“One of us. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was there something I could have done? No one called for me, did they?” He tried to think, but his brain felt so muddy.
Her expression went from angry to unreadable, and he sensed anger mixed with sympathy, but it felt truer than the sympathy of others.
“I don’t think there’s anything you could have done,” she said quietly. “And you’re right where the Storm Lord wants you to be, so…”
A strange phrase. “He wants me to be near the kitchen?”
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Thank you for helping with Evan. I appreciate it, but unless we have to speak, I’d rather we stay away from each other.” She held up a hand before he could ask why. “That’s just the way I want it, all right?” She stalked away, and he couldn’t follow, couldn’t disregard her wishes so casually. Funny, no one had ever loathed him before.
Well, he had the effect. Now he just had to find the cause.
*
Samira listened to the rumors about what was happening in Gale and tried to think of what it might mean for Simon. To the drushka, Gale had seemed busier. They were gathering wagons just outside the palisade on the eastern side as if preparing for some kind of market day outside the city, but they’d never done that in the past. It worried everyone, and she heard more than one person saying the Storm Lord was finally coming for them.
Liam, an ex-paladin, tried to comfort everyone, and Samira watched his efforts with interest. He had a nice, smooth way of talking to people, a sense of humor that made people relax, but the way he spoke to those who were eager to do battle with the Storm Lord made her think he wanted that, too, that he was hoping the Storm Lord wanted another fight.
If so, he was a fool. He’d seen the weapons and armor. How did he think the drushka could compete with that? Samira sat cross-legged in the grass, and Reach sat next to her after a moment to check her bandage. With her ministrations, the wound was healing nearly as fast as it would if tended by a yafanai.
“Why would the Storm Lord retreat from his attack once he had Lazlo,” Reach said, “only to come back again? Is there something else he wants?”
“The rest of us? Simon said he was greedy.”
“Ahya, it could be.”
“Do you want to fight him, Reach? For killing Paul Ross?”
Reach went silent and stared into the fields. “When Paul first died, I would have given anything to tear his murderer to pieces, but I saw how grief infected Sa and some of the others, and I knew it was like a wound. It would never stop bleeding unless staunched. And I saw the value of living in little Paul, in Sa, in others.” She wrinkled her narrow nose. “If the opportunity came, I would kill the Storm Lord, but I will not rush in foolishly to do so. I will not risk all.”
Samira nodded. She felt the same about killing, but she’d risk all to save her friends, the little family she’d put together. “If he is coming, maybe there’ll be a way to grab Simon.”
“You think the Storm Lord will leave him behind, and we can sneak him out of Gale?”
“Or if he brings him, maybe we can take him back, whatever will get the least of us killed.”
Reach chuckled. “Or none. Prefer none, Usta.”
“If he comes this way, do we run? You know what he can do, and I know you don’t want to risk the tree.”
Reach tilted her head. “And what do you know of the tree?”
“I know it moves. It’s the drushkan home, right?”
Reach wrinkled her nose again. “An apt word. You know we drushka communicate over distances.”
“Like telepaths.” She frowned. “Are you telling me the tree has something to do with that?”
“Ahya. Now the queen has felt a disturbance from Nettle. She fears they may be in danger.”
Samira nearly held her breath, thinking of Horace and Mamet. “Anything specific?”
“Not over such a distance. But if the Storm Lord comes this way, perhaps it would be better to move toward Nettle and Sa and see what has become of them.”
“What about Simon?”
“We will not abandon him, Usta, fear not. The drushka can be in many places at once.”
Comforting words, but as the day wore on, she found herself looking more and more to the west, toward where Gale lay over the rolling hills. She tried to hold on to the hope that the drushka wouldn’t abandon her, that Cordelia would succeed in freeing Horace and Mamet, that Simon would be all right until they could get to him. She tried not to think about all the bad things that could happen, tried not to wonder about the various outcomes, if the Storm Lord would kill them all.
