Servants of the Sands, page 36
Allonin let out a breath of relief, then registered the words bound lord and choked, plastering his hand across his mouth to stop himself from blurting out the first response that came to mind. It took some time for his breathing to even out enough for speech, for the panic hammering through his body to subside enough to allow his hearing to work properly again. He had no idea if Evkit or the Teyantin had said anything in the meanwhile.
“My apologies,” he said thickly, dropping his hand to his side. “I was—not myself for a moment. I gather—several things from your choice of words.”
“I thought you might,” Evkit answered dryly. “You are not as feeble at subtlety as you like to profess. Yes. Scratha ha’rethe—the last of the Fortress-bound ha’reye—is awake again. And Cafad Scratha—who has been kept dangerously ignorant in the mistaken belief that if he did not know certain things, he would never, ever be able to rouse that particular ha’rethe from its slumber—Cafad Scratha, most unfortunately, was there when it awoke, and bound himself to it.”
“And Azni is there now,” Allonin said, the words scarcely audible to his own ears. “Dear gods. She couldn’t have expected that.”
Evkit’s voice sounded both amused and tired. “Perhaps now you understand why your presence added to that particular location at this particular time would be, to put it mildly, unwise...?”
Allonin slid to sit on the floor, knees simply refusing to support him. “Yes,” he said, and consciously let go of that problem as too vast to handle. He needed time to examine what those few sentences said, and implied, and left out. Time to change the subject to a lesser matter. “Where are my companions, Lord Evkit? What happened to Lamb and Tenny?”
A sigh ghosted through the darkness. “I don’t know,” Lord Evkit said. “While my people stopped your attackers from departing with you, they missed the chance to rescue your companions.”
Allonin sat up, astonished dread streaking through his veins. “I thought—” he began, then stopped himself short before he said anything insulting.
“You were not initially captured by my people,” Lord Evkit said. “You were in the hands of a raiding party from Aerthraim Family. They moved extremely quickly and well, and my athain did not sense their presence.”
Allonin rested his head against the wall behind him, staring into darkness, blinking hard. Not a minor problem, and far from a simple situation. He barely caught himself before Oh, shit emerged from his mouth—a vastly unwise exclamation in current company. “That’s... not good,” he managed instead.
“Indeed,” Lord Evkit said. “The Horn is being closed to all outside traffic as we speak. I have declared the teyanain to be at war with Aerthraim Family.”
“War? That’s—” Allonin drew in a fast breath through his nose to shut himself up, alarm spiking through the back of his head and down his spine. More carefully, he went on, “With sincere and deep apology for the rudeness, Lord Evkit—I have to ask directly: Am I a prisoner of the teyanain, or a guest?”
The silence went on for too many heartbeats. Allonin set his teeth together and made himself stay quiet. At last, Lord Evkit said, “You are unique. I will, in this circumstance, choose to treat you as a guest—for as long as you choose to behave as a guest and accept our hospitality.”
Allonin blinked, relaxed his jaw, swallowed several times, then said, “I would be honored to accept your hospitality, Lord Evkit.”
“Wise,” Lord Evkit answered dryly. “I will send a servant to direct and tend you. Until we speak again, Allonin of the Aerthraim—welcome to my home.”
“Grace to your grace,” Allonin said, the words emerging half-strangled, then put his head back down on his knees, breathing hard. The Teyantin yipped laughter, a sound that echoed in Allonin’s head long after all other noise faded around him.
Chapter 43
The air hung thick with the scent of urine and torch oil. A faint evening breeze kept the sour stink from becoming unbearable, but Riss wished the servants would light the torches and burn off the worst of the stench. She’d been blessed enough to avoid pregnancy sickness this far, but strong odors didn’t make her stomach happy at the best of times.
“You seem displeased, lord,” Retiae said.
“I thought the dance would be inside,” Riss said. “And this smell is hideous.”
