The Fire King (20 page)

You look at them the same—as a threat,
he reminded himself.
You give them no time to prove themselves. Kill first, ask their corpses later.

Koni sidled close.
“I don’t know you worth shit, but if you hurt her …”
He did not finish the threat. There was no need.

Nor did Karr respond, though he had all manner of comments running through his head, none of which would have been fair to make Soria translate. He wondered, specifically, at the honor of the man who had sent her to speak to a prisoner whom so many found dangerous. She was a strong woman, yes, but strength had limits.

And Karr wondered, too, where this shape-shifter or any of her allies had been when she lost her arm. Or whether they had taken the effort to punish the one who had stolen it from her, and to make her safe. It was a wonder that Soria had come this far with him: a stranger, dangerous, unknown to her. That hit him squarely in the gut.

Brave, mysterious woman,
he thought, glancing down at her, watching how she clutched her empty sleeve, a peculiar mix of emotions in her eyes: a hint of sadness and something else that was distant and lost.

She pushed between them, her hand resting briefly on Karr’s chest. Her gaze was not on either man, but at the ground. She did not have to say a word. Koni’s jaw tightened, and golden light flooded his skin. He threw back his head and opened his mouth in a silent cry as long black hair melted into feathers. A ripple of energy rode over Karr’s skin, the sensation bringing back unpleasant memories. He gritted his teeth, and bore it, watching as the shifter became a crow.

It happened in the blink of an eye. Wings fluttered wildly; then, with a sharp piercing caw the bird launched upward into the clear dry air. He circled once before gliding southeast. Karr wondered if he was making a terrible mistake by letting the shifter go, alive and in one piece. Crows had always been the most cunning of scouts used in the war.

“You keep strange friends,” he said at last.

Soria pressed her palm against her right eye. “No stranger than you.”

But we are not friends,
he thought. “Are you in pain?”

“My head.” She peered up at him, grimacing. “It will pass.”

He began to touch her face, realized what he was doing and stopped. “Seeing him was difficult for you.”

“No,” she said, but he could taste the lie. He let it pass, and glanced again at the sky. Koni was merely a speck. Easy prey for eagles—or dragons.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that you need rest.”

She looked at him as though he was an idiot. “Rest where? Or better yet, where are we going? This is the Gobi Desert. We have no way to carry water or food. Maybe you can survive here, but not me. Not for long.”

Humans of his time had been able to survive a great deal, in elements much harsher than this, but there was a physical softness to Soria and all the humans he had seen thus far in this new world that made him believe her. “We are going north,” he said. “We will fly most of the way.”

Soria shook her head. “This area is not that deserted. There are
tourists
and
fossil hunters,
not to mention the locals. They will see you for sure.”

Unfamiliar words, but this time he was able to make sense of them. He saw in his mind an odd vision of men and women hammering the earth for bones; and in another, more humans in wagons, smiling and holding small black boxes to their eyes. He said, “You have given me your gift of languages.”

“No,” she replied, bowing her head as though it hurt to see the rising sun. “That is impossible.”

Karr could think of several things a great deal more impossible. She might not call herself a witch, but that, he thought, was a bit of self-delusion.

“And do not change the subject,” she continued, her words slurred with pain. “North is vague. North is a direction, nothing else. Do you know where you are going, or not?”

You could know for certain,
came the unbidden thought.
If you are willing to take the risk.

“There are landmarks,” he began to say, but was cut off by her shaking head.

“Thousands of years and human progress might make your landmarks unreliable,” she told him hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut as she kneaded her brow. “If there was time simply to go north—north of here, north of wherever—and explore what you find familiar, that would be one thing. But I think we are running out of time. You need specifics, now.”

Karr took her hand. Soria flinched, opening her eyes with surprise, stiffening as he knelt and tried to draw her down in front of him. She followed, finally, and he made her face him, her shoulders slumped, eyes hollow.

“What … ?” she began to say, and then stopped when he placed his hands on either side of her head and began kneading her skull.

