Path of Honor (9 page)

Everything in her revolted at the thought. He’d side with her. He’d be as angry with Sodur as she was. But there was little comfort in knowing that. Sodur could just as easily turn the
ahalad-kaaslane
against Juhrnus as he had her. He would too, if it suited his plans. It would devastate Juhrnus. She knew how much. She lived it every day. And it wasn’t as if there were anything Juhrnus could do for her; there was no point in jeopardizing his entire life because her misery wanted a little company.

Reisil straightened the chair and drew a deep breath. If she couldn’t make her magic work, she was still a tark and could help the people of Koduteel with traditional healing. She went to her wardrobe and pulled out her pack, dropping it on the table and sorting through her medicines. The apothecary shops had been generous in giving her supplies. It always astonished her how willing they were to acknowledge her as
ahalad-kaaslane
, giving her the deference and respect she never got from her brethren. But the wearing of the green bothered her. More and more Koduteelians had begun to wear it, as if they too thought she was plotting something and were signaling their favor.

She could imagine what Sodur would say:
You’ve the support of the people. Once you find your magic, the nobles won’t dare challenge you or they’ll face a rebellion.
And it was true. But the other side of the coin was that she was a growing threat to the nobles and the court, especially since they already thought she was hatching some treasonous plan of her own.

She glanced somberly at her green cloak hanging by the door. Elutark had given it to Reisil when she’d become a tark.
You are who you pretend to be.
But what was she now that someone else was pretending she was something she wasn’t?

A knock at the door made her start. Juhrnus leaned in the jamb, his beard long since shorn. Esper made an odd hump over his shoulders beneath his cloak. Her chest ached to see him, to think of Saljane.
It’s necessary,
she reminded herself.
And not forever.

“Going out?” He glanced at the table as she motioned him inside.

“To the Fringes.” She paused. “Where’s Sodur?”

Juhrnus shrugged. “He’ll be along. If we leave now, we’ll likely miss him.” His eyes danced, and Reisil warmed at his conspiratorial tone.

“Then by all means, let us leave now.” She shouldered her pack, and pulled the door wide.

“It’s cold. You’ll want your cloak.”

Reisil shook her head. “Not that one. I think it’s time for another. Not so obvious. Something gray maybe.”

“You women, always thinking of your fripperies.”

“And you don’t,” Reisil said. “What’s that scent you’re wearing?”

Juhrnus leered. “Not
my
scent, little sister.”

Reisil only shook her head and went out the door. “Try to be careful. I’d hate to have your bits rot off from the pox. Nothing could hide that smell.”

Juhrnus pulled the door shut behind them and slid his arm around her shoulders. “But that is what you’re for, my favorite tark. You’d never let me suffer that way.”

Reisil chuckled as he expected, tasting bile on her tongue.
There are worse ways to suffer
. And she knew that not telling him about Sodur was the right choice.

 

The gray-haired woman sat naked in front of a blazing fire, eyes closed, sweat making her bronze skin shine in the firelight. Her hands were cupped around something, elbows braced on her knees. She hadn’t eaten or drunk for two days, but she held herself firmly upright, straining forward against some invisible force. The cottage was thick with blue smoke and the heavy scent of burning herbs.

Suddenly the fire died, the flames falling into themselves as if doused by water. Nurema slumped, opening her hands. Inside coiled a tiny green snake, its belly crimson, its eyes a brilliant yellow to match its forked tongue. Shining faintly in the darkness was a gold sigil on her palm. A gryphon ringed around by ivy.

“It’s time. We don’t have much time, not going on foot.” Nurema waited, staring down at the snake. It rose up on its tail, hardly taller than the width of her hand. Then it leaped upward and down, burrowing into her arm until it disappeared inside her flesh.

“I’ll take that as agreement, then,” she said dryly, crawling stiffly to her feet. She sluiced herself off with a bucket of frigid water, drinking a few sips and chewing on some almonds. She dressed and filled her pack. It didn’t take much. Most everything was ready. Then she went to the door and opened it. Outside the sun had just risen. The sky was a panorama of pink and gold and white. Nurema drew a deep breath.

