by Kyrja
The memory of young women warming his blankets caused his thoughts to turn to the one he’d left tending to Jarles. Aidena was her name. He’d known she was different from the rest the moment she’d walked into the camp that first evening. She hadn’t arrived desperate and exhausted, as most everyone else did. She’d been observed watching the caravan for two weeks before she’d actually presented herself in camp; the one thing he’d insisted on above all else was that there would always be guards and warriors posted. With the sheer number of people trailing along after Jarles throughout the wide plains of sands and dunes, there was absolutely no reason they shouldn’t have had sufficient numbers of these kinds of people among their population. Nor any reason why they shouldn’t be required to report to him when they observed unknown people approaching the caravan. For some strange reason, Jarles seemed to take a real liking to these people, so they had little argument with letting Kerr know when strangers were approaching.
Kerr had never had a particular liking of the warrior sect, and so hadn’t objected all that strenuously when Jonath had refused to take up the sword. There were always plenty of young men and women eager to wed themselves to the blade. His son, as far as he’d been concerned, hadn’t needed to be among their kind. His mother had had other ideas, of course, but then, she’d always had strange ideas! Much like this Aidena.
He’d wondered how she’d been able to trail along, nosing about as if she was some kind of predator and the caravan the prey for so long without having the need to beg for water long before finally making her way into camp. Most who found their way to the caravan were simply overwhelmed with gratitude, and powerful thirst, practically falling on their faces for the blessing of having arrived among them without having perished in the depths of Sov’s heart. But not Aidena. She, in fact, had been quite casual about water, not having even asked for a small dipper – waiting for it to be offered. Quite odd, that. And then she’d only taken a few small mouthfuls of from the skin she’d been handed, as if she was only doing so out of custom or politeness, and not a deep-seeded need to replenish the lifewaters of her soul.
And so Kerr had watched her carefully. Usually he had others to employ for such menial tasks, those eager to earn his reward or good regard. But Aidena he had watched with his own eyes, ensuring he was near her during meals and casually hiding in plain sight near those fires she chose to sit by each night. But he’d found nothing about her that had warranted his suspicions. She was reluctant to remain among too many people for very long, but other than being discomfited by the close association of too many people at once, she presented no problems. She didn’t start any fights, never took more than her share, did whatever chores she was asked to efficiently and without complaint, and managed to stay away from those who he considered to be of questionable moral character. By that, he meant those who might choose to steal from him! She didn’t go out of her way to be friendly, but that was hardly something he could hold against her. The only strange thing he could see about her, for the first few weeks while she’d been the focus of his intense scrutiny was that she never took a lover. Not male nor female. He figured the girl might have been one who’d run away from her family when faced with being forced to marry someone not of her choosing, but nothing she ever said pointed to any discord in her life at all. Which probably meant she was simply an excellent liar, Kerr knew.
Still, he couldn’t watch her forever, and spending too much time watching her would eventually give him away. But when he’d confronted her on that dune a short time ago, he’d felt her power uncoil inside of her. It had taken a formidable effort on his part not to reveal his surprise at her strength; he’d been lucky, he knew, to have startled her. It allowed him to step away from her to reassess his options. If there was one thing he was very, very good at though, it was reading people. He’d seen immediately that she had no idea she had the upper-hand in their conflict, insofar as raw power was concerned. She, in fact, seemed blithely unaware of the kind of strength she held in check. He’d wondered how that could be, and had pondered the mystery since their encounter. But since she’d no idea of the kind of power she possessed, he’d quickly taken control of the situation exactly as she’d expected him to do. His reputation as the heir’s protective, if unpredictable, grandfather had once again afforded him the opportunity to manipulate the situation to his own ends.