She looked up at the darkening sky, surprised at how uneasy she felt at being out in the open. Even with the walls of Scratha Fortress a stone’s throw away, the gates open and within easy sprinting distance, the area felt wild, and wrong somehow. As though hostile eyes were watching her every move. Even the quiet chirps and clacks from around the circle, as various servants tested and tuned their home-made musical instruments, felt ominous.
Foolishness. There were no enemies gathered round the Fortress. That was simply paranoia. Lord Scratha wouldn’t allow such an exposed and vulnerable celebration if there was the slightest bit of danger. All the same, she shivered and moved a step closer to Retiae, trying to breathe through her mouth.
“The Great Hall is not the proper place for a casual gathering, lord,” her kathain said. “Scratha Fortress does not offer a grand servant’s hall, as some Families do. There is no other room that would suit the purpose. Outside is the most practical choice.”
Riss looked at Retiae sideways, noting the girl’s stiff shoulders and the way she stared off into the distance as though trying not to look at something closer to hand.
“Thank you, Retiae,” Riss said dryly. “I never could have figured that out for myself.”
“Lord?” As Retiae turned to look at Riss, her gaze stuttered over to one side. Riss followed the glance to the young man standing beside Lord Darden.
“Did you have a fight with Ishru?” she asked.
Retiae’s mouth went thin for a moment. She said, “The smell is unfortunate, lord, but tradition requires that the perimeter be—”
“I know,” Riss interrupted. “I did listen when s’e-kath Segnilious was explaining. It’s still a revolting smell. And a revolting concept. What’s going on between you and—”
“Our ways are our ways,” Retiae said, then went back to staring into the distance, her shoulders stiff.
Riss glared at her kathain, deeply tempted to smack the girl. A clear bell tone rang out, gathering silence in its wake. Lord Scratha strode into the center of the enormous circle of unlit torches. He turned, surveying the gathered crowd, a broad smile on his face. Riss seriously doubted the sincerity of that expression, given what she’d seen of the man’s sour temper.
“I don’t like unnecessary formality,” he began, his voice carrying through the rapidly cooling air. “So I’ll keep this short and let us all get to the dancing and drinking.”
A few servants cheered, sounding as though they’d already started in on on the latter. Cafad ignored them, although his smile tightened for a moment.
“Nissa of Sessin Family,” he said. “Please step forward and be welcome in this household.”
Riss watched with interest as the young woman approached Cafad. Even in the exotically colorful, loose dance clothes, Nissa wasn’t particularly attractive. She was too skinny, her color a strange greyish-tan. And she seemed—limp, somehow, as though nothing really interested her.
“Lord Scratha,” she said, not looking him in the eye. “You honor me.”
“The honor is mine,” he said, the words unexpectedly raw and fierce. “Nissa, I mean it: I’m sorry. I fucked up.”
Complete silence. Several people opened their mouths, like gaping fish. Riss glanced sideways, checking other reactions: Lord Darden stood quietly, her arms crossed, expressionless. This moment hadn’t surprised her, nor the stocky kathain at her side. Riss suspected that the elderly woman wasn’t particularly pleased over Cafad’s handling of the matter, though Ishru seemed amused, as did the nearby dathedain.
“Well, that’s a unique way to open a dance,” that worthy, a short man with close-cropped hair, observed sardonically. He wore all black, and no ornamentation other than a simple loop of black beads around each wrist. The very starkness of his presence gave him an air of royal superiority, although more than one person near him averted their gazes and made surreptitious warding signs as he spoke.
“Dathedain Micru, with all respect—Shut up,” Cafad said without looking at him. “Nissa. I’m glad you’re here. Truly. Please, will you stay?”
Nissa stared at him, her indifference shocked into frightened bewilderment. “What?” she said, her voice wobbly.
“What—what are you doing, Cafad?”
“It’s called an apology,” he said. “Do you believe me this time?”
Nissa looked around as though seeking a place to hide, or for some cue on what to say. The silent, owl-eyed stares she received visibly rattled her further. She took a step away, then to the side.
“Don’t run,” Micru advised. “Unless you want to go back to Sessin with me?”
The man’s acerbic amusement seemed to restore Nissa’s composure. She straightened, her expression flattening out.
