by Gayle Greeno
“A middle?” He was groping toward something, but Hylan wasn’t sure what. Perhaps she groped as well, was at fault for not seeing clearly? Always she fixated on the end, their world ruined. Had she jumped too fast, too far—ignored the road she must travel to arrive there? So many people lining the road, would they make the full journey with her? They must!
“Something to tie together their genuine fear of Gleaners here and now with the Future, the Spacers returning, laying waste to our land once again with their technology. The Past, the Then that you invoke is as far distant as Future to them.” He could see her thinking, trying to understand an average mindset. “You know what would be the perfect knot to tie it together?” and didn’t wait for a response, too eager now. “Eadwin, King of Marchmont, is visiting Canderis. He, if anyone, has the power to call to the skies, call the Spacers.”
She froze, a beatific expression on her face, so open and joyous she looked almost beautiful. And he had created that look, he alone. “King of the Resonants! He comes Now!”
“Yes. If we could just figure out how to—”
Swaying on her knees, she hugged herself. “The sacrifice! The sacrifice will bring him to me—to us!” Hylan stilled, stretched to touch the blanket covering Harrap. “But is he the right one? It has to be right, you know.”
“Mayhap we’ll find the right one, have it revealed to us.” It struck him then, to whom exactly did Hylan plan to make her sacrifice? She was hardly a strong believer in the Lady, but her followers were. And Harrap seemed to consider Hylan a surrogate for the Lady. He felt spent, drained. There was so much to think about, work through. He’d brought her this far; if the sacrifice would bring her the rest of the way, so be it. If only Baz were here to guide him, direct him. But he wasn’t, and Tadj was expected to guide and mold Hylan to their needs.
Molding beauty wasn’t easy at all—no wonder Baz so ruthlessly discarded or destroyed flawed glass, even when the flaw was practically imperceptible to the eye. Hylan was becoming a thing of beauty in his eyes, and he’d reform her, remold her until he attained perfection. Perfection created by his hands and mind, perfection to astonish Baz, exalt Tadj in his eyes. Something to glory in, expunge the mortification, the shame those sailors, no, not sailors but Gleaners, had inflicted on his mind and body and soul. Beauty could inspire, but inspiration could breed beauty. His inspiration.
Hylan stood straight and proud, arms rigid at her sides, face turned toward the stars, his sword of retribution. All he had to do was wield it for Baz. Not a sickle but a sword, a human sword. “I must ... you’ll excuse me ... but I ...” She strode from the fires, beyond sleeping figures hedging the cart at a distance, and Tadj could hear a strange, eager swishing beneath her cloak, as if she repetitiously slapped her thigh, harder and harder and harder.
Davvy shuffled backward, edging from side to side, desperate to avoid presenting a target. No, don’t retreat, he gritted his teeth. Float until you gain an advantage, an opening to do damage. But the crudely-drawn circle’s perimeter loomed at his heels. Touch it, cross it, and you forfeited. Best make his move soon. Something else Cady had drummed into him: don’t wait forever for the perfect moment. It might not come, no matter how long you waited.
Fluid as smoke Cady drifted after him, almost ignoring him, as if he weren’t worthy of notice, as if she were engrossed by something beyond him. Not going to fall for that! A tentative grab and she eluded him, his fingers closing on nothingness. Sweat itched and trickled under his collar, around his waist, his shoes too tight and clumsy, feet trapped by the unyielding leather. It sparked an idea. Waiting until they closed again, he left himself vulnerable, confident she’d let him practice breaking the hold. She lunged and he half-freed his foot, kicked his shoe in the air behind her head. Catching the motion out of the comer of her eye, Cady half-turned and Davvy pressed home his advantage, both hands locking on her wrist as he dipped under her arm and straightened behind her, a hairsbreadth from pinning her arm between her shoulder blades. Limber as a willow she bent and twisted, looped free and sent him sailing across the ring.
He landed hard on his back, panting, rubbing his aching hip. Smerdle—it hurt! Kangsnarging woman’d tossed him like a rag doll, and with her bad arm, too. He wished she’d let him see the scar, like a badge of honor for protecting the old lady from the Reapers at the Elder Hostel. Smerdle! He couldn’t protect himself, let alone anyone else if he didn’t practice harder. She’d successfully fought men larger than she, so shouldn’t he be able to handle her?
