03 - The Eternal Rose (28 page)

“Isn't it dangerous by the docks?” The South nathain woman almost quivered with nerves.

“That's why they need your help.” Padrey shrugged. “Most of the people aren't bad. They're just poor and desperate, and they can't protect themselves against the folk who
are
bad. If you help them, they'll protect you with their lives."

“Sounds perfect,” the truthsayer said.

* * * *

Kallista spent the rest of the week stopping fights in the city. She sent out misty veils of good sense and calm again and again whenever tempers seemed to flare too close to the embassy. It amused her to imagine how frustrated the Sameric clerics must be when their attempts to stir up riots kept deflating. And with every veil of magic she sent out, Kallista felt herself growing stronger along with the magic.

The magic came in huge, billowing waves, more than she had ever obtained in a single call. So much, it was almost unwieldy. Would she need so much to handle these demons? Did it mean she could do it without a ninth? Without adding Keldrey to the mix?

She also stopped fights inside the embassy on occasion, when she wandered into the courtyard that had been filled with trucked-in sand and roofed over with tight sail-canvas against the autumn's increasingly frequent rains. If she stayed behind the half-wall barricade to watch, her bodyguards would allow the competition to continue until the battle spun too close. Then they would call break.

The whole of the bodyguard corps—the new Tayo Dai—with the new man, Night, had volunteered for the trial. Only Keldrey had not, saying he was needed with the children they already had, and he was too old besides. By Fifthday, the number had been pared to twelve, with Torchay, Obed, Fox and Leyja at the head. Obed and Torchay were almost even, Fox and Leyja not far behind. Fox's loss of vision kept him from anticipating an opponent's moves and Leyja's age put her a step slower.

The other eight possibilities were a notch or two below the four godmarked, each with his or her own strengths and weaknesses. So on Sixthday, an enormous caravan assembled early in the morning to ride the thirty or so leagues out of Mestada into the desert to visit Obed's old skola.

Just before the trip, Leyja informed Kallista that she had decided not to participate in the trial. She claimed she was needed more at Kallista's side as bodyguard. Kallista suspected that Torchay and Keldrey had ambushed her after one of the practices and “convinced” her of it, but she had to admit she was more comfortable with one of her iliasti bodyguards nearby.

With so many of her bodyguards making the trip, Kallista's entire ilian rose up and refused to let her stay in the embassy without them. They also decided it would be good to bring the children along and let them loose outside the confines of the embassy buildings. Which meant the hordes of nursery servants had to come too, as well as the massive troop escort. Only Keldrey stayed behind—yet again—to keep his daily appointment with Stone's Sky.

He was also appointed to receive the odd-sized scraps of paper with their laboriously written-out names and numbers that arrived regularly from their spy. Padrey didn't spend much time in the embassy, coming in just long enough to leave his reports. As long as he did that, Kallista allowed him to work his way. The numbers in his reports were climbing high enough to chill.

Kallista also got verbal reports, relayed usually from Padrey through Gweric—they seemed to meet regularly in the city—about the welfare of the runaway naitani. They had taken to dockside life as if born to it, clinging to their attic even when offered better quarters elsewhere. They did accept the food and clothing, blankets and threadbare rugs offered in payment for the sharing of their magic. Clerics had come to the docks at least twice, hunting their missing nathains, but the denizens of the area had spirited their own magic-users away to safety.

One report mentioned that the local crime lord had tried to appropriate the nathains’ magic for himself. He'd been thwarted by the East nathain's gift. She could heal or harm with her magic, and she had the Daryathi ruthlessness when attacked. After that, a number of four-marked champions had attached themselves to the group to act as bodyguards.

Everything else progressed as it should, allowing Kallista to make this trip to the country.

The Edabi Skola had been founded almost three centuries before, during the Troubles, the times of chaos between the fall of the last Tyrant and the establishing of the en-Kameral. Line had fought Line for preeminence and advantage, street duels and assassinations the preferred tools. Not totally unlike today, Obed said with a smile as he told his tale. But during the Troubles, the fighting often spilled over onto the innocent, and assassinations were messy public acts that killed as many bystanders as targets.

