“With no hangover.”
“I could use a look at Jah’takash’s better side.” He tossed the sword on the bed, closed his hand about hers.
A feeling like warm water flowing into his body, gentle, soothing, heating away his aches and pains, washing away his weariness. Only a breath or two, then she was pulling free. He didn’t want to let go, but was afraid to cling to her. He opened his eyes. “I owe the Lady of Surprises a fistful of incense.” He looked from the sword-a long glimmer on the silk of the quilt-to the sheath on the wall above the bed. “That’s what you came to Silili for, isn’t it.” He climbed on the bed, pulled the sheath down and slid the sword into it, jumped back onto the floor.
“Right. The Serpent’s Tooth, Sulinjoa’s last sword, the one he forged for what’s-his-name, your last Hina king. It always cuts the hand that owns it, so the story goes. His wife, she was supposed to be a demon of some sort, she cursed the sword when he quenched it the last time in the blood of their youngest son.” She took the sword from him, no hesitation now, pulled it from the sheath, clucked at the bloodstains along the blade, used the edge of the drape to wipe it clean, moving the velvet cloth gently over it, then held the blade up to the moonlight, clucked again at the marks the blood had left. “Have to work on this once I’m back on the ship.” She slid the blade with slow care into the sheath. “Your king took off Sulinjoa’s head with it so he’d never make a finer sword for someone else. The Temueng who made himself emperor, he used it on the king and gave it away to a supporter he didn’t much like.” She chuckled. “That one didn’t last long either.”
“Who’d want it with that history?” Aituatea eyed the sword with revulsion, then remembered how it’d felt in his hand. He shook his head.
“The man who’s going to pay me five thousand gold for it.” She looked down, grimaced and kicked away the hand that had brushed against her foot. “No friend of mine which is just as well, looks like the curse is still going strong.”
Aituatea grunted and went hunting for his knife, unwilling to leave any piece of himself in this place. When bright light suddenly bloomed about him, he glanced up. A firesphere floated above him. “Thanks.” he muttered. He found the knife leaning against the side of a cabinet, wiped it on the rug and tucked it away. The light vanished.
Brann was leaning out the window when he straightened. She drew back inside. “Dawn’s close. We better get out of here.”
Giggles flitted by Aituatea. From a shimmering point above the bed, finger-long gold bars, silver bars, rings and bracelets cascaded in a heap on the silk.
“Yours,” Brann said. “Courtesy of Yaril and Jaril. They thought you ought to have some compensation for your latest loss.”
An owl was suddenly in the room, hovering over the bed, a plump leather sack clutched in its talons. Its hoots like eldrich laughter, it sailed through the window and disappeared into the night. A second owl with a second pouch appeared, flew after the first.
Aituatea passed a hand across his face, disconcerted. In the events of the past moments, he’d forgotten the sense of dislocation that had chilled him when Hotea vanished. Now he resented both things, being reminded of that loss and having his feelings read so easily. But this was no time for indulging in resentments or grief. He shucked a case off one of the pillows, raked the gold and gems into it, tied the ends in a loop he could thrust his arm through, leaving both hands free. “Back the way we came?”
“Unless you know how to get past the causeway guards.” she tucked the sword under her arm and started for the door. “You can take me out to the ship if you will. She’s due to lift anchor with the dawn.”
THE FOG WAS blowing out to sea, the wind changing from salt to green, the smell of day and land and coming storm on it. As Aituatea worked the boat toward the willow grove, he saw the sky flush faintly red behind the Temple roof. More than one kind of storm coming, he thought. When someone steels himself to look into that room and finds the Tekora in still wiggling pieces. Hei-yo, Godalau grant they blame the Kadda wife for it since she won’t be around. No way to tie me to it, not now, not with Hotea all the way gone. He tied the boat up, splashed through the shallow water to the shore. In the distance he could hear drums and rattles, the Woda-an celebrating the departure of the blind ship. Drinker of Souls, you’re not a bad sort, but I hope I never see you again. Tungjii bless you, though. Never thought I’d miss Hotea like this. Aching with loneliness, he pushed through the dangling withes and trudged up the slope toward the abandoned godon.
In the warm and scented room, he sat with the brazier providing the only light, a bowl of wine in one hand, a stone jar of wine on the table beside his feet. He’d put his dirty bare feet on the table deliberately, meaning to provoke Eldest Grandmother into scolding him. The sounds she made in his head were no longer words but they were comfortably familiar. He sipped at the wine, thinking about Brann, wondering who the fool was who sent her after that cursed sword. He thought about Hotea. She’s right, I should find me a wife. Someone who could stand to live here, definitely someone who knows how to keep her mouth shut. He stretched out in the chair until he was almost lying flat, crossed his ankles and balanced the wine bowl on his stomach. Not till the storm’s blown out. Both storms. He took a mouthful of wine, let it trickle its warmth down his throat, smiled sleepily at the ghosts that were gathering about him. He thought he could see some new faces among them but was too lazy to ask. It’s over, he thought. Really over. Me. Aituatea. I killed the Temueng Tekora. Sort of killed him. He grinned.
“Let me go off a little while and look what happens. Drunk. Disgustingly drunk.”
He jerked up, spilling the wine, looked wildly about. “Hotea?”
Her crystal form was hovering over the brazier, picking up red light from the coals. “You got another sister I don’t know about?”
“I thought you were gone to rest.”
“Not a chance, brother, not till I get you safely wed to the right woman.” She gathered in several female ghosts and led them to surround him. “Listen, Kellavoe’s youngest. Word is her hands are almost as good as mine, can strip the eyelashes off a dozing dragon. Living with her uncle these days since the Temuengs hanged her father and you know old Kezolavoe, meaner than a boar in rut, but she doesn’t complain. Good girl. Loyal to her kin. Be doing the child a favor, getting her away from him…”
“Ohh-eh, slow down, I’ll take a look at the girl, but after the storm, if you don’t mind, sister.” He got to his feet, went to set out the dishes for the ghosts. “Why don’t we all celebrate? Sniff some wine and help me tell the tale of the raid on the Tekora’s palace.” He began filling the dishes with wine, feeling his body and spirit relax into a familiar irritated contentment. Plenty of time, good friends and a growing family. He looked about, counted shapes and set out another of the shallow bowls. Definitely new faces in the mix, some Hina, some Temueng and a Woda-an. He stepped back, lifted his bowl. “To family ties,” he said. “Old and new.”
The ghosts sighed, bathed in the wine’s fragrance and exuded a contentment to match his own.
2. Brann’s Quest-The Flight from Arth Siva
BRANN SITS AWAKE. Bleeding into memory, all the sounds about her, water sounds, muted shouts from deck and masts, ship sounds, board and rope talking to the dawn, wind sounds, sighs and long wails. She sits at a small table, dawn’s light creeping in, painting images across her body. The mix of sound and smell reinforces the quiet melancholy that awakened her and drew her out of bed and to the chair, her hair falling about her face, the das’n vuor pot held between her hands. Black deeps on a base as thin and singing as fine porcelain, the true das’n vuor from the fireheart of Tincreal.