Storms (Sharani Series Book 2) (16 page)

The feline roared and swatted one forepaw at Nikanor, though it was far short of the mark. Samsin noted with marked interest that the cat was favoring its back left paw, which looked like it had been crushed by a boulder . . . or a hammer.

Suddenly, the cat lunged forward. Nikanor, instead of dodging to one side or the other, stepped forward and embraced the beast. He disappeared beneath a mound of fur and flesh.

Something welled up within Samsin, a deep, powerful need to act, to move, to win. The pain vanished and he broke into a run. Long, powerful strides ate the ground, but he passed by the roiling mass of fur, teeth, and arms without giving it much of a glance. Instead, he slid to a stop a few spans beyond it, dirt, rocks, and gravel flying into the air. He stooped and scooped up his spear, pulling in the lingering energy it had built up when it had skidded across the ground. The energy gave him strength, gave him clarity of thought.

He shouted some inarticulate cry before he charged at the mound of black-and-white striped flesh, spear tip leading the way. An instant before his blade made contact, Samsin shifted the angle of the jab upward, careful to not let the two-foot long blade slide in the direction of Nikanor, who was still beneath the beast. The spear blade sunk into flesh, cutting through as easily as a fork through well-done fish.

The cat roared and arched its back. The spear bucked and twisted in Samsin’s grip as the cat flailed, paws scrabbling futilely against the ground. The cat pulled free of the spear and scrambled back a few paces.

Samsin glanced down at Nikanor once, a fleeting, split-second look which steeled Samsin’s resolve. Nikanor was one large, tattered mess of cut flesh and seeping blood. Samsin stepped over Nikanor and took a stance between the fallen man and the growling feline. He only half recognized the stance he had adopted, a solid, unmovable imitation of Nikanor’s squaring to the earth.

The cat growled and charged. Samsin held his spear steady. The cat slammed into the spear, blade burying itself into the creature’s chest. Samsin released the pent up energy he’d been holding, sending a crackling bolt along the spear itself and into the creature while he pushed back against the cat’s momentum. The cat convulsed as the bolt hit it, and Samsin heaved to one side, knocking the creature to the ground and releasing the spear. The cat did not rise, its dead, unseeing eyes only a few inches from Nikanor’s still form.

Samsin stood there, lungs heaving and breath coming in ragged gasps, feeling the glory of conquest thrum through him.
This
was true power. For a long moment he stood there, exultant, then the adrenaline started to fade, his pulse began to slow, and his ribs protested each breath by shooting him with pain. He took a step toward Nikanor and felt a rocking pain shoot up his leg. He could walk on it, but it was painful. He took another few steps and tested his ribs with one hand. He didn’t think anything was broken, thankfully.

He knelt next to Nikanor and did a quick check of the damage. The wounds were deep and crisscrossed Nikanor’s chest. His shirt hung in tatters, glued to his skin by the welling blood. Samsin knew little about healing, he was neither a wetta nor a blood mage, but he knew he needed to stop the bleeding first and foremost. He limped over to his pack—he had no idea where Nikanor’s had ended up—and pulled out a blanket, a small flask of wine, and one of his shirts. The shirt he tore into long trips and then he limped back over to Nikanor. He pulled the man’s shirt away, careful to not make any of the cuts worse than they already were. Nikanor’s chest rose and fell, a good sign, though his eyes remained firmly shut.

Grimacing through his own pain, Samsin unstopped the flask and poured most of the wine over the wounds. The amber wine mingled with the still-wet blood, darkening as it formed a new, unified liquid and dripped onto the rocks below. He knew he needed to clean them out and hoped the alcohol would work for that. When he’d been injured before, that’s what the slave healers had used, though it had been a much more caustic alcohol than wine.

Nikanor stirred, grunting and blinking rapidly. He sucked in a deep breath, face contorted and a grimace twisting his lips to the side. His eyes flickered open, though they remained unfocused and distant for a long moment.

“Nikanor?” Samsin asked.

Nikanor blinked a few times and then his eyes focused on Samsin’s face, a few feet above his own.

“That hurts,” he grunted.

Samsin couldn’t help himself. He laughed, a deep, rolling, absurd laugh which took a lot of his tension and worry with it. The pain and burgeoning exhaustion remained, but the world seemed a little brighter all of sudden.

“What did you have to go and save me for?” Samsin said, folding the blanket carefully and placing it over Nikanor’s chest.

