Banshee’s Honor
Part Six
by
~Chapter Eleven~
“I can’t
believe we're finally finished” Kyrian said as she huddled closer to
the fire and sipped at a cup of mulled cider.
Azhani
shrugged. “We worked hard and
the place is small. I’m glad
we were able to make the shed a little larger for Arun.
I thought he was going to do back flips when I widened his
stall.”
Kyrian
chuckled at the image of her gelding acting like a circus acrobat. In truth, the horse had all but
danced a jig as Azhani knocked out a wall on one side of the shed and
used some of the supplies they had purchased in Barton to widen the
area. The building now housed
the horse and all their extra supplies comfortably.
In
fact, the entire homestead had been cleaned and repaired. The main room that served as their
sleeping, cooking and sitting area was as warm as any fine room at an
inn and for that, the stardancer was grateful.
Outside, the snow was waist deep and growing every
candlemark.
Azhani’s
leg had fully healed and the warrior took full advantage of that fact
by going out almost every day, laying traps and seeking the odd fish
that still swam in the stream that bordered the land around her
father’s homestead.
Three
days ago, just before the latest flurry of snow, the warrior had
brought in the carcass of a bear. The
animal had not found enough forage to hibernate and had attacked Azhani
as she sat by the stream, fishing. After
field dressing the meat, the warrior had dragged it home and between
them, she and Kyrian had built racks to cure the hide and the meat.
Leaning
forward, the stardancer stirred the pot of bear stew bubbling merrily
on the fire. “You know, you shouldn’t have to go out for a few days,
since we have all that bear meat now.”
“No,
I suppose not,” mused the warrior, but Kyrian heard the hesitation in
her voice.
“But
you will anyway, won’t you?” She
turned and grinned at her friend. Azhani
looked away. “Oh come on, I
know you by now. You love
going out there in that awful weather and slogging through piles of
snow! You’re as bad as a
child, Azhani Rhu’len!” Kyrian teased gently.
When
the warrior didn’t reply, Kyrian sighed softly.
She had pushed too hard again.
It happened far too often for the stardancer’s taste. Their personalities, while mostly
compatible, could run afoul of each other at the oddest of moments,
leaving the air between them colder than the storms outside. Opening her mouth to apologize, she
was forestalled by Azhani’s voice.
“Yes,
I do like being out there. It
reminds me of the years I spent patrolling the kingdom.
I’d rather be outside, riding under the open sky, than
cooped up in a tiny cottage,” the warrior said quietly.
Kyrian
nodded, accepting the tiny gem of information about her friend silently.
Azhani
stood and paced around the room then reached for one of the practice
blades that lined the wall by the door. “Spar
with me?”
It
was a new habit of theirs, to work out with each other, teaching what
each knew of weapons-work and hand to hand combat.
Azhani was, of course, far more knowledgeable than Kyrian
with most weapons, but the stardancer had the advantage of spending her
life learning what the priests of the goddess called “open fist”, a
type of weaponless combat that relied on using an opponent’s strength
against them.
“You
bet!” Kyrian replied, shrugging off her robes and walking over to take
up the short wooden rod that approximated the length and weight of her
baton.
%%%
Wiping
her face, Kyrian looked up at Arun and said, “Sweet goddess, but I wish
you wouldn’t eat so much!” Today
was her day to muck out the gelding’s stall and she had been working
hard for nearly a candlemark. Azhani
was out in front, cutting a walkway from the gate to the front door of
the cabin. The stardancer
could hear the steady, even crunching of the warrior’s shovel as it hit
the snow. Smiling, she took a
moment to look out the window and stare appreciatively at the warrior
as she worked.
Clad
only in a short-sleeved tunic and breeches, the warrior’s arms were
bared and the chill had turned the normally dusky brown skin to a pale
tan. Sweat ran down the
center of her back, staining a dark line in the light blue fabric.
Azhani’s
hair was tied back, the multiple braids loosely woven together and then
held off her neck with a thick leather thong.
Not far from where she was digging, the warrior’s sword
was stuck in the snow, within easy reach. Kyrian
noticed that the path had reached the gate and now the warrior was
turning around and digging her way back, making a doubly wide walkway,
large enough for the two of them to walk side by side.
A
puff of warm air made her look up. Arun
stuck his nose over her shoulder and watched Azhani dig. Reaching up, Kyrian patted the
horse’s neck and said, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she boy?”
As
if in agreement, the horse nodded.
“Yeah. I’m glad she’s my friend, too.” She nuzzled the horse, rubbing his
soft nose. “You’re a great
friend too, Arun, but Azhani’s special. She
makes me feel... like I’m normal. I
need that, Ar... I need to be normal.” The
gelding lipped her fingers, searching for hidden treats.
“You
want a carrot, boy? Let’s see
what I’ve got in here.” Kyrian
laughed at the tickly sensations and then looked down to search through
her belt pouch. Coming up
with a somewhat leathery carrot, she offered it to the horse. “It’s all I’ve got, and you’re not
getting any more oats until supper.”
Greedily,
Arun snatched up the vegetable and noisily chewed it up.
“Piggy,”
Kyrian teased, making oinking sounds at the horse’s obvious enthusiasm. Taking one last glance at Azhani,
she sighed heavily and put her back into her work.
“I’m so glad there’s only one of you Arun,” she muttered
as she cleaned.
Developing a
rhythm, she sifted out the fouled straw and replaced it with new. Dusk was turning the sky outside a
pale shade of indigo by the time she was finished.
She was just about to stick the pitchfork into a bale of
hay, when a crackling noise outside, echoed loudly in the shed.
The
regular crunch of Azhani’s shovel had not ceased, so it was not the
warrior she had heard. Suddenly
fearful, the stardancer crept toward the door and peered out. Nothing but white snow and the dark
bulk of the outhouse met her gaze. Passing
it off as the wind, she turned away and drove the pitchfork into a hay
bale, reaching for her crimson robe.
Just
as her fingers brushed the heavy velvet, she was grabbed from behind. Massive, fur covered arms wrapped
around her body. Whatever
held her began to squeeze, crushing the air out of her lungs. A pungent, foul odor of decay
overwhelmed her senses. Scarlet
and black spots began to flash before her eyes as she fought for breath.
Kicking
backwards, the heel of her foot connected with what felt like a knee,
causing the creature to roar deafeningly close to her ears. It shifted its grip, giving Kyrian a
chance to take in a huge gulp of air and then let it out in a terrified
scream.
“Azhani!”
