by Myers, Karen
CHAPTER 59
When Penrys awoke for the last time, it was well past dawn. The friendly sound of morning activity around the camp had helped her feel safe at last.
The healers’ tent was empty, but she detected the hand of Hing Ganau in the pile of clean clothing laid on the chair Zandaril had been using the night before. On top was a roll of the same wrapping the healer had used on her left hand and a small but sturdy ceramic pot sealed by wax. The fragment of chain lay next to it.
She swung her legs over the side of the cot and, when her head stopped spinning, she picked up the pot and gave it a sniff. For my neck. Nice of her. Must think I’m going somewhere.
The sight of new boots made her sigh. Ah, yes, my old ones are still in Kunchik. I hate breaking in new boots.
She dressed, tentatively using the thumb on her left hand to help. It was clumsy, and it made her hand ache, but it was much better than no hand at all. No more needing assistance in the bushes like the day before. Her face burned at the recollection. She pocketed the chain, grateful to have pockets again.
All that effort, all those deaths, and that bit of metal is all I have to show for it.
Faced with the boots at last, she contemplated the loops at the top on either side. That’s not standard issue. She picked one up and examined it more closely. The loops didn’t quite match the leather of the boot tops, and the stitching looked new.
Zandaril. So I could use my thumb to help pull them on.
Unexpected tears rose to her eyes and she bowed her head to hide the weakness. We’re done, aren’t we. He jollied me along yesterday when I needed it, like the kind man he is, but the things he saw me do…
She sniffed, and forced herself to stop. At least he survived, I didn’t get him killed. That’s something.
Now what? Where do I go? There’s no point staying here.
She took a couple of deep breaths, and pulled on one boot. When her hand stopped throbbing, she tugged on the other one, picked up her pair of shoes, and limped out of the tent.
Penrys found Hing Ganau’s wagon where she expected it, the camp not having moved in several days. Neither Hing nor Zandaril was there, and she lowered the tailgate one-handed and climbed in.
The bean sacks were much the same, but all the personal marks of Zandaril’s occupation were diminished. She saw one tidy roll bound by leather straps which she suspected was his little rug, the one that had made such a comforting bit of color between them.
The books were gone, and his special stones, no doubt into the open packs she saw lying along the wooden wall. Only his bedroll was still laid out.
Her few possessions, all provided by the squadron, were in a neat pile against the opposite wall, with an old, empty, pack beside them. They included her folded bedding and the half-empty bag of power-stones.
The inference was clear. It was time for her to gather her possessions up and leave.
She set her face and bent to the task. The shoes she was carrying would fit in the bottom of the pack, once she’d cleaned them.
“You’re here!”
Zandaril’s cheerful voice interrupted her packing.
Penrys made sure her face was under control before turning, and raised her shield.
“I went looking for you in the healers’ tent but you were already gone,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t there, but I had errands to run.”
He dropped a small burlap bag on the floor of the wagon and hauled himself up. He stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a tidy knife in a belt sheath, and put it aside.
“No, not that one.” Rummaging in the bag again, he came out with a different knife and laid it down in front of where she was kneeling.
“Look—for Tak Tuzap. Think he’ll like it? I never saw what he gave you, but I had the sheath to give me an idea of the size.”
He reached down and handed her the other one while he spoke.
“This one’s for you—to replace the one you lost.”
She looked down at the sheathed knife in her hand, and couldn’t speak.
Into the drawn-out silence, Zandaril said, “What’s wrong, Pen-sha?”
She clamped her jaws until she thought she could control her voice.
“When are you leaving?” she asked, her face still concealed by her hanging hair.
“Tomorrow, I think. The smith won’t be done with the ax before then.”
She heard him reposition himself until he was seated cross-legged in front of her.
“Aren’t you coming, Pen-sha?” he asked, gently.
“I… I thought I might find a way back to the Collegium. Maybe I can find some sort of clue now that I have some of the chain, his chain, to examine. There must be ships…”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry.”
Her eyes seemed to find the floorboards of the wagon fascinating. Every bit of dust, every scratch—it gave her something to look at.
“And why would you do that?” he asked.
When she didn’t reply, he prodded, “You can do better than that…”
It stung her, and she muttered, “Blood. Death. Monsters. Power.”
She finally made herself lift her head and look at him. “Next time you’ll get killed.”
His face wasn’t shocked, or even puzzled. It was steady.
“I have better idea,” he said. “We go give Tak his yarab mar uthkahi, his honor gifts, buy some donkeys from him so I can experiment with mules. You come meet my family. We feed you better, lots of wishkaz spices to keep you warm in winter, and we have real winters, not like here.”
“You can’t! It’s much too dangerous. I’m too dangerous.”
She cleared her throat. “I killed Vladzan—stole all his power, stopped his heart, and watched from the inside when he died.”
He nodded, as if it were no surprise to him. “What he deserved. Like the Khrebesni you killed to stop the attack. Killing the enemy is not wrong.”
“Not like that. Not reveling in it, not… glorying in the power of it.”
“But you gave it back, all the power you stole. You are not like the Voice.”
