Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  “It is safe?”

  “How should I know? Someone stole my memory when he forced me into human form.”

  Tarn scowled at his back. “It was for your own good.”

  “It doesn’t feel good,” Gard snapped back and then started forward. “Come on, then. Standing still never won any battles.”

  His little desert was no tactician, Tarn thought, but he followed at a careful distance, scanning the citadel for movement. He was confident he could burn arrows from the sky before they did any damage, but he’d never liked walking into strange battle camps.

  On the next step, something flashed in front of them, throwing reflections into their eyes. Blinded, Tarn reacted at once, grabbing Gard’s arm and jerking him backward, bracing himself for the hiss of arrows.

  “Hold, stranger!” a woman’s voice rang out, sweet and clear as a bell. “Guardian of the desert, we greet you. Who is this man who stands with a sword at your back? Shall we strike him from the earth or shall we spare him for the moment?”

  “He is no enemy,” Gard said, to Tarn’s relief. Perhaps he was beginning to see sense. “An idiot, but no enemy.”

  She laughed, a bright and echoing sound. “Come forward, then, and be welcome, stranger, to the Court of Shells, Citadel of the Swordmaids of Alagard.”

  Chapter 17: Allying

  “I WELCOME your welcome,” Tarn said carefully, remembering the guest code of old. “Whilst I stand under your roof, I will defend my host as I defend my home.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You’ve brought me someone with manners, Alagard.”

  “It’s the first sign he’s shown of them,” Gard complained, walking forward.

  Tarn looked up, shielding his eyes, and saw her. She stood on a shelf above the wadi, just out of a tall man’s reach. She was dressed in the garb of the swordmaids of old, in a leather corselet and a stiffly pleated kilt. She carried a sword at her waist, a bow over her shoulder, and a mirrored shield on her arm.

  She was also blonde and tall, her round face splattered with freckles, and her mouth wide and smiling. Tarn had seen a thousand hill girls like her, tough as leather and good-natured until the battle began, and he wondered how she had come here, to the heart of this desert. She was studying him with equal interest, so he bowed properly and said, in the old tongue, “Health be with you.”

  She bowed back, eyes bright, and returned the greeting. “Do they still speak the old tongue in the hills of the north?”

  “I am not young enough to know,” he told her gravely.

  Her eyes widened. “Another spirit lord? You must come in now and greet our queen.”

  “We have friends in need,” he told her. “Is there sanctuary here?”

  “Are they spirits, men, or maids?”

  “Men and women,” he told her. “Mortal all, and good-hearted. The dead pursue us, and we need shelter.”

  She shook her head slightly, frowning. “This is a place of refuge. Can you promise all who travel with you will respect that?”

  “They’re all as sparkly as a bag of diamonds,” Gard told her, heading up the wooden steps that led to her shelf. “Decent enough, the ones I’ve gotten to know, and there’s none of them deserve to be eaten by the dead.”

  “I will stand surety for them,” Tarn added. “They are….”

  “Under his protection, no doubt, even those who are more than capable of looking after themselves.”

  “You will have to ask our queen,” she said and extended her hand to help Gard up the last few steps. “Do you remember the way, old sandstorm, or do you want an escort?”

  “Oh, come and protect us from your dastardly sisterhood, do.”

  Tarn wasn’t sure if that betrayed a genuine lack of memory or just pure mischief on Gard’s part. He had noticed that Gard never called the girl by name, though she clearly knew him. To cover that gap, he fell in behind her as she led them indoors, waving another guard out of the shadows to take her place.

  “Tarn, am I,” he said.

  “Aline,” she answered.

  “There was a girl child in our party,” he said. “She walked this way this morning and has not returned to us.”

  “Esen? She’s safe.” Aline turned to smile at Gard. “Luckily, she remembered the way from when you brought her here before. She needs a place of safety for a while, but don’t worry. We will comfort her and give her solace.”

  Tarn saw Gard swallow hard, but he simply said, “Thank you.”

  “How came you here?” Tarn inquired. “You were not born in the desert.”

  “Like I said,” Gard remarked, his voice still a little unsteady. “Tarn has no manners.”

