The Storm Witch

by Violette Malan

  “The gate is not guarded.”

  No guards? Dhulyn pursed her lips in a silent whistle. She’d understood from what Remm had told her that the country of the Mortaxa was large, larger than any of the realms in Boravia, with the capital, Ketxan City, on the coast. But Battle Wings or no, were their enemies so far distant that the walls of the capital did not need guards? These were remarkably complacent people, and history had often told her what usually rewarded such complacency. Dhulyn knew how she would attack the city, if she were ever given the task.

  The walls, when they finally arrived at them, impressed her even less. They were built of the same white-washed, stucco-covered mud bricks that she had seen used for building material in Berdana, but these walls were no taller than she was herself, and only just wide enough to allow someone to walk comfortably on the top.

  And just as Remm Shalyn had said, the gates stood wide and empty.

  Dhulyn looked at the gardens, walkways, and pavilions to be seen within the gates, and back at the cultivated fields without. “It seems that the primary purpose of these walls is to keep the fields separate, rather than to enclose and protect the city.”

  Remm frowned. “Certainly, it’s considered a sign of status among the Noble Houses to have winter places in the Upper City. I think it was the present Light of the Sun’s father who declared there could be no more building here.”

  “Naturally. It would be in the interest of those same Noble Houses to make sure the precinct was as small and exclusive as possible.” She looked around her, but there was nothing but gardens and the single-story pavilions as far as she could see. “And the palace?”

  “There’s no direct entrance from the Upper City, but do you see those pillars?”

  Dhulyn looked where he was pointing and saw that there were indeed a set of five pillars to be seen to the north and east.

  “That marks the official entrance to Ketxan City itself.”

  “The entrance?”

  Remm gestured with his hands. “To the Lower City, of course. Ketxan City is built into the rock cliffs that face the Coral Sea.”

  As they approached the entrance to the Lower City, the buildings became more impressive, many of them built of stone. The same stone, Dhulyn guessed, which had been carved out and removed to form the rooms and corridors of the city below them. The entrance itself consisted of the five pillars they had seen from a distance, which flanked a descending ramp of polished terrazzo leading down to enormous open-worked double doors made from metal bars, like a portcullis. Dhulyn stopped, fists on her hips, and looked upward to examine the gates more carefully, disbelief making her shake her head.

  As if to confirm her worst fears, the guard was actually a porter, an elegantly robed man whose round eyes and widened nostrils showed exactly what he thought of a Paledyn who turned up on foot, bareheaded, wearing a short kilt, and with only one attendant. He looked as though he wished to turn them away, so Dhulyn gave him her wolf’s smile. As he backed away from her, she stepped forward.

  “The Tarxin, Light of the Sun, has sent for me.”

  Dhulyn kept her attention on the man on the throne, without in any way losing sight of the pikemen stationed along the walls, and in particular the two who stood one to each side of the Tarxin. Was he another Loraxin Feld? Would he feel the need to test her? But the guards did not move, did not even, as far as she could tell, shift their eyes to follow her as she approached the throne. She could not be sure, never having met the man before, but she would wager her second-best sword that something about her pleased the Tarxin Xalbalil very much indeed. How best to keep him that way? She had been given a chance to bathe—in fact, the Steward of Keys who had met them at the entrance to the palace itself had insisted on it—and once again she had turned down women’s garments in favor of what Remm assured her was appropriate clothing for a young man of a high Noble House. Only the absence of jewelry and perfume distinguished her from many in the audience room.

  Now Dhulyn ignored everyone else, took a stride forward, and, bending from the hips, placed her palms flat on the floor in front of her. Such was the bow one gave to the Great King in the West, though she suspected no one here would recognize it. It was very impressive, however, to anyone who hadn’t seen it done routinely. She straightened.

  “I greet you, Tarxin Xalbalil, Light of the Sun. I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. I was schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler, and I have fought with my Brothers at Sadron, Arcosa, and at Bhexyllia with the Great King to the West. I have come to serve.” She inclined her head again.

