*****
A woman’s voice. "...as well, she bled inside. She should have died two days ago. The pain will be less if you can have her drink this, but it is not likely that she will wake. I cannot help more." A long pause. "She is very beautiful. Is she prettier than me, Scaukra?"
Scaukra’s voice. "Thank you, Pareetha, the Guild owes you Service."
Breea opened her eyes, but found only blurring colors and spots of light surging to the terrible aching that permeated her.
"Why did they search me when I entered?" the woman asked.
"I will not speak of it here. We will meet in your dwell tonight."
The woman answered teasingly, "I look forward to it."
A door opening and closing. Light footsteps approached.
"Breea?" Scaukra’s voice asked.
Eyes open, but unseeing, Breea struggled to speak, but only emitted a soft croak.
"Drink."
A fruity wetness touched her lips, and she sipped weakly to get a taste of sickly sweet liquid. She swallowed hard with a dry throat. A tingling euphoria spread via paths of light through her veins, and pain seemed humorous. Sight came in flowing colors, and Breea had an urge to laugh though she lacked the strength.
"Scaukra," she said in a cracked voice.
His mouth was straight and mirthless. An old pain, time refined, glimmered from his gray-green eyes.
Far down, beneath physical pain and euphoria, Breea understood that kind of pain, and she asked, "What’s wrong, Bassmar—Baasibard Master?" She giggled weakly.
His faced changed back to his usual state of subtly conflicting expression, and he said, "You should have been Batusha’s Master."
"I am yet living, Scaukra, see?" she croaked, and trying to move, found that she could not. A claw of fear plucked at her mind, sending shivers of terror through her that were swallowed by the encompassing ecstasy.
Sadness was in Scaukra’s gaze again, and he lifted the cup to her lips, but Breea sealed her mouth, concentrating on an idea that was hiding behind pain and euphoria.
Focusing her will, she said, "Books."
Scaukra frowned at her.
"Books. Blue," she said, more urgently, then giggled as pleasure surged to answer to her faster heartbeat.
"Drink," he said.
Breea shut her mouth and glared at him, focusing on his eyes. "Books."
"Your books?"
Breea gave a tiny nod, and he moved from her line of vision. A shadow crept into her peripheral vision and a wave of weakness pulled down her eyelids. Panicked, she whimpered and forced her eyes open.
"This?" asked Scaukra, and held the healing tome before her.
"Read," she responded.
Sitting before Breea and opening the book, Scaukra examined the text.
"I cannot read this," he said.
The shadow closed her vision further. Alternating waves of unbearable pain and quivering euphoria swept through her, and terror gripped her soul, such as she had known only at her father’s death.
Vision disappeared. "No!" she sobbed. "Help me."
Breea felt her heart falter, felt her death.
Far off, a voice spoke. "Look within." In wild and helpless despair, she reached into her soul, seeking.
The flame! Energy swept all sensation from her, except for its own searing pain. She bathed in it, for it was the agony of life.
Scaukra was examining her face with concern as he held up the blue healing weave tome.
She said through clenched teeth, "Open…" Through her tears she saw Scaukra looking at her in fear and shock, but he held the blue tome open to the first page.
Weaving the simplest pain-killing weave through the agony of her dying body and the burning of the flame proved impossible. After uncounted tries, she sobbed as she faded into darkness. In desperation she reached even deeper, into a place within she had not known existed, and screamed as the surging power blasted her mind apart.
The air about her glowed with a silver radiance. She forced herself to see the text, and read frantically. A strand of the weave was caught in the expanding bloom of her power, and the silver glow became a blue sparkling. Breea reached out with a trembling hand, turned the page, and tied up the weave, turning the room scintillating blue.
Warmth permeated her as the pain dimmed. It was an effort, but she rolled over and managed to sit up. Her blanket slipped down to her waist.
Her voice was cracked and weak as she said, "Give me the book."
Multiple emotions flitted over Scaukra’s face in succession. Finally, he handed her the tome, then moved to the far side of the room, gazing in fearful wonder at the spectacular sparkles of blue.
