The Storm Witch (13 page)

And a fine tale it is,
Dhulyn thought.
But I’m alive.

Fanryn Bloodhand and Thionan Hawkmoon. They’d died together, if not exactly at the same moment. As the one Partner lay dying, the other stood over her, sword in hand until she was herself overrun. That was what being Partnered meant.

Dhulyn sat up, blinking, and resisted the urge to scrub at her face and eyes with her salt-and-sand-encrusted hands. She must find fresh water and soon. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. The trilogy of the Common Rule. And one which still applied to her, no matter what she might wish for.

“Mother Sun.” Her lips moved, but Dhulyn was careful not to speak aloud.
Is it your doing that I am here?
Dhulyn rarely questioned the distant gods of her people: Sun, Moon, and Stars. As a rule, her people didn’t pray much. Sun, Moon, and Stars were always with you, even when you couldn’t see them, her mother once said. They answered all prayers, but not always with the answer you wanted.

“In Battle, or in Death.” The Mercenary salute. Was it that simple? Partners died together because most Mercenary Brothers died in battle? Because what was enough to overwhelm one would overwhelm both? Dysmos and Palmond died in battle. As had Fanryn and Thionan. Was Parno gone and she still here because there hadn’t been a battle? Must she then wait for her own death to join him once more?

“In Battle
and
in Death.” The slightly modified salute between Partnered Mercenaries—and seldom used even by them. That would be where she met Parno again.
So be it.

She looked toward the sea. That pathway to death had failed her already. Clearly, something more was expected. Something more, presumably, than lying here until dehydration finished the job the sea had not done. Dhulyn pushed herself upright and began her
Shora
ritual again. She would search for water this time, fresh water. Then she’d see what Mother Sun and Father Moon brought to her path.

 

The spot in the hills where the stream widened into a shallow, reed-edged pool not only provided fresh water, but a couple of the sleepier fish. They were bland eaten raw, with neither salt nor lemon to give flavor, but they were food, and something told Dhulyn that death by starvation would not serve her purpose any more than death by drowning.

Ah! In
Battle,
or in Death. Surely, if
she
died in battle, it would be enough to reunite her with Parno. And she knew just what battle would suit her best. Mercenary Brothers did not leave each other unavenged—that was part of the Common Rule as well—and Dhulyn knew where the path to her vengeance lay.

The Storm Witch.

Dhulyn nodded, whistling silently as she began to stretch out each muscle in turn. First, the long muscles of her legs, arms, and back. Then, the shorter muscles of chest, abdomen, neck, hands, feet, and face. Parno had been killed by a waterspout where no such phenomenon should be—caused by that thrice-cursed snail spawn of a Witch. And when the Storm Witch was dead, Dhulyn herself could die and join her Partner.

Dhulyn gave a sigh of contentment and stood up. Now that she was fed and watered, and had rinsed off all the sand and salt in the cool pond, she felt almost her normal self. A pang stabbed her, sharp and cold. She would never feel normal again. She pushed that thought away.
Not now.
She could not afford to indulge her grief, not now that she had plans to make, a goal to reach.

She looked at the tips of her fingers and the pads of her feet. Wrinkled, but even now smoothing out. She could not have been very long in the sea, perhaps only overnight. There was no way to be sure, however, how far that frightening force of wind and wave had carried her. She felt the seams and pockets of her clothing. Sword and long knife had been lost in the water. She felt at the back of her vest, and found the inner pocket torn open and empty. So, she drummed her fingers on her thigh. Except for the lack of shoes and weapons—other than those she was born with—she was in good condition.

Dhulyn glanced up at the sun. Almost at its midday height. She picked up her vest, pulled out the laces, squatted once more at the edge of the water, and pushed the vest under the surface. She sat back on her heels, lifting the dripping vest onto her knees, refolded the sodden garment so it could be worn as a hood, and pulled it on over her head. Better sunburn than sunstroke, she thought. The layers of stitched-in and quilted-over cloth would hold water for a long time before drying out, keeping her head cool as well as protected from the sun. She leaned forward again, pushing her hands into the soft mud along the edge of the water. Some of that would help protect her skin.

But first Dhulyn waded back into the water until she was knee-deep. She took a deep breath, felt herself relax into the Stalking Cat
Shora,
and composed herself in patience, waiting for the telltale shifting of shadows below the surface that would mean fish.

When she’d captured four more of the small fish and cleaned them with the same rock she’d used before, she wrapped them in grass she soaked in the water. Finally, she pulled her linen trousers toward her, drew the waist string completely closed, forming a bag into which she pushed the fish. She set the bag to one side, along with the stone she’d used as a knife, and another, rounder stone that fit well into the palm of her hand. She examined the rocks and scrub grass around her. She had food, weapons, and a covering for her head. No way to carry water except inside her.

Belly tight with liquid, mud liberally applied to shoulders and arms, Dhulyn rose once more to her feet and tied her trousers around her waist by the legs. She’d have to eat the fish fairly quickly as it was. They wouldn’t last long in this heat, and she’d want to eat them while they would still provide some moisture.

When she reached the small ridge to the east of the pool Dhulyn stopped and looked around her. The sea was at her left, to the north and west. Should she try farther inland, or keep to the coast? Downstream was what the Common Rule usually advised, but here, downstream would only lead her back to the sea.

Dhulyn cocked her head—and her stomach dropped; her vision darkened for an instant as she realized what she was doing. Parno would not be expressing his opinion, and she would never again sort out her own decision by arguing it over with him. Never again. She pushed those bleaker thoughts away.

