Such a smile.
“Ah, my beauty awakens. I had begun to fear you would sleep for a hundred years.” His hands trembled as he took up the coffee pot and a clay mug.
She did not wish to know, but she had to ask.
“How did you die?”
“Die?” He frowned. “I did not die. Neither of us died. At least, not yet.” Then he poured coffee into the mug, and handed it to her. As his fingertips brushed hers, a small shock passed between them, and Askander winced.
Ani sat up and took the cup, glancing down as she did at her body. Naked—and healed. She sucked air through her teeth in a sharp hiss. Not only were there no wounds, not the slightest sign that she had been pierced and slashed and beaten next to death, but the scars she had earned over a lifetime of fighting had disappeared. The scar she had worn across her ribs since she won the championship—gone. The slashes and gouges and snake-tracks of a lifetime worth of fighting—gone.
It felt like a betrayal, like an invasion.
“What is this?” Ani dropped the mug and jumped to her feet, staring wide-eyed and angry at her flawless skin. “What the goatloving fuckery is this?”
“I am not sure,” Askander replied, folding his hands before him. “Your Inna’hael brought us here, all the way from Aish Kalumm, him and those two sons of his. They… pulled us along dark roads, using vash’ai magic. I found you like this. Duq’aan will tell me nothing.” He pointedly refused to look to his vash’ai, who pointedly did not open his eyes. “We have been here for three days, waiting for you to wake up.”
“Vash’ai magic?” Chillflesh stood out all over Ani’s unfamiliar skin. Vash’ai never spoke of their kahanna magic, not even to their bond-mates.
“Perhaps a wild kahanna saved you with his wild magic.” Askander shrugged, visibly setting the matter aside, and stood to face her. “Talieso has not left your side. Inna’hael tells me that he fought his way free from the false Mah’zula, just to be with you. And I…”
Askander took her hands in his. Held her arms out to the side, turned her this way and that, then enfolded her gently in an embrace.
“I have set aside my duties as first warden, to be with you. What is it, my beauty, that inspires your males to such devotion?”
Ani’s heart pounded, so strong, so full of life. She pressed her hands against her lover’s strong, scarred back. His smell, his voice, his body were more familiar to her than her own, now. She smiled against his shoulder.
“Doubtless it is my sweet tongue and gentle nature.” Askander laughed bright as the sun, wide as the dawn.
“Ah, my girl, kahanna or no, magic or no, I do love you.”
“And I you,” she answered, and she kissed him.
Ehuani, that was all that had ever mattered.
FIFTEEN
Sweet Bohica, he thought, not for the first time, a soldier’s prayer to you. Shield me with Your strong hand. Protect me with Your bright sword. Guide me with Your light…
Leviathus had never been one for following fashion, but if praying to the divines might help, he was more than willing to bend a little.
He was lost, well and truly lost. The spotted churra, enraged at having been roused and kicked into a sprint, had not stopped running until the sun was nearly at the far horizon, and now the cursed thing refused to move at more than a teeth-grindingly slow walk. When he tried to urge it to a shamble, at least, the evil thing bit him. Hard.
A squall had picked up, nothing like the previous day’s sandstorm but enough to scour the exposed skin on his face, hands, and feet, and obscure the world around him. The dunes were indistinguishable one from another, each painted a bloody gold by the dying light, each singing a disparate whining tune in the sharp wind. Had the dust not been so thoroughly kicked up by the wind, Leviathus thought he might have been able to navigate by the stars, and at least make his way to the Dibris.
As it was, once the sun disappeared over the horizon he would be utterly adrift, days’ ride from water and without even the weak water-sense of the Zeeranim. The only real question was whether he would perish of thirst before the na’iyeh or some other predator caught up with him.
Still, he thought his circumstances somewhat improved. Yesterday it had seemed as if he had no chance of escape, and yet escape he had. By this time tomorrow, doubtless he would be dining in the gardens of his own fortress.
Doubtless.
