Shakul’s head began to twist from side to side, his body rocking. Stavut waited. “Big fear,” he said, at last.
“Me, too. But we survived, you and I. We live. We will hunt and we will eat.”
“Bloodshirt came for Shakul,” said the beast.
“Yes. We are friends.”
“Friends?”
“We are pack,” corrected Stavut, with a grin. “I am sure you would have done the same for me.”
“No,” said Shakul. “Long way down.”
“Whatever! Are you feeling better now?”
Shakul’s head came up. His nostrils quivered. “Horse. Skins,” he said.
“Soldiers?”
“Same Skin Bloodshirt meet.” He sniffed the air again. “One other. Female.”
“Gilden? The soldier with the bow?”
“Other Skin.”
Stavut remembered the dark-eyed young man, the one wearing swords like Skilgannon’s. Stavut hadn’t liked him much. Rising to his feet, he said: “Where are they coming from?”
Shakul pointed to the south. Stavut strolled across the campsite and waited. He heard a horse whinny in fear. Then the rider came into sight through the trees. The horse was skittish as the smell of the beasts came to it, but the rider was skilled and kept it calm. A dark-haired woman jumped down from behind the rider. Stavut’s heart leapt. It was Askari.
He ran forward to greet her, smiling broadly. “Oh, it is good to see you,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him, gazing around at the beasts, who had now awoken and were staring balefully at the newcomers.
“Long story—and a sad one.”
The rider dismounted. Holding to the reins of his horse, he walked forward. “I shall leave you now, beauty,” he said to Askari. “Can we part as friends?”
“We are not enemies, Decado,” she said.
“Good.” He delved into the pocket of his jerkin and came up with a small golden locket on a thin chain. “Take this,” he said, extending his hand.
“I don’t want gifts.”
“It is a peace token. No more than that.”
Askari took it, and Stavut saw that there was a small, blue gem at the center of the locket. It was a valuable piece, though there was no reason that a country girl like Askari would know that. He felt anger welling, but kept his expression calm.
“It is very pretty. Thank you, Decado. Where will you go?”
“I shall find Skilgannon. I’ll tell him where you are.”
“You are going to join us?”
“Why not? In a way he and I are kin.” With that the swordsman, without a glance at Stavut, stepped smoothly into the saddle and rode from the woods.
“I do not like that man,” said Stavut.
“Never mind him,” said Askari. “What has happened to you, Stavi?”
A skari looked at her friend, trying to see some sign of the merchant she had known. His dapper red clothes were stained with blood and dirt, his dark hair matted and filthy, his face, now unshaven, smeared with dried blood. She looked into his eyes and saw little there that she remembered.
“Happened to me? So much, Askari,” he told her.
“And my people?”
Stavut sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “All dead. Killed by soldiers of the Eternal. We hunted them down, though. None survived.”
“Walk with me, Stavi,” she said, setting off toward a rippling stream close by. He followed her, and as he walked he told her of the arrival of Shakul and the others, and how he had taught them to hunt. Then of the villagers fleeing back toward the settlement. Askari listened, but said little. She followed the line of the stream until she reached higher ground, where the water bubbled over white rocks, tumbling down into a broader pool. Then she turned to him. “I’d like to see you without the blood and dirt,” she said. “Come, let us see if the water is deep enough to swim in.” Laying her bow and quiver on the bank, she stripped off her green, hooded shirt, and her leggings. Stavut stood, watching her.
“I cannot swim,” he said.
“Then you can wade.” Naked she stood before him. “Stavi, the stench of you could fell an ox. Now get out of those clothes.” He stood very still, but did not resist as she stepped in closer and lifted his bloodied tunic over his head. Then she saw the deep scratches. “Did one of the beasts do that to you?”
“To stop me falling from a cliff. Saved my life.”
“You have other clothes in the wagon, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us discard these.”
