by Glenda Larke
"War and horror are twin brothers."
"We did not ask for this war."
He shrugged. "Weren't none of my doing, neither." When she didn't reply, he added, "I'll not force you t'share my nights, y'know. I get no joy from that. But I need a woman t'warm me. Last night I was too tired, but that won't last. If it's not you, then I'll choose another."
"And what happens to me then?" she asked, already knowing what the answer was likely to be.
"You go back to the general pick. Take your chances when the warriors choose a woman. Many of 'em share and some are none too fussy what they do with a woman. You're better off with me, but it's your choice."
She turned to face him then, tilting her head in question as she asked with genuine curiosity, "Why me?"
His mouth quirked up. "I like a feisty woman. Women of courage breed warriors. The tribe needs good strong blood, like yours. Pretty faces mean nothing. Not to me."
Well, thanks for that, you oaf. "I've got to be ten years older than you."
Ravard continued to smile. "An advantage. I seek learning from the experienced."
"What do you offer me?"
He laughed out loud. "I'll be waterless! You have the cheek of a sand-tick, woman. All right, I'll tell you. The alternative you know, and it's not pleasant. With me, there's only me. No one else will dare t'touch you. And best of all, your child-girl or boy-will come under my protection. Not just now, but always. On that you have m'word."
"What proof do I have you'll keep your word?"
His face darkened and his jaw tightened. It was a moment before he replied. "I am Tribemaster Kher Ravard, son of the sandmaster. My word is my honor."
Son? Watergiver help me. He would have water competence equivalent to a reeve! A chill coursed down her spine. He could resist any attempt she made to kill him by taking his water.
Damn, damn, damn. "I apologize. How could I know that?"
"Don't make the same mistake twice. Grown men have died for less insult to the son of Davim."
"I am not a fool. Very well; I accept your offer. I will, er, warm your bed." You withering waste of water.
"Willingly?"
"Yes, in exchange for your protection for me and my child. But I would ask a small boon."
"Boon? I don't know the word."
Ryka was gambling, she knew. "A favor. Yesterday I lost my husband, my sister, my parents, my city. To lie with you so soon would be to dishonor them. Give me ten days to grieve. It is our custom."
His eyes narrowed. "You dream."
"The difference between a reluctant woman in your bed and a willing one is worth the wait."
He considered and then shrugged. "Three. You can have three days and nights to grieve. Starting now."
She allowed a short silence before she nodded. And you'll be dead before then, you arrogant louse. You think a woman forgets the father of her son so readily? "I sleep alone three more nights, and then come willingly," she agreed. Blighted eyes, this has to be the strangest ravishment ever.
Before he could answer, a loud knocking came at the door. Ravard stepped back into the reception room to deal with the visitor, and Ryka turned away to look down at the forecourt once more. The warriors were awake, eating food brought to them from the kitchens by Scarpen women. She looked on the scene with pity; even with her poor eyesight she could see the women looked wretched and that most had torn clothes. She averted her eyes, rather than watch.
Ravard came out onto the balcony once more. "My father calls me. You stay here, in these rooms. I'll be back on the fourth day. I expect to be welcomed."
"I hope you intend to feed me in the meantime. I had nothing to eat at all yesterday, and not much the day before, either."
"Oh. Of course. I never thought of that. I'll have something sent up."
As he turned to go, she asked, "Are you really Davim's son?"
He paused to answer. "Not blood son, no, but his son for all that. If not, you'd have died on the floor together with the girl you so foolishly tried t'protect."
Once again she gambled, hoping he would not see anything odd in her knowledge. "You are the Warrior Son?"
Another smile. "No, Garnet. I'm the Master Son."
He departed then, leaving her in shock. Master Son! He was heir to Davim, to the leadership of the whole Watergatherer Dune. Not only would she be unable to kill him the rainlord way, but his importance meant she would be under scrutiny, too. She leaned against the balcony railing and dropped her head into her hands, giving in to her despair. Barely half the run of a sandglass later, still before any food had been brought to her, Ryka saw Ravard again. He was in the forecourt talking to several guards, giving orders. A few moments later, a number of prisoners were brought out of the building. Most of them were boys, varying in age from about nine or ten to fourteen or so. Scattered among them were some older men. She squinted hard, cursing her inadequate eyesight, and thought she recognized Breccia Hall livery.