“There are places to touch that ease pain,” he said softly. “It is the same for shape-shifter and human. I have some experience.”

“Changing the subject again,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “Oh …
there.”

“Breathe,” he whispered, watching her face relax. His fingers slid over her head in a pressure dance: behind her ears, at the base of her skull, spanning through her hair to knead spots that he knew would take the bite from her pain, and from the nausea she must surely be feeling. “Chimera often suffer such discomfort, especially the children who begin shifting at a young age. Physical stress is strongly entwined with the mind. Head pain is the most common result.”

Soria made a small, incoherent sound, sagging closer to him, eyes shut. Karr told himself he needed to watch her face for fleeting changes in her expression, as a guide for his fingers, but that was a lie. He simply liked looking at her. Such a puzzle. Beautiful, yes, especially now with the first touch of morning light bathing her face in a glow as golden as his own; her skin was soft and flawless, her body full of curves.

But it was more than that. Her compassion fascinated him. As did her trust. She had placed herself in his hands, in more ways than one, without question. Surely she knew what he could do to her. She was not naive, or foolish. And yet, here she was, relaxing in his hands. His hands, which had killed so many.

“Does this help?” he asked, finding it difficult to speak.

Soria nodded. “You surprise me.”

He wished that she would open her eyes. “No more than you.”

Her mouth tilted, but with little humor. Her lashes suddenly looked wet. Tears.

She began to twist away, but his hand slid around to the back of her neck, holding her still. She finally opened her eyes. Red-rimmed, bright with terrible emotion: grief, perhaps, and something else he could not name.

“Enough,” she whispered hoarsely. “Thank you.”

He did not let go. “Did I—?”

“No. You did not hurt me.” Soria carefully wiped her eyes. “Just … I had forgotten …” Her voice trailed into silence as she visibly tasted her words, refusing to meet his gaze. “I had forgotten what it felt like to be …”

“Touched,” he said.

Soria still could not look at him. “Small things. Always the small things a person takes for granted. Like fastening your clothes or scratching an itch. Making more trips to carry bags. Small, stupid things.” She swallowed hard, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I lost my dominant hand. I had to relearn how to write. I got rid of mirrors in the beginning, too. I could not look at myself. Felt like I was staring at an alien. You know, chopped up. Not me.”

Karr was not certain what
alien
meant, but he understood all too well what she was telling him. “How long has it been?”

She closed her eyes. “A year.”

“Were you alone?”

“I had my father and mother.”

“Friends?”

“At first. And then I stopped wanting to see them. People remember what you lost, and then they try too hard. You have to reassure them. Comfort them. Tell
them
it is okay that
you
got hurt.” Soria shook her head. “It was easier to be alone.”

“I doubt that,” he said quietly.

She finally looked at him. Her eyes were haunted. “I should not have told you this.”

A massive stroke of heartache cut through him—shocking not for what he felt, but for the intensity, a power such that he could hardly breathe. “You do not speak your suffering often.”

“I do not suffer—” she began to say, but he cut her off with a tiny shake.

“I am not one of your so-called friends who requires comforting,” he replied roughly. “I speak the truth. You suffer. You
have
suffered. You do not have to make excuses or be ashamed of what you feel.

“And I do not pity you,” he added, far more gently. “There is nothing to be pitied in a missing arm. You are more than that, and you know it. I am certain you do, or else you would not have come so far on this journey with me.” He leaned in very close, holding her face once more between his hands. “You are brave—and I do not say that lightly.”

Soria drew in a ragged breath, and then laid her hand on his chest. Her touch was simple and light, but he felt the press of her fingers as though they reached through skin, straight to his heart. Searing, aching hunger filled him, unlike any he had ever felt, born of a peculiar tenderness for this strange human woman. She had given him his freedom. His freedom, which was more important than life. No matter who her allies were.

Karr covered her hand with his, and it was suddenly his turn for awkwardness; his nerves were adrift in ways he had not felt since childhood. He could not look at her.

