*Sorry* she wept. *So sorry*
#Forgiveness# #Understanding#
Darlara straightened, wiping off her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. She patted Mal in response to his worried look and turned away.
This time she went all the way to the cabin and went in, closing the door behind her.
Carcali sat on her little balcony, the stone cold beneath her, her arms wrapped around her knees. Watching the clouds through the balusters. Something about the way that woman looked at her at the feast had taken her aback, just a little. Carcali had shrugged off the idea of these Paledyn—this Artless culture had so many superstitions. Like their Slain God and the animal worship of the Nomads, and the creepy otherness of the Marked. Carcali shuddered, skin crawling, remembering the six-fingered touch of the so-called Healer. Why didn’t he fix his hand if he was so good?
Carcali stood up and went inside, rubbing the outside of her arms with her hands. That woman. That Paledyn, had looked at her as if she could see right through her, as if she already knew everything there was to know about her, and didn’t like what she knew.
Carcali felt the warmth of rising anger. What right had that woman to look at her like that? Tattooed like a Master Artist, and no more Art about her than there was about this chair. Carcali kicked it away from the table enough to sit down.
There was no reason for her to second-guess her arrangement with the Tarxin just because some painted barbarian—scarred, no less—looked at her like all her aunts, her mother, and both grandmothers rolled into one. After all, making an alliance with the Tarxin was the smart thing to do. He was the most powerful person around here. If her own people had only sided with her, backed her, she wouldn’t be in this mess, she—
Carcali stopped, breathing hard, tears threatening. The Tarxin was the most powerful, but that didn’t make him right. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Maybe she needed other allies. Better allies. What about the brother, Xerwin? He at least made you feel you were talking to a real person when he looked at you.
Xerwin had dreamed of the Paledyn in the night. What little sleep he managed in the few hours before dawn brought the sun to his window had been broken up with images of what they had talked about the night before. Storm clouds turning into people he had not seen in years, his old guard sergeant, his mother. Images of his sister showing him the dances she had learned. Images of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s smile. He dreamed that she took his face in her hands and kissed him with her cool lips.
Xerwin pushed the empty cup of ganje away, snapped his box of fresa shut and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Well, that could complicate things considerably, couldn’t it? It wouldn’t mean the end of his betrothal—that was a purely political alliance, the girl was still a child, and he had in fact never met her. A private bonding with a Paledyn, known to all but never spoken of . . . it could be acceptable to even the most orthodox and conservative, even Naxot’s House couldn’t find fault. It would be the same as a bond with a Holy Woman, something only she could choose.
Such a bond as Naxot might have hoped for, if Xendra were really a Storm Witch. Or if the Storm Witch was really Xendra . . . or . . . Xerwin shook his head. No good thinking about that. It was almost time to meet with his father.
As Xerwin navigated the corridors between his own suite and his father’s morning room, he found that he felt better than he had for days. Even if what he fantasized about her was not likely to come to pass, the fact that Dhulyn Wolfshead, a Paledyn, saw the situation the same way he did, gave him confidence. Before speaking with her, he’d been unsure whether to confront his father on the subject of the spirit that had usurped his sister’s body. Now he knew it would be the correct thing to do.
A small gathering of people in the Tarxin’s anteroom made him slow his pace. He did not immediately recognize the child emerging with her escort of two lady pages and an armsman as the Storm Witch. Instead of her usual child’s white clothing, she was dressed in a robe of sky blue, embroidered over with gold. Not unlike the colors he wore himself, Xerwin realized.
“Xerwin.” The Storm Witch made an abortive gesture, lifting her arms awkwardly as if she meant to embrace him, but didn’t know how. A hand squeezed his heart. His sister would have known, would have run to him, regardless of protocol.
“Tara Xendra,” he said, formally inclining his head to her.
“Tar Xerwin.” She inclined her head also. Did he imagine it, or was there something different about her voice?
