Stormlord Rising Read online

  She did not turn to acknowledge his presence. “How do you know that?” she whispered, hoping to prompt his memories. At least he sounded more rational now.

  “I don’t know. I remember the oddest things, without any recollection of where I learned them.”

  “But you still don’t remember who you are?”

  “No. Why don’t you tell me more about who I am?”

  “No. A little knowledge is dangerous. It is better you discover it for yourself. If they find out who you are—” She made a gesture toward the waiting men. “You would die before you drew another breath. You must be careful.”

  “I find it hard to think I was ever so dangerous to them.”

  “Believe me, you were. And you had better hope no one ever recognizes you.”

  Kaneth gave a lopsided grin and tapped at the scabbing on his face. “I doubt I look the way I used to.” In the dry air the scar was forming well, but his skin was puckering, drawing his face into a travesty of the handsome man she had known. Her breath caught, snagged on her desire to touch his cheek, to say how sorry she was. To tell him it didn’t matter to her. She wanted him to assuage the ache in her heart by touching her in turn, but knew he would not. When he looked at her it was with a neutral interest, not desire, not friendship, not love.

  Oh, Sunlord, how can I bear this?

  “You’re a slave,” she said. “Doesn’t that enrage you? We are all slaves, to be used as our masters see fit. Women and boys to be raped, children taken from their families. There was a time when that would have roused you to a raging passion.”

  He ran a hand over his head in a troubled gesture. His hair was beginning to grow back in a short fuzz. Once it had been long and golden, shining and luxuriant. She had liked to run her hand through it. She pushed the thought away.

  “I—I don’t know. I feel as if I’m walking within the wavering mists of a sand-dancer mirage. Nothing is real around me. There are voices speaking to me, but from so far away in the past I can barely hear the words. I catch glimpses—of people, of places—but I don’t know who they are, where they are, or what they meant—mean—to me. When I try to catch hold of the images they dance away and my head throbs with pain. And inside me there is an emptiness that once was full, a hole of nothingness I don’t know how to replenish.”

  Hope disintegrated, spilling out of her in tiny pieces, each one hurting. “Can’t you—can’t you remember anything?”

  “Silly stuff—playing, squabbling with other children. Nothing important. And there are things I feel to be true from my adulthood. I know if I picked up a sword it would feel right in my hand, as if it belonged.” He glanced away toward the dune. “I know I have been to the Red Quarter before. That I have ridden a pede across the sands. That I have a smattering of their tongue because I have mixed with them before. That there was a time when they were no enemies of mine.” He looked back at her. “I know I have held a woman in my arms and loved.”

  Her heart pounded as if she had been running. “But you don’t recall who?”

  He shook his head. “I suppose I’d know her if I saw her. I have no memory of her face, or her voice. Just of the way I felt about someone. And sometimes I think there was as much grief there as happiness.”

  His words seared more than they comforted, reminding her of all they had lost. She swallowed away the pain.

  She cast a glance about them to make sure no one was listening. Ravard and the Pebblered men were still talking, far enough away to be almost invisible in the darkness, as well as inaudible. In the camp itself, the only light was from the fire and there was not much of that. There was no one close enough to hear anything she or Kaneth said and no one even looking at them. The Reduners were passing around some skins of amber; some were singing—the noise level had risen.

  “What do you remember playing with when you were little?” she asked, unable to resist the urge to prompt his memory, like a child who couldn’t stop picking at a scab.

  “Water,” he said promptly, without apparent thought. Then repeated the word in astonishment, as if the memory had suddenly returned. “Water! Sunlord help me! I could once move water.”

  She hushed him with a finger to her lips.

  He stared at her, shocked. “That’s why you think I am in danger! I was a water sensitive!”

  She smothered her joy at the fragment of returning memory. “They must not know.”

  “I don’t remember—” He rubbed his forehead. “Withering spit. I remember moving water. I was a rainlord.”

  She nodded. “You are still a rainlord.”

  He considered that, his frown deepening. Then, “No. No. I’m not. Not anymore. There’s nothing there. Nothing.”

