Many Paths Page 13

  Her voice was muffled by his shoulder, strangled by emotion. A shudder went through her.

  Malikan released her and held her at arm’s length, beaming with delight. “I looked for you the moment we arrived—I searched the whole village! No one knew where you had gone.”

  “I . . .” She looked at her basket.

  “Gathering starflowers? I know how you love them.” Grinning, he caught up a bloom from the basket and slid it behind her ear.

  “Did you want them, then, mistress?”

  Startled, Ghithri looked at the trader. One of the visitors—a curling-haired Steppegard female, unknown to her.

  “The beads. Did you want them?”

  “Oh—“

  “Yes, she does.” Malikan reached into his pouch bringing out a small buckle, a length of velvet ribbon, and a tiny mirror. The trader chose the mirror, and Malikan draped the beads around Ghithri’s neck, gazing at her tenderly. “I missed you.”

  She swallowed, unable to put the simplest things into words. She had missed him as well, but she had also grieved . . . at a loss to express what she was thinking, she voiced the obvious.

  “I am going home.”

  “May I escort you?”

  She nodded. Malikan took the basket and tucked her hand into his arm. His khi tingled against her skin, alarmingly delicious, recalling heady memories.

  They strolled across the circle, through the market, past smiling traders and townsfolk. Ghithri’s heart was racing as if she had just run a league. Thinking she should say something, she glanced at Malikan.

  “I did not expect to see you.”

  He bit his lip. “I have been too long in coming. Forgive me.”

  She glanced down at the avenue, unable to do as he asked, at least yet. Her throat tightened on the hurt and sadness of the past seasons.

  “I hoped for a message.”

  “Well, I thought I would return before any message could reach you. Our plans changed too often, though. Dromian would hear of a fair in some town, and . . . I should have written to you. The truth is, I am a poor correspondent.”

  Ghithri bit back her agreement. She did not wish to argue with Malikan. She was happy at his return, though confused by it as well.

  They reached her house and went in. The welcoming fire was down to coals and ash again. She paused to add a log to it, and also to gain a moment for consideration. She had come close to dismissing Malikan from her life, from her thoughts—had struggled to do so—and now his return made her feel adrift in indecision. It might be easier, and safer, to send him away instead of welcoming him, but even at the thought she knew she would not do so.

  She rose to find him standing on the threshold, watching her with a softness in his eyes that made her heart contract. She took the basket from him, a faint scent of starflowers rising from it.

  “I should put these in water.”

  She drew aside the tapestry across the doorway into the house, turning to invite Malikan in. A smile broke across his face as he followed her to the kitchen. She took the starflowers—slightly drooping—from the basket and found a tall vase for them. Malikan’s arms slid around her waist as she arranged the blossoms.

  Her thoughts returned to the shade and her lover—Elmaran—and the happiness of their echoed moment. Could it truly have been an omen? And if so, of what?

  If a shade was an ill omen as Sathri had said, it might mean that Ghithri was destined to share Cashani’s fate—to die in childbirth. She was not sure that she shared Cashani’s conviction that this sacrifice would be worthwhile, even for the rare blessing of a child.

  But perhaps the shade’s joy was an omen of joy. Perhaps it had predicted Malikan’s return.

  Malikan’s arms tightened around her. “You are very quiet.”

  “I am thinking.”

  “Of whether to forgive me?”

  His voice was gentle, his hold around her loose, as if to allow her escape should she wish for it. Swallowing, Ghithri picked up the vase and slid from his arms. She carried the flowers out to the front room and set them on the table there.

  Malikan followed. “I know I took much longer than I thought I would. That is the nature of a trader’s life, I fear.”

  She nodded, shifting the starflowers within the vase so that they fell more naturally. She did understand.

  “I wanted to have made enough good trades by the time I returned that I might leave Dromian’s caravan for a while.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” He smiled, stepping toward her, putting his arms around her again and pulling her close. “I would like to stay here with you, if I may.”

