Skull Gate (15 page)

For a long time they said nothing. Then Kimon spoke, but softly, so as not to disturb their companion. “I've been wondering why the old woman called you Samidar.” His fingers crawled slowly up her spine, his breath blew gently on her cheek.

She stiffened, but the nearness of him and the comfort of his arms, the gentleness of his voice, made her relax again. She looked into his eyes, those blue eyes that seemed to swallow her. “Because it's my name,” she confessed in a tight whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut. Oona knew only because it was impossible to lie to someone with true-sight. Now Kimon knew, too. Frost had not spoken that name for a long time.
Samidar
. Her father had given her that name. She had always liked the sound of it.

“I thought Frost was your name."

How much could she tell him? Would he still want her if he knew her past, what she'd done? Perhaps she had suffered enough penance. It would be good to share the secret with someone she cared for. Oona knew the truth, and Oona hadn't rejected her. Yet Oona was old and lonely, the kind who took in anyone. Kimon was a proud man. He might leave if he knew her shame.

“You're right,” she answered after a long silence. She blinked back threatening tears. “My name is Frost."

“But it wasn't always?"

She rolled over so her back was against his chest. His arm draped over her breasts, and she could feel his breathing sweet on her neck. “Another time for those stories,” she told him wistfully. “Now I want to sleep."

He kissed the back of her head and moved still closer against her. Shortly, he began to snore. Only then did she release the tears she had fought to hold in check.

 

She awoke with a start, grabbed for her sword.

“The dreams again?” Tras Sur'tian regarded her from nearby, where he sat against a tree. He rubbed the edge of his blade with the whetstone he kept in his saddlebag. For the first time in days he was out of that hot armor.

“Where's Kimon?"

“Do you love him very much?"

She leaned back on her elbows. “I don't know,” she said truthfully. “What do I know about love?"

The old warrior shrugged. “He rode out to find a village. We decided to let you sleep; you seemed tired."

She patted her stomach in anticipation. “I hope he gets back soon."

Tras Sur'tian measured the sun's journey in the sky. “It's only midafternoon. It may be a while. No telling how far he'll have to go. But Endymia is a populous land. He'll find something."

She got to her feet and stretched. Her skin felt clammy; the nightmares always brought a cold sweat. Her hair was filthy with road dust, too. She could smell herself. Tras Sur'tian had already bathed, she could tell by the damp ringlets in his beard that hadn't quite dried.

“I'm going down to the river,” she announced. “Could you do that for my sword, too?” He nodded. She unbuckled her belt, tossed him the blade in its scabbard. “Water's cold,” he warned, returning to his work. A fine gray powder covered his hands as he slid the' stone up the weapon's length.

She walked down to the bank, out onto a broad sandbar. She pulled off her boots, laid them aside, and removed the rest of her clothing. The sand toasted her toes and the soles of her feet. A light breeze blew her hair, caressed her skin. She waded in until the water reached her knees.

Tras had told her. The water was frigid, no doubt fed by underground springs. The Skamandi flowed with moderate swiftness; the water churned around her legs. She shivered despite the sun on her shoulders and gritted her teeth as she walked farther in. When the water touched her waist, she stopped. The sand underfoot had turned to mud. She could feel the tug of the current; it could be dangerous to stray farther from the shore.

She scrubbed as quickly as she could, immersing herself and rubbing until her flesh turned ruddy. Her hair hung in wet ropes plastered to her skin, shining with sunlight as droplets ran down her back.

A peculiar cry from the bank made her turn. She grinned. Other men mistook that sound for a horse's whinny; she knew better.

Ashur watched from the shore. She called to him, “Come on in, coward!” The unicorn tossed his head, then came down to the sandbar, dipped a front leg up to the fetlock joint, and cautiously drank. His long, shaggy mane floated on the surface, but he ventured no deeper. “Coward!” she repeated, and used her hand to launch a curtain of water. The huge animal danced lithely away, avoiding her attack, then returned calmly to drink again.

