She asked, “You know dwarf?”
Einin dared much. If she scampered off at the first sign of success, the man might ask the other sorcerers about the summons. The fewer questions the better. He nodded and spoke about Dura meeting the dwarf before. Einin caught a verb and a couple of proper nouns.
“He coordinates the escort.” The man pantomimed guarding something and marching. “For Dura.”
Einin said, “To Deep Ward?”
The man appeared proud of his own acting skills. She had said the right thing and pretended it was common knowledge. Einin moved out of the door but paused as though a thought had just occurred to her.
“Dwarf is mean?”
“No.” The man tested many words. “Gruff. Stern. Disciplined?”
“Chill?”
He laughed, and Einin realized she had confused the weather with a cold temperament. He hugged himself and agreed with her. She conveyed sincere gratefulness with a smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “Back soon.”
Einin hurried to the stairs and descended into the fortress of Ironwall. She counted her blessings as she did. Her scripts had worked.
Einin used Marah’s name, Dura’s name, and a dozen scripts to wheedle her way past more officials. Acting out words left her exhausted, but she knew enough to get by. She stood in a stone hallway, outside of the throne room, waiting for an audience with the king. Dozens of petitioners from all assorted castes and professions cluttered the hallway. She smelled a tanner in their midst. Everyone whispered, watching her, and she had no idea what they said.
A door creaked open. A herald gestured for her, and she followed into a room filled with stone pillars, lofty ceilings, and nobles chatting in tight knots. At the back of the room, against a wall covered in tapestries, sat a dais, a throne, and King Samos.
“Einin Gamul of Narbor, your majesty.”
Einin kept her face calm and stepped forward, but her heart felt as though she had been running, and her hands trembled. Beads of sweat slid between her shoulderblades. She risked everything on an end run around Dura, and King Samos would probably punish her for the presumption. She hoped he might see her worth and reward her. The Underworld was no place for a baby, and surely that argument wouldn’t fall on deaf ears. The demon spawn were stronger underground. Everyone knew this. Einin curtsied. She needed divine intervention, and King Samos ruled by divine right.
Samos made a welcoming gesture, arms stretched wide, and spoke too quickly for Einin to understand. She bowed again, stepped forward, and recited the lines she had practiced. She needed a translator to assist her in Ironwall, as well as a new place to stay while Dura traveled to the Underworld. She requested asylum in his keep and the ranger Annrin to assist her with Nuna. Einin thought she did a good job with the practiced lines, but the room had gone quiet, and the king looked confused.
Samos asked, “Can anyone speak Kasdin?”
“I can.” A dwarf stepped forward. “What are you asking for, milady?”
The king made another gesture, and one of the pages left the room at a trot. Einin sensed her freedom slipping away. Agents from the tower would come running. Her gamble would fail because she could not speak Nuna. These people thought of her as a mumbling simpleton, but if they spoke her language, she could show them her good breeding.
She licked her lips. “Was I not clear?”
“You mangled it a bit,” the dwarf said. “You need aid in Ironwall and want to avoid going underground? What kind of aid?”
“A translator. I have worked with Klay and Annrin of the ranger corps. Either would be fine. I trust them around the Reborn.”
The dwarf relayed the request. Samos asked a question, which Einin also didn’t understand. His glare spoke volumes, though.
“The king says you can stay behind. Dura can take care of Marah on her own.”
“Tell him,” Einin said, “I would rather die than let my cousin go to the Demon Tribes alone. The tribes work for the shedim, as does Azmon. They will hunt her in the Underworld. She would be safer here, in Ironwall, with me. I trust Annrin and Klay, and Marah knows them as well.”
The dwarf reacted as if struck. “The Reborn is your cousin?”
Einin licked her lips again. Such a stupid misstep, and at the worst time. “We are both Narboran. The king knows it, but the nobles do not. Please be discreet.”