  “I had not thought to see a female Paledyn.” Though, from the evenness of his tone, the Tarxin had been warned what to expect. His voice was cold and rough, like a knife dulled by hard use drawn across a stone.

  “The Slain God chooses whom he wills.” Dhulyn touched her fingers to her forehead in salute. Nothing a great ruler liked more than plenty of respect.

  “That he does.” The Tarxin touched his own forehead, as did everyone else in the room.

  Interesting. Dhulyn kept her own face from showing any reaction, seeing the Mercenary salute used here as an acknowledgment of the Slain God.

  “I have heard tales of your prowess in my land, Paledyn,” the Tarxin said. “You have already fought and defeated many with your bare hands.”

  Did the man’s eyes flick toward Remm Shalyn, still down on one knee behind her? She inclined her head. “You are too kind, Light of the Sun.”

  “Go now, and rest from your journey.” The Tarxin flicked his hand and another Steward, not the one who had met them at the entrance, stepped forward. There was a vertical frown line between this man’s gray brows, but Dhulyn had the feeling it was permanent, and had little to do with her.

  “There will be feasting tonight,” the Tarxin continued. “It would please me that you join us, if you are rested.”

  “I will attend.” Dhulyn bent forward once more to touch her palms to the floor and turned to follow the Steward.

  A feast? Just the place one could meet with the Storm Witch.

  “But, Lionsmane, we know nothing about attacking on land.”

  “These maps are accurate? These bluffs here no higher than is shown?”

  “Believe so.” Malfin caught his sister’s eye even as he nodded.

  #Yes#

  “Then should be able to land small forces here—” Parno tapped a spot on the coast to the west of Ketxan City that showed where the mouth of a large creek cut into the coastal bluffs. “And here.” He tapped another spot to the east where there was a rocky beach. “Reading the symbols correctly? There’s depth enough there and the ships can get close enough?”

  “At high tide, in those two areas, yes,” Malfin said. “But still don’t see . . .” His voice trailed off as his sister wrapped her hand around his upper arm, her eyes fixed on Parno’s face.

  “Let him explain, Mal,” she said. Parno wasn’t sure that he was entirely comfortable at the confidence in her voice—nor at the glow in her face. He turned his eyes back to the map.

  “If land here, and here,” he said, once again laying his index fingers on the maps. “Should be able to make our way overland to the walls of the city here, and here.” He moved his fingers. “Avoiding the cliff face of the city entirely. From what you tell me of your usual tactics, no one will be expecting an assault from the land, and there will be minimal guards along the walls. To make doubly sure of that, after dropping off the assault teams, the ship will return to sea, enter the harbor in the usual way, and bombard the city front with water bolts.” He looked up at them. “See now? Will concentrate their soldiers against what they believe to be your usual frontal assault.”

  Mal was nodding. “But how will we coordinate the attacks?”

  Parno smiled. Amazing how people couldn’t see a tactical use for something they’d had their whole lives. “Pod sense.” He saw the light dawn over both their faces.

  #Amusement# Parno felt not only the amus
ement of the Crayx, but of Mal and Dar as well. #Pod sense or no# the Crayx continued #You cannot lead both expeditions and no one on board the Wavetreader has sufficient knowledge to maneuver on land, to tell directions for example# #You must have only one landing party, or do you wish us to summon other Pods#

  Darlara nodded. “True, won’t take the city with just our crew, no matter how well you train them.”

  Parno looked from one captain to the other. It was lucky they had him. “Don’t want to take the city,” he reminded them. “What would we do with it? Want to kill the Storm Witch.”

  With a sinking in his stomach, Parno wondered if either of them had noticed he’d said “we.”

  It was not the first time Dhulyn had attended a feast of this exalted kind. It was not even the first time she had been seated at the high table. But it was the first time she had been alone, without Parno. She forced herself to push those memories away, not to wish for his familiar grin and his ingrained knowledge of the manners of Noble Houses.

