The Lone Warrior (11 page)

“Who?”

“Hmm. What?”

“You’re talking about lines in a geometric figure. What do you mean
who
?”

Deiter glared. “It’s a construct, you fool, a metaphor.”

“Feel free to leave any time, Purist. I have plenty to do.” Walker picked up the ink brush and turned it over in his fingers.

The wizard went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Each Side represents an element and for each element, the gods have chosen . . . someone to gift with power.” He snorted. “Whether they want it or not.”

Walker raised a brow, a cold tide spreading low in his gut. But he said nothing.

“Cenda nearly died of a fever. It took her child, but in return, the Lord and the Lady gave her the power of Fire.”

“Erik got Air,” said Walker slowly. When Deiter shot him a glance, he shrugged. “I saw him in action, remember?” Ah yes, big Erik in a fury had been something to behold. An angry Air wizard tended to be hard on loose crockery.

“So you did.”

Walker waited.

Deiter took a turn about the room, shabby robes swishing. He came to an abrupt halt. “You’re Earth.”

“Yes.”

Something flashed in the old wizard’s eyes. It could have been surprise. “You don’t deny it?”

“If I didn’t know the source of my power, I wouldn’t be a shaman. Who’s Water?”

Deiter collapsed into a chair with a huff of exasperation. “Don’t fucking know. But it’s someone close, I can feel it.”

Walker folded his lips together. They stared at each other in silence. A scent-laden breeze drifted in the window, flirting with the corners of the parchment on the desk, bringing with it distant sounds, shouts and splashes. Children skylarking in the blue waters of the canal.

“No,” said Walker at last, very quietly. “I won’t do it.” Everything inside him went still and watchful. Ready. He flexed his fingers.

But all Deiter said was, “Why not?”

“Your gods are not mine, Purist.”

“The Shar worship their ancestors, don’t they?”

“An oversimplification,” Walker said stiffly.

Deiter waved it off. “No offense intended. Anyway, don’t you see? They’re all the same, only the names change. The Lord and the Lady, the Brother and the Sister.”

First Mother, First Father. Likely the old reprobate was right. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t that Walker didn’t believe in evil—he did, unconditionally. Who better, after all? But evil was made of blood and mud and shit and stink, not pretty pictures. He dealt with it his own way, one monster at a time. This Pentacle thing had storybook quest written all over it, a stalwart band of brothers riding shoulder to shoulder, off to save the world. ’Cestors save him from wide-eyed idealism!

“We need you.” Deiter’s lip lifted, exposing wine-stained teeth in what was doubtless intended to be a winning smile.

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Purist.” People he barely knew and certainly didn’t trust. Like Deiter, for instance.

The wizard nodded at the hand Walker had spread over the parchment to prevent it fluttering away. “Look.”

With a muttered curse, Walker snatched his fingers away. The godsbedamned thing was alive!

Minuscule salamanders burned all down one Side, capering about in a fiery dance, though the creamy surface remained unmarred. Tiny clouds shot with rainbows scudded around the entire shape, coming to rest above the second Side. He thought he could hear them singing, a faraway chorus like distilled joy. But the third Side—

He’d forgotten how to breathe.

The
ch’qui
suffused the page, creating a trench no wider than his thumb, full of dark, fragrant soil, so rich and deep he could smell it, like Concordian chocolat. Threads of green sprang forth, growing while he watched, tangling and twining, the essence of life and birth and joy. Blossoms no bigger than pinheads burst open into tiny stars, releasing an intoxicating perfume.

Walker lifted his gaze. “Amazing,” he said, meaning it.

Deiter stared, unblinking. “But the answer’s still no.”

“Good-bye, Purist.” He pushed the parchment aside and drew the ledger closer.

“For now.” The old man rose with a grunt, and retrieved the Pentacle. “One day,” he said as he turned toward the door, “there’ll be no more demons left to kill. What will you do then, retire and grow pretty fl—” He froze, staring out the window at the garden below. His throat moved, producing a gobbling noise like a scrawny old fowl surprised by a housewife with a cleaver.

