by Jenna Rhodes
He shifted his weight uneasily. “It carried me well, as sturdy as a ferry under my feet. And, when I finally came ashore, there was an old Bolger waiting for me by a campfire on the shore.”
“Rufus?” Her face lit up.
“None other. He said the clan shaman had told him to go there to fish and wait. He was a little cranky at having caught me rather than something to eat.”
His words brought a happy blush to her face, pleasing him, and he reached out to gather her up. “We need to dry out and find a safe place for a camp. And then we need to plan.”
“Quendius could be a month’s travel or more away from us.”
“He could be half a world away.”
“I can find him when we need to,” Rivergrace told him quietly and spread her arms, webbed with threads, to remind him.
“Then we need to be ready, when the time comes that I go hunting.”
“We will be.” A violent shiver cut off the rest of her words. She hugged herself tightly. “The wind is cutting me to shreds.”
“You need that fire.” He took her by the hand, pulling her away from the salt marsh shore and across the boglike lands toward small hillocks where a fringe of brush and shrub began, promising forest beyond. She trailed after him, his hand more than guiding her as he could feel her frail strength ebbing away. Finally, he stopped and took her into his arms, finding her slender weight even lighter than he’d imagined, and headed for whatever shelter he could reach.
She rested her temple on his shoulder, her hands lightly laced about his neck, her hair smelling of salt as it dried in the sun. He could feel her breathing steady and deepen as he strode through the landscape, the reeds and tangling grass of the marsh giving way to the sturdier growth on the slopes. A fringe of a tree canopy peeked up over the horizon, an omen he welcomed, and he headed for it when her arms suddenly tightened about him.
“Hear that?”
He stopped in his tracks and then shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Yes. Listen, you must hear it. I think it’s Vaelinar, a soft weeping, not too far away.”
She paused, and he could tell she was holding her breath so he could better hear. His Talent itched along the curve of his throat from the sweep of his chest up to the line of his jaw, a Talent of Voice, of sound, of projection and influence and power, but under it was the opposite of that, the need to listen, to hear, to understand. A shadow of his ability, as it were, enabled him, and he made out a wisp of noise. He turned in its direction.
Rivergrace nodded. “Yes,” she spoke in his ear. “I think it comes from that way, as well.”
“Spoken words. Broken. In pain.” He began moving in the direction he faced. “This may be trouble we don’t need.”
“Out here, alone, how can we refuse to help?”
Sevryn reflected that her heart might one day get him killed again. He drew close enough that both of them could hear the soft voice, crying, words edged in pain and fear. They cut through whatever reluctance he’d felt. He stooped to set Grace lightly on her feet. She nodded as he did so, his hands sweeping his Kobrir garments for a dagger and a throwing star. She didn’t protest when he put her slightly behind him and at his elbow. The voice came from behind a rise, a dune of sand and ground with bent, sweeping grasses covering it, the sea breeze rising sharply over it and as they drew near its crest, they could see that an army had passed here. They both stopped and turned about to carefully survey their footing.
“Quendius,” he said.
“Do you think?”
“I can smell corruption and death on the air, faint but sure. Can’t you?”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “I’ve been immersed in it for weeks. I can’t discern it anymore.”
Sevryn answered her by grabbing her shoulder and drawing her to him for a fierce kiss. She stepped back with a blush and an answering curve of her mouth. He cut the air with the blade in his hand. “I’m going down there.”
“I’m going, too.” She slipped a short sword out of her apron. Nicked, but of good metal, it had seen wear and war and looked ready for more in her small hand.
They moved to crest the dune and their gazes fell on the scene below. The wind swept up into their faces, and now the coppery scent of fresh blood came to them clearly, as well as the small sounds of someone struggling, and low moans of agony.
Sevryn identified the livery of the fallen soldier as that of Larandaril, which meant that she had been taken up from the battlefield, reaped as Quendius passed, and then left behind on the march here. Rivergrace stumbled downward, going to her knees beside the badly wounded woman, taking her head and shoulders onto her lap.
“We’re here. You’re not alone.”
Clouding green eyes focused. Bloody bubbles danced on the finely molded lips which opened. “Rivergrace.”
“Dylane, isn’t it?”
“Yessss.” The soldier struggled, her hands pressed to her torso, crimson seeping through her fingers, staining her uniform and pooling onto the sandy loam beneath her. “I . . . I wouldn’t let him . . . turn me.”
Rivergrace’s fingers trembled as she brushed Dylane’s copper-streaked brunette hair from her face and forehead. Pain etched the other’s face sharply. “He is making Undead as he marches?”
“Not me. I would . . . rather . . . die. So they left me behind.” Her fingers closed about Rivergrace’s wrist. “The queen?”
“Alive. Bistane and his men arrived, with Abayan Diort close behind. The tide has turned, and now we hunt Quendius.” Sevryn secured his weapons and went to one knee beside the two women. He raised his Voice ever so slightly. “Your pain is fading. You can feel the warmth and peace of the sun. You won’t be afraid or hurting.”
