Gateways 07_ What Lay Beyond - Diane Carey [86]
Then the crowd of warriors seemed to separate, making way for someone. He was a burly man, with a strong chin evident even though he had a beard, and wild black hair tinged with gray. Aside from some glistening metal armbands, he was naked from the waist up, his torso rippling with power, but scars, also. Deep, livid, angry scars that looked as if they’d just been made yesterday, but not by swords, no. They were too blunt, too rounded. Whip marks, perhaps, or some kind of rod…
Her chest was on fire, and she realized with a distant sort of interest that the pain had been increasing for some time. They were all staring down at her impassively now, and as her lifeblood mingled with that of Calhoun, she managed to say, “You… you murdering bastards… why… why…?”
The burly man, the one she took to be their leader, chuckled at her pain, which angered her all the more. He sounded condescending until he spoke, at which point he sounded… familiar.
“He knows why,” he growled, pointing a sword at Calhoun. “Don’t you, son?”
Calhoun, his face horribly sallow and pasty, managed a nod.
But Shelby didn’t understand at all. All she knew at that moment was that her one wish was not to die in ignorance.
“Welcome,” said Calhoun’s father, “to Kaz’hera.”
Shelby didn’t get her wish.
The last thing she saw, just before she died, was the sun setting. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and she hoped that Calhoun, at least, had had a chance to see it as well.
Calhoun awoke to sunlight on his face. It wasn’t direct sunlight; rather, it was filtered through the cloth of a tent. Calhoun wondered where in the world a tent had come from, and then he remembered that there had been tents lining the bottom of the Keep. The ground was bumpy beneath him, although he was lying on some rough-hewn blankets which provided at least some measure of cushion. Nearby outside, he heard swords clanging, and for a moment he thought that there was another battle in the offing. But then he realized that it was just two people, and there was a distinct absence of shouting or panicked running about. So it was probably some sort of training session or private lesson.
The tent flaps were pushed aside, allowing more sunlight to flood in, and Calhoun blinked against it. His father’s frame filled the door. “It’s a fine, Xenexian sun. Never used to bother you. Have you gone soft?” he asked, his voice slightly challenging.
Calhoun didn’t respond at first. Instead he stood slowly, unsteady on his legs, but determined not to fall over. Even though the evidence of his own eyes was right before him, he still couldn’t help but ask, in a tone of utter disbelief, “Father…?”
Gr’zy of Calhoun, father of M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, sized up his son and did not seem to be especially approving of what he saw. “Look at you,” he said in annoyance, stepping forward and gripping Calhoun by the chin, turning his face from side to side. “You call this a beard?”
“I… I haven’t been growing it for that long, sir,” Calhoun managed to say.
“Well… it will have to do, I suppose. And your muscles!” As if sizing up an unworthy slab of meat, Gr’zy squeezed Calhoun’s biceps and shook his head. “Nothing to them! By this age, they should be hard as rock by now! Too busy surrounding yourself with weapons and security men to stay as fit as you should be! Well? What do you have to say for yourself!” he fairly thundered.
“I… I’m sorry, sir,” said Calhoun.
“Sorry! You’re sorry! Well…” and then Gr’zy’s face broke in a wide smile. “It will have to do, then! Hah!” And he smacked Calhoun on the back so hard that Calhoun was almost positive Gr’zy had broken his back.
Calhoun had always wondered, in the back of his mind, whether in the intervening years since his father had died beaten to death by Danteri soldiers Calhoun had somehow built his father up in his recollections. He remembered Gr’zy as being big, powerful, indomitable. It was a pleasure to see that his recollections had not been misleading. That Gr’zy was everything Calhoun recalled him to be.
“You lasted