Stonewiser (44 page)

“As you suspected, there was trouble at Targamon Farm,” the keeper reported.

“What kind of trouble?” Sariah asked. “The Shield? The rot?”

“Sickness.”

“Sickness?” Sariah's belly went to ice. “What kind of sickness?”

“I can't tell from the howls. Many died.”

Her throat bunged like a knotted rope.

“But not the man you asked about. Or the girl. They live.”

Thank Meliahs. She had met the keeper just outside their camp, on a slight rise overlooking the forest. Sariah's hands were cold as ice blocks. She had dreaded the news. At least they were alive. The sickness must have been bad to delay Kael for so many weeks.

“Is he coming?”

The keeper shrugged. “The howls request assistance from the Bastions.”

“What kind of assistance?”

“Supplies. Medicines. The usual.”

“Will you help them?”

“You did say we must make friends, didn't you?”

Sariah nodded because she couldn't speak. Kael, Mia, Malord, her friends, the people she cared about most were trapped in disease-ravaged Targamon and she wasn't there to help them.

“If they can't get out to get their own supplies—”

“A quarantine is in place.”

A quarantine. Of course. That's what was keeping Kael away and without choice. It was only then that the thought occurred to her. “Is he sick?”

“Who?”

“The man from Ars, Kael. The one I sent for.”

“The howls didn't say.”

Sariah squeezed her head between her hands. Now what? Another fortnight left to follow the beam or do as her heart was telling her and run like a madwoman to Targamon? She didn't care that thousands of Arron's Shield warriors were between here and there, or that a quarantine was in place. She would find a way to get through. But what about her search? She didn't think she could afford the time or the leagues that a return to Targamon required. The beam wouldn't last forever. The executioners wouldn't hesitate to take over Ars. The bracelet wouldn't wait to kill her. And what about the baby? Could the disease ravaging the farm hurt the baby too?

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Aye. She was feeling very unwell at the moment, bad enough to want to howl at the top of her lungs like the Hounds, sad enough to crawl into a hole and cry. “I'm fine.”

“Do you want some of my blood?”

“No, nay, no. Thank you, but no. I need to think. Go. You've had a hard night. There's some stone-heated tea I made for you and your men. Get some rest.”

“Won't you come with us?”

“I need to think.” She dreaded the prospect of imposing logic on her ragged emotions. “You can watch me from the camp. I'm not thirty steps from the lot of you.”

The keeper conceded. Sariah sat on a rock and forced herself to take long, even breaths.
Quarantine.
The word scared her worse than the rot. At least the Shield would leave Targamon alone for the moment. They wouldn't risk contagion. But if a quarantine was in place, there was nothing she could do for Kael and her friends. If she went, and insisted on gaining entry, she would be endangering the child she carried and imperiling her search.

What would Kael do?

No way out but forward.
Get it done, protect the baby, find the tale, finish it, that's what he would say. It wasn't as if she was being reckless. On the contrary, she wasn't alone. She had Delis and the Hounds to assist her, a fierce, tidy outfit, capable of handling most contingencies. With the baby growing, now more than ever she had to think beyond the stones and to the future. She glanced down at her bracelet. The outline of the fisted hand caught her eye. Strength's link had landed on top. She had to be strong. And fast. Time was passing too quickly.

Going to Targamon made as much sense as diving headfirst into a rot pit. If she wanted to be with Kael and her friends, if she wanted to bring her child safely into a kinder world, she had to end this dangerous search once and for all. Along with the journey's hardships, fueling the baby's protective weave tested her strength. The more the baby grew, the harder it would be to keep up such protection. It was best if she moved on swiftly to finish her business.

She was in dire need of a plan. They would be waiting for her. They would be ready. How would she gain access to the place chosen by the beam when everybody else knew too? She wagered that the sages in all their wisdom didn't think of that small detail. Or had they?

