Steelflower

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Briyde.” It was a long breath of wonder from the barbarian. “Tis nae the same bit o'metal.”

  “It is,” I said dully, and knew it was. I had thought it might be a dauq’adai, and I had kept it anyway. I had been unable to give it back to the barbarian. A piece of G’mai; no matter how I told myself I was no longer of my people I still hungered for it. Still ached for the feel of it. “If I accept it, he will follow me and I will never be free of this annoyance.”

  “Is nae such a bad thing to keep a pair of swords for using,” the barbarian pointed out. “And ye could steal more wi’ him watching yer back.”

  I considered the G’mai man. “Can you steal? Are you a thief?” Why does he not take offense? No s’tarei would cherish being spoken to so.

  “If necessary,” he said. “If you demand it.”

  I looked down at the necklace. My voice stuck in my throat, finally worked its way free. “I will not wear it. Tis for an adai.”

  “Keep it until…” Darik stared intently, as if trying to read my face. “Until some better plan for its use arrives. Tis embarrassing to give a woman a dauq’adai and have it thrown back.”

  What would you know of embarrassment, G’mai? “Equally embarrassing to possess no Power and have a G’mai s’tarei give you a Seeker,” I flashed back. “I cannot wear this, Darik.”

  He did not look away, kept studying my face. “You are not required to. Tie it to your sword, I do not care. Just keep it for a short while. Until Vulfentown, perhaps.”

  “Then you will leave me be?” I sound like a child.

  “I will give you peace. I swear it. Insh’tai’adai, s’tarei, ai.” It was the most serious oath a s’tarei could swear. “Simply keep the Seeker for me, Kaia’li.”

  I could kill him. But for what? I shook as if with cold, my fingers numb. He had not sought to bring harm to me, for all that harm had been brought.

  I dug in my purse and retrieved a single Shainakh Ram. “I will give you this, then. Luck. Tis the only thing I know. Face, I take the dauq’adai and find your adai for you. Haunches, I leave you in Vulfentown and you swear never to follow me again. Will you play?”

  His eyes were sorrowful, but sometimes G’mai look sad. It only adds to their beauty. “Have the barbarian toss. I will play.”

  I threw the coin across the fire. “Toss it, Redfist. Face or haunches.”

  The barbarian caught it. “Are ye certain, lass?”

  The only thing I am certain of is that I wish you both gone. I bared my teeth in what could have been a grin. “Of course. Luck.”

  “Luck,” he replied, and tossed.

  The coin spun, circling, and I watched. Haunches, I whispered to the coin. Haunches. Haunches.

  Long ago I learned the trick—if I whispered in just the right way, luck would fall as I wished. I learned to concentrate in a peculiarly fierce but relaxed manner, my entire world narrowing to the fall of the dice or the coin. It stood me in good stead once or twice, though I had been accused of witching dice. An accusation I always replied to hotly, with steel-sharp words or steel itself.

  It is no witchery to whisper a coin into falling. It is, after all, only a whisper, and seldom used in any case.

  The coin flashed, came to rest in Redfist’s hand. “Luck,” he repeated solemnly, looked down at it. I felt my heart twist with relief. It would be haunches. I knew it.

  “Tis the face of the Ram.” He offered me his hand so I could look for myself. I bolted to my feet and stalked around the chuckling fire.

  It was the face. The ram’s head of the God-Emperor of Shainakh, deeply stamped into red gold. I had seen the coin flip in the air. It should have been haunches. I was lucky with haunches. Had the trick failed?

  But the trick never failed me—ever. I had once been reduced to my last three kiyan in the great city of Taryak, under the gaze of the priestesses of Taryina-Ak-Allat. I gambled them all and won several times, and when I left Taryak I rode on a new horse bought with my winnings, with new armor—and a new bow, and a full purse swinging by my side. I had been laughing like a gods-touched fool.

  The trick had failed.

  I swore so vilely in commontongue Redfist’s ginger eyebrows rose.

  I looked at the G’mai man. He was far too beautiful for a deserted campground and a simple fire. No, he deserved something else—a House, one of the singing stone palaces that fill the Blessed Lands. He deserved the tapestries woven by the singers of K’maisharan, graceful Clau furniture, and an adai to match.

