Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (24 page)

“Yeah, they are,” said Larza in mid-jerk of her first strand. “Medrabbi, did you finish her personal marker?”

“Reesie and I did earlier today.” Medrabbi pulled a small scroll from her pocket and tossed it to Jefflynn who held it up for Larza. “A fair representation of her nature, don’t you think?”

Jefflynn examined the scroll then looked at Rankil. “How much in the way Taelach symbols do you know?”

“Some. Myrla is still teaching me.” Rankil blinked hard as a needle pierced her flesh again. The sites were becoming less sensitive though blood trickled down her arm.

“You know the symbol for battle?”

“Sure. It’s the same as sword only with two handle marks.”

“And the one for strength?”

Another gulp of ale dulled the sting. “A hand, isn’t it?”

Jefflynn nodded. “A fist actually. And honor is indicated by circling the symbols.” She lay the scroll next to the color pots and rolled up her own sleeve to reveal the faded red, blue and green band on her own arm. “Marks are your personal identity, your name written, your signature. The Tekkroon take great pride in their marks and try to live by their meaning. Individually, mine represent truth speaking, family and the oil pumps I work with. The banding means loyalty. All are important to me. Do strength, battle and becoming found represent you, Rankil?”

“I’ve had to fight for most everything.”

“That confirms the strength and battle signs I included. The honor ring comes from the way in which you care for your young family.” Medrabbi was far too drunk to stand. “What about the being found? Were you ever so lost that this mark has real meaning to you or do you wish to forget it all?”

“It’s painful.” Rankil could now acknowledge her past to the Tekkroon. There is no shame in survival by any means. “But I lived and want others to know I did. The marks are good. I’ll wear them proudly.”

“And so shall your woman.” Elreese pulled back her neckline to show Medrabbi’s marker of patience, stubbornness and fidelity on her shoulder. “A gentlewoman can wear her life mate’s symbol if she chooses. It shows commitment and is more permanent than the custom of public blood marking. Some of the broadbacks have even taken to wearing their women’s markers on their shoulders as well.” She smiled at Medrabbi who rubbed her shoulder unconsciously.

“Speaking of blood marking,” Jefflynn dabbed at the streaks trickling down Rankil’s arm. “You need to do that if you want the other broadbacks to leave Myrla alone.”

“How is blood marking done?” Rankil waved her mug in hopes someone would refill it. “Kaelan never mentioned that.”

“It’s a Tekkroon custom.” Abbye offered to share her drink. “You stand in front of the clan and proclaim that pretty girl as yours. Challenges to your claim will be addressed, and then you mark her with your blood.” Abbye drew close to run her fingers over Rankil’s shoulder at the spot the mark would be placed. “It’s a barbaric ceremony, a little degrading for the gentlewoman to be treated so much like property, but so romantic.” Abbye’s eyes reflected not-so-long-ago memories. “Talking about it makes me ache for Fince. She’s been gone three passes now.” Abbye retrieved her mug and downed the rest of the contents. “We never took a child. Thought we had plenty of time. Then came Longpass’s initial assault on the border. Fince disappeared in the battle.” Abbye sniffed, squared her shoulders then flashed Jefflynn a drunken grin. “But none of that matters now, does it?”

“Fince was a good friend, Abbyegale.” Jefflynn refilled their empty cups, but held Abbye’s back for a moment. “The drink won’t make you forget.”

“It numbs the pain.” Abbye grabbed the cup, squeezed Rankil’s knee and brushed her hand against her inner thigh. “As do other things.” A wild whoop escaped her ruby lips, and she began to remove her stockings. “Finish those inkings so I can take this one home.”

“You’ll freeze on the way if you strip here.” Elreese leaned back to view her handiwork. “All right. Turn her about so I can check Larza’s doings.”

