Bloodsongs (2 page)

It was nearly dawn when the last guest departed down the road toward town. Samidar stood in the doorway and watched the stranger stumble drunkenly toward the city gates. The spires and rooftops of Dashrani stood black and stark in the pale, early twilight. Soon the first rays of morning would lighten the stained windows and gold-tinged tiles. Though not a large city, yet, Dashrani was an important stop on the caravan routes, and the wealth of its citizens grew each year.

She leaned against the doorjamb as she did so many mornings and watched the last vestige of night fade away. A morose purple colored the sky. The evening's last hunting owl circled overhead, seeking prey, riding the light wind that stirred the branches of the few trees. As she stood there, the first rays of sunrise ignited the distant gentle swell of the land.

The doorjamb was worn smooth where Samidar leaned on it. Before the inn a road ran west into the hills and east toward the small town of Dashrani. Nothing moved along it as far as she could see, nothing but little dust-devils that rose and swirled in the wind.

“Mother?”

The floorboards creaked under Kirigi's tread as he came up behind her. She didn't turn or answer, just leaned on the jamb, stared down the road.

The weight of his hand rested briefly on her shoulder. He said softly, “You look so pensive.”

“It's probably nothing,” she told him, patting his hand. “Just a mood.”

“Is it still Father?”

Samidar gazed off into the far hills, where only a few short months ago she and Kirigi had buried Kimon, her husband of twenty and more years. The rising sun lent the hilltops an amber halo. The peaks blazed with light, as they did every morning. So she had chosen them for his final resting place.

“No,” she answered slowly. “Not Kimon. I grieve, but I no longer sorrow. The pain is almost gone, Kirigi, you needn't worry.” It was a lie. She missed Kimon more than she could bear sometimes, especially in the quiet moments like this when the crowd had gone home to their own wives and husbands, when there was nobody to dance or cook for. She ran her hands along her arms, remembering, wishing for his touch.

But there was more, some sense of tension that wafted on the air. An eerie foreboding gnawed at her. Through the night she had occupied herself with her customers, pushing such worries from her mind, losing herself in furious dancing. But with the dawn and solitude she felt once again the strange apprehension.

“More clouds,” Kirigi observed, stepping past her, pointing to the northern sky. “So many clouds of late, and this is the dry season.”

He had stripped and washed clean. His skin glowed. His hair, nearly black as her own, shone with a luster.
He will break the ladies' hearts
, she thought to herself as she watched him stretch. Again, she wondered at his precise age. Ten winters with her now, and he couldn't have been more than six when Kimon found him and brought him home. Kirigi had grown tall and fair and hard in those years.

She glanced at her own body, still lean after so much time, kept that way by her dancing. In the light of morning, though, she could see what so many did not in the chiaroscuro of the inn's dim illumination: the network of scars that laced her forearms, the larger scar on her shoulder that was usually hidden under the strap of her halter, more scars on her ribs and thighs. Yes, she was lean enough, but her body was not pretty, not in the pure light of day.

“It's just not natural,” Kirigi continued, studying the sky.

“It doesn't smell of rain, though,” she answered. “It'll be bright and hot.”

“You danced well last night,” he said, turning, changing the subject, grinning. “Old Tamen's eyes were about to crawl out of their sockets. I'll be mopping up his drool all afternoon.”

“And his wife will be scrubbing his trousers,” she added with a wink, and they both chuckled. She turned her gaze to the west, toward the distant hills that were so green and misty in the dawn. “I feel good, Kirigi,” she told him at last. Despite the odd sense of expectation that filled her, it was true. “I haven't felt this way for a long time—since we buried Kimon. But it's like I've come out of a deep cave and found the sun.”

He followed her gaze into the hills, and his voice was softer when he spoke. “I'm glad.” He swallowed, glanced sidewise at her. “I was feeling guilty because the pain had gone away from me, yet you grieved.” He took her hand in his. “Let's walk a little way and celebrate a new day together.”

They started down the road away from the city, giving no thought to Kirigi's youthful nakedness. Either of them sometimes walked that way in the early morning when no one else was awake to see, when the gentle wind and the new warmth felt good on the skin.

