'Alas,' she said with a thin smile, 'that I can't do anything about. We may be witches, we Surayonnaise, but we cannot spell ourselves.' Healing was a journey into another's body; if anyone had learned the art of journeying within themselves, she'd never heard it. Now that the strain of the climb was behind her, she could feel every gash in her throbbing, blood-slick hands. Nothing she could do, though, except allow Jemel to tear strips from his robe to wrap them crudely.
Above them lay a slope of loose boulder-strewn shale. Scrambling over that tested her again as stones turned and slid away beneath her feet, forcing her to grab for insecure holds with stinging palms, eventually to crawl like a spider. Resisting the impulse to look behind and see how Jemel was coping took her mind from her own gracelessness until she'd reached the top; once there, she fell gasping on her back and called it generosity to stay so until he joined her.
From this new vantage-point they could look down on the path that came up from Selussin, look up to see the
castle
, with its gate standing open as they'd been told. They kept flat to avoid being seen in their turn, watched for any sign of Morakh on the walls and saw none. Had it been wasted effort, then, that savage climb? She couldn't be sure, there was any number of places where a man could stand concealed behind an embrasure or an arrow-slit and still have a view of the town and the way up.
She was busy mapping the landscape in her mind, plotting a route that would lead them around in secrecy to the rear of the castle, when Jemel nudged her suddenly.
'Look
...'
She followed the direction of his nod and saw movement on the road that came down from the mountains, from Outremer. Movement that resolved itself quickly into a line of people, dark against the dust. Briefly she thought it was an army, men on the march in defiance of the abiding truce.
Another minute's watching, though, and she was only confused. The people were organised like an army, running steadily in two long files behind a single man; but they were all afoot and there was no glitter of armour among them, barely the glint of a sword's blade where they ran in sunshine. And she could see women and children among their number
...
'Who are they?'
'Your people,' Jemel murmured, 'not mine. You tell me.'
That she couldn't do, but she wasn't sure that he was right in any case. Some, many looked to be Catari, even if none was dressed like the Sharai. The only certainty was that they were bound for the castle; she huddled low in the shade of a rock and watched as they turned in at the gate. Perhaps half of them were inside before she thought to count. There were more than a hundred, though, she was sure of that. And still no sign of Morakh. Could he have been expecting them, not an invasion but a reinforcement? These were not Sand Dancers, but still
...
'This changes things
’
she said positively. 'Coren needs to be told.'
'Yes. We'll go back.'
'No, not both of us. You go, Jemel. Julianne still needs our help; it may even be easier for me to sneak around in there, with so many others to confuse Morakh and the 'ifrit.'
'I said before, I won't let you go in there alone.'
"There isn't any choice now. If we go in together, how long will it be before Marron comes blundering in after us, looking for you? He'll be anxious already, you know that. And there's no telling who he might meet, or what might happen after. Or Coren might come, and stumble straight into trouble. They've got to be warned, Jemel; and I've got to go in. Remember, I've always got Esren to whisk me away if I get caught. You don't have that protection, you're not safe in the way that I am
...'
That was a direct lie, but she thought, she hoped he wouldn't recognise it.
Nor did he; he only grunted unhappily, and said, 'Be careful, then. Don't do anything stupid, don't fight Morakh and the 'ifrit by yourself. Just learn what you can, find out who these people are and what they want, and then come back.'
She promised, lying again; and waited while he slid away on his belly, watched while he slid back down the slope, raising a cloud of dust and a small landslide as he went. Then she turned her eyes and mind back to the
castle
, to her quietest way in. It meant another climb with her hurting hands, but she was prepared for that. She tried to prepare herself too for what she might find inside, what further surprise awaited - and was none too surprised, not really surprised at all when she saw the gate swing shut against her, against the world.
7
Out
of
th
e
Sands
Marron stared at Jemel — blood on his hands and on his robe where he had heedlessly wiped them, sweat in his hair who almost never sweated, news that sounded like betrayal on his tongue - and felt his anger rise to meet the Daughter who had risen already. Controlling that was nearly too much for him; controlling his temper too was altogether too much.
'Elisande went into the
castle
- and you left her, you let her do that? Alone?'
'Yes,' said quietl
y, sullenly, aware of its moment. 'Would you have done otherwise, could you have stopped her? I could not.'
'You could have tried.'
'I did try.'
'You could have tried harder.'
'Marron, peace.' That was Coren, pushing his way physically between them, and only just in time. Rage made him stupid, rage was a danger to his friends but he would rage despite that, despite the
m. 'You cannot think rationally
while Jemel is bleeding, the Daughter prevents you. This is disturbing, of course, but good may yet come of it. Jemel, change your robe and wash the blood from your hands. I don't have Elisande's gift of healing, but I have an ointment that will stem the flow, enough to quiet what burns inside Marron. Then we will talk, and decide what's best to do.'
Marron knew already what was best to do, the only thing that he could do. Jemel had abandoned Elisande; Coren would find some reason to do the same. That meant it lay with him to go after her and try to bring her back. With or without Julianne. There had been altogether too much talking. Words had left Julianne too long in her captivity; they wouldn't do the same for Elisande.
Jemel unlaced his robe with awkward fingers, let it slip from his shoulders; Marron turned his back on that well-known and well-loved body and stormed out into the yard, first steps on a far longer journey—
—and was stopped, was startled to find a djinni spinning strongly in the gateway, barring his access to the street.
Don't ask it questions,
but he might have done that anyway, his fury burned so hot.
Who are you?
perhaps, or
what do you want? Or
he might simply have given it orders,
out of
my
way, spirit,
and if it didn't react he might simply have leaped the wall and run towards the hills, towards a pair of needy girls who could hope for no one other.
