A Cold Wind

by CJ Brightley

  Captain Askano glanced at me and said something very quietly to Kemen in Kumar. It sounded like a question. Kemen spoke sharply, his voice harder than I had ever heard it. Captain Askano swallowed and seemed to apologize even more quietly, with a slight bow toward Kemen’s back. He did not look at me again.

  I wondered if I should leave. I didn’t know what Captain Askano had said, but I could imagine. I was a servant. I had already been more than unfair to Kemen. I didn’t deserve him. I couldn’t argue with any of that, and I wondered if it wouldn’t be better, for his sake, if we had never met. My eyes pricked with tears, and I brushed at them, hoping no one would notice.

  Afterwards, Kemen pushed himself up, the muscles in his right arm standing out beneath smooth dark skin. He was still terribly thin, the edges of his collarbones too sharp, but even so, he was beautiful. When he sat up, I could see the hard flat muscles of his stomach, the easy strength and grace of each movement. He’d regained a bit of color, still pale but no longer ashen grey. If Captain Askano and Saraid hadn’t been there, perhaps I wouldn’t have blushed so fiercely when I realized I was staring. I don’t know if anyone noticed. When I handed Kemen his shirt, his fingers brushed mine and he smiled at me.

  I looked down at the floor, and he said my name softly. Our eyes met, and his eyes were so warm that I couldn’t help smiling a little. I know he saw my damp eyelashes, but he didn’t say anything. I didn’t want him to make an issue of it. He only bowed his head to kiss my fingers gently.

  I wished desperately that he wasn’t leaving.

  34

  Kemen

  Perhaps the most courageous thing I’ve ever done was leave a rose outside Riona’s door the day I departed again for the northern border. It might have been dark pink, which Kveta said symbolized gratitude, for the care she had shown me and for her forgiveness. It might have been yellow, for the joy I found in her smile, for the new beginning we had found, or that I hoped we had found. It might have been red, for the love that grew every day between us. But I chose white, the purest, most flawless white I could find, for the purity of my love for her, for my humility and my hope.

  One rose. It was so little to offer, but what I had to say could not be said with words or with flowers.

  I wanted to bid her farewell, but for some time I couldn’t find her. I finally saw her in a hallway, and she smiled at me, a blushing, almost tearful smile that made my heart skip. I took her hand.

  “I leave this afternoon for the north. Otso won’t wait forever. He needs Hakan’s decision on the treaty.” I looked down at my boots, wishing I knew how to speak of more tender things. I wanted to run my fingers through her beautiful hair, touch her lips, her cheeks, but I wasn’t bold enough. Instead, I bowed to kiss her hand.

  “Kemen?”

  Her eyes were like sapphires, blue and perfect, and her lips trembled a little. She drew my hand up to her cheek, biting her lip as if she were trying not to cry. My left arm was finally free of the binding Saraid had insisted on, at least for a few hours each day, and I raised my hand to carefully brush the tips of my fingers over her hair.

  “Will you hold me?” Her voice was soft.

  She moved into my arms, her hands gentle on my back and carefully avoiding my still-painful shoulder. My cheek was against her hair, and I closed my eyes. She even smells of beauty. She murmured something into my chest.

  “What was that?”

  “Be careful.” She was sniffling fiercely.

  I smiled as I grew bolder, using one finger to brush away a tear from her cheek, catching her hand in mine and kissing her fingers one by one.

  Kudret and some twenty suvari accompanied me on the ride north. Hakan insisted on sending a carriage with us, in case I grew too tired to ride. I was pridefully convinced it was unnecessary, but I humored him. He’s my king, and a friend, better than I deserve, and if it soothed his worry I wouldn’t argue too strongly.

  Of course I didn’t actually ride in the carriage.

