The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  “You want to know what I was thinking? All right!” Gripping her upper arms, he pulled her up the inch necessary to make up the difference in their heights. He thrust his face into hers. “Every time, the odds are against me and every time they get slimmer. Every diabloman, every demon, every kill. ’Cestors’ bones, it’s a miracle I’ve survived this far.”

  The dog whined, butting his head between them. Walker ignored him.

  “All that matters is the vengeance of my people. Do you understand?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I don’t fucking care if I live or die as long as I don’t fail. And every demon is stronger than me.”

  Mehcredi opened her mouth and closed it again.

  “Very wise,” he said. “You think I’m going to take an innocent into that? I’ve got the blood of the Shar on my hands. I won’t add yours.”

  His chest heaving, he stepped back, releasing her, his temples throbbing. How the fuck did she provoke him into losing control? This wasn’t who he was. Closing his eyes, he tried to ground himself, reaching for the ch’qui, the strength that never failed, but it was like trying to grasp a fog.

  “Stop for a minute,” she said. “Here.” A water flask was thrust into his hands.

  Walker ground his teeth, but he took a swallow of tepid water.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask. How exactly do you kill a demon?” Her grin was shaky, but it was a grin nonetheless. “In case I meet one, you know?”

  Suddenly, he felt unutterably weary. “You get the diabloman alone and kill him first,” he said, leading the way up the final slope to the cave. “Before he can call his demon, though his death will bring it at once, out of sheer curiosity, if nothing else.”

  He leaned against the wall, watching her strip off the outer layers of clothing. The cave was a couple of degrees cooler than the world outside, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hot. The roots of her hair were showing blond, but he didn’t have any more blengos.

  “Then what?” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s you against a demon. They’re all different—mandibles, pincers, mind games, illusions, barbed tails. I find hacking the head off works pretty well.” Pushing away from the wall, he said, “We should eat. Get some rest. We’ll be traveling at night again.”

  Retrieving the sandmat, he shook it out of the net and drew his knife.

  “Sister, what is that?” Mehcredi crouched to peer, the dog at her side. “It looks like a pancake.”

  Walker flipped the animal over to expose the small circular mouth full of needle teeth. “A desert creature called a sandmat. But this is only a small one. I’ve seen some as big as a tablecloth. Good eating if you’re careful.”

  She reached out to touch the muscled underside with a fingertip. “Careful?”

  “The venom sacs are full of poison.” Running the point of the knife around the mouth revealed three pulpy purplish glands. “Sandmats kill by dropping over their prey and squeezing to hold them still. Once they bite, it’s all over.” He popped the glands onto a flat stone. Working quickly, he followed up by gutting the creature.

  Mehcredi pulled a face. “That’s disgusting!”

  “City girl,” he said without rancor. “You want something good to eat, you put up with a bit of mess. Don’t let the dog go.”

  “Like sex,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s what you said—good, but messy.” She tilted her head to one side. “Funny, I didn’t mind that part at all.”

  Gods, she was right. She hadn’t minded. Wet and hot, earthy and eager. Slick for him. Taking the stone, Walker stepped out of the cave and wedged it in the fork of the nearest tree, well out of Scrounge’s reach. By the time he returned, he had command of himself.

  “Yes,” he said with perfect calm. “Now you know. I’ll finish skinning this. Go see if you can find some wood for a fire, will you? Take the dog with you, and for ’Cestors’ sake, put your hat on.”

  A short time later, the dog lay in a dark corner, crunching bones. The assassin sat cross-legged across the fire, contentedly licking her fingers.

  “I’ll get the bedrolls,” Walker said to the rocky ceiling.

  When he laid them out at either end of the cave, she hesitated, then said, “Walker, can we—?”

  “Sleep,” he said brusquely. “You’ll need it.”

  Stretching out across the entrance to the cave, he turned his back on her stoic face. He didn’t know why, but the matter-of-fact resignation—hell, as if rejection was no more than what she expected—hurt him more than the initial flinch she hadn’t been able to suppress.