Outside the door a man stood guard. She didn’t doubt he’d been there since she’d closed the door in his face. A rush of love filled her for this slow-speaking giant of a son. She didn’t think she’d see him again.

“I’m going to Koduteel,” she announced.

He glanced up at her, his felt hat rolled in his hands. “Alone?”

She nodded.

“When?”

“Now.”

He stood, towering over her, and she couldn’t help but smile at his frowning sorrow. “I want you to get married soon, Teemart. It’s long past time, and I know you’ve got an eye out for young Nivi. Don’t wait any longer. Bring her here and have children.”

“You ain’t comin’ back.”

“If I can. Doubt it, though. There’s things I’ve got to do. But I will if I can, and I expect grandchildren.”

She stuffed a withered apple and some dried meat in her cloak pocket to eat on the path, and drank some tea with plenty of sugar. She wouldn’t get far this day, not after her fast and farseeing, but there was no time to waste. Teemart wrapped her in his big arms, and she hugged him.

“Tell your brothers not to worry,” she said roughly, pushing herself free. “And mind what I say. You marry Nivi. Cottage is yours now. She’ll be a good wife for you.”

And then she snatched up her pack and went off through the copse, heading south. Before she went to Koduteel, she was going to Mysane Kosk.

R
eisil staggered off the path as a sudden pressure fastened around her scalp. Tears streamed down her cheeks at the unbearable ache. Black mist circled her vision. She tottered, grasping at the air for something to steady herself. She heard the ocean roar. Where was the edge of the cliff? Wind battered her, and she dropped to all fours. Pain sheared through her skull, and she grabbed the sides of her head with both hands, moaning.

Then as suddenly as it came, it was gone.

Reisil lingered, panting, and then slowly pushed herself up onto her heels. Her head felt tender and swollen. She brushed her gloved fingers over her brow. Was she getting sick? A cold dagger thrust through her gut. Was this the first symptom of the plague? She swallowed. No. It didn’t begin like this. This was different. Maybe her magic? She’d come to the bluffs to try to reach it again. It hadn’t worked. Or had it? Hope flowered in her chest.

She remained sitting for several minutes, breathing slowly and waiting to see if it would come again. But her head remained clear, and there was no surge of magic. At last she sighed and clambered to her feet, hope withering. She was just hungry. She’d forgotten to eat lunch, and breakfast had been a cold boiled potato left over from the night before.

She drew a deep breath of the chill, salt air and resumed picking her way down the slick path. Far below, the tide rolled higher on the shingle.

After nearly two years in Koduteel, she still marveled at the deep water’s ever-changing moods, its coy secrecy, its paradoxical threat and promise. Spray bathed her face and she made up her mind. Reisil strode to the cliff’s rim, peering down into the steel waters. Her toes jutted out over the sickening drop. She flexed them, grinning. Once she would have remained a safe twenty or thirty paces from the edge, standing on tiptoe, never seeing the stark shore, the brilliant green moss growing in the crevices, the seals sliding through the waves. Even the stench of the cormorants was welcome, the humping shapes of their nesting rocks glowing white with droppings in the twilight noon.

There was a notch in the white spume below where the waves rushed into the harbor cavern. In the bay, a few fishing trawlers tossed on the whitecaps as fishermen returned home. Above the bay, cormorants and seagulls hung still against the looming sky, their wings beating furiously against the wind. One by one they plumeted into the water, where they bobbed like corks. Liver-colored seals splashed and rolled among them, undaunted by the battering surf.

Reisil blinked and wiped at her eyes, squinting to shield them from the lash of the wind. She scanned the waves beyond the headland spurs, but the gathering fog blocked the horizon in a ghostly wall.

Since last evening, there had been a painful burning in her stomach. Now it churned hotter. Knowing what she did, shouldn’t she tell Sodur? What could he do? Report to Lord Marshal Vare? As if he would believe her. As if anyone did.

But Scallacian sorcerers. Scallas had been chewing at Patverseme for years, and only the might of their wizards had held the sorcerers at bay. How could Kodu Riik defend against them? But if she said nothing, they would sail into Koduteel without warning.

