The storm ceased, suddenly and utterly.
Quarie and Zuke watched Illista as she knelt by the lake. An iridescent glob of green ooze rising out of the water threw confusing shadows across the sand and mud. The fight between the Segra warriors seemed to have ended. People had come from the camp to the top edge of the lakeshore. Thousands of sets of eyes stared skyward at Illista's magic.
The green ball writhed above them sending showers of water droplets cascading to the lake below, as though a great invisible hand were wringing it out, shrinking it with every gyration. The glow faded too, until only the red-gold of Zuke's fire-ring was left to illuminate the scene.
A breeze picked up then, blowing the remains of the poison, now a ball the size of a man, away from the water. It blew over past where Zuke trapped Mulavi with his magic.
Quarie stared at the poison, feeling helpless and weak. She had no power here. No way to help Illista or the Segra people. If only there were a way to destroy that poison. If she stood by the ocean, she could call upon its vastness to swallow and destroy it. But the ocean was far, and there wasn't enough water here to disperse something like that.
Here on the planes there was only dust and fire.
Zuke's eyes and skin glowed with the power he wielded. She could see that he was already strained to his limits. But he was their only hope.
She whispered to Zuke. “You need to help her. The poison.”
He glanced toward Mulavi, then back to Quarie. “If I let him go…”
“You won't.” She hoped she was right.
She squeezed his hand and sensed his concentration. As he re-directed his fire ring, she felt the shock of lightning—of storm-fire—flow through her. It left her gasping. His fire ring glowed twice the size it had before.
The fire ring shot skyward catching the ball of poison. The ball glowed first blue, then the flames spread and turned red then white until it looked like the sun hovering over the shores. Finally it burst in an explosion of purple and green, raining ashes and embers over the rain-soaked dirt.
With a soft sigh like a whimper, Quarie drooped.
Chapter 11
Zuke was impressed by how quickly and effectively the Waki had trussed Mulavi like a pig for roasting. They assured him that they did not actually plan to roast the Wizard. He was a little disappointed by that.
“This man is wanted for crimes against the Waki people. We have the chieftess's permission to deliver him,” Nunzi told him.
Zuke pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling his own exhaustion more clearly than ever. “And if he escapes?”
The Waki woman raised an eyebrow, which was something he had not realized that they could do. “Have you ever heard stories of what happens to a criminal who escapes the Waki?”
“No. Never.”
She smiled, her face broad and smooth and smug. “Of course not.”
A small voice inside Zuke wondered what the Waki considered a crime. And what the punishment was. And whether his association with Zabewah and Mulavi would ever pit him against the Waki. He had, quite literally, no idea what such a fate might entail.
The potential wrath of the Waki was the least of his concerns. One of Mulavi's men, who surrendered in rather short order to the Segra once Mulavi was incapacitated, had volunteered quite a lot of information. His band of mercenaries was large and well paid, but not loyal. That surprised no one.
A number of messengers had left and also arrived over the weeks, bringing correspondence between Mulavi and Zabewah. That should have surprised no one, except that the Xan Segra had spent precious little time observing Mulavi's activities. A messenger had left camp shortly after tonight's dinner had begun. That meant that Zabewah and Silvari must know that Zuke had interfered with Mulavi and the shell necklace more than once.
He had to leave.
Had to put distance between himself and everyone else before something worse happened. Joral and the Segra, and Quarie and Illista would not be safe as long as Zabewah and Silvari believed Zuke were here.
It also appeared as though, during the confusion of the battle for the lake, that Joral's engagement was broken. The Xan Segra princess apparently had a lover among her own warriors and it seemed to suit everyone to make peace by diplomacy rather than matrimony. Funny how working together against a common enemy was better at establishing bonds of trust than expecting a young couple to shoulder the burden while also feeling the pressure to produce heirs while the whole tribe listened outside their tent.
Not that anyone had bothered to ask for Zuke's advice on the matter.
His backup plan had involved a series of herbs and specially-spiced wines that he intended to gift Joral and the new bride to, er, assist in the bonding process.
Zuke found Quarie in his tent. Something in his gaze must have frightened her, because she cringed when she saw him.
“I didn't know where else to go,” she said. “I should leave.”
He shook his head. “Don't go yet. Please.”
“Illista went with Joral somewhere.”
He sat down in a chair, knowing that it was rude to be up there while she sat cross legged on the floor. He rubbed his aching leg. He would have a very hard time standing back up if he sat down next to her just now. “I think the chieftess took her in and was going to find her clean clothes and someplace to rest. She is a bit of a hero right now.”
She lifted one eye. “As are you.”
He snorted. “I'm no one's hero. If I weren't here, things might not have gone so badly with Mulavi.”
“If you weren't here, Mulavi would have captured me days ago.”
He weighed the thought. That could have been a simpler solution. He could have stayed in obscurity, hid from Mulavi. He could have let Zabewah have Quarie. He couldn't bring himself to imagine the sort of fate that might have awaited her had Mulavi succeeded.
