Parno saw his opening, trusted in his Crayx armor, and stepped into the shaft, parrying and bearing down on it with the strength of his blade. He kept applying pressure, down and outward, as he slid his blade up along the shaft until he had closed to within striking range. Before the man could reverse the end of the shaft to strike him, Parno had skewered him through the heart. He had moved too quickly for the man to even think about dropping the shaft and defending himself in some other way.
The pole arm dealt with, Parno turned back to the others in time to slash at the raised sword arm of one of the Tarxin’s men, just as he was swinging at Remm Shalyn, who had fallen to one knee, having slipped in someone’s blood. Parno hauled Remm back to his feet and took stock. Xerwin and two of his men were engaged with three men in front of the Tarxin, who had at least drawn his knife. Dhulyn had picked up a second sword, and had maneuvered herself between everyone and the still open passage through the wall, preventing escape from that direction. One of Xerwin’s men was down, as was the noble Naxot.
Eleven enemies dead, six still on their feet. Seven if you counted the Tarxin.
“Help the other guard,” Parno told Remm as he headed toward Xerwin. As he reached the group around the Tarxin, the guard on Xerwin’s left went down. Parno stepped over him and cut the throat of the man who’d killed him, reached under Xerwin’s arm, and put his sword through the lung and heart of the Tar’s opponent.
Parno looked over in time to see Dhulyn stepping over the bodies of her two opponents; Xerwin’s remaining guard was bent over, hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. Remm was standing with his hand on the man’s shoulder.
Parno turned back. Xerwin had stepped over the bodies around him and knocked the dagger out of his father’s hand.
“The field is ours, Xerwin,” Parno called. “Whatever you’re planning to do, do it now.”
And the Tar stood still, his blade up in the middle stance, like a man giving a demonstration of swordplay, and did not move.
“Come, boy,” the Tarxin said, his voice, if possible, even colder than it had been before. “If you want the throne, this is the only way. This is what it takes to be Tarxin.”
Dhulyn laid her hand on Parno’s arm, and he shot a glance at her. She had her tongue pressed to her upper lip, and he knew what she was thinking, just as if the Crayx had given him her thoughts. She thought it possible that Xerwin would back away, that at the last minute he would refuse to strike the final blow, rather than admit he wanted the throne, that he was that much like his father. Just as she was thinking about stepping forward to do it herself, Xerwin, shaking his head, lifted his blade and brought it slicing down through his father’s neck.
Twenty-two
“I’VE KILLED MY FATHER.” Xerwin rubbed at his upper lip. “You’ve killed the Tarxin, which at the moment is rather more important.” Dhulyn looked around. Remm Shalyn and the other remaining guards, four of whom had come here with the dead Tarxin, were on their knees, holding their fingertips to their foreheads. The Healer was busy over one man, but even as she watched, he straightened, shaking his head. Parno, half-smiling, waggled his eyebrows at her.
“Tar Xerwin?” Dhulyn touched the younger man on the arm and he finally turned away from his father’s body, blinking with some confusion at the kneeling men. Then he took a deep breath that shuddered on the way in, and touched his own forehead. The men lowered their hands and stood.
“At your service, Tarxin, Light of the Sun,” Remm Shalyn said. Dhulyn saw a gleam—could it be of humor?—in the man’s eyes. “Shall we take care of the slain, Light of the Sun, and see that your father’s body is prepared for transport to his—to your private apartments?”
“Thank you, yes.” Xerwin looked around him. “Try not to track blood all over the floor.”
“Yes, Light of the Sun.” That was one of the other guards, Dhulyn saw, one who had come in with Xerwin’s father. None of them, she noticed, whether originally Xerwin’s men or his father’s, seemed particularly upset, or concerned with the death of the older man. She’d had the impression that Xalbalil Tarxin hadn’t been a well-liked man, but this equanimity struck her as unusual. As unobtrusively as she could, she retrieved her throwing dagger and picked up a second sword, sliding it into her sash at the small of her back. She caught Parno’s eye, flicked the third finger of her right hand, and looked at the guards. He raised his eyebrows a mere fraction, showing he understood her warning.