Cady’s self-defense lessons were serious but fun, took his mind off things, gave him something to do. He was comfortable being around adults, indulged and petted; that had been the norm at the Research Hospice, but not here. He’d played his share of childish games, but always with adults, allowed to win, seldom having to truly test his mettle against his peers. Doyce and her mother and sister were nice but strict, didn’t let him have his way like Swan did. No one to boss around here, not even Cady, who wasn’t that much older. No one to charm or cajole, almost as if they’d been immunized against him.
Well, what was he supposed to be? Not allowed to be a little boy any longer, but not conferred adult responsibilities, either—confusing. As if he were a little old man trapped in an ungainly twelve-year-old body. Always too aware of adults and what they expected of him—without ever having to read their minds. Always overconcerned with doing right, being good—or being bad because he could get away with it, though that lessened the savor of it. Now this. Cady was tall but bony, couldn’t weigh that much more because he was solid, chunky from all of Nana Cookie’s good baking. And Cady wasn’t going to let him win, not unless he’d earned it.
Ignoring her outstretched hand, he heaved himself up, then bent so his hands touched the ground and stretched some of the kinks from his protesting body. F’een watched from outside the circle, olive eyes eager, quivering as if he wanted to join in. He probably couldn’t toss even the ghatt outside the circle. Adults always expected too much of him, and the inequity of it all left him flushed and angry. Swan expecting too much of him, and hadn’t he been nursing her to make up for her being hurt because of him? A self-pitying tear trickled down his cheek. Honest—he hadn’t meant to dash off like that in the midst of battle, banner in hand, loud huzzahs bursting from him. And he hadn’t meant for her to be wounded when she tried to retrieve him! It was so unfair! And just when he thought she’d begun to forgive him, what did she do? Send him away like an unwanted parcel. With Doyce, no less, who acted as if she inhabited another world half the time lately. He didn’t dare disturb the babies now, other than to tickle them lightly, reassure himself they were fine despite Doyce’s moodiness. Away here in the country with no one else the least like him, no other Resonants near.
And even if there were, nobody else liked Resonants or trusted them; people made fear signs when they passed, Faertom had told him. Francie and Doyce’s mother didn’t make fear signs, but he sensed a niggling distrust held under tight wraps. All he wanted was to be like everyone else, accepted for his flaws and strengths. How could anyone not like him? He kicked at the dirt with his shoed foot, face screwed in an agony of thought. Pawed at the ground again, building up courage to launch himself at Cady, waiting as if she had nothing else in the world to do. Fine thing, indulging herself by thrashing him! Treat him like that, would they? Well, he could beat Cady, could beat anyone who stood in his way.
Use what you’ve been given, isn’t that what Cady had admonished? Use your size, your weight, your brains, even your weak points to draw out the opposition, lure them along, then use what you’re best at. Use what you’ve been given. Well, he’d kept his best skill under wraps, something Cady lacked, couldn’t imagine.
“Going to sulk all day, Davvy?” she taunted, hands on hips. “If you are, put on your coat or you’ll catch cold, standing around all hot and sweaty.” She looked as coolly fresh as mint. Hand scrubbing under his nose to hide his scowl, he began to bob and weave, setting
up a pattern, following through, mind ahead of body, body ahead of mind, mentally stepping back to watch himself, watch her. Feint, feint, jab. Don’t worry about missing, that was the plan. Feint, feint, fake, pretend you’ve lost your nerve.
Did what he’d been cautioned against from the beginning, let his eyes shift, his stance fractionally reveal his intended move. The giveaway signs she’d been teaching him to read in an opponent. Yes, set it up, let her assume he wouldn’t deviate, couldn’t deviate, didn’t know he’d given himself away. Give her an opening. And watch, watch—not only her eyes, her body to judge if she’d take the lure, but watch her mind, listen in, then beat her to the punch when she least expected it. Do it! Do it, because he was tired of being little, of being thwarted. And he wanted his own way. Now!
Letting down his guard, he sketched an eager, amateurish charge as she counteracted his previous clumsy move. Yes, he could hear her mind sketching her attack pattern, how hard to hit him to teach him a lesson. Not conscious thought, but exploding colors, synapses sparking and connecting that drew lines clear as a map. Well, no more lessons. Now it was time for him to teach!
