by CK Dawn
She did not fetch him any meat—he could get his own, which he did—but she did assure him that the stream was clean enough to drink from, upstream of where she had cleaned out the carcass. That information came with a warning that he should watch out for the big chakisa especially in groups of three or more.
She chose not to discuss Yenteel since Daybian had not encountered him. The man woke up again as the sun was descending. He took some more food and water. He was stronger which made Kantees a lot happier.
“Lord Daybian is here.”
Yenteel raised an eyebrow. “He has not killed you or taken you back.”
Since that was obviously true, and Yenteel had not expressed it as a question, she said nothing more.
“What does he want?”
“To help me find his brother.”
“He could be useful. Do you trust him?”
“Of course not, he’s one of the masters. He tried ordering me about as soon as he arrived.”
Yenteel glanced across at where Daybian was watching the sun go down and scratching his behind. “He does not strike me as being very bright.”
“He isn’t,” she said. “But he’s a good rider, and if you can believe what he says he knows how to use his sword.”
“I thought that was what you were avoiding.”
Kantees looked daggers at Yenteel, who had the ghost of a smile on his face. “You can feed yourself. You’re obviously feeling better.”
Then Yenteel said something in a language she did not understand. He had a look of hope on his face which dissolved when she shook her head.
“I don’t understand.”
“It is your language, Kantees,” he said. “Of your people, the Kadralin.”
“It is forbidden to speak it.”
He made a slight movement that might have been a shrug.
“Why did you come to Jakalain?” she said. “Why were you looking for me? And don’t say it was because the world’s pattern told you to.”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “It is a story that would be long in the telling. We need to be moving on.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“No, but I am strong enough to make a pattern or two with your help.”
“You’re a patterner?”
“Everyone can make patterns, Kantees. Everyone does even if they don’t think they do. Every movement, every act, every spoken word is part of a pattern.”
“But it’s not magical.”
“Isn’t it? When a musician moves their hands on their instrument and it makes a tune, is that not a pattern that is magical?”
“But that’s just … doing things right. I’ve heard plenty of tunes which were not done right.”
“And that’s the point.”
She sighed. Clearly there was no point arguing with him. “What do you need?”
“Fetch my bag. There’s some charcoal in a box, and if you can manage to find a cloth that I can draw on, it would help.”
She brought the bag and located the box. Yenteel also possessed a white linen shirt so she brought that out and held it up in front of him. He sighed. “It’ll wash out, I suppose.”
He also wanted something flat to lean on, like a board, but that was harder to come by until Kantees saw Daybian’s short sword flapping against his leg. He seemed to be quite content just staring into the distance. Perhaps that was sufficient to occupy his limited mind.
“I need to borrow your sword.”
“To kill me?”
She ignored his comment. “Yenteel needs to do a patterning, and he needs something to rest the cloth on while he forms the patterns.”
“That slave is a patterner?”
“Yes, apparently he is.”
“It’s forbidden for slaves to do magic.”
“Yes, well, it’s also forbidden to hit masters on the head with shit shovels, but you seem to have recovered from that.”
“Do not attempt to run me through.”
“Much as it would give me great pleasure,” said Kantees, “I will restrain myself. I don’t hate you personally, Daybian.”
“Then you might consider lying with me?”
“Can’t you think with your head instead of what’s between your legs?”
He grinned and opened his mouth. She cut him off.
“Just don’t. Yenteel has already made that joke. It wasn’t funny then, and it won’t be funny now.”
“He thought it too? Then perhaps I will like him after all.” Daybian pulled out the sword. It was probably worth about two years’ food to someone like her. For him it was just a serviceable tool for killing. It wasn’t even of the best quality.
But it did have flat surfaces. She took it back to Yenteel who told her to lay the cloth over it and hold it taut while he inscribed symbols. He hummed at the same time. Quite tunelessly.
The designs he made had lots of straight lines forming squares, triangles and other more complex shapes. It was a pattern, but she couldn’t see any meaning in it. He took breaks as he worked and the light was failing but he seemed clear about what he was doing.
“Tie it next to my skin under the bandage,” he said. “This mark must be over the wound.” He pointed just before he passed out.
Kantees made a face but did as he asked. She needed to check his wound anyway.
The fire was going out. There was a shuddering in the air as one of the ziri launched into the air. It was Jintan.
“Gally?”
He emerged from the shadows between the others.
“What’s Jintan doing?”
“He is going to have a shit.”
“How do you know?”
“He was itchy.”
“Itchy?”
“Jumping up and down a little bit, Kantees. Did you not want him to go? He would make a mess here and we don’t have any shovels.”
Kantees had never noticed Sheesha doing that. He seemed content to make a pile in the corner for her to clear up. It occurred to her that in some ways Sheesha was as arrogant as Daybian.
“No, that’s all right,” she said. “We don’t want a mess here. He will come back?”
