Skull Gate (12 page)

“With what?” Tras Sur'tian snapped, not looking at her.

She sighed. Leather creaked as she climbed into the saddle. “I didn't get a wink, and you wake up grumpy.” She flashed a brief smile, then showed her teeth. “If you were a child, Tras, I'd spank you. As it is, just try to keep up, and maybe I'll teach an old dog a new trick."

Kimon laced his saddlebag in place, then his bedroll. “Perhaps he's been a
palace
guard too long.” He winked at her.

“You keep a civil tongue in your head,” she ordered before the old Korkyran could defend himself. “Nobody's singing your deeds in the taverns, yet."

Kimon looked properly humbled as he mounted. “Sorry,” he offered, and said no more.

Tras Sur'tian was last to mount. Frost gave them both a long look and sighed again. Maybe it was a mistake after all, letting this stranger ride along. She had enough on her mind without quarrels. Kimon had a quick tongue, and Tras a quicker temper, sure formula for trouble if she didn't keep an eye on them. Tras was a reliable friend and good right arm in a conflict. But Kimon was good company.

She rubbed her eyes. It would all work out. She'd make it work or break their necks.

The scarp sloped steeply downward to a broad, fertile plain. They rode the first few hours in silence. Then, of a sudden, Kimon began to sing. It startled her so, the strength of his voice, that she nearly fell from the saddle. The sound of him filled the air, rolled over the land. The words were old, the melody older, a song of beginnings and adventures, of marching to war against limitless enemies, a song of striving and greatness.

She studied him as he sang. In the sunlight he had a fair face, deeply tanned, clean-shaven but for a slight stubble. He sat his saddle well, broad-shouldered and straight of back, lean at the waist. His hair, raven-black as her own, touched his collar. Where she was dressed all in gray, black silk clothed his frame. His boots and gloves were black leather. No beggar, this wanderer. She watched him ride, watched the muscles in his neck and throat as he sang. Though slender, almost willowy, there was strength and power in his body.

The song ended and another began. A Rholarothan tune, she knew parts of it and joined in. He turned, smiling, as her voice harmonized with his, and she returned his smile. Only Tras Sur'tian refused to sing. He glowered at them with a disapproving scowl that troubled her. She wished he would be joyous and share their mirth while there was opportunity. But the music rose in her, lightening her spirit. Tras would find his own peace in time, she hoped.

“You've been to Rholaroth?” she said when the second song ended. “Are you from there?"

“The ballad?” he acknowledged its origin. “I've been all around the Stormy Sea, even to Esgaria. By your accent, that's where you're from."

She winced but refused to yield to those memories. The morning was too nice, and the music had her feeling good. No morbid daydreaming, she promised herself. She was on the road again, the sun was high, the air fresh, and the company pleasant.

The next question slipped out. “How did you like Esgaria?” She clamped a hand to her mouth.

Kimon didn't see the gesture. “Friendly enough to travelers. Beautiful countrysides, too. The forests are fantastic, like none I've ever seen.” He scratched his chin. “Strange customs, though.” He twisted to face her. For the second time she noticed the sky blue of his eyes and the pupils that were like huge dark clouds. “I thought Esgarian women were forbidden to touch men's weapons? In fact, I heard they were killed for it. Yet, you must have trained since childhood; your technique is formidable."

Tell him
, an inner voice urged.
Tell him and be done with it. Purge yourself with one gushing confession and accept whatever scorn he decides to heap upon you. Then, maybe you'll be able to sleep nights once someone knows your sins
.

But she turned away, shaking her head.
Oona knows the truth, and the nightmares still come to haunt you
.

“I trained in secret under the best teacher in my homeland.” That was truth, at least. The rest was evasion. “When I was old enough I decided to leave."

Kimon looked doubtful. “Just like that?"

“There was nothing to keep me.” She changed the subject. “Tras, how about another song? Something from Korkyra, this time."

But Tras was as sullen as ever. “Not a time for singing,” he grumbled. “A queen is missing, a king is murdered, the country has no ruler...” He hesitated and rubbed his belly. “And I'm so hungry I could eat my horse if we didn't have so far to ride."

