Deliberately, she parried high. Drovic shrugged back, struck with his fist to disarm her, and twisted back with a hiss as she flicked her blade. A tiny trickle of blood marked his ear. His smile turned grim, and he circled. The steps were from Abis, the martial art of Randonnen. She shifted instinctively into a Cansi-style stance—Aranur had taught her the moves a year after they had mated. Drovic’s lunge came up short, and she smiled. She did not move in.
“Clever,” Drovic said softly. Even though she was expecting it, his attack was lightning fast so that the tip of his blade pierced her tunic—another Cansi-style move, and one that Aranur had not taught her. She danced, struck wildly to make Drovic wary, and dodged around the corner of a bunk. Drovic’s sword rang against her blade, then he beat-attacked and feinted. He kicked a pack under the bunk. He extended; she parried. He attacked; she leapt back. She darted inside his reach and cut back in toward his side. He wrenched unexpectedly to the left and beat her attack down, slid his blade in, and flicked it through her clothes. And chuckled.
The sound gave Dion chills. Fabric gapped across her stomach. Gray strength fed her limbs, and she darted back around the table to avoid the attack that she felt, rather than saw. She parried—and realized his move had been another feint, as smooth as Gamon’s and as slick as any that Aranur had ever made. Drovic’s blade snapped back and slammed across her sword. Her blade flew away.
Drovic paused. Dion watched him like a wolf. Her violet eyes were wide, not with fear, but like a wolf that protected its kill. She was edgy, poised, and the slightest move would release her. Drovic knew he could take her now, but he would have to hurt her. He had almost had this woman before. She would be even more useful now. He held himself still and made his voice soft as he eyed her. “You can continue to fight, Dione. I can’t guarantee I won’t break you a bit when I step in to bring you down.”
Her voice was half snarl, and he knew he had been right to hold back. “Why bring me down at all? You think I’m a prize? A trophy to brag about? The Ariyens, Randonnens will hunt you down like a rast if you think to hold onto me. Keep me, and I’ll get you killed.”
He chuckled. “I died thirty years ago. And with those hands—” He gestured with his chin, though his gaze never wavered. “—you’re worth too much. Give up a chance to control a master healer, a wolfwalker, a scout like you? In your dreams, Dione.”
Control . . . “I’ll be no figurehead for you.”
He nodded at that truth. He didn’t need her for that.
“Why?” She could not hide the edge of frustration.
He cocked his head at her. “You represent Randonnen and Ariye. You are the way to control what I have, what I lost.” He did not take his eyes off her as he nodded at Slu in the doorway. “Mix up the vertal tonic.”
“Vertal in a tonic?” She stepped half forward in spite of herself. “Vertal reacts instantly with saliva. You can’t sedate me like that. All you’ll do is lose me my voice for a few ninans and leave me groggy for a day.”
“It’s not sedation I’m interested in.”
“Then what?” she demanded. “You want me to lose my voice?” Her left hand pressed protectively to her belly, and she stared at him in sudden realization. “It would be that,” she breathed. “Without my voice, I cannot defend myself if you take me to be sold like a slave. They will ask the question if anyone contests my sale, and I will not be able to answer.”
His eyes narrowed as she understood so quickly. “Once the papers are registered, you are owned until you work yourself free. And it takes a very long time for a healer to work herself free. Add a wolfwalker on top of that, and one with your reputation . . .” He shrugged explicitly.
Her child . . . “If you do this now, this far into the mountains, you might not get to a sale in time. My voice will return. I will be able to answer the question.”
“But there are other, more pressing reasons to use the vertal now.”
“You think I’ll kill you with screaming?”
He smiled coldly. “I think there are others with whom I wish your silence.”
“I can still write.”
“Not without paper and pen. And you can’t carve out a message without knife and wood.”
She didn’t realize she had backed away until she hit the bunk behind her. “You cannot use the vertal. It will—” She cut herself off. She didn’t realize that her left hand now clenched her belly. “Vertal changes when it hits the saliva. It becomes a form of enhotal and goes into the bloodstream. It affects all soft tissues. You—you can’t,” she repeated harshly.
