Finding Destiny (2 page)

“In Natallia, yes, you are the heir to all that your aunt owned and held, and thus in Natallia you would inherit her ownership of me ... but we are in
Sundara
,” Eduor reminded her, returning to their shared, native tongue. “And by
Sundar an
law, any slave whose owner dies of natural causes is automatically
freed
.

“I was all the way over here, by the horses and dromids. She was all the way over there, by the baggage and bales,” he reminded her, gesturing at the two ends of the cavern. “I hold no magic nor machinery to affect her health even from up close, let alone from all the way over here. She died of what looks like a heart attack brought on by too much coughing from this damnable dust. Natural causes, on Sundaran soil.

“I am
free
.” Eduor folded his arms across his chest.
In for a copper
,
in for a gold.
“Furthermore, I only expressed an opinion, which free men
are
entitled to do. By Sundaran law, you cannot whip me for that—oh, and here’s another thing I am now
free
to say. You taste
terrible.
Like something that crawled up out of the sea and died in a sewer. Somehow, I doubt you’ve ever heard of soap, let alone know what it’s used for. And I’d rather cut off my own tongue than touch
you
ever again. Which, thank the Gods, I won’t have to do anymore.”

Rage darkened the visible half of her dusty, suntanned face. Growling, Famiel jerked her wrist free of the Knight’s loosened grasp but did not try to approach Eduor and strike. Instead, she pointed at the blanket-covered cave mouth with the quirt. “Get out!”

“Ah, milady ...” one of the Sundarans interjected.

“Get out!” Famiel repeated, ignoring him. “I may not own you anymore, but I
do
own this caravan—you want to be a free man in Sundara?” she asked sarcastically, slashing her hand and its thin crop at the cavern entrance once more. “Well,
there
is your freedom! Get out into it! You are banished immediately from this caravan.
Get out.
”

“Milady ...
all
people be welcome to shelter in sandstorm,” one of the Sundaran guards apologized in broken Natallian. “Sorry, you cannot throw out him.”

Eduor fancied he could hear Famiel grinding her teeth. He smirked and countered her next possible claim. “Nor can you strip the clothes from my back without being accused of theft. Plus you
have
to unlock this collar on my neck now that I am legally free ... and you
cannot
take my water skin from me. To deny a man water in the desert is to deny him life. As I am not a criminal
on Sundaran soil
,” he emphasized, since he knew she could try to dredge up his Mandarite background, “to do so would make
you
the criminal. And, just like in Natallia, they have ways of dealing with their criminals. I do not think you would care to be
my
slave, indentured to
me
. Not after the way you’ve treated me.”

Fuming, Famiel whirled away, stalking to the far side of the cave. She returned after a few moments with a bag and a length of cloth, and knelt over her aunt’s form, no doubt to start preparing it for burial. Safe for the moment, Eduor remained in the animal half of the cave. It was closer to the entrance and thus to the dust, not to mention the dung underfoot, but nothing would compel him to get closer to the odious woman.

The Arbran Knight watched her work for a few moments, then moved across the cavern to Eduor’s side. His Sundaran was far more fluent than his Natallian, and he used it to speak to Eduor under the cover of the sandstorm’s noise.

“You have made yourself an enemy. Or remade one. I will warn you, I do not agree with the Mandarite philosophy toward women. You owe me for stopping her long enough for you to tell her about the local laws,” Sir Zeilas reminded the younger man. “If you can feel any sense of obligation for that much, then exercise it by staying away from her and not provoking her for the rest of this storm. Save your enmity for your return to Mandare.”

His words made Eduor blink, then squint as another puff of dust swirled past the blankets stretched over the posts framing the mouth of the cave. The posts had been erected by travelers long ago for just such a need. They rattled in their holes, sounding loose and empty.
Much like I feel.

“No,” he stated, his voice low but firm. “I’m not going back. I won’t be a slave to anyone or anything. Not even to an idea.”

The Arbran’s dark brows rose, but he didn’t say anything further. Giving the younger man something between a nod and a bow, he strolled away. That left Eduor alone with his thoughts.

As soon as this storm ends, I’ll be out of the cave and out of the caravan. Not that I’ll have much, but I’m grateful I have the clothes on my back and a water skin to drink from ... for as long as it lasts.
It was hot in the cave, hot enough to make everyone thirsty. The cistern was at the back end of the cave, behind yet another blanket drape. Beyond the grimly working Famiel and her dead aunt, and the bundles of trade goods they had brought all the way from the jungle forests of Natallia.

Lifting the water skin slung over his head and shoulder, Eduor drank from the half-full skin carefully, not wanting to waste a drop.
I’ll refill it later. The same with getting my collar removed. She cannot deny me access to the water, but I don’t care to get anywhere near her right now. Once the storm ends, I’ll either have to leave the cave immediately and try to find my way across the desert on my own, or I could maybe leave and hang around the area, wait until she’s gone, then come back and stay here until the next group of travelers comes through. I doubt I’ll be able to linger. She’ll probably cite that, with the storm over, I no longer have any claim to sharing it with her and her precious caravan, and won’t want me lingering nearby in case I turn thief.

Which again leaves me with nothing but the clothes on my back and all the water I can pack into this skin . . . and no food to eat.
Somehow, Eduor didn’t think she’d share another bite with him.
So the question is, do I stay in the hope some other group of travelers will come by soon and take pity on me? Or leave in the hope I can make it all the way back to that last village we passed and look for food and shelter and . . . well ... work, I guess?