Two strides and Walker was at his shoulder, following his gaze. The swordmaster’s mouth fell open, the scene below seared into his retinas.

Wearing only a soaking shift, every line of her lush body clearly displayed in the sunlight, Mehcredi the assassin stood thigh deep in the crystal-clear water of his special contemplation pool, holding that filthy dog by the scruff of its neck. The skinny boy that Prue had taken in at The Garden was with her. He scrubbed at the animal with a big bar of rough soap, his industry producing a thick scurf of bubbly foam. Even from up here, Walker could
feel
the daffydillies wilting, the shy little water plants choking and dying.

Dai reclined against the trunk of the venerable cedderwood that shaded the area, the remains of what was clearly a lavish picnic scattered about on the grass. His face was alight with laughter, though he had a protective hand covering his throat. They were all laughing,’Cestors take them. As Walker stared in horror and disbelief, the boy compounded the disaster by losing the soap in the water. Completely uninhibited, Mehcredi threw her head back, laughing from the belly like a man. The action lifted her glorious breasts, pushing them hard against wet, semitransparent cloth.

Gods
.

He could see every swirling line of his Mark, the pout of pink nipples pebbled by the cool of the water. Even though he curled his hands into fists, every nerve beneath the skin remembered the heft of her breast, the trusting satiny weight of it cradled in his palm. Worse, the shift delineated the curve of her waist, the swell of womanly hips. Unable to help himself, Walker tracked downward over the slight curve of her belly, tracing the drape of material to the sweet space between strong slim thighs. Fuck, even the rise of her mons was visible, but no pubic hair. Or none that he could see.

And he’d thought that part of him was dead. Shit! The breath rasped in his lungs.

Lips smacked noisily right next to his ear. “Yum, yum,” said Deiter, amid hoarse chuckles. “You should see your face.”

Walker snapped his jaw shut so hard it hurt. Whirling, he shoved past the wizard, leaping down the stairs three at a time.

Behind him, he could hear Deiter’s mad cackling, broken at intervals by racking coughs. With any luck, his own amusement would carry the old bastard off, but in the meantime—Walker ground his teeth—he was going to make the assassin sorry she was ever born.

Some streetwise instinct of self-preservation made the boy spin around to face him, but Mehcredi remained oblivious. It wasn’t until she’d clamped the wriggling dog firmly under one arm that she noticed Florien’s curious immobility. She turned her head and some of the humor faded from her expression. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

“Mehcredi.” The effort of self-control cost him so dearly, all Walker could produce was a menacing whisper. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He never swore aloud.

Her brow knitted. “Washing the dog,” she said, as if to a senile uncle.

“In my pool. With”—Walker forced the word out—“soap.”

“You said yourself he was filthy.” With one hand, she grasped the dog’s dripping jaw and pushed his head up, looking into miserable brown eyes. “And he had bitemes, poor thing.”

“Out.”

Clad only in a pair of drawers, the boy scrambled onto the grass and hunkered down next to Dai, shivering. The swordsman’s expression remained grave, though he kept rubbing one thumb across his lips and his eyes danced.

Mehcredi gave him a dismissive wave. “Just a minute.” Before Walker could stop her, she bent and dunked the dog all the way under the water.

“
Now!
”

This time, she did jump. “He needed rinsing,” she said resentfully.

Walker set his hands on his hips and shot her a flat black glare.

“No, wait. Get the soap,” gritted Walker, his head ringing with the assault on the
ch’qui
of his garden, his scrotum tightening with every breath the assassin took. She was so pale, she could have been sculpted of marble. But only the most expensive stone, the top grade that came from the Grand Pasha’s private mines in Trinitaria, would come close to replicating the fine-grained beauty of her skin, the glow and luster of life. Long, supple muscle ran smooth beneath it, strong and yet ineffably female.

