by Glenda Larke
Sunlord save us.
Kedri.
Her panic was total, yet every movement she made was deliberate, considered. She couldn’t afford to feel dizzy again. She turned her head the other way and saw another man. Guyden, with his white beading. He stood in the doorway of the room where Kedri usually slept. He held a knife, too. Wise move; better than a scimitar in this confined space. Don’t underestimate the lad, Ryka. He has the instincts of a killer. He was alert and poised. Don’t forget, he knows you are a rainlord, and he’s a water sensitive. Worse, the knife was bloodied.
She couldn’t see her son, but she could feel him. He still lived. The panic subsided a notch, enabling her to think. Slowly she began to move her good arm until her hand was close to the handle of the dagger still strapped to her side under the cover of her tunic.
She looked back at Ravard, noting his eye-patch for the first time. It should have made her aware of his deformity, but all she could think of was that it made him look dangerous. “I’ve broken some bones,” she said. “I can’t move. I think I’m dying.”
He looked stricken, and she hardened her heart. You’ve have no rights here, Ravard. None.
“Kedri,” she said.
He moved then, to the room where Kedri slept, and a moment later brought the boy back. Kedri, asleep in the crook of his left arm, lips twitching into a smile.
“He’s grown into a fine boy,” he said.
His gaze was fond and he handled Kedri tenderly, as if the child was his own. She felt ill.
“He’s not your son, Mica.” Sunlord bless him, Kedri was still sound asleep and showed no signs of waking.
“He is t’me,” he said simply. “I’ll look after him, I swear, Garnet. He’ll be like my own son. And you…” He swallowed. “You can recover; be his mother.”
“No. My—my insides are all in a mess. I can tell. I’m a rainlord, remember?”
Her mind was racing, fighting to push the pain into the background, to work out what was within her capabilities. She pushed her senses outwards. She had to seek a source of water. All the jars in the tent were closed tight. There was Robena, of course—but taking hers would be too obvious. Scanning the surrounding tents she could find nothing accessible. No wait, what’s that? When she tugged at the water in the kettle on the table in the communal kitchen, it responded. The spout had been carelessly left uncovered. She pulled out a thin stream, hardly wider than a grass blade. Not too much or too fast, or even someone of Ravard’s weak talent would sense it. But oh, it was sapping her strength, her tenuous hold on her consciousness.
He gave her a look of dismayed guilt and sorrow. “I didn’t mean t’hurt you. I—I thought we could start again—”
“Too late. If you want to make amends, give Kedri to his father. His real father.” She winced as she eased her arm into a more comfortable position. “Guyden will tell you how Kedri loves his father.”
Ravard nodded at Guyden. “This is Islar, Sandmaster Davim’s son. He’s my Master Son. Sorry, Garnet, but we’re taking over God’s Pellets. And I’m keeping you and Khedrim. Your sand-witted husband must get out of the Red Quarter, along with all Scarpen warriors. Your stormlord’s been preventing us from getting random rain by stealing all the natural clouds, so what can we do? We have a right t’lead the kind of life we choose. With the Source in our hands, we can. We can be independent.”
Her head ached and talking was painful, but she refused to give in. She wanted to scream at him, to stab him with her knife. She wanted Kedri out of his arms. She wanted Kaneth. “We’re working towards the same thing! Don’t you see?” she asked. “You can have it all. Kaneth—all of us here—we’re working to achieve this. A time when the Quartern does not have to rely on Scarpen stormlords.”
She trailed the water from the kettle through the air alongside the tent. When it reached the veranda, she began to bundle it together into a ball. It was so hard to focus on Ravard, on Kedri’s safety, on the water… So hard not to feel the pain. Not to slip away where she wouldn’t feel it all.
Keep him focused on you.
She took a deep breath. “All your tribe has to do is to stop raiding and killing others. To swear that trade caravans will never be attacked and that the White Quarter will be safe from your raids. Promise that, and we can rebuild a prosperity for the dunes together.”
“With me as your sandmaster, and Islar as the Master Son, not just of the Watergatherer, but of all dunes?”