It
roared again, covering the sound of her scream and she flung her head
back, hitting it hard in the chest. Then
she kicked back again, aiming lower and succeeded in driving the side
of her foot into its shin. A
bark of pain burst from its mouth and the grip was loosened. Putting all her strength into it,
Kyrian tore herself free. Jumping
away, she grabbed the pitchfork and turned to face her assailant.
Ugly yellow
eyes gazed out from a body that had been twisted into something evil. Thick, gray fur curled and tufted
around a pig-like snout. It
stood hunched, one shoulder drooping lower than the other and at the
end of its gnarled, misshapen paws, three inch long black claws gleamed
in the weak lamplight. Its
nostrils flared and it lunged for her.
Yelling,
Kyrian swung wildly, scoring a scraping blow along the monster’s head.
When
the creature had burst into the shed, Arun started kicking up a racket. Letting out a shrill scream, the
horse crashed through his gate and raced into the yard, nearly bowling
over Azhani, who was racing toward the shed at full speed.
The monster
charged Kyrian, its arms reaching out for her.
Using the hay bales as a bridge, the stardancer leapt up
and ran over the straw toward the doorway while the creature flailed
about, attempting to grab her.
She
had just made it to the door when a hairy paw wrapped around her ankle
and pulled her down. Dragging
her back inside the shed, the creature crooned its pleasure while she
ineffectually beat at it with the pitchfork.
The monster’s gray fur was soon dappled with yellow ichor
as wounds appeared in its thick, tough hide.
Crying
and shouting, the stardancer tried valiantly to escape, but the
monster’s grip was too tight. It had her half dangling by her ankle and
was opening its mouth to take a bite when a long, piercing wail
exploded in the shed. Kyrian
went limp with relief. She
had never heard a more beautiful sound.
Azhani
raced through the door shouting, “Hang on, Kyrian,” and somersaulted
over the beast’s head, swinging her blade down in a powerful arc,
severing its paw.
Freed, the
stardancer scrambled backwards, cowering in a corner of the stall,
shaking uncontrollably. Sobbing,
Kyrian wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to pretend that she
was somewhere else.
“Come
on you Twins forsaken piece of shit, come and get me!” the warrior
yelled, leaping down from the bales and striking out at the same time. An ear went flying, spattering the
wall of the shed with steaming blood and ichor.
Pain
maddened, the demon threw back its head and let out a chillingly loud
cry and then plowed into Azhani, knocking her down.
Backing up, he smacked her in the head, tearing deep
gashes down the side of her face and neck. Azhani
shouted in pain and kicked upward, driving her boot heel into the gut. Carrion scented air exploded around
the warrior and the monster choked.
“No! Get off her!” Kyrian, startled from
her paralytic fear, surged upward, grabbing up the discarded pitchfork
and swinging it in a double-handed arc. The
forged iron tines, driven by the ferocity of fear and anger, penetrated
deep into the monster’s back, tearing through muscle and bone. Giving the tool a vicious twist, the
stardancer pushed as hard as she could, trying to force the monster off
of her friend.
As
soon as the demon’s weight was off her, Azhani rolled away and bounced
up, bringing her sword blade down in a furious swing, cutting off its
head. Without pausing, the
warrior darted outside, immediately searching the property for more of
the demons. When none
appeared, she returned to the shed to see to Kyrian.
Numbly,
Kyrian let go of the pitchfork and backed away, feeling her gorge rise. Panic and terror overwhelmed her
once again and she raced out of the shed, crying and gagging. Falling to her knees in the snow,
the stardancer vomited until her stomach was empty.
Azhani
drove her sword into the snow and knelt next to her friend, rubbing her
back until she had caught her breath. The
stardancer was trembling violently and the warrior was deeply concerned
for her friend but she knew that they had to get out of the blood
stained clothes as soon as possible.
Already
she could feel the caustic effects of the sickly yellow blood as it
burned into her skin. Scooping
up handfuls of snow, she began to wash as much of the ichor away as she
could. Weakly, Kyrian tried
to help her, but her efforts were mostly ineffectual.
This
was worse than the bandits. Yes,
the raiders had been monsters, but this thing, this hairy, foul
smelling creature whose hunger seemed to be so focused on the
stardancer had driven a bolt of fear straight into Kyrian’s heart.
“Wha-what
was that?” she finally managed to choke out.
“Demon,”
Azhani tersely replied. “Okay,
healer, we need to get out of these clothes.
They’re toast. Come
on, stand up.” The warrior
coaxed, keeping her voice firm but gentle. Like
a newborn kitten, Kyrian blindly allowed Azhani to pull her up and then
strip the clothes from her body.
Shivering
from the chill now, Kyrian nonetheless felt better to have the sticky
reminder of the monster gone. “Thanks,”
she murmured, hugging herself tightly.
“Get
into the house and see to your leg. I’ll
take care of this,” Azhani ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.
Kyrian didn’t
bother to reply, she just darted into the house, wincing in pain at
every step.
Whistling
for Arun, Azhani waited for the frightened horse to reappear. Shortly, he came trotting up the
road and leapt over the low fence. Cantering
up to her, he came to a skidding halt about five feet away.
“I
know, boy. Stinks like death
over here. You just wait
there; I’ve got a job for you,” the warrior said soothingly.
Uncertain,
the horse stood still, watching her.
Azhani
ducked into the shed. Pulling
the pitchfork from the demon’s back, she dropped the makeshift weapon
aside. The warrior then
grabbed hold of the demon’s feet and dragged it outside. Getting a large piece of canvas, she
rolled the creature and its parts up and tied it tightly then attached
a length of rope.
Patiently,
Arun allowed her to saddle him and then, when she guided him over to
the canvas and rope tied bundle, slowly picked his way through the snow.
“Come
on, that’s it, just a little bit more,” Azhani coaxed softly. Her head ached fiercely and she knew
she had to finish quickly, so it could be cleaned.
Reaching down, she grabbed the rope and then wheeled the
horse around.
They
returned a candlemark later, after having burned the demon’s remains. By the time she led Arun in, Kyrian
had taken care of herself and was just finishing the clean up on the
shed.
The
stardancer took charge of her horse, stabling him and brushing him down
and then giving him a larger than normal portion of oats. When she came out of the shed, she
found Azhani piling the fouled straw and setting it on fire.
“You’re
hurt,” Kyrian said as she came around and saw the massive amount of
dried blood on the warrior’s face.
“Yep. Feels like it tried to rip my head
off,” the warrior said, wincing as the stardancer reached up and began
probing the wounds.
“Need
to get you inside, and clean that up. C’mon,”
Kyrian tugged on Azhani’s hand.
