The second of the two books in his possession was a treatise on Winosia, its geography and resources, its kingdoms and politics. Material guaranteed to bore a child to tears, but he hoped would interest Halani. She listened to him without interruption, so focused on what he said that she visibly jumped when he closed the book.
“I think that’s enough for this evening,” he said. “We’ve nearly burned the lamps out and have probably outlasted whoever was assigned night’s watch.”
She gave a happy sigh. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish you could read several more hours. Your country sounds beautiful. Do you miss it?”
Malachus ran a reverent hand over the book’s binding. “Sometimes.” He watched her coax the guttering flame in the lamp next to her back to life. “But there are beautiful things here as well.” She was one of them.
Satisfied with the renewed light, she gestured to the book. “What part of Winosia did you live in?”
“The land of long winter. A prefecture called Herkesh. The Sovatin monastery where I was fostered is there.”
“Raised by monks, but you aren’t one?”
He smothered a chuckle. He wasn’t even truly human. “No. It isn’t my calling. But I was happy there. The brotherhood fostered many children. Some became monks, some warriors; one or two even became kings.” And one day, he’d embrace his own heritage and become a draga.
“And they taught you how to read and speak six languages.” She eyed the book longingly.
“A valuable skill in the world, even if you can only read one.” He offered her the tome. “Here, have a look. It isn’t glass. You won’t break it.” Watching her hesitantly reach for the book reminded him of his own reluctance to take the poppet Asil had thrust at him earlier. Unlike the children he’d entertained that afternoon, Halani understood the value of such an item, not only the labor and material that went into making it, but the contents as well.
She curved her hands over the spine, stroking the cover with her thumbs in such a way that a jolt of heat flooded Malachus’s limbs. “I’ve always wanted to learn to read.”
His luck shone bright this evening. Halani had just given him the avenue he sought to make his offer. “I can teach you. The basics, of course, and you’d need to practice once I’ve left your caravan.”
Her features went slack for a moment, whether from shock or disbelief, he couldn’t tell. “From this book?” Her fingers tightened on it as if it might vanish while in her clasp.
“No,” he said, pleased by her reaction. “It wouldn’t do you much good learning to read a language neither spoken nor written in your country. I can teach you to read Sarvish. It’s the alphabet used to read and write Common. I don’t need a book to teach. A sharp stick and a patch of dirt will do for a lesson.”
Her eyes rounded. “And I can teach others once you’ve gone.” Her voice changed timbre, as if she spoke in prayer instead of everyday speech. “Do you realize the value of your gift?”
Malachus stared back at her, wondering why she was blind to her own worth. “Do you realize the value of yours? We wouldn’t be having this conversation were it not for your care. Teaching a few letters is small repayment, I think.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t just letters. It’s a door to a hidden world I know is there. I just can’t open it yet.” She returned the book to him, fingers lingering on the cover. “Can we start tomorrow?”
He grinned, pleased by her excitement. “The sooner, the better.” He set the treatise in his lap, took the stick she’d been using earlier to stir the fire, and moved the coals around to stir up the flame. “May I ask you a question?” At her quick nod, he met her curious gaze. “Why aren’t you married?” Her owlish blink at his inquiry tempted a grin, but he suppressed it, not wanting her to think he mocked her.
“Why do you ask such a thing?”
Because you’re beautiful in every way. Sanctuary in the storm. A companion anyone would want at their side, be they draga or human. Instead he said, “Because most women your age are.”
“Ah, a delicate way of saying I’m an old maid.”
Malachus groaned inwardly. He’d expressed himself poorly and she’d misconstrued his words. “That isn’t what I meant.” He trod more carefully. “You’re a woman of standing among your folk, with skills to spare and a kindness this world hasn’t beaten out of you yet. That you’re unmarried is surprising. That you don’t have a line of suitors from here to the Goban market wanting to court you is remarkable.”
Halani’s cheeks reddened, her indignation giving way to an embarrassed pleasure at his straightforward praise. Her gaze dropped to the ground, and she fiddled restlessly with her skirt pleats. “You’ve a gift for honeyed speech,” she said.
“It’s honest speech, honeyed or otherwise.” He waited until she lifted her gaze to him once more. “Why aren’t you married?” he repeated. “Or even courted?”