“Yes, Kantees.”
“You keep looking after them then.”
“Yes, Kantees, but there is not much to do. Romain will say Gally is lazy.”
“Romain isn’t here.”
“No, Kantees.”
Gally turned and went back to the ziri who were lying together a short distance away.
“He’s a bright lad,” said Daybian.
Compared to you? Yes, she thought. “You can have your sword back.” She held it out and he took it, sliding it smoothly back into its sheath with a natural confidence that suggested perhaps he really did know what he was doing with it.
“Can you build up the fire?” she added.
“Me?”
Her anger at all the arrogant masters exploded. “Yes, you! You want to come with me, then you do what I say.”
“I don’t take orders from slaves.”
“I’m not a slave any more. Out here we’re equals. Oh, and in case you’re making unwarranted assumptions, I’m riding Sheesha. You can stay on Jintan.”
He was quiet for a few moments. “I will admit I do not really know about building up fires. It’s not something I have had to do.”
“There is wood drying next to the fire. You take some of the branches and put them on the fire. Not too much or you’ll suffocate it and we’ll run out.”
“I see. I will give that a try.”
“Good.” She was slightly disappointed at how swiftly he had given in. She had been looking forward to shouting at him again.
He turned away and went to the fire. She thought for a moment he seemed sad, but she shrugged it off. Of course he felt sad: she wouldn’t let him express his arrogance.
She turned back to Yenteel and carefully untied the cords that held the pad. It was red with fresh blood. Simply drawing the pattern must have been too much effort
for him, and he had re-opened the wound. She would have to make sure he did not do that again.
That meant more delay. If Daybian could find them, then someone else could. At least at night the smoke would be less visible and nobody would be flying.
She wrapped the patterned cloth around him ensuring the right marks were on the arrow wound. Then she bandaged him up again.
At least she could fly away on Sheesha if it became too much. Except that she couldn’t leave them, especially not Gally.
Sixteen
When Yenteel woke again, the white moon, Lostimal, was shining in the black. He drank more water and chewed some meat. There was not enough light for her to tell whether he was suffering more than before. His voice seemed about the same.
“You placed the pattern?” he said.
“Just as you said, with the one you pointed out over the wound.”
He did not reply immediately but tried to adjust his position and groaned in the effort.
“You can’t do that,” she said. “If you need to move, tell me. You started bleeding again and this isn’t going to help.” She glanced at where the wound was but it was impossible to see anything.
“I must do this,” he said, his voice straining with the pain he had to be feeling. “I have held you up too long as it is.”
“You didn’t ask to get shot.”
“No, but they gave me that honour anyway.”
“We could just wait for you to heal,” she said, putting a smile on her face, even though he couldn’t see it.
“You’re a good liar,” he said. “I could have been convinced if I didn’t know the truth.”
She sighed. “What do you have to do?”
“Work a healer pattern, the one I’ve drawn on the cloth.”
“How can I help?”
“Just hold my hands.”
“How long is this going to take?”
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?”
Apart from rescuing someone I don’t even care about? A person I have destroyed my whole life for because I told a few lies? Even as she said it she knew that was unfair. She had committed the first crime to save a castle full of people who had enslaved her race. She still wasn’t sure why. She could have ignored Sheesha. Couldn’t I?
“I want to know if I’d be better sitting or kneeling.”
“Sit.”
It was awkward. She ended up next to him, but facing, on his wounded side so that he did not have to stretch his injured arm.
His hands were cold. Or hers warm.
She was aware that Daybian was looking, but then why shouldn’t he? There was nothing else happening.
Yenteel began a chant. She did not recognise the language but it was similar to the one he had used before to her. So that meant it was Kadralin. Was there no end to the crimes they would commit together? Forbidden language. Forbidden magic. She might not be performing the magic but she was certainly helping.
He had shut his eyes and his words came out slurred. She knew that magic required strength and energy. Would he kill himself in an attempt to heal? He had never fully answered the question of why he had been seeking her out.
His master wanted her. What did that mean?
Then her fingers tingled. It was like the feeling when an arm or leg that had gone to sleep began to recover. She worried. There were creatures that fed on the life patterns of others and drained them for their own sustenance. Was Yenteel one of them? Had he been lying? Was this all a ploy so that she would give herself willingly?
She would rather give herself to Daybian.
She giggled. At first she thought it had been out loud but no one said anything. She was confused. The tingling had crept up her arms.
He was eating her alive.
But she suppressed the panic. It made no sense. He had not chosen to be struck by an arrow. He had almost bled to death. What creature would put itself in so much danger simply to have another meal?
There was a grunting noise above her.
Sheesha.
She had not heard him approach. If his head was over them, he must have come in very close indeed. She realised her eyes were closed too, even though she could see lights moving. Golden threads wove in and out. Periodically new ones would appear from the left or right, or top, or bottom, and dance among the strands already there.
