The Storm Witch

by Violette Malan

  There was a gasp from the crowd of watchers as the sword fell free and clattered to the deck. From the sound, several had had to step back out of the way.

  The twin sisters smelled different now, their sweat was fear sharp. They had moved apart, but thanks to the wind, and the Stalking Cat Shora, Parno was able to point to the right-hand one with his sword, and the left-hand one with his dagger.

  “One down,” he said. “Two to go.”

  Apparently, the twins felt that the loss of one for their side freed them to attack together, or perhaps, Parno thought, they simply could not break themselves of the habit. In either case, it worked in his favor. Even sightless, he knew that anything he struck was an enemy, and even sighted, they had to take care not to hit each other. There was no movement of air, so they ran forward with blades raised. In the last possible moment Parno ducked, rolled forward, and heard with satisfaction the sound of their bodies colliding.

  An unexpected calm fell over Parno as he rolled to his feet and spun around to face in the direction of the twins. Even as he trusted to his timing, lunging forward and kicking out, knocking one of them over and apparently—judging from the sound—into the other one as they tried to get up, he could feel the Shora working through him, calming him with its familiar touch. A tightness he had not been aware of loosened, and he felt freer, more alive, and somehow more himself than he had done since the storm.

  A shift of air, a rasp as a foot slid along the wood of the deck before being lifted clear. Conford had found his weapon again. Parno spun toward the noise, his own sword at high guard, dagger at low. Conford’s sword was a slashing weapon, and the chances were he’d bring it down, or across from . . . there! Parno parried, stepped quickly within the man’s reach and elbowed him in the face. He felt the contact, and smelled the blood as it burst from Conford’s nose. A shuffle behind him, he ducked, bringing Conford down with him as the swords of the twins sliced through the air where he’d been standing.

  “Enough,” Darlara said.

  Parno pulled off the blindfold and wiped his face with it. He touched his forehead to each of his opponents, just as if they had been Mercenary Brothers, and set off across the deck.

  Parno looked up as the door of the cabin swung open, letting in cool sunlight filtered through streaky clouds. Darlara Cor came in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it and folding her arms across her chest. Parno almost smiled, reminded of one of his sisters. He was wiping the swords he’d used with an oiled cloth.

  “Was a good workout,” he said. “Thank you for suggesting it. Ready whenever you are to examine those maps.”

  Darlara stayed silent and, except for the tapping of her left index finger against her right elbow, she didn’t move. Parno stowed the extra sword and turned to meet her eyes. They seemed darker than usual in her heart-shaped face, her full mouth set in a thin, firm line.

  “Promised me a child.”

  Parno felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he gritted his teeth. Demons! The woman couldn’t be serious. In the face of his loss—his Partner and, in a very real way, his future, since he could not imagine surviving his vengeance. No. Some of the calm that the Shora had brought him melted away. It was too much that he should be asked to consider the future of others. But he could tell from the set planes of her face that Darlara was very serious indeed.

  “Can’t,” was all he could finally bring himself to say.

  “Say you can’t. Mean you won’t.”

  “At the moment it’s the same thing.”

  But she was already shaking her head. She let her arms fall to her sides and stepped forward enough to lean against the table. “Not so. Gave your word, to me, to the Pod. Is it worth nothing? That’s not what we’ve come to believe.”

  Demons and perverts. Parno slammed his open hands down on the table. Darlara blinked, but did not back away.

  “Anger changes nothing.”

  And the worst of it was, she was right. His anger would not bring Dhulyn back, would not restore the world to rightness. In fact, much as he hated to admit it, it might even get in the way of the things he needed to do. Using the Shora to spar just now had shown him that he needed to regain his equilibrium, no matter how brightly his loss still burned within him.

  He sat down and thrust his hands through his hair. He felt the feather touch of Darlara’s fingertips on his arm.

  “Promised me a child,” she said. “Doesn’t mean you stay, doesn’t mean we wed. A child, a new bloodline for the Pod. You promised.”

  She was in her rights to ask, to remind him. And she was tactful enough, and smart enough, not to remind him that Dhulyn, as Senior Partner, had given her permission.

  “Now?” The word was bitter acid as it left his mouth.

  Darlara smiled, but it was a small, sad, companionable smile, not a smile of triumph.

  “Lie down,” she suggested. “Just lie down for now. Need warmth and a heart beating close to yours. Come, let’s lie down.”

