Scarlet and the White Wolf, #1

by Kirby Crow

  He had wanted to kiss him, but not like this. Scarlet’s mouth was cold under his. Liall blew a long, steady breath into Scarlet’s throat and stopped, waited a moment, and then placed his hand firmly in the center of Scarlet’s chest, pressing down hard until he heard the air coming back out. Nothing. He did it again, giving his breath, his hands shaking and sweaty.

  Breathe, he prayed.

  A third time, Liall forced air into Scarlet’s lungs, but this time, Scarlet hiccupped and Liall felt his lips move. Liall drew back and gave a shout of relief, laughing aloud in pure joy when Scarlet coughed and his eyes opened.

  “Liall?” Scarlet choked, his voice raw and thin. “What happened?”

  “Hush. Just breathe, Scarlet. You’re safe.”

  “Safe,” Scarlet murmured. “Help me up.”

  Liall grasped his arm to help him stand, but Scarlet gasped and fell back.

  “My shoulder,” he moaned. “Oh, it hurts...”

  Liall moved his coat and shirt aside and hissed at the purpling bruise that was forming. “Does it feel broken?” he asked.

  Scarlet winced. “I don’t know,” he said in a rasping voice. “I’ve never... broken anything before.”

  “Let me.” Liall slipped his hand inside the fabric and tried to feel around the raised flesh for blood or splinters of bone, but Scarlet gasped and moaned loudly the moment Liall’s fingers probed the egg-sized lump. Liall readjusted Scarlet’s shirt tenderly, leaving the injury alone. There was nothing he could do here.

  “You need a curae,” he said. “I think he knocked a chip out of the bone.”

  Scarlet nodded and Liall saw the bluish-white ring around his pale mouth. He was close to fainting again. “Stay awake!” he commanded, harsher than he wanted to be. “I do not know the village. You must show me where you live.”

  “Wainwright’s Lane,” Scarlet whispered. “Have you seen my dagger? I lost it...”

  Liall helped him to stand, but Scarlet swayed even as he got his feet under him. “Forget the dagger, where is the lane?”

  “Third cottage... on the right... past the...”

  And then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted. Liall caught him before he fell, and hauled the pedlar up in his arms, carrying him through the snow like a child.

  Two Coins

  “HELLO IN THE HOUSE! Open up, for Deva’s sake!”

  The door was thrown open and an older Hilurin man stood there. He had a shock of dark hair gone steel gray at the temples and he clutched an iron fire poker in his hand. The man opened his mouth to speak, then he saw what Liall carried and his jaw dropped. Behind him were a black-haired woman and a slip of a girl with features very like Scarlet’s, and Liall knew he was at the right house.

  “A brigand,” Liall explained hastily when the older man hefted the poker menacingly. “I found him on the road. Let me in, old man, your son is injured!”

  “Scaja!” the wife flailed at his shoulder. “Open the door!”

  “Keep back, Linhona!” Scaja snapped at her. After a moment, the father relented and swung the door wider, though he did not put the poker down.

  Linhona darted to the back of the small dwelling and moved aside a heavy woolen curtain. There was a narrow bed behind it and Liall moved to lie Scarlet down. He settled Scarlet on the covers and turned to her. “Have you a healer in the village?”

  Linhona shook her head, white-lipped with fear, her eyes all for her son.

  “He may be badly hurt,” Liall said.

  Linhona pinched the staring girl. “Annaya, get the midwife!”

  “Midwife!” Liall exclaimed.

  “There is no other,” Linhona snapped at him, her eyes filling with tears as she took in Scarlet’s state. She moved aside the blanket to examine the bruises on his throat and leaned her head near to listen to his breathing. “We are lucky to have even her.”

  Annaya raced out the door. Liall frowned. It was true that no trained curae would spend years of his life learning medicine only to go hungry in a poor tradesman settlement, but he doubted a midwife would be of much use with broken bones. He moved the blankets around, settling the warm fabric up to Scarlet’s chin. Behind him, he could feel the eyes of the man and woman on him. When he turned back to them, Linhona nodded to her husband in silent consent. Scaja looked suspicious and eyed Liall up and down. He still had the poker in his hand.