Breea wove a boundary, and spent an hour weaving a more complex healing weave into herself, careful to maintain the boundary as she did so, then unraveled the first. The sparkles faded, and pain returned, but it was bearable. She pulled up the blanket to cover her breasts, and gazed at Scaukra to see what he would do. Ravenous hunger chewed her, and a soul-deep weariness dragged her down, demanding sleep.
The door opened and the red-robed priest stepped in, speaking to another behind him, "But since she’ll die, you understand, the One in Wisdom never meant for us to truly ask the question. More—" He saw Breea and tripped over the hem of his robe to sprawl at the foot of her bed.
A small smile quirked Scaukra’s lips.
The second man in the doorway knelt on both knees, bowed his head, and said in a shaky voice, "I Serve."
The one on the floor picked himself up and did the same.
Not wanting to promote such behavior, but needing to satisfy the hunger and thirst that was about to drive her mad, she said, "Water? Food?"
Scaukra walked out. The priests bowed in confusion, and followed him.
Wrapped in a sheet from the bed, Breea examined the room. Walking to a chest across the room exhausted her and she sat on it, breathing hard. Her wounds burned, and her tongue and throat felt swollen. The healing tome was clear that healing weaves only did so much; the body must do the rest. She looked inside the chest and found her cloak, saddlebags, and daggers. No clothing.
Three boys entered with wooden plates as big as shields, laden with cold meats, bread, cheese, dried fruit, and jugs of wine and ale. Breea staggered to the bed, asked for pure water, and a boy sprinted out of the room, returning quickly with a jug. She drank and ate until her stomach warned her with pain. After the awed boys took away the platters, one of the priests returned.
Kneeling, the man said with emotion, "I Serve, Master Banea," and remained motionless, head bowed.
Uncomfortable, and unsure how to answer, Breea leaned forward to get a better look at him. He had curly brown hair, a dark, close-cut beard, and hands with thick knuckles; but aside from the fine robe, she could see little else about him. Wanting to put on her clothes, but unsure if there was something in particular that she was expected to do, Breea just sat.
Angry shouts echoed from the hall, and several armed men poured into the room. The priest leapt up, raising his arms as a barrier.
"None may disturb a recovering Rautukana," he said. "All know the Ways of Conduct."
Most of the men retreated, but one, a great shaggy tree of a man, looked over the priest’s head at Breea and said, "I never heard the cry."
"Nor I," said a warrior holding a spiked mace.
There was grumbling agreement, and the priest turned to face Breea. He recited, "As Lutna, Chosen of the One, set down in the Way of Order, all in witness must hear the Rautukana cry the victory."
Six men. More in the hall. No other exit, and she was weak. If she answered wrong, she would die here.
Breea gathered herself and said, "Rautukana."
Confusion and consternation flickered over their rough, angry faces. The priest ordered them out, closing the door as he also left, head bowed.
Breea stepped off the bed, belted on her daggers and put on her cloak. A quick look verified that all the other contents of her saddlebags we
re intact, then she sat on the floor beside the chest to catch her breath.
The orb, in its bag, radiated warmth like a small fire. She took it in her hand and strength flowed into her. Orb in both hands, shoulders bowed, she sat, letting its energy flow into her.
When she felt strong enough, she stood and opened the door. Four guards snapped to attention, snapping their heels together and putting their fists to palm with loud smacks. Breea flinched back, but they made no further motion.
Their expressions reflected duty, respect, and a dignified eagerness to obey. She realized that they were there to protect rather than keep her in, and she said, "I need my clothes."
One of the guards bowed his head sharply, saying, "I Serve," and marched down the hall.
Breea closed the door and wondered what she would do next. A while later the guards challenged someone, and they were rebuked for it. Scaukra entered with a few dresses and her single set of spare clothing draped over his arm. Silently, he put them on the bed, his gray-green eyes unreadable.
Refusing to look directly at Breea, he said, "Master, your other garments are washed, but unmended. Here are those from your saddle pouches." He straightened to attention, and stared over the bed at the far wall. He looked to be awaiting judgment on his selection of clothing.