Suddenly,
the warrior pulled the stardancer close, crushing her against her chest. Kyrian’s breath whooshed out in a
gasp, but she gladly accepted the embrace, wrapping her arms around
Azhani’s waist and clinging tightly.
“Thought
I’d lost you,” Azhani murmured brokenly, shaking jerkily as hot tears
dripped into the stardancer’s hair. “I
don’t think I’d like that too much.”
“It’s
okay, Azhani. I’m not going
anywhere,” Kyrian said gently. I’m
never going anywhere that doesn’t keep me by your side.
“I’m
so glad you were here. You
saved my life, again.”
Azhani
laughed, releasing the stardancer. “And
you saved mine! Very
impressive move, my friend. The
beast never saw it coming.” Dropping
her arm around Kyrian’s shoulders, she started walking toward the cabin. “Now, you mentioned something about
fixing my face? Because it
hurts like hell.”
“Yeah,
come on. I’ve got stuff
already waiting inside,” Kyrian said as they walked.
“You know, I never thought I’d ever use that charcoal
colored stuff that the Y’skani doctors gave me, but they really pressed
how important it was to use it on any wounds received from a demon. Now that I’ve seen what kind of
damage they do, I understand why.” She
looked up at Azhani, who nodded.
“Infection. The claws are poisonous. I lost so many men that way,” Azhani
said through gritted teeth. The
adrenalin rush was wearing off and now the pain was eating into her,
making her feel like someone was pouring streams of hot lava down the
side of her head.
Hearing
the agony in her friend’s voice, Kyrian increased her pace. I’ll take care
of you, Azhani, just like you took care of me.
The
fact that the warrior seemed willing to forget that Kyrian had lost it,
made the words of praise all that much sweeter.
%%%
Thick,
driving rain snuck into the nooks and crannies of Elisira’s clothes,
causing uncontrollable shivers to wrack her body.
The noblewoman tugged her cloak tighter around her face
and wished again that they had been able to stay in Brenton. Instead, knowing that Arris would
not likely give up, they had returned to the chill embrace of the
wilderness. Northward they
rode, sticking to the trade routes as best they could.
It had been at least a week since they had seen anything
besides the occasional rabbit.
Barton
was their goal - a tiny pinpoint on a crude map that the innkeeper in
Brenton had made for them. If
anyone had seen Azhani in the north, it would be the lawless folk of
the free town. The innkeeper
had spoken of the people of Barton in hushed, fearful tones, and at
first, Elisira was reluctant to go to a place that inspired such
trepidation. The achingly
cold days and nights of travel had erased any fears, leaving her
dreaming of the day she supped with the scoundrels of the kingdoms.
Two
of Padreg’s men had taken ill during the journey.
Alexander Payle had died in his sleep, his body unable to
fight off the horrible coughing sickness. Syrah
Jessup was still fighting, but her weakened body would not be able to
last much longer. The loss of
Alexander brought their party down to a mere handful, which did not
afford the noblewoman much sleep at night.
Strange
noises flitted around the camp at night, making the hairs on the back
of Elisira’s neck stand at full attention, no matter how many layers
she hid under. Barely warm
nights were broken by bone shattering mornings of cold so intense that
everyone’s faces were bright red within marks of waking. Stopping in Brenton had been their
savior. Without the extra
equipment Padreg had purchased, they would have all frozen. Their new tents clung to the ground,
bending the arctic winds over them and creating a tunnel of comfort. Even the horses crawled in at night,
gratefully laying wind-chafed bodies down on woven grass mats.
Elisira
had almost gotten used to the scent of wet horse.
It wasn’t as fuggy as the musty scent of wet dog, or as
pleasant as the smell of dew-spattered grass.
Still, she supposed life could be worse.
Instead of spending her days and nights in the company of
people she liked, she could be stuck in Y’dannyv, married to King Arris.
Looking
up at Padreg, she weighed her absolute disgust over Arris with the way
that the Y’Noran made her feel. Lightheaded,
breathless and free easily won out over frightened, dirty and nauseated. As uncomfortable as her current life
was, it was eminently more preferable to that of a pampered slave. Elisira wiped her nose and sighed. If only they could be free of the
damnable cold.
Rain
gave way to sleet and then to snow as they picked their way along the
road. Elisira peered down the
road, seeking Padreg’s scouts. The
men were about a half-mile away, hopefully still following the right
trail. None of them had ever
been this far north and finding their way in the storm had been part
luck and part skill.
Food
was the one thing that none of them had considered thoroughly. Padreg knew that cold bodies
required more fuel to stay warm. What
the chieftain neglected to plan for was the bitter chill of the
northern Y’dani wilderness. The
supplies they had thought would last several months was now almost gone. Hunting had supplemented their
meager stores, but the further they traveled north, the scarcer game
became.
With
less than a pound of dried meat and a few handfuls of rice, everything
green was tested for edibility. Some
of the trees had bits that could be boiled into a thick, bitter broth
that while tasting horrible, provided some warmth and nutrition. Tonight though, they would have a
bit of fresh meat for the party. Devon’s
quick skill with a sling had brought down a family of quail and tracing
the bird’s path had led the swiftly growing boy to their den.
Elisira
sought out the face of the page, surprised to see the light down of a
first beard hugging his narrow boned chin. He’s
grown so much... In the weeks since leaving
Y’dannyv, the gawky boy had sprouted almost two inches, meeting the
noblewoman eye to eye. His
voice was also undergoing the painfully embarrassing tonal changes. One moment, she would hear the
enthusiastic boy and the next, the ghost of the man he would become,
would echo from his mouth.
For
Devon’s sake, as well as their own, the noblewoman prayed that they
were as near to Barton as the map promised.
She was coming to realize that close in the Y’dani woods
could mean candlemarks or days, and they did not have days.
Freeing
a hand to brush accumulated snow away from her face, she looked for
Padreg and found him conferring with one of his men.
It was Aden, she realized, recognizing the shorter man’s
posture. The tall king
gestured and Aden shook his head. Padreg
gestured again, furiously, and again, Aden’s response was negative. The young noblewoman clicked to her
horse, encouraging him to join Padreg and his liegeman.
“My
lord, is there something amiss?” she called out softly as she drew
closer.
Padreg
turned and looked at Elisira, smiling unconsciously at her approach.
“Nay,
my lady, it is nothing to disturb yourself with,” he said, his deep
voice rough with the accent of his homeland.
She
raised an elegant eyebrow. “Your
man looks fair ready to burst, my lord. Please,
do not think to protect me by hiding ill winds from my knowledge. They will still blow fetid and rank.”
