Silverlight (2 page)

I
fought to gather the
old knowledge inside me, but it had been so long.
Think like a warrior,
I admonished myself, but no warrior’s hands had ever trembled like mine at that
moment. 

If I didn’t act fast, Redshirt would kill her.
If he hadn’t already. Still, I couldn’t allow urgency to make me sloppy. I
would be of no use to Kymber if I were dead or injured.

Securing Fitz to a tree, I settled the hood
over my head and stalked into the clearing, sure that Redshirt and his cronies
would hear my heart pounding like a hammer on an anvil.

“Greetings, friends. Don’t suppose anyone has a
flask or two they’d like to share?” All I wanted to do was gather Kymber into
my arms and run off with her.

Every one of them pulled a sword and turned to
face me.

“Easy now.” I skidded to a stop and raised my
hands to show I meant no harm. “No need for that. Just a weary traveler with a
thirst.”

“Go away, old man, before someone cuts your
throat for you,” Redshirt snarled.

“Don’t tell me.” I smiled. “It’s moving day for
the young lady.”

“This one’s no lady.” Redshirt snorted. “She’s
a witch. We’re confiscating her things, and then we’re going to cut her throat.”
He spat into the dust near Kymber’s head. “Everyone in Jalartha will sleep
safer once she’s dead.”

“A witch, you say? I’ll be damned.” I continued
to play the part, lifting my brow in surprise. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen a
witch before. How can you tell she dabbles in the dark arts?”

“Look at her hand.” Redshirt knelt and grasped
her right wrist. “The deformed hand of a witch.”

“Hm.” I didn’t feel as though I dared take my
eyes off him. “You appear to be doing the gods’ work, but I can’t see her hand
from here. Will you allow me to come around and kneel beside you? I mean you no
harm. I’m simply curious.” My goal was to ascertain if the woman truly was
Kymber. I’d go from there.

The man nodded. “Come and have a look, then be
on your way.”

I stepped around behind him and knelt. Dirt
covered her face in layered streaks, but I’d have recognized the curve of her
jaw, the full lips, that long, proud nose anywhere. 

It
was
Kymber.
My
Kymber. If not
dead, where had she been all this time?

Redshirt’s sword had opened a bloody gash on
her left temple Blood seeped into what was left of her hair and trickled down
over her cheek, pooling on the ground near her open mouth. She needed
attention, and quickly. Anger burned hot inside me, but I forced it aside. As
badly as I wanted to examine her, I would have to play the curious traveler a bit
longer.

Redshirt bumped me with his elbow. “Her hand.
You’re not lookin’ at her hand.” He wrapped his fingers around Kymber’s wrist
and dragged her closer.

My gaze wandered over the hand he held before
me. It
was
deformed. I took a closer look. No, not deformed. It had been
injured.

The fingers of her right hand folded over and
pressed tightly into the palm near a long, white scar. “The other side,” I
said; the man complied by flipping her hand over. A nearly identical scar
marred the back. Thick, pale marks covered her wrist.

I’d seen the same scars on ransomed soldiers.
She’d been shackled or bound. Tightly. For long periods of time.

I thought back to what I’d just witnessed. No
wonder she’d missed Redshirt’s knife. Kymber was right-handed. She’d grabbed
for it with her left.

I swallowed hard. Kymber’s right hand had once
wreaked havoc with a sword she called Silverlight. Who had done this to her?

“How does a deformed hand make one a witch?” I
asked with a calm I did not feel. “Many are injured exactly the same through
mishap.”

“Simple fool,” Redshirt hissed. “Demons live in
these caves. The witch here conjured them up.”

I rose and loomed over him. “Have you ever seen
a demon?”

He rose with me. “You’d best be on your way
before someone spills your guts.” He spat again. “Fool.”

“You’re the fool.” I carefully planted the toes
of my boots against his. “Do you have any idea who this woman is?” We stood
nose to nose, glaring. “Do you?”