"Scaukra, I am not your master, nor master of this place, and I need to leave."
"The priests believe you Chosen of the One."
Breea bit her lip.
"No longer are you Rautukana. Now Master of Batusha."
A chill ran through Breea, scalp to toes. She chewed her lip as tendrils of worry and fear curled around her chest. Momentous things had passed. Things that she did not understand. She needed to get away, to think.
"You must help me escape," she said, asking more than telling him. "I must leave now. Is there a secret way from this room?"
Scaukra shook his head.
"I am going to walk straight out of here if there is no other way. Are you going to help me?"
He raised his chin and said, "I Serve."
Breea nodded, grateful for the assurance of help but not at all sure of the form. Where could she go?
As though he guessed her thoughts, Scaukra said, "The city speaks of you."
She looked at him, but he was still staring at the wall, though a small smile touched his lips. He said in a voice of pleased sarcasm, "There are twelve of you now. Each has slain ten of the Temple’s best."
Breea swallowed a touch of pride and asked, "Is it day or night outside?"
"Early darkness."
Something foreboding in the way he spoke made Breea study him, but his face held nothing but sardonic amusement.
Breea tried to plan her next moves, but could not escape a feeling of riding blind with her hands tied. She asked, "Do you know of a place I can go? Quiet? Where no Temple guard will come?"
"I protect the Lute and Swan during festival. The keeper is worthy. Neprawn the Tall protects tonight."
"Wait in the hall for me."
Scaukra turned and walked from the room. After putting on her clothing, she threw her bags over her right shoulder, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
Orb in hand under her cloak, she opened the door and saw that the four men were still in the same attention positions. With a start, she saw that one of them was the white-haired fellow she had yielded to at her test. His face was healing from what appeared to have been terrible bruises. Breea wondered if her face looked as bad. She limped after Scaukra as he led the way down the hall. Before they reached a thick door at the end of the hall, Scaukra said quietly, "They will remain chak’ood until you acknowledge."
"Chak’ood?"
Scaukra gave a small nod, and said, "Anule is the word to stand them at relaxed ready."
"Anule," said Breea back to the men. In unison they spread their legs to their former ready stance, then walked to form a four-man guard box around Breea.
There would be no escape this way, so she said to them, "I do not require your guard, but I thank you for it."
They looked almost as uncomfortable as Breea, but she walked away from them before any could speak. After passing through another door, Breea sighed in relief.
Scaukra admonished her gently. "They are loyal to you, and wish to protect their Guild Master from those who are not."
Breea did not respond. As he led her down a narrow spiral stair and through further passages, she began to feel that she was in a fortress maze rather than a guild hall. The walls and floors were made of fine-grained wood, worn almost black with age. Each floor had a stair that led to only one other level, sometimes skipping a floor in between. Lamps at long intervals gave poor light.
They met few men, each of whom chak’ood at seeing Breea. She told them anule. Despite a strong wish for anonymity, Breea felt pleasure from such displays of respect from these warrior men.
"Where are we going?" Breea asked, feeling sure that they had been underground for the last few stairwells.
"Under the street to the merchant house."
An iron door barred their way. A guttering lamp smoked beside it on a peg. Scaukra took it down and pounded three times and once on the door.
A tiny window snapped open, and Scaukra said, "Master Banea, Chosen of the One."
The window shut, something ground slowly off the door, and it swung open on creaking hinges. The men on the other side looked fiercely at Breea and chak’ood very slowly, putting their fists in their palms without a sound.
Scaukra advanced on them. Breea walked down the dark tunnel in an attempt to discourage Scaukra from doing anything, but there were two grunts of pain, and then the door clanging shut. Breea slowed her stride in near darkness and watched the tunnel’s white walls lighten as Scaukra approached from behind her with the lamp. He was silent, though a hint of satisfaction was in his long, dark face.
The tunnel was dry, carved from the same chalk that formed the cliff behind the city. Another guarded door, a spiral stair, and a thick wood door brought them into what she guessed to be the storage room of the merchant house, though to Breea its organization and assortment reminded her of Limtir’s armories.
