Call the Rain (5 page)

Quarie gasped and pulled the fur up, half covering Illista’s face with the fur blanket.

“What is wrong?” she asked, shoving herself free for a look. In the deepening night, all she saw was their dust.

Her sister trembled beneath the furs. “They are not Segra.”

Before Illista could ask what Quarie meant, Nunzi appeared before the sisters. “You are needed to serve the Chieftess again. We have visitors.”

***

Joral stood by his mother's side, arms crossed over his chest. He wore his finest linen shirt, and hard soled leather boots, and strapped his sword belt and dagger at his waist. Instead of woven wool breeches, he had donned the beaded leather, and had braided his hair back like the Segra.

When a messenger boy told him that a party of twenty-some heavily armored men had ridden into the camp, he had reached first for the weapons he had trained with all his life.

When the messenger told him that he was summoned to his mother's side, he realized that his place in this tribe was with the leaders first, not the warriors.

When the messenger told him that the strangers had identified themselves as bounty hunters from the Western territories, he realized that he was summoned as much for his Southern blood as for his Segra. The Segra and the Southern lords warred as much with the clans of the West as they did with each other.

The Chieftess had not batted an eye at his attire, nor had she stared him down while he had entered the tent without the proper deference and strode across its length as though he gave the orders. If anything, her eyes had brightened. Perhaps it had been a trick of the firelight. At least Rafil and the other Xan-Segra had already broken camp and left.

Mother sat cross legged on her furs with a score of the Ken-Segra warriors arrayed behind her in deceivingly casual stances. Six moons prior, Joral himself would have mistaken the relaxed set of their shoulders. Now he knew the underlying strength that they belied. He could see the warrior’s staves at the ready and the bows already strung. He also knew the speed of a viper and a hawk and a wolf as they snatched their unsuspecting prey.

The three foreign riders in the tent were garbed in the white-furred skins of the western glacier, where bears and seals and wolves wore their winter colors for most of the year. Beneath hooded coats they had metalwork breastplates and belts studded in aqua and turquoise stones. The one in the center wore a necklace of shells over his armor. Shells that gleamed black and orange against the whiteness of his coat. Joral wished for his Zuke's knowledge of these three men's origins, but he was not invited to the greeting.

“Thank you for granting us this audience so quickly,” said the one with the necklace, directing his remarks to Joral. “We regret to be the bearers of bad news.”

Joral did not break eye contact with the man to glance down to the Chieftess, realizing that doing so would destroy any illusion he had managed to create of control and power. The tension in the room tightened like a bowstring tightly stretched over a stiff branch as the warriors realized the slight to their Chieftess. Joral just hoped that, if loosed, that the point of the warrior's collective anger would not be directed at his own back.

“What kind of bad news brings you among the Segra during our time of celebration?” asked Joral. He walked a fine line speaking on behalf of the tribe. But, insult to his mother or no, he sensed his actions could give them the advantage. Few who underestimated the Chieftess in battle lived to regret their mistake.

“We come on behalf of King Zabewa--”

Mother laughed deep and throaty, her mirth slicing through the tension in the room like a fire-hardened spear. “Zabewa is no king.”

The necklace man raised an eyebrow at her. “Zabewa rules the Frozen Lands and the Shores of Caleia. He is king and liege to more men than all tribes of the Segra combined.”

Joral tried to recall the geography lessons from his days with a tutor. The Frozen Lands consisted of the edges of the great Glacier and the rocky steppes at its base. The population there was sparse but hardened by the extreme weather. Mercenaries from the Frozen Lands were known to be some of the fiercest around. Fierce and self-serving and loyal to none but themselves.

The Shores of Caleia, however, were only a few weeks hard ride from his father's own keep and boasted rich soils. They were controlled by mainly merchant families who traded with other nations by sea. If Caleia had fallen, and to a warrior band from the Frozen Lands, that was a serious threat to the Southern lords who sold timber and metalwork and minerals to the shipbuilders and trade routes.

“What does your King Zabewa want with the Segra?”

From the corner of his eye, Joral caught the ripple of tent as a trio of Waki entered on silent feet, bearing pitchers of water and trays of spiced bread and nuts. Illista, Nunzi with the red apron, and one other. He had to ignore the small women workers. Had to resist the urge to look for the ghostly image that had floated over Illista earlier.

“We are seeking a dangerous fugitive who has, regrettably, escaped from Zabewa.”

Joral frowned. “There are few strangers among the Segra people. What sort of man is this fugitive?”

The man with the shell necklace smiled baring crooked teeth. “Not a man. The woman I seek is a witch. She practices an evil magic, and has murdered one of Zabewa's sons with her sorcery.”

Joral thought he heard a tiny hitch in the breath the Waki woman who stood near his elbow pouring water into cups, but he dared not turn to look at her. The breath noise was so faint that he could have imagined it. Across the tent, he spied Illista setting a basket of the hospitality offerings onto a table near the visitors. Thankfully, she wore only one face now. The Waki finished their tasks and left the tent as quietly as they had entered.

“That is a grave charge. No strange women, witches or otherwise, have visited the tribe in in the recent months. Travel is hard in this season. Perhaps you should search to the south?”

The man shifted his stance making the shells around his neck clack. “Ah. To the King’s frustration, we have searched the South. And the East. And the far shores. For over three years, we have sought our witch. The nation who helps us to secure her would earn Zabewa’s gratitude.”

Chieftess made a small noise of annoyance, earning a quick glare from the man with the shell necklace.

Joral replied,
“We are a close knit nation. Strangers do not pass through here unnoticed. Trails can go very cold in three years. We wish you luck in your search. Please, refresh yourselves. We will send someone with fodder for your horses as you continue on your way.”