One eyebrow rose. “I have been courted. Many times. Courtship doesn’t always lead to marriage. I’m unmarried because I choose to be. I’ve yet to meet the man I want to bond with, and I refuse to settle for less.”
His heart swelled at her answer, though there was no reason why it should. Halani was merely a bright candle along the dark road he traveled. He’d remember her fondly after he left, nothing more. Still, a nettle of disappointment stung him at the knowledge that there would never be more between them. “And what if you don’t find that person to whom you want to bond?”
She shrugged. “My life will continue as it has,” she said in a cool, uninflected voice. “I don’t measure my days by when I may or may not find a husband. I will be happy in other things. Life is more than just a marriage. I am more than a woman waiting to become a man’s wife.”
In that moment, Malachus forgot to breathe. What would she say, he wondered, if he suddenly grasped her hands in his and begged her to journey with him once he was well enough to travel?
The thought—and the temptation—startled him. He was losing his senses to even entertain the idea. There were far too many reasons why it was not only impractical but also ludicrous.
“It is,” he agreed. “And you are.” He turned the subject yet again, still shaken by the wild notion of asking her to go with him on his quest to regain his mother-bond. “When does Kursak plan to move the remaining camp?”
A shadow passed through her eyes, and she stared at a point beyond his shoulder. “A week, maybe a little less. There’s still a lot of inventory to account for and pack, three more wagons to buy, and the teams to pull them. By then you might be able to ride Batraza without too much discomfort, but I don’t see you galloping merrily over the fields.”
The image her words painted made him grin, though the way she’d suddenly avoided his gaze as she spoke made him wonder. And while he knew his body better than she did, she was right in her estimate of how much he’d heal by the time the camp moved.
“And here I thought you eager to be rid of me,” he teased.
“You just offered to teach me to read,” she said, her smile wry. “Don’t tempt me to shackle you to one of the wagons and keep you here until I can read all the languages you can.” Halani rose from her place beside Malachus and dusted off her skirts before giving him a stern look. “I’m off to bed. We’ve an early day tomorrow and a lot of work.”
He rose with her, sorry to see the evening end and already looking forward to the next one. He bid her good night with a bow, her gaze a warm stripe down his back as she watched him leave.
The provender wagon seemed a lonely place, and he lay on his bed, staring up at the plain ceiling before closing his eyes and opening his senses to the mother-bond.
No clear images appeared in his mind, and its beacon no longer felt as sharp or clear, as if hidden behind a miasma.
He refused to panic. Doing so accomplished nothing and did more harm than anything. If he stood any chance of recovering the bit of bone, he had to stay calm and clearheaded.
It might have been only moments that passed or hours as he sought to strengthen the connection between himself and the mother-bond. The miasma obscuring it refused to dissipate. This was purposeful sorcery. Whoever had the bone knew someone hunted it and worked to hide it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Halani had saved a man’s life and been given a world in return. Malachus’s offer was a gift from the gods. She was a free trader woman destined to always travel on roads well-known and well-worn. They were as familiar to her as the lines on her palms and the ones creasing Asil’s face. The rest of the world beyond the Empire had always been the stuff of dreams and imagination, until Malachus said he’d teach her to read. She’d remained awake the entire night, her heart thundering and thoughts spinning in anticipation of that first promised lesson. It was better than chewing her fingernails down to the quick worrying needlessly over Asil and missing her presence in their wagon.
Malachus’s teaching exceeded every expectation, and she went to bed each night after that initial lesson dreaming of symbols drawn in ink and linked together so that sound became meaning and meaning became story.
Three days after Hamod took part of his band off for Domora, Halani was in the Goban market with Nathin’s wife, Ruviti, to work the last day at their stall. The market’s crowds had waned, though the streets remained busy. People browsed more than bought, biding their time and hedging their bets over which merchants would simply pack up and leave and which would discount their wares in order to capture that last sale. Halani prepared for a long day of coaxing people to their table. There would be no discounts. Hamod had never been one to follow that trend, and she let those who stopped to peruse their goods know that the price quoted today wouldn’t change the closer they got to evening.
The smile she offered her latest visitor was wide and sincere. Gilene, looking every bit an ataman’s beloved consort, waved as she approached. Halani left her place behind the table she manned to hug her friend before leading her into the stall’s shade.