Blade Dancer

by K. M. Tolan

  Her hunting eyes picked up the ghostly outlines of the yhas as they approached the shed. She stepped upon raised planks that led into a stable musty with the smell of wet fur.

  “Saddled and provisioned,” Dahin said. “Yours is on the left. I don't know how it will take to your kind."

  Grabbing its reins, she gave a hard jerk. The animal knelt with an irritated snort. She dared the beast to skew its long neck around and try a bite. “And how do we manage to ride in the proper direction when we can't even see it?” she asked, prodding the yhas back on its feet.

  “Roads,” Dahin replied as if introducing the concept to her. “Allow your yhas its own lead. She will follow mine. These are a mated pair."

  “Is there anything you haven't planned for, Dahin Chadrak?"

  “Yes,” came the caustic reply as they rode out. “This rain."

  Wishing she had an Ipper's sense of direction, Mikial endured traveling along muddy tracks on a sodden yhas. It was no worse than her combat exercises, except that training classes did not include her joining up with the Kiorannan army. Mikial kept to her dour thoughts. Heavy showers continued until morning, when a late sun shone with reluctance through the mist.

  “This fog will help our journey,” Dahin remarked with approval. He drew alongside her, moisture dripping from his beard. “Hungry? There's dried meat, biscuits, and water in your left saddlebag."

  “Thank you.” She rummaged around, pulling out a thick strip of smoked meat. “I can do without water,” Mikial added wryly, her hair feeling like a wet rag beneath her helmet. “Where are we?"

  “South of Nors. That's one of the five garrison cities along the frontier. We'll soon reach Cross River, a small village where we'll take a road toward the city of Ruth. We'll reach The Hill by evening."

  “The Hill?"

  Digging into his provision bag, Dahin grinned. “Taqurl ruins.

  You'll feel more at home there."

  “Perhaps so,” Mikial muttered aloud between chews.

  It was a remark she regretted making as Dahin's social air clouded to match the sky overhead. “You received as much hospitality as could be provided, considering what you are."

  “I am aware of that,” she returned with a guarded look, not wanting any argument while this deep inside enemy territory. “I meant no ill toward you or your wife. It must be difficult for her, having to watch your dealings with us."

  Dahin turned in the saddle to face her. His eyes glared like burnished ice from within the folds of his hood. “She was once part of those dealings. One day, when you hold your own child, you might understand how she feels."

  “Your own baby? Exchanged?"

  “Our daughter,” he said, looking away so she could only see the folds of his hood. “Her name was Mince. She would have been in her early twenties by now."

  “Would have been? Giving her to our Holding hardly makes her dead, Dahin. By now she's probably close to marriage. I'm sure she's happy."

  He drew a canteen from his saddle pack, his manner softening. “Have you ever met a female by that name?"

  Mikial shook her head, grateful to be spared that knowledge.

  “Are you happy with what you are, Mikial?"

  She regarded him with unease. It was very possible that he even exchanged her as a baby, something she did not wish to dwell on. Mikial turned to see a cluster of thatched cottages through the gray drizzle. “We're approaching a village."

  Pulling on gloves to hide her retracted claws, Mikial traded cautious glances with her guide as they neared what she assumed was Cross River. Muddy gravel changed to dark brown cobblestones. The noise from their animals’ hooves clattered off whitewashed stucco walls as they entered the village.

  Her face masked with the disinterest of a weary traveler, Mikial avoided curious looks from those who ventured out beneath porches or peered from cottage windows. Despite not being Qurls, the people seemed little different from any Cothra. Many of the females favored white blouses or skirts overlaid with bold embroideries. Children shouted and splashed through puddles with no less enthusiasm than any she had seen at home. There was even the inviting music of shries coming from the open doors of a small inn.

  There were differences that she noted readily, from the lack of courtesy lamps to a wagon pulled by yhas instead of having its own locomotion. What furniture she could see through doorways appeared to be of simple construction. The cottages looked well built, although she still felt the loss of ... something. Had local artisans simply forgotten this place? Even the basic layout of the village seemed amiss, as if little thought had gone into the planning.