Sweet Bohica, he prayed again, as fervently as a nonbeliever might. Divine Snafu, get me through this soldier’s mess and I swear I will raise shrines to you, statues of lapis and gold and alabaster. I will write poems to lay at Your feet, just please…
The churra came to such an abrupt halt that Leviathus tumbled off its back and onto the sand, which was never as soft a landing as he might hope. For a wonder, the thing did not run away but stood bawling and nodding its ugly head so that its lead rope slapped him in the face. He grabbed it and used it to pull himself upright, then stood shaking the sand from his trousers as he stared open-mouthed at the wall that had seemingly sprung from the desert.
Well, he thought, as a shiver of trepidation rippled through him. Perhaps I should not mock the divines so openly, after all.
The churra tugged at its rope, impatient to get to shelter. Leviathus supposed the beast probably had senses keener than his own—he hoped so, at least—and that it would know whether the broken stone walls and cracked roofs that loomed before them held any threat.
Any living threat, he amended as he led the eager churra through a broken gate and into an ancient courtyard. There was a collapsed well at its very center, surrounded by a small ring of pale brick buildings, dome-shaped, with round windows and doors like nothing he had seen before. Most of the roofs had caved in, but some few looked as if they might be intact. The whole was no bigger than a good-sized stable yard, a barracks perhaps, or a trading post.
Holding tight to foolish hope—which had served him well so far—Leviathus crossed to the small well. No doubt it was dry, of course. He reached for a large round stone set into the well’s edge, thinking to drop it down into the dark hole in the hope that he might hear a splash.
Only the stone was not a stone. It was a human skull, and a fresh one at that. At the sight of its accusing stare Leviathus let it drop, shaking his hand in shock. It bounced twice on the edge of the well—which was set all around with stones that were not stones—and tumbled down into the dark.
He waited, heart pounding, a sense of dread crawling up his spine. After a long moment, and another, a sound issued forth from the well. Not the kind splash of water, nor yet the dry crack of a skull breaking open on bare rock, but a chittering hiss as of something he did not want to face, waking angrily what had probably been a long slumber.
Bohica was, after all, a capricious divine, fond of irony.
He backed away, but nothing sprang from the well to eat his face, so Leviathus sighed and turned toward the little huts. One in particular looked most likely to survive another night, and he needed shelter nearly as much as he needed water. He was tired enough not to care overmuch whether he ever woke, so long as he could curl up and sleep somewhere.
The hut he chose was empty as the inside of an old skull—bad choice for an analogy, he thought, too late—no more than five strides across, with a pounded dirt floor and one small window. There was nothing on which he could sit, nor anything to eat, but there also seemed no place to hide anything that might wish to eat him. Leviathus counted that as a win.
The churra refused to enter, choosing instead to fold its legs and lie just outside the little door, chewing its cud and shooting him side-eyed glances now and again.
“Stay there, then, if you like,” Leviathus groused, dropping its lead onto the ground and hoping that would be enough to keep the rotten thing from leaving. “If any predators come for me, they will have to eat you first.”
The churra rolled back its upper lip, and Leviathus ducked away before it could spit at him. Theirs had never been a love ma
tch. He watched the churra settle in, chewing and swallowing in perfect comfort, and for a moment the king’s son envied his beast of burden.
“I do not suppose you want to share?”
The churra looked away, lowering its long lashes so that it would not have to look at him.
“Ah, well, to the hells with you, too,” he said, and he laughed.
Though the day had been long and nothing short of horrific, though he was lost and alone and likely to die—a horrible death by thirst, a horrible death by sandstorm, perhaps a horrible death down the throat of a predator from the well—still, Leviathus’s spirits lifted. Horrific or no, this had been the least worst day he had experienced in longer than he could remember.
And all because you left a good woman to die.
“Shut up,” he told the dark voice. “Shut up.”
He took his tunic off, shook out the dirt as best he could, and rolled it up for a pillow. The far side of the hut served to guard his back, the hard dirt floor served as a bed, and the dark voice in his head served as well as a mother’s lullaby to send him to sleep.
