Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (41 page)

Tank didn’t bother answering, knowing Dasin wouldn’t hear it at the moment. Instead, he watched Dasin’s hands, not his mouth: a peculiarity it had taken him some time to learn. Dasin was able to keep his face utterly flat, but his hands always moved just before he charged.

Dasin’s hands twitched. The blond spun, one foot coming up off the floor in preparation for a kick. Tank ducked low and came in faster; Dasin went upside-down hard enough to make him yell. Tank bent the skinny body to lie nearly flat and face down on the floor, legs hoisted high and turned sideways to torso. He put a foot between Dasin’s shoulders and leaned onto it just enough to hold Dasin still. Not elegant, but Dasin’s upper body strength had always been poor. He was most dangerous when he could kick from a braced position.

Tank hoped he wasn’t leaning in too hard. The white-sparkly agony in his legs wasn’t allowing him to gauge pressure very well at the moment. Dasin panted hoarsely, whining a little as he shoved ineffectively with his arms to push up against the pressure and get free.

“Dasin,” Tank said. “Knock it off, I don’t want to snap your damn spine. Hold still.”

Dasin writhed harder, snorting now with the effort. Afraid he really would injure himself, Tank lowered his legs to the ground and hopped back out of easy range as Dasin rolled to his feet. Eyes showing entirely too much white, he came at Tank again, spittle flying from his mouth; Tank put him sprawling on the ground with one quick shove, then stepped back once more, fetching up against a wall this time.

Nowhere left to retreat, and Tank could feel his knees about to give way. Ignoring pain didn’t help when muscles began to fail.

“Dasin,” he said as the blond climbed to his feet again. “Dasin,
stop.”

Dasin stood still, trembling with fury, his face dead white and his eyes almost colorless.

“Dasin,” Tank said. “Damnit, look at
me,
Dasin. It’s me. It’s Tanavin.” When Dasin went this far into a fit, it wasn’t smart to assume he knew who he was looking at.

Dasin took a step forward, drawing his belt knife. He seemed not to hear Tank at all.

He’s going to force me to fight him if I can’t shake him out of this damn fugue—and I don’t think I can swat a fly, right now.

“Come on, damnit,
stop!”
Tank snapped, desperation infusing the words with more strength than he’d intended to use. To his horror, he heard the tremor of
other-
voice threading through his tone, turning it into an irresistible—and contradictory—command; but there was no recalling what had been spoken. Adding anything else would just make it worse; all he could do was to hope that Dasin’s brain sorted out
stop,
not
come on,
as the relevant order.

Dasin stopped in his tracks, blinking hard. His eyes focused and went vague again; focused on something just past Tank’s right shoulder, so intently that if it hadn’t been wall behind his shoulders, Tank would have turned to look. Blinked once more, wiped a forearm absently across his mouth, then looked directly at Tank.

“Tanavin?”

Using that name told Tank that Dasin was still at least partially in a haze.

“Yes,” he said, very quiet, very neutral. “I’m Tanavin—”
Gods,
he hated that name at the moment “—of Aerthraim Family. And you’re Dasin of Aerthraim Family.”

A long moment went by, in which Dasin stared at Tank as though he’d never seen his face before. Then he looked slowly down at the knife in his hand and back up to Tank.

“You’re an ass and a loon, is what you are,” he said at last, sheathed the knife, and added a few more choice descriptions in a flat, dead voice.

Tank stayed still and silent, his expression blank; deprived of a reaction, Dasin scowled, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the wagon.

Tank let out a long, shaky breath, and leaned hard against the wall for support. A moment later he gave up on that effort and slid to sit on the ground, teeth clenched, tears leaking down his face.

Dasin stopped and turned back, his irritable expression shifting to one of sharp alarm.

Tank waved a hand, forcing his breathing even, and said hoarsely, “Fine. Go. I’ll be—just gimme’bit.”

Dasin advanced a step, his frown deepening. “You’re hurt—what happened?”

The thought of Dasin fussing over him brought a surge of acidic near-vomit into his throat. “Just—fine. Muscle cramp. Be fine. Go, damnit,
go on.
Be righ’ with you. Go.”

