Call the Rain (6 page)

“She collapsed.” Zuke finished for her. “When I left the tent, I brought her back here. She has not improved, and nothing we can do will wake her from this state.”

Joral took Illista by the shoulders and was surprised at the solidity of the muscle he felt there. For all their softness and vulnerability, these Waki were solid as mahogany underneath. “Did someone hurt her? You can tell me the truth.”

She stared at him, her eyes boring peepholes into his honor. He stiffened his shoulders under her scrutiny. Finally she shook her head. “No one touched her, my lord.”

Joral held her by the arms for another moment and searched her face for any hint of shame or untruth. Or a hint of his silver spirit. He saw nothing but determination and fear.

Zuke used his staff to push himself to standing and motioned for Joral to do the same. “Sleep now, Illista. We will tell Nunzi that the prince requested a second assistant and have your things brought over. Stay here tonight and watch over her.”

Illista nodded and lay down next to the other girl. She looped an arm over the other girl's lifeless waist and buried her face into the still arm.

Zuke led Joral a few steps back and spoke in a whisper meant for Joral's ears alone. “The girl is Illista's sister. Her collapse coincided with Mulavi's incantation. I had to leave her in the dirt outside the tent while I confronted him. But even breaking the enchantment has not helped the girl.”

“What kind of magic did he use? And why was no one else affected?”

Juke shook his head. “The relic he wears around his neck summons the power of the oceans. I saw something similar to it, years ago on one of my first travels. The master I studied with said it came from one of the southernmost shores. What Mulavi is doing wearing it here, I don’t know.”

“What do we do?”

Zuke smiled a weary smile that was nonetheless infused with mischief. “You, my friend, shall pack my tent since my new assistants are incapacitated. I shall meditate on how a creature born in the far northern mountains could be vulnerable to the power of an ocean she has never seen.”

***

Illista bumped along in the back of the medicine man's tall wagon, clutching her travel pack in her lap, supremely aware of the curiosity of the other score of Waki travelling on foot or pulled in the Segra's grass sleds. She never made eye contact with the other workers, but she knew they watched.

She did feel the occasional glance from the Segra. Many of them pretended to study the design of the wooden wagon and its great wheels, marvels of woodwork and metal. But she knew that the sight of her squat form clinging to the ledge at the back was raising eyebrows.

Let them wonder. Zuke's foreign eccentricities were known throughout the camp. He made a very loud scene of insisting to Nunzi that she and Quarie ride in his wagon instead of following on foot. Declared that he required his assistants close at hand. Nunzi had no choice but to agree quietly.

It was heavenly to travel in a wagon instead of on foot. The magic man's mountain-bred horse had neighed once when Zuke placed Quarie on board, and again as Illista had climbed in after, but was otherwise calm. The Segra's mounts w
ere never calm around the sisters. They had walked for three years of migrations.

Through the night, Illista slept only fitfully at Quarie's side. By then, much of the tribe had begun their march toward the morning light. Zuke took down his own tent faster than she would have guessed possible and loaded it with surprising agility.

He was a strange one. She had seen him favor his twisted legs like an old man, and she had seen him perform feats of strength like a warrior. Perhaps he purposefully misled others about his true self.
She could well understand the advantage.

She had not heard Joral leave Zuke's tent overnight and had not seen him this morning. Not that she should have expected to. The Chieftess and her son always rode towards the front of the column, surrounded by the warriors. They would scout ahead for game and for suitable camping. On a normal seasonal progression, if the hunters spotted healthy herds of game, then the tribe would stop for days to hunt, roast, and dry meat.

But this trip was to meet the Xan Segra at the sacred lake at the edge of their territory. This trip was to celebrate Joral's wedding.

The wagon hit another rut and threw her against the boards. Illista righted herself and made sure that Quarie's head was still protected from the jostling by the cushions and furs. Their pace had lagged throughout the morning, and they were now behind most of the column of travelers, even behind the heavily laden kitchen wagons with their dishware and cooking tools.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus her thoughts on the lake, now miles behind them. She had not realized how thoroughly the water had seeped into her consciousness until the distance began to grow and its ever-present song began to fade. The waters sounded sad today, their singing muted and haunting in its melancholy, and she knew it was not directed solely at her. The waters were sacred to the Segra, but the Segra were sacred to the waters too.

“Whoa.” Zuke slowed the wagon to a halt, and Illista chanced a peek ahead of them to see why they were stopping.

A trio of horses whinnied and stamped their hooves up ahead. On the largest of the three sat a familiar golden-brown haired man. Illista's heart leapt in her chest at the sight of Joral silhouetted against the pale blue sky, the cold morning sunshine glinting off of his hair and the gleaming metal ornaments of his saddle. Above one shoulder was the wood of his Ken Segra longbow, and strapped to his belt was his Southern sword.

She thought his gaze flicked to hers, thought his eyes crinkled just a bit as he recognized her. She thought a great many foolish things these past few days and ducked her head back down behind the driver’s seat lest the other two warriors notice her.

“I was worried about you at the end of the caravan all alone,” said Joral.

Zuke snorted. “I can defend myself.”

“The Xan Segra are our allies, magic man, but you are a foreigner. Your camp holds many treasures that may prove irresistible to some who do not know better.” Illista recognized the voice as belonging to a respected elder of the tribe. He spoke each word carefully, slowly, as though Zuke were simple.

Zuke shifted his stance in his seat, drooping his shoulders and rounding his back just a bit. “I apologize for my tardiness at breaking camp this morning. I did not mean to inconvenience anyone. I am honored to have such an important escort. Shall we get moving and catch up to the rest of the tribe?”

Illista hunkered down among the trunks and packages in the back of the wagon and lowered her eyes as they passed the two Ken Segra warriors. The men fell in far enough back that she could see them exchanging a few, brief words, but couldn’t hear what they were.

