Steelflower Page 3

  “How very odd,” I said, quietly. “Very well, then, red-eyed thing. Take your Talisman back, and be satisfied.” I thought a moment, dug in my purse, and laid three silver sequins at the foot of the whitebark. Silver and whitebark—traditional barriers to evil.

  Ah, well. I had done it now. Best not to undo what is already done, a proverb older than my people.

  “Ye’re a-going t’leave it there?” He sounded shocked. The sound of water and wind rose, a comforting backdrop; I decided I had taken my fill of cities for a time.

  When I was hungry enough, I would want a city again. I would want noise and excitement and different food. But not for a long while. “Perhaps he wishes its return. Even if he chases you for some other reason, it still means no loss to us. You won it at cards, and you've half the coin I own. And I saved your life to boot. Do not ill-mouth your luck, barbarian. Either way we are free of a burden.”

  “It’s got a fair mun o’ Power. We could sell t’a magicker—”

  Twas like being pinched hard in a tender spot. I would not go near a witch or a conjurer if you paid me. “I would not know of Power, and I do not deal with ‘magickers’. I have a faint idea of what your red-eyed friend may be, and I do not wish him or anyone else tracking me. Now, sunlight wanes upon us, Redfist. Let us travel while we may.”

  He did not ask again.

  Chapter 6

  Kaia’s Dream

  We were deep among the trees by the time dusk fell, deep enough that I chanced a fire. The travel kit included a flint and steel, and I thanked the Mother as I coaxed a tiny blaze into starting. Redfist came back with an armful of deadwood, and—lovely surprise—a brace of coneys he had trapped. We were near a small stream, so I cast around and found a bed of starchy meatroot, and we had a fine stew in the small pot I had thought to store in the travel kit. He found some pungent baia and I stumbled across some walcress. Together twas a satisfactory evening with journeybread and stew more savory than usual.

  After our sup, he scoured the pot with sand. At least he was not a witling in the woods.

  I settled down by the fire with the comb that never left my purse, and began rebraiding my hair. “Tell me. What is a Skaialan doing here in the Middle Kingdoms? I thought your kind never left the Highlands.”

  He poked at the fire with a long stick, making the dusky shadows dance. “An’ I thought yer kind never left the Blest Country, so we’re both a-treading far from home.” His face turned soft, reflective. Even with skin like uncooked dough, he had a rough sort of charm. “M’clan—Clan Redfist Connaiot Crae—is dead. Was wiped out by the black-hearted Longwalk Ferulaine Crael and their bastard lord Dunkast. Was a fair battle, but I was sent to take news to our allies, and by the time I returned…no clan remained. Wha’ else does a Skaialan do? I took to the road. No clan to demand weregilt.” He shrugged, his eyes distant and reflecting the leaping flames. “And ye, lassie? Why are you so far from home?”

  Twas fair enough, I had asked first. Still, I disliked saying it again. “I have no home. I am outcaste among my people, Redfist. I was born without something they never lack, and so…” My shrug was easy, loose, perfected over several tellings of an exile's tale. “It appears we are both clanless. My House threw me out as soon as I passed my k’yaihai—my womanhood ceremony. They let me take my sword, at least.”

  “I heard th’ women of the Blest only use the dagger and the sorcery they learn.”

  I shrugged again. “Tis an oversimplification. Swords are not necessary for most of the adai—the women of the People. They have their s’tarei—their twins—to carry dotanii. Since I was born without a twin, having no Power, I was cast out. It matters little, I have done quite well for myself. When I was five summers high I set myself to learn the sword.”

  “Aye, ye have doon a fine fair job o’that. Ye must hae been a fine little lass.”

  Not fine enough to keep. I tied off the end of a braid and started unraveling another. G’mai women past their adulthood ceremony do not usually braid their hair where anyone but their s’tarei can see—it is custom, a private thing. But I was no adai, so it did not matter despite the strange feeling of almost-shame I suffered whenever I twisted my hair in public.

