#The image is yours, you will be able to call it whenever you wish, it will be clear and crisp# #A small thing, but strengthening your memory is a part of what we can do#
#Do not fear# This was another voice. #No other will share this image without your consent# #It is not our way, but we know that humans have private things#
#Darlara did not share you with us, for example#
Parno felt a hot flush rise up through his cheeks and dropped his eyes to his pipes. He hadn’t even thought of that. Hastily, he changed the subject.
“Are those images how you keep the souls of those who go to you when they die? Like portraits?”
#Not at all# #The soul itself joins us, becoming part of the Great Pod#
“What about new Crayx? Where do their souls come from?” One by one, Parno removed the drones and began to bleed the remaining air out of the bag.
#There are no new Crayx# #We are the same, always#
“But the spawning grounds?”
#We grow always, larger and larger# #We would grow too large for the oceans, so as that time approaches, we prepare smaller bodies# #In the spawning grounds we emerge in our new bodies, leaving the old behind, as we leave behind each old layer of skin and scales#
“Then you don’t produce young?” Parno restored the last piece of his disassembled pipes into their bag and looked over the side. There were several Crayx within sight. Which of these speaks to me? he wondered. And how old is it?
#We do not#
“But the Nomads . . .” Parno looked toward the cabin where Darlara was sleeping.
#Have young, though not so many as land-based humans# Parno caught an undercurrent of thought that substituted “no Pod sense” for the phrase “land-based.”
“And you have room for all of them when they die?”
#Amusement# #Souls do not occupy space#
Parno blinked. That had never occurred to him. Of course, he’d never had reason to think about souls in this way before. Which reminded him of his other question.
“How old are you? How far back do you remember?”
For the first time, the answer was not immediate. #Time is not the same for us# #We know what it is for you, we have seen the effects of its passage# #Watch#
#This is Ketxan City when we made our first treaties with humans, in the before that you humans call the time of the Caids# #Before the Great Chaos# #Before the first coming of the Green Shadow#
Before Parno could interrupt, another image came into his mind. This time he was looking across a large bay of water toward a city built up on the islands of a flat sprawling delta. A city like Tenezia, without roads, but rather canals and bridges. Unlike Tenezia, however, this long ago Ketxan boasted airy towers.
#This is Ketxan City as we see it now#
Where the broad delta had been was a massive cliff face, taller than the tallest tower Parno had ever seen. There were openings, windows, balconies, and even doors cut into the living rock, with ladders connecting some of the lower levels. At the foot of the cliff, like a ruffle on a skirt, wharfs, jetties, and piers were built out into the sea.
#This is time, yes# #There is duration, change#
“But surely you also change? You’re not the same beings that you were then?”
#There is no then# #For the Great Pod, there is only now# #We thank you for the music, Parno Lionsmane#
And suddenly, he was alone.
At first he stayed where he was, enjoying the quiet sounds of the ship around him, the sun on his face. He hadn’t realized he was so curious about the Crayx. Dhulyn would have been interested by what he’d learned, as she was—had been—interested in everything. He hugged his bag of pipes closer. He missed her, Caids knew how much. But somehow, whether it was the steady familiarity of the Shora, or of his music, Parno realized that the sharpest edge of his grief had been blunted.
He pressed his lips together in a tight smile. In order to do what he wanted to do, in order to find and kill the Storm Witch, he needed to be at his very best. If the patterns and discipline of the Shora, and his music, restored him to his best self, it was a thing to be welcomed.
He stood, and was halfway back to the cabin to put away his pipes when a thought slowed his steps. He was almost certain that Malfin had mentioned attacking Ketxan City. But, given the cliffs he had seen in the Crayx’s image of the place . . . Parno turned and made his way back to Malfin’s cabin. When he entered, he found Darlara sitting across from her brother at the cleared table, a bowl of cooked grains in front of her.
“Tell me,” Parno said. “These attacks on Ketxan City, how did you manage them?” So far as he could see from the image the Crayx had shown him, there was no landing place at Ketxan. He had not seen siege weapons on the Wavetreader, nor could he see any way to equip even much larger ships with such things. How could the Nomads, armed only with swords, garwons, and crossbows, mount a serious attack on the cliff city?
Darlara was swallowing, so it was Malfin who answered. “The Crayx push them back, enough so that we can land.”
“But Mortaxa have no Pod sense, how do the Crayx push them?”
“With their water bolts,” Darlara said. “May we?” She tapped her forehead. When Parno nodded, he felt the Crayx again, and the image that appeared in his mind made him laugh aloud.
“I think I see our plan,” he told them.
Carcali was on her knees by the toy shelves. She didn’t know who had last put these dolls away, but she could tell it had not been the little girl who loved them. They’d been shoved in any which way, back to front, facedown, even piled on top of one another. The dolls varied considerably in their dress, Carcali noted, as she straightened and rearranged them. There were elaborately dressed nobles and more simply dressed servants, and more than one soldier doll, all with tiny weapons. The favorites appeared to be one soldier in particular—an officer judging from his armor—and a little girl doll whose painted face was quite worn, and whose hair had been frequently rebraided. It wasn’t until she heard the lock engage that Carcali looked up, this last doll still in her hands. Her stomach rumbled, and she pressed her lips together as saliva began to flow. Were they bringing food this time, or only water again? She cursed her caution now for keeping her from saying something to Tar Xerwin when he came, but he hadn’t sounded all that friendly. For all she knew, the man was just another spy for the Tarxin.