Rankil was lifted and her position reversed. The rotation failed to cease when she was settled, and the voices and faces around her became blurred. She floated a few hand-widths off the floor. Someone held more drink to her lips and she gulped it, vaguely aware her stomach churned from the alcohol. Elreese examined the second mark and suddenly Rankil found herself out in the cold, Abbye supporting her weight on one side, Jefflynn on the other. Jefflynn helped her refuse Abbye’s final tempting offer by reminding them both that they were too drunk to phase, and besides, Myrla was waiting. After a lingering kiss to Rankil’s mouth and a mental caress that caused Rankil to reconsider her situation, Abbye stumbled into her room, and Jefflynn half-carried Rankil to her grotto, the pair singing a discordant version of a Taelach drinking song the entire way. Dawn greeted them at the door, shushing them for the children’s sake while Myrla put Rankil to bed.

“I’m turning in as well.” Myrla thanked Dawn for her hospitality and Jefflynn for bringing Rankil safely home, and shut the fold door to their room. Rankil was already snoring when Myrla slid out of her skirts and into the furs. She examined Rankil’s new marks and affectionately rubbed her smooth head.

“Well, you said you wished we were grown.” Myrla dimmed the lantern and laid her head to Rankil’s chest. “That wish came true.” Her hand caressed Rankil’s abdomen, stopping just shy of her pubic area. Myrla knew broadbacks were no different physically than she was, but she had never seen, much less touched . . . Myrla jerked away and turned over, shaming herself for such behavior. The same hands now found their way across her own body, cupping her breasts and finger counting her ribs. How she wished the hands were other than her own. Rankil would kiss her neck, tickling her ears with whispers of what she wanted to do. It would be so right, so perfect—

“My, help me.” Myrla lifted Rankil’s head to the bucket she’d placed by the bed, holding it there until she finished purging her liquored stomach. “My damn head is exploding.” Rankil swiped her mouth. “Drink can make you this sick?”

“Only if you drink too much.” Myrla pushed the bucket away and held a cup to Rankil’s lips.

She took several small sips then eased her head back on the pillow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Myrla pulled the blankets up and rolled back to her previous position. “Good night.”

“Night.” Rankil placed her hand on Myrla’s shoulder, petting the ends of her unplaitted hair. “My?”

“Yes?”

“Would it be fresh of me to hold you tonight? It helps to have someone near when you’re sick, doesn’t it?”

“It helps.” Myrla let herself be drawn into the embrace she had longed for. Rankil mumbled appreciation into the back of her head, then offered a fleeting mental touch that sent a wave of joy throughout Myrla’s body, caressing her back and sides just as she had wanted even as it flooded her mind with the sordid details of the evening
. I love you, Myrla. It’ll take a while, but we’ll learn the ins and outs together. Can you be patient and let me learn from my mistakes?

Always, Rankil.
Myrla lay awake until late, wrestling with the knowledge that temptation had been faced and rejected for her sake. She wondered if it would be so simple for Rankil the next time, what with Abbye being such a figure of sexual desire and the promiscuous pleasure phases an acceptable part of young
Tekkroon behavior. Maybe resistance would be easier if she gave more of herself. Yes, that was the solution, decided Myrla as she drew deeper into Rankil’s embrace. Archell was exploring his new world and didn’t need their burden. She and Hestra had lost all else and were unprepared to live alone. Rankil was all they had left, and they couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not ever.

If you insist.

—Rankil Danston

“Hold that piece at arm’s length and steady!”

Rankil’s arms locked in obedience of the command. She ached, her shoulder and back muscles screaming protest over the continued demand. A blazing hangover further deteriorated the situation, and the barn’s animal smell topped her misery with nausea. Guard commander Stiles, a long-faced, turquoise-eyed broadback two decades or so older than Rankil, had been placed in charge of her indoctrination into the Powder Barrier and was taking great personal joy in making her newest charge’s first day memorable. She barked orders close to Rankil’s ear, giving her legs an occasional poke with the end of her finely carved staff. “They send a child to me? A little girl? What am I supposed to do with you? Nurse then burp you? This must be Medrabbi’s idea of a joke.”

“No, Commander,” whispered Rankil around the strain of her stance. “I—”

“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?” Stiles’s staff struck the ground just shy of Rankil’s left boot. “You will speak only when spoken to!”

Three hours of continued badgering and physical torture began to twist the nausea into anger, the fatigue into intolerance. No title and prestige was worth this. And just who was Stiles to be treating her this way? She’d endured quite enough of it in her life and believed the Tekkroon above such behavior. Rankil snarled and held the heavy tube a little higher. Stiles wanted a response, a buckling of her will, a whining, something Rankil had learned to deny.

