Call the Rain (10 page)

He had not let go of her hand and she felt the clamminess of his palm and the wrinkled skin of his fingers against her flesh. He released her suddenly and pushed himself to his feet. “Come on, before we freeze to death.”

Illista stood. The earth below her feet felt like coarse sand and gravel, not unlike the beaches near her girlhood home, and it was curiously dry. She took a cautious step forward and a sharp rock tore into the bottom of her heel. “We won't be able to see where we are going.”

“But we can't stay here with wet clothes and no way to warm ourselves.”

Illista stared through the darkness to the shadowy lump in Joral's arms. Maybe if she just...

Joral cried out and jumped back, dropping his clothes to the ground. The sword hit with a clang of metal on rock.

She stared at the bundle on the ground. “I am sorry. Did it hurt?”

He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I felt the clothes move. Something..tickled me. I..well..”

Illista knelt beside the clothes and untied the knot that held them together. Her fingers quickly found the rough-spun fabric of her own dress. She shook out the wrinkles. It was completely dry though it smelled of river water. Much better than the mud and sweat and grime it had held when she doffed it in the cave. With a grin in the darkness, she slipped it over her head then returned to find her shoes.

Joral held up his own dry shirt and paused. “Did you…?” His voice was tight and clipped.

She sucked in her breath and waited. Waited for the backlash or the anger or the questions.

Joral said nothing, only shrugged on the shirt and then in to the rest of his clothing. Even his boots.

She blew out her breath and followed it with a large yawn. Her arms felt heavy and her legs trembled. “We should find someplace to rest now.”

They climbed together up and out of what seemed to be a sandy beach leading back down to the river. There were no trees or plants until they reached a sharp edge of hard-packed dirt. They found a thick patch that shielded them somewhat from the wind and settled on the ground. Without a word spoken, Joral took Illista into the shelter of his arms and she nestled her back into the warmth of his chest.

She stared at the cloudless sky for many long minutes, aware of the rise and fall of Joral's chest and the heat of his arms and the tickle of his breath in her hair. The tension in his muscles.

Finally, he rolled onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head, sending a shiver of cold up Illista'
s back. She turned to face him.

“Where do yo
u come from?” he asked the sky and the stars and the tiny sliver of a moon.

Illista rested her head on one elbow and studied his profile. His
chin looked like the chins of the rest of the Segra men, but his nose was different, as was the jut of his eyebrows. She felt a strange impulse to trace that line from forehead to nose to the fullness of his lips. Instead, she sighed.

“We grew up near the ocean, many months walk from here. There was a small island just off the coast with palm trees and fruit. It was warm, much warmer than here, and the sun was bright enough during the day to burn if you stayed out too long.
The water was warm and salty, perfect for swimming.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It was, once.”

He rolled so that they faced each other. “What happened?”

She sniffed. “Outsiders found us. At first they just wanted to trade with us. We would dry the ocean water to make salt. But then they discovered something in the rocks that made them greedy.”

“Gold?”

She shook her head. “I forget what they called it. The island where my parents and Quarie and I lived contained a great deal of it, so they forced us to leave. It was then that their leader's son noticed Quarie.”

She squeezed her eyes tight against the memories. There was a storm and the sounds of Quarie screaming. Her father was cut down by a man with an axe. Her mother pleaded and was silenced.

“We were saved by a great tsunami,” she said haltingly. “Several of Zabewa's men drowned in the water. Quarie and I escaped. They have hunted us ever since. They blamed Quarie for the storm. Called her a witch.”

He touched her cheek lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice trembled as he whispered. “I won't let Mulavi take you or your sister. On my life, I promise you that.”

She opened her eyes and then her mouth to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips. “Shh. We should rest now.”

She shook her head and whispered to his finger, “But you see, Quarie is a witch. She did call the waves to kill Zabewa’s men. And now I am a witch too.”

**
*

Icy spikes shuddered down Illista
’s arms and legs to the tips of her toes and up to her hair. She gasped, startled out of sleep into a world she did not at first recognize.

“Shh
.” Joral’s hushed whisper tickled her ear and reminded her of just where she was. And with whom. And why. Fear settled like sludge into the pit of her stomach.

She tried to roll over and rolled flat onto her face in the dirt instead. It was then that she realized that she was a Waki again. She pushed up with her thick palms and stared down the embankment towards the river. It was still night time, but by the indigo glowing at the horizon, morning would soon be here. The sounds of the water sounded muffled, like her ears were plugged.

“I see lights a little ways off. Torches maybe, or lanterns. We are probably too far away for anyone to see us yet, but I thought it might be safer for you like this.” Joral crouched a few feet away, his golden hair streaked with the silver rays of the almost-dawn. His gaze was focused somewhere far away, past the river.

The short distance between them felt like stone. Impenetrable. This was how it was
supposed to be. Illista, the servant, hiding her true self. Alone for her own protection. Joral, the prince. Preparing for his future. She gulped, unable to gather enough wetness in her mouth to swallow the lump that formed in her throat. A Waki could shed no tears, but the river sang a slow, sad song, begging her to return.

“You are free to go back.” Joral’s voice was low and thick with something intense and raw as though he’d spent the night shouting instead of sleeping. His gaze stayed intent on the spot over her shoulder.

“I am a woman, not a fish. I can’t stay in the water forever. And my sister…”

He nodded. “They are Segra. I am sure of it. Shall we face our future head on, or shall we stay hidden in the grass?”