“Just you wait,” she said aloud, not admitting even to herself whom she was addressing. First, she had to find people. Then, she could die in a civilized manner, killing someone else. But only a particular someone would do. In Battle
and
in Death.

She took a deep breath, let it out with all her force, marked a higher ridge as the edge of the next watershed and started walking.

Carcali sat on her lesser throne next to the Tarxin and tried hard not to fidget. Part of the problem was that the body she wore was much younger than her own, and inclined to fidget, and even after several months of occupancy, her control over it wasn’t what she’d like it to be. Especially here and now, where she didn’t really understand what was going on, and boredom could so easily set in.

She realized she was frowning and cleared her expression. If she were being honest, she’d have to admit that anxiety rather than boredom was making her fidget. She’d sent away the servant who’d summoned her to this audience, anxious to finish her mapping of nearby weather patterns, only to find someone much more senior at her door, accompanied not so subtly by a man wearing armor and carrying a spear.

“The Tarxin Xalbalil, Light of the Sun, commands your presence immediately,” the counselor had said. “You are to begin to learn the needs of the realm.” In the crispness of his tone Carcali had recognized, underneath the courtesy that he had to give her as the Tara, a not very well-disguised mix of skepticism, irritable impatience, and a certain amount of resentment about having been the one sent to fetch her.

Aides had hustled her straight to the lesser throne as she entered the chamber and the Tarxin, resplendent in a tunic that seemed to be made from solid gold, hadn’t even looked at her as he’d signaled to the pages at the door.

At first she’d been interested; this was the first time she had seen the man in public since she’d awakened in the body of his daughter, and she took advantage of the preliminaries to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was short by her own standards, but on the tall side for the Mortaxa. His hair had once been as black, and was still as thick as his daughter’s, but much coarser, and very straight. Xendra must have inherited her curls from her mother. Like hers, his skin was a dark, even gold, though his showed the remains of pockmarks, and the signs of frequent shaving.

His throne was made in the shape of a sunburst, and the room was lighted in such a way that anyone not on the dais would have difficulty looking straight at him. Carcali found herself nodding. Brilliant setup, really. Someone on the Tarxin’s staff should get full marks for clever promotion.

Once the audience itself began, Carcali found her attention drifting. These were minor petitions, from least nobles trying to buy their way into lesser status, to wealthy traders looking for royal favor, or hoping to have disputes settled by the Tarxin himself. Strange, really, how some things never changed. The amount of time that was spent waiting for people who thought they were more important than you to make decisions about things that weren’t important to anyone.

Her mind drifted away to the last time she’d spent a morning waiting like this. The decorations in the long passage of the Artists’ Hall had been more subtle, simple touches of color and abstract forms, but the bench she had waited on then was more comfortable than the lesser throne. To be fair, it wasn’t that the Artists had kept her waiting, more that she’d arrived for her interview early.

Why was that, exactly? Carcali always tried to be exactly on time . . . oh, yes,
now
she remembered. She’d had a fight with her roommate, Wenora, a real fight, the kind that took you where you didn’t really want to go, and she’d left their rooms before either of them said something unforgivable.

Carcali had come up with an plan to solve the crisis that had suspended all classes in the Academy and was keeping all the Artists and even the senior Mages locked away in meditation and vigil. She had expected Wenora to be pleased and excited, and she’d been hurt by her friend’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Come on, Car, you’re only a Crafter. What makes you think that you can come up with a solution when even the Mages and the Artists are racking their brains?”

“Master Aranwe always says that a good idea can come from anywhere,” Carcali had pointed out. “That we shouldn’t hold ourselves back by being afraid to say what we think.”

“Oh, I see you holding yourself back—never!” There had been nothing but teasing affection in Wenora’s smile. “What’s your big plan, then?”

“I’ve written it all out, but basically, they’re going about it the wrong way,” she said to her friend. “The earth’s warming too fast, right? Well instead of trying to patch things up down here, I say we go straight to the source. We should be trying to cool down the sun.”

The look on Wenora’s face was priceless. “Who could do such a thing?”

“I could do it.” Carcali grinned. “It would be easier if I had help, but I’m pretty sure I could do it myself if I had to. Don’t you see?” In her eagerness she’d leaned forward, but Wenora remained sitting stiffly upright. “That’s why no one else has thought of this. They’re used to solving problems with a nudge here and a nudge there. Pooling strengths, gathering resources. They’re simply not taking into account what power like mine might be able to do.”

A long silence greeted her words.

“That’s right,” Wenora finally said. “There’s only ever been one or two as powerful as you in the whole history of the Art. What a lucky thing you’re here to save us all.” Carcali was surprised at the bitterness and sarcasm in the other girl’s voice. She’d thought they were friends, that Wenora—they’d been roommates since their apprenticeship, for the Art’s sake—surely Wenora wasn’t jealous of her.

“Wenora.” But her roommate was keeping her head turned aside, her lips a thin line in her stiff face.

That was when Carcali had left their rooms and gone to wait in the Artists’ Hall. Wenora was scared, that was all. Everyone knew that fear made you stupid, and angry, too. Wenora would get over it, and they’d be friends again.

Finally, the summons had come and she’d followed the lay page into the Council Room. There, as she’d expected, she found the Artists, the Heads of each branch of the Weather Arts. Sue Roh of Earth, Fion Tan, of Air, Bri AnM of Fire and Mar Lene of Water. And Jenn Shan, of course, current Head Artist, and the tie-breaking vote if one should be needed. Luckily, Jenn Shan was also an Artist of Air, something Carcali felt boded well for her chances, since she was a Crafter of that Art herself. There’d be two on her side—or at least two who could follow her arguments more easily.