“So we think we’re tough?” Stiles jerked the tube from her hands and replaced it with a single straw from one of the feed mangers. “Index fingers only.”

It should have been easy after the weight of the pipe, so how could one straw be so heavy? Sweat beaded Rankil’s face despite the morning cold. Her muscles cramped and burned. Her arms quivered. Then it became quite literally too much. She couldn’t help but flex. The straw floated to the floor as the staff stung the ground beside her right boot.

“Don’t do that again.”

“What’d you say?” Stiles raised the staff again.

Rankil turned to face her tormentor. “You heard.”

“What are you going to do?” Stiles returned Rankil’s glare. “Bawl? Go running home to that sweet thing I’ve seen on your arm?” She circled the staff around Rankil’s toes. “How’d you end up with such a good looking woman? Maybe I should show her what a real broadback can do for her. Mother knows she’ll never learn from you.”

“You leave her out of this.” Rankil clenched her fists.

Stiles, upon discovering the sensitive spot, sniffed then planted the tip of her staff in top of Rankil’s right boot, splitting the leather until the footling slid up into the crack. “Make me.”

“If you insist.” Rankil’s upper lip began to curl.

Stiles immediately regretted her actions. “Listen, junior.”

Rankil’s fake right shadowed her left backhand, sending Stiles sprawling to the ground. “I won’t be hit, and my woman is not up for discussion.” She retrieved Stiles’s staff and fractured it over her knee.

“Strength, endurance and a temper to boot. Pretty damn good shot, too.” Stiles rubbed her jaw. “But, blast it! I’m getting too old for initiations. Too many of my teeth have been lost testing recruit dispositions.” She looked up with a sigh. “And you, junior, just busted my new dental plate.” She rose slowly, hands up to show her nonaggression. “Good moves. Where’d you learn the fake?”

“My brothers.” Rankil looked at the broken staff in her hands. So this had been another test? Life had become full of tests.

“My brothers, what?” Stiles pointed to the faded patch on her left arm.

“My brothers, Commander.” Rankil held out the staff. “I should apologize for my actions, Commander, but—”

“I insulted your lady.” Stiles drew to a stand. “I was trying to get a rise out of you to test your temperament. Insults didn’t work so I had to try something more drastic.” She brushed the dirt from her tunic. “Just business, you understand. Nothing personal.”

“Still, Commander Stiles,” Rankil tried to explain away her reaction. The Barrier might well deny entry to a recruit who’d overpowered one of their experienced officers. “I
am
sorry about the staff. It was a beautiful piece of work.”

“Should be. I carved half a pass on it.” Stiles nudged the pieces with her toe. “I suppose I deserved that as well. I knew your history and shouldn’t have provoked you like I did. But, we can’t have pacifists in the Powder Barrier.” She thrust her finger toward Rankil. “Nor can we have hotheads that fire off at every little thing.”

“Commander,” stammered Rankil. “I . . . I . . .”

“I’m not finished.” She retracted the finger but not her stern tone. “You happen to be neither of these things. Your temper is quick but not unjustified, exactly what my squadron needs. Take your piece, junior, and follow me. You’ll need better attire if you’re to be representing the Tekkroon.”

“Yes, Commander.” Rankil obeyed, her tube held in the vertical carrying position Stiles insisted she maintain. They crossed a grouping of small paddocks, Rankil jogging to keep up with her superior’s agile gait. Stiles moved as if she floated just above the ground, her wide steps never crunching the crusted snow, much less making readable prints. Even her flapping cloak, a heavy, black, concealing garment, seemed mute among the Gretchencliff’s daytime sounds. Others nodded respect for Stiles and smiled sympathetically at her panting charge. They offered words of encouragement and chin up signs so often Rankil began to wonder what she had gotten into.

They passed the singles and family housing and Rankil found herself out of breath and at the door of a small shop just north of the Gretchencliff’s main stores. Stiles pounded on the door then swung it open without waiting for an answer. “Those uniforms ready?”