  The late spring journey was a tour of all the natural beauty Erdem had to offer. The bluebells were blooming, wild roses, bloodroot, and celandine. Lambkill dotted the rocky slopes of the hills, the harsh name at odds with the tiny, geometrically perfect little flowers. On the banks of the Purling River we saw irises, indigo and pale yellow and brilliant red, jumbled together with bleeding hearts and lilies. Once we were far enough east to see them, the Sefu Mountains were silhouetted every morning and the snow glinted vivid red and violet every evening under the sunset.

  Saraid and Hakan were right; I should not have been riding so soon. My shoulder didn’t hurt too much anymore, though it was stiff and painful when I tried to move it. Kudret changed the bandage for me every morning and night. The wound was healing well, slowly from the bottom, covering the bone first. The scar was so thick I imagined it would be months before I got full use of my arm back, if I ever did.

  But the weakness from the long fever and blood loss was deeper than I wanted to admit. The first day I rode for only four hours, and even that took every bit of my strength. The lingering pain was manageable and faded every day, but I was dizzy and sick with exhaustion. Sometimes I rode with my eyes closed, half-dozing in the early summer warmth. Each night I sat by the fire aching and absurdly sore given our easy pace, but each day I pushed myself a little more.

  Hakan sent all manner of rich food with us. I felt like I was always eating, but I was tired of looking like an emaciated scarecrow. The few times I’d seen myself in a mirror at the palace, I’d been shocked by my own appearance. The long ugly lines of my face were even more sharply defined. The muscles I’d earned through years of hard training were shrunken and pathetic.

  Kudret, and indeed all the men, were more than courteous to me, addressing me with deferential respect and aiding me at every opportunity. They set up and broke down my tent, attended my horse every morning and night, and brought me food and drink at every stop. I appreciated their consideration, but at last I had to insist that I attend my own horse. My arm was still difficult, so I accepted assistance with my tent and saddling Kanti, but I brushed and watered her myself. As I regained strength, we rode longer every day.

  We stayed one night at Fort Kuzeyler. Kepa received me with great courtesy, and I was relieved to see that he seemed to bear me no ill will, though he must have read the letter I’d left about leadership in the north in my absence. Another man might have been angry at my terse analysis of his faults, but Kepa was not a man to hold a grudge. I respected him for his character, if not his leadership ability, and I resolved to find a way to use him more effectively. A border conflict was not the place for him.

  When we reached Izotz, I could ride all day, though by evening I was nearly staggering with weariness. Riding through the gate brought a rush of emotion that closed my throat, and I merely nodded to the sentry. Last time I’d ridden through that gate, I’d thought I would never see Hakan or Riona again. I was happier, but it brought a pang of guilt. I’d been so unfair to Hakan, who had never been anything but kind to me.

  The night we arrived, a courier caught up with us bearing word that the royal child had been born, a boy. Hakan had given him my name.

  I sent scouts to find the Tarvil camp. They had moved, but not too far, and when the scout waved the parley flag, he received an answering wave of Otso’s blue and golden sash tied to a long pole.

  We were greeted with cheering when we entered their camp. Cautious cheering, but cheering nonetheless, meant to honor and welcome us. Otso was nervous when we settled in to discuss the treaty terms. I brought wine, one of our few bottles from Izotz, to preempt his offer of drink. Horsemilk is not my idea of delicious even when fresh. Rancid, spiced, and served hot, it was positively revolting. Otso was so entranced by the aroma of the wine that he waved away the drink that a boy offered us. I don’t know how much he liked the wine, but he was courteous and intrigued by it.

  He was more than pleased with Hakan’s offer. He pushed half-heartedly for an increase i
n the number of students, but when I required a corresponding increase in tribute he dropped the matter easily. In any case, the treaty provided for renegotiations at reasonable intervals. I knew the last bit would be more contentious.

  “There is one final condition. The Erdemen women taken from the border towns will be returned to us.”

  “It is not possible.” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  “There will be no treaty without them.”

  “Why not? They are not badly treated. They are not prisoners. They are guests.” He frowned, and I saw a flicker of well-hidden fear in his eyes.

  “Then you won’t mind handing them over to us, to be returned to their families.”

