“Ashkati, love,” he murmured into her ear. He ran his fingers through her hair. She claimed it relaxed her. Love for his wife swelled his heart.
The woman mumbled and raised a sleepy hand to bat his away, breaking the moment. Kushtrim lightly rested his hand on her throat instead. The unmentionable could learn a little respect. All he had to do was squeeze. He was much stronger than her. She’d flail ineffectively until the life seeped out of her.
Kushtrim jerked his hand back. Where had those thoughts come from? He wiped his hand on the bedroll as if he could wipe his mind’s darkness from him. He rolled away from her, facing the entrance where Gerwyn slept.
Gerwyn never snored, never made any noise while he slept. The slightest indication anything was amiss would bring him wide awake and to his feet. He slept with his weapons at hand always. The idea that he could be planning to kill Kushtrim in order to become Most Worthy himself stirred like a worm within Kushtrim. Worse was the nagging idea that Okpairo might be the one he should worry about. So far his careful inquiry into the matter had turned up nothing. The ache in his shoulders and back intensified.
He had to focus on getting through the barrier. All of these other problems could wait. What could he do now that he was down to two Jeguduns? He pictured the scrolls, the parchment crinkling beneath his fingers, the words dancing across the page as if they lay before him in the tent.
No being with Maddion blood—dragons included—could pass through the barrier. All other beings, human or otherwise, could pass freely back and forth. Kushtrim needed the blood of one Jegudun and one Taakwa to take down the barrier. He had half of the formula. How could he get a Taakwa? It all came down to the barrier. He had to get through the barrier to get a Taakwa. He needed a Taakwa to get through the barrier. He wanted to bang his head against the hard-packed dirt floor of his tent.
He rolled onto his back and rubbed at the ache in his shoulders. No being with Maddion blood could pass through the barrier. That sentence repeated itself in his mind.
What would happen if someone didn’t have Maddion blood any more?
Kushtrim sat bolt upright, the pain forgotten.
Gerwyn sat upright also. “Most Worthy?”
“It’s all right. I think I’ve latched onto something to solve our problem.”
The unmentionable stirred, pulling a blanket over her head. “It’s too early,” she mumbled. “Lay back down, you’re letting the bedroll get cold.”
“You are forgetting your place,” he said.
She peeked out from under the blanket. “But, you’ve brought me here the last three nights. I thought—”
“That’s the problem right there. You are here to use your body to please me. Your thoughts are useless.”
“I, I—my apologies, Most Worthy.”
“Gerwyn, see her back to their tent. And make sure she’s sent back home tomorrow.”
Gerwyn rose to his feet, a darker shadow in the tent’s blackness. He gave her time to grab her clothes and snatch the blanket around her before he pulled her out of the tent. Their footsteps padded on the packed dirt, fading.
Unable to sleep any more, Kushtrim rose and dressed. When Gerwyn returned, Kushtrim had him start a light.
“I will need a volunteer,” Kushtrim said, “first thing this morning.”
“You need look no further. I will do whatever you need.”
Kushtrim shook his head. “This volunteer might die.”
“I am prepared to die for you and for our people,” Gerwyn said quietly.
Not the words of a traitor. Kushtrim shook his head. “I need you alive and healthy.”
“May I enquire as to what this man may be volunteering to do?”
“The healers have been experimenting with transferring blood to help men wounded in battle. I want them to try to replace a Maddion warrior’s blood with that of Jeguduns. Our two captives could provide enough for a full-grown man.”
“Then he would be able to pass through the barrier.” Gerwyn nodded. “That could work.”
“Bring me a trustworthy man. And some food. I’m famished.”
Gerwyn gave him a quick bow before leaving the tent.
The soft hiss of the lanterns filled the silence. Shadows danced in the corners of the tent. Boxes containing Kushtrim’s clothes, a second saddle, and his weapons lined one side of the tent. He kicked the bedroll aside and paced down the center, five steps one way, five the other. He thought he might jump out of his skin waiting for a volunteer and the healers to come together, plan for what they would need, execute the plan. If this worked, his scrolls would be glorified and read forever, the story of his life and this decision recounted again and again in every generation to come.