  Resolutely, he closed his eyes. What was done was done. It should not have been done and he was a fool, but it was too late now. How fortunate that first loves, by their very nature, tended to burn out quickly.

  For the first time, he found himself wondering what Mam would have thought of Mehcredi of Lonefell. Like all the Shar, she’d respected courage, his mother. By the Ancestors, she’d been a warrior, as strong as these ancient hills, and equally enduring. Walker had been twelve when his father left on a hunting trip and never returned, swept away by a flash flood that roared down a wadi. He remembered his mother at the death rites, singing Da’s Song, her spine as straight as a quarterstaff, not a tear on her cheek.

  And yet . . . He’d been lucky, hadn’t he? He’d been well mothered. To say nothing of his noisy, brawling, loving siblings. Mehcredi had had no one, and nothing.

  How, in the gods’ names, had she turned out sane, her spirit untarnished, as bright and shiny as a newly minted coin?

  A bittersweet smile curved his lips. Mam would have hustled Mehcredi into the family tent, woven beads and feathers into her hair and made her a Song of her own. How would it begin?

  Mulling over the first line, he sank into a fitful doze.

  Mehcredi couldn’t work out how he did it, but even leading his pony over the rough spots, the swordmaster blended into the landscape, became a part of the desert at night, as soundless as she imagined the djinns to be. While she toiled along behind him in a graceless scramble, the sweat chilling on her skin in the cold dry air.

  Even though they could have been alone in the world, he kept to the moonshadow, following the broad swath of broken bushes and churned-up dirt that marked the passage of Nyzarl’s party.

  He waited for her to catch up. “We should stop soon, find a place to hole up for the day.”

  Poor Scrounge flopped at their feet, panting. Mehcredi bent to pat him, taking comfort from the wiry fur beneath her fingers, the swipe of a hot tongue across her wrist.

  They’d been traveling for two nights now, and each day had been the same. Eat and rest. Monosyllabic conversation. But other times, he’d talk, almost as if he were thinking aloud, about the painted dogs and the way the pack cared for the old and the sick more tenderly than most humans. Or about tygres, so rare as to be almost a legend, but real enough with their striped hides and yellow eyes and paws like dinnerplates armed with scimitars.

  She wondered if it was the only kindness he thought he could show her. Because he took scrupulous care to avoid touching. If she stepped close, which she did at every opportunity, he’d freeze for a second and then move aside. She still ached, great daft lump that she was—who’d have thought it would hurt so much?—but she loved the sound of his voice, deep and slow, every word measured and considered. It did help—a little.

  “Do you know where we are?” she asked. Stupid question.

  The silvery light of the Sister caressed his high cheekbones, shadowing his eyes. An errant breeze flirted with his hair, falling in a long tail down his back. He gazed down to the place where the valley floor forked, another line of rocky hills joining the first, as stubborn and timeless as the bones of some gargantuan prehistoric creature poking up out of the subsoil.

  Cool and remote, he said, “There’s water to the east, not far. Would you like to bathe?”

  Mehcredi laughed. “You have to ask? Gods, I can smell myself.”

  But all he s
aid was, “Come then.” Without another word, he mounted and turned east, into the hills.

  An hour later, they had to dismount and lead the ponies into a rocky defile that grew progressively narrower until their shoulders brushed the walls and the animals whickered with nerves.

  “Where are we?” For some reason, she felt she had to whisper.

  “Nearly there.”

  Abruptly, he turned left, reaching back to grasp her wrist. “Careful.” “Walker, what—?”

  “We’re on a ledge above a long drop.”

  Mehcredi stared to her right. All she could see was the silhouette of rocky ramparts, sharp-toothed against the starry sky and beneath them a pool of inky darkness, but instinctively, she knew that below lay nothing but empty air. All the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Scrounge pressed right up against her calf, trembling.

  “Not much farther. I’ve got you.”

  She peered at his dim outline, listening with her whole body. There was a suppressed note in his voice, full of tension and . . . excitement.

  “It opens up here. Stand still a minute.”

