Steelflower

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Facing Darik over sharp steel. A little flutter touched the bottom of my belly. Nerves. Not unexpected, and I ignored them. Well, maybe not precisely ignored them. Tried to ignore them. I took three sips of kafi and smiled at the barbarian.

  He blinked his green eyes at me. “Ye look fair glowing, lass.”

  “A good fight to look forward to. I’ve had precious little challenge since I left home. I hope I have not become rusty.”

  “Briyde’s eyes, what did he do?” Redfist yawned again. I watched him behind the mask of my smiling face and set the kafi cup down. Three sips was all convention allowed before a duel, to avoid the use of stimulants.

  I shrugged. “Tis complex, Redfist. Did you know he is not merely a prince, our red-eyed bugger, but the Heir to the Dragon Throne of G’maihallan? His cousin is dead in a frontier battle and he is wanted at home. If he follows me about, he leaves the Blessed Country without an Heir. That could mean disaster. The Council will be open to infighting, and—”

  “Why do ye nae go back wit’ him then?” Redfist asked. “Ye may see yer kith and kin again.”

  I shook my head. My hair was braided back in complex loops, secured for battle. I could fight through an entire campaign with these braids in. My dotanii was oiled, I had already done my stretches.

  I was as ready as it was possible to be. “I cannot return, Redfist. They will shun me again.” I shivered to think of it. “He was given a flawed Seeker, and so ends the tale. If he returns to G’maihallan, perhaps he will find a true adai.” I took a deep breath. “All I must do now is avoid being killed and provoke him into returning home.” Easy. Except for that pride of his.

  “An’ how de ye propose to be doing that?” He gaped and stretched again. “Yer pardon, lass, but I need t’piss.”

  “Ease yourself.” I tried not to sound amused. He rolled up out of the bed, making it groan, and rumbled toward the bathroom.

  I had suspected he was covered in hair, but it was another thing entirely to see it in reality. I pursed my lips, denying laughter, and looked over at my packs. If I died, Kesa would sell all my gear the barbarian could not use. Then she would send him on his way.

  If he wished to go. I had no doubt work could be found about the Sparrows Moon for a barbarian as strong as an ox. His size alone would stop trouble in the commonroom.

  And Kesa would probably make certain I had a pyre. If she ever forgave me for ruining dinner.

  Drops of mist beading on the window, running down, growing fat again. A heavy seaward mist, not the best weather for fighting. But for dueling—ah, there is no good weather for dueling, as the proverb says. Tis dangerous no matter what.

  Redfist lumbered out of the watercloset, blinking against the light. He found his breeches and nimbly stepped into them, a sudden grace surprising in one of his size.

  It was time. “I am bound for the dueling ring. Come down if you like. If not, wait here, and someone will come tell you what happens.”

  “Lass—” Did he actually look concerned? Did he have so little faith in my skill?

  Then again, I was facing a fully-trained s’tarei. We had both seen Darik fight. I was fey with the thought of a duel, Redfist was feeling the caution I should have.

  I shook my head. “I would recommend you watch, at least. Two G’mai dueling is likely to be a spectacle you will not soon see.” I stalked for the door.

  “Ye are determined, then. Well, I owe ye two lives, I’ll come an’ second ye.”

  Gods bless you, barbarian. You are more honorable than most. “Ask anyone where the dueling ground is. They will be happy enough to guide you, tis considered lucky.” I stepped out into the hall and closed the door, leaving a half-naked furry barbarian standing in a square of moonshell light from the cloud-shrouded Sun.

  I found my boots in Kesa’s room, worked my feet into them. Kesa had not thrown them out into the hall, which meant she probably was not that angry.

  I perched in the chair in front of Kesamine’s fireplace, pulling my second boot on. Kesamine breezed through the door, her red and yellow dress fluttering. She stopped, put her fists to her hips, and glared at me.

  “Kesa,” I began. The first of many apologies, I was sure. “I crave your pard—”

  “There you are. Do you know I’ve made more this morn than in the last moonturn? Cha! The Iron Flower and her suitor, a duel at the ground outside the Sparrows Moon. Rumor travels on air.” Her blue eyes were unreadable, her hair pulled back so the purity of her bones showed through. Her gold—ears, wrists, throat—glittered like the Sun despite this cloudy day.