  The only major construction was the bridge at the center of town that crossed a small river the width of eighty spans. Slate-colored water flowed around algae-stained buttresses supporting a single arch. The stone looked old, making her wonder if the structure predated the town.

  Keeping alongside Dahin as they crossed, Mikial watched a produce-laden barge chug away from a wharf. It relied on archaic paddle wheels. White puffs issued from a tall black pipe poking above stained canvas tarps like a denuded mast. Steam powered, she guessed. Mikial recalled a class project some years ago sponsored by the Cothra. The coal-burning engine her class had built was noisy, dirty, and inherently dangerous. Don't these people out here even understand what a battery is?

  “You have anything like that?” Dahin spoke up, noticing her interest in the departing ship.

  “No,” she said. It was best to let the matter drop as not to offend his pride.

  “Well, neither did we until a few years ago. The one who leads the army we'll meet made her fortune with that innovation.” He gave her a long look before continuing. “Her name is Maltenna Kior. She is the one who aspires to be the next Steward."

  “So when do we meet this army of hers?"

  “Soon.” Dahin gave a black chuckle. “There'll be thousands of soldiers there to keep you safe."

  Mikial considered throwing him in the river.

  * * * *

  They followed another muddy highway from the village. The day drew on. Low clouds scuttled over a rolling landscape randomly dotted with trees. She preferred the security of wooded canyons. Does anyone back in the Holding believe that I might still be alive out here? Mikial sighed, trying to dismiss such thoughts. If the weather did not drown her, worries would.

  They passed a few solitary ranches before entering an area where rocks jutted like old bones through scrub-entwined mounds. Thunder echoed hollowly in the distance. “Taqurl country,” Dahin said. “You'll see what I mean up ahead."

  Mikial was in little mood for his brand of humor. The static charge of an approaching storm tingled her body. “We're going to need shelter unless your yhas can ride through lightning."

  “There's a grotto. We should make it before nightfall."

  “How far to this Hill? I—” Mikial cut herself short as they rounded a slight rise, the broad road cleaving its way through rounded hills like a knife. Exposed reddish-brown strata were smoothed almost to a polish.

  “Taqurls,” Dahin explained simply, indicating flagstones visible among the overgrowth. “It runs all the way to the Hill.” His look was penetrating. “It's called the Servants’ Road."

  “Which we're riding up together,” she reminded with an acid look as they turned onto the ancient thoroughfare.

  The rock face glittered from a blue-white flash. The accompanying jolt of sound rebounded off the walls. “And quickly,” he added.

  A cold fountain of air rushed over them as Mikial spied the shelter Dahin had promised. She guessed that it had once been a giant bubble encased within granite until Taqurl engineers struck through the hill. Their yhas eagerly scrambled inside the hollow as the wind began in earnest.

  Dismounting, Mikial shed both the muggy cloak and her helmet. “I hate weather like this. The air gets so charged that it sets my nerves dancing.” She turned as a gust swirled dried bits of grass around the cave entrance. Sparks crackled across her palm
s as she rubbed them together, drawing an uneasy look from her traveling companion. “Storms bother me this way,” Mikial explained.

  “Living next to your kind, I prided myself as an expert on Taqurls. It just takes one day with you to realize otherwise."

  “Qurls,” she said with a sigh. “We're Qurls, Dahin. We want no more to do with Taqurls than you do. They killed the only one who tried helping them, a Great Suria named Corias Charrid. We still haven't forgiven our ancestors for that crime."

  Shrugging, Dahin peered outside. A cloudburst blurred the old road in a white spray of rebounding droplets. “You changed your names, but not necessarily your nature."

  “Which tells me volumes about your lack of history,” she derided. “After Corias, we got Gile Tassomon. He was the last to wear all four sect colors in his belt. Gile finished what Corias started. We're not Taqurls anymore."

  Dahin folded his arms with rumbling laugh. “Lack of history, eh? I hardly think this Gile would've wanted to finish Corias’ work for her, since it was Corias who co-founded Kioranna!"

  “Don't be absurd!"

  That only sent Dahin into deep guffaws. “Your beloved Great Suria wasn't killed by Taqurls. She joined the other side!” He shook his head in disbelief. “Mikial, Corias was saved by her servants. She became the wife of Kioranna's first Steward.” Dahin gave a snort. “So much for Qurl history."