“Oh, Zandaril, I am. I will be.”
“Every warrior learns what it feels like to kill an enemy. Sorrow to kill a man, pleasure to defend family and friends, righteousness to wield justice, pride in success. They learn this, or they are not warriors but murderers. You have learned this now.”
“This time around.” She trailed off. “The mage council, they wanted to know where I came from, so they robbed me of my strength with a drug and forced me to look.”
She unclenched her teeth. “There was nothing there, Zandaril. I don’t care what m’body knows, there was nothing there. I’m not getting it back.”
Looking at him directly, she said, “I am building on sand, and this can’t be the first time. M’body got its own memories somewhere. How old am I? Do I just stay this age? How would you tell, if I heal so well? Maybe wrinkles are just something else to heal and I’ll never see them. Maybe I did have children… but think what monsters I might breed.”
She bit her lip.
Zandaril let a few moments pass, then asked, “Have you looked in the inside pocket of that pack yet?”
Penrys stared at him. She turned and felt around inside until she located a hard lump and fished it out. The small leather pouch was unfamiliar, and when she loosened its thongs with the aid of her teeth she discovered the stone she had picked up on the way from Lupmikya, after stopping at the mill.
“This?”
She held it out on her palm. “I know it’s not right. It won’t balance on its own, but I… like it.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a matching leather pouch.
I suppose he must have made both of those pouches. How did he know about my stone?
The stone he uncovered was broad and flat-bottomed, with a deep depression that marred its appearance. He placed it on the wagon boards between them and plucked her stone out o
f her hand. Its rough base fit the top of his as though they had been made together, and yet they were different minerals—his was a dark gray granite, solid and speckled with black bits, and hers was an orange-gray sandstone with streaky layers.
The combined stone, to her eye, was strong but not simple. The movements were complex, the colors and materials were a contrast, and yet it made a pleasing whole.
She wondered what he saw.
Zandaril told her, “I have never heard of a two-part had-kighat mar-lud, and I don’t know what it means, but they belong together, you can see that. And they are wrong when they are apart.”
He left the conjoined stones between them.
“Listen to me. Just living is dangerous, and yet we embrace it, we must. At least you do not build on sand now.”
He gestured at the double stone. “We have real foundations. Maybe you have another family, maybe two, maybe none.”
He shrugged. “We will deal with that when we must.”
How can hope roil my stomach like this?
“You’re not scared of me, like any sensible man?”
He grinned at her. “You? You should meet my nurti, my second sister. Much scarier. That’s why I bring her donkeys, to distract her from me. She should get along fine with mules.”
Sobering, he said, “I need a student, now that I am a jarghal, a master, and I need a taghulajti, a teacher, too. I teach you, and you teach me. How else do we learn?”
He shoved the two stones over to her, with his own pouch. “Here, you hold them both. Look at them and remember why we do this.”
Bowing deeply from his seated position, he took a deep breath. “My name, Zandaril—that isn’t really a name, I told you. It’s a title. Means one who travels, a journeyman. It’s what we call ourselves after we’ve left our masters, while we search.”
He shrugged. “Kigaliwen don’t know any better, and they don’t approve of Zannib names anyway.”
He bowed again to her. “You have recognized my nayith, jarghalti, my masterwork, and so I take my name back, and you are the first to hear it again. I am Najud, son of Ilsahr of clan Zamjilah, of the Shubzah tribe, and my mother Kazrsulj is the daughter of Khashjibrim of the same clan.”
Penrys mouthed his name. “Lucky,” it meant, and “Fortunate.” Then she tasted wirqiqa-Zannib for the intimate forms.
“Naj-sha, would it be?” she murmured, and watched with interest as he blushed.
CHAPTER 60
As they pulled out of the expedition camp the next morning, Penrys followed carefully behind Najud, trying to anticipate his movements. When he stopped at the outer perimeter, she reined back her confiscated Rasesni mare, and checked to make sure the three pack horses abandoned to her by Veneshjug halted with her and waited patiently.
Najud had far better control over his horses. He was riding his favorite black mare, Badaz, and leading a string of all his horses as well as the Rasesni mare he’d stolen. His horses’ packs were light, like hers—they’d be getting their supplies in Neshilik.
He held the end of his lead rope in his hand, for better control. Hers was looped over her saddle horn, since her right hand was occupied holding her reins. A neat leather glove covered her left hand, stuffed in the fingers and upper palm with sheep’s wool to both pad the injury, and mask the damage.
Najud had switched saddles for her yesterday, giving the squadron’s trooper saddle back and getting her a working saddle from the ones supplied for the herdsmen. “The horn will be good for you. Lets you swap hands from one thing to another more easily,” he’d said, and today she could see what he meant. She wasn’t sure if she could manage both reins and pack string one-handed, but she’d wanted to try, not thinking it fair for Najud to lead all the pack animals while she did nothing.
She couldn’t have loaded them, however, not even if she’d still had both hands. Najud had been quick and efficient. He’d made sure yesterday that all the pack frames were padded correctly for each animal’s configuration. The farrier had seen to all the shoeing needs and even taken a look at the teeth of the two new mares.