  I leaned back in the chair, though not far enough to lean against my sword. “Jettero.”

  “Oh, yes. Jettero. There are two more pairs of G’mai here, paying good coin. You are a draw for business, Kaia’naa. Even if you did ruin dinner last night.” She cocked her head. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”

  I stretched up out of the chair, the soles of my boots gripping the floor. Already I was in the dueling-ring, thinking of my opponent, wondering. “I do crave your pardon, Kesa. I did not seek to mar the enjoyment of your feast.”

  “You did not. Jett and I ate your sweetmeats. Your prince left, waited outside your door all night. Vavakha nearly tripped over him this morn, and he has been closeted in the room I gave him since, preparing for the duel, I warrant. The most exciting thing since your last visit here.” Amused and furious in equal measure, she eyed me from under her black-smudged eyelids.

  “Twas not my fault. They were bandits.” And ten on one is bad odds, twas to my good luck I had a bow. I remember that knife-wound, I thought I would die lying outside the walls. If that caravan had not happened by, I would have been saved all this trouble and been singing in the Moon's shadow all this time.

  “Cha, bandits.” Her mouth pulled down, her skirt rustling as she shifted her weight. Abruptly sobered. “Kaia, you felt his pain last night. I saw it.”

  I shrugged. I was naked without my knives, but I was only allowed the largest of them as well as my sword in the circle. “I have no choice, Kesa. The barbarian is my second. If I leave the ground on my back, I expect you to put me on a pyre.”

  She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “You may leave the dueling ground defeated, but that man will not kill you.” Her teeth were very white. She reached up, rubbed at her forehead with delicate fingertips, and shook her head. “I suppose you will not eat breakfast.”

  I shook my head. “Too much in the belly means a lost duel. I fight best a little hungry. Besides, tis against convention. Too many lordlings dosing themselves beforehand.”

  Kesa crossed the room, took me by the shoulders, her hands pale and cool against my linen shirt. She shook me, sharply, twice. “You are a fool, Kaia’naa. A twin for you, something all your women have and you were raised to expect. And what do you do, wahana laia laiawaha? You wish to kill him!” She laughed, and the sound was far more serious than any sob. “You are kawahana’laha’naa, stubborn as a k’wahana bird. Do you know the k’wahana bird will not leave a beach where its mate has died? It will starve to death crying on the sands. Who are you crying for, Kaia?”

  Not for Darik, certainly. Perhaps only for the girl I was, or what I have become. I reached up, touched the hilt of my dotanii. “I cry for no one, Kesa. Just as I trust nothing but steel.”

  I had not meant to sound so cruel.

  For a moment I thought Kesa might slap me. I saw the betraying twitch in her arm and braced myself. I would not have blamed her. I bit my lip and waited for the blow.

  Instead, she took a step back. “Good luck.” Her cheeks had gone pale.

  “I do trust you, Kesa. Truly, I do.” You have had far too many opportunities to slip a knife twixt my ribs, my Clau darling. And you have not. That is worth something.

  That made her drop her blue eyes, still regarded as bad luck in some places. “Luck,” she repeated.

  “My thanks,” I returned, gravely. “Watch me fight?”

  “No, I do n
ot think I will.” Her mouth turned down at both corners, pulling against the rest of her face.

  Not after I’ve just made a complete ass of myself, you mean. And the Clau consider duels foolishness. “Kesa—”

  “No.” She turned away sharply, her skirt belling out in her haste. “Luck, Kaia. Tis all I wish you today.”

  Chapter 23

  Wingwyrms Circling

  The dueling-ground lay below a wide round thatch roof, dripping from last night’s rain. I approached the edge, watching a young woman with bare feet scattering sand on the stone.

  It was bad luck to get to the ground before the duelers did, so there was often a pushing and shoving for position at the very last moment. I leaned against a post on the south side—the challenger’s side.

  Twas a cool, rainy morning, the Sun shining through the clouds in bursts. Under the roof twas light enough, and the sand was fresh. There is no central pillar in a dueling-ground, the roof is supported by long flexible bantha poles; in some small towns the dueling-circle is merely drawn at need in the ground with a sharp stick.

