There was also the question of Arad’s rapid healing, and that odd experience he reported. Did she heal him? Or did he have his own powers that were different from hers? Certainly she did not have incredible healing powers. Growing up, when she had bruised, scratched, or cut herself she had healed as slowly as her brothers had.
Thinking of Markel and Bress made her homesick, but she pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the concern at hand. What about illness? Did she recover faster than the rest of her family?
Oddly, she couldn’t remember the last time she was ill.
The door opened, and Arad came back in. He had a clay vessel and two wooden cups; he poured water into one and handed it to her. Then he stripped down—she ogled him appreciatively—and slipped back under the covers, lying on his back with his arms crossed behind his head.
“Arad, have you ever been ill?” Sayri asked as she sipped the cool water.
He chuckled. “Of course. Everyone gets sick,” he said.
“When were you last ill?” she asked carefully.
“I’m not sure,” he answered after a moment. “When I was young. Why?”
“I can’t remember the last time I was sick, Arad. Don’t you find that strange?”
He frowned at her. “Okay, we’re both lucky enough to be healthy,” he admitted. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied with a smirk, imitating his tone. Something else occurred to her. “Arad, have you ever heard of Eeya Selpie?”
He stared at her in obvious shock. “Are you—that’s—yes, yes.” He sat up straight. “Sayri, the Voice said that name when I—” The rest of the sentence stuck in his mouth. “Before I met you. The dream-future you,” he amended when she scowled at him.
“Well, do you know what it means?”
“No,” he answered, irritation clear in his voice. “It made no sense at all.”
She sighed in frustration. “The Voice won’t tell me, either.”
Arad’s face was blank. “You . . . talk to the Voice?”
“Not exactly,” Sayri said. “Sometime I can ask questions and get replies. Sort of. Often the answers are incomprehensible. When I ask about Eeya Selpie—”
Who is Eeya Selpie? she asked.
Higher authority prevails over Eeya Selpie, the Voice said. Eeya Selpie. Rule of critical self-study.
“Well, I can’t understand any of it,” she grimaced.
Arad nodded slowly. “How do you ask?”
“Just think the question. Saying it out loud seems to work, too,” she added.
“Okay,” Arad said, sitting up straight again. “Voice, who is Eeya Selpie?” His brow furrowed for a moment afterward.
“Did it answer you?” Sayri inquired anxiously.
“Yes,” Arad replied. “Something about a higher authority, and studying.”
Sayri sagged. “Same as me. Well,” she added, brightening, “that’s something, though, isn’t it? You can talk to the Voice as well!”
“It’s very odd,” Arad observed, “like talking to myself. If you hadn’t told me about it, I would wonder if I was insane.”
“The thought crossed my mind as well,” Sayri agreed ruefully, receiving a bright smile in return. She took a deep breath then lay back down, pushing him prone and curling up across his chest. If she was a boxcat kitten, she would have started purring.
Arad sighed as well. “Gallord-Smit told me that we will arrive in Benn’s Harbour in a few days if the wind holds,” he commented lazily.
Sayri wrinkled her nose as she heard the name, but she nodded. “It’s true, my love,” she confirmed. “Do you have a plan, once we’ve arrived?”
“To stay with you,” he told her immediately. Then, after a moment’s thought, “I suppose I’d like to visit the arena, see how my trainers and students are doing.”
“Will you compete again?” she wondered. It was difficult to imagine returning to a normal lifestyle, after all they had been through.
“I don’t know, Sayri,” he replied, his voice sad. “There is a war, now. I’m not sure what that will mean for me. For us,” he amended, turning to kiss her on the temple.
“You won’t—Arad, you aren’t thinking—”
“No,” he said forcefully. “My fighting days are over, if I can avoid it. Besides, I won’t fight for Somria against your people. I want them to be my people, now. And the Lord’s Lands army wouldn’t take me. And even if they would . . .” She could sense him shift restlessly. “I don’t think I could kill Somrians. They are men, like your people. Good men,” he added decisively.