She whispered, “Thank you.”

He removed her hand from his chest, but could not bring himself to completely let go. His other hand had slid down her slender throat, her pulse warm and quick against his palm. His thumb was touching the corner of her mouth. He did not remember doing that, but the realization sent another shock through him—lower, deeper, in his gut.

“I have forgotten, too,” he murmured, staring at her mouth. “Even before I died, I think I had forgotten.”

Her breath caught. Karr swallowed hard, and leaned in, slowly. Expecting her to pull away. But she stayed still, and he was the one who stopped, just at the last moment. He could taste her scent, warm as the new sun. Her lips were so close.

He pulled back, dropping her hand as though burned. He
felt
burned, a terrible heat washing through him, unrelenting and savage.

“I am sorry,” he muttered, standing. Soria scrambled to her feet, and grabbed his arm. Her hand was tiny against him, her fingers hardly more than a patch on his dark golden skin. He made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Found nothing hidden, no walls or distance between them.

“What hurt you?” she asked. “Or who?”

He had never felt so exposed. “We should go.”

Soria’s expression did not change, though the flush in her cheeks seemed to deepen, as did the shadows in her eyes. “I … want to find the sword.”

It was not what Karr expected her to say. He realized, with some shame, that he had wanted her to keep pressing, to not give up on him so easily.

Like you gave up. She should not have to beg for a kiss. Not her.

“The sword,” he replied hoarsely. “You believe it still exists? You trust your dreams that much?”

Her fingers tightened against his arm. “I have to trust something.”

I want to trust you.
“You cannot truly believe one weapon holds those answers.”

“I think that even if we find your homeland, we will still have to go after the sword. Anything related to your death is suspect. Something,
someone,
did this to you.”

“Thousands of years ago, according to you. There is nothing left.”

“Except the sword,” she said. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Karr echoed, and covered her hand with his. “You recognized the location in our vision?”

She hesitated, frayed slips of her hair flowing around her face as the wind kicked up. “It looked like a map of this country, Mongolia, and the red dot seemed to align with what I know of its capital, Ulaanbataar. It should not be far from here.”

His memory of squiggly red lines and a golden-eyed doll were crystalline and chilling, but he said, “I cannot see it clearly in my head. Can you draw the map for me in the sand?”

Soria knelt. Karr joined her, watching as her finger traced lines in the shallow sheet of loose dirt covering the rocky ground. He had thought that seeing her illustration would help orient him, but he realized his mistake in moments. She was right: he needed more. Simply journeying north was not enough.

The blood ritual would be all you need, if you had the courage.

“Enough,” he said, touching her shoulder. “You are certain about the sword and its location?”

She smiled bitterly, which Karr took as a
no.

He bowed his head, considering his options as his fingers traced lines through her map in the sand. Soria’s hand lingered near his, and this time he did not fight his need as he grasped her wrist and kissed her palm. Soria went still.

Karr rumbled, “I cannot fault your strategy. If nothing else, it is worth a brief scouting mission. We can resume our path north, afterward.”

His scar tingled as he spoke those words. As though invisible fingers teased the outer edges of the surrounding skin. He touched the spot, for a moment certain he would feel another hand there. He discovered nothing but air—a chill—and the sharp memory of a sword piercing his stomach, the tip of the blade touching his spine. Tau, staring at him.

No,
he thought, fearing another rush of blood.

But nothing happened. Karr took a deep breath, then another, and the sensation began to fade. He looked up, and found Soria’s gaze flickering between his face and the hand pressed to his side.

“We should hurry,” she said.

“Agreed,” he muttered, and pulled her onto her feet.

Ulaanbataar was over four hundred miles north of Erenhot, and the easiest way to get there was by car, bus, or train. None of those was an option, especially the latter. Karr had no papers, no identification—something Roland should have considered before telling Soria to journey south to Beijing. Unless he had intended for her to leave Karr behind.