Drawn Blades (11 page)

He bowed again, this time to Faran, and even more deeply. “Thank you, Madame Blade. I . . . just thank you.” Chiu’s voice was husky, and his eyes were very bright.

Faran looked embarrassed. “You’re welcome, Chiu. I . . .” Her eyes shifted past the bandit chief and she trailed off. “Uh, Aral, I think what’s left of the fire wants to have a word with you.”

Sure enough, the ribbon of smoke had thickened and darkened, twisting itself into Siri’s familiar shape. Those bandits who were still close to the fire pit made various sorts of alarmed noises and moved quickly away. A couple of them even bolted, though Chiu held his ground.

As soon as my eyes met the darkness in her smoky cowl, Siri beckoned me closer, her finger twisting and blurring with the motion. Three long steps put me close enough to touch and she lifted her left hand, palm out, slowly spreading her fingers to emphasize the one whose ring matched my own. The message was obvious, and I raised my own hand to mirror hers. She nodded then, and bent forward, kissing my palm with lips of smoke.

The touch was softer than the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but I felt a jolt like trapped magelightning. It ran from my palm to my heart and back again to my ring finger. The smoke of my own ring swirled wildly and darkened in response.

Fire and sun!
Triss surged awake.
What’s going on?

Siri,
I replied.
Bide a bit.

I glanced at her finger and saw that the ring there looked lighter and thinner than the hand wearing it. Bending from the waist, I kissed her palm in turn. More lightning touched my heart, this time sparking along my lips and down my throat to my core. Siri’s ring darkened now, becoming almost black—a sharp contrast to the grays that made up the rest of her.

I . . . That’s very . . . interesting,
sent Triss.
I wonder what it means.

I have no idea. I wish I’d thought to really look at my ring beforehand. I think it might have been fraying a bit around the edges.

Siri had begun to lose her form in the very instant that her ring finished its transition. A coil of white curled her mouth into a brief one-sided smile, then a breeze caught her and she puffed out of existence entirely.

“Renewing your vows?” asked Faran, and I couldn’t mistake the angry undercurrent I heard there.

I nodded. “Apparently.”

She threw her hands in the air. “You know this whole thing is crazy, right? You married smoke. That’s not normal. And, what if it’s not really Siri?”

“That demon of smoke was the Mythkiller?” Chiu’s voice came out in a sort of half squeak.

“Yes,” I replied, in the same instant that Faran said, “Maybe.”

“And she’s not a demon,” I continued.

Again, Faran said, “Maybe.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” I growled at her.

“This is beyond me,” said Chiu. Most of his people had slipped entirely away by then. Now the bandit leader bowed quickly. “I think, Kingslayer, that it is time for me to leave you. Your life leads you to places that I would not go for any reason. I wish you success.” Then he was gone.

I looked at Faran. “Are you coming with me, or do you want to walk away, too?”

She clenched her fists angrily, but then took a deep breath. “I may think this is a terrible idea, but I am
not
going to let you follow that thing into the Sylvain without someone to watch your back. You bailed me out when I got in over my head with the Durkoth. I’ll be there when you need me to do the same.”

I wanted to argue, but all I said was “Thank you,” as I mounted my horse.

We were back out on the road and heading south shortly thereafter. Hours passed in a sort of truce of silence while we rode toward the Sylvain and nightfall. When the mountains started to claw the sun down out of the sky, we turned off into a small bamboo grove and built a fire to make dinner. Faran cooked again while I napped. Thuroq hadn’t shown up by the time I finished eating. After renewing the healing spells on my bruises, I curled up by the fire and closed my eyes, assuming that Triss or Faran would wake me when Thuroq arrived.

I found out I was wrong about that when I half woke in the middle of the night and rolled over, bumping into a low rock wall that hadn’t been there when I went to sleep. Instant disorientation, followed by sheer cold panic as I came fully awake. Reflex put my swords in my hands as I vaulted onto my feet and wrenched Triss into a shroud around me.

Aral, it’s all right. You’re all right. Everything is fine.

I didn’t put my swords down or relax physically, but Triss’s mental voice soothed the worst edges off my panic.
Where are we? What happened?
I was reaching outward through Triss’s senses as I spoke—trying to reorient myself.

We’re on the road with Thuroq,
he answered.
When he arrived you were so deep asleep that Faran and I decided not to wake you.

By then, I’d had a chance to really “look” around. Our campsite seemed unchanged except for the wall and a stone chair where Thuroq sat facing away south. The horses were still tethered to the same broken stump, and Faran had gone to sleep on the far side of our nearly burned-out fire.

I was confused.
But, but the wall . . . and I could have sworn I haven’t moved. This feels like the same place I went to sleep.