She wrapped her cloak tight and pulled up the hood. They walked into the front room, where dozens of fine blades, axes, and pole arms were displayed on walls and on tables draped in rich red velvet. A smithy’s regular hammering could be heard through the walls. A well-dressed old man sitting on a large cushion in a corner, sharpening an ax, paid them no attention.
Outside was bitter cold, and thick with wood smoke. The streets were deserted and very dark as they turned north. Moonlight struggling at an angle through the haze did little to light the cobbles.
A shriek rose from a few streets west, bounced from building to building, and died in the chill haze. Breea looked at Scaukra, but he seemed not to have noticed, brooding on some topic, peering beyond the night.
A wall blocked the sky before them, and they walked up a worn stair under it, and through a gatehouse. They entered a lamp-lit street lined with tall, fine houses. An abandoned watchman’s shelter beneath the first lamppost leaned askew.
The houses along this street were finely crafted of straight beams carved in intricate patterns. Windows were of glass and reflected the yellow fires in the street lamps. Sweeter smoke came from their high rooftop chimneys. Each lamp along the lane was surrounded by a yellow haze from the smoke that curled through the streets between the high-roofed buildings.
As they passed a tavern, music from a slow-playing fiddle swirled out to drift lazily with the smoke. Firelight flickered through cracks around closed shutters. The tavern doors opened, and a pair of gentlemen stumbled out giving hearty farewell cries that were answered from within. The doors were shut quickly, and the pair, arms over each other’s shoulders, went unsteadily past, singing a ballad to the fiddle tune.
Scaukra wound uphill along major avenues paved in granite hexagons. Breea stopped in her tracks. Scaukra realized she had halted, a
nd walked back to her. He followed her gaze, and scowled.
Above the houses at the end of the street, two black spires like long, thin fangs stabbed upward, lit from behind by the faint glow of light reflecting off the white chalk cliffs. Dark-orange fires burned in recesses up and down the towers, creating black smoke plumes that curled around the spines of stone. A wash of ice water seemed to flow through Breea, and she looked away.
Scaukra pointed at a large building of white marble that jutted into the street. Its round, white-stone face was four stories tall, much carved and elegantly sculpted. A green metal vine reached over the street, a sign clasped in its gold leaves. Lanterns on each side of the sign showed a swan on an azure lake above which a lute floated, painted to glow like the sun. Bright lamps burned along steps that led up to a pair of glass-paned metal doors. Music of a kind Breea had never heard poured from the building into the night.
Scaukra said, "Neprawn the Tall protects nights. He believes you are Master of Batusha. Davian Dupalo is the keeper. If you wish to return to Batusha, go south to the Way of Arrows."
He led her not to the front but to a side entrance.
"Thank you, Scaukra."
He glared at her, not in anger, but with that odd mixture of emotion that marked him, and she knew there were things he wanted to speak. Finally, he said, "I Serve," and strode away.
Breea moved into a shadow and wove her hair into a light blonde, and put the orb into her bag. Weariness and pain sickened her, and she leaned against the cold wall. Gathering her remaining strength, she walked up the steps to the door. Trying to figure Scaukra’s motives, she looked and saw his back just before he turned the corner. She rang the polished bell by the door with its white tassel.
Through the door’s frosted panes she saw movement, and it opened a hand-width. A pale face looked her up and down and asked in a voice that was neither male nor female, "Your business, miss?"
"I need a room."
The face’s mouth turned out in a pout. Head wobbling, staring at her chest, it said, "Our book is full," and started to close the door.
Breea fished a silver piece from her pouch and held it up, saying, "In silence."
The eyes reflected the glint of the metal, the door swung open, and a white-gloved hand deftly apprehended the coin. With a flourish, Breea was beckoned to enter.