“Thank you, Lord Scratha,” she said. “I accept your apology, and your kind invitation to stay for however long it suits you to host me.”
Cafad shot Micru a hard glance as though to keep him quiet, then said, “S’a Nissa, would you be my daimaina?”
Nissa barely hesitated this time, beyond a lightning-fast glance at Micru. “Yes, Lord Scratha. It would be an honor.”
“Ah, well,” Micru said. “You would have been fun company on the way back to Sessin, s’a. Lord Scratha, your hospitality was most gracious. I thank you, and beg you excuse me from the festivities. Gods hold you lightly.” He bowed and turned away.
Cafad shook his head, his expression souring, and said something too quiet for Riss to catch. Nissa shrugged again and replied in as low a voice. Around the circle, people began stirring, shock wearing off, whispers and murmurs filling the chill air. Lord Darden watched Micru’s departure, her eyes narrow and—briefly—hostile.
“Thank the gods he’s leaving,” Retiae muttered. “It’s bad luck to have a dathedain in residence. I don’t know what Lord Scratha was thinking!”
“Why is it bad luck?” Riss asked.
“They serve death,” Retiae said as though the answer should have been obvious. “How can that possibly be good luck?”
“Superstition,” Ishru said from behind them.
Retiae yelped, turning so quickly she almost fell over, and backed up a long step, breathing hard. Riss, who had heard the faintest scuff of movement just before Ishru spoke, stayed still and said, “That wasn’t nice, Ishru.”
“Superstition,” he repeated, moving up to stand beside her. He kept his attention on Retiae. “A dathedain is just another Callen. There’s no good or bad luck to any of them.”
Retiae lifted her chin and looked away, her cheeks flushing dark.
“You did have a fight,” Riss said.
“In a manner of speaking,” Ishru said gravely, still watching Retiae. “Excuse me.” He bowed to Riss and returned to stand beside Lord Darden.
Retiae muttered something under her breath that might have been Toscin ta-karne. Riss hesitated, then took another look at Retiae’s expression, and kept her mouth shut.
In the circle, Lord Scratha bowed to Nissa, extending his hand in grave invitation. She accepted it, stepping forward, a hesitant smile lighting her face. He looked around the circle, pointedly making eye contact with as many people as possible as he said, “You have all worked hard to bring my home back to life. Please consider the usual social rules temporarily abandoned. You have, each and all, earned the right to enjoy yourselves tonight without care for the rules of thio.”
He bowed again, Nissa matching the motion; then, straightening, waved at the musicians.
Drums worked a steadily increasing rhythm; pipes wove a bright, joyous invitation. A ring within a ring formed, bodies pacing, swaying, turning in opening-dance solemnity. Lord Scratha and his new daimaina were apparently content to be side by side amongst the commoners. Lord Darden and Ishru were nowhere in sight.
“Lord?” Retiae said. “Will you join the dance?”
Riss glanced at the girl, studying her expression: A layer of blank indifference over an undercurrent of sullen anger. “No,” she said. “I want you to tell me what’s going on between you and Ishru.” Mainly, she didn’t want to deal with the fatigue, let alone the inevitable rush to the chamber pot, that always seemed to accompany any exertion beyond walking slowly from one spot to another these days, but she couldn’t make herself say that aloud, not even to Retiae.
The anger surfaced for a moment, then disappeared under a stony expression. “I cannot, lord,” Retiae said. “I am not permitted to speak of the matter. You must consult Lord Scratha or Lord Darden for your answers on that point. We should dance, lord. It’s expected.”
“I’m not great at doing what’s expected,” Riss said dryly.
Retiae’s lips thinned. “This is a rare event, lord,” she said. “I would not have you miss this opportunity.”
“Meaning you want to dance,” Riss said. “Go ahead!”
“Lord—”
Lord Scratha stepped out of the ring, wrapped his hand around Riss’s forearm, and bodily pulled her into the line. “Dance,” he said in her ear, a dark glare in his eyes. “You insult and disrespect the entire household by standing aside.”