He stared at her posture. Stared at the way one hand covered her abdomen.
“Dione,” he breathed. It was more of a question than statement. He took half a step forward. She balanced to leap for his throat. He shook his head, holding up one hand as if to tell her to wait. It was a command gesture, one that knew it would be obeyed, and she actually hesitated. It was an instant she didn’t have. Drovic’s hand struck like lightning. He grabbed her collar, jerked, and ripped all three of her shirts around the rent he had already cut. Buttons flew. He stared at the belly barely covered by her undertunic. The bulge was unmistakable. “You are pregnant.” He raised his gaze. “You are with child. Whose child?” His grip tightened. “His child?”
She stared at him, mesmerized by the expression in his blue eyes. It was amazement, wonder, hope. And it shocked her into confusion.
Drovic put his broad hand on her belly, ignoring her instinctive flinch. “Gift of the moons . . . It would be about four months now, but you carried lightly before. And you would not have taken kum-jan with another—not with the wolves in your head.” He stared into her face. “It is his child.”
Aranur’s name rang in her head as if Drovic had shouted it. She struck him. Hard. He didn’t bother to duck the blow. Instead, he simply caught her arm as she extended, rolled her elbow, and threw her to the floor. “Line,” he said calmly, dropping and pinning her down with an instinctive force that was frightening in its focus. She writhed, but only bruised herself against his hands and knees and the floor.
He tied her wrists and shoved her against the wall. “This changes things,” he murmured as he backed away, letting her regain her own balance. He didn’t take his gaze from her face. “Throw out what is in that pot. Scrape off some randerwood bark and boil it in a cup of water,” he ordered Slu as the other raiders edged back into the room. Drovic dug through Dion’s belt pouches and those in her pack. After a few minutes, he found what he wanted and handed it over to Slu. “Add a pinch of this powder, and three drops of this vial.”
Dion sucked in her breath as she saw the pale brown vial.
Drovic watched her eyes. “Aye, Dione. I know what it is.”
“It will permanently sear my mouth before it inactivates.”
“And should burn out your voice like a corpse,” he agreed. “But it will be diluted by the randerwood bark. By the time it hits your throat, it should hardly burn at all, even if it does silence your vocal chords. It won’t harm a hair on the child in your womb.”
“You care enough about my child to keep her safe?”
“Her . . .” An odd look crossed his face. “I lost a daughter once.”
“The child is mine,” she snarled.
“Of course.”
But he had answered her almost absently, and that frightened her worse than before. “You want me silent—I give you my word to say nothing. You don’t need the vertal; you don’t need that.”
“Aye,” he agreed again.
“I tell you I will be silent.” Her voice tightened, and her tied hands pressed against her belly, clutching her shirts together. “That mixture will make an acid before it’s neutralized. You can’t be sure that it won’t hurt my baby.”
“Sure enough,” he returned. “I’ve used it before.”
Her lips curled back from her teeth. It was because of one of his raids that she had gone to do a healing, and had brought her sons back through Still M
eadow when the lepa flocked. She had lost her youngest son that day, and her older son later from his guilt. She had met Bandrovic again at the coast when he tried to kidnap her. He had lost four men in the fight; Dion had lost her mate. Her voice was soft as velvet but deadly as a night spider. “You have taken enough from me.”
He cocked his head, studying her. “Perhaps I will give something back.”
He was mocking her, and her fury tightened into a white-hot lance. Years of touching death, dealing death, dreaming death. Years of attending the elders with their patronizing arrogance that she would simply obey, regardless of the cost. Years of drowning in guilt, or accepting duty, of sacrifice. Her life, her blood, her mate, her future, her sons, and now, this child?
She attacked blindly, without thought.