* * *
The next day dawned a vibrant red-gold, clear and warm and beautiful. It looked to be a perfect day to walk the halls with his Draiksguard, laughing at their tales of romance and derring-do. A perfect day for fishing, for the hunt, for a game of stones and bones, a horn of mead, a hot meal, and a lovely girl—in whichever order those might happen.
Or perhaps, he thought as he stared out the little window at the na’iyeh, which stood but a few strides distant, a good day to be eaten by a cursed plant.
His churra had moved during the night, and lay near the skull-ringed well, sound asleep and completely unconcerned by the presence of the predators. Ani claimed that the monsters never harmed any creature but humans. She also said that once they had a person’s dream-scent, the things never gave up the hunt.
Ani, who had died that he might live.
Perhaps she is not dead, the dark voice laughed. Perhaps even now she lies bleeding and injured, alone in the sand, wondering whether you are brave enough, man enough, to return to her aid.
Just like the na’iyeh, once the thought had his scent, it would not let go.
What kind of a man are you, King’s Son, to run and hide while a woman is killed? Better you had died defending her. Bad enough that you are deaf to magic. Are you deaf to honor, as well? For once, Leviathus did not tell the voice to go away.
Who am I, indeed?
He closed his eyes and bathed in the early morning light, tattered robes of the ne Atu stirring around his motionless limbs. The sun rose, as it always did, far away beyond the Forbidden City, glinting upon the blades of a thousand thousand vanquished enemies. If he put the sun to his back and rode hard he might reach Min Yaarif, or at least an outlying trader’s post, before dying of thirst.
If instead he rode toward the sun in a foolish attempt to find the warrior Ani, he might as well ride down the throat of a dragon. He had no food, no water, nothing but the breath in his lungs, the rags on his body, and a churra that at any moment might remember its omnivorous nature.
Oh, he remembered, and a pod of na’iyeh tracking me as I sleep. He opened his eyes and stared hard at the damned things, daring them to move while he watched. Had he a sword, he would have hacked the fell things to bits, warning or no. Had he a blacksmith’s furnace, he would burn them to ash. Let that ash stalk his dreams, if it would.
Had I food and water, a nice bit of land, and a thousand slaves, I would raise a city, he thought, and he snorted. I would have lights, and dancing, and music, and the greatest library the world has ever seen. Leviathus smiled as in his mind Akari spread his dragon’s wings over a shining coastal city, a center of learning and light to rival ancient Saodan. I will name it Leviathia, and dedicate it to the glory of the divines. Praying to them was fashionable among the very young and the very old, though nobody he knew really believed.
At the thought, thunder rolled through the land, a long low note as sweet and terrible as a dragon calling to her mate. The rumbling faded slowly to the west, and was followed by three ground-shivering knocks.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The churra lurched to its feet, bawling, and whipped its head around to stare accusingly at Leviathus as if to say, what have you done? Cold sweat trickled down his spine, and he shivered. Though he had never truly believed in the divines, it seemed to him that promising them a city was folly in the extreme.
“O Great Bohica,” he said aloud, “O Mighty Snafu, if you wish me to build you a city, I suppose I shall have to build one for you—but I can hardly do it here. A little help getting me back to civilization would be welcome, if you do not mind. But first, there is a thing I must do.”
At that, his heart became as light as a feather, even though it seemed his life as a king’s son was about to come to a foolish end. He would ride—not to the river, Min Yaarif, and safety—but down the throat of the dragon in search of a woman who was likely already dead. Resolve lifted a great weight from his shoulders. Striding out of the hut, he reached for his churra’s lead rope.
You will die, the dark voice hissed.
“It seems likely,” he answered aloud. “But I will not turn my back on a friend.”
“Very honorable of you, Outsider,” a voice called from behind him. “Though turning your back to an enemy is nearly as bad. Drop the rope. Turn slowly.”
Leviathus froze. Fear trickled down his spine, but it was met by a torrent of hot anger. They will not take me again. He dropped the rope and turned, every muscle in his body tense as he prepared to leap toward his captors and die fighting. They will not take me again.