Xerwin waited until the Storm Witch and her attendants had turned into the corridor before presenting himself at the Tarxin’s door. When he was admitted, he found his father standing at one of the two tables in the room set at right angles to the windows. Where the Tarxin stood were large scrolls, some held open with weights, some curled and waiting. The other table held only the plates of a solitary breakfast.
“Well done, my boy,” the Tarxin said, lifting his eyes from the maps he was studying and gesturing to a chair.
“My lord?”
“You spent most of the night in the Paledyn’s rooms. Well done, indeed. I’ve reason to congratulate you on your good thinking yet again, it seems. And it appears that women will always succumb to a pretty face, even such women as that.”
Xerwin’s lips parted, but something made him hold his tongue before he could explain to his father just how wrong he was. He hesitated, lowering himself into the chair slowly. It seemed wrong somehow to let his father say such things—think such things—but whether he was defending the Paledyn or himself, Xerwin didn’t know.
“F-father,” he said, stumbling over the word. “The Storm Witch that inhabits Xendra’s body.” Xerwin glanced up and found his father looking at him. The man’s eyes were bright, but his face was a stone mask. Xerwin tried to remember how confident he’d felt in the corridor only moments ago.
“The Storm Witch,” he said again. “Should we not find some way to rid ourselves of her?”
The Tarxin pushed the charts and scrolls on the table to one side and took the seat across from Xerwin. He leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms. Xerwin tried to keep his gaze from faltering.
“Is this the advice of the Paledyn?”
Again Xerwin hesitated, trying to see all the consequences of his answer. There was something in the way the man had said the word “Paledyn,” coupled with the way he’d just spoken of her that told Xerwin his father did not think as highly of the Paledyns as he would have people believe. Caution made Xerwin change his answer.
“No, sir,” he said finally.
“I should think not. What brings this thought to you, then?”
Xerwin hoped he didn’t look as relieved as he felt. He made himself shrug. “If it should turn on us, it might be as well to know how to kill it.”
“That is a good thought, my son. A good thought, but a poor ploy.” The Tarxin shook his head. “You have much left to learn, I see. You do not destroy a useful tool because it is dangerous. You use its strength against it. This one is such a tool. A sword to the hand, nothing more. She can be dealt with, bargained with, and used.”
Xerwin blinked at the Tarxin’s use of his own metaphor. “What of Xendra?” he asked.
“She is gone.” The Tarxin’s voice had a note of finality Xerwin had heard many times before. “There is nothing we can do for her which will justify losing the services of the Storm Witch. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” He’d do the same if it was me, Xerwin thought. We’re all just tools to him. To use and discard. He was right to be careful, and he should try to be more careful still.
“When do you go next to the Sanctuary?”
Xerwin blinked, glad to think of something else. “Not for some days yet, seven or eight I would say.”
Tarxin pulled the nearest scroll closer to him and began to unroll it. “Go today. They foretold the coming of the Paledyn—though the Caids know they might have warned us she was female—now she
is here, we must see what more they can tell us.”
It took Xerwin a moment to realize that he had been dismissed. Careful to take his leave in the correct manner, whether the Tarxin appeared to notice or not, Xerwin let himself out of the room and nodded at the servants waiting outside. He turned toward the stairwell as he reached the main corridor, and started walking faster as he realized he was heading toward Dhulyn Wolfshead’s rooms on the lower level. They should visit the Marked, she had said. And this made as good an opportunity as any.
Parno climbed high into the rigging. He needed time, and privacy, to think. The Crayx would stay out of his thoughts—or at least pretend to, which amounted to the same thing—but even though they could not read his mind without the help of the Crayx, it was more than he could stand to see Dar’s and Mal’s faces hovering at his elbow.
Parno had not expected it, but the knowledge that a child was coming did change things. Everything that he had been taught, both in his Noble House and later, in the Mercenary Schools, told him that you stood by your word, that you did not walk away from your commitments and your obligations. It was always possible that he would not live to fulfill his obligation to his child—that might happen to anyone and Mercenary Brothers, in particular, were always prepared to die—but if he survived his attempt to destroy the Storm Witch, would his obligation to the child outweigh the demands of his Partnership?
