Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Thank you,” she said.

Winter translated, then said to Feor, “He doesn’t speak your language.”

She nodded, eyes a little distant, as though pondering something.

“Listen-,” Winter began, but the girl raised a hand.

“Let me have a moment, if you would,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I am not a fool, Winter-dan-Ihernglass. Or at least I like to think not. I understand what you have done for me. I do not”-her mouth quirked-“I do not quite understand why, but my ignorance of your reasons does not diminish the fact that you saved my life, and apparently not to simply make me your slave or your whore.” She bowed, first to Winter and then to Bobby, so deep that her forehead nearly touched the ground. “I thank you, both of you.”

Winter nodded awkwardly. “She’s grateful,” she said in response to Bobby’s questioning look.

“And as you have given me this gift,” the girl went on, “I will not throw it away. Tell me what you need me to do, and I will do it. I trust that, if you meant me harm, you have already had ample opportunity to accomplish it.”

Winter gave another nod. She felt a small knot of worry dissolve. If the girl had been stupid, or obstinate, the chances would have been high that she’d not only get herself discovered but that Winter and the others might be punished in the bargain.

“I’m still figuring this out myself,” Winter said. “I hope that we can find somewhere safe and let you go, but it may take some time.”

Feor inclined her head. “If that is the gods’ will.”

“If you don’t mind, may I ask you a question?”

The girl nodded.

“What were you doing with that army?” Winter shifted awkwardly. “You do not seem like one of”-she fumbled for the Khandarai words-“the men of the Redemption.”

Feor laughed. It was the first expression of humor that Winter had seen out of her, and it transformed the severe angles of her face. Her eyes sparkled.

“No,” the girl said. “I am not. I was there as a prisoner of Yatchik-dan-Rahksa.”

“The. .” Winter’s lips moved silently. “The angel of vengeance?”

“The-” She said another couple of words that Winter didn’t know. Seeing the incomprehension, Feor went on. “The high priests of the Redeemers take the names of angels. This one was the leader of the army of the Faithful.”

“Why would he bring you along?”

“Because he is ignorant. He thinks-thought-that I would have the power to counter the magic of your leader.”

Now it was Winter’s turn to laugh. “Our colonel isn’t a wizard, at least not that I know of.” “Wizard” didn’t quite translate properly, but Feor seemed to catch the gist. She shook her head.

“There is a man of power among your army. Malik-dan-Belial warned us, and this close even I can feel it. Yatchik’s ignorance was in thinking I would be able to defend him against such a man. What power I have is not of that sort.”

“Power? As a mistress of the gods, you mean?” Winter shifted uneasily. The subject of religion made her uncomfortable.

“No.” Feor’s face went distant again. When she spoke, it was slow and careful, as though speaking was difficult. “I am a naathem. ”

Winter paused. She’d encountered the word before, but a proper translation had always eluded her. The Khandarai seemed to use it to mean “wizard” or “sorcerer,” although not quite in the Vordanai sense and without the connotation of evil those words carried to Vordanai ears. Literally it meant “one who has read.” But even among Khandarai, naathem were the domain of myths or fairy tales. No one she’d ever spoken with had claimed to have met one, any more than a modern Vordanai would have personally seen a demon or a sorcerer.

Bobby, in the silence that followed, looked curiously at Winter. “What did she say?”

“She’s a priestess,” Winter said. “But not one of the Redeemers. They brought her along because they thought that she would defend them against our magic.”

The boy laughed. “Our magic?”

“The Redeemers take that sort of thing seriously.”

“So she was a prisoner?” He looked curiously at Feor, who looked back with polite incomprehension.

“I think so.” She switched back to Khandarai. “Feor, if you could get away from here, where would you go?”

“Back to Mother,” she said, without hesitation. “In Ashe-Katarion. She will be looking for me.”

Winter sat back. “She wants to go home,” she said to Bobby.

“Don’t we all,” the boy said.

Not all, Winter thought. Aloud, she said, “Hers is a good deal closer than ours. We may be able to manage something.”

A knock at the tent pole interrupted them. “It’s Graff.”

“Come in,” Winter said.

Feor gave the older corporal a nod, and he dipped his head uncertainly in return. To Winter he said, “Is she making any sense?”

“To me, anyway.” Winter turned to Feor. “This is Corporal Graff. He’s the one who set your arm.”

The girl raised the bandaged limb. “Tell him he has done an excellent job.”

When Winter repeated that, Graff laughed, and colored a little under his beard. “It wasn’t anything difficult, just a little break.” He smiled at Feor, then turned to Winter. “Got a message. The colonel wants to see you.”

Winter’s good mood, always a little fragile, evaporated at once. “What? Why?”

“Didn’t say.”

“You don’t think-” Her eyes flicked to the Khandarai girl.

“No, I doubt it. Anyway, he said ‘at your earliest convenience,’ which means ‘right goddamned now,’ so you’d better go.”

“Right.” Winter scrambled to her feet, then looked down at herself. She felt as though she ought to change clothes, but there was no way to manage it with the three of them in the tent. She desperately wanted a bath as well, but that was out of the question. Hygiene was one of the hardest parts of maintaining her secret, at least since the regiment had left Ashe-Katarion. Fortunately, the prevailing standard was not high.

“Keep an eye on her until I get back,” she said to Bobby. Then, to Feor, “I need to go. Stay here, and if you need anything, try to show Bobby.”

The girl nodded, purple eyes imperturbable. Winter glanced at her one more time, then slipped outside.

• • •

“Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass, reporting as directed, sir!”

She held the salute until the captain waved it away. The colonel’s tent was hardly bigger than her own, though much better organized. A few trunks packed against the canvas walls presumably contained his necessities. In the center was a low folding table and a portable writing desk with pens, ink, and drying sand in securely fashioned containers. The officers sat on cushions, Khandarai style, Captain d’Ivoire on her right and Lieutenant Warus on the left.

At the head of the table sat the colonel. He was not what she had been expecting. Younger, for a start, and thin-featured and delicate instead of stocky and gruff, as so many of these senior officers seemed to be. His long fingers were constantly in motion, twining, untwining, steepling or tapping something. Deep gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as though weighing what they saw in the balance. She had the unpleasant feeling that she would be found wanting.

“I apologize for my condition, sir,” she said. “After we returned to camp, I needed to rest, and I received your order shortly after waking.”

The colonel smiled, and something in his eyes glittered. “Do not fret about it, Sergeant. Under the circumstances. .”

Captain d’Ivoire cleared his throat. “We’ve heard from some of the men of your company, but I just want to make sure we have things accurately. You were ordered to scout the ridge parallel to our line of march?”