Sands (Sharani Series Book 1) (19 page)

“Murder?”

“The blue lips. It’s a sign of the cawlhasi flower’s unique poison. The flower is extremely hard to find and even harder to distill down into a poison. Very few people have that sort of knowledge or the ability to get it. In fact, it only grows on the cliffs of the Frierd Warren. But come on, let’s walk as we talk. It will be dawn soon.”

Lhaurel hurried after Khari, her mind chasing down the implications of what Khari had just said. “So you’re saying that Taren is somehow involved with the Frierd?”

“Maybe,” Khari said over her shoulder, “but I don’t think so. This is something different. Power duels are constant. Warlords change often. But Taren is different. He seems too cold, too calculating. And too hungry. I don’t think that he’s going to be satisfied with where he is for very long, though I’ll be a sand-blasted fool if I can figure out what else he’s up to.”

Lhaurel shuddered as memories of Taren’s eyes on their wedding day swam through her mind. Cold, calculating, and hungry were perfect descriptions.

“Marvi is helping him,” Lhaurel said.

“Yes, I know,” Khari replied absently.

They approached the narrow canyon that would lead them out of the Oasis. Much of the majesty of the area had faded, pushed out of Lhaurel’s mind by the night’s events, but the oppressive wrongness of the walls returned in full force as they neared the dark opening. She sensed a deep and profound darkness radiating from the stone, as if her presence tore at the very fabric of its reality. Lhaurel shuddered.

“Well, if it isn’t the two Roterralar women.” The voice was cold, harsh. Lhaurel recognized it with a grimace. The presence from the walls obscured her senses, including her magic, but she did sense someone near, or maybe . . .

A torch flared up, revealing the scowling face of Shelton. This time, though, he was not alone. Two other men stood with him, large muscular men with corded muscles that bulged under their tight jerkins and faces set in what appeared to be permanent frowns, arms folded across their chests. Cudgels of a light brown wood hung at their belts and they didn’t carry a spear. Not swords, cudgels. These were not guards.

“Where’s Honric?” Khari asked. She halted at the edge of the torchlight, falling into a seemingly nonchalant stance, though Lhaurel recognized the sudden tension in her posture.

The man chuckled. “He decided to take a little nap. He’s old, you know, and I don’t think we should wake him up. Do you?”

The other two men with him sniffed as if they found their companion tedious, but they said nothing.

Khari frowned and stroked her chin. “No, we wouldn’t want to wake him.”

Lhaurel pushed out, extending her consciousness to try and find Honric. The strange sensation from the walls resisted, like a film of oil over water, but somehow she shoved through it, stumbling across Honric’s presence somewhere within the canyon. She was surprised that she could so easily pick him out, but then the surprise gave way to disgust and fear.

Honric’s presence was weak and fleeting. She could sense it struggling against something that was slowly enveloping it in blackness. The blackness seemed to draw her in, pulling her deeper and deeper. Breath came in quick gasps. The darkness closed in, strangling her.

Honric’s presence faded away.

Lhaurel coughed and dropped to her knees, sucking in air in massive gulps and clutching at her chest. It burned as if on fire, and her head felt fuzzy, almost like it had when she’d slammed into Fahkiri’s pommel. Her back arched, and she screamed, a low, desperate, pain-stricken scream.

The men stared at her as if she’d suddenly gone insane. Even Khari took a hesitant step back, face twisted in an expression of surprise.

Lhaurel struggled to stand, gasping for air, and tense muscles screamed in protest and fought to bend, to tighten. Her mind worked furiously, struggling to comprehend what it had just experienced. Honric had just died. She had
felt
him die. She had died with him.

“You killed him,” Lhaurel said. Her voice sounded hollow, emotionless. She took a step forward.

“What are you talking about?” Shelton said.

The wind kicked up dust around her and made the torchlight flicker.

Coughing raggedly, she stood upright, the memory of Saralhn’s dignified expression giving her strength.

“You killed him,” Lhaurel repeated, drawing her sword. The wind whipped her robes up around her, obscuring her vision in a haze of red.