  It was not until hours later, when they had done much more than lie down, that he remembered they were in Dhulyn’s bed.

  Eleven

  “IF MY SISTER HAS become a Storm Witch, well and good. But if a new being has taken over her body—how can we know it doesn’t mean us harm?” Xerwin had met Naxot on the peldar court, but they hadn’t yet begun their match. He’d needed to speak to someone, this was a safe place to talk—and Naxot’s interests ran sufficiently close to his own, Xerwin considered, to make him a safe companion to talk to.

  Naxot stopped bouncing the rubbery pelot on his racket, catching it in his hand. “She’s done nothing but good so far. She’s helped with some of the crops, and has explained the magic of the lodestone.”

  “If she has no evil intent, why has she not declared herself?”

  “Perhaps she thinks to test us in some way?”

  Xerwin paused in his pacing. I wish I could believe the way Naxot believes, he thought, and not for the first time. But it was hard to grow up as he had and believe that his father really was the Light of the Sun.

  “I suppose that’s possible,” he said to his friend. “But this feels more like a plot of my father’s than the suggestion of the Slain God.”

  Naxot waved this away. “Not even your father, Light of the Sun, acts completely alone.” He spun the racket in his hand and looked up. “The Priests of the Slain God have authority over the Mages and Holy Women. When Telxorn comes to invest your . . . I mean the Storm Witch, surely he will know whether there is cause for concern? And, Xerwin, let’s not forget. Whether this is your sister or not, she is a Storm Witch, a Holy Woman. Whatever her purpose here, should we be questioning it?”

  Xerwin picked up his racket and put his hand out for the pelot. Naxot was such a good man, straightforward and orthodox. Perhaps, after all, he was a little too orthodox for this particular problem.

  Naxot Lilso took the long way back to his own House when his peldar game with Xerwin finally ended. He needed time to think. He wasn’t happy with the Tar’s attitude. Xerwin had always been his friend, but there were higher issues at stake here—and more than one way to favor and power at court, if it came to that. However upset Xerwin might be about his sister, and he’d always had a soft spot for the girl, a Holy Woman was a Holy Woman. Xerwin might be willing to set the religious questions aside, but Naxot could not.

  Naxot’s route would take him past the Tarxin’s audience chamber.

  RAIN HISSES DOWN On SLICK DECKS AND DHULYN CURSES AND TRIES TO LOOK AWAY. NOT THIS VISION, PLEASE GODS, NOT THIS ONE. IF SHE MUST SEE THE PAST, LET IT AT LEAST BE SOMETHING USEFUL. SURELY THERE COULD BE NO REASON TO SHOW HER THIS PAST. BUT EVEN AS SHE TURNS HER HEAD, TWO GIGGLING FORMS RUN TOWARD HER. TWO STURDY CHILDREN, NAKED AND CLEARLY ESCAPED FROM THEIR BEDS TO PLAY In THE RAIN. THEY ARE ABOUT THREE YEARS OLD, TODDLERS REALLY, BUT AS FIRM AND STEADY On THEIR BARE FEET AS THOUGH THEY’D LEARNED TO WALK AT SEA. AS THEY WOULD HAVE, SHE REALIZES WHEN THEY GET CLOSE ENOUGH FOR HER TO SEE THEM CLEAR
LY.

  GIRLS THEY ARE, TWINS, SQUARE-BUILT, WITH A MOST FAMILIAR CHIN BELOW AMBER EYES. LUCKILY, THEY HAVE THEIR MOTHER’S NOSE. BECAUSE, In ALL ELSE, THEY APPEAR TO BE THEIR FATHER’S CHILDREN. EVEN THE COLOR OF THEIR HAIR, WET AS IT IS, IS UNMISTAKABLE. THESE ARE PARNO’S CHILDREN.

  “BACK HERE, YOU TWO TERRORS,” THE VOICE SOUNDS ODD TO DHULYN, BUT IT’S CLEAR. “BACK In BED THIS MINUTE, OR THERE’LL BE NO GREAT GATHERING FOR YOU! NO PONY RIDES!”

  A FUTURE FOR THEM IS POSSIBLE. DHULYN’S HEART LEAPS WITH JOY AS HER TEARS FALL. . . .