She’d assumed he would forbid the questions she had for Jarles, so that’s exactly what he’d done. She’d only challenged him when he suggested she return home to tend to her family. Her reaction to the implanted suggestion had only confirmed his guess that she’d had problems at home. She’d surprised him though, by poking back at him. It was the merest touch of the power she held tucked inside, but it had been enough to warn him that she knew how to use at least a fraction of whatever gifts she possessed. It bothered him greatly that he’d had to leave her with Jarles. Oh, there was no doubt she had no intention of hurting him; it was her curiosity that concerned him. He’d carefully tended to the boy’s perceptions of what was and wasn’t good for him, ever careful to poke and prod in just the right fashion so as to ensure he would be easily manipulated into agreeing with his eccentric old grandfather when the time came. Jarles actually genuinely liked him! It was ever fascinating to see the scowl on his face when he mentioned that one of the elders had tried to persuade him away from the course of action his grandfather had recommended.
But he was a thinker, this Jarles, and Kerr had to constantly be vigilant that he not spend too much time lost in thought. He needed his grandson to be in exactly the right frame of mind when they finally arrived at the Temple of Life. Which is precisely why he wasn’t pleased about having left him in the care of this unknown Aidena. There was just too much he didn’t know about her. Still, she was a capable enough young woman, that much was clear from everything he’d witnessed about her up to this point. And it was, in this case, better to have left Jarles attended while he was in this state, by someone who wasn’t overly enthralled with him, or worse – afraid of him. He was fairly certain the girl was neither.
“Your qatyeh is soaking wet, old man!” He heard the shouted words, felt them register in his mind as offensive, felt the blush of embarrassment creep into his cheeks, and opened his mouth to fire back an equally-offensive retort, when he realized just who’d said it. Fortunately, he’d had enough composure to realize before he’d made a fool of himself. So far. But if the woman who had so casually made the cutting remark had anything to do with the matter, that situation would soon be rectified. No matter what tactic he employed, no matter how sweet or vile he chose to be towards her, she always, always, got the better of him, leaving him feeling like a fool. If that wasn’t bad enough – and it was! – she always made sure to do so in public, making him look both foolish and defeated. He’d come to truly hate her over the years of their long association and had even made two attempts to have her killed. The woman was absolutely uncanny in knowing when he was coming for her, or even when he had others sent after her. It was maddening.
She’d already played her part in the bringing forth the heir of Amphidea. She served no further purpose and should simply cease to exist as far as he was concerned. She’d even lived through the poisoning he had successfully employed against her! He’d thought he’d rid himself of her the first time she disappeared years ago, but had since learned the error of his ways. Maw’ki, as she called herself these days, would come and go as she pleased, and not even Jarles’ heartfelt requests that she remain close by could sway her. Infuriating! Nothing and no one could influence her. By the seas he hated her!
He hadn’t always hated her though. When she’d first asked him to be her lover, he’d been delighted. He’d long known he was never the most handsome of men, nor the most influential. In fact, he hadn’t truly been much of anything to anyone at that point in his life. He’d only had a few lovers here and there, and never a mate. He hadn’t truly given much thought to the matter though, since he’d never
really planned to stay with the compania much beyond the age of 25. Still, he’d been over thirty when Denit had approached him, asking if he would honor her with her deflowering. It had been a stupid question; she’d been truly beautiful. Not just pretty with the fact of her youth, but beautiful in face and spirit. He’d enjoyed their coupling beyond the physical delights her young body offered, even asking her to be his wife. She’d refused, saying he had done his part in helping to create the child she desired; his company – and any further physical encounters he might have intended – were most unwelcome.
He’d told Jarles she’d been his wife though, which made him worry every time she came around. The boy loved him enough now so as to not suddenly decide he no longer wanted his grandfather around for the simple fact of the one sentimental falsehood. If Jarles ever questioned him on it, he would tell the boy he’d always wanted to marry her, and ask his forgiveness for an old man’s heartache. He knew his grandson well enough to understand how to manipulate him into accepting the tale as fact. And he had asked the damnable woman to marry him, after all. So she couldn’t very well deny that portion of it. Still, Denit had plenty of other secrets she could easily spill. Her very existence made Kerr edgy. If there was some way he could rid the world of the woman, he would have already done it. The gods all knew he’d tried enough times! Or if she would just promise to stay away forever, then he could rest easier. But his repeated entreaties had fallen on stone-deaf ears. In fact, the more often he’d tried to persuade her to stay away, the more often she would show up. Sov damn her anyway! He’d even prayed on the matter, asking the Storm Goddess to rid him of her. Amphidea had long paid special heed to his prayers, but in this matter, she was ever silent and uncooperative.
