Reawakening (26 page)

“Let’s not,” Gard said, shivering, and slipped down off the rock to lean against Tarn instead. “Moonlight suits you, you know. All that pale hair turns silver.”

“We’re supposed to be on watch,” Tarn pointed out in amusement as Gard buried his hands in his hair, pushing his loose headscarf all the way off before coaxing him closer. “This is exactly what the Savattin would arrest us for.”

“Well, if we’re going to get arrested anyway,” Gard murmured and kissed him lightly, quick teasing brushes of his lips over Tarn’s mouth and jaw.

Tarn caught his face in his hands and turned it into a real kiss, slow, warm, and sustaining. Then he pulled back and reminded Gard, “We must keep watch. You’re too much of a distraction.”

“It’s not as if we could see anyone coming,” Gard grumbled. “Too many trees.”

Tarn eyed the thin scrub and low clumps of cypresses and chuckled, thinking of the towering forests of his previous home, where the very air was stained green and damp. “I’ll show you real trees one day, when this battle is done.”

Gard wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I don’t like trees, Tarn. Give me some nice rock formations any day. Far prettier, and much more likely to be amusingly shaped.”

Recalling some of the distinctly phallic rock pillars that decorated the desert, Tarn chuckled. Sitting down on the rock, he reached for Gard. “Come here.”

“Why?” Gard asked, but settled down between Tarn’s parted legs without any more argument. Tarn looped his arms around Gard’s waist and pulled him back against his chest.

“Watch for trouble,” he said, and hooked his chin over Gard’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Gard’s hair. “Kiss me later.”

“And to think people are scared of dragons,” Gard complained, but he leaned back against Tarn’s chest and let Tarn hold him without further complaint. He was a warm, solid weight in Tarn’s arms, and Tarn breathed in, calmed by the quiet of the night, and felt stronger with every moment that they shared.

T
HE
NEXT
morning they finally sighted the capital. Set within a low river valley, sheltered from the winds by the mountains on all sides, it still bore the traces of former glory. Pointed towers rose from the haze, caught by the thin golden light of dawn. Old walls wrapped around it, and the mist smoothed the ragged edges where the modern city had broken through in a spill of low brown houses. The river rushed along the western wall, gleaming like gold, and the mountains rose beyond it, silver washed and capped with clouds.

But even from here, Tarn could see that the vast stone lions over the gate had been beheaded, the scars of the axes showing pale against the age-dulled stone of their bodies.

The roads leading into the city seemed to writhe from a distance, filled with marching lines of soldiers converging on the camps that straggled around the city like a fraying hem.

“How do we pass that?” Aline asked, squinting down the mountainside.

Cayl turned to smile at her, although there was little humor in his eyes. “I say we pretend to be in the poppy trade. I did a favor for the Prince of Shara a few years ago. He’s one of those who sent us south in the first place, and I know enough about his court to be able to fake being a trade emissary.” He added reflectively, “And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, no matter how much he’d hate the idea.”

“Will his name get us in the gates?” Tarn asked.

“His name alone, no,” Cayl said, and his grin went sharper. “His signet, on the other hand….”

“Must have been some favor,” Aline commented.

Cayl shrugged. “There’s more than one reason I came with you. Let us ride.”

Chapter 26: Pledging

C
AYL
’
S
STORY
,
somewhat to Tarn’s surprise, got them through the gate. He suspected that had more to do with the press of the crowds than anything else. The guards looked bleary eyed and weary amid the roar of battalions marching in and townspeople trying to pour out, their valuables clutched to their chests. There were clashes, with steel ringing, horses bellowing, and children screaming, and Tarn’s shoulders were locked with tension until they fought their way off the main thoroughfare and into side streets.

He could see that Aline was just as tense even through her veils, her hand curling against her horse’s reins as if it gripped a sword, and he wondered if guards who were any more than half awake would have been taken in by her costume.

These narrower streets were busy too, with small crowds gathering anxiously on the corners. The old men eyed them suspiciously, and all conversation stopped as they passed, but no one stepped out of the shadows of the pocked and soot-stained walls to stop them.

