Path of Honor

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

But it was like reparing a dam with mud, despite Saljane’s strength and the sudden influx of power from the talisman. With every fixed leak, another exploded a few feet away. Move to fix that one, and another leak sprang up where she’d already made repairs. Again and again her patches gave way and she was forced to rebuild them. The stench of burnt hair and cloth grew stronger, and Reisil began to feel the heat reddening her skin. She gritted her teeth. She would not give up, would not give in.

  Then the choice was taken from her. The woman’s body spasmed, her chest and stomach arching off the ground, her mouth open in a silent rictus. She remained so for a few fleeting seconds, and then she splayed back to the ground, her body slack beneath Reisil’s fingers.

  “No!” Reisil cried hoarsely, her voice cracking. She scrabbled inside the woman, but there was no bringing life back to the body. The woman was dead.

  Reisil’s head fell forward. She couldn’t breathe. Jagged sobs lodged in her throat. Reisil clamped her teeth tight against them. Her magic began to ebb, and she struggled to her feet, legs aching. There was one other task to do, one other task she was certain she could do.

  She backed away from the corpse, her feet dragging the ground. Ten paces away, she summoned her power again, thinking of the incinerating fire she’d used against the assassins. She let the fire build inside her, relishing the pain of it. Finally, she brought her fists forward, opening her hands and letting go of the flames. They engulfed the dead woman, and in seconds the body turned to ash.

  Reisil withdrew her power and let it drain back to where it came from. Saljane remained silent, a font of strength and comfort as Reisil turned and crossed to the edge of the circle where the people of the Fringes still watched. Their faces were tight with expressions of horror and fear. When she came to Tillen, she paused, her gaze fixed straight ahead.

  “It’s the plague. There’s nothing I can do.” With that she strode away.

  As she walked, she began to shake. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to scream, she wanted to pound her fists until they bled. She’d failed again. And now what had happened to Veneston was going to happen to Koduteel.

  She felt Saljane stirring in her mind and sent a silent plea not to speak. Not yet. She wasn’t ready. She was too raw. Reisil felt something akin to a mental hug as Saljane gathered her close in her mind. Then the goshawk released Reisil, allowing her ahalad-kaaslane the privacy to come to terms with her emotions on her own.

  “Reisiltark.” Tillen’s gruff voice caught her as she began to climb back up the hill to the ocean bluffs. She stopped, then slowly turned around, looking down as he gazed up at her, his square face pale in the early evening, his cloak pulled tight against the wind. Her own flapped loosely on the wind, but she didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel anything. She thought of the wizards. They would wait like vultures until Kodu Riik was dead and then eat their fill of its remains.

  “Reisiltark, you did your best. You healed many people today. You did more than anyone else has been willing to do.”

  “I failed.” The words were flinty and bitter as salt.

  “Yes. But many people fail.”

  Reisil eyed him narrowly. “She died.”

  “We all die, sooner or later.”

  “It will be sooner. And it will be hideous and painful. The Blessed Lady gave me this power so that I could save Kodu Riik. Why can’t I heal with it?”

  Tillen stepped forward, grasping her hand. “No one learns overnight how to build a house or make a boat. And we must have patience until you do.”

  “There is no time.”

  “There is always time. Not for all of us, certainly. Maybe not even for most of us. But we will pray to the Lady, and you will seek to learn. We must have faith that it will all turn out as it is supposed to.”

  Reisil stared incredulously, remembering the burning sheep sheds, the smell of charred flesh. He didn’t know. If he did, he would not be so unruffled.

  “I don’t know that I will ever be able to cure the plague.”

  “I am certain you will.”

  “How can you be? How can you believe in me?”

  “You are mistaken. I don’t believe in you. I believe in Amiya.” A smile flashed across his lips and then faded. He gazed at Reisil soberly. “You must have faith too, Reisiltark. I don’t know why you can’t heal the plague yet. But I know the Blessed Lady loves us. We may not understand Her plan, but certainly She has one.

  “Go home now. Rest. Tomorrow is time enough to begin again. We thank you for today. You are always welcome here.”

