Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  “I’ve had no word at all,” Myrtilis said. “Gard, can you reach them through the desert?”

  Gard let out a noise of frustration. “Not in this form.”

  “No,” said Tarn, before anyone could start the inevitable argument. “You are part of our strength, and you know too much to risk the Shadow creeping into your mind again. Myrtilis, have you got a message bird you can send that way?”

  “I have,” Myrtilis said. “Even if the port is untouched, coordinating an attack when we are separated by miles of the restless dead will be a challenge.”

  “You can ask them to send a warning through the rest of the north, though,” Ia pointed out. “The cities tend to assume that the desert and the sea are enough to protect them from the Savattin. They won’t be ready for the dead. Let’s put them on the defensive and see if we can call in any of my sisters who can break their contracts with their current employers. There are enough of us for an army, albeit a small one.”

  “I wonder,” Aline said thoughtfully, her eyes distant, “if there is any worth in a storybook gambit?”

  “What do you mean?” Gard demanded.

  “The Shadow is bound to mortal form, aye? If we destroy its mortal body, it will need time to forge a new one, won’t it, and the Savattin hierarchy will collapse into disarray.”

  “No outsider has ever seen the Fist of God,” Ia commented thoughtfully, “but the folks we trade with in Tiallat describe him as a young man. Would the Shadow wear a human face?”

  “It prefers them,” Tarn said grimly. “It likes to steal innocents and ride inside their souls.”

  Aline nodded sharply. “Well, then. Send, say, Tarn and Gard and me to creep in and strike at the Shadow directly. Can it be done?”

  “It’s a storybook gambit because that’s the only place it works,” Ia growled.

  Aline shrugged, slow and easy. “So the Shadow won’t expect it. It will be watching for action, so let’s bring the Selar in and start gathering an army in Essam. Make it look as if our move will come in a few months’ time. Gard can conceal a small group of travelers in a storm, I reckon, as long as there’s not too many of them. Strike before the Shadow is ready, and we can bring it down now and save ourselves countless generations of war.”

  Chapter 21: Leaving

  THE ARRIVAL of the Selar filled the halls of the citadel. Suddenly it felt less labyrinthine and echoing because there were children running shrieking through the halls and groups of solemn-faced adults congregating in the audience chambers and dining halls to confer in the low lilting language of the desert. Within two days, Tarn had eavesdropped enough to pick up some greetings, oaths, and compliments, which he was saving to surprise Gard with at some later point.

  Gard himself had vanished into the mass of his people, as more and more of them gathered in response to Myrtilis’s call to sanctuary. Tarn wasn’t quite sure how they had managed to pass the message so fast, and everyone smiled and pretended not to understand him when he asked, but it had been effective. It felt like he was part of a real hoard again, one where chubby toddlers clung to his legs for balance and little grandmothers in black robes scolded him fiercely when he stepped across the wrong threshold, even as Myrtilis’s warriors tried frantically to explain to them who he was.

  Whenever Tarn managed to catch up with him, Gard was in the middle of a crowd, listening to his people. He either flashed out enough charm to make them laugh, or stood solemn and grim with the Selar warriors. He rolled his eyes at Tarn every time he appeared but always paused to introduce him, and obviously did it seriously enough that the Selar began to treat Tarn with a certain amount of wary respect.

  Today Tarn found him in the war room, watching a fierce three-way argument between Sethan, Cayl, and Ia. Gard was perched on the windowsill, his feet swinging, so Tarn sat down beside him, leaning in close enough that their shoulders brushed. Gard snorted faintly, but didn’t move, which meant he was in a good mood.

  “Neither of you are soldiers!” Sethan was shouting, his voice stripped of its usual drawl.

  “We don’t need to be, for this mission!” Cayl growled.

  At the same moment, Ia snapped, “Have you forgotten what you pay me for? Of course I’m a fucking soldier.”

  It descended into yelling after that, and Tarn couldn’t quite make sense of the overlapping anger. He brushed against Gard’s mind, murmuring softly, “What’s this about?”