Sudden coughs wracked his body, phlegm rising in his throat. Kushtrim grabbed a piece of cloth and covered his mouth, coughing up the thick wad. He drew it away from his mouth.
Blood covered the cloth. Coughing up blood, the lack of appetite, the constant pain all pointed to one thing. An icy chill settled over him.
Kushtrim had the illness.
Chapter 8
That night, Malia slept fitfully when she did sleep at all. Every time Dalibor shifted on his pallet, she came fully awake, her heart battering her chest bone. She expected to find him hovering over her, that same hateful look in his eyes and twist to his features that he wore the night she set his belongings outside. By the time the sky began to lighten, sweat coated the back of her neck, and the skin under her eyes felt boggy.
When Dalibor rose and prepared his things for a day of hunting, Malia lay on her side with her back to him and pretended to sleep. Dalibor’s feet carried him with hardly a shuffle across the floor as he set his things on the ledge. Then he came back inside and stood over Malia.
His gaze on her was as palpable as if he’d run his hands over her body. He stood there a long while, his breathing the only sound in the small space. The urge to scream built until Malia thought she couldn’t control it any longer. Why couldn’t he leave already? Why was he standing there?
“I know you’re not sleeping,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.
Malia said nothing. Maybe he was bluffing.
“You don’t have to say a word, you can just listen.” His clothes rustled as he squatted. “You can’t ignore me forever. And there’s no reason for you not to forgive me. I made one mistake, and I don’t intend on repeating it.”
He touched her cheek, his hands callused and warm. Malia tried not to flinch. But all he did was brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“You should think of what ending this marriage would look like to the village. Would they want a clan mother arranging marriages when she ended her own after less than a year? Dissent can spread so easily through a village, particularly when times are hard. And if enough people approached the clan mother with concerns over your ability to take over her role, she might reconsider you as her choice despite your being her daughter.” His fingers traced a path to her jaw and then her neck. They found the old Jegudun feather hanging there and stroked it. “This necklace might find its way to someone else.”
Tremors overcame Malia. She slapped Dalibor’s hand away and rose to her feet. Her hands formed fists at her sides. “You disgust me.” Venom dripped from her voice. She winced at the sound. “It’s only a matter of time before other people see you for what you really are, and then they’ll laud my choice to rid this village of you.”
Shadows slid over Dalibor’s face. He stood. Malia tensed, ready to leap to either side should he approach her. But he remained where he was.
“Right now the people of this village are grateful for the help I’m giving them. Without me, some families would struggle for food. I doubt any of them are in a hurry to rid themselves of me.” And then he slipped out, the ladder creaking as he climbed down.
Malia paced her home. So Dalibor thought to coerce her into maintaining their marriage. Her hand rose to the Jegudun feather at her neck. This was her village. Thes
e people had known her for her entire life. They would believe her over a newcomer. Wouldn’t they?
She stormed into the storage room, grabbed her deerskin travel bag, and began tossing nuts and dried meat in it. She would bring this to Tuvin and let him know about the men marching towards the falls. Then she would go to the clan father and tell him about the Outsiders. She would leave out anything to do with Tuvin. And when he asked how she knew this, she would claim to have seen it in a dream. It probably wouldn’t be enough to convince him of what she told him, but it would give him pause enough to check if what she said was right, especially when she gave him the details she had seen in Tuvin’s memory. And if she mentioned the female Jegudun’s attempt to take that little boy, the clan father could check into that and know that she spoke the truth.
Energized by her plan, Malia hastily slipped on a cloth tunic and skirt, an outfit she’d traded pottery for. They would be cooler than the deerskin she had been wearing. She considered the beads around her hips. She’d wound Dalibor’s green Papuk clan beads with her red Velebit beads. Her stomach turned at the sight of the green, but there was nothing she could do about it. She slipped the travel bag over her head, adjusting the strap across her torso at an angle. She made sure her dagger was in place on the leather belt inside her skirt. Then she grabbed a hunk of bread left from the day before and climbed down her ladder.