But the djinni spoke before he could; it said, 'Ghost Walker, do not walk into foolishness. Think. I know where you mean to go, and what you mean to do there. If I can see this, who can see so little' - it was Elisande's djinni, then, the only one that would so brag of weakness — 'of a certainty the
'ifrit can see it too. If you went to the castle, you would meet nothing there but a waiting death.' 'Then so will Elisande.'
'Then you would be too late to save her; she is within its walls already. But Lisan moves more quiedy through the world than you, Ghost Walker. She slides between the threads of the weft and leaves them barely singing, while you tear wherever you touch. She is within the
castle
, and not dead yet. Believe me, I would know. The weight of my oath is a burden; her death would free me, and I am not free.'
'So obey the terms of your oath, and help her!'
'What is true for you is equally true for me. We have spoken of this before. If I go to the
castle
, I will be destroyed there. Lisan would not be helped by that. Be patient, and take counsel; there are wiser men than you among your party, and others coming.'
They would come too late, he thought, and wanted to disregard the djinni and go after Elisande whatever the consequences, as Elisande had gone after Julianne. But then Jemel would come after him, surely, despite angry words; and Coren would certainly come after them all, and one by one they would be easy prey. The djinni had shown him that, as it had meant to.
He sighed, and heard it say, 'Now you are thinking clearly,' high and clear as ever above the sound of his breath but somehow moving further off, although it was not moving. He saw it not fade but reduce to a shimmer, a whisper of wind, and wanted to call it back. But he was not Elisande, to order its comings and goings. He had enough trouble already with the supernatural.
He stood silent until it had disappeared entirely, until a cautious step forward confirmed that the way lay open to the street, although he would not take it now. He lingered a while in the yard, telling himself that he was only waiting until all traces of blood had been washed away within; it was nothing to do with what harsh words had passed between him and Jemel. And yet, when he did go back inside, his feet lagged heavily against his will. He felt as though he waded through turbulent water all the way to his friends side, as though the weight of a boys dark gaze was enough almost to hold him still. His hand reached out nervously to touch cool clean robe and cooler skin beneath, still damp from a hard scrubbing; his fingers hesitated, tremulously uncertain, before they dared to circle Jemel s elbow, the most casual of touches.
'I'm sorry,' he said; and was rewarded with a smile as anxious as his own, more than sufficient.
'I should have followed her, perhaps. I thought I should; but she forbade me, and she is hard to ignore
...'
That brought stronger, safer smiles to each of them, and a chuckle from Coren where he was wiping his hands in a corner.
'Hard? Impossible, I should have said. And no, you should not have followed. Sometimes the gallant thing, the thing of honour is the most foolish. To lose Elisande would be bad for us, worse for her father; to lose both of you and not know how would have been worse for us all.'
'The djinni says we have not lost her yet,' Marron murmured, shifting his arm round Jemel's waist and feeling the jolt of that news, that double news snatch his friend breathless.
It was Coren, always apparent master of his emotions, who said, 'Djinni? What djinni?'
'Hers, Esren Tachur. It came, it wouldn't let me go to her
...'
That was a confession that won him another hard stare from Jemel, but it was followed by the weight of the boy's head falling against his shoulder, warm breath on his neck and an awkward hug, hands held apart. Marron rested his cheek on wiry hair, gazed down at those hands - one maimed, a finger short for his sake, as Jemel insisted - and saw how both were deeply scored and glistening where they caught the light, coated with a sweet-smelling ointment.
'Did it, indeed? That's
...
interesting. Has it ever come to you before?'
'No, never. Why would it?'
Why would I want it?
Even when it kept him from an impulsive stupidity, even when it led to reconciliation he didn't want it. Marron had grave doubts about the djinni, and all the djinn. They had surprised Rudel, and now they were surprising Coren; they must surely have some purpose of their own, to be so interfering in the lives of mortal men. He didn't even trust Esren's oath; it seemed to keep its word or not as it chose, and find some plausible-sounding reason whenever it chose not. To be sure, the djinn did not lie; but even so .
..
Even so he felt like a piece in a game of stones, moved according to another's will, and all of it a mystery to him. Again he wanted to step out into another world and leave all of this behind; and again he could not, this time he couldn't even take that first step and fool himself for a while.
There was something frightening and frustrating both, in being the tool of a creature that could see even a small way into the future, that knew what he would do before he did it. He nudged Jemel - who might try, who might yearn to know what he was thinking, but could come only as close as nature and knowledge would bring him, which was still outside Marrons skin, if barely so - and said, 'Let's walk in the sun a little.'
'Patric madness. The wise man avoids the sun.'
'The wise man sits in shadows all his life, for fear of being burned. And light would be good on your hands, come. I want you.'
Not Elisande, not her djinni, you I want.
In honesty, the worst of the sun had passed. Even Jemel could be drawn to confess that at this time its warmth was almost pleasant, though he had to add that only in the true Sands did you meet the true sun, God's hammer against the infidel and the tool with which He tempered the steel of the one true people, the Sharai.
Marron didn't argue. Born and raised under
gentle
r skies, he was sure there was some touch of truth in Jemel's vision, beyond the pride of a demanding people. He might have lost his own faith, he might give no more credence to priests of his faith or any, but he'd been wrong before; and if there were a God - any kind of God, Patric or Catari or otherwise - then surely this land of fierce light and heat must be His country, as the priests of every people seemed to claim. And if not, Marron still believed that there must be a power in sunlight that reached beyond the known things of the world. Even as a child, butter-brown in summer and roaming his uncle's lands amid the heady scents of the herb-strewn hills, bird-cries and insect-cries the only noises, not a whisper of a thought in his drowsy mind, only the ease of warmth and long contentment — even then, he'd known that there was a magic to the sun that lay outside the miracles of the Church, perhaps even outside the miracles of the