She had to tell Sodur. It
was
possible that he could make the Lord Marshal listen.

Lady, but she was tired of not knowing what to do or how to do it!

She needed Saljane. Her
ahalad-kaaslane
had a way of cutting to the heart of a problem.

But—

For four lonely months since she’d sent Saljane away, they had shared only limited contact, once every few days or more, and then it had been glancing, shallow. A necessary choice, Reisil thought, sure of this, if nothing else. It had saved Saljane’s life.

Reisil’s chilled lips twisted. If Saljane’s health had improved, hers had not. With Saljane’s sudden disappearance came dozens of rumors. That the Lady had revoked Her trust in Reisil and seized Saljane. That Reisil was no longer
ahalad-kaaslane
. Others claimed that Saljane’s vanishment was part of her ongoing plot to destroy Kodu Riik. Or overthrow the throne. She hadn’t figured out exactly what they thought she was up to.

Reisil sat down, poking at a pocket of wolf’s-claw moss wedged in a crease of stone. She ached to have Saljane with her again, to fly with her, to open herself to that blending, like two streams running together, flavoring each other’s thoughts, at once distinct and entwined.

But winter storms continued to bluster through the spring. Returning to Koduteel would only mean a relapse for the goshawk, and both the healer and
ahalad-kaaslane
in Reisil refused to allow it. Saljane still needed the recuperative freedom of the wild. But every contact made the separation harder.

She sat for long moments, contemplating the moss. There was no choice. She needed Saljane’s wisdom.

Reisil knotted her fingers in her lap, pulling her thoughts to order, even as her heart danced anticipation.

The answer to Reisil’s silent query was immediate and wrenching. Her vision shifted. She grabbed the ground on either side of her thighs and shut her own eyes against the disorienting double vision of looking out of two sets of eyes at once.

They were high in the air, circling above an inlet set in a thin bezel of rocky white sand and surrounded by steep, tree-covered ridges. They dipped and rose on the gusting wind. Saljane’s fierce pleasure wrapped around Reisil.

And the words came with an eager wash of sharing: memories of hunting, soaring, eating, loneliness. Back on the cliff, Reisil savored the communication, soaking it up like water on cracked mud.

~I have missed you as well.
But there was little time for communion.
What about the ship? What about the sorcerers?

Saljane tipped on her wing, dropping in a long spiral.
~They wait.

Far below, a ship lay at anchor in the mouth of the inlet. Farther out, along the coastline, Reisil could see dark shapes rising out of the fog. This was the Strait of Piiton, where the spiny tail of the Dume Griste Mountains plunged into the sea. The emerald peaks of the submerged mountains made beautiful if inhospitable islands, while the ridges beneath made a treacherous and difficult passage. The strait guarded Kodu Riik from invading armadas. Passable to ships only at high tide, even then the navigable channel was narrow. It was easy to be blown off course or lose one’s way in a sudden fog and end up shattered on the rocks.

Saljane responded with silent agreement.

Saljane obeyed, jolting and skidding along the buffeting winds.

The sleek body of the ship was painted brilliant emerald and trimmed in gold. Three tall masts pricked from its decks, each strung with a complicated network of ropes. Above the crow’s nest at the top of the swaying mainmast flew two banners. One was the green Scallacian flag with a gold, eight-pointed star contained in a white circle in the upper left corner. Below it flew the yellow flag of the Scallacian sorcerers. Centered on the brilliant dandelion field was a drop of crimson from which rotated five rippling arms, each darkening to black as they turned on the cloth. As Saljane circled, Reisil saw sailors scurrying like a hill of angry ants over the deck and up the rigging.

~Sorcerers,
Saljane pointed out.

The three of them stood motionless on the forecastle. All around them sailors in green uniforms scuttled, shouting, singing, swearing. The ship leaped and tossed, struggling against its anchor. The flags cracked, the wind whistled through the shrouds and ratlines, and the ocean grumbled and roared. The sorcerers remained oblivious of it all.