  Stunned, Ghithri gaped at him. “You would leave your trade?”

  “For a while. Probably not forever.” He glanced down. “I meant to discuss all this with you later on. I meant this first day to be only for you. For us.”

  Ghithri stood frozen, confusion blocking her thoughts. Worry flicked across Malikan’s face, fading his smile somewhat. He opened his pouch and withdrew a smaller pouch of velvet. From this he took something that glinted—a fine chain of silver spilled between his fingers—and closed it in his fist, offering it to Ghithri.

  “This is for you.”

  Ghithri held out her palm and he placed his gift into it. Ghithri looked down at a perfect crystal, nearly the length of her thumb, mounted in a silver cap adorned with knotwork. She caught her breath.

  “Oh! It is beautiful.”

  “From Alpinon. I chose it for you myself, and had it mounted.”

  She looked up at him. “You have been to Alpinon?”

  He nodded. “We got best value there for the goods we had to trade. It took us away for nearly a season, though. I misjudged how long it would be. We have only just returned.”

  “And you came here right away.”

  Malikan pressed his lips together, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “I beleaguered Dromian until he promised to come here first. We have not yet been to Hollirued.”

  Blinking, Ghithri gazed at the crystal. Her thoughts were jumbled, but she no longer doubted Malikan’s affection. It was not the crystal—though it was certainly a fine gift—that had convinced her; it was that his eagerness to return to her had been so great that he had demanded a favor from his colleagues for the sake of seeing her as soon as possible.

  No light thing, that. Nor was his intention of leaving the trade caravan. A thrill went through her heart, mixed of joy and anticipation. She looked away from his face, down at the crystal, feeling sudden fire in her cheeks.

  “Thank you. It is a treasure.”

  He closed his hand over hers, and with his other hand lifted her chin. Meeting his gaze, Ghithri felt the ice of fear around her heart melt away. He smiled softly as he gently lifted the string of beads from her neck. He placed it on the table and fastened the crystal about her throat instead, his voice a caress.

  “Nowhere near as great a treasure as you.”

  He kissed her, flooding her senses with his khi, his smell, his taste. Her memories of these had been mere echoes. Her flesh responded eagerly, and her last doubts faded in the heat of her love for him.

  She pulled away, remembering her promise to Sathri. “I am s-supposed to be helping my eldermother.”

  Malikan’s brows rose slightly. “Perhaps you could send her a note.”

  “It would be quicker if I went to her myself. She lives in the next ring. Will you wait here a little while?”

  He smiled. “Gladly.”

  She kissed his cheek, caught a handful of starflowers from the vase, and hurried out. Joy lightened her steps as she ran to the avenue and along it to the village’s outer ring.

  Sathri’s house was in the opposite direction to Elmaran’s. Her bakery stood next to it, a separate structure, for her breads were coveted by everyone in the village. The smell of baking bread reached Ghithri as she turned down the street, setting her mouth to watering.

  Sathri kept a
covered plate of sliced bread in the hearthroom for her visitors. Ghithri was tempted to pause for some, but instead rang the visitor’s chime and passed into the front of the bakery. Rows of fresh loaves sat on two long tables at the back of the room.

  Sathri came out of the kitchen, brushing flour from her hands. “There you are. I have the first batch of pine nut cakes just coming out of the oven. You can glaze them.”

  “Eldermother, forgive me . . . Malikan has come with the traders.”

  Sathri looked amazed. “Malikan!”

  Ghithri nodded, her throat tight. Resignation settled onto Sathri’s face.

  “Very well. Come this evening, then, if you can tear yourself away.”

  “I knew you would understand!” Ghithri darted behind the tables and caught Sathri in a hug, heedless of the flour that smudged her clothes. She put the starflowers into Sathri’s hands. “These are for you.”