As they walked, dust rapidly collected on the hems of her skirts. Well, they were sweat-stained from her performances and needed washing anyway. “How much longer will they watch?” she wondered aloud without intending to speak.

“What?” Kirigi asked. “Your dancing?” He smirked as she traced one of the more livid scars on her forearm with a hesitant finger. “You worry too much about those,” he told her. “They never bothered Kimon. Did you know your bed squeaks?”

She punched him playfully in the ribs. “And I'll bet you pressed your ear to the wall to listen,” she accused.

“Every night,” he confessed. “They don't bother anyone else, either. Oh, they've caused a few rumors. I've heard folks wonder how you got them. Some think you were a slave, and some think you were tortured once. A lot of people think Kimon must have rescued you from some terrible life.”

The mist lifted from the hills as the sun climbed over Dashrani's rooftops. “They'll never know how close to truth that is,” she admitted. Memories came rushing at her, violent memories of another time and another life, memories and faces and images that haunted and tormented her. She caught her adopted son's hand and squeezed it, and somehow in that physical contact she found strength to shut them out.

She stopped walking and faced him. The barest hint of fuzz shadowed his cheeks, and his eyes were alive with a youthful innocence. His body, though, was that of a man, already swelling with thick muscle.

“I'm so proud of you, son,” she told him suddenly, clutching his arm. Then she tilted her head and forced a little smile. “Do you know what day this is?”

He nodded. “The Spider.”

“The day of the Spider, the month and year of the Spider,” she affirmed. “When this night is passed, I shall have seen forty-three birthdays. Such a special triune occurs only once every twelve years. Let's hope it heralds good things for us.”

Kirigi licked his lower lip. “But you told me the spider was sacred to Gath, the chaos-bringer.”

Samidar began to walk again. “I've told you too many old tales from my past. Couldn't you have had the good sense not to listen? This is Keled-Zaram, and the gods of this country are not the gods of the West. Here, the spider is a symbol for artistry, not chaos. And am I not an artist?” She danced a few steps for him and laughed.

“Forty-three,” she said once more with a note of awe. “I'll be too old for this, soon.” She danced a few more steps and shook her hair. “See,” she said, pointing among the strands. “You can see the streaks of gray.”

But Kirigi was not listening. He stared off into the hills again. No, she realized. Not into the hills, but beyond them. She studied the strong, high-boned features that seemed almost a sculpted setting for the precious sapphires that were his eyes. She bit her lip “When will you go?” she asked suddenly.

Kirigi started, and his gaze jerked back to her face. “Huh?” Then he blushed. “I'll never leave you, Mother.” His arm went around her shoulder. The corners of his mouth twisted in a grin. “We're a team.”

She leaned her head on his biceps. The blueness of the sky swirled overhead as they walked along. “Do you long for adventure, Kirigi?” She couldn't hide the worry in her voice. “Do you find Dashrani and the inn so dull?”

The hesitation that preceded his answer told more than any words. But finally he said, “You keep me too busy to dream about adventure, and between you and old Tamen things are never dull.”

She closed her eyes, suddenly tired, ready to sleep, once more fully aware of that strange sense of impending—what?

“It's never so wonderful as we believe when we're young,” she told her son as he guided her down the road. “Kimon and I learned the hard way.” She stopped suddenly and peered back the way they had come. The dusty road seemed an appropriate metaphor for her life.

“We wandered most of the known nations and several lands marked on no map ever drawn by men,” she said softly. “Lots of places, lots of adventures.” She put her arms around Kirigi and hugged him, then leaned her head on his bronzed chest. “But after a while we discovered that the quiet times we spent together were far more meaningful and fulfilling than all the battles and exotic wonders. Then we began to worry and fear for each other. Adventure meant danger; the two go hand in hand like lovers. And danger meant that one of us could end up all alone again. We'd had too much of being alone.”

“So you bought the inn and settled down,” Kirigi interrupted.