Nikanor winced and grunted, but didn’t protest. “Why wouldn’t I?” he said, letting his breath out in a long hiss. “I couldn’t let a friend die when I could do something about it.”

Samsin didn’t answer for a long time. Instead he busied himself by tying the blanket down with the strips off his shirt. That done, he looked down at Nikanor with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t follow your Progression, Nikanor. I am not a man of honor, you know that. You had no reason to save me. I am not your friend.”

Nikanor grunted and shifted, but didn’t try to get up. “Every life is worth protecting. I see Honor in you, even if you don’t. No one is simply one thing. Power, Conquest, Honor, Strength—the Progressions overlap to some degree.”

“Bah!” Samsin snapped. “No preaching, Nikanor. This is all your fault. Yours and your precious honor’s.”

“Deny it if you will, but the cat did not die on its own. I am alive only because someone, in turn, saved me.”

Samsin didn’t have an answer for that. Nikanor considered him a friend? It didn’t make any sense. But then again, Samsin had saved Nikanor too. He was right, storms take it.

He shook his head and then took the rest of the wine and poured it over his bloody shoulders. Pain blossomed and flashed down his back and he almost screamed, but he held himself to a simple grunt. If Nikanor could keep it contained, so could he.

“What now, Nikanor?” Samsin asked, a trace of annoyance and cynicism creeping into his voice. “We’re a fortnight from the plantation and who knows how far from the end of your storming quest.”

“We go on,” Nikanor said, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up. Samsin would have protested, but Nikanor’s answer outweighed the admonition.

“Why in the seven hells should we?” Samsin said. “You can barely move. You need to rest and heal, not go gallivanting off through the mountains after children’s stories!”

“One might even think you care,” Nikanor said. His breath came in ragged gasps, but it steadied before he continued. “Use your head for a minute, Samsin. I know all about your scheming back in the Southern Dominion, about your family’s dealings, power, and position. You’ve got brains. Use them. I’m injured. Seriously. I’ll get gangrene or blood poisoning before we ever made it back to the plantation. You will too, I’d imagine. If we stay here, some animal will come along and kill us both. There are more rock tigers around here, I’m sure. They hunt in pairs or sets of pairs. Our only chance is to press forward and hope the Sharani Arena really is there and they have means to help us.”

“And why would they?” Samsin asked.

We’re doomed either way.
Samsin licked his lips as the realization settled into him.

Nikanor shook his head. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure something out. Here, bring me your spear, I’ll use it as a crutch.”

Half an hour later, they were walking again, Samsin half supporting Nikanor as they limped along. Samsin carried Nikanor’s hammer, which was surprisingly light, and a small sack tied at his waist. Everything else was left behind.

“The two races are one and the same, just changed by the powers within them, though the Seven Sisters would not have their devotees recall such.”

—From
Commentary on the
Schema, Volume I

Lhaurel leaned against her cane, supporting herself in the shadows of one of the less-used passages through the warren. She remembered a time when having to hide, having to remain in the shadows, was a question of survival, something which she’d had to do to protect herself from her clan’s rules and traditions. Lhaurel had proven her own strength, her own capacity to be more than what tradition dictated that she be. But now that same strength had made her a monster.

She gritted her teeth and started walking again, ignoring the dull ache. Lhaurel felt weak, and a constant headache throbbed behind her temples, but she wasn’t about to stay down there in that room any longer, not with Kaiden out on the sands again. Khari had been less than helpful when Lhaurel had confronted her earlier, telling her to go back to the healing chambers and rest. But Lhaurel found no more comfort there. She needed to be up and moving, doing
something.

As she walked, her robes caught on a promontory of rock that stuck out from the wall. The small amount of resistance would not normally have slowed her in the slightest, but this time it nearly stopped her in her tracks. She sighed, stopped, and pulled it free with effort. Lhaurel sensed Khari approaching a moment before the sound of the woman’s steps announced her approach.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Khari demanded. Her voice was firm, which wasn’t unusual, but there was an edge to it now, something almost harsh.

“Walking.”

Khari folded her arms beneath her breasts. “You should be in bed, resting.”

“And you should be helping the clans get ready to leave,” Lhaurel retorted. “So how about we call it even?”

Khari’s frown deepened, but she didn’t dispute it.

“What
are
you up to, then?” Lhaurel asked. Even though she’d never admit it out loud, she was grateful for the extended rest. Even the few short steps she’d taken were enough to deplete what little energy she had left.