  Not that even Parno’s knowledge would have been of much use here, since the court of the Tarxin bore little resemblance to that of any other court Dhulyn had ever seen. It was the first time that Dhulyn had ever seen the seating order determined not merely by rank, but by gender. Here the women were seated at a separate table, set centrally and perpendicular to the high table, and presided over by a young girl who could not have seen her birth moon more than ten or eleven times.

  The Stewards must have received special orders to treat Dhulyn as though she were a man, since she had been seated at the same table as the Tarxin. There was an empty chair on either side of him, something Dhulyn had never seen done in any court in Boravia, but she had been given what amounted to the place of honor, the next seat at his left hand. On her other side was his son, Tar Xerwin, the heir.

  The Tar had inclined his head, a little grimly, when the Hall Steward introduced them in the anteroom, and Dhulyn had given him exactly the same degree of bow in response. She’d had the sense that his grimness had nothing to do with her, however—or at least not directly. She wondered whether she should try the Two Hearts Shora. The Tar would make a useful ally.

  Once at table, Dhulyn was careful to observe the manners of the others, and to copy them insofar as it was possible. Everyone at the high table had their own attendant standing behind them, and though Remm Shalyn stood behind her chair, he had very little to do besides signal to the servers when he saw her plate or glass empty. The service at their table was done by young girls, their hair covered with veils and much bedecked with bangles and pendants. The ladies’ table, Dhulyn was amused to see, was served by young boys, severely dressed in a manner that mimicked the uniform of the guards.

  A nervous reflex caused Dhulyn to smile at the first girl who approached the table in front of her. The girl’s hand shook, almost dropping the small tidbit she was placing on Dhulyn’s plate with a long pair of silver tongs. Dhulyn glanced sideways and saw the Tar lifting the morsel to his mouth with his right hand. She did the same.

  A slice of cured ham so thin it was like the finest parchment, wrapped around a sugared date. Her mouth watered and she wondered whether there were any more. But what the girls were bringing now were tiny cups of clear glass, filled with a bright green liquid. Wiping her hand on the napkin to the right of her plate, as she saw both the Tarxin and Tar Xerwin do, Dhulyn lifted the glass and tossed the contents down her throat. She covered her mouth politely and coughed.

  “It’s unexpected, isn’t it?” Tar Xerwin said. Though his tone was just as cool, his voice was a warmer, more musical version of his father’s. “Pureed apple, olive oil, vinegar, and garlic.”

  “We are allowed to speak, then?” The man was slim, and well-muscled, not at all the type to be so precise about his food. Then again, the Tarxin himself was also slim which, given his years, meant that great attention and care were being paid to his diet.

  “Indeed, though most women are more likely to faint than to talk to me.”

  Dhulyn cut short her laugh. “Oh. Your pardon, Tar Xerwin, I assumed you were joking.”

  “And yet, you are not afraid.” He did not look at her when he spoke, however. His gaze appeared directed toward the ladies’ table.

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because you see now that I was not joking.”

  Dhulyn shrugged. “What is the worst you can do to me?”

  Now he turned to look at her. He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I could have you killed, or worse.”

  “Possibly.” She looked him directly in the eyes, and smiled her wolf’s smile. He did not move, only blinked, but for a moment Dhulyn thought she saw something more in his face than a bored and offended noble. “Possibly you could have me killed. But I’ll tell you what you cannot do, Tar Xerwin. You cannot frighten me to death.”

  The Tar didn’t exactly smile, but his eyes brightened, and his countenance seemed warmer. “To answer your question, then, yes, we are allowed to speak, but my father prefers to eat his meal in peace. If and when he wishes to discuss something with someone, he will call them up to sit next to him.”

  “A great honor.” Dhulyn eyed the platter of thinly sliced cold meats that had been placed between her and the Tar. Evidently they were to be shared.

  “It is. Don’t be surprised if you’re called over yourself. My father is very pleased with you.”

  “I saw that at my audience with him.” Following Xerwin’s lead, Dhulyn rolled up a slice of meat and popped it into her mouth. A cured sausage, spicy and piquant in its flavors. “Tell me, Tar Xerwin, is your father, the Light of the Sun, pleased with me as a man is pleased with a woman?”

