The Storm Witch (27 page)

Darlara usually enjoyed her time on watch. Through the Crayx she could see the whole ship, feel/taste the waters around it, sense the presence of the whole Pod, touch them lightly as they slept, performed their duties, ate, played with their children, hummed a soft lullaby, made love. And for the last few days, she put her hand on her lower belly, there had been a new life she could not yet sense directly. Or so the Crayx had told her.

But tonight, instead of joyful, Darlara felt edgy, distracted, unable to follow any one path of thought or feeling. She left her position by Ana-Paula at the wheel, and went down to the main deck, hoping that activity would clear her head, but finding her feet leading her toward the door of her own cabin, where she had left Parno Lionsmane asleep when she came on watch.

As soon as she realized where her feet were leading her, she went to the rail and leaned her elbows on it, letting her head fall into her hands.

#He still grieves# #You must have more patience#

*How long*

#Even now, his grief is less sharp# #There is something, a patterning, that he uses when he fights, and when he makes music, that helps him# #It restores him to himself# #Yes#

*Should I tell him about the child* *Would his current then flow more closely with ours*

#His current now carries him toward his revenge# #He believes he will die in taking his vengeance#

*But would the child not show him that there is another current* *It may be, that if knows there will be a child, might make a greater effort to live*

#It may be#

This time Darlara had her hand on the latch of the cabin door before she turned aside and went to the rail again.

Some time later, Mal, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, came and nudged her with his shoulder.

*Your watch already*

*Jesting* *How can I sleep with all this turmoil* *Will, won’t, might, shouldn’t, what if* *Think I can’t feel that, even if don’t have your thoughts*

Darlara rested her cheek against her brother’s shoulder. *Sorry* *Don’t know what to do*

*Guessed that*

Darlara butted him with her head, somehow eased by his chuckle. *Serious*

*Know* *But tell me what it’s about* *This way, losing sleep for nothing*

*It’s the child*

He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. *Know for sure then*

*Crayx say so* *Certain*

*Wonderful* *The best news*

Darlara knew she should feel that way, too. And the greater part of her did. Would feel that way for the rest of her life, regardless of what Parno Lionsmane might do. But now that she had part of what she wanted, why should she not try to get all of it?

*Crayx say Lionsmane might not be seeking hard to live, now that his Partner’s gone* *He’ll get his revenge, but not carefully, thinking he might as well die*

*But if he knows about the child, won’t he want to stay* *Won’t he want to see it grow*

Darlara nodded. Of course Malfin thought the same as she did herself. They were twins, after all.

*But see, what if, knowing that his promise is filled, what if that’s what lets him decide to die* Malfin began to frown and Darlara rushed to finish her thought. *If don’t tell him, he’ll still have his promise to fulfill, perhaps take better care*

*Don’t tell him* *Are you crazed* *When you show, he’ll know*

*But by then he’ll be with us for moons, he’ll be better, he won’t want to die anymore* He’ll stay with me, she hadn’t quite the courage to form the thought clearly, though she knew Mal picked it up.

Mal, openmouthed, shook his head slowly from side to side. *He’ll know you lied, and that’s if Crayx don’t tell him* Mal’s anger could not have been plainer if he was shouting from the Racha’s nest.

*But he’ll be alive, he’d forgive*

Mal turned to look her squarely in the face. He took a step back from her, and Darlara swallowed hard. Mal had actually taken a step away from her.

“What are you thinking?” he said aloud, as if he didn’t want to share her thoughts anymore. “Isn’t some landster, we don’t care if the shell knife we sell him falls apart in six moons. Lionsmane is Pod-sensed. Crayx know him, saved him. He’s part of us.” Mal tapped his chest with his closed fist. “Lie to him, lie to
all
of us.” He pointed his finger at her in a way that suddenly reminded Darlara of their mother. “Tell him, or I will.”

#Or we will#

“There. See?”

Darlara felt the tears spring into her eyes. Mal was right, could she
really
have been thinking about lying? The Pod did not lie to each other—could not lie, really, since the Crayx always knew the truth. And yet, she’d been thinking . . . her face fell forward into her hands and she felt her brother’s strong arm once more around her shoulders.

*Sorry* she wept. *So sorry*

#Forgiveness# #Understanding#

Darlara straightened, wiping off her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. She patted Mal in response to his worried look and turned away.

This time she went all the way to the cabin and went in, closing the door behind her.

Carcali sat on her little balcony, the stone cold beneath her, her arms wrapped around her knees. Watching the clouds through the balusters. Something about the way that woman looked at her at the feast had taken her aback, just a little. Carcali had shrugged off the idea of these Paledyn—this Artless culture had so many superstitions. Like their Slain God and the animal worship of the Nomads, and the creepy
otherness
of the Marked. Carcali shuddered, skin crawling, remembering the six-fingered touch of the so-called Healer. Why didn’t he fix his hand if he was so good?