A few people moved about the village center, their footsteps silent on the packed dirt. Their low voices filled the space with a hum. Malia kept her gaze ahead, hoping to discourage anyone from stopping her to chat, and began tearing bite-sized hunks from the bread. She wolfed them down without tasting them.
Malia’s pace quickened once she was outside Selu. Before she disappeared into the forest, she stopped to take a few sips from her water pouch. She used the time to make sure nobody watched her. A few men worked in the distant fields. Some fished at the river. Nobody was near her, and nobody paid her any attention. Most important, Dalibor was nowhere in sight. She hoped he chose a different direction to begin his hunt, but she would take precautions just in case.
To the north, Outsiders prepared for something. Malia didn’t know exactly what they had in mind, and she didn’t need to know. They were hurting the Taakwa, her people, and she meant to do what she could to put a stop to that. She took a few more moments to let the comforting scene before her sink into her memories. Then she slipped into the woods.
The crisp air smelled of pine and, faintly, of juniper and sage. A hint of moisture in the air and a few clouds scudding in from the south suggested rain was on its way. That would help the crops.
A crow let out its raucous cry directly over Malia’s head, making her jump. She laughed nervously at her reaction, then continued on. Every so often she stopped and listened for sounds of someone following her, but only the usual forest noises came to her. No warning signs bothered her—hair prickling, the feeling of eyes on her, a chill running down her neck—yet she couldn’t shake the idea that perhaps Dalibor hunted something other than turkey or deer or rabbits today. She settled beneath a pine tree, the soft needles cushioning her. The sun climbed slowly, and only when it reached its mid-morning point and she’d neither seen nor heard signs of Dalibor did she walk on to the hot springs, chastising herself for wasting time.
Malia soon passed the tree with the Jegudun carving. Just before the last bend in the trail, she called out, “Tuvin, it’s Malia.” She waited a moment, then stepped into the clearing.
The clearing stood empty. Malia clutched the strap that crossed her chest. Had something happened to Tuvin? Then he limped from the shadows on the far side and chirruped a greeting. Malia smiled.
He’d washed the blood from his shoulder. The other Jegudun had torn ragged gashes in it and ripped out tufts of down. But the flesh was red and starting to scab over. It seemed he would recover.
Malia rounded the spring and handed the bag to him. “It should be enough for at least a couple of days. I would have brought more, but I was low on supplies.” She took a deep breath. “And, I won’t be able to come here again.”
Tuvin tilted his head to one side.
“Things have changed since yesterday. I won’t be able to get away so easily.”
Tuvin laid a hand on her arm and gave a reassuring squeeze.
Malia smiled. “But, I have some time today to spend with you, and I plan to make the most of it.” The smile faded. “There’s something I have to tell you first.”
Tuvin raised his hands, palms towards her as if to say, wait. He pulled gently on her arm, leading her to the spring. He had cleared a small area surrounding it, revealing the stone edging beneath the grasses and weeds. About three paces long and one wide, it showed how someone had carefully lain large blocks. They formed a lip over the spring.
Tuvin pointed to one block. Malia kneeled to take a closer look. At first the block appeared to have random scratches, but as Malia’s finger cleared dirt, she recognized the scratches as purposeful marks.
The pattern resembled the Velebit clan’s leaping fish, the same design on her deerskin skirt, the same design on the pitcher she’d made for Vedran. Malia gasped.
The next block held another family pattern that she vaguely recognized as one belonging to a family from Braigo, the village Dalibor was from. Each block had a different carving. She placed the pad of her finger in one groove, tracing it. Years and weather had smoothed it and made it shallow.
Tuvin’s dark eyes followed her hand, then moved to her face. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
“These were carved by Taakwa.” She went to the nearest tree carving and studied it anew. “And these were done by Taakwa.” She bounced on her toes. “Jeguduns were not always Taakwa enemies, were they?”
Tuvin shook his head, his lips pulled back in a smile that revealed his sharp teeth. His smile disappeared as his eyes flickered to something behind her. He leapt forward, hissing and baring his teeth. Malia whirled.