Mehcredi grumbled under her breath, but she dropped to her knees and felt around with her hands. The dog paddled past, cast her a glance that showed a thin rim of white and hauled himself out onto the grass near Walker. There he stopped, setting all four feet. The swordmaster fixed the animal with a gimlet eye. “
Don’t
.”

The dog cocked an ear, then trotted over the bridge toward the approaching figure of the Purist Deiter. A foot away, he shook vigorously, water spraying in all directions.

“Aaargh!” The wizard recoiled, brushing frantically at his robes.

“Serves you right,” snarled Walker. Bending, he whipped a checkered tablecloth off the grass, scattering plates and utensils. “Cover yourself.” He shoved it toward the assassin.

Four pairs of eyes regarded him with varying degrees of wariness—five if he counted the dog. Ignoring them, Walker went to one knee by the pond, feeling the grass cool and damp beneath his palm, the rich deep soil below, the huge healing strength of the
ch’qui,
infinite because there was an entire world of it.

He’d flown into a rage over a body of water the size of a large bath. This was ridiculous.
He
was ridiculous.

The daffydillies might wilt, but godsdammit, his pool would recover from a little soap. ’Cestors save him, he’d lost control. A man famous for his icy calm under pressure, his impenetrable reserve. The incarnation of Shar vengeance and he’d raised his voice, shouted—

His gaze zeroed in on the assassin and narrowed, thoughts skittering about inside his skull like bitemes on a hot griddle. She’d passed the tablecloth to the boy, gods damn her, which meant he mustn’t permit his stare to drop below her neck. She was shivering, lips paler than ever.
Why aren’t you the way you’re supposed to be?
he thought savagely.
This is all your fault.

As if she’d heard his thought, Mehcredi tilted her head to one side, her silvery eyes huge. “Sorry,” she said. “But I thought you wanted—”

“You have no idea of what I want.” Walker ripped the shirt off over his head, balled it up and threw it at her.

“I know.” Her hands closed hard on the garment, but she made no move to put it on, frowning. “You have to
tell
me, you see,” she said. “I’m stupid, I don’t always understand, so you have to—”

“You are
not
stupid!” Walker breathed carefully through his nose. “Don’t pretend with me, assassin. It won’t work.”

“I’m not pretending.” Her features went stiff with offense, but she rubbed the soft fabric against her throat, blotting up the drips.

Dai was shaking his head. Beckoning Walker closer, he grasped the hand the swordmaster offered and hauled himself to his feet. “She . . . meant . . . well,” he rasped, pulling a small pad of paper from a pocket.

“But it was my idea.” Mehcredi raised a hand as if to touch Walker’s arm, then thought better of it. She stuck her chin out. “All of it.”

“Nah,” said the boy through chattering teeth. “T’weren’t just you. Me too.”

Dai dug Walker in the ribs and handed him a note.
I asked S. for picnic,
it said in a slashing scrawl.
Dog washing mutual idea.

’Cestors’ bones, they were
defending
her. How had she done it? But then—she seemed to be trying to shield them too, in her own strange way.

Godsdammit, what did they think he was going to do to her?

“Allow me to help you with that, my dear.” With a snaggletoothed grin, Deiter stepped past him, reaching for the shirt.

Walker clamped iron fingers around the old man’s wrist. “Don’t touch her!”

Deiter swore. At every point of contact between them, Walker’s flesh burned with Magick, so much so that it took every ounce of discipline he possessed not to jerk away. Instead, he released the wizard as slowly as possible and turned to Mehcredi. “Go to your room,” he said coldly. “When you’ve changed, return to your duties.”

“But Dai should—”

“I’ll take care of Dai. And you, lad—” The boy scowled up at him from under an unruly black fringe. He’d struggled into his trews, standing with one hand hidden behind his back. A slum rat if ever he’d seen one, blade at the ready.