A huge beast pushed its way through the undergrowth and stood staring at Askari. She remembered it as one of the creatures that had attacked her in the cave, the one Skilgannon had spoken to. It was around eight feet tall, and its golden eyes were staring at her coldly.
“This is my friend Shakul,” said Stavut, walking to the beast and slapping him on the shoulder. “Shakul, this is my friend Askari.” Then he paused. “Oh, I expect you remember her.”
Shakul said nothing. “Ah, I can see you are going to get along famously,” said Stavut. “I sense a real bonding taking place.”
Askari approached the beast, her heart hammering. “I have told him he should bathe,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “But he won’t get into the water.” The beast’s huge head began to sway back and forth. Then he suddenly grabbed Stavut and hurled him into the pool. He landed with a huge splash and came up spluttering. The beast let out a series of short, staccato grunts, then turned away and wandered back through the undergrowth. “Well, thank you for that,” Stavut called from the pool. “It is freezing in here.”
Askari ran down to the pool’s edge and waded in. He was right. The water was deliciously cold. Reaching Stavut, she told him to duck under the surface once more. Then she rubbed at his hair until the dirt and the blood were gone. Finally she looked once more into his face. The sun was setting, turning the mountains to gold. “Are you still in there, Stavi?” she asked him, her voice soft, her hands cupping his face.
“I am here. A little wiser, maybe. A little sadder. But I am here.”
Leaning in, she kissed him on the lips and drew him into an embrace. “That is the kiss I owe you,” she said.
“There is not enough fletching thread in the world to merit that,” he told her.
She laughed and kissed him again. Stepping back, he gave a broad smile and was Stavi again. Then he looked past her and laughed aloud. “Can no one get any privacy here?” he called. Askari turned. The sound of the rushing water had masked the approach of the pack, and she saw the pool was ringed by beasts, all staring at them. “Go away, you rascals!” said Stavut, still smiling. The Jiamads turned at once and vanished into the woods.
Wading back to her, he opened his arms. “I think that is enough for now,” she told him. “Come, let us find you some fresh clothes.”
A little later, with Stavut in clean leggings and yet another crimson tunic shirt, they sat by the fire. Askari, with a blanket around her shoulders as she waited for her clothes to dry, gazed around the campsite. Some of the beasts were feeding; others stretched out, sleeping. The sun was down now, the light fading fast. Stavut told her of his climb down to rescue Shakul, and how the beast had been embarrassed by fear.
“You talk of him as a friend, Stavi,” she said, her voice low, “but they do not understand friendship. Landis Khan spoke of the beasts often. He was a man who liked to talk. He said that the merging of beast and man eliminated the best of both species. You lead because you offer them something. There is no affection there, no loyalty. No understanding of genuine love. No compassion.”
“You are wrong. I know this. There is, in them, something far greater than anything we have allowed to develop. Put aside your prejudices for a moment. Shakul came after us because he was curious. When you told him I would not enter the pool he threw me in. That sound you heard from him was laughter. You see? It was a practical joke. And when Shakul was hanging from the cliff fa
ce, the beast that pulled him up was one he had fought the night before to reestablish his place in the pack.”
“That is what I am saying,” she insisted. “They fight for place and position. No loyalty.”
“Men do the same. But men will assassinate rivals, or plot to see them removed from power. When Shakul fought Braga there was no blood spilled. There is no animosity between them. Rank is merely decided on strength, because the pack leadership needs to be strong. These creatures have never been allowed to develop. They have been subject to iron discipline, and used only for war and death. Out here they are forming bonds and learning to cooperate. They no longer need me, Askari. If what you said was true then Shakul would just kill me and lead the pack himself.”
Askari was unconvinced. Stavut added wood to the fire. “You are happy among them, aren’t you?” she said.
He grinned at her. “Yes, I am. I couldn’t begin to tell you why. I am watching them grow. I am seeing their joy at running free. It is a wonderful feeling.”
