by Cat Bruno
“Trick? What makes you think so? Nicoline would have known had it been so.”
“So I am to believe that your steel was able to break a streak of lightning into pieces? You forget yourself, Otieno, and forget that I have been healer-trained for half my life. While at the clinic, I treated many who have been lightning-struck. Few survived. And none did what you would have me believe.”
“It matters little to me what you believe,” he sighed. “I will teach your daughter, and Jarek as well, how to put blade to anything. And win.”
He stood only a step from her, beneath a towering pine. She quieted as he mentioned the girl, as he must have known she would.
Still he lectured.
“You seek me out. You make me swear an oath to you and to the girl. You expect me to teach her as soon as she can hold a sword. Yet you do not trust me. Or even like me much. Let’s talk in truths, Caryss. It is past time.”
She could make no argument, so again she stayed silent.
“I am not he, Caryss. If you looked, you would see that.”
Her words spilled from her lips like an avalanche, furious and icy.
“You are dark-skinned, where he was pale. You are broad where he was thin. Your eyes are soft where his are like steel. You think I do not know the difference between men? Your hands have scars and callouses and his are as smooth as Lamb’s Ear. His eyes turn from purple to black, while yours are a steady shade of dampened sand. Your body is power and force, where he is sleek and fast. The swords you swing mean little to him, yet he could ring you in fire and watch you burn. When he talks, the trees still and the mountains listen. You have the wind on your words, and few can hear your true voice.”
“You are nothing like Conri,” she hissed, eyes flashing.
“When you look at me, leseda, do you see blood on my hands?”
Nearly out of breath from her outburst, she whispered, “Of course not.”
“Look again,” he instructed.
This time, when she looked, his hands were spread out before her, as if in offering. Thick and scarred, mottled in hue, but empty. Her forest-tinged eyes, much greener now beneath the canopy of pine and birch, fluttered.
Again, she looked. And, there, in the high grass, lush and long, she saw drops of red fall from his hands onto the green stalks, splattering upon the blades until the grass at his feet was sprinkled with blood, crimson and wet. When she looked back up to the hands of the diauxie, Caryss gasped. Instead of brown, they were red. Dark and damp with blood.
The blood was not his own, she knew.
“What have you done?” she cried.
If her feet would have moved, Caryss would have ran from him, but it was as if she was sleeping and the image of Otieno with bloodied hands no more than a dream. The Northern air was cool across her face, and she could smell the swaying pines. On her tongue, she could nearly taste the blood until she sputtered and gagged. Only then was Caryss able to move, bending in half until the midday meal that Sharron’s mother had prepared for them came spilling from her trembling lips. When the heaving ceased, she stood back up, again looking to the man’s hands, as if her eyes had deceived her.
They had not.
With words soft and enchanting, he addressed her.
“Only once before have I met a man who could see the blood, leseda. Many moon years ago, I left the Cove and traveled to a land far to our south. Lamarria, the land of sand and sun her people promise. The Lamarrians are nomadic, much like I myself have been, I suppose, although they have done it for so long that none know any differently. Among their people exists a shaman, part healer, like you, but more too. Healer, mage, leader. The Grear Mother’s balance to those like me. They were all of these things and well respected too. A man named Akinto, upon meeting me, asked why my hands dripped with blood. Even though he was shaman, he was unusual, often silent and alone, and his people looked at him with suspicion when his words were uttered. For no one else could see what he could, and, to them, my hands were similar to their own and clean.”
“What did you tell him?” she whispered, her throat burning.
“I told him the truth.”
She could take no more of his games. Wiping at her mouth, she brushed the hair from her face and pulled it into a healer’s knot at her neck.
“Two masters at word play,” she told him. “Both you and the shaman. I have much to do, Otieno, and no time to be your student. I have played that role half my life with teachers much finer than you. Find another to amuse you.”
His smile was like fire, and her cheeks reddened and burned as he looked upon her.
“You will hear the truth, just as he did. Belief is your choice.”
And then he began. With each word that he spoke, the blood faded from his hands, and, when he had reached the conclusion, his hands were dry and clear, as if they had never been red at all.
“What is one death when you have caused so many others, diauxie?” she asked when he had finished, surprised at how little her voice shook.
Sighing, he said, “Much like the first, the last death upon one’s sword is difficult to flee from. The child should not have died, and I should never have killed her. Even the Great Mother has told me so. Rarely does the Great Mother turn away from a devotion, yet when I sought to give her the blood of the child, as I had done with each death before, she would not have it. The ground stayed dry and dusty, and the blood would not wash from my hands. For days, I tried to sing her song, and for days, she would not listen. Until I was weak with hunger and nearly dead from thirst.”
Caryss listened to him as she had never before.
“Then, the Great Mother appeared. And she told me that from that day on, I would no longer have a home on the Cove. She further warned me that if I caused another death, she would turn from me forever. You know little of our ways, Caryss, but without the blessing of the Great Mother, I would be but a man. A very old man, with no skill or knowledge.”
