Hand of the Hunter: Chosen of Nendawen, Book II (18 page)

“She is ready?” said Ashiin.

“She can open the way,” said Gleed. “For after …” He motioned to her.

“For that,” said Ashiin, “she is ready.”

Ashiin stood, her staff in one hand. Hweilan had once asked her about the skull on its top, and the tails and scalps dangling from its length—asked what they signified.
Others who have displeased me
, Ashiin had said. Ashiin reached behind
her back with her free hand, and when she stepped into the sunlight, she brought her hand back around, and something flashed there. Hweilan immediately stepped back, ready to put up her guard.

Ashiin smiled and flipped the thing in her hand, causing the sunlight to ripple silver and gold along it. She caught it and held it out. “Recognize this?”

Hweilan did. The single-edged blade was as long as her forearm, the silver steel etched in curving designs that suggested eddying currents. It was the knife Menduarthis had given her.

“That’s mine,” she said.

“
Was
yours,” said Ashiin. “A warrior who loses her weapon has no more claim to it—unless she can take it back.”

Hweilan frowned. Not so much because the thing was precious to her. It was one of the loveliest knives she’d ever seen—and she’d grown up among dwarf craftsmen. But the fact that someone had taken it from her and was taunting her with it raised her hackles. Still … she knew she was no match for Ashiin. Not yet.

Ashiin smiled. “Look before you leap. Consider before you strike. Like the fox. A wise choice. Do well today, and the knife will be yours again.”

Suspicious, Hweilan scowled. “You’ll give it back?”

“Give? No. You’re going to earn it.”

The waterfall almost seemed to whisper, and even though it fell a good twenty feet or more, it scarcely caused a ripple in the pool into which it fell. The pool itself reflected the gray sky and surrounding trees before its far edge shattered into three streams that wound their way through a swampy lowland. As she and her teachers climbed down the slick rocks next to the waterfall, Hweilan could hear it.
Something
about this place …

Beat to its own rhythm … sang its own song …
Gleed would have said, and she wouldn’t have disagreed with him. She
couldn’t quite bring herself to think of it as sacred, not quite, but there was very definitely something … other in every sound, every scent, and the way the light rippled over the water. It was altogether different from the faith of Torm in which she’d been raised. But she’d also been raised by Scith, who, even though he honored and respected the faith of Vandalar and his family, was devoted mostly to Aumaunator, Keeper of the Sun. Moreover, being a master hunter and tracker, Scith had also given Silvanus great respect, and taught Hweilan of the Balance and the sacredness of all living things. What she was sensing … seemed much closer to that, and she took some comfort in the familiarity.

Once they reached the bottom, Gleed led them along a narrow path to the fall itself, where in one place—the only place as near as Hweilan could see—a notch of rock thrust out, causing the curtain of water to spray out in a perfect fan shape, about twice Hweilan’s height but no more than a pace or two wide.

Gleed unshouldered the bundle, reached inside and produced a wide, flat drum. It was no more than a couple of inches deep and had a skin only along one side. The back was a webbing of taut cords, both binding the skin and serving as a handle. Sacred symbols had been burned all around the wooden rim and painted on the skin itself.

“You know the song,” said Gleed, and handed the drum to Hweilan.

She took it. She’d done this several times—but in Gleed’s chambers or sitting by the lakeshore in front of his tower. Never like this. Never for real.

She stepped toward the veil of water and beheld her own reflection. Just beyond it, only black rock. She curled her left hand into a fist, then extended her thumb and smallest finger as Gleed had taught her. Holding the webbing of the drum in the other hand, she began a rhythmic beat, first in time with her own heart, then varying as she found the rhythm of the fall. Once she had it, she began the chant.

Midmorning though it was, the sun had not yet peeked through the high curtain of cloud. But as her words found the inherent power in the veil before her, she began to see light rippling in the water—tiny threads of silver shooting up like minuscule arrows, and threads of gold and crimson sparking as they wound back and forth. Hweilan didn’t allow her eye to catch on them; she looked beyond—and realized she could no longer see the black, dripping stone behind the water. No stone at all. She saw something she knew could not be coming from this side of the water—sunlight.

She gave the drum a final hard slap with her thumb and shouted the final word of the song. The veil of water responded with a flash of green light.

“Well done,” said Gleed. He took the drum from her.

Hweilan turned to Ashiin and gave the silver knife a pointed look.

Ashiin smiled. “Oh, you aren’t getting it that easy. Come.”

She stepped through the veil of water, and Hweilan followed.

C
HAPTER
FOURTEEN

W
ARMTH RUSHED OVER HER LIKE A WAVE
. S
HE
had never in her life felt the very air she breathed so wonderfully warm and dry. Hweilan had grown up in Narfell, where in winter exposed skin would freeze in moments and the snows only melted in high summer. This was the complete opposite of that in every way. The air held no moisture at all. It was like being in a kitchen where the ovens had been stoked for days. The water from the fall dampening her skin evaporated at once, and she actually felt the pores in her scalp loosen and expand. Unused to such warmth, her body broke out in immediate sweat.

Scent hit her with such force that she actually stumbled back a step. Not because it was foul, but simply because it was so alien to anything she had ever experienced. The smell of dust and rock baked under the sun. Mixing through it all were the scents of plants who survived in a land that obviously went months at a time without rain.

