Steelflower in Snow Read online

  “The underlands could nae change me, corra-luagnh.”

  “No.” She rose, setting her goblet down upon a small ebonwood table with a slight, distinct noise. “I suppose they could not. Nothing will.”

  Skirts moved, a low subtle music. When she closed the heavy wooden door, it was softly, as if upon an invalid’s room.

  I leaned further into Darik. His answering pressure was a balm, and outside the glass, frostflowers etched in its corners, fresh, fattening flakes of snow began to fall. They would melt at first, dying against damp street and wet roof, but the sacrifice of the first ranks laid ground for the next, waves upon waves of an inexhaustible army.

  Meant to Be Whole

  Some of the barbarians go direct from the skauna to the snows outside, casting themselves naked into drifts. The giants of the highlands hold that such a practice is healthful, and if they live near a stream or lake they will even chop holes in the ice and dip themselves after a long soak in the dry heat.

  As far as I may tell, it explains Redfist’s people—and their ways—perfectly.

  The storm squatted over Kalburn, an iron-colored sky lowering to touch the rooftops and gouts of snow whirling on a cold, flirting wind. The battlements were a misery, the training-grounds even worse. I might have gone what the Shainakh call “wall-mad” if not for the asal—a long, timber-roofed courtyard running alongside a pillared gallery, used for weapons practice for the young, the recovering, or in weather too ill for even the tain to play at war’s many games. A Skaialan boy is given a small blunted axe on his fifth name-day and taught its use. They may be suited for broadsword, mace, or the smaller dual axes, but their first weapon is always the labirin, also named the tuag. They do not prize flexibility or speed. A Skaialan brawler is a creature of raw power, and the quick or the versatile are seen as somewhat cowardly.

  The tain practiced in the snow, their furred boots gripping with more surety than I would have believed possible, bodies steaming as they warmed and shrugged free of layers. I decided it was useless to do so unless I wished to freeze solid, and used the asal with D’ri. We followed each other through the forms. In my case, I adapted with a long knife reversed along my forearm, since I use but a single dotani. His twin blades, heavier, blurred through the movements with graceful precision, breath expelled in a small huff at the strike-moment. Their meat-pastes sat uneasy in my stomach, but once I took to eating I found they did keep me warmer.

  Unsanitary or not, they fueled the warming breath wonderfully.

  Darik matched his rhythm to mine, and we played the game—a little faster, a little slower, subtle clues from breath, the singing of cloven air, and the silence of the taran’adai calling the measures of the dance as Rijiin acrobats thump time with short sticks during their practices. I had an advantage; with concentration, I could feel his muscles begin the work of another move, and it was little trouble to follow. Sidestep, flowing through the second form, into the third, blending the two for a quarter-candlemark, then a shift to the other side and I took the lead, beginning the first cycle afresh. The first cycle is the mother of all; its simplicity is deceptive. You may spend a lifetime practicing its cadence and be well-prepared for any combat, yet have only scratched the surface of its applications.

  Sweat, stinging my eyes. No, not mine, D’ri’s. A cramp in his left calf, overridden with an application of will, my own leg threatening to seize up. I exhaled and he took the lead, swinging us both into the third form. Strike, release, catching your opponent’s blade, turning his force back upon him. Stone underfoot, wood and stone above, the storm outside.

  The Skaialan tie ropes from one post at a building’s door to the neighbor’s during what they call the White Howl, so they do not become lost in the disorienting whirl of snow and ice. I had thought this overly cautious until I saw my first Howl. There may be hells of blackness as the Pesh describe, or of fire as the Clau say, or even of yellow-painted chains and lamentation as most of the Hain—those masters of creating layers upon layers of hierarchy for their gods and spirits to wander—fear, but the one I think most likely is pure blowing white, and it is indistinguishable from the Highlands.

  The space inside the asal changed, its emptiness shifting as yet another breathing creature disturbed its solitude. D’ri turned, so I did too, and we both watched Redfist halt several paces away, his hairy bare calves steaming and his big raw hands hanging at his sides. His furred face held a strange expression, one I have seen on too many outside the borders of the Blessed Land.