Retiae slid into place at Riss’s right hand, putting herself between Riss and the Scratha lord.
“I don’t know the steps—” Riss said, ferociously annoyed and wanting nothing more than to retreat. She moved in a clumsy shuffle, resentful of being forced into looking like a fool.
“I’m sure you do, lord,” Retiae said. “Watch. Step—step—half turn—step—clap—back, and again... step, step, half-turn....”
“Oh,” Riss said, relaxing a little. “Yes, we have a very similar dance in the north.”
“Speak to the person on your other side now, lord,” Retiae said. “This is a time for light conversations and easing into the movement, letting go of care and worry.”
Riss let out a long breath, relaxing shoulders, spine, and hips. A weight seemed to fall from her, and as she made the next half-turn she was smiling. “S’a,” she said to the stout woman now to her left.
“Gods bless your path,” the woman answered. Her long grey hair was artfully braided and threaded with colored ribbons.
“Call me Catha, lord.”
“As long as you call me Riss, Catha.”
They smiled at one another; stepped, turned, stepped, clapped. The movements already felt instinctive, as though Riss’s muscles had the sequence memorized.
“I’d love to have my hair braided that way,” Riss said. “It’s beautiful.”
Catha beamed. “It’s a chore,” she admitted. “And it will look a mess by the end of the night. Yours will last, tight up on the skull like that. Your kathain did a wonderful job of it.”
“I’ll pass along the compliment,” Riss said. The deeper drums shifted pattern, and the pipes warbled into a new pitch and melody.
“Now we’re going sideways,” Retiae said. “Step right—two, three—forward—two, three, back—two, three; clap, turn....”
Riss adjusted to the new pattern quickly. The pace picked up, taking away the chance for conversation. Sand shifted underfoot with an oddly liquid sensation, and the smell of torch smoke overrode everything for a moment. A yellow haze passed across her eyes, and she stepped too far to her right, bumping into Retiae.
“Lord?” Retiae said, guiding Riss back out of the line of dancers. “Are you unwell?”
“I just stumbled,” Riss said. “I’m fine.”
“You’re breathing hard, lord,” Retiae pointed out.
Riss put a hand to her chest, then to her throat, startled at the raspy vibration under her fingers. Unwilling to admit her own alarm aloud, she said, “I haven’t danced in a long time. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing is ever nothing,” Retiae said pragmatically. “Sit down, please, lord. Catch your breath. We can rejoin the dance in a moment.”
Irritation flared, bringing an unexpectedly harsh feeling to Riss’s throat. “I’m not that fragile, Retiae! Just because I’m pregnant—”
Yellow clouded her vision again. You are mine, a voice said. I claim you and your child as mine.
“Riss?” Lord Scratha said. He was kneeling before her, frowning. He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Riss?”
“Yes, what?” she said, annoyed. Why had they bothered Lord Scratha? He’d been dancing with—with his—he’d been dancing. He’d been busy. They shouldn’t have bothered him.
He sat back on his heels, his frown easing slightly. “Do you know where you are?” Behind him, bodies shifted and stomped. The dance picked up to a more vigorous sequence.
“Of course I know where I am. What—” Riss rubbed at her eyes and looked around. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Something in his tone doused her lingering annoyance in a wash of cold fear. “I bumped into Retiae and she pulled me out of the line to sit down for a moment. I told her I was fine. Then... then you’re sitting in front of me, snapping your fingers. Did I—did I sleepwalk... or something?”
“It’s not sleepwalking when you’re awake,” he pointed out.
A great wave of pressure took the breath from her chest, sound muting to a hum. I will be more clear, since my Chosen does not appear to understand, a distinctly annoyed voice said, overriding all else. I have claimed this one as mine. Prepare her for my call. She is mine.
Riss sucked in a great, gasping inhale as sense returned, and heard Cafad doing the same.
“Oh, godsdamnit,” Lord Scratha blurted, one hand on his kathain’s shoulder as though fighting to keep himself upright. “Why didn’t you ever say anything, Riss? Damnit.”
