Cordimancy (18 page)

“As captain of the Royal Guard, I filled a journal with notes about my defensive strategies, and sometimes I would take it with me as I left the palace. When I came to my senses, I would study it, hoping to glean ideas. Usually, this was an exercise in frustration, but on that night after Taxo’s death, at my lowest point of despair, some words jumped off the page: ‘I am gratified to report that another spell now guards the blood of the crown.’”

Gorumim paused in his narrative and surveyed the circle of men surrounding him. “Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?” growled one of the osipi.

“The seeds of our victory,” Gorumim whispered. “And the reason for Noemi. ‘Blood of the crown...’

“I had despaired that I lacked the power to overcome the enchantments of the raja’s wizards. But when I read those words, I realized that the smallest spark can burn down the mightiest forest, if it only has the right kindling.”

Now Gorumim looked over his men’s heads, to the children that whimpered on horseback. Kinora felt her skin crawl. The girl behind her on the saddle clutched her ribs with fingers as tight as claws.

“You’ve seen a little demonstration of blood magic,” he whispered to his audience, while his eyes bored into Kinora’s. “That was prepared in haste. With blood from adults, from nowhere special. Without any particular symbolism. And it still kindled a reaper curse that shook the mountains and stole your breath.” He smiled, ever so slowly, and his eyes narrowed. “Imagine what a hundred years of preparation can kindle with unsullied, young blood—blood that has not yet committed its potential to any prong of the triple-forked path—blood ripe with fear and despair—the last trickle of lifeblood from the heart of the Crown that we just
crushed
. Can you guess what fire from
that
blood might do with the forest of enchantments protecting Tónume’s palace?”

Kinora realized that she was not breathing. She could feel a wild thumping in her chest. Gorumim continued to hold her gaze until she felt a wave of dizziness flood her body.

Finally his eyes dropped back to his adult audience.

“I’ve been crafting this magic since your great grandparents were pups, and when I say my plans require no survivors from the Crown, I mean just that. Am I clear?” He looked at the osipi leader.

The golden warrior nodded.

“Good. Now go wake up the oreni. I have a job for my favorite wolf pack.”

18

reversal ~ Toril

Toril
made it through two switchbacks before he turned around. By then rational thinking had penetrated the anger knotting his gut.

Barely.

No hoofbeats from the old couple or the priest had sounded at his back. He’d listened for them, but been too proud to look over his shoulder, or even to glance downhill at each pivot in the switchbacks, to see who might be following.

Nobody, that’s who.

Of course Malena wouldn’t have changed her mind.

They were all going to charge off into the wilderness on a fool’s errand.

It was a losing proposition for everyone—the children, who stood almost no chance of rescue; the soldiers headed to a battle that was worse than unnecessary; the families of the men who would die…

Following Malena would be a disaster for the reputation of Hasha, for the parijan, and for Toril, personally. He’d be demonstrating a total lack of judgment, a willful disregard for the wellbeing of the clan, a cavalier intransigence in dealing with Gorumim and the raja.

He’d told Vasari that only Malena’s imminent death kept him from putting an end to Rovin’s stupid warmongering. He’d said he wasn’t afraid of confronting his rival.

And now he was supposed to run in the opposite direction? Nobody would see altruism in that course...

Besides, if Malena was right about her sister being among the missing children, then what his wife wanted would further endanger her, as well.

In a day or a week, when they’d definitively failed, would Malena turn around and blame him for listening to her?

Would he be able to forgive himself?

Why couldn’t Malena set aside her own preconceived notions long enough to consider the possibility that he had the same goal she did, and that his judgment was worth respecting?

A little voice in Toril’s head picked up on that last thought, and repeated his words dripping with irony. Had
he
been willing to set aside
his
preconceived notions? Or was he just as dismissive of his spouse’s reasoning as she had been?

What if Malena was right—Sotalio was a trap, and the children had to be rescued now or never?

“Sometimes I get these feelings,” she’d said...

But how could he single-handedly fight off or outwit a whole band of the same savage men who’d just massacred everyone in Noemi?

During his fosterage, he had been well trained in weapons and horsemanship, and he’d drilled and bunked with guardsmen. More recently, he’d served as a lieutenant to his father’s men, gone out patrolling for months at a stretch, slept under the stars and lived off crude rations plus what he could hunt or scavenge. He wasn’t soft or inexperienced.

But he was just one man. No magic anymore. How much could he do with only the old couple and a vulnerable young woman to help him?

Abruptly, his mind flooded with thoughts of birds and his mother.

