Khalisa moved closer with each word, laying a gentle kiss across Tristan’s cheek, her bare skin brushing his arm, the smell of her perfume, like desert flowers and rich spices, and silken hair encircling him. He was already won over. He was barely listening to Jacquin anymore.
As Jacquin watched her sister exit the wagon with her new lover, Dani sat across from her. Her wide eyes were unsure, her thin lips pursed with an unspoken question. “Will you read my fate next?”
Jacquin turned slowly to the young woman, meeting her attempt at boldness with a slow smile. “The cards aren’t for you, Min Dani. Have you ever had your palm read?”
Dani blushed lightly as she slid her arm across Jacquin’s table, slowly uncurling her long fingers to reveal her palm. Even without touching it Jacquin knew her skin was smooth, unused to hard labor. Jacquin had never trusted a woman with smooth hands. But it wasn’t trust she was after tonight.
“Are you really an Amazon?”
Jacquin smirked at the abrupt question, Dani’s face an open book.
“What have you heard about Amazons, Dani?” Jacquin traced her fingers over the lines of Dani’s palm and fingers, lingering over sensitive places with the lightest touch. Dani’s blush deepened, her skin darkening to a deep cinnamon with desire, but she didn’t attempt to remove her hand.
Jacquin cautiously lifted Dani’s hand to her mouth, running lips and teeth gently over the lines of her fingers, her eyes never leaving Dani’s face.
“I just… I didn’t know Amazons were dancers, too. The stories… they’re all warriors.” Dani’s voice was soft and breathless.
Jacquin grinned against Dani’s skin. “There are all kinds of Amazons. Warriors. Explorers. Healers. Diplomats. And yes, dancers.”
“You’re a beautiful dancer.”
“You’re a beautiful woman.”
Dani’s skin was as dark as Jacquin’s, her heart pounding in her wrist beneath Jacquin’s lips. Her skin was warm and familiar with the scents of spice and warm tea. It was a blend Khalisa used in her soaps. Still, hiding just beneath the scents of Jacquin’s home was a scent that refused to be overpowered, one of forest, of cold and pine and damp earth. The smoothness of her palms, the old calluses on the tips of her fingers that only belonged to a well-trained player of a string instrument, the clean taste of her, even after a night in the desert all wove the story of Dani’s life beneath Jacquin’s tongue and hands. Dani’s skin was far more intoxicating than her delicate face and wide eyes.
As Jacquin’s lips nipped toward Dani’s wrist, her senses were suddenly assaulted by a vision. The wagon disappeared, replaced by a dark void, thick and endless as no night, no cave, could ever be. Dani stared up at her in shock and terror, a glass arrow protruding from her chest, blood seeping through her fine, white linen nightshirt. The earthy scent of her skin had soured, replaced with the smell of fear. Of death. Soon.
“Jacquin?” Jacquin blinked at the sound of her name, the vision gone. Dani looked up at her in concern. The lust had disappeared from Jacquin’s eyes, her hand gone slack. She felt tears roll down her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
Jacquin curled Dani’s hand between both of her own, trying not to notice the small scar on the back of her right hand, the slight bend in her small finger that spoke of an active, daring youth. She didn’t want to know more of this woman’s story. The more she explored her, the more she delved into the story of her life written across her body, the more she’d mourn her. Dani had shared nothing with Jacquin but her name, and already Jacquin’s heart was breaking for her. “I’m so sorry.”
Dani’s eyes clouded with confusion, her slender neck arching back in surprise. “What?”
Jacquin couldn’t look at her without seeing her die, couldn’t breathe her scent without it souring to the smell of blood. What was seen could not be unseen. Dani was a walking corpse. Jacquin’s head swam, her stomach turned. “Excuse me. I have to go.” Jacquin rushed out of her wagon and into the night, her bare feet landing heavily on the well-packed sand of the Tribe’s market, leaving her confused would-be lover behind.
“Jacquin?” Dani climbed out of Jacquin’s wagon awkwardly, unused to the steep stairs and rounded door, but the dancer was already gone, weaving between the tight rows of wagons and stalls with ease. She’d grown up here, on the dusty outskirts of Oasis. The Sorormin Tribe’s settlement was dense, almost as big as the permanent market in town and twice as crowded after dark. Jacquin wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be.
