Reawakening (17 page)

Tarn wheezed, and she cackled with laughter before demanding, “When the fuck did you wake up, you bastard? Why didn’t you come straight here?”

“I got close,” Tarn told her, grinning, and pulled her in again, locking his arms around her until she yelped a protest. “Someone chased me off.”

“So very, very unfair,” Gard complained.

Myrtilis grinned at him over Tarn’s shoulder. “
This
was the invading spirit you were in a snit about? You should have told me about him properly, old desert. He’s definitely one of the good ones.”

“You,” Tarn told her, “I love very much. So good to have someone on my side.”

She laughed and dropped down to the floor, hooking her arm through his. “Serves you right for traveling with our Alagard. He’s a sweet boy, even if he does like to flirt with the ladies, but he could argue the north wind into blowing east.”

“I do not flirt!” Gard’s sulk had been steadily deepening.

“And all the handsome men as well, if my sources are telling the truth,” Myrtilis said. “Tarn, my lovely, I am so thankful you are here. Ladies, for those who do not recall our dread king, the keeper of the first hoard, here is our hope of salvation. Tarn, do you know what we face here?”

“We travel with a trade caravan. For days the dead have been on our heels, and we saw the sign of the closed fist in Istel. I know.”

“Good. Your caravan?”

“On the bluff and in need of shelter.”

“Are they your new hoard?” she asked, with sympathetic eyes.

“They and you, and I shall claim every soul in the desert when I stretch my wings again.”

She smiled at him. “I am honored, my king.”

“I’m not,” Gard put in obstinately.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Then either you are too stubborn, or he has failed to explain it properly. Again.” She turned and called, “Aline, get the king’s people to shelter, please. They may stay as long as they have need.”

“We have some supplies, but they will not last for long,” Tarn warned her.

She patted his arm. “We have water and gardens, and easily a hundred empty rooms. Your hoard will be safe in this citadel. Did you sell all your trade goods in Istel? We only send out occasional trade parties to the town, so any novelties will sell well here.”

“Our caravan master will be overjoyed,” Tarn told her. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure. Now, let’s have both of you looking at this. We’ve been trying to track the movements of the dead to predict which graveyards are likely to rise up next.”

Chapter 18: Recovering

L
ATER
,
STANDING
at the window of the chambers he had been assigned, Tarn finally relaxed. There were a few others living here who had known him of old, and the steady warmth of their regard flowed around him like water. He had been weary from trying so hard to win the love of his new hoard, he realized now. It felt good to just relax and take succor from a reliable source.

Inside the caves, the air was cool against his skin. Water ran through the back of his chamber, trickling down the rocks to fill a broad bathing pool and then swirl away again to some deeper point. Some clever craftswoman had shaped a second lower pool to catch the overflow, and built a brazier into its rocky base to heat the water.

Chimes hung over the window, glass beads dangling in shining falls which cast colors back into the room. There were shutters to pull closed against the light, and the sill was deep—and, this being Myrtilis’s home, equipped with three full quivers of arrows and a bow hanging off the back of the shutters.

It felt like being home again, in another age, and Tarn sat there happily, watching the last of the wagons drive along the bottom of the wadi. Following Aline’s directions, the wagons entered the hidden bay at the bottom of the citadel, whence they could be hoisted into a more secure chamber and the traders welcomed to a true citadel, a home of warmaids and dragons.

“Nice room,” a familiar dry voice said behind him, and he turned to nod at Ia, who was standing in the doorway, still dust streaked and travel weary.

“Yours isn’t?” he inquired.

“Oh, fancier than I’m used to, but not quite up to this. You have a receiving chamber with a throne fitted in it.”

“It’s not very comfortable,” Tarn told her, “but you may sit in it if you like.”

She snorted. “Have we really fallen into luck, then?”

“Yes,” he said. “What does Sethan think?”

She groaned. “Oh, he and Cayl were heading off toward the baths when I saw them last.”

“They’re good baths.”

“I’m sure,” she agreed, “but I’ve walked in on those two enough times in my life.” She walked over to join him by the window, shaking her head. “You know, I was beginning to think it was time I came looking for this place. I’ve only got a few more long rides in me. Perhaps this is a sign.”

