Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

Yazour laughed. “You have me there. What I meant to say was that I did not come out here with that intention. In fact, I left the fireside to satisfy a much more mundane and pressing need, but as I was returning, I saw you standing there, alone in the darkness.” He hesitated. “Lady—I must confess that I was driven to approach you by curiosity. Since our rescue, we have had no chance to speak privately with one another, and…”

“And?” There was an edge to Iscalda’s tone. Already she knew where this must be leading. When he did not reply, she went on for him. “And you remembered what I was when you first met me, and wanted to know whether, as a woman, I had retained the instincts of a lowly beast—to be at the beck and call of any passing man—”

“No!” Yazour’s protest interrupted her. “Lady, you misjudge me. I simply wondered how it could be that the most magnificent horse that I had ever seen could have been changed, as if by magic, into the most beautiful woman. I wished to understand the nature of your race—yet, as your warriors talked with one another around the campfire, something—a fear of giving offense perhaps—has held me back from asking, especially since my people and yours have been foes for so long. But I felt, because of the long days of our captivity that we spent together in the cave, that you and I might share some fellow-feeling. Your thoughts then, I know, can not have been those of a mere beast. The night you took me to the tower, you understood my need, and when I saw you tonight, I thought that you, of all people, might understand again, and forgive any offense that an outsider and former enemy might convey with his prying questions.”

Iscalda was mollified, if not a little surprised, by his words. “In a sense, you were wise not to ask the warriors,” she mused. “Once, your questions—your very presence in our lands—would have meant instant execution. Yet you do not seem like an enemy to me, Yazour. And if what I hear from Chiamh is true—that our people soon will go to war—then the secret of our dual nature, which the Xandim have guarded so jealously for so long, may soon be out in any case.” She smiled at him. “Ask, then, Yazour—and I will try to satisfy your curiosity.”

The young warrior spread his hands helplessly. “I scarcely know where to begin,” he confessed. “I—well, there was one thing that puzzled me…”

Iscalda laughed. “You want to know where the clothes go?” Even in the dim light she could see his skin take on the darker hue of a blush. To rescue them both from his embar rassment, she went on quickly. “The garments just seem to be part of us and change as we do—into horsehair, perhaps—who knows? You might try asking the Windeye. Leather, wool, flax—fastenings of thong or carven horn or bone—anything that once was living matter—changes with us. Weapons, buckles, personal adornments of metal or polished stone, do not change, however. If we wish to take such items with us, they must be carried by another, in human shape. It’s sometimes inconvenient—but at least the clothes are always there when we change back to our human form, and that’s the most important thing.”

Yazour smiled. “Given the barbaric climate of these mountains, Lady, I cannot fail to agree with you.”

Iscalda had noticed that the young man always seemed to require more garments than her own folk, and yet he always seemed to be shivering. Chiamh had told her that the sun burned much hotter where Yazour came from, but she found that impossible to imagine. She was robbed of her chance to question him, however, for he was already speaking again. “How came your people to be as they are, Lady? What is their history?”

Now it was Iscalda’s turn to shrug. “That I cannot answer. No one knows where we came from, or how we came to be—not even the Windeye. It seems that we were always here, and always as we are.”

“And yet you knew that you differed from other races,” Yazour said thoughtfully.

“I believe so.” Iscalda nodded. “That is why we have always kept secret our ability to change our shapes. Forgive me, Yazour, but your own people, the Khazalim, have always been notorious for enslaving other races. Imagine what useful slaves we Xandim would make, if the truth were known!”

“No one shall enslave you, Lady!” The vehemence of Yazour’s reply startled Iscalda. “The secret of the Xandim will always be safe with me. Even were it otherwise, I am an exile from the lands of the Khazalim and may not return on pain of death. I owe no allegiance to the Khisu whatsoever.”

Iscalda felt her heart clench with pity for the young warrior. She too had been an exile, and she knew the bitterness and sense of loss that he must be feeling. She bit her lip. “You know, do you not,” she said quietly, “that even if you wished to do so, you would never be allowed to return to your lands alive, now that you know our secret?”

Yazour nodded gravely. “I had guessed as much. But it makes no difference. My way lies northward now. Where Aurian and Anvar go, I will go also—and if I survive the approaching conflict—” He shrugged. “Well, then we will see. But one thing I can promise you: I will never return to the land of my birth.”

“Never?” Iscalda sighed in sympathy with the young warrior. “That seems too harsh a fate…”

“Iscalda! What are you doing out here beyond the sentries?” Iscalda recognized the familiar outline of Schiannath, walking toward them, silhouetted against the glow of the distant flames. “At least you had the good sense not to wander off alone,” he added, but as he drew nearer and discovered the identity of her companion, Iscalda heard a note of doubt creep into his voice. She was stung into a swift defense of her companion.

“Must you treat me like a child, Schiannath?” The words came out more sharply than Iscalda had intended, and she strove to reach a more conciliatory tone. “I know that no one should be out alone, unguarded, dear brother, but following our long period of isolation, so many people overwhelm me at times. I crept away to be alone with the night, but Yazour discovered me and thought much the same as you. When he found me here, he kindly stayed to bear me company.”

“Indeed,” Yazour concurred. “But in truth, Schiannath, I was also glad of the opportunity to make the acquaintance of your sister in her human form at last.”

Schiannath came up between them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. The honeyed scent of mead was on his breath, and as he rested his weight upon her, Iscalda realized that he must have been drinking heavily from the flasks that each Xandim warrior carried—ostensibly, in case of emergencies. “You mistake me, my sister,” he told her, his voice slightly slurred. “Yazour, as far as I am concerned, you are not an enemy. You may be an Outlander—but did the Goddess herself not instruct me to befriend you?”

“What?” It was the first time that Iscalda had heard of this. She had a vague, equine memory of meeting the great cat in the pass—a recollection of terror and blood and rage—the buried, instinctive urge to defend her beloved brother at all costs from the predator. She also remembered Yazour—a still, dark huddle, with his lifeblood sinking into the chilling snow.

Her brother went on to explain how, in the pass beyond the Tower of Incondor, the Goddess Iriana Herself, in the form of one of the great Black Ghosts of Schiannath’s home mountains, had given him instructions to befriend and succor the wounded warrior. Iscalda listened, incredulous, as his tale unfolded—until, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yazour’s mouth quirk in suppressed amusement. Goddess, indeed! The young warrior knew, or suspected, more about this matter than he was revealing, and Iscalda intended to get to the bottom of it—but not now.