Askari relaxed. This was the Stavut she knew, an intuitive man, generous and sweet natured. She gazed at him fondly, then realized it was more than fondness she felt for him. The kiss had lingered long in her mind. He saw her looking at him. “What are you thinking?” he asked her.
“Nothing,” she said.
Stavut laughed then. “When a woman says that, a man knows he is in deep trouble.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I forgot that you have known many women.”
“Yes, I have,” he said. “But I would not trade that kiss in the pool for all the wealth in the world.”
She relaxed. “Sometimes you do know how to say the right words.”
“Would you like to take another walk with me?” he asked her.
“I think that I would.”
Rising, he held out his hand, and together they walked into the woods.
M emnon had seen death before. Many times. Yet the feeling he had now was most odd. His spirit floated above the narrow bed, and he stared down at the dying child. The boy’s thin face was drawn and pale, his skin glistening, his breathing ragged. His mother was at the bedside holding the child’s hand. Tears were streaming down her face. Behind her, his hand on her shoulder, stood the man who believed himself to be the father. His face was set, his eyes red rimmed. Memnon saw the boy shudder, then all movement ceased. The mother cried out and threw herself across the dead child.
“There, there, my love,” said the father. “There, there.”
The mother’s wailing grated on Memnon’s nerves, irritating him. Also he could no longer see the boy’s face. He floated to the right. Now he could see the child in profile. It was a sad face, a lost face.
His face.
That is all the feeling is, thought Memnon. A remembrance of a childhood that lacked warmth. It was not the death he mourned. And yet the strange feeling remained, a hollow emptiness. It is a regret, he told himself. That is all. An experiment failed. The mother took the boy’s face in her hands and kissed both his cheeks. Memnon could not remember anyone ever kissing his cheek. Nor, had he died as this child had, would anyone have wept over him. But then he had chosen these parents well. The man was a merchant, dealing in linen and cotton. The woman was a seamstress, and well known for her gentle nature. They lived by the sea on the Lentrian coast. Memnon had thought the air would be good for a growing boy.
He had grown now, as far as he would ever grow. An immense sadness touched him then.
An experiment failed, he told himself again.
The father walked across the room and picked up a pottery jug. “No more of these useless potions,” he said. “No more.” In a sudden fit of anger he hurled the jar across the room. It smashed against the far wall, scattering seeds and dried leaves, which settled on the rug beneath the window. Light shone on them.
Memnon floated closer and stared down at the seeds, recognizing them. Sadness disappeared.
His spirit fled back to the flesh, and he surged upright. Rising too fast, he staggered and almost fell. Usually he lay still for a while, until his body and spirit came into balance. He made it to the door of his room and stood for a moment, holding to the frame and drawing in deep breaths. Then he opened the door and walked down to Landis Khan’s laboratory. A heavy weariness lay upon him. The last few days had been tiring, especially the long ride into the high country, where he had summoned several of his Shadows to meet him. Memnon did not like to be far from the comforts of a good palace.
In the laboratory his two assistants were still working. Patiacus looked up from the notes he was studying, then rose and bowed. Redheaded Oranin scrambled to his feet, dropping his notes. He, too, bowed deeply.
“Have you discovered anything?” asked Memnon, his voice soft and friendly.
“Much of general interest, Lord,” replied Patiacus, “but nothing as yet of a nature specific to your request.”
“In time it will become clear.” He turned to Oranin. “It is getting late, young man. Go and have some food. Get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Lord.” The young apprentice bowed again, then backed away to the door.
After he had gone Memnon walked to Patiacus and patted him on the shoulder. “Sit down, my friend. Let us talk.”
“Yes, Lord. What did you wish to talk about?”
“The child died tonight. It was very touching. Tears and wailing.”
“I am sorry, my lord.”
“Yes. As am I.” Memnon moved behind him, his hands resting on the man’s shoulders. “How is your knowledge of herbs these days? Do you maintain your previous interest?”
“I have little time for such matters now, Lord.”
“Was it interesting as an apothecary?”