Dhulyn stepped back to watch as the remaining guards, aided by the Marked, dealt with the bodies. Those of the soldiers were rolled into what looked like old carpets and hangings, while those of the former Tarxin and the Xar Naxot were laid out more formally, awaiting the arrival of litters. Parno made his way around the periphery of those working until he reached her side.
“I don’t think we’ve ever deposed a ruler so easily,” Dhulyn said to him in the nightwatch voice.
“Clearly, we’ve been doing it wrong.”
Remm, his instructions to the Marked given, came over to join them.
“Remm Shalyn,” Parno said to him. “What will be the consequences from this . . . event?” Dhulyn smile her wolf’s smile. Trust her Partner to be diplomatic. She would have said “assassination.”
“If there were any other heirs, there might be a problem,” Remm said, shrugging. “But Xerwin, Tarxin Light of the Sun, was the only remaining male child of Xalbalil Tarxin. I don’t think there are even close cousins.” He jerked his head toward where the old Tarxin’s body lay. “Xalbalil didn’t leave many relatives alive when his father died.”
“And may we ask how that happened?” Parno asked, his left eyebrow raised.
Remm’s grin was quickly quashed. “Hunting accident,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “That’s what was said.”
“And this one? What will be said?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Cut himself shaving?” Remm blinked rapidly, but otherwise his face remained serious. “Xerwin Tarxin, Light of the Sun, will let his Council know tomorrow that his father has died in the night. There will be public announcements, days of mourning, the funeral.” Remm nodded his head at Xerwin. “He’ll have to be careful, certainly. Those his father made strong will want to keep that strength. He should probably send word to the Battle Wings before he does anything else. His soldiers love him, and most of the High Noble Houses will remember that, and behave accordingly. The rest of Mortaxa?” He shrugged again. “By the time the news gets to them, it will be old, and one Tarxin’s much the same as another. The transition should go relatively smoothly, all things considered.”
Remm’s voice died away and he backed off a few paces with a shallow bow as Xerwin himself came up to them. The new Tarxin’s face was more composed now, though Dhulyn thought there was a harder line to his jaw than there had been before.
“Paledyns,” he said, with a brisk nod. “I believe we came here with another purpose.”
“If you would prefer to delay—” Dhulyn stopped as Xerwin shook his head.
“Things will be complicated enough in the next few weeks. If I deal with the Storm Witch now, it will be one less complication. And besides.” His smile was a twisted thing. “I want my sister back. Now more than ever.” He brought his hands up to his face, rubbed it, and ran his fingers back through his hair.
Dhulyn nodded, putting as much sympathy and understanding into that gesture as she could. She had noticed, however, that Xerwin had spoken of the political complications first, and his sister second.
The one guard Ellis Healer had managed to save stood off to one side, alone, with his arms wrapped around his chest. When Parno approached him and spoke, the guard shied away, then touched his forehead with his hand. He held no weapon, Dhulyn noticed, and frankly, from the look of lingering shock on his face, did not seem likely to pick one up. Most of the Marked who had come out of the inner rooms of the Sanctuary, summoned by their Seniors, were now working at cleaning the Sanctuary Hall. Young people, some still in their nightcl
othes, were on their knees scrubbing at the blood on the stone floor. They had brought litters for the bodies of the nobles, and women were coming with fresh hangings and rugs to cover and wrap the bodies. Xerwin left Dhulyn’s side and went to them as they approached the litter that bore his father.
Dhulyn gave him a few minutes before approaching him herself. “Xerwin,” she said.
Xerwin straightened, and signaled to his men. “See my father properly disposed in his own quarters. Take Naxot Lilso there as well.” He looked at Dhulyn. “What should I tell his father?”
“Stay as close to the truth as you can,” she said. “Tell him his son died trying to save the life of his Tarxin. Will he need to know more?”