“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

Lhaurel shrugged. “Well, you’re down this way for a reason. I’m the only one down here so unless you’re really here just to lecture me about rest, there’s something else you want.”

Khari unfolded her arms and let them drop to her sides. “You’ve gained a bit of acerbity to that tongue of yours since the Oasis.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Bitterness and bite,” Khari explained. “But no matter. You’re right. I need your help to find Beryl.”

Lhaurel frowned. “My help? He’s a mystic. Can’t you just find him yourself?” She didn’t mean for it to sound as bad as it did when it came out of her mouth, but it was too late to take it back.

“Usually yes, but I think he knows a way to block my search or he’s too far away for me to find him.” Khari hesitated. “I thought maybe you could locate him.”

Lhaurel swallowed and shifted her weight against her cane. She felt her pulse quicken and the headache swelled within her mind, building pressure like a water urn left out in the sun too long. She had kept a tight hold on that side of her powers since she’d healed Shallee and the baby. It was too tempting, too much of an alluring sense of omnipotence, for her to let it loose.

“What do you need him for?” Lhaurel asked to buy time.

“The clans need weapons, but Beryl has locked the door to the smithy and armory. There’s no keyhole to get in, so he must have sealed it with his magnetelorium powers. He’s the only one who can get in. I looked for him, but couldn’t sense him anywhere.”

Lhaurel didn’t speak for a long moment. In truth, she was glad the clans were leaving. She couldn’t bear their scrutiny, especially the remnants of the Sidena clan from which she had come. They’d thought her dead, they’d left her to die when the genesauri Migration had come earlier than expected. To find her not only alive but part of a hidden clan they had come to resent and possessing a power they considered to be from one of the seven hells, was more than sufficient fuel for the looks of hatred and fear she saw on their faces. Lhaurel longed for the anonymity she would be able to gain among just the Roterralar again.

“I don’t know how much I can do,” Lhaurel said. “I don’t seem to have as good a grasp on my abilities as I thought. And I’m . . . well, water doesn’t really work to help me as much as it does you.”

Lhaurel swallowed, unable to articulate the truth. She wasn’t a wetta. She was something far more sinister, far more
powerful.
Khari made as if to reach out a hand, then hesitated and let it drop.

“I know,” Khari said. “You’re a blood mystic.”

Lhaurel started. “How do you know?”

Khari held up her hand. Half a dozen small cuts stood out on her fingers, some half healed and others rather fresh. Lhaurel looked questioningly at Khari.

“The first time was an accident,” Khari whispered. “I cut myself while talking to Farah. Then the blood vanished and you started looking healthier. After that it was intentional, a little at a time to ease your body back to health.”

Lhaurel brought a hand to her mouth, the fingers trembling. The room started to blacken around the edges.

Khari was at her side in an instant, supporting her. “It was my choice, Lhaurel,” Khari said more firmly. “You’re safe, you’re healing on your own now.”

Lhaurel allowed herself to sink to the ground. The cane dropped with a faint metallic click. She dropped her head into her hands against the waves of emotion.

“I’m a monster,” Lhaurel whispered.

Khari’s arms formed a firm circle around Lhaurel’s shoulders. Even in the midst of her turmoil, Lhaurel was surprised by the show of intimacy from the woman, but at the same time, she needed the stability and comfort.

“You’re not,” Khari whispered. “You saved us all, didn’t you? You saved that baby. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.”

“I killed them, Khari.” The words ripped from Lhaurel’s lips as if of their own volition, though the admission came with a wave of relief at having exposed the burdens which had plagued her.

“The genesauri?”

“All of them, but not just them. I felt the people dying. I—I died with them. Some of them died earlier than they should have. I used them to fuel my power to kill the genesauri.” Lhaurel bit her lip so hard it almost bled, but it kept her silent.

Khari’s grip shifted around Lhaurel’s shoulders and, for a moment, Lhaurel thought Khari was about to pull away. She didn’t blame her. Lhaurel was a monster, a murderer, a demon. But Khari didn’t pull away. Instead she pulled Lhaurel even closer.

“What is the test of honor?” Khari whispered in her ear. “To uphold the flame or to snuff it out?”

Lhaurel waited, unsure how to respond.

Khari continued after a momentary pause. “Sometimes, to extinguish the flame is a greater show of honor.”

Lhaurel cried and found herself hugging Khari back. After a long moment, they broke apart. Another long moment of silence followed, each woman taking a moment to wipe away tears and get their emotions under control, or at least, Lhaurel hoped that was what Khari was doing.

