The Storm Witch

by Violette Malan

  Kendraxa.

  The swordsman Remm Shalyn had been assigned as her guide and servant—and her minder and jailer, Dhulyn Wolfshead suspected, though he at least was under no illusion that he could stop her from coming and going as she pleased. She’d been given other servants as well, among them a personal maid, a woman to bathe her, and a little page boy to run errands. They were all, as far as she could tell, terrified of her. She’d refused the voluminous skirts, constricting bodices, and teetering shoes laid out for her in her suite—fashions obviously designed to show that the wearers’ husbands, fathers, brothers, or owners were rich enough that their wives, daughters, sisters, or concubines need not perform any actual labor. But as Dhulyn had learned in the courts of the Great King in the West, such dress also prevented any serious physical exercise, any running away, or even any simple walking, for Sun and Moon’s sake.

  Dhulyn had insisted on carrying a dagger, and wearing a version of the kilt and tunic that Remm himself was wearing, although hers was slightly longer and fuller for modesty’s sake—his, not hers, Mercenary Schooling being sufficient to do away completely with body shyness. Good thing she’d had some recent practice in walking with skirts. Loraxin Feld could not actually restrict her to the women’s quarters, Remm had told her, though she guessed the Noble House would certainly have liked to. According to what Remm was telling her, “roof, table, and bed” was a very specific offer, and couldn’t be modified.

  “So the Tarxin is your ruler.” Earlier conversation had established that this land was, indeed, Mortaxa. In that, Mother Sun had smiled on her.

  “Exactly, though you should say ‘Light of the Sun’ when you say his name or title. The Tarxina, his wife. A Tar, or Tara, son or daughter. And all of their names will begin with the most noble letter ‘X.’

  Frowning, Dhulyn tried to catch the accent, the “x” sound being somewhere between a “k” and a “z.”

  “At present, there’s Xalbalil Tarxin, Light of the Sun. His heir, son of his second Tarxina, Tar Xerwin, and Xendra the young Tara, daughter of the third Tarxina. The children of the first Tarxina have all perished.”

  Was it Dhulyn’s imagination or did Remm’s voice falter a bit when he said the Tara’s name?

  “The Nomads who were bringing me here spoke of a Storm Witch.”

  “She is part of the royal household.” Again, Remm Shalyn hesitated, but said nothing further. Dhulyn nodded as though her question had no significance.

  “And where does Loraxin, House Feld, fit in?”

  “He’s one of the least Nobility, though it wouldn’t please him to hear me say so. He’s entitled to be called ‘Xar,’ and his wife ‘Xara,’ but you’ll notice the noble letter doesn’t appear until the third syllable of his name, so that marks where he stands.”

  Dhulyn nodded. Remm, she’d noticed, had a proper surname of his own, not just “Feld” like the House.

  “You’ve got some very interesting scars, if you don’t mind my saying so, Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

  It had taken some doing to get even Remm to stop calling her “Xara Paledyn.” She’d had to give up with the servants—even in her own mind, she refused to use the word “slaves.”

  “I was a very stubborn student, and often disciplined,” she said, having learned the hard way that in some places it was best not to admit you had ever been a slave.

  “And the, uh . . .” Remm Shalyn gestured at a spot on his own upper lip.

  “The tip of a whip that flicked ’round and caught me on the face,” she said. And so it had, though it was her then master’s Steward of Keys who’d been on the other end of the whip, and not her Schooler, as she was letting Remm Shalyn believe. And a lucky thing for her it had been, for the facial scar had ruined her for her master, who’d sold her to a passing slave merchant and it was while she was in that slaver’s ship that Dorian the Black had rescued her.

  She’d been eleven years old, and a Mercenary ever since.

  “Are you a free man, Remm Shalyn, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t know what things are like where you come from, Dhulyn Wolfshead, but here we don’t put weapons into the hands of slaves.”

  “Where I come from, slavery is considered a false economy at best, and an abominable practice at worst.”

  “Well, for the Slain God’s sake, don’t mention that to House Feld, whatever you do. It would give him apoplexy, for certain.”