“Aptly
put, my lady,” Aden whispered, hiding a smirk.
Padreg
sighed in resignation. “As
you will, my lady. Aden
brings word that we are being tracked – yet not by king’s men or bounty
hunters. Ice demons hunt the
snows, or so he claims. He
has yet to see the creatures, so I cannot place full credit to his
scouting.”
Elisira
felt her heartbeat treble. “Demons,
Aden? You are certain?”
The
man nodded warily. “As
certain as I can be, using only fire tales and book learning to guide
me. I, myself, have never
faced a demon, but I have studied the histories.
I know the signs – shadows in wind, the smell of rot and
most importantly, the ochre slime of their waste.
See here,” the man held up a leather-wrapped object. Inside was a dagger coated in deep
yellow ochre slime. “I found
this not more than a candlemark ago.”
The
foul substance steamed and bubbled in the cold, eating through the
metal of the knife blade and leaving behind blackened, wasted pits. Elisira paled.
“We
must seek shelter, my lord. Your
man is correct in his tracking. Demons
hunt this land,” Elisira said firmly, turning to scan the road ahead
intently. “If they have our
scent, it will not be long ere they feast on our entrails.”
Padreg
reached out a hand to reassure the lady, but quickly withdrew it at the
steely look of determination that settled on Elisira’s face.
“I
will require a bow, my lord, and sturdily tipped arrows.”
“Of course. You can use Alexander’s,” Padreg
nodded at Aden and the scout hurried off to retrieve the dead soldier’s
weapon.
%%%
As
the day wore on, Elisira tried not to regret stringing the bow that now
lay across her saddlebow, the string chafing against the fabric of her
breeches. She also tried to
recall every lesson she had ever taken from Azhani on the use of the
weapon, as well as the few tips her father’s huntsman had given her. On her hip rode the saber, its peace
ties fluttering loosely.
Astariu grant me the skill to use these weapons
well, and the courage to draw them under fire.
The snow had
mercifully let up, but Elisira knew it was only temporary. Worse was yet to come. Hopefully, by then, the party would
be in Barton, safely tucked away in an inn and warming their weary feet
by a cheerful fire. Delightful
visions of warmed honey mead and a thick beef stew floated just out of
Elisira’s reach. She could
almost smell it, rich, sweet and wonderfully hot.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she savored the dream.
A
fat, wet gob of snow plopped onto her nose.
Her
horse suddenly reared, nearly throwing the lady to the ground. Elisira grabbed the reins, quickly
getting the horse under control.
“Easy
boy,” she muttered, using her knees to direct the suddenly recalcitrant
stallion. Behind her,
Padreg’s men were muttering as wind began to shake the branches of the
trees.
“Demons!” A high-pitched yell broke through
the unnerving silence. Elisira’s
gaze snapped to Devon. He was
pointing to a patch of snow that seemed just a bit grayer than the rest. The shifting wind brought the
faintest hint of something putrid, causing the hairs on the back of the
lady’s neck to rise in fear.
“Fire
the torches men!” Padreg yelled. Each
of his men carried a torch, the one known bane of the demons. Elisira pulled out her own torch and
fumbled with her flint and striker, cursing the cold that made her
hands clumsy. From the corner
of her eyes, she could see that the others were having just as tough a
time with the torches.
The
smell grew stronger as the wind’s velocity increased.
Large, shaggy masses of teeth and claws began to rise up
out of the snowy ground and a low, thrumming hum joined with the
whistle of the wind to create an eerie chorus.
The horses all began to sidle, nervously shaking their
heads and taking uncertain, frightened steps backward.
“Get
those torches up, now!” Padreg’s fear tinged voice weakly pierced the
hum of the demons. One by
one, the creatures advanced on the party.
Devon,
who was having just as much difficulty as the others, suddenly dropped
his flint and striker, snapped his fingers and shouted, “Light damn
you, light!”
The
torches all lit with an explosive burst.
“Circle
up and protect the lady,” Padreg ordered, grabbing his horse’s reins
and pulling close to Elisira. His
face was a mask of stoic determination. “We
will not die today.”
The
steady creak of bending wood filled the air as bows were knocked. There was a moment of absolute
stillness as the arrows sliced through the air and then, as they struck
their targets, chaos erupted. Roars
of pain and fury blended with the wind as bows were dropped and blades
drawn.
Elisira
struck out at anything she could, praying that her blade bit deeply
into the hides of foes, not friends. Bedlam
danced madly around the party. Gray
furred death reached out for the lives of Padreg’s men, carving pieces
away from the group one by one. The
screams of horse and man blended with the grunts and growls of the
demons.
Blood
and ichor puddled in the snow, vivid splashes of crimson and yellow
that fanned out around the raging battle. Viscous
slurry made footing traitorous for the horses and the weather turned
even worse. Fighting blind,
the Y’Noran party tightened their formation, trying to make a knot
around their king and his lady.
A bloody,
razor-taloned paw came out of the white haze and slashed at Elisira. She ducked, swinging her blade
wildly. The sickening
sensation of metal slicing through fur and flesh reverberated up her
arm and she just barely kept herself from vomiting.
She spared one moment to send off a quick prayer as she
turned her head away to see one of Padreg’s men dragged from his horse
and carried off into the woods. Grimly,
she forced her head around and maneuvered into his spot, facing the
next demon.
~Chapter Twelve~
Azhani
Rhu’len was hunting. Not for
the rare bachelor buck or early risen bear, but for demons. It had been three days since the
demon had attacked Kyrian and nearly taken the life of her only friend,
and she was determined that nothing else would sneak up on them. Wincing, she pulled her scarf up
around her face again. Thin,
dark lines were all that remained of the painful slashes that the
demon’s claws had left behind.
The
stardancer had given freely of her magic, healing Azhani and then
herself. Kyrian and Arun were
now safely tucked away in the cabin. The
door was barricaded and the warrior had admonished the stardancer not
to let anyone in, nor was she to go out for any reason.
There was even a makeshift chamber pot in the storage
room, so that she would not have to even make the quick journey to the
privy. The rest of the room
had been converted into a makeshift stable for the horse.
Every
day since the attack, Azhani had searched the woods, struggling through
the snowstorm on foot until she could go no further.
Then she had packed her bedroll and started an even wider
circuit, praying that the blankets were as warm as they looked. Before leaving, she and Kyrian sat
down and talked about her eventual return.
“Promise me you’ll be safe out there, Azhani,” Kyrian said quietly, pleading with her eyes. The stardancer’s hands were entangled in a piece of soft cloth that she had been using to dry the dishes.