The heavy lines on Dylane’s face began to ease. “So far from home . . .”
“Not that far,” Grace told her, holding her a bit closer, heedless of the spreading blood. “You’ll be back before you know it. Larandaril calls you.”
The barest corner of Dylane’s mouth curved. “Good. That is the home I know.”
“You honor us all.” Sevryn took her other free hand. The flesh felt chill to his touch but Dylane did not shiver, warmed by the suggestion of his words.
She took a breath that rattled through her broken body and ended in a choke, and then she sighed, another bubbling sound, and did not breathe again. Rivergrace held her tightly for a long moment.
“Lara would be proud.”
Grace traced the fine wisps of hair about the woman’s face. “Yes. It took a lot to ask for death instead of what Quendius offered.”
He waited until she lowered the body to the ground and stood.
“We can’t bury her.”
“I know.” He stood as well, and searched about the trampled ground. “She brought her kit bag with her.” He pulled the leather bag out of the brush. “This we’ll take.”
She looked at him.
“It’ll have supplies. Maybe even a change of clothes. Quendius won’t search for that if he or any of his passes this way again, although he will expect to see remains.”
“All right, then.” Rivergrace added softly, “Thank you for what you did for her.”
He didn’t answer because it hadn’t been enough, and they were both painfully aware of that. He looked, instead, across the small trail of destruction left behind Quendius and his Undead. “We do not go that way,” he answered pointedly.
“Not yet, anyway.” Grace inhaled deeply, bent over Dylane’s remains, and tugged her soldier’s boots off her slender feet, tucking the leather objects under her arm. “Tirn’da, ambrel Dylane,” she murmured before spinning around and heading back the way they’d come, sand churning from her feet.
“We salute you, soul of Dylane,” Sevryn repeated and followed after. He would carry her again in a little bit, but for the moment, h
e let her walk off her sorrow.
Rivergrace tucked her feet under her and watched Sevryn bank a small fire carefully. “Are you sure . . .” She let her question trail off as she watched the thin, blue plume of smoke rise among the trees and dissipate in the tall canopies.
“They’re not looking back. Not yet. And, as you can see, I’m mostly using this to warm the stones I’ve got lining the pit. They should keep us warm during the night.”
She put a toe out to the flat rocks he’d gathered and could already feel a slight heat emanating. Her feet, battered and sore from weeks in old, ill-fitting shoes were now encased in the top quality soldier’s boots. She’d scrubbed sand over the bloodstains to little avail, but she knew the practicality of having taken them. She pulled her foot back.
Sevryn sat, a pleased expression crossing his face over the fire he’d built. “Let’s see what we have here.” He swiftly unwound the leather cords holding the kit bag closed. His hand dipped inside and pulled out a rolled bundle. “Pants. Excellent. And a shirt and jerkin.” He tossed a second tightly rolled bundle at Rivergrace. “Some medicinal herbs. A few spice bags. No food.”
“Good thing you’ve got a . . . whatever that is . . . rolled up in leaves and baking for us.”
Sevryn took a pondering glance at the meal he’d set to baking. “It should be edible. Smelled like good flesh and blood.”
“It squealed when you killed it.”
“So would most of us.” He took his stirring stick and shoved the bundle closer to the heating rocks and kindling that had begun to glow red among the ashen gray tones. “At least it wasn’t slime dog.”
Rivergrace couldn’t contain her shudder. He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be eating that either.” He nodded at the bundles. “Not changing?”
“I feel crusty. If we find freshwater, I want to bathe first.”
“All right, then.” He rolled up the clothes and repacked them. “Close your eyes. I’ll wake you when the . . . whatever it is . . . is cooked.”
She rolled onto her side with a sigh and was lost to sleep in three breaths. Sevryn tilted his head slightly to watch her sleep, telling himself that she had not closed that core, that selfless part of her he found so endearing. That she had changed, as he had, was undeniable. He hoped that she would find that part of himself he hid away to preserve himself for her as endearing. He poked the cooking bundle again. It would be a while, at this slow heat, to cook itself tender. He put the stick aside carefully and lay down next to Rivergrace, drawing her carefully into his arms. The web of anchored souls encasing her buzzed a bit angrily at him, stinging him faintly much like the hornets’ nest their tiny voices imitated. But he did not let her go, only hugged her that much closer to him before he dared close his own eyes.
Chapter
Four
BECAUSE IT WAS FORESTED, they’d found enough water to drink but not enough for bathing as Rivergrace wished in the morning. He made a bucket out of the leather bag and filled it for her three times from the tiny freshet which bubbled up between tree roots, as she sat in a sun-dappled spot and peeled off her old clothing, bathing a bit at a time. He helped her, and before she was finished, they turned into each other’s arms and spent the last of the bright sunlight learning each other’s bodies again, not because that much time had passed but because they had both experienced so much since the last time they’d made love. He spanned his hands about her waist, bent his head and kissed each rib he could feel and see so clearly now. She found and stroked each new scar taken in Kobrir training, her fingers smoothing out the scar tissue and ridges until they nearly faded completely away, although she could not take them entirely as healing was not her strongest Talent. He curled about her and kissed the new muscles on her shapely legs, pausing delicately on the inside of her thighs before moving deliberately upward until she sighed in soft pleasure. When she cried for more, he entered her, the two of them thrusting against each other in movements growing ever stronger and faster until they both shouted in triumph and collapsed to hold each other closer. Many, many things had changed but not . . . this. Nor the love that accompanied it.
