The Language of Souls (6 page)

I
t was insanity perhaps, but she’d come to hope that he’d help her escape, that he’d help her find some wild tymia plants and lead her back to the waterfall. It was more than a dream; it was impossible. He was a soldier and she was a captive...and that was all. So why did it feel like it was so much more?

Solena lifted Rundan’s votif from the stand and peered inside. His embers still glowed, but only faintly. Would there be any light at all come morning?

She held his votif against her cheek and soon tasted the salt of her own tears trickling down to her mouth. When the tears finally dried to nothing, she steadied herself and set his votif back in its stand. She stilled in the quiet of the cave and listened. His breath was coming in shallow gasps. She recognized the awful sound from the sickroom, and though she hated having such a cold thought, she knew if she did nothing tonight, he’d be dead by dawn.

Solena touched his forehead and found it terrifyingly cold. Muttering pleas beyond comprehension, she rubbed ground hanni root on his lips for strength and rubbed more beneath his tongue, but still he didn’t stir.

There was nothing more to do. Nothing.

Solena dropped her face into her hands and remained that way for a long time, with her eyes squeezed shut. She rocked back and forth, but it
didn’t help. It was hopeless. Her medicine was hopeless; her gift was hopeless. All of it. Finally, she opened her eyes and simply stared through the gaps between her fingers. All she could see were slivers of umber light formed by the guttering fire. In one of those slivers, she caught sight of Rundan’s simply crafted votif stand. Inside, his votif was but a shadow, barely visible, while her votif glowed steadily, like a bright golden star on a very black night.

Solena let her hands fall to her lap.

Her embers were burning bright, and his were nearly out.

Why should she have so much? She had more than enough for a rich life. More than enough for both of them.

For both of them.

No. It couldn’
t be done. Just the thought made her tremble inside.

It couldn’
t be done. Could it?

And why not?

A new mother gave of her embers after giving birth, didn’t she? It was the only time Solena knew of when embers passed from one person to another. As the babe grew within her, so a mother’s embers grew, until her votif nearly overflowed. When the babe was born, a portion of the mother’s embers were poured into a new votif, one the father carefully selected, as Leopold had done. It was a beautiful rite of life.

But Solena didn’t have a double portion of embers. Could she die trying such a thing? She didn’t know. She only knew she couldn’t kneel beside Rundan, doing nothing, watching as his light went out. She’d never been good at ushering the dead into Paradiso, but it was somehow easier when the person was old and each day brought only pain. With someone young and full of life, as Rundan had been just a few days before, she couldn’t bear it.

Back home, she’d never been able to watch a cat toying with a mouse. She always wanted to snatch the mouse away. It was foolishness, but she’d always been that way. Theta too. They’d teased each other about it. If Theta had been here now, Solena could have asked her what she should do. Although, her friend would probably say she needed to ask for his permission first. What an awful rule. And impossible in his current condition. Rundan couldn’t even open his eyes, let alone hear her. And, even if he could hear her, he wouldn’t be able to understand anything she said. Maybe she could have gone to Grandpeer, the Great Prophet of Torrani, or to old Korvanus, who knew the ancient texts better than anyone. Surely one of them would have known how to advise her. But now, alone in the cold night with Rundan, she had only the small voice in her head to answer to. One that asked quietly, and insistently:

What if you didn’t have
to stand by and watch him die?

Solena dug through her supplies, spilling a vial of pungent tiron herbs in her haste, and found a long spoon with a tiny bowl at one end. How much would she need? She didn't dare put too little, lest it make no difference. She didn't dare put too much, lest she put her own embers out. Her hands were trembling so badly she didn't know how she could possibly do anything without spilling. After carefully dipping the spoon into her votif, she scooped out one bowlful of the glowing embers, the exact amount of crushed tymia one used for disea
ses of the lung. Was it enough?

Solena drew the spoon out, trying desperately not to spill any. She carefully lifted her measurement over to Rundan’s votif. The distance between them was no wider than a hand’s breadth, but in that moment it felt like forever. She tapped the embers inside and then stirred gently. When she could no longer see a distinction between his waning embers and her brighter ones, she dropped the spoon into the globe, too afraid to remove it, and began a litany of prayers.

RUNDAN AWOKE TO darkness and the strangest sense of not being fully himself, as if only his mind were alive—alive in a half dream. He wondered idly if he were dead. But, surely, if he were dead, he’d not only be formless, but he’d be filled with joy and possibility, which he wasn’t. And, more importantly, why couldn’t he move? Where was the bounteous feast of paradise?

As a boy, his father had told him many stories of warriors arriving in paradise and how it required amazing skill with a sword. In the ancient texts, however, the dead simp
ly awoke to new life. This didn’t feel like a new life. So perhaps he wasn’t dead after all. Besides, the air around him stank of soot and damp earth. Paradise was supposed to be filled with the fragrant scent of Kulaeli flowers.

As the drugging, half-awake daze of sleep began to fade and lift away, Rundan turned his head and saw the outlines of a cave. The embers of the campfire barely glowed and the thinnest trail of smoke arose from its ashes. It was still burning, but only just. How long had he been asleep? It felt like forever.

