Reawakening (16 page)

“Gard!” Sethan interrupted. “I’m more concerned about a town that has appeared from nowhere. Could you see any of the dead in it?”

Tarn shook his head, looking around the gathered merchants and guards. “Just a few women in the windows.”

“Women,” Ia said quietly, and there was an odd note in her voice. “And Esen is a wounded girl.”

No one else seemed to be listening to her, the whole group talking at once, conversation swelling and splitting through the quiet dawn. Tarn heard, though, and turned to her. “You know something of this place?”

“She followed the road no men walk,” Ia said softly, her whole face quiet with wonder. Then she shook herself and looked at him. “No men save you, it seems.”

“I am not a man,” Tarn reminded her. “Where has she gone?”

“To the queen,” Ia said, the smile breaking across her face again. “She has gone to our queen.” She shook her head in wonder.

Then, above the rumble of conversation, and Gard’s frantic demands that they gather a search party, the thrum of a bow sang out from farther down the path, where the guards had been stationed.

Everyone went quiet, the guards tensing and reaching for weapons. Then Jancis’s voice rang out, clear and steady. “Just one of the dead! No more approach.”

“An outlier?” Barrett asked anxiously, stepping closer to Dit.

“Where one walks, more may follow,” Tarn pointed out.

Everyone burst into worried questions and demands again, and Tarn turned quietly to Ia. “This place, where Esen has gone, is it forbidden to men?”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “It’s a women’s place. It’s not….”

“Would they refuse us shelter, if the dead came in force?”

“No, of course not. If the queen lives….”

Tarn nodded, pondering his choices. “She was a mortal woman, Ia. The brightest and the best, but still bound to human years and mortal flesh.”

“Let an old cleric cling to her beliefs, Tarn.” She looked up at the bright and shining colors of the dawn sky. “I believe her spirit lingers in the Court of Shells, her oldest sanctuary.”

“I hope so,” Tarn said and bowed to her. “The choice is yours.”

She stared at him for a moment before she smacked him round the head again. Tarn yelped, and she snorted at him. “What? You think I’d put some legend above the lives of my people? Is the road wide enough for wagons?”

“Not the path she took.”

“Let’s get scouts out to plot a course, then. Sethan, Cayl, I need you! Dit, Ellia, Hadallah, Kirtis, here! The rest of you move up the road and set up a defensive ring against those rocks. I want archers on the crags!”

Within ten minutes, Tarn was retracing his steps with a party of scouts and a tense and furious Gard, who had refused to stay behind and wait. Now Tarn was walking by daylight, he could discern a faint track winding between the spars of rocks, just wide enough for one of their wagons. His footsteps and Esen’s still showed as soft dips in the thin layer of sand that had gathered along the path, fading as the wind trickled past them.

Behind him Dit and Gard were talking. Every cheerful response Dit made seemed to soften some anxiety from Gard’s voice, though half his replies were still sharp and brittle.

“… getting many memories back, then?” Dit was asking.

“Piece by piece,” Gard said. “I’m patching scraps together—there’s a picture of the stars here, the music of the temple dancers there, a shadow in the southeast, and Esen’s first smile, and I cannot see which piece sits with which, not until I find more.”

“It’ll come,” Dit said comfortably. “Friend of mine once got a smack on his head with a frying pan in a pub brawl. For a week, all he could remember was the music that had been playing when he got walloped. When it started to come back, though, it was all of a rush, and now he’s almost himself again.”

Eventually, they found the place where she had turned down through the scree. For a moment, he let the others exclaim at the sight of the ancient pillars carved into the side of the wadi. In daylight, they gleamed pink and silver like polished shells worn smooth by the blowing sand.

“Can the wagons handle that?” he asked Hadallah, a wiry guard who often served as the caravan’s carpenter and wheelwright.

“Not a hope,” she told him, pursing her lips. “Looks like the track carries on, though. Might be worth seeing if there’s a way down further along the wadi.”

Tarn was about to reply, when Gard shrugged off Dit’s restraining hand and started down the slope, slipping and sliding on the rough sandy shale.

“Come back!” Tarn called after him. Whatever Ia expected of this place, it was still an unknown situation that needed approaching with care. “Gard!”

