Mastin served as his assistant in the class. His pilot had done his share of training sessions with Micfal, the weaponsmaster of Seagem, and the two had often practiced together on the voyage to Louat.
Although the gregarious Mastin of Indaran’s youth had changed to a taciturn man, Indaran kept hoping to see a glimpse of his old friend’s sense of humor. So far it hadn’t emerged. Instead, he was critical and impatient with their students, and Indaran had already shot him several “ease up” looks.
If he had more competent teachers, he wouldn’t allow Mastin to keep his position. But as a former student of Micfal’s, Mastin, with his knowledge of swordsmanship, was invaluable.
Tempor was another assistant. He, too, had been trained by Micfal. Even though their training was a decade apart, and they’d never sparred together until the last few days, the two men slipped into the two-partner pas-sa-ra as if they’d worked together for years.
Indaran watched them, moving among the people, correcting a stance, a tilt of a makeshift blade. Tempor offered quiet words of encouragement. Mastin’s comments were much harsher.
When everyone demonstrated the routine to his satisfaction, Indaran dismissed them, saying something positive to each as they passed him to stack their weapons in a pile.
He paused for a minute, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, aware of his physical fatigue and the weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders. But he was free. A blessing not to be taken for granted. He opened his eyes.
Time for his own workout with Tempor and Mastin. He paused to gulp a dipperful of water held out by Attle, his appointed page. He set down his sword and stripped off his shirt, tossing it next to the nearest tent.
A familiar figure moved into the corner of his vision. Jasmine. He was aware of her even if he couldn’t directly see her. He motioned to Mastin to start working with Tempor and walked over to her.
A blush suffused her cheeks, and her gaze slid away from his bare chest.
An interesting reaction from a healer. He repressed a smile, inhaling the scent of septa and flowers that clung to her. “Do you need to speak with me, Lady Jasmine?”
“Yes.” She shifted sideways.
“Would you be more comfortable if I put my shirt back on?”
“I can wait until you’re finished with your workout.” She met his eyes, careful to avoid looking at his body. Her color remained high.
Resisting the impulse to brush his hand over the tale-tell blush of her cheeks, Indaran indicated a nearby straw bale. “Have a seat. Mastin and I are about to do a pas-sa-ra—a two-fighter sword dance. Perhaps you will find it of interest.”
She smiled. “I’m sure I will.”
He nodded, picking up his sword, and, returning to the two men, joined the warm-up by sliding into their rhythm. When they finished the warm-up, Tempor strode to the end of the weapons salon to perform the nis-alt-du, the first of the three solitary sword dances.
They’d been mostly practicing the three nis-alt, each day doing a different one. Tempor and Indaran had done some pas-sa-ra work together. But today was the first time Indaran and Mastin would fight the complete pas-sa-ra.
Elanath drifted into the area and sat next to Jasmine. She glanced up at Indaran from under her long eyelashes and sent him a tremulous smile.
He noted the shadows under her eyes and the pinched look on her face. Today, Landers hadn’t been on duty. When the gate guard had finished his shift, he’d ignored the quarantine, sending for Elanath. They’d taken her to the soldiers’ barracks to service some of the guards.
Anger shafted through him, twined with helplessness to protect his brother’s beloved. Right now there was nothing he could do. But soon….
Indaran winked at her, trying to bring a smile to her pale face.
Her mouth quirked in response.
His heart twisted with angry hopelessness, and he turned away, assuming the formal opening pose across from Mastin. He made the sign of the Y with his hand over his chest in an acknowledgement of his opponent and boxed his feelings into a distant part of his consciousness.
Fighting the pas-sa-ra with naked blades called for complete control. But they had no tapla practice swords, nor leather to wrap the blades. He could use a stick, but Indaran needed to get the feel for his new weapon. He would remain careful, but he wasn’t so sure about Mastin. He could still see sparks of anger mirrored in Mastin’s eyes. His friend sometimes had a quick temper, but since their awakening, sullen anger had radiated from him. Indaran didn’t want him to flare up during the pas-sa-ra.
