Fresa, Dhulyn thought. Or some other form of the fressian moss, powdered for easy consumption. In Boravia, fressian drugs were so expensive and rare no one ever used them recreationally. There was no way of knowing what such use might bring. Dhulyn had just raised her hand, palm out, to Xerwin’s offer of his jeweled box when the closer of the two young men who had stood behind the Tarxin’s chair for the entire meal approached them and bent to speak quietly into Xerwin’s ear.
Xerwin nodded, waited for the guard to return to his station before standing up and offering Dhulyn his hand. She stood, and let him lead her over one seat to sit down again next to the Tarxin. His ganje was untouched, and there was no sign of any type of fressian on the table in front of him. Quiet fell over the room as people stopped their conversations and looked toward the high table.
“My people.” Rough as it was, the Tarxin’s voice was pitched to be clearly heard throughout the dining chamber. “I have the pleasure to present the Paledyn, Dhulyn Wolfshead, escaped from the ships of the Nomads. We are greatly favored by the appearance of another who has been touched by the Slain God.” He gestured toward the women’s table.
“We know that the Paledyn is here to help us in our dispute with the Nomads of the Long Ocean. Like the Paledyns of old, Dhulyn Wolfshead will see fair dealing, and our rights confirmed.”
Will I now, Dhulyn thought. That’s confident of you.
“I would like to ask the Paledyn, here in front of you all, for an additional boon. I would ask her that she extend her protection over my other child, the Tara Xendra, in whom has recently manifested the Art of a Weather Mage. Come, my dear, meet the Paledyn.”
It was the child, Dhulyn saw with a cold shock, who stood and crossed the short distance of floor to stand in front of her father on the far side of the table.
This wasn’t possible. Dhulyn had Seen the Storm Witch several times, a tall, slim, fair-haired woman. Not a small, stocky girl with the same jet-black eyebrows as her father and her brother. She would not become tall and slim no matter how much time passed. The child raised coal-black eyes to meet Dhulyn’s, and Dhulyn shivered, steeling herself to touch her forehead in salute, in recognition of the Slain God’s servant.
Those eyes did not belong to a child. Those eyes were a good deal older than eleven years.
Dhulyn bowed, and smiled, and at one point touched her forehead again, all without consciously hearing anything more that was said. She found herself back in her seat next to the Tar Xerwin. His eyes were turned toward where his sister was sitting down once more at her own table. His face showed no emotion whatsoever, but Dhulyn saw that his hand gripped his cup of ganje so tightly that his knuckles stood out white.
He knows, she thought. Whatever is happening here, he knows what it is. And he wasn’t happy about it.
Looked like she was right to use the Two Hearts Shora.
Thirteen
“WILL YOU COME IN?”
Tar Xerwin had escorted her to the door of the rooms Dhulyn had been given. They were only one level down from the apartments of the royal family, no doubt kept set aside for important guests and visitors. Remm Shalyn, carrying a lamp, was already at the door, waiting to open it for her. Xerwin’s attendants stopped a span down the corridor, and waited for him there. This would not have been the first time, Dhulyn thought, that they had accompanied their master to some lady’s door.
Though it might have been, judging from the frown on Xerwin’s face.
“Dhulyn Wolfshead, I thank you for the honor, but I fear I must decline. Business of my father’s will have me rise early tomorrow.”
Dhulyn tilted her head toward his ear. They were almost exactly the same height. “I did not invite you to my bed, Tar Xerwin,” she said, so softly that she knew only he could hear her. “I know what I saw when I looked at Tara Xendra, and from the look on your face, you are not happy with it. I ask you again, will you come in?”
The frown was startled away, to be replaced almost as rapidly with a perfect imitation of a warm smile.
So, he can control his features when he wishes to.
“As you wish, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” He signaled to his attendants and, faces carefully impassive, they took up stations along the corridor.
“Remm Shalyn, I thank you for your service today. I hope that you will rest well.”
His left eyelid quivered, as if he longed to wink at her, but all he said before he bowed and turned away to his own rooms was, “An honor and a pleasure, Tara Paledyn.”