The sneering disbelief behind the words was more hinted at rather than obvious, but she heard it anyway. She thought about his words, about his proposal, if indeed it was that. Kaneth will never agree. Neither will Vara. They both want Ravard dead. Many of the other dunes won’t agree, either. They suffered too much under Davim and Ravard. They don’t trust him. And now Islar has linked himself to Ravard. And unlike Cleve, he was raised by Davim. No, there would be no peace there. Not now.
The time had come and gone for Ravard to have a place in the new order. Surprising herself, she felt only pity.
“I think it’s too late for that,” she murmured.
“You’re right. Our armies fought yesterday, and your man and Vara were defeated.”
Her heart struggled to beat normally. Her thoughts were so tangled by pain she wasn’t sure she was making sense. “You can’t know that. You may have ziggers, but Kaneth and Vara had two stormlords with them.”
He looked shocked. “Two?”
“Yes.”
Ravard looked at Islar. “Know anything ’bout that?”
Screams shredded the calm of the night outside. Neither of the men took any notice. Someone trying to raise the alarm. Too late. Ravard must have brought more men with him…
“No,” the lad said. “Although I told you the Cloudmaster had another Gibber grubber with him.”
“So you did.”
She stared at Ravard. She knew him well enough to know he was shaken. But he wasn’t going to admit it. He waved Islar out of the tent. “Keep watch,” he said. “Warn me of trouble. And drag that body out of here.”
As fast as Ryka could, she zipped the water ball to hover immediately over the roof of the veranda. Islar left, and she followed him with her senses. He went to stand at the front corner of the veranda where he would have a good view of people coming and going, if there were any.
When they were alone, Ravard continued, “I won’t force you, Garnet, not this time. What I did…” He hesitated, evidently finding the words hard to say. “It wasn’t right.”
“So?” she asked, not making it easy for him. “There’s not going to be another time, Mica. I’m dying.”
Outside, someone screamed, but the sound was cut short. She jumped. The wave of pain that followed almost demolished her fragile hold on clarity and coherence.
“I’ll get the best healers for you,” he was saying when she focused again. “It was just a fall. I think you’ve broken the bone here.” He tapped his shoulder and continued, stubbornly refusing to believe she was seriously hurt. “Once your man’s army has dispersed and he’s dead or gone back where he belongs, you’re free t’go, if y’want. Your rainlord’s a street-groveller, used t’hard floors underfoot and a roof overhead t’hide the sun and stars. You want that life? Go with him.”
She didn’t believe him. You’d kill Kaneth if you had half a chance. Another calming breath. Don’t slaughter the mount under you, Ry. Keep your temper. Under the cover of a fold in her tunic, she groped for the handle of her knife and edged it out of its holder. Sunlord help me, even my fingers hurt.
“And Kedri?”
“I claimed Khedrim as my own when his father rejected him. He’s my son, born in the Red Quarter. He stays.”
Her arms ached to take Kedri from him. “He was born in the Warthago. His father did not reject him; he just couldn’t remember who he was, or who I was.”
“Kedri was born north of the divide. That’s the Red Quarter.”
By all that’s sun holy, this has got to be th
e weirdest conversation ever. Her glance flicked to Kedri. How was she going to keep him safe if she attacked? Worse, she couldn’t let Ravard make a sound, or Guyden-Islar would come to his aid. Waterless damn, why did this irritating man always present her with these frustrating dilemmas? Think, Ryka. Concentrate.
Just then, Islar poked his head back into the tent, thankfully without noticing the ball of water now hovering over the door under the veranda roof. “Timwith says a lot of the folk in the camp fled and they’ve scattered all over the place. Wants to know what they should do.”
“Make sure they don’t leave the valley. We have Ryka and Khedrim—nobody’s going to try anything. Tell him to round up those he can and keep them under guard.”
Islar withdrew and she said, “I don’t understand how you entered the valley. The canyons are blocked. The guards are everywhere. You should’ve been seen or your approach felt by the water sensitives.”
He grinned, suddenly boyishly puffed up like a sandgrouse. “We came in with the wild pedes. Only they weren’t really wild at all. We brought them from the Watergatherer, just t’fool you.”