She ignored his use of the word “murder,” but she did catch Kimon's expression. Well, she'd have to explain the past few days to him, but later. Right now, she spied the green darkness of a woodland glade. She'd been watching for such a place before the singing had made her forget her hunger. The evidence of the earth told her to expect such a place, for the grass was lush, the soil dark and spongy. That meant water, and water would mean game to hunt.

“I'm hungry, too,” she answered with a cheerfulness she hoped would infect her old friend. “Let's go eat."

Tras was not so enthusiastic. “What? Roots and tubers, leaves and grass and greens? I thought you wanted meat!"

She couldn't suppress a grin. There was something amusing in the griping grumping of this stiffly proper, almost starchy old warrior. Back at the palace he was so different, always so much in command of any situation, so dignified and disciplined, a soldier of true mettle. Now, he seemed much less. She wondered if Kimon's gibe were true. Perhaps Tras Sur'tian had grown too used to soft palace life.

“Just follow me, old dog,” she called, half-teasing. “I promised to teach you a new trick, and the lesson starts now.” She spurred Ashur and headed for the distant forest. Kimon followed with a whoop, and when she glanced over her shoulder she was pleased to see Tras Sur'tian chasing right behind, crimson cloak aflutter in the wind.

She smiled to herself. It really wasn't a bad start they were off to.

The woodland was small, but dense with wild foliage. She reined up at the edge. Her comrades halted on either side of her. Kimon's face was alight with laughter. The youth seemed to have a limitless capacity for finding amusement in everything, even a swift ride overland. Tras Sur'tian was all frowns. She made a face to imitate his.

He rolled his eyes. “Now what?” he challenged. “The horse is all sweaty, and I'm still hungry."

She clucked her tongue, threw a leg over Ashur's head, and dropped to the ground. “Watch closely so you'll remember in the future.” She took her rumpled cloak from her saddlebag and spread it over the unicorn's rump. “You see this section of the hem?” She pointed for them. “The thread, you may notice, is thicker.” She slipped a fingernail under one loop, got a hold, and yanked. What came loose was a handsome length of waxed bowstring. “An old Esgarian precaution,” she informed them. “Ruins the hem, but handy when you need it."

“Let me guess,” Tras Sur'tian said sarcastically. “You pull the bow out of your boot. Or do you conjure it from air?"

She sighed. “Just bring your sword, Tras. Your brain isn't too keen today, so we'll test your muscle."

The men tied their reins to bushes. Frost never tied Ashur; he never wandered far. Then she led the way into the brush and soon found her bow: a stout young sapling, straight and strong and supple. “Cut it close to the ground,” she told Tras Sur'tian, “and strip the branches from it.” He drew his sword. She turned to Kimon. “Let's cut some arrows."

“What about tips?” he asked.

“Won't need them,” she answered. “We're after small game. Carve the shafts to points, maybe leave a bit of a barb. That'll serve."

They got to work. Soon there were nine branches stripped and lying on the earth. Using Kimon's dagger, Frost made her points and cut notches for the string to fit. Tras Sur'tian waited with the denuded sapling in his hands, flexing, testing its strength. She tossed him the length of bowstring, instructed him how to tie the loops so they wouldn't come loose when the bow was bent, then checked his work.

He examined her arrows. “We could fire-harden the tips,” he suggested.

She shook her head. “We'll have a fire when we've got something to cook over it."

“What about fletchings?"

Again, she shook her head. “I could spend the next week making perfect arrows, but I'm hungry now. I thought you were, too?” The look in his eyes told her she'd teased him enough. She raised on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. The impulsive act surprised her as much as it did him. She took the bow. “You prepare a good fire, and I'll bring back the rabbit. By the way, I only hunt; I don't skin the things.” She faked a shudder and was rewarded with the faintest flicker of a grin from the Korkyran. “Come on, Kimon."

They plunged into the woodland, leaving Tras to gather kindling. The smell of moisture was rich in the air. From the spongy earth she knew there would be water nearby. Birds scattered as they moved through the underbrush. Patches of wildflowers blossomed everywhere. The trees stretched upward, weaving branches in a lacework that threatened to shut out the sun.

“Are you a good hunter?” Kimon inquired softly when they had wandered some distance and found no suitable game.

She peered left and right into the undergrowth. “I've never hunted in my life,” she admitted. “But I learned the bow in the Aleppan War. I'm a good shot."