She tried not to gawk. The walls were green marble shot through with silver, and the floor, silver-veined white marble, had a detailed swan and lute inlay of yellow crystal or amber. Above, a chandelier containing hundreds of candles surrounded by hanging bits of cut crystal lit the circular chamber with quivering rainbows. A double door of green-tinted glass led to lively music, noise, and laughter. An arch opened to an ornate spiral stair. Between the doors a fire crackled in a beautiful setting of green marble.
Breea decided the host was a man by the smell of him, though the puffed sleeves and leggings and frilled lace of his uniform did not strike her as anything a man might wear, nor woman, for that matter. It was decidedly ridiculous. He led her to a counter with a book, where stood a pretty woman as pale as he in a blue-and-white dress much frilled and lacy. Breea put a piece of silver on the open page, and turned back to the room’s splendor, partially to enjoy its fineness but also to hide her fear that her bribes would not be accepted.
Beside the door, in an unlit alcove, sat the exceedingly tall, bearded warrior who had volunteered with Sabar to fight Breea at her test. He was dressed now in red-lacquered leather armor decorated and edged in silver.
She could see his eyes sparkling in the dimness. He blinked, but otherwise did not react. Several things occurred to her.
Like this man, Scaukra was a warrior of Batusha, but unlike the others, Scaukra seemed to know what path to take with Breea. As well, he wished to speak things to her, but seemed afraid to express them. Hiding knowledge? What were his words to the healer, that he would meet her tonight? Breea’s memory of the healer, though never seen, was of a chill presence, not benevolent. She took out another silver piece, raised it, and dropped her saddlebags to the floor.
The doorman said ingratiatingly, "Milady, you require?"
"I require you to prepare a room for me with a very hot bath. I will return soon." She put the silver in his hand. He pocketed it while bowing acquiescence, and opened the door for her as a carriage clattered up to the base of the steps. Sliding past, she heard him call for a porter, then greet the people stepping out of the carriage.
Hoping Scaukra had not gone far, Breea released her boundary, but the fire within was weak. She closed her eyes and reached into that place of deep power she’d found on her deathbed, and with the energy it provided, sprinted out of the side street and down the way he had gone. She ran to the next intersection, but he was nowhere to be seen. Two more blocks showed no sign of him, and she nearly fell on ice as she whirled to look down all streets. Turning indecisively at an intersection, she noticed a door closing down a darker side lane. Keeping to the shadows, she got close enough to read the healer’s insignia on the door of a building bricked of rough stones. Firelight shadows danced on curtains in a second-story window.
After looking both ways down the lane, Breea began to climb the face of the building. She reached the window and gazed in. Between the curtains she saw a woman with long, curly, red hair wearing a nearly transparent robe of clinging material. She tossed her hair, lay back on a large bed, and motioned for someone else in the room to join her.
Breea could not see anything else. The curtains were open farther at the top of the window, so she moved upward, grabbing the sill on each side and pressing out while pulling herself toward the window to keep from falling back. She inched her way up until she could just look through the top of the window. She brought her feet up to the thin window ledge and stood on the edges of her boots. Bending over because the window was shorter than her, she peered in.
Scaukra sat at a small table across the room from the bed and drank wine from a bottle, not looking at the woman on the bed. A roaring fire blazed in front of him in a hearth made of the same stones as the building. The woman got up from the bed and swayed over to him. She unlaced his boots, rubbed his feet, and worked her fingers up his pant legs. Scaukra looked at her and drank from the bottle again, ignoring the goblets on the table beside him.
Warm air drifted out of the cracks around the window frame, and Breea shifted her position slightly as the flame within slowly faded, and cold seeped into her. Her fingers began to ache, gripping the cold rock.
The woman moved behind Scaukra, unbuttoned his shirt, and ran her fingers over his chest and through his hair. She bent over to kiss his neck and whisper in his ear. He sighed deeply and drank some more. The woman walked in front of him, tossed her hair, and pulled her gown slowly off her shoulder. Scaukra gazed at her, a small smile on his lips. Slowly, she pulled the gown off the other shoulder, and dropped her arms to her sides, arching her chest at him. Pulling at the material on her hips, she inched the cloth down over her breasts until it fell around her waist. Scaukra shifted his position in the chair. The woman pulled up her arms, shook her hips, and the robe fell away completely.