  And he stumbled away into the darkness. She stared after him, appalled. It couldn’t be true, surely. She wanted to follow, but it was too risky and she dared not, no matter how much her heart ached for him.

  The next morning, the pedes climbed the dune in single file, their pointed feet angled backward to give them purchase on the shifting sand of the incline. Once again Ryka was seated behind Ravard, his proximity a reminder of the way he came to her each night, his gaze alight with anticipation. His desire to please her with his lovemaking was oddly touching, the naïvety with which he tried to achieve her pleasure was both exasperating and in different circumstances might even have been endearing—yet the joy he took from the slightest of her smiles both puzzled and alarmed her. Nonetheless, as she rode behind him, seated cross-legged on the embroidered saddle cushion, any kindness she felt toward him was overridden by an abiding hatred of his assumptions, the assumptions of a conqueror.

  I’m a slave, she thought. I have no right to say no—and therefore this is rape, for all it is an agreement I entered into to keep my son safe.

  She glared at his back. One day I shall kill him for it. Yet when she thought of driving a blade into him, what she felt most was not triumph, but regret that it would be necessary.

  Sand hells—why does everything have to be so complicated?

  When they reached the outskirts of the Pebblered encampment, they halted. Some of the tribal elders, plus a number of Scarpen and Gibber slaves, were waiting for them in the cool of the morning. Ravard had apparently promised the tribe some of the water from Qanatend.

  While the slaves hoisted the large family jars out of the panniers and carried them into the camp, Ryka stayed where she was, seated on the pede. Ravard stood a couple of paces away, holding the reins and chatting with the tribemaster, an elderly man, portly and unattractive and, to Ryka’s eyes, obsequiously fawning.

  The fellow is terrified of upsetting the Master Son, she thought. Ravard may be young, but the men of other dunes fear him the way men fear Sandmaster Davim. I wonder if it is Ravard’s reputation making them so scared, or simply because he is the sandmaster’s heir?

  She shot a look at Kaneth where he sat alone on the slaves’ packpede. The other male slaves had been unroped so that they could help carry the water; he had simply ignored the order. Bravado? Foolhardiness? That weird innocence he seemed to have now? She didn’t know. Oh, Kaneth, please get better soon. I am scared, too, and so alone…

  From the back of her mount, she glanced across to where the slaves, both the ones from the caravan and those from the encampment, were working together to unload the packpedes. Each water jar was tightly sealed with bab gum to stop spillage or evaporation. Scarpen water, she thought, her bitterness so raw she could taste it on her tongue. And how many will die because it was stolen?

  Elmar was there, and several others including the slave who had threatened to kill Ravard if he had the chance. What was his name? Whetstone, that was it. A Scarpen artisan with enough rage inside him to make him a poor choice for enslavement. Even now, he sent periodic scowls in the direction of Ravard and the Pebblered tribemaster.

  The sand-brained fool, Ryka thought. Sooner or later someone is going to notice and decide he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

  Sh
e watched as Elmar and another man climbed onto a pede to extract a jar from the pannier and hand it down to Whetstone. The jar caught on a piece of bab-fibre rope used to secure the pannier to the pede and they could not unhook it. Whetstone reached up to help, but the cord had pulled tight and he couldn’t budge it, either. The guard, seeing their predicament, stepped forward, sliding his scimitar out of his scabbard to cut the cord.

  Ryka’s mouth went dry as she saw Whetstone change. His slouch tautened. His scowl dissolved into an avid hunger. Oh, blast, she thought. He wouldn’t. She sent a frantic look in Kaneth’s direction, more out of habit than conscious thought. She jerked her head to indicate what had caught her attention, and he turned his head to look.

  The cord cut, the Reduner guard prepared to put his weapon back into its scabbard. His grip, loose and casual, was no match for Whetstone’s powerful wrenching grab. Before the guard had fully realized what had happened, Whetstone had leaped away. His face was a portrait of blind rage as he raised the scimitar over his head in a double-fisted hold, his teeth bared in an animal-like snarl. He raced toward Ravard, the blade poised for a savage downward slash. Kaneth scrambled up to stand on the back of his pede.