There weren’t any good rock outcroppings nearby, so Thuroq pulled one up from below and just took our whole campsite along for the ride. Faran insisted that he raise the wall to protect you and the fire from the wind.

Oh.
I let my hold on Triss go, releasing the shroud. Then I sat down with my back against the little wall. As I did so, Triss twisted into dragon shape and put his head in my lap.

I know we should have woken you, but I could feel how exhausted you were. I didn’t want you to spend another night staring into the sky and not sleeping. I’m sorry.

I scratched the scales behind his ears, paying special attention to the spot that always itched.
It’s fine. You were right, I needed the sleep, and I wasn’t going to get it any other way. I overreacted when I woke up. It’s just that . . . I haven’t had a moment like that in a long time. . . . Where I woke up and things were different than the way I had left them—not since I quit drinking. I’m used to knowing what’s going on around me again, even when I’m sleeping. It made me feel like I’d slipped back into the old nightmare.

Triss stood up, putting his front feet on my leg. Then he brought his head up so that his face was on a level with mine and very gently butted his forehead against my jaw. I felt a wordless sorrow resonating along our link, along with guilt and an aching desire to both comfort and be forgiven.

I put my hand on the back of his neck and pressed my forehead against his.
It’s all right, really. You had the best of intentions. You surprised me is all.

I didn’t know,
he whispered into my mind.
I didn’t think. I’m sorry.

I’ll be fine, truly.
I gave him a squeeze and leaned back against the wall.

Triss settled beside me, his head in my lap once again. After staring at the embers for a while, I picked up a log and gently set it in the pit, and then another. They didn’t burn at first, so I pulled a small folding fan from my pack and gently fanned the coals till the bark caught. I checked the fan’s condition carefully before putting it away. Magesight showed a dusting of faintly glowing glyphs on the thick paper, all of them in good order, so I folded it neatly and tucked it back into the pack.

“Did you really just use a scent-breaker to get the fire going?” Faran asked, jerking her chin to indicate the bag where I’d put the little fan. Other than that, she didn’t move.

I nodded. “Kelos taught me to do it. He said it works much better than blowing on the thing, and you aren’t sticking your face down in the smoke and the heat, which means you can keep a better eye on your surroundings.”

“I suppose . . . but the fan’s supposed to make it hard for scent hunters to follow or find you, and they’re not easy to make. Doesn’t the smell of the smoke affect the charms?”

“Not at all, or at least not that I’ve ever noticed. It
will
catch fire if you’re not careful and get it too close to the flames, but that’s really the only risk. I—”

Faran cut me off with a waved hand and a touch of her finger to her ear. As soon as she did so, I realized she was right. The night sounds had changed, something subtle, like a new susurration or— The ground lurched sharply, pressing my back against the little wall, as our briskly moving campsite shocked to a halt in the middle of the road.

Faran rolled backward across her shoulders and vanished into shadow as she landed on her feet. I did the same, momentarily taking control of Triss and drawing my swords, as I spun myself upright and into darkness.

Triss?

Nothing’s changed that I can see.

But even as he spoke, Thuroq was standing up. “Attackers below!” He launched himself forward into the earth—very much in the manner of a man diving off a dock into shallow water. He vanished beneath the dirt without a splash or ripple.

W
hen
you cannot trust the ground beneath your feet, you cannot trust anything.

Fire. Water. Air. These are the elements of change. We expect them to turn on us. We have seen the burning house, the drowning man, the wind that rips away the roof. But earth is supposed to be reliable, solid, the ground in which we root ourselves. The betrayals of earth cut the deepest, for they are the least expected.

I felt a cold shudder building from the base of my spine as I looked through Triss’s “eyes” at the place where Thuroq had gone into the ground.
Attackers below!

“Trees,” called Faran. “Quickly, but as smooth as you can. Durkoth can feel the impacts of your feet on the ground when you walk or run, and to a lesser extent the vibration as you move among the branches.”

“Thanks.” I knew that, but only because Faran had told me about it before, and I appreciated her reminder—she had far more experience with the Durkoth than I did, whatever the difference in our ages and training.

Fading now,
Triss sent as he fully submerged himself in the dreamlike state that gave me control over our joined consciousness.

I dashed for the nearest tree, running low and as near to silently as long years of training could teach. I’d almost reached the edge of the road when an iron point came surging up out of the ground in front of me aimed at groin height. I didn’t have time to swerve or dodge, and only barely enough to push off extra hard on my next step, throwing myself into a forward flip. The spear rose farther as I went over it, burning a line of pain from a few inches below my belt line down to midthigh as it ripped through my silks and tore a strip out of the flesh beneath.