Under the Tyrants, the Edabi—which meant “the faithful"—had been an elite, highly trained group of warriors dedicated to the principles of the One. During the Troubles, they had banded together to patrol the streets and protect the innocent. The Edabi established their skola outside the city as a safe haven for themselves, and a place to train their replacements. Gradually, the Lines learned to deal with each other in more peaceful ways. The system of justice by combat was set by custom because, too often during the Troubles, the only justice anyone received came at the edge of an Edabi blade.

Over the years, more skolas were established, but this was still the oldest and the best. The Edabi Skola produced more dedicat champions than any other, because that was their intent—to produce dedicats, not merely champions. Its graduates were as known for their devotion to the One as their skill at arms.

A village had grown up around the skola, sharing the water of the spring that ran even in the driest months of the year. The village provided the things the skola needed, including large guest houses and inns. Representatives from the Lines came to hire champions and dedicats for trials. Sometimes parties of the young and frivolous would ride out to watch the champions and dedicats in training.

Shakiri Line had its own residence in Edabi village. Shathina had offered it for their use the instant she heard of the trip, but Kallista turned the offer down. Best not be too beholden to any Daryathi. They hired out an entire inn instead.

It didn't seem too politic to dismiss the staff of the inn, including the owners, so Kallista and her ilian were back in their pairs again. They would only be in Edabi for the three days of the week's end. They could endure that long.

Chapter Seventeen

On Graceday morning, the entire village stopped to watch the parade of champions in red Daryathi-style kilts as they walked together from the inn to the skola. The tattoos on the bodyguard's arms—tattoos of rank with a crowned rose added to indicate their position in the Reinine's household—especially on the women, created a great deal of whispering as they passed. Children ran on the grassy common. Most of them belonged to the ilian, though a few locals had joined them. A few of the children stopped playing to wave as they passed.

Thewhite-plasteredmudbrickhomesdwindledawayandtheywalked down the road under tall trees with leaves that whispered, though many already lay in golden drifts underfoot. A stream murmured alongside the road, watering the trees as it ran from the spring inside the skola's walls to the village and on to the Iyler before it reached the city. It was a pleasant walk, one Obed had not often made on foot.

The dun-colored walls of the skola seemed to grow higher as they approached. The walls sprawled in all directions, turning at odd angles, built to enclose buildings at random. But this occasion was different from all the other times Obed had approached this place. He was returning more wildly successful than he—or anyone else—had ever dreamed possible.

“I have arranged,” Obed said, “as a favor to me, a tour of the entire skola. Normally, outsiders would not be allowed within the cloister walls, but as you are the Godstruck, and not related to any of the young scholar-champions, and because you are my wife, allowances have been made."

“For all of us?” Kallista peered at him, as if trying to see inside his head.

Obed had felt the dedicat's mask harden over his face as they neared the heavy wooden gate in the dust-colored wall. He tried to crack it, to let his heart show, but the instinct was too strong. The mask meant safety. “Yes. All of the godmarked, all of our champion-candidates."

“Just how much clout do you have in this place?"

He pulled the rope that fed through a square opening in the gate and the familiar muffled clang sounded.

“Much,” he said. “I have all nine marks of the dedicat vows fulfilled. I left the skola with all I had been gifted, a wealthy man. And I have married well.” Satisfaction flooded through him. He'd married for love, his own choice, not that of his Line's Head. “This is my triumphal return. I survived. I
thrived
. And those who said I would fail are proved wrong."

The gate swung slowly open to show a stocky, white-kilted champion with tattooed hands and face who stood blocking the gap. His eyes widened when he saw Obed's body tattoos, warmed when he looked up at his face.

Obed bowed, Adaran style. He no longer belonged here, but to Kallista's Line, Kallista's land. “The Reinine and Godstruck of Adara, with her mate, with all of her Godmarked and her champions, to see the grand master."

Old Jaget bowed respectfully and opened the gate wider, backing with it. Obed tucked Kallista's hand into his arm so that they entered the outer, defensive courtyard together. A boy of perhaps fourteen with a thick scruff of short black hair waited to escort them through the inner gate and beyond.