  THE SLIM WOMAN, HER SANDY HAIR STILL TOUCHED WITH GRAY, IS BACK AT HER CIRCULAR DESK. HER HAZEL EYES ARE CLOSED, THE PATTERN OF LINES THAT SURROUND THEM SMOOTH. THE WOMAN MURMURS, CHANTING UNDER HER BREATH. OVER HER HEAD THE MIST FORMS, SWIRLING AND BRIGHT WITH SUN. SHE THRUSTS HER ARMS INTO IT AND DISAPPEARS . . .

  TWINS AGAIN, BUT OLDER, AND VERY OBVIOUSLY NOT THE SAME GIRLS. THESE ARE PALE AS MILK, EVEN THEIR LONG HAIR COLORLESS AS NEW CHEESE. THEY ARE BONE-THIN, CLINGING TO ONE ANOTHER AS IF THEY LACKED THE STRENGTH TO SIT UP ALONE. THEY SIT In A DOUBLE CHAIR, ALMOST A THRONE, WHOSE CUSHIONS AND WELL-PADDED, RED VELVET SEAT ONLY SERVE TO MAKE THEM SEEM PALER BY COMPARISON.

  THEY CONCENTRATE On SOMETHING OFF TO THEIR LEFT. THEY TURN THEIR HEADS AT PRECISELY THE SAME MOMENT, WITH PRECISELY THE SAME MOVEMENT, TO LOOK AT DHULYN WITH THEIR RED EYES.

  “SISTER,” THEY SAY. . . .

  SHE KNOWS THIS WOMAN VERY WELL, HER LONG FACE, HER STONE-COLORED EYES, AND HER BLOOD-RED HAIR. “GO NOW,” SHE SAYS. “UP INTO THE TREES,” SHE SAYS. “REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOU, MY SOUL?” “KEEP MY EYES TIGHT SHUT,” DHULYN ANSWERS HER MOTHER. “DON’T LOOK NO MATTER WHAT I HEAR.” “THAT’S RIGHT, MY HEART. OFF YOU GO NOW.”

  AND THE WOMAN WHO IS HER MOTHER WATCHES AS THE CHILD WHO WAS DHULYN RUNS AWAY TO THE TREES, TO THE PLACE In WHICH SHE WAS TOLD TO HIDE. HER MOTHER THEN TURNS TO THE DHULYN WHO SEES ALL THIS, AND SMILES.

  “MOTHER,” DHULYN SAYS, TAKING A STEP TOWARD THE WOMAN OF HER VISION, THINKING NOW ONLY OF THE QUESTION SHE HAS LONGED TO ASK. “HOW, MOTHER?” SHE ASKS. “WHY? HOW DID YOU NOT SEE AND PREVENT THE BREAKING OF THE TRIBES?” BUT EVEN AS HER MOTHER PARTS HER LIPS TO ANSWER, HER HEAD TILTS AS SHE LISTENS TO OTHER SOUNDS, AND TURNS AWAY. SHE HAS ONE HAND LIFTED, ONE FINGER EXTENDED AS IF TO SAY “WAIT.”

  BUT THE VISION IS GONE.

  Dhulyn sat down on the wide lip of the courtyard fountain and rubbed at her eyes, moving her fingers up and out, to massage her forehead and temples as well. Thank Father Moon there’d been no Vision of Parno. That would have been more than she could stand. I cannot do this again, she thought. She had never deliberately avoided Visions in the past, but she would from now on. The possibility of having to live through Parno’s loss again and again—Dhulyn took a deep breath, and tried to slow the beating of her heart.

  The night air was markedly cooler than the day, a phenomenon Dhulyn had always associated with deserts rather than cultivated land. When she’d first come out of her room, there had been thunder and lightning off in the distance, but that had stopped now. Whatever its source, the coolness was welcome. Not that she had a headache; it merely felt as though she should have. Experience was making her better able to recognize Visions of the past, and that same experience had taught her that such Visions always gave useful information. But she’d Seen the episode with her mother before, why would she need to See it again? Why her mother, and why that particular moment, the last time she’d seen her mother alive? Dhulyn shivered, suddenly cold. I’m the only one left. Again. She had escaped alive that time, when the Bascani had come and the Tribes were broken. And she’d escaped alive this time as well. She braided the fingers of her right hand in the old sign against ill luck.

  “Are you trying to tell me something, my mother?” All the women of the Espadryni, what the rest of the world called the Red Horsemen, were Marked with the Sight. Which did not explain to Dhulyn’s satisfaction how and why they had allowed the Tribes to be broken, leaving only Dhulyn alive.