Though the Maiju had been unwilling to sell him supplies for more than a day or two, citing the cavalry’s need, he hadn’t been stingy about equipment parts and repairs. They had more than enough sheepskins and rope to supplement what Najud had brought with him, and the speed with which he assembled the packs and loaded the frames was an education, as were the hitches he used, a complex system that was clearly an expertise in its own right.
Penrys had watched him and tried to take mental notes, but she knew she could only slow him down until her hand healed well enough to allow her to be of some use.
He’d glanced at her once and told her, “Never mind, Pen-sha, we learn how to do this as children. I’ll teach you as we go along.”
Now, stopped outside the camp, she wondered why Najud had halted.
He dismounted and tied the reins of his horse as well as the lead rope to a tree and walked back her way, past his string.
To her surprise, Tun Jeju walked with him.
*What does he want? I thought we were done with farewells.*
Najud’s reply made her smile crookedly.
*What, you weren’t satisfied with Chang’s dismissal?*
Chang, alone in his command tent, had thanked “Zandaril” formally for sarq-Zannib’s assistance and presented him with a small scroll. Then he’d nodded to Penrys as though unsure whether or not to credit Ellech for her own help, and that was the end.
*Well, we’re lowly wizards—what did you expect, after all, gratitude?*
At least they’d been able to genuinely thank Hing Ganau, themselves, with a gift Najud pressed upon him. Coins, surely, considering the clink.
The little girl Tak Tuzap had rescued was talking now and said her name was Tan Omi, though everyone called her Gailen anyway. Najud had left another present for her welfare. “On Tak’s behalf,” he’d said. “Easy for me, and she’ll think well of him when she’s older. He’ll be pleased, I think.”
Najud has interesting notions of obligation. Why haven’t I heard him mention Dzantig yet?
“Notju-chi was kind enough to come with me so you wouldn’t have to dismount,” Najud said, as he came into earshot. “Maybe now he’ll tell us what he wants, out here where no one can see him.”
Tun gave him a sidelong glance, but proceeded down the trail unperturbed to her horse’s shoulder, and bowed to them both.
“Let me begin by thanking you for the liju, our Serene Emperor. I am sorry for your losses”—he looked pointedly at Penrys’s gloved hand—“and hope you will accept this small compensation for your efforts on behalf of an empire not your own.”
He put his hand into his tunic and pulled out two small red silk pouches.
Najud’s face froze.
*Those are imperial grants. That will be gold inside.*
Penrys took her cue from him and bowed from her saddle.
Tun gave one pouch to Najud and reached up to give her the other one. It was small but not at all light in her hand, and she tucked it away carefully in an inner tunic pocket.
After waiting politely for them to finish disposing of his gifts, Tun said, “It may be that someday Kigali might wish to call upon you again. Perhaps word could be sent to find you, through Ussha and the Ghuzl mar-Tawirqaj?”
Penrys reminded Najud. *Better tell him your name.*
“Notju-chi, please use the name Najud, son of Ilsahr of clan Zamjilah, of the Shubzah tribe. I am no longer Zandaril.”
Tun nodded. “I had wondered. The archives speak of other ‘Zandarils’ in the past.”
He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Still ‘Penrys,’” she said. “Different customs. That’s just my name.”
This time, anyway.
Najud bowed to Tun. “Chan do ne Te ba Gen ka Liju.”
Penrys bit her lip. He must have memorized the traditional phrase—A thousand years to the King of Earth and Sea.
Tun nodded, and walked down past Penrys’s string, back toward the camp.
CHAPTER 61
They paused at the top end of the market square in Kunchik, just before entering the square. Penrys shook her head.
It’s only been four days since I was last here. Seems impossible.
The market looked unchanged, well populated even as evening approached. If any of the people had fled in anticipation of the Voice, there was no evidence of it now.
*Come on up past me. I’m going to attach my string to yours.*
She gave him a startled look. *I can’t handle that many yet.*
*It’s not for long.*
She led her string alongside his, and then beyond him. He leaned over as the last horse passed and slipped his own lead rope over the end of the pack frame in a double loop, freeing up his riding horse.
“Just hold them here until I get back,” he said, as he trotted by her and turned west, off the square to the right.
She watched him disappear left again around the corner, onto a road paralleling the square, then turned her attention to the excellent view of the temple school on her left, illuminated by the setting sun. From the slope of the land and the height of her horse, she could make out the benches against the wall behind the colonnade.
They would be preparing for dinner soon, those who were left. How many had died? She hadn’t been able to keep track of who was alive that morning, but their losses were heavy. What had they done with the one-time captives? Were they there, too?
She could have scanned the temple school, she supposed, but she didn’t want to expose that much of herself to them.
Najud reappeared around the corner, walking his horse slowly to accommodate the two boys with him.
He left one of them with her. “Give him your rope. He’ll take them into the inn.”
She lifted the loop off her saddle horn and leaned down to give the boy the lead. “You all right with this?”
“It’s our job, minochi.”
He waited prosaically for Najud to reach the start of his own string and point out the loop to the other boy, who promptly untied it and took charge of the second string.