by Kristi Lea
The young woman moved with the grace of a cat at her leisure as she wound past the Chieftess to stand in front of Joral. “Welcome, Joral. I am Shikan, daughter of Qitkan. We of the Xan Segra are pleased to find you safe, and to welcome you to our sacred waters. I am pleased most of all.”
Illista could help but stare at the other woman. Shikan, Joral’s betrothed, had a golden beauty that glittered like the midday sun, and when she shined a radiant smile at Joral, it hurt to look at her. The pair made a striking couple.
Illista hunched her shoulders and forced her eyes away.
The man in the headdress was Qitkan, she supposed, Chief of the Xan Segra and the golden woman’s father. He beamed proudly at his daughter. Next to him, Rafil crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. The warrior turned the glower on Illista and she huddled deeper into the drabness of her servant’s garb.
“You risk much for the life of a Waki, Prince Joral.” Rafil nearly spat the words.
Illista shrank away and dropped her gaze to her dirt-streaked feat, fear turning her mouth to dust and her stomach to river rock.
“My life is worth nothing if I would leave behind one of my people,” bowed Joral.
“Come, Rafil. Do not be cross. Prince Joral is safe and that is what is important.” Qitkan took Joral by the arm and led him toward the gathering tent. “We should celebrate with a feast this evening.”
Joral broke free of her arm and walked back. Illista’s heart nearly stopped as his feet paused just a few inches from her own. She looked up into his eyes. They were a bright blue like the afternoon sky and as unreadable as the depths of the ocean. “Go to Zuke, Illista. See to your sister.”
She nodded, spun and walked away. She didn’t so much choose a direction as choose the path with the fewest Segra feet. She had no idea where to find Zuke and Quarie in this sea of tents and strange people, but she couldn’t bear to watch Joral arm in arm with his beautiful Princess.
***
Chieftess snapped her fingers and a Waki that Joral did not recognize materialized out of the folds of the gathering tent with a skin of water. Joral tried to catch the boy’s eye as he accepted the drink, but the servant would not look up. How many Waki served in the camp? Was this boy really a boy or was he an old man? Joral felt ashamed to never have wondered before. What other secrets did the Segra's silent helpers conceal from their employers?
“Thank you,” he said firmly.
The servant hurried away without a backward glance.
He glanced toward the willowy figure of his fiancée. Every line of every poem spoken at the betrothal ceremonial had been true. She was beautiful with even features and a clear complexion and curves in all the right places. In the halls of his father's people, she would have easily snared a baron as a husband, if not a true prince. How strange that he, the bastard son of a minor noble, should be deserving of her.
The thought left him much colder than he expected. His heart felt like lead, and it was as if he had to paint onto his face. Like a man in one of the murals that lined Zuke's tent. A fake.
Shikan's fingers were cold against the bared skin of his forearm and she frowned down at them, a small wrinkle marring her high forehead. She dropped her hand and smiled, her expression guarded. “You will wish to bathe and dress in the privacy of your own tent.”
And rest, he added silently. His mind strayed to the shelter of the riverbank where Illista slept peacefully in his arms, soft and trusting. He hadn’t slept all night. The best he had managed was to lie next to her and watch the stars travel across the night sky. With each light he counted a life—of a tribesman, of his father’s people, of Zabewa’s—so many lives affected by his own decisions. And yet they were all so far above him.
“I will take you to your tent.” The sound of his mother's voice startled Joral out of his reverie.
He stiffened under her assessing glance. Vituri had smudges of dark color under her eyes and a wrinkle to the corner of her mouth today. Was she weary from the travel or had she been worried for him?
Or worried for the peace agreement with the Xan Segra?
Joral and his mother exited the rear of the tent with no fanfare. Chief Qitkan seemed content to confer with two of his warriors at the far end with Shikan perched on a cushion near the fire. Rafil loomed near that group, glowering at Joral.
