In the Shadow of Swords (41 page)

“I know. I weep for Hiril… for not being stronger.”

“You did what was in your heart. Hiril would not have been ashamed.”

“Can you tell me what you would have done, Torre?” Marin looked at him earnestly.

“No, I cannot. But I am a man, and men are different. You did what you believed was right, and it does not make you weak. You are a woman… and I am very proud of you.”

“I wish now that I had not come. I wish that someone else could have killed Sarn. I will always have doubts, a pain that will forever have a hold on my heart.”

“It will pass in time.” Lavvann put his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Torre, already the memory of my husband fades. When I close my eyes I can no longer see him. When I try to recall his voice, I can’t.”

“You will see him again, Marin. Keep that with you always.

He is near, and will come to you in your dreams. You will not forget him.”

Marin wept again.

30

THE CALL to morning prayer broke the silence of the dawn. Marin rubbed her right thumb across her left palm as she had done many times since that fateful battle in the desert where the Books of Promise were lost. She felt no lingering effect of the ‘Evil Eye’ curse laid upon her by the
sha’ir
in Aeíx. The relics must have come to the hag, as well as the soul of Ciris Sarn. Marin shuddered, her thoughts drifting back into the past once again.
What have I done?
She drove it away from her mind, trying to forget, and hoping someday she would not have to remember.

She looked out toward the northeast, beyond the clustered roofs and soaring minarets of Janeirah.

She hoped it was for the last time.

Marin breathed deeply as the chains of sorrow that had kept her bound to the past finally crumbled away.

Lavvann had joined her again after returning to the city. “Where will you go now?” he asked.

“I will follow the coast up to Tanith, and then sail across to Ruinart,” she replied. “There is still good work to be done, and I wish to be a part of it.”

“Yes, of course. Only you can make that decision.” He paused. “Always remember that a door remains open for you, should you wish to ride with the Four Banners again.”

“Thank you, Torre. I mean that. You have been like a father to me in many ways, and I will forever remain grateful for all that you have done. And Sallah, too. Please remember this.”

“There is no need to worry, Marin. For many years I have seen you as a daughter, one of whom I am very proud.” He smiled ather in a way that made her heart swell. It was a smile of sincere joy. Of pride.

“Go to Ruinart,” he encouraged her. “There is much there for you still—and I am certain you will do great work. Naturally, I will expect a few moments of your time when you are able.” He gave her a broad smile.

Later that day, Marin, Sallah Maroud, and Torre Lavvann gathered again. Tall trees lined the banks of the emerald waters, bathed in the warmth of the suns. The midday air was mild, welcome relief from the desert heat.

Marin took stock of herself. On this particular day, she wore a white-fringed shawl about her shoulders. Her skin, kissed golden by the suns, perfectly complemented the long golden locks that had escaped from the haphazard knot at the top of her head.

It‘s nice to feel clean again
, she thought.

31

TWO DAYS later, the three companions left Janeirah.

The great city had long been bound to the river and the sea. Fertile farmlands stretched for miles on either side of the river. To the northwest was a large harbor, one of the most important in all of Nahkeel, second only to Tivisis in size and number of ships.

Steep streets ran straight down to the harbor. From the summits of these streets could be seen ships of all nations. Along the main thoroughfare, ancient villas and palaces still stood proudly. Marin thought Janeirah was one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

She had rested here long enough. It was time to leave for Tanith, and then on to Ruinart. She longed to explore the lands she had never seen, and reexamine those she had visited in passing. Then she would secure passage across the Ras Mansour back to Cievv.

Part of her wanted to get back to her duties, to feel productive again. She needed, in a small way, to feel that she’d contributed not only to her own salvation, but to that of countless others as well. The days of solace by the sea in Janeirah were the cure she needed to make Sarn a permanent part of her past.

She would go to the marketplace and purchase fine fabrics for a new dress. How long had it been since she had allowed herself that luxury? She could not recall. She had seen beautiful dresses in the cities she’d visited, but now, as she studied the women in the streets, she realized the fashions had changed during the time she’d spent pursuing Sarn; and she had missed it all.

She would acquire new spices for her pantry, too. She loved to cook, and she looked forward to making a real meal again.

She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the water and thought,
Why am I suddenly interested in all these domestic details?

Of course she knew why these things suddenly mattered. She was ready to move on, and part of doing so meant nurturing a new relationship. Her love for Hiril would never die—but he would want her to remarry. He had always said she should never stop living simply for him.

Well, that was easier said than done, but with some help from her friends—Torre, Sallah, and of course, Ilss Cencova—she would eventually break through the wall of tears and try living again. For now, she was mostly content. Perhaps, one day, love would come again. There would be a man who would treat her with all the love and respect she could wish for.

Marin gazed at the many ships in the port. Right here, right now, she was at peace with herself—and ready, she hoped, for whatever should come next.

The past was gone, and the future loomed before her.

She chuckled as she pondered this, remembering the words spoken by a close friend at her wedding: “Marin… Hiril… listen to me,” he’d said, waving his finger at them to underscore the seriousness of his tone. “The past never returns, and the future

never arrives.”

She’d found that amusing and, to a certain extent, profound. Although she’d never forgotten the words, neither had she ever really given them much thought. Until now. She reflected on the point he’d been trying to make, and suddenly, it became crystal clear.