“Where are we going?” Tarn asked Cayl quietly, scanning their surroundings nervously. The buildings were high, packed-mud walls without windows, but he could see movement on the rooftops, people watching them pass with frightened eyes.

“Sethan has a trade agreement with a member of the local merchants’ guild. I hate to pull Omay into our trouble, but we need fresh information and some shelter until we learn enough about the situation here to make our move. His home is in the northern quarter, not far from here.”

“Lead on,” Tarn said, and slowed his horse to travel at the rear again. The houses here looked poor, their facades flaking, and he shuddered as they passed a whole wall daubed with the symbol of the red fist, the paint still glossy.

The northern quarter was barely tidier. The plaster on the walls was a little fresher and the streets a little cleaner. There were a few shops open on the corners, all tended by sad-eyed women in dark veils, selling twists of bread, flat slabs of white cheese, and flowers that hung in wreaths as intricate as the embroidery on Tarn’s sleeves.

From the outside, there was nothing to mark the house they stopped at apart from its neighbors, save the intricate enameled gates, decorated with bluebirds among spiraling brass branches, that filled its entrance. A polished bell hung in the middle of the left gate, and Cayl rang it quickly.

The servant who came running was elderly, and clearly hard of hearing, as Cayl had to repeat his request a few times as the man bowed and argued. When at last he opened the gates to them, they passed along the covered passage at the side of the house and into chaos.

The house was built around a courtyard, with long shuttered windows on the southern walls, facing the sun. The courtyard was full of people and animals milling around a covered wagon as a loud argument raged. As they checked their horses, a rotund man pushed his way out of the mill and bowed a greeting to Cayl. He was balding and clearly anxious, his round face sweaty and heavy eyed.

“Peace be with you, Cayl Lattimar, and be welcome to my home. I am sorry, but I cannot offer you the hospitality I would in any other season. We are leaving for the country, and I dare not linger long.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Omay.”

“I am not sorry to go,” Omay said, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead. “I have daughters, and the Red Fist’s soldiers have hungry eyes. This is no place for a trading man, not anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Cayl said. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

“My wife has cousins, up in the sun’s own country, near the pass.” He sighed, patting his generous belly. “I’m too old to work the fields, but better a new trade than die in the old one. The Dark God does not favor fools.”

“And the Bright Lord blesses those who help themselves,” Raif murmured.

The comment was so soft that Tarn wasn’t sure it was meant for Omay, but it fell into a moment of quiet, and the merchant turned to look at Raif with an eager nod. Then he paused, his eyes widening as he stared at Raif and at Namik behind him, still in the shadows of the entranceway.

“Get inside,” Omay said, his voice suddenly taut. “All of you. Quickly.” He turned and snapped at his family, and a couple of boys ran forward to take their horses and click at the camels, their eyes bright with curiosity.

Inside the house it was cool and dim, the lower steps of the stairs pale with dust, but the upper room Omay led them to was big. Pale spaces on the whitewashed walls showed where hangings had been removed, and polished wooden shelves stood empty. There was a faint lingering scent of smoke and spices.

“Namik Shan,” Omay said, bowing deeply, and then continued in Latai, his voice swift and urgent. Namik replied carefully, spreading his hands to placate the merchant. At last Omay closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels.

When he opened his eyes again, he seemed calm, and he switched back to trade tongue to speak to Cayl. “Use my house, Cayl, but do not tell me for what purpose. You have brought Namik Shan and his sons home again. That is enough.” He nodded again, as if reassuring himself. “Keep close to the house. Many remember the Nightingale of Taila and her husband still, and not all of them are friendly. If I can, I will send word to the Dark God’s children. They may be able to offer you help.”

“The resistance?” Raif asked sharply. “You can reach them? Our letters have gone astray these three months.”

“They have strayed into dangerous hands,” Omay said. “You are as much a wanted man as your father, Suheyla’s son, and not least for the fires you set in Rulat last summer.”

Raif’s grin was pointed. “Poppies make good ashes.”

