“You seem rather complacent for someone about to die ,” Gavin said.
“Complacent?”
“Calm.”
“It is simply another step along the Path. I will be reborn. Maybe this time I will rise to the next Iteration.”
Gavin gave a small half-groan. There was simply too much he didn’t fully understand.
“You came here for a reason, though. What is it?” Samsin’s voice held only mild curiosity, though he raised one eyebrow speculatively.
Gavin opened his mouth and then closed it, trying to decide. Samsin was right of course. He’d felt compelled to come here even if he didn’t fully understand what had driven him. His mind did that to him sometimes, forcing him to do things before fully formed thoughts could come together.
“I was out walking tonight,” Gavin said slowly, sifting through the thoughts in his mind and coming to the slow realization of why he was there, “and I was stopped by some of Brisson’s people. They startled me and I reached out for my powers and . . .” Gavin let his voice trail off, realizing how foolish he sounded.
“And it didn’t work for you,” Samsin prompted, sitting up. He grinned. “I thought that might happen. I felt the massive wells of energy in the Sharani Arena. It was there, hidden deep in the sands.”
Gavin frowned.
“You draw the energy into you, even you primitive mystics. You can’t use what isn’t there.”
“What do you mean, isn’t there?”
Samsin leapt to his feet and rushed toward the bars. Gavin took a quick step back as Samsin grabbed onto the door’s bars and pressed his face up against them.
“How did your people survive for so long with so little real knowledge?” Samsin asked, studying Gavin intently. “Energy is the result of movement, the product of motion. Without motion, there is no energy. You can feel it in the storm, sense it on the wind, in the clouds crashing into one another. There is little motion here, outside of the storms.”
Gavin frowned, a hint of understanding dawning. “But in the desert, the sands were constantly shifting. That’s motion.”
Samsin’s lips formed a thin line. “That was my theory. It was that, or the immense systems of weather magic in the air. Not that it matters anymore. Still, it has been a long time since I felt that much power.”
Gavin felt dread spread through him like the tingling chill of frostbite. If his powers didn’t work, if none of the mystic powers worked like they had in the Sharani Desert, how were they going to hold any advantage at all within Brisson’s people? It was the only bargaining tool they had. Without it . . .
“What do you do about it? You can’t only have powers any time there’s a storm.”
“I won’t tell the secrets of a Great One to a mystic,” Samsin said, white blonde eyebrows forming a bright cloud over his eyes. “Not even at the threshold of death or the gates to the seven hells.”
Samsin stepped back from the bars and turned back to his kneeling position, ignoring Gavin completely, even when Gavin tried to say something.
Eventually, Gavin left. He stumbled out into the night, pulling his cloak fast around his shoulders. He felt more than a little helpless. Everything he’d worked for in the Oasis was now gone and the very identity of his people was threatened. True, according to Brisson and Nikanor, the two peoples shared common ancestry, but a thousand years of divergence left them with little in common, even in appearance. Gavin shook his head and pulled his hood up. He pushed by the guards, who gave him a wide berth, but then noticed movement coming from the medical building.
Two men bore a third on a litter of sorts. A fourth man nearing a lamp bounded up the wooden steps and pounded on the door. Without thinking, Gavin rushed over and grabbed the litter. The salty, sharp smell of blood wafted up from the litter. His shoulder throbbed where it was still healing from the arrow wound.
“Thank you,” the man nearest him said.
Gavin nodded, noting the weariness in his voice and the slack, haggard drooping of his mouth and in the corners of his eyes.
“Oi,” the lantern bearer shouted, pounding on the door again, “open up in there. We’ve got a wounded man out here.”
The sound of someone stirring came from inside the medical hall and then the sound of wood rasping against itself before the door creaked open and an older woman peered out into the night, eyes squinted against the blinding light of the lantern.
“Quiet down, you,” the woman snapped. “There’s children sleeping in here. Bring him in, bring him in. And don’t be making noise while you’re at it.”