One of the larger men ripped the cudgel free from his belt, raising it threateningly before him. His companion drew his cudgel as well and advanced. Shelton remained where he was.

Lhaurel breathed in, filling her lungs with air and reaching out with her mind. She felt the men approach. Sensed them on such an intimate level that she felt their movements before they made them. Her eyes closed.

The first man swung in hard, crossing downward toward her left shoulder a beat ahead of his companion’s blow toward her right. Reversing her grip, Lhaurel brought her sword up, slipping in and under the cudgel’s swing and digging into the flesh of the man’s armpit. The sword continued upward as Lhaurel took a quick step backward and she pivoted around to parry the other man’s blow. Wood struck metal and stuck fast. A twist of the blade tore the cudgel from the man’s grip. It went spinning into the sand, torn free from the sword blade.

Lhaurel didn’t stop. She flipped the sword behind her, spinning, and thrust it with all her strength. The blade took the man on her right through the belly. He gasped as hot, red blood poured from his gut. He stumbled backward, sliding off Lhaurel’s sword.

Lhaurel’s eyes snapped open. The wind died. She felt the man’s pain. She felt his presence begin to fade, and his lifeblood poured into the sand. She felt him dying. Bile rose up in her throat and suddenly she was vomiting uncontrollably. Vomit mingled with blood in the sands.

The other man, the one she’d cut under the arm, stumbled away into the darkness, shouting incoherently. Shelton took one look at Lhaurel and the dying man and followed.

Khari hurried over to Lhaurel’s side. “What in the seven hells?” she yelled.

Lhaurel coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Behind Khari, the man’s presence faded and was gone.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Khari said, tugging at her arm. “Help me find Honric so that we can figure out some excuse for all this.”

“Honric’s dead.”

“How do you know?” Khari demanded.

Lhaurel coughed and spat bile, staring at the sword in her hand as if she’d never seen it before. Why had she wasted so much of her life longing to possess one? It was an instrument of destruction. A tool of death. She slipped it into its sheath even though it was still covered in gore.

“I felt him die. They killed him. Beat him over the head with one of those cudgels.” She said it simply, but her voice still trembled.

“What in the seven hells are you?” Khari asked. Her hand on Lhaurel’s shoulder shook.

“Sick,” Lhaurel said. “I’m sick.”

Khari stood, composing herself and returning to her normal scowling visage. She grabbed Lhaurel’s shoulder and pulled her to her feet, giving her a shove toward the exit.

Lhaurel didn’t need much more encouragement. She wanted to be far away from this place. Far from the blackness of death. But Khari’s words haunted her. What was she?

As she stumbled through the narrow canyon, the sticky wetness on her hands reminded her. She was a bringer of death.

Khari was the first to stumble across Honric’s body. She cursed as she tripped but caught herself against the wall. Small fingers of light stretched red and purple rays across the deep blackness of the sky, which made the specter of Honric’s body all the more grisly. Lhaurel took one look and heaved again, but there was nothing left to come up. Even Khari’s face paled as she bent down over the man’s stiff form. One side of his face was a broken mass of bruise and blood, caved inward beneath the force of the blow that had killed him. One of his arms was bent back over itself.

“He fought back,” Khari said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “He faced them down. How did you know, Lhaurel?”

Lhaurel heaved again, spitting bile and phlegm. Coughing, she righted herself and looked down at Honric’s still form. Part of her guilt dropped away.

“I told you,” she said. “I felt him die. I felt his pain. Why, Khari? Why would they kill him?”

Khari scowled and looked back the direction they had come. Her gaze was contorted in an expression of murderous anger, and her hands rested on the hilt of her sword.

“Because they wanted us, and they knew that Honric would stand in their way.”

“What would they want with us?”

“What does any man want with a woman?” Khari nearly shouted, whirling around to stare at Lhaurel with narrowed eyes. “Rape us, kill us, take our swords. Who would miss a couple of mystic women? Who would come to defend us?”

