Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (51 page)

The small town Stonefall directed me to is in fact tiny — composed of a smattering of houses, a smithy, and a small inn. It seems most caravans don’t stop here for even a meal, what with the city and the great caravanserai so near.

I leave my mare at a hitching post outside the inn and go in to ask directions. The owners, an elderly husband and wife with at least eight children to help them, are more than happy to serve me a meal of white bean soup and fresh baked bread, with a few olives and some information on the side.

“The desert, hmm?” the woman says, easing herself down on the cushions set opposite me at the low table. “Don’t have any guides here. Your best bet is to catch up with the caravan that went through here last night.”

I brighten. “How far would they have gotten?”

She snorts. “Not too far. They travel at night, and must have gotten a late start yesterday. They were through here near midnight. They’ll have just made the next town.”

Which means they likely won’t have heard of my escape either. Not unless someone else catches up to them bearing the news. And there is the small, no doubt absurd, hope that this is the caravan Huda joined to return to her tribe’s lands. It
has
only been a week or so since I bid farewell to Huda at the caravanserai, and she would have stayed there through the Festival anyhow. Even if she found a caravan that left before this one, she may be no more than a couple days ahead of me.

I thank the woman, leaving as soon as I’ve downed my meal. I stop only for a short break in the afternoon. This late in fall, the sun is still strong enough to make it clear why the caravan would choose to rest through the day. After a half hour’s nap, I pull myself back up on Zahra and continue on.

The road lies empty for the most part. I pass a few farmers, an equal number of wagons creaking along the road, and that is all. No couriers race by on lathered steeds, no mages pound after me, nothing makes me clutch the reins in fear. Not even a tanuki bristling with fury. Stonefall must have dragged my skirt through half the town before leaving to have shaken Kenta from my trail.

A couple of hours before sunset, I reach the next town, dusty and sore. One glance at the number of camels and horses grazing in the fields around the town tell me the caravan is here. I’m tempted to go straight to the small caravanserai to seek out whoever I can find, Huda or the owners of the caravan. But I can’t wear my glamor in her company, and my markings will stand out in the memory of anyone who sees me. There are still a few hours till sunset. I need to take Kenta’s advice right away.

The main square offers me nothing of use, but a few of the alleys have tiny shops squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. I’ve nearly given up searching when I finally spot a sign decorated with painted images of tigers and dragons jutting out from between a corner bakery and a tailor’s workshop: an ink shop.

I ride on until I find an empty back street, dismount, and remove my silver wristband. This is the dangerous part, walking about without a disguise. But I can’t see any way around it that wouldn’t arouse further suspicion. So I straighten out my patched tunic and lead my horse back to the ink shop as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

The proprietor stands at the door. He’s a wizened old man, his hair iron gray but his eyebrows still black. His eyes, like my mother’s and my own, mark him as having come from one of the eastern Kingdoms. Through the single, polished window I spot the tools of his trade laid out on a lacquered tray. I’ve guessed his heritage perfectly. He practices an eastern method of inking known as tebori, which uses slim sticks of bamboo or carved metal, each with a group of needles attached at the bottom.

“Greetings, uncle,” I say in Tradespeak, hoping language at least won’t be an issue.

He answers easily enough. “Good day, miss. Water for your horse?” He gestures to a small barrel along the wall.

“I thank you.” I remove the wooden cover. The mare dips her nose in, drinking thirstily. I’m not sure how well she’ll do in a desert, certainly not as well as a camel. I’ll worry about that when I must. If I can catch up with Huda — if she’s even with the caravan — perhaps she’ll know what to do.

I turn to the old man. “I had a design inked on my arms some time ago, and wanted to add some color. Can you help me?”

“Of course. Come in and we will take a look.”

Once inside, I seat myself on the cushions on the floor. He pulls up a stuffed bolster, positioning it under my arm. I start with my wounded arm, because at this point, having it braced on a bolster seems a heavenly idea. I roll up my sleeve, consider my markings. A touch of color on the backs of my hands, a swirl or two on my arms, and it will look much less like a death sentence even to me.

The old man murmurs with surprise. With a glance at me for permission, he studies the markings, turning my arm over carefully, his eyes tracing the pattern of interlocking designs. Then he asks to see my other arm. I can only hope they don’t look like something other than ink to his expert eye.

“Where was this done?”

“I went to a master back home.” Well, not a master inker, but close. “I don’t know when I’ll go back. The design’s a little too stark for me. I was hoping you could add some color here,” I touch the back of my hand, “and maybe a little more at the top.”

“Certainly,” he says, his gaze still moving over my arms. “Why the firebird, though?”

“What?” I ask, taken aback.

He taps the inside of my arm, where the design wraps around to meet. There, at the center, a phoenix flies, its wings outspread. I stare at it. I haven’t wanted to look at the markings. In truth, I’ve taken every opportunity to cover them, so I never noticed the phoenix. Now, having seen it, I wonder if I’ve been blind.

“I met one once,” I finally say.

“Ah,” he says. “That is special indeed. So, we will color it, and we will do your hands.”

“How long will it take?”

He shrugs. “As long as it takes. An hour, perhaps two. These things should not be hurried.”

Maybe not generally, but I have no idea how much time I have to spare, nor when the caravan will move on. He waits patiently for my response, so I make myself nod. If it takes too long, I’ll pay him for his work and pretend that I’ll return tomorrow.