  Gard shuddered quickly. “What, this is a means of private gossip now? Aren’t you supposed to be above such things?”

  “Gard.”

  “Fine. Ia and Cayl want to come with us.”

  Tarn hunched his shoulders, sharing Sethan’s distress. They were precious to him, those two, and it was vital he win them for his new hoard. He didn’t want to risk them. “They should stay here. They should stay safe.”

  “You think that about everyone. Your opinion doesn’t count.” Gard looked up as Myrtilis came in. “Did he always try to lock his generals away?”

  “It’s a known risk of fighting for a dragon,” she said, laughing. “Poor Killan used to have to fuck him senseless if he wanted to creep out and get near the front line.”

  “Did you hear that, Cayl?” Gard asked brightly. “You just need to use your wicked wiles on your man there.”

  Cayl stopped midroar and blinked at Gard. “What?”

  “Or maybe it only works if you fuck Tarn,” Gard pondered aloud, his grin going sharp at the edges. “It’s a bit of a sacrifice, I know, but there are far worse things you could do for the sake of duty.”

  Sethan’s eyes narrowed. “He will not be fucking Tarn. Ever. And don’t pretend you’d let him, little sandstorm.”

  Gard chuckled, and Cayl, who was still gaping, said with sudden force, “I don’t want to fuck Tarn.”

  “I am still here,” Tarn pointed out and sighed. Nobody seemed to want him. “So, one by one, convince me why I should risk losing you to the Shadow.”

  “You need someone with common sense along,” Ia said, crossing her arms and glowering at him. “Neither of you really understand ordinary people, and we have to get through the city without attracting attention.”

  “I agree,” Myrtilis said, as Gard opened his mouth, his face indignant. “Which is why I’m sending Aline with them.”

  “You are?” Aline said from her usual place a step behind Myrtilis. “I didn’t realize you had decided.”

  “I don’t want to lose you,” Myrtilis said to her. “Not least because you and Ianthe are the two most sensible people in this place. Of the two of you, though, you are best placed on this mission and Ia most needed here.”

  Tarn could see Ia’s annoyance warring with her respect for her queen, but she settled for a short, sharp, “Aye?”

  “What was your mastery, Ianthe?”

  “The Dragon Wars, which you’ve got more experts on than I could shake a stick at.”

  Myrtilis arched an eyebrow. “That was your academic mastery, my daughter. You are not the first of your sisters to turn up here, and I know you have three. What are your strategic and combat masteries?”

  “Logistics and battlemagic,” Ia admitted grudgingly.

  “Have you noticed,” Myrtilis asked, her smile starting to grow, “how few practical people I have here? By our very nature, it is the dreamers and heroes who ride this way. The last woman I had who could organize a decent supply train died on the field at Astalor. I have one quartermaster, and I am desperately short of decent drill sergeants. I need someone with enough sense and skill to run a desertwide war. You and Aline are the only two I have. Her arm is younger and stronger in battle, and you will be far better at terrorizing reckless young captains who think ammunition is easy to come by in the desert.”

  “Well, that’s true at least,” Ia admitted, and Tarn sighed. She would continue to grumble, he was sure, but that battle seemed won. He turned to Cayl next.

  “And?” he said. “You, now.”

  Cayl shrugged. “I’v
e been to Tiallat before. I speak the language.” He glanced at Sethan apologetically. “And there’s the other thing, lover. Tarn might need someone with my particular talents along.”

  Sethan’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know,” Cayl said steadily.

  “What particular talents?” Myrtilis asked.

  Gard laughed. “Oh, he may pretend to be a lawman, but he’s a rogue at heart, that one. I’d have them both along, if it were my choice.”

  “I still don’t think you should be coming,” Tarn reminded him, and was put out when everyone laughed at him.

  THAT NIGHT, Tarn was woken from his sleep by the sound of arrows. He rose from his bed and staggered to the window, looking down into the canyon.

  A few of the dead were burning there, stumbling blindly forward as they crumbled into ash. He could see the dim flares of further arrows waiting in the windows far below—Myrtilis’s guards on duty.

  “How bad is it?” Gard asked from the doorway.

