The Storm Witch (10 page)

“And they share your thoughts?”

“Apparently. Think of it, my soul. To be able to hear another’s thoughts, even indirectly, to be able to converse, mind to mind.”

“I already know far more than I need to about what
you
think.”

Parno laughed and caught the biscuit she threw at him.
All the same,
he thought,
I’d give my best sword to know what
you’re
thinking, right now
.

“You’d be able to do this, then, eventually?” Her brows drew together.

“Ah well, I’ll learn what I can now, and hope for more on the trip back. These Crayx have other tasks besides teaching me.”

There.
There it was again. That change in her face, subtler this time, but unmistakable. Ice-gray eyes suddenly dark as she paled, the blood shifting away under her skin. Just now, while they were talking, what he was beginning to think of as the “old” Dhulyn had resurfaced. Animated, curious, already thinking of how to apply this new knowledge of the Crayx to what she knew of the world, of the
Shora,
of the Brotherhood. But now that guarded, shuttered look had returned, her face a mask, with something hidden underneath.

Surely she couldn’t believe that he would follow the Crayx, Pod sense or no? Parno pressed his lips together, finding himself annoyed. How many times did he have to prove to her that he was as much a Mercenary Brother as she was? That he wasn’t going anywhere, and never would?

A good thing we’re Partnered,
he thought, half angry, half amused. If any other woman annoyed him this much, he’d have to kill her.

“Come, you know you’ll tell me eventually,” he finally said. “Whatever the problem is that’s worrying you, you can’t keep it to yourself forever.”

A flash of consternation passed over Dhulyn’s face, flecked through with surprise, and then his Partner smiled. “Did you not just tell me that for Mercenaries, there is no ‘eventually’?” Almost,
almost
that was her normal tone, her normal expression.

“Not good enough. What stops you—we’ve changed direction,” he said, coming to his feet. Mercenary Brothers could not afford to become disoriented in the heat of battle, and their sense of direction was strong and well trained. They had been traveling more or less northeast, or northeast by east with the wind steady behind them since leaving the Letanian Peninsula and the Herculat Straits—the eastern-most point of the continent that was Boravia—more than half a moon before. Now they were heading almost directly north.

Dhulyn was already at the door to the cabin and Parno followed her out to the main deck where they found the crew assembling in the large open space between the afterdeck and the central cabins. Both captains were standing on the afterdeck, clearly preparing to address the crew.

By now Dhulyn Wolfshead had become accustomed to the way the Nomads reacted to Parno. The nods and small salutes—some, she saw, even touched their fingertips to their foreheads in the Mercenary manner. But what made her well-Schooled instincts uneasy was the number of people, of both sexes, who touched Parno as he passed them by.

Luckily, they didn’t also touch
her,
or she would have had to do something about it. Dhulyn had quickly realized that, due to their shared Pod sense, the Nomads accepted and included Parno in a way that did not include and accept her. She was used to being excluded—even if she hadn’t been a Mercenary Brother, her coloring and height marked her clearly for an Outlander. Even Darlara’s increasing air of possession hadn’t bothered her—she was used to women who were bedding Parno looking on him as their own. What could be more natural for the period of time the passion lasted? But this was something different. The more Parno was accepted, the more she was excluded. And not just by Darlara.

Something told Dhulyn that it was entirely due to this connection the Nomads had with Parno that space was cleared for them until they reached the front of the group, looking up to where Malfin and Darlara stood together on the aft deck. A light mist was falling, and many of the crew came pulling on rain gear, mostly short capes made from the supple discarded skins of young Crayx. But rainy and cold as it was, all of the crew were present, including children, who stood quietly with their teachers.

Now that she knew what to look for, Dhulyn could see the telltale differences in the movements and carriage of some in the crowd that showed there was already some kind of communication going on. Those on watch, for example, were clearly not being relieved, nor were they trying to move closer.

Perhaps it was this feeling of being left out that led Dhulyn, once they were near the front of the group, to touch her forehead to Ana-Paula, who stood to one side of the captains, her hand resting lightly on the big wheel. When not on watch, the chief pilot had revealed that she shared Dhulyn’s interest in the games of chance that could be played with vera tiles.

“Speak aloud,” Darlara said. “For Mercenaries, and for children.”

Dhulyn smiled. This would be the first time she’d been put into the same category as children.

“Helm,” Malfin called. “Give us the heading.”

“New heading,” Ana-Paula said. “North by northwest.”

Any ordinary person, perhaps even the crew themselves, would have been ready to wager that no one reacted to the chief pilot’s statement. But any Mercenary Brother would have sensed the sudden shifting of mood as dozens of pairs of lungs breathed in, feet were shuffled, throats cleared, and eyes flashed to meet each other.

“North by northwest, it is,” Darlara said.

Now there were actual murmurs among the children.

“Most of you will have learned by now that there is another Pod to the north of us, but may not know that is
Skydancer
Pod.”

Now the murmurs gained in substance, and even adult voices were raised in tones of excitement as crew members spoke to one another. Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye. Casually, very slowly, they moved so as to stand almost back to back.

“Heard right,” Darlara said, as if she were answering some remark spoken aloud. “Been seven years since we were in the same current with any of the Dancer Pods, and we’ll lose less than a day by turning to share current with them now.”

“Any who think our mission can’t wait less than a day, speak now, you’ll be heard.” Malfin looked from side to side and up into the rigging, scanning the crowd for any upheld hand.

“Go ahead, Captains,” someone called from the rear. A laugh rippled through the crowd.

“Mikel can’t wait,” someone else called out. The laughter broke out in earnest.