  I waited, my hands loosely clasped before me, leaning against the post, breathing in the smell of a rainy morning. The wind came fresh off the sea, full of salt and the cries of gulls. Deep draughts of its cleanness, breathe in, breathe out, tuning my mind to a blank readiness.

  “Are you certain you wish to do this?” A woman’s voice. Speaking in G’mai.

  Oh, Mother’s tits. I hoped to escape this.

  I half-turned. The adai I had seen yesterday wore forest-green velvet, a G’mai gown, patterned with the design meaning the Everstar in our symbol-language. Long oversleeves brushed the ground, and her boots were stamped with leaf-shapes. She wore emeralds in silver at her throat and wrists, and rings glittered on her slender fingers. Her braids were intricate, but much shorter than mine. Younger, then. She was very young, more than I had thought.

  “What do you wish of me?” I did not sweeten my tone, and I did not speak in our native tongue. I could not use G'mai for this girl.

  She shrugged. She had a lovely face, the delicate loveliness speaking of extreme youth. I might have looked so once—but not as beautiful. Not so beautiful at all. She appeared a Gavridar, one of the lowland Houses that have not bred harshness into their children. I have seen Gavridar at festivals, and they all look too unearthly, skin too flawless, faces too soft. “It pains me to see a sister so unhappy.”

  I let out a low derisive noise. “I am no sister of yours, adai’sa. I was born without Power, I am sharauq’allallai.” The word meant “outcaste”, and was the word for murderers, kinslayers, those the G’mai cast away.

  Like leavings after a feast. Like rubbish.

  She shook her head, those liquid dark eyes on me. “No. Rather I would say you have too much. The immensity of your gift would make you difficult to train, and you are past the age of easy learning. Adarikaan needs no more battles in his life, sister. He has had enough.” She used the same inflection she would use with a royal adai, refusing for her part to speak commontongue, and helpless anger curdled in me.

  I will not feel guilty, you little chit. What do you know of battles? “He is determined to battle me. I have given him every chance to leave me be.”

  “The dauq’adai found you.” Stated as a given fact, as if she had been present and knew. “Yet you deny him.”

  “I merely wait for his true adai to appear.” Argue with that, girl. It is not wise to bait me before a duel, anyone who knows of me can tell you as much.

  “He may not be so gentle if you step into the circle with him.” She tilted her lovely head back to look up at me. Abruptly I felt tall, graceless, and awkward compared to this beautiful doll of a G’mai girl. Anger speared me, anger at myself—and oddly enough, at her. Had she ever struggled, ever starved because she lived by her sword, ever had to fight off the Hain guard or a Shaikuhn’s son? Had she ever been sick, and cold, and hungry, and alone?

  “Little of my life has been gentle.” I managed to keep my tone civil, but only just. “This should at least be familiar.”

  She clucked her tongue at me, the sort of sound G’mai mothers use to express weary wonder at a child’s antics. “Darik may well be the only Heir the queen will have, now. You are his adai. Will you deny our people? Have we been so cruel to you?”

  “I am not G’mai.” Through gritted teeth, slowly and clearly so she could understand. “I have not been G’mai since I was five summers high. I was tested for Power, and found to have none. This does not concern you, adai’sa. Today I either go to death or freedom, and I thank you to leave me be. I have a duel to think of.”

  Amazingly, she laughed, a carefree sound. Her s’tarei leaned against the inn’s wall, watching. Of course—I had a sword and an uncertain temper, and I was within reach of his adai. No wonder he was edgy. “You are a fine match for him.” She shook her head, her braids swinging. “Both of you too proud and stubborn. I look forward to this.”

  I gave a noncommittal noise and turned my back on her, gazing at the freshly sanded circle. Rainwater dripped steadily from the border of the thatching. Gullcries seemed far away, the sea even further. What I would not give to be on a ship right now. Bound for Antai, bound for anywhere.

  I touched the hard lump of the dauq’adai under my shirt. A flawed Seeker and a flawed G’mai. What a perfect pairing. Poor Darik, driven halfway around the world by a miscarriage of G’mai magic.