  Tillen let go of her hand and touched his forehead. Reisil watched him walk away and then turned to climb up the path. Frigid rain pecked her face, turning to ice on her cloak. Through the soles of her feet she felt the throbbing of the harbor cavern as waves surged high. Suddenly Reisil stopped, staring up into the sky, the charcoal clouds churning.

  “I will not give up,” she said, voice as hard as the rock she stood on. “I will not let you beat me. I will find a way.” Whether she spoke to the Lady or to the plague or to the wizards, she didn’t know.

  Chapter 12

  Juhrnus reined the wagon in beside the lighthouse. “Skraa. This is a stupid way to die.” The wind blew the words back in his face.

  With a gusty sigh, he set the brake and went to look at the injured man. Metyein cas Vare. The skraa-for-brains idiot had really done it to himself this time. Blood pooled on the wagon boards. “Duel didn’t go so well, did it?” he asked the unconscious man, pulling him to the end of the wagon bed. “Now this next part is going to hurt, so best not to wake up for it. And if you do, don’t look down. Don’t want your puke running down into my boots.”

  He hoisted the other man over his shoulder, positioning Metyein so that the arrow protruding from his gut stuck out to the side. Esper wriggled out of the wagon and clumsily began up the stairs, gripping the stone with his claws, his green and yellow stripes dulled with the chill.

  ~Cold.

  ~And going to get colder. Better hurry. Reisil will have a fire going.

  Esper scurried upward. Juhrnus followed, setting each foot carefully on the slick steps and leaning close against the tower. Between the icy spray from below and the freezing rain from above, the footing was more treacherous than usual.

  “Watch your head, then,” Juhrnus muttered when his food slid sideways and he fell heavily against the wall. Pain shot up his elbow, and Metyein’s head knocked against the stone. “Well, at least you won’t be waking up soon,” he grunted. “Good planning. Sleep until Reisil has her way with you. Now don’t get your hopes up, little lordling. She’s not that way. Have to work harder than that to get between her legs, you do. It’ll take more than bleeding all over her to do that.”

  Juhrnus fell silent as they circled upward. He panted with exertion, resting on the lee of the tower and laboring against the wind’s pounding fists as he rounded the windward side. When he arrived on the gallery walk, he found Esper curled up against the closed door. The windows in the watch room were ominously dark.

  “She’s not here?”

  ~No. Cold.

  “It’ll be warmer inside.”

  It wasn’t much warmer, though the cessation of wind and rain was a relief. Juhrnus laid Metyein on Reisil’s bed, covering him with her heavy wool blankets.

  ~Our lordling hasn’t got a lot of time left. We’d better go find her. Come on—you can ride in your sling. Juhrnus lifted Esper into the leather sling he wore around his waist beneath his cloak. The sisalik snuggled in with relief.

  ~Come on. No time to fix him a fire. Reisil’s let the coals go out. His best chance is for us to find Reisil soon. Juhrnus pulled up his hood and slipped out the door. “Lady watch over him,” he added in an undertone as he went.

  The frigid wind made Reisil’s eyes ache. She clutched her cloak around her nose and mouth as she shuffled along the ice-slicked road. It had taken her an hour to walk from the Fringes. Rain whipped across the road in sheets freezing
wherever it touched. Ice glazed the rocks, bushes, trees and grasses. There would be a lot of toppled trees and collapsed roofs in Koduteel, wagons frozen solid to the street, doors and windows iced shut.

  The lighthouse loomed out of the darkness, and Reisil angled up the gravel path, ducking between the ramshackle keeper’s quarters and oil storage shed. She began up the steps, digging her fingers between the cracks in the stone and bracing against the wind. Below the ocean roared, and along the headland, the new lighthouse flashed a warning through the driving rain.

  She reached the gallery deck at last, her heart pounding. She paused beside the crumbling parapet, ice crusted in her hair and cloak. She panted, inhaling the tumultuous darkness, feeling inside herself for an answering blackness.

  The wind gusted and shoved her back a step. Reisil grappled at her billowing cloak and retreated to the door. Ice glazed its surface and formed seams along the bottom and sides. She shoved against the wood, until it gave, and she lurched inside. Instantly the roar of the wind and rain dimmed, and she became aware of the sound of breathing. Her scalp prickled.

