Storms of Destiny (39 page)

Thia staggered to her feet, looking around her for a weapon.
Something! Anything!
Her gaze fastened on the lantern, and she seized it. Darting forward, she flung it with all her strength at Varn’s head. It struck one of the purplish patches of light, only to shatter and bounce off, but then flaming oil engulfed his shoulder. Howling, he spun around, beating at the flames running down his arm. For just a moment his eyes met Thia’s, and they were still her Master’s eyes, human, accusing.

“Now!” yelled Talis, and she and Eregard leaped forward, their swords aiming for the unprotected spots. Varn swung a massive arm at them, then turned and ran. Nobody tried to stop him.

Thia watched him vanish into the darkness, realizing that the purple patches had faded and that he seemed smaller.
He
has to concentrate to invoke the Change,
she thought.
When
he was attacked on all sides, he couldn’t concentrate. He
couldn’t complete the Incarnation.
She felt strange— dissociated, as though she were watching it all from someplace outside her own body.

“Jezzil?” Talis was bent over, gasping for breath. “Clo?”

Thia shook her head, and the world came rushing back—

the firelight, the smell of incense and blood. “Jezzil’s here,”

she called out, stumbling over to the Chonao on legs that shook. She was trembling all over, afraid of what she would find.

Jezzil lay sprawled beside the boulder he’d struck. He was unconscious, but when Thia cautiously touched his face, she could feel his breath on her fingers. She heard a step behind her, turned to see Talis. “He’s alive,” she said.

“Clo isn’t,” Talis said heavily, sounding choked with shock and grief. “She’s dead. Dear Goddess, what
was
that thing?”

Thia didn’t answer, only watched as Talis knelt beside Jezzil in the fireshot darkness. “We’re going to have to move him. Get him back to Q’Kal,” she said, running her hands down his arms, then running her fingers through his hair.

“His leg’s broken,” she said a moment later. “We’ll need to splint it.”

“Eregard!” she shouted. “Light Clo’s lantern and bring it here! I can’t see!”

“I’ll see if there’s some wood for splints left in the wagon bed,” Thia said. She went over to the wagon, felt around inside for any sticks that remained. She found several, and brought them back to Talis. “Do you know how to do this?”

“I’ve never done it,” Talis said grimly, “but I’ve seen it done. If you’re wearing a petticoat, rip it up into strips.” As Eregard approached with the lantern, she held up her hand, and Thia saw that it was dripping scarlet. “But first we’ve got to try and stop this bleeding. There’s a wound in his gut.”

Thia took the knife Eregard gave her and proceeded to rip up her petticoat. She also cut off the bottom section of her skirt, shortening it until it was barely more than knee-length.

Her hands grew raw from tearing the tough homespun into strips.

With Eregard holding the lantern, Talis bound the jagged gash over Jezzil’s abdomen, tying her extra shirt down tightly as a pad, trying to stanch the blood flow. “This is bad,” she said tightly. “If he regains consciousness, he’s going to be hurting. Gut wounds hurt a lot, the soldiers say.”

Jezzil moaned as she worked, but did not rouse. Thia acted as Talis’s assistant, biting her bottom lip and ordering herself fiercely not to panic. There was so much blood …

“Now for the leg, while he’s still unconscious,” Talis said, wiping her bloody hands on a piece of cloth. “Hold him, both of you. I don’t want him waking up and thrashing around.”

They held Jezzil’s shoulders while Talis stood up, braced herself, and gave one steady, strong pull. Jezzil jerked and grunted with pain, and suddenly his leg was straight again.

Quickly, the Katan woman rigged a splint, then she and Thia bound the leg to it. “We’ll put him in the wagon,” Talis said.

“What about Clo’s … body?” Eregard asked. “Do we have time to bury her? Or should we take her, too?”

Talis wiped her forehead, leaving a reddish smear. Thia noticed that she had a cut on her forearm, bleeding sluggishly. “I don’t know,” Talis said. “I don’t want trouble with the authorities back in Q’Kal. I can’t imagine how we’d answer questions from the Watch.”