Skilled men, I bet, she thought. The kind of people they need as slaves. Cooks, perhaps. Or pede grooms.
Anxiously she scanned the men, looking for others she might know. And spotted one she had not thought to see again: the pikeman Elmar Waggoner. At least he was easy to recognize; there was no mistaking his face with its twisted scar from the chin across his left cheek to his forehead. She drew in a sharp breath. He had been one of their academy teachers and later one of Kaneth's men, the pikeman who had fought at his side against the Reduner incursions into the Scarpen. He had been with Kaneth when they snatched Jasper from Highlord Taquar and the seneschal of Scarcleft. And he had fought alongside her and Kaneth in the waterhall. She'd thought him dead, but he must have been one of the few who'd escaped in the final few moments after the roof was breached.
She shook her head in disbelief. The man led a charmed life. Possibly because he's a damn fine warrior. Smart, skilled and withering lucky, the ugly bastard, she thought affectionately.
Fingers gripping the balcony balustrade, she stared at him, willing him to look up. He did not notice, apparently fully concerned with the man dressed in a hall servant's livery who stood, half-slumped, next to him. The fellow swayed as if injured; a rough bandage had been wrapped around his bald head. Which was odd, when she came to think of it. They killed their own badly wounded; why by all that's wet would they leave a wounded Scarperman alive?
The prisoners were lined up at the foot of the steps leading to the massive main doors of the hall, from which Davim emerged a moment later. He halted on the top step to survey the people arrayed before him, then beckoned to Ravard. The young man took the stairs two at a time to his father's side. The two men had a conversation, after which Ravard turned to address the prisoners, his voice strong and clear. Ryka had no trouble hearing him from where she was.
"You're now slaves of the dunes," he began. "You have a choice. You can submit t'slavery, or you can die now. Your women folk had the same choice. Most chose t'live. Work hard and display loyalty to your masters and one day you'll earn your freedom. If you choose t'serve, tomorrow you will be taken to the dunes-refuse, and you die here, today. Now."
He nodded to the row of watching guards. Five of them came to the bottom of the steps, where they drew their scimitars. Davim stayed where he was, but Ravard descended to the forecourt, where he seized one of the prisoners, a half-grown boy, by the scruff of the neck and pushed him down onto his knees. When he spoke again, the words were still loud enough for all the slaves to hear. "Say this, lad: 'I swear obedience t'my new masters. I swear loyalty t'Davim, sandmaster.' "
The boy looked around wildly, seeking aid from the crowd of slaves. One of the guards slapped his face with the flat of his scimitar, drawing a thin line of blood. The boy started to stutter the submission, but Ravard had to prompt him several times before he could get the words out.
Ryka watched, unable to drag her eyes away from the sickening fascination of the scene. One by one the other boys in the front row followed the example of the fir
st, but she knew sooner or later someone would choose death. It came with the tenth prisoner-a lad of perhaps fourteen or fifteen who refused to kneel. He was not given a chance to draw another breath. His throat was slit and his blood pumped out onto the paving, dark and viscous.
Yet still Ryka could not look away. It seemed right that she was there to bear witness to such bravery, even as her heart ached and her logic told her it was better to go on living-to live so one day you could fight back.
Elmar was the first adult to be asked to swear fealty. Ryka's fingers tightened their grip on the balustrade. She expected him to choose death. Elmar, a slave? It was unthinkable. He was one of the bravest men she knew, never showing any fear of death. Anxiously she strained to hear his answer.
Before he gave it, however, Davim intervened, calling out in Reduner, "Why do we want this man? With a scar on his face like that, he must have been a warrior."
Ryka felt sick.
Ravard replied in the same language, "He's a worker of metals. He told me the scar's from a splash of liquid metal. We need his skills, and he says he'll work for us."