  Aline laughed. “As if I mind curiosity. I came, like most of us, in search of our queen. I was born, see, a few years after the battle ended and our highest ladies carried her away into the south. I heard she had won this place from the old mer king, and once my people had found new homes around the places where our dragon lords slept, I had a mind to come here and find my queen.”

  “That was long ago,” Tarn said. “Are you woman or spirit?”

  “Oh, we sit out of time here,” she said lightly. “Women find us, when they abandon all hope and enter the desert, but time is but a dream for us. Alagard here keeps us apart from the rest of the world. Or he did, at least. We have been cast back into mortal time for months now. What happened to you, guardian?”

  “I have forgotten,” Gard said flatly.

  “The Shadow came for him,” Tarn explained, letting the new knowledge turn in his mind. Some nature spirits had the ability to bend time and space within their dominion, but it was rare. Only the strongest could sustain it so long. “I saved him.”

  “I was working on it,” Gard snapped.

  “Our queen should hear this,” Aline said and lengthened her stride. Tarn kept up easily, but Gard, shorter and slighter, was forced to scurry.

  The citadel had broad corridors, lit by mirrors and witch lights, and sweet candles burnt in alcoves to freshen the air. The walls were carved into intricate panels, depicting battles of old where swordmaids had fought. Through arched doorways, Tarn saw libraries and sitting rooms, a classroom and a sparring room where a grim-faced sergeant was barking orders at a row of practicing warriors. The corridors were controlled by pairs of women in shining armor, talking to each other easily as they kept their rounds.

  As they paused at a corner to let a patrol pass, Tarn spotted the panel beside them, where a huge winged creature filled the sky, fire spilling from his mouth to strike down the lumbering enemies of the swordmaids below. Delighted, he tapped Gard on the arm and pointed.

  Gard pouted. “Oh, that’s not fair. Not this far south. Not in my desert.”

  “Proof that I belong here,” Tarn suggested hopefully and got a cross look in return.

  At last, Aline left them outside the doorway of a large room. She stepped inside, and Tarn heard her say, “We have visitors, Bright Queen.”

  Who would have inherited Myrtilis’s crown, Tarn wondered. From what Aline had said about the Court’s place in time, it could be someone he had once known. He tried to remember which of her lieutenants had survived the last battle, but it was a struggle. He had been fighting the desire to sleep and most concerned about his northern hoard who had gathered close to him. He had barely been aware of the swordmaids after the battle, and within hours slumber had claimed him.

  Aline leaned back round the door. “Enter, and pay your respects to our queen.”

  It was a high-roofed room, full of women leaning over a round table. Most were looking up in interest as he and Gard walked in, but others were still frowning over the charts and lists scattered across the polished wood. They must have climbed very high as they followed Aline, for there was a window here that spilled sunlight across the gleaming wood of the table and the worn hilts of the women’s swords and caught in their hair in flashes of gold, copper, and ebony.

  “Alagard!” one of them said. “Finally!”


  That caught the attention of the woman at the head of the table, who wore a thin gold circlet over the long spill of her red hair. She looked up, and her face went slack with surprise.

  She wasn’t looking at Gard.

  He had just enough time to step forward in delight before Myrtilis, his own Myrtilis, hollered, “Tarnamell! Tarn!” and vaulted over her own council table to throw herself at him.

  He caught her, swinging her around with a yell to match her own, overwhelmed by the sudden bright shock of seeing someone who knew and loved him. She leaned back to look at him, her eyes swimming. Then she pulled herself up by grabbing handfuls of his hair, laid a smacking kiss on his lips, and, a mere moment later, punched him hard in the gut.

  Tarn wheezed, and she cackled with laughter before demanding, “When the fuck did you wake up, you bastard? Why didn’t you come straight here?”

  “I got close,” Tarn told her, grinning, and pulled her in again, locking his arms around her until she yelped a protest. “Someone chased me off.”

  “So very, very unfair,” Gard complained.

  Myrtilis grinned at him over Tarn’s shoulder. “This was the invading spirit you were in a snit about? You should have told me about him properly, old desert. He’s definitely one of the good ones.”