  “We need them. It is not a matter of obstinacy. You can see we want the treaty. Increase the tribute if you must, but we cannot survive without women to bear our children. We lost many this winter and last winter too.”

  “You will not survive if you don’t let them go. This demand is direct from the king Hakan Ithel. He is willing to devote the entire Erdemen military to it if necessary.” I paused to let my words sink in.

  In truth, I could understand his dilemma, and I was beginning to see the difficulty he would have in convincing the tribal chiefs. Representatives from several tribes stood in a silent line several paces behind him. Only one showed open hostility, his eyes flicking from the back of Otso’s head to my face and back again. But none were friendly, either with Otso or with each other. Perhaps they were allies of need, but they were hardly an unbroken front.

  Yet they needed the treaty desperately. Hakan might be furious with me, and justifiably so, if I ruined this. He’d hardly said what I conveyed to Otso. But I would risk it. The women had no one else to speak for them, and there would be no other chance like this. We could push the Tarvil farther. Even if the truce fell apart, in a matter of weeks they would be desperate again. Nevertheless, it was best to reach an agreement soon, before the Tarvil fled north and took the women even farther from their homes.

  “If by chance any of the women would prefer to stay, the king would of course allow them to. But I will personally speak with each one before conveying their decisions to the king.”

  “You would extend the war for the sake of some thirty women?” He was incredulous. “You would lose many more men than that.”

  “It isn’t a question of numbers. It is a question of principle. The Erdemen army upholds the freedom of Erdemen citizens. We will not compromise on this. You will agree to return the women, unharmed of course, or there will be no treaty.”

  I did not need to remind him that we held the stronger position. Another company of reinforcements had arrived with me, allowing me to send some three hundred back to their training grounds for rest. The Tarvil were desperately short of food, and we had just received another shipment.

  “Excuse me.” He stood to speak to the other chiefs. He hid it well, but for one instant I saw a flash of terror and hatred in his eyes, the look of an animal brought to bay. I wondered what price he would pay to get agreement from the chiefs. If he got it at all.

  The conversation was quiet. Angry words hushed quickly, and more than one man glanced at me in disbelieving frustration.

  “They say they cannot even find the women. They are scattered among the tribes with the men who took them.” He leaned over the table, almost pleading.

  “That’s unfortunate. I’d expect it would take about three weeks to retrieve them, knowing the Tarvil skill as horsemen. But if they will not bring the women, you may tell them to prepare for a resumption of hostilities.” I stood and bowed. Kudret and the other Erdemen soldiers followed me out the door of the tent, quick purposeful strides meant to convey my royal authority. We were mounted before I heard a shout behind me. I wheeled my horse about to face him.

  “Three weeks? It may be possible in three weeks.” He was grim, terribly angry but also afraid we would follow through on my threat. We would have; it was no idle boast. Soon they would accept any terms at all.

  “Three weeks then. The women will be unharmed.”

  “Aye.” He nodded grimly.

  “We have a list of names, thirty eight Erdemen women. We will meet you here in three weeks time at noon. We will sign the treaty then.”

  I sent a courier back with the report to Hakan about the delay and my hope for the agreement. I didn’t want to ask anyone to take my dictation for a letter to Riona, so instead I spent several days drawing a rose for her. I threw away several parchments, but at last I had one that was reasonably satisfactory. Of course it was only in black ink, but I smiled to think of it being a white rose.

  The edges of the parchment looked empty, so I spent another few evenings drawing a tiny map of Erdem with an arrow pointing to Izotz, then little sketches of the fort, my horse Kanti, and the view east over the wall with the great tundra stretching out like an uneven table backed by the jagged edge of the Sefu mountains. I’m hardly an artist, but it passed the time and it made me smile to imagine her inspecting each one, her blue eyes wide and perfect golden lashes brushing her cheeks.