Upon entering her sitting room, Dhulyn smiled at Xerwin and indicated the best chair before she checked that there were no attendants waiting for her in one of the other rooms. As Remm Shalyn had told her, it was minor nobles rather than slaves who acted as body servants in the Tarxin’s palace, and she had taken full advantage of this to limit her own attendants as far as she could. When she returned to the sitting room, Xerwin was still standing next to the large armchair, staring down at it as if there was something fascinating on the seat. Dhulyn checked the minuscule balcony that was the only other exit to the suite of rooms and turned back to him.
“How do I know I can trust you?” he said without looking up.
Dhulyn sat cross-legged on the divan, tucking her kilt and her feet under her. She shrugged. “You must trust someone. Why should it not be me? The chief advantage of a Paledyn, so far as I can see, is that I belong to no one, am of no faction, and can judge with clear eyes.”
“The Tarxin takes it for granted that you will argue on our side.”
“He’s an intelligent man. As such, he would be sure to at least pretend to believe his cause is just. And you, Xerwin?”
He sighed, pulling out his little box of fresa, and placing it on the table, his eyes straying to the wooden tray on the low table to his right. Dhulyn pulled off the linen cloth to reveal a jug of water, and one of wine, along with cups of different sizes, a plate of pastries and a bowl of fruit. “I have learned to take nothing for granted,” he said.
Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. Spoken like the true son of a shrewd father.
“How long has the Tara Xendra been . . . not herself?”
Xerwin lowered himself into the chair and rubbed at his eyes. “Thank you for not calling her my sister.”
Dhulyn poured out a cup of wine and handed it to him.
“What I saw is real, then? Whatever it may be, that child is not, or is no longer, your sister?”
Xerwin paused in the act of adding a tiny portion of fresa to his wine, hesitated, and returned it to the little box, snapping it shut. “How were you so certain? So quickly? You have never even met my sister.”
Dhulyn drummed the fingers of her left hand on her knee. “I have seen such things before.” She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, as if she were merely describing a horse she’d once seen, or a dog. The man’s situation was a horrible one. She would prefer not to make it worse. “I’m sure that possession by spirits, even by gods, is not unknown even here.”
He nodded. “There are tales. But, if it is a god, do they not usually make themselves known?”
Dhulyn decided there was no good end to that line of questioning. “Do you know how this occurred?”
She listened as he told of the Tara’s fall, how she had hit her head and not regained consciousness.
“A Healer was not sent for immediately?”
“You understand, there seemed no need at first. Her attendants were not anxious to explain how they had allowed the accident to occur in the first place. Her head ached, and she had been frightened by the fall, but it was thought that rest alone was needed. When they could not rouse her, then they grew frightened and sent word to the Tarxin.”
Dhulyn noticed that he did not call the man “my father.”
“Even then,” Xerwin continued, “it took time for the Tarxin to come, and he thought it best to wait another day before calling in the Marked.”
“For blood’s sake, why?” The words were out before she could stop
them.
“The Tarxinate must not seem weak.” Now Xerwin sounded as though he were quoting someone else’s words. “I was told none of this until long after,” he added.
“And when the Healer finally came?”
Dhulyn let Xerwin finish his tale uninterrupted. How the Marked never ventured out of their Sanctuary except in groups, what the Tarxin had told them to do when they informed him that the girl’s spirit was lost.
“Clearly, the soul Found and Healed to the body was not that of your sister.” Dhulyn poured out another glass of wine, waited until Xerwin had taken a sip, shaking her head at his offer of fresa. “When did you first suspect?”
“Only a few days ago. She was too ill at first for me to be much with her.” He shrugged. “I had to return to my Battle Wing. And my duties have been increasing as well . . .” His voice trailed away, but his face grew thoughtful, so his distraction did not seem a likely result of the drug. “Do you think that was purposefully done?”
Dhulyn tilted her head, lifting one shoulder. “What told you then, when you finally saw your sister?”
“She did not know who Naxot was.”