After consulting me on colors, he sets to work. He stretches my skin taut with one hand, and uses the other to hold the tebori tool, resting it against his thumb as he slides the needles in and out of my skin. They make a faint, rhythmic sound as they pull out,
sha-sha-sha
. Compared to Splinter’s potion, they hurt about as much as a mosquito bite would after a lion’s.

The inker gives the phoenix its sunset flames, his tebori allowing him to create subtle gradations of color that transform the bird from a marking that imprisons me into a work of art. Well over an hour passes before he finishes both birds and moves on to my hands. The shadows outside have grown longer, the caravan that much closer to leaving.

I should have had him start with my hands — stupid to start with what few will see.

“I may have to leave soon,” I say as he adds more ink to his tebori. “I can come back tomorrow.”

 
“Only little while longer, miss,” he says. “This hand is nearly done.”

I nod. I need both hands done, at least a little. It has to look balanced, as if I had planned these markings, chosen them.

Did I miss something?
a familiar voice asks in my mind, breaking me from my thoughts.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
What gives you that idea?

You’re decorating your markings. In a city shop?

Outside the city,
I tell Val.
Remember the lycan that caught me?

Yes.

He was the captain of the lycan guard.
I hesitate, not sure how to go on.

You are a very dangerous woman,
Val says.
I assume you somehow convinced him to break you out.

Well, yes, but only because I told him the truth. He and his guard decided to leave their post to the Council. They didn’t want to hold me prisoner, so they broke me out before they left.

Val’s amusement is a warm thing, deep and sweet. But all he says is,
You did well not to let me kill him.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I keep my head bowed, my eyes on my arm, so that the old man doesn’t notice.

There’s something you should know,
Val says. His voice in my mind is calm now, measured.

Is something wrong?

My prince knows.

I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of my markings.
About our bond?

My sudden retreat to my room caused some concern yesterday. At the end, just before I woke, he came to investigate himself. He is … much longer lived than I, and recognized what he saw.

Will you be okay?

A flash of frustration.
I’ll be fine.

Wrong question, then.
What will he do?

I cannot say. For now, don’t worry over it. Get as far from the Council as you can.

Sound advice. Whatever the breather prince decides to do, my first priority is evading the Council. I open my eyes as the inker tilts my hand
,
stretching another section of my skin tight. Not that the idea of a breather prince who might be curious about me is easy to brush past.

I’ll leave you now. Call if you need me.

Thank you,
I reply.

Val’s presence fades quickly, but I turn his words over in my mind until the inker finally sets his tebori down for the last time and sits back.

“There,” he says with evident satisfaction. “If you come back tomorrow, we’ll continue the color up your arm. It will be beautiful.”

“It already is,” I say truthfully. The backs of my hands are decorated in amethyst and turquoise and cobalt. I never considered having my skin inked before, but the colors make the harsh reality of the markings easier to bear.

“Your
master
will hardly recognize them.”

I start. He continues to clean his tools, the picture of equanimity. But he knows. He
knows
these are not regular tattoos. I glance outside, but nothing seems amiss: no mages, no guards closing in. Has he not alerted anyone?

“Uncle?” I say, my voice uncertain.

“Your mother is from the east, yes? Or perhaps your father?”

“Yes.”

“Give them my greetings when next you meet.”

I nod, even though he asks an impossible thing, one more promise I can’t keep.

The small caravanserai at the far edge of town is filled to the brim with travelers. Men and women spill into the open yard. Many sit together in small groups, passing around food and tiny cups of coffee. A group of older children huddle together in a circle, their eyes intent on the game they play. More than a few animals are saddled and ready to be ridden out, their reins tied to hitching posts. No one takes any notice as I clumsily tether my mare to a post. She really is a good horse, with bright, intelligent eyes and a gentle disposition. I pat her shoulder and continue on to the building.

A servant girl greets me just within the door. Apparently, a tribeswoman traveling alone with a caravan is quite a remarkable fact, for the girl nods at once at my inquiry. “There is a desert woman here. I don’t know her name, but she was out back a little while ago. If you would follow me?”

I do, barely able to believe my luck.
Please let it be her,
I pray silently. It will be so much easier if Huda is here. The girl leads me through the building and out the back to a second open yard. There, at the edge, sits a woman in desert robes, her hair covered and her face turned toward the not-so-distant hills.

The girl calls a greeting. I grin as Huda looks in our direction, then springs to her feet, beaming. “Ya Hikaru! You are here!”

“Ya Huda,” I reply. “
You
are here!”

She laughs, stepping forward to wrap me in a hug.

I inhale sharply when she presses against my wounded arm, stiffening with pain. She steps back, her eyes on my face. I work to keep my smile easy. Her grin reappears in full force and she kisses me on each cheek in the desert tradition. “I did not think to see you again so soon!”

“Nor I. But I must return to the desert, and I thought we might travel together.”

“We will,” she assures me. To the servant girl hovering nearby, she says, “Can you tell me where Abu Jameel is?”

“Out front,” the girl responds easily in the desert tongue. “He just finished up the accounting for the caravan’s stay.”

“Then we will meet him there. Thank you.”

The girls nods and departs. Huda slips her hand into mine, and tugs me along after her. “If we travel together, we can leave the caravan. We are far enough north now that it will not be that much farther to reach the lands of our allies and cross through there.”

“Did Laith ibn Hamza and his friends return to their lands already?”

Huda frowns slightly. “They departed once I left with the caravan. They should be entering their territory now, so you needn’t worry for them.”