Children of Earth and Sky (37 page)

A little later the sanctuary door opened and the others came out. The cleric was speaking his thanks, offering further prayers. Someone had been generous.

They went through the gate and started towards the village. Danica fell in beside Skandir, Marin did the same on the big man's other side.

After a few long strides, Skandir stopped, so they all did. He looked at Danica and then at Marin Djivo. He was, she saw, amused.

“You are protecting me?” he asked the merchant.

“Just walking,” Marin said.

Skandir laughed. “Both of you? Just walking?” He shook his head. “I am touched. I also saw the missing bow and quiver back at the ambush, and he'll have claimed a horse, after all. But he won't be here.”

“You know this?” Marin said.

Danica was feeling rueful. Of course Rasca Tripon would have also noticed what she—and Marin, evidently—had seen.

“He didn't know I'd come this way, had no reason to imagine I would go east, and he needs to get back to his army. He'll be headed north by now, probably ride all night. He is not here looking to kill me with an arrow in the dark.” He turned to Danica. “You agree?”

It was difficult to talk. She hadn't done so, she realized, since Neven walked away. She just nodded.

Skandir stared down at her from his great height. He sighed. “I expect my fighters to answer when addressed. Do so.”

She looked back at him in the twilight. “Yes, Ban Rasca.”

“I am not that. Call me Captain, or Skandir.”

“Yes, Captain,” she said. “He won't be here to kill you in the dark.”

“But you came out to defend me against it? You don't know him very well, do you?”

That was hard, she thought. He would be hard, though. She bit her lip. “I don't, no. I came out to have a look. But I share your feeling, Captain.”

“Good.” He turned to Marin. “I don't believe I have ever had a Dubravae looking to defend me. It is an odd feeling. Not a bad one,
mind you. Will you allow me to write your father later and commend your actions today?”

“How would I stop you?”

“By requesting as much,” the old man said, impatiently. “Why else would I ask?” He shook his head again. “I hope they have something to drink here. There is no tavern, but Jelena sometimes has wine she's made or someone has given her. Come!”

Jelena, it turned out, was the healer.

—

THE BADLY WOUNDED
MAN
might possibly be saved if the goddess was kind, but he'd have to stay here for some time and she couldn't allow that. Not with Rasca's other two wounded men reporting, proudly, fifty Osmanli soldiers dead along the road, including djannis.

Fifty! Djannis? It was hard to believe. It was certain the provincial governor would send men to investigate, and a sword-wounded stranger among them could destroy the village.

Unhappily, but not doubting herself, Jelena poisoned him with the first healing cup. Best do it immediately since it needed to be done. It would take him some time to go to the god (his god, not hers). Late tonight, most likely, and it would be peaceful. Had she been permitted to, she'd have tried to save him.

The other two she could heal, one easily (cleaning and dressing a leg wound). The third man would have been better staying with her a few days, but she'd pack his shoulder where the sword had slashed, and wrap it, and send him away in the morning with Rasca, carrying herbs and instructions. He might live, but he couldn't stay.

They lived a precarious existence here, and word of the presence of someone like Skandir, if only for a night, could not reach the Osmanlis. He would know that. He'd concealed himself under a hat, approaching from the sanctuary, and he had only a few men. Very bad losses for him, clearly. He'd be suffering, Jelena knew.

She had wine, handed him a cup after they greeted each other. They had been lovers long ago when he was first here. Those days were past. She told him (truthfully) that the gravely injured man was likely to die.

There were merchants with him, headed east. She sent her daughter to arrange with the elders for housing them all for a night. The village could use the money, or whatever the merchants bartered. Rasca denied being injured (she looked closely, decided it was true). He said he had a woman with him, joining his company, an archer. He asked if she could stay with Jelena tonight. She was curious, said yes.

He called the woman in and named her. Jelena looked at this one—and fear stabbed, like a needle or a blade. This happened to her sometimes. It was a part of what she was.

“Is there a spirit with you?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

There were only the three of them here. The wounded were in the other room.

“There was,” the woman said, after a moment.

She removed a stained, broad-brimmed leather hat. Held it in one hand. She was very young, Jelena saw. She looked weary, and grieving. “There isn't any more,” the woman added.

Jelena took a breath, then said, briskly, “We will have rabbit stew when my daughter returns. Then you will look in on the wounded men with me. And then you must go to the sanctuary.”

“I was just there,” the woman said.

“I know. But the cleric was inside, doing what he does. You'll go with me when he's gone.”

“You can trust her,” Rasca said to the young woman.

“She already knows,” Jelena said. “You go now. You know where the main guest house is. They will feed you. Do you want something to help you sleep?”

He hesitated, which was unusual. “No,” he said, which was usual.
She gave him the wine flask. He went out, ducking his head at the doorway.

Jelena looked at the young woman in her home, a spirit's presence hovering about her. It was fading, though, she could see that now.

“Who was it?” she asked.

This one hesitated, too, and why should she not? Then she shrugged. “My grandfather. He died a year ago.”

“And was still with you?”

A stiff nod. “Until today. He's gone. So is my brother.”

“He died?”

“No. No. Skandir let him go. For my sake. Back to the Asharites. He's a djanni.”

Jelena looked at her. “The sanctuary,” she said crisply. “After you eat and after we look at the wounded. There is more to the world than we understand.”

“But I know that,” the other woman said.

—

THE HEA
LER HAD LONG WHITE H
AIR.
She wore it unbound. It was hard to tell the colour of her eyes in the firelight. She was thin, as if pared down, whittled away. She had very long fingers. Her daughter was Danica's age, small, quick, quiet. They both wore belted brown robes with woollen surcoats over them.