“And I thought he was such a nice boy,” Gard murmured into Tarn’s ear, with a low snicker.

“Niceness wins few wars, Great Alagard,” Raif said, without turning, and then switched into Latai, thanking Omay in fluid, gracious words.

L
ATER
,
WHEN
Omay and his family had left and Cayl and Aline had gone out to buy food, Tarn explored the house, from the sunken kitchen to the big family rooms above and the private chambers below the roof. It was crammed tightly against its neighbors, so close he could smell their cooking and hear their voices lilting out of the windows, and it reminded him of his old home. He could feel the people living around him, their anxiety and love for each other adding warmth to the dusk.

He ended up on the flat roof, gazing across the city as the sun set and the sky faded to a soft violet. Here in a residential district it was hard to tell how many soldiers were billeted around the city, but he could see the slow haze of smoke rising from their fires to blur against the clear bright sky.

The city spilled down the steep slopes of the valley below him, its southern walls a distant brown line far below where he sat. He could look down on the flat roofs of other houses and see lines of washing, fruit drying, and old men with white beards unrolling their sleeping pallets or smoking pipes slowly, their eyes fixed on the sky.

At the heart of the city, the remains of a great palace rose from the surrounding swirl of low buildings and round towers. It had been white-walled once, and the remains of blue-painted tiles still showed in places along the edge of the roof, although the stark blackened ribs of burnt rafters showed the effects of the fire that had ravaged them. The windows were boarded over, every board painted black and smeared with the symbol of the red fist.

Despite the pale walls, the whole place looked dim, as if the smoke in the air clung there more than to the rest of the city. The clouds had never parted over Eyr, by the end, and the flowering valleys had rotted away to slime and moss. The Shadow had not been here so long, and the clear skies gave Tarn some hope. Its mastery was not complete.

I will come
, he promised it silently.
I will cast you down again.

Closing his eyes, he felt for his strength. They were still there, the threads that had bound him to his hoard. Too many of them had frayed into nothing, snapped by time, but some remained.

Myrtilis was there, the thread stretched fine by distance, but as strong as steel. Aline was a rush of strength, and there were new fine links. He sorted through them, identifying each one and feeling the ebb and flow of his strength moving through them, washing out and returning sevenfold. Here was Ia, sharp and firm; Dit, a little glimmer over a steadfast bond; somewhat to his surprise, Barrett; fainter still were others of Sethan’s caravan—Jancis and Ellia, Jirell and Tira, Eryl and some of the other guards.

Gard was there, too, linked to Tarn by the spell that kept him bound in human form. It was a weight, sustaining neither of them, but it kept Gard safe, even though it felt like something that was not meant to be.

Tarn turned his thoughts away, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders out. He had sat too long, and the night was growing cold. He picked his way downstairs, leaving the roof to the stars.

He found Cayl in the courtyard, struggling to light the flat-topped stove.

“Damp wood,” he grumbled.

“Let me,” Tarn said and reached into the stove to call fire out of himself. After a moment, it lit, and he and Cayl stood back on their heels in satisfaction, enjoying the sudden rush of warmth.

There was no need to speak, and they stood contentedly for a while. Above them, in the house, Tarn could hear Gard, Esen, and Zeki chattering in Selar, their voices layering over each other. He wondered, idly enough, how it would be to settle somewhere with Gard, in some small house where their hoard were gathered around them.

Then Cayl said, his voice carefully relaxed, “You’re not so bad, for an old elemental. Haven’t made any unreasonable demands yet.”

“We used to police others, my kin and I,” Tarn said, not sure where this was going. “No one is above the law, be he god or spirit or man.”

“That I can agree with,” Cayl said, a wry note in his voice. “I’ve always been fond of the law.”

“Aye,” Tarn said and reached out to poke the fire again. The cylindrical stove was at a good heat now, blurring the air above it.

“I’ve been talking to Aline too,” Cayl said, watching him thoughtfully. “There’s a lot we’ve all forgotten about your kind, over the centuries.”

“So much gets lost to history,” Tarn said, thinking of Echta, whose name he had almost forgotten even though he still wore the man’s face.