Einin listened as the dwarf translated. There was an exchange of questions, and she caught bits of it, but they rushed through their words. The blind spots in her vocabulary became apparent. The language of the court was different from history books or the market. She was too dependent on others. The inability to speak, for someone trained in politics, infuriated her.
As Samos spoke, the dwarf translated. “The king does not see a need to remove you from the Reborn’s delegation, and he says his most trusted nobles accompany Marah of Narbor into the Deep as an honor guard. He says that in this matter Dura has his complete trust. He also says that Klay of Gadara is with the Soul of Shinar in Paltiel, but if the Reborn needs yet another guard, that can be arranged.”
They waited, and Einin bowed low. She had failed, and soon Dura would know of it. The king huffed at her and gestured to one of his pages. The nobles lost interest in the audience and went back to gossiping. Doors slid open, and running feet echoed through the room. A page returned, mounted the dais, and whispered in the king’s ears. Annrin followed behind at a brisk walk. The king spoke to her, and she appeared startled. The conversation heated, quickened, and Einin was lost.
Annrin shot her a startled look. Einin was about to ask the dwarf for help when red robes entered the throne room. Another page led them, and Einin recognized one of Dura’s best students, a younger woman with long blonde hair.
“There you are,” Demelza said in Kasdin. “Mistress Dura is not happy.”
The king spoke, and Annrin moved to Einin’s shoulder. Everyone listened to the king and bowed. Einin bowed as well.
Annrin said, “He has ordered you to return to Dura, and I am to accompany you.”
Demelza gave a curt command. “Come with us, now.”
Torn between thanking Samos and apologizing, Einin bowed low and said nothing. She had been put in her place, and everyone knew it. Her cheeks burned. Now, she not only looked desperate, but she looked like a failure as well.
Annrin said, “We will speak of this later.”
Outside the doors, Dura’s staff struck the stones of the hallway as she marched toward Einin. Her face had loose skin and liver spots but was as stern as steel. The twist of her lips and clench of her jaw made Einin look at the floor.
“Make me walk down all those stairs for this. What has gotten into you?”
Demelza bent low to her ear and whispered something.
Dura’s frown deepened. “You asked the king to protect you from me?”
“I asked that Marah not be sent to the Underworld.”
“What has gotten into you?”
“I would rather risk the barbarians in the Lost Lands than take Marah to the demon spawn. This is madness—”
“The Lost Lands are not patrolled by armies of dwarves. They ward us against the horrors of the Deep. The risk is small. The rewards are great. And you do not know enough about our lands to understand the difference.” Dura struck the stone floor with her staff to end Einin’s complaints. A chill filled the hallway. “We return to my tower. Annrin, bring your things. Our Lady of Narbor can see how useful her new guard is.”
Einin followed Dura back up the stairs. The trip was no small thing, climbing the mountain with a baby. She kept her chin high, but failure colored her cheeks. Her only victory was that they had not taken Marah away from her. Maybe Argoria was different than Sornum, where the Demon Tribes roamed the surface. Keeping a Reborn away from the monsters had seemed a reasonable request and a chance to move closer to the nobility.
Sh
e obsessed over the audience as she hiked the stairs. She needed a subtle argument to persuade the king and lacked the vocabulary to do it. Dura said Einin asked for protection from the Red Tower. She was sure she had not said that and wondered whether the dwarf inserted that tone into his translation. Any of a dozen mistakes, little differences in little words, might have painted Dura or the king as incompetent, when all Einin wanted was more freedom to protect her child.
She shook her head. Nuna would be the death of them both.
A day later, Einin was changing Marah when Annrin knocked on the doorframe.
“Do you have everything you need, milady?”
“Yes, why?”
“I am heading down to the stables to check on my bear. I will need to feed and exercise Laban every day. I trust that is okay with you? Our mounts don’t let others ride them often; it usually ends in bloodshed.”
Einin busied herself pinning Marah’s diaper in place. She would not be dragged into an argument about responsibilities. She told herself that bruised egos heal by degrees, and she had far more cause to be insulted than Annrin.