But Gard didn’t stop, so Tarn turned to the others and snapped, “Find another way around and meet us at the bottom if you can.”

He paused long enough to see Hadallah’s nod, and then set off down the slope after Gard. Tarn wasn’t as fast, mostly because he was taking more care not to fall flat on his face as the ground shifted below his feet. He was still only a few steps behind when they reached the bottom and Gard stopped dead, looking up at the arched windows.

Tarn couldn’t help stumbling into him, putting his hands out to catch himself on Gard’s shoulders. Gard shrugged him off irritably.

Down here, at the bottom of the wadi in the shadow of the mountains, it was surprisingly cool. Low bushes of scented myrtle and pink-plumed tamarisk grew along the banks. A wavering silver line ran down the center of the wadi, where a stream had once pressed its mark. The citadel before them seemed quiet, but Tarn could see the shadows of watchers in the windows.

“I’ve been here before,” Gard said, without looking at him. “I know this place.”

“It is safe?”

“How should I know? Someone stole my memory when he forced me into human form.”

Tarn scowled at his back. “It was for your own good.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” Gard snapped back and then started forward. “Come on, then. Standing still never won any battles.”

His little desert was no tactician, Tarn thought, but he followed at a careful distance, scanning the citadel for movement. He was confident he could burn arrows from the sky before they did any damage, but he’d never liked walking into strange battle camps.

On the next step, something flashed in front of them, throwing reflections into their eyes. Blinded, Tarn reacted at once, grabbing Gard’s arm and jerking him backward, bracing himself for the hiss of arrows.

“Hold, stranger!” a woman’s voice rang out, sweet and clear as a bell. “Guardian of the desert, we greet you. Who is this man who stands with a sword at your back? Shall we strike him from the earth or shall we spare him for the moment?”

“He is no enemy,” Gard said, to Tarn’s relief. Perhaps he was beginning to see sense. “An idiot, but no enemy.”

She laughed, a bright and echoing sound. “Come forward, then, and be welcome, stranger, to the Court of Shells, Citadel of the Swordmaids of Alagard.”

Chapter 17: Allying

“I
WELCOME
your welcome,” Tarn said carefully, remembering the guest code of old. “Whilst I stand under your roof, I will defend my host as I defend my home.”

“Oh,” she said. “You’ve brought me someone with manners, Alagard.”

“It’s the first sign he’s shown of them,” Gard complained, walking forward.

Tarn looked up, shielding his eyes, and saw her. She stood on a shelf above the wadi, just out of a tall man’s reach. She was dressed in the garb of the swordmaids of old, in a leather corselet and a stiffly pleated kilt. She carried a sword at her waist, a bow over her shoulder, and a mirrored shield on her arm.

She was also blonde and tall, her round face splattered with freckles, and her mouth wide and smiling. Tarn had seen a thousand hill girls like her, tough as leather and good-natured until the battle began, and he wondered how she had come here, to the heart of this desert. She was studying him with equal interest, so he bowed properly and said, in the old tongue, “Health be with you.”

She bowed back, eyes bright, and returned the greeting. “Do they still speak the old tongue in the hills of the north?”

“I am not young enough to know,” he told her gravely.

Her eyes widened. “Another spirit lord? You must come in now and greet our queen.”

“We have friends in need,” he told her. “Is there sanctuary here?”

“Are they spirits, men, or maids?”

“Men and women,” he told her. “Mortal all, and good-hearted. The dead pursue us, and we need shelter.”

She shook her head slightly, frowning. “This is a place of refuge. Can you promise all who travel with you will respect that?”

“They’re all as sparkly as a bag of diamonds,” Gard told her, heading up the wooden steps that led to her shelf. “Decent enough, the ones I’ve gotten to know, and there’s none of them deserve to be eaten by the dead.”

“I will stand surety for them,” Tarn added. “They are….”

“Under his protection, no doubt, even those who are more than capable of looking after themselves.”

“You will have to ask our queen,” she said and extended her hand to help Gard up the last few steps. “Do you remember the way, old sandstorm, or do you want an escort?”

“Oh, come and protect us from your dastardly sisterhood, do.”

Tarn wasn’t sure if that betrayed a genuine lack of memory or just pure mischief on Gard’s part. He had noticed that Gard never called the girl by name, though she clearly knew him. To cover that gap, he fell in behind her as she led them indoors, waving another guard out of the shadows to take her place.

