In the Skin of a Nunqua (14 page)

“Jackass,” Aiden said.

*

Shanti sat in a chair in the middle of Gy’s tent as Gy, Jun, and Vittorio stood around her.

“Why did you give the order?” Gy asked.

“Because she has to do it on her own,” Shanti said. “Nobody should do it for her.”

“She’s not you,” Vittorio said.

“Do you consider her weak?”

“That’s not it,” Gy said. “You have to expect this sort of thing to happen. It’s normal.”

“I know that,” Shanti said. “I understand.”

“Then why did you give the order?”

“Because I don’t want the men to use Rega Bayla for their own personal gain, and I don’t want her to use any of the soldiers to make it through this training. She has to learn to trust in her own abilities and not lean on someone else, like her father or Zindar, to do things for her. Whatever happens after she’s completed the training is of no consequence to me, but until that time, I request that the order stand.”

“What about Zindar?” Gy said.

“He disobeyed my order.”

“I’ll not have him banished. He’s a strong soldier.”

“So any order I give can be ignored?”

“Damn it, Shanti, that’s not what I said! You handle this, but Zindar will not be banished.” Commander Gy left the tent.

Shanti rested her head on her hands, remembering how Commander Gy had tormented the male candidates for merely trying to talk to her, much less kiss her, during her training for promotion to commander. Why was Gy so hard on her and so easy on Bayla?

She sat up straight. “Vittorio, when’s the next time you plan on having sword practice? I could use a little exercise.”

“For you, I can arrange to have practice this afternoon.” He bent toward her. “Zindar is strong but inexperienced. He prefers to attack from the right to overpower his opponent. If you force him to defend his left side, he’ll lose focus and can be easily defeated.”

At least, she had one ally in this matter. “Thanks,” she said.

Jun’s allegiance remained a mystery.

*

Shanti joined the large crowd gathered around the ring of stones where the sword fights were held. The soldiers’ spirits were high as they enjoyed the one-on-one sport officiated by Commander Vittorio. Several pairs had fought already when Vittorio pulled Zindar out of the crowd, seemingly at random.

Zindar put on a protective vest. Shanti also put on a vest and picked up not a dull practice sword, but her own sharp blade. She twirled it by the hilt in her hand—a trick taught to her by one of her Nunqua colleagues. The weapon was more than an extension of her physical body; it was an extension of her will, her spirit.

Soldiers enthusiastically placed bets as they waited for the contest to begin. Bayla stood among them—emotionless, cold, imperial. Zindar stepped into the ring of stones, and Shanti did the same.

“You know the rules,” Vittorio said. “No head shots, nothing below the waist. First one to get three shots to the body wins. Begin.” Vittorio backed away.

Zindar yelled and sped toward Shanti with his weapon held high. She dropped to one knee and blocked the overhead strike. He swung at her again, and she jumped up, moving away from the blow. With a two handed grip, she came at him from the left. His sword stopped hers from touching his protective vest. Their sparring lasted only a short time before Zindar got through her defenses to point his blade downward through to her torso.

Vittorio motioned to Zindar with one finger held up. Zindar had won the first point. Cheers and groans came from the audience, depending on how they had bet.

Shanti had only pretended to be ineffective, to learn Zindar’s technique and make him overconfident—a trait easy to exploit in the young.

Round two began, and Shanti took the defensive, blocking blows and sidestepping Zindar’s attack. His power increased with each swing of the blade, as did his temper, but his technique was predictable and lacked control. Once again he tried to overpower her with an overhead swing. Before he could start on the downward motion, she made a slashing move to his unguarded gut, winning the point.

A shadow passed over the ground. Directly over the circle of stones, two large vultures flew around and around in a dizzying spiral, eyeing the possibilities for a meal below. Shanti continued to battle Zindar as more vultures joined those circling above. Even Vittorio momentarily took his attention away from the match to glance up at the eerie sight.

Shanti repeatedly struck at Zindar’s left side. He backed away, but she did not let up. Zindar’s left hand clenched into a fist. He hit her in the face, and the spectators groaned. She grasped the neck opening of his protective vest as Vittorio stopped the fight.

The tip of her sword touched his leather-clad abdomen.

“Point goes to Commander Shanti,” Vittorio said. “Any more blows to the head, Zindar, and you’ll forfeit.”

