Water Logic (24 page)

“I can’t imagine what Karis—” Emil began.

“The G’deon,” said Medric.

They all looked at him. He closed his lips, like a child keeping a secret.

The raven seeks a healer who J’han thought might be in the region of Wilton, flying from one farmstead to another, following the healer’s route from illness to birth to injury to more illness. By the time the bird finds the healer, it is full dark, and the bird is exhausted by the effort required to fly all day in the rain.

Karis has walked all day, and now she walks all night in the unrelenting rain. The baby tied to her breast is warm and does not seem to mind being wet. Every few hours Karis stops at a farmstead and finds a woman to give suck to the general’s son.

At late morning, Karis is still walking.

The raven and the healer arrive in Wilton in a borrowed, horse-drawn cart. At the building where the Sainnites have found shelter, a mob of people shout their hatred for the Sainnites. Their angry grief at the death of Mabin unites them. Three black-dressed Paladins block the door, armed only with their moral argument.

Shaftal’s rage has collected here in South Hill as water gathers in a vernal pond. Yet the angry people cannot bring themselves to attack a Paladin, or to disregard a Paladin’s conscience.

The healer cannot push through the crowd. When he shouts that he is a healer, the people shout back at him. “Let her die as she deserves!” The healer stands up in his cart, and the raven flies to his shoulder. “This is a G’deon’s raven!” the healer shouts. “In the name of Karis G’deon, give me passage!”

Glowering, sullen people begin moving in one direction or the other to let the healer’s cart get through. The healer mutters to his bird companion, “I see why mobs are always called ‘ugly.’ ”

The horse leans in the traces, and the wagon goes the last few feet to the door.

“Raven, we’ve been looking anxiously for your return,” says a Paladin whose eyes are red with sleeplessness and weeping.

The raven says, “Is the general still alive?”

“Yes. But in terrible pain.”

The grim healer begins to unload his pack and supplies from the wagon, with help from the Paladins. He says to them, “I’ve told the raven that even a minor gut wound makes survival doubtful. But the bird—the G’deon—insists I try to keep her alive.”

“It is the Sainnites’ custom to spare each other the pain of a lingering death,” said the Paladin. “Her people are demanding—”

The raven says, “Keep them away from her.”

Both men look at the bird in anguish. “You haven’t heard her screams,” the Paladin says.

“A merciful death may be all I can give her,” says the healer.

“But she must live.”

Far away, Karis is climbing to high ground, for the Corber has burst its banks. She pauses. Rain drips from the tips of her hair, from her eyebrows, nose, and chin. The baby sleeps in her arms, in utter peace. Karis gazes sternly westward as though she can see across the vast distance that separates her from Wilton. Her lips move.

“Kill me,” the raven says. “And feed me to her.”

Chapter 17

In a small, barren room with a newly built fire crackling on the hearth, Zanja stood in the presence of the angry G’deon, surrounded by Paladins. Arel, evicted from that crowded room despite his vigorous protests, waited outside the door—or at least Zanja hoped so.

The G’deon had shed his muddy rain cape but ignored the fire’s inviting warmth. He paced restlessly back and forth down a narrow avenue lined with armed guards.

The house captain burst in the door, out of breath and already in a rage. “What has this woman done now?”

“Good evening, Commander,” said the G’deon, “What do you know about her?”

The house captain willingly launched into an account of Zanja’s history and crimes. She was not half finished when Tadwell interrupted. “Nothing you are saying is relevant.”

“I beg your pardon, Tadwell. I am telling you what I know.”

A silence fell. It was so quiet Zanja could hear water dripping from clothing to splash on the stone floor. The G’deon’s sodden boots squished audibly as he paced to the stone wall and turned back. He came to within a step of Zanja, and his square hands lifted as if of their own will.

“Don’t touch me, sir—not before witnesses,” she murmured. Whatever Tadwell had sensed, it had been strange enough to cause him to abandon the Basdowners, to lead his Paladins on a precipitant race in miserable weather, directly to Zanja. When he touched her, Zanja feared, it would be a shock impossible to conceal.