He’d been four or five, perhaps. Playing in back of the stable, he’d discovered a swallow’s nest tucked in the eaves. Two speckled fledglings had tumbled out onto hard-packed dirt below. They were too scrawny for first flight, their feathers not yet mature—and the long fall had killed one. It lay motionless in the dappled sunlight of a spring morning, tufts of baby feather on the brow about its glassy eye.

Its companion kicked fitfully, its beak opening and shutting as it pushed at the dust with one leg.

Stubby fingers working as gently as he could manage, Toril scooped it up, soft warmth filling his hands. He could feel the racing throb of a heartbeat on one palm.

He had no memory of deliberation—only of short legs racing across the inner patio and up the stairs, driven by a child’s faith and worry. He remembered bursting in on his mother, who was deep in conference with the head steward and a uniformed stranger that Toril had not seen before. The adults stood clustered around a table, studying a scroll and a pair of open ledgers. They looked up in surprise as the door swung open and banged the wall.

“I found a baby bird,” he said breathlessly. “It’s hurt.”

His mother glanced at her companions, then smiled and beckoned him forward. “Let’s see.”

Half an hour later—after she’d probed the bone of the motionless wing and leg, and sent him to collect bugs for food, and found some scraps of yarn to build a soft bed, and asked him if he had a name for his tiny charge—he realized that he and his mother were alone in the room.

“Where did the steward go?” he asked. “And that other man?”

His mother shrugged. “Got tired of waiting, I suppose.”

“Do you need to go find them?” Toril-the-child realized that he’d flouted a standing rule by charging into the room. Both of his parents took clan business seriously; they’d made it clear that he was not to interrupt when official visitors needed attention. Had he embarrassed her? Was he in trouble?

She gazed up at the ceiling for a long moment. Then she looked at him, winked, and tousled his hair. “In a while,” she said. “But not now. Boys and birds matter more, anyway.”

19

campfire ~ Malena

“
Have
a whiff of this, girl,” said Paka. He grunted as he bent forward to lift a stick near his ankles. Malena noticed a tremor in his forearm as he rubbed greasy drippings on the bare wood, held it under the dog’s nose, and then tossed it toward the treeline beyond the campfire’s glow. Faint green arcs from startled
naris
rose from the site where it crashed.

Hika dashed after the stick, and the crows feet at the corners of Paka’s eyes puckered in satisfaction. He turned back to the skewer of pigeon breasts roasting over the flame and rotated them a quarter turn.

“Looks like Toril’s already out,” Paka observed, gazing beyond Malena to where a form stretched in the weeds.

Malena blew steam off a cup of stewed nettles as she studied her husband. He looked exhausted. Dark creases rimmed his eyes; the firelight gave them a bruise-like appearance. Above the coarse stubble on his jaw, his cheek was scraped, his forehead sunburned. His head rested on his palm, which in turn perched on a jumble of buckskin; the other hand gripped his staff, stretched beside him in the dirt. She could see blisters on his fingers, ash beneath cracked fingernails.

She lifted a strand of grass from his hair, reached for another near his collar, then caught herself and pulled back.

“I wasn’t sure he’d get anything with that sling of his,” Shivi observed. “When we stopped I think he was swaying in the saddle.”

Hika bounded back to the fire and dropped the stick at Paka’s feet. “Again?” the old man sighed softly. “I’ll bet you’d rather have a nibble...” With his left hand he lifted a morsel of meat into the firelight and showed it to the dog. Then he leaned forward to offer the treat, and his hand was suddenly empty.

Malena blinked.

The dog whined for a moment, then stepped forward to sniff the pocket of his poncho.

Shivi snorted. “Not the best audience for your sleight of hand, Paka. The dog’s nose won’t be fooled.”

“No?” Paka asked. Still using his left hand, he turned the pocket inside out to show that it was empty. Then he reached out to scratch the dog’s ears with his right hand, and when he leaned back, Malena saw the morsel balanced atop the dog’s head.

Hika held still for a moment, her eyes following the old man as if seeking permission; detecting only approval, she executed a comical nod and snapped the bite out of mid air.

“She’s hungry,” Malena observed.

“A little, maybe. But that husband of yours hasn’t just had her sleepin’ on a cushion by the hearth; she knows the shepherd life. Hasha must have sent them out to work in the fields. She seems to take care of herself. I watched her catch a squirrel earlier today.” Paka flicked the stick back into the darkness, watched the dog dash away, and smiled softly. “I was just teasin’ to give her a bit of fun. She’s had little enough chance to be lighthearted lately. Same as the rest of us.”

