and blistering pain shot up from the soles of her feet to her shins and her thighs, still shaky from her waddling sprint.

  She closed her eyes, focused on that tantalizing hint of a river and pulled the cord up and off her head. Her limbs flashed hot and black spots swam before her eyes, blacking out the sun for a moment.

  Illista drew in a steadying breath and opened her eyes. It was done. The bloodstone lay in her fingers, a cold inert rock tethered by a humble rope. Her fingers. Long and slim with creamy pale skin. She stared at her amulet. It had been her protection for so long. Both shield and leash.

  What if she were to hurl it into the brush? What if she were to discard it, here, now, and walk away. To claim her own identity again.

  What if she never saw her sister again?

  The loud rush of water sang and chanted, calling to her. The sound was louder now, so much louder that she was nearly overwhelmed by the noise. So many voices. So much water. So very nearby. What would the Segra people do to find so much water?

  Illista glared at the pendant as though it could feel her accusation, but it was just a dead rock in her hand. She wrapped the bloodstone around her wrist, looping the cord through itself so that it could not drop.

  She had to find the Ken Segra. She had to find Quarie. Together, perhaps, they could hunt for the river.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. Out loud, to herself. Or to the river. She was brainsick to think that an invisible river could hear her words, and yet the chanting and calling and singing calmed at her words as though it were placated.

  She began to walk. Awkwardly at first as she accustomed herself to her height and stride. The last time she had taken off her bloodstone, she spent almost no time on dry land. She kept brushing into the grass with her elbows and the tall branches tore at her hair. It seemed longer than what she remembered, nearly down to her waist as though it had been growing unchecked these past years. Lacking even a spare length of cord or leather, she twisted it back with her hands and tucked the ends into the neckline of her dress. Her shoes, she soon discovered, were nearly useless on her real feet. They were too wide, too loose. They slipped and knocked about with every step she took. Finally she took them off.

  Sticking to the edges of the pathway left by the Ken Segra, Illista hurried. Her legs felt light but cold, as her Waki-sized dress exposed more of her ankles than it was intended for, and her stockings hung loosely around her knees.

  Every moan of the wind, every tap of the tall, wood-like grass made her jump. But even still, she pressed onward. By late afternoon, the bulk of the tribe would camp for the night. Surely she would catch up with them by then.

  ***

  Joral kept his horse to an easy trot as he retraced the morning’s trail, though he felt anything but easy. There was no sign of Sumik and Hascek and the ground had been trampled by too many feet and carts and horses to distinguish their trail from the rest.

  A slight swish of the tall grass caught his eye and he reined in his horse. He was exposed on all sides. If his attackers lay in wait, then he was a dead man. He waited and the grass stilled. And nothing happened.

  Just the wind.

  As if on cue, the wind howled through the tall grasses again, rattling the fringed brown tips that towered just above eyelevel. Strange wind that could rattle just a branch or two at a time. He slid down from the horse and drew his sword.

  It was not just the wind.

  He studied the prints along the ground. Most of it was muck and dirt and nonsense. But here was a faint trail of footsteps. The prints were garbled, but he recognized the length of a young man’s stride. Or a woman’s. Not the boots of a Segra warrior. They disappeared into the brush.

  His assassin was alone.

  Joral lost the tracks in the shadowy cover of the grass, but he found a broken stem here, a wayward clump of dirt there. His heart pounded in his chest as he closed in on whoever this was. He walked silently, slowly, his hunter’s instincts fully alert. His nose detected something just out of the ordinary. A faint trace of incense and smoke.

  He deliberately rustled a stand of grass as he passed hoping for a reaction from his prey. He got it in the form of a gasp and a wild shaking of ground as a small figure darted through the bush some thirty paces away from him.

  The figure darted toward the road.

  Joral sprinted after her. It was a girl or a woman, her skirts catching on the branches as she passed, her hands fumbling with something in front of her, distracting her from her wild dash. He pounded through the grasses after her, heedless of the branches slapping his face. If she freed a knife or a dart or even a whistle to call her companions, he would be dead.

  With long strides, he caught up with her and pounced, bringing her crashing to the ground underneath him, wrapping one of his arms around her head and the other around her shoulders to imprison her arms. They hit the dirt hard and rolled.

  The woman bucked and kicked and clawed at something on the ground. Joral wrestled her until she lay on her back, her hands pinned above her head and the weight of his legs keeping hers still.