She swept his hair behind his ear and tucked it there, running her fingertip over his point as she did. Her own were softer, gentler echoes of her Vaelinar heritage, but it wasn’t a gender issue. Familial, perhaps. He smiled into her face.
Rivergrace frowned a little in return.
“What?”
“Your scars.”
“And yours.”
“Yes. But you seem to worry only about the flesh, bone, and muscle of them. You accept them, you even embrace them.”
“But.”
She gave a little irritated shake of her head. “They are more than skin-deep.”
“Aderro.” He pulled her into his shoulder, muffling her words and his against her skin. “Don’t you think I know that? I can feel each and every bond you’ve woven, and the anchor driven into your soul, and the worry and care that pulls on you.”
“You can?”
“I know that Narskap has taught you a way of dealing with his demon Cerat.” He ran the palm of his hand over her shoulder, feeling her bare skin shiver under his touch.
She swallowed. He could feel her throat grow tight against him, and the muscles constricted harshly. She pulled away from him. “How can you love a person who does such a thing?”
“I don’t love just any person, I love you.”
“I’m not the person I was.”
“And you think I am?”
She put her hand over his. “I know the Kobrir honed you, but you were already a finely made and tempered blade. They could not have changed your soul if they tried.”
He felt his eyes narrow a bit in sorrow. “You might be surprised.”
“No. No, I would not because I am not. But I’m not talking about you.” She took her hand back and curled it upon her chest. “Me. I am the one carrying Cerat again, only this time he’s not bound in a sword I can hold sheathed across my back. He’s buried in here. Deeply buried.”
He knew the soul-drinker almost as well as she did. “I know what he feels like when he’s burrowed inside of you, and you’re not carrying that rage, that burning agony. You’ve got him caged. You use him. For these, I imagine, so they won’t ever have to face the brunt of becoming his totally.” He ran a fingernail across the threads he could see glimmering over her forearm. He imagined them like fine strings on a lute, murmuring at his touch. He also wondered if she felt the tiny sparks when he stroked them as he did.
“How can you think of touching me?”
“I have spent many days thinking of little else.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before flinging them open again and glaring at him. “Sevryn.”
“Do you intend on calling them to follow at your heels? Have them kill for you? Conquer Trevalka or Kernan for you? Rape and pillage for you?”
“How can you think such things?”
“Because you think that I might be thinking them. I know if you have them anchored, it’s to give them one last chance, one last hope at escaping what Quendius and Cerat have planned for them. Your father could not have brought you into his schemes if you did not think so and he had not told you as much.”
“You believe that?”
“With every breath I have.”
The fist at her chest relaxed, fingers uncurling slowly. “Long ago,” she told him softly, “You won my heart. Now, I fear, you will have to win my soul.”
“You never had to ask.” He wanted to smile at her, reassure her, but knew she wanted to take him absolutely at his word.
“Now,” and she glanced up at the sky. “We’re losing the sun altogether, and I could use some warm clothes.”
He passed her the bundles and helped her adjust the items which, although made for a slender female figure, still hung on her in a place or two, an
d cuffs had to be tucked deep into the high-topped boots. When she stood, she looked a little like a woman-child who had decided to step into her mother’s too-big clothing for a day. He reminded himself that Rivergrace was still young, even among the Vaelinars—young and too thin. Another one of those squealing rodents for dinner would not help terribly, but it would keep a bit of food in their bellies. He stretched and stood, readying to go hunt.
“What will you do when I’m gone?”
“Study the wildlife. See if I can figure out what vegetables we can eat and what we can’t.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She pointed overhead. “They’re not silverwings, but I still seem to attract fisher birds.”
As his sight followed her pointing hand, he could see a restless wing move, and the flash of other feathers on green branches overhead, and a nervous coo or two as the birds settled and shifted among themselves. “Interesting.”
“I thought so. Just don’t bring one of them down.”
“I’m not that hungry. Yet.” He stamped down into his boots as she put up her hand, called to a creature, and it answered her.
It did not seem put off by her cage of souls, either, as it put its beak to her knuckle and made bird noises to her.
When he returned, he found her with a bird perched on her shoulder and another on her head, plucking a hair or two away at a time, evidently intent on using her tresses to further its nest building, and a variety of pulled roots and berries piled at her feet. She glanced up with a laugh, one of the first lighthearted looks he’d seen on her face in a very long time. He approached quietly and sat next to her, sending only one of the birds surrounding her off on the wing, disturbed.
“Perhaps we’ve misunderstood your true calling.”
Grace’s smile spread brighter for a few seconds. “It’s not me, it’s the River Goddess.”