“Tarn, am I,” he said.

“Aline,” she answered.

“There was a girl child in our party,” he said. “She walked this way this morning and has not returned to us.”

“Esen? She’s safe.” Aline turned to smile at Gard. “Luckily, she remembered the way from when you brought her here before. She needs a place of safety for a while, but don’t worry. We will comfort her and give her solace.”

Tarn saw Gard swallow hard, but he simply said, “Thank you.”

“How came you here?” Tarn inquired. “You were not born in the desert.”

“Like I said,” Gard remarked, his voice still a little unsteady. “Tarn has no manners.”

Aline laughed. “As if I mind curiosity. I came, like most of us, in search of our queen. I was born, see, a few years after the battle ended and our highest ladies carried her away into the south. I heard she had won this place from the old mer king, and once my people had found new homes around the places where our dragon lords slept, I had a mind to come here and find my queen.”

“That was long ago,” Tarn said. “Are you woman or spirit?”

“Oh, we sit out of time here,” she said lightly. “Women find us, when they abandon all hope and enter the desert, but time is but a dream for us. Alagard here keeps us apart from the rest of the world. Or he did, at least. We have been cast back into mortal time for months now. What happened to you, guardian?”

“I have forgotten,” Gard said flatly.

“The Shadow came for him,” Tarn explained, letting the new knowledge turn in his mind. Some nature spirits had the ability to bend time and space within their dominion, but it was rare. Only the strongest could sustain it so long. “I saved him.”

“I was working on it,” Gard snapped.

“Our queen should hear this,” Aline said and lengthened her stride. Tarn kept up easily, but Gard, shorter and slighter, was forced to scurry.

The citadel had broad corridors, lit by mirrors and witch lights, and sweet candles burnt in alcoves to freshen the air. The walls were carved into intricate panels, depicting battles of old where swordmaids had fought. Through arched doorways, Tarn saw libraries and sitting rooms, a classroom and a sparring room where a grim-faced sergeant was barking orders at a row of practicing warriors. The corridors were controlled by pairs of women in shining armor, talking to each other easily as they kept their rounds.

As they paused at a corner to let a patrol pass, Tarn spotted the panel beside them, where a huge winged creature filled the sky, fire spilling from his mouth to strike down the lumbering enemies of the swordmaids below. Delighted, he tapped Gard on the arm and pointed.

Gard pouted. “Oh, that’s not fair. Not this far south. Not in my desert.”

“Proof that I belong here,” Tarn suggested hopefully and got a cross look in return.

At last, Aline left them outside the doorway of a large room. She stepped inside, and Tarn heard her say, “We have visitors, Bright Queen.”

Who would have inherited Myrtilis’s crown, Tarn wondered. From what Aline had said about the Court’s place in time, it could be someone he had once known. He tried to remember which of her lieutenants had survived the last battle, but it was a struggle. He had been fighting the desire to sleep and most concerned about his northern hoard who had gathered close to him. He had barely been aware of the swordmaids after the battle, and within hours slumber had claimed him.

Aline leaned back round the door. “Enter, and pay your respects to our queen.”

It was a high-roofed room, full of women leaning over a round table. Most were looking up in interest as he and Gard walked in, but others were still frowning over the charts and lists scattered across the polished wood. They must have climbed very high as they followed Aline, for there was a window here that spilled sunlight across the gleaming wood of the table and the worn hilts of the women’s swords and caught in their hair in flashes of gold, copper, and ebony.

“Alagard!” one of them said. “Finally!”

That caught the attention of the woman at the head of the table, who wore a thin gold circlet over the long spill of her red hair. She looked up, and her face went slack with surprise.

She wasn’t looking at Gard.

He had just enough time to step forward in delight before Myrtilis, his own Myrtilis, hollered, “Tarnamell!
Tarn!
” and vaulted over her own council table to throw herself at him.

He caught her, swinging her around with a yell to match her own, overwhelmed by the sudden bright shock of seeing someone who knew and loved him. She leaned back to look at him, her eyes swimming. Then she pulled herself up by grabbing handfuls of his hair, laid a smacking kiss on his lips, and, a mere moment later, punched him hard in the gut.