He grinned, squinting his eyes into the rising wind. If Dhulyn were here, she would have an opinion, but if she were, her opinion wouldn’t be necessary. He knew what the Common Rule required, and what it said about Mercenary Brothers who abandoned or did not provide for their children.
“Demons and perverts,” he said.
#Do you require us# He could sense a warm humor in the question.
“Just debating with myself.”
#Debate with others may be more fruitful#
“Perhaps, but I’d like to sort out my own thoughts first, if you don’t mind.”
#Acknowledgment#
Parno sighed. When Darlara had approached him to remind him of his promise, he hadn’t been thinking clearly—hadn’t been thinking at all, he saw now. The reality of a child, what that would mean, simply had not occurred to him. Almost as if, without realizing it, he had simply assumed no child would come. And now? Dhulyn had agreed to this, knowing, as she’d thought, that he would die. What would she wish him to do now? Now that she was the one gone?
“Death doesn’t part us.” As he said the words, he found he felt stronger, more confident. “We are still Partners, in Battle, and in Death.” Dhulyn, if she were here, would be bringing her Scholar’s training to bear on the argument.
“The child will live, or it will not live,” he said, trying to remember how the lines of logic worked. “It will be Pod-sensed, or it will not.” That was a very logical approach, and not something that Dar would want to consider.
If the child is Pod-sensed, he thought, no better place for it than here on the Wavetreader. But if it was not . . . He trusted what he had been told, that those children went to the Nomad havens, carefully hidden and safe. But in his case that was not the only option. Mercenary Brother or no, he had a family in Imrion who acknowledged him, and the child could be sent to them.
Fourteen
“THIS IS WHERE we part company.”
Dhulyn brought her gaze down from the lofty ceiling of the Sanctuary Hall bright with torches and reflected daylight, and turned back to Xerwin. He shifted his eyes away from her, almost as though he were embarrassed.
“It’s likely that they will answer your questions more easily than they will mine,” he said. “You are a Paledyn, and they would trust in your fair dealing and discretion. Me, they will see as the representative of the Tarxin, and I already know what answers they gave him.”
Dhulyn nodded. That made sense. “And you?”
“An errand for the Tarxin that I must perform alone.”
That wasn’t strictly true, Dhulyn thought as she watched Xerwin cross the hall toward the far end. An errand for the Tarxin, now that she’d believe. But whether he had to perform it alone, or whether he merely wished to—she shook her head. Xerwin did not give the appearance of regretting their alliance of the evening before, the Two Hearts Shora had done its work, charming him enough to listen to her, and to value what she had said. But something was troubling the young man, making him shift his eyes, and until she knew what it was, she had to treat it as a possible danger. Better cautious than cursing.
As Dhulyn waited for Remm Shalyn to return with a Sanctuary Guide, other petitioners began to trickle into the Hall. Gradually, Dhulyn became aware that many of these others were circling closer to her as they waited. Several caught her eye and smiled, inclining their heads and murmuring, “Paledyn,” when they saw she was looking. Finally, an older woman in the veils and bangles of an upper servant came close enough to stretch out a hand holding a dark purple flower. Dhulyn took the blossom in her left hand, touching her forehead with the fingers of her right. As if the woman had somehow opened a door, others now came closer, two more with flowers, and a little boy with a carved wooden warrior—clearly a favorite toy from the wear—that Dhulyn held to her forehead and then returned, to the child’s evident delight. As she did this, two other women came close enough to touch her outstretched arm. Dhulyn tensed, but they both backed away, touching their own foreheads.
“Tara Paledyn?”
Dhulyn had already been aware that those crowding around her to her left had parted to allow the young woman’s halting approach, so she was not surprised to be addressed. And since she’d known the approach was halting, she wasn’t surprised to find the girl leaning on a staff. The shoe on the left foot had been built up, and there was clearly something wrong in the way that foot was attached to the ankle. The young woman’s only other distinguishing feature was that she wore no veils, her dark brown hair, pulled back and braided, was uncovered.
