by Kirby Crow
It occurred to Scarlet then that Liall might not even like him at all, but might be only enamored of his face and the prospect of exploring his body, and all Liall's recent kindnesses but an extension of that lust. The unexpected hurt of that possibility rendered Scarlet speechless, and he stammered a clumsy refusal.
Liall's expression went hard. “Never mind,” he said gruffly. “I recall I have some instructions to go over with Peysho before I leave. Good night, Scarlet."
"Good night,” he replied. He did not know whether to be relieved or sad, and he retreated quickly back to Annaya's yurt, wondering if he should have said yes. Would it have been so terrible to have dinner with him? Even if he had wanted more, would that have been so bad? How could he judge, having no comparison?
When he returned to Annaya's yurt, there were sounds coming from the interior that he recognized. Traveling in the caravans, he had heard such sounds coming from tents where men and women slept together. Sometimes, when the night was still and the wind had died down in Lysia, these same sounds used to come from Scaja and Linhona's door.
Scarlet stood beside the short row of steps leading to the yurt and tried to summon his outrage. This was his only sister, an honored Hilurin virgin, not some Morturii ghilan whore or Aralyrin kitchen scut that a blacksmith's apprentice could use before marriage. It seemed he stood there for a long time, trying to gather enough anger to thrust his way inside and drag Shansi off her, throw him into the dirt and beat him with his fists for the insult.
In the end, he went to seek a spot by the large central campfire where he could huddle in his coat against the chilly spring night until he estimated enough time had passed. Rage had failed him. What did it matter? They might have both been killed in the attack. They had lost everything, including even a hut to live in. Annaya's body could have been nothing more than charred bones under the wrack of Lysia, and here he was worrying over her virtue like the hidebound Hilurin he had fought never to be.
At least she is following her heart, he thought sullenly. When have I ever done that?
So thinking, Scarlet found a wagon wheel to set his back to and tried not to notice that some of the Kasiri were peering at him in curiosity. Some stared at him outright. A lined woman bearing a wooden ladle, perhaps the official tender of a row of iron pots bubbling near the fire, glanced at him several times before she approached him boldly and squatted beside him. Her gray hair was like cobwebs about her face as she pointed the ladle toward Liall's platform on the other side of the camp.
"The Atya's yurt is there,” she informed loudly.
"I see it."
"Much warmer in a man's furs than out here on the cold ground,” she said slyly, her volume dropping.
"Thank you, woman,” he retorted, staring her down.
She smirked. “My name is Eraph, little Byzan, Torva's mate, and I was killin’ Bledlanders when you were a squirt in yer da's britches, so don't be callin’ me woman like I were your servant.” Her old eyes gleamed. “Were I but younger, the Wolf might set his eye on me. You can be sure I'll not be freezing in my own skin if I can have the flesh of another warming my bones."
He drew the blanket up to his chin, saying nothing, and Eraph sighed as if he were a fool too ignorant to speak to. She left him alone to bear the inquisitive looks of the Kasiri until morning.
11.
Two Paths
Morning rumbled in with a sound like thunder. Liall, in his half-sleeping state, vaguely realized it really was thunder. A spring storm was over the Nerit. From the pattering sounds on the oiled walls of his yurt, it was a thin rain that would not last.
Masdren, Scarlet had said. A man old enough to be his father, he had taken care to add. Liall brooded on his decision not to answer back that he himself was old enough to be Scarlet's grandfather. Hells, was he that transparent? He told himself that he should be glad the pedlar had a plan for the future and some place to go to, but he could not summon that much grace. The port of Ankar was a filthy place and he could not convince himself that Scarlet belonged there. It was a sluttish city with a bhoros or ghilan on every third street, a harbor full of mercenary bravos, a large garrison of brutal Morturii soldiers, and a thriving slave trade in the great souk. Scarlet was not a total innocent, but he had a virtue about him that no amount of traveling had yet touched. Making a home in such a jaded place would ruin Scarlet, and Liall found he had come to care very much about that.
