Dangerous Talents (12 page)

Dahleven wouldn’t risk more of his men to protect her. He’d watch the lady himself rather than assign her to another. Fendrikanin or Ghav would make more sense as a chaperon, but he wanted—no, needed—to keep a close eye on Sorn’s betrothed himself.

Dahleven turned and reached down to help Lady Celia scramble up the steep slope. Her firm grasp closed on his wrist as he held hers. Her face contorted with effort and she grunted softly as she pulled herself up the rock. Dahleven put his other hand under her arm to help and she nodded her thanks. There were smears under her eyes where she’d wiped away tears when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The image of her hand clasped in Sorn’s rose in his mind. It seemed unlikely that deep affection could grow in so short a time, but her broken-hearted sobbing had confirmed it.
In less than a day, Sorn won her heart and then broke it by dying. The skalds will tell the tale
. The thought was spiked with frustration and anger at himself.
I won’t be jealous of him. Not over her
.

As soon as she was steady, he released Lady Celia and resumed the climb. He relished the punishing physical demands of the mountainside. It held back the stabbing sense of loss.

And what of the lady? Her grief for Sorn seemed genuine and deep, but what was her part in all of this? It was too much of a coincidence that she appeared in Renegade territory just as Nuvinland was facing the possibility of war, instigated by an unknown enemy. Was she truly an innocent? How far should he trust her? Could he trust her at all?

Sorn did
.

Sorn. His loss cut sharp and deep. Pride in Sorn’s honorable death carried him only so far. After that, the pain took over, slicing like shards of obsidian.

*

Cele grunted as she pulled herself up the steep slope. She was grateful for the hard pace and difficult terrain. It kept her from wondering why Dahleven’s face clouded when he looked at her, and it kept her from thinking about Sorn. She had to concentrate on every step to keep from falling on her face or tumbling back down the craggy hillside.
When, exactly, do foothills become mountains
? She’d bet they’d made the transition.

The trees grew taller and closer together as they climbed, and the low brush grew thicker. Dahleven was often by her side, giving her a hand up over the awkward spots or holding branches aside so she could pass more easily. Why did he stay so close when he frowned every time he looked at her? Did he blame her for Sorn’s death?
He’ll have to get in line
.

Cele felt the bracelet Sorn had given her hug her bicep. No matter what he’d said, Sorn had died because of her, because he’d been protecting her. He might have died anyway if she hadn’t been there, but he also might have been only wounded, like Kep. He might not have been hurt at all. Instead, he was dead.

The day wore on and the air grew cooler as they climbed, but it was bone dry and the company was short of water. Cele tried to keep her mouth shut and breathe through her nose, but the hard climbing forced her to gasp, parching her tongue till it felt like paper. She tried to imagine eating an orange to trick her mouth into moisture, but she was too tired and too dehydrated. They wouldn’t reach the spring until the evening. They’d lost time yesterday, slowed by carrying Sorn’s litter, and more that morning by burying him.

Cele’s head throbbed. Her world narrowed to nothing more than thirst, moving forward, and the raw ache of Sorn’s death.

At last, Dahleven called a rest. They paused in a narrow defile, perched in a stair-step fashion on the slope. Falsom had recovered and sat at the top of the “stair,” watching their back-trail. They traveled all together now since the rocky ground wouldn’t raise a dust cloud that would reveal their location.

Cele sat on a narrow shelf beside Dahleven and shook her head when he offered a strip of jerky. She didn’t have much of an appetite, and she didn’t think she could chew the desiccated meat. She closed her eyes, exhausted in body and heart. She could rest her body, at least. A moment later, she felt dried fruit pressed into her hand. She opened her eyes.

“You must eat.” Dahleven looked at her with a surprising mix of pity and concern. His deep voice was soft but firm.

Cele started to refuse, but she knew he was right and took a small nibble. The deep red flesh of the fruit still had a sharp tang; her mouth tickled and started to water. Maybe she could eat after all.

She looked out at the landscape spread below. It had a rugged, unforgiving beauty similar to the mountains back home.

Home. It almost seemed unreal to her now. So much had happened in so short a time. It filled her mind, crowding out the details of her former life. Supermarkets and rush hour and performance reviews seemed vague and unreal compared to hiking till her bones ached and holding a dying man in her arms.