When the two guards entered and stood one to each side of the door, Carcali rose, unwilling to be caught on her knees. In the last moment, she realized she was still holding the doll, and thrust it hastily behind her. She wasn’t going to look any more childlike and vulnerable than she could help. Not to the man who had first struck her, and was now keeping her prisoner. Though she would have felt more confident if she wasn’t sure that the Tarxin had seen her quick movement, and had correctly interpreted it.
What happened next did nothing to boost her confidence. At a signal from the Tarxin, the Honor Guard accompanying him stepped back out of the room and closed the door. Carcali waited, unsure what she should do, but determined not to be the first to speak. The Tarxin looked around the room, taking in the daybed with its gaily colored cushions, and the closed and barred door of the sheltered balcony that looked out on the sea. Finally, he turned away and appeared to study the maps on her table.
Automatically, Carcali went to stand on the other side of her worktable, though she made no move to cover the designs she’d made on the maps. The Tarxin had no Art, and wouldn’t understand the meaning of the symbols she’d drawn, but she felt stronger there, close to her work.
When she glanced up, he was looking directly into her eyes. He indicated her chair, and waited until she was seated before he took the chair across from her, lifted off his gold-chased headdress and placed it to one side. With his eyes still fixed on hers, he leaned back, patting the arms of the chair with the palms of his hands.
“I think we have seen that we each can hurt the other,” he said, his voice rough as the gra
vel paths in the upper gardens. His eyes were large, but dark and cold. “We have each tried our strengths, and we are well matched. You have the weather Art, and can use it against me, but I am the Tarxin, and have the power to starve you or put you to death if I so choose.”
Carcali’s hands formed fists on the arms of her own chair.
“I can leave this body, and still control the weather.”
The man across from her spread out his hands. “Then why have you not done so?”
The pain in her hands reminded Carcali to loosen her grip. Oh, how badly she would have liked to call his bluff. But he wasn’t the one bluffing.
She hadn’t fully disconnected since she’d reawakened in this body, it made her shiver just to think about it. What if she lost the connection again, to spend who knew how long before she somehow reconnected? If she ever did. There were so many things about this life, this world—this body—she didn’t like, didn’t know, and didn’t understand. But it was better by far than the impersonal emptiness of the weatherspheres. She wouldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t. . . . But.
“If you kill me,” she said, in her light child’s voice. “I’d have no reason not to leave the body.”
He just nodded and leaned back again, raising his hands and looking at her over the tent he’d made of his fingers.
“We can each of us harm the other,” he repeated. “Shall we see if there is any way we can help each other?”
“I am ready to hear your proposal.” Carcali leaned back herself, consciously trying to imitate his air of relaxation. But it was pretense, and she doubted he was fooled.
He might be sincere about his offer—he’d agreed to keep the Healers away once she’d shown him what she could do, and he’d kept his bargains so far. But she had to be careful. He was the one with all the power here, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. She raised her hand to her bruised cheek.
“I will undertake never to strike you again,” he said, as if in response to her gesture. “But in return you must in public treat me in all ways as your Tarxin and your father.”
“Agreed,” she said. “If by ‘strike’ you include any and all physical discipline, including imprisoning me and withholding food.”
This time he did smile, but it was, she thought, a smile of admiration.
“Agreed.” He leaned forward. “You have satisfied me that to allow the Healers to treat you will destroy your Art, as you call it. There are two ways in which this Art can be useful to me. As a weapon against my enemies, and as a tool for the benefit of my people. That is what you can give me. What can I give you in return?”
Carcali tried to keep her face as impassive as the Tarxin’s, fighting not to show the surge of triumph and excitement that flowed through her at his words. She had to be very careful; he was experienced and tricky. She had to be sure to ask for exactly what she wanted.
“I will help you in the ways you’ve outlined.” She was pleased that her voice sounded so calm, so reasonable. “But I must be able to practice and develop my Art without interference. I need more authority as myself,” she said. “As the Tara Xendra.”
The Tarxin frowned, but not as though he meant to disagree with her. “That is difficult,” he said. “Women do not rule here, as they do across the Long Ocean, and many will find it hard to have a woman in authority over them.” He pulled at his lower lip. “It has been many generations since there was last a practitioner of the Art among our people, and the Scholars tell us that such Mages and Witches were wards of the Slain God, going to serve at his temple. In fact, Telxorn, the Chief Priest, has already asked for you.”
He’s trying to scare me, Carcali thought. “Perhaps I should be having this discussion with him.”
“Perhaps.” The Tarxin didn’t look nearly worried enough. “But I remind you that whatever the common people may think about your holiness, Telxorn is a man grown old in the service of the Slain One, and to him you are still the Tara Xendra, a young girl he has known since she was born. He will expect you to be biddable and you will have to force him to give you what I offer you freely. Meanwhile I, and the rest of my people, would suffer at the weather along with him until he finally sees what I have already seen.” The man frowned, and then his face lightened as he snapped his fingers. “Of course. There has never been a practitioner of the Art with Royal Blood. We can refuse him on that basis. If you do not serve in the temple, then you will have both your status as Tara, and your status as a Holy Weather Witch. We can base your authority on that.”