Scaukra stood and grabbed her, kissing her fiercely, bottle still in his hand. They both started moving toward the bed, fighting against Scaukra’s clothes. Naked, they fell to the bed, and Scaukra poured wine all over her. She opened her mouth and he poured her some, and tossing the bottle away, began to lick the wine from her body, concentrating on her breasts.
Despite the cold that was penetrating every part of her, Breea felt a warm glow, watching Scaukra’s lean musculature move over the woman as she arched her back. Guilt and loneliness struck then, and Breea looked away. She felt ashamed and, stepping down, nearly went tumbling to the ground. Grabbing at the window ledge, heart beating not just from the near fall, she edged her way carefully down the wall. With concentration on the descent, she tried to keep memory at bay, but the loneliness she managed to ignore every day rose up and smothered he
r heart.
Her numbed fingers lost their purchase and she fell back. Falling, she whirled her arms and brought up her feet, trying to orient to land on them. Her heels struck the stone of the street and she fell backward, to strike the cobblestones squarely on her back. Air in her lungs burst free, and her head smacked against the pavement.
Tears of pain streamed down the sides of her face as she gasped small breaths to the stabbing pain in her chest and back. Above, someone cried out in pleasure. Breea grimaced bitterly at the irony.
After long minutes, she was able to take a nearly full breath, and she slowly got up, head throbbing. She pulled back the hood that had saved her from a split skull, and felt the swelling through her hair. Her heels, calves, and back ached with each step, and deeper wounds felt as though she had reruptured something within.
At the Lute and Swan, the doorman said nothing as he guided her, limping and shivering, to her room on the fourth floor.
The "room" was a suite so elegant that Breea felt lost amid its richness. She dismissed the doorman, then a pair of servants who offered assistance.
Arranged around a entry hall, rooms radiated in five directions through carved doorways. The ceiling was domed, painted with beautiful clouds backlit by the sun. Lamps of cut crystal in the shape of clouds lit the scene.
Breea wandered from room to room looking for a bed. There was a library, sitting rooms, parlors, and chambers she could only guess a purpose for, filled with tapestries, paintings, vases, and ornate furniture. It made Limtir’s gamanthea wood and marble living chambers look almost plain. She came to a tiled room in the center of which lay a pool giving off scented steam. Aching weariness of body and mind caused her to sway.
"May I serve you, milady?" asked a meek voice.
Whirling, Breea caught her herself before she drew a dagger. The young serving woman standing there started at the sudden movement.
"No," said Breea, wondering how many more servants there were.
The woman curtsied, dropping her eyes, her expression full of fear that she had offended. The woman looked younger than Breea, just past the threshold into womanhood, and pretty.
Feeling bad for her, Breea asked, "Where are my bags?"
Eager to please, the servant turned back, and said, "Milady, in the bed chamber beyond the bath. It is unpacked and there is a light meal for your pleasure."
Thinking of the weaving tomes, Breea frowned.
A stricken look leapt to the young woman’s face, and she said, "It is my standard duty." She opened her mouth then shut it, afraid that she had said too much, and looked at Breea with frightened eyes. Then she realized she was staring at Breea, and quickly dropped her gaze to her toes.
Unsure what to say to make the woman more at ease, but sure that she needed to see that the orb and all her tomes were there, she said as friendly as possible, "Show me?"
All her books were neatly placed on a shelf with the orb. Her traveling equipment lay arranged in a chest of drawers beside the closet. A standing closet was filled with a wide array of women’s clothing of a size to fit her. A large platter covered with light foods lay beside a decanter of wine on a table beside a bed canopied in red silk. Breea ate some crackers covered with spiced fruit paste, and took a drink of wine that the young servant poured for her.
Breea dismissed the girl, shut the door, took off her cloak and daggers, and hid the daggers in the empty saddlebags. She considered the bath, but decided that feeling as she did, she would likely fall asleep and drown. She crawled under the blankets.
A Woman Warrior Born Page 25