Blade Dancer

by K. M. Tolan

  “Remember,” Dahin reminded, noticing her uneasy observations, “I've given my word. No one's going to try and come after you.” He motioned a shaggy brown yhas from where it waited near the porch. “A simple act on your part could avert war, Mikial."

  Ignoring him, Mikial saddled. “I will release your yhas at the hillside,” she said, realizing he was actually going to let her leave.

  “You won't reconsider?"

  Mikial eyed him. Those soldiers could retrieve their rifles in an instant. “No."

  Dahin scowled through his beard. “Then at least extend my invitation to someone who will. Your people don't have much time."

  “I will report what you said, Dahin Chadrak. Don't expect much else."

  He stepped back. “You remain the best opportunity your people have, Mikial. You're already here."

  “No, Dahin Chadrak, I'm not!” With that she kicked the yhas into a full gallop, hunkering down in the saddle to show the least amount of back to the rifles behind her. The animal gathered large amounts of ground beneath its hooves as it sped away. She reached the fence behind the house within moments. Mikial glanced back. No shots, and no pursuers. She urged the beast across the fields towards the hills. No one is going to believe this!

  Mikial suddenly pulled up on the reins, bringing her mount to an abrupt halt. That was exactly the problem. No one would believe her. Mikial stared at the rising folds of the land that was her Holding and home. She looked back, almost wishing to see riders attempting to close on her. Only the rustle of tall grass made itself known, accompanied by the low moans of field hawks from their unseen nests. So, Dahin had kept to his word. She tapped her extended claws on the saddle. Was everything else he had said true too?

  Mikial drew in the wet green smells of morning, observing the low clouds running before the wind. She would be wet soon. Her amber eyes imagined Teck's Strike waiting unseen for her. Every instinct told her to return and report. What had happened the last time she had taken the security of the Holding into her own inept hands?

  “Proper response for a puppet,” Mikial hissed to herself. Which was common sense, and which was Shandi conditioning? What if I could avert a war? Would Principal Kyian or the Tasuria look beyond the violation of their precious rules? She gave a bitter laugh. Had they the last time?

  Mikial fished her signaler out of a pocket and began clicking. “ENEMY ARMY ONE DAY OUT.” That would attract the Ipper listening post. “Now for the unbelievable part,” she muttered. Every sense she had shouted that this was wrong. Her fingers struggled to work at the palm-sized spring mechanism with its imbedded crystal. This is terribly wrong! she affirmed to herself. Her hand seized up, the clicker tumbling to the ground as she fought an overwhelming desire to keep riding forward. Gasping, Mikial half fell off the saddle, overcome with dread. “Not going to do this to me,” she spat. She scrabbled for the clicker with shaking fingers; “I won't let you do this to me!” Throwing back her head, Mikial screamed, letting her rage carry to the hills and echo back. Fury cleansed her through roars of defiance, until her throat burned from the effort.

  Trembling, Mikial retrieved the clicker. “CHADRAK WILL STOP ADVANCE IF I TALK TO KIORANNAN LEADER. I WILL DO SO AND RETURN. She could imagine Tasuria Sencia's expression when she heard about this. Sencia would probably perform her execution personally. “MIKIAL END."

  “So much for your conditioning!” she screamed one last time toward the hills. Let them brand her a traitor and worse. At least she would not have to finish copying that thrice-cursed Book of Gile Tassomon. Mikial flicked the reins and turned the nervous yhas back toward Chadrak's ranch. She was Dathia. She would defend her Holding despite itself.

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  * * *

  Seven

  Raindrops spattered cold against her cheeks as she neared the Chadraks’ home. The light shower heralded a heavier downpour. Leaning back, Mikial let the chilly rivulets cool her raw throat as she rode.

  Dahin Chadrak waited for her beneath the porch. “Were you so sure of my return?” she asked, wiping at her eyes.

  “I watched you through field glasses,” he admitted. “I saw you lose your saddle. What happened out there?"

  “A small argument with myself.” Mikial slid from the soaked animal, regarding the huddle of soldiers that peered out from beneath a pavilion among the tents. “What chance of success am I risking my life for?"