Azhani nodded, smiling ruefully. “I can’t promise that, but I swear that I will return.”
Kyrian accepted the compromise. “All right. How will I know you’re back? If I lock the door, and I have the key, how are you going to get in?”
The warrior whistled piercingly, a long, four-note burst that echoed through the cabin.
“Oh,” Kyrian said, nodding wisely. “I see. Yes, I think I’d be able to hear that even in the middle of a good dream.”
Grinning, Azhani said, “And if I’m not alone, you’ll hear this.” She added a trill. Slowly, patiently, Azhani went through several different whistle combinations for danger, friend, injury and every other possible eventuality she could imagine. When she was through, she stood up and Kyrian stood with her.
Wordlessly, the stardancer wrapped her arms around her friend, hugging her tightly. “Come back soon, Azhani Rhu’len. I don’t want to spend too much time talking to Arun.”
Azhani sighed softly, petting Kyrian’s soft, curly tangle of hair. It had grown out since they had met, and now the amber-golden locks cloaked the stardancer’s shoulders. “Well, I hope poor Arun doesn’t get too bored listening to your addlepated ideas,” she said teasingly.
“Azhani!” Kyrian squawked, pulling away. “Be nice!” She smacked the warrior’s shoulder, and then cursed when the palm of her hand caught the edge of one of the burnished metal studs in the armor. “Ow,” she whimpered exaggeratedly.
“Poor baby. Here, let me see,” Azhani took the stardancer’s hand and turned it up, seeking signs of injury. A faint red mark marred the pale skin of her friend’s palm. “Mm, this looks bad. I think I’m going to have to use one of my father’s favorite remedies.” A twinkle of mischief sparkled in her eyes. She looked into Kyrian’s open face and said, “Now, just close your eyes, Kyrian, and count to ten, and by the time you’re done, the pain will be all gone.”
Gamely, Kyrian closed her eyes. Her palm really didn’t hurt that much, but it was heartbreakingly wonderful to see this playful side of Azhani peek out from behind those indigo blue eyes. She started counting, “One, two, three...”
As Kyrian counted, Azhani brought the stardancer’s hand up to her lips and waited.
“Ten,” Kyrian breathed, and then felt the wonderful sensation of soft lips brushing her skin.
“There now, all better?” Azhani asked, her voice seemingly deeper than before.
“Oh yeah, fine, thanks, yeah, that’s some wonderful trick there, Azhani,” Kyrian babbled, suddenly eager to reclaim her hand.
“Good.
Now, as much as I hate to say it, I have to go,” Azhani
turned and gathered up her heavy cloak, wrapping its furry warmth
around her like an extra suit of armor. “Stay
safe, I’ll be back.” With
those words, she left to begin her search.
This morning,
she had seen her first signs that the search was not in vain.
She
very nearly stumbled into a jellied puddle of demon spoor. Azhani squatted down, studying the
substance with a practiced eye. Just
the very sight of the stuff brought back enough memories to make her
teeth hurt. It’s
too soon. They shouldn’t be
rising for another two years. She
poked at it with an arrow, grimacing when the caustic matter melted the
perfectly good arrowhead.
Looking
up, she saw that she was staring into the burned out bowl of a tree. A patch of mushrooms, thick and dark
lined the interior. Reaching
in, she casually snapped one off and sniffed it.
A musty, but sweet scent tickled her nose and she smiled
in delight. A
treat for Kyrian. Thank you,
goddess. Carefully, she harvested the
mushrooms, tucking them away in her pouch for safekeeping.
Living
with the stardancer had become the most pleasurable part of the
warrior’s existence. The
younger woman’s natural enthusiasm and exuberance for life had infected
Azhani, making each day seem a little lighter.
Life wasn’t perfect and there were many things yet to be
done, but for this winter, perhaps the gods would not object if she
took some small comfort from Kyrian’s friendship.
She
glanced down at the puddle of slime slowly melting through the snow and
smiled grimly. It started
snowing again, dappling her shoulders with a dusting of white. The wind began to pick up and Azhani
breathed deeply, snarling when she caught the faintest trace of a very
familiar scent. Coupled with
the distinctive pool of the demon’s hunting spoor, Azhani knew that
something – or worse yet – someone was in danger.
“I
knew you weren’t alone, you piece of slime.
Now, let’s see what your brothers have cornered,” she
whispered, drawing her blade and moving on silent feet through the
woods.
%%%
Blinking
through the blood trickling into her eyes, Elisira desperately tried to
hold back the demon that was attacking her.
The noblewoman felt like she was caught up in a whirlwind. Demons howled around her, their
teeth and claws shredding into flesh and throwing out bright crimson
fans of blood. Suddenly, she
tried to break free, spurring the horse toward an opening in the trees. Rising up before her, the demon
roared, causing the stallion to rear and dance backward on his hind
legs.
Wheeling
back, Elisira huddled up with the rest of the party, doing her best to
keep the demons at bay. Curling
her lip into a feral snarl, she growled. Trapped. She hated being trapped. Whether it was disguised as the
false nobility of King Arris or revealed as the hunger driven rage of
hellish monsters, she didn’t care. A
rumble of anger and frustration worked its way up from her belly,
ripping free to become a shout of pure adrenalin.
“Everyone,
concentrate on breaking free! If
we can get them to fall back, we can run!” Elisira’s voice penetrated
the chaos.
A
smile sprang to Padreg’s blood and ichor spattered face and he nodded. “She’s right, lads!
Press on!”
Renewing
the fight, they strove to throw back the onslaught.
Wildly yelling, laying about them with new vigor, the
Y’Norans drove the demons back. The
tightly pressed circle of horses expanded, giving them more room to
fight.
Then
Devon went down, knocked from his saddle by a demon that leaped from
the trees.
“Devon!”
Elisira yelled, trying to break away and ride to his defense. The beast in front of her cut her
off, swiping at the horse’s head.
A
sound heard in the nightmares of many, the dreams of few and the
prayers of one, burst into the clearing. Somersaulting
into the fray came a blue and white clad figure; a sword flashing about
with such deadly ferocity that one of the demons’ heads was cleaved
from its body.
The
newly arrived warrior let out another ear splitting wail and leapt over
the falling demon’s body to skewer the one facing Elisira. The noblewoman barely had time to
see a flash of indigo blue eyes and dusky brown skin before the warrior
was gone, running toward the remaining demons.
Elisira
watched in awe as the warrior made quick work of the monsters that had
been, up until now, making mincemeat of the party.