She pushed him backward. Blood dripped from a cut in her eyelid. The noise of the crowd disappeared, and she heard Caravey’s instruction resound in her head.
Finish it.

“Match point,” Vittorio said. “Begin.”

Striding toward him, she made a lateral move to the right, and a stab of her sword beneath his shoulder pitted the leather of his protective vest. As soon as Vittorio declared her the winner, Shanti seized Zindar’s wrist and sliced through the skin of his forearm with the sharp edge of her sword.

“You bitch!” Zindar said.

Vittorio snatched the weapon out of Zindar’s hand, positioning himself in front of Shanti. “It’s fair,” he said. “You spilled her blood; she spilled yours. Let it go. I said let it go, Zindar.”

Disappointed vultures circled low in their fruitless search for meat. One of the creatures landed, folding its wings to its sides. It’s orange eyes glared at Shanti. Bumpy red skin covered its head and neck. Bayla must have been controlling the vulture—an odious show of displeasure. So be it.

Shanti stepped out of the ring and swung her sword harmlessly at the vulture. It smelled of decay, as if it had just fed. The bird flew away. Shanti removed the heavy vest. Picking up a cloth, she wiped the blood off her face and sword.

Zindar sat on a boulder at the opposite side of the ring, holding his injured arm. The cut would heal, as would his pride. A scar would remain.

Shanti went over to him. “By the way, Zindar, you have guard duty tonight.”

*

Shanti sat on the cot inside her tent, holding a rag gingerly over one eye. It hurt to blink. But at least, her eye wasn’t swollen shut. Her vision was intact—a good sign.

Jun came in and sat beside her. “Let’s see.”

She removed the white rag spotted with blood.

“It’s not so bad,” he said.

“I really hope I don’t get a black eye.” She put the rag on the bed, next to the bandage used to wrap her injured hand.

Jun took her left hand and inspected the thumb. The inflammation had gone down, and the purple bruise had turned yellow as it healed. “Why are you always getting hurt?” He pushed her sleeve up to expose the parallel scars, then pushed the other sleeve up to see more scars, all made by the blade of a sword. He traced the lines with his thumb.

“Seven,” she said. “Seven losses from sword fights.”

“Nunqua?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It is . . . cruel.”

“It’s an incentive to win.”

“Is that what you were trying to do: teach Zindar how to win?”

“No.” A faint smile played on her lips. “I was just being cruel.”

He gave her a disapproving look.

“Zindar will forgive me in time. I’m not so sure about Bayla, though.”

Jun pulled her sleeves down to hide her past, then held her hands. It was hard to look at his face. Her feelings for him were unmistakable.

He left the tent, and Shanti fell backward onto her bed, lamenting the bad timing. She was finally alone with Jun, but dirty, sweaty, not to mention bleeding, with the possibility of a black eye, and her scars exposed for him to see and touch.

*

Thousands of stars shone in the moonlit night. Shanti trekked through the woods alone to the farthest guard point. Zindar sat on a rocky perch overlooking the land cloaked in shadow below. She handed him a bandage for his arm. “You understand why I did it, don’t you?”

He held on to the bandage and said nothing.

She sat next to him. “I’m not mad at you for showing interest in Bayla, but you disobeyed an order. I cannot allow my authority to be challenged without repercussions. If Bayla is crowned queen, she must learn to do the same.” She gazed at the stars, waiting for Zindar to respond. “Bayla’s purpose at this camp is not simply for her protection or to train her as a soldier. She’s being tested, studied, analyzed by those who have the power to overthrow her if she fails. Bayla must put the needs of Willovia before her own. Many individuals, many groups, want to know if she’s worthy to become the next ruler of Willovia.”

Zindar undid the loose end of the bandage and rolled it back up.

She thought of Taran: his brown eyes, sheepish smile, and how he hit her in the face and called her a freak when they were both training for promotion to commander. Shanti had hoped to start a friendship—more than a friendship—with Taran before Commander Gy ruined it and turned him against her. Zindar and Bayla shouldn’t have to suffer the same fate. Still, she had had a purpose in giving the order. Shanti tried to reason with Zindar. “If you want to continue to see Rega Bayla and she feels the same way about you, you must wait until this camp is torn down and her training is complete. If I find you two alone together while this camp is running, I’ll have you transferred with a letter of reprimand. Or banished, depending on the circumstances.”