But the warriors who surrounded him, laughing, were nothing like his former captors. Tall they were, and proud, heroes from the oldest tales of mankind in their golden robes and bright breastplates. Dark eyes burned him with their laughter. Foremost among them rode a woman sleek and spotted as the cat who stalked beside her, its shoulders nearly on a level with her horse’s. Her stiff black mane was heavy with lionsnake plumes and beads of gold. She was one of the First Women in the flesh. She was…
“I am Ishtaset,” she told him, “true daughter of the Zeera, rajjha of the Mah’zula. And you, Outlander cub—unless I am mistaken…” She winked as the other warriors laughed. “…you are Leviathus, brother to Sulema Firehair.”
Leviathus gaped. “You know my sister?”
“I know your sister,” the woman said, “as I know of your father. Leviathus ap Wyvernus… you are the son of an ancient enemy, ne Atu.”
Just as Akari breached the ruined walls, and she was bathed in glory, the golden warrior drew her sunblade.
“And you are trespassing.”
SIXTEEN
Hafsa Azeina had spent half a lifetime with Khurra’an. Theirs was a rapport deeper than friendship, deeper than that of lovers. Deeper even than the bond between a mother and the child she had nourished with her own body. They had conspired, they had quarreled, they had hunted together.
Now, as she watched him lap pale liquid from a shallow bowl, it took every remnant of her courage not to snatch the dream milk tea away from him. Would that she could pour it out onto the thirsting ground, and find some way to fix his dear and broken body. Would that she might finish the drink herself.
Perhaps, she thought, it would give me enough strength to wrest Sulema from her father’s clutches, and then Khurra’an and I could face the Lonely Road together, a fitting end to a successful hunt. She could not heal her friend, however, but she could give him this much. Dream milk tea, a drink sacred to the Zeeranim, which would give him three days of false life and vigor, and after that—
Three days is not enough, my friend, she thought, reaching to stroke the thick, coarse fur. Another lifetime with you would not be enough.
Silly human, Khurra’an chided, looking up from the empty bowl and licking the last of the tea from his whiskers. It has always been enough. You have always been enough. He
struggled to his feet, shaking his once glorious mane, purring as he began to feel the effects of the herbal tea.
And now we hunt.
* * *
The mountains of Atualon were unlike the green hills of her childhood, which had been good for rolling down and for picnics. Nor did they hold the harsh mein and harsher ideas of the Zeera, that golden anvil upon which the heroes of old had been forged.
These mountains, she thought, will see the death of humankind, even as they witnessed its birth. How, then, could she expect them to be touched by the plight of a lone woman and her dying vash’ai?
She could not. Still, Hafsa Azeina studied the ground, the rock, the trees for some message of hope. It seemed to her—and perhaps it was the fault of the sharp, thin air, reminding her of days best left forgotten—that her human heart held onto hope as if it was a tangible thing, much as a child clutched a handful of salt tablets at the market. Like a child, she thrust her heart toward the world, the sky, the cold-faced mountains, trying to buy one more sweet, one more trinket.
One more day with her beloved friend.
And this, she thought irritably, is why I killed my own kima’a. I cannot afford the weakness of a human heart. The human heart is weakness, it is—
The tastiest part, aside from the brain, Khurra’an finished irritably. Your constant heart prattling and cage rattling hurt my head, human, and I tire of it. Hush you now, and find me a fat goat. Or shall I find softer prey, and rid myself of your noise?
Hafsa Azeina surprised herself by laughing aloud. If you are threatening to kill me, I suppose this means that we are not dead yet.
No, he agreed, and she saw amusement flash across the half-lidded eyes. Not yet. Then they went back to hunting.
Hafsa Azeina crouched low, fingers splayed across the rich and rocky soil. She let her sa unfurl across the rocky land, touching a ground squirrel here and a black grouse there, still and silent, tiny heart pattering as she spread glossy wings over her precious babies.
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