“This,” Tarn said, with absolute certainty, “is one of the places you can always find again, once you have been invited in.” Feeling a familiar presence at his door, he added, “Is it not so?”

“Absolutely,” Myrtilis said. “Sorry to interrupt. I was hoping to trade some gossip with Tarn here, but it can wait.”

“This introduction cannot,” Tarn said, turning around and pulling Ia with him. “This is Ianthe—”

“I warned you about using that name, Tarn.”

“—who has fought at my side these last months. She is a daughter of Myrtilis.” He stood back, waiting for the reaction.

Myrtilis rolled her eyes at him. “I have met plenty of our younger sisters before.” She stepped forward, though, and cupped Ia’s face in her hands, studying her before she leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Welcome home, my daughter.”

“This is Myrtilis,” Tarn said, in case Ia hadn’t realized. Then he turned away to give her some privacy to greet her divinity.

“Tarn,” Myrtilis said at last. “I came to invite you to dine with me. There will be a feast for all of yours and all of mine, but you must sit at my table—you, Ianthe, and your caravan master and his leman. And Alagard, of course.”

“Who Tarn would like as
his
leman,” Ia said, “if Gard ever speaks to him again, that is.”

Myrtilis’s face lit up. “Oh, now this is a story I must hear.”

Tarn scowled at Ia, who crossed her arms and glared back. “You let me stand here and meet my queen with dirt on my face and not even a hint of warning. You think I’m keeping my mouth shut about your shenanigans after that?”

“His manners have been terrible for centuries,” Myrtilis told Ia sympathetically. “Now I want to hear the whole story.”

“I told you she would like you,” Tarn said in a belated attempt to persuade Ia to show mercy.

They both laughed at him. Myrtilis drew Ia after her, heading toward the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Brave Tarn, you always forget that humans are more cunning than you expect. Now, you too could do with washing your face before dinner. I’ll send someone up with clothes to fit you.”

“I am not vain,” Tarn grumbled but returned her smile. He still needed to find out how she had survived all these centuries, but they had time now, and he was thankful.

I
T
WAS
a feast of the type he had started to forget in the months since he had woken again. Caravan guards, no matter their true and secret nature, did not wear silk and sit with queens.

Myrtilis was obviously in a generous mood, old-fashioned ring giver that she was, because everyone at the high table wore new clothes. Ia looked dignified and slightly uncomfortable in a high-collared thistle-colored tunic. Sethan was resplendent in flowing layers of fine linen and silk scarves. He was enjoying the attention of the warmaids gathered at the tables below, though Tarn noticed he kept his hand in Cayl’s. Cayl himself still managed to look slightly crumpled, even in a silver-trimmed chiton fit for a king.

As Tarn walked through the hall, aware of the murmurs from each side of him, he thought that whichever woman was responsible for maintaining the court’s wardrobes was either a frustrated stage director or making the most of a rare opportunity to clothe men. She had put Gard into a narrow open-necked white tunic that fell to the floor and was edged with striped metallic ribbons. Over it he wore a thin bright coat made of rainbow-streaked silk, and he had new beads in his hair to match all the colors of his coat. He was laughing openly at something Sethan was saying, his head thrown back and his shoulders easy. He should always look like that—bright and free and merry—Tarn thought, his heart filling with warmth.

There was a space in the center of the hall, between the ring of tables, and Tarn wondered if there would be dancing later. Myrtilis had always known how to host a good party, and he couldn’t imagine that had changed over the centuries, even if the world itself had been reshaped beneath their feet.

He stopped in the middle of that space, hearing the hall grow quiet. He waited, confident he would have all their attention soon. He felt like a hoard lord again, for the first time since he had woken. An iron coronet lay firm and heavy on his head, and even his clothes felt like the finery his generals had once worn, though the cloth was lighter than the velvets and wool he had worn in the north. It was the right shade of forest green, however, with the dragon rampant stitched in gold across his breast as it had been on his battle banners of old. It was a little too tight across the shoulders—made perhaps for one of his followers who had visited here in the days after he had entered his long sleep—and clung a little close to his chest for the old styles, but the worst of the tightness was hidden below the fall of his cloak, which was trimmed in gold with entwining dragons sewn across the green cloth in tight knots of golden thread, with tiny garnets gleaming in their eyes. Tarn’s trousers were loose, in recognition of the climate, but the cloth was soft and fine.