Would I remain in Byzantur if he agreed to stay with the krait? he wondered. Liall had toyed with the idea, but he could not forget the sting he felt when Scarlet immediately stated an intention to live in Ankar. What would I do if he stayed? he asked himself with amazement. Would I ignore the summons, turn my back on my true people?
Well, Scarlet was most assuredly not staying, so the matter was decided for him. It was also good fortune that Scarlet had refused his invitation last night.
His conscience would not allow him such blatant self-deception. It sneered at him: Good fortune? Your phallus hasn't known the touch of any hand save yours in six months.
Peysho came in while he was still under the furs and wandering in his thoughts. The enforcer grinned to see him awake. “Have I interrupted?"
"Oh, very funny.” Liall showed him his hands were above the covers and not about whatever business Peysho thought. “Mocking a man with an empty bed is cruel, you know. I'm sure Om-Ret has a separate punishment in hell for that offense."
Peysho spared Liall further teasing and jerked his head toward the camp outside. “They're waiting. I told ‘em ye didn't want a fuss. They wouldn't listen."
"Naturally.” Liall pushed the furs off and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He had not really believed he could take his leave of the boisterous Kasiri without at least a small amount of drama, but he had hoped. “Please tell me there will be no music."
"Nah.” Peysho grinned. “It's rainin’ and ditterns cost too much to bring out in the wet.” He halted in the entrance a moment. “Take yer time, Wolf. We're in no hurry to see ye go."
Beneath the gray underbelly of sky, the whole of the Longspur krait was gathered in a loose crowd around the steps of Liall's yurt. Some, like old Dira and Umir, he had known for decades. They knew him well, and if they did not know his full heart, they knew what he was and that the krait had a strong leader in him. The faces Liall had known the longest were the most wary and anxious, and the ones he had known the least were melancholy and sweet-sad, for an atya leaving on a quest suited their romantic Kasiri souls.
As he went down the line of cheerless faces, he received a small clutch of white and yellow straw-flowers from the smiling midwife and a gold pin from Istri the ox-tender. One of Dira's whores kissed him passionately on the mouth and behaved like he was a beloved husband abandoning her before Dira pulled her off and pinched her for her nonsense.
Last of his goodbyes were Peysho and Kio, who stood together a little apart from the others, as it should be.
"Well,” Liall sighed, not knowing what else to say. Kio was unsmiling, but Peysho clasped hands with Liall jovially. It was easy to see that Peysho did not believe in sad farewells.
"Nice mornin’ fer it.” Peysho laughed, rain soaking the shoulders of his gaudy coat.
Liall tilted his head to taste the rain, not feeling the chill. “Strange. I've longed for home for so many years. Now that it comes, I don't want to go."
"So stay,” Peysho urged, quiet and earnest. His fingers pressed hard into Liall's forearm. “Stay, Liall."
There was no answer for it. Liall had been born knowing he would never be free in life, that he would be chained by duty and honor and family until his last breath, and then all that had changed. As a boy, he had fiercely desired freedom, and then suddenly he had too much of it. After many years with the Kasiri, he discovered that he was not even sure his desire was real, and that his longing for the thing itself had become a habit he could not break.
"Goodbye,” Liall said. Liall saw that Kio's mouth was
pinched and his golden eyes averted. “You have something to say?"
Kio shook his head tersely. Liall knew better than to push him to reveal what he felt. It was not Kio's way. He reached into his jacket and brought out the white swan feather and handed it to Kio.
Kio took it curiously. “What's this, then?"
"An old custom. It's good luck, usually. But if you ever receive a message from the north with a feather like this one, look for my return."
Kio nodded thoughtfully and then closed his fingers around the feather, tucking it very carefully into his jacket. He patted the outline of it in his pocket before giving Liall a strained smile.
Peysho watched them. “Yer a romantic,” he accused Liall, highly amused.
"Most likely,” Liall conceded with a grin.
"Any final advice?"
He spoke to Peysho while looking boldly at Kio. “A man who cares for nothing does not necessarily make a poor leader. If anything, he is often a better one. But there's no joy in it, my friend. I should have taken a better lesson from you. You could have taught me much."