The muscles of his jaw tightened.

“Zindar?” she said.

“Understood, Commander.”

“Good. You have guard duty for three more nights and will continue training during the day.”

She slipped back into the forest.

13

The Sword and the Swarm

I
nsects hummed in
the woods, and birds chirped in the trees. Soldiers waited under a canopy of leaves to begin training for the day. Bayla sat on a stone, surrounded by morning mist. A black spider crawled from her back, over her shoulder, and onto the bare skin of her arm. She controlled the creature, ignoring those around her, knowing that the men watched. Bayla lifted both arms, palms facing up. Dozens of spiders roamed over her fingers, uniform, and neck.

Shanti walked out of the pavilion with long strides and hopped onto a rock. “Who’s ready to climb?”

Silent soldiers started their hike to the cliffs.

“Do you all hate me that much?” she asked, her tone lighthearted. Her eyes met Bayla’s, and her liveliness disappeared.

Good. Shanti didn’t deserve to be cheerful after belittling Zindar and besting him in a sword fight. It wasn’t a fair fight, anyway.

Spider legs tickled Bayla’s flesh. She could make them creep all over Shanti, too, sneaking into her mouth, nose, and ears as she slept.

“Let’s go, Rega,” Shanti ordered loudly enough for everyone to hear. “And leave your little friends behind.”

Spiders jumped, climbing in midair on invisible silken threads. Bayla joined the men on their march.

The sun hid behind gray clouds as they reached the cliff. Shanti pointed to a ledge on the side of the mountain and spoke to Bayla. “We’ll climb to that area. It’s not a race, so use caution. You’ll find a rope you can use to pull yourself up in the most difficult places. Trey. Pirro. You two stay with the princess and help her, but only if she needs it. And, Rega, if I so much as see a snake, spider, or rabid animal, we’ll tie a rope around your waist, strand you on a ridge, and leave you there until tomorrow. That’s a promise.”

Bayla climbed at a moderate pace, followed by Pirro and Trey. The narrow passageway twisted over and around giant rocks. Rivulets flowed downward, wetting the trail, which was slick as ice in places. Halfway to the top, her lungs burned and her leg muscles cramped. She pulled herself up a rope. Her boot slipped, and her knee bashed against a rock. Loose pebbles tumbled downward, and she skidded toward the land below, unable to find secure footing.

Pirro snagged her by the back of her uniform to stop her fall. “We’re all feeling it, Rega,” he said.

Her hands burned from the rope. How she missed her fluffy bed back at the castle, watching the sunset over the sparkling sea from her bedroom window. She wanted to ride the familiar trails on the castle grounds with her stallion, smell the wonderful scent of honeysuckle in the summer, eat delicious feasts, and dance to glorious music. She had longed to get away from the castle, but now it seemed so good there, so easy. What was she doing on this rock?

Bayla glanced up. They were close to the top. Relief and a new energy spread through her.

“We’re almost there,” Pirro said.

She peered down to see how high they had come, and her legs trembled. The treetops spread out like a green blanket, with the silver ribbon of a river curving through it. Bayla clung to the side of the mountain and squeezed her eyes shut. She would not survive a fall from here.

No monks. Why was she frightened? For no monks were present to chronicle her death.

“Never look down,” Pirro said. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up until they reached the safety of the ridge. Soldiers ambled about, recuperating from the climb.

Commander Shanti was the last one up. She turned to Aiden. “Count?”

“Everyone’s here,” he said.

She bent forward and put her hands on her knees. Her cheeks were red from exertion. She rested on a boulder near the edge of the cliff and gazed at the countryside. A cool wind blew. She took her hair out of the warrior’s knot, letting it blow in the breeze.

Bayla tried to hide the shaking of her legs. She joined Pirro and some other soldiers. He told her some jokes in an attempt to make her laugh, like always. Didn’t he see the spiders? Didn’t he consider her abnormal, odd? Others talked to her, too—perhaps more cautiously than before, but they did not ignore her. Only Shanti sat alone, taking in deep breaths of fresh mountain air.

*

Jun scanned the camp to make sure he wasn’t noticed. He went through the back flap into Shanti’s tent. She would be gone all morning on the climb. Her bed was made; otherwise, things were not organized. In fact, they were a bit messy.