“When you said you survived, just now,” Kallista spoke for Obed's hearing only. “You meant that literally, didn't you?"

“Yes.” Hadn't he explained that to her? Hadn't she understood?

“How many usually survive these dedicat vows?"

“Very few."

“Numbers, Obed. Specifics.” Kallista held his arm a fraction tighter. “How many made dedicat vows when you did?"

“Nine. Five here at Ebadi. Four from other skolas."

“How many are still alive?"

“One."

A shiver raced through her and she tucked him even closer. “How many survived from the year before you?"

Obed let out a quiet breath, finally realizing how little she had understood about everything. “None."

“And the year before that?"

“None."

“So, say, in the five years before you finished your vows, how many others completed them?"

He shoved his loose hair back with a hand and met Kallista's eyes. “One."

“One other than you?"

“Yes."

“And where is he now?"

“Here. Teaching."

“He didn't leave the skola?” That seemed to surprise her.

“He had nowhere else to go.” Obed's smile reached only his eyes where the mask let it out. He might have been like Carrek, but for—"I did. I was coming to you."

“Do most dedicats who complete their vows stay on?"

“Most, yes. Or they return after a short time. The world outside can be a strange and frightening place.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I know you recall how I struggled to adapt. How I still struggle."

“I imagine you had more to adapt to than most.” Kallista squeezed his arm. “I'm glad you came to find us."

“As am I.” His smile, a true one, flickered as he bowed her through a door into the main arena. He ruled the mask.

Floored with deep sand, it was lit by clerestory windows high above. Polished wood columns divided the central arena from the wings off to either side, and a wide, smooth plank walkway encircled it two steps above the thick sand footing. The scent of wood polish, sweat and dust swept him back. Obed loved this place, and he hated it. The boy led them along the decking to a room tucked behind the columns on the left, separated from the arena by a protective screen of fine metal.

Inside, a man waited, small, wiry, with an open robe exposing a full set of body tattoos. What hair he had left was snow white and his face held lines laid down by his living. A scar bisected his right eye, the pupil white with scarring. The left eye glittered with sharp intelligence.
Murat.

Obed hid his hatred in reflex, but his hand tightened over Kallista's, bringing her closer as they entered the room. Obed started to bow, but Kallista's pinch stopped him before he did more than incline his head. He'd almost forgotten. His vows were to Kallista now. The old man inclined his head in return.

Obed waited until everyone had crowded into the room behind them and turned to Kallista. “My Reinine, this is Murat, the Grand Master of Edabi Skola.” He paused and the old man bowed deeply, but without respect, to Kallista.

Scowling, Obed spoke again. “Grand Master Murat, this is Kallista Reinine, Ruler of all Adara, Godstruck by the very hand of the One. My beloved, my mate, the mother of my son."

Murat's face showed no outward emotion, but Obed knew it roiled underneath. The old man was not happy to see her, and he was still less happy to know she had given Obed a child. Murat hated anyone who had claim to those he thought his own, as Obed had once been. Kallista held his gaze as she bowed, not so deeply, throwing back her own unspoken challenge. Obed clung to the warmth her attitude gave him. She claimed him as hers.

“Allow me to introduce you to the rest of Adara's Godmarked,” Obed said. “Those of us who did not need to be marked by men because we have been marked by the One's own hand."

The grand master's disapproval grew, though it didn't show in his expression. It seemed he did not trust the One to do Her own Choosing. Obed knew from experience that Murat did not trust any but himself. After Obed presented their godmarked iliasti, he presented the eight champion-candidates.

“You cannot be serious,” Murat said when Obed finished. “Put women in the arena?” The grand master shook his head. “No, women cannot fight."

“I'll take you on, old man,” Leyja snarled.

“I am sorry.” The old man bowed. “I did not mean that you are not capable of fighting. I have heard of Adara's woman fighters. But a woman's blood is too precious to waste in the arena. A man—” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “A man's death is a small thing. Men are born to die in the service of the Line that has given them birth. But—"