As everyone’s eyes turned toward him, he slammed his fist against his chest, meeting Myrtilis’s eyes, and said, “Hail to thee, Myrtilis, brightest flame in battle.”

She returned the salute, rising to her feet. “Hail to ye, Tarn of High Amel, oldest of the firstborn. Will you sit at my table?”

“Gladly,” Tarn said and mounted the dais to take the seat beside her.

As he sat, he heard Gard, at Myrtilis’s other hand, murmur, “Splendidly barbarian.”

He wasn’t convinced it had been meant for his ears, but he turned anyway and remarked, “You like me that way.”

“I don’t like you at all,” Gard snapped back, slouching down in his chair.

“Liar,” Tarn said amiably and settled down into his chair. It was cushioned and comfortable, and he relaxed. It made a nice change from the saddle.

A server brought them polished goblets of deep red wine, and he looked to Myrtilis. “A secret citadel, and you still manage to trade for wine?”

She sighed gloomily. “Local cider tastes like piss, and you can’t grow hops here for trying, but we have some vines.” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “I told you we had a garden.”

“I remember your garden,” Gard said suddenly and then scowled when he saw Tarn looking at him. “What? There aren’t many green places in the desert, you know.”

“I’m glad you love this one,” Tarn told him. “Perhaps you could show me later why you prize it so much.” Then he yelped as Myrtilis rapped him over the knuckles with her fork.

“No sex in the vineyard,” she commanded. “Not when I’ve assigned you a perfectly good bedchamber.”

“I am not going to have sex with Tarn!” Gard proclaimed, just as ten brightly clad dancers filed in and the room went quiet. In the sudden, startled hush, Gard groaned and dropped his head on the table.

“Not in the vineyard, at least,” Tarn clarified and took a sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue. “A good vintage, brave queen.”

“It is,” Myrtilis agreed, her lips twitching as Gard banged his forehead against the table. “But hush now for the dancing. We give thanks.”

The dancers were spreading across the floor before the dais. They all wore wide-skirted dresses like Esen’s, in bright bold colors, unpatterned and unadorned. Their hair hung loose, and they had white ribbons and bells linked around their wrists. They all dropped to one knee, facing the dais, and Tarn recognized Esen at the front, her blue dress cleaned and mended and her body posed in a still readiness that was a contrast to the jittery nerves she had shown on the road.

The pipes sounded with a low lilting note, and the dancers dipped forward, pressing their foreheads to the polished floor. Then they rose, presenting their open hands toward the place where Gard sat, the chagrin on his face fading into wonder. As the sound of the pipes rose in lilting, layered rounds, and the rattle of sistrums joined in to pick out a quickening beat, the dancers lifted one hand toward heaven and lowered the other toward the floor and began to turn.

It was slow at first, a quiet motion among the flare and promise of the music. Then their steps quickened, and they began to spin, faster and faster, colored skirts spreading around them like bells, ribbons trailing from their wrists, dark hair whipping in the still air as the trumpets joined in, singing out. Tarn saw Esen’s face as she spun, her eyes closed and her mouth open, lost in movement, turning like the world turned, and he felt, for a moment, that he was the false one, his stillness artificial.

He heard Gard gasp and tore his gaze away from the dancers to look at him. Gard was sitting up, his fists clenched around the edge of the table, and his face was blind with the same lost ecstasy as the dancers.

Then Tarn felt it rushing past him. The dancers had given themselves over to the desert, and their love was spilling over him, toward Gard. His hoard had gathered around him in easy affection, gathering their families to share their lives with him. Gard’s people, scattered over the cruel desert, loved him with dance and music.

Gard’s face was wet with tears now. Tarn wanted to rise up and stand behind him, lending him strength, but he stayed in his seat. This was about Gard and his people and belonged to Gard alone.