They walked quickly through the Xan Segra encampment to where Joral recognized the lighter colors of the Ken Segra tents. Even though the nearest tents of each side were no farther than any tents on either side, there seemed to be an invisible wall that separated the two peoples.
Joral noticed the Waki more. They were always there, around the side of a tent or scurrying by on some errand. Here and there he saw a glimpse of skirt or the longer hair of a female that reminded him of Illista. And once he thought he spied a trio of Waki children staring openly at him from a distance. He raised a hand to wave at them and they ran away.
His tent was just like most of the Ken Segra warrior's . Pale tan leather, the A-frame large enough for a reasonable fire inside and room to sleep two or three at most. He had no ornamentation on the outside, though the hides had been of good quality and had been sewn securely. His mother's tent, almost as plain, stood nearby. He spied the colorful silks of Zuke's not far away also. That was a surprise, given the mutual wariness between Zuke and the Ken Segra. Though perhaps not so strange, after the attack on the road.
His mother followed him inside his tent and settled herself on his unrolled sleeping mat on the ground, one eyebrow arched.
“Sit close, Joral. There are many ears around the camp today.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and met her sharp gaze with one of his own. “I would prefer some rest before the feast that Chief Qitkan is planning.”
“Rest is a luxury we cannot afford. My scouts report that Mulavi is an hour's ride from here, with a large force of mercenaries.”
Joral's heart seized in his chest. I have to warn Illista. He gulped and willed his voice not to crack. “How many mercenaries?”
“Five score.”
Joral froze. The Ken Segra hunters numbered only a little more than that but not all of them were warriors. Every man of the tribe knew how to wield a spear or a bow, but most preferred to face prey, not men. “He brought one hundred armed soldiers to track a single woman?”
She shook her head. “There is more. Mulavi dines with us tonight in Qitkan's tent. He is no stranger among the Xan Segra.”
***
Scents of ginger, honeyroot, and amberly filled the colored silk tent as Zuke simmered one of his potions. The liquid inside crooned a sweet, haunting melody that reminded Illista of a love song that her father used to sing to her mother. She shivered and inched closer to the fire, the needle and thread lying useless in her hands.
The torn and stained work dress she had worn last night would never be the same, no matter how many tiny stitches she placed in the fabric. She would never be the same again.
With a huff, she balled it up and tossed it aside.
“Are you all right, sister?” Quarie asked the question for only the second time since Illista had stumbled into the tent that morning. Quarie’s voice was still shaky, but her color was slowly returning to normal. Normal for a Waki, anyway.
“As right as rain,” Illista said, allowing challenge into in her eyes and her voice. She immediately regretted it. Her sister wasn’t the target of her frustration.
Quarie drew back and stared at the leather skin that lined the ground between them. The silence stretched out. Illista stared at the painted figures that danced over her head. A dove. A gull. A dolphin jumping from the waves of a sea. So free. So beautiful. Her bloodstone burned against her skin.
A few feet away, Zuke stood and poured his potion into a travel skin. He opened one of his trunks and began sifting through the contents. He tossed a few things on the ground behind him. A leather knapsack. A small knife. A fire kit. Once he had a small pile, he gathered them in hi
s arms and carried them around the fire to where the sisters sat.
“During tonight's feast will be your best bet. All attention will be on the Chief's tent, and I have promised a few firestars for afterwards. Do you have extra clothing?”
Illista stared at the man, his words not quite registering in her mind. Quarie stared at her lap.
He continued. “Follow the noonday sun to the south. Don't stop on the edge of the plains. There are plenty of settlements there where you might find shelter, but it is too close to linger. There is a lady in one of the baronies not far from Joral's people. She runs a school of sorts for young women, mainly daughters of lords who are not quite ready to marry. I can write you a letter.”
Illista frowned. “Why would we leave the Segra? This is our home.”
He gave her a hard look.
“No,” whispered Quarie. “We should go north. There are few Waki to the south. It would make us that much easier to track.”