Illista followed Joral and the two Xan Segra scouts from a respectable distance.
A barely respectable distance. Any time she slowed her pace to farther than about three strides back, Joral slowed too and waited on her. He did it suavely, easily adjusting his own pace until she was forced to catch up to them. And he never said a word to their escort.

If they noticed such strange behavior from
the son of a rival Chieftess, they did not comment. Maybe they attributed it to his foreign upbringing. Or maybe they just never noticed her, padding along behind them with three quick strides to every long one of theirs.

It pained Illista physically to leave the water behind, but the Xan Segra camp was not far. Maybe an hour’s walk
around the opposite side of the shore. The underground river must have been beneath the Segra’s feet for their entire journey.

The river bank was actually the edge of a large pond,
sacred water like that of the Ken Segra. Except this one was much smaller and lay in the shadow of a hulking sheer cliff of solid granite. Solid from outward appearances. She wondered if the Xan Segra knew of the underground river. The low cave opening was not visible by daylight, even though she knew where to look. She wondered how much longer until it was discovered.

This river-fed pond was
receding. What had felt like a sandy beach in the moonlight was a long stretch of dry bed that had obviously once held water. The water looked to cover less than half of the ground that it once had. The beach was dry enough to tell her that the water level had shrunk some long time ago. Months, not days. The occasional grass shoot had begun to take root, but not much. Months, maybe a year.

They entered the Xan Segra camp to a crowd of curious onlookers lining a passage between the sleeping tents and work tents. Illista stared at the people’s feet. Their shoes were the same soft leather and suede as the Ken Segra’s, though the
patterns of stitching and beadwork were different. Here and there she caught a glimpse of a Waki foot, hiding behind a tent flap or a wagon wheel.

“My son! Thank the Rains you are safe.” Chieftess stepped forward from a large gathering tent and embraced Joral by the shoulders.

Illista was so surprised by the action that she stared openly. Joral looked stiff in his mother’s arms, and it took him a moment to return the hug with a pat on the woman’s shoulders.

“I am sorry to have caused you grief. There was an…accident with one of the wagons and I went back after Illista.” He motioned back toward her, and she froze.

Chieftess glanced over her and Illista felt achingly aware of her stature, her limbs, her work dress that was little more than a rag, her expressionless Waki face that made her look like a simpleton. She feared to breathe until the Segra woman turned her attention back to her son.

More people filed out of the gathering tent. She recognized two of the tribe elders.
Xan Segra hunters. A broad, graying man with a headdress not unlike one of the Chieftess’s own. Rafil, who had led the Xan Segra delegation to the betrothal ceremony. A slender young woman with long white-blonde hair, delicate features, and an embroidered tunic edged in rare onyx beadwork.

The
young woman moved with the grace of a cat at her leisure as she wound past the Chieftess to stand in front of Joral. “Welcome, Joral. I am Shikan, daughter of Qitkan. We of the Xan Segra are pleased to find you safe, and to welcome you to our sacred waters. I am pleased most of all.”

Illista could help but stare at the other woman. Shikan, Joral’s betrothed, had a golden beauty that glittered like the midday sun, and when she shined a radiant smile at Joral, it hurt to look at her. The pair made a striking couple.

Illista hunched her shoulders and forced her eyes away.

The man in the headdress was Qitkan, she supposed, Chief of the Xan Segra and the golden woman’s father. He beamed proudly at his daughter. Next to him, Rafil crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. The warrior turned the glower on Illista and
she huddled deeper into the drabness of her servant’s garb.

“You risk much for the life of a Waki, Prince Joral.” Rafil nearly spat the words.

Illista shrank away and dropped her gaze to her dirt-streaked feat, fear turning her mouth to dust and her stomach to river rock.

“My life is worth nothing if I would
leave behind one of my people,” bowed Joral.

“Come, Rafil. Do not be cross. Prince Joral is safe and that is what is important.” Qitkan took Joral by the arm and led him toward the gathering tent. “We should celebrate with a feast this evening.”

Joral broke free of her arm and walked back. Illista’s heart nearly stopped as his feet paused just a few inches from her own. She looked up into his eyes. They were a bright blue like the afternoon sky and as unreadable as the depths of the ocean. “Go to Zuke, Illista. See to your sister.”

She nodded, spun and walked away. She didn’t so much choose a direction as choose the pat
h with the fewest Segra feet. She had no idea where to find Zuke and Quarie in this sea of tents and strange people, but she couldn’t bear to watch Joral arm in arm with his beautiful Princess.

**
*

Chieftess snapped her fingers and a Waki that Joral did not recognize materialized out of the folds of the gathering tent with a skin of water. Joral tried to
catch the boy’s eye as he accepted the drink, but the servant would not look up. How many Waki served in the camp? Was this boy really a boy or was he an old man? Joral felt ashamed to never have wondered before. What other secrets did the Segra's silent helpers conceal from their employers?

“Thank you,” he said firmly.

The servant hurried away without a backward glance.

He glanced toward the willowy figure of his
fiancée. Every line of every poem spoken at the betrothal ceremonial had been true. She was beautiful with even features and a clear complexion and curves in all the right places. In the halls of his father's people, she would have easily snared a baron as a husband, if not a true prince. How strange that he, the bastard son of a minor noble, should be deserving of her.

The thought left him much colder than he expected. His heart felt like lead, and
it was as if he had to paint onto his face. Like a man in one of the murals that lined Zuke's tent. A fake.

Shikan's fingers were cold against the bared skin of his forearm and she frowned down at them, a small wrinkle marring her high forehead. She dropped her hand and smiled, her expression guarded. “You will wish to bathe and dress in the privacy of your own tent.”