  “Who’s here?”

  No one answered. Reisil untied her cloak, dropping it to the floor with a rattling swish before reaching for the fire poker dangling next to the hearth.

  “What do you want?”

  Again, no answer. Reisil turned her head, straining to hear. The breathing was shallow and quick. It came from her bed. Realization struck her, and she dropped the poker with a clang. She groped along the mantel until her fingers knocked against a flint and a basket of sawdust and splinters. Quickly she struck a light and touched a burning splinter to the tall candle waiting beside the tinder basket. Grasping it, she went to examine her guest.

  Reisil recognized his handsome face immediately.

  “And what is the Lord Marshal’s son doing in my bed?” She frowned, setting the candle on the washstand. He was too pale, and his teeth rattled. Sweat gleamed on his skin. Crimson stains spread across her blankets. She pulled the blankets back, finding the protruding arrow and the ugly wound in his thigh. His stomach was distended and hard, and even unconscious he jerked away from Reisil’s touch. “By the Lady, what happened to you?”

  Sudden fury sparked inside her. Had someone left him here so that she could be blamed? To give the Lord Marshal a real reason to come after her? She sighed. It didn’t matter. He was here, and he was just half a step away from death.

  Reisil knelt beside the bed, her muscles twinging protest. Exhaustion gnawed at her nerves, and her eyes felt leaden. She stared at the dying man a long moment, hands closing upon the bedclothes. This was not the plague. This was the sort of thing she’d done successfully all this day. She had to do it only one more time tonight. Just one more time.

  She reached for her magic. It felt sharp edged and brittle. She strained against it. It rose sluggishly, spreading like crushed glass through channels raw from the day’s work. Reisil jerked, catching her breath against the fiery pain. There was no time to waste. She couldn’t keep this up. Forcing her clenched fists open, she set them against Metyein, one on his chest, the other on his hip.

  She began with the arrow in his abdomen. Blood and waste pooled in his stomach. The arrow had sliced a furrow across his liver and punctured his intestines. Toxins had leaked from the wounds and begun poisoning the rest of his body. Reisil chewed her lip. She could clean the toxins, she could repair the wounds. But she didn’t know how to replace lost blood. He could still die.

  But she had to try.

  When she finished, Reisil left Metyein pale and panting beneath the bloodstained blankets. She pulled a straight-backed chair from the table in the center of the room and dragged it to one of the windows. She collapsed onto the seat and propped her feet on the wide stone windowsill, letting her head dangle back over the headrest. Sometime since she’d started working on him, the wind and the rain had paused. In the silence she listened to Metyein’s quick breatuhing.

  She woke with a start, her legs and lower back stiff, her neck cramping. She yawned and sat up, rubbing her neck. Metyein’s breathing had slowed, though it remained shallow, and he no longer sweated. But his skin had a dreadful pallor. Too soon to tell if he’d live.

  Her stomach growled. Reisil lit two more candles on the mantel and took a piece of hard bread from the larder, dipping herself a cup of water from the bucket near the door. Too tired to build a fire, she grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and returned to her seat. Wrapping the blanket about herself, Reisil propped her feet against the window ledge and hugged her knees.

  Outside, a sheet of hail swept across the bluffs with a sizzling sound. The pellets ratcheted against the walls, rattling as they rolled across the deck and tumbled down the stairs. Her heart felt as tiny and frozen as the hailstones. Her chest ached, but there were no tears. They were as frozen as her heart, as her blood.

  A skittering sound came from along the stone walk outside. Reisil heard a thump and a loud yelp. After a few moments, the door rattled and was flung inward with a crash. Reisil pulled her attention reluctantly from the cracked, filmy planes of the mullioned window, watching Juhrnus limp inside. He cursed, dabbing at the blood running from his cheek. He cradled his right elbow in his left hand, and a bruise spread along his forehead.

  “So you made it back. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. And you perching up here on the top of the world. Might as well be in Scallas, as hard as it is to get up those miserable steps in this weather.”

  “Only fools and monsters walk those stairs,” Reisil murmured. “Is Esper all right?”

