“How did you get here?” Mohan asked.
Ilythra shrugged and stared into the darkening forest. There were layers to his question. She’d spend the majority of her life on an island alone with her grandfather. He’d taught her Shi’ia, an ancient art of warfare, and how to use herbs to heal. And always in her youth there was the story of how her father came by the pendant—the pendant she must someday wear. She stroked Ilydearta through her tunic. How easy it all seemed back then. So simple. She’d been in a hurry, wanted to rush into her destiny, and it had cost her grandfather his life. Even now the pain of his loss was a physical sensation. Shipwrecked on mainland Anatar, she’d done what she’d been raised to do. She searched for the Siobani, only to find out they had faded into legend. Along the way she’d met Zeynel, the last Shamyrddin-enki, and now he too was dead. She shook off the sorrow and leveled her gaze on Mohan. “Horse,” she finally answered him.
He returned her gaze, his eyes unfathomable. He understood the depth of what she didn’t say. “Give it a bit to cool and dinner’s ready.”
Ilythra reached for the offered fish. “Thanks.”
* * *
Even engrossed in the strict movements of her morning exercise ritual, Ilythra was aware that Mohan had woken. She moved through columns of frosted light as the morning sun filtered through the trees, dappling the forest floor. Her steps didn’t falter but she could feel Mohan’s gaze on her and remembered a time when she’d woken to see Zeynel practicing with her swords in a clearing very much like this one. She paused, cool air licking the sweat from her body, and spun.
“What is that?” He glanced toward the long, slightly curved stick she used to practice. His hair, still tousled by sleep, stuck out in every direction, giving him the look of an errant schoolboy. He yawned, showing even, white teeth.
Ilythra tossed the object. Mohan snatched it out of the air at its center of gravity. He turned the stick over, a quizzical gaze running along its length.
“Okay, but what is it?” He stared at her.
“Practice sword.”
A familiar grin stretched Mohan’s features. “What? Afraid to practice with a real one?” He lobbed the weapon back. Ilythra caught it.
“This one still packs a punch. I practice with it. I fight with a sword.”
“And that dance you were doing?”
“Not a dance. Shi’ia.”
Mohan nodded.
Ilythra couldn’t tell if he was familiar with the fighting art or just acknowledging her statement. He eyed the wooden sword. “Why practice with wood? The balance would be different.”
Ilythra raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he did know something about swordsmanship. “You’re right. It would.” She moved toward the scabbard that held her sword, the sword crafted for her by a blacksmith in Shayner far to the south when she’d gone by a different name.
As she slid the weapon free, Mohan whistled under his breath. “That’s a fine-looking blade. But can you use it?”
“Is that a challenge?”
Mohan shrugged. “Just for fun.”
“For fun?” Images of sparring with her grandfather on the beach with the ocean breeze dancing across her skin filled her mind. Her grandfather had been a master. “What if I kill you?”
“Then I’ll die with the visage of a beautiful woman in front of my eyes.” Mohan retrieved his sword, the smile falling from his face. “I watched you wield your...stick. You couldn’t kill me unless you meant to, and I doubt you’d risk it. I cook better than you do.”
Ilythra grinned. “Excellent point. Shall we?” Her heart raced. It had been a long time since she’d sparred with anyone when her life wasn’t at stake. She hoped Mohan was as good as he thought he was.
He approached with easy grace and mirrored her closed stance. They raised their swords and circled each other twice before Mohan advanced. Ilythra blocked his thrust easily with a clang of metal and brought a smile to the man’s face.
“Just checking,” Mohan said.
At first they parried, testing for weaknesses, swords clashing at ever-faster intervals. He fought on the balls of his feet, his movements economic and without theatrics. Surprising. She thought he’d be something of a showman. His fighting style wasn’t elegant but fast and deadly. Methodically, Ilythra advanced, keeping him on the defensive. When she spotted the gleam in his eyes, it was too late: he ducked, rolled on the ground and hurled a handful of dirt in her face. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision but felt the tip of his sword press against her chest.