“Does she have family?” Thia asked.

“No, just her guild, and I know they’d give her an honor-able burial,” Talis replied. “But they won’t want any trouble from the Watch, either.” She glanced over at the wounded man. “Jezzil’s still alive, he has to come first,” she said. “We have to get him to a physician. He may not last the night as it is.”

They walked together to look at Clo. The mercenary lay on her back, eyes wide open, arms flung wide. “Goddess, I don’t know what to do!” Talis muttered.

“Put her in the wagon,” Eregard said. “We can leave the body just outside of town, hidden, and after we find a doctor for Jezzil, I’ll come back and bury her. Or I’ll bring her guildmaster so he can take charge.”

Talis nodded slowly, and the look she gave Eregard was one of sudden respect. “Good idea. Thia and I will rig a litter. Eregard, you give the team as much water as we can spare. We can spell them with the saddle horses when they give out.”

As she crossed the circle, still lit by the now dying fire, Talis stopped and gave a choked cry, gazing at something hidden in the darkness. She flung herself down.

“What is it?” Thia asked as she and Eregard hurried over to join the Katan.

Moments later she saw. A bay horse lay sprawled un-gracefully on its side, legs sticking out stiffly, eyes staring.

Talis stroked the satiny neck. She made no sound, but her face shone wet in the light of the lamp. “Bayberry …” she whispered. “Oh, Bayberry!”

“What happened?” Eregard said, dropping to his knees and putting a consoling arm around Talis. She didn’t seem to notice, though she leaned against him as if she needed the support.

“That second shot of Clo’s,” Thia murmured, remembering. “It went wild. I’m so sorry, Talis.”

For a moment they stood there, silent. Then Talis straightened. She wiped her hand across her face, smearing it with Jezzil’s blood. “Help me get my tack off him, Eregard. We have to hurry.”

Moving quickly by the light of the rising moon, they stowed Jezzil in the bed of the wagon, then wrapped Clo in a blanket and put her there, too, using her body as a buffer to keep the Chonao from rolling about. “You ride back here with him, keep him steady,” Talis ordered Thia. “If you can get him to swallow, give him sips of water.”

Thia nodded, and climbed into the wagon bed. Eregard tethered Clo’s horse to the back of the wagon. Falar appeared to be unharmed, despite the fall the mare had taken, so he tied her to the back of the wagon as well. Then Eregard swung up onto his own mount. Talis climbed up on the seat, took off the brake, and clucked to the team.

“Get up!”

Thia felt the wagon bed lurch beneath her as she carefully eased Jezzil’s head into her lap. She allowed herself a few sips from the waterskin, then cautiously dribbled a few drops between his lips. His eyelids fluttered, then he swallowed and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Talis had the team turned now. She slapped their backs with the free end of the reins. “Get up there! Hup!” The wagon lurched forward, heading east for Q’Kal, using the rising moon to set their course.

Had he not remained partially Incarnate, he would have died in the wastelands. He was wounded in many places, burned, and he had no food, no water, no clothing to shield him from the sun that rose as he limped determinedly toward it.

Boq’urak sustained him, nourished him, and healed the wounds far more quickly than any magical salve he had ever heard of. By the time he reached the outlying farmlands, the sun was overhead and his partially Changed body was whole again.

As he walked, he had not been aware of the presence of his god, only of the imperative to survive, to heal, to keep moving. But now as he stood looking down on a farm, seeing human clothing being hung on a washline by a farmer’s wife, he realized that there was a large cistern to trap rain-water behind the barn.

Quickly he stole down to it, careful to stay out of sight. He had no wish to kill unless his Lord commanded it.

Once there, he put his face down to the water, letting it run up the tube that served as his tongue, sucking greedily. His skin tightened, the scaled places taking on a sheen in the sunlight.

When he finally slaked his thirst, he pulled back his head, retracting his tongue, and stared down into the water, knowing his Lord wished to communicate more fully.