There was something in his tone, or the crinkle of his eyes, that told Carcali the man was being tricky, but she still found herself nodding in agreement. He wasn’t being strictly truthful about the temple, but she was grateful to be kept out of the hands of the priesthood with their superstitious nonsense about the Slain God. Interesting what he’d said, though, about others seeing her only as the Tara Xendra.
“Tell me, Tarxin Xalbalil, how do you see me? Who do you think I am?”
He looked at her a long time, his eyebrows raised over his coal-dark eyes. “My dear child, what does it matter?”
Twelve
THE CLOUDS HAD BROKEN up sometime before dawn, making the last leg of the journey from the final guesthouse somewhat hotter and sunnier than Dhulyn would have liked. The forest was far behind them now, and for some time their road had been taking them past cultivated fields.
“This close to the capital, these are all market gardens,” Remm Shalyn said, seeing her interest.
“I recognize some of the plants,” Dhulyn said. “Those are artichokes, and those potatoes. They are cultivated in Boravia as well. But here, I see, harvesting has already begun. Back there, most of these crops won’t be ripe enough to harvest for a moon at least.”
“Why would that be?”
Dhulyn looked across at him, but Remm seemed to be perfectly serious. “You are much farther north here,” she said, keeping her tone as neutral as she could. “The farther north you travel, the warmer it is, the longer the growing seasons, the earlier the sowing, and therefore the earlier the harvests.”
“And are the harvests very late, then, in your homeland?” Remm was interested, Dhulyn could see, but only just enough to be polite. He had a soldier’s practical grasp of things, and that she found familiar. A little irritating, but familiar and, in a strange way, comforting.
“In my homeland there is only grass for the horses, and then snow, and ice. It is civilized people who plant crops.”
“Ice, I’ve heard of, packed in straw and brought by riverboat from the mountains to the south to cool the drinks of the rich, but snow?”
They had walked several spans by the time Dhulyn gave up trying to describe snow.
The fields they passed now were changing. Up ahead were what looked like grapevines. Recent rains meant the fields were well watered, but it also meant there had been a growth of weeds, and that some of the new plants needed restaking. Dhulyn noticed that for the most part the field hands did not look toward them as they passed. Slaves, of course. Each field was being supervised by an attendant who stood at one end, under a planted sunshade, watching the progress of the others.
“Are the watchers slaves as well?” Dhulyn asked following the nearest one with her eyes.
“Usually,” Remm Shalyn said. “Only the very rich can afford to pay for this kind of work. In the free lands on the other side of the mountains, the farms and fields are worked by groups of free men who hold everything in common.” Remm looked sideways at her, one eyebrow raised in puzzlement. “Tell me,” he said. “How did you know that there would be runaway slaves?”
“Loraxin thought I was a runaway,” she said. “It followed. And it also follows that there must be some place to run to.”
Remm shook his head, his mouth twisted in a smile. “Are all Paledyn such deep thinkers as you?”
What answer can I give him? she thought. There were Mercenary Brothers who did not think beyond the Shora, for certain. She knew many
such. But Dorian the Black had told her many times, “The more you know, the more likely you are to stay alive,” and she’d believed him.
“So the servants I meet now will all be slaves?”
Remm Shalyn rubbed at his chin. He’d been careful to shave every morning. “Well, no. Especially not in the palace. Oh, I don’t mean there won’t be slaves in the kitchens, or among the cleaners, but some of the very rich live in the City, the Noble Houses—”
“The very ones who are rich enough to pay for service, and who use that method to show off their wealth.”
“Exactly.” Remm focused his attention on the vines they were passing. Dhulyn looked in the same direction but saw nothing unusual. Then Remm looked down at his feet. And cleared his throat.
Dhulyn decided to wait him out.
“I am thinking, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” Dhulyn raised her eyebrows, but Remm was not looking at her, so the effect was lost. “Perhaps it would be best if you uncovered your head,” he said finally. “Now that we have no servants with us, it would be best if the people we will now encounter see your,” he gestured at his own temple, “your Paledyn’s tattoo.”
“Have we much farther?”
“By midmorning, we will be at the walls.”
Dhulyn squinted upward, judging the strength of the sun. Parno had often teased her that the sun did not brown her, and it was true that next to the rich gold of his own coloring she never looked darker than old ivory. But pale as she might seem, she did brown, nevertheless. She pulled off her headdress, turning it back into a linen scarf and a knotted sash, and tying both around her hips.
“Will there be a problem since we have no runner to send ahead to tell the guards we are coming?” she asked Remm Shalyn.
“The palace guards are already expecting us,” he said.
Dhulyn pressed her lips together and barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes to Mother Sun. This would by no means be the first time that knowledge at the palace didn’t find its way to the ordinary soldier. “And the gate guards will have been told as well?”
The Storm Witch Page 17
