The Lone Warrior (58 page)

Gods, Rosarina of The Garden was a lovely creature. The Dark Rose, Walker had called her. Mehcredi didn’t doubt that every man in Caracole wanted her, but what thoughts moved behind those strange beautiful eyes? Did it anger Rose that most people saw only the sensual façade and not the piercing intelligence beneath?

Mehcredi’s heart quickened with excitement. Merciful Sister, she could do this! Who’d have thought? It wasn’t easy, because she wasn’t in the habit of this kind of analysis, but when she made the effort, paid attention—

All right, all right, what next? Rose had stopped her asking about John’s tattoo and what the courtesan didn’t know about manners wasn’t worth knowing. So if she trusted the woman’s judgment—and she did—the question would have been rude, even distressing. Mehcredi bit her lip. Godsdammit, she didn’t want to upset their hosts.

She stole another glance at Cenda and Gray, playing peekaboo with the baby. Fine. She’d show some of the discipline Walker loved so much. She’d wait to get Rose on her own and then she’d find out everything she needed to know about her new—her new—

Her thoughts stuttered to a halt.

Friends, she’d been about to call them
friends
. But Mehcredi of Lonefell didn’t have friends, she didn’t have anyone. Only a swordmaster who didn’t love her and a little dog who did.

Her heart turned a complete somersault in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Sister in the sky, how had it happened? Her hitherto empty life was full of
people
, a maze of relationships, connections and obligations. She rubbed her forehead. So complicated, so difficult to negotiate.
One of us
, Prue had said to the baron. What did that mean—exactly?

Rose patted her hand. “Are you all right?” she whispered. “You look very pale.” She chuckled. “Well, paler than usual, which is saying something.”

Mehcredi’s eyes filled with tears.

“Mehcredi?” Rose’s finely shaped brows drew together in a frown. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

Mehcredi swallowed hard. “Nothing,” she managed. “Nothing at all.” She stumbled to her feet. “I’m going to . . . to . . . check on the dog.”

She reached the stables before the storm hit her. Reeling into the first empty stall, she collapsed on a straw bale and let the tears come, the sobs gathering in her chest like hard heavy stones, hurting as they wrenched out of her. Scrounge thrust himself into her arms, licking her face and whining. She clung to his small warm body, the only solid thing in a topsy-turvy world.

But such intensity couldn’t last long. When the storm passed, she lay panting, scoured out. Around her, big hoofs scuffled and a horse gave a soft puzzled whicker. Slowly, Mehcredi sat up. She felt bruised and battered, her ribs aching and her throat scratchy, but oh gods, she was . . .
whole
, complete in a way she’d never known before, a full participant in a busy, messy, difficult world. No more standing in the cold, staring through the glass. She was truly on the inside now, a fully paid up member of the human race.

With a final sniff, she stretched her arms over her head, working the kinks out of her back. She still had what she’d been born with—a bloody-minded determination to survive—but now that she came to tally up the rest . . . Her breath caught. Sweet Sister, such riches!

At the most basic level, she had a skill, a means of making her way in the world. Walker had said her sword work was competent enough. She could probably hire on with a caravan. Extending a foot, she rubbed Scrounge’s belly, smiling as he squirmed, huffing with delight. In the
nea-kata
, she had both a professional tool and a path toward inner peace—if she was strong enough to work with it.

Walker had given her the gift of his trust, he’d proven it many times over. But gods, so had Rose and Prue. The thought filled her with awe and panic combined. Her fists clenched. She knew nothing about friendship or how it worked, but that didn’t mean a godsbedamned thing. She’d rather die than mess this up.

A door banged, cheerful voices were raised. Scrounge leaped up and trotted out of the barn, tail waving.

Mehcredi frowned, chasing the train of thought. She’d been part of a . . . a
team
, had made her own contribution toward their common purpose. Godsdammit, she’d paid her dues. Reflexively, she pressed the heel of her hand against the scar on her side. It didn’t hurt anymore but it itched, so viciously there were times she yearned to scratch herself bloody. A piece of his soul, wrapped around the djinn stone in her flesh, the strangest—the most precious—of all the gifts Walker had given her.

Experimentally, she reached for him, but he was only a faint warm glow, hovering on the periphery of her consciousness. She’d feel it like a blade to the guts if that steady beacon winked out, if he . . . died. She knew that, all the way to the marrow of her bones.

A skinny shape darkened the doorway. “Ye comin’?” said Florien, Scrounge frisking about his heels.

“Mm.” Deep in thought, Mehcredi walked out into the afternoon shadows and climbed into the backseat of the wagon.

She had resources now, more than she’d ever expected. She wasn’t a daft lump or a half-wit slut, she was a sword for hire, a friend—and a woman a man might desire, in his bed and in his life. As Erik drove them expertly down the narrow rutted lane, she stared out over the frost-nipped fields to the mountains beyond, unseeing.

“Hey.” A pointy elbow jabbed her in the ribs. “Ye awake?” Florien lowered his voice. “I got somethin’ t’ say.”

Mehcredi blinked at the boy’s thin face. “Huh?”

But he didn’t speak, only staring straight ahead, worrying at his lower lip. Slowly, a tide of red raced out of his collar until his face was beet red.

“Gods,” said Mehcredi, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” Florien swallowed. Then he said all in one breath, “Yesavedmylifean’Ithankye.” He cast her a sidelong glance from under his fringe. “Why’d ye do it?”

“I didn’t think,” said Mehcredi, too startled for tact. “I didn’t expect—Uh, why did you say that?”