She rummaged through her pocket looking for the memory stone where she had imprinted the tale of her latest wising. Perhaps she had missed something, a clue that would better her chances. She pulled the memory stone from her pocket, together with the amplifying stone she always carried and the larger bursting stones she kept there just in case. She spied another stone among the others, a small white pebble she didn't recall putting there.

It wasn't one of hers, she was sure. She tapped the stone and sensed a peculiar wising, a unique, almost imperceptible vibration that came at equal intervals. What by Meliahs’ rot pits was this stone doing in her pocket?

Horatio Maliver. His amorous advances had had a double purpose, to test her resolve and, most importantly, to put a tracer stone on her. She had heard about those. The Guild councilors used it to track their leases when they went on wising-trading missions away from the keep. Only they knew how to make tracking stones. That narrowed her field of suspects. Who was Horatio Maliver working for?

She tossed the little stone in the air and caught it on the way down. She had been right to suspect Horatio's reappearance. The man was a walking justification for murder. Was the tracking stone's wising somehow anchored to Horatio Maliver? Probably. She was suddenly very glad she had decided to keep Horatio with her. Horatio himself was most likely being tracked by whoever tracked her. His tracking stone could be anywhere, hidden among his belongings, sown into his clothing, even lodged in his body, smuggled in his food or forced down his gullet with or without his notice. Horatio's abrupt disappearance or a sudden separation from Sariah's path would tip off her stalker. Even now, when she knew all that, it wasn't time to get rid of him. He was an advantage she wasn't willing to relinquish just yet.

Her coin was on Grimly. He had to be working for the Prime Hand. Horatio couldn't be bought with promises for coin or power. That's all Arron had to offer. Mistress Grimly, on the other hand, knew how to make a hard bargain. A shrewd and experienced player, she knew people bent at complex angles. She had the skills to figure out Horatio's needs and use them as leverage to obtain her own ends. Besides, the past couldn't be ignored. Horatio and Grimly had been allies before the breaking of the wall. They had worked well together. They had made a formidable foe.

Sariah considered the little white stone in her hand. It was newly chiseled. The gouges were fresh and the ridges were sharp. She sighed. She needed to know. She took a quick lick, a touch of tongue to stone. Salt. Pepper. Cumin. Mustard. She smiled. The stone had been recently harvested from the keep's underground stores, a group of caves used to store valuable spices, a place she knew well from her errands as a Guild pledge. With the Guild split and Arron locked out of the keep, only Mistress Grimly had access to those stores.

Sariah returned the white stone to her pocket. Whoever was set on finding her would do so—at her convenience. If Horatio Maliver was working for Grimly, he was more than a traitor, more than a lying, cold bastard. He had become her best opportunity.

The wind that chilled Sariah was ice's purest breath. It cut through her mantle as if she wasn't wearing every garment she owned at the moment. Even her eyeballs felt frozen. For as long as Sariah could remember, the chill had never punished the Goodlands with cold as bitter and unrelenting as this.

She was happy to step away from the wind and into the protection of the spacious cave the Hounds had found to make camp this night. Exposure was likely to kill anybody who braved the weather tonight. A quick foray beyond the mouth of the cave confirmed that the beam continued to lead them in the same direction it had glowed the night before. Part of her was glad for the consistency. The other part was terrified.

She made her way down the dark passage. For an instant, a ripple of movement tripped her balance. Pebbles and dirt trickled from the ceiling. She hunkered against the wall, just in case, but it was only a mild earth tremor, nothing like yesterday's bone-rattling quake. Regardless, the ground was too restless since they left the Bastions. Sariah prayed it had nothing to do with the rot.

A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind, dangerous by all accounts, but viable. She wished, not for the first time, that Kael was with her. She missed his mind's brilliant strategic eye as much as she missed his body's warmth next to her every night. He wouldn't be such a fool as to undertake a journey on a night like this. Would he?