He grinned. “A witch who will die this day.”

“Wrong on all counts.” I pointed at her. “This
is Kymber Oryx, the only woman ever to graduate from the T’hath Academy of
Blade and Bow. The warrior who once fought side by side with Tariq and Magnus
Tyrix.”

Redshirt’s eyes widened.

I nodded. “Ah. You recognize her name, do you?”

“Look again, old man.” He bent, took a handful
of Kymber’s hair, and yanked her head back. “Kymber Oryx died at Marilian. Her
body was buried in a mass grave.”

“I thought so too.” A note of shock had crept
into my voice. “But that’s her, no doubt.”

“Liar! She dies.” Redshirt pulled his dagger.

“Oh, I’m afraid not.” I glanced at all of them
in turn, just to be sure they understood. “If you turn her over to me, I will
allow you to live. Fight me and die.”

“Who are you, exactly?” One of the men who’d
held Kymber suspended in midair – a giant of a man – moved to stand beside
Redshirt.

“My name is Magnus Tyrix.” I pushed my hood
back and slid my sword from the scabbard at the same time. “And I am pleased to
introduce you to Bloodreign.”

I swung hard and connected, registering Redshirt’s
wide-eyed surprise as I cut his throat open to the spine. Blood sprayed
everywhere: across me, the ground, those who stood closest to us.

I whirled several more times, killing two,
severing a hand and slicing through someone’s collarbone before the surviving
ruffians fled into the forest.

I sheathed my sword, dropped to one knee, and
rolled Kymber onto her back. She was a ghastly shade of gray-green, gulping air
in fits and starts. I scooped her up and headed for Fitz at a near run, my
visit with my sister all but forgotten.

I
soaked my kerchief in
the stream, squeezed it out, and dabbed at the wound on Kymber’s head. A
three-inch chunk of flesh fell away, exposing the bone beneath. It welled with
fresh blood as fast as I cleaned it up. I reminded myself that head wounds
always bled more, making them look worse than they actually were.

Still shallow and raspy, her breathing had at
least settled into a predictable rhythm. I pressed gently near the cut,
wondering if her skull was broken. If not, it was a miracle.

She never moved, never moaned, never blinked as
I rinsed her face and examined her. She always said her head was hard as a
rock, but I knew she was seriously injured. If the villagers thought she was a
witch, taking her into Jalartha was out of the question. I closed my eyes,
desperately wishing I could carry her back to Adamar and my current home, but
she’d never make it that far.

“Damn it!” I shouted, startling my horse.

What to do? What to do? She needed more capable
hands than mine to assess her injuries.

I loosed a breath. Of course. The Blue Lantern
Inn was fairly close. Amori Grok, the innkeeper’s wife, had patched up enough
men, most of them T’hath graduates, to qualify as a healer. At one time, she’d
loved Kymber as much as I did.

“Hold on for a bit longer, little one.” I
wrapped Kymber up in my cloak and snatched at Fitz’s reins with one hand.
“Amori will help us.”

I
spent most of the
night in the saddle. The warm, solid weight of Kymber in my arms cut through my
fatigue. Anxiety was truly the only thing that kept me upright. When the lights
of The Blue Lantern Inn came into view, I nearly wept. Migs Grok, the owner,
was one of my dearest friends. I could count on him and his wife for anything. 

I rode around to the back of the inn and
dismounted, easing Kymber down from the saddle as fast and as carefully as I
could. Three short kicks upon the door, a pause, and another three kicks – my
personal signal to Migs. He soon stood in the doorway with a single lighted
candle, his wispy white hair askew on his head.

“Magnus! What are you doing here at this hour?
And what do you have in your arms?” Migs squinted into the darkness.

“Not what, but whom, old friend.”

“Whom then?”  

“Kymber Oryx.”

“Kymber Oryx!” He pushed the door open so I
could enter. “Gods. Tell me.”