“I’m not sure. Naxot’s father has other sons. That may make a difference to him.”
“Will he seek revenge?”
“He may ask for a blood price. I may have to make one of Naxot’s sisters my second wife.” He glanced sideways at her, seeming about to say something else on that subject, but he looked away instead. “I’ve time yet to think about that.”
“And what of the Storm Witch? What if people ask after her?”
“What Storm Witch? That was just a trick of the old Tarxin’s, to make the Nomads submit. My sister will be here, evidently nothing more than the Tara Xendra.” Xerwin squared his shoulders as Ellis Healer approached. “Xalbalil Tarxin was a shrewd man, who took advantage of coincidences.”
Dhulyn nodded. Who could disprove it, once the Storm Witch was gone?
“Your pardon, Light of the Sun. Tara Paledyn, the White Twins are asking for you.”
Dhulyn looked back at the soldiers. Xerwin’s senior guard was deploying his remaining men, and those of the old Tarxin, to carry the bodies and form a guard of honor. Remm Shalyn was shaking his head and gesturing toward her. Of course, he considered himself her sword servant, he would insist on accompanying her. That left the guards-men, alone, with the body of a murdered Tarxin. She turned back to Xerwin. “This may not be the moment for you to leave your men lead erless and unsupervised.”
He looked at her, lips parted, but did not speak.
“Better cautious, than cursing,” she told him. “Go with your men, see to the old Tarxin, and even Naxot’s father, if you wish. I will come to you and report.”
For a moment it seemed as though he would argue with her, then abruptly he nodded. “I will await you. Come as soon as you may.”
Carcali wondered if she should do something about the rain. It had started just after daybreak as a fine mist, hardly even a drizzle, and welcome, really, after the heat of the last few days. It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected it—after all, she had started to collect wind and storm to throw at the Nomads, though she hadn’t gone very far when they’d disappeared of their own accord. The Tarxin hadn’t told her to stop her efforts, but . . . how much time is left of the deadline I gave him, she wondered, trying to count the time backward in her head.
She shivered at a gust of cold air and pulled her shawl closer around her. Something had been bound to come of even those preliminary actions, but this rain didn’t seem to be dissipating. It was definitely getting stronger, in fact, and the skies had grown darker even in the short while she’d been sitting at her balcony door.
Another gust, more violent than the first and carrying a load of rain with it, blew into the opening, soaking the side of her gown and making her cough. Carcali jumped to her feet, grabbed hold of the edge of the left door and pushed against it with her shoulder, struggling to close it. Her large maps and sketches fluttered around the floor and the large parchment on her worktable escaped from its weight and blew over, knocking against the oil lamp and sending it crashing to the tiles.
“Tara Xendra, what are you thinking of? Thank the Slain God that lamp wasn’t lit.” At least Finexa’s genuine fear had shaken all the simpering and archness out of her voice. Annoyance struggled with Carcali’s relief. Annoyance that she couldn’t shut the window herself—when would she remember that she was only eleven years old?—relief that Finexa had heard the crash and come in to help her.
“What were you doing sitting here in the dark?”
“It isn’t dark,” Carcali said, rubbing at the outside of her arms. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“Too dark to work, is what I meant. Won’t you come into the other room, please, Tara. I’ll get the maid to clean this up.”
Carcali followed Finexa into her bedroom and threw herself onto the bed, trying her best to ignore the woman’s exasperation when Finexa found the windows in there open as well.
“I’m a Storm Witch, Finexa, for the Art’s sake,” she said finally. “Why wouldn’t I have the windows open?”
The woman subsided into a tight-lipped silence at this reminder.
Carcali sat up, her arms straight out behind her. “Has the Tarxin sent any word today?”
Finexa adjusted the mechanism that closed the slats on the shutters and pulled the curtains over them. “Not today, Tara, no. Were you expecting something?”
So she still had time left. Good. “And my brother? Has he sent me any messages?”