  “So much for your outrageous lies, you mean!” Mikial flared. “Corias would never sanction the slaughter of Taqurl families as they ran for our hills. This joke of yours is nothing short of contemptible!” She turned to regard the curtain of water that poured across the grotto entrance. “What good could I possibly have thought to do out here?"

  Dahin walked up beside her. He said nothing. They stared out into a twilight laced with lightning and rain. When Dahin finally spoke, his sarcasm was replaced with an almost mournful tone. “Our people have been at each other's throats for so long. Attacking seems easier than listening."

  “I can dance, Dahin. Did you know that? I'm one of the best Three Beat dancers in my age group.” She looked at him. “I miss my parents and friends. I'm worried sick about what they think of me right now. I even met a young Cothra named Dalen who actually seems interested in me. What kind of monster does that make me?"

  “About the same kind as us, I guess.” He sat down across from Mikial on a ripple of gravel where grass had taken root. “I've often wondered about the differences between us. My daughter lives among those I've been taught to abhor. Am I supposed to hate myself too? Or my wife?"

  “Your wife?” Mikial sat down beside him. “I don't understand."

  Dahin gave her a patient look. “When a Kiorannan female has a tainted birth, it's the custom for her to seek a Return Child. Only then can she be assured of a clean birth, odd as that may seem."

  “Baran,” Mikial guessed.

  Dahin nodded. “My wife put aside her pride, Mikial, so we could have our son. It takes a deep commitment for any mother to submit herself to the same people who earlier took her child."

  Mikial looked down. No wonder Sensanna despised her presence. “I must admit that I didn't look at Passion exchanges quite like that."

  “Congratulate yourself on taking the first step toward understanding us. If enough Kiorannans and Qurls do the same, I'd stand a greater chance of living alongside your Holding in peace. Who knows, maybe we could start trading goods instead of insults."

  Mikial gave a tired smile. “Both your daughter and I would like that, Dahin."

  Nodding, he got to his feet. “The storm's about to let up."

  He pointed up to the breaking overcast, the rain reduced to a few wind-driven sprinkles. “We part company here,” he said, gesturing up the road. “Keep following that to the Hill. I'll meet you tomorrow morning after I've dealt with Maltenna."

  “And if she refuses to stop her advance?"

  Dahin gave her a confident nod. “She'll stop. Just stay out of sight. You and I have enough misunderstanding between ourselves without the involvement of others."

  Mikial gave him a warning look as she took to her saddle. “Just don't bring company with you, or you won't find me up there."

  “I'll try and keep the army at bay,” Dahin grinned. “Until morning, then."

  “If I don't get lost,” she muttered as they parted.

  * * * *

  Following Dahin's directions, Mikial stayed on the old highway. With solitude came an odd sense of composure difficult to justify so deep inside Kioranna. Perhaps it is Dahin, she reasoned. It was getting harder to think of him as an adversary. Mikial stared up into the purple silence of the Curtain. How much of her life had become like those clouds racing madly beneath it? Not for the first time, Mikial wished for Paleen's abilities. If she were Ipper, it would be a simple matter to simply raise her ear fans and let everyone know that she was all right.

  The road angled up the next rise, rather than cut through it like the others. Silhouetted against the folds of the Curtain, the knoll rose almost as high as one of the ridges back in her Holding. Mikial ascended, the liquid gurgling of the storm runoff giving way to buffeting winds. She drew her hood tight and coaxed her reluctant yhas toward a crumbling wall at the crest. Standing in her saddle, she judged the walls to be roughly twice her height. She sat back down and eased her rifle from where she had slid it beneath the saddle pack harness. Nearing the hilltop, she could see alabaster chips gleam like exposed bone along the wall. They were the remnants of a facing that still clung to granite blocks ringing the hillcrest. Two columns jutted like broken teeth to either side of the enclosure entrance, suggesting what once may have been supports for a gate.