The cut threw my jump off and I landed hard on my left side and hip, grunting at the impact. But I didn’t dare stop, so I jackknifed into a half roll that brought me back to my feet at the base of a big cypress. I leaped upward and caught a low-hanging branch a bare few inches ahead of the next upthrust of the iron spear. This time, the Durkoth wielding it came partially out of the ground, as he shot upward trying to skewer me.

Mistake. His hips were just broaching the surface when a flicker of shadow reached out from behind and his head flew off his neck—Faran striking from behind.

I hand-over-handed my way higher into the tree, letting my legs hang free for now. I could feel blood streaming down the front of my right leg from the long wound the spear had given me, and I didn’t want to strain anything in case it was worse than it felt. But I had no sooner stopped climbing than the whole tree begin to tilt back toward the road, forcing me to move again. The Durkoth were taking it down.

With a whispered prayer to a goddess long since dead, I let go my hold and dropped onto a large branch that was now pointing about thirty degrees up from the horizontal. My leg twinged but held, and I ran up along the moving branch until it started to bend alarmingly under my weight. Bouncing once to get what benefit I could from the natural spring of the wood, I launched myself toward the next tree.

I caught a branch and immediately swung onto the next, and the next after that, monkeying my way deeper into the forest as quickly as I could. Several more trees went down behind me, but only one of them that I had passed through directly so I dropped my shroud and my hold on Triss, asking him to see what he could do about sealing the wound. The next few minutes blurred past in a light-headed haze—I had already lost a lot more blood than I liked to think about.

Once I was fairly certain I had shaken my immediate pursuit, I gently pulled myself into a sitting position on a high branch so that I could check over the gash in my leg. Triss had formed himself into a thick pad of shadow-stuff that wrapped me from knee to hip bone, the cool touch of the everdark easing the pain considerably.

How bad is it?
I asked.

I’ve got it under control, and I can keep it that way, but if you want to wear a shadow, or me to do anything else at all, you’ll need stitches. You’re also going to need to stay off of it for at least a couple of days. I’ll do what I can to speed the healing and keep it clear of infection, but it’s more of a rip than a slice, and those are always nasty.

I didn’t like the sound of that.
I don’t know what’s going on with Faran and Thuroq. I have to double back soon to see if they need help.

No.
Triss sent the word flat and hard, with no room for argument.
You need to stay put, unless the Durkoth find us. Faran can take care of herself—better than you can, I sometimes think. And Thuroq isn’t your problem.

I—

Not going to happen, Aral. If you try to move one inch from this spot I will tie your legs together.

All right. I’ll sit, but only for a little while. If I don’t get a signal from Faran in the next half hour or so . . .

She’ll be fine. That, or dead, and there’s nothing you can do for her in either case, not unless you want to bleed yourself unconscious.

I decided not to argue the point any further. Not until I had to. Given the nature of the familiar bond and our relative strength of will, I could probably force the matter, take control of Triss against his will and
make
him let me do what I wanted. Some schools of magery did that sort of thing all the time, but I had never in all our years together exercised control over him when he had set himself against my will, and I would rather die than use him like that. He was my partner, not my servant, and always would be.

And so, because my partner demanded it, I settled in to wait in silence. Back toward the road I could hear the occasional crash of a tree going down, and once, a gurgling shriek of the sort that signaled a poorly cut throat. But mostly, whatever was happening happened very quietly—either deep underground or with a Blade’s practiced stealth.

*   *   *

Aral,
wake up.

Wha . . .
I blinked my eyes open and only then realized I had fallen asleep in the tree. Well, more passed out, really. Apparently, I had lost more blood than I thought.
Have we heard from Faran?

She’s at the base of the tree with Thuroq. You need to climb down to them. Can you can manage it?
From the worry in his tone, I could tell Triss had his doubts.
Or should I get Faran up here with a rope?

I think I can make it.
I would have liked to be more firm, but clearly I was not in the best shape.
I’d really rather avoid the rope if possible. She worries too much about me as it is.

I thought you’d see it that way, which is why I woke you up before answering. She just called up a moment ago to ask how you were.

Got it, thanks.
Then, aloud, “I’m all right. Sorry to cut out on you like that, but I caught a spear tip. I’ll be fine with a few stitches and some time off my feet, but it put me out of the fight.” I eased myself off the branch and began a careful climb down using only my hands. “I take it we won?”

Faran laughed. “We did. It was more of your cultists, judging by the iron weapons. I killed four, and Thuroq here says that he took care of three more . . . though I have my doubts.”

I was close enough to the ground to see the Durkoth turn and look down his nose at Faran. “Doubts, why?”

“Because yesterday you told us that the cultists didn’t exist, and it’s awfully hard to kill a figment.”