Peysho nodded in silence, and Liall saw that he understood him perfectly: eventually, Kio would have been a thorn between them. He embraced them both in the manner of Kasiri; brief and fierce and heartfelt. Liall left them standing together, Peysho's hand in Kio's, and turned his face resolutely toward the Sea Road.
He had dressed warm for the occasion: traveling boots of sewn leather, a long cloak of black wool over a thin jacket and a shirt of thick gray cotton, leather breeches, a sturdy journeying pack and a dark hat with a low brim that someone had decorated with scanty embroidery in red. It would keep his head warm and conceal his hair color. That was all he cared about.
He had barely turned the corner where the road bends temporarily out of sight of the camp when he saw Scarlet standing in the path, waiting for him. Scarlet wore his red coat and clutched a bright Kasiri blanket around his shoulders in the rain, standing in the lee of an old cypress to keep the worst of the downpour off his head.
Liall found his voice. “I didn't think to see you here, little redbird."
"There were a lot of people back there,” Scarlet said, as if that explained it.
He realized that Scarlet had purposely waited for him here, away from the others. It silenced him for a moment, and in that space, Scarlet rushed on:
"I wanted to thank you once more,” Scarlet said quickly. “For Annaya and for myself."
Liall recalled how they had met and he was again ashamed. “I wish I could have saved your parents, Scarlet. Your father greatly impressed me."
Scarlet ducked his head. “His name was Scaja."
"Scaja,” Liall repeated gravely, though he had already known.
"And Linhona,” he took care to say. “My parents.” The rain came down harder and Scarlet shivered. “Well ... Deva keep you on your travels. Have a safe journey, Atya."
"Liall."
Scarlet blinked. “What?"
"I know you want to repay your debt, but I must rob you of that. So give me this and say my name again."
It was not a normal request. Still, he had his honor.
"Liall,” Scarlet said quietly.
The soft tones of Scarlet's Byzan accent made his name into a caress, and though it was not his true name, his birth name, Liall felt warmed.
"I'll never see you again, will I?” Scarlet asked, surprising him yet again.
"No. Almost certainly not."
Scarlet nodded. Then, unexpectedly, he reached forward and took Liall's hand and pressed it briefly to the side of his face. It was the Byzan sign of gratitude, a rare gesture that was never done lightly.
"You are most welcome,” Liall said, deeply touched, and then he remembered: “Oh,” he said. “Wait.” He would have given anything to distract himself from the constricting feeling in his chest. “I have something for you.” He opened his leather pack and dug in it until he came up with the dagger. “It's a good dagger,” he said as he offered it hilt first. “You lost yours in the woods, you said, that morning with Cadan.” It was a bright, handsome blade, not so large that men would mistake it for a fighting weapon, but not so small that Scarlet could not use it as one if the need arose. The haft was decorated with red enamel and a few lines of silver in a curling pattern.
Scarlet accepted the gift in silence. Their fingers brushed when Liall handed the dagger over, and the touch seemed to sing into his skin, crying out for more. Liall withdrew hastily and felt at the front of his coat, searching for the outlines of the two copper coins around his neck on their leather thong, the coins Scarlet had given him to pay his toll.
"Use it well,” Liall said reluctantly, wishing he had the courage to take Scarlet's hand again. “And farewell, Scarlet of Lysia."
Scarlet bowed his head in a respectful farewell, hiding those expressive eyes. Liall turned and walked down the path to the Sea Road, more miserable than he had ever expected to feel at this parting.
* * * *
Scarlet found his old satchel with the broken strap on the floor of the valley outside of Lysia. It was empty, of course. Stragglers from the retreating Aralyrin army must have found it, or perhaps it was only looters come to pick the leavings from his murdered village. He had been keeping the last of the bone buttons Scaja had carved in a little pocket in the side. That, too, was empty. He sighed, telling himself it was for the best. Now he understood why Byzan women never wore their mother's jewelry, but gave it away to their own daughters as soon as they were old enough not to lose it or break it. He could never have worn the buttons, not without feeling Scaja's gentle hand on his wrist or brushing his throat, and that would not necessarily be a comfort.