  Mikial drew up to a halt before the brush-choked entrance. Wind batted at the auburn tufts tipping her ears. Any attempt to catch a scent up here was useless. The only movement was from tree limbs inside, surprise enough atop an otherwise sparsely wooded knoll. Her hunting eyes found nothing to indicate soldiers among the ruins. She dismounted and pulled off the confining cloak and draped it over the saddle. Taking her rifle, she prodded the yhas ahead of her. She skirted quickly along the inside wall to the animal's left as it entered.

  Mikial crouched within a drift of leaves that were piled against the stonework. Her eyes swept across the dislodged flagstones. A pair of large sheld trees flanked each end of the yard, their gnarled arms laced out to entwine each other in a clattering embrace. Through the weaving fingers of the trees she could see a building with a domed roof that looked like a broken eggshell. Window frames gaped like empty eye sockets from rooms extending from the center section. Perhaps it has been someone's summer home, Mikial thought. Two auxiliary buildings, little more than standing walls, suggested stables and storage. Alabaster surfacing seemed more intact on the house, its white reflection rippling across pools of rainwater.

  Rifle at ready, she bolted across the courtyard for the interior foyer. Pale light from the Curtain flooded down across a rubble-strewn reception area beneath the ruined dome. Moving along the wall, she peered into adjacent doorways. As she suspected, both sections of the house were little more than roofless shells.

  Mikial picked her way silently along the periphery of the hall until she reached a back patio. Wind found its way through wide bay window openings long since denuded of glass and wood. Stepping outside, she found a tangled growth of trees and shrubs pierced by two avenues of eroded flagstones. Walls enclosed what might have been an ancient garden.

  The sloping crest revealed another sight in the low meadows several lengths beyond the Hill. Lamps and campfires burned like scattered coals in a brazier. They illuminated orderly rows of white tents, their numbers belying a supposed population problem. Mikial bared her teeth in a low growl. It would take every Datha in the Qurl Hills to hold that kind of force at bay.

  Retrieving her yhas, Mikial led it to an old ironwood tree all but hidden beneath a mantle of broad-leafed creepers. Pulling her knife from her thigh strap, she cut into the tough fibers, end
uring small showers of rainwater until she hollowed her way into the dry interior of the thick bole.

  Bringing her yhas inside, Mikial removed its saddle and pack. The animal knelt down, nibbling experimentally at the fresh cuttings. Satisfied that it was content, she fished more of Dahin's dried meat from the saddle pack. With her rifle over one shoulder and a bedroll across the other, she dug her claws into the bark and started up through the dark interior of the tree.

  Mikial chose a crook between two limbs. Compared to the observation nests she made in the Holding, her current berth was an extravagance. Vines kept out the weather while offering a natural blind to unwelcome eyes. She used the bedroll to soften the angles, while Dahin's storm cloak became an ideal blanket. Chewing on a beef strip, Mikial regarded the flicker of fires within the Kiorannan camp. Home was getting very far away. Mikial laid her head back on a knot of vines. Her thoughts drifted back to Dalen. Had they finally Judged him? Killed the first male who actually seemed to like her? Mikial gave a shuddering sigh. Propping her rifle among vines, she drifted into a dreamy near-sleep as her instincts stood vigil.

  * * * *

  The low moans of field hawks vaguely registered on her ears as they greeted a washed-out sunrise. The rhythmic tinkle of someone's saddle tack catapulted Mikial awake, however. No, she was not mistaken. Rider. Coming up from the camp. Dahin, no doubt.

  A yhas appeared through low mists below the knoll. The person rode at a full gallop. Mikial drew back her lips with a hiss. That's not Dahin. Not unless he's grown a length of jet-black hair and changed his sex. Working the stiffness from her muscles, she considered how best to greet her expeditious visitor. Mikial imagined herself as the unexpected third party in a lover's rendezvous. She picked up her rifle. If this female isn't an envoy, she's going to be a victim of circumstance.

  Deciding to outflank her unwanted guest, Mikial jumped to the ground and raced for the west wall. She pulled herself up the crumbling edges to see the stranger turn the northwest corner. The rider slowed, exercising caution that only sharpened Mikial's suspicions. Mikial dropped down behind the outside wall, her rifle at the ready as she crept forward. Maybe they have sent an assassin instead.