  “You never know, apoplexy may suit him.”

  Dhulyn took mental note that Remm Shalyn called the nobleman by his title, and not more formally as “my House.” A hired guard, then, who did not consider himself a member of the Household.

  They had been walking through the village that had grown up around, and indeed was mostly an extension of, Feld House. The walls of town and homes alike were whitewashed stucco, such as Dhulyn had sometimes seen in the Galanate of Navra, and covered the small prominence which some long-ago Feld had chosen as the site for his House. They were at the southern end of the village when the narrow alley they followed dead-ended in a rectangular terrace enclosed by house walls on three sides, and a low balustrade on the fourth. The terrace was featureless except for weeds growing up through the cracks between the flagstones, and what looked like two large, stone chimney tops, pierced along the sides and stoppered shut with large slabs of wood at the top like corks in a bottle.

  “Ah, the cistern,” Remm Shalyn said. “Would you like to see it?”

  Dhulyn’s shoulders were already twitching upward when she stopped the shrug and took a deep breath. “Why not?”

  They retraced their steps halfway back along the alley, the ground inclining away from them as they walked, until Remm indicated an archway to their right. The entrance was recessed into the wall, and guarded by a metal grille, pocked and marked with rust, which stood open. Remm stepped back in an attitude of respect, but Dhulyn waved him in ahead of her. The temperature dropped almost immediately as they cleared the threshold and began to descend the worn stone steps. At the bottom, there was barely room for them to stand on the ledge that ran along the width of a long, narrow chamber with an arched and vaulted ceiling into which were set the stone openings they had seen from above.

  “There are another seven ledges identical to this one below the surface,” Remm said. He squatted down and dipped his hand into the water, shaking off the drops as he stood again. “Rain’s collected from all over this quarter. They tell me the cistern’s never been this full before, but we’ve had so much rain in the past three months . . .”

  Remm went on speaking, but Dhulyn was watching the ripples of water that moved outward from where he had touched the surface as they caught and reflected the tiny slivers of light that found their way into the cistern from the terrace above them through the pierced openings of the small stone chimneys.

  Ripples. Tiny waves.

  Dhulyn became aware that Remm Shalyn was no longer speaking. She cleared her throat.

  “So the water collects on the terrace above?”

  “Mmmmm.” Dhulyn glanced sideways. Remm Shalyn was studying her with his head tilted to one side. “Do they mean anything?”

  “What?” She heard his voice as if from far away, and her own, equally distant, answering him.

  He gestured at his own temples. “Your tattoos. Is there significance to the color or pattern?”

  Dhulyn swallowed, blinking. “They show where you have been Schooled. Blue and green are the colors of Dorian the Black Traveler.”

  “And the black line is his mark as well?”

  Something squeezed her heart and her throat closed. She took air in through her nose and released it through her mouth. Forcing her hands to relax and open. “No. The black lines show that I am Partnered. My Partner has . . . had an identical pattern marked on his badge. He was killed in the storm that threw me into the water.”

  “A great loss.”

  Dhulyn nodded and turned away. Remm followed her back up into the outside world.
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  The wind had risen in the short time they were below ground, and the sky was dark with clouds.

  “It appears your cistern will be overflowing by morning.” When she glanced at him, Remm was staring at the sky, eyebrows drawn sharply down. He tilted his head to look sideways at her.

  “You said earlier that slavery was a false economy. What did you mean?”

  Dhulyn looked up but could see nothing in the sky that would have prompted such a question. She sighed. “Everything that I have read tells me that, though slavery has been practiced by many since the time of the Caids, invariably the society which depends upon it fails.”

  “Again, I’d keep that to myself, if I were you.”

  Remm started off down the alley but Dhulyn stood still, waiting until he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and came back to her.

  “Which one of us is supposed to turn in the other?”

  “Pardon, Xara?” From this angle, and in the light of the overcast sky, it was hard to be sure, but Dhulyn thought the man had paled under his soldier’s tan.