She jogged to the edge of Oasis, skirting along the market where she could pass unnoticed while still drawing on the heat of the torches, the rippling sound of silks swaying in the night breeze, the scents of fresh meat and spices that would calm her soul, take the edge off the lingering pain of her vision.
She’d barely made it out of the market before her stomach rolled again and she fell to the ground and vomited into the sand, the acid from an empty stomach, never sated after her dance, burning her throat. She could still feel the vision’s claws in her muscles and bones, replaying in her mind. She felt out of her skin, dizzy with heat, hunger and exhaustion.
She stumbled to the far edge of Oasis, past the market and Tribal homes, to where the tall, stone wall of the city proper rose like a fortress, guarding the town from the desert’s predators. Jacquin didn’t feel the cold any more. She could barely feel her own body over the noise in her mind.
She followed the wall, leaning against it for support until she reached a mass of broken wagons, wheels and axels, stacked in a mountainous pile, many too dilapidated to be used again. It was a scrap yard. A graveyard of memories and traditions wearing down in the desert sun.
The moon flooded blue light over each spoke, casting deep shadows in every chip and crack, turning hand-carved designs and family symbols into something much darker, like ancient curses scrawled in a necromancer’s book. Most of the Tribe refused to come here after dark. The children whispered it was haunted. But it was the only place Jacquin could find peace.
Jacquin climbed deep into the pile, burying herself in looming stacks of wood and steel, thankful to be barely clothed as she wove and danced deep into the twisting heap. Soon the moon was hidden from view, its light slipping between cracks and wheel spokes until Jacquin’s skin was a puzzle of moonlight and shadow.
There, in the corner where the north and east wall of Oasis met, was a small wagon wedged in the sand. The wheels had been removed, the windows boarded long before being cast into the pile. A single lantern post above the door hung lopsided, clinging to the wood by a single nail. The other pieces and taller wagons loomed overhead; no one passing would see the broken sanctuary. It had been here since Jacquin was a child, too dilapidated and broken to be a priority for repairs.
Jacquin stepped through the door, her feet sliding over the soft carpet she’d laid years ago to cover the base of the wagon, now worn away, consumed by the desert. She lit a glass lantern, casting the room, the worn pillows and soft blankets, in flickering shadows. She collapsed on the pillows, ignoring the grit of sand that shifted and scattered across the carpet from the abrupt movement. The dusty smell, the ghosts of her tears, her screams and finally the shattered tension of letting go, the private aftermath of her most deadly and heartbreaking visions, started to ease deep into her heart, seeking to soothe Dani’s death into the back of her mind, to heal Jacquin’s soul like cauterizing fire.
She closed her eyes and breathed deep into her stomach, trying to smell more than Dani’s lifeblood oozing from her heart, feel more than the phantom pain of an arrow piercing her chest. Even in the vision Dani’s eyes had been so young, if not in years then in experience. Her death was a waste.
Jacquin pressed her face against a soft down pillow embroidered in gold until she stopped trembling. Her visions were becoming increasingly more violent. At least once a day for the last monarc she’d touched someone to watch them die by sword or arrow. She had never seen when or how beyond the direct assault. She assumed they w
ere going to be waylaid by bandits after leaving Oasis, but the visions had become so common she feared the threat would target Oasis itself. Her home.
She closed her eyes, dreading once again the day she’d touch her sister and watch her die.
She opened her eyes and focused on the flame of her lantern. She wondered if the Amazons had prayed. Jacquin had never been religious, but as the vision continued to cling to her, she wished for divine direction.
Her face twisted in frustration at herself for becoming so broken over the vision, for the influence her magic had over her body and mind. “Z’ki Sak, Diana!” she sighed in exasperation, recalling a phrase from the books of Valley Bay. “What can I do?”