  Ryka’s thoughts were lucid and fast. Whetstone wants Ravard dead. I could stop this. She could jump on the man as he passed between Kaneth’s pede and hers. She could save Ravard’s life.

  But why should I? This was their chance. She had a pede loaded with food and water under her, Kaneth was right next to her, Elmar nearby, and none of them was tied.

  In the confusion we ride out of here—Even as the thoughts tumbled through her head, she acted.

  She stood up. As she straightened, she beckoned to Elmar. Her heart was beating wildly. He gave a pikeman’s salute, telling her he understood, then he leaped from the packpede and raced—not toward her, but toward Kaneth’s pede. Exactly as she had hoped he would.

  At the same moment, the guard who had lost his weapon gave a belated screech of warning and took off after Whetstone. Ravard heard and began to turn, his hand dropping the reins to reach for the hilt of his scimitar. He would be too late to save himself, Ryka saw that much. She took a step toward the driver’s seat on the first segment and bent to grab the reins where they looped across the saddle.

  And the world shifted. An eerie sound throbbed into the air from beneath the dune, like the echoing beat of a drummer in an underground cavern.

  The legs of Ryka’s mount sank into the sand along one side. She panicked, the terror of the incomprehensible overwhelming her as the animal tilted. In startled shock the pede reared its head, its mouthparts clicking and sawing its alarm. She lost her balance and began to topple. She flung out a hand to grab the pede’s segment handle and missed. As she fell, the scene she glimpsed etched itself onto her memory.

  Elmar, arms pumping, raced toward them in answer to her call. In front of him, one of Whetstone’s feet sank into the sand as if it was water. He went flying, to sprawl headlong a pace away from Ravard. The scimitar flew from his hand in an arc. Ravard and the Pebblered tribemaster both tumbled to their knees, the ground unstable beneath their feet.

  In the background, the throbbing sound changed to a higher tremolo, hauntingly beautiful, spine-tinglingly eldritch. Through it all, Kaneth stood on the back of the packpede alongside her, his expression stark and intense, yet devoid of fear, as the reddish slanting rays of the rising sun captured him in a glowing halo of light. He looked godlike, resembling images she had seen painted on temple walls.

  And then she hit the ground. The breath in her lungs exploded from her. Pain lanced through her torso. She screamed silently, The baby! She gasped for air, torturously dragged it into emptied lungs. And all the while the sand beneath her slipped and slid like unstrung beads and the strange unearthly song issued forth from the depths of the dune.

  When coherence returned, Kaneth was kneeling at her side, touching her face, begging her to say something. The ground beneath her still moved, gently now as trickles of sand flowed this way and that. A small fountain of sand grains inexplicably burst forth next to her shins to shower her legs.

  Nearby, the Pebblered tribemaster was hauling himself upright and Ravard was struggling to rise. He was buried up to his knees. When he finally pulled himself free, he lurched across the still rippling ground to the man who had tried to kill him.

  Whetstone, on his knees, had lost the scimitar, and was groping blindly around in the sand for it. Ravard drew his weapon, his intention clear. Ryka wanted to move, but pain and fear of more pain kept her immobile.

  Kaneth looked up from where he crouched beside Ryka, and said, “No.” The single word was commanding, spoken with an authority he did not have, not here. It stopped Ravard, that voice. It stopped the sands too, or so it appeared, for they ceased moving the moment he spoke, and the song from deep in the earth fell silent.

  You’re sandcrazy, Ryka told Kaneth, but her words must have only been in her head, because she didn’t hear them.

  Whetstone was still on his knees, his rage deflated. “Lord! Lord Uthardim,” he cried. “The Kher killed my family. My parents, my brothers. I want justice. Kill him. Kill this murdering redman.”

  Ravard ignored him. All his attention was now focused on Kaneth. “Who are you t’command the Master Son of the Watergatherer?”

  Perhaps to his men he sounded merely outraged, but Ryka knew him well. She sensed uncertainty in him.

  “The man who just saved your life by moving the dune beneath our feet,” Kaneth replied.

  Watergiver above! He’s saying he did this? Moved the sand? She tried to rise, but pain gripped her, holding her prisoner.