Drovic was ready, but he was not prepared for her violence. When he had first fought her, she had been lost and full of doubt. When he fought her again on the coast, she had been grieving the loss of her son. Now, there was no hesitation. No doubt, no despair, no death wish. She was simply rage and will. Even tied, her hands flashed like claws toward his throat, and only a desperate wrench protected his carotid artery. He struck her ribs, but she seemed to flow around his fist, ignoring the force of his blow as she tore for his eyes. He blocked and felt her hands tear at his ear, jerking his head forward toward her teeth. It was with desperate instinct that he threw himself back—the wolf in Dion was wild. Blood, lust, hunt, hate. His back hit the post of the bunkbed, her elbow caught him on the temple, and he took a blow to the inner shoulder that opened his gut to a kick. He fell back again, and she bit at his arm as he struck back, tearing cloth, not flesh. She snarled. She followed his blow, striking under his arm to the inner flesh of the biceps and then tearing again at the artery. Then his fist caught her again on the ribs and lifted her completely. She hit the wall and fell back to the floor like a rag.
Drovic watched her push herself to her elbows, then her knees. He waited until her eyes turned normal with shock and pain. Then he took the mug and dipped a small amount of liquid from the small cauldron over the fire. He held it out. “Drink, Dione.”
She stared at him.
“Drink, Dione, or die.”
Chantz had held out such a mug, and taking that had been her first step toward freedom from grief. Chantz—last chance, she almost laughed. Last chance to turn back from the road she had chosen. Last chance to run from fear. The wolves had been wrong, she thought almost wildly. The danger had not been that hunter-mate, but this first step, this raider who would destroy her. She stared at the man, still gasping in her breath, until he shifted as if to force the drink down her throat. Slowly, she stretched out her hand and took it.
“Throw it away,” Drovic warned mildly, “and the next mixture will be stronger.”
She was not quite steady as the weight of the drink rested in her fingers. It smelled bitter, acrid, and she tried to hold back the fear of what it would do. She stretched out to the wolves in the mountains. Their strength was like a cloak. Control, she told herself. There was power in her hands if she could only use it. Wild wolves, Hishn, Yoshi—she could feel them all. Close and closing in, feeding her their strength. Her violet eyes were tinged with a ring of yellow, and her whisper was deep in her throat. “You cannot touch me now.”
“I don’t have to.” In the firelight, Drovic watched her carefully but missed the tint in her eyes. “Once you drink that, you are mine. You’ll have no voice—though it will grow back, given enough time. Not as prettily, not as clear, but it will return. Until then, I can write out whatever contract I want for your services.” He nodded at her belly. “I’ll have your child to help control you, and I think you will appreciate the other incentive you’ll meet.”
Incentive—other raiders. More humiliation, pain, death. She looked down at the mug. Control.
“Drink on your own, and it will sear only your tongue and throat. If you force me to administer it to you, it will be messy, Dione.”
She understood. The liquid would burn her gums, lips, mouth. If it splashed on her face, she could be scarred. If it splashed in her eyes, she’d go blind. She raised it, held her breath, and gathered herself. In her mind, the wolves seemed to circle. She did not question their nearness. She needed them; they were there. She felt a touch of alien cold that shifted her focus and cut through the gray like a spear. It became a sharpness, a line of light in her mind, and she felt the wolves spread out along that line, as if they could build a shield to hold her awareness away from her body and what she knew would come. She gathered in light and gray, yellow and cold, blood and flashing steel.
Then she tossed down the acrid fluid.
Wolves screamed. Wild wolves shattered snow as they bolted ahead. Gray Hishn stiffened and could not howl, and Yoshi’s scruff bristled like thorns. Wolfwalker! Wolfwalkerrr . . .
Dion’s hand clenched convulsively. She did not notice that her fingers bent the tin of the cup before it dropped to the floor with a clatter. She choked back a scream, and the sound became raggedly hoarse as the liquid burned in her throat. Instinctively, she clutched her neck. She could not help staggering back. Her shoulders hit the wall hard, and she gagged, swallowed, choked, and shrieked a near-silent sound as the acid burned her voice. Then she dropped to her knees and retched, and the fluid was flecked with blood where it spattered the dusty floor.
Wolfwalker!