When she saw Lydia again, Samira knew she’d been secretly looking for the ex-prophet, even though she knew what Lydia would say if asked to see the future. When Samira struck up a conversation, she tried to talk of anything else, but Lydia sighed.
“I’ve seen that expression before. The answer is still no.”
“I was trying really hard not to ask.”
“Were you hoping I’d offer?”
“There are too many possibilities!” Samira sat down heavily. “I want a little assurance that everything will be all right.”
“Okay. Everything will be all right.”
Samira gave her a flat look. “You didn’t…” But she didn’t know what Lydia using her power looked like. She’d heard the gift of prophecy worked quickly. Or was it the curse of prophecy? “Did you…”
Lydia’s smile turned sad. “I was more in love with Freddie than I ever thought I’d be with anyone. After she died, I couldn’t help thinking I should have seen her future sooner. And I know it doesn’t help. And then I had to reassure myself that I did the right thing. I would’ve seen her die, only I would’ve had to wait for it to come, devastated before anything ever happened. That’s all that seeing the future can change: how you deal with what’s going to happen before it happens.”
Samira lined up a row of arguments in her head. If she’d seen Freddie die, surely she could have avoided it, maybe even left Gale before the boggins came, but if she’d seen Freddie die in Gale, something would have happened to drag them back.
Lydia was staring, and Samira nodded. “I understand,” Samira said. “If there’d been something you could’ve done, you would’ve done it.”
Lydia shrugged. “As long as I’m not looking, it’s as if events are uncertain, but after I see them, there’s no turning back.” She rested a hand on Samira’s shoulder. “So, everything will be all right.”
“Thank you,” Samira said. “You’re a good person, Lydia. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you and Freddie better.”
“We were in our own little bubble most of the time.” Her lips quirked up. “And how do you know I’m a good person?”
“A bad one would’ve done what I asked and let me suffer.”
She chuckled softly. “Freddie always said you seemed sweet.” She walked away, and Samira let her be, thinking on the possible futures again and promising she would try her best to make sure everyone she cared about made it out alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Of all the fights Cordelia ever imagined being pulled into, one between the Sun-Moon—Horace’s kidnappers—and the enormous presence of the copilot—through plains dweller proxies—had never occurred to her.
She supposed they could try to run. The Sun-Moon had given her, Nettle, and Horace a room in the palace, one close enough for easy mental eavesdropping. But now that the Sun-Moon had seen into all their minds but Nettle’s, Cordelia got the idea that the telepathic duo could “follow” them everywhere.
Late in the night, she asked about Mamet, and the Sun-Moon turned her over to Fajir, saying that they’d promised Mamet to her, and Cordelia would have to bargain to free her. She dressed quickly in some borrowed clothing before returning to the guard captain, or seren, as they called her.
Even though Fajir had kidnapped Horace, Cordelia couldn’t help but admire her, seeing in her some of the quali
ties Cordelia valued most in herself. She supposed that if the Storm Lord hadn’t proven himself to be a murderer, she’d be even more like Fajir, still serving as a lieutenant in the paladins, one day to be captain.
Fajir eyed her new clothing and smirked. “What happened to your rug?”
“I’m saving it in case we dine somewhere fancy. Give me Mamet.”
Fajir sneered and said nothing.
“Now, now,” Cordelia said. “We’ve got a deal going on with your gods. Don’t make me knock on their door.”
Fajir turned away and muttered something about vermin as she walked down the hall. Even that didn’t faze Cordelia. After all, she’d once had some very uncharitable thoughts about Sun-Moon worshipers. Hell, “vermin” might have been one of them.
Of course, that didn’t mean Cordelia wouldn’t give Fajir shit about it. Paul had once told her that the way to see a person’s true nature was to ruffle their feathers and see what dropped out. “Don’t like Mamet’s people?” Cordelia asked as they walked. “Or is it all plains dwellers that you’re forever crying about?” She gestured to Fajir’s cheeks.
Fajir took a deep breath, but Cordelia saw redness creeping up from her collar. “They killed Halaan, my true mate.”
