Path of Honor (18 page)

“Big brother, you are a pitiful sight.”

He called her a crude name and sat back on his heels. “You could help me.”

“Mmmm. But I don’t need a fire.”

He scoffed. “That’s the least of what you need, little sister. Let’s see”—he ticked off items on his good hand—“a fire, a month of good meals—enough to gain back some of that weight you’ve lost—and oh yes, above all things, a tumble in bed with a good, stiff man.”

Reisil could not help grinning. The muscles of her face gave in to the expression grudgingly. “Not you, I hope. I really don’t want a case of the pox.”

Juhrnus sniffed. “At least I don’t hide myself away like a monk.”

“At least until your favorite bits fall off. Get out of the way.”

She didn’t have to use magic. But a recklessness smoldered in her, driving her to push.

She stacked a pile of seasoned oak in the grate and touched her finger to the wood. It exploded into flame.

Sparks showered the room, and Juhrnus swore as he patted at his hair, and then he leaped to stamp out his cloak. “A little showy, don’t you think?”

“At least it’s good for something.” Bitterness laced Reisil’s voice like twisting eels.

“I don’t know. Gave him a chance he didn’t have,” Juhrnus jerked his thumb at the unconscious Metyein. “But Esper is grateful.” Juhrnus pulled his
ahalad-kaaslane
from the sling, and Esper stretched full length along the rapidly warming hearth. He touched the back of Juhrnus’s hand with his fleshy black tongue, then closed his eyes to bask in the fire’s spreading heat. Reisil’s heart jerked. To have touched Saljane that way . . . Her fingers clenched around the memory of the goshawk’s soft feathers.

“Tell me about it,” he said, gesturing at Metyein and pulling a chair close to the heat. “Before Sodur gets here.”

“Sodur?” Of all the people she didn’t want to see tonight—“In this weather?”

“You weren’t at all concerned for me.”

“Your head is much harder. A lot of people would miss him.”

“Including you?”

Reisil stiffened. “Of course.”

He looked at her in silence. She retrieved both their cloaks from the floor and shook them out, hanging them from the wooden pegs beside the door. Once again he refrained from pursuing the subject. Instead he stretched out his arm, rotating the wrist and elbow, wincing.

“Don’t suppose you want to have a go at this.”

Reisil hesitated. “I can try.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Afraid?”

He grinned, sitting back in his chair. “Well if you’re going to put it that way, I’m at your service.”

Reisil stood behind him, breathing slowly, flexing her fingers. She flattened her palms against the warmth of Juhrnus’s chest, and the power within her roared to life. Gasping, she jerked her hands up.

“Don’t worry. I can take it any way you give it.” His voice was soft and reassuring, but Reisil heard the ragged edge of fear he couldn’t hide.

Reisil looked at her hands. They trembled. What was she doing? She was so tired, she could hardly see straight. Her magic had long ago lost that rich fluid feeling, and now it struggled against her. But she couldn’t stop. Not yet. Just once more, something so minor . . . She touched her fingertips back to his chest. Once again she loosed her power, willing it to cooperate.

“Gently, gently, gently,” she chanted. Within her, the torrent of magic subsided, though it remained knife-edged and corrosive.

The healing took longer than it should have. When at last Reisil pulled away, her legs shook and darkness clouded the edges of her vision. But tired as she was, restless energy consumed her and she paced aimlessly in the small space.

Juhrnus stretched out his arm again, sweat beading his flushed forehead and cheeks. “Good as new. If I don’t slide off the stairs into the bay.”

“You’re a good swimmer. You could probably make the docks—if you didn’t shatter your head on the rocks first.”

Reisil took up a broom and began sweeping up the melting ice.

“A tragedy you would no doubt feel deeply. After all, who would remind you of where you came from? Keep your feet on the ground and your swelled head out of the clouds?”

“That doesn’t appear to be a problem these days,” Reisil returned sardonically.

“Could change at any moment. Healing his son might bring the Lord Marshal around.”

Reisil shook her head. “No. The Lord Marshal would take it as proof that I use my powers selectively to further my own secret cause.” She paused. “Anyway, it won’t matter soon. I’m leaving Koduteel. It’s time to track down the wizards.”

