Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (26 page)

“Remove the sealing cross before it dries! An objection has been declared!” Harlis stood in the round’s doorway, holding it open for another to pass. A hooded woman pushed past her to the center of the round, her cloak sprinkled with snow, the gold handle of her boot knife glistening with cold moisture, her cloak held closed by two half-heart pins. Rankil didn’t recognize the individual but Myrla did and she recoiled, crashing over Medrabbi’s bench in her retreat. Her knees gave way, and she crumpled at Rankil’s feet, sobbing in a distress she could only express in a single word.

“Recca.”

To lose Is to learn.

—Anonymous

Rankil Danston, the misplaced sister claimed by the Tekkroon clan, returned to what she once was—lost, longing for Myrla and Hestra, dejected by Archell’s continued absence when she needed his wisdom and song. She eclipsed the sullen, withdrawn individual she’d been when Kaelan’s family had taken her in, becoming a loner, an antagonist in any situation where her anger could be displayed. Her heart became hard and uncompromising. Love led to pain, to disgrace, deserting as soon as one grew accustomed to its feel. She wouldn’t repeat the blunder.

“Get up, junior, and join the fun.” Genevic, the gangly broad-back who occupied the bunk over Rankil’s told her as their squadron was enjoying an evening of gaming. “You’ve an excellent opportunity to show off. Odds say your aim will be wrong.”

“Who’d bet on me?” Rankil sprawled belly-down across her bunk, face into her pillow to smother another throbbing headache.

“Those who desire to expand their purse,” piped Genevic, jerking her leg. “Come prove them right.”

“What’d you wager?” Rankil looked up, eyes squinted against the barrack’s multiple lanterns.

“Most my Aut coinage, so don’t miss.” Genevic pulled on her again, agitating Rankil until she kicked back.

“Get your hands off me.” She rolled to see her bunkmate’s anxious face. “What are the odds?”

“Five to one against you.”

“Give me sixty percent, and I compete.”

“Sixty!” declared Genevic, slapping at Rankil’s upraised hand. “You’re insane. I was planning to spend my winnings on Isabella.”

“Don’t care.” Rankil held her head in her hands as she sat upright. This headache had lingered, refusing to leave despite her efforts at relaxation. A Gretchencliff healer had given her powders to calm the ache, but they made Rankil woozy, something the Powder Ranks could ill-afford so she seldom took them. “Sixty still doubles your purse. Take it or leave it.”

“But Isabella has her eye on a bracelet the traders brought back.” Genevic pulled on her short braids. “I suppose she would settle on something less pricey, but the reward for me would be lessened.” She grinned furtively. “And Bella’s phase is worth any price.”

“What a waste.” But Rankil was pulling on her boots.

“Ah, Isabella is worth it.”

“No woman is worth it.”

“You don’t know Isabella.”

“And I don’t want to.” The light had become daggers to pierce Rankil’s eyes. “You want my help or not?”

“Asking, aren’t I?” Genevic followed Rankil to where the majority of the squadron had gathered, taking turns sinking their blades into a hay stuffed sack. Rankil examined the lay of the target then, stepping to the throw line, tossed her blade into the target’s narrow center.

She extended her right hand to Genevic. “My fee?”

“No fair!” cried another squadron member. “We didn’t know junior here had a profit in it. It changed the odds.”

“You suggesting I cheated?” seethed Rankil, quick to retrieve her blade.

“Not directly,” said the portly broadback who’d expressed the objection. “Your fee increased your concentration, heightening your senses. None of us thought Genevic would actually talk you into it what with your head splitting like it’s been.”

“Yours will be splitting, too, if you don’t pay up.” Rankil snatched her profits from the Autlach coins slapped into Genevic’s outstretched palm then returned to her bunk, hurling herself across the top, oblivious to Commander Stiles’s critical observation of the goings on.

“Dammit, Commander Stiles, my head is fine.” Rankil’s name had been withdrawn from the next morning’s duty roster. Infuriated by the change, she’d stormed, without knocking, into the duty commanders’ bunkroom.