Her mind drifted toward her vision during her dance. The silver warrior, hooded and hidden in shadow. It wasn’t the first time she’d danced a vision of the same figure, so strong and mysterious. She’d assumed the warrior to be a protector, a spirit guide, a touchstone that kept her sane. It had never moved until tonight.
“Help me,” she whispered to the air, the memory of her warrior firm in her mind, pleading with the only deity she respected: her personal, supernatural protector in silver.
Chapter Two
It was miserably wet. Thunderstorms rumbled in the east, promising to turn the chilly spring drizzle into a torrential downpour before twilight completely faded. The cobbles were slick, and the steel shod hooves of the war mare chipped the stones with each heavy clop. But there was barely anyone to notice. The small town was shut tight against the rain. Timbers and gutters dripping, mortar sheeting wet, and mud running thick all made a slick and gravel sludge of swirling brown water that cautioned any traveler. Smoke was thicker, curling grey-blue as it was drafted down from chimney spouts to make a damp fog in alleys and dead air spaces. The place smelled of wood burning and sewage, but the rankness was muted by the wet cold; it would grow worse later beneath summer suns.
The blacksmith’s doors were slanted open, the orange blazes dancing deep in the shadows. The ping-ping of the anvil’s hammer echoed a strange sort of welcoming.
It was one Adrian accepted. She ducked low and rode Dread straight through the smithy’s door. The rain tarp cowled both her and the gear across Dread’s flanks. For a moment, the hammer’s song stilled. Adrian slid out from beneath the oiled skin she wore as a cloak, stepping down from the saddle with a very mortal creak to the leather seat.
The hammer thunked against the stout floorboards, and the burly male picked up a towel to wipe the sweat from his hands. He passed the rag through the matted hair of his chest in an absent gesture, through damp fur that rivaled the growth on his face, then tossed it aside as Adrian took a stance across the anvil from him. She was nearly as hidden as she had been beneath the tarp. The heavy silverish-grey of her cloak covered her from calf to head. The hood was pulled forward and low, creating a dense shadow where her eyes should have been, and only the smoothness of her pale chin hinted at her sex.
“Cold day,” the smithy noted. His hands curled into hammer-like fists on his hips.
“Cold enough,” she returned levelly. Fingers gloved in grey, stitched leather underlined her resources as a gold bar the size of a thumb was extended to him. “She needs shoes, the padded sort to dull travel shock, but with sharp honed edges to the fore pair.”
“Aye,” he nodded and took the gold piece. “I’ve done the like for merchant guards and passing kings’ men.”
“And her tack needs a slow drying, not too near the fire. Then a good cleaning and oiling.”
“Have a girl apprenticed to me, she’ll do it right. If you like, I’ve stalls for boarding, too. Better’n the Red Griffin next door, although theirs aren’t bad. Both are broad, fine boxes. But I’ve got a tack shelf and saddle bar in each, for your animal to guard your pieces.”
It went without saying that Dread was the sort of steed to have that training.
“An’ the side door’s always open. You can leave at your own pleasure, waken me or not.”
“Fair enough.”
He picked up an iron length, clanging the triangle hanging from the ceiling as Adrian retrieved a smaller bag from beneath Dread’s tarp. A squarely-built youngster of fourteen appeared as a door whacked shut in the back. Adrian noted the attentive glint in those hazel eyes and approved.
“You listen to these two,” she murmured to Dread and her mare gave a snort, nodding consent. She turned to the smithy again. “Keep your movements slow. If she gets nervous, step back and keep your hands where she can see them. She’ll calm by herself, if she’s satisfied.”
“An’ if she isn’t, you’re not goin’ need worry ’bout it anymore,” the man warned his apprentice. The girl nodded but didn’t flinch.
Adrian paused, watching as the apprentice came forward and led Dread away. The mare flicked her tail and tossed a chiding look back at Adrian, as if to remind her rider that she too was capable of distinguishing between children and dubious spies. It made Adrian smile. The youngster moved out of ear range, and Adrian amended, “There is another thing.”
The smithy paused, his hot bladed knife angled above the gold bar ready to cut her change.
“A less tangible need.”