“Davvy! Cady!” As the cry carried, his concentration broke, distracted him from what he’d overheard in Cady’s mind. The next thing he knew he went cartwheeling across the circle as Cady jammed a hand under his armpit, used his own momentum to propel him up and over. Even in the middle of this interruption she hadn’t allowed her own concentration to break.
He landed facedown, protecting his face with an arm as he skidded practically to Francie’s feet. “Are you all right?” Francie asked, head cocked to examine the minor furrow he’d plowed with his chin. Gulping, spitting dirt, he blinked rapidly to show that he was. Hoped he was, but wasn’t sure yet. She waved a broadside in his face, the air current grazing his overheated skin, ruffling hair off his sticky forehead. “You’ve both got to hear this! It’s so exciting!” A shake of the paper. “The King of Marchmont is making a royal progress through Canderis, the first in history! Isn’t that something! Imagine that, royalty here—and as close as Ruysdael. And special royalty at that.” A wink in Davvy’s direction at the shared secret, one that was never said aloud here.
Working himself onto hands and knees, Davvy let his head hang, still whipped. This time he let Cady haul him upright, glad for the help. “I ... saw ...” he worked to even his breathing, “the king ... before. Talked with him, even. And lots of the others.” He left that ambiguous on purpose. Mostly he’d been ignored in that hastily organized camp for the wounded, the border spot where negotiations between Marchmont and Canderis had begun.
“Is he handsome, Davvy?” Francie’s eyes twinkled, and for a moment Davvy forgot how old she was, the way her eyes lit up. Be almost pretty if she weren’t gimpy on one side.
“Oh, yes,” he took her arm, tucked his free arm into Cady’s so that he stood between them, confident they hung on his every word. “Though I don’t know if handsome’s quite right. Nice open face, sensitive but worried looking behind that beard, as if he knew he’d have too much to deal with too soon. I told him, ‘King Eadwin, don’t fret. You’re a Resonant and a Bondmate.’ He bonded with one of the biggest, furriest, wildest ghatts you can imagine. Well, I said, ‘King Eadwin, you can succeed at anything ...’ ”
A whisper pierced his brain. F’een sat, rigid with disapproval, glaring, boring him through. “Don’t you dare try to cheat on Cady like that again!”
“Cheat?” He projected wounded innocence, hoping neither woman would notice his pause. It must be the ghatt ‘speaking him, had to be. No other Resonants around. But the ghatti wouldn’t ’speak just anyone. “I wouldn’t cheat. Cady said to use what I had, what I did best to win.”
“Cheat you did. Took unfair advantage. Now do you see why people are afraid of Resonants?” F‘een’s words hissed and sizzled. “And lie as well! King’s friend, indeed! He spoke with you once. Remember what he said?” Davvy winced; how could the ghatt know? “He said, ’You’re a brave lad, though a foolish one. You’ll outgrow that, I trust.’ Well, you haven’t yet, have you? Just added dishonesty to foolishness.”
“But what’s the matter with spinning a little story they’ll both enjoy? So what if it isn’t true?” He drew himself up, clutching the women’s arms, deriving strength and innocent support from them. Oh, smerdling bandersnees—was F’een telling Cady everything? “I did see the king, after all. I just didn’t really ... he didn’t really have time ... ” He ground to a halt.
“Davvy, tell us more,” Francie cajoled. And Cady looked interested, impressed. It hurt, it really did. He wanted to be the center of attention, have everyone like him, respect him.
He swallowed hard, managed a weak grin. “Didn’t really talk with the king, you know. Just teasing. Though I did see him a fair number of times, sometimes even up close.” He searched for another subject to pursue. “As to handsome, you should see that Chevalier Capitain Arras Muscadeine with his bold mustache, those gaudy shirts, him that’s now Defense Lord. Ask Doyce, let her tell you. She thought him mighty handsome.”
A minor surge of triumph, let Doyce wriggle out of that if she could, let her do the telling, the denying, let her walk the path of truth without trampling its margins. Ought to make for an interesting supper tonight.
“I don’t like you very much,” came F’een’s parting shot. “Nor will Khar either, when I tell her.”
