A Sword From Red Ice (16 page)

Ash thought about that before she spoke.

"I am Ash March, Daughter of the Sull."

The stranger's chest expanded, sucking in the
words. A long moment passed. Then another. Up until then Ash had not
realized she was afraid. She had thought the looseness in her gut was
just the horse blood finding its level.

No thing, breathing Sull will let you live . . .

The river flowing behind them created drag,
sucking the ice mist east. Abruptly, the stranger rested his bow. "I
am Lan Fallstar, Son of the Sull and Chosen Far Rider." He bowed
deeply at the waist and Ash finally saw his face. Acutely angled,
golden-toned, with that faint alien sheen that meant Sull. "This
Sull asks that you forgive his trespass."

Ash gave some of his silence right back to him She
didn't have any idea how to react, was unsure about the nature of his
trespass, and was, if she were honest, disconcerted by his age. Ark
and Mal had been mature men, their faces lined with experience, their
gestures dignified and weighted, yet this person standing before her
looked to be less than ten years older than she herself. He was
young, and that confused her. Unsure what to do, Ash found herself
mimicking her foster father. Take control of the conversation: she
could almost hear his voice. "Do you travel alone, Lan
Fallstar?"

An eyebrow was raised at that. "I do."

"How long have you been watching me?"

The Sull Far Rider shrugged, raising slender,
finely muscled shoulders. "It is not important."

Ash thought it was—she did not like the idea
of him watching her as she bled the horse—yet there was exactly
nothing she could do about that. Her instinct was to continue
questioning him anyway; leave him no chance to question her. "Where
do you travel?"

He began moving toward her, and something told her
she had made a mistake. With a series of movements so swift Ash could
barely follow them, the stranger reached behind her back, crouched,
snatched the sickle blade and its chain from the ground and sprang
away. "Far Riders answer to no one except He Who Leads. If you
were Sull you would know that." With a snap of his wrist he sent
the chain into motion. The metal links rustled crisply as the chain
wrapped itself in perfect order around the sickle's handle.

Not even Mal Naysayer had done that.

The chain was weighted with a teardrop of metal
studded with peridots. The stranger studied this for a moment,
cupping it in his free hand and turning it toward the light. Without
looking up he fired off a command in Sull.

The looseness in her belly shifted downward. She
had only a few words of Sull and she did not know what he wanted.

"I said show me Dras Xathu" The
stranger's voice turned sharp, and when he spoke something unpleasant
happened to his mouth. "Now!"

The word hit Ash like a slap to the face. The only
other person who had spoken to her in that way was her foster father,
and she was surprised by the strong instinct to "be a good
girl." Confused, she struggled to comprehend what the stranger
meant. Dras Xathu? The First Cut? When understanding finally came she
felt no relief. Just more confusion.

Taking a step forward, she tilted her face and
raised her chin. The wound inflicted upon her many weeks ago by Ark
Veinsplitter was now a rough scar. It had been an initiation of
sorts, part of becoming Sull. "Before a child comes to manhood
or womanhood," Ark had told her, "blood must be drawn in
friendly combat. We wound ourselves so that we might deprive our
enemies of the satisfaction of delivering the First Cut."

As the stranger moved forward to inspect it, Ash
held herself still. She could not let him know he had upset her. A
hand gloved in lizard skin grasped her chin, and suddenly she could
smell him: pungent and powerfully alien. Immediately, something
primeval at the base of her brain responded with a warning: You will
never be one of them.

With careless force he thrust her chin up and
back. A finger slid across the roof of her lower jaw, halted, then
pushed up at the exact point where bone ended and soft tissue began.
Ash coughed in panic. He was closing off her windpipe.

Abruptly the pressure stopped. Turning away from
her, he slid the sickle knife into his buckskin tunic. "You will
travel with me from now on, Ash March. Stow your equipment and saddle
the horse. We do not sleep here this night."

Ash fingered her throat. She had never seen the
wound Ark had inflicted, and for the first time it struck her that
the scar felt strange. The raised tissue seemed to form a shape.
Briefly, she traced it with her thumbnail but couldn't work it out.

Her attention shifted when a muscular black
stallion trotted into view. The animal came at Lan's command,
emerging from the darkness of the cedars. Tossing its head and
kicking its skirted heels high, it moved with some knowledge of its
own worth. It was trapped and harnessed for a long journey, with wide
belly and rump straps for hauling camp gear and a leather hood to
protect its eyes. Ash had spent time with Sull horses and thought she
knew them . . . but this one. This was one fit for a king.