He could feel his heart race as he glanced at her. By all reports, she’d grown into an even more eccentric woman – if that was possible – as she’d grown older. And even more beautiful, he thought ruefully, looking at her across the expanse of sand between them. No clothing she ever wore could hide the fact of her curves, no matter how outlandish, patterned, or splashed with color. Everything about her screamed of peace and beauty and complete composure, no matter how strangely she sometimes acted. The odder she acted, the stranger her pronouncements, the wiser she seemed, and the more mysterious. Nothing could erase the fact of her poise and grace. Especially those startlingly blue eyes – they had haunted his dreams for decades now. He thought it might be a blessing that most of her hair was tucked up inside her qatyeh. The brilliant white it had turned with the years had only made the blue of her eyes stand out even more beautifully against the tanned skin of her face. Damn, but he hated her for not wanting him as badly as he’d always wanted her! Nor did he need her here now, he thought, his anger rushing to the forefront of the whirl of emotions he felt boiling in his veins. The last thing he needed now was more problems.
“What’s the matter, old man, did you lose your thoughts on the wind?” she chuckled, the remark an insult often repeated to remind him of the difference of age between them.
“And which foul wind brought your stench with it?” he returned, his jaws clenching. Why couldn’t she just be decent? Why?
“Why the winds of fortune and change of course!” she laughed out loud, raising her arms and looking around at the people who were trudging along beside her, encouraging them to join in the merriment and laughter she brought with her. And damned if some of them weren’t smiling and chuckling too! Even those that weren’t, averted their eyes, looking everywhere but at him. Why did she always insist on making a fool of him? If she insisted on coming here, why couldn’t she have just stolen into his tent in the middle of the night, with no one around to see her? Well, then again, no, he decided. There was no reason she couldn’t just slit his throat if she decided she wanted to. If, for no other reason, than to prove that she could succeed where he’d failed. So this way, at least, he knew she was back and could gather guards around him. Still, trading the price of public humiliation for being able to safeguard his sleep was hardly a fair exchange where Denit was concerned!
“Go sell your wares elsewhere, hag,” he said, raising his voice and knowing – already knowing - he was being a total idiot for trying to get the best of the woman, but unable to stop himself. “Your kind isn’t welcome here!”
Silence greeted his words. Silence and stillness. He could feel the small hairs on the back of his neck rise; no matter that they were soaked in sweat, he could feel an electrical charge fill the air between the place he was standing and the patch of sand where Denit stood staring at him. He met her eyes – those cool, cold blue eyes and saw fury there. He could feel the power rising in her as if she was sucking it out of the ground beneath her feet. Too late, he noticed the small tendrils of plants growing rapidly from the ground beneath her boots. From the sand beneath her boots - not earthy loam or fertile soil – but dry, arid sand that had never before hosted the smallest hope of providing plant life. Ah Goddess! he prayed, why won’t you save me from this awful woman?
“I have come for my grandson, Kerr,” she said quietly, looking terribly, terribly composed.
Kerr closed his eyes against the fear and pain he felt warring in his heart and mind. There was absolutely nothing he could say that would dissuade this woman from taking Jarles with her. The boy had repeatedly asked to seek her out, and now she was here, having come of her own accord and for her own reasons. She wouldn’t deign to ask him to accompany them, he was sure. Nor could he find any reason or use to ask, other than the fact that he truly wanted to go with them wherever they were going. Then he felt a surge of hope fill his veins.
