Skull Gate (11 page)

Frost met Tras's gaze defiantly and slipped the ruby talisman into her belt pouch. The Korkyran captain scowled, turned on his heel, and strode from the shack into the night air.

“I'd better keep him company,” the stranger said as he departed also.

Oona spotted the shawl Frost had brought back from Kord'Ala. It lay in a corner. She picked it up, shook the splinters and fragments of earthen pottery from the garment, and draped it around her shoulders. “Nothing more for me here,” she announced, and headed for the door.

Frost caught her arm. “I'm sorry about the child,” she said. “I know you did what you could, but root-fever...” Her voice dropped.

Oona's head dropped, a tremor racked her aged frame. When she turned, the gleam of a tear hung in one eye. “You've got a child to save, too, Samidar, if you can.” An old hand reached out to caress her cheek, then Oona grabbed her in a fierce hug as she had the first day Frost had arrived. This time, though, Frost felt no embarrassment and returned the embrace whole-heartedly.

“Go now,” Oona said finally, stepping back. “Your friends are waiting."

Frost straightened. “But you're coming with us,” she said. “We'll find you a safe town along the way."

Oona shook her head. “Avoid the towns. Ride straight and hard until you find your child. I hope she lives."

Frost protested, “But what about you?"

“I've got a secret place in the hills,” she confided, “and a few stores to hold me over until I've rested a bit. Then I'll head east toward the Chondite border until I find someplace to make a new home. There's always need for a healer. Not everybody is as foolish and backward as that bunch in Shadamas.” She shrugged. “I knew years ago it was a mistake to settle here."

Frost remembered the emeralds in her pouch. “Take these,” she said. “You'll have expenses."

Oona declined. “I've everything I need in my secret place. I've always known I'd have to leave someday, and I've prepared for it.” Then, frowning and biting her lip, she reached out and took the jewels. “On the other hand, I haven't prepared
that
well."

Frost smiled. “And I have your ruby gem in exchange."

They went outside arm in arm. Oona pulled Frost's face close and kissed the younger woman. “Take care, child, and remember I love you.” She turned, then, skirts aswirl, and walked toward the looming hills.

Frost watched, trembling, silent, until the night swallowed the old woman. Tears threatened to spill on her cheeks. She held herself stiffly, every muscle tense.
Why did Oona say that? Why?

She had memories of a mother who had named her Samidar, who had hugged and kissed and said those words to her, who had consoled and protected her from the night, memories of when she was younger. But she also had memories of what had followed, dark memories. She choked back a sob for fear the men would hear it. Her mother was dead now with the rest of her family, murdered. And with her dying breath her mother had cursed her.

Frost squeezed her eyes tightly shut and forced the memory away. It would return, she knew. It always returned in her dreams and nightmares.

She exhaled slowly, then climbed into the saddle.

“She called you Samidar,” Tras Sur'tian remarked when she had mounted. “Why?"

More than a hint of ice tinged her answer. “My name is Frost.” She said no more, and her heels encouraged Ashur to a swift run.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

“You haven't told us your name."

Frost sat near the edge of the scarp staring at the midnight moon, chewing a piece of dried fruit from the stranger's saddlebag. Her back ached from long riding, and she felt bone-tired, though not ready for sleep. A horse nickered, probably Tras Sur'tian's. The Korkyran had gone to hobble his mount and not yet returned. Ashur and the stranger's horse wandered free.

“Kimon,” he answered, and bit into his own ration.

She leaned back on her saddle and regarded the slender man. He sat with one leg drawn up, a lanky figure in comfortable repose. She had yet to see him in decent light, but he had that air of self-confidence and arrogant indifference that usually bespoke a seasoned warrior. Certainly he'd handled himself skillfully enough in Shadamas. “You're not Korkyran.” She knew it by his accent, though she couldn't guess his true homeland.

“I'm from a lot of places,” he admitted. “Trafyban, Keled-Zaram, Shagea, Emmidar—"

“Which do you call home?” she interrupted.

He chewed lazily and swallowed a bite before answering. “How much stock we put in that silly word,” he said. “Home is where my horse is.” He tapped the sword that leaned beside him against his saddle. “Where this is."