  “An even one at best,” Dahin conceded. “I can't promise much beyond that.” He beckoned toward the door. “At the moment you're risking yourself to a cough. There's fire and a hot breakfast waiting."

  “I still don't trust you, Kiorannan."

  “We'll save that miracle for another day,” he remarked, leading her through the doors. “For now, I won't call you Taqurl, and you won't call me Servant."

  Dahin led Mikial past the dining room door, the hall emptying out before a flaring staircase with tan-and-gold carpeting bordered by a white balustrade. Waiting for them there was the ivory-haired female Mikial had first met. Gray eyes stared at Mikial over delicately boned cheeks that were pinched with apprehension. Mikial guessed her to be of middle age. The Kiorannan was dressed in an auburn robe secured by oversized amber buttons and a dark brown belt.

  An awkward pause was punctuated by dripping sounds as puddles formed at Mikial's feet. Dahin stepped forward to take a mediator's stance between them. “This is my wife, Sensanna Chadrak."

  “Sensanna,” Mikial cautiously greeted, smiling down at Dahin's wife. She pulled off her helmet, not wishing to intimidate her host. Water spilled from sculpted tensa feathers, added to the growing pools at Mikial's feet. “I am Mikial Haran,” she continued with a mortified glance toward the ivory-tiled floor. “Please, forgive me."

  Sensanna just stared at her. Mikial tried another smile. The female broke from her transfixed expression with a nervous blink. “Oh, the water; don't concern yourself.” She swallowed. “I have a room prepared."

  Mikial followed her up to the second floor balcony that smelled fresh from a recent cleaning. Pausing, she stared down at the polished wooden floor revealed beyond the staircase below. “This reminds me of where I dance."

  “We use it for dances,” Sensanna returned slowly, as if not hearing her own words, “Feasts and such.” The female took a breath, her confusion disappearing beneath a polite mask. “Your room is to our left. Perhaps we can find something dry for you."

  Sensing that the Servant female was clinging to some ritual of hospitality, Mikial hazarded no further observations. They walked along a hall where the main source of illumination came from skylights above. Raindrops sent hushed staccato echoes along the corridor Mikial fingered the long petals of a red weeper that grew from one of three granite vases along the left wall. The tasteful design was dampened by a rattling moan that issued from the first door to her right. Mikial caught the coppery scent of blood.

  “Calay Cartha,” Sensanna explained. “It was her child Dahin was handing over last night. Her husband was killed. She was struck in the chest as well.” Sensanna's shoulders sagged. “I've done all I can with the wound."

  “You're a healer?” Mikial asked, reassessing her impression of Dahin's wife.

  “One has to learn these things out here,” Sensanna replied, her words threatening to burst with accusation. “Your room is the next door down."

  They entered cozy-looking room with two large windows overlooking a gray and wet landscape. “I'll have Bren come up and start a fire,” Sensanna said. She inspected the blue quilting on a bed supported by a large ironwood headboard. “Nothing I have would fit you, I'm afraid. Bren will bring you one of my husband's robes."

  “Bren?"

  “A maid. Please be patient with her. She has only come to us recently."

  “I ... no, please,” Mikial stammered. The very idea of having a Servant tend her as if she were Taqurl. “We're not like that anymore."

  Sensanna stood poised in the doorway as if she would flee at any
moment. “What?"

  Couldn't she see? “I don't need a maid. It's not our way."

  Sensanna leaned back against the door, pressing a hand to her chest. “Mikial, do you think I'm offering you a slave?"

  “Yes,” she replied weakly.

  Sensanna shook her head. “Bren Candee is paid well for her services, Mikial. She came to us happily, and by her own choice. She can leave by her own choice as well.” She paused. “I'm glad it's not your way. It's not ours either."

  Whom do I offend next? Mikial thought dismally, shutting the door after Sensanna left. She regarded her unlikely residence. Much of the floor was taken up by a heavy blue rug with a border of intertwining loops frayed with use. A mantelpiece over the hearth displayed a line of porcelain cups and a large oil lamp. Mikial felt a chill beyond her damp clothes. That fireplace is not very functional, she realized. There was not even so much as a glowstone evident. She got busy with several logs and kindling twigs stacked nearby.