  “You,” Tarn told her, “I love very much. So good to have someone on my side.”

  She laughed and dropped down to the floor, hooking her arm through his. “Serves you right for traveling with our Alagard. He’s a sweet boy, even if he does like to flirt with the ladies, but he could argue the north wind into blowing east.”

  “I do not flirt!” Gard’s sulk had been steadily deepening.

  “And all the handsome men as well, if my sources are telling the truth,” Myrtilis said. “Tarn, my lovely, I am so thankful you are here. Ladies, for those who do not recall our dread king, the keeper of the first hoard, here is our hope of salvation. Tarn, do you know what we face here?”

  “We travel with a trade caravan. For days the dead have been on our heels, and we saw the sign of the closed fist in Istel. I know.”

  “Good. Your caravan?”

  “On the bluff and in need of shelter.”

  “Are they your new hoard?” she asked, with sympathetic eyes.

  “They and you, and I shall claim every soul in the desert when I stretch my wings again.”

  She smiled at him. “I am honored, my king.”

  “I’m not,” Gard put in obstinately.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Then either you are too stubborn, or he has failed to explain it properly. Again.” She turned and called, “Aline, get the king’s people to shelter, please. They may stay as long as they have need.”

  “We have some supplies, but they will not last for long,” Tarn warned her.

  She patted his arm. “We have water and gardens, and easily a hundred empty rooms. Your hoard will be safe in this citadel. Did you sell all your trade goods in Istel? We only send out occasional trade parties to the town, so any novelties will sell well here.”

  “Our caravan master will be overjoyed,” Tarn told her. “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Now, let’s have both of you looking at this. We’ve been trying to track the movements of the dead to predict which graveyards are likely to rise up next.”

  Chapter 18: Recovering

  LATER, STANDING at the window of the chambers he had been assigned, Tarn finally relaxed. There were a few others living here who had known him of old, and the steady warmth of their regard flowed around him like water. He had been weary from trying so hard to win the love of his new hoard, he realized now. It felt good to just relax and take succor from a reliable source.

  Inside the caves, the air was cool against his skin. Water ran through the back of his chamber, trickling down the rocks to fill a broad bathing pool and then swirl away again to some deeper point. Some clever craftswoman had shaped a second lower pool to catch the overflow, and built a brazier into its rocky base to heat the water.

  Chimes hung over the window, glass beads dangling in shining falls which cast colors back into the room. There were shutters to pull closed against the light, and the sill was deep—and, this being Myrtilis’s home, equipped with three full quivers of arrows and a bow hanging off the back of the shutters.

  It felt like being home again, in another age, and Tarn sat there happily, watching the last of the wagons drive along the bottom of the wadi. Following Aline’s directions, the wagons entered the hidden bay at the bottom of the citadel, whence they could be hoisted into a more secure chamber and the traders welcomed to a true citadel, a home of warmaids and dragons.

  “Nice room,” a familiar dry voice said behind him, and he turned to nod at Ia, who was standing in the doorway, still dust streaked and travel weary.

  “Yours isn’t?” he inquired.

  “Oh, fancier than I’m used to, but not quite up to this. You have a receiving chamber with a throne fitted in it.”

  “It’s not very comfortable,” Tarn told her, “but you may sit in it if you like.”

  She snorted. “Have we really fallen into luck, then?”

  “Yes,” he said. “What does Sethan think?”

  She groaned. “Oh, he and Cayl were heading off toward the baths when I saw them last.”

  “They’re good baths.”

  “I’m sure,” she agreed, “but I’ve walked in on those two enough times in my life.” She walked over to join him by the window, shaking her head. “You know, I was beginning to think it was time I came looking for this place. I’ve only got a few more long rides in me. Perhaps this is a sign.”

  “This,” Tarn said, with absolute certainty, “is one of the places you can always find again, once you have been invited in.” Feeling a familiar presence at his door, he added, “Is it not so?”

  “Absolutely,” Myrtilis said. “Sorry to interrupt. I was hoping to trade some gossip with Tarn here, but it can wait.”

