Call the Rain (13 page)

He could not hold off so many warriors. The Xan Segra looked murderous. To a man, each burned with the fire of vengeance.

Rains and thunder, Joral would die to give her enough time to flee.
Illista gasped as her heart constricted in fear for Joral. She turned, drawing the lightning to her, ready to defend.

But something in the sound of the rains spoke to her. It was a voice, almost human, and it sounded like her mother. Her gentle, loving mother. Gentle but strong, and selfless as she hid Quarie and Illista and sacrificed herself so that her daughters might escape.
The water was part of her mother’s spirit, Was her her mother’s spirit, then, part of the water. Even here, so far from the sea? The water spirit’s words flowed around Illista.
How many Segra will die without fresh water? The children need your help, Illista.

“Mother,” she whispered to herself as the wind whipped the dust around the shores. But the water that had coalesced into the spirit of her mother faded to mist.

She turned to the lake. She called to the water, directing, spinning. Asking it to gather and swirl. The lake began to churn, to gather the poison. But she was not strong enough.

The churning slowed to a stop and the cries of the water grew loud once again.

Illista fell to her knees in the mud, the lightning from her fingers singing the ground around her, her heart pounding and her head throbbing from the noise of the water.

“Let Mulavi go, Illista. Go to the water.” It was Zuke, who had skirted the duel between Joral and Rafil to kneel at Quarie’s side. A pale blue fire burned from the tip of Zuke’s walking staff.

Quarie struggled to her feet. Unsteadily, she took the medicine man's hand. The fire around Zuke burned brighter.

***

As suddenly as the storm had brewed, it stilled. It just ceased. The absence of thunder stole Joral’s breath and the oncoming attack from the Xan Segra fell into blackness, lit only by the green lake behind him.

Joral steeled himself and adjusted his grip on the sword. He watched them come, counting the steps until they were within bow range. If he had only a few breaths left to live, he would use them to buy Illista time.

Mulavi was shouting again, his voice wild. Then Joral saw them.

The Ken Segra, led by his mother, at full sprint from the flank. Weapons drawn. Just a few more feet until bow range. A few of the Xan Segra already slowing to notch their arrows.

The light shifted, shortening his shadow and the charging Xan Segra slowed just a touch. Something behind him surprised them. Joral didn't dare turn his back to find out what.

The Ken Segra split. Half charged into the rear of the Xan Segra, surprising the archers. The rest, led by his mother, raced ahead of the Xan Segra.

They threw themselves between Joral and the attack. With a primal roar, his mother charged the leader of the Xan Segra and knocked him aside with her staff. She hopped from warrior to warrior, aiming for their legs, for their weapons. Knocking them down before leaping on.

One of the men dodged Vituri's staff and raced past, straight for Joral wielding a hooked spear. The curving edge arrived three strides before its carrier. Joral parried it and rushed the man in close, forcing the man to change attack tactics. They locked weapons and the stared each other hard in the eye, their faces inches apart. The man was close in age to Joral himself and his eyes lit with determination.

“This isn't your fight,” said Joral through gritted teeth.

“My people. My land. My fight,” replied the warrior. He jerked hard on the staff and the bottom end cracked into Joral's shin.

His sword was close to the other man's face. One fast swipe would end this battle. Joral growled and loosened his grip on the sword. The sudden change surprised the warrior and he stumbled closer into Joral as the sword clattered to the ground. Before he could recover and swing the pole arm again, Joral pulled back his elbow and punched the man in the face, dropping him to the ground.

His chest heaved as he scrambled for his sword and checked the other man. Still breathing. Joral turned him over face up so that the mud would not choke him. “This is
our
fight,” he whispered to the unconscious form. “Our land. Our people.
Our fight
.”

Mulavi and his men were now ringed by fire that seemed to come from Zuke's staff, though his friend was beginning to falter with the strain.

“Ken Segra! Hold Mulavi. He must not escape.” Joral yelled.

The rear split of Ken Segra warriors had caught up to the thick of the fighting, leaving a trail of what Joral dearly hoped were incapacitated—and not dead—Xan Segra behind. His mother broke away and raced towards Zuke and his fire-ring.

“Protect the girl,” she shouted.

Joral sprang to his feet and spun around.

Illista's feet were buried in the mud, her gaze focused far away into the lake. The water was a giant vortex, spinning with a ferocious power that sent waves leaping high into the air. From the center of the lake, a ball of glowing green easily twice as big as a horse rose slowly.

And Shikan crept up behind Illista, the point of a knife visible in her hand.

Joral charged, but he was too far away. He ran as hard as he could on a path to intercept the princess with his lungs on fire and his feet sliding down the mud-slicked banks.

Shikan closed on Illista, knife raised.

“No!” The sound tore from Joral's throat and he threw his sword in a last desperate attempt to stop her. The sword landed point-first in the mud more than a man's length behind the two women.

Then, another shadow emerged behind Shikan. Rafil approached on lumbering steps. Joral threw himself forward, wishing he could fly. “Illista!”

The iridescent glob of green ooze rising out of the water threw confusing shadows across the sand and mud. Joral sprinted for all he was worth, but it was Rafil who tackled Shikan to the ground just inches from Illista. They rolled together down the embankment toward the water's edge. When they stopped, Rafil straddled Shikan, holding her hands down.

Joral stopped for his weapon. It made a sucking noise as he drew it from the mud and then he ran. He placed himself at Illista's back, watching the Xan Segra pair.

“Where is your loyalty, Rafil? You would defend the changeling witch?” Shikan said.

“My loyalty to you is beyond question, Shikan.” Rafil's voice was dangerously low. “That changeling witch is trying to save us all. Even I can see that.”