She smiled, full of pride and affection for the creature. She waded toward him. Too late, she saw Ashur's horn dip and jerk upward. A pitiful attempt, but she laughed at the few drops that actually splashed her. “If that's the best you can do with that thing, we'd better saw it off, make you a common horse,” she chided, “maybe a gelding, too. How'd you like that?"

Ashur nodded his great head excitedly as she approached.

“Oh, you think you'd like it?” She reached out to put her arms around his neck, but the unicorn stepped aside and suddenly shook himself vigorously. The wet mane lashed out, showering her.

She leaped back, open-mouthed. “I'll get you for that!” she shouted. But Ashur turned and fled over the sandbar, up the bank, and out of sight. “Sooner or later,” she added, grinning.

She climbed out of the water, shook the sand from her clothes, and pulled them over wet flesh. Tras Sur'tian had worked a bright, shining edge on her blade by the time she returned from her bath. He continued with an oil-soaked cloth, polishing the length of steel to a fine gleam, working with a professional's respect for a good tool. He hefted it in one hand. Sunlight rippled along the metal.

He nodded approvingly. “It's as heavy as mine,” he said.

She found a leather thong in her saddlebag and tied back her hair. Her moonstone circlet lay in the bottom of the bag; she set it on her head also to hold back her long hair.

“I trained with a heavier one,” she told him, recalling long nights in the dark lower levels of her father's castle, and a man as dear to her as kin. “My teacher taught me two-handed techniques seldom seen in this part of the world, how to use speed and momentum to make up for what I lack in sheer muscle.” She bit her lip. Her weapons master was dead now. “Just before his death he had that one made specially for me."

He lowered the blade, looked at her over the point. “You look about to cry."

“Nonsense!” She forced a smile and waved at the sky. Not a cloud spoiled the deep blue. “Too beautiful a day for crying.” She pushed her memories away, an easy thing to do in the daylight. If only her nightmares could be banished so easily.

But Tras Sur'tian was persistent. “What happened to him?” he probed.

“I don't want to talk about it.” She started to walk away, but he reached up, caught her hand, and pulled her to a seat on the ground beside him.

“I've been pretty grumpy, haven't I?” he said, changing the subject.

She peered quizzically at him, then took the smile he wore as a sign it was all right for her to agree.

“I've been afraid,” he confessed, and set a finger against her lips before she could say anything. “I've been a palace guard so long I was afraid I might not be much good in real battle.” His smile wavered, returned. “I still might not be; nothing's proven, yet. I'm old. I've kept the rust off my sword, but not off my bones."

She hugged her legs to her chest, rested chin on knees. “You're as good as any ten men,” she assured him.

“That's flattery,” he chided her good-naturedly. “Truth is, I'm not sure what I'm worth anymore. But this morning I finally decided to put my fear aside.” He gestured at the pile of his belongings. “It lies there, somewhere, with my armor."

He was silent then, his keen gaze piercing, unflinching. She licked her lips. “You're trying to tell me something."

He nodded. “Take off your armor."

His meaning was clear. She wanted to open up to someone. She'd thought about it, nearly opened to Kimon, but couldn't. Why not Tras Sur'tian? The old soldier had always been kind to her, called her friend, and looked after her in almost a fatherly manner. In fact, he was much like her real father; his physical appearance alone had caused her no little pain during her first days at Mirashai.

She opened the gate to her memories, let them out one by one. Each brought pain, guilt, refused to be studied dispassionately. They rushed upon her, images from her nightmares, visions that haunted her every waking moment. She tried to control them, and when she couldn't she tried to dispel them as she had earlier. This time, they would not be banished. She began to tremble; the air no longer felt warm.

Could she ever tell? Could she describe those images and nightmares? Or would the tongue rot in her mouth and fall out before the words formed?

Tras's eyes never left her. She saw the concern in them and the love. Even more than Kimon, she knew she could trust this old man. Yet he loved her in ignorance, not knowing what she was, what she had done! He'd run away when he knew the truth. Her sin would taint him. She shivered again. A drum throbbed in her skull; her heart raced.

Tras had been truthful with her.
Afraid
, he'd confessed.
Afraid
. Keeping her secret now would shame them both. Despite her past, she had found a home and warm, good friends in Korkyra; she didn't want to lose them. Suddenly, her secret seemed an immense hammer poised to shatter everything and everyone who meant anything to her.