“It wasn't easy at first. At least not for me, though I think it was what Kimon really wanted all along. I looked out the door every morning, just like I do now, and I saw this very road. It tormented me. Strangers came and went, afoot or on horseback, in carts and caravans. Gods! I thought. What cities had they seen that I hadn't heard about? What places were they going that I would never see?”

She drew a deep breath and kicked dust with her toe. “Gradually, though, we became part of Dashrani. And we found that all those times on the road paled beside the good times we discovered here.” She folded her arms about herself, looked up, and surveyed the sky. It was purest azure except for the line of clouds in the north. They made a creeping advance. She rubbed the back of her neck as she watched them, reminded yet again of a nagging trepidation.

“It wasn't enough for Kel,” Kirigi said abruptly.

Samidar bit her lip and turned away so he couldn't see her face. Suddenly the sun didn't seem as warm or the breeze as friendly. The birdsongs of morning became a harsh, irritating noise. “Let's go back,” she urged. “I'm worn out.”

He touched her shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” she answered shortly. “I'm just tired. We'll grab some sleep. Then there's a lot to do this afternoon before we open.”

“If you're thinking about the cheese, don't. Khasta came in for a hasty drink last night. I talked with him, and he promised to drive out today with a wagon full of his best.”

Actually, she'd forgotten about the cheese. All she wanted was to sleep and for the increasing throb in her head to go away. She scraped her nails over the back of one hand and frowned. The grease on her skin made white half-moons under the nails. She could use a bath, too.

“Any other tasks can wait,” Kirigi continued. “It's your birthday, and you deserve a respite. Our customers will understand. They have wives to clean their houses, but do they stay home? No, they come to us for their pleasure. They'll survive a little dirt tonight.”

“Maybe I should hire a few girls,” she joked halfheartedly.

“I wouldn't object,” he admitted with a leer. “There's a discouraging lack of anonymous young ladies around here.”

“What's wrong with the girls of Dashrani?” she prodded. “Go court them. You have enough to offer any female.” Indeed he had, she noted with a sidewise glance.

“When I have to face their fathers every night?” He moaned, rolled his eyes in mock alarm. “Fathers deep in their cups? I've little taste for
that
kind of adventure.”

She smacked his bare rump playfully. Then, arms linked, they headed back toward the inn. The sun was warm on her shoulders and neck, and it glinted off the spires of Dashrani. It wouldn't last, though. The northern clouds grew steadily darker and they made swift advance.

“If it rains, Khasta may not come,” Kirigi said.

“If it rains, he won't need to,” she answered. “Those look bad. A big storm's coming.” She ran a hand through her long hair and frowned. Why did she feel so tense, suddenly so full of unknown fright? “Bad for business,” she muttered, staring at the sky, hugging herself.

They went the rest of the way in silence. The smell of leaves and new grass floated in the air. Within Dashrani's wall, the townsfolk would be awake and about their early chores. Farmers would be heading for the fields. Samidar gazed down the road. It ran right into the city through the gate and beyond. In her memory the gate had never been closed. It was one of the things about the city that had convinced her to settle here. Everyone was welcome. There had been a garrison once, but little crime to justify it. Dashrani was a fat, lazy town, and its people were friendly. There was a saying known all over Keled-Zaram: “There are no strangers in Dashrani.”

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the inn's gloom. Coming behind, Kirigi bumped into her when she stopped abruptly.

They hadn't closed the door when they'd left. One of Riothamus's soldiers leaned on the farthest table, his back to them, drinking from an earthenware mug.

“We're closed,” she said stonily. “Come back later, but be sure you lay down a coin for what you've helped yourself to.”

The soldier rose to his feet, turned slowly around.

Samidar's jaw dropped. She blinked, stared. Kirigi's face split in a big grin, and he rushed forward to embrace the intruder exuberantly. Then he stood aside. The rapt look on his young face told Samidar he was as surprised as she.

A mixture of emotions trembled through her, rooting her to the spot where she stood.

Finally, the soldier extended a hand and spoke. The voice was almost exactly as she remembered it, a little deeper, but otherwise unchanged, tinged, as always, with mockery.