  It took a long while, and we spoke back and forth, desultorily. He fell asleep with his back propped against the large round rock I had built the fire near, to block the fireglow in at least one direction. By tomorrow we would be gone, the campsite cold.

  I took the first watch, sometimes singing to myself as the Moon rose in the sky. She was waxing, almost full, and the light was excellent. Good odds, if anyone chanced upon us here. Also bad odds—we could be seen, and the reading of smoke in a clear moonlit sky was not beyond a s’tarei. Would our ghost have tracked us to the whitebark? our trail was clear, and the whitebark would glow under the Moon's light.

  Silver and the whitebark are powerful deterrents to any illcraft, I knew that much of witchery. I did not care to learn more, and would not unless forced.

  With one problem potentially solved, I set my attention to another. I had left most of my gear in Hain. It was safe enough with Jebbel, he dared not rid himself profitably of it unless certain of my death. But I had planned to move the Skaialan safely from of the city and double back to pick up my gear before taking ship for Shaituh.

  Restlessness made me shift uncomfortably. If the barbarian would not go his own way, I could not return for my gear. I would have to outfit myself again. Another harsh expense.

  The crystal returned, nagging at me. Had I ever heard of a Talisman like it? It seemed vaguely familiar, and yet, not at all. I was brooding on it far more than I should. Why was it so familiar? Something teased at me, behind the locked door in my memory. Everything to do with adai lay behind that door. I wished it to remain there.

  Perhaps an adai had left it somewhere, bartered or lost it, and some poor s’tarei had been asked to track it down. Perhaps it was a Talisman, and it went where it willed. Why had I felt oddly like I was leaving behind a part of myself, hanging in the whitebark tree?

  It would get better. The only cure for anything magical was to move as far away from it as possible. It had been a relief to leave G’maihallan and find people living without Power to waste on the most trivial of things.

  There was my skill with a sword—at least being G’mai was good for something.

  At least there was that.

  I would soon steal enough to find a quiet corner on a trade route, and buy an inn. A simple little six-room travel-house, maybe with a stable. I would settle into serving beer to travelers and changing sheets the rest of my days, and when I died perhaps an apprentice in the trade would build me a pyre.

  It was an old dream of mine, to have an inn, and I amused myself in the long reaches of my watch planning it inside my head. I would scour the wooden floors and have a copper kettle singing on the hearth. I would have chai-bushes in the back garden, and make my own chai. I would hang the linens in the Sun to dry, and I would make a stew each night to feed the travelers who paid their good coin in my inn.

  The night wore on. I began to sing softly again, the old Lay of Creation. Twas soothing, especially in G’mai, with rising and falling cadences. I had not allowed even the oldest or simplest of words from my native tongue to cross my lips in so long.

  The breeze stirred the forest as I sang. I broke off, listening, and the wind died.

  Puzzled, I started again. I sang of how the Moon pulled the tides with silver chains, looked into the ocean swinging below, and fell in love with Her reflection. She pulled Her reflection forth from the water and lay with the Silver One, Haradaihia. From the love of the Moon and the Silver One a bright rain of spirits became All That Is.

  The First Folk were the first spirits to move among the trees, and in time they became the G’mai, the Blessed Ones, the People, closest to the gods.

  I ceased my song again. The branches settled into stillness. I gaped my mouth, my breathing soundless, and waited.

 
; Nothing. Merely the common noises of a forest night—a rako bumbling through the branches, the far-off sound of water from the stream, the faint soft cough of an owl’s wings. The death-scream of something caught by the owl, a deer, stutter-stepping through the brush, avoiding our fire.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Yet I was restless.

  “Six rooms and seven waterclosets,” I murmured. “A bedroom on the bottom floor. Linens hung in the Sun.”

  I flipped out one of my nightknives, a thin, dull-finish blade, almost a stilette. I started to flip it over my hand, in a game most G’mai boys learn early. The trick is to roll it over your knuckles and catch the hilt as it rockets past, moving your hand as little as possible.

