Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (29 page)

“You go right ahead but count me out. My life is complicated enough without a relationship,” Rankil swiped at her tunic as she looked down the slope at the closest guard tower. “You through gorging or are we going to waste the entire afternoon in this patch?”

“I’m through.” The Autlach drew his hand across his mouth then, pointing at the tower, came to stand beside her. “So many towers, the scene it sours.”

“There are eighty-seven last I heard, plus another forty or so portable stands that rotate about. Even the fields are guarded when they’re being tended.” Rankil shook her head. “It’s a sorry day when the fields are no longer safe.” She peered up the slopes. “You know what I really want to do today?”

“Dine on the cake Abbye said she’d make?”

“No, that’d be you. Let me show you what I’m wanting.” They trekked to the top of the slope and there, Rankil pulled her cousin down on the grass. Archell knew her requirement and soon they were laying head to head, each resting on the other’s shoulder, watching the cumulus clouds float by.

“Rankil dankle?” He patted her head. “Did you hear them say that Taelachs come from far away?”

“That we come from the stars? Yes. And considering my discovery winter before last, it’s possible.” Rankil returned his pat, feeling the tight braid he now kept his hair in.

“Did Harlis like what you dared share?”

“I’d say. Never heard so many hallelujahs before,” she replied, chuckling. “Such finds seem to be a cause for celebration and work. They dug around the thing until they could move it. It took forty, count them, Archie, forty nassie teams to pull it from the ground.”

“That is a lot, Rankil dankle. Have you seen it since?” Archell rolled a grass stem between his fingertips.

“Yes, the technicians,” Rankil still stumbled through the lesser-used Taelach words in her vocabulary, “they had me show them everything I knew. Then they shoved me out the main hatch and haven’t let me near since.”

“And the weapons to which you were drawn?” he prompted, drawing the grass between his thumbs. He held the wedged stem to his mouth and blew out, vibrating the blade until it whistled.

“The weapons smiths are trying to duplicate them.” Rankil’s attempt at copying his whistle left her hand wet and the grass sticking to her upper lip. “Darn it.” She pulled the stem from her mouth. “Why can’t I do that?”

“You’re no musician.” He whistled again, proving his point. “Plus you spit when you should hum.”

Rankil tried again with a fresh blade, and again, she coated it in saliva. “Ah, well,” she laughed, slapping the soggy grass from her palm. “I’ve no musician’s delicacy, and you’ve no mind for war. I guess that makes us even.”

“I think I’ve the better,” he said with a stretch. “You’ve seen too much fighting in too much bad weather. It can’t be good for my Rankil dankle.”

“On the contrary,” Rankil sat up. “Battle practice has proven most therapeutic. Lets me play out my aggressions in a constructive manner.”

“And does battle for real still hold its appeal?” He pointed to her bandaged forearm.

“Garrziko taught me to separate my battlefield actions and my childhood from all else in my life, review them in my meditations, considering each action, its outcome and my emotions when it was occurring.”

“Garrziko has taught you much, but she failed to teach you to duck.” He again indicated her arm.

“A lucky shot from a man who didn’t know he was dead.” She flexed and twisted the arm to show him there was no actual damage. “I heal quick these days. Meditations seem to help that, too.”

“They are kind to the mind. But how long is your healing time?”

“Tired of me already?” Rankil teased her cousin. “I get another three or four days. Maybe five if the infirmary is backed up again.”

“Then?” asked the Autlach, raising his brows at her shrug.

“Then I go where all good soldiers go, wherever I’m needed.”

“That simply?”

“That easily.”

“No questions?”

“A Powder Barrier trooper does not question her post.”

“Oh.” Archell scratched his head. “You are right, Rankil dankle. I have no mind for such grind.”

“And I’m glad of it.” Rankil began descending the slope. “Come on, Archell. Abbye did say something about a sweet cake, didn’t she?”

Archell trotted to her side. “A massive sweet cake is yours for the take.”

