“Do it,” Mena said. Thankful for the moments she had to clear her head, she inhaled and pulled her composure around her like a shawl against the cold. It was not much time, but it would have to do. She said, “It’s all right, Perrin. Really, it is. I’ll take care of this one.”
“No! I can’t-”
“Go, right now. That’s an order!”
She had to say it several times before he obeyed. I’ll need to reprimand him for that later, she thought. Sabeer watched the exchange, patient enough to wait with her hands resting on her hips. Studying her body, her posture, the composed intelligence of her face, Mena thought, This is a woman I could have liked, if I hadn’t needed to hate her. She thought, Good that I wrote that note to Melio. It will reach him. That I believe. It wouldn’t make sense for it not to.
Bending to one knee, Mena tried to wipe her blade clean on the turf. It did not really work. Calrach’s blood had frozen already, etching the fine engravings in a crimson-highlighted black. She stood. Sabeer shook out her arms, making them loose as snakes for a moment. Then she crossed them and unsheathed her knives. She began to say something, lifting one of the curved knives as if she were going to explain her choice of weapon.
“Let’s leave off the banter, all right?” Mena asked. “I’m not in the mood for it.” She launched at her.
The battle that ensued was more intense than the one with Calrach. Sabeer had two feet of sinewy, muscular height on Mena, with reach enough that her knives struck like swords. She was incredibly fast. Each time Mena struck, Sabeer deflected the sword with one of her knives, knocking it away or catching the blade at the hilt. Each time her other knife slashed back with a blurred rapidity that Mena could only match by not thinking, by not deliberately planning, by not being awed into errors, and certainly not by worrying for her life. She gave her body over to rage, to instinct, and the fury of the blade itself. The King’s Trust was savage in its wrath. It screamed as it cut the air. She did not so much direct the blade as follow it. It was not a weapon meant to be deflected, not meant to be caught between those two knives, not meant to slip through the air, missing the body that shifted away from it, not meant to strike angrily into frozen ground. It wanted only to cut.
Breaking away, Mena circled. Sabeer let her, rotating in unison. “This is a race to the cut, bitch. Why don’t you finish it, or let me finish it?” Saying this, Mena heard her words from another time, long ago when she was just learning the sword. Back then, to Melio, she said, “I’m sorry, but here’s my point: Why dance through fifty moves when a single one will suffice?” It had made sense then, and it still did. And yet, she had already put more than fifty moves behind her.
She wiped at the sweat on her forehead. She blew her nose into her gloved hand and then snapped the snot away.
Sabeer laughed. And then came in again, a whirlwind with both knives cutting circles around her.
S ome time later. The two of them balancing on bundles piled atop a line of sledges. Mena backed over the uneven load, saying, “Sabeer, you should die now. You really should. Die now. Die now.” She repeated those two words again and again. She fixed on them and drove them into every parry or strike or thrust or dodge. She tried to think only of them, to keep back the other thoughts that clawed at her.
“Die now.”
It did not work. For one thing, there was Elya. In flashes she saw the world as Elya did, from above, circling the carnage, watching Mena, wanting to swoop down to her, begging to be allowed to. For another, Melio kept emerging through those two words. She kept seeing him in a part of her mind that was separate from the world around her. She heard him with ears different from the ones filled with the din of death, of explosions and screams and clanging metal. “Where was your fear?” he asked. He was not speaking to her now. He was not even really in her head. She knew that. He was in her past, jogging to stay with her as she left the stick-fighting arena on Vumu ages ago. “Where was your fear?” he had asked. She had answered, “I don’t know.”
Mena leaped from the sledges, Sabeer just behind her. She sprinted for a time and skidded to a halt. They converged again.
I should have had a better answer for you, she thought. When you said, “Where was your fear?” I should have responded, “I don’t have any. I don’t know that I love you yet.” That would have been the truth. Much better than “I don’t know.”
Sabeer landed a blow to Mena’s cheek with the knob at the base of one of her knives. It was an awkward strike as the two of them slipped by each other. The Auldek swung her blade around. Mena managed to drop beneath it, watching the point trace the air just next to her eye.
I know fear better now. That was another truth.
When a pitch orb exploded near them, Mena fell flat, praying that the splash would take Sabeer out. The Auldek woman fell backward, letting her upper body go horizontal. The spray of pitch scorched right over her. Untouched, she landed on her upper back. She kicked up from there, all back and abdominals and legs, knives still in hands that had not even touched the ground.
Standing a moment, Sabeer crooked a grin at Mena, twisting an admonishment into the expression.
What? Mena thought. I already said I want you dead. I don’t care how it happens.
They continued.
O n the frozen ground again, the two of them fought, watched by a ring of other Auldek, mostly men. They stood in a loose, blood-splattered circle, taking a break from the slaughter. They talked among themselves as Mena and Sabeer danced death at each other. Occasionally, they tossed a jibe or encouragement or advice at Sabeer; Mena could not tell which.
For her part, the Auldek woman stayed silent. She had left her mirth behind some time ago. Grimly determined, her face glistened with her efforts. Her lips puckered and frowned, puckered and frowned as she struck and parried. Her left cheek twitched. She had yanked back her hood. Her hair, long and auburn, snapped about behind her.
“Die much?” Mena asked, trying to slice the crown of her head off.
Sabeer ducked, and drove an upward thrust with “No!”
“How about trying it?”
“No, you die!” Sabeer said, slashing like she meant it.
She really does want this, Mena thought. She wants me dead more than anything now. Look at her.
To her surprise, her sword finally connected with Sabeer’s wrist. But it was not like when she had carved flesh from Larken’s arm so effortlessly. This time, nothing happened except that Sabeer spun away spitting curses through her teeth.
Mena wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. If they were fighting on equal terms, Sabeer would be one- handed, in pain, squirting gouts of blood. The fight would be over. She would be dead! And then alive again. You bitch, you’d be alive again.
Sabeer shook the pain out of her wrist. She snapped at something one of the watching Auldek’s had said. She threw out her arms and flung the two knives away. A moment later, she closed her outstretched hand around the hilt of a sword offered her. She twirled it, flexing the wrist that should be useless.
“This really isn’t fair,” Mena said.
“What is ‘fair’?” asked one of the watchers called Devoth. “I don’t know this word.”
Mena could not tell if he was sincere or joking. The mirth was the same. As Sabeer stood, breathing heavily, Mena spun around, taking in her audience. “I killed Calrach!”
“Yes, but this is not Calrach,” Devoth said. “Calrach is the past. Here is Sabeer!”
“No.” Mena sheathed the King’s Trust. “Calrach is enough for today.”
Sabeer shook her head. She said something in Auldek. Mena could not understand a word of it, but the meaning was clear enough. Surrender was not an option she acknowledged. It’s not for me either, Mena thought, but not all battles happen on your terms.
She ran toward Sabeer, five quick steps. She leaped.
The Auldek woman stepped back, more surprised than alarmed. She cocked the sword back, but for once she was not fast enough. Mena kicked her in the face with one foot and pushed off her chest with the other. That was the last contact between them before Elya caught her in midair, cradling Mena tight to her chest, lifting on powerful wingbeats. Mena buried her face in Elya’s plumage but only for a few seconds. That’s all she had for such things as comfort, relief.
She had lied. Calrach was not enough for today. She wanted more.
M oments later, in Elya’s saddle and racing over the plain toward the Auldek encampment, Mena clenched an