Lhaurel swallowed hard. She gazed down at Honric, wishing that she could have done something more for the man. At least she had been able to avenge him partially. Somehow, the thought didn’t comfort her.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“We leave. Enough rumors about our meeting will be left behind that we may not be able to come back. Then again, they may be so frightened of us that we’ll never have problems like this again.” Khari glanced over her shoulder once more, as if convincing herself not to go back.

They buried Honric in a shallow grave just outside the canyon. There was no marker. The sands would have covered anything they left behind anyway.

The sun had broken over the horizon, though part of it still remained hidden behind the Oasis walls.

Lhaurel felt somehow less after he was buried. She had only known the man for a short time, but he had died defending them. He may not have known it at the time, but he had. As she mounted Fahkiri, she couldn’t help but wonder if Honric would still have been alive if she hadn’t thrown that rock.

Briane still has not returned. I searched, but there was no indication of why she’d left or where she’d gone. I cannot begin to comprehend why she would have left on the eve of our great victory. The clans were delighted that we had been successful, and Briane’s disappearance was given cursory investigation. I fear something may have happened to her.

-From the Journals of Elyana

Lhaurel could feel Fahkiri shifting beneath her, preparing for his descent, and she adjusted her weight and position accordingly. His presence was weak, though, even astride him. Not weak like Honric had been, but weak because her ability to sense it had diminished. She couldn’t even feel Khari or Gwyanth from a few spans away.

Fahkiri turned into the dive, aiming toward the shadowy opening in the cliff face that led into the eyrie. Atop the plateau, Lhaurel could just make out a rough grouping of tents nestled near an outcropping of rock toward the center of the plateau. Kaiden’s area.

Fahkiri pulled out of the dive with a deafening screech. Prepared, Lhaurel shifted with the sudden change in momentum, pushed back against the incredible forces pulling her downward, and sat up straight when the aevian landed with a proud, triumphant chirp.

Gwyanth landed nearby, and a group of younger aevians skittered out of the way, squawking indignantly.

The only person in the eyrie was Kaiden. He sat to one side of the water urns, back up against the wall. He was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and a brown vest, both trimmed with a silver metal. His leggings were also black. The one splash of color on his was a white sash, almost a
shufari
, that he wore at his waist. He grinned at her when he noticed that she was looking.

Lhaurel groaned quietly as she unclipped herself from Fahkiri’s back and slid to the ground, pulling off her harness almost as soon as her feet hit the sandy floor. She was in no mood to deal with the intractable man.

“I need to go speak with Makin and the others,” Khari said, tossing Lhaurel her own harness. “Go get some rest. You could use it.”

Lhaurel shrugged.

“Oh, and Lhaurel?”

Lhaurel turned.

“You may want to wash up. You’ve still got blood everywhere.”

Lhaurel looked down as Khari hurried from the room. Brownish black stains covered her hands and parts of her arms. She smelled of blood and sweat and aevian mustiness. An overwhelming desire to be clean came over her, and she hurried over to the water urns, leaving the harnesses in a pile on the ground. She poured ladles of water over her hands and scrubbed at the blood until nothing remained. But she kept washing, let the cool water drip down her arms and over her flesh, washing away the blood and the sweat and the guilt. Or at least masking it. The smell remained, though, forever burned into her nostrils. She put the dipper to her lips and swallowed, feeling vigor and strength return.

“Looks like your first return to the motherland was interesting,” Kaiden said from beside her. She hadn’t noticed him get up and walk over.

“What do you want, Kaiden?”

“A little moody today, are you? It was a simple observation.” He spoke with a hurt voice. She knew it was fake from the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

The smile reminded her of Honric, and her emotions flared. “Go away. Leave me in peace.” She turned to walk away.

“But I want to know what’s happening in the Oasis,” he said, holding out a hand to block her path. “And I’m sure there’s a good reason why you showed up just now covered in someone else’s blood.”

“Go ask Khari.”

“I’m asking you.”

Lhaurel blew out a long breath and ran a hand through her tangled auburn hair. “And if I tell you will you go away and leave me alone?”