  “Six,” Tarn said, counting. “What are you doing here?”

  “My rooms look the other way, but I felt death among the sands.” He came forward to stand beside Tarn. “Six isn’t many.”

  “There will be more.” Tarn hadn’t bothered dressing to sleep, not in the safety of the citadel, and he was very aware of his nakedness with Gard so close, leaning past his shoulder to squint into the night. Gard was partially covered, in a twist of undyed cloth that knotted at his shoulder and must have offered some warmth against the cold desert night.

  It was ten steps to the bed, and Tarn knew he was warmer than any thin shawl.

  “Gard,” he murmured, and couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to brush his hand against Gard’s hip, turning him.

  Gard faced him, saying absently, “We have no more time to linger, do we? Tomorrow….”

  “Gard,” Tarn said again and kissed him, as softly as he dared.

  Gard returned the kiss, his mouth sweet and easy below Tarn’s, but then he pulled away. His voice was a little shaky, but he said, “We agreed to be friends.”

  “That doesn’t stop me from wanting you.”

  “We all want things we can’t have.”

  “Come to bed, Gard. I’ll keep you warm.”

  Gard’s laugh was a little less cynical than usual. “I’ve heard that promise from soldiers before. No, Tarn.”

  “Fine,” Tarn murmured. “I won’t take you to bed. Just stand awhile and kiss me. Nothing more.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Gard complained, but he let Tarn kiss him quietly, rubbing his lips gently over Gard’s as he held him close. When Gard’s arms slipped up around his neck, Tarn sighed and lost himself in the kiss. If he couldn’t have everything, he’d take what he could.

  When Gard finally pulled away, his skin was flushed and his breathing unsteady. “I’m going to bed. Don’t ask me to stay.”

  Tarn didn’t, but he stood and watched Gard as he backed out of the room, willing him to stop until he was out of sight. Then, when it became clear that Gard was not coming back, he retreated to his empty bed.

  He had put the chess piece he had found in High Amel on the shelf behind his bed, a memory and a good-luck piece. Now, he stared at its antique face until sleep came, listening to the hiss of arrows from the windows below.

  DAWN FOUND them gathered in the wadi. The sun had not yet cleared the mountains, and they all huddled into cloaks against the cold bite of the morning air. Myrtilis had come to see them off, with Ia and Sethan.

  She brought over three men in Selar robes, who greeted Gard with familiar nods. “Here’s the rest of your party, my king. Namik and his sons Raif and Zeki. Namik knows the city.”

  “My father was a scribe in the Shah’s palace before the Savattin rose,” Raif, the older of the sons, said. His voice was soft, accented with the Selar lilt. “They did not care for his poetry, and he went to the Selar when I was but a child and my brother not two years old. He does not speak trade tongue, but Zeki and I will translate where there is need.”

  “We are glad for your help,” Tarn said, bowing in greeting. “Perhaps, if we have time on the road, you will translate your father’s poetry for me. I have not heard a poet sing for many years.”

  “Tarn’s less of a thug than he looks,” Gard commented, descending on the startled youth with a smile. “I’m glad to see you safe, Raif. Zeki, have you caught any more cats by their tails lately?”

  “That was years ago!” the younger brother protested, his cheeks flushing. “Why won’t anyone forget?”

  His father looked over and smiled at Gard, asking a quick question. Young Zeki answered, gesturing fiercely with chagrin in his voice, and his father laughed and held out his hand to Tarn.

  Tarn grasped his arm in greeting and broke out all the Selar he had learned to say carefully, “Peace be with you, and all your kin.”

  He was rewarded by Gard’s splutter and a slow pleased nod from Namik. Raif laughed a little and made a teasing comment to Gard before he turned back to Tarn. “I’m sorry. We have all known each other too long to watch our manners closely.”

  “Apology appreciated,” Cayl said, coming over to join them. “I’ve got trade tongue and Latai, but not much Selar, and Tarn here only really speaks dead languages. Are the camels yours?”

  “They are, for our baggage, but let Zeki or me load them. They’re temperamental.”

