Enemy (On the Bones of Gods Book 1)

by K. Eason

  He had none of a noidghe’s training, but he understood that hearts did not become spirit drums in mere fever dreams. The ghost roads wanted him. Well. They might wait until he died, then. Today, or tomorrow, or twenty years from today, they would wait. Only a fool went to meet them.

  A fool, or a noidghe.

  Which are you?

  Neither. Both. Frightened, though he would not admit it. He had never felt this weak, so that he did not mind that he lay naked and helpless among women not his relatives. No, he was happy for it. Naked and helpless meant he was not on the glacier, not spirit-walking, which only noidghe should do. Which only noidghe could do. Which he had been doing, more and more frequently, as the fever grew worse.

  I am no noidghe.

  Tell yourself that.

  “Veiko,” Snow said again, magic third time to bind him into his flesh. He wondered if her Illhari conjuring taught such things. Should ask her, yes, but not now. All he could do to keep the glacier at bay, staring at her.

  Now she should say here and drink this and offer him a cloth-teat soaked in melted snow. But she did not. Stared, and her expression frightened him as badly as the glacier and the drum-heart together.

  “I am dying,” he said, because she would not.

  She touched him, cool fingers tracing his brow, and he slammed back into his own flesh. She wouldn’t quite look at him, no, staring hard anywhere but at his eyes. The firelight snagged in her hair, turned fair to white and silver, like Helgi. Winter-colored Helgi, waiting for him on the glacier. The spirit world pressed closer. He thought he felt wind on his face. Thought he saw the glacier’s wide stretch. Cross, and he’d leave flesh behind. Might become lost in the spirit world. Noidghe did.

  I am not.

  Yet. He had almost died once, and Snowdenaelikk had drawn him back. She held him living now, while Helgi’s nose pressed his palm.

  “Yes,” said Snow, and Helgi became a blanket clutched in his fist. “Got one thing left, yeah? But it could kill you.”

  Veiko blinked between glacier and firelight on cave walls. “Better your doing than hers.”

  Snow chipped out a smile. “Glad you feel that way.”

  It hurt to look at her face, as naked as his own flesh. He found something simpler. Stared at Logi’s red-brown shoulder, curled against his left hip, and Logi’s warm brown eyes. A dog did not grieve for what might be. Did not know enough to despair.

  A woman did. Snow had her back to him now, so that he could see the hard knobs of her spine above her sweater’s fraying hem, the curve and ridge of her ribs. Not a comfortable woman, Snowdenaelikk. Hard, he might have named her once, brisk and biting as first frost, until a storm spent under the spruce sharing stories, sharing blankets and the dogs for warmth. It seemed now that he could see past the bone and armor, past leather and wit, to the core of her, all steel and bright fire.

  Couldn’t hear it in her voice. That was cool, steady. “Hand me that pouch, will you?”

  Metal rattled, then glass. Veiko smelled damp earth, and rot, and flowers all at once. The other woman, the soldier, coughed like a cat. “What the hell is that?”

  “Red Lady.”

  “Red Lady?”

  “Fuck and damn, Szanys. It won’t jump out of the pouch at you. Don’t eat it, you’re fine. Don’t knock it into the soup, either.”

  “You can’t give him—”

  “Can. Have to. Now sit him up, yeah? Or do I need to ask Istel?”

  “No.” Dekklis slid between Veiko’s face and the cave roof. Tight-jawed, hard-eyed woman. A polished stone, that one, smooth and brittle and sharp where she cracked. She twitched back the blanket. Flinched when the svartjagr hissed.

  “Briel,” Veiko said, all the voice he had left, which didn’t creep far past his lips. Briel stopped, wings half-spread, and chrripped. Then she retreated, slither and slide, into a black puddle beside him. Propped her head on his belly and watched Dekklis.

  Who muttered words Veiko had learned from Snowdenaelikk and edged within Briel’s strike range. She peered into his face.

  “You know what she’s trying to give you?”

  Close enough, and, “Yes.”

  “And you want to drink it.”

  “Yes.”

  That was the look his father had worn when Veiko told him what became of the chieftain’s thieving son.

  Fool.

  Dekklis shoved her arm under Veiko’s shoulders, heaved him sitting. She steadied him, neither rough nor gentle. “You want to die that bad, skraeling, I won’t stop you.”