He found the box of medical supplies he had given her, searched through the contents, and picked up a bottle of strong medicine. Jun opened it to see that most of the powdered white drug was still there. He expected it to be gone. It would explain a lot. The medical supplies looked as they should: used but not used up.

He also found the alcohol that he had supplied her with—unopened. Jun felt under the blankets of her bed and inside her pillow, taking care not to disturb them from their original positions. Still nothing.

Many of her personal supplies were on a crate in the corner of the tent, along with a small box that was locked. Jun took a thin metal rod out of his pocket. He picked the lock to see what was inside. He found a few extra darts for her wristlet, and a vial of something he’d rather not touch. The darts had hollow points.

Only a crazy woman would wear poisoned darts. Why did Shanti wear them? Was she afraid of being killed, or were they part of some sinister scheme? He relocked the box, then continued to look through her things.

He found a bar of soap that smelled like almonds—girl soap—and a bag containing a brush, the things she used to put her hair up, and something else, which he almost missed. It was a smaller bag, made of black velvet with the pile worn away in spots. Jun opened it and pulled out a lock of hair tied with a string. It pretty much proved she was involved in the Commander Mossgail incident. She had stolen his medical supplies, cut his hair, and hung it by a string in the doorway as Mossgail slept—but Jun didn’t care about that.

He just couldn’t figure her out. Should he take the bag and force a confrontation? She would be beyond angry when she realized it was gone. Though he took a certain liking to the idea, he returned the hair to the velvet bag.

He scanned the contents of her tent again. She was always pretending to be so tough, it made him want to break through her defenses and have his way with her. Jun knew she had feelings for him; he could sense it instinctively. Bayla was just a child; he had no interest in her. Shanti, though—now, there was a challenge. But work before pleasure. He had a job to do.

*

Carvings covered the walls of the strange cavelike chamber buried in the depths of the monks’ residence. Tobian touched the stone etchings, which he guessed to be of ancient origin. He could not understand the writing, but the pictures depicted battles and royalty. One of the carvings had a crack in it. Images of celestial bodies floated high on the walls; the blue paint on the ceiling was faded and chipped. The place reminded him of a tomb. A tub positioned over a blackened pit occupied the center of the room. Along the wall, beakers with silver clawed feet were displayed in a case. Only one beaker containing the mysterious, black potion remained. “Is this all there is?”

The old monk, his mentor and master, answered, “Our supplies are low at the moment.” He continued to instruct his apprentice. “You have read about the future, the king’s death, and the attack on Willovia?”

“Yes.” Tobian traced the carvings with his fingertips, trying to soak up the information through his skin.

“Understand the power of your knowledge. You cannot inform King Magen of his imminent demise. To know the manner of one’s own death can be tragic. Men have gone mad knowing. I’m sure you have read of such events in our history books, which you so cherish.”

Tobian often found himself returning to the comfortable room where he had first read the leather-bound books. He studied the chronicles of Willovia in his spare time. Its history was so much darker than commonly believed. “I understand.” He inspected the potion. No light filtered through the liquid. “What’s it like?”

The old monk lifted the container. “It is like entering a tunnel, entering death itself. To see the future mapped out before you is exhilarating. To take information from a superior power and return to the land of the living is an immense experience. Nothing compares.”

Tobian frowned at the one surviving sample in the case.

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to experience the future until the potion is replenished.”

“If I may ask, when will that be?”

“Soon. Making it is not an easy process. Until then, I have arranged for you to meet the princess. She is detained for now, training with the Willovian soldiers in the Hedgelands. As soon as she completes this training, you can see her. Rega Bayla is quite beautiful. You’ll find her easy to talk to. I encourage you to get to know her, to help you in seeing her future . . . for the fate of Willovia.”

“Empty myself of self.” Tobian had heard the saying so many times, it was practically the monks’ motto.

“Not necessarily. We’re in the service of the king, chosen for our intellectual superiority, and have given up our names, but we’re not immune to certain pleasures.”

What was the old monk hinting at?

“What have you read about Rega Bayla?”

“Not much. Her birth, the future death of her father, and the death of her mother.”

“Ah, Queen Serova.” The monk hung his head in remembrance. “Unfortunate.”