  “What camels aren’t?” Cayl asked, and Tarn eyed the odd baggage beasts with curiosity. He could smell them from here, and they looked as bad tempered and twice as haughty as most of his dragon kin.

  “Do they bite?” he wondered aloud.

  “Oh, frequently,” Gard complained. “Is this all of us, then?”

  “Aye,” Myrtilis said. “Say your good-byes.” She came to Tarn first, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Come back safe, old friend. I don’t want to lose you again so soon.”

  His good-byes were said quickly, because he’d never seen any merit in lingering over these things, but others had more serious things to say. Namik and his sons went to see to the camels, and Tarn leaned on a rock and watched Sethan kiss Cayl, their arms locked tightly around each other.

  He was more surprised when Aline cupped Myrtilis’s face and kissed her queen with a slow tenderness that said it was far from the first time.

  “Did you know about that?” he asked Gard.

  Gard rolled his eyes. “Of course. It’s been going on for centuries. I’m beginning to feel left out. Why isn’t anybody kissing me?”

  “I keep offering,” Tarn pointed out and didn’t even try to dodge the elbow that rammed into his side. “Where’s Esen?”

  Gard wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m not going to kiss Esen. She’s a baby.”

  “I know that,” Tarn said, with exaggerated patience. “I just thought she’d want to say good-bye.”

  Gard sighed, shoulders slumping. “She’s cross with me. She doesn’t think I should go.”

  “I like her more and more,” Tarn observed and caught Gard’s elbow in his hand before it hit his gut. “You could show your affection more gently. I prefer kisses to bruises.”

  Gard muttered at him but kept his elbows to himself for a while.

  Soon, they were on the move, their horses picking out a careful path along the canyon as Tarn and Aline watched for the dead. Tarn knew that, behind them, Myrtilis was sealing the citadel, raising the hoists that connected the caravanserai to the lower levels and positioning spyglasses and mirrors to watch the approaches. They had passed the pyre of the twice-slain dead as they rode out, and Tarn wondered how long it would be feasible for Myrtilis to burn the dead. If they came in numbers, it was easier to let them fall and block the path of the next wave.

  “In the palace,” he said to Gard, “how high do you think the windows are?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “The dead,” Tarn said, making a stacking gesture with his hands. “
They pile high.”

  “Well, aren’t you a cheerful conversationalist?” Gard grimaced at him and then moved his horse forward. “I’m going to talk to Namik about poetry, because we are civilized men, he and I.”

  “Civilization needs fighting men to protect it,” Tarn tried, but he was talking to Gard’s retreating back. Sighing, he rode on alone.

  They began to meet significant numbers of the dead after a few hours, in the foothills on the southern edge of the Riada. Gard called a stop after Tarn blasted a whole troop of them into ash, which left his hands trembling from channeling such power through a human body.

  “We need to cover our passage,” Gard said, his face unusually grim. “If I raise a sizable storm and put us in its eye, that will cover our scent and make it hard for them to reach us.”

  “Will it also make us easy to track?” Aline asked. “Sandstorms usually develop and fade. One which heads straight for Tiallat might attract attention.”

  Tarn shook his head. “The Shadow doesn’t think like that. It will have sent the dead out to do its bidding, but the dead cannot think. They cannot draw conclusions from what they see or predict what will happen next. Unless it gets a human ally out here, in exactly the right place to realize that the storm is unnatural, we can get as far as the borders of Tiallat without attracting suspicion. How long is the journey?”

  “Sixteen days in the desert, at a safe pace for the horses,” said Raif. “Then another ten or twelve across Tiallat to the capital, depending on how bad the spring floods were this year.”

  “Then let me raise the storm,” Gard said. “The sooner we start to ride, the better.”

  After the pleasant shelter of Myrtilis’s palace, it felt strange to have the wind start to raise rasping sand around them again. The horses shifted uneasily as the air began to blur. Gard’s face was taut with concentration, his hand raised slightly against the push of the wind. Slowly, the sand began to rise in thin surges, trickling into the air and outward, building a wall of whirling sand between them and the desert.