He stopped. “Better let me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Shooting a nervous animal isn't the same as lobbing a shaft into an advancing army."

The half smile he wore irritated her, but she wouldn't let that show. She knew its meaning. Other men had made the mistake of underestimating her abilities. She'd taught them all hard lessons. She'd made the bow and arrows, not this smug young adventurer, nor the battle-wise career soldier. Without her, they'd be riding hungry a while longer.

He must have read her thoughts. “I mean no insult,” he assured her. “But hunting is a different skill from soldiering. Would you waste all day finding food when you could be after Aki's killer?"

She winced at the ease with which he assumed the little queen's death. Aki might be dead, but Frost kept hope, a hope that Kimon's and Tras Sur'tian's doubt made ever more fragile. Her hunger lessened; her desire to get back on the road grew stronger.

Yet they must eat, reason told her. She passed the bow and bundle of arrows. “All right,” she said, “I'll let you have the first shot.” She tossed her hair back. “But if you miss, I promise to laugh so hard Tras Sur'tian will hear."

Kimon took the bow. “If you do, you'll scare away any other game that might be lurking.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Then we'll all go hungry."

He moved out in front, letting her follow. She wished she had kept one of the arrows so she might jab his rump with the sharpened point. That prospect brought a mischievous smile. It was such a nice rump, too. A slow warmth spread through her. She watched as he moved, admiring his grace, the easy way he walked without making a sound, the way his gaze swept from side to side, the way he clutched the bow with the arrow notched and ready on the string. Yes, there was much about Kimon she liked.

They found a broad, lazy stream. Fat mushrooms grew all along the grassy bank. Frost bent down to study them. Edible, but full of insects. She wanted meat, anyway. If they didn't find any, they could come back for these.

“Tracks,” Kimon announced. “Several kinds of animals drank here.” He looked up at the sky, searched for the sun through the leafy canopy. “Wrong time of day now, but if we hide in a blind, something may come along.” He spotted a browning thicket. “There."

They crawled behind it and sat quietly, bow at the ready. Kimon stuck the other shafts point first in the ground near at hand, easy to reach. They had a fairly unobstructed view of the place where the tracks were found.

Time crept by. Her legs began to stiffen and cramp. Worse, the sound of water so near made her thirsty. She licked her lips. An ant crawled on her hand; she slapped it off. Flies buzzed her nose. She tried to keep still, but all the annoyances! She leaned back, trying to relieve the incessant tingling in her calves. A twig snapped as she shifted her weight.

“Quiet!” Kimon whispered.

She stood up. “I've had enough,” she announced. “This is boring. We came to hunt, and so far all we've caught are flies. Not my idea of a tasty meal, nor Tras's either, I'll warrant. I'm hot and dirty and thirsty, and I'll not spend another instant crouched in these dusty bushes.” She pushed through the thicket, headed for the stream. The cool sweet water would quench her thirst.

“Just a little longer,” he called.

“Forget it."

She kneeled and touched her lips to the water, drank deeply, washing the dust from her parched throat. If she didn't get anything to eat, the water would stop her stomach's grumbling. Kimon dropped beside her and drank, too. She sat up and watched him.

He bent far over, his tail high as any bitch dog's. Suddenly she recalled an earlier impulse. A small, tight smile flickered on her face. The bow lay between them on the ground, the arrows, too. She picked one up and felt the point with a finger. Wonderfully sharp.

Kimon gave a choked yelp, grabbed his backside, tried to leap up, but lost his balance on the slick bank, fell headfirst into the stream. She roared with laughter and clapped her hands gleefully.

Kimon sputtered, glowered at her, waist deep in the drink. “What was that for?” he shouted.

“Because you're so smug,” she answered exultantly. “And because you needed a bath. The only thing worse than the flies in that thicket was sitting so close to your stink. You must have been on the road for days before we met you!"

“You're no rose from the queen's garden, either!” He launched a barrage of water, drenching her.

She got up, dripping. “You're right; we both need a bath.” She unfastened her sword belt, then the belt that held Demonfang's silver sheath. She placed them carefully on the grass. Kimon tossed his own weapon belt on the bank, then peeled off his soaked tunic, wadded it, and threw. She ducked barely in time.