“I do not need another guard. I need someone I can trust, now that Tyrus is gone.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You never trusted Tyrus. He has too much history with Azmon.”
Einin’s eyes widened. Annrin missed little.
“What am I supposed to do in this tower all day?” Annrin asked. “Shall we practice Nuna?”
“We should plan an escape. The beasts are coming.”
Annrin snorted with disgust. “May I be excused, milady?”
Einin nodded, and Annrin left. Einin picked up Marah, who slumped over one shoulder, ready for a nap. She made for a rocking chair, and while she rocked, she reenacted the audience with the king. She should have waited to ask the king for anything, but she had no time to practice the request. Dura meant to leave too soon. All the words that had passed between the dwarf, Annrin, and the king bothered at her. They had asked too many questions, which meant she had sounded like a confused child. Her anger throbbed for attention, and she wanted to trash the room, pull down the bookshelves, and smash the stupid rocking chair. Her knuckles whitened as she rocked Marah to sleep. If not for the baby, she would unleash her self-loathing.
III
The tower bustled in preparation for the expedition. Dura coordinated the honor guard, supplies, nobles, and emissaries while Einin worked to keep Annrin at a distance. She had moved into the tower and stayed in Tyrus’s old room, a floor below Einin’s. Their arguments were silent, carried out with glares and stiff shoulders. Einin spent her days studying Nuna and nursing Marah while everyone else rushed about on important work.
The boredom ate away at her. In Narbor, taking care of a Reborn would be a great honor, but in Gadara, she sat on the floor and watched Marah play with blocks. Einin wanted a real nurse to change the diapers and keep Marah from rolling down the stairs. A lady like her should supervise.
Einin had a quiet moment one day when Marah took a nap. She enjoyed these small doses of liberation and headed downstairs to Annrin’s quarters. On the lower level, she looked at the ceiling and waited for crying. The tower was quiet. She knocked. Annrin invited her in and sat on a stool, polishing her armor. She acknowledged Einin with a glance.
“You asked me what I wanted. I’d like to learn the sword.”
Annrin sniffed. “One does not ‘learn the sword.’”
“I need to know how to defend myself, and none of Dura’s students can teach me.”
“She has guards.”
“Who don’t speak Kasdin.”
Annrin stood and stretched her shoulders. She usually wore her long red hair in a braid, but today it was free and fell over a cotton shirt. Most of her equipment was on the bed. Einin had not seen her without the green cloak or armor before, and she had thick shoulders, toned arms, and ripples in her forearms. Einin noticed several scars, jagged bits of skin that looked like dried candle wax.
Annrin said, “Hit me.”
“Pardon?”
“The clansmen teach children to wrestle first. Then they learn the knife. Then they learn the spear. The last thing they learn is the sword.” Annrin stood, waiting. “If you can’t fight with your fists, a blade won’t help.”
“I’ve never fought someone.”
“It’s easy.” Annrin slapped her. “Get mad.” Annrin grabbed Einin’s face and shoved. “Fight back.”
Einin kicked, but her foot hit air. She slapped, and Annrin brushed it aside. Annrin grabbed her in the doorway and tossed her back into the room. Einin stumbled into the cot.
“Make a fist. Not like that. Thumb on the outside.”
Annrin tripped Einin, and she thudded into the floorboards.
“Get up. Good. Now take a swing.”
Furious, Einin swung. Her knuckles slammed into Annrin’s jaw. She might as well have hit a wall. A sharp pain lanced through her wrist, and her knuckles throbbed as if someone had stomped them. The shameful part was that the blow didn’t faze Annrin. She had a small red welt on her cheek and a glare like she could take a dozen more.
“Well, milady, you threw a punch.”
“My wrist hurts.”
“You have to control your hand.” Annrin took her arm, and Einin pulled back, expecting abuse, but Annrin waited. “Relax. When you strike, the forearm has to be behind the punch, like so; you can’t have a limp wrist. Can you lift your own body weight?”