  I was always eating or napping. My shoulder felt stiff and weak, but the pain was mostly gone. I watched the men train every morning. I even began exercising again, though alone because I was barely able to keep up with the group on even the most simple routines. It was high summer, and even that far north we had a few weeks of fickle warmth that brought out an astonishing variety of wildflowers. I filled a second parchment with drawings of northern primroses, tulipvine, hesmanka, and a palesinger nest I found with two eggs and one still-damp chick.

  I hoped. I hoped for the sake of thirty eight Erdemen women that Otso could coerce or cajole his chiefs into cooperation. I hoped for Erdem that we would have peace. And I hoped for myself, that when Riona saw my awkwardly drawn rose she would smile, and that when I returned she would have space in her heart for me.

  I left Eneko in command at Izotz; he could lead the men in combat if things went ill with us. Kepa was a good man, but Eneko would take command if the peace dissolved.

  We arrived early on the appointed morning, but Otso and some of his chiefs were already there, along with some fifteen women. I spoke with Otso first, and he said men were bringing the other Erdemen women. Not to worry, they would come. After all this, he hoped it almost as much as I did.

  The men set up a mess tent and began cooking lunch. Akio was in charge of the women’s comfort. We had brought extra cloaks and horses. I asked him to make sure they got a good lunch, and to let me know if they needed rest. I would prefer to move out immediately, of course. Women are fragile though, and who knew what they had already endured? It might be cruel of me to expect them to travel immediately.

  I spoke with each woman for a few minutes. They were uniformly thin and pale. Several were viciously angry at their captors and bore marks to prove they had made their anger known. One had a recently split lip; several had fading bruises on faces and arms. Three said they were not badly treated at all, but they hated the food, the sound of the Tarvil language, the cold, and everything else. One said she’d been given to a young man she rather liked, outside the circumstances of their meeting, but she missed her family. All wanted to go back home.

  Akio found their names on the list. One by one, others arrived riding behind Tarvil warriors. Chioma was barely seventeen and badly traumatized. She flinched away even from Kudret’s respectful arm when he brought her into my tent. When she saw me, she swayed and nearly fainted, from fright I believe although she hadn’t been well-fed either. Kudret helped her to a chair and I knelt to speak with her so that I wouldn’t be so terrifying. She kept her eyes on her clenched hands, her eyelashes damp with unshed tears, and I questioned her as gently as I could. Where she was from, where we could take her, if she needed anything. She trembled and shook her head, and I asked one of the other women to care for her.

  Men do such horrible things.

  Rika was a little older, and kissed the Tarvil warri
or who brought her on the cheek before sliding from his horse. She wanted to go back to her family, but she’d clearly had a very different experience.

  When I closed the tent door to speak with Asya, from the town of Lirkua, she fell to her knees, weeping quietly. When I tried to lift her, she clung to me, small white hands clutching at the front of my tunic. She thanked me through her tears, and I rubbed her back as she stood leaning against me shuddering.

  When the sun was high above, there were only thirty-five women.

  I stood in silence with Otso, waiting. Time passed, and we paced about. Otso assured me they were coming. I wanted to believe him; there would be no point in destroying the peace now. But he was not like an Erdemen or Rikutan king with absolute authority. The chiefs might choose to disobey, and he could do little to enforce his wishes.

  A rider came at a gallop, speaking quickly to Otso in Tarvil.

  “He says two more are coming.”

  “There should be at least another.”

  He had no answer.

  It was another half hour at least before the two women arrived, riding behind two Tarvil warriors. One of the Tarvil spoke to the chief, who then turned to me. “He says one of the women died. She was sick. It wasn’t his doing.”

  I spoke to the women in the tent, alone where they would not feel intimidated by the Tarvil. “The chief says there was another woman who died. Is that true?”

  “She died four months ago. Her name was Sunitha. I didn’t know her well, but we spoke a few times.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Their food. The man who had her was nice, not like Jaasku.” She cursed, and though I could hardly blame her, the sound of curse words from a woman’s lips is somehow more profane.

  Thirty-eight were accounted for. None of the thirty-seven alive wished to stay.