“Adding your death to theirs would be no better,” Lomin said.
“It would be far worse if I happened to live while my little sister and mother died because I did not try.”
Those words tore at Aidah. She understood how Nerisse felt. And she hated herself for it. She hated her lack of power, her inability to protect her children, her inadequacy.
Lomin reached a hand out and touched Nerisse under her chin, tilting it toward him. “I’ve seen that look before. You won’t change your mind, will you?”
“No, I won’t.”
“Very well.”
Nerisse faced Aidah. Despite the hood, Aidah saw the pain etched in her daughter’s features. Aidah made to speak, but Nerisse placed a single, cold finger over Aidah’s lips. Warm tears trickled down Aidah’s face as she reached out and squeezed Nerisse’s hand. Nerisse smiled before bending to look her sister in the eye.
“We’ll be telling stories and singing songs again tonight,” Nerisse said. “I promise.” Clara nodded.
Nerisse stood, cast aside her cloak, and took two steps backward. She glanced toward the guards at the far wagon. “Make certain you three stay to the far ends,” she shouted. The men shifted accordingly.
As Nerisse closed her eyes, Aidah whispered fervent prayers to the Dominion. Whipped by the wind, the raindrops were like miniature arrows, falling at an angle toward Nerisse, pelting the puddle she stood within. Nerisse’s eyes opened. An intensity radiated within them, unlike any Aidah had ever seen. Nerisse flung her hands out to her sides, palms facing away from her as if commanding someone or something to stop.
The raindrops shifted, slanting in the opposite direction, away from Nerisse. Ripples formed in the water at Nerisse’s feet. An icy prickle swept over Aidah. Beyond Nerisse, something indistinguishable passed through the rain, like a haze, spreading outward until Aidah could no longer see it. Nerisse brought her hands down and pivoted, her side to Aidah and the others. She dashed forward into the open space between the wagons, a blur of leather and woolens.
She’d gone perhaps ten steps before she spun and sprinted in the opposite direction. Thunder rolled, its echo long and clear.
“Three,” Lomin said.
Nerisse shifted again, dodging left, and then right. She leaped forward into a roll, came up covered in mud, and was sprinting again, this time straight toward the far wagon. When she reached it, she slid, feet first, under the bed and out the far side. Three distinct thuds sounded, and wood splinters flew into the air. Without stopping, Nerisse ran back to where she started.
A breath escaped Aidah’s lips, one she hadn’t realized she held. Her heart pounded.
Staring straight ahead, Nerisse waited, face a mask of concentration. She unsheathed her short sword and shifted into the flowing motions of her practice sessions. Her movements grew faster as she circled one way and then the other, sometimes stopping abruptly to change direction.
“Three,” Lomin said again.
Thunder pealed. Echoes followed once more before they dwindled to silence.
Nerisse swung her weapon faster and faster. She moved with such grace and yet such violence that Aidah believed the girl battled against an unseen enemy.
A sudden cry from Nerisse sent a chill through Aidah. A red blot appeared on Nerisse’s shoulder, spreading quickly. Aidah gasped. That arm hung limp. Breathing hard, Nerisse stilled, attention focused beyond the wagons.
“Help her, Lomin,” Aidah pleaded. She wanted so much to run to her daughter’s side, but she knew it meant death.
“He’s gone already,” Kitesh said. Aidah peered around but saw no sign of the Blade. “Left just after he called out the three attacks. For your daughter’s sake I hope he’s fast enough.”
Aidah watched helplessly, trembling hands over her mouth, as Nerisse began another session. The girl’s arm was a bloody mass. Clara clutched the folds of Aidah’s cloak. “Dear Gods, see her through this,” Aidah whispered.
The sword dance began anew, this time slower. Nerisse’s chest rose and fell; water streamed from her hair, now plastered to her forehead. Her expression was wild, desperate. The flawless motions grew sporadic, uncoordinated.
When the thunder bellowed, Aidah’s heart felt as if it would leap from her chest. She counted the distinct sounds before the reverberations. One. Two. Three.