  I could set myself to finding a way to send him home. It would be my penance, my punishment for daring to touch a dauq'adai. “Very well,” I said through a throat full of sand. “I shall aid you in finding your adai. Then you will leave me in peace.” I turned on my boot heel and stalked to the edge of the circle of firelight, looked out into the dark.

  He said nothing.

  Redfist cleared his throat. “I would nae hold ye to that promise, lass, and he shouldna either.”

  “He does not have to,” I cut him off. “So I have sworn, so I will do. Luck.”

  “Luck?” the barbarian said.

  “Yes.” My eyes were fiercely dry. I would not cry. “Luck. Stir that stew, it had better not burn.”

  He grunted in reply, evidently determined to leave me to my fate.

  I heard the G’mai move. He was behind me, making no attempt to be silent. Heat rising from his skin touched my own, he stood so close. His hand came over my shoulder, dangling the necklace. The crystal flashed, an intermittent wink of light somehow expressing distress.

  “I wish I could crush it.” My voice was throat-full. “Throw it in a fire and burn it, and be rid of you.”

  His tone was gentle. “I am sorry. Truly, I am. I am late, and for good reason.”

  “Should you not have been at festivals, searching for your adai?” But the thought of him watching a G’mai girl, of the ceremony to celebrate the twinning…no, that hurt me too.

  “I will tell you the tale, if you wish to hear.”

  “I do not want your excuses,” I said, bitterly. “Save them for your adai. I suppose this means you wish me to return to G’maihallan.” To go back and be shamed anew.

  “No, Vulfentown is good enough. Shaituh is better. I think she travels long and far, this lonely adai, and she is not likely to cease wandering soon.” He took a step back, another, leaving me my space. I was grateful for it. “I travel with you.”

  “Suit yourself.” I slipped the necklace over my head again. Dropped it down the front of my shirt. It was warm this time, and settled against my skin as if it belonged there. I cursed again, softly but with great force, an oath I had learned in mercenary service during the last skirmish on the S’tai Plain against the Danhai.

  I had been so sure it would be haunches. The trick had never failed me before. Had he used Power to affect it? I would never know, would I?

  What had gone wrong? It seemed getting sotted in that Hain tavern had twisted my entire life off course. Maybe this was all a mead-soaked nightmare, and I would wake up with my head on the tavern table and my pockets empty.

  I could hope, could I not?

  Chapter 10

  Night-Hunting

  His hand closed over my shoulder. “Kaia.” An urgent whisper. “Wake.”

  I sat straight up, my hand curling around a knife-hilt. The G’mai crouched right next to me. “Someone moves on our fire.” His mouth barely moved with the words.

  It was the dead dark time of night, the midst of third watch. I saw the glitter of Redfist’s eyes across the banked fire. He lay on his side as if asleep, a man-mountain strangely still. “The barbarian woke me,” Darik continued. “He will play sleeping tarn. I am for night-hunting. You?”

  “I shall play tarn too,” I said softly. He had to lean close to hear, and I smelled him; leather, cloth, oiled steel. Male. “The better the bait… Take care.”

  He nodded, and his white teeth showed in a smile. “I shall.”

  Now why
did I say that? I did not care if he was cautious or not…but I had taken the dauq’adai. According to custom, I was responsible for him.

  As if I were an adai. His adai. My heart leapt bitter into my mouth.

  I lay down again, on my back. My sword lay next to me, I curled my fingers loosely around the hilt. Pulled a few inches free, so it could clear the sheath in a moment.

  No. Something tickled my nape. The feeling of danger was too intense. I had not lived so long as a sellsword thief by ignoring that sensation.

  I rolled up and took my sword with me, buckled it on so it rode my back as usual. I faded into the trees, moving silently over mossy ground.

  I told him to take care. Why?

  Do not think on it, Kaia. Think on the business at hand. I strained my ears. Nothing but the ordinary noises of the forest at night—and an almost-silence, the peculiar not-sound of the G’mai man slipping through the trees.

  How? How could I hear him? He was not clumsy, nor did he make noise. Yet I felt him. Felt his movement, his presence.

  The almost-silence stopped, waited—coiled and deadly. I felt faintly queasy. I quelled the feeling, my stomach twisting and releasing.

