He bowed his head, accepting the rebuke. It was a gesture I had seen from several s’tarei. For some reason, it only made me angrier.
“He dropped his bow. I was angry. Forgive me.” He spoke in G’mai, and the term he used was a touch more than angry. It was the literal word for battle-rage.
My heart ceased its knocking in my throat. I could not take him to task—he was only a G’mai man unrelated to me, not my s’tarei. My breathing began to even out. Blood steamed, sinking into moss-laden earth. Mother Moon, all three of us still alive. What luck. “See if they carry anything of use. Redfist, are you hale?”
“Just sorry t’ miss the fight, that’s all,” he grumbled. “He fights mun well, that Gemerh.”
I am in no mood to hear you sing his praises. “Mun well indeed.” They all had purses, no doubt full of stolen coin. I subtracted another flint and steel from the archer’s limp body. Flies gathered, drawn immediately by death. I wrinkled my nose; trees continued whispering in the soft breeze. The edges of the sawlike ferns were dewed and dripping with blood, Darik had shown no mercy. Now I know his measure as an opponent. Tis worth something, is it not? “Let us hope they were not an advance party.”
The barbarian began to say something, but a curious look crossed his face. “Aye, lass. Let us hope. If ye say so.”
I clicked my tongue. “Messy.” I emptied the four purses onto a larger piece of cotton cloth I found tucked into the pikeman’s belt. “Bandits with pikes. Mother Moon. What next?”
The purses yielded a fair bit of kiyan and plenty of square Hain copper sequins. I flipped the Hain currency off to the side—their copper sequins were mixed and of little value—and concentrated on the rest. Kiyan, a few sundogs, and several Shainakh coins, heavy dark russet gold. “Look at this. Shainakh red Rams. How nice.”
I divided the coin into three roughly equal piles, put one of the piles in my purse. “Here, you twain. Take your share, tis as even as I can make it. Any other usable gear?”
“Some smoked leather,” the barbarian said. “A few gold chains.”
“You keep those. G’mai?” It took an effort of will not to call him s’tarei’sa, the honorific for an adult male.
He stood next to me, his head up, scanning the forest. Standing guard, I realized. That sparked fresh irritation—I should have thought of it. “Nothing I need. Tis meant for your purse, Kaia’li.”
I shrugged. “If you wish it.” If he was to give me coin, I would not complain. I had lost all my gear leading Redfist out of Hain, and I had both of them to feed as well.
If I do not simply leave them both when I take ship. Why have I not slipped free of them? Twould be simple enough.
Redfist scraped up his part. “Ye be mun fair, lass. I did nae earn this.”
“Most people do not earn what they suffer. Tis only luck. We could lose it all tomorrow.” Just like I lost all my gear in Hain. I sniffed. The air smelled clean of danger, and my nape had stopped its prickling. Still, I did not like the leaf-touched silence.
“We should go,” Darik said. Softly, but with an edge. Did he feel the same uneasiness?
Well enough. I stood. My thigh ached. I had not looked at the bruise since the bathhouse, and it had been rapidly darkening then. “Are there more?” My tone was just as quiet, and just as edged.
“Almost certainly.” He glanced down at me, smiling faintly. It looked like a grimace of pain, on him. “My apologies, Kaia’li.”
I took a deep breath of air tainted with death, wished for a wind from the sea. Wished to be on a ship, bound anywhere but here, wind in the sails and the rigging singing me to sleep. “For what?”
“Acting the fool. I am new to this.” His dark eyes were a little easier now, something flickering behind their screen of politeness.
I shrugged. “See if you like the feel of his bow. Have you practiced archery?”
“Of course.”
Ridiculous. Of course he had. Every s’tarei did. The mystery deepened. Where was his adai? Was he like me—without a twin? If so, why was he here? And what had the gaud of a necklace to do with him?
Cease your thrashing, Kaia. Worry later, move now. “Let us be gone. This way.”
We left the carcasses behind and went due north. I strode silently, thinking furiously, and only stopped when the Sun was low in the west and it was time to make camp. We had left the bandits far behind, though we had no doubt left a trail.