Tras Sur'tian strode out of the darkness with an armload of dead wood and kindling. No wonder he'd been gone so long. He dropped his burden, arranged it neatly, and produced a flint box from the pouch on his belt.

Frost sat stiffly up. “No,” she snapped. “No fire. From this high point even a little blaze will be visible far off."

“No one followed us,” Tras Sur'tian grumbled. He took the flint in one hand, steel in the other.

“We've nothing to cook,” she protested, “and the night air is warm. Why risk it?"

A bright spark illumined his face, gleamed on his armor, on the gold threads of his coat. His eyes shone momentarily. But the spark failed to take hold in the small dry nest he'd assembled. “The Shadamites are too busy burying their dead to worry about us.” He prepared to strike tinder again.

“Did you wait to bury Thogrin Sin'tell?” she answered pointedly.

He shot her an angry look that even the darkness could not mask, and for a moment she feared she'd dared too much. Too often in the past her mouth had gotten her into trouble. But Tras Sur'tian rose finally, put the flint box away, and crawled to his own saddle. He stretched out on the hard ground, folded his hands under his head, and stared fixedly at the stars.

“Why don't you remove your armor?” she suggested, hoping to assuage him. “You'll be more comfortable."

He ignored her.

Kimon smacked loudly on his last bite as if to remind them he was present. “What did you say his name was?” he asked, putting on a broad smile of feigned innocence. She hadn't said, nor had Tras told him, though as long as the stubborn old soldier insisted on living in his uniform, it was no secret that he commanded the palace guard. The device emblazoned on his tunic proclaimed it to the world as surely as his scarlet cloak. She told him.

Kimon nodded in recognition and glanced casually at Tras's unmoving form. Apparently, the captain had fallen asleep at once. “I heard a minstrel sing about him once in a tavern back in Mirashai. Some adventure or other; the verses were endless.” He rubbed his chin, leaned back. “He must have been formidable in his day."

Frost undid the tie that held her long hair back. It spilled around her shoulders as she shook her head. “He's formidable now,” she answered. “Those aren't wrinkles in his face, but notches for the men who crossed his path and didn't live to regret it. Time carved them to warn away the foolish."

Kimon crossed his ankles and regarded her over the toes of his boots. “You should have been a minstrel yourself."

She worked the tangles out of her hair with her fingers. A shrug was her only response to his comment.

Minutes passed before he spoke again. “What makes a woman take up the sword?"

She stopped her combing, stared into the darkness beyond the scarp's edge. How many others had asked that? What answers had she given? In Korkyra none but Oona knew her secret. Not even Aki, who had comforted her on occasion when the nightmares had become too intense and she'd awakened screaming, shivering, drenched in sweat, fighting for breath.

She was silent for a long time. It always took time to shake off the memories. She looked up; the slight crescent moon was slowly descending, taking its faint light. Kimon was little more than a shape in the night, but she could feel his gaze upon her.

“What made you take it up?” she countered.

“Money.” He said it with a peculiar, offhanded kind of sigh. “I decided to seek my fortune, being too restless for a farmer, too muddle-headed to become a merchant, and not nearly morbid enough for the priesthood.” He slapped his thigh. “So here I am."

“Did you find it? Your fortune?"

“Several times,” he affirmed. “And lost it. And, gods willing, I'll find and lose it several times more. After all, I'm still young.” He rubbed his hands together. “But you're dodging my question."

She thought about it. Why not tell him? This Kimon, this
stranger
, could do her no harm. There were others in Esgaria, in Rholaroth, and in Chondos who knew. The story followed wherever she went, and one day it would come to Korkyra. Why not tell it now, let someone hear it straight without the embellishments and exaggeration that minstrels and storytellers—or enemies—would inevitably lend it?

“Money,” she lied, “like you. I'm a mercenary."

“Not an assassin?"

The wind whistled suddenly around her, whipping her hair. When it calmed again, she answered. “I didn't kill Aki."

“I know."

She jerked around. “What?"