Carcali stood up and went inside, rubbing the outside of her arms with her hands. That woman. That Paledyn, had looked at her as if she could see right through her, as if she already knew everything there was to know about her, and didn’t like what she knew.

Carcali felt the warmth of rising anger. What right had that woman to look at her like that? Tattooed like a Master Artist, and no more Art about her than there was about this chair. Carcali kicked it away from the table enough to sit down.

There was no reason for her to second-guess her arrangement with the Tarxin just because some painted barbarian—
scarred,
no less—looked at her like all her aunts, her mother, and both grandmothers rolled into one. After all, making an alliance with the Tarxin was the smart thing to do. He was the most powerful person around here. If her own people had only sided with her, backed her, she wouldn’t be in this mess, she—

Carcali stopped, breathing hard, tears threatening. The Tarxin was the most powerful, but that didn’t make him
right
. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Maybe she needed other allies. Better allies. What about the brother, Xerwin? He at least made you feel you were talking to a real person when he looked at you.

Xerwin had dreamed of the Paledyn in the night. What little sleep he managed in the few hours before dawn brought the sun to his window had been broken up with images of what they had talked about the night before. Storm clouds turning into people he had not seen in years, his old guard sergeant, his mother. Images of his sister showing him the dances she had learned. Images of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s smile. He dreamed that she took his face in her hands and kissed him with her cool lips.

Xerwin pushed the empty cup of ganje away, snapped his box of fresa shut and rubbed his hand across his mouth. Well,
that
could complicate things considerably, couldn’t it? It wouldn’t mean the end of his betrothal—that was a purely political alliance, the girl was still a child, and he had in fact never met her. A private bonding with a Paledyn, known to all but never spoken of . . . it could be acceptable to even the most orthodox and conservative, even Naxot’s House couldn’t find fault. It would be the same as a bond with a Holy Woman, something only she could choose.

Such a bond as Naxot might have hoped for, if Xendra were really a Storm Witch. Or if the Storm Witch was really Xendra . . . or . . . Xerwin shook his head. No good thinking about that. It was almost time to meet with his father.

As Xerwin navigated the corridors between his own suite and his father’s morning room, he found that he felt better than he had for days. Even if what he fantasized about her was not likely to come to pass, the fact that Dhulyn Wolfshead, a Paledyn, saw the situation the same way he did, gave him confidence. Before speaking with her, he’d been unsure whether to confront his father on the subject of the spirit that had usurped his sister’s body. Now he knew it would be the correct thing to do.

A small gathering of people in the Tarxin’s anteroom made him slow his pace. He did not immediately recognize the child emerging with her escort of two lady pages and an armsman as the Storm Witch. Instead of her usual child’s white clothing, she was dressed in a robe of sky blue, embroidered over with gold. Not unlike the colors he wore himself, Xerwin realized.

“Xerwin.” The Storm Witch made an abortive gesture, lifting her arms awkwardly as if she meant to embrace him, but didn’t know how. A hand squeezed his heart. His sister would have known, would have run to him, regardless of protocol.

“Tara Xendra,” he said, formally inclining his head to her.

“Tar Xerwin.” She inclined her head also. Did he imagine it, or was there something different about her voice?

Xerwin waited until the Storm Witch and her attendants had turned into the corridor before presenting himself at the Tarxin’s door. When he was admitted, he found his father standing at one of the two tables in the room set at right angles to the windows. Where the Tarxin stood were large scrolls, some held open with weights, some curled and waiting. The other table held only the plates of a solitary breakfast.

“Well done, my boy,” the Tarxin said, lifting his eyes from the maps he was studying and gesturing to a chair.

“My lord?”

“You spent most of the night in the Paledyn’s rooms. Well done, indeed. I’ve reason to congratulate you on your good thinking yet again, it seems. And it appears that women will always succumb to a pretty face, even such women as that.”

Xerwin’s lips parted, but something made him hold his tongue before he could explain to his father just how wrong he was. He hesitated, lowering himself into the chair slowly. It seemed wrong somehow to let his father say such things—think such things—but whether he was defending the Paledyn or himself, Xerwin didn’t know.

“F-father,” he said, stumbling over the word. “The Storm Witch that inhabits Xendra’s body.” Xerwin glanced up and found his father looking at him. The man’s eyes were bright, but his face was a stone mask. Xerwin tried to remember how confident he’d felt in the corridor only moments ago.

“The Storm Witch,” he said again. “Should we not find some way to rid ourselves of her?”

The Tarxin pushed the charts and scrolls on the table to one side and took the seat across from Xerwin. He leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms. Xerwin tried to keep his gaze from faltering.