He ignored the ghatt, or tried to do so. “Do you think we could go see the king? Is Ruysdael very near here?” A scary but prideful thought to have the king acknowledge him as a Resonant, no more hiding, pretending. But it couldn‘t, shouldn’t be known—wasn’t that why Swan had banished him here, for safety’s sake? If he were acknowledged for what he was, would that put Doyce and the babies, her mother and sister, even Cady in danger? He shrugged, uncomfortable with his thoughts. Time enough to decide later—if they ever went to Ruysdael. Mayhap he’d go, and mayhap he wouldn’t, though no one would realize the sacrifice he’d be making to protect them all by staying home.
Grim behind her desk, Mahafny burrowed her hands inside her sleeves, heartily wishing the desk were a real barricade. A brick wall would be better, blockade her from the controversy besieging her from across the desk. She felt as if the Research Hospice had been overrun, and indeed it had been—Eadwin’s royal entourage and his soldiers, not to mention the matching Guardian complement who’d hastily escorted the Monitor north after receiving word of Eadwin’s unscheduled stop at the Hospice rather than proceeding directly to Gaernett.
Nigh on to three hundred people swarmed inside and outside the Hospice, tents erected in the yards, the stables full, every room in the Hospice crammed. “We’re not a bloody inn, you know, ” she ’spoke Saam, stretched on the windowsill behind her.
“So much for peace and solitude, the tranquillity of research,” he yawned, whiskers spreading and flattening through a grimace. Actually, the commotion rather pleased him because it forced Mahafny to tear her mind away from that infernal contraption she’d liberated from the cellars. Now draped in an old sheet it sat on the table against the wall by the door, perfectly innocuous and innocent-looking. Just thinking about it made his fur rise, his skin itch, though not with the same anticipatory delight Mr. Farnham experienced. The machine had been taken apart and put together again, dusted and polished, the glass plates lovingly cleaned until they sparkled. Endowed with a mechanical aptitude they hadn’t expected, old Farnham had done every bit himself. Of course, and Saam wrapped his tail over his eyes, the reason behind Farnham’s assiduousness had come clear once the device was reassembled, and Mr. Farnham had gestured Mahafny to the crank, imploring “Do me again, ma’am!” Mahafny, aghast, had snapped, “Absolutely not!”
Well, the machine’s safely under wraps, so stop thinking about it, he decided as he peered cautiously over his tail. Entirely too many strong personalities jammed the room, Mahafny’s not the least of them. Resplendent in black with crimson- and yellow-slashed sleeves
certain to make a red-winged blackbird look dowdy, Arras Muscadeine spoke in vehement undertones with the Monitor. Eadwin, King of Marchmont, in cream and sky blue, hardly flashy but quietly elegant, wandered, confident Muscadeine pressed his case for him. The Monitor, Kyril van Beieven, looked the worse for wear and with good reason; it had been an exhausting ride on short notice to reach the Hospice. Fine for seasoned soldiers like the Guardians, but not so fine for a middle-aged man more used to sitting and paperwork. The farther he strayed from the capital, the more the Monitor worried what transpired in his absence. And Mahafny Annendahl, beleaguered behind her desk, appealed to by one man or another, clearly simmering at their interruption.
“Are things always this ... vibrant ... in Marchmont?” he inquired of the ghatt padding around to inspect the room, sticking his nose here and there. The ghatt sported several shaved patches along his back and neck, the fur clipped close to his skin a pale cream in contrast to the longer guard hairs of caramel and gray and buff. To ensure that Hru’rul’s wounds were properly cleansed and sutured, the ghatt had suffered the indignity of having his fur shaved so they could treat the claw marks. A dark threading of stitches showed in two places.
Hru‘rul appeared unalarmed by the interplay of personalities, a connoisseur of the textures and flavors of their interactions. Jumping on an adjacent window ledge, the ghatt twisted to lick at a wound. “When Muscadeine with Eadwin, yes. Even sitting silent, mindtalking. Makes me tired, wanting nap. Mighty Hru’rul conserving strength.”
“Yes, well, it’s not a bad idea. And we ghatti can sleep anywhere, despite the din.” The steel-gray ghatt compacted himself on the sill, yellow eyes observant. “Nap if you like, but I think I’ll listen. Lick your wounds for you later if you want. Hard to reach, I know.”