“And you have abided her wishes?”
“Yes, even when my own life was at risk,” he uttered.
“Yet still your hands are red?”
“Not always, but often enough to remind me of my vow.”
After a moment, she asked, “After you told him the story, what did the shaman tell you?”
“That my hands would dry when I evened the scale.”
Seeing her confusion, he added, “I once thought that he meant that I would need to save a child from death to do so, but I have saved more than I can count, more than I can recall to be truthful, yet, nothing has changed.”
Finally, Caryss understood who he was, and why he had come so easily to Cordisia.
“My daughter will balance the scale for you.”
“I believe she will.”
“And then?”
Running his now brown hand through his thick braids, he replied, “I will fight at her side as I have longed to do for many moon years. I will give the Great Mother blood and dirt, and mayhap she will hear me once again.”
“Will you leave her once the debt is paid?” she asked, her words tight.
“Leseda, I will not leave her unless she forces me to do so. If she washes the blood from my hands, it is because the Great Mother has willed it to be so. I will walk beside her always.”
With her eyes on his, Caryss said, “You grow hungry for blood, yet your vows prevent you from acting.”
She could see him battle the smile that edged his face and knew she spoke truly. When he answered, she also knew that between them had come an understanding.
“I am a killer, leseda. It is who I have been and who I will be once again. Shackled by these blood-stains, but a killer still. The Great Mother shapes us all, and I am no different. I have learned to be elsewise for many moon years now, but my hands ache for battle, and my swords scream for a fight. As punishment, she took from me what I most desired.”
“I would not have my daughter be a killer, Otieno,” she gasped.
As if in thought, he
did not answer right away.
Finally, he breathed, “Her path is not as mine, nor would I let it become so.”
“So you will serve my daughter because it is what your Great Mother wants. What if, like many gods, she becomes fickle and changes her mind?”
“You do not know her, Caryss. But, should such occur, I would still serve the girl. I am oath-bound to you and the girl and will not be named oath-breaker.”
Caryss did not look away from him as she called, “If you harm the girl, I will kill you. I have no skill with sword or dagger, but there are other ways to die.”
“True words, my lady, but false ones from your lips. You will not break your Healer’s Oath, but you will not need to. There is much darkness in the world, Caryss, and much in me and in the dark mage. And in the girl’s father as well. Stay in the light and out of the shadows, or the girl will follow. If you do not light her path, none else will. And she will lose her way.”
The peace that coming home had offered vanished then, fractured and splintered like Jarek’s lightning against the cut of Otieno’s blade.
On the morrow, they would seek the fennidi. And hope to find a cleaner answer.
*****
Long after the sun had set, Jarek remained outside, sword in hand as he tried to grow accustomed to steel instead of wood. Before the others woke and after they slept, he practiced, with the Islander at his side, sleeping little.
Caryss had made him a balm to rub on his aching muscles, yet he had tried to abstain from using it, until one night when his shoulders ached with fatigue and his fingers burned with blisters. When he thought no one watched, he had rubbed his body with the minty ointment, letting the sweet and spicy smell coax him to sleep. The pain had been dulled, until the next morning when once again he picked up the sword, an average sized blade with an unremarkable hilt and an even plainer scabbard.
Days before they had stopped for a night at the home of the other healer’s mother, but with the rising sun, they had departed, although none would tell him their destination. Jarek soon grew used to the silence that accompanied their riding.
When the mage came upon him, Jarek nearly fell from the saddle in surprise, even though he was the finest rider among them.
In Planusian, which surprised Jarek more than the words that were said, the dark mage asked, “What do you think of the North?”
The way he rolled his words made it seem as if he was Planusian by birth, yet he did not have the look of one about him.
“Are you a getano?” Jarek queried.
When Aldric made no move to acknowledge his question, he explained, “It means a fellow man. ”
“I have never heard it used. Your Common is fine, but you will need it to be without fault.”
“My mother insisted I learn, until I spoke it as well as any.”
“And your schooling?”
“I can read and write, sir.”
Smirking, Aldric answered, “No doubt. But what of the histories of Cordisia and beyond? There is much more to know than letters and numbers. What do you know of Rexterra?”
After the mage’s teasing, Aldric told him, “The day that I first saw Caryss, at the palace, you were there as well. If you have been with her long, then I need not tell you that I know Rexterra well.”
“You have much to learn now that you have passed the gates of the farm and come from behind your mother’s skirts,” the mage laughed.
“Behind my mother’s skirts, I learned to control the skies,” Jarek answered, keeping his words even.
“What do you make of your grandfather?” Aldric asked, unbothered by Jarek’s retort.
“Does he do anything but sleep?”
Again the mage smiled. “Not really. But you would do well to understand why he is the way he is.”
“Why he sleeps so much? He is old.”
“It is not age that makes him sleep. Caryss believes he was being poisoned while in the King’s City. Do you understand what that means?”
“He is sick, yes, I understand that. And my mother has long warned me of the dangers of the King’s City.”