“I’m not sure.”
Annrin dropped into a plank position. Her arms and shoulders flexed, leaving Einin painfully aware of her own slender form. Her arms looked nothing like that. Annrin did a burst of five push-ups and knelt.
“Your turn.”
Einin regretted her dress. Had she known Annrin would attack her, she would have worn better clothes. She worked her way into the plank position and struggled to straighten her arms. Her shoulders trembled, and blood rushed to her cheeks. She could not lift herself. Her eyes watered, and her face flushed to the point that it felt puffy.
“Fall to your knees,” Annrin said. “Do half a push-up.”
Einin had no luck with those either.
“You’ll have to lean into a wall. Don’t be upset; when warriors take wounds, they do it to rebuild their strength.”
They stood side by side, about two feet from the wall, and leaned into the stone before pushing off. Einin could do these, and Annrin did them beside her. After about twenty wall push-ups, Einin sweated, tremors shook her shoulders, and soon the wall was no different than the floor. She could not lift herself anymore.
“You do these morning and night until you can do no more. You break for a meal, bread, cheese, and meat, and do them again.”
“I want to learn the sword.”
“You are not strong enough. Children brawl before they slash.”
“I am not a child.”
“You are weaker.” She spoke with contempt. “A clan boy of five years could kill you.”
No amount of waiting would make things right between them. She had bungled her request, and the king punished Annrin. Annrin appeared proud, and the rangers held a more important role in the court than Einin had noticed. These were not simple woodsmen or escorts. She saw Annrin in a new light, a woman who came from hardy peasant stock and had earned her place at court.
Einin asked, “What is wrong?”
“I am not your servant. You don’t give me commands or ask the king to hand me over to the Red Tower.”
“I know, and I am sorry. I never meant for you to come with us.”
“Dura can keep her safe in the Underworld. This is a waste of my time.”
“You grew up on the steeps? And you learned the knife and the sword, like a clansman?”
“And the bow. Clan women favor bows.”
“How long did it take y
ou to learn the blade?”
“Ten years.”
Einin was shocked; her goal was impossible. Annrin must have known, though, and all her condescending looks made sense. Einin stretched her lower back, trying to imagine a decade spent exercising and sparring.
“Swordsmen spend at least ten years learning the blade, and they are not that skilled. The famous ones practice longer and harder. Men like Tyrus are rare. They don’t have fields to tend and spend all their time learning to kill.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I need mercenaries.”
“You see nothing.” Annrin shook her head. “Mercenaries won’t protect you from the shedim. If you leave Ironwall, you will die.”
“Better to die trying than wait for Azmon’s beasts.” Einin spoke over Annrin’s complaints. “We disagree—fine, but it is my life and my choice. If we return from this expedition, I will hire guards. How do the nobles hire mercenaries?”
“It isn’t so simple. You won’t hire a few guards.”
“Explain.”
“They’ll lead you to the middle of nowhere and kill you. Your people can’t trust our mercenaries.”
“My family in Narbor will make it worthwhile.”
“Mercenaries won’t care.”
“Nonsense. Mercenaries only care about gold.”
“They won’t follow you across the ocean, and you can’t hire enough to fight beasts. They’ll know it and backtrack as soon as they can. If the Norsil don’t kill you, your own guards will.”
Einin refused to admit defeat. This made things more difficult but not impossible. She could find men who would fight for Marah. They would worship the child and keep her safe. She had to work harder to find men like that. Einin kept her thoughts to herself, but she knew such men existed. The Blue Feast, all the adoring faces, gave evidence of men in Gadara who would die for Marah. She knew it.
“We cannot stay here.”
“By ‘we,’ you mean you and Marah, right? Because there is no ‘we.’” Annrin pointed at Einin and hooked a thumb at herself. “The king sent me here to protect Marah from you.”
Out of the Grave: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 2) Page 19