“If you would come with me, Tara Paledyn, the Marks you have asked to see are ready for you.” There was some whispering among those watching, but though they stayed back, none seemed inclined to leave.
The Sanctuary Guide turned and led the way across the cold tiled floor toward the plain wooden doors at the closer end of the hall. Glancing sideways, Dhulyn could see the crowd following at a discreet distance as Remm Shalyn fell in at her left side.
“I am Dhulyn Wolfshead,” she said to her guide. “What are you called?”
“I am Mender Fourteen,” the young woman said.
Dhulyn slowed to a halt. “Your pardon if I am ignorant and offend. But do you not have names?”
The girl smiled, clearly not offended. “We do, but they are generally used only within the Sanctuary, among ourselves.”
“I would prefer to use a name, if it is allowed.”
“Then I am Medolyn.”
Medolyn led Dhulyn and Remm Shalyn out of the vast public entry hall through a set of double doors into what was clearly an anteroom. Another bareheaded young woman stood pressing her hands together behind a large table on which were scrolls, pens, and bottles of ink. Dhulyn smiled to herself. Clerks were clerks, it seemed, wherever one might go.
“This is the Paledyn Dhulyn Wolfshead,” Medolyn said. The other girl scrambled to her feet. “This is Coria, a Finder.”
“All of us clerks are,” the other girl said with a grin. “Only a Finder could figure out where all the records are. You’re to see the First Healer, aren’t you, Tara Paledyn? And the First Mender and Finder as well, I think? They’re waiting in the Blue Chamber, Medolyn. Your sword servant may remain here,” Coria said to Dhulyn. “Or return to the main hall.”
“I didn’t think to see women being used as Stewards or clerks,” Dhulyn said, as they left the anteroom and started down a long corridor lit by tall glass lamps standing in front of polished metal squares.
“There aren’t so many of us that we can be particular about these things. Is it different, then, across the
Long Ocean?”
Was there something more than mere curiosity in the girl’s voice? Something wistful? Parno would have known, Dhulyn thought.
“It is. Men and women share all tasks and all things equally. Nor do the Marked live in Sanctuaries.”
Medolyn stopped in front of a broad wooden door, inlaid with blue tiles.
“But where do they live, and how?”
“Where they choose, and by selling their services.”
“But our service belongs to the Tarxin.”
They’re slaves, Dhulyn thought, a chill creeping up her back. Well-treated, carefully looked after, but slaves nonetheless. He sells their services to others, I’ll wager. Thank Sun and Moon she’d told no one, not even the Nomads, of her own Mark.
“And if they don’t live together, how is it ensured that the children are Marked?”
The chill spread across Dhulyn’s shoulders and up the back of her neck. Were the Marked here being bred for their talent? And not as carefully as the Nomads handled their breeding. That would explain Medolyn’s deformed foot. “It is not. The Marked marry whom they choose, and sometimes the children are Marked, and sometimes not. There are Guildhalls, for training—” And this was probably one of those, once upon a time. “But the Marked don’t live there beyond the time they’re trained.”
Medolyn shook her head, her lower lip between her teeth. “It sounds . . . but perhaps I would be afraid, living on my own.”
Dhulyn was spared an answer by the opening of the door. Medolyn led the way through, bowed to the three people sitting around a cold central fire bowl, and left.
“We welcome you, Tara Paledyn.” The man who spoke was clearly the oldest of the trio, hawk-nosed, with pale green eyes and dark hair receding from his forehead. “I am Ellis, First Healer. This is First Finder Javen and First Mender Rascon.” The Finder was a middle-aged woman whose graying hair was pulled tightly off her lined face. The Mender was the youngest of the three, a pretty woman with a heart-shaped face surrounded by dark curly hair escaping from its combs.
The Storm Witch Page 20