"Do not touch him."

She had been in the process of reaching out her
hand to let the horse sniff her, and she halted awkwardly midway. Her
horse trotted past her as she stood there, its head lowered in shy
submission, eager to greet this splendid new creature. Was that why
he hadn't alerted her to the stranger's presence? Did Sull never warn
against Sull?

"Pack your equipment."

Ash rounded on the stranger. He wasn't her foster
father, she told herself. She didn't have to obey him. "I choose
to travel alone, Lan Fallstar. Do not trouble yourself with me any
longer." The words were a mistake—she knew that—but
the stranger rattled her. His hot and cold behavior reminded her too
much of Iss. Clicking her tongue she beckoned her traitorous horse.
Raise camp and depart, that's what I'll do. The best direction didn't
seem immediately clear, but she'd think about that later.

The Far Rider's dark eyes glittered strangely.
"This Sull believes you are owed a second apology. Sull do not
command other Sull." A calculated smile revealed white, even
teeth. "But we are all possessive of our mounts."

He wanted her to smile with him, and even though
she knew it she smiled anyway. Angus Lok, Mal Naysayer, Ark
Veinsplitter: good men all of them, but god help you if you harmed
their horses.

"In my father's house we have a saying. A
poor beginning is no excuse for a poor end. So forgive me, Ash March.
This Sull has been on the road too long and needs to relearn good
manners."

In my father's house we lie and lock people up,
she wanted to reply. But didn't. Before she could form a proper
response, Lan spoke again.

"Come. We must break bread before the
journey." Without waiting for a reply he unbuckled a road-beaten
saddlebag from the stallion's rump. Resting it on the ground, he
pulled out a rolled-up carpet and an ivory box. Woven from
midnight-blue silk, the carpet was old and very fine. A design of
five-pointed stars and denuded trees was worked in silver thread. Ash
had seen such Sull carpets before—both Ark and the Naysayer had
possessed them—but she had never seen one as intricately
worked as this. When she blinked the design stayed before her eyes,
temporarily burned into her retinas like a light source.

"It is the skin of gods." Lan gestured
to the carpet. "Sit."

Suddenly Ash felt very tired. Even her foster
father hadn't switched from coldness to civility so quickly, and she
placed the chance of Lan switching back as pretty high. Uncertainty
is draining, she decided, sitting. At least by staying she didn't
have to head off into the night, hungry and alone, with only a horse
to guide her. Plus it knocked at least one uncertainty on the head:
She no longer had to worry about an arrow in her back.

Kneeling, Lan unfastened the wrought-silver clasp
on the ivory box and opened it. As he drew forth items he spoke,
revealing that he had marked her interest in the rug. "The
carpet is very old, woven by the last of the great threadsingers. It
comes from Maygi Horo, the Time of Mages, when threadsingers were
blinded once they had served their apprenticeships. A spool boy would
prime the loom and block the colors, following the threadsinger's
orders. It is said that without eyes they saw farther, though this
Sull does not know about that."

As Lan spoke the word Sull he struck a light. One
of the items he had taken from the box was a small pewter lamp, and
as he adjusted the valve at its base the light shifted from yellow to
blue. Unguarded, the flame ripped fiercely, burning mist. Peeling off
his gloves, Lan bared long, well-shaped hands. A bowman's callus on
the middle finger of his left hand revealed him to be left-handed. On
the middle finger of his right hand he wore what Ash first assumed to
be two separate silver rings, but when he turned his palms upward,
she saw that the rings were fused at the back by a gristled lump of
solder.

He gestured toward the lamp. "This Sull asks
if you will join him in paying the toll."

Ash looked from the flame to Lan's face. The Far
Rider's expression was coolly neutral, but she suspected his motives.
Her gaze flicked back to the flame. An icy violet corona shivered
around a core of blue fire. She had once witnessed Mal Naysayer put
his bare hand into a flame and hold it there for many seconds. It had
frightened her, but at least she had understood his motives. The
Naysayer had been demonstrating the power of Rhal, the perfect state
of fearlessness that Sull sought in times of uncertainty and war. He
had not been priming a trap.

Ash shook her head. "This Sull believes this
is not her toll to pay."