  Using her lighting wire, Mikial soon had a fire to warm herself by while she peeled off her armor. There was a closet next to the bed where she arranged the tensa as best she could. As much as she distrusted these Servants, Mikial could not see herself in armor every waking moment. She put her rifle within easy reach just the same.

  Her hunting eyes picked up another's approach. The door was bumped open by a black-haired girl who seemed barely into her teenage years, her arms filled with towels and a woolly black robe. She wore a plain brown shift and apron. Bren, Mikial surmised.

  “Greetings,” she said as the girl recoiled against the door, slamming it shut behind her. “Would you perhaps have a brush I might borrow?"

  Towels and clothes tumbled to the floor as the maid clawed for the door's handle. She was gone in one swirl of her apron.

  “I guess you don't,” Mikial finished, retrieving the towels while footfalls rapidly diminished down the hall. Latching the door, she extricated herself from the clammy battle dress and dried herself by the fire. Hopefully the Ipper had received the signal she sent. If nothing else, the Holding would be warned in case this mad adventure saw her death. Have I done the right thing? Every sense still said no, but she had grown to mistrust her own judgment thanks to the Shandi.

  Mikial threw on the quilted robe as someone approached her room again. There came a furtive tap at the door. Opening it a crack, Mikial found Bren standing outside as if rooted to the floor. “Your comb, Lady,” the girl all but whispered. She offered the brush as one might extend meat to a starving beast. This time there was a quick curtsey before she ran.

  Giving a hopeless chuckle, Mikial started to put her auburn tangles in order while enjoying the rumble and snap from the hearth. Uncivilized savagery. That was how the Shandi portrayed life outside the Holdings. Mikial gave a smirk. The room was comfortable and warm. Downstairs she could hear the makings of breakfast. The clatter of pottery and silver was no less universal than the smell of bread and meat. Her stomach soon soured on the less palatable sounds of arguing. It sounded very much like the wife, Sensanna's voice losing much of its smoothness as she made herself clear on the table arrangements.

  “That ... creature ... stays upstairs!” Sensanna's shrill voice was barely muffled by the walls. “Gratitude or not, I will not permit her sharing our meals!” A heavy thump extinguished further words.

  Mikial sat on the bed, imagining Dahin as he stood mute after the kitchen door was slammed in his face. Kiorannan hospitality at its finest. Saving their boy was worth a room. How many family members would she have to drag back to earn a meal?

  Her concern of having to start the day on an empty belly was allayed by Dahin's arrival. He held a plate steaming with fresh bread and eggs, along with a generous pitcher of milk. He placed her meal on a side table near her bed. “Breakfast."

  Did you have to cook them yourself? she wondered while supplying a pleased expression. He did not look too happy. “Please thank your wife for the clothes,” Mikial said, her words liberally salted with innocent gratitude. “It was quite kind of her."

  “Tonight you and I will begin our ride out to Kior, our capital,” he said. “Until then I suggest you get some rest. You probably had little of it in our cellar."

  “Just us?” she inquired between mouthfuls.

  “The fewer who know of this, the better."

  Whose risk is greater here? Mikial wondered as he left.

  Although the bed was softer than she liked, Mikial found sleep within reach. It was a light slumber at best, with footsteps and muted discussions keeping her half awake. A low cry finally made her throw back the covers to investigate.

  Pulling on the thick robe, she gently opened her door.

  Lamplight poured out from the adjoining room. Peeking inside, she saw Sensanna Chadrak in a red housecoat. She was seated in an old rocker next to a bed where a female lay beneath tangled quilts. The other's jaw hung slack, each breath rasping with effort. A wet cloth had been placed on her head. The baby's mother, Mikial realized as Sensanna looked up at her with an expression that told of a deathwatch.

  “How bad?” Mikial said, looking at the mother's fever-bright brown eyes.

  Sensanna seemed to swallow back a bitter rejoinder. She got up and carefully drew aside bed sheets to expose a discolored stomach wound. “Calay deserves to die in more comfort than I can give her.” Dahin's wife gave her a torn look. “There was a white powder over my son's injuries. His wound remains clean and heals well.” She looked at Mikial expectantly.