“I want to return home, Arad,” she said. “I want to see my parents, and my brothers. I need to know they are all right, after that horrible winter. I’m sure they are, but still . . .”
He tilted her head up to his, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “We will go straight there, my love,” he assured her. “I also want to meet them all. And see your home with my own eyes.”
Sayri wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed him hard. Her heart swelled with joy and pride. She was going home, and taking Arad with her.
She wondered if Markel would like him.
58 GALLORD-SMIT
The green, rolling hills of the Heartlands had been outside the porthole for some time. By the looks of things, it had been a mild winter in the Lord’s Lands, in contrast to the brutality of the previous year’s heavy snows. The southern coastline never received as much snow as inland—in some years, none at all—but the lush greenery in view spoke of an early spring. In likelihood, Benn’s Harbour would already be a bustle as the local merchants began their preparations for the coming season, and the amphitheatre-like hills surrounding the town would be dotted with farmers examining the state of the soil to plan their spring planting.
Gallord-Smit shifted uncomfortably, trying to reduce the pressure on his right hip; doing so only prompted a stab of pain in his lower back from sitting in an unnatural position. He frowned down at the culprit; his right leg lay in a splint from the hip down. His right arm was likewise bound up, but didn’t cause as much trouble as the leg, which seemed to receive all the pressure from his weight regardless of the position he sat in.
Standing, of course, was impossible. His leg had snapped completely backward on itself at the knee when it hit the doorframe, and the corpsman told him that multiple bones were broken. He would never fight again, and the corpsman was not certain he would walk, either. Nor would he want to try just yet, with multiple ribs snapped as well and a crook in his neck that did not seem to be getting better.
Gallord-Smit chuckled to himself darkly. Who would have imagined that he would survive five to one odds in the island campaign, escape almost certain death at Arad’s hands due to a timely distraction—he still had not learned exactly what it had been—and then have his body shattered by a farmgirl from the Lower Valley? The Great Link had an odd way of laying out the paths of fate at times.
South-facing rocky bluffs told him that they would reach Benn’s Harbour soon. He would need to be carried on a litter to a wagon, then trucked like so much cargo to the barracks. It was an unceremonious end to the campaign he had gone off on, but he doubted there would be any parade, regardless; no one had expected him to join the war in the south, and now another battle was no doubt at the forefront of everyone’s minds. The few hundred souls who had died defending their colony in the Southern Islands would fade into history as a footnote, a simple pretext to the true story of the war it started. He himself would probably never even be recorded.
It should have mattered to him, he supposed. But he didn’t care who knew what had happened to him; the lives of the men lost fighting for their loved ones now seemed far more important in his eyes.
There was a knock on the door. Gallord-Smit was alone in a cabin intended for six men, their hammocks pulled down to make room for a gurney and the tools the corpsman had used to set his injured limbs. He had gritted his teeth and attempted not to cry out, but in the end his bellows of ra
ge and agony had been enough to keep the former occupants from asking after their lost accommodations. He imagined they were comfortable enough on deck, in any case; the weather had been good on the trip north.
“Peace,” he offered politely. The door opened and Charese poked her head in. She had taken to standing outside his cabin in the passageway, despite his repeated protestations that he did not need a guard and that she was welcome to remain within. She even refused to sleep in the cabin, though there was plenty of room for another pallet. He wasn’t sure where she actually slept; on deck with her men, perhaps.
“The wrestler is here to see you, Front-Captain,” she told him. For some reason, her animosity for the Somrians did not extend to Arad; perhaps she had heard from Wissa the nature of his father’s manipulation, and of his relationship with Sayri, or perhaps she had simply been a fan of his sport. “If you are tired, I will ask him to wait until we dock.”
“I’m not an invalid, Charese,” he complained. Then, reconsidering; “Well, I suppose I am. But I’m not decrepit. Not yet,” he added with a scowl. “Show him in, please.”
Charese disappeared, and Arad stepped in.