“But Mulavi--”

“What has Mulavi done for the Xan Segra besides eat our food? He made us both empty promises, Shikan. The changeling is healing our water. And she brings rain.”

“She brought a terrible storm.” The words were almost a whimper.

“Yes. And that terrible storm has soaked our ground with more water tonight than we've seen in a year. Watch what she does with the lake.”

The words seemed to calm Shikan as they both looked skyward.

Joral was afraid to look away from the skirmish above, afraid to leave Illista unguarded.

The fight between the Segra warriors seemed to have ended. People had come from the camp to the top edge of the lakeshore. Hundreds of sets of eyes stared skyward at Illista's magic.

The green ball writhed above them sending showers of water droplets cascading to the lake below, as though a great invisible hand were wringing it out, shrinking it with every gyration. The glow faded too, until only the red-gold of Zuke's dying fire-ring was left to illuminate the scene.

A breeze picked up then, blowing the remains of the poison, now a ball the size of a man, away from the water. It blew over past where Zuke held Mulavi. With a grunt of effort from the medicine man, the fire ring shot skyward catching the ball. It cleared the fire ring and continued to fly, now glowing with blue flame. The flames spread and turned red then white until it looked like the sun hovering over the shores. Then it burst in an explosion of purple and green, raining ashes and embers over the rain-soaked dirt.

With a soft sigh like a whimper, Illista drooped.

Joral dropped his sword and gathered her into his arms. The waters of the lake slowly calmed until the edges lapped at his feet, and the winds stilled, leaving only the light patter of rain.

Illista huddled in a thick fur and sipped a cup of merrily refreshing tea. The steaming water danced a lively jig with the herbs, making her almost want to smile. Instead she took another fortifying sip.

The fire in Vituri's tent smoldered nearby, and her skin felt clean and smooth in the fine quality trousers and blouse that Shikan had given her to wear. The cloth would not stand for any strenuous work and would be utterly ruined by a cookfire or the greasy spatters from the kitchen tents. For now, she simply relished the feel of it on her shoulders, her legs.

She relished the feel of her own shape and the ache of her own muscles. Not the Waki body she'd hidden inside for so long.

The tent flap opened, shining bright morning sunshine across the leather-lined tent and Joral stepped in. He hesitated at the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in light. “They’re gone.”

Illista's cup rattled in her hands and she lowered it slowly to the floor.

Vituri looked as placid as ever at the announcement, except for the fresh cut down one cheek, from the point of a spear during the previous night's battle. With Mulavi captured, the Segra had made expedient work of his men. When faced with the combined forces of both tribes, many of the mercenaries had simply turned tail and raced their horses into the dark of night. The line would form a wicked scar from her temple to her jaw line.

Joral strode across the tent and squatted between Illista and his mother, looking at neither. “Zuke and Quarie both. No one saw him pack his tent. They were simply not there at dawn.”

Illista inhaled a shuddering breath. Quarie...gone?

Vituri only nodded. “She missed the ocean.”

Illista swallowed the tears that threatened. Since first hearing the call of the water, she had only spent a few days in her Waki form. Quarie had spent
years
in hiding, both from Zabewa and from the oceans that called her. She was not surprised that her sister had gone, only sorry that she had not been able to say goodbye.

Joral shot Illista a hooded look, and stretched out his hand to her. “Come on. The others are expecting us in Qitkan's tent.”

She placed her hand in his. His fingers were warm, comforting, but they tingled, too, around the edges. Like the lightning did as she called it down last night, only lighter. Softer. He gave her trembling hand a squeeze.

Joral kept her hand as he led her from the tent towards the Xan Segra. Vituri followed. The Chieftess wore no headdress and carried no sword. This meeting would not be a war council. Others of the Ken Segra emerged from their tents, all walking calmly together. Soon they were a gathering of more than a dozen. Elders and warriors, men and women, circling Joral and Illista, still hand-in-hand.

They stopped outside the Chief's meeting tent and Joral stopped, allowing the others to enter first. He pulled a small folded scrap of fabric from his belt and pushed it into Illista's palm. He leaned close and whispered, the clean scents of his spiced soap surrounding her, “From Quarie. Don't open it now.”

She closed her fingers around the parcel allowed him to lead her inside the tent. The crowds parted around them and ushered them forward into the middle of the great pavilion. Qitkan came forward first and Illista started to back away, but Joral's hand held hers firmly.

The chief bowed deeply before the pair. “My people and I owe you both a great debt. You have saved our water and brought rain to the land.”

Illista stared at the top of the man's balding head, stunned.

Rafil stepped forward next and fell to his knees at Joral's feet. “My honor is blackened. I deserve no mercy.”

Joral shook his head. “You did nothing but protect your people.”

“I do not speak of last night. I made two attempts on your life. Thank the rains that neither succeeded.” He held out a small pouch like an offering.

Illista snatched the pouch before Joral could take it. She sniffed delicately at the opening. “You were the poisoner on the night of the betrothal ceremony? Why?”

A stir went up from the crowd at her question. Of course, no one but Zuke, Joral, and herself had known that Joral had been poisoned.

“I could not allow the betrothal to succeed. When you lived that night, I made a deal with Mulavi. He was to kill you on the road. I deserve death, no less.”

Shikan pushed past her father and dropped to her knees at Rafil's side.

“Shikan, get back. What are you doing?”
Qitkan tried to stop her.

“Rafil's fate is my own. What he did was for me.”

Rafil shook his head. “No. I acted alone. Shikan is innocent of any plotting.”

She took the warrior's hand. He tried to pull it away. “My love, I could not live knowing that you died for me.”

He tried to pull away again. “You do not deserve death for my foolish thinking. I could have started a war with my selfishness.”