With a ferocity shown by few, the warrior engaged the
demons, ripping chunks of fur and flesh from the bodies of their
attackers.
Riding over
to assist a fallen comrade, Elisira dared not question this gift from
the gods. Whether their
strange savior was Azhani, or someone using her trademark battle cry
did not matter at this moment. What
was important was escape.
The
strange warrior moved from demon to demon, never spending more than a
few breaths on their deaths. The
creatures seemed to sense that this new warrior was one who they could
not defeat and began backing away from the newly energized party.
“Your
bows, men! Feather their
hides!” Padreg shouted, lifting his own short bow and quickly firing
off two arrows, hitting one of the demons in the flank.
The
demon howled and made to attack the Y’Noran king but was quickly
brought down by a hail of arrows from the other men.
Leaping
in front of a demon attempting to run, the warrior thrust deeply into
the beast’s side, spilling fresh ichor onto the snow.
The creature howled in frustration, slapping a paw out at
the warrior and following it with a vicious head butt.
The warrior sidestepped and slashed, opening up a nasty
gash along the creature’s shoulder. Standing
to charge, it was brought down by arrows from Padreg’s men. The remaining two demons scrambled
off into the forest, leaving the group to lick its wounds and catch
their breaths.
They
let them go. Too injured and
too sickened to fight on, the party needed to find a place to heal and
mourn. Two men were dead,
torn to ribbons by the demon’s claws. Four
of the horses were also gone, leaving the party short by two mounts. No one, man or beast, was spared
injury.
Elisira
felt her sword arm begin to tremble in exhaustion and was about to drop
her blade when Azhani’s voice echoed in her mind, “Never
drop a weapon. The minute you
do, you’re dead. Your blade
is the one thing standing between you and whatever is trying to kill
you. It is a part of you and
should never be forsaken.” Her slackening grip tightened
automatically and instead, she laid the blade across the pommel of the
saddle.
After
a few breaths of the rank, coppery air, the noblewoman felt queasy. Breathing shallowly, she turned her
gaze on the warrior who had rescued them. It
had to be Azhani. No other
moved quite like the former warleader did – as though her feet only
brushed the surface of the ground, rather than pounded into it. She was going from corpse to corpse,
neatly beheading the demons.
Elisira
guided her shaking mare over to the warrior.
“My thanks to you stranger.”
She
looked up and the cowl of her cloak fell away to reveal a
heartbreakingly familiar face.
“Azhani?”
the noblewoman whispered disbelievingly. Sliding
off her horse and slowly walking toward the blood spattered figure, she
held out a hand and whispered, “Azhi? Goddess,
please, is that you?”
Padreg,
drawn by the pain and hope in his beloved’s voice, strode over to them. “Is she right, stranger? Be you the one called Azhani
Rhu’len?”
Azhani
stood there, staring at her old friend. From
the corner of her eye, she saw the boy she remembered as Devon, Pol
Imry’s kid, looking at her with such hope in his face that she could
not turn away. Raising her
gaze to Elisira’s, she nodded.
With
a tiny cry, Elisira leapt across the remaining space and gave her a
tight, one-armed hug. “Thank
you,” she whispered, several times.
“Azhi!”
Devon cried out in joy, as he raced pell-mell to her side. Bouncing happily, he hugged her,
released her and hugged her again. “It’s
you, it really is you! I knew
it! I knew you weren’t dead! I knew those cranky old bastards
couldn’t kill you!” Tears
streamed openly down his face and he threw his arms around her again,
burying his head in her shoulder. “I
missed you,” he whispered.
She
ruffled his hair affectionately. “Missed
you, too, squirt.” The
warrior wrapped her arms around Elisira and brushed her lips over the
noblewoman’s forehead. “Missed
you, as well, Eli.”
Gruffly,
Padreg said, “I’m glad to find you, warrior.
I have need of your services.”
Releasing
the warrior, Elisira began cleaning her sword off in the snow. Dark pits on the blade appeared
wherever the demon’s caustic blood had eaten through the metal. Frowning, she sheathed the saber and
looked up at Padreg, who was waiting for Azhani to reply.
Azhani
was staring at Padreg, eyeing him narrowly, as if trying to decide if
he were daft.
Turning
to the warrior, she dropped to one knee. “Master,”
she said, waiting for Azhani to acknowledge her.
“I have not lost your lessons.”
The
warrior looked down, noting that the noblewoman had cleaned and
sheathed her blade. She had
also remained calm, even after the danger had passed, which impressed
Azhani deeply.
“Then
my teaching was not in vain. I
am grateful,” Azhani replied in a solemn tone, reaching out to touch
Elisira on the shoulder. “You
are injured, my friend. Let
me tend your wounds.”
The
lady scuffed her knuckles across the slash on her head, wincing when
they came away bloody. “I’ll
be all right. There are
others who need your skills more.”
Azhani
nodded and let Devon go. “I
need to go help your friends, Dev. Do
me a favor and find some bandages, okay?” she said after quickly making
sure that the boy was not injured. His
injuries, like Elisira’s, were light. He
nodded and ran off to look over the packs.
“Why
is it you seek me?” Her gaze
fell on the horseshoe-shaped tattoo that adorned his left collarbone. “Who are you, Plainsman?”
Bowing,
Padreg said, “I am Padreg Keelan, Clan chief of Y’Nor and I seek you
because I need shelter.” The
plainsman grinned wryly. “It
seems I have become an outlaw in your kingdom.”
One
dark eyebrow rose, telegraphing Azhani’s curiosity.
“How does a king become an outlaw in one of the seven
kingdoms?”
“With
korethka, all things are possible,” he
replied softly. Looking at
Elisira, he smiled as she helped Devon rip up tunics for bandages. “Though there is more than just the
sting of soul’s love that taints our problems, my lady warrior. I daresay that King Arris’ darkened
soul would have found other cause to despise me.
Be that as it may, it was upon my request to court yon
lady that I learned of a plot to assassinate me.”
He nodded at Devon. “The
young man there, he came to me at great risk to expose the machinations
of Y’dan’s monarch.
I
should have perhaps fled, taking only those loyal to me with, but my
heart cried out to beg the companionship of the lady Elisira. She agreed, for she has no love for
Arris, though he desires her for his own.”
“He’ll
not have her,” Azhani said through clenched teeth, her hands opening
and closing in fists.
Padreg
started at her reaction, but continued. “As
we have traveled north, I have returned my mind to my stay at Y’dannyv,
and found that the king’s intentions toward the lady were perhaps less
honorable than those of a dog caught in mid rut.
