The Storm Witch (23 page)

The cabin door creaked open, and Malfin stuck his head into the opening.

“Lionsmane, Crayx ask for music, would you . . . ?”

Parno had to allow that the Crayx had been scrupulous about staying out of his head, and for that, if nothing else, he should honor their request and play for them. Besides, music had been known to clear his head in the past.

He slid sideways off the bench and started to the door.

But once he’d fetched his pipes from the cabin—the heavy drones, the war pipes, better for the Crayx to hear directly—he found himself leaning on the rail as he filled the air bag, unsure what to play. He attached the chanter and began to noodle, just letting his fingers float over the sound holes. He let his eyes close, shutting out the deck, the crew, the now-blazing sun, and the fitful wind that made what sail there was flap, and the rigging creak. This is what Dhulyn used to call his pipe
Shora,
the tuning up that prepared him to play.

With that thought, he found his fingers playing once again the children’s song that had such special meaning to Dhulyn. As he coaxed the skipping notes from the chanter, he began to complicate them with the music of the drones, adding seconds and thirds, intricacies that built upon the basic notes until the children’s chant became once again the hymn to the Sleeping God it had originally been.

Slowly, note by woven note, the hymn began to change, to take on specific imagery. A run of higher notes, with a sharp drone behind them, became Dhulyn’s swordplay, masterful and sure, deadly and bright. Chords were her throaty laugh. The lament became more sure, more steady, as Parno realized what he was doing. He played Dhulyn, the way horses seemed to speak to her, the way weapons sang in her hands. The wolf’s smile she showed to others, the smile she saved for him alone. The way she smelled after she had not bathed for many days.

Finally, not really sure how much time had passed, he lowered the pipes, and, blinking, looked around him. The watch was the same, the same faces looked back at him, though some had tears in their eyes.

#We see her now# #The music shows her to us# #Sorrow# #Compassion#

“Have not seen one tenth part of her.” Even though he muttered under his breath, Parno was all too aware of the others on deck, now studiously ignoring him.

#You are unjust to your talent and your skill# #Your song of her will live with us always now# #Is this not she#

In his mind an image he hadn’t called there. Dhulyn with her right hand on the neck of a horse, the animal shadowy and unclear, turning to look over her shoulder at him, smiling, her gray eyes alight with laughter.

Parno coughed, clearing his throat, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he said. “That is she.”

#The image is yours, you will be able to call it whenever you wish, it will be clear and crisp# #A small thing, but strengthening your memory is a part of what we can do#

#Do not fear# This was another voice. #No other will share this image without your consent# #It is not our way, but we know that humans have private things#

#Darlara did not share you with us, for example#

Parno felt a hot flush rise up through his cheeks and dropped his eyes to his pipes. He hadn’t even thought of that. Hastily, he changed the subject.

“Are those images how you keep the souls of those who go to you when they die? Like portraits?”

#Not at all# #The soul itself joins us, becoming part of the Great Pod#

“What about new Crayx? Where do their souls come from?” One by one, Parno removed the drones and began to bleed the remaining air out of the bag.

#There are no new Crayx# #We are the same, always#

“But the spawning grounds?”

#We grow always, larger and larger# #We would grow too large for the oceans, so as that time approaches, we prepare smaller bodies# #In the spawning grounds we emerge in our new bodies, leaving the old behind, as we leave behind each old layer of skin and scales#

“Then you don’t produce young?” Parno restored the last piece of his disassembled pipes into their bag and looked over the side. There were several Crayx within sight.
Which of these speaks to me?
he wondered.
And how old is it?

#We do not#

“But the Nomads . . .” Parno looked toward the cabin where Darlara was sleeping.

#Have young, though not so many as land-based humans# Parno caught an undercurrent of thought that substituted “no Pod sense” for the phrase “land-based.”

“And you have room for all of them when they die?”

#Amusement# #Souls do not occupy space#

Parno blinked. That had never occurred to him. Of course, he’d never had reason to think about souls in this way before. Which reminded him of his other question.

“How old are you? How far back do you remember?”

For the first time, the answer was not immediate. #Time is not the same for us# #We know what it is for you, we have seen the effects of its passage# #Watch#

#This is Ketxan City when we made our first treaties with humans, in the before that you humans call the time of the Caids# #Before the Great Chaos# #Before the first coming of the Green Shadow#

Before Parno could interrupt, another image came into his mind. This time he was looking across a large bay of water toward a city built up on the islands of a flat sprawling delta. A city like Tenezia, without roads, but rather canals and bridges. Unlike Tenezia, however, this long ago Ketxan boasted airy towers.

#This is Ketxan City as we see it now#

Where the broad delta had been was a massive cliff face, taller than the tallest tower Parno had ever seen. There were openings, windows, balconies, and even doors cut into the living rock, with ladders connecting some of the lower levels. At the foot of the cliff, like a ruffle on a skirt, wharfs, jetties, and piers were built out into the sea.

#This is time, yes# #There is duration, change#

“But surely you also change? You’re not the same beings that you were then?”

#There is no then# #For the Great Pod, there is only now# #We thank you for the music, Parno Lionsmane#

And suddenly, he was alone.

At first he stayed where he was, enjoying the quiet sounds of the ship around him, the sun on his face. He hadn’t realized he was so curious about the Crayx. Dhulyn would have been interested by what he’d learned, as she was—had been—interested in everything. He hugged his bag of pipes closer. He missed her, Caids knew how much. But somehow, whether it was the steady familiarity of the
Shora,
or of his music, Parno realized that the sharpest edge of his grief had been blunted.

