. He had not left my side—or more precisely, he had not left the room—for two days. He said little, slept near me, and spent his time going over the travel-gear, repairing and oiling and generally conducting little tasks of maintenance.
I sought to ignore him. Especially when I saw him running through the weapons-forms in the morning, each movement skilled and precise. Or when I saw him glance at me during the day, as if I were an ill child who must be watched.
“Has not someone chased him from the town yet?” I struggled to sit upright, gave up.
“Cha, no.” Kesa straightened, stroked my hair, and stood. She picked up the tray, set it on the small table next to the bed. Poured me a cup of kafi. “They buy him rounds for singing that song in the Sparrows Moon. Someone always buys an additional round or two of ale as well. Twas the best duel we’ve seen in a good ten seasons.”
“There dies my career as a discreet thief,” I muttered, accepting the kafi. “My thanks, Kesa. You should not be serving me so. I do not deserve it.”
“I know,” she agreed cheerfully. “You are ridiculous. But you are so good for business, I shall forgive you. Do you know how much profit the Iron Flower has brought us? I shall be able to expand the inn if you stay here much longer. Or buy a ship.”
“Expand the inn and buy some property. Ships are dangerous, not very profitable.” There were little sweetcakes. I picked one up and bit into it. Sugarcake. The delicacies used to tempt an invalid were paraded in front of me. I would be fat as a ratbird before long. “Lost at sea, pirated, grafted by employees…No, Kesa. Not a ship.”
“You sound very certain,” Darik spoke from the window. Kesa poured him a cup of kafi, and he accepted with a nod. He sniffed at it, cautiously, and took a sip. His eyebrows raised, and he looked at me. Is this what you drink? It tastes awful. He sounded mournful.
I thought he spoke aloud, the words were so clear. “Tis an acquired taste.” I rolled my eyes at him. “I have spent enough time on ships to know how profitable they are. Too much luck involved even for me.”
“Hard to believe.” Kesa was merry indeed, and at my expense. “Now I shall return to the commonroom. We have a room or two opening up today, and the bidding will be fierce. Your barbarian’s useful—not even Jettero will cause trouble while the big red one is here.”
“Miracles do occur,” I murmured. “Thank you, Kesa.”
She nodded. Crimson stained her lips, and gold winked at her ears. She wore yellow and green today, bright colors mixing uneasily, and there was a yellow ribbon around her slim throat. It suited her, since she was Clau. “Cha. May I let the other Gemerh in? They have been asking to speak with the pr—ah, to the lord Gemerh, every hour.”
I looked at Darik. He sipped at the kafi and made a slight face. I strangled the urge to laugh, the expression was so fleeting and sour. He said nothing.
“Well?” I prompted, finally.
His black eyes came to rest on my face. He had trimmed his hair again, short as a s’tarei. And he had apparently received more G’mai travel-wear from somewhere, probably another s’tarei staying at the inn. “I will not see them, if it displeases you. It is the least I can do, for my adai.”
“Mother Moon. Very well, Kesa, send them up. What does it matter?”
Darik’s face did not change. Of course not—he must have learned how to hide his emotions, growing up as the queen’s discarded and marginalized nephew, a threat to her succession and a constant reminder of danger. He must have been schooled in diplomacy since the cradle. I almost regretted insulting him with the palace of his childhood.
Almost.
Kesa shrugged. “I shall give you a candlemark, and send them up with your nooning. Today tis soup and fresh bread for you, Kaia’naa.”
I sipped at my kafi. It had cooled enough to be drinkable. “My thanks, Kesa. When may I have dinner with you?”
Her sandaled feet whispered over the wooden floor. “Cha, when you promise not to ruin it with your temper,” she responded smartly, and danced out the door, leaving behind only her laughter.
Darik settled into the chair she had vacated. He took another sip of his kafi and made another one of those small faces—just a quirk of the lips and his expressive eyebrows lifting a fraction. On him, it was like a shout—perhaps because I spent so much time watching his face. It is not so bad, simply very bitter, he said. I can see why you would like it.