"And the man standing next to him?" Davim asked.
"That's the fellow I mentioned earlier," Ravard said. He had to speak loudly so Davim could hear, but Ryka guessed it didn't worry either of them because they assumed no one except the Reduners understood their tongue. "The one who survived the fire and can't remember who he is. He has a wound on his head, in addition to the burns, which probably explains the loss of his wits."
Ryka stiffened and leaned forward. Nausea swamped her, trailing a futile hope. The man didn't look like Kaneth.
At Ravard's words, several of the guards shifted uneasily, and exchanged glances. Davim, his interest sharply focused, took several steps down the stairs to see better. Ryka could not take her gaze from the wounded man. He remained where he had been, his stillness remarkable in one who had obviously been so badly hurt. He waited as if he was uninterested in the outcome, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. There was nothing in the relaxed way he stood to tell Ryka it was Kaneth, yet her heart started to pound.
Oh, what I wouldn't give to have decent eyesight!
"Bring him here," Davim told Ravard.
Ravard gripped the man by the arm and urged him to mount the steps to the sandmaster. At that moment, Ryka heard the door to Nealrith's reception room open and looked over her shoulder. A young woman she didn't know entered carrying a tray laden with food. Bobbing her head quickly in Ryka's direction, she deposited the tray on the table and scuttled toward the door where a guard waited.
Ryka, no longer interested in food, quickly turned her attention back to what was happening outside. She heard the door close, but her focus was elsewhere.
"Food," a voice behind her said.
She jumped, her heart pounding wildly as she whirled to see that, although the woman had left, the guard had not. He stood close behind her, pointing at the tray. "Eat. Kher Ravard say."
She nodded and calmed. The smell of freshly cooked bab bread wafted her way. "All right. I will," she told him with an impatient nod, still not interested.
He frowned, not moving, worried perhaps that she was refusing to eat at all. To distract him, and because she wanted to know the answer, she pointed down into the courtyard and asked, "The man down there in front of Sandmaster Davim-who is he?"
The guard, his frown deepening, approached the balcony railing. She pointed again, to where Davim stood with Ravard, both staring at the man with the bandaged head. She could no longer hear anything they said to each other, but the man was unwinding his bandage in apparent answer to a request.
"Half-face," the guard said, his words guttural, as he struggled to speak an unfamiliar tongue. "Born mother fire. Dune god sire."
She stared at him blankly, wondering what he meant. Mothered by a fire and fathered by the dune god? Ah, one of the stories found in Reduner myths, if she remembered rightly.
He struggled on. "Half-face. Kher Shaman. Dune god son." When she continued to look blank, he gave up trying to explain. "Eat," he repeated. "Kher Ravard say."
"Yes, yes, all right. I will." She stepped toward the tray and stuffed some bread into her mouth.
Satisfied, he left then, and she turned once more to the tableau on the steps. Davim was reaching out a hand to cup the cheek of the wounded man. He spoke, Ravard translated, and the man sank to his knees, apparently uttering his promise of allegiance. Ravard said something more and the man rose.
As soon as he turned to descend the stairs, the warriors drew back out of his way, and Ryka saw his face for the first time. Half of it was horribly and freshly scarred. All his hair had burned away to leave him bald and the skin of his head was unnaturally red. A rough twist of fresh scabbing tissue crossed his skull-but in spite of his injuries and the relaxed way he walked, she had no trouble recognizing him now. He may have worn the livery of a Breccia Hall servant, but he was Kaneth Carnelian, rainlord.
CHAPTER SIX
Scarpen Quarter The Skirtings between Breccia and Scarcleft Cities Scarcleft City, Scarcleft Hall, Level 2 Jasper woke in the cool of the predawn, with a savage headache throbbing at the back of his eyes and a foul taste on a coated tongue. Thoughts jostled, unpleasantly confused. He frowned, sorting through the muddle in his head for something coherent, for something that made sense of how he felt.