  “Well, nice to see you care about one of us. He’s fine. I have all the damage. Why don’t you have a fire? It’s like a tomb up here. And speaking of which, did our friend die?” Juhrnus crossed to Reisil’s bed and looked down at Metyein.

  “You brought him up here? What if he dies? Do you know what his father will do?”

  Juhrnus shrugged, untying his cloak with his uninjured hand and dropping it near hers. Esper hung in the sling around Juhrnus’s chest, his tail dangling listlessly, his bright colors a torpid gray. “We’d heave him over the wall into the ocean and let him wash up on a shingle somewhere. With all those duels, he’s enemies enough to murder him.”

  Reisil raised her brows. “You’ve certainly thought it through.”

  Juhrnus brushed aside her sarcasm. “I didn’t poke holes in him. At least this way he has a chance. So which is it?”

  Reisil shrugged. “I’ve done what I can.”

  It was Juhrnus’s turn to raise his brows. “Really?”

  “Really,” she said, her expression shuttered. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened that day: about the assassins, about her healing in the Fringes, about the plague. Juhrnus opened his mouth and then shut it, going instead to kneel beside the fireplace. Reisil almost chuckled. Tact. Not a trait that came easily to him.

  He sank stiffly to his knees beside the wood box and tossed a handful of sawdust and splinters into the grate. He wrestled the flint and steel out of the pouch at his waist. Putting the fingers of his injured arm through the steel, he struck the flint. Sparks flew and he yelped, clutching his arm against his chest.

  “Big brother, you are a pitiful sight.”

  He called her a crude name and sat back on his heels. “You could help me.”

  “Mmmm. But I don’t need a fire.”

  He scoffed. “That’s the least of what you need, little sister. Let’s see”—he ticked off items on his good hand—“a fire, a month of good meals—enough to gain back some of that weight you’ve lost—and oh yes, above all things, a tumble in bed with a good, stiff man.”

  Reisil could not help grinning. The muscles of her face gave in to the expression grudgingly. “Not you, I hope. I really don’t want a case of the pox.”

  Juhrnus sniffed. “At least I don’t hide myself away like a monk.”

  “At least until your favorite bits fall off. Get out of the way.”

 
She didn’t have to use magic. But a recklessness smoldered in her, driving her to push.

  She stacked a pile of seasoned oak in the grate and touched her finger to the wood. It exploded into flame.

  Sparks showered the room, and Juhrnus swore as he patted at his hair, and then he leaped to stamp out his cloak. “A little showy, don’t you think?”

  “At least it’s good for something.” Bitterness laced Reisil’s voice like twisting eels.

  “I don’t know. Gave him a chance he didn’t have,” Juhrnus jerked his thumb at the unconscious Metyein. “But Esper is grateful.” Juhrnus pulled his ahalad-kaaslane from the sling, and Esper stretched full length along the rapidly warming hearth. He touched the back of Juhrnus’s hand with his fleshy black tongue, then closed his eyes to bask in the fire’s spreading heat. Reisil’s heart jerked. To have touched Saljane that way . . . Her fingers clenched around the memory of the goshawk’s soft feathers.

  “Tell me about it,” he said, gesturing at Metyein and pulling a chair close to the heat. “Before Sodur gets here.”

  “Sodur?” Of all the people she didn’t want to see tonight—“In this weather?”

  “You weren’t at all concerned for me.”

  “Your head is much harder. A lot of people would miss him.”

  “Including you?”

  Reisil stiffened. “Of course.”

  He looked at her in silence. She retrieved both their cloaks from the floor and shook them out, hanging them from the wooden pegs beside the door. Once again he refrained from pursuing the subject. Instead he stretched out his arm, rotating the wrist and elbow, wincing.

  “Don’t suppose you want to have a go at this.”

  Reisil hesitated. “I can try.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Afraid?”

  He grinned, sitting back in his chair. “Well if you’re going to put it that way, I’m at your service.”

  Reisil stood behind him, breathing slowly, flexing her fingers. She flattened her palms against the warmth of Juhrnus’s chest, and the power within her roared to life. Gasping, she jerked her hands up.