“Once you pass the edge of the plains, travel as yourselves. You will be targets, but only of a different sort of attention. Two beautiful women travelling alone…Keep up your guard and stick together.”
He knows. Illista's mind reeled.
Her sister did not seem at all surprised.
Illista opened her mouth to speak but what came out was a tumble of half-thoughts. “What do you think…why would you…what about…”
The medicine man smiled a half smile. There was a softness in his expression, almost tenderness, and his eyes burned with a hint of knowing. He flicked his gaze over Quarie’s down-turned face and then back to the fire. “I met Zabewa once, years ago. He was nothing but a thug then. Cruel and quick-tempered and vindictive. I would not turn my worst enemy over to his hands, let alone a pair such as you. Take this. Sew some of the coins into your clothing, and distribute the rest among your gear.”
Illista stared at the pouch he thrust at her, heavy with copper and silver. They were small denominations but plenty of them.
Before she could protest, he held up one hand. “They are your wages, earned fair and square. I had asked Nunzi for your accounts, telling her that I would pay you out of my own funds.”
He stood and walked with his crooked gait to the tent flap. Throwing a heavy cloak over his shoulders, he looked back one last time. This time, Illista’s sister did meet his gaze for a long moment before they were left to each other and their packing.
***
The soft clack of carved wooden plates and crunch of bread broken was punctuated by occasional nervous laughter and the hushed whispers of the Chief’s dinner guests. Joral shared a soft fur cushion with Shikan and smiled automatically as each new dish was offered to him. He ate when he should and made the appropriate sounds of gratitude and pleasure, but he tasted nothing but dust.
“More grol?” asked Shikan.
Joral shook his head. She shrugged. He noticed that she had taken only a single sip from her own cup before quietly asking one of the Waki to bring her water.
Mulavi was the only one speaking to the room at large. He offered hunting stories that showed off his own prowess and descriptions of his travels clearly designed to inspire awe. Awe and fear of Zabewa’s armies.
His men chortled loudly and Chief Qitkan smiled indulgently at his foreign guest as they both accepted another fill of grol. The chief’s eyes had reddened and his speech had begun to slur.
Shikan blew out a tiny breath as she watched her father take another healthy swig of the beverage.
On Joral’s other side, Vaturi sat proud and tall and looked down on the room as though she were chief here instead of Qitkan. Zuke kept to himself in a corner, behind the Ken Segra elders and as far from Mulavi as he could politely manage. Joral envied his friend the corner.
A thunder of hoof beats interrupted the awkward meal. The tent flaps were thrown back and a cold wind whistled through the space, causing the fire to crackle and sputter.
“What is the meaning of thish? Rafil, is that you?” Chief Qitkan staggered to his feet as the Xan Segra warrior stormed in.
Rafil’s eyes chanced on Joral and Shikan and narrowed. He upended a large hollow stool and dumped the contents of his waterskin into it. The liquid was dark, like wine, and smelled sour. “The lake has been poisoned. The waters have turned foul. It is undrinkable.”
A collective gasp went up around the room. Unlike the Ken Segra's water, this lake was more than sacred. The Miquesa was the only source of fresh water for miles around. This lake was life for the Xan Segra.
He jumped to his feet. “How is that possible? I passed by its shores this morning.” And swam in its waters.
Every eye in the room fixed on Joral. Shikan's were wide open. Rafil's narrowed, accusatory. Zuke and Vituri carried equally cautionary glances.
“Chief Qitkan, if I may be so bold,” Mulavi swept forward to the center of the tent where Rafil, Vituri and Qitkan stood. “In all my travels, I have only encountered one being capable of such a feat in such a small time. The witch that I hunt. She blackened the rivers that fed Zabewa's people in order to cover her own escape from his justice. She is nearby. Hidden among you. Just as I have forewarned you.”
Silence filled the tent but outside there were sounds of alarm. People running. Horses neighing. A child crying.