Tras had taken off his armor and invited her to do the same. She shook visibly, felt shame for it. “What do you really know about me?” She hated the whine in her voice when she said that. It just slipped out. She bit a fingernail. Maybe he would say nothing and just let the conversation drift away.

“You call yourself Frost,” he answered, “but your name is Samidar. You come from Esgaria. You're born of a noble family."

She looked up sharply. “How do you know all that?"

“The old woman spoke your name. Your accent betrays your nationality, and you speak a variety of languages. Commoners get no such education. You also mentioned a weapons master; that suggests your father kept a garrison of household soldiers as Esgarian nobles are known to do."

She licked her lips. “What else do you know?” she challenged.

“You're a fugitive from your homeland.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “You're a witch, or used to be. You've honorless enemies who would seek revenge through assassination.” He listed a few more obvious facts, looked thoughtful, and then held up one more finger. “And I think I know what haunts your sleep.” He spoke slowly, as if asking her permission to say more.

She hugged herself; a cold dread crept through her. Could he possibly know? It distressed her how much of her secret she had given away to him. What of the others she'd spent time with? How much had Aki gleaned about her? Aki's councilors? The palace guards?

Tras Sur'tian took her silence for approval. He swallowed. “You murdered your family,” he said, “or caused them to be murdered."

She leaped to her feet, reached for the sword she wasn't wearing. Blood pounded in her ears, her vision refused to focus. She couldn't get a breath. Tras caught her hand, but she jerked free, stared horrified at the stranger who spoke her name, at the accuser who knew her deepest secret.

“No!” she shrieked. Hysteria wormed its dark way through her; she fought to control it, a battle she sensed she was desperately in danger of losing. “How could you know?"

Tras Sur'tian kept his seat on the carpet of grass. His expression stayed calm, steady, his voice soothing. But there was sadness and sympathy, too. She didn't trust his sympathy.

“It's no secret, Samidar,” he said gently. “It never was to anyone who knew you or knew Esgaria.” He met her gaze evenly. “Esgarian law decrees that a woman who touches men's weapons must be put to death by her family. Something dark, terrible, has tormented you from your first day as a mercenary in the Korkyran regulars—and long before that, I surmise. I've seen it in your eyes, and men in the barracks heard you cry out often in your sleep at night, screams that threatened to wake the dead. Only by Aki's direct order did we let you sleep in her chamber when she named you her champion.” He hesitated, swallowed before going on. “I've seen your swordwork, woman. Your technique is unearthly strange, deadly. You're no piece of meat to just lay down and be butchered.” He looked her up and down. “Was it your father?"

Her spine turned to ice. She stood stiffly, shivering all over, staring and seeing nothing but images and visions. Voices called to her, accusing, ugly voices that cursed her. She couldn't shut them out, refused to shut them out. This was the time; they had come to claim her. Let death take her and end it forever.

Yet she knew she wouldn't die. Visions didn't kill; they just tormented, tortured, haunted, maddened.

“My brother, first.” Her mouth formed the words; she could not stop herself. “He found me practicing and tried to kill me. It was his right, by law. There was no love between us, and I really felt nothing when my blade slipped under his ribs and punctured his jealous heart.” She saw the scene in her mind, that night in the dark bowels of the castle as she stood over him, blood dripping from her sword, spatters of red on her sleeve. “My father heard his scream and came. My mother, too.” She clenched her eyes shut; the chimera would not fade. Her voice sounded mechanical, empty of emotion. She no longer resisted the images. “I was his favorite child. I might have stood there under his sword and done nothing to save myself, I loved him so.” She rubbed at tearless eyes as she spoke. “He couldn't carry out the law, couldn't avenge his son, couldn't kill his daughter. So in shame or grief, he threw himself on his own blade in front of me. My mother's grief was no less bitter, no less extreme. I remember the hatred and hurt that filled her eyes as she disowned and cursed me. My sword had stolen her husband and her son. She stole my witch-powers and my name."