I wondered then, if he were so driven to attack me over a
tumble in the hay, why he had ousted you from your honorably held
position? If my own branding
of outlaw was done so cheaply, was the label affixed beside your name
any richer?”
The
warrior sorted through the king’s statement and shrugged. “I killed a lot of innocent men. I did it to escape the king’s
justice. Draw your own
conclusions.” She shrugged
and began to turn away.
“A
king like Arris knows not what true justice is, warrior. Upon this day, in the sight of the
Twins, for naught but the sake of what was good and right, you proved
your innocence. You are a
true servant of Astariu, Azhani. It
would honor me greatly to have you at my back,” Padreg said solemnly,
offering the warrior his arm.
Hesitantly,
she clasped it, grunting at the surprising firmness of the Y’Noran’s
grip. “Thank you, your
highness,” she murmured, granting him the respect of his title.
“Padreg’ll
do, warrior. I’m not one to
stand on ceremony, especially when I’m freezing my manhood off in the
middle of a snowdrift the size of an Y’skani sand dune.”
A
genuine smile creased the warrior’s face. “Follow
me then, Padreg. What shelter
I have is small, and already shared, but what room you can find, you
are welcome to use.”
“Shared?” Elisira, who had finished with the
bandages and was walking up to bind a cut on Padreg’s hand asked,
loading the word with a thousand questions.
“Someone
I met on the road. An Y’Syran
stardancer called Kyrian,” Azhani said, grinning brightly. “She saved my leg with her care.” Lowering her voice for Elisira’s
ears only, “And her friendship has rescued my soul.”
The
depth of pain in the warrior’s crystal blue eyes was visible for the
briefest of moments, vanishing quickly to be replaced by a hard calm
that sent a chill down the other woman’s spine.
Elisira fervently wished that she would never be at odds
with the woman whose glare could cut as deep as any knife.
“If
you would warrior, lead us on to this place of refuge,” Padreg said and
then turned to give his remaining warriors orders to gather the slain. “I like it not to leave good Y’Noran
blood to teeth and fang. We’ll
build a cairn some ways from here, if that be all right with you,
warrior?”
“Call
me Azhani. Yes, that’s fine. We can leave the demons – if
anything out here is willing to stomach them, they’re welcome to the
remains,” the warrior replied absently. Mentally,
she mapped out the route they would take back to her father’s homestead. She knew just the place where they
could find a nice, open area with plenty of rock and debris suitable to
build cairns for the fallen.
%%%
Traveling
was difficult, yet easier than it had been.
With Azhani to lead them, the scouts no longer hunted
blindly for half-remembered landmarks. The
innkeeper in Brenton had been helpful, but it was terribly hard to
locate every burnt out tree stump and moss covered boulder he had
described as popular markers along the route to Barton.
After
a candlemark, they stopped and buried the bodies of Padreg’s men. Azhani
approved of the Y’Norans; they were quiet, hard working and efficient
in their actions. Unlike the
boisterous Y’dani she had served with most of her life, the Y’Norans
followed orders without question. Yet,
when one of the men had a suggestion, they did not hesitate to approach
their king with it.
As
the last stone was laid in place, Padreg stepped up and put his hand on
the cairn. Closing his eyes,
he took a deep breath and began to speak.
“Far
from home, my brothers, but close to heart, you’ll be.
Alexander, brother of Stefan, fair of hair and bright of
eye, always with a joke in your heart, may the goddess never tire of
your uproarious spirit. Nadine,
daughter of Gwenneth, with your brown eyes and red hair like fire, and
a spirit to match, may you dance with Astarus.
Finally, to Roald, be he ever so brave, be he ever so old,
no one knew mead like my good friend Roald!”
There
was laughter, and more than few tears, as Aden, Thomas and Syrah each
went to the cairn and said their goodbyes. Azhani,
Elisira and Devon watched the proceedings, and as the Y’Norans turned
away, the noblewoman and the page each stepped up to the cairn and laid
wreathes of tiny white flowers on the dark gray stones.
It
was nearing sunset as they approached the gate and Azhani gave out the
four note whistle that meant she was home, adding a trill that she
hoped the stardancer would remember meant that she was not alone. The warrior looked at her father’s
homestead and felt no little sense of pride.
She and Kyrian had cleaned it up, taking the ramshackle
buildings and fence line and making it livable once again. Smoke chuffed merrily from the
chimney and there was a cleared path through the snow that led from the
gate to the door of the house. Branching
off from the side were covered pathways that went to a shed and a privy.
A
light came on near a window and Azhani winced at the stardancer’s
seeming lack of caution. The
door creaked open and Kyrian exited the building, dressed in full
stardancer regalia, down to her steel baton and Twins token. A grin pricked Azhani’s lips briefly
before the warrior’s customary mask of calm settled in its place.
“I’m
home,” she simply said.
“And
you’ve brought guests, I see. Wonderful,
welcome and please in the name of the goddess, enter in peace.” Kyrian’s natural charm quietly
threaded its way through the group, putting to rest whatever
trepidations remained. This
was not the home of a known fugitive, but the sanctuary of a
stardancer, one of Astariu’s most beloved servants.
As
they entered, Kyrian immediately went to the man whose injuries were
the worst and carefully helped him off the horse and into the cabin.
Azhani
watched the stardancer go and then turned to Padreg.
“You can bring the horses to the shed.
There’s not much room – the building wasn’t meant to be
used as a stable, but I’m sure Arun won’t mind the company.”
Padreg
nodded, but his eyes, as well as Elisira’s, were glued to the rapidly
moving form of the crimson robed stardancer.
Elisira
turned to Azhani and admiringly said, “She’s good, for one so young.”
“She
does all right,” Azhani admitted.
Before
long, the group was nicely ensconced in the main room of the house. The most stable portion of the
upstairs loft was quickly turned into an infirmary.
Downstairs, the walking wounded huddled around the fire,
grateful to shuck layers of blood and grime encrusted clothing.
Young
Devon was fast asleep, his head pillowed on his folded hands and two
blankets draped over his exhausted body. Azhani
moved from person to person, doing what she could for their injuries
while Kyrian and Elisira handled the severely wounded.
The creaking
of the floor above them made Azhani nervous.
Unable to repair the supports, neither she nor Kyrian had
been upstairs since they had closed it off for the winter. We can’t keep
them up there; we have to move them into the storeroom maybe, but...
A
sharp cracking noise interrupted her thoughts.