  “This introduction cannot,” Tarn said, turning around and pulling Ia with him. “This is Ianthe—”

  “I warned you about using that name, Tarn.”

  “—who has fought at my side these last months. She is a daughter of Myrtilis.” He stood back, waiting for the reaction.

  Myrtilis rolled her eyes at him. “I have met plenty of our younger sisters before.” She stepped forward, though, and cupped Ia’s face in her hands, studying her before she leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Welcome home, my daughter.”

  “This is Myrtilis,” Tarn said, in case Ia hadn’t realized. Then he turned away to give her some privacy to greet her divinity.

  “Tarn,” Myrtilis said at last. “I came to invite you to dine with me. There will be a feast for all of yours and all of mine, but you must sit at my table—you, Ianthe, and your caravan master and his leman. And Alagard, of course.”

  “Who Tarn would like as his leman,” Ia said, “if Gard ever speaks to him again, that is.”

  Myrtilis’s face lit up. “Oh, now this is a story I must hear.”

  Tarn scowled at Ia, who crossed her arms and glared back. “You let me stand here and meet my queen with dirt on my face and not even a hint of warning. You think I’m keeping my mouth shut about your shenanigans after that?”

  “His manners have been terrible for centuries,” Myrtilis told Ia sympathetically. “Now I want to hear the whole story.”

  “I told you she would like you,” Tarn said in a belated attempt to persuade Ia to show mercy.

  They both laughed at him. Myrtilis drew Ia after her, heading toward the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Brave Tarn, you always forget that humans are more cunning than you expect. Now, you too could do with washing your face before dinner. I’ll send someone up with clothes to fit you.”

  “I am not vain,” Tarn grumbled but returned her smile. He still needed to find out how she had survived all these centuries, but they had time now, and he was thankful.

  IT WA
S a feast of the type he had started to forget in the months since he had woken again. Caravan guards, no matter their true and secret nature, did not wear silk and sit with queens.

  Myrtilis was obviously in a generous mood, old-fashioned ring giver that she was, because everyone at the high table wore new clothes. Ia looked dignified and slightly uncomfortable in a high-collared thistle-colored tunic. Sethan was resplendent in flowing layers of fine linen and silk scarves. He was enjoying the attention of the warmaids gathered at the tables below, though Tarn noticed he kept his hand in Cayl’s. Cayl himself still managed to look slightly crumpled, even in a silver-trimmed chiton fit for a king.

  As Tarn walked through the hall, aware of the murmurs from each side of him, he thought that whichever woman was responsible for maintaining the court’s wardrobes was either a frustrated stage director or making the most of a rare opportunity to clothe men. She had put Gard into a narrow open-necked white tunic that fell to the floor and was edged with striped metallic ribbons. Over it he wore a thin bright coat made of rainbow-streaked silk, and he had new beads in his hair to match all the colors of his coat. He was laughing openly at something Sethan was saying, his head thrown back and his shoulders easy. He should always look like that—bright and free and merry—Tarn thought, his heart filling with warmth.

  There was a space in the center of the hall, between the ring of tables, and Tarn wondered if there would be dancing later. Myrtilis had always known how to host a good party, and he couldn’t imagine that had changed over the centuries, even if the world itself had been reshaped beneath their feet.

  He stopped in the middle of that space, hearing the hall grow quiet. He waited, confident he would have all their attention soon. He felt like a hoard lord again, for the first time since he had woken. An iron coronet lay firm and heavy on his head, and even his clothes felt like the finery his generals had once worn, though the cloth was lighter than the velvets and wool he had worn in the north. It was the right shade of forest green, however, with the dragon rampant stitched in gold across his breast as it had been on his battle banners of old. It was a little too tight across the shoulders—made perhaps for one of his followers who had visited here in the days after he had entered his long sleep—and clung a little close to his chest for the old styles, but the worst of the tightness was hidden below the fall of his cloak, which was trimmed in gold with entwining dragons sewn across the green cloth in tight knots of golden thread, with tiny garnets gleaming in their eyes. Tarn’s trousers were loose, in recognition of the climate, but the cloth was soft and fine.