“Kelta-na breathing,” Indaran commanded, putting Micfal’s inflections into his tone.
Mastin gave him an abrupt nod and a flash of angry eyes, but began the deep breathing and centering necessary to calm himself.
From his place on the side, Tempor paused his nis-alt-du and barked the command to begin.
The pas-sa-ra started with a slide to the right and a sword swing from Indaran that was supposed to slice through Mastin’s side.
He parried the blow and thrust toward Indaran’s heart.
Indaran blocked and stabbed.
They fell into the ancient pattern, and Indaran cleared his mind, allowing his body to flow through the moves deeply engrained in his muscles. He could feel his stiffness, despite having had several days to become stronger and more limber, and the soreness from overstraining long-unused muscles. But he’d improved from the first session and that was what mattered. With enough time, he’d be back in top fighting form.
But will I have that time?
Mastin’s breathing became ragged, his movements choppy. Several times his block came too late, and Indaran had to pull his swing. As his opponent’s movements lost their precision, Indaran’s footing quickened.
Heat built in his chest; his limbs grew leaden. His legs burned through the low movements of the delt-tay. Each stroke took more effort. His breath came in gasps. He fought through the movements, then raised his arms to bring the sword down in the overhead cross.
Mastin’s blade met his. They held their position for the required five counts.
Indaran stared into Mastin’s eyes, seeing the anger burning in their blue depths. No, not anger…hatred.
~ ~ ~
As the two men disengaged their crossed swords, Jasmine released a long slow breath and relaxed the fingers she’d dug into the straw bale. Her ears still rang from the clang of metal.
She’d remained tense throughout the whole round of fighting, afraid that one or both would be hurt.
The two men made the Y sign over their chests, then turned to walk toward the women.
Indaran smiled at Jasmine. She could see the battlelight still glowing in his emerald eyes. His face was flushed and sweating, but to Jasmine, he had never looked more…masculine.
Warmth spread from her heart to her face, and she had to resist cupping her cheeks to hide her blush.
Mastin stopped in front of Elanath. His eyes lingered on her bruised face. “It is not right that you do this,” he burst out. “Why not hide from them?”
“And have them search the camp for me?” Elanath said sharply.
Jasmine reached for Elanath’s hand and squeezed.
“Those guards didn’t respect the quarantine,” Elanath continued, her tone still angry. “If they venture into the camp after me, whom else would they find? You.” She tilted her chin up at Indaran. “Our king? Then, indeed, all would be lost.”
Mastin’s jaw set. “It’s not right that you have to make such a sacrifice.”
Tears sparkled in her eyes, catching in her long eyelashes. She blinked them away.
“Enough, Mastin,” Indaran snapped. “Now it’s you who cause the Lady Elanath distress.” He thrust his arm in front of Mastin’s chest, as if to hold him back.
Mastin slapped away Indaran’s arm. “I cause her distress.” His narrow face reddened. “You are the cause of her distress. You had to go chasing after glory, so convinced of the rightness of your
search that you blindly led us here.” He swept his free hand in a wide gesture. “We are here because of you. This is all your fault.” He stabbed his finger into Indaran’s chest, punctuating each you with a poke. “We were captured because of you. You turned Ontarem’s attention to Seagem.”
Jasmine jumped up and grasped Mastin’s arm, trying to soothe him. He shook her off.
She stumbled sideways.
Indaran caught her, guiding her to sit next to Elanath. Then, his face gaining angry color, he grabbed Mastin’s upper arm in a viselike grip. “You’ve said enough,” he ordered through clenched teeth.
“No, I haven’t said enough.” Mastin grimaced, showing pointed eyeteeth. “Everyone here worships you, their savior, their king. They don’t know you are the cause of all their pain. If they did, they would turn from you. Revile you as the—”
Indaran grabbed Mastin’s shoulder and shook him, hard. “I said that’s enough!”