Too soon, Dahleven called for them to resume their trek. At least the air had lost its oppressive, strength-sapping heat. Cele sensed urgency in Dahleven, but he never failed to pause and offer help over the rough spots.

She hardly knew what to make of him, now. He was still stern and brusque with his frowns and his orders to eat, but underlying that she glimpsed something else.
Losing one of his men can’t been easy for him
.

Cele drank the last of her water at the mid-afternoon break. It was only a swallow, and she was too thirsty to hold it in her mouth first. She swallowed convulsively, and the liquid ran down her throat and was gone. She up-ended her squeeze bottle again in a forlorn hope for a few more drops.

“Here.” Dahleven stood before her, holding out one of his botas.

Automatically, Cele took it. It was about a quarter full. His other bags hung light and flaccid from his shoulders. This was his last water.

Cele’s throat ached for a drink, but she thrust it back at him. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

Dahleven shook his head and pushed the bag back at her. “We share on the trail. Drink what you need.”

She wanted it too much to argue. Pulling the stopper, Cele tipped the bag to her lips. The water tasted stale and flat and delicious. She closed her eyes and savored it, rolling it around her tongue before letting it slide soothingly down her throat.

Somehow, she made herself stop at only two swallows. When she extended the bag again to Dahleven, he gave her a small smile as he took it, then drained the last of the precious liquid. A moment later, he gave the signal and they were climbing again.

Dusk came early, the sun’s low slant cut off by the folds of the mountain’s ridges. The short rations had sharpened Cele’s strange certainty that water was ahead. She knew where the spring was before Fender told Dahleven, before they heard the first musical cascade of the rill. It pulled at her, like a thousand painless hooks in her skin. Despite her fatigue, her pace increased, matching Dahleven’s. On the other side of a rare flat space a broken rock face rose. There, tumbling over the rocks was one of the sweetest sights she’d ever seen. Crystalline liquid eddied in several small pools before it ran off the stone and disappeared into the soil at the base of a huge tree with quivering leaves.

Cele started forward, but Dahleven put out his left arm, blocking her while he scanned the area and the heights above. Fender went forward while Dahleven signaled to the others. Two men disappeared down their back-trail, while three others climbed to vantage points above the stream. Fender knelt by one of the small pools and brought the crystal liquid to his lips in his cupped hands. A moment later, he turned and smiled, moisture dripping off his sandy beard.

“It’s safe.” Dahleven stepped aside and drew Cele from behind him. “Stay here.” He went forward and knelt next to Fendrikanin at the stream. Taking something from the pouch at his belt, he cast it into the stream, murmuring the same words as he had at the last spring. “Accept our gifts in return for your bounty.”

Who is he talking to
? she wondered, but when he returned to her, her mind jumped back to what he’d said before. “What did you mean, ‘It’s safe?’ The water?”

He shook his head. “Partly. Our enemies could have fouled the stream. But my main concern was ambush. Thirsty men are often careless.”

A shiver ran up and down Cele’s back. She never wanted to hear the sounds or see the results of battle again.

Ghav gathered skins from the other men and helped Fender fill them. She noticed that neither Fender nor Dahleven drank.

Dahleven held out his bota bags to her. “They’ll finish more quickly if you help them, Lady Celia. The sooner the skins are filled, the sooner we can all drink.”

“Of course.” Cele took his waterskins and her own to the stream. Light danced on the clear shallow flow and struck sparks from some of the stones in the streambed. They looked out of place. She started to reach for one but Ghav stopped her.

“Leave it be, Lady. ’Tis a gift for the sprite.”

Is he kidding
? “The sprite?”

“She who lives in the stream, of course. Fill your bags so we can all slake our thirst.”

Ghav’s words about a sprite made no sense, but she understood about thirst. As she plunged the neck of a bota into the cold current, Cele’s dry mouth pinched and watered. She marveled at the men’s self-discipline. No one drank until all could drink. The liquid comfort was so close, only an arm’s length away, burbling and laughing over the rocks, teasing her fingertips with its cool moisture. Her parched tissues ached with anticipation, and quick on the heels of her thirst came a sharp stab of hunger. She filled another bag and tried to ignore her body’s demands. Ghav and Fender weren’t slaking their thirst, and neither would she, not until the rest could drink, too. She didn’t want to seem weak or sacrifice whatever respect they might have for her. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did. If they could do it, so could she. And once her mind was made up, waiting to slake her thirst became easier.