  Sathri looked at them, brows rising. She shook her head slightly, and kissed Ghithri’s forehead. “Child, I have not seen your face shine so since the Spring. I wish you much happiness.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Go along, then.” Sathri made a shooing motion with her hands. “I am busy, off with you.”

  Ghithri’s heart was light as she hurried home. A tune hummed in her mind, an old melody—one she remembered from childhood—that was both a cradle song and a love song. The words bubbled up in her memory.

  Still, darling, still—lie still inside your bower.

  Sweet be your rest all among the gentle flowers.

  Soft be your bed, that peace may fill your heart.

  Here by your side, my love I will impart.

  A chill went through her as she remembered the shade’s silent singing. Had it been this song? She tried to recall the shade’s moving lips, but she had not recognized the words at the time.

  Malikan was waiting in her front room, sitting at the table and toying with the string of glass beads he had given her. He looked up, smiling, as she came in.

  Ghithri caught up her basket from the table. “Will you come with me? There is something I wish you to see.”

  She caught his hand, pulling him from his chair. He demanded a kiss, then followed her willingly out and back through the village, across the public circle where his colleagues grinned and shouted good-natured taunts after them, and into the forest.

  “What are you showing me?”

  “You will see.”

  She led him to the starflower glade, leaving her basket outside and drawing Malikan through the whitewood saplings into the cool green. She had meant to tell him of the shade, but now that they were here, she did not feel like speaking. She stood at the side of the glade, near where she had sat the first time she had come here, and watched the grassy center, waiting for the shade to appear.

  Malikan’s arm slid around her waist, and his warm breath tickled her throat. “This is a pretty place.”

  She nodded, still silent, still watching. The golden glow she hoped for did not arise.

  Malikan kissed her throat, sending a tremor through her. She turned her head toward him and his lips found hers. Her eyes closed—she should watch for the shade, but this was too sweet to give up. Suddenly she was lifted from her feet.

  She made a small sound of surprise as Malikan carried her three steps to the center of the glade, and laid her on the grass and thyme where the shade had made her bed. He joined her there, and Ghithri yielded to his caresses.

  It did not matter that the shade had not appeared. There were new joyful memories in the making, far more vivid than shadows. Ghithri smiled, humming softly as she welcomed her lover.

  The Eighth Successor

  Jharan glanced up from cleaning his sword. Three officials were approaching his company’s camp, fresh from Glenhallow by the looks of them. They wore traveling clothes—slightly dusty—but though their expressions were serious he knew with a guardian’s instinct that they had come to the battleground since the fighting had ended.

  Kanaron, his under-captain, leaned closer to mutter to him. “What do they want?”

  “I expect we shall soon know.”

  Jharan could think of no reason for members of the governor’s council, for so these looked to him, to come among the Guard. He returned to his work, summoning patience even as he maintained awareness of the officials’ approach.

  Some administrative matter must have brought them. Glenhallow was trying to make sense of the chaos left by the battle, and well they might. The governor had died, as had his brother beside him. Fully a third of the Guard had fallen, and many companies had suffered even greater losses. It was the worst battle the Southfæld Guard had ever seen, and had it not been for the arrival of support from Eastfæld, they might all have been killed, to the last of them.

  “Is this Maronin’s company?”

  Jharan looked up at the speaker, a tall male with a somewhat pinched expression, though that might be caused by distaste for the battlefield. The fighting had ended less than a full day since, and blood and unspeakable filth were everywhere.

  “What is left of it, yes.”

  “Where is Maronin?”

  Jharan exchanged a glance with Kanaron, then ran his cloth down the length of his blade. He would polish it later, but it was clean enough for now. He stood and slid it into his scabbard.

  “Maronin fell. The remnants of his company joined mine.”

  Another official, a male with the soft hands of one who worked with ideas rather than tools, looked dismayed. “Maronin is dead?”

  Jharan nodded. He had not witnessed Maronin’s death; he had been atop Skyruach at the time. He had seen the body, though—pierced with nigh on fifty kobalen darts.