Juhrnus lunged to his feet, the chair clattering across the floor. “No. That’s suicide.”

“It’s worse than suicide to stay. Look around. The plague—” She broke off. “How long am I supposed to wait? Until everyone dies?”

“They’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Besides, what makes you think they have the answers, even if you can make them talk to you?”

“They started this plague. I know it. And I can handle them,” Reisil said, remembering the way the power had sung through her when she had killed the assassins.

Juhrnus laughed—a harsh, barking sound. He threw his hands into the air and turned around, addressing the air above. “Bright Lady! Do you hear this hen-witted arrogance? Rescue me from fools!”

He swung back around, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at her. “You can handle them. Do tell. Your magic is crippled—you could barely heal my shoulder. So tell me. Just
how
will you
handle
them, little sister?”

His words struck her like a blow. She knew well enough how to kill. Her mouth opened and then closed. A needle of cold stitched through her spine. She was a healer. That was no point of pride.

Juhrnus picked up the chair and rammed it back down on the floor. “I thought so. No idea, have you?”

Reisil stood a moment longer. Then with a strangled sound, she snatched up her cloak and fled, shoving past a heavily laden Sodur and vanishing up the decrepit stairs. Behind her, Juhrnus swore furiously, kicking the chair he’d just righted, sending it careening across the lighthouse chamber to crash against the opposite wall.

M
etyein woke to angry voices. A hammering sound jolted him. Then more irate voices and a loud clattering as something banged against a wall. Metyein winced as pain speared through his throbbing head.
Where am I? What happened?

A sense of danger swallowed him, clenching around his bladder, squeezing his lungs. He twisted his head to the side. Two men stood talking in the flickering candlelight. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but his gritty eyes refused to focus.
I went to the Gardens. A duel.
Metyein scowled, the movement sending streaks of pain over his scalp. He remembered . . .
Nedek and Kaselm, blood pooling on the ice, Soka, the attackers, the chase, pain . . .
Metyein’s throat spasmed. He closed his eyes, groaning.

“What’s this?” The candlelight darkened as the two men came to stand over him. “By the Lady! Metyein cas Vare! What in the Lady’s name is he doing here?”

“Found him in the street. Ambushed, by the looks of it.” Metyein recognized the voice instantly. The
ahalad-kaaslane
. Some of the tension drained out of him. His attackers hadn’t caught him. “Leaking like a sprung cask of ale and closer to dead than not. I thought Reisil might have a go at him. Give us a marker against the Lord Marshal.”

“And if she failed?”

“Dump the body off the bluffs. No harm to us, and for him, better a slim chance than no chance.”

“Was Reisil successful?”

“Can’t say.”

Metyein went rigid as the bedclothes were pulled away.

“He’s stopped bleeding, anyhow. What’s this?” Movement along his side, the rustle of cloth, the brush of a hand.

“Hmph. No barbs. Odd choice for murder. And there’s the hole where it went through his clothes.” Metyein felt a tugging on his doublet and the tunic beneath, then a rush of cold air against his skin. Neither of the two men spoke for a moment.

“Guess we won’t be dropping him off the bluffs,” came the younger man’s dry comment.

For a moment the words made no sense to Metyein. Then a flood of icy shock ran through his system. What were they saying? He was going to die. A gut wound was a seal of death. The blankets were pulled back farther, and the chill made Metyein shiver.

“Thigh’s healed too. Ugly scar, but he can live with it.”

“Yes, but can we? Can Reisil?”

“What do you mean?” The younger man sounded belligerent. Metyein recognized the tone. It was the tone he usually took with his father.

“Think, Juhrnus. Reisil can’t heal anyone, and then suddenly she heals the Lord Marshal’s son? What would you think?” The blankets were pulled and the two men drew away, their voices falling. But Metyein didn’t need to hear the explanation. He knew exactly how his father would react. This would only confirm his worst suspicions: she withheld her magic for political influence. That she was another traitor
ahalad-kaaslane
like Upsakes.

Under the blankets, Metyein slid tentative fingers up over his stomach, his arm feeling wooden. He touched the stiffening blood on his clothing, pushing aside the heavy material of the doublet and the lighter tunic beneath.