“With a home-cooked meal to match?”

“Food and friends until the day ends.”

Rankil picked up her strides. “Can’t be late for that. Race?”

Archell buzzed past her. “At your pace you’ll have to chase!”

“Cheat!” But Rankil held back, letting him win this one. The competition wasn’t important, the companionship was something her heart, her forlorn heart needed.

***

Morning muster found Rankil quite refreshed, having spent a relaxing afternoon and evening in the celebratory company of friends, the night in restful sleep, the dawn in meditation. She heard her assignment, then, musket in hand, rapier at her hip, crossbow and quiver strapped to her back, she set out for one of the lower pastures. Tower duty in the fields was easy, reserved for those recovering from minor injuries. Her stand was already in place so she shimmied up and was in position when the harvesters emerged from the trees surrounding the field.

The harvesters, mostly gentlewomen, a few with infants strapping their backs, came from several different clans which relied on Tekkroon support. They all greeted Rankil with waves. Tekkroon guards, with their expertise, always made one feel safe and Powder Barrier troopers, with their loud, metal throwing weapons, doubled the sense of security. Rankil maintained the reassuring presence expected of her, hovering over the workers’ heads, their only protection should Longpass’s ranks break the borders.

Genevic, who’d also suffered a mild injury, relieved her at noon. They exchanged brief pleasantries at the tower’s base then Rankil made her way back to the Gretchencliff Colony for the midday meal and an infirmary appointment. Healer Augustus proclaimed her wound almost healed and scheduled her stitches to be removed two days later. This suited Rankil and, after she returned to the barracks, she was lounging on her bunk, taunting the newest junior when Genevic returned from her post.

“Seems you have another admirer.” She threw a folded scrap of writing hide onto Rankil’s chest. “Pretty girl, but very shy, almost as if she was scared to talk to me.”

Rankil glanced down at the scrap. “Another one? That’s the third in as many days.”

“They love us Barrier types.” Genevic draped her cloak over the bedstead then hopped onto the top rack, shaking Rankil’s bed with her landing thud. “We’re irresistible in uniform.”

“You maybe. I just wish they’d leave me alone.”

Genevic’s skinny face popped into her view, its grin upside down. “You’re an odd sort, Rankil, but I like you anyway.” She retreated then reappeared, Genevic’s braids catching on her great nose as she spoke. “Say, what do you single types do on quiet evenings like this? Isabella has been assigned to do health education and vaccinations in the refugee clans so I’m alone the next few nights.”

“You two ever going to make a home?”

“When we’re ready. Probably by summer’s end.” Genevic, stifling the sneeze her braids had tickled out, reached down, all but sliding from her bunk as she grabbed the folded scrap from Rankil’s chest. “Isabella wants you to her room for dinner, with a date. How about this girl?”

“Give me that.” Rankil snatched the note from her bunkmate’s palm. “It’s for me.”

“Then read it already!”

Rankil did so, then, with a quiet smile, shoved the note under her pillow.

“Well?” queried Genevic, her upside down face grinning.

“Well, nothing.” But Rankil’s contented expression suggested otherwise.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Does she at least spark your interest?”

“Possibly.”

“I hate it when you’re cryptic.”

“I know.” Rankil crossed her arms behind her head and closed her eyes. Genevic, knowing she’d never coax the information from her quiet comrade, dropped to her feet, grabbed her cloak and left.

“Odd sort, likeable, but odd.” She called back as the door creaked shut. “Odd and quiet.”

As soon as she was gone, Rankil reached under her pillow, pulled out the note, and read it again, tracing the words as she read.

“Myrla,” she whispered, filled by the temptation to crow the proud news. “She’s turning eighteen!”

***

Rankil received permission to skip morning muster, and after some quick trading with the duty commander, was able to duplicate her previous day’s post, reaching the field just after dawn. She had taken a scrubbing bath the night before, and, though Genevic was no barber, her bunkmate had trimmed her hair. She was the picture of broadback availability, her leathers cleaned, her cloak pressed smooth between her bedroll and bunk platform. Breakfast had been out of the question—her stomach had been too knotted.

