Nien raised his face. He felt the heat of incredulity and indignation light up his eyes. “Forget Lant!” he snarled. “Don’t you feel the darkness closing in? Can’t each of you understand that there may be no more festivals? That there may be no more businesses to run? That there may be members of our families we’ll never see again? What is it you think we’ve been training for?”
A general uneasiness answered him. Nien felt the energy of conflict building inside of him. He was right in relaying Lant’s message. Still, it pained him to do it.
“If you choose to come to the festival you will do so with your weapons or you will resign your insignias,” Nien said throatily. He drew a hot breath. “If I have not, if Lant has not, earned your trust then I have no idea what we’ve been doing all these revolutions together.”
“Trust? You? It was because of you that the first Rieevan in generations was killed by violence! Did you think we’d forgotten? You didn’t have to go down there. Be all heroic. Join a battle that wasn’t ours! Your arrogance, like Lant’s, has put all our people in the middle of this mess.”
The rest of the Cant members fell into stillness. Some were embarrassed, others shocked, but many agreed, looking up at Nien with accusation but, also, hope.
But there was nothing he could say. Anger and guilt burned so hotly in Nien’s mind that he could find no words, nothing to say that might answer either the accusation or the hope he saw in their eyes.
In the end, Nien said nothing more and as the circle of Cant members watched him, he felt the heat drain slowly from his eyes and his features slackened. He suddenly felt very weary, as if the deep rich colour of his skin were shunting mute, bleeding out. And though, on the surface, the change must have been subtle, still it seemed to change the temperature of the field. No sound more than the suck of mud beneath shifting feet stirred the air.
Turning, Nien walked through the silent Cant members and away across the training field.
Carly watched him go along with the rest. She had seen both anger and strength in Nien before, like fire beneath a living green mountain, but what she’d seen in him now was something more than both those things. There had emanated from him something ageless and powerful, an energy that had moved through the seething group and drawn them into silence.
“Don’t walk away!” Greal’e shouted.
Carly glanced back. Of course, Greal’e would be the last one to let it go.
“An accounting from you on Bredo’s loss has never been called for by the members of the Cant!” Greal’e continued, shouting at Nien’s back. “It’s never been heard!”
“He’s right!” someone else called.
A chorus of voices followed. And then, from a sheath, there was the sound of a drawing sword.
Carly spun. She felt Mien’k step in behind her, and behind him, Shiela. Mien’k said, “Just calm down,” with a warning in his voice as he held up a hand to those moving in to back Greal’e. And then Carly spotted the Cant member that had drawn his sword.
“Yck’athay!” Carly barked, pointing at him. “Sheathe your sword! Now!”
The member, frustration burning in his eyes, slowly slid his sword back. But not all the way, Carly noticed.
“They’re right, Mien’k,” said another member stepping up beside Greal’e. “Nien’s too close to Lant to see it. But you know what they’ve been putting us through. Ever since the leadership excursion everyone’s been crazy, making decisions out of paranoia, not sense.”
“You weren’t there,” Mien’k said, his voice hovering just above menacing. “Nien could have gone down there alone. He didn’t order any of us to go with him. We chose to go. But what would you know?” Mien’k gave the member a hard shove. “What do any of you know?”
Shiela put a hand on Mien’k’s arm, but Mien’k jerked his arm away and turned as Carly said, “Go home.” She could see her breath upon the chilly air. “You heard Nien. We’ll attend the festival. We’ll go armed. We’ll stay alert. If this is not agreeable to some of you, you know where to leave your gear.”
Amidst grumbles, chagrined glances, and expressions of sheer bafflement, Carly stood, watching the Cant members slowly gather their accoutrements, knocking ice and mud off their weapons and gear, and dispersing.
As the field emptied, Carly bid a silent, weighted goodbye to Mien’k and Shiela, her thoughts turning to Nien. She had to talk to him before he left for the far end of the valley.
Grabbing the hilt of her sword and tightening the belt, she threw her gear over her shoulder, and began to run for Lant’s place, hoping she could catch Nien on his way there.
Running awkwardly over the uneven surface of the half-frozen fields, her gear slapping against her chest and back, she spotted him in the distance and called out: “Nien! Hold on!”
Nien kept walking.
Carly continued to run, finally coming up beside him, fumbling with the leather long-jacket and shin guards they wore during training sessions. Catching her breath, she matched Nien’s pace and said, “You did the right thing.”
Nien shook his head angrily. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No,” Nien said with more emphasis, “I didn’t.” He took a beat before adding, “I thought the same thing.”
“Well, it will be a bit weird, but those that don’t understand…”
“I wasn’t talking about taking weapons to the festival.”
“Ah,” Carly said. “Listen, Nien, Greal’e doesn’t speak for all of the Cant members, not by a long shot. Until today, I never heard one of them say anything about Bredo. Or about Lant’s refusal to discharge you.”
“Nevertheless, Greal’e has a point, and then I chastise them — tell them to turn in their insignias of all things. There are few enough of us as it is. Greal’e and the others, they’re just...tired.”