Gavin had to squeeze to one side to get through the door, brushing shoulders with the archer, but they made it into the room. Rows and rows of narrow beds lined both sides of the room, most occupied by people Gavin recognized.
“Over there,” the woman said, gesturing toward a corner of the room where a raised counter lay. “Shift him off that stretcher and get him out of those clothes.”
Gavin blinked at the tone of authority in the woman’s voice. They maneuvered the stretcher up onto the counter and shifted him off the litter. The smell of blood and festering infection made Gavin want to gag, but he swallowed the bile and helped the two men remove the man’s shirt and trousers, leaving him clad only in grey, wool under clothes. The wound was a mass of red blood and festering skin hot to the touch on his chest.
“Out of the way,” a familiar voice said softly.
Gavin turned to see the woman who had pulled the arrow from his shoulder back in the Sharani Desert approaching from the far side of the room.
“Move back, you three,” the woman, Alyson, said, nodding deferentially to Gavin, but still shepherding him and the other two men back. “Give me a little room to move please, if you don’t mind.”
They moved back, the two men—soldiers, Gavin assumed—shuffling toward a small, wooden bench near the door. Gavin, not knowing what else to do, went with them.
“What happened?” Gavin asked in a soft voice.
The two men eyed him, their expressions openly appraising. “You’re one of those Rahuli, aren’t you?”
Gavin didn’t answer. The speaker, not the one to which Gavin had spoken earlier but the other one, sniffed and wrinkled his nose.
“I could use some mead, Tadeo, how about you?” the man said. He turned, intentionally moving so his hand fell onto the hilt of his sword and turning a shoulder to exclude Gavin from the conversation.
Gavin was too used to the political scheming of the Rahuli to miss it, but also to give it more meaning than it actually had. This was simply a man used to being ignored and so he was playing with a newfound authority. He was too soft to be a real soldier. Gavin noticed his muscular frame, but it was the wrong sort of muscle. Hard corded arms and broad shoulders, but disproportionate to the rest of him. Unbalanced. If Gavin had learned anything about fighting over the last few weeks it was that it was a question of balance more than strength. It was a question of endurance.
“You know I do not drink,” Tadeo said, his voice a rough burr so different from his companion’s accent that Gavin’s interest was immediately piqued. He was clothed in thick leather overclothes and wore a sword at his waist. A bow rested over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows lay alongside it, poking up behind his head. Gavin hadn’t seen a bow quite like it before.
“Well, I could sure use a belt. I hate the smell of blood, the feel of death claiming friends around you.”
“What happened?” Gavin repeated. This time, though, he directed the question toward the archer, Tadeo, not the gruff swordsman.
Tadeo turned his gaze on Gavin, studying him with discerning, curious eyes. Gavin met the gaze, noting the hard, knowledgeable wisdom within them, then used the opportunity to study the man back. His eyes, though dark and piercing, were sunken deep into his face, like dark hollow pits from which little light glimmered, despite their large size. His skin was browned and weathered. Wrinkles were only just beginning to give it age. The short beard and hair were both grizzled with white. Despite that, Gavin guessed the man was only barely into his fourth decade. Sharp, angular lines highlighted his cheekbones and gave the man a distinct appearance as different from the other former slaves as was the man’s accent. His simple clothing draped over his frame like a ragged cloth over a skeleton. What muscle he did have, was wiry and corded and an old scar ran across the side of his nose. This was a man who’d known a hard, violent life.
“The patrol got hit by a group of Orinai scouts,” Tadeo said. “They took our companion by surprise before I could distract them and get us back to this place.”
“Patrols?” Gavin asked.
“None of your concern, Rahuli,” the first man snapped. “We’ve got it handled. What were you doing over here at this time of night, anyhow?”
Gavin ignored him.
Tadeo glanced sidelong at his companion before returning his gaze to Gavin. Gavin noticed a strange twitch at the corner of Tadeo’s mouth, but wasn’t sure if it was the beginnings of a frown or a smile.