Nerisse leaped to one side, skidded to a halt in the mud, and reversed direction. Halfway through a third dodge she cried out. Something seemed to pick her up and fling her back. The sword went flying. She crashed into the mud with a wet thud and did not move.
“No!” Aidah screamed. “Gods, no!” She tried to run out to Nerisse, but her legs would not work. Self-loathing claimed her, and she berated herself for her weakness, her inability to give her own life for her daughter.
In the midst of chest-wracking sobs, Aidah saw Nerisse’s arm twitch. The fingers formed a fist. Covered in mud, Nerisse pushed up onto her knees, coughing and sputtering. Red leaked from the area of her collarbone.
“Nerisse!” Aidah cried. “No more, please, no more. Come to us.” She held out both arms. “Please.”
No acknowledgement came from Nerisse. The girl fixed her gaze beyond the wagons and spread her arms wide.
Aidah grabbed Clara tight and turned away. She couldn’t watch her daughter die.
Thunder pealed. Once. Twice. Three times.
Firestick
Aidah summoned the strength to look at Nerisse. Face down, she lay in a pool of muddied water. Red stained the brown. Bile rose in Aidah’s throat, and she spilled her stomach’s contents.
“She did it,” Kitesh exclaimed, peeking around the corner of the wagon. “Thank the Ten Heavens, she did it. She kept his attention until Lomin killed the bastard!”
“But my daughter is still dead.” Aidah’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. She felt numb. Hot tears flowed down her face as she gazed upon Nerisse’s prone form.
“Dead?” Kitesh repeated. “No, m’lady. She’s alive. The bastard missed.”
In stunned disbelief Aidah watched the other three guards splash through mud and water to Nerisse. Emotions washed over her. Fear, worry, and elation all in one. Alive, she thought. She’s alive. Praise the Dominion. Dragging Clara behind her, Aidah stumbled toward her older daughter.
By the time she reached Nerisse, the men had rolled the girl onto her back. The shortest of them, Gortans, ripped away strips of cloth from her clothes and worked feverishly to bind the wounds. Nerisse’s face was a pasty white, but she was breathing. Aidah dropped to her knees next to the girl and hugged her. Clara rested her head against Nerisse’s face.
“Are you two trying to finish the job?” Nerisse asked, cracked voice barely audible. “Let the man tend to me.” Aidah could only laugh, and soon the laughter became more tears.
“At least allow us to carry her into the wagon,” Gortans said. “The rain and cold will only cause more problems.”
Aidah savored the feel of her daughter for a moment longer before she stood and eased away. Kitesh and Gortans picked up Nerisse as carefully as they could and headed to the wagon; the others took up positions outside. Once more, Aidah thanked the Dominion, and she and Clara followed the men.
“Everything will be better now, pumpkin,” Aidah said, squeezing Clara’s tiny hand. “The good men will look after your sister.”
Inside the wagon Aidah told Clara to play with her dolls. She then watched as Gortans cut away the fabric around Nerisse’s wounds. Two neat holes marred her pale flesh, blood gushing from them sporadically. Gortans turned her on her side to expose two identical holes. The girl groaned and hissed the entire time.
Aidah cringed but did not look away. The more she saw, the colder she grew. Rain still drummed upon the canvas, and whenever real thunder rumbled she couldn’t help but to flinch.
One day, she did not care how long it took, she would make Ainslen regret hurting her family.
“I need to stop the bleeding,” Gortans said, “which means I’ll need a fire and a length of slim metal. However, the risk of infection afterward is great. For that I will need some mesqa, honey, and a few other herbs from my bag.”
Kitesh made his way to the wagon’s rear and ducked his head outside. “Borin, fetch me that flask of mesqa you have.” He returned with the silver container. “Fire is going to be a problem with this rain.” He passed the liquor to Gortans.
A shadow passed across the wagon’s entrance. Aidah tensed, but it turned out to be Lomin.
He climbed inside, clothes soaked and bloodstained. In his hand he carried a strange stick. The slim section, which he kept pointed down, was a tube crafted from gray metal and was perhaps three feet long. The metal joined wood the width and length of a forearm, the wood becoming wider until it ended in a wedged shape. “The Farlander is dead,” he said, voice strained with fatigue.