  “I will not,” he began, and stopped. The glacier wind lifted his braids, carved channels across his cheeks, through the several days’ stubble. Poured down his throat and burned him with its chill, so that he coughed.

  “C’mon, Dek.” The man’s

  Istel

  voice, rare and low and soft. “Ease up.”

  Veiko did not hear Istel often. Saw him even less. But there he was now, on the far side of the fire, a blanket and two red legion cloaks around his bare shoulders. Half a smile when he saw Veiko looking. And, more quietly, “Hope it works.”

  The well-wish surprised him. Scattered what was left of his wits, so that he blinked and stared like a child. And then it was too late to recover, as Snow moved between them. She had a small glass vessel cupped in her palm. A dark liquid clung to the inside like blood.

  Snow cradled the back of his skull. Held the glass to his lips. Effort to swallow, oh yes, and more still to keep it down. He’d thought he was too weak for more vomiting. Damn near proved himself wrong. The women steadied him, one on each side, as his belly knotted him double.

  “Got him,” said Snow, and then there was only one woman holding him, all bone and steel and bright fire, ward against the glacier and the wind.

  “Listen to me, Veiko,” murmured against his ear. “Don’t you fucking die.”

  “Do not let me,” he said, and then he was falling backward while his skin burned from the inside. His vision failed, or his eyes melted. His tongue and teeth turned to ash and blew away in a blizzard wind.

  And then.

  He stood beside the glacier again. Dull metal sky, dying sun, a herd of takin snipping grass from the tundra.

  Helgi put two paws on the ice. Looked back expectantly.

  Veiko stepped after him.

  Istel, Laughing God bless him, had jenja. Four sticks, in varying conditions of damaged, stuffed in a pouch on his hip. He pulled them out and tried to straighten them, one-handed, against his thigh.

  “Bad habit, yeah,” he muttered when he caught Snow staring. “But damn, I want one.”

  “You and me both.”

  He blinked at her. Offered the least damaged, and a crooked smile.

  “Thanks.”

  She squatted beside him and stared into the snowfall. Sucked on the jenja and willed her hands to stop shaking. Blame exhaustion for that. Blame Veiko, who hadn’t died yet, against all expectations. Don’t let him die, he’d said. Fuck and damn, she had no intention, but she’d reached her limit. Nothing else she could do, yeah, out of tricks.

  Please, Laughing God.

  Down to prayers. Down to superstition.

  “How’s he doing?” Istel sounded sincere.

  “I don’t know. Fever’s down. But.”

  “That’s happened before.”

  Several times, in the recent forever, and every time it had come back. “Yeah.”

  “Mm. Will it work, that Red Lady?”

  “Hope so. Don’t know.”

  A quiet man, Istel. But the look he cast sidelong damn near shouted.

  “Truth, Istel. I don’t want to kill him.”

  “Huh. Don’t have to convince me,” soft as snowfall.

  No. Not him. Dekklis, ever and always. Winter peace meant Dekklis did the bulk of wood gathering and fire tending and cooking. Cool, efficient Dekklis, who’d held flesh together for stitching, who’d mopped puke and swabbed blood without protest, who’d balked only when
she’d seen Red Lady in the pouch.

  So. Bet that winter peace was about to end. They were two days into it so far, and the snow was still falling—sideways, when the wind gusted—and piling deep outside. There was nowhere else to go, and the cave wasn’t a big place. Dekklis had arranged and rearranged her gear and Istel’s a dozen times, prodded the fire. Now she was scraping spoon against pot until the soup itself must be bruised. Those were the sounds of a woman thinking too much. Of a woman bothered. Of a woman checking for certain ingredients in the supper, maybe.

  And then, suddenly—no sound at all. A patch of cold spread on Snow’s back as Dekklis came between her and the fire, and oh yes, that was a north-wind disapproval raising hair on the back of her neck. Snow turned sideways and fit her spine against the stone at the cave mouth. Propped her forearms across her knees. Winced as muscle and bone popped and settled. Looked up at Dekklis, finally.

  “Something on your mind, First Scout?”

  Dekklis stared down over cheekbones that said highborn, well bred, blue blood running under that smooth black skin. She folded her arms under her breasts. “Few things, yeah.”

  “Let me guess. You don’t like jenja smoke.”