“Tis not bitter. Merely a different taste.” I stopped. His lips had not moved. Yet I had heard his voice, as clearly as if he had spoken.
Did he speak before, or did I simply hear him?
I stared at him. My heart gave one last leap and then dropped down as far as it could without ripping free of its moorings.
The G’mai called it taran’adai, the Power to speak within.
Twas true, then. Proof even I could not argue with.
He sighed. It was a heavy sound, the sound of a man finally free of a burden.
I gazed down into my kafi cup, not seeing the porcelain and the dark aromatic drink. “Why have you done this to me? Why?”
“Blame the gods, not me.”
It did not help that he was right. “You gave me the dauq’adai. Tis flawed. You tied yourself to a flawed…” Kesa was right, I was being foolish. Maybe I had only weak Power—too weak to be seen by even the Yada’Adais.
Hope. Ridiculous hope. Still, I had taken it into my breast, like the adder in the old story. Now I was subject to the mercy of its poison.
He took another sip of kafi. “I think I could learn to like this. Tis not that bitter.”
I felt my mouth stretching up into a smile despite myself. It was a peace offering, and worthy of all the grace I could muster to accept it. “Why do the G’mai ask to see you? What do they wish of you?”
He shrugged, set his cup down, and regarded me. “I think they wish to meet you.” He managed to keep his face composed and say it seriously. “The adai of the provisional Heir—can she be bought? What is her House? Will her kin rise to prominence now? Where do her loyalties lie? You may alter the balance of power in G’maihallan, and they wish to know. One or two of them may even be friendly. Or simply curious.”
I made a small sound of disbelief. “I cannot imagine them friendly. They will shun me as everyone else did.”
“Did Anjalismir shun you? I cannot think of why. All adai’sa are precious, Kaia. Every girl-child is a gift.” He looked down at the blue woven bedspread. Kesa did not like this room, only because the blue she had chosen for it was a pale color. Yet it was soothing. The stone walls held blue tones as well, and made the entire room a reflection of sky.
“Of course they shunned me. Why do you think I left? None would speak to me.”
“Perhaps you shut them out, Kaia’li, the same way you have sought to shut me out.” He offered it gently, but the thought still made me glare at him.
“I did not.” My jaw set, I stared into my kafi cup.
“Have you ever sought speech with an adai whose Power is focused on silence? Especially yours. Tis almost like the silence of a s’tarei.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The twin hilts of his dotanii watched me as well. His face had lost little of the gauntness haunting it. “I think perhaps—just perhaps, Kaia—Anjalismir did not know how to reach or train you. Instead of having no Power, perhaps you have too much.” He picked up his cup again, took a sip. “You are right. This kafi—the taste grows on you.”
“Just as moss does,” I muttered, and saw him smile.
“Indeed.”
Speak of something else, Kaia. “As soon as I recover, I must go to Shaituh. Rik needs me.” I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand. “Or he just might be curious. I left Shaituh on the wings of a bit of ill-luck.”
The light from the window slid over his face, caressed it. I did not think I would ever tire of looking at him. “Hmm. If Shaituh is where you are bound, then Shaituh is where I shall go.”
“What of G’maihallan? And the Dragon Throne?” He would be a fool t
o give that up, a fool to walk away from it. Though even I am wise enough to know thrones are notoriously heavy burdens.
He shrugged, a fluid graceful movement. “They may keep it, it will not pursue us.”
“But do you wish to return?” I studied his face. The scar on his throat—who had done that? It looked like a garrote, how had he survived? What had he survived, to make him willing to give up G’maihallan and settle for a flawed adai?
He made a small, dismissive movement. “I was trained to be the Heir should anything happen to my cousin. Trained on the one hand, and taught to disregard the training on the other.”
His cousin. The Heir, the queen’s daughter. I had seen her once at a Festival, a slim G’mai girl dressed in cloth-of-gold, her face very serious under its newly done adult braids. Since she was the Heir, she had taken her womanhood ceremony earlier than most girls. She had been seated, motionless, under a canopy while the prospective s’tarei had been assembled, each hoping he would be the Heir’s twin. Or not hoping, the position was hardly an easy one.