“We have regular patrols,” Tadeo said softly, his accent making the words even more difficult to understand. Behind them, the murmur of voices picked up and the man on the table moaned and thrashed about. “The Orinai are out there, looking for us. Maybe for you too, I think.”
“What’d you tell him that for?” the other man asked, expression sour. “He’s one of
them.
”
“He asked,” Tadeo said, “so I told him. Your people are not warriors, Joren. His are. Perhaps he can help.” Tadeo gave Gavin another appraising look then shrugged. “I changed my mind. Let us go find that drink.”
“That’s summat I can agree with.” Joren sniffed loudly and, pointedly ignoring Gavin, headed for the door.
“Aren’t you going to wait for your friend?” Gavin asked.
Tadeo shook his head. “The women here will care for him. This thing is certain. Farewell for now.” Tadeo nodded at Gavin and then followed Joren out the door into the night.
Gavin thought about following them and probing Tadeo for more information, both about the patrols and the man himself, but just as he was about to leave Alyson called out to him.
“Don’t you take another step toward that door,” she said, coming over to him while wiping her hands on a reddish cloth that looked as if it had once been white. “I haven’t looked at that shoulder of yours in far too long.”
Gavin pursed his lips and absently raised a hand to probe at his wounded shoulder. “I’m fine, really.”
Alyson snorted. “You think I’m just going to take your word for it? You’re a man. You’d lie about the pain just to save face. Off with that shirt of yours.”
Gavin didn’t move.
“Now!” she snapped.
Gavin shrugged out of his cloak and then pulled his shirt over his head, containing the wince that threatened to betray him at the motion. Even inside the building, he shivered at the cold and felt his skin raise along his arms and the back of his neck. He looked down at his shoulder, seeing the purple bruising and the deep, red-brown scab where the arrow had taken him. Thankfully, no fresh blood stained the skin around it.
Alyson bustled over, tossing the rag aside. Gavin found himself immediately discomfited when her disapproving gaze fell on him.
“Where’s the bandage I put on there, hmmm?” she snapped. “The wound has just barely begun to heal. It needs another few weeks with a poultice on it before you can leave it exposed like this. It’s a wonder it hasn’t become gangrenous already.”
Gavin shifted uncomfortably, then winced as Alyson probed the wound with her fingers. He stumbled back and almost collapsed onto the wooden bench behind him. Alyson’s eyes flashed to his face, her lips in a thin line that almost seemed to say that she’d expected this.
“I’ve been busy,” Gavin said defensively. “I put new bandages on it as often as I can. I’ve been resting and haven’t tried to use the shoulder much.”
Alyson gave him a flat look that clearly told him he had said something stupid.
“I guess I’ll just have to heal you then,” Alyson said and before Gavin could respond, she reached out and placed a hand over the wound.
For a moment, Gavin wondered what was going on, then a feeling of intense cold washed through him as if he’d fallen headlong into a pile of snow. He gasped, and shivered at the same time, a sensation that left him a little nauseated and confused for the space of half a breath. Then the feeling vanished.
“What was that?” Gavin said, pulling away from Alyson’s grip.
She let him go and took a step back herself, a clear frown in her expression now. She looked suddenly weary, haggard even. She gestured toward his shoulder with a sluggish motion. Gavin looked down. His skin was unbroken and flawless, all trace of the wound having completely vanished.
“You’re a wetta!” Gavin said loudly enough that Alyson made a face and looked about the room to see if anyone else stirred.
“Clearly,” Alyson said, taking a seat on the wooden bench alongside him. The weariness in her voice was palpable. “Though it was a recent discovery. Lhaurel found me a little while ago, in the same group as the other mystics she was trying to Break. Unlike some, I didn’t break until our journey here. That journey . . .” Alyson trailed off, voice falling to less than a whisper.
Gavin prodded his shoulder with hesitant fingers, pushing harder when he didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of pain.