  “There’s blood on you,” he stated, looking at Liall’s leg.

  “A knife throw,” Liall answered, “from the man who tried to kill Scarlet.”

  “A brigand, you say. Not one of your people?”

  Liall shook his head. “No.”

  Scaja looked doubtful.

  “I swear to you, no.”

  “And where would this bastard be now?”

  “In hell, if there’s any justice.”

  Scaja’s lips thinned and he nodded in satisfaction, and Liall saw that his words had pleased the old man. This rough Byzan would not pretend a gentility he did not possess, not when it came to his own flesh and blood. Now Liall knew where Scarlet had come by his plain speech and honest manner. These people were devoid of guile. No wonder their son was so poor a trickster.

  The father sighed and reluctantly replaced the fire poker by the hearth. He drew himself up to his full height, which was only a few inches more than Scarlet’s. “My name is Scaja,” he said formally. “My wife is Linhona.”

  “Liall,” he returned simply.

  Scaja sighed, dropping his pose. “Well, Liall, let us get you cleaned up before old Hipola comes. She’s already going to be nosier than a hound, no sense giving her more to gab about.”

  LINHONA TENDED TO SCARLET while Scaja led Liall to the pump near the small, winter-stripped garden outside the little cottage. It was a real iron pump, costly and a nuisance, for in the cold months its iron base would freeze the water inside and burst if it were not kept warm and primed. The pump looked old but cared for. These were people accustomed to work and making do.

  Scaja pumped the handle and Liall splashed water cold as needles of ice onto his face and over his bloodied hands. The leg wound had bled freely and he scrubbed at his breeches with the thin towel Scaja handed him before rinsing his hands a last time. The wound could wait to be cleaned and bandaged. Through all this, the father said nothing, only handed him another towel when he was done. It was threadbare but clean, and Liall thanked the man courteously when he handed it back.

  Scaja took the cloth and looked at him for several moments, saying nothing. Liall began to speak and then decided that, as every man is a monarch in his own house and he was in another kingdom now, Scaja should have the first say.

  “So,” Scaja said at last. “You’re the Kasiri who tried to make a whore of my child.”

  Liall bowed his head. It had been a long time since he felt shame. This deliberate man had taken his game with Scarlet, the very one he had covered with excuses and laughter, and shown it for the mean, squalid thing it was.

  “I crave your pardon, sir,” Liall said lowly. It was all he could say.

  Scaja shrugged. “It’s not my pardon you need. Scarlet’s a forgiving lad, even when it’s not deserved. For me, I can’t see the back of you quick enough.”

  Scaja’s words cut deep, as truth often does. Liall had been nothing but trouble to Scarlet since they met. There was no reason to believe that would change. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

  Scaja thought about it for a moment. “I would, but it’s not my decision. Come inside, then, if you’re set on this.” He turned and left Liall standing in the bare garden with a forlorn look on his face.

  THE ANCIENT MIDWIFE pronounced Scarlet’s shoulder unbroken and Liall had to accept her verdict, there being no other. Scarlet had awakened and he watched with a bemused expression while Liall fidgeted nervously under the hard looks of his parents and the midwife.

  Hipola, the midwife, fed Scarlet an herbal sedative and bound his shoulder tightly, forbidding him to move from t
he bed for two days and from the village for two weeks. Liall could see the last command irked Scarlet, but the pedlar did not argue with her, for his throat had swelled and it pained him to do more than whisper. Liall attempted to pay Hipola, but she shoved the silver sellivar coins back at him and took the copper bit offered by Scaja instead. Liall was very aware of Scarlet’s eyes on him when she did this, and of how it made him feel.

  Hipola shoved the slip deep into her apron and threw Liall a wizened glare of dislike. She smoothed her fuzzy, iron-gray hair about her face. “There is a wolf in your house, Scaja,” she announced loudly to the walls. “Beware his fleas.”

  She left and Linhona went to make a healing tea. Scaja drew a chair for Liall next to Scarlet’s bed, for it was obvious he was not leaving, and sent the girl to a neighbor’s for the day. With a last look at his son, who smiled wanly and nodded in reassurance, Scaja drew the woolen curtain closed and went into the outer room, leaving them alone.