Redfist cleared a firecircle and I gathered deadfall. Twas a little damp, and I was not sure if we would be able to make fire. I wished I had thought to pack a tinderball or two in the cache. Ah, well. Next time. If there is a next time. Though twould be easier if I could stop losing gear. I crouched down, striking sparks and cursing my luck.
“Are you i’yah’adai?” Darik asked quietly.
I stared at him. After a moment he gestured at my hands. “Too tired to use Power?” he repeated in commontongue, as if I did not speak G'mai. Three fat, limp coneys dangled from a strap.
A dinner that flies to the stewpot. Then again, this was the best season for small game, even without traps. Coney-hunting with a bow was a highly skilled art.
“I was born without Power.” And thank you so much for reminding me, s’tarei’sa. I was even beginning to think in G’mai again, a thorny pleasure at best. I had not allowed that language to cross my tongue in so long, except in late-night singing of songs so old their words were like the hiss and creak of water under a keel, barely noticed.
Darik's dark eyebrows drew together. “You…”
The sparks finally caught. I blew on the smoking tinder, gently, willing it to burn, and the barbarian stared at me from where he was untangling some brush that looked relatively dry.
The sticks began to crackle. I glanced up at the white curl of smoke rising and cursed internally. If we were remarked by other bandits we would have trouble, and while I thought we were more than equipped to handle startled and stupid road-wolves I did not cherish the idea of a melee. “Damn,” I whispered. My gaze fell on the G'mai again, his loose easy grace and the dotanii above his shoulders. “Get those skinned and into the pot the barbarian carries. I will find meatroot.”
“There is some, twenty paces that way.” He tipped his head a little to indicate direction. I had chosen a thorn bracken to one side, merely to cut down on the approaches to our camp. “I may—”
By the gods. “No. Redfist, watch the fire. I wish some quiet, I shall return with meatroot.”
The G’mai nodded. His hair fell forward over his dark eyes. I could not stop looking at him, stealing his face. It was such a strange, hurtful thing to see another G’mai, the bones so similar to mine, hear another G’mai voice after so long.
Hurtful, but pleasant in its own way. Like lancing an infection.
He did not belong here among the moss-hung trees and the velvet-covered boulders, the sword-edge ferns and the shades of gray and green. He belonged in a House, in silks and velvets, against the arching, beautiful architecture the G’mai love.
I tore my eyes away and stood. Redfist brought the pot, Darik paced over to the other side of the thorn bracken to skin the animals. He would have already gutted them away from the camp. The skins would sell in Vulfentown—fat sleek coneys were always in demand.
I found the meatroot and dug up four large ones, leaving plenty for the patch to replenish itself. I washed them in the stream, singing a little chant of thanksgiving, and washed my face. The water was cold, and felt good.
I made my way to the camp, seeing firelight through the trees before I could smell the smoke. Salt-freighted wind came in off the coast, too, twould carry the smoke and alert anyone inland to our presence. There was nothing to be done for it.
Had I been adai I could disguise the smoke, or surround our camp with confusion. Had I been gifted with even the smallest touch of—
I shook my head, angrily, the necklace moving between my breasts. I had left that part of myself behind—the part that wished I had been born
with Power. The part that sobbed to sleep every night, the part that begged the gods for some measure of belonging, some mark that I was worthy to be one of the People.
“No.” I held my hand out. Felt the lash of the warmaster’s cane against my fingers, a correction and chastisement. It hurt as much as it ever had. “No.”
My hand throbbed. I made a fist, and my fingers ached. I shook them out, picked up the meatroot I had dropped. Stalked back to the fire, my boots landing with more force than necessary. Why bother stepping lightly?
The pot hung on a makeshift tripod over the fire that would bear careful watching. I dropped the meatroot in front of Redfist. “Well done,” I said. He had used rawhide thongs, probably taken from the bandits, to lash the tripod together.
“Aye. Your cor’jhan there—”
“Corszhan?” I tried to accent the word as he did. Twas always good to pick up words where one could; sometimes they were better than gold.