After all,
he realized,
if I’m to remain not only a free man but free of the insanities back home—on both sides of the war—I’ll have to make some other land my home. I
do
know a bit about Sundaran customs, and I can read and write. Not every Sundaran can, I know, so hopefully there’ll be some use for a scribe, or a translator, or ... anything, really
.

The one thing my father
did
get right when teaching me was his claim that a man can be anything that he sets his mind to be. And I
will
be free. Even if it means being a Sundaran. Beyond that ... I don’t know what I’ll be
. He knew he wasn’t in a position to be picky. A scribe usually provided his or her own pen, ink, and paper to ply the trade, but Eduor had nothing like that.
Just my body and my mind, and what I know of Sundaran life and ways.

TWO

Of Arbran ways, Eduor knew very little. But he was learning. Rather than letting him starve as the dust storm lingered for another full day, Sir Zeilas had shared some of his own provisions with Eduor ... after asking Famiel politely to share some of hers with him. The Knight had also insisted on escorting Eduor to the nearest village, a place which the map he carried listed as due west of their cave shelter by two days’ walk, closer than the previous one they had visited by a day and a half. And his Steed, that fabled, holy Arbran horse ... well, the Steed refused to carry Eduor, but the otherwise magnificent mottled stallion had no objections to carrying enough water to sustain the three of them for that long a distance.

Eduor’s unexpected but highly welcome traveling companion finished tilting up the water skin in his hands. Leaning down in his saddle, Sir Zeilas offered the almost-empty bag to Eduor. “More water? We’ll be filling it up soon, I’m sure.”

Eduor eyed the village they were approaching, licked his lips, and shook his head. “We’re almost there, but ... I don’t like the looks of the men milling around in front of the village gate.”

Sitting up, the Arbran Knight shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun reflecting off the ground. His odd, foreign sun hat, much broader and flatter than the rain-shedding conical ones Natallians usually wore on the northern and western coasts, sheltered him only from the sun pouring down from above. It did nothing against the pale beige glare of the sunlight gleaming off the dust powdering the ground around them.

“They have weapons, I think. You have good eyesight to spot that from this far away,” the Knight praised.

Eduor shook his head. His own face was wrapped in the dirty scarf that served as sand shield and head covering. It didn’t do as much to shade his own eyes, but it did protect his pale skin from the worst of the glare. “I couldn’t see their weapons. But I did see the
way
they were gathering. That looks like a raiding party. A loosely organized war band.”

“They have spears; they could be hunters,” the older man offered. Not that Sir Zeilas was that much older, but he was nearing thirty, half again as old as Eduor.

He shook his head again. Among the collected writings of Sundaran culture Midalla had insisted he read and learn, preparing him for his now-thwarted role as interpreter-slave, had been a packet of essays and observations on village life. “They’d have their desert hounds with them if they were hunting. The beasts are bred for swiftness and keen noses. Good for scenting prey, flushing it out, and chasing it toward their masters. Besides, there are too many of them. This bush desert holds some life, but not that much.”

Not that there had been much bush desert for the last half hour of walking. Bushes, yes, but most of them were hardy food-bearing perennials. Date palms and acacia trees outlined patches of soil, some of which showed signs of having been plowed, others of which held just enough grass to feed small herds of animals, like the cluster of goats off to their left. And everything was still dusty from the storm that had swept through the region.

Still, it was better than the half-sand desert they had trudged through for the first day. Here, the ground was solid beneath their feet, if dusty. Most of the palms close to the village were tall enough to provide dappled, cooling shade. The presence of all these plants and the village itself suggested a good supply of water was available, enough to share with a pair of strangers. At least, Eduor hoped.

The cluster of men in front of the village gate, with their spears, swords, and leather armor, looked like they were packing their horses and dromids for a journey. Women and children hung by the village gate, their clothing much more colorful than the duller, desert-hued shades of beige and brown being worn by the dark-skinned men. Among the brocaded reds and yellows, oranges, purples, and greens, a single woman stood out for two reasons. One, she was arguing fiercely with some of the men, and two, she wore an outfit dyed in shades of blue.

Blue, Eduor knew, was reserved for the
dyara
, the water-callers, and that meant whatever she was haranguing them about, it was important business. The coastal mountains to the west were very tall and rugged. Either they diverted the winds bringing moisture from the sea, forcing them northwest into Arbra along the Bay of Winds, or they wrung most of the water out of the clouds sweeping successfully westward over the peaks. What did make it over those peaks was not enough moisture to keep this land green and growing all year long.

It was said the first gift of the Goddess Sundra to Her people was an ability to call just enough water to feed Her people. Like magic, the ability was somewhat rare, and like magic, some
dyara
were stronger than others. Unlike a mage, all a water-caller
could
do was manipulate water, summoning or banishing, boiling or freezing, shaping and purifying, but their abilities were vital for survival in this sunbaked land. Serving as priests and priestesses, as village elders— regardless of age—the
dyara
were a part of what made life possible in the desert.

As the two foreigners drew near enough to hear, the
dyara
stamped her foot and shouted, “
Fine!
See if we starve because you will not plow your fields. See if we
die
because we are undermanned when someone else thinks to attack us!”

One of the men already mounted on a horse swept his arm out. “Every other tribe within five days of here is at peace with the Suds!
You
worry like an old woman, Chanson!”

The
dyara
’s eyes widened and mouth dropped open in affront. Eduor could see the curve of her white teeth in her dark face and the whites of her eyes. Both he and Sir Zeilas stopped, not wanting to come close enough to be drawn into this particular confrontation.