Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [32]
It seemed the games had already begun. Outside the perimeter of the vast campsite, I caught glimpses of boys racing on horseback. Within the camp, I passed men wrestling, stripped to the waist and grappling with one another.
I heard the sound of staves clattering.
My diadh-anam flared inside me.
Even at a distance, I picked Bao out of the fighters. Although his back was turned to me, there was no mistaking his acrobat’s agility, his quickness and grace, coupled with the sense of unbridled glee with which he fought, toying with his opponents. The air felt thick and dense around me, and I struggled to draw breath. Forcing myself to breathe the Breath of Wind’s Sigh, I approached slowly. Some yards from the makeshift fighting ring, I drew rein to watch.
Bao froze, his head tilted.
He knew I was there. Although he did not turn around, he knew it. I saw it in the tension of his strong, lean shoulders, the taut cords at the back of his neck.
The two husky Tatars he was fighting shouted and converged on him, staves whistling through the air.
In the blink of an eye, Bao went from utter stillness into blurred motion, spinning and vaulting. No longer toying, he dispatched his opponents with ruthless efficiency. One went down with a hard blow to the back of his skull, sprawling to measure his length on the trampled grass. The other, Bao tripped and laid flat in a move too quick for the eye to see. Seeing the butt of a staff poised to crush his throat, the man called out an urgent surrender.
Bao took a step backward, whipping his bamboo staff upright. He planted it in the dirt, standing with his head bowed.
I swallowed hard and dismounted, my heart thundering in my breast.
With his head lowered, his unruly black hair hung over his brow, obscuring his eyes. Absurdly, I thought how much it had grown since I had seen him last. I’d shaved it myself when Bao and Master Lo Feng and the others had taken on the guise of travelling monks sworn to the Path of Dharma.
He was clad in felted trousers and thick Tatar boots, bare-chested save for a woolen vest with ornate embroidery. His chest rose and fell swiftly, and sweat glistened on his sleek brown skin.
His knuckles were pale where they gripped his bamboo staff. I knew that staff well, bound with metal, carved with characters. It had been broken in two during the battle for White Jade Mountain.
I had made it whole.
I did not know how to do the same for us.
There were onlookers idly cheering Bao’s victory. Sensing the rising tension in the air, their cheers faltered and fell silent. Without looking at me, Bao gestured to his second opponent. Nodding, the man helped his fallen fellow to his feet, slinging one arm over his brawny shoulders. Together they limped away. Everyone else kept a safe distance.
Bao lifted his head and for the first time, met my eyes. “Moirin.”
“Aye,” I whispered.
His dark eyes glittered—whether with anger or something else, I could not say. I could not read his expression. His body was still and rigid, but I thought mayhap there was a reluctant tenderness lurking in the corners of his lips. His throat worked as he searched for words, his eyes searching mine. “You could not wait for me to choose?”
“No.” I took a sharp breath. “No! Gods bedamned, Bao! You speak as though you were the only one to have a choice in this matter. Well, you’re not. You asked me to wait, and I did. I got tired of it. I chose to wait no longer.”
He looked away. “I see.”
Frustration rose in me. “Can you not at least face me, you infernally stubborn peasant-boy? Gods! If you weren’t willing to do that much at least, you should have run away. You had to know I was coming!”
Bao’s hand slid down his staff. “I knew,” he murmured, his head averted. “I chose to stay.”
“Why?” To my chagrin, I was crying. If his diadh-anam was burning half as brightly as mine, yearning to close the distance between us, I couldn’t imagine