“Word for a…” He was at a loss for the proper term before his face lit up. Perhaps he was not stupid, he was only unused to the trade-language of the Lan’ai Shairukh. “A suitor! A suitor. A betrothed.”
Oh, Mother’s tits. “He is only a G’mai. I have no intention of doing anything other than sending him on his way as soon as possible. Just the same as you.” I stared at the barbarian, knowing my eyes would reflect the firelight with gold. “Both of you are annoyances I will be well rid of very soon.”
“Oh, aye, no doubt, lass.” He picked up the meatroot, cutting and dropping them into the incipient stew. One of them had added baia, the plentiful, pungent herb called poor man's woundheal. “Well rid of two problems. Aye. Anyhow, he—your Gemerh—put this ‘un.”
“Kind of him, to be sure. He has probably run off with the skins and his purse.” I was warming to this theme when Darik melted out of the gathering dark behind Redfist. I shut my mouth, ashamed and furious at the same time, the crystal a warm lump against my breastbone. “Both of you are annoyances, and I will take you far as Vulfentown. Then you may go where you wish, together or apart, I care little. But you shall travel no further with me.”
“We may go where we like when we reach Vulfentown?” Darik sank down by the side of the fire. He had a handful of pipriweed, and he threw some into the bubbling pot. It began to smell savory. Even more annoying, my mouth filled with water at the scent.
“As you like.” I settled my chin on my hand. Ferns rustled as the wind rose, dusk sending invisible streamers through the trees. “As long as you leave me in peace, I care not.”
Darik nodded. “I heard you sing last night. The Lay of Creation.”
A graceful change of subject, worthy of a G'mai. I nodded, pulled my knees up and hugged them, staring into the fire. The damp wood burned amazingly well.
Redfist looked at Darik, and then dropped another handful of chopped meatroot into the stew. “Ye were nae chasing me, then?”
Darik shrugged. “I was chasing a dauq’adai. I had no choice.”
My heart thumped again, sourness rising in my mouth.
“If it belongs to the lassie, why were ye chasing it? And what’s a dawukaddaye?” The barbarian’s ginger eyebrows drew together.
“Excuse me.” I sounded polite enough, though all the breath had left me in a rush. “A dauq’adai?”
Darik nodded. “So it is.” He turned his gaze to Redfist. “A dauq’adai—”
I tore it off over my head, almost catching one of my braids in the process. “This is a Seeker? Is it?”
Darik nodded again. “Yes, Kaia’li. Tis a Seeker, and I—”
“Take it from me.” My hand was shaking. The flawed gem danced at the end of its chain. “Take it back!”
“I cannot. You know better. You are G’mai, you have to be, there is no other explanation. You know the forms, you have a dotanii—and I see the stamp of a House on you. I cannot tell which one yet, but give me time.”
“Take it back!” I made it to my feet, the words pitched just below a scream, my throat aching with the force of it. The chain bit my fingers, I had clenched my fist so tightly. And why did it seem heavier, like true silver instead of cheap lightmetal?
“Twas beginning to crumble when I came to Hain.” He spoke deliberately, quietly, as if I were a wounded animal in need of soothing. “It slipped from my hand in a city street. I searched, in something of a panic, and finally found a streetseller had found it and given it to her pimp. The pimp was knifed, the Seeker taken by a petty thief, who bartered it to a barbarian in a game of cards. And then, a G’mai adai’sa picked the barbarian’s pocket—”
“Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop!” My voice bounced and echoed off the trees, the wind bending treetops. Leaves fluttered down to the forest floor.
“Now, lass,” Redfist said, tentatively, “no need t’ get—”
“Take it back!” My throat swelled with the enormity of the shout.
Darik shook his head, solemnly. “I found it hanging on a whitebark branch, three silver Hain sequins underneath. Yet it had begun to heal itself. The moment your flesh touched it, life began to return to the dauq’adai.”
The crystal hit him in the chest, its chain slithering, and his face changed slightly. I had seen irritated s’tarei before. He certainly looked the part now, his black eyes narrowing and his mouth firming.