“I fear I can say the same.”
“You saw the man sitting to my left? He’s the heir to House Lilso, once next in importance to the Royal House, and hoping to be as important again.” He’d been the one who sniffed his fresa, Dhulyn recalled. “He is—or was—Xendra’s betrothed.”
“She wouldn’t be the first woman to forget she was betrothed,” Dhulyn said with a smile.
But Xerwin saw no humor in it. “This is not some foreign prince, whose name might be knocked out of her head. Naxot is my closest ally at court, and Xendra has known him her whole life. She used to follow us around when she was a toddler, climbing into his lap and begging for sweets and kisses. She adored him.”
Dhulyn noticed Xerwin’s use of the past tense.
“And he was always kind to her, never brushed her off, as another of his age might have done. As I frequently did.” Xerwin blinked and looked away.
Suddenly, sharp as a knife, Dhulyn felt an almost overwhelming desire for her Partner. Parno was so much better at dealing with people and their feelings, their regrets and their guilt. With a hand that trembled, just a little, Dhulyn poured out a cup of wine for herself, and took a swallow.
“What will you do, then? Destroy her?” she asked when she knew her voice would be steady. Xerwin, eyes still fixed on the wine jug, nodded, but very slowly. “Whoever it is that now occupies your sister’s body is obviously a Storm Witch. She can do much good for your people.”
“Naxot says the same thing, and I’m sure that’s how my father thinks, though not for the same reasons. He thinks only of the power a Storm Witch brings him—principally over the Nomads at the moment, though he won’t stop there. She’s no more than a tool to him, as my sword is to me.” He looked up, frowning. “But she isn’t a tool, any more than my officers or my soldiers. She must have her own thoughts, her own plans. She is wearing Xendra’s body like a glove, pretending to be my sister. If she is innocent, why the pretense? If she is evil, what can she bring to us but evil? Can I take such a chance?” He sat up straight, rested his hands on his thighs. “But you are a Paledyn, you will have your own view of these matters.”
Dhulyn almost laughed aloud. “As it happens,” she said, “my view is not so different from yours. It was the Witch who caused the storm which almost killed me, and did kill my Partner, another Paledyn.” For a moment Dhulyn’s throat closed. This was the first time she had spoken the words aloud. “If we are to destroy this spirit, we must first learn as much as possible. Will destroying the body kill it, for example? We must speak to the Marked who were there when Tara Xendra was Healed.”
“Will they tell us the truth?”
“Only one way to find out. And, Xerwin,” Dhulyn paused, but he did not correct her form of address. “You must remember that if we are successful in destroying the Storm Witch, it does not follow that we will be able to restore your sister.”
The bleak look in his eyes told her that Xerwin had already thought of this.
“Come,” she said, getting to her feet. “Sunrise comes quickly, and you must be ready to meet with the Tarxin.”
Xerwin turned back at the door.
“These are strange and complicated times, Dhulyn Wolfshead. My friend Naxot says we are in the age of miracles. Mages, Paledyns.” His smile was bittersweet. “And who knows what might be next. Some say the Slain God will rise.”
“Oh, I think that is most unlikely.”
Long after Xerwin had gone, Dhulyn was still awake, sorting through the weapons that Remm Shalyn had found for her. The swords were all of the shorter, heavier variety she had already seen, best used to slash and cut. That told her much about the style of fighting she might have to face.
She sat back in the chair. She was stalling and she knew it. It would be a simple matter to kill the girl. Nothing simpler, given that the Tarxin had put the child under her protection. All Dhulyn had to do was ask to meet with her, kill her—using bare hands if necessary—and then die fighting her way out. That had been her plan all along, sketchy though it might seem.
But would killing the body kill the Storm Witch? Or would the spirit merely be freed to inhabit some other helpless person? Because that was not part of Dhulyn’s plan at all. Before she could act, she had to know. She wanted to be sure that the thing was destroyed.