Carly studied Nien’s face for a moment before her eyes dropped to her boots. Though the Cant Messengers had returned from Quieness, Jayak, and Legran no one had any idea what the response from the other valleys might be, when it might come, or if they would respond at all.
A fierce twist of anxiety began to turn Carly’s stomach. What was happening out there beyond Rieeve’s mountain borders? What was the Empress of Quieness thinking? What was Commander Lant’s friend, Monteray, doing? And what about Jayak? What if the Ka’ull had struck again?
Carly stopped and watched Nien walk away. Standing alone, she felt torn in a hundred different directions, her emotions going everywhere at once.
And then she looked down the long, empty length of valley toward the southing and knew one thing.
Turning, she started out at a run for the short corral between the Cantfields and Lant’s house where she’d quartered her horse. Her sword swinging at her side, she dumped her gear near the gate and, throwing the saddle over her mount’s back, swung up and spurred him into that barren stretch of white.
Chapter 42
One Last Time
C arly burst in through the barn door and found Wing arranging sacks of teeana, brevec, and challak in large brown duffels.
“Carly?” he said with surprise.
Carly ran into his arms, hitting Wing hard enough to push him backwards and causing him to drop the duffel of seeds in his hands.
“What’s going on?” he asked, arms wrapping around her.
Carly shook, afraid that if she opened her mouth —
“What happened?” Wing asked again. “Are you hurt?”
He tried to stand her back to see her face, but Carly knew she could not bare it. She needed to feel him close. Needed to feel the safe haven of his arms.
Reaching up, he cradled her head and held her, swaying gently, giving her time. He hummed a little in his throat and the tenderness of his voice broke her fragile restraint. A long shiver rolled through her body and she muttered, “I’m so sorry, but I had no idea where to go. There was nowhere else I wanted to go.”
Wing continued to hold her, but asked, �
��Are you all right? You’re not hurt are you?”
Carly sniffed. “No, I’m all right. It’s just…everything’s wrong.” She breathed and shuddered. “Nien gave the Cant some hard news about the festival.”
Clearly, Wing couldn’t understand her, her words muffled in the folds of his shirt.
He stepped back and placed his warm hands upon her shoulders.
Carly looked up at Wing’s face. “It didn’t go well, the news. But Nien wouldn’t have done it if there wasn’t something going on, something Lant knows. I trust that, I do, but yeefa, you should have seen the other Cant members. They were livid. I thought we were going to have a riot right there on the Cantfields. It was scarier for me than Jayak. Cant members drawing their swords on one another — can you imagine? It feels like everything’s unraveling. Maybe, maybe everybody’s right. Maybe this is making all of us insane. Maybe...” She stopped. Shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“What was the news?” Wing asked, sliding his large, long-fingered hands down her arms and taking her hands.
“That they should take their weapons to the festival, no drinking, stay alert.”
“Are they going to?” Wing said carefully.
Carly shrugged. “Nien threatened their insignias if they didn’t.”
Wing didn’t reply. It was clear by his expression what that meant.
“I just wish I knew what to do. Everyone’s at their end. And the truth is, the Cant members weren’t there with us in Jayak. It’s not real to them. Sech’nya, it probably wouldn’t be real to me either if I hadn’t been. Losing Bredo, that’s real enough to those of them who knew him well, and they’re even angrier. I think they blame Nien.”
Wing nodded, clearly understanding but saying nothing.
Carly didn’t care that he had nothing to say, seeing the empathy in his face and standing in the shelter of his arms was enough.
“Come on,” Wing said. Grabbing up a large horse blanket, he took her hand and pulled her up the wooden ladder into the loft of the barn. Passing by the bails of hay, he lay down in a softer bed of straw.
With relief, Carly followed, lying down beside him, curling into his side as he drew the large horse blanket over them, wrapping his arms around it as well as Carly.
“Thanks,” she sniffled, nuzzling into his shoulder as if trying to worm her way into his skin.
Wing held her quietly.
It was surprisingly warm huddled as they were, together in the straw, embedded in a warm nest.
As the comfort of Wing’s presence eased her, Carly said with more steadiness in her voice, “I’ve never felt that before Wing, even in Jayak. I mean, as terrible as that was, it felt like I was doing something.
“But leaving the Cantfields today I felt trapped. Like I was standing in the middle of a house that’s falling in — just nothing, nothing I could do. Like it was all too late.”
“I understand,” Wing said.
Carly emerged from the cover of his arms. “The thing is, we’re probably not even an afterthought to the Ka’ull. It’ll be the larger valleys that’ll face the brunt of this. And Pree K, S’o, and Jhock have returned from Quieness, Jayak, and Legran. If any of those valleys agree to an alliance, then all of our planning and training will be purely academic.” She looked hopefully at Wing, but there was a sadness in his eyes and something else she could feel but not put her finger on.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Carly touched his cheek, brushing her fingers over his eyes. “Now I’ve got you worried.”
Though she had never seen him cry, she saw a shimmer of emotion brought about by what, exactly, she could not tell. Was it something her distress had dredged up in him or something that had already been there?
