Sol, Mater Lune, why did you make me want him so?
Her father would have told her that done is done . Life must go on . Clinging to that thought, she rolled into a sitting position, then tried to stand. She was still clad in her bloodstained chemise, with a thin blanket draped about her. She staggered, but a dozen hands caught her and she clung to them gratefully until she got her balance and could stand on her own two feet.
Bunima was right: there were mounted soldiers coming down the long slope to the east, columns and columns of them, all wearing the pointed steel helmet of the Keshi. They had lances and circular shields, and bows in sheaths lashed to their legs. The man at the head of the column rode bare-headed, his thick black hair oiled and gleaming in the afternoon sun: a prince of men. He rode with lordly grace to greet a group of ragged men from the male camp to the south. She watched with a vague feeling of concern. They’ll take me to their breeding-camps and rape me and force me to bear mage-children until I die . . .
Even that thought couldn’t shake the lethargy from her limbs. She was too ill and exhausted to care.
Then she saw him : blond hair and beard catching the light, his huge frame towering above the Ahmedhassans as he shouldered his way through the men and into the women’s camp. He exchanged words with one of Bunima’s colleagues and then he was before her, like a hero of legend come to her rescue. Even after all that had passed between them, all the ugliness and deception, it was to the tender moments that her mind always returned.
I wish I could just reach out and erase the blood that lies between us . . .
Impossible, of course.
Zaqri allowed her a moment, despite the urgency, to say farewell to those who’d tended her. Bunima and the other women pressed about her, a sea of faces and outstretched hands, work-hardened, but gentle on her face. It made her feel almost like she was home in her father’s caravan, wrapped in a cocoon of love.
‘Bunima, thank you—’
‘Cym must go. Hurry now. Soldiers come.’ Bunima kissed her cheeks with chapped lips. She smelled of sun-bleached bones. ‘Go now. Sal’Ahm, Cym.’
‘Why help me?’ Cym whispered.
‘We are woman,’ Bunima replied. ‘We know.’ She touched Cym’s belly. ‘We understand. Men don’t choose. Gods don’t choose. Is our choice only.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘Life is circle. All souls return, again and again. Life finds a way.’ That sounded more like Omali beliefs than Ahm, but South Dhassa was a strange intersection of cultures. Whatever the reason, she was grateful that Bunima’s world view could find a way to forgive her.
She was passed down the line of women, hugging her and blessing her in a mix of tongues, then, suddenly wobbling on coltish legs, she was standing in front of Zaqri. He caught her and held her erect. She inhaled his scent and regained some steadiness.
‘Can you ride?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve prepared a camp for us, not too far away. Can you manage?’
‘I think so. If it’s not too far?’ She glanced at the princely Keshi leader and his cavalry entering the camp.
‘It is close. I’ve picked out a place south of the march of the army. I thought we had a few more hours, but it won’t matter. These are just scouts and outriders.’ Zaqri looked worried. ‘Are you strong enough?’
She still felt wrung-out, but they couldn’t stay here. ‘I’ll manage.’
He didn’t look convinced, but said, ‘I need to get to the Dokken in Salim’s army without being noticed; I’ll ask them to get me an audience with Sultan Salim. We’ll need help if we’re to find your friend Alaron and the Scytale.’
‘The Dokken won’t care about Alaron or Ramita,’ Cym whispered. ‘They will just want the Scytale for themselves.’
‘Perhaps, but the Scytale represents salvation for my kind: for us, it is more important than the war itself. I will persuade the Dokken here to aid us,
Her father would have told her that done is done . Life must go on . Clinging to that thought, she rolled into a sitting position, then tried to stand. She was still clad in her bloodstained chemise, with a thin blanket draped about her. She staggered, but a dozen hands caught her and she clung to them gratefully until she got her balance and could stand on her own two feet.
Bunima was right: there were mounted soldiers coming down the long slope to the east, columns and columns of them, all wearing the pointed steel helmet of the Keshi. They had lances and circular shields, and bows in sheaths lashed to their legs. The man at the head of the column rode bare-headed, his thick black hair oiled and gleaming in the afternoon sun: a prince of men. He rode with lordly grace to greet a group of ragged men from the male camp to the south. She watched with a vague feeling of concern. They’ll take me to their breeding-camps and rape me and force me to bear mage-children until I die . . .
Even that thought couldn’t shake the lethargy from her limbs. She was too ill and exhausted to care.
Then she saw him : blond hair and beard catching the light, his huge frame towering above the Ahmedhassans as he shouldered his way through the men and into the women’s camp. He exchanged words with one of Bunima’s colleagues and then he was before her, like a hero of legend come to her rescue. Even after all that had passed between them, all the ugliness and deception, it was to the tender moments that her mind always returned.
I wish I could just reach out and erase the blood that lies between us . . .
Impossible, of course.
Zaqri allowed her a moment, despite the urgency, to say farewell to those who’d tended her. Bunima and the other women pressed about her, a sea of faces and outstretched hands, work-hardened, but gentle on her face. It made her feel almost like she was home in her father’s caravan, wrapped in a cocoon of love.
‘Bunima, thank you—’
‘Cym must go. Hurry now. Soldiers come.’ Bunima kissed her cheeks with chapped lips. She smelled of sun-bleached bones. ‘Go now. Sal’Ahm, Cym.’
‘Why help me?’ Cym whispered.
‘We are woman,’ Bunima replied. ‘We know.’ She touched Cym’s belly. ‘We understand. Men don’t choose. Gods don’t choose. Is our choice only.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘Life is circle. All souls return, again and again. Life finds a way.’ That sounded more like Omali beliefs than Ahm, but South Dhassa was a strange intersection of cultures. Whatever the reason, she was grateful that Bunima’s world view could find a way to forgive her.
She was passed down the line of women, hugging her and blessing her in a mix of tongues, then, suddenly wobbling on coltish legs, she was standing in front of Zaqri. He caught her and held her erect. She inhaled his scent and regained some steadiness.
‘Can you ride?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve prepared a camp for us, not too far away. Can you manage?’
‘I think so. If it’s not too far?’ She glanced at the princely Keshi leader and his cavalry entering the camp.
‘It is close. I’ve picked out a place south of the march of the army. I thought we had a few more hours, but it won’t matter. These are just scouts and outriders.’ Zaqri looked worried. ‘Are you strong enough?’
She still felt wrung-out, but they couldn’t stay here. ‘I’ll manage.’
He didn’t look convinced, but said, ‘I need to get to the Dokken in Salim’s army without being noticed; I’ll ask them to get me an audience with Sultan Salim. We’ll need help if we’re to find your friend Alaron and the Scytale.’
‘The Dokken won’t care about Alaron or Ramita,’ Cym whispered. ‘They will just want the Scytale for themselves.’
‘Perhaps, but the Scytale represents salvation for my kind: for us, it is more important than the war itself. I will persuade the Dokken here to aid us,
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