His chest felt unusually heavy, so Rundan raised a hand to explore. He found the girl slumped against him in sleep, with her cheek pressed to his breastbone. When he grunted several times and she still didn’t move, he shook her shoulder. Finally she stirred, first curling deliciously closer to him and then sitting abruptly upright. She looked into his open eyes, blinked several times as if to clear her vision, and then began to weep, not with the loud moans and cries of a funeral mourner, but with a great stillness of both body and soul. Or so it seemed to Rundan. She watched him through her tears, whispering hundreds of incomprehensible words under her breath.

Rundan could only stare at her. As he watched, her face lit with the sunniest of smiles and she threw her arms around him, or tried to since he was lying down. She was
hugging him?
She was his prisoner, or had been, and now she was hugging him? Not knowing quite what to do, Rundan awkwardly patted her back. When she finally rose to her feet and began to pour what he hoped was a cup of water for him, Rundan gingerly tried to sit up.

She immediately objected—though her words meant nothing to him, her frown and the staying hand gesture were clear—but he simply beckoned her closer. She set the cup against his lips and he drank deeply of water so pure and sweet that he motioned for more. With a weary smile curving her lips, she poured more and helped him drink. As she did so, she kept watching him with an expression of amazement. A little unsettled by her fixed attention, Rundan looked around the cave, searching for anything to dr
aw her attention away from him.

On the ground beside her, he saw her arrangement of medicines and tools, all neatly lined in rows. He saw a folded cloth and vaguely remembered her bending over him and cooling his brow. He was about to thank her, when his eyes fell upon the votif stand.

And that’s when he saw a long metal spoon protruding from the opening of his votif.

Though the shock of it struck Rundan as violently as a fist cracking into his face, his body felt numb, as if sleep were trying to drag him back into its dark embrace. Rundan picked up his votif
and stared at it in disbelief.

“
What have you done?
” he asked.

The girl made an awkward halting motion with her hands and quickly took the votif from him. She placed it back in the stand next to hers.

Next to hers....

No
. It was impossible.

Rundan pantomimed a series of actions, actions she couldn’t possibly have taken: holding an imaginary spoon, scooping embers from one votif and tipping them into the other.
She’ll laugh at me
, he thought.
Of course she will.
But...she didn’t. All she did was dip her head once. Then she simply folded her hands on her lap, like some humble servant girl, and she looked away with obvious deliberateness.

Rundan knew a moment of great uneasiness. The girl—a foreigner whom he’d captured and had been leading to certain death—had taken embers from her own votif and
mixed them with his
. What did it mean? A mother did so for her newborn babe, but nature provided for that need. Or so he’d heard.

All his life, his mother had chased after him as he ran out of the house, telling him to watch out for his votif, to make sure he’d placed the cork in snug enough that it wouldn’t pop out. And her worst threat of all was:
Rundan, don’t climb so high or you’ll fall and crack your votif and all your embers will spill out!

He could almost hear his mother’
s voice now. And her mother too. And his teachers. All of them so worried about spilling embers. Even as an adult, he watched over his votif with care, making sure it was tied securely to his belt and the cork was fitted snugly into the opening. Making sure he said his prayers each night. And, most of all, making sure none spilled out. Ever. The embers were life. You made sure you never lost any and you certainly never
gave them away
. It was so inconceivable he hadn’t heard a single story warning against it. Who would even consider doing such a thing?

Evidently, this girl. What had she been thinking? She could have died. It was amazing she hadn’t.

With hands less steady than he would have liked, Rundan indicated she should give his votif to him. She did so with great care and watched with her brow wrinkled in concern as he removed the spoon. He tapped the residue of embers inside and sealed it with the cork. Though his fingers fumbled with the leather lacings, he managed to tie the votif securely to his belt. That done, he motioned for her to do the same with hers.

With tear-reddened eyes, she did as he wished. Her fingers shook so badly she seemed barely able to set the cork in place, but she did it. As she tied her votif to her belt, he noticed she was wearing her leathers again. That was good. Good and nor
mal.

“My horse?” he asked.

Her brow wrinkled again, so he made the blowing sounds of a horse and her expression cleared. In turn, she made chewing motions and extended her arms, indicating a very large, round belly. Rundan nodded with an uneasy sense of satisfaction. As soon as he was strong enough, they could continue—

He broke off mid-thought. Continue to where? To the palace, where she’d be tortured and put to death? After all she’d done for him? She’d saved his life. His father’s words returned to him:
take her to the palace or do not return
. In view of all she’d done, the choice wasn’t all that difficult, was it?

A movement caught his eye and he glanced up. The girl had picked up her fishing spear. She pointed to the cave entrance and with graceful hand motions indicate
d that he should stay and rest.

“No,” he said. “I must go to the river to bathe.” Frustrated that she didn’t know his language, he beckoned to her. The girl seemed to understand his need, for she grabbed up his clean tunic and pulled his arm across her shoulders. She guided him thro
ugh the tangled briars outside.