“Cease the expletives in the same breath as my name, Junior.” Stiles, still in her under leggings, looked up from the scrolls littering her worktable. “You will report to the infirmary as ordered.”

“Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow? Mounted maneuvers are this morning and—”

“And you can’t imagine missing them?” Stiles pushed up her reading spectacles, gaining a clearer view of her youngest squad member. “The nassies won’t miss your company nor you theirs. Your mutual dislike has become famous.” Stiles’s tone softened, as did her glare. “Besides, we cannot have our junior falling from her nassie, or worse yet, from a treetop post. The Powder Ranks must maintain their health.” Though Stiles’s mouth tightened with her next words, there was no concealing her concern. “You’ve been in four brawls in the past two cycles, the latest one earning your challenger a broken jaw. There’s been a marked change in your temperament, junior. One I don’t fancy. Any more fights or trainings missed because you can’t see to aim your weapon, and you’ll find yourself booted from my squad. You’re useless if you’re incapacitated by a splitting cranium.”

Stiles stood before Rankil, placing one hand on the callow woman’s lean shoulder. “I’ve no wish to lose you, Rankil. Go to the healers. Let them decipher the rattles in your skull then come back to me renewed.” Stiles’s warm smile diminished the officious voice she regained. “Go, junior, NOW! You try my patience.”

“Yes, Commander.” Rankil departed the Gretchencliff’s Powder barracks, taking the wide, silent paces she’d been taught. Though the light hurt her inflamed eyes, she walked straight toward her destination, facing the rising sun, her head held high. Her station allowed for nothing less.

The Tekkroon medical facility rested deep inside the volcano, in one of the larger multi-colony hubs, which Rankil entered and exited the finely tiled medial before morning business began. The infirmary’s elderly gentlewoman clerk greeted her and led the way to a small room furnished with nothing more than a tall lounger, shelves and a chair.

“Make yourself comfortable.” The clerk lit the hanging lantern. “They’ll be in shortly.”

“They?” Rankil draped her cloak over the chair.

“Yes, they,” replied the gentlewoman, pulling a pillow and blanket from the shelves. “Now take your boots off and lay back. You Barrier types are always short on sleep.”

“What—” began Rankil, but the clerk pointed to her boots.

“Short on sleep and patience. Off with the boots.” The clerk pulled the curtain. She had been correct. Rankil was tired and in pain. Her head only eased when she lay still with her eyes shut. She tried not to think, but the silence tempted her mind to wander and wander it did, thoughts on Myrla’s well-being and how Hestra must have grown in the four moon cycles since the Serpent clan’s refuge arrival at the Tekkroon border. Recca had insisted on Myrla’s return and Harlis, for the sake of peace and trade, had reluctantly agreed. The reserved Serpents were small in number, but their combat abilities were legendary, an allegiance between the two clans necessary in light of Longpass’s increasing attacks. Rankil fell asleep in mid-consideration of this and maintained an agitated slumber until the Gretchencliff senior healer woke her.

“Trooper Rankil?” Rankil grabbed the hand that touched her cheek.

The woman touched Rankil’s other cheek with her cool, soft fingers. “Calm down and catch your breath. We’ve much to do this morning.”

“Greetings, Healer Augustus.” Rankil released her grip to peer at the healer and her golden, chin-length curls. “You brought company this time. I’m aware I can be a difficult patient but—”

Augustus’s full, reddened mouth smiled at the observation. “I’ve patched you up enough to know you can be an aggravation but not about this. You have a serious condition which eludes me to the point I require assistance.” She indicated her companion, who studied the scroll containing Rankil’s medical history. “Healer Garrziko is more versed than I on concerns of the head. Shall we let her have a go?”

“Why not.” Rankil found it hard not to return Augustus’s jovial grin. “Anything of interest in my scrolls, Healer Garrziko?”

“You’re young for such a lengthy file.” The scroll curled in Garrziko’s palm. “Evidence of gross malnutrition, extensive scarring, both indicative of the extensive physical and psychological abuse of a misplaced sister. How’s your head today?”

“No worse than usual.” Rankil attempted to sit upright, but Garrziko placed a hand to her shoulder, easing her back against the lounger.

