that battle. Seems you can take care of yourself, but I hope you’ll have a thought to protect Malver and me.”
I managed to lift my head enough to glimpse the long body lying motionless in the sand, shaded by a bloodstained white cloak stretched between two swords. “I’ll be happy to hear him go at us.”
Sovari’s voice sobered quickly. “I, too. I, too.” Only a living man could yell at us as Aleksander was like to. The captain went to check on Aleksander, and I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke, the cold desert night had me shivering. Someone had thrown a haffai on top of me, but the robe had blown off and was bunched up near my head, exposing everything but one arm. I was deciding whether it was worth the effort to retrieve it, when I heard voices.
“... Horses over there at first light to bring the water. They could carry the wood, too, but I haven’t a notion how we’ll get it cut fit to make a sturdy splint. If I’d just not lost the bloody ax ... Cursed Hamraschi.” The terse, weary voice belonged to Malver.
“Maybe Seyonne can manage the cutting,” said Sovari. “I don’t know that he’d need tools.”
“The dark gods save us, Captain.” Malver dropped his voice. “What is he?”
“I think you just said it, friend. The god must be in him. I’ve never believed in such ... not truly ... but I saw this man a slave in Capharna. They say Ezzarians are sorcerers, but back then he couldn’t so much as save himself from old Durgan’s lash.”
“That fire was real ... and the storm. Never seen any magician who could do such. And wings ... I’ve ever been Druya’s man, but I thought I was looking on Athos himself.”
“Tales were told back in Capharna, after Lord Dmitri was murdered and the Prince was accused ... tales of a man turning into a shengar, of someone helping the Prince escape through a barred window too small for a sparrow. This one, slave though he was, vanished at the same time as the Prince escaped. And last year, on that night we chased the Hamraschi into southern Manganar, the night of the terror when the troops all went mad, I saw something ... The Prince has never been quite the same since those days in Capharna, and I’ve wondered ... If the gods wanted to change a man, make him better than he was—”
“Shhh,” said Malver with a nervous hiss. “Rein your tongue, Captain.”
But the captain was not deterred. “—they might send someone to watch him ... to teach him ... one of their own.”
The two men fell silent, and I lay there with my skin on fire and every bone aching and thought that if I were ever to be a god, I would damn well work out things a little better. The wind raced across my skin, causing me to shiver and catch my breath, which set me coughing. With all that misery, I decided that maybe I could move after all and get myself a bit more comfortable, maybe even find a drink if the two soldiers had come up with so blessed a thing. So I stumbled to my feet and hobbled toward the flickering gold of their tiny tarbush fire. No one seeing me limping across the rocks and sand, my ragged clothes flapping in the wind, coughing and spitting out a quarry’s fill of dirt, was ever going to mistake me for a god.
Aleksander woke up later that evening as Malver was telling me about the sink he’d found—a depression in the wasteland of rock and sand where the scant rainfall and a spring had left a few spike-leafed nagera trees, some date palms, and a good water source. I’d said that with a few more hours’ rest, I should be able to ride, at least, and could probably come up with a way to cut wood to make sturdier splints for Aleksander’s leg. Malver kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my boots, and his left hand fidgeted with what looked like a piece of bone hung around his neck, a luck charm I guessed. Interesting that he called himself Druya’s man but had invoked the goddess mother during the battle.
Sovari was watching
I managed to lift my head enough to glimpse the long body lying motionless in the sand, shaded by a bloodstained white cloak stretched between two swords. “I’ll be happy to hear him go at us.”
Sovari’s voice sobered quickly. “I, too. I, too.” Only a living man could yell at us as Aleksander was like to. The captain went to check on Aleksander, and I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke, the cold desert night had me shivering. Someone had thrown a haffai on top of me, but the robe had blown off and was bunched up near my head, exposing everything but one arm. I was deciding whether it was worth the effort to retrieve it, when I heard voices.
“... Horses over there at first light to bring the water. They could carry the wood, too, but I haven’t a notion how we’ll get it cut fit to make a sturdy splint. If I’d just not lost the bloody ax ... Cursed Hamraschi.” The terse, weary voice belonged to Malver.
“Maybe Seyonne can manage the cutting,” said Sovari. “I don’t know that he’d need tools.”
“The dark gods save us, Captain.” Malver dropped his voice. “What is he?”
“I think you just said it, friend. The god must be in him. I’ve never believed in such ... not truly ... but I saw this man a slave in Capharna. They say Ezzarians are sorcerers, but back then he couldn’t so much as save himself from old Durgan’s lash.”
“That fire was real ... and the storm. Never seen any magician who could do such. And wings ... I’ve ever been Druya’s man, but I thought I was looking on Athos himself.”
“Tales were told back in Capharna, after Lord Dmitri was murdered and the Prince was accused ... tales of a man turning into a shengar, of someone helping the Prince escape through a barred window too small for a sparrow. This one, slave though he was, vanished at the same time as the Prince escaped. And last year, on that night we chased the Hamraschi into southern Manganar, the night of the terror when the troops all went mad, I saw something ... The Prince has never been quite the same since those days in Capharna, and I’ve wondered ... If the gods wanted to change a man, make him better than he was—”
“Shhh,” said Malver with a nervous hiss. “Rein your tongue, Captain.”
But the captain was not deterred. “—they might send someone to watch him ... to teach him ... one of their own.”
The two men fell silent, and I lay there with my skin on fire and every bone aching and thought that if I were ever to be a god, I would damn well work out things a little better. The wind raced across my skin, causing me to shiver and catch my breath, which set me coughing. With all that misery, I decided that maybe I could move after all and get myself a bit more comfortable, maybe even find a drink if the two soldiers had come up with so blessed a thing. So I stumbled to my feet and hobbled toward the flickering gold of their tiny tarbush fire. No one seeing me limping across the rocks and sand, my ragged clothes flapping in the wind, coughing and spitting out a quarry’s fill of dirt, was ever going to mistake me for a god.
Aleksander woke up later that evening as Malver was telling me about the sink he’d found—a depression in the wasteland of rock and sand where the scant rainfall and a spring had left a few spike-leafed nagera trees, some date palms, and a good water source. I’d said that with a few more hours’ rest, I should be able to ride, at least, and could probably come up with a way to cut wood to make sturdier splints for Aleksander’s leg. Malver kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my boots, and his left hand fidgeted with what looked like a piece of bone hung around his neck, a luck charm I guessed. Interesting that he called himself Druya’s man but had invoked the goddess mother during the battle.
Sovari was watching
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