He had been running from conflict for a long time now. But this time he didn't. He faced down his past. But at what cost?
“Don't thank me yet. There is something you should know about me.”
Quarie listened as Zuke spun a tale that sounded, in some ways, remarkably like her own. Other parts of his background seemed difficult for her to truly comprehend.
Zuke had grown up as a misfit in the same mountain castle with Joral. While Joral was the bastard son of the lord who was at least entitled to sit at his father's table and train with his knights, Zuke was just an orphaned servant boy who had suffered a bad accident as a child that left him with a lame leg.
Her heart ached for the boy that he used to be, with no parents to protect and guide him, surviving by his intellect and his wits, despite the fire magic that he didn't understand or know how to control. He left the castle when he was old enough, searching for answers and guidance with his magic, and found Zabewah.
Raksha's sister, Silvari, must share his false charm and hidden cruelty. Instead of being seduced with sweet talk and flowers, Silvari had wooed Zuke with knowledge and tools and half-answers. And acceptance.
“Why did you leave Zabewah and Silvari?” she asked.
Zuke hesitated before answering. She saw him open his mouth as if to speak, and then close it again. He shifted his eyes away, focusing on one of the paintings that decorated the inside walls of his tent.
“I have long felt like there is some part of my magic that I have yet to master. I went looking for a mentor. For someone who could wield fire the way I have. I have never found anyone else like me.”
Quarie remembered her mother, always telling her stories of the sea and the water. From the time Quarie was a little girl, her mother had provided guidance and lore. She had never paid enough attention, never listened enough, never understood enough. Now it was too late. Her mother was gone and she had no one but her own fading memories to rely on. But at least she had that much.
“You seem to have mastered quite a lot on your own.”
Zuke's lips twitched into a rueful smile. “I have occasionally fo
und books and scrolls with tidbits. And I've spent a lot of time alone, with no one but my campfire to talk to and nothing to do but play with fire.”
She reached out to gently touch his sleeve. “Maybe that's all you can do. Maybe that's all either of us can do.”
He turned back to her, his gaze an anguished mix of longing and sadness. And a tiny spark of something that might be hope or might simply be the reflection of the fire.
They sat in quiet for a long time.
Finally Quarie gathered the scattered drops of her courage to do what she had come for. “I have a favor to ask. I would like your help, if you are willing.”
“Of course,” he said softly. The words sent a small thrill through Quarie.
“I need to return to the ocean. I think I can find it, sort of. Now that I'm no longer wearing that bloodstone, I can almost hear it calling me. But I know it’s far away from here, and I don't think I can make it alone. I've never journeyed that far before without help.”
Her longest trek was with Illista to find the Waki tribe right after the confrontation with Raksha, and that was a trail she had followed with her parents before. They arrived hungry and cold and so desperate to hide that nothing else mattered. After that, she had been surrounded by people. Riding in carts or walking alongside them. Equipped with cooking equipment, stores of food, tents and blankets. There were plains and mountains, forests, and more between here and the ocean. And hunters looking to capture her. She didn't have the first idea where to begin on such a journey.
Zuke closed his eyes and she had the sense he was hiding from something painful. Her stomach fell and a lump formed in her throat. He would refuse.
“Silvari is looking for me,” he said finally. “Zabewah probably too. You're not safe with me.”
“Take me back to the water, and then I can protect you.”
Chapter 12
They had days of travel left when Quarie first heard the ocean's sweet melody clearly. It whispered its song on a night that was thick with the promise of rain.
She and Zuke had traveled for what seemed like an eternity, bumping along on hard-packed dirt roads, across rutted fields of tall grasses, and then climbing the dry and unforgivingly sandy hills that rimmed the plains. At first she rode in the cart, unable to stay awake yet unable to rest peacefully. Nightmares chased away her sleep, and emptiness held her waking hours.
Zuke was a pleasant traveling companion, but she was used to settling in next to her sister, surrounded by the sounds of the Segra and Waki tribes. Alone on the road, she heard only the whistle of the wind, the stomping of the horse, the faint rustle and breath of Zuke from across the tent. Noises in the night frightened her awake.
Her favorite time of day was when they set up camp and prepared an evening meal. In the glow of the sunset, Zuke would light a cheery fire. Quarie would take stock of their supplies and make a meal while he cared for the horse. He protested at first, insisting that they share the tasks. It quickly became apparent that her years of working the cooking tents for the Segra had taught her more inventive ways to use—and conserve—their stores of food. Following familiar routines of boiling water and preparing grains and herbs, stirring and simmering soothed her.
They ate together and shared stories. She loved to hear about his travels, and eventually began to share some of her own. She hated the holes in her memory and the realization that she had never learned all there was to learn from her parents about their people, and about their gifts.
As they crossed what must be the highest peak along their road, the change in the air was palpable. Gone was the parching cold-dry wind of the plains. In its place, she stood high above the clouds that blanketed the valleys and canyons below. That first night on the other side of the divide, she heard the sea.