So he had been trained to take on the succession, and just as harshly trained not to expect it. A dichotomy that could drive a man mad.
The Heir had been so serious, sitting utterly still. She had been in her tent when the dancing started, and I had thought of her motionless in the dark, hearing the music and unable to participate because of the weight of decorum. I myself had stayed on the fringes of the crowd, only watching, never joining the games or the dances, sometimes nervously touching my own hair in its two child’s-braids.
It reminded me of my hair, half-undone and messy. “Will you fetch me my comb?” I asked, and began to untangle my braids. Darik unfolded himself from the blue-painted chair and retrieved my comb from my purse, lying on the table near the fireplace. The fire—Kesa had built it up when she brought the kafi—snapped and popped.
He handed it to me. “I must admit,” he said, softly, “the thought of returning to the Dragon Throne is not appetizing. The jockeying for position, the lies that must be told to keep G’maihallan safe…but were I to go, Kaia, I would need your help.”
I made a slightly rude, disbelieving sound. Yanked at my hair. “I doubt that. You seem to do everything perfectly.”
He smiled. It was a genuine smile, different from his usual faint ironclad grimace. “I am glad you think so.”
I started working at the tangles in my hair. He watched, and when I hit a particularly bad tangle, he winced. “Be a little gentler with yourself, Kaia’li.”
“I do not wish to be. What will they do when they arrive, Darik?” I heard the wistfulness in my own voice, hated it. So. I had a s’tarei now. Why was I not happy? I had given him every chance to leave gracefully, and he was still here.
“They will be courteous, at least. Or I shall throw them out of the room. I think the adai will want to speak to you, they seem very interested.”
“The same way peasants are interested in bloodgames and duels,” I muttered darkly, and he shrugged. He was made for the G’mai clothing—loose and practical, with its brocade pattern worked in black thread against the soft material. He was wearing his boots, too, and I felt my own bare toes against the linen. I stopped combing my hair—twas too tangled. I wore a linen shirt and my bandages, hardly proper receiving-garb. “I should dress myself, then. Twill not do to become rusty with bed rest.”
He retreated to the window. The rain continued, a sloppy trailing species of mist beading up and rolling down the glass. The nights rained a little harder, but I felt the storm losing its force. Tomorrow would bring fairer weather, I was certain of it. And with the Sun, traveling. I had not had time to inquire of a caravan, but at least one would leave at dawn tomorrow if the weather broke.
“We shall travel to Shaituh, then?” he inquired, as if he cared little.
I finished my kafi, pushed the sheet and blankets back, and swung my bare legs out of the bed. The bruise on my right thigh had faded, yellow-green and sickly now. My ribs hurt, but the flesh had closed with alarming speed; nothing was broken, and I had escaped a cut bowel. I was lucky. “I am bound for Shaituh. If you are so determined to come, I cannot stop you.”
I did not mean to sound so harsh. Or did I?
He turned and looked steadily at me. I left the comb on the bed, made it on wobbly legs to the heavy wooden cloth-stead holding my laundered and repaired clothes—and his as well.
My clothing would begin to smell of him.
I found I did not mind, and blushed. I had not blushed since girlhood.
“I would like it better if you were not so sharp with me, Kaia’li.”
I shrugged. Twas his own fault, for seeking to make me into an adai. I was not even truly G’mai. Flawed and broken, I was no fit adai for him, no matter how well we understood each other. “I crave your pardon.” I surprised myself. “I am new to this, D’ri. It has never…”
He said nothing, but when I looked back over my shoulder, he had closed his eyes and smiled gently. “This is new to me too, Kaia’li.”
The smile was good to see. He was the image of all I could have wished for in a s’tarei. If I had not been flawed, that is.
I opened the cloth-stead, took out a shirt and trousers. My vest was ruined—I would have to repair it or find a new one. I escaped to the watercloset with a fistful of clothing while I still could.
Chapter 26
A Queen’s Plea
Darik drew the comb gently through my newly untangled hair just as a knock came at the door. “G’mai,” I said. “Maybe I can escape out the window.”