  I was uncharacteristically afraid. Of what?

  Motion, stealthy through the forest. I found my nightknives in my hands, their blades painted dark. Two men, less than five paces from me. I smelled them, rotten leather and smoke, the reek of bandits.

  Now, Kaia. Now.

  I moved without thought. Took one from behind, slitting his throat and stepping away, fading into the trees again. The Moon was shrouded in cloud, better for me. I would lay odds on my night-vision, not theirs.

  The second man whipped out his shortsword. I sighed silently. Worse for work in the dark, the gleam of the blade would give him away. On the other hand, he had more reach than my knives now.

  I contemplated this, watching him chop the air wildly, and a lick of fire raced across my right arm.

  I stumbled back, slashing with a knife in counterattack. The blade cut through empty air.

  Nobody there. But who cut me?

  What was happening?

  The bandit, alerted by the sound of a stick breaking under the ball of my foot, leapt for me. I threw myself back, rolled, came up with the knives gone and my sword whipping out of the sheath, meeting his strike. The sound was a sudden smithy’s clatter in the hush.

  I killed him with a halfmoon stroke, grimaced, and whipped the blood off my sword. Then I ran, silently, in a line straight for the fire. My arm throbbed fiercely.

  I heard Redfist bellow and burst out into the clearing. The barbarian’s axe smashed down, carving into the head of a squat frog of a man. The sound was a woodsman’s axe striking cleanly through a log.

  I met another bandit carrying another shortsword, engaged him with a clash. Then it was a straightforward fight, as far as the chaos of any fight can be considered straightforward.

  I found my back to the fire, facing down three separate men. I showed my teeth in a feral grin. My right arm hurt, phantom blood sliding down from a phantom slash. I paid no attention. “Who wishes to die first?” I spat in commontongue, my blade held steady in the high-guard.

  Two dropped, blood spraying. The stench of a battlefield rolled out around me. I engaged the last one with a side-downsweep, he blocked and slashed in—then fell, his face amazed, mouth gaping open and eyes swiftly darkening with death.

  Darik resolved out of the dark, his face full of bloodlust and his swords bloody as well. He twisted his second dotanii free of the body savagely, turned to survey the clearing.

  My heart pounded like Baaiar drums. For a moment I had been ready to engage him, for the rage in him did not look easily controlled.

  Redfist leaned on his axe. “Is tha’ all?” His green eyes were lit from within with something chill and fey.

  “I believe so.” Darik sounded just as savage. His right sleeve flapped a little as he moved, a restless twitch of rage tightly reined.

  Blood. A slash high on the arm, on the pad of the shoulder. My heart throbbed high in my throat. “Oh, no.” I wiped my sword on a fallen body to clean it, automatically, and slid it back in its sheath.

  “I thought you were to play sleeping-tarn.” Darik wiped his own blades clean. “Douse the fire, barbarian. We do not wish to stay here.”

  “That wound needs cleaning.” I could not stay silent.

  “I will not catch the woundrot. I am G’mai.” He looked at me, and sudden concern wiped away the cruelty of battle. “You are pale, Kaia’li. Are you well?”

  “Hale enough.” The ache in my arm intensified. I could feel blood dripping, soaking my shirt. It took all my willpower not to clutch at my arm. I knew I was whole, unwounded.

  If I am not adai, I should not feel his pain. Is it truly his pain I feel?

  I discarded the question as useless. “I will not leave here until that wound has tending. You will slow us, even if you do not catch woundrot.”

  He bowed his head, looked at the bloody slash. “Tis nothing. I was clumsy, that is all.”

  I put my hands on my hips to disguise their shaking and glared at him. “Find baia, Redfist. I will bind a poultice on it, and then we shall take our leave.”

  “Aye, lass.” Quietly, with no trace of anger. “Are ye sure ye’re nae wounded? Ye’re whiter than a Rijiin hoor.”

  “I am well enough. Fetch me baia, and quickly. Young leaves, small ones.” I do not wish either of you guessing I feel this in my own flesh. It should not be so.

  He blundered off, and I faced Darik. “Let me see.” I stepped through the chaos of limp bodies. There were at least seven of them in the clearing. Redfist had been busy.