“I was on my way home to see my sister. I came
upon a dozen men evicting her from the Hoakum caves outside Jalartha. It looked
as though she was living in them.”

“I know the place. Those caves aren’t fit for
human habitation.”

“They are not.” I nodded. “She’d run afoul of a
gang of thieves. If I hadn’t been there, they’d have killed her.”

Migs held the candle near her face to get a
better look. “That’s her. Gods, she’s as skinny as a fence post. Where has she
been all this time?”

“I don’t know. One of those men hit her with
the hilt of his sword. She’s hurt bad, Migs. Do you think Amori would object to
taking a look at her? She’ll need stitched, and I’m not certain her skull isn’t
cracked.”

“I’ll get her.” The old innkeeper turned away
and disappeared up the stairs.

I moved into the welcoming warmth of the
tavern, relaxing a bit when the smell of beer and bread hit my nostrils. This had
been my home away from home once.

Moments later, Amori was there, infusing the
air with capable calm. She pressed her hand to Kymber’s forehead. “What
happened, Magnus?”

“I found her outside Jalartha. Thieves were
about to kill her for a witch.”

Amori lifted wide eyes to me. “Gods above, and
we all thought she was dead.”

“Please help me. I can’t lose her twice, but .
. . he hit her hard.” I felt tears sting my eyes. “She’s not breathing right.”

“I’ll get your healin’ sundries, love.” Migs
stepped around his wife, eyes shining behind little round spectacles. “Your
usual room is empty, Magnus. I’ll keep everyone away while you and Amori tend
to her.”

I
laid Kymber down on the small cot and fumbled
around in the dark until I found candles and a flint. I lit two, setting one on
the dry sink and another on the small table near the head of the bed.

I slowly drew back the cloak, as though I were
opening a gift. Candlelight threw flickering shadows across Kymber’s face,
hair, and rumpled clothing.

There was nothing left of her. Though always
petite, she’d been muscular. Her small size had allowed her to move and strike
quickly. Anyone unlucky enough to be at the point of her sword would soon be
dead at her feet.

Now though . . . now, she was skeletal. No
wonder fighting those men had left her weak and out of breath.

The threadbare linen tunic she wore was stiff
with filth. Her breeches were a constellation of patches. One shoulder of the
tunic had been torn away; four deep gouges marred her neck. Redshirt’s blood
dotted her skin and clothing like crimson stars in a pale sky.

Kymber smelled atrocious, like the sailors who
loaded ships on Coraba’s docks. I debated whether I should strip and bathe her
while Amori tended to her wound. If even half the dirt on my wounded girl’s
hair and body were cleansed away, it would be easier for Amori to assess her
injuries. My long lost warrior had been fastidious about her appearance. It was
the least I could do for her now.

Migs procured a basin of warm water, washcloths,
and a sliver of soap for me. Amori bustled in behind him with clean garments. Making
a sympathetic noise deep in her throat, the woman walked to the other side of
the bed and sat down. “I couldn’t find any other, so I brought one of my own
tunics for the poor child.”

I eyed Migs’s wife and the neatly folded blue
square in her lap. The woman was three times as large as the malnourished
wraith that lay before me. Still, the tunic was clean, much better than the
filthy rags Kymber was wearing.

I cut Kymber’s tunic up the front with my
dagger, not sure if I wanted to see what lay beneath. It was worse than I
expected. Her hipbones stuck out below a sunken stomach; her ribs did the same
above. Her breasts, once so soft and curvaceous, were now nothing more than
flaps of skin clinging to her chest.

“Gods.” Amori plunged the soap and washcloth
into the water. “She’s just skin and bone held together by bruises.”

“I know.”

The marks on her body disturbed me greatly.
Pale scars crisscrossed the tops of her thighs and stomach. I traced the marks
with my fingers and whispered, “What happened to you, little one?”