“Mamet did? When?”
“One of her kind, just before the Lords arrived.”
Cordelia licked her lips and thought about what she’d do if someone killed Nettle, if she was now being led to a corpse. “Is she alive?”
“Yes.” But there was the barest hint of a pause.
Great. If Mamet had been harmed, Simon wouldn’t cooperate easily. Of course, given how he’d spoken of the Sun-Moon, he wasn’t going to cooperate easily anyway. At least Horace could fix whatever had been done, but Mamet wasn’t likely to forget. And the Sun-Moon wanted them all to stay in Celeste until Naos’s army had been dealt with. That might be a hard sell to someone they’d tortured.
And torture didn’t sit well with her, no matter the cause. If someone killed Nettle, she wanted to believe she’d rip them apart and be done with it, no need for torture. She didn’t even like kicking an opponent once he was down. She looked at Fajir again out of the corner of her eye. If it had been a person rather than the swamp that killed her parents, and that person had gone on living, would she have turned into Fajir? The Storm Lord knew she’d beaten up enough people in impotent rage, even though no one caused her parents’ death.
But the Storm Lord still lived, and she wasn’t out to torture all the faithful she could get her hands on. But then, she’d seen the universe, learned that the living were more important than the dead. Maybe no one had ever bothered to tell Fajir.
“Did you get the one that killed Halaan?” Cordelia asked.
By the tightening of Fajir’s face, Cordelia guessed no.
“The Storm Lord killed my uncle, and I never got revenge either,” Cordelia said as they turned down a long hallway and started down a staircase.
“Why not?”
“I would’ve been killed if I’d tried, and my people needed me. The living are more important than the dead. Since you’re here leading your people rather than out hunting plains dwellers, you must understand that.”
Her nostrils flared, and she gave Cordelia a look that said she’d rather be out there than here serving her Lords, but she didn’t seem as if she wanted to say so aloud. “I will have my revenge one day, and until then—”
“Until then, you should do your duty and leave the rest of the plains dwellers alone.” It came out angrier than expected, and she knew she was speaking to her slightly younger self, the one that had broken more than a few bones. There could have been greater injuries, too. She’d never stuck around to find out.
Fajir turned on her. “I cannot reach the one that killed Halaan while I serve the Lords! I must do something so his spirit can rest!” Her hands curled into fists, and Cordelia saw her own anger reflected back at her. Fajir threw one hand into the air. “I don’t expect a heathen like you to understand. You can have all the lovers you want, but you’ll never have a partner.”
“That is so…” Cordelia took a deep breath. Now was not the time for a religious debate. She tried to think of what she would have wanted to hear. “So go after the one that killed Halaan. Take off, and get it done.”
“I can’t abandon the Lords! And I couldn’t ask my fellows to do the same.”
“Go alone.”
She leaned back as if slapped, and Cordelia realized she’d never been alone in her life. A moment passed, and Fajir shook her head. “Do you want your vermin or not?” She strode away again.
They went down to a basement underneath the cool ground. The only light came from infrequent torches, and they did little to drive off the darkness. The Paladin Keep had a few holding cells, but nothing like this dank dungeon with its many wooden doors, damp walls, and sense of terrible purpose.
Fajir paused. “You said the Lords wanted you to have the vermin, but they said nothing to me.”
Cordelia cursed inwardly. She’d been hoping that wouldn’t come up.
Fajir stared at her for a few seconds and then smiled. “They told you to bargain for the vermin, didn’t they? They left it up to me.”
Cordelia shrugged, but she knew that if she didn’t do something quick, Mamet would be lost. “I’ll help you get Halaan’s killer,” she said quickly, surprising herself. “Just him. I know Nettle will come with me, and no one tracks like a drushka.”
Fajir paused again, and Cordelia knew she’d have to find a way to get out of this later, find a way to convince Fajir that vengeance wasn’t everything. “Agreed.”