All we ever really have is the present
.

1

THIS WAS the seventh time he had been in the cave.

The ink was nearly dry as he finished the last stroke. He slipped the vial of russet ink into a pouch that fit perfectly in an inside pocket.

He was not the only one who had been here. The rough walls were covered with signs that others had come here and, therefore, knew of its existence. Amber light poured in from the opening above, washing over the painted wall. He studied each of the signs briefly before returning outside.

Rain had not fallen for many days, and it would be some months before it came again. He looked up and saw not even the slightest smudge of white in the cobalt sky. Somewhere above, he heard the call of a
kiyeh
falcon chasing away two burial kites. At his feet he saw the indentation of scales in the rough soil. It had been a black-hooded asp—aggressive and lethal—but it had passed some time ago. The valley floor just outside the cave opening was littered with many prints. He could make out tracks from small game as well as those of a nimhr and a haloc. Both of these sets had been made recently.

He was not alone. Others had come here with him, but they were gone. The battle was over, the last sounds fading away in the early hours of the morning. At first light they had carefully searched for anything of value that might have been left behind. But An’sut remained in the Valley of the Cave as he had always done.

His kind had, for as long as anyone could remember, trailed behind the wanderings of the White Palm and, at times, the Haradin hunters as well. There was an ancient, unwritten understanding between them; they were not to interfere, and in doing so were free to claim what they could find. It was the way of the desert.

Intuition had brought him here—more than just the memoryof the cave and the ritual of painting his mark. An’sut had felt this once before when he’d found a man still drawing breath as the hot, dry wind drained the last traces of life from his broken body.

He remembered taking his staff of rosewood and prodding the man just under his ribcage. He’d watched as the man quivered and then writhed weakly. An’sut made a tracing in the sand around the man—his claiming pattern. He’d thought that perhaps the man could be saved. An’sut was not a strong healer, but there was some hope. He understood that what mattered most of all when it came to healing was the strength of the wounded one’s spirit.

An’sut had soaked long strips of soft linen in a balm made from citrus honey and healing oils. Then he wrapped the cloth around the man, binding his wounds. He’d covered him with palm fronds and laid him in a canvas hammock. Later, with the help of others, he’d carried the wounded man southward into the deep desert.

Therefore he would walk through the valley before seeking oasis of Waha al-Ribat once more. Noon shadows followed the contours of the cliffs, forming layers of myriad colors that clothed the rock walls from the base to the crest. An’sut tracked the feeling through the wash of gravel and sand that curved away from the cave. The heat here was not unbearable, as the suns’ radiation could not penetrate completely into the basin. He passed through a narrow opening between two boulders, noticing the tracks of predators that had come here before him.

The breeze carried the stench of a dead camel. An’sut heard the patter of small feet as something darted into cover. Small rocks and pebbles tumbled from above as the unknown creature scrambled higher into the cliffs.
So this is what I was to find
, An’sut thought.

It was then that he saw the man.

2

CIRIS SARN looked up at a sky the color of sapphire.

A sound in the distance roused him, and his vision blurred as he turned his eyes from the suns. Their heat engulfed him, though they had not yet reached the meridian. He tried to move his arms but could not. He felt something firm and warm make contact with his head as he turned it.

He lay beneath the carcass of a dead camel.

His memory returned slowly. He was in pain.

He was somewhere amid an ocean of sand. The last thing he remembered was digging a hole along the back of the camel in an effort to use it as cover against the blazing heat.

Marin had left after the ghuls had been slain, taking the horses northward, back toward the oasis. After she was gone, Sarn realized that some of his strength had returned, and attempted to find shelter. He had been hoping to make it to a ridge of low, broken hills a half day’s journey to the east. If fortune was with him, there would be caves in which to shield himself from the suns until their setting brought the cool evening air.

However, the distance had proved too great and the dunes unforgiving. Falling into a basin, he’d rolled up against a wounded camel that had crawled off to die. Sarn knew of the water sack deep within the beast’s hump, yet he could do nothing, as he had no blade in which to cut it out.

He’d sensed a presence nearby and smelled the musky scent of an animal, but saw nothing, although he heard a low, guttural growl and soft pads hitting the sand. Whatever it was, it was nearby.

Sarn had little doubt that it was a
nimhr
, a fierce, solitary desert cat that patrolled the dunes in search of prey. It was very close: it had caught the scent of death. It had come for him.

From the opposite direction came a different sound—short,erratic, and high-pitched. Another predator had come to claim the kill. Yet as suddenly as he had heard them, both were gone again.

There was nothing Sarn could do, and he had no will to care. His body was broken, but worse were the deep, suffocating waves of loss and pity that had wrapped his spirit in a shroud of remorse.

Marin had left him. And she was right to do so. He would die here without the peace he had longed for, the world fading out of time and memory. Yet he was not sad. Sarn welcomed death—and the final release it would bring—with open arms.

Still he remained quiet and did not attempt to move. There had been no further sounds. Sarn was vulnerable, lying on his side with his weak legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He was wounded, in pain, and had no weapons or protection—not even the strength to stand, let alone run. Barely able to focus, he looked up and saw two black canine legs just a few steps away. A haloc or dire? Maybe it had killed the cat.