“You cannot take him, Maw’ki,” he said, his confidence renewed, his courage sound. He purposefully addressed her by the strange name she’d been known to use, instead of her birth name. If she wanted to be called crazy, then who was he to take that privilege from her? “Unless you want to be responsible for the deaths of all these people?” How splendid! Jarles couldn’t just go traipsing off with his grandmother on some lark. How could he have allowed himself to have been worried? Even Denit wouldn’t be so callous, or unthinking, as to allow all these people to perish!
Chapter Five - Savaar
Savaar looked up from his whittling, using the blade to scratch the left side of his chin, where the sweat had trickled into the scruff of beard he’d managed to grow in the past two weeks. The damn thing needed to be shaved off, but he wasn’t about to waste a single drop of water on something so inconsequential as comfort. Not with the desert looming ahead of them. Not a chance. He’d probably have a beard half-way down his chest before they were in the mountains again.
He sighed to himself, resigned to the fact of the desert. There was simply nothing he could do about it, so cursing the cradle of death wasn’t likely to shorten the time he’d have to spend crossing it. He grimaced, wondering just how closely Sov might be listening to his thoughts. The Sun God wasn’t likely to appreciate the image he saw in his mind of what the desert represented; it was supposed to be hailed as the holiest of lands, the very place where Sov and Lumas consorted to bring forth all life. Thinking about the long stretch of dunes and shifting sands devoid of shade and life-sustaining water ahead of them as a death trap would probably cause Sov to ensure that’s exactly what he and Kaya would encounter. If the God was listening to his thoughts. If Sov ever spent a single moment contemplating the lives his children lived. He sighed again, careful not to exhale loudly. He really didn’t care to have to share what was on his mind. Undoubtedly it would turn into another philosophical conversation with his ... what to even call the boy now? Kaya was certainly no longer his slave, nor a boy either.
Savaar glanced over at his companion, only to find him sitting on the hard scree of the ground, completely engrossed in watching the head of a flower swaying gently in the wind. Rolling his eyes, he went back to his whittling. There wasn’t anything else to be done until nightfall, and it was too close to that to even try for a little more sleep. It would be ano
ther day or two, if memory served, before they’d start moving into the desert proper, but it was better to start traveling at night now, so they’d be used to it. Once they were knee deep in sand, they’d have no choice but to seek what shelter they could find during the hours when Sov’s kiss was at its most-lethal. He was no Tuq’deb to be able to find water beneath the surface, and no matter what Kaya thought, his gods weren’t likely to suddenly appear and whisk them safely across the desert using some kind of magic, or other such miraculous nonsense.
He glanced once more at the man sitting twenty paces or so to his right and wondered just what he found so fascinating in watching the head of the small, pink-petalled flower bobbing its head so enticingly in the evening breeze that had found them, here on the very edge of the desert. Kaya saw things so very differently than he did; he’d often been tempted to dismiss the younger man as merely oppositional for the sake of being oppositional. But when asked to explain, sometimes Savaar was able to see through his companion’s eyes.
They’d been at war with each other, three years ago, when they’d met. Not that they’d met as enemies; Kaya’s gods had failed him and his army. He’d been beaten, both bodily and spiritually. And he’d been raped. Six times. He hadn’t known that then, only later, when those who’d done the raping had begun to die under mysterious circumstances. Giya had never tolerated torture for the sake of torture. They should have remembered that, those who had raped the surviving enemy soldiers. But they’d forgotten, or been so caught up in victory, they’d thought with their pricks instead of their heads. Too late, and too little. Even those who made sacrifices, or prayed, or begged for forgiveness died, no matter how cautious or careful they put each foot. Jojen had tripped over a rock, banging his head against another so hard it had cracked his skull. Teeren had gone to his sleeping roll early, complaining of a stomach ache after he’d eaten. He simply never woke up again. Reesep’s horse had run off a cliff, sending them both to their deaths. The other deaths had been equally inexplicable. It had been a strange time, in a strange land, and not one Savaar would be likely to want to repeat. Ever. Some had tried to blame the god of the fallen, saying he’d come back to avenge the slaughter of his army. Savaar knew better though.