Her mind cried out against the possibility. “They weren’t carved. We sent riders to check!”
“My men have been too busy to carve any of the spare pedes we captured after Uthardim stole or killed ours. We brought ’em here and allowed them t’roam free, so you could take a look, get used to them. Then, starting at midday yesterday, we sneaked in as far as the rock wall. Under them.”
“Under?” Her mind wasn’t working. That made no sense.
“In net cradles woven t’be hung under their bellies. What water sensitive can feel the water of a man when he has t’pass through the water of a pede t’do it? We were there, right under the gaze of your sentries, impossible to see in the grass and scrub.”
He laughed, charmed by the simplicity and success of his plan. Ryka wanted to hit him.
“By dusk we were at the back of God’s Pellets,” he continued, “and you had no idea we were there.”
“There can’t have been many of you.” Only a few could safely hide in a small meddle of pedes, surely.
“Twelve others. All water sensitives. From there we climbed in. Islar showed us the way.”
She went cold. “And what are the others doing right now?”
“Herding together your people under guard. Killing your sentries. We aren’t harming women and children. We want them as hostages.”
You spitless louse! She had to do something. But what?
She didn’t think he would hurt Kedri. Her, yes. Pushed into a corner, he’d kill her now and maybe grieve a little later. She could hear the anger and bitterness in his voice; he had not forgiven her for… what? The fact that she hadn’t loved him? That she’d gone back to Kaneth? No, she didn’t think that was it. He was furious because all along she was a rainlord and she’d hidden it from him. She could have drowned him in his sleep at any time, but instead she’d waited and, in the end, he’d looked a fool before his men. A leader who’d slept with a rainlord without knowing what he was doing. That was what he couldn’t forgive: being made to look as if he had no more brains than a wilted sand-tick. It would have cost him credibility.
“And your army on Koumwards?” she asked.
“T’entice yours away. T’allow Islar and me the chance t’enter and find ourselves the hostages that’d keep your so-called Uthardim away.”
You really don’t know Kaneth, you water-waster.
He continued, “Our army is so much larger than yours, and we got ziggers. My Warrior Son is dealing with your forces. His orders are t’send half the army after us soon as possible and t’leave t’other half t’keep you armsmen occupied.”
Oh, frizzled hells, let them be all right…
She moved, trying to find a way to lie that helped the pain, but it was impossible. There just was no way she could get comfortable. “Put Kedri back where you got him,” she said. “He’ll get cold like that.”
To her surprise, he did as she asked, taking Kedri into the sleeping room. In the brief moment he was away, she sneaked the water inside and brought it down behind the family jar in the corner. It was a risk, she knew. If his senses were attuned to water just then, he would feel the movement easily. But when he stepped back into the main room, he was smiling softly. “He’s so beautiful. So like you.” He came to stand beside her, looking down at her. “I loved you,” he added. “But I didn’t know how t’say it. Not sure when it happened, either, but it did. I loved you. And you betrayed me.”
“No, I didn’t. You never had my loyalty to start with.” Her hand tightened around the handle of her dagger. “Sit down and talk to me. I don’t have much time left…” Her voice trailed away weakly.
“If I do, what says you won’t use your rainlord abilities against me?”
“You know I can’t take your water.”
“I know there’s more than one way rainlords can snuff someone.”
“The lid is tight on the family jar,” she said, waving weakly towards the large vessel standing in the corner of the room behind him. “And on every jar in the tent, as I am sure you know.”
“Garnet, I’m not stupid. The only reason I’m safe from you is ’cause you’re hurt.” The smile he gave her was a strange mix of longing and sadness. “Try t’sleep. I’m going t’see how our takeover of the valley is going, and if our army is approach—” He didn’t finish.
She whipped the water across the room and into the back of his head. When he jumped in shock and instinctively began to turn she forced herself up, knife in hand. The pain that ripped through her body was excruciating. Even as she propelled herself forward, angling the knife upwards to take him between the ribs, she sobbed.