“Any unmarrieds from the stern watch can exchange,” Darlara said, smiling. “And some from the bow watch. You know who you are. As many as three of each gender may go if there are Skydancers willing. Tell me or Malfin before the evening watch begins.”

“When will we sight the
Skydancer
?” It was the teacher, Josel, who asked.

“Should see her at dawn.”

The assembly broke up, some heading almost immediately belowdecks or into the upper cabins out of the cold and mist, others gathering in twos and threes to discuss the news privately.

One young man remained leaning against the starboard rail, apparently not as interested as the others. Dhulyn recognized the young man Conford, who had been tricked into challenging Parno that first morning.

“Do you disagree with the delay?” she said. “Or are you thinking of making a change?”

“That won’t be me,” he said, lifting his chin to point out several unmarried crew members who were putting their heads together over by the port rail. “Came only five months ago, myself. Won’t exchange again. At least . . . not without leaving children.” He looked back at her and Dhulyn sensed there was more to his tale than what he was telling her. “Not everyone can, or will go.”

“The captains—”

“Can’t,” Conford said. “Nor any other who’ve children too young. Or who might have a relative less than two generations distant with the other Pod. The Crayx keep track, how close the bloodlines.” He looked away, and then back at her from under his long, black lashes. “Captain Darlara’s hoping to start a whole new line with a Mercenary babe from your Partner.”

“We wish her luck,” Dhulyn said.

“And you, Dhulyn Wolfshead? Like to start a line of your own?”

“I’ve no Pod sense,” Dhulyn reminded him.

Conford’s face stiffened. “Had forgotten. Meant no offense, Mercenary.”

“And none taken.”

“We didn’t see a sign of the southerners that day,” Xerwin said, pulling his travel-stained tunic over his head. His friend Naxot was unusually quiet, but it gave Xerwin a chance to practice what he would say in his report to his father the Tarxin. His officers had been left behind with the Battle Wings, manning the forts on the southeastern frontier—not that they’d contradict him, but not putting his men into embarrassing situations was what made Xerwin such a popular commander. “But the
game,
Naxot. Fattest deer I’ve ever seen. You should come next time, I tell you—”

“Do you think your father would be very angry if I petition to withdraw from my betrothal to your sister?”

Xerwin stiffened, turning to look at Naxot carefully for the first time since he’d arrived in his rooms. The man’s face was drawn, and the worry line between his eyebrows was new.
Thank the Caids he’s not looking at me,
Xerwin thought. His face was his weak spot, he knew; he still had trouble controlling his expression quickly. Nothing on Naxot’s face gave him any clues, so Xerwin decided to treat his friend’s words lightly.

“It won’t be that much longer,” he said. “Surely you can find some court woman willing to amuse you, if that’s the problem?” Xerwin deliberately chose the one possibility guaranteed to make his friend blush. Naxot’s family were devoted followers of the Slain God, and notoriously orthodox in their social behavior, expecting even their sons to wait for marriage. Not for Naxot the casual encounters which made Xerwin’s life more tolerable. Of course, this orthodoxy made Naxot’s Noble House excellent allies—the very reason Xerwin had suggested the betrothal in the first place.

But this time the little half-smile of embarrassment that usually followed any teasing along the sexual line failed to form on Naxot’s face. This was serious, then.

“My father the Tarxin would be very angry,” Xerwin said, judging that bluntness was called for. “Such a request would do more than damage the alliance between our families, it would be an insult he could not overlook. I would not advise your father to approach mine on this subject.”

Naxot set aside the breastplate he’d been toying with, staring down at the smoothly tiled white-and-black floor between his feet. “That’s why I was hoping you might speak for me.”

Xerwin felt his face stiffen into what he thought of as his court mask. “I? I might speak? You wish to break off a betrothal which was made at my suggestion, and you think
I
might speak for you?” Xerwin took a deep breath. It would break Xendra’s heart if he let this happen, but at the same time he had to wonder what could make Naxot back away from an alliance equally advantageous to his own family.

“When I proposed this match a year ago, you seemed pleased enough,” Xerwin said, aware that a hint of steel sounded in his voice. “Come, Naxot, what’s changed you?”

“I haven’t changed,” Naxot said finally, straightening his shoulders in a way that reminded Xerwin of one of his junior officers bringing him a bad report. “But Tara Xendra has.”

Xerwin’s hands balled into fists. He could see Naxot’s nose smashed and bleeding on the carefully fitted tiles. The pattern began to make his eyes swim. He took a calming breath, keeping his face turned away until he had himself under control. Even if he didn’t take his sister’s feelings into account, he could not afford to lose the favor of such a powerful family. True, Xendra had been ill, very ill after her accident. For the longest time they feared—but the worst had not happened, thanks to the Healer and the other Marked from the Sanctuary. Xendra was still not quite herself, that was true. But to suggest that there was anything out of the ordinary . . . Xerwin turned back to his friend.

“Xendra’s fine,” he said. He picked up a bathing robe and pulled it on. “I haven’t had a chance to visit her yet, but my advisers tell me her health has continued to improve during my absence on the frontier.”

But Naxot lowered his eyes. Just like that junior officer.

Xerwin’s advisors had also told him the rumors.

“My sister is not Marked.” Xerwin frowned, finding his sword inexplicably in his hand. He put it down, slowly. “You know as well as I that the Sanctuary has examined Xendra and declared she has no Mark. Do you suggest that my sister, daughter of Xalbalil Tarxin, the Light of the Sun, is in some way unworthy of you?”

“I would not care if she were Marked,” Naxot said, so simply that Xerwin believed him. “She would still be your sister. But,” he shook his head. “It is I who have become unworthy of the Tara Xendra. She is too far above me now.”