“
Windwaver
Pod. Comes once a year from the Round Ocean, far to the east of here.”
“Or far to the west, depending on where you start.” It was odd to think that from the land of the Mortaxa, the Round Ocean was to the east, when children in Boravia grew up thinking of it as to the west.
Dar grinned, tucked loose hair back into the scarf she was wearing. “The Round Ocean is always where it is. It’s only the Pods that move.”
A shout declared the bout over, and the two fighters stood in identical postures of exhaustion, bent over, chests heaving, hands braced on thighs.
“Well done, all of you,” Parno said. He drew Dar with him as he inserted himself into the group, looking at a bad bruise here, and giving an encouraging slap there.
“All are excused watches until your training finishes,” Dar said. “Go clean up now, and get ready to eat.”
“Conford.” The younger man turned to Parno and smiled, wiping his face off with his shirt. “Come see me when you’ve cleaned up.”
Parno waited until the man had gone to join the others before turning back to Dar. “So Conford comes from another Pod entirely?”
Dar nodded. “Good to exchange with Nomads from the other oceans, keeps the bloodlines clean, but usually happens at our Great Gatherings every five years. Conford’s a special case.”
“How so?”
“Usually must have four generations of unconnected blood for an exchange to be made. But Conford needed to leave his ship, and
Wavetreader
was the only Pod close enough.”
Halfway up the gangway to the aft upper deck Parno stopped, and looked back along the lower deck to where his recruits were sloshing each other with water pulled up from over the side.
“He doesn’t have the look of a troublemaker,” he said, before following Dar the last few steps to the top.
“Oh, no. His twin had died, and he couldn’t stay where she no longer was.”
“Died? Some kind of accident?” Except for the frostbite they’d seen when he and Dhulyn had first come on board, Parno had observed no signs of illness among the crew. Even without the assistance of the Marked, the Nomads seemed to enjoy good health.
“She was lost overboard.” Dar frowned and sat down on the pilot’s bench behind and to port of the wheel. “When the moment came, wouldn’t let the Crayx swallow her, as you were swallowed, and so wasn’t saved.” Dar waved her hand toward the sea where the Crayx were. “Doesn’t live still.”
Parno stayed upright, leaning his elbow against the rail, remembering his own experience inside the Crayx, and the offer they had made him. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Don’t know. Some say she had the enclosure sickness, and couldn’t bring herself to enter such a small space. Don’t know, though, never knew someone with it. Have you heard of such things?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he had a mild form of the horizon sickness himself, but habit, and the Common Rule, held it back. “It must have been difficult for her in any case. So much of a ship is enclosed and small.”
Dar shrugged. “Slept on deck, I imagine.”
“And the Crayx could not have forced her to be saved?”
“Of course. But how could we live that way? Knowing they would force us against our will?” She turned her face toward him, her dark eyes shining though her face was somber. What she said confirmed Parno’s own experience. The Crayx would not force their human partners—not even to save them.
“Too hard for Conford to stay.” Dar had gone on with her story. “So took first chance of exchange that offered. Fits in well enough, but hard, very hard to be one where were always two.” She rested her fingertips on his wrist. “Hard for you, too?”
Parno’s jaw clenched against the wave of grief that washed through him, and it was all he could do not to clench his fists as well. From the clouding of her eyes, Darlara clearly saw this in his face, but she did not turn away, or remove her hand. At least his child—children, he corrected—had a brave mother.
“Was not Partnered my whole life,” he said when he thought his voice was steady enough.
“No, but best part, most important part.”
Somehow, it was easier, knowing that Dar understood.
Before he needed to say anything, Conford came up the gangway and presented himself, hair wet, clothing brushed and shaken out.
“Asked for me, Paledyn.”
“Conford.” Now that he knew what to look for, Parno could see the marks of strain around the younger man’s eyes. The telltale signs of sleepless nights and loss of appetite. “Know what I intend to do?”
“Aye, sir. Kill the Storm Witch.”