“Jarek,” the mage interrupted, “The king was poisoned. Think about that. Your grandfather is followed by mage, master, and guard nearly everywhere, yet someone tried to kill him. How do you think a child would fare in such a place, with no way to know who was friend or foe?”
“If you speak of me, sir, you would do well to realize that I have stayed away from Rexterra for just that reason. And I am no child.”
“You are learning,” Aldric told him. “It is time for our lessons to advance.”
It was not until they had been a half-day’s ride from the farmstead that he learned of the King, his grandfather. Caryss had apologized for the deceit, and the mage had explained it twice over to him. On a few occasions, he had spoken with his grandfather, but their travels left him weak and sleepy, and he spent most of his time in his covered wagon. The first time he met the King, Herrin had been alert enough to offer him a blessing of sort, although he stopped short of offering an apology.
Jarek trained while the King slept, yet hoped to show his grandfather his skills soon, and he admitted as much to Aldric.
“I never asked you what he said to you that first time in his cart.”
The two rode alongside one another, which happened often when the mage wanted to instruct him.
“He told me that I looked nothing like my father and little more.”
“Old men, especially sick ones, rarely guard their tongues, Jarek. Had he been well then he would have seen the rings of gold in your eyes. Nonetheless, there is much to learn from him. Herrin has long ruled Cordisia.”
“When will he improve?” Jarek asked.
After a moment, Aldric told him, “He was awake more when we were in the Cove and he did not have to travel much. Perhaps when we are settled in the North, the King will once again find renewed strength.”
“Will he accept me, Aldric? Will he name me prince?”
He had waited long to ask those questions, and Jarek’s voice finally showed signs of distress as his words cracked and croaked.
“Mayhap,” the mage sighed, “But you would have to return with him and leave the North.”
So I must continue to wait, he thought, staring into the treeline that edged the path.
*****
“Perhaps you should avoid him for now,” she suggested, trying to keep her voice steady and calm.
“There is nowhere that I could go, here or anywhere in the North, that he would not be able to find me.”
His words were spoken slowly, as they often were, and Nahla made no reply when he had finished, as they both already knew he had spoken truly. Instead, she waited, seated in a long chair beside a small hearth burning with a small fire. Heavy curtains draped the windows, keeping the room warm. For over a moon she had stayed with Conall in the large manse that he shared with his brother. Other Tribesmen came and went at intervals, and she never knew how many called the large building home.
Thinking of the girl again, she asked, “There is no hint as to where she might have gone?”
“After the Cove? No. Are you certain that she made no mention to you of her plans?”
“Caryss wanted to find the diauxie,” she told Conall, “And she had intentions on healing the King. She has both men with her now and is smart enough to realize that there will be many looking for her. If I were her, I would seek a place beyond the reach of my enemy’s hands.”
“You think she will stay gone from Cordisia?”
Shaking her head, Nahla answered, “There are reasons for her to stay. There are times, now that I am with child, that I want nothing more than to see my homeland again, to have sand beneath my feet and sun over my head, to have the sound of waves sing to the babe, and to birth this child under the gaze of the Great Mother. Caryss might not be so different.”
Conall walked near to her, and for a moment, Nahla stiffened with uneasiness, but when he smiled, she re
laxed, although realization came two-fold; she still feared the man, and she had told him where to find Caryss.
“The healer is here, in the North.”
Silence followed his words, but the guilt was too strong, and, finally, Nahla said, “Can you not let her be until the babe is born?”
When he laughed, it was as if the trees were cracking apart around her, struck down by wind or sky. The sound filled the room, and she nervously looked around to make certain that no one else had entered the room, especially his brother.
“He will hear you,” she whispered.
“Oh he probably already has. Nahla, you do not understand my role here. Or Conri’s. He is not just brother to me; he is king, if you will. Yet, there is one who stands above even kings. Not all of Conri’s choices are his own, which is why he has avoided calling attention to Caryss. He could have found her with ease if he had drawn on some power.”
“There is much that I would rather not know, yet what I want matters little now that I am with child. My son will be of the Tribe; there is nothing that will make me forget that.”
His laughter stopped, and, no longer amused, Conall told her, “Then you would do well to learn your place. Do not anger him, Nahla. While you have not seen the wolf in him that does not mean that it is not there. Conri makes the rules here, and the rest of us follow them. Do you understand?”
She glanced up at him as she said, “I understand. But do not forget that my gods are not yours, and it was not yours that brought me here.”
Her eyes were dark and her cheeks flushed, and Nahla showed no fear as she looked upon him.
“What power does your Great Mother have here? My father serves no woman.”
It was her turn to laugh, and the sound was musical, as if the seabirds of her homeland called out to him in mockery, “I know little of the Tribe, as you have said. Yet no man is motherless, nor any god. You will learn, Conall, as all men do.”
His eyes darkened as he demanded, “Learn what?”
Nahla rose from where she had been seated and said, “From a woman, all men were born. And to a woman, all men must return. So it has been and so it always will be. In life and in death.”