“You cheated!”
“Cheated? You can cheat at cards, milady, perhaps in love, but not swords.” He was slightly out of breath.
“That was dirty!”
Mohan shrugged. “I won, didn’t I? Had this been a real fight, I’d be alive and you’d be dead. Isn’t that the point?”
Ilythra bit back the curse poised on her tongue. Her anger faded. Her grandfather had always taught her to be aware and ready to counter any movement of an enemy, no matter how unexpected. “Use everything available to swing the favor in your direction.” She’d grown lazy, too confident in her skills. So far she hadn’t met anyone who had even challenged her, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.
She inclined her head, conceding the match to Mohan, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Okay, you’re right.” She glanced at the tip of his sword still nestled between her breasts and moved it aside with a tip of one finger. “Do you know more tricks?”
“My lady, if you only—”
She wouldn’t be caught unawares again. “Good, teach them to me.”
Mohan shrugged and raised his sword.
* * *
When Mohan stepped back and lifted his hands in surrender, the sun rode well over the horizon. “Single-minded, aren’t you?” Sweat glistened on his skin and darkened his shirt.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced pointedly at the sun. “I’m starving. Did you want to spar or kill me?”
Ilythra rolled her shoulders. She was hungry too and, by the feel of her body, tomorrow she’d be sore. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away sometimes. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to spar with someone. The traders are better with words than weapons.”
Mohan grinned. “I believe that was a compliment. Thank you. Can I see your sword?”
Ilythra offered him the hilt of her sword.
He took the handle, holding the sword with care. “It’s light.”
She shrugged and moved to retrieve a whetstone from her pack then sat on a boulder next to their gear.
“Do you ever practice with a heavier sword?”
An image of the swords in her grandfather’s collection came to mind. “A long time ago.”
“It just seems so delicate.”
“You’ve seen for yourself it’s not.”
“True.” He handed her back the sword and sat across from her. “Does it have a name?”
The gentle rasp of stone against metal didn’t pause. “I’d thought about it, right after she was made, but no.”
“A pity. An instrument that fine should have a name.”
Ilythra looked up. “I see. I’ll assume your fine instruments have been properly named.”
Mohan’s mouth opened and then shut. “Well, that’s a first.”
She smiled. She hadn’t known Mohan for long, but something about this Benai put her at ease. As though they were longtime friends. “Your first? I’m honored.” Ilythra sprinkled a little clove oil on a cloth and wiped down the blade.
“Damn, woman,” Mohan shook his head, chuckling. “I knew we’d get along fine, but I think I’ve met my soul mate.”
Ilythra held the sword in front of her, inspecting it closely. Satisfied, she slid it into its sheath and leaned close to Mo
han, her lips brushing his ear. “No you haven’t, because I won’t fall for your pretty lines.”
He leaned into her, the scruff of his cheek rough against her skin. “Exactly.”
His scent enveloped her. It was a rich, vibrant and very manly aroma. Her body warmed. “I thought you were hungry.”
“You have no idea.” Mohan raised both eyebrows, a smile playing on his mouth. He held up a hand when she moved toward the embers of the previous night’s fire. “Oh, no. I’ll cook. You go see if there are still eggs in that nest we found yesterday.”
“I’m not that bad a cook,” Ilythra complained.
“Yes you are, but let me tell you something,” Mohan cocked his head. “You’re one excellent swordsman.”
Ilythra froze, surprised at the feeling of pride that Mohan’s words induced. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time.”
Mohan’s ready smile shone. “What a waste.”
Ilythra shook her head and left to find the eggs. Only Mohan could make anything sound like seduction.
* * *
The horse’s rhythm didn’t change as he approached the road that would lead to the Inn—the stallion was too well trained for that—but his head came up a fraction and his ears twitched, attuned to the sound of other horses nearby.