“Look
out!” Azhani yelled, grabbing the sleeping boy and rolling away from
the hearth. The splintering
sound of wood, followed by a drift of cobwebs and several choked off
oaths filled the room. Looking
up, it was easy to see the stardancer’s booted foot and cotton clad leg
sticking out of the ceiling.
There
was a moment of stillness and then Kyrian’s bright laughter caused
everyone else’s mirth to be set free.
“Aw
damn it, Azhani, wouldn’t you know that I would remember about this
weak spot just about the same time I put my foot through it?” she
called down, causing further gales of laughter.
“Azhi,
do you think you could get your warrior butt up here and help me?”
Elisira could be heard moving around carefully.
“Your friend’s no lightweight, you know.”
“Yeah,
it’s time for you to play hero and rescue me again, warrior,” Kyrian
added, between her giggles.
Azhani
rolled her eyes, let the now wide-awake Devon go and climbed upstairs.
“Azhi? I think I like that,” Kyrian said,
wiggling her toes to make sure nothing was seriously damaged.
“I
wouldn’t call her that until you’re certain she loves you,” Elisira
whispered quietly in the other woman’s ear.
The words were so fleeting, Kyrian wondered if she had
imagined them.
Smiling
as Azhani’s tall form appeared at the top of the stairs, she called
out, “Hey there, stranger. How’s
about giving me a lift?” She
wriggled her eyebrows comically and raised her arms into the air,
smiling beseechingly.
From
her temporary bed against the wall, Syrah Jessup cackled, then wheezed
in pain as a round of coughing overtook her.
Elisira quickly went to her side and helped her to drink a
soothing tea.
Rolling
her eyes and blowing out a stream of exasperated air, the warrior
reached down and pulled Kyrian out of the hole.
As she pulled, the stardancer’s pant leg tore, the sound
echoing loudly in the room.
“Guess
I’ll have to be using that needle and thread again,” Kyrian joked
weakly as Azhani gently set her down on a more stable portion of the
floor. Examining her leg, the
stardancer made a face and sighed. Three
angry red, weepy scratches cut into the pale skin of her calf. “Ow.” She
looked over at Elisira, who was still with Syrah and then to Azhani and
shook her head. “Somehow I
don’t think your father’s excellent remedy will fix this one, Azhani.” The floor creaked again, and she
scrambled over toward the wall. “Damn. I guess we can move them into the
storeroom, though it’s not as comfortable in there.
I certainly don’t want them falling through the roof on us
while we’re sleeping some night.”
“That
would be uncomfortable,” Elisira said, stroking her chin in thought. “How much of the floor is rotted? Can we just keep them in one area?”
she gestured to Thomas and Syrah, the two injured warriors who were
bundled on straw pallets.
“No,
the floor is rotting in many places, we’ll have to move them again. I don’t like it, but it’s the only,”
Azhani broke off as Devon’s wavy brown locks appeared at the top of the
stairs. “Dev, what is it?”
The
young man stared at the three women, dazed.
“I think I can help. This
book,” he hefted a large, battered tome, “has a spell for fixing stuff.”
Azhani
narrowed her eyes. “A spell? I’m not certain I’d like to trust my
father’s house to the vagaries of magic,” she said disdainfully.
Kyrian
raised one eyebrow in question, but Azhani didn’t explain her attitude. “Well, I think it couldn’t hurt to
try,” the stardancer said softly, trying not to push her friend into
something she didn’t want, but hoping for some kind of explanation as
to why she didn’t like magic.
Elisira
nodded, “I agree with Kyrian, it’d certainly save time and space if
Thomas and Syrah could sleep up here.”
The
grinding of the warrior’s teeth was audible.
She turned her gaze on Elisira, her eyes diamond hard. “You, of all people, should
understand,” she said, her voice a low hiss of remembered pain.
Elisira
winced. Her old friend was
right. She did know why
Azhani had no love lost for the arts arcane.
It was the magic of Cabalian sorcerers that had caused so
much trouble for the warrior’s father, Rhu’len DaCoure.
Through the machinations of that evil house, the good man
had spent much of his free time chasing shadows.
When he had finally cornered the man responsible for most
of his grief, Keskyn Nightblade, it was only to discover that Keskyn
himself was a pawn in a much greater game. Because
of that, the older warrior had instilled in his daughter a deep
loathing for traditional magic.
“I
know you have no love for magic, my friend, but Devon is not Keskyn
Nightblade. He only wishes to
aid, not injure,” the lady said, her voice soothing.
Azhani
looked away, muttering, “Fine, do whatever.
I’ll go get some more blankets.”
She turned to go and then noticed Kyrian still sitting on
the floor, wrapping her injured leg in some bandages.
Without asking, she easily lifted her up and carried her
down the stairs.
Kyrian
let out a startled squawk and said, “Azhani, what are you doing?”
“You
shouldn’t put any pressure on that leg for a while.
Might have strained something,” Azhani replied gruffly.
“But...” Kyrian started to retaliate, and then noticed the set expression on her friend’s face. Silence is the better part of valor in this instance, Kyr. She needs to feel like she’s doing something to take her mind off of what’s happening with Devon. Just let her be, girl, let her be.
She settled
down, allowing Azhani to carry her down the stairs.
Besides, a rarely heard inner voice
commented, this feels rather nice. Kyrian had to agree, being so
close to the spicy-scented warrior’s body was much more pleasurable
than she should admit to, but could hardly deny.
Azhani
settled Kyrian into her bed and said, “Wait here,” and then wandered
over to the fire, where she made a cup of tea for her friend.
Kyrian
glanced up the stairwell and could just barely make out the glow of
magic. Quickly, she allowed
her gaze to scan the ceiling, where she could see the bluish-gold
threads of power creeping across the wood, mending and supporting the
ancient timber. Before her
eyes, cracked and broken wood stretched and melded, growing into firm
flooring once again.
“Very
cool,” she whispered, nodding slightly.
Azhani
made a plate of stew for the stardancer and then carried it back over
to where Kyrian had settled on the bed. Even
though she tried not to, Azhani could see the threads of arcane power
rippling across her ceiling. Just
the thought of someone performing magic in her house made her skin prickle and
her shoulders ache with tension.
“Here,”
she thrust the plate at Kyrian, “eat.”
Taking
the food, Kyrian smiled her appreciation. “Thank
you. This was very kind of
you. Sit down with me?” She patted her bed softly.
Azhani
was about to say no, but decided to allow her friend’s calming presence
to soothe her jangling nerves.
The
quiet sounds of people eating and sleeping began to fill the room and
soon, Azhani dozed off where she sat.
Chapters Thirteen and Fourteen