“Thank you.” Eyes moist, Aidah smiled at the Blade.
He propped the stick in a corner and went to Nerisse’s side. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better,” the girl said between clenched teeth.
He turned to Gortans. “What can I do to help?”
“We need a fire so I can cauterize the wound, but with this weather, that’s near impossible unless we start one in here, which comes with its own set of problems.”
“That’s simple enough.” Lomin held up his index finger. The air around the finger glowed, making the digit resemble a white-hot poker. “Will this do?”
“Good,” Gortans said. “Kitesh, fetch my bag, please.” When Kitesh left, Gortans returned his attention to Nerisse. “I’ll have to sterilize the wound with the mesqa. It will hurt. Drink some first.” He uncapped the flask and handed it to her.
She lifted her head and put the flask to her mouth, throat working as she swallowed the liquor. Grimacing, she returned it to him and lay back. “That is disgusting.”
“Don’t let Borin hear you say that. Those are fighting words for him.” Gortans replaced the cap. “Bite down on this.” He passed Nerisse a mound of her torn clothing and nodded to Lomin. “Help secure her.” Lomin rested his arm across Nerisse’s thighs and held her hands.
Gortans poured the liquor onto the wounds. Nerisse writhed, muffled moans escaping her mouth as she shook her head from side to side. Seeing her in such pain made Aidah wince. Kitesh returned with the bag just as Gortans finished.
From the leather bag, Gortans removed needles, a few vials, a jar of honey, and catgut. Nerisse was still moaning. He passed her one of the vials. “This is a mixture of Bloodleaf and other herbs. It will dull the pain and eventually put you to sleep, but we can’t wait for that last bit. We must act now to stop the bleeding.” She gave a single nod and downed the contents. “Lomin, it’s your turn. Kitesh, take his place.”
“It’s best if you don’t look,” Lomin said to Nerisse as he hovered above her.
The girl turned her head away. As soon as she did, Lomin’s finger glowed with heat. He shoved it into the wounds in quick succession. Flesh sizzled. Nerisse bucked and cried out, but Kitesh held her down. The reek of burnt flesh filled the wagon.
The instant Lomin stepped back, Gortans set to work, sewing up the holes and applying honey. He worked with practiced efficiency. When he finished, they helped Nerisse onto her stomach, and they repeated the process. In the midst of the second set of stitches, Nerisse spit out the cloth and cried out. She swore at Lomin and Gortans. Lomin helped hold her until Gortans completed his work. Then they carried her to the blankets and furs she used as a bed. Within minutes she was snoring.
The men apologized to Aidah, but she shooed them off and offered her thanks. When the armsmen left, she and Clara lay next to Nerisse.
“She’ll need a good week’s rest,” Lomin said.
“Then we find a safe place and stay there until she’s well.”
“Before today I would’ve agreed, but circumstances have changed.” He produced a sheet of paper and held it out for her to see. It was an artist’s rendering of her and the children. “I found this in the Farlander’s possession. It’s from Ainslen. He wants you and both the girls. He stresses that they must be kept alive. You? He prefers your head.”
The earlier coldness returned. Aidah closed her eyes, allowing the sensation to suffuse her. Thoughts of her children suffering at the hands of the man who killed Kesta and Gaston rose anew. As did the induction he forced upon Clara.
“I refuse to leave her like this. She needs me.” Aidah stared at her daughter’s face.
“Yes, and that means the faster you get to Melanil to secure the Patriarch’s official word and help, the safer she’ll be. Ainslen won’t risk the Patriarch’s wrath, not when it means making an enemy of the full Order.”
“We can wait.”
“And if more than one of these Farlanders should come?” Lomin pointed at the contraption he’d leaned in the corner. “That is the man’s firestick. I’ve never seen its like before, but I understand how it works. Before today I knew of only two weapons capable of cutting through soul: either manifestations created by melders or the legendary blades made from Dracodarian-forged steel, a metal so rare that men would offer a kingdom to procure it.” He nodded toward the firestick. “If we encounter melders wielding several of those, we all die.”