Fajir went to one of the last doors and unlocked it. Inside, Mamet hung by her arms from a ring in the low ceiling. Her head rested against her chest, and ropes cut into her wrists. Her clothing had been torn here and there by what looked like whip marks, and blood left red trails through the dirt streaking her body.
Cordelia had known it would be bad. She’d expected that any sympathy she’d been nurturing toward Fajir would be blown away as if by a strong wind, but she couldn’t help thinking that she could have gone this way, too. If her life had taken a few different turns, she could have turned into this torturing madwoman.
“Cut her down.”
Fajir stared for a moment, her tattoos like gaping holes in the dim light. She slit the rope, and Mamet began to fall. Cordelia lunged forward and caught her.
Mamet stiffened in Cordelia’s arms, and Cordelia had to smile when Mamet tried to kick her. She blocked with one knee and rocked Mamet back so their faces were in the light.
One of Mamet’s eyes widened; the other was swollen shut. Her face was covered in purple bruises, and her lip had been split open. Her dark hair stuck to her forehead with sweat and blood. “You?” she croaked.
“You shouldn’t have gone tense. It gave you away.” Cordelia tried to work the rest of the rope loose, but the blood-soaked hemp didn’t want to unwind. “Wow, kid, think you could have bled some more and made this harder?”
Mamet blinked before wheezing a laugh. Tears began to ooze down her cheeks, and once her hands were free, she wiped them away. “My arms hurt.”
“That’s the blood coming back.”
“Where is Samira?”
“Safe with the drushka.”
Mamet sagged, and Cordelia hauled her upright. “Can’t rest yet,” she whispered in Mamet’s ear. “We’re not with friends. You have to walk up the stairs, or I can carry you.”
Her jaw tightened, and it looked painful, but she didn’t wince. “I will walk.” They started out, and she added, “Please, help me.”
Cordelia hooked a hand under Mamet’s elbow. “Easy now, one step at a time.”
Mamet used her as a crutch, and she hoped it looked as if Mamet could let go at any time. Their trip up was a long one. It must have felt like centuries to Mamet. When they made it to Cordelia’s room, and the door closed behind them, Mamet collapsed on the rug.
Corde
lia lifted her onto a divan, and Nettle fetched two buckets of warm water and an armload of towels. They knelt before Mamet and began cleaning her face. She slept through it, tired beyond reason, it seemed.
“Where’s Horace?” Cordelia asked.
“Still attempting to heal the Sun-Moon.” Nettle dabbed at Mamet’s face. “I thought young Mamet might awaken when we started to wash her, but she is snoring like a hoshpi.”
“Her body must know it’s in safe hands.” Cordelia lifted Mamet’s shirt, trying to see the extent of her injuries. “It’s hard to tell where the dirt ends and the bruises begin. Look at her ribs!”
Nettle clucked her tongue. “She is purple. Not her natural color.”
“It means bleeding under the skin.”
Nettle gestured to Mamet’s torn trousers. “How far do we wash?”
“Probably as much as we can. I don’t think she minds.”
When they started to tug her trousers loose, Mamet’s eyes fluttered open. “Samira?”
“You should be so lucky,” Cordelia said.
“It is only we two, young one,” Nettle said. “Be at ease. We seek to clean your injuries.”
Mamet went red under her bruises but didn’t seem to have the will to fight.
“We won’t look unless we have to,” Cordelia said. “And we won’t tell Samira. She’ll have to wait and be surprised.”
Mamet nodded and fell asleep again when they were washing her knees.
Long after dawn the next day, Mamet sat up and listened as Cordelia told her what had happened. She asked again about Samira and about the rest of her kinfolk that had been left in Celeste when she’d first escaped, but Cordelia had to admit she didn’t have any more information.
Horace still hadn’t returned, but as long as Mamet didn’t move, she didn’t seem to be in too much pain. When she listened to their plans to pretend to be allies of the Sun-Moon, her expression darkened. “I don’t want to fight my own people.”
“I don’t think the Engali—”
Widows of the Sun-Moon Page 21