  “That’s twice you’ve implied that you and your employer don’t see things the same way; twice you’ve led me to do the same. So which of us is expected to run telling tales?”

  Remm pressed his lips tight together, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Dhulyn Wolfshead. You are a Paledyn. Loraxin Feld has no power over you. Even now messengers are being sent to prepare your journey to Ketxan City, to the Tarxin himself.” He glanced away and then back, his expression grim. “Me, House Feld can destroy.”

  “And yet you speak so freely?”

  He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “You are a Paledyn.” And you are testing me. Though it was reckless of him to do so. Dhulyn closed her eyes. She should feel something, she knew, something besides this sudden exhaustion, this hollowness. The man’s danger was real. Without work as a guard he would very likely starve, or, worse, have to sell himself to feed whatever family he had. He was trusting her, depending upon her as would a soldier under her command in the field. She should care.

  But before she could follow that thought, however reluctantly, she was stopped by the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Xara Paledyn, the House sends for you.” In the young page’s voice and eye was his awareness of what might have happened to him if he had not found her—or what might still happen if she did not come with him now.

  “Is there some urgency?” she said, indicating even as she spoke that she would follow the boy.

  “He has some livestock he would like your opinion on.”

  Horses. She began to run. Horses to take her to the Tarxin. And where he was, the Storm Witch would be.

  Dhulyn was several spans ahead of her escort by the time she reached Feld House, and was through the gate and into the large inner courtyard without stopping. She had woken up that day meaning to ask where the horses were kept, and had somehow forgotten about them. Horses would help her; she was always clear-minded with a horse under her. She was three paces into the courtyard when the gates slammed shut behind her, and she dove to one side, rolling as she hit the ground and came up crouching with her back against the baked mud wall, pulling the dagger from the back of her sash.

  Quickly, she scanned the open space within the gates. It was completely deserted. No guards, no servants going about their daily chores. The sedan chair which had been standing to the right of the gate when she and Remm Shalyn had gone out for their walk was gone. As was a small handcart full of melons that had been awaiting the attention of the cooks. The gates were closed, but not, so far as she could see from this angle, barred. The main House doors were likewise shut as were the smaller gates that led to the garden and rear quarters where the animals were housed.

  Pounding and shouting came from the gate and Dhulyn eased herself to her feet, though she stayed with her back to the wall. That would be Remm Shalyn, and either the gate would open to admit him, or it would not. One way or the other, this strange silent courtyard would be explained.

  She smiled her wolf’s smile. Her blood was running, her muscles warm, her breathing soft and easy. If something was coming to kill her, she was ready.

  A sound like muffled hooves came from the inner gate leading to the animal compound and Dhulyn looked up. Was it horses after all?

  But the beast that came thundering through the gate swinging its heavily horned head was no horse. It had the coloring and light hindquarters of an inglera, but was massively thick through the shoulders, and its neck supported a rack of horns as thick as her arm and as sharp as her second-best sword. Its shoulders were easily as high as her own, and the look in its red-rimmed eyes spoke of something more than normal fury.

  “Blooded demons.” Anger washed over her like a tide, setting her blood pounding in her ears and drowning her in heat. Trying to kill her, were they? Just like they’d killed her Partner, the Sun-blasted toads. Well she chose when she’d die, thank you very much. Not a bunch of cowards who hid behind drugged animals. What? Was her death supposed to look like an accident?

  “Over here, meat pie. That’s right, I’m talking to you.” At the sound of her voice the beast looked in her direction, lowered its head, and began to paw the ground.

  Dhulyn kicked free of the kilt wrapped around her legs and shifted her knife until she was holding it like a sword. She would much rather have had a sword, even the dainty one she’d taken from Loraxin the previous afternoon, but the dagger was all she’d found in her room when she’d awakened.

  She began inching sideways toward the gate, not that she thought it would open to her hand, but in order to see if the beast would follow her. She racked her brain, trying to remember everything she could about the bull jumping she’d watched one sunny spring afternoon on the Isle of Cabrea. And the Python Shora, for a fighter on foot against someone armed and mounted. Surely that would help.