Amori dabbed at Kymber’s head. “Her skull’s not
broken, but this is a nasty wound. Damn near clear to the bone.” She pulled her
glasses to the end of her nose and leaned in for a closer look. Sighing, she
rolled her leather satchel open and prepared a needle for stitching.

“That thief in the red shirt. He hit her as
hard as he could.” I soaped up the other cloth and dabbed gently at Kymber’s face.
Other than a long, thin scar on her jaw, it was unblemished, though her eyes
were hollow and ringed with bluish shadows. I could see blue veins pulsing beneath
her translucent skin.

She was still so beautiful she stole my breath.

Amori mended the wound by candlelight as I
washed Kymber’s neck, arms and hands, finally her chest, rinsing the cloth by
turns as I went all the way down to her toes. The water in the basin quickly
turned a dull gray.

“Are you finished?” I asked Amori. “I’d like to
roll her over.”

“Three more.” Amori bit her lip and stitched
the bloody flaps together with a deftness that came from practice. “Hold on.
I’ll help you.” She rose from the bed and put one hand on Kymber’s hip, the
other beneath her shoulder. Together, we rolled her onto her stomach.

I barely registered Amori’s gasp. My own breath
caught as my vision hazed red.

There was no doubt that Kymber had suffered at
someone’s hands. Scars laid down by a lash laced her back from shoulders to
buttocks. I burned white-hot inside. “Who did this to you?”

“Someone beat her, Magnus,” Amori whispered,
her eyes wide in the flickering light of the candles. “Who would do such a
thing to this sweet girl?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, but the thought was
immediate: 
An enemy, but whom? Under what circumstances? If she wasn’t
dead, why didn’t she try to find me?

I had known Kymber well enough at one time to
answer at least one of those questions
.

Because she couldn’t.

I didn’t understand. If someone had held her
against her will, she would’ve fought until she freed herself. I stared at the
scars across Kymber’s back and legs. Unless she’d tried and paid for it. The
beatings she’d taken – more than a few – had been severe.

Amori helped me roll Kymber onto her back and
dress her in the tunic she’d brought. I tried not to notice how boneless Kymber
seemed, how her head lolled in my hand. “It’s simply not possible that someone
could have taken and kept her,” I said. “She was perfection itself with a
sword.”

“Aye, she was, but she was also aware of her limitations.
She knew her gender made her a target.” The innkeeper’s wife gave me a sharp
look. “Kymber told me once she trained twice as hard as the rest of you to
negate what she viewed as her only disadvantage. ‘I refuse to be the weak link
among them,’ she said.”

“I know.” Truth be told, I was stung by Amori’s
assertions. I didn’t know Kymber had felt that way. “She wasn’t
the weak
link, Amori. She was
never
the weak link, but neither would she take
unnecessary risks. I remember Marilian like it was yesterday. She was
levelheaded and calm the whole time.”

“What happened at Marilian, Magnus?” Amori
inclined her head with the question. “Who was the last to see her alive?”

The Battle of Marilian had become somewhat of a
black hole for me. I could dredge it up if I had to, but I was never sure if
the memories came to me in the order they’d happened.

Perhaps the innkeeper’s wife was on to
something. I could still see Kymber’s face as I gave instruction that day. If I
could piece together the battle’s last moments, what happened after I left her
with my brother, I might be able to make sense of why I’d been told she was
dead when she wasn’t.

“We were beating the Pentorians back,” I said
slowly. “Turning their flanks. Our left flank was holding, but my brother Tariq
told me I better check the right flank just in case. He was correct. If our
right collapsed, the Pentorians had a clear path into the rest of Jalartha.”

“What did you do then?” Amori asked.

“I went to the right flank. Tariq was not
terribly sharp at tactics, but he was spot-on that day. Do you remember him? My
brother, Tariq?”

“Some.” Amori bobbed her head. “He rarely came
to the inn with you and Kymber, and the few times he did, I thought he . . . I’m
sorry, Magnus. I thought he was odd.”