She braced herself against the floor and looked up. Drovic watched her eyes. They were dark and terrible and tinged around the violet irises. Her lips worked, and no sound came out, but a chill crawled the length of his spine as if her silent howl had a frightening substance.
He held out his hand. She couldn’t help cringing back, her hands up to ward him off. Drovic did not move forward. He merely stood, holding out his hand while she eyed him like a worlag.
His voice was almost gentle. “It is done, Dione. You are mine. There is no need for further violence.” She could not answer, and he cocked his head to regard her more carefully. “Someday, you might even forgive me.” He saw the impotent rage in her eyes. He nodded slowly. “I understand your fury. I’ve held the madness of my own history in my heart for thirty years. But I’ll not risk everything I’ve fought for on the word of a woman like you.” He shook his head. “No, Dione. You believe too much in the ideal, in the heroes and good endings of the world. Your word could never be a promise when the moons went to call your name.”
Dion stared at him with violent eyes that burned almost yellow in rage. Her throat convulsed. Her arms shook. Her hands, on the floor, seemed to clench.
Drovic reached down and took her arm to haul her up, and dust filtered down to the floor. He stopped and glanced down. There was a soft spot in the wood—a depression where some sort of decay had set in. Looking down on her, he paused. There was something in her eyes . . .
She tried to choke out an answer, and Drovic squatted beside her and stared into her eyes. The ring of yellow was fading back, but her breath was still horrible. He reached out and fingered the silver circlet around her forehead. “You are an interesting woman, Dione. You live your life on an edge of decision—each moment the right choice for the moment, but never quite the choice of the future. Perhaps that is why you became a master healer so young: You have to act for each moment of life, so that you cheat death again. You feel, and so you can never let logic deter you from mercy. That is your flaw, Dione. I look ahead, and I plan, and I cheat death by that planning, not by mercy or compassion. Mercy has its place, but not in my near future, and your voice at the wrong time could break the history I build.” He rose to his feet, his movements light for a man of his bulk. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “But you do not need your voice to heal or scout—or even to speak to the wolves. I’ve taken nothing from you that you value.”
She snarled silently, her hands clenched against her belly.
He nodded. “We understand each other, you and I. You live, as long as you’re silent.” He stood and g
estured for Cheyko to set out another bedroll. “Get some rest, Dione. We’ll stay here till after the storm.”
Hishn and Yoshi raced over the road. The familiar scents of Tehena and Kiyun were a spur to their feet, and they broke through the icy crusts without slowing. Yoshi lost one of his leather shoes, but did not stop even when the paw was cut on a line of ice and the pad began to bleed.
Wolfwalker! Hishn’s voice was an unending howl.
I hear you, Dion returned faintly. Her mental voice was clear, but almost shaking, and the hunger that now gnawed in Dion’s stomach twisted Hishn’s guts. It was partly the hunger that followed a healing, the hunger that sapped her when she stripped power from herself. It was also the hunger of rage.
Wolfwalker we come!
Cheyko went out to check the dnu. An hour later, it was Slu’s turn. The tall raider returned with curt words. “Still coming down like fleas on a sleeping dnu. Only a brain-dead ’Skarian would travel in weather like this.”
Drovic nodded and finished banking the fire. He glanced at the wolfwalker, but she lay motionless in her bedroll. He knew she wasn’t sleeping. In the flickering light, she looked oddly gaunt, but her violet eyes followed him like a wolf. It was beginning to be unnerving.
His voice was short. “Sleep, Dione. You’ll have plenty of chances to try to escape later—if you still choose to take them.”
She merely eyed him with grim intent. Her hands were still tied, but she no longer twisted them to relieve the cruel tightness. The raw flesh beneath the ropes throbbed with every heartbeat, but her throat was no longer on fire. She stretched, and could almost feel Hishn bounding over the stiffening tracks of dnu, could almost feel the heat of the wolf’s body like a damp sweat on her own. Her stomach cramped with hunger, and she knew she would have to bear it. If Drovic knew . . .
Hishn, reflecting the pain, reached out. Use my strength.
Silver Moons, Black Steel Page 41