The harvesters straggled to the field in groups of three to five behind the small cart that would carry their endeavors back to their clans. Having no fields of their own, they brought in crops on contract, every basket of white root they took paid for with two for the Tekkroon’s huge stores. Rankil acted as the Tekkroon representative in this regard, counting the baskets placed in the carts under her stand, assuring everyone did as agreed.

Three basket-wielding gentlewomen caught Rankil’s attention early on. None wore the smaller clans’ customary headscarves of paired gentlewomen, and they were all about Myrla’s build but when none of these proved to be Rankil’s true beloved, she became frustrated and disappointed as noon drew near. She was scanning the tree line as her duty required when a pair of gentlewomen donning the scarves came to their cart to sharpen their hoes. The first scraped her hoe to a gleaming point then passed off the hone and returned to work. The second worked slower, cleaning her hoe before honing it, humming off-key as she worked. It wasn’t the discord that caught Rankil’s attention, it was the tune. It was one of Archell’s!

“My?” Rankil glanced down between the slats in her stand.

“Rankil!” Myrla wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them, but she dared not. “I thought I saw you yesterday, but I couldn’t be sure. Your replacement said she knew you and promised to give you a message. I’m glad you received it.”

“You’re wearing a headscarf.”

“I’m promised.”

Rankil’s heart sank. “Then why approach me?”

“I’m being forced to take a partner.”

“Can’t you talk to whoever took over your raising?”

“Recca is my raiser.”

The name still angered Rankil. She paused, separating the emotion from her now before she continued. “Baby Hestra?”

“Well. Given to a family that had lost a baby to influenza.”

“Oh.” Rankil glanced about. No one had noticed their conversation. “Who is she?”

“Huh?” Myrla had stopped honing.

“Who’re you promised to?”

“Leonor.”

“Jewel’s old beau?”

“Leonor requested me shortly after Recca brought me back. Her way of finally defeating Kaelan, I suppose. She lost her gentlewoman during the crossing and wants me as a replacement. I’ve run twice, but Leonor caught me both times. Now Recca promises to kill you if I do, and Leonor keeps such a close eye on me when we’re together—”

“So there’s no love between you two?”

“Possessiveness on Leonor’s part but no love. I’m only wearing the scarf because Recca keeps me cavern-bound if I don’t. I could never love anyone but you.” Myrla peered up between the stand’s slats to see Rankil’s sparkling blue eyes peer back.

“And I you. Does Recca have a fire scheduled tonight?”

“Every evening, weather permitting.” Myrla looked away as they were no longer alone. The elder broadback who approached held up three stacked baskets, placing one in her clan’s cart and two in the Tekkroon wagon. Rankil nodded confirmation and the broadback shuffled off again with three empty baskets on her shoulder.

“I’ll be there,” whispered Rankil as soon as it was safe.

“At the fire? You’re an outsider. You won’t be allowed.”

“I am Powder Barrier,” boasted Rankil while twirling her musket. “I have unlimited access to all Tekkroon holdings, and the Serpents are technically on Tekkroon lands.”

“You won’t be safe.” Myrla pretended to retie her sandal lacings. “Recca won’t allow your name to be spoken. She calls you a misplaced abomination.”

“How else am I to challenge Leonor for your hand?”

“Don’t. Leonor is a seasoned warrior.”

“As am I.”

“As you are what?” Genevic appeared under the stand. “Hello, again.” She smiled at Myrla. “I promised you I’d deliver the message.”

Rankil jumped from her perch, landing beside Myrla. “Genevic, meet Myrla.”

“
The
Myrla?” exclaimed Genevic in delighted surprise. “You’re right, Rankil, she is a beauty.” Then she frowned. “But promised by the headscarf she wears today. Illicit liaisons are not advisable, my friends, especially one involving a Serpent’s woman. They kill for such things.”