  The reins were taken from her hands and the ponies led away. A few moments later, Walker reappeared at her side and drew her about another fifteen feet along the trail.

  “Here will do,” he said.

  With one hand, Mehcredi patted the reassuring bulk of stone at her back. She heard rustling, as if a whole field of feathergrass thrashed in the wind. After a moment, Walker said, “Sit down and lean back. You’re safe.”

  With a sigh of relief, she sank onto a soft mat of feathergrass. “Gods, you’re useful.”

  “I live to serve,” he said, very dry, and she chuckled.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked as he lowered himself beside her.

  “Waiting.”

  “Oh.” Mehcredi wrapped her arms around herself. It was plain wrong that a place so hot during the day should be so bloody cold at night. “What for?”

  “Dawn,” he said repressively.

  “But why—?”

  “Mehcredi.” He turned his head to look into her face and she wondered if his night vision was keener than hers. She wouldn’t be surprised. “Shut up and wait for the surprise, all right?”

  26

  Walker said, ��You’re shaking. Are you scared?”

  “Just cold.” Mehcredi set her jaw. “I lived through the Lonefell winters.” She edged a little closer. “Must be out of practice.”

  A short pause and he drew her under his arm, into all that wonderful heat, spiced with healthy male sweat and something that was uniquely Walker.

  Bliss.

  Gingerly, she snuggled closer and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Better?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled into the folds of his robe.

  Callused fingers nudged her chin around, toward the unseen void before them. “You have to look out there,” he said, “or you’ll miss it.”

  “Mmm.”

  Mehcredi blinked sleepily as the Sister sank gracefully behind the ramparts, followed by the martial red crescent of the Brother. Muscle by muscle, she relaxed into Walker’s firm body, conforming her shape to his, soft where he was hard. One star at a time, the night sky faded to a pale gray.

  Peace. This was peace.

  The place where she fitted, a puzzle piece finally come home. Oh, it was transitory, she knew that. Walker didn’t want her, not truly. But now she knew what it was, she could strive for it again. Because life went on, a day at a time. Regardless of misery, you went on living, breathing, eating, sleeping. Yearning.

  When it was all over, she’d still have this—the shining knowledge of what was possible, if she was incredibly, extraordinarily lucky. Carefully, she took a fold of his robe between her fingers, watching the gray cliffs flush with color—rose and lavender and yellow. Light spooled out, banishing wells and stripes of shadow, slithering down the cliffs.

  A mist rose gently out of the valley below, gossamer streamers twisting and spiraling in the light, only to dissipate in the upper atmosphere. Mehcredi caught her breath, staring. Almost shyly, dawn revealed a jeweled cup, an oval basin bisected by a silver stream that poured out of the cliff in an arching frothy stream of sparkling joy, only to disappear beneath a forbidding dome of rock on the farther side. It was bordered so densely by stands of cedderwoods and widow’s hair trees that only enticing glimpses of the water could be seen, winking between the leaves. The valley was carpeted with a type of grass she hadn’t seen before, about knee-high and topped with silvery purple tassels that danced in an unseen breeze.

  Mehcredi licked dry lips. “What is it?”

  “The Spring of Shiloh. Sacred to the Shar.”

  Slowly, she sat up. “It’s . . . it’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  The swordmaster gazed out over the valley, his jaw set. “We are the first to see it since . . . since . . .” He swallowed, blinking hard.

  She could have sworn she heard the snap as her heart broke for him. She lifted her fingers to brush his cheekbone. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “Please, don’t.”

  With a dismissive shrug, he stilled her hand in his, but after a moment, he slipped an arm around her waist to pull her close. “They are worthy of grief.”

  She managed a shaky smile. “Yes, I know.”

  Scrounge barked, shattering the silence. He stood at the head of a narrow path, prancing with impatience, tail waving.

  Walker stood and pulled Mehcredi to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  Smelling the water, the ponies were eager enough, but the track had their eyes rolling. Barely wide enough for a single person, it switchbacked down the slope, made difficult with rocks and tree roots. At one point, it passed so close to the waterfall, the air was full of moisture and thunder, every surface slippery and treacherous.