  Wonder. Incomprehension. It was only a half-step from there to fear, and plenty chose to take it, continuing into the dull, righteous fury of someone who sees an offense to their gods and can only right it with blood. Perhaps here, among his countrymen instead of among the smaller brown people of the Rim, my strangeness was magnified for him.

  “News?” D’ri lowered his dotanii, and I did the same, his motion pulling my own arms and legs along. I had to exhale sharply to free myself of the sensation, shaking my head as a nervous horse will fling rain from its mane.

  “Aye.” But Redfist’s expression did not change. “How do ye move like that?”

  “Training.” Darik glanced at me. “And tis easier, when you can feel the movement in your own limbs.”

  “Ah.” Redfist thrust his thumbs into his belt. “She feels yer pain.”

  “Do not ask him what I feel.” I flicked my dotani, cleaning it of invisible blood of the other matter of murder, and it blurred back into its sheath. “What news then, my ruddy friend?”

  “Dunkast has sent a message.”

  “What kind?”

  “Sealed on parchment. I came to ask ye, K’ai, if ye would examine it for witchery.”

  My throat turned dry. It was a reasonable request to make of an adai, even one who had very little Power. Darik’s own blades blurred home; he rolled his shoulders once, twice, dispelling stiffness. Warmed and loosened, we were now ready to face whatever battle loomed.

  “I am not certain how much good my examination may do.” I forced myself not to move my own shoulders. How far would I sink into D’ri? The more intimate aspects of the twinbond are not much spoken of to children; I left G’maihallan so young I did not know how far I would lose…myself. Or the self I had been.

  We are meant to be whole, adai and s’tarei. What was I truly feeling, now that I no longer walked alone out of all my kin?

  “But I shall do what I can.” I bounced on my toes once, thrice, shook out my hands, finally convinced my body it was separate and I was its sole sovereign once more. Darik did not comment, and the taran’adai did not tell me what he felt.

  Or was it that I chose not to look, to see?

  The Great Hall was full of Emrath’s tain, but they did not press close to the table where the item lay. The fire, mixed blackrock and timer, in the massive hearth was merely embers; she had been hearing petitioners today, and settling disputes. Emrath herself, the Lady of Kalburn, sat motionless upon the great bench chipped from the Keep’s stone upon a dais carved from the same, her pale chin resting upon her hand. This was not the dining hall; this space in the heart of the keep was where she heard clan business and made judgments, the floor patterned with stone-dye they have since lost the craft of as well. They call it the First-Carved, and though it may not be strictly the first chamber bored into the giant chunk of stone, it certainly feels older than the rest. Only the skauna and storerooms were below, the earth-heat takes some little of the chill away, and the insulation of frozen earth and layers of stone blunted the edge of the Howl.

  In such a hall, one feels the weight of stone overhead. I have not the fear-of-close-spaces, and yet it is…unpleasant, to breathe in such a place.

  On a low table set to the left, meant to hold evidence in a dispute or tribute during a gifting session, lay the letter.

  There was no glow of Power on the rectangular package with its strange spidery lettering. Highland text is not the picture-speaking, like Hain’s, or the long cur
ves, dots, and dashes of Shainakh, or even the mellifluous writing of my own country, words joined as twins, triplets, each phrase a single stroke halted only by the curve of a breaking-mountain rune. Each sound in Skaialan’s consonant-heavy flow has its own angular symbol, and they string together word and phrase in reverse as lutebangers and other bards all over the Rim trap their music on paper: left to right, sounding out each symbol and holding it for the required duration. Strange, but there are as many different ways to write as there are hands to hold a brush or quill.

  It is the leisure to learn such things that is spread unevenly over the world’s surface.

  In any case, I eyed the waterproofed parchment packet, seeking to look not merely with my eyes. With Janaire’s careful lessons and the starmetal spheres, I even stood a chance of finding something amiss. “How was this delivered?”

  “By a man in Ferulaine colors. Handed it to the door-guard, and vanished into the White Howl.” Redfist shook his head. “The door-guard says he did not speak.”