  Her long silvery black hair had come loose and tangled around her head, full of dirt and broken grass. Gray eyes stared up at him above a set of delicate cheekbones, and pink lips parted as she breathed heavily from the run and the tussle. He stared for a long moment at those lips.

  He knew those lips.

  He wrapped his free hand around the curve of her jaw, just above her soft, vulnerable neck. Her image didn’t blur this time. But then, he had no poison in his system today. The skin of her cheek was smooth, flawless. Her wrists were slim enough to fit in one of his hands, and her shoulders, though nicely shaped, were far from the squat powerhouses that the Waki possessed.

  “Who are you?” he growled.

  She shook her head, still staring at him.

  “What are you really?” She squirmed underneath him and he was suddenly, painfully aware that the rest of her body was as feminine and human as her hands and her eyes.

  Her eyes darted around, searching for something, but he held his hand motionless, unwilling to let her turn her head. “Please let me go. I dropped something—“

  “A knife for my back? Or poison for my wine? Do you think I would give you back your weapon, Illista?” Her pupils dilated with the realization that he recognized her.

  She blanched. “I didn’t…it’s not…please, Joral. It’s not a weapon. I dropped my necklace, that’s all. You are hurting me.”

  Joral released her chin and drew back. He was not accustomed to hurting women. He was not accustomed to assassination attempts either. “Who are you, really?”

  Her eyes darted around as though looking for an escape. Her gaze rested on something beyond her shoulder for a half second before returning to meet his. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I am a servant of the Chieftess. Nothing more.”

  With a fluid motion, Joral released her hands. She reacted immediately, rolling and grabbing for the thin cord tangled in the grass a few feet away, but he was quicker.

  He jumped to his feet and dangled the necklace—just a lumpy rock on a cord—above his head. She followed him to her feet and jumped for it, but he held it just out of her reach. “What kind of magic does it possess?”

  She kicked him in the shin and winced as her bare foot contacted his stiff boots. Illista clawed at his arm, pulling on his shirt. He only lifted it higher. “Enough. If you want this back, you need to talk to me, not fight me.”

  With a small sound that reminded him of a housecat’s growl, she pulled away from him, wrapping her arms around her thin shoulders. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Why are you trying to kill me?”

  She whirled, her eyes flashing. “Are all of the Southern lords so thick?”

  He raised one eyebrow and gave the necklace a small shake so that the stone tic-tocked back and forth. Her eyes followed it with an expression that seemed part longing part loathing.

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sp; She growled again in a show of feminine frustration that was almost endearing. “I am NOT trying to kill you, you rock head. If I had wanted you dead I would have left you in that lake to drown.”

  He balled the necklace into his fist and lowered his arm, tucking it tight against his chest. “That was you.”

  She glared, her jaw clenched tight. “Gods help the Segra people with someone as slow as you in command.”

  “Tell me what it is that I'm missing. Someone has tried to kill me twice, and here you stand, a changeling, hiding in the same grass from which I was attacked. Why should I return your magic to you?”

  Illista harrumphed and hugged herself tighter. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Preparing to flee, perhaps. And then she stilled.

  Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Are you so certain the assassins were after you? An arrow struck the wagon less than a hands width from my head. The stone in your hand is the only protection I have from Mulavi and Zabewa.”

  “And the other Waki. Quarie?”

  Illista shot him a guarded look. The dappled sunlight filtering through the tall grasses reflected in her orbs and danced through her dark silvery hair. “My sister wears the same sort of bloodstone. They change our appearance. That is all.”

  Something made the hair on the back of Joral's neck prickle and he froze, his senses on full alert. He held up a finger to Illista, urging her to quiet. Her pupils widened with fear as she heard it too.

  Voices. Far enough away that he could not make out the words, but the cadence was foreign. Too quick, too rhythmic to be Segra. Mulavi’s men, perhaps. He heard a bark of laughter. They seemed unaware of Joral and Illista. That might be their only salvation.

  Without a word, Joral thrust the necklace at Illista. She stared as if surprised to find it in her hands again, but she didn't put it on immediately.

  “Quickly,” he hissed.

  She shook her head. “I am too slow like that.”

  Joral snatched it from her fingers and dropped the cord around her neck. He blinked as the willowy form melted into the familiar Waki. He grabbed her by the arm and steered her towards where he had left his horse.