Tadwell lowered his hands. “Why do you refuse to speak to a Truthken? What are you keeping secret?”

“I will answer your questions, sir—but only in private.”

“Tadwell, you should not be alone with her—she is a violent woman, possibly a murderer!”

Zanja dropped to her knees on the cold, damp stone. She unbuckled
her belt and tossed it out of reach, and followed it with the knife from her boot sheath. She sat back on her heels to make herself even less dangerous, and rested her hands on her thighs.

Many of the Paladins now eyed her appreciatively. But was this drama overt enough for even an earth witch to understand?

Tadwell’s gaze lingered on Zanja’s discarded weaponry: the dagger, the knife, also unique in Zanja’s time, forged by the hand of a smith who had at least twice Tadwell’s power.

“All of you, wait outside. Silence!” Tadwell added, as the house captain began to protest. “Leave her weapons where they lie.”

The room emptied; the door was shut, and the silence began to itch and ring in Zanja’s ears. Tadwell stood over Zanja’s belt and blades.

Zanja said, “You will be startled, I fear.”

Tadwell picked up the bootknife and dropped it with a grunt of surprise. It rang on stone with a piercing purity of sound.

Zanja said, “My blades were shaped by the hand of my wife, who will be the G’deon two hundred years from now.”

Faint voices could be heard outside the door where the Paladins, as always, had begun to pass the time in vigorous conversation.

Zanja said, “On an errand for her, while I was crossing a frozen river, the ice gave way under me and I fell in and drowned. When I came to consciousness I had been removed from my own time. By logic—fire logic—I know I fell into a trap of water magic that was designed to capture me and carry me here.”

Tadwell continued to stare at her, dumbfounded.

“I am a katrim, like Arel,” Zanja said. “I am considered a hero of Shaftal.”

At least Tadwell didn’t declare in outrage that no border woman could achieve such a status.

In a strained voice, he said, “Why were you brought here?”

“Only the water witch knows that.”

“But if you have a fire talent, you have suspicions, at least.”

“Survival has required all my attention and energy. But a seer from my time did predict that I would cross the boundary of time, and choose insight.”

“I have no time for riddles! Someone must explain!” The G’deon began pacing agitatedly again, this time in a circuit of the room. “The Basdowners are feuding over trivial issues, actually killing each other—and won’t acknowledge their true problems of too many children and too many cows. For three seasons in a row the lambs in the western sheeplands have been decimated by illness, and no one can determine what to do about it. The people of the midland cities are requiring farmers to pay for the privilege of selling in their markets, and the farmers are banding together and refusing to go to the cities at all—”

It occurred to Zanja that Tadwell was young, both in age and in experience. She said more acerbically than she had intended, “Certainly, every crisis should wait on your convenience.”

He stopped, and glared. “I see you are accustomed to taking a familiar tone with the G’deon.”

“Is that a reprimand? Is it considered correct behavior in this Shaftal for everyone to avoid speaking plainly to you? Or do I just seem arrogant to you because I don’t accord with your expectations of a border person?”

Tadwell loomed over her—belligerent, pugnacious.

“Do you leave everyone kneeling before you like this?” Zanja said.

“Stand up, then.” He offered his hand.

She put her hand in his, and he staggered. She stood up without his help. He took many rapid, harsh breaths. “Give me your hand again,” he said. This time he clasped her hand in both of his. In time, his breathing slowed. “You have had a terrible life,” he said. “Or at least you have been both terribly unlucky and astonishingly lucky: You should have died from your injuries. You should be too crippled to walk.”

“Everything you say is true.”

He dropped Zanja’s hand and paced away, paused, and turned back. “Shaftal will become so dangerous? Her heroes will be survivors of repeated violence? What will be her enemies and how will they appear?”

“Tadwell, I don’t know how to judge what I should and should not tell you. This is why I dare not be in a Truthken’s presence, also.”

“Such judgments are not yours to make!”

“I agree with you—but whose judgments are they? Would you have me satisfy your curiosity with no concern for the effect? If our positions were reversed, would you do such a thing?”

“I would do anything to prevent future ills.”