Aidah couldn’t fathom leaving Nerisse in her current state. Neither did she relish the idea of taking Clara on such a trek. If they had been closer to Melanil, the decision would be an easier one. She would never forgive herself if, in her absence, Nerisse suffered more harm. “I can’t. It’s—”
“Well, then I suggest you say your prayers to the Dominion now and make yourself ready. You and your daughters will be dead by the end of the week.”
Images of Clara and Nerisse at Ainslen’s feet spun through Aidah’s head. No matter what happened she could not allow them to suffer such a fate. She regarded her daughters, both of them now sleeping, and remembered how helpless she felt when Nerisse fought.
“If it makes you feel any better, even riding double with Clara will see you in Melanil in four days. There’s another town, Rintenelle, two days travel by wagon. I can stay there in the chantry with Nerisse until I receive word from you. Whatever Blades Terestere has there will help keep us safe. Ainslen’s men would be forced to wait for reinforcements.”
With a heavy sigh, Aidah nodded. Having made a decision, she got up and made preparations to depart.
Soulless
Days later, with Borin and Kitesh as her guards, Aidah entered Melanil, the Chanting City. It had been four days riding as hard as she dared with Clara sitting in front of her. They switched horses once, using the extra ones they’d brought for the final push to Melanil. Sleep had been scant, ruined by nightmares of Casda Esdan, the battlefields of the dead, innumerable colors swirling in the western sky, and the silver-haired lady in blue. Always the silver-haired lady in blue. Her constant presence and the darkness and implications within the nightmares strengthened Aidah’s doubts of any trip to the west.
Clara admitted to having the taker invade her dreams, but unlike before, she was calm when she mentioned him. When Aidah inquired about the change, Clara said Terestere protected her and showed the way to be rid of the man simply by walking through gates. Aidah frowned at that last, but was content to know her daughter had found a method to deal with these dreams.
As Clara rode through the city, the voices of the wisemen in their daily prayers resonated through the air, a melodic deep-throated incantation that originated from the enormous horns atop the Grand Chantry. Aidah praised the Dominion for the safe journey and begged that the Gods had done the same for Lomin and Nerisse. She wove her way through the crowds on cobbled streets
and avenues that bypassed the outer city’s warehouses, markets, taverns, and brothels. Many people had the tired, downtrodden appearance of refugees, and others seemed to be simply going about their normal routines. The reek of a city filled to overflowing made her grimace and wish for the open air of the road once more.
Kasinians were most prominent among the crowds, olive complexions and rich garb notable. People made way for the dark-skinned, massive Thelusians with their shin-length jackets that buttoned to the waist, slightly off center. They preferred to travel in pairs as if a single one of them did not already take up enough space for two men. She spotted one or two yellow-toned Marishmen, whose slanted eyes gave the impression that they had a permanent squint.
They rode down an avenue lined with guiser playhalls and brothels as if the two offered the same entertainment. Borin and Kitesh pointed and said things she would rather not hear as they took in the courtesans. Before they grew too explicit she reminded them of Clara’s presence.
At one establishment a bronze-skinned Kheridisian woman, nose and ears adorned with multiple piercings, in clothes so tight they could be a second skin, argued with a wiseman. He had the left side of his head shaven, as did all Clerics. The woman was yelling that her establishment was clean, and the Cleric was demanding to be let in. Two guards, swarthy Farish Islanders by the looks of their tattooed faces, waited behind the wiseman.
Aidah gave a slight smile at the irony of both their situations. With the requirement for them to become eunuchs, and abstain from any sexual activity, how did the wiseman cope with the carnal acts he would see within those doors? What happened if his need was aroused, if it was even possible? Did he rise to the occasion? She blushed with the thought. To receive this assignment he must have angered one of his superiors.
As for the Kheridisian, their kind were considered outcasts, their men forbidden from the Empire’s cities, a reflection of a hostile history. Never mind that Kheridisia itself was considered part of that very same Empire. However, their women were deemed good enough to bed. The best, if you let some men tell it. Their brothels were the most popular throughout the Empire.
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