  At least I will not be worrying about him in battle, he is able enough.

  Darik submitted, stepping away from the bodies and closer to the fire so I could have a clearer view. I peeled the torn sleeve away, peered underneath. “Mother Moon,” I breathed, in G’mai. “Tis only a scratch. You will live.”

  His dark gaze was a weight on my bowed head. “I hope so.” Quietly, soothing.

  I dug in my clothpurse for a square of silk and a smaller piece of cotton. I folded the cotton, wishing we could spare the time for hot water to bathe the cut. “We shall have to sew your sleeve.” I half-sang it, in G’mai, seeking to soothe him. Like a child, or a frightened animal, though he needed no soothing. He was completely calm.

  Except for the tension in his shoulders, and the smell of bloodlust clinging to him. I knew that smell, and it was oddly comforting. It takes a short while for combat-madness to fade, and I have smelled it on many a fellow sellsword.

  “I think so. Are you well?” The concern of any G'mai man toward a female, reflexive, meaning nothing.

  “Hale enough.” I feigned more interest in his wound. “You had all the ill-luck of that fight.” I felt his eyes on me, more physical weight on my shaking shoulders. I hoped he could not tell.

  “I was engaged with two of them, the third came from the side. Sloppy of me. What is your House?”

  I shrugged, pressing with my fingers, a little above the cut. My own arm responded with a flare of pain. I drew in a sharp breath through my teeth. “I have no House. They threw me out.”

  “Are you certain?”

  As if I could be uncertain of such a thing.

  “I returned from practice to find everything missing from my room,” I began, and Redfist came back into the circle of low firelight. He had a fistful of baia, and something my nose identified as woundheal. “I count myself lucky they let me take my dotanii. I left without a word. What could I say?”

  “Ah.” The G’mai had no pat reply for that.

  I took some of the baia from Redfist. “My thanks. And woundheal. How did you find that?”

  “Follow m’nose,” he said, gruffly. “Tend to him, I’ll strip tha bodies.”

  I nodded, and took the baia in my mouth to bruise it. The pungency of the herb tore at my eyes, hot water rising to fill t
hem. I stripped the leaves from the woundheal while I chewed, bruised them, and applied them to the slash. The resulting flare of pain made my eyes water even further, but I could pretend it was the baia. One tear trickled hot down my cheek, another.

  I spat the baia paste onto the square of folded cotton and pressed it to the wound. Hissed again at the flare of pain.

  “Tis only a scratch.” Darik shifted his weight, fretfully. Did he find the pressure of my fingers annoying? “I have had worse.”

  “Hold this.” I took his left hand and pressed it over the cotton. The stinging of the baia and the woundheal burned in my own arm as a brand. I snapped out the piece of silk, tied it to his shoulder. A fair field-dressing, Kaia, even if not one of your best. “There.”

  I found his face inches from mine. He watched me closely; he was sweating, too. I felt the water on my own skin, and let out a pent breath. “You will live,” I repeated.

  He held queerly still, still as a stone. “I certainly hope so.” No trace of sarcasm. Merely quiet politeness. “My thanks, Kaia’li.”

  I killed the smile seeking to reach my mouth. The fiery hurt in my shoulder eased a little. The woundheal would help with the pain, and baia was deadly to sepsis. Even if he was G’mai, it was never wise to take chances with woundrot.

  I took a cautious step back. He stayed absolutely still.

  His eyes held mine.

  Tis not possible. It is not possible, not possible, impossible, no. There was simply no way it could be possible.

  I had never broken my word before. Now I thought of it. I could escape them easily enough, I was sure. In Vulfentown, I could take ship for anywhere on the Lan'ai.

  The longer I traveled with them, the more I would feel bound to him. If I felt his pain in my own flesh, just as an adai feels her s’tarei’s hurt—

  No. It was not real. The dauq’adai had to be causing this newest complication. I was sorely tempted to leave him behind. Tied to a tree, if possible. Or simply behind, away from me.

  But what if the dauq’adai also triggered twinsickness? I had no desire to die of longing and fever, and if the Seeker could force me to feel his pain it could certainly also force me into the sickness of an adai whose s’tarei was absent for too long. Now that I had met him and taken a Seeker from him, was it too late?