  He added, “And now I ask you to spare this man.”

  His calm made her heart pound. She felt everyone present hold their breath, although many surely did not understand the Scarpen language. Ravard stared at him, shocked. No, more than that, he was outraged by Kaneth’s claim. She struggled against waves of nausea, trying to make sense of what Kaneth meant. Of all that had happened.

  Ravard paused. Not once did he look at the man he wanted to kill. He gave a snort of disbelief, aimed at Kaneth. “Your brains shriveled along with your hair. The sand was doubtless moved by the dune god of Pebblered to save me, not by you! Why the pickled pede would I spare a man who tried t’kill me? And doubtless will again if he has the chance?”

  And with casual grace, he swung his blade in an arc that slit Whetstone’s throat. Blood spurted, drenching Ravard’s trousers even before the body fell. Ravard took no notice. His gaze locked on Ryka’s. For the briefest of moments she glimpsed something there that was close to panicked concern. For her. Then it was gone, and his face hardened.

  “That man’s actions prompted the dune god to rise up to protect me and his tribemaster,” he said, addressing Kaneth.

  Kaneth shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

  “Even if that weren’t so, I don’t owe you nothing! I paid for it in advance with a horned cat. We’d be even, if it was you halted this man—which I don’t believe.”

  “See to the woman of your tent. She may lose your child if she is not well-tended.”

  Ryka drew in a sharp breath of anguish. He thought their son was Ravard’s? A shudder ran through her body. Pain wrenched her, and she wondered if she was bleeding. Sunlord, save my babe. It’s too soon for him to be born. Much too soon.

  Vaguely she was aware of Ravard laughing. “It’s not my bastard, you fool. She’s just a Breccian woman, one of the better spoils of war.” He turned to the Pebblered tribemaster. “Get her a travel pallet. We’ll load her onto the back of a pede when it’s time t’move off.”

  “She’s injured,” Kaneth said angrily. “Can’t you see she’s hurting? Leave her here in the Pebblered encampment until she recovers.”

  Ravard looked genuinely puzzled. “She’s a slave,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And a woman at that. Live or die, d’you think I care? Women are plentiful.” He turned back to the trib
emaster. “Do as I ask.”

  “Kher,” Elmar said respectfully as the tribemaster disappeared from Ryka’s line of vision, “may I get Garnet’s cloak from the pede to cover her?”

  “Yes, do so. And when the pallet arrives, put her on it and strap it to the back of my pede. She can travel behind me.” In the glance he gave her then, she saw concern, but he said nothing. Too damned worried about what his men would think if he asked how I was, she thought.

  He moved away and Elmar climbed to the pede, leaving Ryka and Kaneth alone. “Withering hells, Garnet,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you do that?” she asked, struggling to understand. “Did you move the sand?”

  His frustration at his ignorance burned deep into her senses. “Is it something I could once do?”

  She shook her head. His powers had always been odd and unpredictable, but not that odd.

  “Are you badly hurt?”

  She wanted to answer, to say something that made sense, but no words came. She caught the muttered conversation of the two Reduner guards who had come to drag away Whetstone’s body.

  “The dune god obeys him,” one said in awe. “Did you see? He glowed red, and the sands moved at his gesture and stopped with his spoken word.”

  “He is Uthardim,” the other replied reverently. “He will be the savior of our people.”

  No, Ryka thought, muddled. That can’t be right. He’s Kaneth, rainlord of the Quartern. Father of my son.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Red Quarter

  Dune Pebblered to Dune Sandsinger

  They crossed two more dunes the day they left Pebblered, but Ryka knew little about the journey. Griping pains seized her gut and she turned her senses inward, not outward. The blood was already seeping out between her legs and she knew of no way to stop it.

  Come evening, the caravan halted at the foot of Dune Sandsinger, another inhabited dune. When Elmar and several of the other slaves unloaded her, still strapped to the pallet, they did not take her to Ravard’s tent, but laid her in the open. They put up a cover against the dewfall, and built a fire of dried pede droppings for warmth. The smell was sweet with herbs; better, she thought, than the seaweed briquettes used in the Scarpen.