Malena swallowed. Once again she reached for the grass at Toril’s collar. Again she felt the urge to stop, but this time she ignored it. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for tenderness when Toril was awake—but here and now, cloaked by sleep, it felt safe. And overdue. She brushed his neck clean, then laid her hand on his shoulder and left it there for a long while.

What had it cost this man of hers—this giver of daisies—to follow her into the wilderness? What had it cost him to heal her? He spoke so seldom, and when he did, he revealed little about his feelings.

He was still upset about leaving Sotalio behind. That much was clear. But she had the sense that his silence was hurt rather than bitter, confused rather than vindictive.

So different from the way her father handled anger…

She flicked some dirt off his eyebrow and studied him, feeling her eyes blur.

How could she give him the wife he clearly wanted?

After a few moments Paka halfway gritted his teeth, lifted the arm he’d thrown with, and rolled his neck. “I’m getting’ creaky, Shivi. I know you’d never guess it in a man as virile as your husband, but there it is.” He waited for his wife’s reaction, a smile on his lips.

Shivi snorted again. She’d been working a bundle of greenery with her deft fingers; now she laid stems aside and stood behind Paka to knead his shoulders. The old man’s eyes closed; he sighed.

“Virile,” she murmured. “Hmm.”

Paka’s smile broadened. Breezes played with treetops. The sound of water rushing over rocks in the creek down the hill carried through the night air.

After a stretch of quiet, he opened his eyes, looked at Malena, and leaned forward to rotate the skewer again. “Shivi here has a magic touch,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Always has. Between you and me, it’s been her fingers that do the master weavin’. I’m just her sidekick.”

He began to hum.

After a few bars, Malena recognized the melody. It was a wry ballad about star-crossed lovers who attempt to rendezvous a dozen times, only succeeding in the sunset of their lives. She'd sung it herself, during her fosterage; now it felt more wistful than she remembered.

Hika emerged from the darkness, panting, and dropped her stick. Paka rocked forward to retrieve it, found that his belly wouldn’t let him bend quite far enough, and grunted again as he tried to shuffle. Shivi rolled her eyes affectionately, picked it up and gave an underhanded toss, then lifted the bundle she’d been working on earlier.

“Why did you come?” Malena asked. “You could have gone to Sotalio, like Toril planned. The priest did.”

Shivi cocked her head. “Didn’t you want us here?”

Malena considered this unexpected response. When she’d taken off on foot, on the northern road, she’d been too upset to think about much beyond the overwhelming need to do
something
, immediately, to rescue her sister and parents.

She’d expected Toril to follow her. Maybe. Beyond that, she’d had no plan. Just a will to
move
.

There had been no further argument—no words, even—when Toril caught her on the trail. He’d simply dismounted, handed her the reins, and walked ahead, in the same direction she’d been traveling, his lips tight.

Malena had let him stumble onward for a hundred paces before she admitted to herself that they would make better time if they rode together. After some internal debate, she’d reined in beside him and offered a hand. It was a league of his chest at her back, his arm around her waist, and her heart pounding, before she even realized that the elderly couple had also followed her into the wilderness.

As the lightest pair, the women were the best choice to double on a horse, so they’d stopped to shuffle riders. Scarcely a word was spoken—and the silence had grown more strained as the day wore on. Four riders and a dog advanced into the wilderness toward the northern border of Kelun holdings while the sun climbed and then descended again. Twice Toril had signaled a direction when the trail branched. Once the imprint of hooves had been obvious, but the other time the ground was rocky, and she’d been grateful for his silent nod; he seemed confident of whatever sign he was reading.

Even when they’d found some outlaws dead, back in the meadow, Toril had communicated in silence. Malena had wanted to nudge her horse away from the triangle of pale bodies arranged around a firepit in the clearing, with wide pools of blood in the soil beneath their necks. Glimmers distorted the dirt around them—not the melancholy, harmless resonances of a slain kindler, but something roiling and sinister. Evil. She’d scanned their faces anyway, unable to avoid the question of whether these brutal features were among those that would haunt her nightmares from the stable.

Toril had pulled up beside her, his knee and stirrup jostling her own, as she trembled. She hadn’t looked up, but out of the corner of her eye she’d noticed his heavy, brooding posture. When she spit on one of the men and pressed heels into her horse’s ribs to move off, she’d seen him push the back of his hand across one cheek.

Now she studied the tracks that firelight illuminated in the dust on Toril’s face, and thought about the gesture.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Malena answered Shivi’s question. “But I didn’t expect you to come.”