The boy’s recovery had been frightening and astonishing. He moved easily and without any sign of injury or pain; Gallord-Smit almost found himself imagining that there was no trace at all of the mortal wound. It was a miracle, there was no other way to put it.
There was more, though. A trained swordsman such as himself could see it in the way the lad moved, and the way he held himself, despite his attempts to conceal it. He was stronger than he had been before, and more agile. And, if at all possible, he seemed more attentive—no small feat, considering the boy had been quite focused and aware previous to his injury.
“Looks like we’re almost there,” he told Arad, probably unnecessarily, as the young man had likely just come down from the deck. Gallord-Smit sighed. “It’s been a long trek for us, hasn’t it.”
“Longer than I could’ve imagined,” Arad sighed. “I feel like it’s been ten years since we left.”
“Agreed,” Gallord-Smit said. His time in Somria had changed him; before he had been a man fixated on his military career, with nothing else to live for. He had lost that, and found Rena, and discovered that there was still life for him.
He wondered how he would get back to her. Would he have to rely on Rena to come and find him, as she said she would? No, he vowed to himself immediately. He wouldn’t allow her to put herself in danger that way, during wartime. He would find a way.
Arad had changed as well; no doubt the campaign, not to mention his near death experience, was responsible for that. The accountability in sending men to their deaths was at once humiliating and maturing. It could also build a callous, ambitious nature in weaker men, but Gallord-Smit had seen enough officers run through the ranks to know that Arad was not one of those.
“Front-Captain, I—” The young man took a deep breath. “Sayri, she doesn’t understand—”
Gallord-Smit waved him off. “I’ll not take any apologies from you, young man. Or from her through you.”
“But look at you,” Arad complained, gesturing at the many splints and bandages concealing the Front-Captain’s limbs and torso. “You may never walk again. I—I tried to ask her if she could heal you, as she did me. But she is still very angry. She doesn’t understand.” He shrugged sadly.
Gallord-Smit shook his head, allowing a soft smile to curled his lip. “Son, I was cut down in Yalcinae, and only lived due to a young woman’s extraordinary kindness. I survived a war against five times our number. I should have died at your hands; you had me beat, there’s no doubt. And I survived a mountain exploding—only because of your Sayri.” He chuckled again as he recounted his multiple brushes with death. “I had these coming,” he said, indicating his many physical ailments, “and I accept them with humility. This is who I should have been long ago—I’ll manage. Besides, she had every right.”
“What right?” Arad exclaimed, flabbergasted, waving his hands about in frustration. “You were only following your duty, as was I—as was every soul on that island!”
“To us, that’s the way of things, lad,” Gallord-Smit replied calmly. “But our way is not the only way. In that moment we met on the battlefield, I could have chosen compassion over duty. I didn’t, and Sayri saw fit to punish me for my decision. It was a fair punishment.”
“I didn’t choose that either,” Arad pointed out.
“You paid the price, son.”
Arad grimaced, then sighed. “I’ll keep on her, Front-Captain. She’ll see the light eventually. I don’t know if she can heal you, but if she can—”
“The Spiral will continue to spin regardless, son,” Gallord-Smit interrupted, realizing he sounded like a Proselyte.
Arad nodded. “Front-Captain, I also wanted to inquire, if I could. I understand Captain-General Josel was aboard ship for a time. Did he mention any news of the other officers in my—in the Somrian army?”
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “They came to get him in a number of ships, so perhaps there were other survivors. But we had no way of knowing before he left. They didn’t get that close.”
“Understood. Well—we will be at dock soon. Do you need anything else?”
“No,” he said automatically. Then, “Yes. Arad, once we’re at dock I’ll no doubt be whisked off to the barracks. And you surely have a destination in mind, as well. We may not be able to speak for a while.”
“I imagine not, Front-Captain,” Arad agreed, a flash of sadness crossing his features.
“I made a vow to you, son. But I’m not sure how I can keep it, like this.” He gazed irritatingly at his own body. “Even if I could keep up, I’d not be much use defending her against anything larger than a lapizar.”