Dasin hesitated another moment, then turned stiffly and went to the wagon.

Tank leaned his head back against the wall, wondering how in the hells he was going to get himself up and moving. Without distraction at hand, the white-hot sear had moved into a pulsing, ripping sensation. Walking was out of the question.

You have a gift....

He tilted his head forward slightly, let it fall back against the wall, as though that might shake some other option open to consideration. Nothing presented itself.

Eyes blurred. His hands clenched into taut fists as the pain eased a notch higher.

What did Allo do when he healed me?
Memory of the man’s hands, warm around Tank’s legs; agony receding little by little. It hadn’t all been the salve—but how had he done it?

I don’t know what the hells I’m doing...but the only person I can hurt is myself....

Alyea’s memory, someone warning:
You have to start being very careful what you want....

Willpower. Is it that simple?

He forced himself to think about the pain, instead of shutting it out. A low whine escaped his throat as agony ratcheted off the scale, beyond blocking.
Tore something—not getting up, no—worse than I thought.

His head swam.
Don’t want Dasin—no. Won’t have it—won’t have him fussing—damnit!

Focusing felt like shoving through a mountain: slogging through solid rock, forcing his way through every crack and crevice of clarity. Some endless time later, he emerged into a bizarre, still calm, a centered moment of sureness. Pain rainbowed to all sides, forming a slick, oily lake, dome, walls—but none of it directly touched him. He looked down at his legs to find the skin gone transparent: torn muscles flared crystalline, reddened patterns from hip to toes.

He reached—it took no effort, brought no strain to lower back, arm, neck—an impossible reach, fingers thinner than reality allowed—touched a red line, easing a loose end sideways, up against the equally ruddy streak of bone—held it,
willing—

Red faded, the end splaying into a thousand tiny filaments, reattaching, weaving too rapidly to track—

There were more red lines. He stroked each one, delicate, feather-touch, back to its proper place; watched color flare and fade, the rainbow around him dissolving—

“Tank?”

He shuddered all over, drew his legs up against his chest in reflexive defense: banged his head against the wall when he looked up, and yelped more from startlement than pain.

Dasin laughed. “You fell asleep,” he said. “Get up already.” He held out a hand.

“Nhrrr.” Tank shook his head, rubbing his eyes. There had been something—important—or was it done? He couldn’t remember. He put a hand to the ground, shoved, worked his way up the wall until he stood fully on his feet.

Dasin dropped his hand. “Stubborn loon,” he muttered. “Nothing’s stolen. Let’s get on the road.”

“Hhhh.” Tank blinked, leaning back against the wall, and found himself flexing his right ankle, then his left.

“Quit dancing. Let’s go,” Dasin said, cross.

“Huh. Yeah. Sorry.” Tank took a step, another; dimly surprised and not sure why. He shook his head and went to saddle Ginibar.

As he tightened the final straps, she shifted and slammed a hoof down near one of his feet. He jerked back, swearing under his breath; stopped mid-curse, a strong shudder working down his back, and stood nearly paralyzed with unidentified emotion for a moment. At last he looked down at his legs, slowly, dreading vision. Rough cloth and hard boots met his gaze, not flayed muscle. And no pain.

You have a gift....

He fought back a surge of nausea; another; then lurched to the corner of Ginibar’s stall and lost the battle altogether. She snorted and stomped again, crowding the opposite wall hard enough to make boards creak.

Tank regained his feet, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned against the rough boards of the stall, shivering all over. Ginibar turned restlessly, her bulk looming towards him. Her head swung round, wide dark eyes regarding him with vague puzzlement.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he muttered, catching hold of the bridle’s cheek strap. He leaned against her musty warmth for a precious moment, allowing himself one last self-indulgent shudder of utter horror, then led her from the stall.

“This is a story that goes back many years,” the daimaina said. “Much of this story does not concern you, and I will not tell those parts of it: I only mention this to make you aware that many small things contributed to events over a very long time.” She paused for a moment, then went on, “You have been told the story of the Beginning, and of the Split. Much of what you have been told by others, even the story given you during your blood trials, is either lies or distortions. The teyanain remember the truth, and it is not a pleasant truth to hear or to know.”