“The lake, the lake...” moaned Qitkan. The older chief's shoulders looked slumped, his belly soft compared to the mercenary at his side. Soft and weak. How did the tribe survive with such a chief?
Shikan walked quietly to her father's side and whispered something into his ear. She took him by the hand and patted it, as a mother might to a frightened child. “Let us see the poison for ourselves.”
***
Illista and Quarie huddled together beneath the biting spines of a thrombu shrub. The scattered light from hundreds of campfires twinkled on the gentle slope below them. Above, clouds covered the stars like the thinnest gauze over the eyes of a bride. Clouds with no rain. She could not hear even the faintest hint of it in the sky.
Illista pressed her hands to her ears and wished that the lake were as quiet. “Something is wrong with the water.”
It had begun just before they left the Segra camp at dusk. Slipping out of the camp was easy. Many of the Waki were gathered around the cooking tents, preparing and serving the evening meal for the Segra. The tall people themselves sat in family groups in their tents. No one paid any attention to the sisters.
With every step outside of the camp, the wail of the water had grown in Illista's ears. The lake, the very water that had carried her and Joral to safety just a few hours before, now begged her for help. It was all she could do not to break off her bloodstone and run for the shores.
The water glowed in the burgeoning starlight, an eerie green that illuminated the parched shores and the cliff face on the far side.
“You hear the whisper?” asked Quarie, her eyes reflecting the strange light.
“Whisper? It wails.” Illista shuddered at the sound.
“We should go. We must go.” Quarie stood where she was, her low voice cracking. “The longer we linger, the more dangerous it is for us.”
Illista pressed her hands tighter over her ears. Nothing helped. “We must do something.”
Quarie shook her head and turned away, taking Illista by the elbow.
“This is the only water source for miles around. I can't leave this here. They will die here without water.” Joral will die here without water.
Quarie threw a look over her shoulder at the water. “There might be a way...”
Chapter 11 Qitkan and Shikan led the group down carved stone stairs that led to the edge of the water. In the blackness of the night, the water burned like a sickly green fire. They made for a strange procession: Rafil leading the way before the chief and his daughter, then Vituri and Joral, and finally the elders of both tribes. Some carried torches or lanterns and the weak fires cast deeper shadows on the ground around them. Unease hung in the air like a mist around them,
and from the rear Mulavi and his men laughed at their own humor with an uncomfortable joviality that set Joral's teeth on edge.
One of the Xan Segra women, a medicine woman of sorts, knelt beside the lake and dipped a cup into the water. She sniffed at it and tentatively dipped a finger into the cup. “Bah!”
The woman yanked her hand back as though it had been bitten and hastily threw the water, cup and all, into the lake. “It is poison. How is such a thing possible?”
“Someone is over there!” called a man waving his torch toward the banks below.”
Everyone looked where the man pointed. A slender figure knelt near the water, hands outstretched. The greenish water seemed to float upwards towards her Joral gasped as he recognized the silvery cast to her hair. Illista.
“The witch! I want her alive.” Within a shout, Mulavi's men were after her. They skirted the banks, weapons in hand.
Joral started forward but a strong hand held him back. He looked around into the blazing eyes of Rafil. “What do you know of this, lowlander?”
Joral shrugged him off and took another step forward. This time he was stopped by his mother. “Wait with us, son.” Her voice was soft, dangerous.
Illista saw the men coming far too late to get away. She seemed to release the glowing water she was controlling and splashed it at the two men-at-arms before sprinting for the weeds above her. They jumped out of the way and within a few steps tackled her to the ground. She screamed and kicked to no avail.
Joral stood, his heart pounding and his hands clenched, pinned between his mother and Rafil as the men dragged Illista back. She fought them every step so that they were forced to carry her to the group.
Mulavi grabbed her roughly by the chin and forced her face upwards. “I have been looking for you for a long time.”