  Not a blink. Not a twitch. Laughing God, the woman didn’t smile.

  “I don’t, but that isn’t what I want to discuss.”

  “Huh. Well. That’s a surprise.”

  Istel sighed, audibly. “Truce. Remember?”

  Sliver scowl, flicker-fast, at Istel. “Do I have a weapon?”

  He ducked her irritation. Flicked the butt of his jenja into the storm. Rocked onto his heels and straightened slowly, as far as the cave mouth allowed.

  “Just the one in your mouth. Look, Dek. I’d be dead without her. If that matters.” And then he retreated, no other word for it, back into the cave, around the fire and back to his bedroll. He wasn’t out of earshot—impossible here—but he’d taken himself out of the conversation. Let the women work it out, yeah, because that’s what Dvergiri women did, and Dvergiri men lived with the decisions.

  Not Tsabrak. No, Tsabrak would’ve knifed Dekklis already, and Istel with her, and hell with winter peace. Defiant, angry Tsabrak would’ve been dead three times by now, too, by legion hands or Taliri. At least he understood when to send women. Consort with Tal’Shik’s godsworn, no, not him. He sent Snowdenaelikk, who had a little more patience, a little more woods-wits. A pair of tits, however small, to give her some legitimacy.

  And tits or not, wits or not, she’d’ve died, too, again three times over, but for Veiko, who had also not known when to retreat. She had an eyeful of him at this angle, blanket mound and Briel and Logi’s furry lump. White face above that, tight flesh and fever-slick skin. It hadn’t been conjuring that had let Ehkla hold him still for cutting without ropes or chains. That was godmagic, Purged magic. The Academy didn’t teach it. Snow didn’t understand it. But Veiko did. Somehow. Superstitious, what-is-that-witchfire and do-not-interfere-with-spirits Veiko had brought Kenjak and a squad of dead soldiers with him to save her. Veiko had gotten himself loose from Ehkla’s godmagic, which he shouldn’t’ve been able to do. And now he told her not to let him die, as if she had that power.

  Snow closed her eyes. Pressed the heel of one hand against the sockets, one after another, so that she saw colors. So that she didn’t have to look at Dekklis, still waiting, fuck and damn, still standing.

  “You have a smart partner,” Snow said. “Listen to him. Leave me alone.”

  “Can’t.” A little gust of fire-heat, woman-smell, as Dekklis moved into Istel’s place across the cave mouth. Creak and pop as she settled, and a breathless little sigh. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”

  Snow cracked her eyes. Stared from under the lids. “Oh no. Never think that.”

  “It’s not what you did. It’s that you knew how to do it at all. Chirurgeon, sure, I’ll believe that. I’ve seen you work on Istel. And courier, smuggler, I’ll believe, too. But what you did today with the Red Lady—that’s assassin’s work.”

  Snow took another mouthful of jenja and held it. A little stale, a little sour, a little burn in the back of her throat. “Only if he dies. Before that, it’s medicine, yeah?”

  “Medicine. Right. So you learned this at the Academy, is that it? Red Lady’s common treatment there?”

  “Common? No. But I’ve got this.” Snow tapped the silver ring, high on the curve of her ear. “And we keep archives, for the advanced students.”

  “Illegal archives, then. Those records were Purged. Senate decree. Red Lady is a proscribed substance.”

  “Only because Tal’Shik’s godsworn loved it so much. But it’s because those godsworn got so good at killing each other we’ve got all these medicines and antidotes. You think the Senate doesn’t fucking well know the Academy keeps those archives? Sure they do. That’s the point of the Academy. Record keeping. Lore. Knowledge locked up in the library, not running around the taverns. Besides. Never know when you’ll have a plague. Or need a rival’s death to look like bad fish.”

  Dekklis looked at her. “They teach heresy at the Academy, too, or did you learn that somewhere else?”

  “I thought I was an assassin. Now I’m a heretic?”

  “I think you can be both. I think you are both. I saw you flashing palm-marks at Ehkla. And I don’t think you learned to be godsworn at the Academy. So where did you learn it?”