  Liall did not know what to say. Scarlet looked at him for a long time, seeming to study every feature.

  “You saved my life,” Scarlet got out, his voice so hoarse and small that Liall winced. “How am I supposed to pay the toll for that?”

  “You should not try to speak.”

  “I’ll speak if I like,” Scarlet growled, then wheezed in a breath. “Answer my question.”

  Liall spread his hands. “Your life was in danger only because of me. Cadan is... used to be... a Kasiri. And a friend, but he became my enemy and sought vengeance on me through you. You owe me nothing for my interference with that outcome,” he said. He cleared his throat in sympathy. It must have been agony for Scarlet to talk.

  “Why does he hate you?”

  “Perhaps because I finally saw him for what he was and rejected him. Men do not forgive that easily. It matters not. I only wish you to know that there will be no toll for you as long as my krait holds the pass. It is a scant offering, but something tells me you would not accept more.”

  “I would, but not for the reasons you think,” Scarlet said in that cracked voice. He moved and shifted in the bed, sitting up as he began to search his pockets with his good hand. “Here.”

  Scarlet opened his palm, showing Liall two copper bits. They were round, medium-sized coins of pure copper with a square hole stamped in the middle; a fair price for a poor chapman to buy his crossing.

  “This is to pay my way,” Scarlet said, watching him. “However I came to be in danger, you saved my life. I owe you a debt, and you know how Byzans feel about debts.”

  Liall felt shame eating at his conscience, that a peasant pedlar should know more of honor than him. He took the two flat coins and closed his hand over them. “I thank you,” he said formally.

  “And you’ll send payment to my family for the wages I’ve lost and two weeks hence that I would’ve earned.”

  He bowed his head to cover his surprise. “Consider it done.”

  “A prosperous pedlar,” Scarlet pressed.

  It would have been unforgivable to laugh. “Indeed. Most prosperous and wise, is Scarlet of Lysia.”

  Scarlet smiled a little, though his eyes were beginning to droop. The pain draught the midwife had given him was working. He sank back to the pillows with a sigh. “I pay my debts,” he said faintly, already falling into sleep. “Goodbye, Wolf.”

  “I wish it were not,” Liall said before he could stop himself.

  Scarlet did not answer as he drifted off to sleep. Liall looked down at the coins in his hand.

  I am a great fool, he thought. He settled back in the chair to keep watch over him, but two hours later, when Linhona came in and confirmed Scarlet was breathing properly, he knew it was time for him to go. Scaja let him out.

  Standing on the little cobblestone walkway, Liall made to say something to Scaja, perhaps to offer his apology again or promise to send herbs and medicines for healing, but Scaja shook his head before Liall could speak.

  “It’s not me you need to make it up to,” he said stiffly.

  Hospitality could be stretched only so far. “Please send for me if there’s anything I can do,” Liall murmured. Scaja regarded him with narrow hostility, saying nothing, and Liall bowed and left.

  The trip back up the mountain path was lonely and cold, and halfway up, about noon or so, Liall met Peysho and a knot of fighting men. Peysho looked relieved.

  “Well, now. Are ye forgiven?” he grinned, obviously believing Liall’s long absence meant he had finally won his desire, but Liall strode past him. Then Peysho saw the blood on him. “Ah, Deva, what happened?” he asked anxiously.

  Liall wondered if Peysho thought he had killed Scarlet. Probably. “It was him,” he answered wearily. “Cadan. He attacked Scarlet, hoping to pin the murder on us, I think.”

  Peysho fell in beside him. “The bastard’s dead, then,” he said with great satisfaction.

  “I wish he were. He threw himself down a gulch. I think I broke his leg for him. He won’t be soldiering for a while, at any rate.”

  “And little red-hood?”

  “Home, where his mother can nurse him.”

  Peysho pulled on his chin as he matched Liall’s long strides. “Kasiri are happiest on the move,” he quoted. Perhaps it was meant to suggest that they had overstayed their welcome on the Nerit. He had a point, but Liall’s pride was battered enough for one day.

  “Don’t tell me how to rule the krait,” he snarled. The two copper coins were clasped so tight in his hand that the edges were cutting him. They seemed much heavier than they should be.