  Do not pity your opponent before the duel, Kaia. Pity him after, when you have finished with him.

  Redfist appeared, eased up to my side. He wore—finally—some freshly laundered clothes, linen shirt, a leather vest. The sight of him, hunching his shoulders and blinking against the rain, was absurdly comforting. His axe swaggered, strapped to his belt. “I have nae seen a duel like this before, lass. What is it ye need of me?”

  Tis enough that you are here, barbarian. I had ceased to think of him as a halfwit, precisely when I did not know. “Merely watch, to make certain he does not cheat. Though I do not think he would.”

  He grunted.

  Make your amends now, Kaia. “I crave your pardon. I was harsh to you. You do not deserve the sharp edge of my tongue.”

  “Aye, I do not. Though I think I would die of astonishment should you cease using it.” He tapped blunt fingers on the haft of his axe. “Thank ye kindly, lass.”

  There was nothing more to say or do. We lapsed into quiet, the Skaialan and I.

  Despite the ill-luck, people drifted into the courtyard early. I caught a few excited whispers, and the betting started. “Can you find what the odds are?” I pitched my voice low, merely curious.

  He slipped away and came back, moving far more quietly than I thought a giant could. “The current line is three to two, yer favor. The Gemerh, he’s unknown, but they’re canny fighters.”

  “Pfft.” I made a small noise. “I am accustomed to better odds.”

  Darik appeared. He resolved out of the gray rainy day next to the northernmost pole supporting the roof. I let my face take on its dueling-mask.

  Some will laugh and shout before a duel. Others will sit quietly in the circle, pretending to meditate. Others will bluster about, trying to unnerve their opponent before the fight.

  I bent down, touched the freshly scattered sand. Twas grainy and cold, and reminded me of other duels. I brushed grit from my fingertips and stood, gazing steadily across the circle.

  He was slightly taller than the other s’tarei, and every bit the G’mai. The two swords strapped to his back watched over his shoulders, and he wore the shirt I had repaired for him. Black trousers, black boots, a blot of darkness on the fresh-washed morning. He stood, quietly, and the s’tarei I had seen yesterday reappeared, with his adai at his side. Tyaanismir Atyarik.

  I had not asked the name of the silly little so-young adai. I did not wish to know.

  The s’tarei appeared reluctant, but Darik merely looked interested and pleasant. It was the same mask his face hel
d during most of the time we had traveled together, and I found I preferred his jaw clenched with fury and his eyes glittering-deadly.

  My heart began to pound.

  Two candlemarks past dawn.

  I stepped into the ring. People poured into the courtyard. There was betting, and a close press to the thatched circle. A dueling-ground is seven or ten bodylengths in diameter, and freshly sanded before each bout. It can go unused for weeks, but should always be kept well-thatched with chedgrass. The sand should be fine and white, though in the desert they sweep the stone floor clear before a bout. Enough blows onto the stone during the duel to give traction.

  Excited whispers rose. The Tyaanismir s’tarei murmured to Darik, and the prince shrugged. He made a single low reply, and the s’tarei paled. The Tyaanismir cast one venomous glance at me, bowed shortly to the prince.

  Darik’s black eyes met mine.

  If it was the first blow of the duel, I was not the worse for it. Yet I felt it, a shock against my entire body. My nape tingled. He drew himself up, and I truly saw the Dragaemir in him.

  The crowd stilled, taking a collective breath. There was a frenzied whisper around the man taking bets. Had the odds just changed? I allowed myself a small smile.

  Darik stepped into the ring.

  We faced each other finally over four armlengths of sand. I had not lost his eyes once. His face was set. The beauty of him—a Dragaemir, his chin lifted and his mouth firm—was enough to make my breath hitch.

  “You have only one blade,” he said in commontongue. “I wish no cries of cheating.”

  There was a shadow under his eyes—sleeplessness? I hoped so, twould give me an edge. I drew my longknife, reversed it along my left forearm. The blade went from my wrist to my elbow, fine Gavridar steel with the characteristic dappling on its bright shine, carried with me from my homeland and about to serve me now. “Enough of a blade for me, princeling.”

  His lips thinned before he spoke. “Are you so determined? I warn you, I am close to losing my temper, Kaia’li.”