The land around her was not desert, but close to it. The soil was sandy, and from it sprouted a scrublike grass the color of straw. It grew in clumps. Here and there were twisted bushes, their tiny leaves rattling in the slight breeze. And the …

She had no words for them. They weren’t mountains,
though she could see a range of mountains along the near horizon. Most of the land before her seemed to be a rolling landscape broken by dry gullies, and amongst them were towers of rock that rose hundreds of feet in the air, their tops flat as watchtowers. Behind her, she saw that another one rose at their back, its side so sheer and its top so far away that she could not see how high it was.

“Where are we?” said Hweilan.

“Far, far away from your Highwatch,” said Ashiin, “so don’t harbor any unwise ideas.”

Hweilan tore her eyes away from the height and looked at Ashiin. “You think I’d try to run?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I swore an oath. To Nendawen himself. I—”

“Do
not
!” Ashiin advanced on her, but Hweilan held her ground. The two women stared into each other’s eyes, standing only inches apart. “Do not speak the Master’s name lightly.”

“Do not treat my word so lightly.”

Ashiin took one quick step back and brought her fist around, the pommel of the silver dagger aimed for Hweilan’s face.

But Hweilan was ready for it—had in fact been expecting it. She ducked under the blow, stepping back as she did so, hoping to get out of Ashiin’s reach. But the staff was already coming around for her midsection. Too high to leap and too low for her to duck under in time. Instinct took over, and Hweilan caught the staff, absorbing the brunt of the blow with an open palm, using the momentum to tighten her grip.

Pain shot up her arm, but Hweilan forced her grip to hold. Ashiin yanked, pulling Hweilan toward her fist. But again, Hweilan had been expecting this, and she rolled under the blow, planting her shoulder in Ashiin’s chest and using the force of the woman’s pull against her.

They both went down. Hweilan had not forgotten that
Ashiin still held the knife, so as soon as they hit the ground, she released the staff and rolled away. She came up in a crouch. Dry soil crumbled under her hands.

The staff was already coming for her—straight down, so hard and fast that Hweilan heard it cutting the air. Hweilan twisted aside, pivoting on her hands as she did so. The staff grazed her shoulder, then slammed into the ground. But Hweilan kept the pivot moving, and brought the toe of her boot around, aiming for Ashiin’s side.

Adder-quick? Had that been how Hweilan once thought of Ashiin? No. Adders were slow compared to her. Ashiin twisted away. Hweilan missed her ribs completely, but her foot connected with the staff. It sent pain radiating outward, down to her toes and all the way up to her hip.

The staff went flying.

Hweilan was moving too fast, her heart hammering too hard, to cry out her triumph. But in her mind, she screamed—she exulted. It was the first time she had ever disarmed her teacher.

Ashiin swiped out with the other hand, and bright sunlight flashing off bright steel blinded Hweilan for just a moment. But a moment was all it took. The blade struck her in the throat, and she went down.

Hweilan’s chest constricted, and she forced herself not to gasp, for she knew she’d only fill her lungs with blood. But then the realization set in. Her throat hurt, but the knife had not cut.

“Flat of the blade,” said Ashiin, standing over her. “Had I used the edge, I’d be watching you die now.”

Hweilan’s fist closed on the ground. It was sun-baked and hard, but still, a fair amount crumbled in her palm. Before her good sense could overcome her rage, she screamed and threw the dirt in Ashiin’s face.

Her teacher shrieked—more out of surprise than fear, Hweilan would decide later, remembering this moment. But that instant of surprise was all she needed. She brought
her leg around with all the strength she could muster and swept Ashiin’s feet out from under her.

Hweilan swiped her own knife—the one Lendri had given her—out of her boot, and then she leaped. There was no grace or elegance to it, but she came down upon Ashiin, one knee driving into the woman’s gut. She brought her own knife around and jammed it onto Ashiin’s throat—the back, dull edge of the blade.

Her face was only inches from Ashiin’s. Sweat poured off her and bled tracks down the dust on Ashiin’s skin. “Had I used the edge, I’d be watching
you
die now.”

Ashiin grinned—smiled through the tears washing the dirt from her eyes. “You’re learning, girl,” she said. “Much better today. But you still have a lot to learn.”

She motioned downward with her chin. Hweilan looked down and saw the point of the silver blade resting just under her left breast.

“No good to kill your enemy if you die trying,” said Ashiin.

“Depends on the enemy,” said Hweilan.

Ashiin laughed and pushed her off.

“I’m starting to like you, girl.”

Hweilan and Ashiin crouched amongst the broken rocks a hundred feet or so up the broken side of the stone tower. It was not the same rock formation where they’d first come to this place. It had taken them all the morning to walk there. Both women had stripped down to loincloths and their boots. Hweilan still wore a thin strip of cloth tied around her neck, wrapping around front to cover her breasts, and tied behind her back. But Ashiin was naked from the waist up, covered only in the dozens of braids of her thick hair. In the tiny cave where they’d left their other clothes, Ashiin had a cache, and from it she’d produced a clay urn. Inside was a black paste that smelled much like the tiny blue flowers that grew in the shadows near Gleed’s lake.