Arad showed a sad smile. “It’s all right, Front-Captain. I can take over for now. For now,” he repeated with emphasis. “There will come a time that you will save Sayri, I’m certain of it. So you’ll need to heal up. But for a time, I can manage.”
Gallord-Smit laughed. “You can more than manage, son. Where will you go?”
“To visit Sayri’s family, in the Lower Valley.”
“I thought so,” the Front-Captain said, pursing his lips in thought. “I’ll be staying in Benn’s Harbour a while. When you return, will you seek me out?”
Arad’s stare focused right through him; Gallord-Smit was shocked, not having expected such intensity from the lad. It was as if he was seeing something past the Front-Captain, to somewhere he couldn’t fathom.
“There is no doubt,” Arad said plainly.
Gallord-Smit nodded slowly, then something else occurred to him. “Arad, will you—do you intend to return to Somria?”
That question brought back uncertainly to the boy’s youthful face. “I want to seek out my master, and his wife; Sayri has become close to her.” An odd smile of wonder crossed his face as he said the last. Then, more seriously he added, “but it would be very dangerous for me to do so. Why do you ask?”
Gallord-Smit took a deep breath; he wasn’t sure how Arad would respond to this. “I need to go back when I can, son. I left someone behind.”
To his surprise, Arad only nodded with understanding. “When I return to the city, let us discuss this further.”
“Let us do so,” the Front-Captain agreed, holding out his hand. “Then give me your arm in friendship, son. May our swords never cross again.”
Arad stepped forward and seized his wrist. “I vow it,” he said. Then he retreated and executed the elegant Somrian bow that Gallord-Smit had never mastered, with his right hand to left breast and left foot back. “Until my path ends at your door,” he droned.
Gallord-Smit bowed best he could in return from his sickbed, repressing a chuckle. Somrians had such a flowery way of saying hello and goodbye. His own farewell was less so. “Take care, young man. Of yourself and the young lady.”
Arad nodded and departed, and he was alone again. Outside th
e porthole, a narrow peninsula of moss-covered rocks slowly slipped past to reveal the elaborate stone edifices of Benn’s Harbour.
・
As expected the harbour was abuzz with early spring activity. The chair Charese had hired—so early in the season it had taken a fair search to find one, but the one she did was unsurprisingly available—was not very comfortable, but Gallord-Smit would not have expected anything to be. It jostled him painfully this way and that, and the crowds thronging the waterfront were nothing more than a blur. Smoke from many cook fires stung his eyes and the sweet scent of roasted meat teased his palate, and he realized he was hungry.
Charese found a quiet alley leading up through the residences, and they funnelled through; she led, the porters carrying Gallord-Smit’s chair came behind her, then the small crowd of surviving island defenders followed behind, staring wide-eyed at the sights that had become unfamiliar to them in their years on the Southern Island.
They were, Gallord-Smit couldn’t help but notice in the now more civilized surroundings, a somewhat rag-tag looking group. Hair was long and beards were thick, and their piecemeal armour and torn clothes identified them more as castaways than soldiers. When the citizens of Benn’s Harbour began to throw disdainful stares in their direction—particularly once they left the docks for the wealthy residential district—Gallord-Smit called out an order for the men to form up and march. They might not look like heroes, but he was damned if he would let the locals look upon them with pity or worse. They were soldiers, and he would make sure every eye that fell upon them would know them for it—and wonder what campaign they had survived to leave them so ragged.
The barracks were as he had left them, unsurprisingly, though far quieter. As they passed the great wooden gates he was shocked to see no men at practice in the courtyard, though he understood why. Soldiers trained for battle, and those who were ready and fit to fight had landed long before in the North Province of Somria. He made a mental note to inquire of the latest reports from the duty adjutant.
There were a few men about the compound; they paused in their business as his group entered the courtyard. The island defenders shuffled after his chair as it made its way toward headquarters; Gallord-Smit realized that they had no place to go, and no orders. He called a halt.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 72