“Not until your arm is better.” To his credit, he merely sounded practical and unsurprised. “Enter, if it pleases you.” This was pitched loud enough to go through the door as he handed my comb over my shoulder. I sat on a three-legged Shainakh stool in front of the fireplace, basking in the warmth. “I shall finish this later. I may manage a braid or two, with some practice.”
I do not think I wish an amateur braiding my hair, princeling. I held my peace.
Vavakha carried in a tray with soup and fresh bread. “An’ good nooning to you, lady.” She lifted her chin slightly. The duel had given her a high opinion of me. “The Gemerh approach. Right glad they are too.”
I felt my lips pursing. “My thanks, Vavakha. Do you suppose I could throw myself in the harbor from here?”
She laughed, set the tray down and took the kafi-tray away. “I would not worry, lady. You are prettier than any of them, and fair with a blade too.” She winked, her triangular Shainakh face wrinkling with amusement. I sighed and looked at the soup. It was broth, as if I was an invalid.
I could not wait to set myself to a pot of mead. Or two. Or ten. “I thank you for the compliment.”
She straightened, self-consciously, starting to re-make the bed. I considered telling her not to bother, I would be crawling back into it as soon as I could. Twinsickness drains G’mai women. Twas difficult to move or think. I was still a trifle shaky, and exhausted by the effort of crossing the room. My fingers accomplished the first separation of my hair for a braid, quick habitual movements.
Darik looked as if he wished to say aught, visibly thought better of it. “Thank you,” he said gravely to the inngirl, who fluttered a little, tossing her red-brown hair back over her shoulder. I bit my lip.
Jealousy is not allowed, I told myself sternly. He will see his mistake soon enough.
Darik’s black eyes met mine. There is no comparison, K’li. His mental voice was shaded a little darker than his speaking voice, and had a peculiar flat quality—no echo, as if he spoke through a silk curtain. Inngirls do not interest me.
You are eavesdropping! I do not know which was worse, his reply—or the fact of his hearing my private thoughts.
He shook his head and staggered, his boots shushing over the hardwood floor. The inngirl was too busy pushing and pulling the bed into order to notice, but I did, and stared at him as he turned pale. My hair slipped through my fingers.
??
?Not so loud, Kaia’li.” He spoke in G’mai. I was becoming accustomed to hearing it again, the liquid cadences, sharp consonants. “You could be heard in the next city, if you wished to be.”
I began to braid again. The routine comforted me as few other things could. I found myself speaking in G’mai too, my inflection matching his. “I doubt it, but I thank you. Do you really think—”
“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation. “I really do. I am a judge of such things, Kaia.”
I opened my mouth to say aught else, but there came a polite tap at the half-open door. I turned to the fire and wished I could throw myself out the window.
“There.” Satisfaction at a job well done stood evident in Vavakha's self-conscious straightening. “The other Gemerh. I’ll be going now.”
“My thanks,” I replied automatically in commontongue, and continued braiding my hair, weaving a bit of black velvet ribbon in. It would not take long to have it all up out of the way.
“In’sh’ai,” Darik said, quietly. The room filled with the soundless hum of G’mai. I hunched down further on my stool and stared into the fire. If I pretended not to notice them, they could shun me with little effort. “Gavridar Taryarin Janaire, Tyaanismir Atyarik. You are known to me. The rest of you, in’sh’ai.”
The politeness in his tone made me hunch in my seat. He greeted the two G’mai I would know of, having seen them face-to-face. It was part of the codes of etiquette, a courtesy to his adai. I finished one braid, tied it off, and began another. If I was very still and silent, they might not notice me, despite the insult I offered by braiding my hair in public. Shame bit below my breastbone, I pushed the feeling away.
“In’sh’ai.” The word was murmured. I listened. Six voices. Three pairs of G’mai. And Darik.
I could leap out the window right now, I thought, longingly, as quietly as I could. Tis only a two-floor drop onto stone. I could make it. I know I could.
Silence stretched around me. I finished another braid. If I ignored them—
“Kaia. My adai.” Darik sounded very far away, as if the room had grown. “She is recovering from jada’adai. I will speak for her.”