Carefully, not giving so much detail as to overwhelm, Parno explained his strategy, the landing party, the coordinated attack on the frontage of Ketxan City. At first, Conford followed him with brow furrowed and frown, but as Parno finished, the young Nomad was smiling.
“So I’m for the land?” His eyes sparkled.
“Fight well, and have good instincts, and this is the more dangerous part.”
If anything, Conford seemed happier. “Aye, sir.”
“Conford, I need a second. Both the captains would like to go, but you know why they can’t.” Conford nodded. “A second isn’t someone who’s there for glory, or even someone who’s there to give his life for his fellows. He’s someone I can count on to get the job done if I fall. And if possible, be there to bring his comrades back. Understand?”
Now he had stopped smiling, his lips pressed together in a line, but Parno felt optimistic when the younger man did not answer immediately, and without thought. It seemed that Parno had judged his man correctly. In a manner of speaking, Conford was the closest person on board to another Mercenary, in that he understood death in the depth of his soul and, in his way, was ready to die. He shared that understanding, and that readiness with Parno. Could he also share the understanding of duty and obligation?
Conford gave a short nod. “Aye, Paledyn. Understood. I can do that.”
Sixteen
“Y
OUR FATHER THE TARXIN, Light of the Sun, has sent the Paledyn to see you, Tara Xendra.”
Carcali put down the tiny finger harp but didn’t turn from the toy shelves. She often found herself, instead of studying her maps and making calculations, rearranging the small wooden animals, wondering if the jewels in their harnesses could possibly be real. She sighed and turned to face the other woman. She’d already learned there wasn’t much point in arguing with Finexa. Supposedly, she was only a new lady page, now that the Tara Xendra was acknowledged as a Storm Witch, and no longer a mere child whose old attendant Kendraxa was more nurse than page. In fact, Carcali suspected that Finexa reported to the Tarxin every day—or at least when there was anything to report. And refusing to meet with the painted barbarian woman would probably come under that heading. Things had been going well since her last meeting with the Tarxin. He’d seen to it that she had the supplies she needed, and had sent for one of the globes in the Scholars’ Library, where they were on notice to assist her when she sent for them. She had to be careful not to do anything that would jeopardize that.
“Just taking a short break,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as defensive as she felt. “Why is the Paledyn here?”
“The Light of the Sun did not say, Tara Xendra. But he has asked her to watch over you. Perhaps that explains it.”
“Very well, I will see her.”
Finexa’s eyes narrowed, but all she did was give a shallow curtsy and turn back to the door.
Somehow, the Paledyn, when she entered, looked taller, rougher, and more dangerous standing in what was still, for all intents and purposes, the day room of an eleven-year-old girl. She had managed to find, or have made for her, a pair of pale gold linen trousers and over them she wore a green sleeveless jerkin trimmed with satin ties, and with a bright red patch sewn on one shoulder. Her blood-red hair had been knotted into several tiny braids, short enough to stand up around her face, but somehow, there was nothing remotely funny about the style. Her granite-gray eyes looked at Carcali as though she were measuring her.
The woman wasn’t very old, Carcali realized, maybe only four or five years older than she was herself—her real age, not the age of this body. Something in the Paledyn’s face reminded Carcali of her Wind Instructor in her first year at the Academy. The same mixture of patience, knowledge, and focus.
Carcali swallowed and stood up, coming out from behind her table. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by a woman so close to her own age—a woman with tattoos and a scar on her face. The Academy, the Artists who were her superiors, all were long gone, and the Tarxin was the only one here she needed to be afraid of.
“What shall I call you?” The woman’s voice was like raw silk, rough and smooth at the same time.
“I am the Tara Xendra,” Carcali said as sharply as she could manage. The woman’s raised eyebrows did nothing to help her keep her composure. On the contrary, the Paledyn’s gesture seemed calculated to rattle her, perhaps even goad her into losing her temper. Well, she wasn’t going to fall for that.
“Have you no other name that you might prefer me to use?”