Bredych shifted his weight to stretch the muscles on his back. The inn meant one more day of travel until he returned to the castle at Jartas. One more day before closing the negotiations with King Farial. Not that there had been any question. King Farial would agree to the terms. The monarch had no choice. It was what Bredych wanted. But Bredych had learned to be careful about such things. After planting the seed, hinting at a profitable scheme, he’d found an excuse to leave the court for a few days in which to travel the small realm and gauge its scope for trading. He’d let his suggestions mature in his absence. A long time ago he’d learned to dose his power sparingly. His fingers fluttered above his heart where the stone lay. Besides, his wits alone were more than a match for the foolish idiot who called himself king.
A smile touched Bredych’s face as he closed his eyes. She was coming. The tendrils of Ilydearta had grown stronger again. She was looking for him. Does she know that? It didn’t matter. He would chose the time and place for their first real encounter. He looked forward to it. When he left her in the Faisach, he’d felt a moment of apprehension when he could no longer sense the connection between Ilydearta and Crioch. But it couldn’t be helped. His absence from Greton had extended beyond what Bredych had anticipated and he’d learned, the hard way, not to leave things to chance for too long. Even so, he’d barely made it back before winter had closed the pass and isolated the valley.
Thick, leafy trees and undergrowth hid the buildings from view, but Bredych could smell the cooking fires, livestock, freshly turned soil and the ever-present scent of shit that preceded most human habitations. He’d stopped here before and could picture it with clarity. A broken wagon wheel half covered by weeds leaned against a rickety fence, which surrounded the large thatched building. An arbor thick with grapevines framed a courtyard to one side of the inn and sheltered wooden tables lined with crude benches. Sitting under the Inn’s eaves, the owner stood behind a counter stained by seasons of spills and weather...forms, shapes, images cataloged and saved in his memory and beckoned by his wish.
The innkeeper, a fat man in a dirty apron, his long hair tied back from his face, was quick to laugh and even quicker to gossip. Somewhere out of sight would be his wife—a sallow woman who seldom left the building—keeping the rooms and cooking the meals while their scrawny children tended the garden in the back.
Bredych turned down the well-traveled dirt path, the inn springing into view to match his recollection. Predictably, customers sat under the arbor, talking and laughing. Now he could smell the newborn grapes, small, green and bitter, wafting on the gentle breeze. And something else. As he neared, he saw a caravan of Benai camped a distance behind the inn. Smoke from their fires glinted in the fading light of day. Could it be the same troupe? No. These lands were teeming with the vermin. Back at Jartas, the Poet would have kept the courtiers enthralled with his words until his return. A smile lifted one corner of Bredych’s mouth. Would the simpleton have reacted to seeing other Benai? It would have been interesting to find out. But part of the reason for his excursion was to determine how the Poet responded to his absence.
“A coin, kind sir. A single coin for my family?”
Bredych examined a man by the side of the road. The man’s clothes hung off his meager frame in rags. He stopped the horse. The wretch stepped forward, looking up at him with eyes glazed white. Blind.
A hand on the pommel of his sword, Bredych considered him. Worthless rabble. He paused to reflect on the fickle hand of fate. This man before him was defenseless, completely at his mercy. Disgust brought a curl to his lip. How could he bear to live? It would be a kindness to strike him down, put him out of his misery. It was within his power to do so. Power: the heart of life and death. Why was it that life and death were thought to be consigned to the gods? At this very moment, he could chose to bestow bounty or end a miserable life, and the beggar would receive either from Bredych’s hand because he had no other choice.
The sun caught the shimmer of gold as Bredych tossed a coin into the air and turned his attention to the inn, already forgetting the man who groped in the dust for the money.
Chapter Three
Mohan rotated the bird, checking for missed pinfeathers. Apparently satisfied, he set it on his knees and reached for a small bowl. Careful not to tear the skin, he rubbed herbs against the meat of the breast and thighs, then stuffed the cavity with some of Ilythra’s root vegetables, spit the whole thing and placed it between two forked sticks to roast over the fire. It was a lot of trouble for dinner. But she couldn’t deny the results beat her efforts. She inhaled a familiar scent of wood smoke and thyme, and with it came the melancholic ache of loss tempered by distance. It was the scent of Zeynel.