  Was she somehow supposed to survive Parno? As she had so evidently been meant to survive the breaking of the Tribes? Was this yet another plan to which she did not have the key? She blew out her breath through her nose. This would be the second time that she’d lost the people most important to her, her family—

  Except that the Mercenary Brotherhood was her family. Parno was her Partner, certain sure. But his death did not leave her entirely alone in the world. She touched her Mercenary badge with the tips of her fingers. She still had her Brotherhood, and the Common Rule.

  “Pasillon,” she said, invoking the part of the Common Rule that called all Mercenary Brothers to come to the aid of—and to avenge—any other Brother. Vengeance for Parno was her first goal, she reminded herself. If she survived the killing of the Storm Witch—by no means a certainty since she was the child of the Tarxin and therefore well-guarded—then she could think about what came next.

  Footsteps along the gallery on the far side of the courtyard brought her head up and her hand reaching for the knife in her belt. But it was Remm Shalyn, returning from his scouting trip into the forest.

  “Dhulyn Wolfshead, are you well?” Remm saw her and stepped out from under the gallery. “The Holding Steward will be concerned that your bed is not to your liking.”

  Dhulyn shrugged. “I take it your expedition has been successful?”

  “It has. We’ll hardly have to go off our own trail.”

  Remm came closer, and as he passed through a shaft of moonlight, his kilt sparkled white. Dhulyn sat up straight, remembering another part of her Vision.

  “Tell me, Remm Shalyn. Are there Seers in Ketxan City’s Sanctuary?”

  Parno shifted the straps on Malfin’s table and let the yellowed parchment roll closed. With his fingertips, he massaged the skin and muscles around his eyes and along his temples. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Strategy, that was the problem. They were limited in their tactics. Couldn’t swarm, for example; there simply weren’t enough of them. Hard to lay siege to a place from the sea—not that they had the numbers for that either. For a moment, while studying the map, he’d had a glimmering of an idea. If the map was still accurate—and both the captains assured him that it was—he had seen the shadow of the answer, and then it had gone, before he could put his finger on its tail. He put his hands to the edge of the table and started to push himself away before he remembered that the furniture was bolted to the floor.

  The cabin door creaked open, and Malfin stuck his head into the opening.

  “Lionsmane, Crayx ask for music, would you . . . ?”

  Parno had to allow that the Crayx had been scrupulous about staying out of his head, and for that, if nothing else, he should honor their request and play for them. Besides, music had been known to clear his head in the past.

  He slid sideways off the bench and started to the door.

  But once he’d fetched his pipes from the cabin—the heavy drones, the war pipes, better for the Crayx to hear directly—he found himself leaning on the rail as he filled the air bag, unsure what to play. He attached the chanter and began to noodle, just letting his fingers float over the sound holes. He let his eyes close, shutting out the deck, the crew, the now-blazing sun, and the fitful wind that made what sail there was flap, and the rigging creak. This is what Dhulyn used to call his pipe Shora, the tuning up that prepared him to play.

  With that thought, he found his fingers playing once again the children’s song that had such special meaning to Dhulyn. As he coaxed the skipping notes from the chanter, he began to complicate them with the music of the drones, adding seconds and thirds, intricacies that built upon the basic notes until the children’s chant became once again the hymn to the Sleeping God it had originally been.

  Slowly, note by woven note, the hymn began to change, to take on specific imagery. A run of higher notes, with a sharp drone behind them, became Dhulyn’s swordplay, masterful and sure, deadly and bright. Chords were her t
hroaty laugh. The lament became more sure, more steady, as Parno realized what he was doing. He played Dhulyn, the way horses seemed to speak to her, the way weapons sang in her hands. The wolf’s smile she showed to others, the smile she saved for him alone. The way she smelled after she had not bathed for many days.

  Finally, not really sure how much time had passed, he lowered the pipes, and, blinking, looked around him. The watch was the same, the same faces looked back at him, though some had tears in their eyes.

  #We see her now# #The music shows her to us# #Sorrow# #Compassion#

  “Have not seen one tenth part of her.” Even though he muttered under his breath, Parno was all too aware of the others on deck, now studiously ignoring him.

  #You are unjust to your talent and your skill# #Your song of her will live with us always now# #Is this not she#

  In his mind an image he hadn’t called there. Dhulyn with her right hand on the neck of a horse, the animal shadowy and unclear, turning to look over her shoulder at him, smiling, her gray eyes alight with laughter.

  Parno coughed, clearing his throat, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he said. “That is she.”