He pressed his lips together in a tight smile. In order to do what he wanted to do, in order to find and kill the Storm Witch, he needed to be at his very best. If the patterns and discipline of the
Shora,
and his music, restored him to his best self, it was a thing to be welcomed.

He stood, and was halfway back to the cabin to put away his pipes when a thought slowed his steps. He was almost certain that Malfin had mentioned attacking Ketxan City. But, given the cliffs he had seen in the Crayx’s image of the place . . . Parno turned and made his way back to Malfin’s cabin. When he entered, he found Darlara sitting across from her brother at the cleared table, a bowl of cooked grains in front of her.

“Tell me,” Parno said. “These attacks on Ketxan City, how did you manage them?” So far as he could see from the image the Crayx had shown him, there was no landing place at Ketxan. He had not seen siege weapons on the
Wavetreader,
nor could he see any way to equip even much larger ships with such things. How could the Nomads, armed only with swords, garwons, and crossbows, mount a serious attack on the cliff city?

Darlara was swallowing, so it was Malfin who answered. “The Crayx push them back, enough so that we can land.”

“But Mortaxa have no Pod sense, how do the Crayx push them?”

“With their water bolts,” Darlara said. “May we?” She tapped her forehead. When Parno nodded, he felt the Crayx again, and the image that appeared in his mind made him laugh aloud.

“I think I see our plan,” he told them.

Carcali was on her knees by the toy shelves. She didn’t know who had last put these dolls away, but she could tell it had not been the little girl who loved them. They’d been shoved in any which way, back to front, facedown, even piled on top of one another. The dolls varied considerably in their dress, Carcali noted, as she straightened and rearranged them. There were elaborately dressed nobles and more simply dressed servants, and more than one soldier doll, all with tiny weapons. The favorites appeared to be one soldier in particular—an officer judging from his armor—and a little girl doll whose painted face was quite worn, and whose hair had been frequently rebraided. It wasn’t until she heard the lock engage that Carcali looked up, this last doll still in her hands. Her stomach rumbled, and she pressed her lips together as saliva began to flow. Were they bringing food this time, or only water again? She cursed her caution now for keeping her from saying something to Tar Xerwin when he came, but he hadn’t sounded all that friendly. For all she knew, the man was just another spy for the Tarxin.

When the two guards entered and stood one to each side of the door, Carcali rose, unwilling to be caught on her knees. In the last moment, she realized she was still holding the doll, and thrust it hastily behind her. She wasn’t going to look any more childlike and vulnerable than she could help. Not to the man who had first struck her, and was now keeping her prisoner. Though she would have felt more confident if she wasn’t sure that the Tarxin had seen her quick movement, and had correctly interpreted it.

What happened next did nothing to boost her confidence. At a signal from the Tarxin, the Honor Guard accompanying him stepped back out of the room and closed the door. Carcali waited, unsure what she should do, but determined not to be the first to speak. The Tarxin looked around the room, taking in the daybed with its gaily colored cushions, and the closed and barred door of the sheltered balcony that looked out on the sea. Finally, he turned away and appeared to study the maps on her table.

Automatically, Carcali went to stand on the other side of her worktable, though she made no move to cover the designs she’d made on the maps. The Tarxin had no Art, and wouldn’t understand the meaning of the symbols she’d drawn, but she felt stronger there, close to her work.

When she glanced up, he was looking directly into her eyes. He indicated her chair, and waited until she was seated before he took the chair across from her, lifted off his gold-chased headdress and placed it to one side. With his eyes still fixed on hers, he leaned back, patting the arms of the chair with the palms of his hands.

“I think we have seen that we each can hurt the other,” he said, his voice rough as the gravel paths in the upper gardens. His eyes were large, but dark and cold. “We have each tried our strengths, and we are well matched. You have the weather Art, and can use it against me, but I am the Tarxin, and have the power to starve you or put you to death if I so choose.”

Carcali’s hands formed fists on the arms of her own chair.

“I can leave this body, and still control the weather.”

The man across from her spread out his hands. “Then why have you not done so?”

The pain in her hands reminded Carcali to loosen her grip. Oh, how badly she would have liked to call his bluff. But he wasn’t the one bluffing.

She hadn’t fully disconnected since she’d reawakened in this body, it made her shiver just to think about it. What if she lost the connection again, to spend who knew how long before she somehow reconnected? If she ever did. There were so many things about this life, this world—this body—she didn’t like, didn’t know, and didn’t understand. But it was better by far than the impersonal emptiness of the weatherspheres. She wouldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t. . . . But.

“If you kill me,” she said, in her light child’s voice. “I’d have no reason
not
to leave the body.”

He just nodded and leaned back again, raising his hands and looking at her over the tent he’d made of his fingers.

“We can each of us harm the other,” he repeated. “Shall we see if there is any way we can help each other?”

“I am ready to hear your proposal.” Carcali leaned back herself, consciously trying to imitate his air of relaxation. But it was pretense, and she doubted he was fooled.

He might be sincere about his offer—he’d agreed to keep the Healers away once she’d shown him what she could do, and he’d kept his bargains so far. But she had to be careful. He was the one with all the power here, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. She raised her hand to her bruised cheek.

“I will undertake never to strike you again,” he said, as if in response to her gesture. “But in return you must in public treat me in all ways as your Tarxin and your father.”