He laid the blade aside and weighed the money in his hand. His sharp eyes darted back toward the stable hall to be sure his girl wasn’t near enough to hear something that might get her hurt later. He grunted, hefting the gold piece again. He tossed it into the leather bucket with others and nodded for her to continue.
“Who has passed through and what routes out did they take?”
“How far back?”
There was a measuring silence, until finally, “You tell me.”
He gave a short sigh, then another nod. “War party, fresh looting.”
“That’s the one.”
“They split by two roads. East and Southeast. Most of ’em went east, but the dangerous ones maybe went separate.”
“How so?”
“They were ridin’ the faster horses. Every one of ’em carried barbed spears ’long with side sabers. No archers that I could see. They were meanin’ business. Took food an’ the saddle packs they could carry, but they left the pack animals an’ the finery with the others. Looked like scouts, the lot of ’em... Travelin’ so light.”
Or a skirmish attack honed in on a target, Adrian corrected.
“Another thing. One circled back in from the East Road group. He came with a merchant’s band, a big one from the Nor’west Way. He’s dressed fancier. Last time he kept his cloak on and his face mostly covered, but we recognized ’im. The tender of Red Griffin as well as myself. A big fella with black beard goin’ grey in streaks. He’s got a good smile to ’im, but it’s the kind that don’t reach his eyes. An’ he don’t look at you much when he’s talkin’. Instead, he’s busy watchin’ the doors an’ roads beyond the windows.”
Adrian recognized the description. Gryert. A battle-weaned sergeant grown into a general’s strategist who’d worked for the Twins. He was circling around to ensure the battle party wasn’t being followed before rejoining the marauders later. He was a mercenaries’ delight; she was about to become his nightmare.
The smithy watched as she mutely picked up her bag and gave him a brief nod of thanks before stepping out into the rain. His eyes narrowed speculatively. He’d do best to keep the apprentice upstairs with his missus tonight. He’d take his hammer up as well. He never much liked looters, that more than the money had been his reason for talking to the stranger. But he wasn’t a stupid man either, and he had to respect anyone wearing a sword the way that fellow in Red Griffin did. He hoped the woman knew what she was doing — for all their sakes.
Adrian entered from the side, near hidden in the smoke and shadows of the long bar’s end. It was a common enough place to come from, since it was the door nearest the smithy’s front and in such weather any traveler needing their horse re-shod would have chosen the same. But instead of joining the warmth and hustle of the center room, Adr
ian slipped further back into the corner to watch. She’d pushed her hood back some, enough to let the lack of whiskers and the angular cast of her features become clear, yet not enough to bring her whole face into view. Her angular, silver mane of hair was still covered.
She knew Gryert might not recognize her face – she had been a child when they’d last spoken – and she took magical precautions to hide her more distinguishing features. He’d recognize her silver hair, however, and he was no doubt charmed to see through all but the most complex of illusions. She didn’t want to be recognized. She held no fantasies about toying with him or learning anything of value from him. He was here for the sole purpose of identifying the bandits sent from the Core.
Yellow light streamed in through the thick tobacco haze, bringing smells of greasy fats roasting and caramel sweets browning. Behind the bar, the kitchen opened in a yawning wide gape above the ale kegs, and food passed out as dirty trays slid in. The clanging of metal pots and cooks’ curses mingled with the ruckus of the tavern customers. Lively betting on some card game vied with another table’s rowdy celebration of a young soldier’s merits. Ermine-cuffed jackets and stained sheepskin vests rubbed shoulders here. It was a merchant traveler’s lodge where the better swords and the traders’ offspring drank together even as they did on the journey roads, because the first were well paid and the second still too young to hate them for it.
Adrian noted the variety in meats served as she exchanged coin for ale. Their selection was impressive for so small a town, so far from the rest of humanity. It was also probably the only inn around with private rooms. The liveries she had passed on the outskirts had been lined with barracks above to allow goods, stock and guards to stay near enough to one another, and they were more than likely the caravans’ first choice for crew lodgings. That explained why Gryert was here. He would want his privacy to discourage the locals’ questions and yet need the access to the travelers’ news.
Sands of Aggar: Amazons of Aggar Book 3 Page 2