The sun had set, plunging the surrounding forest into darkness save for their campfire. It created a feeling of intimacy and kinship she missed. “Who taught you to cook?”
Mohan didn’t look up. “Necessity.”
Their days had fallen into a rhythm. They woke with the sun, and Ilythra, who had often neglected the first meal of the day, would build up their fire so Mohan could reheat anything left from dinner the night before. He refused to leave the campsite without eating, and after having suffered his foul disposition when he didn’t break his fast, Ilythra relented. While he rustled the morning meal, she packed up and attended to Tashi. Their bellies sated, they’d travel until the sun rode high in the sky.
The forest and meadows in this part of the country teemed with life. Deer bounded across open fields at their approach or stood watching in the shadows of the forest as they passed. Rabbits and large birds thrived on the rich berries and thick foliage of the undergrowth. Wild onion, nuts, tubers and asparagus could be found with little searching. Several times, they’d had to skirt patches of prickly vine, thick with large blue fruit. The detours had compensations though; by the time they left the patch behind, their hands were stained blue with the fruit’s juices.
After their midday meal, they’d spar and let Tashi rest. Mohan taught her his finer sword-fighting tricks and a few for hand-to-hand combat and in exchange she taught him the pressure points that would immobilize an opponent. Because the days were long, they would continue to ride for several more hours before they found a campsite for the night. When the sun neared setting, they’d scout for signs of wildlife and often set up a quick trap or snare. After camp was set up, they’d check the trap’s success.
Mohan disappeared into the forest and came back shaking water off his hands. He was the cleanest man she’d met, except maybe her grandfather. He’d have liked you, Mohan.
&n
bsp; “In our troupe, the women from each wagon take turns cooking for everyone,” Mohan began. “There are two or three campfires and three or four women attending them each day. I watched my mother cook. After she died, I took her rotation.” Mohan smiled. “A source of dismay among the women, who insisted that our wagon did not have to participate with only males in residence. But my father backed me up, and so I learned to cook.”
“Why?”
Mohan cocked his head, a half smile on his face. “Where else would I be allowed to mingle with the single females at close quarters?”
“Really?”
“No.” He grinned. “Though I admit it was an added bonus. I told you, necessity.” He stared out into the forest. “I wanted to be able to take care of my family in every way possible. Sometimes, when Tarak went off wandering, I’d follow. He’d starve without someone to cook for him. Simply forgot to eat.” He took a deep breath. “So who taught you how to be healer and how to fight?”
“My grandfather was a Shi’ia master. He taught me everything I know about healing. When I was older, I studied with Maelys of Shayner.”
He shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Shayner is in the south.”
Mohan cocked his head, a gesture that was becoming familiar to her.
“You mentioned the Faisach. The Benai have heard of the fierce warriors that roam the southern wastelands beyond these mountains. Have you been there?”
Ilythra fought a smile. His tone contained the eagerness of a little boy. “Yes.”
Mohan’s voice held a note of awe. “So you’ve traversed the Har Dyne Mountains?”
“I keep forgetting that’s what you call the Sulang. Yes.”
He leaned forward. “Tell me?”
What could she say about the mountains, her first obstacle after leaving the Faisach? Even in summer, she’d wake to frost liming the shadows. She’d led Tashi up mountainsides of rocks the size of her head. One misstep, and they’d have slid down to their own graves. How could she describe the way clouds nestled in the mountain valleys as though finding shelter against a mother’s bosom, or how they blanketed the skies so low it felt like you could reach up and push them aside to see the sun? How could she describe valleys surrounded by snow-covered mountains but so verdant even the mist that rose in the morning was tinted green? And, how could she describe its people? Isolated from the south and the north, they’d developed a language only vaguely resembling Anatarian. Dressed in layers of colorful garments to fight the ever-present chill, they zigzagged up and down the mountain slopes with their livestock each day. She nodded. It was the people Mohan would want to know about.
Shawna Thomas Page 3