“Well, I went to check the right flank, as he
suggested. It was holding, but I spent a good hour there with Commander Forish.
I left Kymber and Tariq together, more for his sake then hers. He couldn’t
fight worth shit when he got angry, and he always did. I asked Kymber to keep
an eye on him. When I went back to find them…” I rose and paced. The end of
that horrific story was always there, available for recall if I was drunk or
felt like ripping the scab off the thin veneer of my civility.

Now I viewed the tale from a completely
different angle. If Tariq had stayed with her, he couldn’t have seen what he
told me he’d seen. My flesh crawled as the words “deliberately misled” rose up
before me in bright red, pin-wheeled letters, like the sign at Rosa’s Brothel
in Schumar.

“What are you thinking?” Amori asked. “You look
like Death himself right now.”

I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. Pieces were
falling into place, and I hadn’t even known I was reconstructing a puzzle. I
repeated myself, just to make sure I had the details right. “Ten years, Amori.
Ten years ago, on a bright fall day, I was told Kymber was dead. She and Tariq
had stayed behind with the left flank while I went to check on the right. I
found my brother injured and Kymber dead when I got back.” I stared at the
innkeeper’s wife. “Something is wrong here. Help me make sense of this.”

“Did you actually see her body, or did you take
your brother’s word for it?” Amori’s voice took on a tone of disdain.

I wrapped my hand around the hilt of my sword,
unwilling to believe what I was thinking. “I took his word for it. Tariq was
adamant that she was dead. No mistake, he’d seen her body thrown into that mass
grave, along with Silverlight, her sword.” I lifted a confused gaze. “Does that
sound right to you?”

“Which part?”

I sat upon the bed. “The more I think on it,
the more I’m sure Tariq lied to me. No one would have thrown that magnificent
sword into a grave. Surely, someone would’ve smuggled it off the field, but I
doubt that person would’ve had it melted down. Silverlight was worth a king’s
ransom intact, but no one has tried to sell or barter it. In fact, that sword
hasn’t been seen since Kymber went missing ten years ago. I know, because I’ve
looked for it, though I was told it was buried.” I fisted my hands. “Repeatedly.”

Amori covered my hand with hers. “Time has
brought clarity, has it?”

“Perhaps.” I truly did feel as though I were
seeing the situation through new eyes. “Either Tariq was wrong, or he lied.”

“What does your heart tell you?” Amori asked.

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to say I trusted
my only sibling, but… “I think he lied to me. And you?”

Amori shook her head, her lips pressed into a
thin line. “Never trusted him, Magnus. I didn’t like the way he looked at you
and Kymber. As though he hated the both of you.”

“He did? And you didn’t think to mention it?”

Peevish at my question, she faced me. “How was
I going to tell you something like that? I could see you thought the world of
him. I had my suspicions and nothing else.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just looking for an explanation
as to why it took me so long to find her alive.”

“Or looking for someone to blame?”

“That too.” I smoothed the hair off Kymber’s
brow and pressed a kiss to her fevered skin. “Gods, Amori, I need to know what
happened at Marilian. I need it like I need air to breathe.”

S
everal days went by
with no response from Kymber. Her breathing was better, she would moan softly
on occasion, but I couldn’t convince her to open her eyes.

I talked and talked and talked. I spoke of the
things I’d done after I lost her. I told her how much I’d missed her, how glad
I was to see her.

How much I still loved her.

As the memories came to me, I spoke them aloud.
The laughter, the affection, the scandalous places we’d made love.

Nothing.

When I was out of options, I commanded her to
wake up in my deepest warrior’s voice, thinking sheer force of will would
prevail. It was worse than worthless.

Finally, I did the only thing left to do. I
laid my head across her chest, sobbed like a child, and begged her to live.

Reality rode me hard. Maybe . . . maybe despite
my best efforts . . . she would never awaken. Perhaps Redshirt had hit her too
hard.

I loved her so damned much. I couldn’t . . .
couldn’t
. . . lose her a second time.