She paused again, tilting her head slightly, but shook her head when Alyea moved a hand toward the small cup.

“When the ha’reye emerged and met humanity, there was one, a human priestess of the time, who stood as liaison. She heard the winds, she spoke to the gods, and she thought, at first, that the new voices came from sacred sources. By the time she discovered what she had led her people into, it was too late; she was bound to the Jungles and named as the First among their followers. Time went by differently for her, and she learned things no human had ever conceived of as possible before. She grew very powerful, very strong, through many trials and tests and sharings. She began to resemble her teachers: she became ha’rai’nin.”

The daimaina stopped again, pursing her lips slightly.

“She forgot about the outside world, and the world forgot about the ha’reye, little by little; information was muddled and distorted, important people died without passing along the truths they held. Before and after the Split, this happened, and the Split itself was not a short event: it took over a hundred years. Some loremasters call it two hundred. But throughout all of it, the ha’reye did not stop watching the world for danger and changes that would not benefit them. That is one thing humans forget easily: the ha’reye have never stopped watching, even during the Split.
Especially
not during the Split.”

She paused again.

“This is a small matter,” she added, “small but important, like a pebble that begins the avalanche. One day this First among the ha’rai’nain raised her head from her studies to find a trouble starting in the outside world, one which concerned her for reasons I will not explain. Time is judged differently in the Jungles, and by the time serious concern even arose, a major Fortress lay empty and bloodied, a single surviving child crying in the sands outside.”

Alyea drew in a deep, even breath, reminding herself that questions and comments were not permitted; it was proving more difficult than she’d expected. The priestess almost had to be Teilo, the child Cafad Scratha, but it seemed unlikely that names would be mentioned in this discussion. Alyea wasn’t sure whether that came from another teyanain custom or if the daimaina had a specific reason for being coy.

The woman went on, words slowing and easing into a more relaxed cadence, as if coming to the end of a tale: “And so this First among the ha’rai’nain, who had not left the Jungles since the day she walked away from her human brethren, and again for her own reasons, which I will not explain, left the Jungles to investigate what had happened at this Fortress.”

The daimaina fell silent, flicking a glance at the tea cup. Alyea took a small sip. The liquid came as a welcome relief to the growing dryness in her throat. The teyanain woman nodded and continued the story.

“She was permitted to leave, but on finding her answers, she petitioned to stay out in the mortal world to resolve the situation she discovered. Permission was denied: she was ordered to return. But for the first time in a thousand years of service, she defied her teachers and broke her covenant, and became
hask:
one who is cast out of the tribe. The Jungles consider her mad. Those she associates with are suspect. Anyone she allies with must also be mad, and therefore dangerous, and therefore is to be destroyed as a danger to the world. This is the word of the Jungles.”

Alyea drew in a long, shallow breath, blinking hard, and managed—just—not to say anything. The daimaina’s eyes gleamed with amusement, then cooled to a more impassive cast.

“The teyanain have always been different, as you may have been told once or twice.”

Alyea snorted involuntary laughter, then hastily covered her mouth with her hand.

The daimaina inclined her head, expression solemn, and said, “It is the truth. We have always prided ourselves on thinking clearly for ourselves, not by what others tell us is true. We have kept records and stored historical items since coming to the Horn; this was not possible in a nomadic life. Even in a stationary existence, many important things are lost by those less careful. But we are careful. We are the keepers of the truths others discard. We store the secrets of the sands. And we do not accept the word of the Jungles as our law, because we know too much about the ha’reye, and about what the ha’reye have done to humanity.”

She paused, watching Alyea’s face. After a measured interval, as though giving Alyea time to think through what had been said, she went on.

“The ha’ra’hain, no less than their parents, manipulate humans to their gain. That only a handful of lesser ha’ra’hain walk the surface of the world is truly a blessing, although more people contain traces of mixed blood than is generally suspected. But that only one First Born has survived is more than a blessing: it is the reason our world has not been completely destroyed yet. This one First Born, this most sane and restrained of all the First Born, who now walks among us in the guise of a rich, self-indulgent merchant, could cause all of humanity to be wiped from the earth with a slight effort on his part and a few words to the Jungles. Do not forget this. It is very important.”