  “Come on, stew meat, what are you waiting for?”

  Much faster than she had imagined possible, given its weight and size, the beast charged and Dhulyn jumped, throwing herself up and forward, twisting and arching her body. She reached for the horn to help in her vaulting, as she’d seen bull jumpers do, but the beast hooked right, and she only brushed the horn with her fingertips as she began to fall. Twisting again, she jammed the dagger in deep, high in the animal’s shoulder, and managed to control her fall long enough to avoid the worst from the flashing hooves.

  She hit the ground on her own shoulder and grunted, rolling away minus one knife and plus one blow on the left thigh. Lucky thing it wasn’t a horse, she thought. An iron-shod hoof might have broken her leg. As it was, she’d have a bruise the size of her hand and be limping for a week, though she felt little pain now.

  But the beast hooked to the right when it charged. Its right, not hers. Which told her where the horns were likely to be when it tried to gore her, and gave her a chance to be elsewhere.

  She rolled to the left as the beast passed through the space she’d just occupied and crashed against the wooden doors of the gate, which shivered, but held. Dhulyn got to her feet, tested her weight on her left leg, and grinned. She’d had worse in training. As she watched the beast pace around the courtyard, she kept her weight forward on her toes, knees slightly bent, arms and hands relaxed from lowered shoulders. If she really were a bull jumper, there’d be others in the yard with her to distract the animal, tire it out for her.

  She would have to do that herself. Outlast the thing.

  She shrugged, aware of the wolf’s smile that stretched her lips, and braided the fingers of her right hand against ill luck.

  The sounds of a scuffle almost made her look up. “Paledyn!” came the strangled cry, and a short, businesslike sword with a worn leather grip landed point down in the dirt next to her.

  Dhulyn had barely enough time to grab it up when the beast charged again. This time, trusting that the animal would hook again to the right, Dhulyn ran toward it on tiptoe, gauging her timing carefully, and when the great
, horned head lowered at the last moment, she stepped up onto the beast’s forehead, ran lightly down its spine and jumped clear just as it crashed against the stuccoed wall and sank to its knees, shaking its great head.

  Confused, it spun around, almost chasing its tail in rage. Dhulyn found herself back where she had started, and caught up her kilt where it lay trampled into the dirt against the courtyard wall. Dangling the fold of cloth off to her left, she approached the beast slowly.

  It was breathing hoarsely, its great barrel of a chest heaving, flecks of blood showing around its nose and mouth. Whatever drug they’d given it to drive it mad was having a worse effect. Unfortunately, Dhulyn couldn’t count on it dropping dead soon enough.

  Sun and Stars blind you. She gritted her teeth, knowing what she had to do, and hoping that Remm Shalyn’s sword was long enough to do it.

  “Come on, come you.” On her toes now, she twitched the trampled kilt as far to her left as she could hold it, preparing to run forward as the beast charged, hoping that it would try for the cloth rather than her. Dhulyn eyed the spot she wanted, high on the animal’s left side, where the angle should let her reach through the cage of bone and find the heart.

  As the animal moved, she ran toward it, calling out to it as she would to a favorite horse, arching her body and sucking in her stomach as the horns swung round. In the last possible instant she thrust in the sword, turning from her heels to put her full weight behind it. Blood gushed from the beast’s mouth and she was dragged to her knees still pushing down on the hilt of Remm’s sword. When she felt the great heart stop, she stood up and stepped back, pulling the sword free.

  Suddenly there were people around her, a strong arm around her waist, and her knees began to buckle. Remm, blood in the corner of his mouth, and a bruise forming on the plane of his left cheek.

  An inner door swung open and Loraxin Feld came running out to her side.

  “I’m so sorry, Paledyn, so sorry.” And he was, too, Dhulyn could tell. Sorry enough that he spoke like a child, from the heart, no formal and meaningless mouthings of apologies and forgiveness. His hands trembled, he was white as the stuccoed walls behind him, and there was sweat on his upper lip, guilt as well as remorse in his face. He had thought the beast would kill her, and would now have to deal with the fact that it had not.