  Snow laughed. Not a happy sound, nothing funny—violent laughter that clawed like a badger on the way out. Made her eyes sting, her throat hurt. Fuck, she was tired, too tired, and Dekklis too smart and too relentless, and yeah, maybe Tsabrak would’ve been right to gut her and Istel both and leave them for the crows.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Motherless storm out there, motherless Taliri warband burning towns and sacrificing soldiers, and you’re worried about my orthodoxy?”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “All right. Then don’t worry. I’m not godsworn. Just”—she studied her palm, where the godmark was—“associated. Allied. But not godsworn.”

  “That makes it all clear. Thanks.” Dekklis took her breath. Held it. Then: “You’re in the middle of all of this. Start at Davni. You ran, and both of those men died. But Kenjak’s not your fault, no, he’s killed—”

  “Sacrificed.”

  “—by a woman who happens to know your name—”

  “Been over that, yeah?”

  “—who you say worships Tal’Shik, who you say carved up your partner.”

  Snow’s laughter dried up so fast that it hurt. Dry-voiced now, dry-eyed: “Look at Veiko. Look at his toadfucking leg.”

  “I did. I helped you stitch it, remember?”

  “That’s Tal’Shik’s sigil. Or part of it.”

  “So why would this Ehkla try to kill your friend?”

  “Because she’s a motherless—” Swallow. Stop. Think. Not for retaliation, no, because, “She couldn’t’ve known who he was. I didn’t know him before Davni. But he brought the ghosts, yeah? So my guess is, that scares her.”

  Dek’s eyebrows climbed. “The ghosts were Veiko’s doing? I thought you—”

  “No. Not me. And don’t ask me how he did it, because I don’t know.”

  “So he summoned ghosts and picked a fight with Taliri for someone he’s known what, all of four days? Five? Damned altruistic of him.”

  Altruism, hell. Blame Briel for it. Svartjagr lived in groups, and Briel wasn’t picky about how many feet her groupmates had. Briel liked Veiko, and she liked Snowdenaelikk, and she even liked Logi, and she was probably poking herself into Logi’s head as much as she did to Snow’s and Veiko’s. She had her pack. But Snow didn’t want to explain that to Dekklis, no, didn’t need to toss oil on that particular fire. Try part of the truth first—

  “Said he had responsibility for his guest, yeah? That’s what he called me.”

  “Guest. That’s a new word for it.”

  —and when truth didn’t work, then
let Dekklis smirk and imagine something else.

  “You like lovers better? Fine. Call us that. Ask him, if you want to know why he does anything, and good luck getting an answer that makes sense. But what doesn’t change is I didn’t know him before. He’s not part of any of this. Ehkla didn’t know who he was. He’s an accident, yeah? Swear that, on my mother’s honor.”

  Dekklis offered no opinions on the honor of a half-blood’s mother. Offered nothing except an unblinking stare that reminded Snow of Briel in poor temper. “So Veiko’s an accident. Ehkla’s a mistake. Davni’s no fault of yours, either. You’re damned unlucky, Snowdenaelikk, that your life is so full of coincidence.”

  “Right. Look.” Snow stared at the jenja’s burning tip. Blew a slow tangle of smoke. “You want to arrest me after this, fine. Just let Veiko go.”

  “And what would stop him from leading an army of ghosts after us?”

  “You could ask him.”

  “I might. But I think I already know the answer.” Slow headshake, and a deeper frown that slid into thoughtful. “All right. Say I believe you. Then what do the Taliri want with Tal’Shik?”

  “You’re thinking the wrong direction. Ask your grandmother, if she’s still alive, what Tal’Shik wanted with her grandmother.”

  “That was before the Purge. We don’t—”

  “What, talk about it? You highborn. One civil war, and you want to pretend history never happened. You think the Republic’s safer that way?”

  “It’s because of history that we want that knowledge destroyed. Tal’Shik gave us nothing but grief.”

  “Oh, toadshit. Tal’Shik gave us the Republic. Before her, Illharek was just one city, and Dvergiri were targets for every Alvir toadshit with a sword. Don’t look at me that way, yeah? You know it. We don’t talk about Tal’Shik because of highborn politics. Listen. Your grandmother’s grandmother was godsworn to Tal’Shik, like every other highborn woman who aspired to a Senate career. She marched to temple on the holy days. She prayed for the same things as every other woman. Power. Prosperity. Healthy daughters. Death to the enemies of the House. Not an imaginative lot, our foremothers. But if everyone’s praying for the same thing, now how does Tal’Shik decide whose prayers to grant?”