Running her hand up the smooth skin of his side she kissed him and closed her eyes. Resting her head in the crook of his shoulder, she remembered the way Wing had held her the first time he’d seen her after the Cant had returned from Jayak. He had expressed his fear at that time over the thought of losing her. Now, as she lay with him, she wondered — for perhaps the first time — what it would be like to lose him.
The thought made her squeeze him tighter.
Wing responded, wrapping his arms completely around her, pressing his face into her hair, hooking her legs with his feet.
Intertwined, their bodies embraced by each other and the blonde straw, they fell in touch with the life in each other’s bodies — and that alone. Conversation fell away. There was only the jut of bone, the heat of breath, beat of heart, sticky sweat where flesh met flesh, the tickle of hair on throat, and soon this gentle orchestra had them lulled into sleep.
Carly dreamed then, of Wing. She saw him standing in the fields of Rieeve. He was not dressed in farmer’s clothing, however, but battle armour that gleamed like their sun: brilliant in silver and blue. A long sword hung at his side. His hair had come undone, pushed off his shoulders by the wind. Though already a tall man, there was some magic woven about him that made him appear taller yet as he stood, magnificently still, calm and confident, his eyes trained ahead. Carly turned to look where he was looking and the ground beneath Wing’s feet began to roll followed shortly by a thunderous beat. Before Wing, Carly saw the lumbering grey wall of a storm, not in the sky, but traveling like an army across the valley floor. It was then she realized it was no storm but an army of men. Men who seemed to shimmer in and out of the light, as if not quite real.
And they were coming on towards Wing.
Carly felt a shock of fear for it appeared they would capture him or run over him or even push through him.
But then Carly saw they were doing none of these things. Rather, they were coming to him, as if summoned or moving to join him.
He turned and Carly saw his face. It was the face she knew, but…
Not.
He’d always been beautiful but this Wing radiated an energy as if he were, himself, a pulsing silver star.
Carly gasped and started awake. Blinking, she glanced around her. She was still in the barn, lying in the straw, and Wing was there beneath her. Real and alive, but a farmer, dressed in plain farmer’s clothes.
Relieved at the sight of him, she returned to warm spot in the hold of his arms.
Wing, she whispered softly into the recesses of her mind.
The reality of him felt to crush her. She felt the heat of tears welling behind her eyes.
She was not given to dreams, especially those of a prophetic or metaphysical nature. Her dreams were of sword fighting, making love, riding horses.
The Wing she’d seen had not been anything of existence as she knew it. Still, it suited him, she thought. Oddly, it was not fantastical at all, seeing him like that. Though he disliked swords, had never shown any interest in combat, and had continued to refuse to join the Cant, seeing him as she just had with a sword at his hip, in gleaming armour, at the head of a massive army did not seem incongruent.
Not wanting to wake him, Carly could not keep herself from raising her head and touching her mouth gently to his. She did not kiss him, wanting rather to have their mouths close, feel his breath, unable to bear the thought of wasting these peaceful moments while he was at rest.
Wing shifted beneath her.
She stroked his black hair away from his face, caressing his temples. With her thumb she touched his cheek, smoothing it softly back and forth. She moved her arm and touched her fingertip to the inside of his eyebrow, running her finger along the length of it and then to the corner of his mouth.
Immersed in the sight of him, his face, his hair, his hands, there persisted a strange ache, a sadness that lingered like heat on a stone after the sun had set.
His mouth twitched then, and he smiled a little and whispered, “What are you doing?”
“Watching you,” Carly replied softly.
Eyes still closed, he reached up, feeling for her hand, and then taking it in his. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Good,” she
said, and this time meant to kiss him.
He turned his head and caught her mouth, moving past her lips with his tongue, stroking her gentle.
Carly shivered and felt a rush of desire move through her belly.
“Are you awake enough?” she said, her mouth just barely touching upon his ear.
“I think so,” he said.
With only a minor adjustment, Carly reached down, and found that yes, he certainly was.
Wriggling to free herself from the heavy leather pants she wore for Cant training, she managed to kick off one of the legs and one boot as Wing slid his hand under her shirt and around her breast.
Yosha, she swore silently, as his touch undid her and she forgot about the other boot and pant leg, moving up over him and pressing down. As she settled herself against him, the image of him, standing in the center of the fields, bathed in light, seared reason from her mind.
Who was he? Who was this man she joined with? Who was he that she could love like this? Pearlized light one moment and now flesh and blood? He was ethereal, always had been, but his presence inside of her was anything but mystical, he was solid, steady, substantial in every way.
Wing moaned low in his throat and Carly felt her heart start and move back to meet him.
Rolling her hips over him, feeling her body rise, beginning to quiver, she pressed her face forcefully to his shoulder, muttering, “I love you.”
His hands came up and stroked her back, culminating in her hair as he thrust up against her. His lips found her cheek and then her mouth and they rocked together, lost in waves, equal in motion, rising and falling together in a connection that far out-wrested mere familiarity.
When they peaked at last, Carly gasped. Her body stiffened against him and then suddenly she was falling and crying. She didn’t even know why. Desperately, she came against him, grabbing at him, begging him to hold her, crush her, assure her he was real and would stay.
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