Mastin jabbed his elbow into Indaran’s side, twisted away, and thrust out his sword.
Jasmine cried out a warning.
Indaran brought up his sword, but his tired reflexes weren’t fast enough to completely block the pilot’s swing. He stopped the main force, but Mastin’s blade still cut across his arm, slicing through the muscle to the bone. Blood spurted up.
“Enough!” Jasmine yelled. “Stop this instant!”
The sight of the injury brought Mastin to his senses. He pulled back, horror in his eyes. “No,” he whispered, bringing his arm up to shield his face.
Jasmine pushed him aside, holding the torn flesh together with both hands. “Get me the septa,” she snapped at Elanath. “It’s in the clinic.”
Elanath bunched up her skirt and ran off.
Indaran’s muscle trembled.
Glancing up, she saw his jaw clenched against the pain. Jasmine inhaled a deep breath, calling upon her healing energy and sending numbness into Indaran’s arm, dulling the agony she knew he must feel.
Tempor grabbed the sword from Indaran’s hand.
Elanath ran up, carrying a flask. She pulled off the top and thrust the container at Jasmine.
Jasmine tipped the liquid over the wound, pouring a generous amount. Blood bubbled up and dripped onto the ground.
Indaran grunted, clenching his fist.
Jasmine transferred her energy into the injury. Crimson energy, brighter than the scarlet of Indaran’s blood, flowed down her fingertips into the wound.
First she regrew the nicked bone, then knit the muscle, stringing together the veins. Her energy became weaker. She reached deeper inside herself, calling up the depths of her othersense. There was enough. She smoothed over the layers of skin until a scar formed. But she didn’t dare spare the energy to fade it away.
Finished, Jasmine exhaled a deep breath of relief; her muscles trembled with fatigue. She looked up, expecting to see Indaran relax. But instead, his green eyes showed pain.
He caught her watching, and his expression shuttered and became blank.
“What’s wrong? Are you still hurting?”
“Nothing.” He clipped the word. “I thank you for the healing.”
Before she could say anything else, he turned and walked away, leaving her to stare in consternation at his stiff back.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Indaran strode away from Jasmine, heading to Anza’s tent. Taking the shortest route, he leaped over a straw bale, desperate to find some privacy. He didn’t want to wait until Jasmine emerged from her healing state and remembered the accusations Mastin had hurled at him.
He couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes when she realized the truth—that he wasn’t Seagem’s golden king, returned from the dead to free them from the Evil God. Instead, he was the fool who’d brought about Seagem’s doom. He was the one who’d created the suffering Jasmine had seen around her for the last few days.
What would she think when she realized she’d been expending herself to heal the consequences of his folly? He’d disgust her, maybe as much as he disgusted himself.
“Indaran,” Jasmine called after him.
He quickened his pace.
“Indaran, wait. I must speak with you. It’s about baby Merrel.”
Baby Merrel? He remembered the baby boy, one of several he’d held in the last few days. Is something wrong with him? And what about the truth she’d heard from Mastin? She must want to talk about that, too. Indaran stopped, but didn’t turn to face her. Let her speak to his back.
“Merrel’s othersense is very strong. Anza said he’ll grow up to be a priest.”
“That is good news,” he muttered.
“No. It’s not. Not here. Ontarem is sapping his energy. Your people have a natural shield from their association with Yadarius. But the baby doesn’t have that. Now the Evil God takes too much from him. If Ontarem is not stopped, I fear Merrel will soon die.”
Indaran swung around, pushing aside his own feelings. “What can we do?”
Jasmine held out his shirt and swordbelt, the blush rising in her cheeks again.
He took them. “Thank you.”
“Anza says we must place a shield around him. We will need your help.” She avoided looking directly at him.
“Of course.” He looked down at the sword in his hand, and his still-bare chest. “Let me put the sword in the tent. Then I’ll join you in the clinic.”
She sent him her sweet smile, loving and full of understanding, then left him.