  “Your Dunkast’s eyes and hands are in this city, then.” I folded my arms. My back itched with dried, flaking sweat under layers of clothing. I began to see the wisdom of their lacking baths; if I washed my hair it might well freeze solid. “I wonder…” There were bound to be some who favored Dunkast even among Emrath’s tain, and my gaze drifted away from the packet to the group of Skaialan warriors on the other side of the hall in Emrath’s colors, arranged by rows according to their rank, straining to hear what passed between us. More of them patrolled the Old City and the halls of the Keep, or carried her business with other chieftains along the snow-choked roads.

  Which among them was avoiding this meeting for a dark reason, or had taken pains to attend for the same? I did not know nearly enough, though my observation of each one who passed me in the halls or attended the great daily dinner was habitual and exact, by now.

  Redfist had no patience for my wondering. “Is there witchery upon it?”

  He had taken to barking at me of late, and I had taken to slowing my replies, pausing before each and stringing the words together with much space between them. “None that I can tell, friend Redfist. Darik? Do you sense aught amiss?”

  When my s’tarei spoke, it was in quiet, rolling G’mai. “You would know before I would, adai’mi.” All the same, he stood closer to me than usual, and on my right side, too, blocking my dotani-draw. He changed to tradetongue, pitching the words loudly enough to carry somewhat. “It seems to be merely a letter. Perhaps he wishes you a merry name-day.”

  A ripple of laughter, thin and nervous, passed through the assembly. Emrath’s expression did not change. She simply watched, her large furred boots placed delicately, her ankles crossed. Her skirts arranged prettily and her great fur over-mantle pulled close, she did not seem to feel the cold. Perhaps she did not, bred to it as she was.

  Redfist turned the packet over. The seal was a blot of black brittle wax with a strange snarling thing pressed into it—a wolf’s head, in the Northern style. The same sigil was pressed upon coins from Ferulaine’s mines and mints, and had no doubt decorated the pieces Corran Ninefingers had brought to Antai.

  When Redfist broke the seal with a faint noxious crack, I tensed. But it was nothing, merely that wax behaves strangely when it has been frozen. The giant spread out the folded rag-made sheet inside. “Huh.” He offered it to me.

  I shook my head, disdaining to touch it. Whether it was prudence or cold fingers I did not care to decide. “I cannot read your writing well, yet. What does it say?”

  “Very simple. He calls me brother-that-was. And tells me to go back to the outerlands, and I—and my elvish companions—may leave with our lives.”

  Of course this Dunkast would use that hateful word. News had reached him quickly of Redfist’s companions, then. There were definitely spies among Emrath’s tain.

  A bitter clot of a laugh caught in my throat, squeezed its way out. “How generous.”

  “Not known for his generosity.” It was Blacknose, who stepped from the ranks of the tain to address his lady’s dais. His bare shins were not as hairy as his fellows’. Perhaps that was why his boots were higher, and fur-lined. “He fears you, Rainak Redfist.”

  “And well he should.” Redfist eyed him. “Who be ye?”

  “Jorak Blacknose.” Proudly, head held high. “Bard to the Lady of Kalburn, and bearer of a willow wand.”

  “I’ve heard of ye.” Redfist nodded. “Ye sang the Bull Lay entire on one drink of mead, did ye not?”

  Blacknose swept a bow, rough but with some fillip of polish at the end. “I was young then, and reckless.”

  More amusement went through the assembled tain. It appeared the black-bearded one had some little fame. I turned my head, slightly; D’ri was watching Blacknose and Redfist with a sober, thoughtful expression. Whatever he was thinking, the taran-adai was silent.

  Perhaps he did not wish me to know, or perhaps he was merely watchful.

  Redfist turned back to me, and when he spoke, it was for the benefit of onlookers, a little too loudly and with more Skaialan than travel-pidgin. “What think ye, Kaia? Shall we hie back through the Pass and leave this fellow to do as he pleases?”

  Ah, so now he was playing to the assembly, as those aim to who rule must often do. Wonders never ceased. “You think it likely he will keep his word? And there is the little matter of him murdering your father, and laying the deed at your door.”

  That sparked a shocked silence. Several of the tain glanced uncomfortably at each other, and I wondered how many of them had passed the kinslaying story along or half-believed it. It is a great sin among most, if not all, the world’s peoples, to drive a blade into the heart of your own. Especially those who birthed you.