  Pausing to catch her breath, Mehcredi’s attention was caught by a flash of green. She had to go up on her tiptoes and reach up over her head, but she snagged the trailing stem and drew it down for a closer inspection. Bedewed with the river’s mist, velvety petals of the palest pink shone almost luminescent in the shadow of the cliff.

  Her belly clenched, heat rushed to her cheeks.

  When she raised the bloom to her nose and inhaled, she smelled liquid honey, musky and intoxicating. She dabbled a finger into the rosy heart, licked at the nectar like a cat. Delicious. Gods, it did look like—Her flush intensified.

  “Mehcredi, are you all right?”

  Up ahead, Walker had turned. He stood at the head of his pony, looking back over his shoulder. His dark gaze flicked from her mouth to the flower and back again, stopped and clung. He might as well have reached out and touched her. Laid his lips against hers.

  The wave of heat was instantaneous, roaring over her as if she’d been dipped in flames. Only a second or two, but she was left leaning against the damp stone at her back for support, seared to the bones.

  Walker’s face shuttered. Without another word, he swung around and continued down the trail.

  But she’d seen it—heat, passion, want.

  Turning her face to the spray, she laughed aloud for sheer joy—not only because of what she’d seen, though that was enough to set her blood bubbling, but—oh, sweet Sister of mercy—she’d recognized it! She’d read his expression and got it right, she was as certain of it as her next breath.

  Lifting the orchid to her face, she breathed, “Thank you,” into its sweet-smelling heart, dropped the lightest of kisses on a cool satiny petal and replaced the stem where she’d found it.

  “C’mon,” she said to Scrounge, who was watching with one ear up and the other down. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

  Her feet lighter than air, she danced down the precipitous path, the pony clip-clopping gingerly behind. A cold nose nudged her cheek and a warm tongue swiped her skin. “Stop that.” But instead of pushing the dog away, she hugged him closer.

  She was getting better at it, she
was!

  Striving for calm, she set herself to think rationally, to remember. Start with the steward. She’d caught the flavor of the man’s fear at once, trapped between the wrath of two equally terrifying men—Walker in the here and now, his dreadful master in the future. Everything he felt had been blatantly obvious, but still . . .

  The horse trader had been a greedy, mean-spirited man, the sort who’d knife a friend in a dark alley for the price of a thin beer. Now how had she known that? The lip-smacking glee with which he’d described the wounds left by the djinns, something about his small dark eyes, the way he’d rubbed his hands together—they’d all been clues she’d processed without realizing what she did.

  And gods, these were strangers, while Walker was the person she knew best in the whole world. She’d seen the swordmaster’s soul stripped bare, seen him in the grip of almost every human emotion, coldly furious, borne down by grief and guilt, consumed by lust—and yet he could be so tender he made her heart ache. Godsdammit, how many people had seen the swordmaster smile, let alone laugh? But she had, she, Mehcredi of Lonefell, failed assassin and passable swordswoman, owner of a scruffy mongrel and . . . companion to the most fascinating man on Palimpsest.

  Her heart soaring, she tightened her grip on Scrounge’s sturdy ribcage until he whined in protest.

  As the path began to widen, she reached for the old sense of separateness, the crystal walls that closed her off from so-called normal people.

  Oh, still there.

  Crossly, Mehcredi rolled her shoulders. Godsdammit, Abad the waggoner had liked Meck, hadn’t he? She’d managed a perfectly ordinary conversation with no problem at all. With the Trinitarian lord in Trimegrace, she’d missed the sexual lures because she’d been so focused on the interesting things he said, not what he did.

  Her jaw set in a stubborn line. All right then. Actions, not words.

  And paying attention.

  The rump of Walker’s pony vanished around a corner and automatically, she followed, brow furrowed. She stopped. Spread out before her, basking green in the sun, the impact of the hidden valley was so visceral, it was like running into a wall. After days in the rocky desert, it stole the breath, pouring over the spirit like a soothing balm.