The man considered Joral, his small dark eyes unreadable. He fingered one of the shells on his necklace. A faint sound echoed through the tent like the water rushing over rocks, undulating to and fro across Joral's hearing.

The far end of the tent burst open and the sound died as suddenly as it had begun. Zuke strode in, a thick staff of petrified wood supporting his weaker leg. His voice boomed out making him appear taller than normal “Your tricks are not wanted here, Mulavi. Mine is the only magic in this encampment, and I assure you, despite my infirmity, my manhood is fully intact. I am not the witch you seek.”

The man with the necklace turned with a sneer. Zuke and the necklace man, Mulavi, stared at each other for a long time. Finally Mulavi's laughter barked across the tent.

“So this is where the great Zuke has been hiding these long months. Words of your disappearance had reached us even hundreds of leagues from here.”

Zuke's face remained impassive. “You heard wrong. If I had wished to disappear, you would not have found me here among my friends. You must pardon my Segra friends for their impatience this evening, but the moon is high and we break camp at dawn. We have a wedding to prepare for.”

“It seems my men and I have arrived at an inconvenient time. We will take our leave. If you find my witch, be sure to guard her closely. And remember, King Zabewa will pay handsomely for her return. Even here on these desolate plains, a little gold could buy any manner of luxuries. Silks. Spices.” Mulavi took a swallow from the cup in his hand and grimaced. “
Clean water.
”

With a parting stare for Joral and the other tribesman, one full of portent and implied threat, he gestured to his men and strode from the tent.

At a silent signal from one of the guards by the tent entrance, the group of warriors relaxed, knowing that their visitors were far from earshot. Joral took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before turning to face his mother and Chieftess.

She waved him to the ground and he joined the other warriors in a circle with his mother at the head. “You did well, Joral-son.”

He bowed his head, surprised at his mother’s words. She gave praise like the skies gave rain. Scarce and stingy of late. “Thank you, Vaturi-mother.”

She straightened her shoulders and addressed the group. “I knew the warrior Zabewa once, during the Plains War of my youth. He was ruthless, reckless, and a fearsome fighter. But he could be charming, when he chose. For such a man to rise to such power is grave news for us.”

Joral watched her face as she spoke. Her deeply bronzed skin bespoke of her time in the saddle, and the lithe muscles of her physique showed her continued activity. Only the traces of gray at her temples and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes revealed her true age.

She was beautiful and strong and so very different from Lady R
alein. If threatened, his stepmother would have cowered in the highest tower in the keep, surrounded by maids and sewing endless tapestries and wailing her offerings to the gods aloud.

Joral had always wondered what kind of a mother would abandon her child to be raised by another. Now that he finally knew Vaturi, he could not imagine her coddling a baby. The pain of that rejection still stung, but he respected the larger caring she had for the tribe as a whole. Every member was a part of her family.

“Should we send word to Lord Ralein about Zabewa and Mulavi?” he asked.

She considered him. “To what end? Do you wish to aid the quest for the fugitives?”

He shook his head. “I could not care less about the women he seeks. But we..they..the Southern Lords, that is..deal heavily in information. It is to our advantage to be known for sharing what we know with them. It will help make us allies, should we need them.”

“Marrying one of their sons to the daughter of a Chief will not?”

Joral gulped. “It might. But that will only help so much. It was common knowledge that I am not one of his legitimate sons, and that I am youngest. Birth order and parentage matter much.”

“As they do here among the Segra.” His mother’s voice was quieter now, but harder. “You are my first son. My only son. You will be Chief of the Ken-Segra. Your wisdom in dealing with the Southern Lords is very valuable
to us, and we shall listen to your council as to how to make them our allies.”

Joral nodded.

“
A cold wind blows of late, and the rains do not come. The Segra fight among ourselves for rights to the sacred waters that we all share. With this news of Zabewa, I fear that worse is coming. Much worse.”

Joral pushed aside the flap to Zuke's tent. He longed for sleep, but a pair of Waki boys were busy stowing his few belongings for the predawn departure. He could not bear to ignore them, as he was supposed to, and he would not embarrass them by trying to speak to them.

As he stepped into the tent, the familiar scents of spices and incense from home soothed his frayed nerves. The few sturdy pieces of Southern furniture that Zuke had dared take from Lord Ralein's castle beckoned him with their metal work and sturdy wood frames and patterns of his father's homeland.

Illista and Zuke sat huddled together over a bundle near the fire. Illista still wore the working dress and apron from her service in the Chieftess's tent, her shoulder-length hair tied by a simple thong over a plump neck.

She glanced up and saw him studying her. The firelight glinted off her eyes. Unreadable. Unfathomable. There was something different about her, something that he needed no hallucination to see. There was a vulnerability to her manner, a skittishness, like a dog that had been kicked too many times and only wished to disappear into the corner and be forgotten.

The thought of someone terrorizing the small servant girl made his fists and his teeth and his gut clench.

“Don't just stand there gaping.” Zuke tossed the words over his shoulder without so much as a glance at Joral's face.

In two quick strides, Joral was kneeling beside the bundle at Zuke's feet. It was the other Waki girl from his mother's tent, but pale and motionless. “What happened?”

Illista stared at him wide-eyed and shook her head.

Zuke picked up one of the girl's wrists and held it for a long moment, then tucked it back underneath a blanket and shook his head. “Have Zabewa's hunters left camp?”

Joral's blood ran cold and he stared from Illista's dazed expression to Zuke's closed one. “Did one of them harm the girl? Is it poison again?”

Zuke opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Tell me.”

“We were leaving the Chieftess's tent after serving. Quarie..” Illista's voice trailed off and ended in a hiccup that sounded perilously close to a sob.