His partially Changed reflection wavered back at him, and then he heard the voice of the god.
My servant …

“I am here, Lord,” Varn answered. “The city lies ahead of me. As soon as I resume human guise and covering, I can walk among them once more.” His throat tightened as he remembered the previous night’s events. “I am sorry, Lord. I was weak. I failed you.”

You could not know that the girl had comrades who would
ride to her rescue,
the god said.
And you have learned a
valuable lesson, have you not?

“Yes,” he said to his reflection. “Oh, yes. I must put aside the past, and do thy bidding only, Lord.”

You have indeed learned,
the god said,
and because of
that I am inclined to be gracious.

“Thank you, Lord,” Varn said fervently. “I will dress myself and go into the city. I will seek her out and kill her for her temerity in hurting us.”

No,
the god said.
Last night’s adventure was … diverting.

She may live yet a little while. There is something else you
must do, My servant.

Master Varn blinked in surprise, then bowed his head.

“Command me.”

You must go into the town and find a ship. Cross the sea.

There is one on the other side of the Strait of Dara that I
have chosen as My vessel. An innocent, residing in a place of
power. There will be war, and much bloodshed. It is My will
that I be present to share in it, to partake of it.

Varn bowed his head. “I shall do as you say, Lord. But there is one thing …” He hesitated. “Ship passage will require payment.”

Fear not. I shall provide.

Varn raised his head, and felt himself growing smaller,

lessening in every way. He felt the alteration in his bones, his sinews, and then his link with Boq’urak vanished.

But he knew now it would return.

Shivering, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, Princess Ulandra paced the royal bedchamber. Despite her fur-trimmed dressing gown, the fire in the fireplace, and the mild-ness of the summer night, she was chilled to her bones.

Halting her restless movement, she stood still as a cramp twisted in her belly. As it passed, she took a deep breath.

He’ll be here any minute.

And he would
know
. He would ask her, and she didn’t dare lie. Or he’d ask her waiting women; he’d done it before.

They would tell him, they dared not lie for her. Salesin’s temper was not something anyone wanted to rouse.

As she walked past the casement window, she felt the brush of cool air across her cheek and shivered again. She’d taken Wolf out earlier for a walk in the garden. It was a lovely spring night, with the Moon nearly full. Ulandra thought of the Moon and the roses, bleached to delicate pal-lor in its light. Suddenly, for no reason at all, poor dead Prince Eregard’s face formed in her mind’s eye. He would have been a good companion on a moonlight walk.

She felt another cramp uncoil in her belly. Her courses had come on her a day or so early this month. Salesin would know, and he would not be pleased.

At least he wouldn’t take her tonight, or for the next few nights. But Ulandra knew she’d far rather endure his rough embraces than his temper when he discovered that once again she had not conceived.

She bit her lip as another cramp assailed her. If only she could just climb into bed, have her ladies-in-waiting bring her a posset and a warm brick wrapped in flannel. She could curl up next to it and, just perhaps, sleep.

How long had it been since she’d had a peaceful night’s sleep? She couldn’t remember.

Ulandra paused before her mirror. She had lost weight lately, and was even paler than usual. Hastily, she applied a bit of rouge. She could not afford to show weakness or appear ill. If Salesin thought she was sickly, incapable of breeding, Goddess alone knew what would happen to her.

She felt a sudden hot wave of anger against her husband.

There was still fear when she thought of him, but, more and more lately, it was drowned out by hate and anger.
How
dare
he treat me the way he does? How
dare
he?

Her face now had plenty of color. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, and her eyes sparkled with it. But as Ulandra stared into the mirror, she was suddenly aware of that presence, that Otherness. Her features seemed to melt, to lose shape, to rearrange themselves into a countenance out of a nightmare. Huge, lidless eyes stared back at her, and her mouth was not a mouth at all but— Ulandra cried out in fear, and suddenly everything was back in focus. The face in her mirror was her own.