  “Shandi medicine,” Mikial replied. “You should've asked me sooner."

  Sensanna's lips thinned. “Will it help her now?” She stepped back. “Go in if you must."

  Entering, Mikial lifted the towel from the mother's forehead. A small hiss escaped her lips as her fingers felt the fires burning beneath. She shook her head. “There is only one way I can stop her suffering."

  “We had a merchant and his wife here some years back,” Sensanna said in a lost voice. “He insisted on guards during the exchange despite our warnings. Dahin told me he found the soldiers afterwards with their guns still beside them.” Her words trembled. “He told me ... they looked asleep.” Sensanna swept aside an errant strand of snowy hair, her expression firming. “Yes, I should have asked for your help earlier.” Her eyes settled on the prostrate form. “Now I will ask. Can you be as mercifully swift as my husband suggests?"

  Mikial took a slow breath. “Perhaps you should wait outside."

  “It won't hurt her?"

  Mikial shook her head. “What was her first name again?"

  “Calay. I'll fetch Dahin."

  Mikial knelt down beside the bed as Sensanna hurried out. “Calay,” she spoke with reluctance, steeling herself with the necessity of what had to be done.

  A moan worked itself from the parted mouth. The head turned toward her with unfocused eyes. “Jan?"

  A male name, Mikial reasoned. Husband, or perhaps her baby. “Calay, you are dying,” she said, trying to detach her emotions. “May I send you on your way? Stop the pain?"

  “Jan?” A swollen tongue rasped against dry lips as the female fought against the delirium. “Please?"

  “Your husband?” Mikial asked softly.

  She managed a barely perceivable nod.

  “I'm sorry, Calay. He died..."

  A hand snaked from beneath the blanket to grasp her with momentary strength. “I know. Please?"

  Having her answer, Mikial carefully lifted the mother's head. Her palms slid across each temple. The blood coursed beneath her touch in hot surges. Mikial's grip tightened as her body tingled with gathered energy. She saw a question form in the other's eyes, as if the female finally understood in whose embrace she lay. Calay convulsed as Mikial discharged. The mother's spirit departed in a lingering sigh.

  Dahin was waiting in the hallway when Mikial came out. Her host wore the same leather riding clothes Mikial first had seen him in. Muddy beads spattered his boots. “Well?” he inquired somberly.


  Mikial leaned against one of the large flower vases, letting the sweet scent of red weepers disperse death's odor from her nostrils. “The Shandi do it better. Put you to sleep first.” She let her eyes close. “They may still have saved her."

  “Have you ever done this before?” he inquired with concern.

  “Kill?” Mikial gave a joyless chuckle. “This was just ... different."

  “How so?"

  Mikial ran her finger along a weeper petal. “This time I cared."

  Dahin looked at her for a moment before speaking. “We leave as soon as I've taken her body out to the barn. Her family is already on their way here. We'll need to be gone before they arrive."

  * * * *

  Mikial had barely finished buckling on the last piece of her tensa armor when Dahin came for her. Pulling on her helmet, she fetched her dart rifle and followed him downstairs.

  Sensanna met them at the end of a dimly lit hallway where rain rattled against a small door. She handed each of them a heavy black garment with an outer lining of slick leather. “These storm cloaks will help keep you dry."

  Mikial ran a finger along the silky smooth material.

  “Bear seal,” Sensanna explained. “They're harvested off our coast."

  “It will help hide that armor of yours,” Dahin added, as he tied the wide straps of his cloak. “If we meet anyone, keep your hood up and those claws of yours hidden from view.” Giving his wife a parting hug, Dahin worked a key into the door and opened it into a lash of rain. Mikial could only exchange awkward looks with Sensanna before following him outside.

  “Keep me in sight,” Dahin ordered as he splashed his way down a swirl of water that might have been a path. “There are yhas for us at a feeding shed in the back field."

  I probably can see better than you can, she grumbled inwardly as they left the house. Not that her night vision could make out much of anything in this miserable weather.