Tobian recalled reading, in the true history of Willovia, that Rega Bayla’s mother, Queen Serova, was poisoned. The monks could foresee no justice for her murderer. No one outside the monks’ order knew the true fate of the queen. The people of Willovia had only been told that she died in childbirth along with the son she was to bear the king.

“Her power was great and terrible,” the old monk reminisced. “Serova used her gift to control the castle and the king. She even tried to get rid of our order once or twice.” He sniffed oddly, like a hound picking up the smell of a skunk. “Rega Bayla has inherited her mother’s power and a hatred for our order. She does not understand our importance to her enduring reign. She will not hate you, though. In fact, she will have a certain fondness for you, a weakness. Your friendship with the future queen had been foreseen. Our success depends on you.”

Upon hearing the old monk’s words, Tobian felt a damp chill in the underground room. Nowhere in the pages of Willovia was he mentioned. All dreams of the future were supposed to be written down. The monks informed him of things that had been foreseen but not recorded. He wondered if another book existed—one he wasn’t allowed to see. One thing was clear: his brother monks had secrets.

*

“Damn it, Pirro,” Shanti said. “Swing at her like you mean it.”

Pirro apologized to the princess as he repeatedly chopped at her with a dull practice sword. They were back at the encampment, and Shanti decided that it was time Bayla learned how to use a sword.

Bayla blocked him but nearly lost the dilapidated weapon, which had seen better days.

“You wouldn’t hesitate if it were me,” Shanti said.

“You, Commander, I wouldn’t mind fighting.”

Pirro continued striking harmlessly at Bayla.

“Rega, that sword is too light for you.” Shanti went to the practice swords lined up in the tall grass, and selected a heavier one. “Try this.”

The princess held out the weapon to make the switch, but before Shanti’s hand touched it, she dropped it for Shanti to pick up.

The sword lay on the ground between the two women’s feet.

“Oh, hell,” Pirro said, backing away.

In her most convincing voice, Bayla proclaimed, “I am Bayla dey Valrise DeyTrudi, descendant of the great Valdant DonTrudi, heiress to the throne of Willovia, and will be treated with the respect that my title merits. Your continual defiance of my authority is inappropriate for a commander of the Willovian forces. I will not hesitate to prosecute such insubordination.”

Shanti took two steps forward and squeezed Bayla’s neck in a viselike grip.

Bayla’s fingers clawed at the hand around her throat.

Shanti let go and shoved her to the ground. “Get your swords,” she commanded the soldiers. “Take up a perimeter. Kill any animal, anything, that crosses the perimeter.”

“No sword can defeat the swarm,” Bayla said.

Buzzing from unseen insects made Shanti’s skin prick.

“You’re no match for me,
guard.
”

Shanti knelt and held the bare skin of Bayla’s forearm. Abnormal power over animals infused her senses. “Think again, Princess.”

The beating of wings in Shanti’s head was invigorating. Her skin no longer pricked. She zoomed through the air with her brothers, an army of wasps armed with poisonous stingers ready to penetrate supple human flesh. Two figures wrestled on the ground: one friend, one foe. But which was which? Bewildered insects soared through the air and dived into a green pond of muck in a strange other world.

Shanti’s wings were wet, too heavy to move. Her body flipped and contracted under the slimy water. She did not know which way was up and struggled to break through the surface of the pond, to breathe.

Hands shook her shoulders. “Say something. Can you hear me, Shanti? Shanti?” Someone slapped her face.

She opened her eyes. “Pirro?” He hugged her in relief. Shanti no longer touched Bayla. The princess lay on the ground, her lips blue.

“She’s not breathing,” Pirro said.

Bayla was still submerged in another dimension. Her eyelids flickered, and she began to choke.

“Turn her over,” Shanti said.

The men rolled her facedown and pounded on her back, following Shanti’s command to clear her lungs. Green-tinged water spilled from Bayla’s mouth, and she began to breathe.

Hundreds of wasps in the throes of death encircled them. Short bursts of buzzing could be heard as the insects tried to fly, only to fall back to the ground.

“She tried to kill me,” Bayla coughed. “Everyone saw it, saw her push me to the ground and choke me.”

That sly witch.
Shanti grasped the wings of a dying wasp with two fingers and picked it up to view the stinger. “There shall be an inquiry. Everyone here is a witness and cannot discuss this matter until the inquiry is complete. You can bring your case before Commander Gy, Rega, or another commander if you so wish.”