Kaiden smiled. “Possibly.”

“Fine. Taren is the Warlord of the Sidena now. He poisoned the old one with something from the cawlhasi flower, Khari said, which is somehow significant.”

“Because it’s only found near the Frierd Warren,” Kaiden interrupted.

“Yes, something like that. Now shut up and let me finish. Jenthro is dead, Taren is Warlord, I scared a bunch of people, and Khari has a new contact to send her messages. End of story. Now go away.” She made a shooing gesture with her hands.

Kaiden frowned, brows furrowed, and scratched at his chin. “And where did the blood come in?”

“You know, I’m tired, and I want to get some sleep. Just go talk to Khari, ok?” She didn’t want to relive what she had done. She couldn’t see Honric’s face one more time without bursting into tears. The guilt was too strong, the wounds too fresh.

“Come with me,” Kaiden said, holding out a rough hand. “I want to show you something.”

Lhaurel groaned loudly and shook her head. “Are you not listening? Leave. Me. Alone.”

“Just come with me already,” Kaiden said. “I’ll just keep asking until you come, so you might as well give up.”

“Fine, but only to get you to shut up.”

Kaiden grinned and took her hand.

*              *              *

The forge lay dormant when Khari opened the door to the blacksmiths’ workroom and stepped inside. The room was still sweltering hot, though the coals had been banked and covered in ash and sand to keep them warm for later use. A pair of lanterns on one of the counters were the only source of light.

Early risers within the warren were just now going about their labors for the day. Beryl, though, preferred the solitude of the night. The thick stone walls and heavy wooden door prevented the sound of his work from penetrating too deeply into the passages, so his odd work schedule rarely presented difficulties to anyone else.

“How can I help the Matron today?” Beryl’s voice said from right beside her.

Khari would have jumped, but long years of training kept her still and poised.

She hadn’t noticed the smith standing there when she’d entered, but that wasn’t unusual. Beryl was so quiet and unassuming in demeanor on the outside that he was often overlooked. And that often proved to be to their great undoing. For beneath the misshapen exterior lay a mind and a passion unparalleled within any of the clans.

Khari had known the man since childhood. She had thought him old then, though he hadn’t seemed to age in the intervening decades. It was one of the benefits of being a mystic, though none of the others had ever reached quite the same age that Beryl had obtained.

“It’s about Lhaurel,” she said, turning to face him.

The short man leaned against his crippled leg, resting against the wall. He lay obscured in shadows and the long leads from the dozens of harnesses that hung from the wall and ceiling around him.

Something gleamed at his side. As he shuffled forward, the glittering object resolved into a sword, unsheathed, yet complete and polished. Metal clinked together as the harness leads struck each other as a result of Beryl’s passing.

He looked up at her with a hint of smugness. “Have you finally come to believe what I said earlier?” The rasp in his voice was even more pronounced, deep, and grating.

Khari nodded, studying the sword in his hand. Beryl’s work was normally masterful, but the sword he carried went beyond mere mastery. It was a thing of beauty designed to kill. Perfectly straight, the weapon’s single edge shone with razor sharpness and the metal whorled in layers of differing shades of gray that made it appear like a raging storm had been trapped within the metal. The brass guard was far wider than normal and was rectangular in nature except that it had been bent. Eight triangular sections had been cut out of the guard, though small and mostly ornamental in nature rather than strategically placed for ease in disarming an opponent. The handle itself was simple, long enough to be used either with one hand or with two. A brass endcap shone on the pommel. It was simple yet elegant, and the contrast made it beautiful.

“That is a masterful sword, Beryl.”

The smith grunted. “What do you want, Khari?”

“I wanted your opinion on something. Concerning Lhaurel.”

“Why now?” he asked. “You and Makin Qays were convinced that she was broken and that you knew everything you needed to know.”

“I know, but in the Oasis today she displayed powers that no other wetta has. She can do things, feel things, which defy reason and explanation. Is this some new form of magic? We know so little about it, and what little we do know, we’ve had to learn ourselves.” It wasn’t an apology, but it was the closest thing that Beryl was going to get.