  There are exceptions, of course. In Pesh girl-children can be slaughtered almost at will before their name-day, and the throne of any land is soaked with fratricide, patricide, and the like.

  Except G’maihallan. And yet, the thick band of scarring on Darik’s throat spoke of an act almost too blasphemous to be contemplated. To kill a s’tarei is to kill an adai, and that is the only thing the Moon will not forgive one of the Blessed.

  “Aye,” Redfist said, finally. There was a gleam to his blue eyes I had not seen before, and I suspected him of finger-combing his beard to make it tangle even more fiercely to match that of his countrymen. “There is that.” He rolled the missive into his broad fist, and strode to the fireplace. “Does anyone else wish to read this?”

  The paper of pounded rag and treefiber was passed from hand to hand among the tain. Finally, it was handed up to Emrath Needleslay on her stone bench. There was no cushion on the seat; perhaps she was bred be inured to such discomfort. It occurred to me that the weight of ceremony and obligation upon her was probably akin to the heavy expectations upon G’mai adai, and I did not care to feel any kinship with her, however small.

  And yet…I did, in that moment.

  She glanced over the letter’s contents, and her expression did not change. She merely crumpled it into a wad, and tossed it back to Redfist, who caught the missile with surprising deftness.

  The tain, to a man, tensed at their lady’s movement, but they did not move. That small detail told me a great deal. So she was truly their leader, after all, and not merely a figurehead.

  Interesting indeed. And when Redfist tossed the letter into the fireplace, many of the tain did not look away until they were certain the ink, the paper, and the wax-blot seal had burned.

  Arrivals

  When the Howl faded, Kalburn lay under an insulating, pale pall. I woke on a whiteglare morn two days after Dunkast’s unwitched missive warm for the first time in a moonturn or three.

  Still half-trapped in sleep’s veils, I thought the ice, the barbaric giants, and all their ilk merely a dream, for a familiar weight lay upon on one side of me, D’ri’s arm over my waist and his face in my hair. On my other side, a creature a little too tall to be a Vulfentown wharf-rat nestled, his ow
n black hair stiff with unwashed oil and his chin all but buried in my throat. His smell, a torrid mix of youth, acrid adolescence, and nervousness, filled my lungs. I expected to hear the restless rains of Antai’s winter sweeping walls and windows, and did not.

  Mazed for a few moments, I lay perfectly still, my breathing following its accustomed sleep-cycle. If you must, you can train yourself not to change your in-draft or exhale when you wake, a skill much in demand among assassins—or those who would hunt them.

  Dreaming. I must be.

  D’ri stirred slightly. My arms tensed, and my stomach. I did not feel as if I dreamed. There was a familiar morning pressure in my bladder and another, even more familiar dry rasp of wyrmbreath in my mouth. Sleep-weight crusted my eyes, and Diyan, his knee striking mine, freed himself from my arms with the neutral plaintive muttering of a child who still wishes rest.

  No. I thrashed, my elbow sinking into Darik’s midriff. He woke with a lunge, and Diyan with a yelp.

  “By the Moon—” Darik was already free of the covers and on his feet, a knifeblade glittering as he whirled, searching for the source of the disturbance. I gained my own balance, crouching atop the bed, blankets and linens sliding free, tangling around my ankles.

  Diyan clutched at a rolled fur he had been using as a pillow, a thin flexible stilette for spearing between ribs gleaming in his own fist. He had grown, wrists and ankles far too big for him but showing the promise of the man he would be. His hands were well to catching up, and their knuckles were raw with cold.

  “Mother’s tits,” I hissed, “what are you doing here?”

  The boy rubbed at his own eyes, yawning so wide his back teeth smiled at me. “Ahi-ya, Kaahai, you scared me.” The cadence of the Freetowns rubbed under his tradetongue, but two Antai loan-words showed where he’d rested, if only briefly. He slipped the stilette into the loose sleeve of his dun, coarse-weave sherte, and I stared at his familiar face, broadening at the cheekbones and filling in elsewhere except his pointed chin. His wide dark eyes were the same as always, their folds sharp and handsome.