“No, Tara.” Sound from the workroom drew Finexa to the door, and with a “tchah” of impatience she went through it to speak to the maids, throwing a perfunctory “your pardon, Tara,” over her shoulder as she went.
Carcali chewed on her lower lip. She was trusting Xerwin to help her. “Leave things to me,” he’d said, and she was doing just that. And she’d stopped her actions against the Nomads—partly because she wanted to, but mostly because he’d said she should. Another particularly heavy gust of wind shook the shutters.
She pulled the pillow closer and hugged it to her. I really ought to do something about that storm, she thought. But it couldn’t do any harm to leave it a while longer. And it was good cover if the Tarxin needed to be appeased. “Just doing as ordered,” she could tell him. “You think this is bad, you should see what it’s like out at sea.”
Carcali wondered if Xerwin even realized that they would have to kill the old man in order to be safe themselves?
Parno found that even having been warned what to expect, the White Twins were a shock. Their skin was as pale as the flesh of a fish, and their hair was not so much white as it was colorless. Their eyes were pink, as were their lips and gums, and when one of them passed close enough to a light, he could almost see the blood moving under the skin. They fell upon him, giggling, the moment he had cleared the threshold of their sitting room, following closely on Dhulyn’s heels. They had touched his Crayx armor, run their cool fingers over the colors of his Mercenary badge, and felt the muscles in his forearms. They were as guileless as children—they were children, in all things but their physical age and their Mark.
Once they had finished “making sure he was real,” as they put it, the White Twins greeted the other Marked almost as enthusiastically. An older woman stood smiling to one side, and Parno realized, as they exchanged short bows, that she must be the White Twins’ attendant or guardian. Remm Shalyn, who was hovering, round-eyed, at the door, they appeared not to notice.
Parno approached him. “Your first time here?”
The younger man nodded. “I have heard about them, of course, who has not? But to actually see them.” Remm didn’t quite shudder, but Parno thought he might have wanted to.
“Would you prefer to wait outside?” he said, expecting a quick negative, as no young soldier would want to risk being thought a coward. To his surprise, Remm nodded.
“But I must stay if Dhulyn Wolfshead wishes it,” he said. “For now, I am pledged to her service.”
Parno caught Dhulyn’s eye and waited until she was close enough to hear the nightwatch voice. She listened, and inclined her head once.
“Remm Shalyn,” she said quietly. “Better you should stand guard outside,” she said. “We may want warning if someone comes, more warning than you could give us if you stay within.”
He touched his forehead
with a cheerful smile and let himself out.
“I find it disconcerting to be saluted in that manner by people who are not Brothers,” Parno said.
“It has something to do with the Sleeping God, whom they call the Slain God here. As Paledyns, we’re considered Hands of the God.”
“That’s convenient.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She gave him the smile she saved only for him, and Parno, smiling himself, lifted his right hand and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Suddenly they were surrounded by dancing white women.
“Come, Brother, come now, quickly.”
“Now how can I be your brother?” Parno said, tweaking the long braid of the twin nearest him. She must be Amaia, he thought, seeing the fleck of gold in her eye that Dhulyn had told him about. Now she took his hand and brought him, skipping, to the other side of the room. A jumble of toys lay on the floor, a tiny walled enclosure with a blocky tower made of—yes, those were vera tiles. A moat had been drawn around it with blue chalk.
“Dhulyn is our sister,” Amaia said.
“And you are her brother,” Keria added.
“So you must be our brother, too,” Amaia concluded.
The twin sisters laughed at this, and began singing the words over and over, to a tune Parno knew very well, though to hear it now made the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. This was the same children’s song he often played for Dhulyn, and though not many people knew it, it had a special meaning for the Sleeping God, and for the Marked.
“They sing this song to begin their trance,” Ellis Healer said. “Though, truly, they often sing it at other times as well.”
“Is there an instrument here I can use? A chanter, or even a small harp?”
Ellis beckoned the attendant over and repeated Parno’s request. Smiling, she did what Parno certainly had never expected her to do. She asked the White Twins.
The Storm Witch Page 33