“What sorts of things?”

“She can sense people, not just mystics, but all people. A man was killed by some degenerate fools for defending us, and she felt him die. And her first attempts at controlling the magic were odd. Instead of manipulating the water, she made it explode.”

Beryl’s brow furrowed, and the hand not holding the sword reached up to scratch at his chin. The forge flared, bathing the room in reddish light. Khari glanced at it. She’d though it dormant.

“And what about the other wetta skills?” he asked. “Healing, and discovering water sources?”

Khari shook her head. “I don’t know. She hasn’t been exposed to anything like that, but you should have seen her in the Oasis when she felt that man die. I swear I could see the anger radiating from her when she attacked the men responsible. I’ve never seen such stunning sword work. It was both beautiful and terrifying.”

“Not much to go on.”

Khari raised her hands and sighed. “It’s all we have.”

“Well, she has been through a lot recently. It’s like working metal. When metal is hot, it becomes malleable and can be shaped. But it is also unstable and will begin to show you its flaws. If the heat is too intense, or not strong enough, when you go to quench the piece it will show its true strength. If there are flaws, it will either become brittle or remain too soft and malleable. The perfect combination is somewhere in between. But you can never really tell which it will be until you quench the metal.”

“A lovely analogy, but what do you suggest I quench Lhaurel in?”

“I suggest you let her cool down. Keep stresses out of her life. Let her find something relaxing and peaceful. Don’t overwork her. Like the metal, both she and her magic will cool, and then you should be able to see what sort of flaws come to the surface, if any.”

Khari nodded. Beryl always had astute advice.

“Oh, and when you see her, ask her to come see me. This is hers,” he said, holding up the sword.

“I will.” She turned to leave but hesitated.

Beryl arched a bushy white eyebrow at her as she turned.

“Do think someone is controlling the genesauri?”

The forge flared again, and Beryl frowned. The light from the forge illuminated half of Beryl’s face, leaving the other half bathed in shadows.

“No one is that powerful,” he said. “Not even me.”

Khari pursed her lips into almost a frown and turned to leave, but before she got through the door Beryl spoke again.

“Oh, and Matron—she isn’t broken yet.”

*              *              *

Kaiden strode through the darkened passages with long, lithe strides, holding aloft the torch he had taken from a wall bracket. The sand lay thick in these tunnels. The cleaners either hadn’t gotten down this far after the sandstorm, or they simply didn’t clean down here. Kaiden strode purposefully onward. He obviously knew the path well and fully expected Lhaurel to follow him. Lhaurel didn’t know why, but she did.

She walked along behind him, cursing the sand, but otherwise her thoughts and mind were pleasantly blank. She followed not because she had any interest in where Kaiden was taking her, but because the walking calmed her mind and granted her a measure of peace. Intermingled with the emotions that ran high concerning Honric’s death were other, less powerful, yet equally troubling thoughts and feelings about Kaiden.

The man was somewhat of an enigma. There was something endearing about him, yes, but at times he simply seemed an arrogant little toerag bordering on cruelty. So cold at some points, and then so warm and inviting at others. The memory of the first time she had seen him, among the Sidena, made her smile through her tiredness. He’d been so cool, arrogant, and sarcastic among the Sidena. Yet he had treated her with respect even in the face of such barbarity as was going on around them. And then there was the way he had treated her during the sandstorm. Slaying the rashelta to demonstrate his powers and standing over her in the storm, facing the winds to protect her. He was a contradiction wrapped in the guise of a man.

Yet she followed him anyway. Where was the sense in that?

At the moment, she simply did not care. She just walked and allowed her mind to go blank, unable to do much more than focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Her mouth and throat were dry, but she didn’t have any water on her. And she was not about to ask Kaiden for his. Her numb sense of things left her with no way of knowing where they were within the warren.

Eventually, though, her curiosity got the better of her.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

“That’s not a very helpful answer.”