Darlara usually enjoyed her time on watch. Through the Crayx she could see the whole ship, feel/taste the waters around it, sense the presence of the whole Pod, touch them lightly as they slept, performed their duties, ate, played with their children, hummed a soft lullaby, made love. And for the last few days, she put her hand on her lower belly, there had been a new life she could not yet sense directly. Or so the Crayx had told her.
But tonight, instead of joyful, Darlara felt edgy, distracted, unable to follow any one path of thought or feeling. She left her position by Ana-Paula at the wheel, and went down to the main deck, hoping that activity would clear her head, but finding her feet leading her toward the door of her own cabin, where she had left Parno Lionsmane asleep when she came on watch.
As soon as she realized where her feet were leading her, she went to the rail and leaned her elbows on it, letting her head fall into her hands.
#He still grieves# #You must have more patience#
*How long*
#Even now, his grief is less sharp# #There is something, a patterning, that he uses when he fights, and when he makes music, that helps him# #It restores him to himself# #Yes#
*Should I tell him about the child* *Would his current then flow more closely with ours*
#His current now carries him toward his revenge# #He believes he will die in taking his vengeance#
*But would the child not show him that there is another current* *It may be, that if knows there will be a child, might make a greater effort to live*
#It may be#
This time Darlara had her hand on the latch of the cabin door before she turned aside and went to the rail again.
Some time later, Mal, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, came and nudged her with his shoulder.
*Your watch already*
*Jesting* *How can I sleep with all this turmoil* *Will, won’t, might, shouldn’t, what if* *Think I can’t feel that, even if don’t have your thoughts*
Darlara rested her cheek against her brother’s shoulder. *Sorry* *Don’t know what to do*
*Guessed that*
Darlara butted him with her head, somehow eased by his chuckle. *Serious*
*Know* *But tell me what it’s about* *This way, losing sleep for nothing*
*It’s the child*
He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. *Know for sure then*
*Crayx say so* *Certain*
*Wonderful* *The best news*
Darlara knew she should feel that way, too. And the greater part of her did.
Would feel that way for the rest of her life, regardless of what Parno Lionsmane might do. But now that she had part of what she wanted, why should she not try to get all of it?
*Crayx say Lionsmane might not be seeking hard to live, now that his Partner’s gone* *He’ll get his revenge, but not carefully, thinking he might as well die*
*But if he knows about the child, won’t he want to stay* *Won’t he want to see it grow*
Darlara nodded. Of course Malfin thought the same as she did herself. They were twins, after all.
*But see, what if, knowing that his promise is filled, what if that’s what lets him decide to die* Malfin began to frown and Darlara rushed to finish her thought. *If don’t tell him, he’ll still have his promise to fulfill, perhaps take better care*
*Don’t tell him* *Are you crazed* *When you show, he’ll know*
*But by then he’ll be with us for moons, he’ll be better, he won’t want to die anymore* He’ll stay with me, she hadn’t quite the courage to form the thought clearly, though she knew Mal picked it up.
Mal, openmouthed, shook his head slowly from side to side. *He’ll know you lied, and that’s if Crayx don’t tell him* Mal’s anger could not have been plainer if he was shouting from the Racha’s nest.
*But he’ll be alive, he’d forgive*
Mal turned to look her squarely in the face. He took a step back from her, and Darlara swallowed hard. Mal had actually taken a step away from her.
“What are you thinking?” he said aloud, as if he didn’t want to share her thoughts anymore. “Isn’t some landster, we don’t care if the shell knife we sell him falls apart in six moons. Lionsmane is Pod-sensed. Crayx know him, saved him. He’s part of us.” Mal tapped his chest with his closed fist. “Lie to him, lie to all of us.” He pointed his finger at her in a way that suddenly reminded Darlara of their mother. “Tell him, or I will.”
#Or we will#
“There. See?”
Darlara felt the tears spring into her eyes. Mal was right, could she really have been thinking about lying? The Pod did not lie to each other—could not lie, really, since the Crayx always knew the truth. And yet, she’d been thinking . . . her face fell forward into her hands and she felt her brother’s strong arm once more around her shoulders.
The Storm Witch Page 19