But nothing happened the way she thought it would. The tent burst open. Ravard was hit by the figure that burst through the wall and was sent staggering out of her reach. She fell back down to the floor, crying out in her agony. She dropped the knife. Forgot that she’d been about to kill a man. Forgot everything in her desperate attempt to stay conscious and subdue the pain.
Nightmare images shot across her vision between shards of scarlet pain vision. Kaneth, sword in hand—he was the one who’d burst through the canvas wall. The back wall of the tent was slashed from top to bottom. Her mind was still several steps behind the events. Shouts outside. Guyden’s voice. Jasper’s voice. Ravard rolling out of the way of Kaneth’s attack. Sunlord save him, Kaneth looked awful. He looked as if he wasn’t in any better shape than she was. Gaunt. Aged. Ill.
The two men were fighting; both had swords and daggers and hatred for one another.
She had barely grasped the enormity of what was about to unfold when she saw Jasper standing in the doorway of the tent. His sword was held to the throat of Guyden, who was struggling and cursing and in danger of slitting his own throat as a consequence.
Dizzy, clasping her left arm tight to her body so the bones in her shoulder wouldn’t grate, she edged herself to her feet, but then immediately had to sit on the wooden chest in the corner to avoid falling down. When her head stopped spinning, the first thing she saw was Kedri’s blue eye staring out of a narrow gap between the wall and the hanging canvas of the door to his sleeping room and the wall. The noise had finally awoken him. His gaze, wide-eyed, was fixed on his father. She desperately wanted to go to him, but she would have had to cross between the two skirmishing warriors.
Stay there, Kedri. Just stay there, please…
A small room where two warriors were skirmishing was not the place for a toddler. His gaze, wide-eyed, was fixed on his father. She didn’t dare call to him, worried that might prompt him to cross between the men.
She turned to Jasper. “Stop them! That’s your brother and my husband.”
“I don’t know how to stop them. Do you? Or more to the point, how do we stop them for good? The moment we turned our backs, they’d be at it again!” Guyden was twisting and squirming in his grip, and Jasper said, exasperated,
“Look, you sand-brained tick, I can drown you in water or kill you with my sword. Or you can stop struggling and accept the fact that your part in this fight is over. Which would you prefer?”
Guyden stopped struggling. In his frustration, he was close to sobbing. Jasper pushed him to the floor on his stomach.
Ryka was overcome with a sense of futility. I know what Kaneth is fighting for. It’s me, and Kedri and the people he led away from slavery, and his dream. But Ravard? Does he even really know any more? It will only end when one of them is dead…
She didn’t know how to stop them. They were evenly matched, neither able to gain the advantage. Ravard was quicker, more powerful and more reckless, willing to take chances to gain an advantage, but the lack of an eye must surely have affected his depth perception. Kaneth was wily and cool and seasoned, but obviously exhausted. The edge of desperation about him shattered her. When he attacked and Ravard countered, his blade slid upwards so that the two men were caught in a clinch, breast to breast, swords locked perpendicular between them, dagger blades crossed above their heads in a struggle for ascendancy.
Ryka’s gasp remained imprisoned in her throat, her terror total. She wanted to intervene, but what if her intervention distracted them and Kaneth was killed?
Their ragged breathing was the only sound. The moment dragged on, the time stretched, each man knowing he could so easily kill the other—or die himself. And into the silence, Kedri spoke.
“Naughty man,” he said from where he stood. “Hit Dada.”
“Yes, naughty,” she said, hearing hysteria in her voice.
Ravard moved first, flinging Kaneth away from him then attacking brutally hard, driving him back until he was braced against the pole in the back corner of the tent. Fortunately it was one of the main supports, fashioned from the trunk of a small fallen tree. It offered solidity at his back, and protection, but he was also trapped, unable to manoeuvre. Ravard, on the other hand, could vary his attack. He didn’t miss the chance. Eagerly savage, he rained blow upon blow on Kaneth with his sword, even as his dagger wove through the air to divide his opponent’s attention. And yet Kaneth was smiling, parrying the blows almost effortlessly, as if suddenly inspired.