“How could you possibly do so? Sir, it is arrogant and naive to think you know what is best for a people not yet born, in a land that will be much changed.”

“By that logic, no one has any right to do anything at all under any circumstances!”

“Then I’m wrong,” said Zanja. “I will begin by telling you when and how you will die.”

“No!”

She gazed at him. Finally he looked away, muttering, “I suppose your caution is sensible.”

“Arel knows I am journeying in time, but he doesn’t know what direction I have traveled in. I’ve told nothing to anyone else.”

“Good,” he said. “But if you are dangerous—”

“The seer would have intervened!”

“Seers!” he said in disgust. “Why would a water witch choose you? What is it that you alone are capable of doing? And how can anything you do be right when you have been forced into doing it?”

“I don’t know. But I must face this quandary alone.”

“And you expect me to simply trust you to do what is right?”

“Yes, Tadwell. Just as Karis would trust me.”

He looked at her, and looked away. “I cannot argue. The value she places on you is unmistakably present in your flesh. It is more convincing than any letter of introduction.”

He walked away from her and stood in silence, gazing into the fire, as many people do when they are thinking. But he would not see any inspirational visions there; like any earth blood he was thinking about the problems of cause and effect, of risk and result. As he considered the situation she had presented him with, she considered the one he had presented to her: What am I alone capable of? It seemed a fearsome question, for she had done some awful things—however justifiable. She understood why Tadwell might be reluctant to set her loose upon this peaceful land.

Eventually she raised her eyes to find he had turned to her again. She saw a man beset and troubled, empowered but not particularly wise, a man like Karis and like herself, whose responsibilities usually seemed impossible to fulfill.

“You may continue to reside with Arel,” said Tadwell. “But you may not leave his quarters.”

“Yes, Tadwell.”

That seemed to be all he had to say to her. She did not ask when he would decide what to do with her, for, like Karis, he would act as he felt compelled at whatever time his action seemed necessary. Zanja could only wait, an art at which she had little natural talent but much unfortunate practice.

Tadwell was heading for the door, and soon the room would again be crowded with anxious Paladins. “Sir,” said Zanja. He turned sharply as if he anticipated he would have to assert his will over her some more. She strove to make her tone more humble. “May I study some glyph paintings during my isolation? For they are beautiful, and I would consider it a great kindness to be so allowed.”

“Glyph paintings!” he exclaimed. “What use are they?” Then shaking his head, he added, “On the other hand, what harm are they?”

“This is a very peculiar imprisonment,” commented Arel as Zanja ate the meat pie he had brought for her supper. When he first arrived, the door to his rooms had stood wide open, as the glyph master took his leave after reluctantly delivering to her a precious painting.

Arel said, “Where is the lock for the door? The armed guard? The shackles?”

“I think the G’deon is testing my obedience.”

“At least you seem resigned.”

“Then I am a finer actor than I thought.”

The meat pie was delicious. Its flavorful gravy covered the deficiencies of long-stored vegetables and reconstituted meat. Living under the influence of an obsessive cook for just two months had taught Zanja to notice and appreciate kitchen skill. She paid attention to her meal. Arel was uncharacteristically restless. Perhaps he was feeling his own confinement, for Tadwell certainly would have forbidden him to ask Zanja any questions. Or perhaps he felt the tedium of mud season.

Zanja licked her plate and her fingers. She said, “Surely Tadwell will decide my fate before he returns to Basdown. But you’ll be able to leave before he does—there’s rarely a flood in the north, and the mountain ways will probably be passable by the time you reach them.”

“Come with me,” he said.

Zanja found herself unable to reply. Return to the Asha Valley? How could that possibility have not occurred to her? To travel into the mountains! To traverse those bright, dark, dangerous places with easy confidence! To go home!

She took a breath. “But it is not my home, my brother.”

“You are Ashawala’i, a person-from-the-valley-of-stones!”

“It is not my valley—not my people—not even my stones.”

Arel squatted before her. His braids swept the woven carpet. “My sister, do you think I cannot see your loneliness? Six years you have wandered! It is time to cease being a ghost. Your family, your lovers—they will not be there. But your tribe is your tribe, always.”