“Can you—” Khari began, but Lhaurel was already nodding. Khari had sacrificed for her, had provided her with blood. Lhaurel knew how dangerous that was, knew it by the way her nails still showed with a dull red luster and her hair shone a bright, vibrant hue. Khari was lucky she hadn’t become like the genesauri, a broken, empty husk. Lhaurel owed her something at least.

“I will find him,” she said.

Lhaurel took a step back and reached within herself, drawing on her powers. A chill washed over her, though she recognized it for what it was now as red mist formed around her and she felt her consciousness expand outward. It was not dread so much as her body’s reaction to sending her blood out into the air to mingle with the elements around her.

She reached out with her mind and felt Khari’s presence blossom near her. She felt the tribes scurrying about the warren like ants in a hill. A woman in the greatroom cut herself on a rock. Lhaurel felt her pain, felt the blood. Part of her leapt at the fuel, pulling toward it, but Lhaurel screamed and ripped her mind away, her only thought to channel her mind elsewhere—anywhere but where the blood dripped into the sand.

Her mind sped downward through the rock. Her mind hit a vastness there. The lake. There within that great vastness of power, Lhaurel found something else, something equally as vast and powerful, something she had not felt before.

“Beryl,” she whispered, and released the magic. She opened her eyes and looked over at Khari, whose brow was crinkled in concern. “I’ve found him.”

By the time Lhaurel and Khari had reached the massive underground lake beneath the Roterralar Warren, Lhaurel had come to utterly despise both her cane and her weakened, useless body. Having to stop every hundred feet or so and rest, or else walk at a pace normally reserved for the aged or crippled, made Lhaurel feel like an invalid, especially since Khari waited with her instead of forging ahead.

More than once, Khari had insisted Lhaurel return to the healing chambers and rest, but Lhaurel had refused. She was done sitting on the sidelines. The longer she rested there, doing nothing, the more she dwelt on what she had done and what she was becoming. That, and she had to listen to Shallee prattle on about useless domestic things. Lhaurel liked the woman, but did she have to be so blatantly happy all the time?

Lhaurel and Khari stepped out onto the narrow walkway through the center of the lake. It was dimly lit, only a single lantern glowing like a miniature eye on the other side of the pathway.

“Beryl was down here before,” Khari whispered. “Working with some scrolls. But I sensed him then, while he was working down here. I couldn’t this time.”

Khari’s voice echoed through the chamber, the sound dampened and warped by its reverberation off the water’s surface. Lhaurel felt down into the depths, a hundred spans of clear water. There was a current to it, down in the depths, though it was slow and had centuries of mineral deposits within it making it mildly saline.

The light grew stronger, revealing Beryl seated in front of the massive cubby system cut into the far wall. A pile of scrolls rested near him, sealing in glass cylinders. He glanced around as they approached, his eyes seeming to flash with orange lantern light.

“You should have seen this place when it was made,” Beryl said, his voice soft. “There are three of them altogether. One here, one beneath the Oasis, and one that’s long since been lost to the sands unless the winds have uncovered it again. Elyana said the lakes were all connected, a part of one long water runoff. I never did understand her explanation on how that was possible.”

Lhaurel glanced over at Khari, seeing her own confusion mirrored in the woman’s expression. There was something familiar about that name though. Elyana, why was that name so familiar? She’d heard it somewhere before, recently even. Beryl started talking again before Lhaurel could figure it out.

“Now look at it. It’s been forgotten and abandoned, just like the knowledge it contains. Just like us. It is fitting, I imagine, that ignorance is banished at the same time as will be our abandonment.”

Khari approached Beryl, her step hesitant and one hand held out as if to touch him.

“Are you alright, Beryl?” she asked. “What are you doing down here?”

“What is the test of honor?” Beryl muttered as if to himself.

“Beryl?” Lhaurel asked, starting to worry. The words he was speaking, his tone, his voice, they reminded her of Kaiden, when he had stood atop the Oasis walls while the Rahuli died below him. She shuddered at the memory.

Beryl started and blinked rapidly, as if coming awake. He got to his feet, brushing aside Khari’s outstretched hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. The gruffness Lhaurel was accustomed to had returned to his voice.

Khari looked over at Lhaurel, brow even more furrowed than it had been before. Lhaurel silently agreed with the expression. Beryl was odd. He always had been. But this was the first time Lhaurel had ever really questioned his sanity.