He was on his way to the sea, he remembered that much. Breccia had fallen. He had killed Nealrith, rather than see him suffer. Cloudmaster Granthon was dead. And he, Jasper Bloodstone, was the only stormlord the Quartern now possessed, even though his water sensitivity was flawed and incomplete. Making clouds from sea water was beyond him, which meant people would thirst and die.
He blinked, looking straight up at the fading stars in the sky. Somewhere under his bedroll, a stone dug into his back, so he shifted position-and saw someone looking down at him.
Taquar. Taquar Sardonyx.
But that couldn't be right. Taquar lived in Scarcleft on The Escarpment, west of Breccia City. But he, Jasper, was going to Portennabar on the south coast with Laisa and Senya. His frown deepened. There was something. A memory. Hadn't he protested at one stage about going in the wrong direction? He groaned. Why couldn't he remember?
He blinked, focusing. And sat bolt upright. It was Taquar.
The man was looking down on him, with a half-smile on his lips and a sardonic glint in eyes reflecting the light from the lantern he held high.
"Good morning, Shale," he said softly. "It is good to see you again."
Jasper scrambled to his feet, senses muddled, thoughts lagging behind what his eyes told him was true. Senya stood behind Taquar with the smug, superior expression on her face that he hated so much; her mother stood further back holding the reins of a pede. What's going on?
And then he knew.
His gaze flew to Laisa.
She shrugged. "Sorry."
"Why?" he asked. "Why, damn it?" Bitterness consumed him. How could he have been so stupid as to trust Laisa? Kaneth had even warned him about her!
"It's for the best."
He refused to look at Taquar, but pointed to him as he yelled at Laisa, "After what that withering bastard did to us? He encouraged Davim! And now Breccia's fallen, the Cloudmaster is dead, your own husband tortured so badly that-" He choked. He'd slit the throat of the man he was proud to call a friend. The kind of man he wished had been his father. "Why?" he cried again.
Laisa shrugged. "To be on the winning side, why else? I didn't want to be harried from city to city by Davim's marauders, always wondering whether I'd be dead before the end of the next star cycle." She sighed, more a sound of regret than exasperation. "Jasper, look at it this way. In Scarcleft you will be safe. Davim is not going to take Scarcleft the way he took Breccia City and Qanatend. Taquar has defenses: ziggers, pedes, more trained men than Breccia City ever had. He can protect you, and he can take the battle to Davim in a way Nealrith never could, if it proves necessary."
"And with Taquar to help," she continued, "perhaps you can be a stormbringer. He was strong enough to steal Granthon's storm, remember? He can help you extract clouds from the sea."
Senya interrupted. "How else are we going to get water? You can't do it on your own! If it weren't for Taquar, if we'd gone to Portennabar, we'd all be waterless, with you being as much use as a pebble in a dayjar."
Her contempt riled Jasper beyond measure, and his distaste made his head ache even more. With difficulty, he reined in his rage. "Where are we?" he asked.
It was Taquar who answered. "Two hours' ride from the walls of Scarcleft."
The words mocked him. Mocked his brief taste of freedom. He looked at the highlord then, locked his gaze onto the man's gray eyes set in a face as swarthy as his own.
"You aren't going to Portennabar, Shale," Taquar said with quiet certainty.
Deliberately, Jasper began to relax the muscles of his back and neck, to ease the tightness of his shoulders, in an attempt to appear in command of himself. If only his damned head would cooperate. "No? And if I insist? What will you do-use those ziggers on me?" He gave a derisive snort and nodded at the zigger cage strapped to the back of the pede Laisa held.
Drugged, he thought, those two spitless women drugged me. That was the only explanation for his confusion. He felt like killing them both. His drinking water, of course. Laisa had carried it for him while he covered their escape by fighting the Reduners outside the walls of Breccia. He'd had to show Davim's men that he'd escaped the city so they would not kill the hostages in their attempt to force his surrender to the sandmaster.
He still didn't know what had happened after that. Perhaps they had killed the hostages anyway. Perhaps all the Breccian rainlords were dead, not just Nealrith and Cloudmaster Granthon. Maybe even Ryka and Kaneth. His heart lurched. Please let them at least be safe…
But he had no way of knowing.