The sound floated, diaphanous, in the mist around their campsite. It flowed around her, so near and yet so thin she couldn't grasp it.
Two days later she glimpsed the water for the first time in years. They had broken camp in the gray predawn and began their hike downward. Always downward, in what felt like an endless and vast range of stone and tree and patches of snow. They crested another small peak, and there, just before the trail bent back on itself, she paused and squinted.
The clouds had broken, promising dappled sunshine to light their path. The morning sun flared off a tiny prick in the distance. Bright and luminous. It called her.
So clear was that call from her precious ocean that she stayed, enthralled, for several long minutes just gazing. It wasn't until a low blanket of fog closed in the view that she realized how far Zuke had gotten in front of her, and she hurried to catch up.
“Is everything all right?” he asked as she fell into step beside him once again.
“Of course. It was just too pretty a spot to leave.”
“I know the feeling.”
He smiled at her, and the light she saw there stirred something deep inside.
“Hold still.” He plucked a dried leaf from her hair, his fingers ever so lightly brushing her temple. She shivered, in a good way.
He held the offending plant up for her to see. Then, right there in his palm, he lit it on fire with his magic. It flared into a bright but small puff of light and smoke, and left behind the faint scent of herbs.
They spent the next days chasing that precious view. It played hide and seek between the rocks and the clouds, and vanished for hours or even days straight. The trail seemed endless.
With every mile they crossed between the plains and the ocean, Zuke's anxiety grew. He chose a course of roads that were well traveled but not crowded. They avoided the smallest towns where the presence of a pair of strangers would be noted and opted for protected campsites over inns. The journey was uneventful, which only made his unease worse.
As their days fell into a rhythm, Zuke found that both the long stretches of silence and their light conversations in the evenings were easy and comfortable.
He imagined that he felt watchful eyes, observing them traversing grassy plains and over mountain passes. Sometimes, in the fire, he thought he caught a glimpse of a face, so he began to add a few herbs and an extra request to the flames to block potential sendings. But no ward that he knew could block every scry.
Quarie seemed to follow the journey with a dazed sense of wonder. At first she slept for long stretches in the wagon. But somewhere just past the highest crest, it changed. The high plains of the Segra were edged by a mountain range that descended through ancient forests to the sea. The mountains served as a natural wall between the milder, wetter coastal climate and the harsh extremes of the Segra's vast grasslands. Past that high crest the trees began, and then the streams. The autumn weather was dry, anticipating the heavy snows of winter. But water trickled year round from high springs and glaciers.
At one small creek, Zuke and Quarie dismounted from the cart to lead the horse across on foot. There was no bridge, so they removed their boots and stepped with bare feet into the icy fresh water.
She laughed.
It was such a small noise that he might have missed it, except that it happened again later in the day.
By the time they were traversing through towering groves of lush trees and the streams had grown to rushing cascades, Quarie became outright giddy with every drop of fresh water.
“This water,” she told him with bright eyes, “Is a traveler like I am. We are both headed to the sea.”
They paused on the far bank to dry their feet. Zuke warmed his socks with heat and the water evaporated. He went to do the same for Quarie, only to see that she didn't need his help. She had called the water droplets out of her clothing and collected them into a small ball of water that hovered above one hand. He watched, awestruck, as she seemed to whisper something and then her water ball floated back to the stream and slipped into its rushing rapids.
The next day, their trail crossed the water again. They had begun descending through rocky outcroppings and boulders, craggy switchbacks, and along s
heer drops to the valley below. The meandering rapids that they had crossed the previous day thundered over polished river rock and roared between steep canyons. And then it dropped abruptly as an enormous waterfall toward the valley floor far below. The trail continued through the rushing water. The stone floor would be slippery and they would emerge sopping wet on the far side. There was no other way across.
Quarie plunged ahead, heedless of the water. Zuke dismounted from the cart and tried to soothe his horse. The beast nickered at Zuke as he tried to coax him forward. He stood, one foot in the water and one foot out with the reins in his hands and begged.
He pleaded.
He cajoled.
He promised extra apples.
The horse stomped his front feet in place.
Blasted horse.
Quarie looked back from the far side of the waterfall and frowned at him, and Zuke felt heat rising in his cheeks thinking how foolish he had to look. He tried to take another step forward, and gave the reins another light tug. The horse still didn’t budge, but Zuke’s leg slipped and he nearly ended up on his arse in the moss.
Quarie touched his shoulder. Her hair was drenched with water, but her eyes were lively and her cheeks rosy and she looked very much like a water sprite emerging from the stream.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
She offered him her hand. “I think I can help.”
His tarnished manly pride kept him from allowing her to actually pull him to his feet. But he did take her hand and reveled in its warmth on his skin. The fire inside him danced at the contact, and when they let go of their fingers, a small amount of gentle steam rose from where they had touched. He missed the steam.
Quarie lifted her hands into the air and pushed the water. He had no other way to explain it. It was as though she held up an invisible tarp that redirected the flow outward, clearing the tops of the wagon like a fountain.
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