“Cenda an’ Gray sed I had ta,” said Florien with brutal candor.

“Makes sense.” Mehcredi settled back, and beside her, Florien blew out a breath.

“What ye goin’ t’ do now?” he asked.

“I think,” said Mehcredi slowly. “I think I have to leave.”

“Wit’ Scrounge?” asked Florien, getting straight to the heart of the matter.

“I guess so. You think he’ll follow me?” she asked softly.

“Yah.” The boy blinked hard. “He likes me right enough, but it’s ye he loves.”

Gods, she didn’t dare look up at the faces of the people in the wagon. She’d only just found them. They’d spoiled her dreadfully with their banter, their acceptance. Somehow, she’d got out of the way of being lonely. That wasn’t clever, because already she could feel the ache of missing them. She drew in deep breaths of cold misty air. She’d learned a little of friendship, enough to know it took willingness and a certain skill. Once she was gone, she’d practice the craft of it with others and add to her friends—though she had the feeling it wouldn’t be quite the same.

Walker didn’t bear thinking of, though the closer they drew to Holdercroft, the more clearly she could feel him, as if the short absence had served merely to strengthen the link between them. The terrible tension had disappeared leaving him weary right to the bones, his exhaustion threaded through with wonder and joy. Yet underneath—she pressed her calf against the dog’s small warm body—there was still a solid foundation of pain. Why was that?

“When are ye comin’ back then?”

Mehcredi stared into the boy’s dark eyes, thinking. “I’m not sure,” she said. A fraction at a time, the stiffness bled out of her muscles. She rolled her shoulders, something warm and certain settling inside her. “When it’s time. A year, six months?”

As a tiny baby, she’d fought to survive with the primeval instinct of a little animal. But now, she knew what she did, and why. She was a woman grown, with awareness and skills and . . . and confidence. The Sister knew what she could accomplish when she fought with purpose and guile, because this was a battle for the heart and soul of the man she loved more than life itself.

It would work.
It had to work
.

Walker stared at his sister. “
What
did you say?” He was so startled he forgot to speak in Shar.

Rhio chuckled and Amae smiled, the same mischievous quicksilver expression he remembered so vividly. Firelight lit red gleams in her black hair as she sat on the floor, toasting her toes before the blaze in a private parlor. Rhio lounged behind her in a big chair, one of her hands lost in his.

With the other, she gripped Walker’s knee. She kept reaching for him, as if to ensure he was real and not the figment of a cruel dream.’Cestors’ bones, he knew how she felt.

“You thought you were the last of the Shar.” Her smile very nearly blinded him with its brilliance. “I thought I was.” She dropped back into the language, the words still awkward, unaccustomed on her lips. “We were both wrong, my brother.”

She laid a protective hand on her flat belly. “I saw Ma Griddle last week. She says I’m three months along.”

With a graceless
thump
, Walker fell to his knees beside her on the rug. He laid a shaking hand over hers. “You’re sure?” he rasped.

Amae laughed. “I can’t keep anything down ’til noon, and even then . . .” She pulled a face. “A summer child, Welderyn.” Her lips trembled. “We will make a Song for the babe together, you and I.”

“Yes.” Walker bowed his head so his hair hid his face.

Amae glanced up at her man. “Rhio does his best,” she said affectionately, “but his accent is terrible.”

“Aye,” said Rhio. “And I’m tone-deaf in the bargain.”

“Thank you,” rasped Walker. “She told me what you did. Thank you for setting her free.”

“Aye, well.” Rhio looked uncomfortable. “Once I saw her, my Dancer, it was all over for me. Anyway, you kept the diablomen off her, that time in the desert. We’re even.”

Rhio glanced from one face to the other. “I must be blind. Hell, I trained with you for years, Walker,” he said. “Brother’s balls, you’re the spitting image of each other.” Lifting Amae’s hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Warriors from a warrior tribe, the pair of you.”

Raised voices and a clatter of boots announced the return of the party from the Lammas farm. Amae gave a watery chuckle. “I’d better see how Cook is doing with so many mouths to feed.”

Oh gods, Mehcredi! Walking into the tavern, warm and lovely in his mind, filling the place that ached for her, filling him to the brim and beyond. “I have to be alone for a bit,” Walker said.

Amae twinkled at him. “There’s a lovely old cedderwood out the back if you need something green to talk to.” When Rhio looked puzzled, she snorted with amusement.

Walker blinked hard. “You haven’t changed, brat.” ’Cestors be thanked. Carefully, he pulled his sister to her feet.

Rhio patted her bottom. “Find him a room, sweetheart. I’ll go talk to Cook.”

Amae took him up a set of narrow back stairs. “Here,” she said, throwing open the door to a spacious chamber. “Best room in the whole place.”

Walker shook his head. “Too big for one,” he said. “Give it to Cenda and Gray, or Erik and Prue.”

She shot him a shrewd glance. “What about that tall girl, the one with the bad hair?”

“Mehcredi?” Walker forced his lips into a curve. “No, nothing there.”

“Hmm.” Amae pursed her lips. “You look shifty, my brother,” she said in Shar. “I must make this woman’s acquaintance.”

Before he had time to form a reply, she’d slipped down the stairs. He’d forgotten how quickly his little sister could move.

Supper lay like lead in Mehcredi’s stomach, though it had been good country food, savory and hot. Walker sat farther down the table, next to his sister. In Amae, the hawkish profile was softer, more feminine, but unmistakably Shar. They’d been a handsome people. Mehcredi blinked down at the napkin she was pleating with her fingers. Sister be praised, Amae was pregnant. The Shar would live on.