They were nearing the high plains now, where the native grasses soared double the height of a man. The wagon drove through a makeshift road created by the advancing procession before it, but the way narrowed as the effort to carve a path squeezed man, beast, and Waki into tight formation.

“How is she?”

The words startled her and her pack tumbled from her hands to the floor of the cart and slid between two of the boxes.

The low rumble of Joral's laughter danced across her shoulders and slid down her spine. “My apologies, Illista. I don't mean to laugh. But you seem to have a habit of dropping things.”

She ignored him and knelt to pick up her bag. One strap had caught on a sharp metal corner and she tugged hard to release it. He kept pace beside the cart, his horse as unperturbed by her otherness as Zuke's seemed to be. Only when she had the satchel settled back in her lap and her fingers tightly laced through the straps did she chance a glance at him.

He rode with the easy grace of a man long accustomed to the saddle, his shoulders moving and swaying with the easy pace of his mount. He spoke again, quieter this time, as he scanned the path ahead of them. “How is your sister?”

“Unchanged.” The word fell from her lips like the tear drops her borrowed eyes could not shed.

He turned and their gazes met. Illista could not bring herself to look away. His sea-colored eyes reflected the unbroken white-gray of the wintery clouds that smothered the sky. Clouds with as little rain to share as she had tears. The bloodstone around her neck burned, singing her skin and pulling the cord around her neck downward. Joral's eyes probed hers.

“What secrets do you hide?” His words were a faraway whisper, almost too soft for her to hear.

“What do you mean?”

With a loud crack, an arrow pierced the side of the wagon in the small space between the head of Joral's horse and the bottom of Zuke's seat. The horses reared, and Zuke's danced at the edges of its reins, making the wagon lurch and jerk.

Illista was pitched forward over the tailgate of the wagon. She hit the ground hard and lay for half a second in the mud, breathless and stunned. Hoof beats thundered around her and she pulled her arms and legs into a tight ball, then crawled to the edge of the tall grass away from the threat of being trampled.

A horse screamed and shadows flickered over her closed eyes. She peeked out and saw chaos. The two hunters from behind them raced ahead, bows drawn. She couldn't see Zuke or Joral, and the wagon sat stuck at a crooked angle teetering dangerously on a rear wheel. Zuke's horse was still tethered and he whinnied and pulled at the weight.

She hunkered down in the shadows, clutching her sides and breathing hard. With a last cry, the wheel broke loose of the rut and raced away down the roadway.

Quarie
. Her sister was still in the wagon. She jumped out of the grass and hurried after the runaway cart.

Illista raced as fast as she could, pumping her arms and legs. She tried to shout, but either Zuke was no longer there or he could not hear her. Her Waki legs were powerful but short. This body was built for lifting and hauling, not for long sprinting.

She ran until every breath was a dagger-pointed gasp and her sides heaved and she felt dizzy. She ran until she stumbled and fell face-down in the dust again and lay there with the taste of dirt and rock and failure on her tongue. She had no tears to cry. Not a single drop of moisture to spare.

Someone would come back for her.

Someone had to come back for her.

Someone had tried to kill them.

A blizzard of fear roared through her abdomen and she pushed herself to all fours and crawled for cover into the grass.

Someone had tried to kill them. One of them. The arrow had narrowly missed Joral, right behind Zuke. Inches from her own head.

The grasses here were taller than the Segra warriors with stalks as thick as her fist. But the stalks were lean and smooth without any leafy foliage to hide behind. She wormed her way in farther, away from the clearing. Away from exposure. Away from the path to safety.

***

The pounding of his heart reminded Joral of the celebratory drums of the betrothal ceremony. But instead of befuddled senses from poisoned drink, his every instinct was alert and attuned to the sounds of the wind creaking in the tree-like grasses, to the taste of the dust in the air, to the scent of horse sweat and fear.

He leaned forward in the saddle, rope curled lightly in his hand, guiding his horse around the side of the wildly careening wagon ahead. Zuke’s body lay slouched over, the reins tangling in the weeds and wheels underneath the cart. Joral brought his horse up alongside Zuke’s and tossed the looped end of the rope around the runaway horse’s neck.

The coil caught, and Joral gave a slight upward tug. Just enough to show the horse that someone was in control. Carefully, he slowed his own horse down until both beasts were trotting, then walking, then still.

Joral flung himself off his horse and leapt to the seat of the wagon. Zuke was breathing but with a swollen knot on his temple that was already blackening. Luckily he had fallen backwards into the wagon and not under the cart’s wheels. Still, a blow to the head was nothing to take lightly. Joral had seen more than one man seriously harmed with a blunt blow from a practice sword. He straightened his friend’s limbs out along the back of the wagon, and checked for broken bones.

“Am I a puppet?”

At the hoarse words, Joral nearly dropped Zuke’s foot.

“Are my strings broken? Is that why you move me about like that?”

Joral smiled at Zuke’s words. “Not a puppet, my friend. A corpse. I was shaking your lifeless body in the hopes of loose coins.”

Zuke groaned and rolled himself to the side.

“Easy. You took a nasty blow to the head. You didn’t happen to see what hit you?”

“No, but I am glad it was not one of these.”

Joral looked where Zuke was staring. There was an arrow embedded deep in the side of the wagon. He hopped down and walked around for a closer look. “I think this one was meant for me. Nearly caught the horse in the neck.”

The shaft was unmistakably a Segra design with a slim shaft and grass fletching in place of feathers. There were few birds on these plains this year.

“One of ours?” Zuke had pushed himself to sitting.

Joral shrugged. “There are no markings. It could have been made by any of the Ken Segra. Or the Xan Segra. Or anyone who trades with either of us.”