And this woman had somehow been aware of Danica's grandfather. His spirit, ghost, presence, whatever it was. That ought to have been frightening, but she didn't feel afraid. Danica wondered if it was exhaustion or sorrow that was making her so calm.

They ate after the daughter came back from helping the raiders and merchants find beds for the night. Rabbit stew, as promised. Danica chewed and swallowed without tasting her food. You always ate when there was food, you never knew when there might not be. Her grandfather had taught her that.

They didn't speak. The daughter got up once and added a log to
the fire after removing the cooking pot. The flames shifted, rose. Danica looked at them. They could hear the wind. No rain.

“Come,” the healer named Jelena said when Danica had finished her second bowl of stew. They went through an adjoining door to a larger room. Skandir's wounded men were here, with another raider watching over them. This one stood and went out when the women entered. He bowed his head to Jelena as he did.

One of the men was asleep, the one with the bad wound. The other two were sitting up. They had already been treated, Danica saw—while they were in the sanctuary, it must have been. Jelena went to these two in turn. She looked at their eyes first, setting a lantern down beside each. She held two fingers to their necks, oddly.
But why is it odd?
Danica chided herself.
Why would I know anything about what she does?

The healer examined the bandages she'd fashioned for them. She said something to her daughter, who went to a heavy table and began grinding herbs with a pestle and bowl. She worked neatly, quickly. Her movements seemed birdlike.

Danica looked at the man who was asleep. His breathing was shallow.

“That one will die,” the healer said quietly. “He is beyond me.”

“We killed all of them,” one of the other men said proudly. “All the Asharites but one.”

“We let that one go,” said the third man. “Running home like a frightened child. To say what we did.”

Jelena looked at Danica but said nothing. The daughter finished what she was doing and brought over two cups. Each of Skandir's men drank.

“Thank you,” one of them said.

“Sleep now,” Jelena said. “You,” she pointed to one of them, “ought to be fine. You”—to the other—“will need to be careful how you move for a few days, and have your shoulder cleaned and
repacked every evening with what I'll give to you. Does anyone left among you know how to do that?”

“I do,” said the other man. “I'll do it.”

Jelena nodded. “I'll look in on you tonight. Come,” she said to Danica. She carried her lantern back through the door to the first room and then out into the night. Her daughter remained behind.

There were stars and the blue moon had risen. Clouds moved in the wind. It was cold. Tico detached himself from shadow by the house and came over. He brushed against Danica's side again. He always did that. She spoke his name.
He is still with me
, she thought. Same thought as before—and it still felt weak. She wondered if she might allow herself one night of that.

The path through the village was empty, they seemed to be the only ones abroad. The wind was behind them, whipping across the fields. Houses showed firelight in windows. It was spring, but it didn't feel that way just now.

He'd be north and east in this same dark and cold. She wondered if he'd found a good horse. How he'd explain getting back, if he did get back. If they'd execute him as a coward, or just in fury. She wondered if serdars in the Osmanli army did that, or leaders of lesser rank, wanting to show forcefulness. He'd looked like their father. Already.

She had wept earlier today. It wasn't going to happen again.

They came to the sanctuary gate, Jelena carrying her lantern, and went through, came to the low door and entered.

Jelena set the lantern down on the floor, not far from the door.

“We are not here for Jad's disk,” she said. “You did that before.”

“Why, then?”

Danica cleared her throat, her voice sounded thin. The place was gathered in gloom, she could barely see the disk up ahead, behind the altar. A brittle sound underfoot made her startle.

“Mosaic tesserae,” the healer said. “They are falling all the time. They can cut if they hit you.”

“Does that happen?”

“Not often.” The healer looked around. “Sometimes animals get in. There have been wolves in winter.”

“Shall I call Tico?”

“No. We will be quiet and listen.”

“For what? Stones?”

Jelena shook her head, the lantern light catching her white hair. She held a finger to her lips. Danica shrugged. It wasn't as if she had a great deal she wanted to say. There was nothing to hear but the wind outside. It was peaceful enough, though cold.

Zadek?
she thought, fruitlessly. But she knew he was gone, and fairly certain she knew how, and why. She'd kept Neven's arrow.

Tomorrow everything would begin to be different yet again. She'd ride south with Skandir into a life of war. She'd wanted that, hadn't she? From the time they'd fled Antunic for Senjan. Vengeance
could
be a reason to live, she thought. In fact, it could even be the only—

She heard singing.

No one else had come in, she was sure of it.

A woman's voice. Wordless, as if a prelude to a song.

It came from their left, towards the empty chapels along the wall to that side. There was nothing to see. No one there. She turned to Jelena, who lifted a finger to her lips again. Danica looked up for some reason. Nothing to be made out on the dome, not in this darkness, whatever might be there, crafted long ago, its stone and glass falling through space and years.

Jelena raised a hand, palm out, and then turned it inward, bringing it towards herself, as if welcoming or summoning. Danica was never, after, able to decide which it had been. But the wordless singing became words in the sanctuary dark.

Shall the maiden never walk the bright fields again,

Hair yellow as midsummer grain?

The horns of the god can hold the blue moon.

When the Huntress shoots him he dies.

How can we, the children of time,

Live if these two must die?

How can we, the children of loss,

Hold on to what we leave behind?

When the sun is in darkness under the world

The children of light will cry.

When fear is the master lives are undone.

Time is an answer to sorrow.

Darkness gives way to morning's sunrise,

Winter ends, there are flowers, birds fly.

Honour the goddess, remember the gods.

We are children of earth and sky.

And it seemed she was crying again, after all. The voice ended, the last words floating up, fading like smoke might, towards the dome and the darkness there.

There is more to the world than we understand
,
the healer had said earlier and, carelessly, Danica had replied,
I know that
.