There wasn’t even a scar. Just a single point of tenderness where the arrow had gone in. He didn’t have to touch it to know it. He could still feel the wood burrowing through his flesh.

His hand worked lower, reaching down to touch his thigh. His hose were torn, the edges of the material stiff with blood. Underneath, his skin was rippled like spilled wax. The scarring was about the size of his palm, and where he touched, he felt nothing. A scrap of death like a patchwork square on a quilt. Metyein slumped, his head reeling. He wasn’t going to die. Reisiltark
had
healed him. Political influence? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. If his father didn’t owe her, he did.

Metyein’s senses swam, and tears ran from the corners of his eyes to dampen the hair at his temples. By the grace of the Lady, he was going to live.

 

“So even now when Reisil’s magic actually works and she does a miracle like that,” Juhrnus pointed to the bed against the wall, “she is still going to get pilloried. For doing the Lady’s work.”

Sodur sighed. “Yes, but it isn’t that simple.”

“Seems simple. And stupid.”

Sodur rubbed his eyes, a hollow feeling blooming in his chest. The healing was a good sign. This was what she was supposed do to, what he’d been hoping she’d do. How could he complain? But it wasn’t going to help. The fire he’d started had grown far beyond his control and saving Metyein cas Vare was only throwing oil on it. But how could he tell either of them it would have been better to let the boy die?

“That’s because you don’t know everything.” Then quickly, before Juhrnus could push the issue, he waved toward the door. “What’s that about?”

Juhrnus hesitated. “Wizards.”

“Ah.” Sodur took a wrinkled handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose.

Juhrnus scowled at the door. “I should go after her.”

“Better give her some time.”

Juhrnus paced across the room. “Damned stupid fool.” “We do need answers.”

Juhrnus whirled. “What? By the Demonlord’s shriveled balls, she can’t light a fire without blowing up the room!”

Sodur shook his head, the sense of vanishing time pressing harder on him. His mind felt muzzy. “She healed the boy well enough. And we’re running out of options.” The Scallacian sorcerers only exacerbated the problem. He couldn’t help but think Kodu Riik would deeply regret their coming. At least going to the wizards didn’t involve stupidly inviting them into the front parlor. Juhrnus was eyeing him balefully. Sodur gestured placatingly with his hand. “We need answers. Finding the wizards may be our best chance, before things get really bad.”

“You think they’ll help? Just like that?” Juhrnus’s voice shifted to a falsetto, pretending to be Reisil. “Excuse me. Sorry about killing so many of you last time we met. But I just dropped in to ask if you would explain how to cure the plague that you probably started in the first place. And while I’m here and still breathing, might I borrow some flour?”

Sodur’s lips quirked, but he didn’t answer. Instead he squatted down beside his pack and rifled through it.

“Grab that pot over there, would you? I’ve got a bit of mutton I filched from the kitchens, and some vegetables from the winter bins—they’re a bit wrinkled, but they’ll do.”

He continued to paw through his pack, ignoring Juhrnus’s withering disbelief. After several long moments, Juhrnus snorted and went to grab the pot. Sodur expelled a quiet sigh and closed his eyes. A weight sat on his heart, and his breath rumbled in his chest like rocks down a hillside.

Lume bumbled his cheek against Sodur’s knuckles, scraping his
ahalad-kaaslane
’s skin lightly with his teeth.

Concern.

Sodur rubbed behind the silver lynx’s tufted ears. The cat’s emotions were becoming tangible, like heady wine or hallucinatory herbs. Words no long seemed necessary between them. Sometimes they seemed nearly impossible. Frighteningly so.

He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, gazing at the pile of foodstuffs from his pack. It was time to put his trust in these two striplings and pray to the Blessed Amiya that they could survive the burden.

Several minutes went by before he realized that Juhrnus had fallen silent.

The younger
ahalad-kaaslane
contemplated Sodur over folded arms, scowling. “So. Don’t you think it’s about time you told me what’s going on? Reisil never will.”

Sodur hesitated, carefully slicing through the white flesh of the turnip he held. “After we have some food in our stomachs.”