  I made five passes before the knife dropped to the side. My thigh ached dully where the Hain had kicked me. Clumsy, I had been clumsy, I had to be more careful. The s’tarei were meant to engage in combat while protecting an adai, so I had been required to modify some of the forms. The lessons I gained once I passed the borders of my own land had been no less quick and harsh. Had I not been lucky and fast, I would not have survived.

  Luck, Kaia. Merely luck. Carrying a big red barbarian with you is no worse than anything else. Admit it, if only to yourself—you are glad of the company. Too long traveling alone turns even the most solitary sellsword into a bushel of strange fancies.

  I picked up the knife again, flipped it over my hand, started a complicated doublepattern with both hands. Flip the knife, catch it, flip it again, using the momentum of the first throw, double snap of the fingers, catch it in the opposite hand, roll it around my fingers twice, three snaps, catch it in the opposite hand. Twice around while the other hand snapped, change hands while the knifeblade blurred, snap.

  It passed the time.

  I woke the barbarian when the night was just past its highest point, and curled into a ball on the other side of the fire. It was uncomfortable, I would be sore on the morrow and stiff from sleeping on the cold ground, but I fell asleep immediately.

  Chapter 7

  A Night Duel

  The sound was familiar, metal chiming against metal. I woke, swordhilt in hand.

  “Briyde protect us!” It was the barbarian, scrambling to his feet.

  I gained my own feet, leapt across the fire, and put my back to the big rock. It was the best we had. “You were asleep,” I accused.

  “Nay.” His axe glimmered in the dull glow from the dying fire. “Resting me eyes.”

  I replayed the sound inside my head. Knifeblades, chiming together. Knifeblades? I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, and inhaled sharply, tasting the air. “Something is not right.”

  “Oh, aye?” He sounded sharp and sarcastic. “Truly, wise one?”

  I ceased speaking, straining my ears to catch the sound. I could feel someone listening. A silence I knew all too well, from growing up among the G’mai.

  There is nothing like the direct approach. “Come out!” My voice sliced the breathless quiet. “Come and face me honorably, coward!”

  “What are ye doing?” the barbarian whispered fiercely.

  “If tis an animal, it will be scared off unless it has the water-sickness. In which case we need it where we can see it,” I whispered back. “If tis an assassin, his secrecy is gone. If tis our red-eyed ghost, we may be dead anyway. I would rather die fighting.” I raised my voice again. “Come and die, if you have the courage!”

  The branches rustled to my right, ignored. An adai would be capable of misdirection.

  The shape stepped out on my left side. Indistinct in the darkness, taller than me, a confused impression of motion.

  Now, Kaia. Now.

  I launched myself, sword held to the side and coming in low. I am fast, greater speed a consolation for my smaller frame, but my fightbrain had already taken in the relative size and shape and announced he was slightly bigger than a regular G’mai male—which meant he had a full handspan and a half of height more than me and several pounds of muscle; G’mai women are generally built slight. How I had cursed my slimness until I found out it gave me an edge in pure speed.

  Metal clashed and slithered. He had only one sword out, and it was a dotanii. Either he had stolen it, bought it from someone who had, or he was a s’tarei.

  If he was a s’tarei, I was dead.

  The voice of the warmaster resounded inside my memory. A cornered animal has nothing to lose. Be cautious of a trapped opponent.

  He deflected my next blow, barely. My eyesight shifted, and I could see. It was the fightbrain taking over, showing me the world in darkness as my pupils expanded to take in every available shred of light. G’mai are excellent night-fighters, and I have done more than one assassination with the help of my night-vision.

  He parried again. Metal rang. He gave no answering strike. It destroyed the rhythm of combat. Why did he not attack?

  I retreated three steps, careful to keep the fire to my side. He could not walk across it, my flank was covered—if he was a s’tarei, where was his adai?

  The stranger spoke. “Peace.” In commontongue, then repeated in G’mai. “I offer no attack. I alerted you to my presence.”

  My ribs flared. I took in deep even swells of breath. “Tis the middle of the night. Why would you be here if you intended no harm?” Alert for any twitch presaging attack, I spoke in G’mai without thinking. “Where is your adai, hmm?”

  He stilled, the absolute stillness only a s’tarei can use. “Do you not know?”

