been tanned in an old stump, her cabled arms bare, her long hard legs the color of oiled oak.
She never felt the weather.
On one knee behind a shaggy chestnut pony, one of its rear hooves resting on her other knee, her strong brown hand holding a curving flicker of soot-grey blade. Wild sun-streaked hair floated free over her downturned face and parted behind her neck, where the first faint tips of her own whip-scars gleamed like old ivory above the jerkin’s collar.
He felt a sudden dark lurch in his chest that he just flat refused to consider the meaning of. He’d gotten pretty good at the whole refusing thing.
He’d gone out there with an idea of what he’d tell her: about his difficult relationship with God, and the Black Knives, and the ghosts riding his back these twenty-five years. He expected it to take a lot of talking. The weeks he’d spent with her, drifting with the witch-herd among the mountains and high plains and isolated villages and trading posts of the Harrakhan Marches, couldn’t have prepared her for how deadly complicated his life could suddenly become. Shit,
he
wasn’t prepared.
But the closer he came, the fewer words he had. By the time he reached her, all he could say was, “You were gone.”
She didn’t look around. He couldn’t surprise her; she knew what the herd knew.
“So were you.” A blurred flicker of her hand exchanged the hoof knife for a short rasp. She began scraping at the inner walls of the pony’s heel.
“Maybe you might tell me what you mean by that.”
“I felt you leave in the night.” She still didn’t look up. “How are you here talking to me, when you’re already gone?”
Steel-colored flakes began to spin out of the iron sky.
“It’s not like that.”
“All right.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “I’m not leaving you.”
“All right.”
“It’s just—you know about God. Ma’elKoth. Home. Whatever. It was a dream.” He shifted his weight. “One of His. Its. Somebody’s.”
“What’s He want?”
“I was Orbek. He’s in trouble. Or he’s going to be.”
“God cares about Orbek now.”
“Not fucking likely.” He folded his arms to tighten up the serape. He was starting to shiver. “He’s just—y’know, just … bait.”
He twitched a shoulder and tried to loosen his jaw. “A hostage.”
She kept working.
“You maybe never heard about the Black Knife clan. About what I did.”
“This is about what you did?”
“I’m pretty sure it is.” He tried to swallow around the razor-knuckled fist tangled in his guts. “It’s about what I did. And about what I didn’t do.”
“So you’re going.”
“When God calls you, His Voice can get real fucking loud.”
“Are you sure it’s Him?”
He spread his hands. “Is there some other god who yanks my chain?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
A cold whisper went up his pants. It creeped the fuck out of him: like getting his balls licked by a ghost. A carnivorous ghost.
“Doesn’t matter.” Didn’t sound real convincing, so he said it again. “It doesn’t
matter
. I have to go.”
“Don’t pretend.”
For a while the only sound was the scrape of the hoof rasp and the irritated snuffle of the impatient pony.
He looked up into the wind. “There’s a debt up there.”
He could feel that debt swinging loose and rotten when the razor-fist unhooked inside his guts: a corpse from a gibbet. “Not just to Orbek. Unfinished business.”
“Business.”
An empty echo, like his own voice coming back at him from the far end of a desert canyon.
“Home might not be Calling me at all.” He wrapped his arms tighter. “He might think He’s doing me a favor. If Black Knives are rising again …”
A cold scrape of the rasp.
“I can’t let that happen. I
can’t
. Not for Orbek. Not for anybody.”
“It’s still a choice.”
His gaze went from the wind to the rocks, then he let his arms fall, and he looked down at his hands.
She never felt the weather.
On one knee behind a shaggy chestnut pony, one of its rear hooves resting on her other knee, her strong brown hand holding a curving flicker of soot-grey blade. Wild sun-streaked hair floated free over her downturned face and parted behind her neck, where the first faint tips of her own whip-scars gleamed like old ivory above the jerkin’s collar.
He felt a sudden dark lurch in his chest that he just flat refused to consider the meaning of. He’d gotten pretty good at the whole refusing thing.
He’d gone out there with an idea of what he’d tell her: about his difficult relationship with God, and the Black Knives, and the ghosts riding his back these twenty-five years. He expected it to take a lot of talking. The weeks he’d spent with her, drifting with the witch-herd among the mountains and high plains and isolated villages and trading posts of the Harrakhan Marches, couldn’t have prepared her for how deadly complicated his life could suddenly become. Shit,
he
wasn’t prepared.
But the closer he came, the fewer words he had. By the time he reached her, all he could say was, “You were gone.”
She didn’t look around. He couldn’t surprise her; she knew what the herd knew.
“So were you.” A blurred flicker of her hand exchanged the hoof knife for a short rasp. She began scraping at the inner walls of the pony’s heel.
“Maybe you might tell me what you mean by that.”
“I felt you leave in the night.” She still didn’t look up. “How are you here talking to me, when you’re already gone?”
Steel-colored flakes began to spin out of the iron sky.
“It’s not like that.”
“All right.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “I’m not leaving you.”
“All right.”
“It’s just—you know about God. Ma’elKoth. Home. Whatever. It was a dream.” He shifted his weight. “One of His. Its. Somebody’s.”
“What’s He want?”
“I was Orbek. He’s in trouble. Or he’s going to be.”
“God cares about Orbek now.”
“Not fucking likely.” He folded his arms to tighten up the serape. He was starting to shiver. “He’s just—y’know, just … bait.”
He twitched a shoulder and tried to loosen his jaw. “A hostage.”
She kept working.
“You maybe never heard about the Black Knife clan. About what I did.”
“This is about what you did?”
“I’m pretty sure it is.” He tried to swallow around the razor-knuckled fist tangled in his guts. “It’s about what I did. And about what I didn’t do.”
“So you’re going.”
“When God calls you, His Voice can get real fucking loud.”
“Are you sure it’s Him?”
He spread his hands. “Is there some other god who yanks my chain?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
A cold whisper went up his pants. It creeped the fuck out of him: like getting his balls licked by a ghost. A carnivorous ghost.
“Doesn’t matter.” Didn’t sound real convincing, so he said it again. “It doesn’t
matter
. I have to go.”
“Don’t pretend.”
For a while the only sound was the scrape of the hoof rasp and the irritated snuffle of the impatient pony.
He looked up into the wind. “There’s a debt up there.”
He could feel that debt swinging loose and rotten when the razor-fist unhooked inside his guts: a corpse from a gibbet. “Not just to Orbek. Unfinished business.”
“Business.”
An empty echo, like his own voice coming back at him from the far end of a desert canyon.
“Home might not be Calling me at all.” He wrapped his arms tighter. “He might think He’s doing me a favor. If Black Knives are rising again …”
A cold scrape of the rasp.
“I can’t let that happen. I
can’t
. Not for Orbek. Not for anybody.”
“It’s still a choice.”
His gaze went from the wind to the rocks, then he let his arms fall, and he looked down at his hands.
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