The Kasiri abandoned Whetstone Pass when the wet weather broke, two days after Liall departed. The krait traveled with Scarlet, Shansi, and Annaya down the mountain and provided them with warm clothes and enough food to get to Nantua or even Ankar. Peysho hugged Scarlet impulsively and Kio pressed a few sellivars in his hand.
"For your sister,” Kio said gruffly, and turned away.
Scarlet waved as their gaudy wagons and ribbon-bedecked oxen turned east toward Dorogi, and then the three of them turned north to Zarabek and thence on to Nantua, where Shansi's parents lived. But first, they had to cross what was left of Lysia.
They skirted the worst of the carnage by taking the wooded path around the northern side of the village, but the smell of smoke lingered. Occasionally, a puff of ash would drift by on the wind and Annaya's eyes would brim with tears that she impatiently wiped away. As for Scarlet, he was comforted by the weight of Liall's red dagger in his boot and the long-knives at his waist. He was done with weeping for his family, and vowed silently to protect the ones he had left with his life.
There was no avoiding the fields, and they had to walk through the raw, plowed earth that had been harrowed just weeks before and would now never be planted. They came to Jerivet's large field, then Imeno's, and then finally Scaja's.
Annaya halted without a word and Shansi stopped, looking at the pair of them with pity. Shansi probably did not know it was their father's land, but he sensed there was something of import here. Scarlet stood stiffly beside Annaya and grieved with her in silence. The little templon that Scaja had tended so carefully and lovingly throughout the years was tilted on its side. One of the tiny castle walls had been chopped off cleanly, as if struck by a sword. Inside, the god's paper clothing was all rain-soaked and coming apart.
There was no help for it, but Scarlet righted the templon and packed dirt around its base with his boot heel. Pure meanness, it was, to destroy even their shrines. Annaya looked around but could not find the missing piece of wall, and she stood helplessly with her hand in Shansi's. Scarlet realized she was waiting for him to pray.
The words of the cantos flowed through his mind: On danaee Deva shani. But they would not emerge from his throat.
"We are done here,” Scarlet said, and strode off across the field.
They f
ollowed him. In short time, they were curving back down the hills to the east, toward the last bit of the Owl Road, which would take them to Tradepoint and thence to Skeld's Ferry. He had been dreading what they would find at Tradepoint, but as they drew near, he saw that the timbered building was still standing and that Deni was outside working. Zsu saw them walking and froze, then recognized Annaya.
Both girls shrieked each other's name and Scarlet shook Deni's hand as the girls hugged and danced around them.
"We'd given you up for dead,” Deni grinned. He was Scarlet's age and a sturdy, typical Byzan lad, very loyal to his family. His father waved at them from the porch and smiled to see Zsu so happy.
"Thank Deva!” the elder called out. “Some of the villagers fled this way when the Aralyrin came, but not many.” His face was grayer than Scarlet remembered, and much older. “Not many at all."
"Who?” he asked, eager to know.
Deni named several men and two women that were neither related to his family nor close to them.
Scarlet's heart sank. “Where did they say they were going?"
Deni shrugged. “They didn't.” He waved his arm toward the river, encompassing the world outside Lysia. “Out there."
Scarlet nodded, vastly depressed. “We're on our way to Nantua. Annaya is going to marry Shansi and live there with his parents."
"Are you now?” the father exclaimed. “Congratulations, the both of you! Well, well. And what about you, Scarlet?” he asked. He shot a glance toward Zsu, who was chattering happily to Annaya and wiping away her tears. “We'd always hoped that Zsu and you one day would...” he trailed off.
"I'm bound for Ankar,” Scarlet said, hoping the old man would let the matter drop. He was fond of Zsu but nothing more than that. “Going to learn leatherwork from Masdren."
"Ankar?” Deni's mouth turned down in disapproval. “Are you sure? If you worked for me and dad, carrying goods on the ferry-route, you could still travel the river as much as you pleased. We know you have the world-wild. We wouldn't try to pen you in."