*

Dahleven was almost satisfied with their camp. They’d climbed higher, above the stream, so their sentries could see anyone who approached from that direction. It wasn’t the most defensible position, but it was the best they could do.

He hadn’t been so cautious two nights ago, when they’d found Lady Celia, nor at the midday break yesterday. Had that contributed to the attack? He didn’t think so. It was more likely ill luck, a chance encounter. A bad chance. Tewakwe seldom traveled this side of the Thorvald mountains, but who knew what the Renegades and Outcasts did?

Dahleven pulled himself back from his musings to hear the last of Fendrikanin’s tale of how Sorn won an oar-stepping contest at the last Festival. It was traditional for a dead man’s companions to toast him for three nights and tell of his deeds. They hadn’t any mead or ale to honor Sorn properly, but his stories would be told, and by the third night they’d be home. Then the beer and wine would flow, and the golden tongues of the skalds could give Sorn the honor he deserved.

Ghav cleared his throat and the men’s attention turned to him. “Let me tell you, Sorn was quieter than a mouse, and I have the tale to prove it.

“A year ago this month, during the Feast of Fanlon, our Sorn was strolling home in the dark hour before dawn, when he came upon one of his sweet friends weeping. Now Sorn was weary from drink and dancing, but he had the tenderest heart any sister could wish for, so he could hardly pass by without stopping. ‘My dear,’ says he, ‘Why are you weeping?’

“And the young maid answers, ‘I’ve been with Rolf, and he’s asked me to marry him.’

“‘And that gives you cause to weep?’

“‘No, of course not!’ she says, blushing as maidens do. ‘But I’ve stayed out past the time when my father expected me home. His anger is a fearful thing. If he learns that Rolf kept me out so late he’ll beat me and lock me in the house for a year.’

“Sorn had witnessed the man’s anger himself, so he knew the lady spoke the truth. ‘The lights are out,’ he suggests to the girl, ‘Slip in through the kitchen door.’

“‘I daren’t,’ she says. ‘Father is such a light sleeper. He wakes at a mouse’s sneeze.’ And at that, the young maid begins to weep again.

“Sorn thinks for a moment, then tells the girl to dry her eyes. ‘I’ll help you,’ says he.”

Someone groaned, anticipating the trouble Sorn’s kindness would earn him.

Ghav continued. “As soon as she dries her eyes, Sorn scoops her up into his arms. The girl squeaks, and Sorn says, ‘Be as quiet as the dew, and I’ll get you inside.’ And Sorn carries her into the house and up the stair, making less sound than an owl’s wing.

“He sets the lady down at her bedroom door, nods a silent farewell, and makes his way back down the hall. But then, just as he’s passing by the old man’s door, a mouse runs out of its hole, its little nails skritch, skritch, skritching on the floor. Sorn stands still and silent, and for a moment he thinks himself safe. But then the mouse comes closer, its little feet loud in the quiet night. Inside the room, Sorn hears the girl’s father cough and stir.

“Sorn knew what he had to do. Quick as lightning, before it could take another step, Sorn scoops up the mouse, runs down the hall, and out the kitchen door as quiet as a butterfly.” Ghav paused, as if savoring the anticipation of his audience.

“I know this is true, because I came along just as Sorn emerged onto the street. There he was, stepping out of a dark house, breathing hard and red in the face. ‘What mischief have you been up to this Feastnight?’ ask I, knowing the sort of fun young men are like to have.

“‘Why, none at all,’ says he.

“‘And I suppose that’s a mouse in your pocket?’“

“‘Yes, indeed, and here it is!’ and he dangles the furry mite by its tail in front of my nose.”

The men groaned softly, grinning. Dahleven just shook his head. It was an outrageous mangling of what really happened, but true to Sorn’s spirit. He flashed Ghav a smile before he stood. The rest took his signal, and they quickly dispersed to their blankets.

Dahleven hesitated, then offered Lady Celia a hand to rise. He liked the way she wrapped her long fingers around his wrist in a practical grasp. She got to her feet slowly, despite his help.
She’ll be stiff in the morning
. He gestured to Ghav, and the older man escorted her beyond the edge of camp. Dahleven wasn’t ready to perform that intimate courtesy.