  I retreated another few steps, cautiously. If he came at me, I would kill him. I was faster, and the onrush of his attack would make him vulnerable. He has been following us, and he has a dotanii. Is this Redfist’s ghost? “What do you want? I returned your gaud bit of trash. Now leave us be!”

  “I will travel with you.” No doubt about it, he was G’mai. His accent was too true for anything else. And a s’tarei. Here. Outside the borders of the Blessed Land.

  How?

  “Where’s your adai? Bring her out and have her swear on the Moon you will not kill me in my sleep.” It was highly impolite, but I was in a temper.

  His shoulders stiffened, his eyes glittering darkly. “Can you not guess? In the sight of the Moon, can you not guess?”

  “Guess what?” I almost screamed, losing hard-earned patience. I switched to commontongue. “Redfist, unlimber your bow.”

  “I already have, lass,” he said grimly. “Tis him.”

  I had guessed so, but hearing the barbarian say so was different. My heart coney-ran inside its cage of ribs, so hard and fast individual beats blurred together. “I thought his eyes were red.”

  “Tis an expression, lass,” Redfist replied. “Red-eyed bugger. Hae you ne’er heard it before?”

  “Oh.” I tried not to sound baffled. The man’s eyes were not red—they merely glittered, as all eyes do at night.

  The G’mai man took this in. His silence was like a living thing.

  This is a riddle I do not care for. “Where is your adai? Huh? Where is your twin, s’tarei’sa?”

  He sheathed his sword. Why had he not drawn his second blade? “Since I see no other G’mai, I am forced to conclude you are my adai.”

  I had thought I would never feel that sharp bite of shame and anger mixed again. “Go bugger yourself,” I snarled. “I am no adai. I have no Power. Go on your way, and be quick about it.”

  “I shall travel with you.” He moved, slowly, over to the fire and folded himself down. He sat cross-legged and straight-backed, and I saw the shape of his features. A G’mai face, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. I could not see what color his eyes held, just a faint shine from the banked fire's reflection. The hilts of his dotanii rose fluidly over his shoulders. “In’sh’ai.”

  “In’sh’ai,” I replied automatically, accepting the customary greeting. It meant while he was at my hearth, he would offer me no violence. I watched him for a few moments, slowly sheathed my own sword. “Well,” I said, in commontongue. “Redfist, lower your axe. He will
not kill us, not yet anyway…” How could I explain? “He thinks he is to go with us.”

  “I doan trust this, lassie,” Redfist growled deep in his chest.

  He’s G’mai. And from a House, by his accent. He will not slaughter us in our sleep, not after offering to share our hearth. “Nor do I. Keep your bow handy. Shoot him if he draws a blade.” I backed away, closer to the giant barbarian. “If you fall asleep and he kills me, I will haunt you.”

  “D’ye think he will try't?”

  “Not yet.” I sank down to the ground beside the barbarian, watching our visitor. Had a full troupe of Kshanti acrobats appeared from the darkness juggling gold balls and ringing finger cymbals, twould have been less of a marvel. “I need sleep. Wake me when the birds start dawnsong.”

  “I will, lass.” Redfist yawned, but he held the bow steady.

  I took a deep breath, curled up beside him, shifted to get a rock out of my side. The G’mai across the fire appeared to be watching me, his gleaming eyes fixed through darkness. “What is your name, s’tarei’sa?”

  “Darik.” It meant dagger in the G’mai name-tongue. “And yours, adai’sa?”

  “Kaia.” It was a shortening of my full name, but since he had not given me his, I was not required to give mine. “Where is your adai?” I could not let go of it. If she was waiting in the dark to kill us—

  —why had she not struck? Was he alone? He could not be.

  I was the only G’mai who traveled alone. The sharp bite of shame returned. The last I had felt of it had been before I left the borders of my country.

  The gods will smite him if he breaks the law of the hearth. There was some comfort in the thought. Yet if he was here, alone, he may well have shaken off the prohibitions of a life spent in G'maihallan.

  I have not. Should I think he has?