After he checked on his mare and found her in good health, he leaned on the girl and let her help him down to the water. She left him on the bank and went a short distance upstream to fish. With her body half-turned from him, she offered him a measure of privacy, but he noticed that she remained close enough to reach him if he needed help.

Rundan first quickly washed the leathers he’d been wearing and set them aside. Even that small task winded him, to his dismay, but he continued, slowly wading into the cold water. He was even more dismayed to find his body so wasted that his ribs showed. Thinking of how the girl must have washed him while he was sick, Rundan ducked his head in humiliation. Even now, he could tell she watched him with worry in her eyes.

With a sudden twist of shame in his gut, he climbed onto the riverbank and, with quick motions, sluiced the water off his skin. He grabbed up the clean tunic and yanked it over his head. As he tugged the garment down and smoothed the fabric over his chest, he noticed a tear down the front which had been mended with a boot lacing, one she must have found in his bags. The tear must have been a nasty rem
inder to her of the soldier who’d attacked her—and what he’d intended to do. She could have easily buried the garment while he was lost to his fever and left it underground to rot. But she hadn’t. She’d taken the time to mend it. For his sake, he was glad she had, because the clean linen covered his bare flesh and warmed him.

The snapping of a twig caught
his attention and he looked up.

The girl was running toward him, wearing a grin that transformed her face. The shadows that had darkened her eyes were gone, the ones that told him she hadn’t slept for many nights, and that she’d worried over him as much as his mother might have. As she ran, she held her fishing spear high and pumped it into the air, proudly displaying a plump torpista.

He imagined her coming to the river every day, drawing water, catching fish he vaguely remembered eating as broth. She’d fed the fire, tended his wounds, and cared for his horse. Surely she must have known he was taking her to her death. Every day that he’d lain senseless she could have run, but she hadn’t. He thought of the spoon in his votif with renewed amazement.

Now, seeing her excitement over the fish, Rundan’s heart squeezed.

Something inside him shifted and came to rest, as if it had found its proper place. It was like one of his sister’s wooden tumbling puzzles, like the satisfying click it made when all its many turning pieces were perfectly aligned.

He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

If ever.

Swallowing, Rundan gave the girl what was at best an inadequate smile.

As soon as they returned to the cave, he collapsed onto the nyka hide and gestured for her to bring the smallest of the saddle bags to him. She brought it and though she retreated to the fireside to dress her fish, he noticed that she kept glancing at him, craning her neck to watch him.

Rundan dug through the bag and found the parchment on which he’d copied as much of the ancient texts as he could fit. He read the entire scroll, front and back, but found no answer for what she’d done with their votifs. He’d known, of course, he wouldn’t. For now, at least he was alive and she also appeared to be well.

Perhaps he could simply return her to her home in Torrani and he’d...

He’d
...

Well, he couldn’t go back home. Somehow he’d have to earn passage on a merchant ship and make a life in a distant land, which meant he’d never see his family again. Rundan allowed himself to feel the pain of losing his mother and sister, but he refused to think of his father. He decided, finally, that he’d spent too many years stri
ving to please a man who couldn’t be pleased. It had been everything to him at one time, but now all his fruitless wishing, all his endless striving and yearning sat as dry as ashes on his tongue. His chest ached unbearably too, and though he rubbed at it, the action didn’t relieve the pain.

The girl crept up beside him. She crouched low and stared fixedly at the scroll. When she reached for it, he held it well out of reach and frowned at her dirty hands. She hurried to the water jug and washed. She returned, wiping her hands on her leathers to dry them, then held them out for his inspection.

Puzzled by her interest, Rundan merely grunted and reluctantly handed over his scroll. As she read aloud, he froze. At first her words made no sense. She spoke with her softly rounded vowels, her voice as fluid as a song, with none of the crisp precision of his native Odenian. After a few moments, he began to grasp the rhythm of her speech.

He stared in amazement, unable to speak.

“You know the ancient tongue?” he finally asked, at first in his language, and then quickly translating the words into the ancient tongue.

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes alight with the same hope and eagerness he felt burning in his chest. “Though our teacher grows old,” she said, “he has a great passion for the ancient texts.”

The girl bent over the scroll again, as if as comforted by the words on the parchment as he’d been. The sight of her reading was unexpectedly appealing and made Rundan’s heart pound. He’d thought her pretty from the first time he’d seen her, but now she was more than that....

A rare flower.

Or something.

In the musical language of Torrani, there was probably a perfect word to describe her beauty, and
he wished he knew what it was.

More importantly, she knew the ancient t
ongue and could understand him.

Suddenly there was too much to say. Rundan’s thoughts raced in circles, until he finally latched onto their greatest trouble.

“The master of the army”—Rundan knew no word for
commander
in the ancient tongue—“would have me turn you over to the king.”

The light in her eyes flickered out. “I know,” she said softly. After staring at him for several moments, she looked a
way and fumbled with her votif.

He didn’t think she intended to remind him that she’d saved his life, as if he’d ever need a reminder. He suspected her action was simply that of one deeply troubled.