Lan's cold clear gaze pinned her, searching for
weakness. Ash stared right back, silently praying her eyes wouldn't
give her away. She didn't fully understand what was happening—neither
Mal nor Ark had ever paid a toll with burned flesh—but instinct
told her she had been challenged. And when challenged it was best to
challenge back.

Long moments passed and then Lan nodded firmly.
"It is so." Shifting his position he reached for the
coupled scabbard at his waist. One fork of the sheath held his sword
and the other held a dagger. Lan drew the dagger. Ice mist curled
across the rug as he held the dagger's blade in the flame. Ash
smelled the metal heating. Oil on the blade blackened then
disappeared as the edge began to glow. The flame burned hot and
clean, fueled by a substance purer than oil. When the knife edge
became a wavering red line Lan removed it from the heat. Speaking the
Sull words "Gods, judge me" he pushed the blade tip across
his forearm. Fluid sizzled. Skin opened but did not bleed, instantly
cauterized by the heat. Pumping his hand into a fist, Lan waited out
the pain.

Ash held herself still, tried not to breathe in
the stench of cooked meat. Why had he paid such a high toll? Letting
a few drops of blood was one thing, but this. He'd burned through
skin and into fat and muscle. What came at such a cost? She could
tell from the many old and silvery scars on his arm that he normally
opened veins, so what made tonight different?

He was no longer here, either, on the south bank
of the Flow. His eyes were vacant and there was a hollowness to his
presence that Ash felt, but couldn't explain. One minute she had been
sitting opposite a whole and living man and in the next something
integral, like the weight of his awareness, was gone. Excised.

The final thought that struck her was that Lan
Fallstar was a Far Rider of a different make from Mal Naysayer or Ark
Veinsplitter. At first she had thought it was just his age that set
him apart, but now she realized there was more. The fine carpet, the
city men clothes. And neither Mal nor Ark had ever paid a toll in
burned flesh. What she couldn't decide was how these differences
affected Lan's status. Did they add up to less or more?

An eerie hiss, like the sound of air being sucked
through a crack, puffed through Lan's lips. It was traveling inward.
The Far Rider's chest bellowed out and his clenched fist sprang open,
and he began falling forward. Straightaway he stopped himself,
slapping down his palm on the rug. Blinking, he took in his
surroundings, his seared arm, Ash.

"Break the bread. We must leave."

Ash wasn't sure what she had just witnessed, but
her instincts warned her to be cautious. Things were moving fast. An
hour earlier this man had been a stranger to her, and now he was not
only commanding her but doing so with possessiveness in his voice.

"And if I chose not to?"

"This Sull believes that would be a mistake."

Ash couldn't decide whether his words were a
threat. Not waiting on a response, Lan unwrapped the bread. Studded
with tiny black horsemint seeds and baked hard for travel, the bread
was placed on a small wooden board. Lan sprinkled it with water from
his hip flask, placed a palm upon it, and then pressed down with his
free hand, breaking the bread into crumbs. He waited and after some
time had passed he said, "You wish me to take bread before you?"

Ash nodded. She did not know the Sull custom here,
but she had remembered one from her foster father: Always let your
enemy eat first.

Lan chose a piece of bread the size of an acorn
and brought it to his mouth. Ash waited until she saw him swallow
before doing the same. The bread tasted bitter, the horsemint seeds
like little drops of bitumen.

"Drink." He passed her his hip flask.
Fluid was traveling to the burn site on his arm and his skin was
becoming bloated. He watched her as she drank, his expression giving
away nothing. When she was done, he stood and collected his things.
As he rolled the carpet he said, "If you continue alone on your
current route you will be lost. Your gelding is snow-, not iceborn,
and he has not been bred to thai axtha, the path lores. That he has
brought you this far is a testament to his intelligence and training.
Do not make the mistake of believing he can take you further. Two
days' walk from here lies the birch way. Every tree that grows there
has been seeded from a single mother tree. What this means to you,
Ash March, is that all look the same. Enter the birch way untrained
and alone and you will fall into madness. All do. The birches are
beautiful, but you will find no end to them. During the first day you
will be hopeful. You will say to yourself, I must simply stay on my
course! The second day you will become afraid and the rattle of the
birches will begin to haunt you. On the third day your mind will
begin to wander and you will catch yourself forgetting your purpose.
On the fourth day you will begin to love the birches, and take long
rests to admire them. On the fifth day all is lost.