“It was interesting enough, Lord. Not as fascinating as the work I do now.”
“I would imagine not.” Removing one hand from Patiacus’s shoulder, he drew a small needle dagger from a sheath hidden beneath his shirt. Reaching around, he held the blade in front of Patiacus’s face. The man jerked back. “If this blade has been smeared with the resin obtained from Abalsin stem, Swaggerroot, and Corin seed, what would the effect be, were I to cut you with it?”
“Death, my lord.”
“Instant death?”
“Convulsions, swelling of the glands in the throat and the groin. Excruciating pain. Then death.”
“Very good,” said Memnon, patting the man’s shoulder. “Excellent. You have a fine mind, Patiacus. I have always respected that. Good memory, and excellent attention to detail.”
“You are frightening me, my lord.”
Memnon glanced down. Sweat was glistening on the man’s bald head. “Oh, do not fear, Patiacus. The blade does not carry the poisons I described. Though it is very sharp.” Lifting the knife, he made a tiny cut in the skin of the cranium. Patiacus cried out and struggled to rise. Memnon’s hand came down firmly on his shoulder, pushing him back in his chair. “We do need to talk, you and I.” Sheathing the blade, he moved past Patiacus and pulled up a chair.
The assistant was sweating freely now. “About what, Lord?”
“About service, Patiacus. Loyalty, if you will. Whom do you serve?”
“You, my lord.”
“True, but not accurate. Do you not also serve the Eternal?”
“Yes, of course. But you are my master.”
“I am indeed. I am also infinitely more clever than you. I say that not with any undue pride, merely stating a fact. Yet despite my greater intelligence I have been most foolish. The child who died, where did he live?”
“On the coast. Lentria, I believe you said.”
“Yes, I did. With whom did he live?”
“A merchant, you said. Cotton.”
“Exactly. Did you mention this fact to anyone else?”
“Of course not, Lord.”
“Ah, a lie, Patiacus. Your eyes flickered as you spoke it. So, whom did you tell?”
“I did not lie,” answered Patiacu
s, straining to hold to Memnon’s gaze.
“This time your eyes widened, showing the effort you were making to keep them still. My dear Patiacus, you are not doing very well. How are you feeling?”
“I am . . . feeling very warm, Lord. And still frightened.”
“Can you move your legs?”
Patiacus glanced down and jerked once more. “You have poisoned me!”
“Yes, but it is not deadly. It is Shadow venom. Not in its pure form. It is diluted. The paralysis will be that much slower. Also—and more importantly—you will be able to talk. You will not be able to move, but you will feel. There should be a tingling in your fingers now. It is the sign that your arms and upper body are becoming immobile.”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“There is a mixture of seed and leaf that you used for me in the past, to kill those who sought me harm. You recall. The Slow Killer. The mixture could be boiled and administered within a stew, or even placed in a sweetened tisane, you said. It was almost tasteless, save for the trace of tannin. Death could take weeks, sometimes months, depending on the amount administered.”
Patiacus’s arm flopped out as he struggled to rise. His body spasmed, and he slid from the chair. Memnon grabbed the collar of his tunic and hauled him out from beneath the table. “Imagine my surprise, Patiacus, when I saw that the boy’s parents had been administering the same seed and leaf to their son, thinking it to be medicine.”
“Not I, Lord. Please!” begged Patiacus, his words slurring.
“Not you? Let me think. Someone wanted to kill a merchant’s son in a small town on the coast. In order to do this they decided to prepare the Slow Killer and convince the parents it was a potion for good health. Does that not seem to you to be overly complicated, Patiacus? If someone wanted the boy dead, they could just as easily have stabbed him. The question then becomes, why did they not? The answer is fairly obvious. They wanted the death to appear natural. The lumps under his skin would be thought to be cancerous. Is the merchant so feared that his vengeance might be the reason for the complexity? I think not. And then, my dear friend, there are the others. All my Reborns have died in the same way. Can you account for that?”