  “Has his flesh been burned yet?”

  “Not yet. Some of his guardians are preparing it.”

  “We will need proof of that.”

  An odd request. Jharan turned to Kanaron.

  “Will you show them?”

  Kanaron nodded, standing. “This way.”

  The pinch-faced male followed him away into the camp while the other two remained. The third official, the one who had not yet spoken, was female. She exchanged a grim look with her companion, then sighed.

  “Who is Maronin’s nextkin?”

  “I am.”

  She stared at Jharan, eyes widening. “You are Maronin’s nextkin?”

  “Yes. Is there some problem?”

  The male moved toward him, suddenly eager. Instinct made Jharan step back, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. These were not enemies, he reminded himself, and forced his muscles to relax.

  The male drew up short, then recovered. “What is your name?”

  “Jharan.”

  “You are kin to Maronin?”

  His voice held an undertone of excitement. Jharan answered slowly, watching them both.

  “No. Maronin chose me as his nextkin because of our service together. We have both been in the Guard for nigh on two centuries.“

  “Can others attest that you are his nextkin?”

  “Of course. Ask any of our—my—company. Most of them were present when he named me so.”

  The official looked about to ask another question, but the female laid a hand on his arm. “Had we not best discuss this in private?”

  Her companion gave her a startled glance, then nodded. He then bowed—actually bowed—to Jharan.

  “Forgive me—we have been remiss. I am Lord Giradon, and this is Lady Surani, of the governor’s circle. Would you be so kind as to accompany us? We have matters of importance to discuss with you.”

  Jharan frowned. “Concerning Maronin?”

  Giradon hesitated an instant. “Yes.”

  Jharan almost declined. He misliked the sudden intensity of the officials, and if he could have thought of a reason for refusing, he would have done so. Maronin’s affairs were now his responsibility, however, so he left word of where he was going with one of his guardians, and gestured to Giradon and Sura
ni to lead on.

  The two officials fell in beside him, one to either side, as they walked down the slope toward what had been Governor Turon’s camp. Skyruach loomed before them, causing Jharan’s pulse to quicken with remembered dread.

  The great mass of stone that jutted up from the valley floor not far from the road and the river had been at the center of the fighting, and Jharan had been atop it when the battle had turned. He saw that the dead from there were being brought down at last; lowered with ropes, the climb being too arduous to allow their being carried.

  The officials guided Jharan southward, to a gentle slope where the governor’s headquarters stood. The camp had been partly overrun by kobalen, and guardians were still clearing away the dead. The smell of the pyres burning on the battlefield—hot smoke waxy with the flesh of the fallen—reached them even here.

  Jharan’s unease increased. What could be so urgent that it needed his immediate attention? Maronin’s closest kin dwelt in Glenhallow; perhaps one of them had sent for word of him, and Jharan must give them the sad news. But what concern could that be to these officials?

  A tall pavilion of Southfæld’s sage and silver stood in the midst of the governor’s camp. As they neared this, they left the chaos of battle behind for a different kind of activity. The camp was full of horses, new arrivals, discussion. More government folk from Glenhallow were here, and some turned to watch as Jharan and the officials passed, their expressions speculative. Among all the fair-haired Greenglens, Jharan spied one soul of darker coloring—the russet hair of Clan Stonereach—and a familiar face.

  “Felisan!”

  He waved, and the Stonereach waved back, then said something to the folk he had been with and left them to join Jharan. Greatly relieved at finding a friend amidst all this strangeness—and one of influence, for Felisan was the governor-elect of Alpinon, the realm that neighbored Southfæld to the north—Jharan smiled. He and Felisan were longtime friends; they had fought side by side the previous day, and had fully expected to die together. That they lived was due to their having been on Skyruach when the Eastfælders had arrived.

  Felisan grinned, his green eyes glinting as he joined them. “Jharan! What trouble have you gotten yourself into?”