Kei's Gift (17 page)

“On the contrary, it’s the perfect time for it. What do you think it will be like in the future, when we cross those mountains? We could face almost anything, for who knows how long. If things go badly, and you have to deal with it in your present state, you won’t survive it. I speak to you as a healer to a patient now, for that’s what you are. Now endure the therapy and trust I want the best for you.”

“I look like a fool,” he said miserably, hunching over the bowl of food he no longer had any appetite for.

“Do you think your patients are fools? Do you think they need to be mocked for being ill?” She sighed and patted his arm. “They do say we make the worst patients.”

He reluctantly accepted what she said. He hadn’t seen himself in need of healing, but clearly he was. “All right. But I can’t do any more today. My head’s killing me.”

“Yes, I’m sure. But on the other hand, I think your control is better.” She put her hand on his face. “
Yes, I think it is. What you are feeling from the others is much less intense. This is good. Do you want your food?”

“Not really.”

“Then lie down and I’ll ease the pain a little. You should sleep again. You have an injury and it needs to heal. Think of it like any other.’

“Yes, healer Jena. Are you any better when you’re ill?”

She regarded him gravely, but a small smile twitched her lips. “
I don’t allow myself to get sick.”

He snorted at that, but then let her marvellous touch ease the ache in his head. He could only trust the therapy she prescribed would not be a long one.

~~~~~~~~

If it weren’t for Jena, the month that followed their arrival at the fort would have been mind-numbingly boring for Kei. They had little to do other than prepare food, clean themselves and their belongings, and make repairs. The rest of the time was spent idling by the stream, talking or bathing. When it rained, people gathered in the barracks and continued to build on the new friendships which had been struck up. The hostages from Ai-Beyto arrived two weeks later. Kei knew some of them as he had once travelled with his parents to that village, and they were as glad as he was to see a familiar face.

They were also delighted to know of the safe arrival of the refugees from their village and the others. By now, Kei had rebuilt his control enough so the reactions of the newcomers did not affect him, although he was aware of their emotions, just as he was of those of all the others. Jena’s lessons were finally having the desired outcome, and he felt much calmer and steadier than he had done in a long time. Her presence was a blessing in another way too. Planning with her over the care of the hostage group, exchanging ideas, even doing a little plant collecting by the stream to see if there were any species they were unaware of which might hold medicinal properties, kept his mind occupied and stopped him gnawing on things he could do nothing about.

Her mind-speaking was a major factor in keeping morale up, although she warned once they crossed the mountains, her link with the others, already stretched to its absolute limit, would be broken. Until then she could keep them informed of news from the villages with mind-speakers, and from Darshek. So far, the soldiers quartered on the villages had caused no trouble. Their main concern was collecting grain and sending surpluses to the outposts being set up, and making sure the traders were travelling south and not north. They didn’t interfere with everyday running of village affairs, or at least, they hadn’t up to now. It was always possible things might change once Darshek had surrendered to the siege now in place, for which the city had had ample warning and time for preparation. The hostages were told not to be alarmed at the news of the siege, nor over any delay in rescuing them. The rainy season would mean things wouldn’t happen for a couple of months at least, but preparations were being made. They were asked to be patient, Jena reported.

Peit snorted. “Like we have any choice,” he said derisively, and there were many nods of agreement.

“It is true we don’t,” Gonji said. “The Prij think of us as prisoners. We should instead think of ourselves as...emissaries.”

“What?” Kei said, surprised and not a little amused at the idea. “You’re touched.”

“No, listen to me. The Prij hold us in contempt because they’re ignorant of us. They call us savages, and mock our beliefs. We’re trying to learn what we can of their ways, but let them also see we’re not savages, not barbarians. By behaving with dignity and good humour, we may do as much as any direct attack to win good treatment for our clansmen.”

“You’re being rather idealistic, Gonji. The prejudices are very deep, and these people aren’t rational. Just witness that ceremony this morning. How can you reason with people who think setting fire to branches sprinkled with salt will somehow bring good fortune?”

“Very true. But the alternative is to let them confirm the worst of their beliefs about us. If one is practical, we’re likely to be treated better if they respect us, than if they despise us.”

Maybe so, Kei thought, but it would be a long struggle for that respect.

They’d know soon enough what their fate was to be. Jena had been tracking the progress of the Ai-Kislik hostages and knew they were two weeks behind those of Ai-Beyto. Nerves grew taut again, and there were some quickly ended quarrels among the group as the day of the last hostages’ arrival drew near. Generally tempers were less frayed than they might have been, but the waiting was hard on them all.

Finally, on the thirteenth day, close to noon, Kei heard a blast of horns sounding from the sentinels, and soldiers assembled in the courtyard. He, like the other Darshianese, came outside the barracks to see what was happening. It took some time before the great wooden gates of the fort were swung open, and in rode several men on urs beasts, followed by a hundred or so soldiers and the hostages on foot.

The sergeant in charge of the fort saluted the arriving officers and barked out commands, which Kei recognised as orders for soldiers to come and take charge of the urs beasts. With a shock, he realised one of the men dismounting was the general who’d been so supercilious at Ai-Albon. The man wore an oilskin, and took it off, revealing a much less impressive suit of armour than what he’d displayed at Kei’s village. This time he wasn’t wearing a helmet, and as his oilskin’s hood was removed, a fall of bright golden hair was exposed, as well as a coldly handsome face, half obscured by a neat beard of a darker red-gold than his head hair. He was not, to Kei’s surprise, much older than himself—possibly only Reji’s age. Somehow, Kei had expected him to be in his middle years, but this was a young man in the prime of his life, very tall and muscular, every inch a warrior. What really caught Kei’s attention were the piercing blue eyes under fine blond eyebrows, which seemed to see everything, missing nothing, assessing and judging.