  “Aye,” Peysho said, ducking his head and submitting. “Is the lad well?”

  “He will be, I suppose,” Liall muttered. “He won’t be traveling for weeks, but he’ll heal.”

  Peysho cast another look at him. “Liall...”

  “I did not harm him,” Liall answered, goaded by the worry in Peysho’s eyes. “Yet... it is still my fault. You were right, Peysho: I do regret my jest. Whatever role I have played in this, I am heartily sorry for it.”

  Peysho fell silent as they climbed the path, and Liall did not confide the rest: that regret was only a small part of it. There was also loss and guilt and the deep sense of shame that clung to his skin. For a moment, he bitterly wished he had never met the pedlar.

  I had almost forgotten who I was, he thought. How can he remind me so much of my past, when he knows nothing about me?

  “He will be well,” he repeated. Be well, Scarlet, he sent silently back to the village. It felt like goodbye.

  Later, as he sat in his yurt in front of the smoking brazier, he rolled the pair of copper coins between his fingers, deep in thought. Eventually, he found a bit of leather lacing and threaded the pierced coins with it to make a necklace. He did not believe in talismans, but the power of memory had a magic of its own. The coins would serve to remind him that, for all his intelligence and learning, he could look as deeply as he was capable at anyone, man or woman, and still not be able to see them at all.

  Fate Dealer

  Spring, the Month of Kings.

  FATE WAS PITCHED BENEATH the fluttering, blood-red banner of Om-Ret, in a saffron tent inside the dusty souk of Ankar, somewhere between the cloth racks and the slave stalls.

  The Fate dealer was not what Scarlet expected. Most Fates were crones, withered and wise and quite revered in both Morturii and Byzantur. This one removed his beaded veil and revealed he was a young man with a sharp, fox-like face. His ruddy hair was the color of dead oak leaves, and he kept it bound away in a long braid down his back, like men wore across the Channel in Khet. His hands looked older than his face and were covered with many small scars. There was a noticeable tremor in them, though he dealt his cards with swift snaps of his fingers, not a movement wasted.

  The Fate reminded Scarlet a little of Rannon, the trim and competent karwaneer who had led his first caravan, but Fate’s voice was pure Minh.

  “Choose your fortune, redbird,” Fate said, the edges of his words cli
pped and fierce, a true marker that he had learned to speak Bizye later in life.

  Behind the Fate was a carved wooden bust, dark with age, resting on a little pedestal. Scarlet saw with a thrill of fear that it was a carving of a Shining One. Like all such rendering of the ancients, the statue was bald and had heavy, aquiline features. Pale chips of stone were his eyes, and his gaze was fearsome and unknowable.

  Scarlet resisted the urge to make the sign against bad luck. Byzans generally shunned all images of the Shining Ones because of the dire legends surrounding them, and the Morturii were no less suspicious. It was odd that a Fate would display something like this. Scarlet tried to keep the curiosity from his face as he tapped one of the two piles of cards that Fate laid out on the table before him.

  Fate pushed the abandoned pile aside and brought the other deck to the center. “Ask your question,” he said, placing one hand palm down on the small stack, “and put your hand on mine.”

  Scarlet thought for a moment. “I’ve had some trouble back home,” he said, settling his hand over the warm skin of the Fate dealer. “I’m leaving for Byzantur tomorrow; what will I find?”

  In the back of his mind, unvoiced, was another question: Will I ever find what I seek in my own land, or should I start looking further away?

  The continent of Khet was a possibility, though he had never been there. Crossing the Channel was a hazardous undertaking, and Scarlet knew of no pedlar who had ever tried it. He also thought of venturing further north in Morturii, having heard that the renegade soldiers in Volstland had been tamed by the southern troops of regulars, and that trade was good there. A shrewd merchant might make something of his life in such a place.

  Scarlet’s sudden discontent was natural. He had learned much about himself in the past few months, thanks to Scaja and Liall, and the questions the experience stirred up in his soul would not leave him. Liall would not fade and vanish from his memory like the bruises on his neck. Instead, the Kasiri’s presence in his thoughts only grew stronger.