For a second, Carcali’s lips actually parted, as the sudden temptation to tell the Paledyn the truth was almost irresistible. Part of her wanted to see the shock and awe shake the composure of that scarred face, but a part of her simply wanted to tell someone, even this woman, everything. She let the moment pass, saying nothing at all, and the Paledyn inclined her head, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on Carcali’s face.
“I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler. You may call me Wolfshead.”
Carcali gritted her teeth. She certainly wasn’t going to call the woman “Scholar,” no matter who else might. She turned away, crossing behind the table again to resume her seat. She froze, one hand on the arm of her chair. The Paledyn was already sitting down in the guest chair. How had she moved so quickly, so quietly, in the few seconds Carcali’s back was turned? Deliberately, as if she hadn’t been shaken by the Wolfshead, Carcali sat down, moving the pen and inkwell to one side, squaring them up with the edge of the worktable.
“My father the Tarxin, Light of the Sun, sent you to meet with me.” Let that remind the woman who she was dealing with.
The Paledyn tilted her head to one side. “He has asked me to extend my protection over you.”
“What protection can you give me, that he cannot provide?”
The woman spread her hands, palms up. For the first time she smiled, her lip curling back from her teeth in a snarl. Carcali blinked and sat up straighter, then blushed as she realized the woman had seen—and correctly judged—her reaction.
“Could he stop me from killing you myself?” the Paledyn said.
The horrible thing was the Paledyn asked this question in the same even tone that she had used all along—not in a manner intended to frighten or threaten, but as if Carcali’s every answer was being weighed in a balance.
“You would never leave the city alive.” Carcali’s lips were almost too stiff to speak.
The woman shrugged, and her disinterest was somehow more frightening than anything else she might have done. “There are larger things,” she said in her rough silk voice, “than my life, or yours.”
There
were
larger things. Carcali swallowed. There were whole worlds, civilizations like the one she had destroyed with her arrogance and her pride. Carcali waited, frozen, but the Paledyn continued to sit, perfectly composed, elbows on the arms of her chair, fingertips placed together. Carcali managed to loosen the grip of her own hands.
“I have work the Tarxin has given me,” she said, reaching for her stylus with a hand that trembled only slightly. “So if you’re not going to kill me just at the moment . . .”
The woman’s eyes brightened, and Carcali had the crazy feeling that she had almost smiled.
“Why do you not return to your own place?”
Carcali froze again, her fingers on the stylus. The Paledyn couldn’t possibly know. “What do you mean? This is my place.” She glanced up, but the Paledyn’s face was impassive once more, the hint of brightness gone. She moved her head to the left and back again, just once.
The nape of Carcali’s neck prickled as the hair stood up. For the last few days, since news of the Paledyn had arrived in the Tarxin’s court, Carcali’s servants and attendants had been telling her all kinds of strange tales of them—their invincibility, their honor, how it was impossible to trick or lie to them. She’d dismissed it as primitive superstition, but—
Don’t be so silly
, she told herself.
What else could it be?
“I watched you walk up to the Tarxin’s table, and you do not walk like a girl who has seen her birth moon only eleven times,” the woman said now. “You are developing a line here,” she indicated her forehead between her brows, “when you frown, that a child of that age would not have. You do not school your expressions as carefully as a child brought up in the Tarxin of Mortaxa’s court would know how to do. Even now, you look at me with a face that says you have been caught sneaking sweets. In other words, with the face of guilt. And I know,” she said finally, leaning forward enough to place her hand on the edge of Carcali’s table. “That the natural powers of Marked or Mage come with the maturing of the body, and I doubt very much that the body of the Tara Xendra has yet reached the beginnings of her woman’s time. So, where do you come from, and why do you not return?”
“You couldn’t possibly understand.” The words were out before she could stop them.
“Perhaps you’re right. Full understanding comes with full knowledge, something one person cannot give to another. But you could give me enough knowledge to understand how to help and protect you.” The Paledyn leaned back again and Carcali took a deep breath for the first time in what felt like hours. “Come. I have told you what I know, what I see with my own eyes. Let me tell you also what I suspect. I believe you are a Caid, though how you find yourself here is more than I can know, I admit.”