  Tar Xerwin looked startled and, for a flashing instant, younger than his polished manners and self-assured air had made him seem.

  “You are direct,” he said finally, with his first genuine smile. “I forgot that you are a Paledyn. To be equally direct, my father’s tastes in women run differently. You would be too tall, too thin and,” here his smile widened, “too dangerous for him.” He waited while the platter was removed, and individual dishes set down in front of them bearing toasted slices of bread no bigger than the palm of Dhulyn’s hand, covered with thin slices of something pale, and decorated with loose berries.

  “Don’t tell me,” Dhulyn said, lifting one to her mouth and taking a bite. “Mmmm. Goose liver. I’ve never seen it so pale.”

  “Try some with the berries.” When her mouth was full, Xerwin continued. “No, I would say my father thinks of you as a Paledyn, not as a woman. Note that you are seated here, and not at the women’s table with my sister.”

  “He is pleased that I am female, however,” Dhulyn pointed out. It seemed that the Tar, at any rate, was excused from the constant repetition of “Light of the Sun.” Without turning to study the women’s table more carefully, it was impossible to know which woman was the Tara Xendra.

  “He is, but I think that is because the Storm Witch is also female.” He glanced toward the women’s table, and Dhulyn thought his lips might have hardened a little.

  She nodded. It was difficult to be sure; all the seated women had their hair covered in the same type of veils worn by the serving girls, though of much richer fabrics and more expensive colors. There were several of the right age, but Dhulyn was fairly certain she had not seen the fair-haired woman of her Visions. Caution and Schooling told her it might be best, for the moment, not to ask after her. Better that she not show too much interest just at first.

  “And what of you, Tar Xerwin?” she asked, careful not to let her lip curl again as she smiled. “How do you think of me?”

  As she had been talking to him, Dhulyn had been careful to control her respiration, until the breaths came slower, and deeper. Slowly, her skin had grown warmer. Now she looked directly into Xerwin’s eyes, parting her lips, and his breathing also slowed. The color came up into his face, and then he paled again.

  “In whatever manner you would wish me to think,
Dhulyn Wolfshead.”

  It was the first time he had said her name, and Dhulyn thought she could let it rest there, for now. The Two Hearts Shora had done its work.

  They kept up their dance of words through the rest of the feast. Through the fish, grilled with melon sauce and mushrooms, through the inglera tenderloin topped with more goose liver and pureed apple, through the tiny individual legs of lamb, whose creamy sauce had still more apple and garlic in it. Each dish had come accompanied with a decorative edible, potatoes cut to resemble lace and deep fried, or miniature tarts of a pale yellow color and buttery taste that Xerwin told her were made from corn.

  Xerwin slowly became a different person from the one who had sat down, and Dhulyn found his attitude strange altogether. Unlike the behavior she had seen in the court of the Great King to the West, Xerwin now appeared to treat her as in every way his equal. She had gathered from the Long Ocean Nomads that the Mortaxa revered Paledyns, but she had not understood that the reverence was sufficient to outweigh the ingrained prejudices of the culture. At the same time, the Two Hearts Shora had made her certain that Xerwin was aware of her as a woman. His heart rate had remained faster than normal, and he had managed to brush against her several times.

  Dhulyn eyed the latest platter as it was set down between them. It appeared they had at last arrived at the sweet course, and the end of the meal was in sight. There were two small bowls of almonds, chocolate and ganje beaten into egg whites, a torte of chocolate layered with a green nut, and another made of quince jelly layered with fine slices of a sharp sheep’s milk cheese.

  As the young servers came around with tiny cups of ganje, black and hot, Xerwin, and others at the head table, were taking out small jeweled boxes. Xerwin used the point of his dagger, equally jeweled, to add a tiny amount of powder from the box to his ganje. Others were doing the same, though the young man on Xerwin’s left side was sniffing the powder off the back of his hand.