“We’d be worthless in a fight,” Paka said. “That’s the truth. If it weren’t for the dog, I’d be afraid even to stay the night out in the middle of nowhere like this. Who knows what’s hidin’ in the trees? They say there are moon bears—
barrens
moon bears—in a few places.” He wiggled his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Nothing worse than whoever—whatever—worked that blood magic,” Shivi muttered. “I’d rather meet a bear any day.”

“Those bandits deserved everything they got,” Malena snapped.

“No argument,” Shivi nodded. “I won’t be shedding any tears on their behalf. But whoever killed them is even worse. Drinking blood to give your curse power? There’s a reason that’s taboo.”

Malena bit back a reply about taboos the bandits had flouted, staring at her feet to avoid Shivi’s penetrating gaze.

Paka cleared his throat. “How long would you guess those men had been dead? Since the black mist came to choke your life away?”

The trio considered this.

"I'm just wonderin’ who did that business with the three around the fire. I never heard of bandits co-opting any kind of a serious wizard, let alone someone deadly enough to try blood magic. Makes me think something else is going on. What kind of spell would it take to make a rakshasa coordinate an attack?"

Finally Malena spoke again. “Toril was right, wasn’t he?” She felt her shoulders begin to shake. “We’re not going to be able to do anything, even if we can catch whoever has these children.” A sob burst from her throat. “How can we fight someone who’s got that kind of power?”

She felt rather than saw Shivi walk around the fire and reach hands toward her arms.

“I haven’t seen a... a sign of my parents all day,” Malena heard herself gasp. “What if I’m looking for them, or f-for my sister... in the wrong place? What if getting help from the clan was their only hope, and I’ve... I’ve...” Her words decayed into a wail.

“Toril
was
right,” Shivi said evenly. “And so were you. So were you.” She tucked some hair back into Malena’s braid. “We
didn’t
have time to go for help. The children need us now. The priest will rally some support. Meanwhile, we’re doing the best we can, and I have faith that it will make a difference.”

Malena continued to cry, but now she discerned a warmth spreading from Shivi’s fingertips into her shoulders; it curled around her arms and hands, flowed through her chest, and made her toes tingle. The sensation of warmth and safety brought more tears, but these felt cathartic, not hopeless. She leaned into the older woman’s arms.

Her hiccups softened into a sniffle, and she wiped a sleeve across her cheeks.

“You meant that literally, about the magic touch, didn’t you?” she whispered to Paka.

A smile curled the white beard. “She’s a hand, Malena. One of the best. Before Toril burned his scroll, who do you think was keepin’ you alive?”

Malena leaned back and searched Shivi’s face. The creases on her cheeks were deep. Her hair was the color of snow on granite, her features angular and not especially pretty. But such soft eyes! Such soft, moist eyes... She reached out and pulled the woman into a fierce hug.

A twig snapped.

All three of them flinched as a pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness.

Hika trotted back into the circle of firelight, the stick protruding from her jaws. Paka leaned back and puffed, visibly relieved. He fanned his face theatrically, flipping the tip of his beard.

“Like I said, Shivi and I can’t help much in a battle. I’m not one of your valiant warrior types.” He pulled a chunk of sizzling meat off the spit, seemed to notice just how hot it was, and began tossing it back and forth, blowing frantically on his fingertips. Hika’s nose bobbed and weaved as she watched the juggling act, her eyes riveted to the food.

Malena felt her lips twitch. A part of her resented the humor, but another part was relieved at the innocuous distraction.

When the baubling and exclamations subsided, Paka offered his wife the prize. “First bite, sweetheart?” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

Shivi drew a small knife from her belt. “Perhaps I’ll just spit it again,” she said, her voice utterly matter-of-fact. She winked at Malena.

“I saw that,” Paka said, his beard flexing as he smiled. “If you think you’ll be more coordinated, next time you get to cook!” He offered the spit with the remaining roasted flesh to Malena, and reached for a new shaft to begin more broiling.

Malena had been wishing for salt as she downed the nettles. Now she discovered she was still ravenous—and hunger made the best sauce. Her mouth watered.

“Just because I’m no swordsman...” Paka eventually offered, to break the busy silence.

“Or bowman...” Shivi prompted.

Paka waved with his age-spotted hands. “Or bowman. Or woodsman. Just because I’m not much good that way, doesn’t mean you don’t need me. We cordimancers have our uses. Maybe we can’t do anything fancy with a lip, or an eye, or an ear—but fat old hearts make great eaters of food, singers of songs, and kissers of cheeks. And we’re good with little ones.” He smiled at his wife. “Actually, Shivi’s mighty good with little ones, too. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”