I was about ten feet up then, but I had run out of branches.
Triss, I’m going to have to drop the rest of the way, see if you can’t brace that thigh a bit. I’ll try to take the brunt of it on my left leg but . . .

But
try
doesn’t always translate so well into
do
, got it.

Exactly.
I let go.

And went away for a while. When I came back, I found that I had one arm across Faran’s shoulders and she was helping me make my limping way through the woods back to our run-aground campsite.

What happened?

We lost you for a couple of seconds there, but you stayed upright.

Lost me?

Yeah, you wouldn’t respond to either Faran or me, and I couldn’t sense you at the other end of our link. It was scary, but you caught hold of the tree and stayed on your feet. Apparently your ability to grip is independent of your ability to think. We practically had to pry your hands loose.

I didn’t think the cut was that bad, and you stopped the bleeding. . . .
“Why is this wound hitting me so hard? The spear wasn’t enchanted. I’d have seen that.” I hardly realized I’d said that last bit aloud until Thuroq answered me—I was still really hazy.

“Hasheth, cursed iron.” Thuroq was sliding along beside us, statue still, borne along by the ground itself.

“What?” I turned my head to look across Faran’s shoulders at the Durkoth.

For the first time his face took on something like a real human expression, a sort of rueful embarrassment. “There are no cultists of the various buried gods. That is the official position of my lord and liege, and I will not in any way countermand that position.”

Faran coughed. “But . . .”

“But, if there
were
such cultists, well, then it might be the case that there were stories about them. All lies, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “Since they don’t exist. What might such lies say about the wholly fictional cultists of the buried gods?”

“They might say that those wholly fictional cultists send weapons across the Wall of the Sylvain to be consecrated in the unquiet tombs of their buried patrons. They might also say that sometimes the buried ones bestow a special favor on such items, granting them hasheth—a curse, in your tongue—so that they bite deeper, or cause infection, or even wound the soul.”

Faran let out a low whistle. “Nasty, but shouldn’t we be able to see that sort of enchantment?”

Triss spoke aloud for the first time in Thuroq’s presence, “Not if it’s god-magic. The enchantments Namara put on her champions’ swords are invisible to magesight.”

“I thought the buried ones weren’t considered true gods,” said Faran.

“Perhaps not among your people,” said Thuroq. “But what makes a god? Is it a matter of worshippers? Inherent nature? Or is it simply power? The buried ones had plenty of that last, and even now they have no small number of the first. It is only on the question of inherent nature that they fail the test as your ‘gods’ would have it.”

“Not
my
gods,” I said, and was surprised at how angry those words made me. “Namara died at the hands of her so-called fellows. I want no part of such
gods
.”

Faran nodded. “I’m with Aral. Fuck the gods. They’ve caused me nothing but pain.”

“Those are dangerous words to speak in the lands of man,” said Thuroq. “But I do not think you will find many among the Durkoth who would disagree. Those who call themselves the
true gods
have no friends among the First. Though we may have lost our war to be free of them, we do not wear their shackles gladly.”

I took an off step then, and my whole world went wobbly for a while. It returned to normal about the time we reached the road. We came out of the woods fifty feet from where we’d left our campsite. The rough oval of grassy ground looked utterly bizarre in the middle of the long pale stripe of the dirt road, like someone had simply dropped it in from another place entirely with its fire pit and low wall and the little stand of bamboo at the front end. Which, I suppose, they had.

Faran helped me down onto my blankets beside the fire while Thuroq steered our little slice of elsewhere off the road and into a clearing in the woods. Once he had us solidly out of sight of any travelers he came back to speak with us.

“I need to leave you for a time while I report this attack to my king. I don’t think that I will be back before dawn, so I will have to find you on the road again to complete my bargain.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work out so well.” Faran had started the messy job of stitching up the long gash in the front of my thigh—working by magelight—and she shook her head now. “Aral isn’t going anywhere for at least a couple of days, though I’d rather he stayed off this leg for a week. If this wound really is cursed . . . well, I don’t have any idea what that’ll mean in terms of healing time.”

“That is . . . unfortunate, given tonight’s . . . events,” said Thuroq. “I’m certain that my king would prefer to see you moving farther from his borders faster.”

“I’d prefer that as well,” I said. “I have places I need to be. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anywhere near as quickly as either of us might like.”

“We’ll see,” said Thuroq. Then he was gone, sinking into the ground like a stone let go in deep water.

“That’s the creepiest damn thing,” said Faran. Then she sighed and went back to stitching my leg. “I
really
don’t like the color of this wound. Triss cleaned it out just fine, and it doesn’t look infected, but the edges have a very nasty orange tint to them.”

*   *   *