Then she realised what she was seeing.
It was the pattern of the healing. Some of the shapes made by the threads were the same as the ones Yenteel had drawn—but much finer and more complex. And so many more of them, as if the drawn pattern was a simplified version.
The tingling had gone through her and reached down into her belly, just as it also went up to her head where it made a ring of prickles as if her hair were standing on end.
Then the pattern seemed to stop moving. The golden light faded from it but somehow she knew the working was not complete. She did not know what to do. Yenteel must have reached the limit of his strength but it had not been enough. She had to do something.
Why? And even as that word filtered through her mind, she knew it was just another part of her. That part that said she should not care about anyone else because no one cared about her. All she had to do was release Yenteel’s hands—now cold like ice—and she would be free of him. He would die and she would need to care no longer.
But I do care.
She had no more reason than that. If she did not care, then she was as bad as all the rest with nothing to commend her. Her life would have no meaning.
She opened her mouth to speak but found it so dry she could say nothing. The fibres of gold dimmed towards the blackness that threatened to engulf them.
Something heavy came down on her shoulder.
And with it, a flood of golden brightness that she feared would blind her. The light flowed into her head and down her body, ran along her arms and out.
Yenteel jerked and his hands almost pulled away from hers but she held on. The pattern that had almost faded from view exploded into life. The threads were alive once more, moving and weaving. If she could have shut her mind’s eye she would have done it willingly as the power flowed through her and into Yenteel.
It took mere moments, but seemed like eternity. The pattern was complete. Its image vanished from her mind. She slipped her hands from Yenteel’s but the weight on her shoulder remained.
Sheesha grumbled in her ear. She turned and saw one side of his massive jaw resting on her shoulder. His mouth was easily big enough to swallow her entire head, while his teeth, barely a hands-breadth from her eyes, were the length of her fingers. The eye on this side was looking directly at her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
In an effortless motion, Sheesha lifted his head and grumbled again as he stretched his wings.
“Ow! Get off, idiot.”
In the silver light of Lostimal she saw Daybian on his hands and knees with Sheesha’s wing directly over him. Whether he had ducked to avoid it or been knocked over she had no idea, but it looked comical.
Then she yawned and a wave of fatigue swept through her. She felt as if she had run a thousand leagues. The dark world around her went fuzzy. She rubbed her eyes, but it didn’t help. Then she fell back into the grass and forgot about everything.
The sun was above the trees when she woke. There was a blanket over her and saddlebags under her head. She felt comfortable and relaxed. When she realised the headache she half-expected wasn’t there, she settled back into the saddle bags.
Then she remembered why she expected a headache.
The blanket flew off her and she stood up. Sheesha and Looesa were gone again. Jintan and Shingul were splashing in the pool. Beyond them she could see two men; one of them was Daybian, the other was dark and thin. They appeared to be leaning over the body of the man they had pulled from the water.
Where was Gally?
She turned again. He was beside the smouldering fire, putting down fresh branches.
Everythi
ng was calm.
Yenteel? She realised that he was not lying beside her, and immediately after, that he was the gaunt fellow with Daybian.
Everyone was up except her. She sat down. The healing must have been successful. She glanced back at the two. Yenteel was using a branch as a walking stick and his injured arm was still in a sling. Well, they had not attempted to fix that.
She considered what had happened. Romain had never mentioned that the zirichasa were strong with magic. She was certain he could not have known. They never exhibited anything like that. They did not have fire tubes like the tekrasa; they did not communicate mind-to-mind like wolves—she had to admit defeat at that point, as her examples ran out. She had no idea what other animals might have magic.
Though she had heard a lot of tales, like monstrous nachasa the size of mountains. But she had always dismissed those as imaginative stories to scare young children.
But there was nothing told about the ziri. Even when she had spoken to other keepers at the races, they boasted about their charges. Of course, she had done it too. But never had any one of them hinted that zirichasa might be capable of some magic or other.
Nobody knew.
Nobody except her. And what did she even know? That Sheesha had touched her and given her energy that she could then pass on to Yenteel so that he could complete his patterning? It was vague, and perhaps she had imagined it. It might have been that the power came from her and she had unleashed it by accident.
Yes. If anybody asked that’s what she would say. If she told the truth, who knew what terrible things would happen to the ziri? People would try to use them for patternings. They would be cut up and sold in markets as cures for this and that.
She shook her head.
Yenteel had said she was a good liar. So that’s what she would do.
She needed to relieve herself but decided her hunger needed assuaging first. There was still some cold cooked meat from yesterday which she helped herself to. She felt guilty for a moment, as if she were stealing it because she had not asked anyone. Then she remembered that the only person she needed to ask was herself—or possibly Sheesha, since he’d caught it. However, he wasn’t here and she did not think he would begrudge her a meal.