Dalibor stood on the other side of the spring, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. “Malia, get away from that thing!”
It took her a moment to realize that by ‘thing’ he meant Tuvin. The Jegudun stood in front of her. His tufted ears lay back like an angry cougar’s. Silence had fallen over the clearing. Even the wind was still. Malia had to get Dalibor away from Tuvin.
She laid a hand on Tuvin’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of this.”
Dalibor pulled his dagger free. His voice became shrill. “Don’t touch it.” He started running around the spring.
Malia stepped around Tuvin, putting him behind her. She squared her shoulders. One hand pulled her sheathed dagger out to hang in plain view and remained on its hilt. “You followed me,” she said. She poured anger into her words even as the hand on the dagger trembled.
Dalibor pulled up. “You seemed relieved that your mother sent me to spend most of my time hunting and away from home. I thought maybe I had been right, maybe there was another man.” He gestured towards Tuvin with his dagger. “But this … Malia, get away from it.” He started forward again.
Malia kept one hand on the dagger and held the other in front of her, palm towards Dalibor. “It’s not what you think.” Dalibor didn’t stop. “Get back!”
He scowled. “It’s not a cute little rabbit for you to play with, Malia, it’s a dangerous beast that should be destroyed.”
“Tuvin, get out of here,” she muttered over her shoulder. Then she approached Dalibor. “Give me a minute to explain.” She needed to give the Jegudun time to put distance between him and Dalibor. She recognized the expression on Dalibor’s face. It was the same one he wore the day he broke her pottery and shoved her against the wall, the day she was sure he was going to strike her, only now that anger was directed at Tuvin.
Dalibor pushed her aside. Malia stumbled, arms wheeling to catch her balance. She landed on her bottom in the tall grass. A few cicadas jumped at the disturbance.
Tuvin bared his teeth, his wings spr
ead, making him seem larger. He held his arms out, sharp talons protracted. He rushed to meet Dalibor.
Dalibor didn’t hesitate. He dodged left around Tuvin’s claws, swinging at the Jegudun’s neck as he did so. Tuvin ducked, the dagger just missing him.
Malia rose to her feet. “Dalibor, stop! He’s not dangerous.”
Tuvin slashed Dalibor’s shin, ripping buckskin leggings and flesh. Dalibor sucked in a sharp breath. Blood began to pour down the front of his leg. Tuvin swung his other hand, aiming for Dalibor’s belly. Malia sucked in a breath and held it.
“Not dangerous?” he said as he danced out of reach of Tuvin’s hand. The talons ripped the tunic, but missed flesh.
Malia darted forward and planted herself between them, facing Dalibor. “Let me explain—”
Dalibor backhanded her. Hot, stinging pain exploded on her cheek as her head snapped to one side. She raised her hand to where he’d hit her. Something cold and hard seeped into her heart, driving out the last vestiges of concern she held for Dalibor.
Tuvin tackled Dalibor low, wrapping his arms around Dalibor’s legs and knocking him onto his back. Tuvin crawled on top of Dalibor. He snapped at Dalibor’s neck, his jaw closing around air as Dalibor jerked his head aside at the last moment. Then Dalibor drove his dagger towards Tuvin’s neck. Tuvin grabbed Dalibor’s wrist, stopping him mid-swing.
Dalibor swung with his free hand, landing a punch on Tuvin’s cheek. He struck again, and again, the blows landing on Tuvin’s snout, then his eye.
Malia circled them, waiting for the right moment to leap forward and distract Dalibor or take his dagger from him. “Dalibor, stop!”
But he ignored her and continued to pummel Tuvin.
On the next punch, Tuvin snatched Dalibor’s fist between his teeth.
Dalibor howled in pain. He dug his feet into the ground and rolled them both over, ending up on top of Tuvin. Tuvin lost his grip on Dalibor’s wrist. His mouth opened, freeing Dalibor’s other hand.
Dalibor raised the dagger.
Shards of History Page 7