The campfire's orange glow burned in the cave's safe depths. Sariah smiled to the sentinel and halted just beyond the light's reach. Her Hounds loitered around the fire. Some of the warriors were sharpening their claws, some were sleeping, some were sipping hot cups of the thick brew they favored, listening to Torkel, who sang verses from the Wisdom in a mesmerizing raspy bass.

Horatio, Delis and the keeper were engaged in quiet conversation apart from the others.

“I don't understand,” Horatio Maliver was saying. “At least she gave me something once. But you two, you follow her like tame pups after a full teat. You're not so deluded you think she may let you suckle, are you?”

“What I am to her, she is to me,”
the keeper said.
“Quiet strength and subtle beauty is always simple and done.”

“The Wisdom.” Horatio Maliver sneered. “And what do you get for your troubles? Not what your blood-licking fellows get for theirs, that's for sure.”

“She who comes from the night must learn to enjoy the sun's glare.”

“And you're a very understanding chap.” Horatio laughed.

Had the keeper ever had any expectations from her? Had he waited patiently for her to realize those expectations?

Horatio Maliver shifted targets. “And you, rot spawn, why would you choose her as your donnis?”

Delis didn't answer.

“I've watched you. You have a weakness for a sound pair of teats and a round arse.”

“The heart's reasons are for the goddess's ears alone,”
Jol said.

“Is she really your pet?” Horatio asked. “Or are you her fetching mongrel instead?”

“What would a mangy dog like you know of the donnis honor?” Delis spat. “You're not even worthy of a rotting leper.”

“I wouldn't speak too loudly, if I were you. You stink worse than a leper to Sariah's very fine nose.”

“Wise is he who refrains from judging the unknown. Understanding will favor him.”

“Poor blood-licking keeper.” Horatio pouted mockingly. “What is it that you keep? A vigil? A pathetic, slobbering wait for what? A taste of her blood?”

The color rose in the keeper's cheeks. Delis's hands fisted by her sides. What sick pleasure did Horatio Maliver derive from taunting her friends?

“Can't you see?” Horatio said. “She despises your blood-licking ways. She abhors your executioner's blood. She has already chosen her beast. He's no better than you, but she doesn't care. She flaunts her indulgence before you like the carter waves the carrot in the asses’ noses. She's like a splinter: The more you scratch the itch, the deeper she sinks into your soul.”

Sariah was furious with Horatio Maliver, for mocking her friends, for stirring matters that were best left alone. Too late. She saw the provocation in Delis's blue and violet eyes, the hurt in the keeper's frown. Horatio had stabbed them in the gut and left the wounds open to fester. Furious, she twisted the bracelet around her wrist. The sight of the coupled rings adorning Loyalty's link enraged her even more.

Sariah couldn't explain the need that fueled her actions. Was it outrage against Horatio Maliver or a loyal defense of her friends? Was it an act of revenge or an act of justice? Was it a sudden settlement between her oaths and her obligations or a spontaneous release of her own dark cravings?

In three steps, she knelt between Delis and the keeper and laid a hand on each of their shoulders. She closed her eyes and summoned all the gratefulness that dwelt in her being, the devotion she felt for those who had extended to her even the strangest forms of friendship, the passion she had for their lives.

It came out in the form of affection, the emotion she was most used to conveying. And even as it poured from her palms, it flared with new and unique furor. There was something self-indulgent about the act, a tenuous flirt with sedition to the oaths she had made to Kael, to the stones. But this moment was due. It was fair and necessary to cure the wounds Horatio Maliver had inflicted, to enable her friends to heal themselves, to free herself from every instance of neglect and regret. It felt right.

Delis and the keeper gasped in unison. Their bodies tensed and trembled beneath her hands.
Affection. Passion. Elation.
She allowed the bulk of her emotions to pour out, until the keeper's eyes bulged and Delis's throat issued a whimpering moan. In the end, Delis's unfocused eyes and the keeper's white-lipped release proved Horatio Maliver's taunting right and wrong. It didn't, however, prove her friends’ loyalty lacking or her own trust misplaced.