He watched her walk away, her silvery robe fluttering in the breeze, and wished things could be different—that he’d met her when he was a young prince, before he’d spoiled everything. Perhaps with Jasmine’s love in his heart and her presence by his side, he wouldn’t have wanted to go a roving. He’d have stayed home with her. Content.
I can’t change the past.
At least he’d met her now. And he needed to take better care of her in the future. She’d depleted herself to heal him. And now she needed to expend more for the baby. He’d better bolster her flagging power with the strength of his own—no matter how he felt inside.
I’m still the king, and my people need me.
He couldn’t go crawl in a tent and indulge in a bout of self-pity.
I have to undo some of the damage I’ve caused, starting with Baby Merrel.
~ ~ ~
In the infirmary, Jasmine sat on a straw bale, holding Merrel in her arms. Indaran had placed another straw bale in front of her, and he and Anza sat side-by-side in easy touching distance of the baby. Chercheca anxiously watched from the corner.
Jasmine placed the baby on her lap and unwound the blanket swaddling him. She grasped both the baby’s hands.
Merrel grabbed her thumbs in a tight baby grip.
Jasmine gave the baby a fatuous grin, then looked up at Anza. “How are we going to do this?”
Anza furrowed her brow. “I’m not quite sure. Our first step was always to call upon Yadarius.”
Jasmine shook her head. “We’re going to have to use Arvintor instead, even though His power in Penutar is limited.”
“It will be a token gesture,” Anza reassured her. “We won’t really be using His power, but our own. Since you’re Arvintor’s priestess, you’ll be saying a prayer asking for His blessing.”
I guess I am Arvintor’s priestess. Jasmine was conscious of the tightness in her stomach. What if I can’t do this? “I have depleted much of my energy today. But we don’t dare wait until tomorrow.”
“This shouldn’t take too much. We’ll send our othersense into the baby’s body. Jasmine, you’ll be the guide. The king and I will combine our energy and follow you. Go inside Merrel’s skull. The three of us will completely encase his brain in a shell composed of our energy.”
“But how do we make it permanent?”
“We tie the shield into the baby’s own life energy. I’ll do that part. Then we withdraw.” She smiled at Jasmine. “Do you have any questions?”
Jasmine chewed on her lower lip,
thinking. “I wish we’d practiced this before. Especially since we’ll be working in his brain.”
Anza placed her hand over Jasmine’s and the baby’s. “We don’t have the time or the othersense energy to spare.”
“You’re right.”
“Shall we begin?”
Jasmine nodded, wishing she could delay. She laid her hand on the baby’s chest over his heart.
Indaran touched one side of Merrel’s head and placed his other hand on the baby’s shoulder.
Anza mirrored his position.
Jasmine began to take deep breaths, centering herself. She visualized Arvintor’s statue in the clearing in Exonlah, complete with vivid color. Arvintor, she sent to the God. I need your blessing on this baby.
She waited and received a sensation of a response, a warming near the area of her heart.
Thank you. She plunged her othersense into Merrel, running her energy up his body to swirl around his head. This time she knew what to look for and could see Ontarem’s evil attachment to Merrel’s mind—greasy writhing tentacles anchored to the baby’s brain. Just looking at them made Jasmine recoil.
Through her othersense, she sensed another presence—wise and supportive—not unlike Sha-na’s touch. Anza. Then Indaran joined them, his mental energy strong and protective.
“We need to break Ontarem’s hold on Merrel,” Jasmine said out loud. “I’m going to detach one of the tentacles.”
Jasmine braided their powers together, then reached over and fingered the nearest gray strand. Tentatively, she plucked at it, hoping it would release. But like a suction cup, the tentacle remained anchored. Even with their combined energy, she couldn’t break the hold Ontarem had on the baby.
Merrel began to whimper.
She soothed him with a brush of power.
Now what do I do? I don’t dare yank on the tentacle. I might injure Merrel’s brain.
Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy) Page 24