My aim is true, I thought blankly, part of an old teaching rhyme. My hands shook. I wanted a swordhilt to steady them, restrained myself with a massive effort that left me sweating. “You will not say such things to me,” I informed him in the coldest tone I possessed. “I am not adai. I was thrown from of my House because I have no Power, and I have done quite well for myself. You may sleep at my fire tonight, but the morn I wish you gone, and if you are not, I will leave both of you to die in the woods. I do not care.”
Darik held the necklace up. Its glittering speared my eyes. I wanted it back in my hand, the feel of the silver against my flesh. “Take it, and I will leave you be. Tis not polite to throw a gift at its giver. You were taught better manners.”
My stomach revolved, thank the Moon I had not eaten anything since morning. I want it. I want it, I will not take it. I cannot. “Tis a dauq’adai,” I said tonelessly. “It has nothing to do with me.”
His face did not change. Did not he understand? “Perhaps not. But tis healing itself, Kaia. You can see as much. Perhaps it is a flawed Seeker. Such things happen.” His tone was reasonable, soothing, he spoke in G’mai. The words sounded silken in his mouth. “Pardon me, I do not seek to anger you.”
I took in a deep, coughing breath. Sat back down, heavily. Redfist stared at me, his eyes wide and green in the firelight. He was dying to ask the question again, could not quite bring himself to do it. “Tis a Seeker.” Pointlessly, in commontongue, the explanation felt strange to be giving to a barbarian. “Meant to find an adai—a twin—for a s’tarei, a G’mai man, when he reaches his adulthood and has not found a twin inside his House or at the festivals, but has not died either. Tis a powerful piece of magic, and it acts as a northneedle, guiding the s’tarei to the adai. They are called dauk’qa’adaia—the Everstars—because they guide with a constant light. Still, they fade after a while if they do not find what they seek.”
I did not tell him the rest. The failing of the Everstar means the failure of a s’tarei’s life as well. The songs and poems that praised the Seekers also spoke of their doom, time slipping away, and the searching and longing each dauq'adai contained.
Redfist dropped a last handful of chopped meatroot into the pot. He grunted. I found it absurdly comforting that he cared so little.
I found my voice anew. “Obviously this one is so weak, the presence of any G’mai female would have triggered it. Take it back, Darik. You are many long leagues from home, I would suggest you go back to G’maihallan and find your twin. You have waited long enough.” My voice faltered a little. I am not adai. I am not. I will not think of it.
He said nothing.
He watched
the fire, light caressing his face. He did indeed have a full share of beauty. It hurt to see, deep in my chest where the worst pain always lodges, that of a heart-wound.
“You should go back. S’tarei’sa.” I used the inflection that made it an honorific again, the one used for any s’tarei by G’mai girls before their adulthood ceremony.
He flinched slightly, as if struck. His fingers spasmed shut around the necklace. “I wish to gift it to you. Please.” He used the formal inflection in G'mai, the one that was not—quite—a command. But twas close. Very close, as if he was accustomed to commanding and only stopped himself with an effort of will.
I swallowed bile. The wind had slacked a little, but still carried a breath of the sea. “I am not adai.”
As often as I said it, the words still tasted of bitterness and shame.
“Nor am I.” His mouth twisted humorlessly. “I carried it. Are you afraid?”
“Of course not.” It was reflexive, to answer his challenge. “I fear nothing.” I have faced much worse than you, s'tarei'sa.
“Then you can prove it, can you not?” It was the oldest trick, and one I had fallen for many a time as a child. But I was too old to fall prey to it now.
Truly, I was. “That will not net me, G’mai.”
“Then perhaps this will. Take it, or be responsible for my death. I am oath-bound, Kaia’li.” He did look at me then, dark eyes in the firelit darkness.
“I know you are.” I shook myself. “But I cannot.”
His jaw set. He was determined. “You must. Unless you wish to kill me yourself.”
“I am too weary for swordplay tonight.” I yawned to prove it, a pantomime of exhaustion. “Mayhap tomorrow.”
Darik tossed the necklace, a passionlessly accurate throw. It landed near my boot, and I had to look down to see the crystal glittering as soon as it came near me, sparkling and flashing. Now who is tossing gifts, G’mai? But I did not say it.
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