“And what is usual?” Garrziko motioned for Augustus to bring the lantern close, raising the light level until Rankil winced. “Are we normally light sensitive?”

“I noted mild sensitivity during my last two examinations,” said Augustus.

“So there’s been progression.” Garrziko felt Rankil’s head, mapping the cranial features with her fingers.

“It used to come and go, but now it’s become constant, sometimes to the point I get dizzy and nauseous.” Rankil jerked from Garrziko’s probing grasp. “Let go. Augustus has already done that and got nothing.”

“You know how healers are.” Garrziko said half-jokingly. “If it hurts we have to do it twice.” She turned to Augustus and nodded, as if endorsing some previously discussed diagnosis.

“Healer Augustus will be leaving us now.” Garrziko, with laggard movements, took the lantern and followed Augustus to the doorway where she spoke into her ear then closed the door and rehung the now dimmed lantern. “Well, Trooper Rankil, now there’s just me and thee.” Garrziko settled in the chair, lounging back, her legs crossed at the ankle. “Tell me about the recent occurrences in your life.”

“As in?” Rankil rolled to her side to view the healer’s inquisitive expression.

“What has happened since you became Tekkroon?”

“Too much.” Rankil’s aggrieved sigh prompted Garrziko to look critically at her.

“Expand on too much.”

“I’m the junior in a Powder Barrier Squadron. Need I say more?”

“That’ll keep you hopping, but there must be more. What else has changed in your life?”

“Shouldn’t this be on my scroll?” Rankil shrugged then cleared her aching throat. She had vowed never to speak of what Garrziko asked. It made her think of love and that made her angry, causing her head to ache all the more.

“If it does not concern the biological it is not registered in Tekkroon medical scrolls. Social issues are addressed separately so you must enlighten me.” She remained silent while Rankil stared ahead, refusing to address what troubled her mind.

“Silence says more than you know.” There was no prodding in the statement, merely recognition.

“Don’t toy with me. Everyone knows what happened.” Rankil’s hands drew into fists. “It was the talk of the Gretchencliff. Where were you?”

“I am not Gretchencliff,” stated Garrziko. “I am McDougal.” She flicked up the end of the bright tartan draping her shoulder. The tartan crossed her chest and wrapped her waist kilt-fashion. Rankil thought it looked childish on a broadback, but the dark streaks in the healer’s short crop suggested anything but childishness. “Hence the plaid and the ignorance to an apparently very public display. Did this happen before the community?”

“Where else would it?”

“Did someone you care about reject your affections in a public fashion?”

“Might be easier if she had.”

Garrziko raised her brows. “I suspect you don’t mean that. Tell me what happened.”

The healer being easy to talk to and their situation private, Rankil recounted what had occurred that evening in the round, speaking in accusing tones of Recca’s sudden appearance, Harlis’s senseless explanation and Medrabbi’s heartfelt apology. Jefflynn had said the mate match just hadn’t been in the cards (whatever that had meant). Myrla had sobbed. Hestra had screamed. Rankil, restrained after she had rushed, knife drawn, toward Recca, had watched her family escorted from the round and the Tekkroon clan. Recca wanted no part of a misplaced sister who thought herself worthy a family at the age of sixteen. If the Tekkroon wanted her they could have her. The Serpents would not recognize the union. Garrziko remained silent while Rankil spoke, focusing on her body language, the tightness in her jaw, the tension in her shoulders and her fisted hands.

“Look at yourself.” She finally interrupted from her reclined position, “View the manner in which you’re laying. You’re balled, curled in on yourself with every muscle braced against an anticipated blow. No wonder your head hurts. You’ve spent so much of your life on the defensive that relaxation is unfeasible.”

“No, my first Taelach raisers had me speak on my upbringing. They believed it would help sort my emotions. Lot of good it did.” Rankil brought her legs around to sit upright, shrugging out the knots in her shoulders. “I still have night terrors, days on end I can’t sleep. And if that wasn’t enough, they take my Myrla! Damn the Serpents! And damn the Tekkroon for not stopping it!”