The man scanned the courtyard and his assembled soldiers as the sergeant continued to make his report. He didn’t seem interested in what was being said, instead taking in the details of the building around him, as if trying to divine its weakness. At last his gaze rested on the hostages. Kei again felt the wave of virulent hatred mixed with sadness he’d noted the last time he had encountered this man. Again, even with all Jena’s training, it made him sick to his stomach. This man’s emotions respected no boundaries at all.

He must have moved or done something to catch the man’s eye because suddenly he found himself the subject of that powerful, cold gaze. Only a fancy, but it was as if the man saw Kei’s very soul—only to dismiss it as utterly worthless and hateful. But the moment was brief, and then the man turned away from him and the rest of the Darshianese as of no consequence to him at all. He walked in the other direction through the courtyard, to where the sergeant had his office, and then Kei lost sight of him altogether.

Ruti from Ai-Darbin hissed in a breath. “That’s the bastard that murdered Timo. Cut him down like a dog.”

“He hates us,” Peit said. “The way he spoke to us, the way he looks at us.... Kei, this doesn’t bode well.”

“It’ll bode as well or ill as we let it,” Kei said, letting impatience colour his voice, instead of the turbulent emotions which seeing this general again had raised in him. What had caused the man to have such a compelling disdain for them? And this grief, as strong as the loathing—what had happened?

It was unfortunate, to say the least, that it appeared they would be going south with this man in charge. It was unlikely they would enter Kuprij without someone senior bringing them in. Still, if he wanted them dead or harmed, it would have happened by now, so worrying about it would get them nowhere. Kei went with his comrades to welcome the newcomers from Kislik and to help them get settled. There would be much to do over the next few hours, but even as his mind occupied itself with listing those tasks, he couldn’t help a little shiver of fear. The Prijian officer who had looked at him had wished Kei dead. More than that—he wished Kei had never been born.

Hatred like that was almost like a natural force. Natural forces could be dangerous and uncontrollable things. If you didn’t learn to live with them...they’d crush you.

But could one learn to live with hate that strong? For good or ill, they were about to find out.

Arman was fighting a war within himself, and losing. A man used to certainty in his decisions, and constancy in his beliefs, now he found himself questioning his thoughts, his actions. His desires conflicted in almost every way. His urgent need to shake the dust of Darshian from his boots was matched by his equally powerful urge not to return to his house which was not a home and never would be. His wish that every one of the Darshianese hostages would die painful deaths, clashed with the equally vehement one not to have to return to Darshian to fetch more of them, and his sense of duty to his sovereign.

His body rebelled too. He was tired when he wanted to be awake, and yet he couldn’t sleep when he lay down with that intention. Food had no pleasure for him, and more often than not, he left what was offered untouched, nauseated at the idea of eating. Yet there was a hunger in him for something, anything, to ease the ache in his heart. He had as yet to turn to wine for solace, but only because it would work too well. He would not sully Loke’s name by becoming a drunkard in his memory. Yet, without this to numb his senses, his thoughts ran around and around in his head like a pet hisk in a cage. They led him to dark and unhappy places, and he had no power to prevent them doing so.

Perhaps most disturbing to him, as they began the march towards Urshek and once again fine temples and ample evidence of devotion to the gods marked the landscape, was accepting his unwavering, unquestioning, lifelong piety had utterly ceased to offer him comfort. The rituals, the weekly thanksgivings—once been a pillar of his life—were now meaningless and grating. It was a trial to listen to the familiar words, to sit through the sacrifices, to pretend that, like his men, he still believed Lord Niko heard every word offered in prayer, and responded to them. He did not feel himself beloved of the gods any more.

Worse, he found himself questioning how Loke’s death could be the gods’ will. Why would Lord Niko want to let a good, pious boy die and yet spare the heathen, immoral Darshianese? Why had none of them fallen into the deep ravines as they had crossed the mountains? He had believed Niko to be a merciful, wise father to his children. The senseless, cruel murder of the most innocent of his creations mocked the very concept of wisdom or mercy.

He kept such thoughts to himself, of course. His blasphemy would shock and disgust both peers and his subordinates. Likewise, he spoke to no one of the confusing shifts in his moods from sadness to fury to numbness, which wearied him beyond belief. A further sign, if any were needed, that he was not himself these days—so very far from himself that he no longer recognised the man he had become. He moved through each day in a cold, isolated fog, a perfect military machine, assessing facts and figures and events purely from the tactical point of view, and caring not about any personal impact on himself or anyone else. At night, he continued the long walks which were only slightly effective in wearing him out.

At least the dreams had stopped on the mountains. Exhaustion was all too easy to achieve there, even with the guide ropes and bridges that had been built by the soldiers in the three months since the fort had been established. He had to admit their engineers had done a magnificent job—Her Serenity should be pleased. She should be delighted, in fact. Every thing had gone to plan, precisely as she had wanted it. Whether she
would
be delighted, they would find out soon enough.

The soldiers and the hostages had camped on the northern edge of Urshek for a few hours, waiting for nightfall when they could be moved through the city with the minimum observation. No one was entirely sure how the southern Darshianese, who could be troublesome when they put their mind to it, would react to a group of their fellows being taken under guard through the streets. So Ritus, meeting them two miles from the city limits, had advised them to wait before they joined the ship. Arman didn’t care one way or the other. The slight delay allowed him to make his reports to Ritus and learn his instructions. Other than that, he was indifferent.

He had his tent set up and refreshments served from the supplies Ritus had brought with him. “I bet you missed Prijian wine,” Ritus said, stretching in his camp chair expansively.