“By the three-eyed witch-goddess, woman! Most of the country knows Thogrin Sin'tell killed her. Most of Mirashai, anyway. They just don't talk about it. It offends their inflated senses of honor to admit their royal family can be as filthy and corrupt and greedy as the rest of us mere mortals."

She leaned over to make sure Tras Sur'tian still slept. “He'd slit your throat if he heard you say that,” she whispered.

Kimon shrugged. “What I can't figure is why the two of you are out here together. Even if you're innocent, a palace captain is oath-bound to bring you back. You've already been tried and found guilty."

She was only innocent of killing Aki. This stranger seemed to know nothing of Thogrin's murder. She decided not to enlighten him. Word would spread fast enough that Korkyra's throne was empty again.

“We struck a bargain,” she answered evasively. “I'll go back with him to Mirashai at month's end. First, there's business he's agreed to let me finish."

He yawned. “Looking for Aki?"

That brought her bolt upright. Her sheathed sword lay on the ground a quick grasp away. She glanced at it, then at him. “You're awfully well informed for a drifter."

He yawned again. “Come now.” He stretched full length on the earth and rolled to his side. “A half-blind fool could guess that. You were Aki's guardian, and Tras Sur'tian her most trusted officer. What else could it mean but that you think she's alive and you're looking for her?"

She looked away. “It could mean we're planning to avenge her."

“Which is it?"

She didn't answer. She wasn't sure herself.

“Maybe I'll just stick around to find out,” he said after a long silence.

She peered at his silhouette in the dark. “You don't know what you're getting into."

“When did that ever stop me?” he answered. “Ignorance is the supreme gift of the gods."

“Then you're lavishly bestowed, friend.” She hadn't intended to call him that, but he was offering his sword without questioning the risks. Harsh words or insults were unfit pay for such service. She had been a wanderer herself and knew what it meant to find friends on the road, someone to share supper with, stories or sometimes song, even an adventure or two.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Ride with us as long as you will, leave when you like, and no more questions. You proved yourself a useful ally in Shadamas and helped save my friend. I'll share what I have with you as long as it lasts. But I'll also warn you: none of us know what lies at the end of this road."

He made a gesture, barely visible. “All roads are the same, and we both know what lies at the end.” She heard a rustle, saw the partially exposed hilt of his sword. “This is the coin of our passage.” He lay back down and fell immediately asleep.

She crossed her legs, folded her arms, yawned, but sleep eluded her. She counted the stars, tossed from side to side. She sat up, finally, and stared the way they had come, imagining she could see a village burning, homes crumbling to ashes, children crying. She closed her eyes, but the vision remained. She was the cause. Her hands were torches, Hands of Glory, and everything she touched burned to ashes.

Was Oona sleeping? she wondered. Could she sleep?

 

* * * *

 

Dawn broke slowly in the east. Streamers of carmine chased away the last of the night. The morning air was crisp and warm, promising a scorching day. Frost jerked the cinch tight around Ashur's underside.

“I don't like it,” Tras Sur'tian grumbled.

“You don't have to like it,” she answered, then turned to glance around, hands on hips. Kimon's mount had wandered a bit, and the youth had gone to fetch it.

The sun had brought that surprise. In the light she'd discovered Kimon was no older than she was, possibly younger, though age was no measure of a man, she reminded herself. Yet he sounded,
acted
, older. She scratched her head and shrugged. Experience did that.

“We don't need him,” Tras Sur'tian insisted. “He's a drifter, no loyalties. What does he care about finding Aki's killers?"

“He's a sword,” she countered. Kimon came toward them, leading his horse. “Look, I won't argue. He proved his worth in Shadamas. That's enough for me. And he shared his food with us. As long as he wants, he has a place beside me."

Kimon was close enough to catch that last. He drew up short, gazed from one to the other. “Am I a problem?"

“No,” she lied, and shot Tras Sur'tian a look that threatened war if he contradicted her. “Get saddled. Kephalenia is a good week's ride, then who knows how many more days to find the man we seek.” She licked her lips. “And I'm hungry for meat. We'll have to do some hunting along the way."