Chapter Twenty-Nine: Never (Again)

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"It would be better if only a few went to Afaloque." Dejah cast a look across the group at breakfast. Her eyes darted—almost too quickly to be noticed—to Krista, then Kyp, then away. "I will go, of course. Braun, are you familiar with the Na'Lein market?"

"More than passably."

"I'll go, too," Sanar volunteered. The intensity of her stare at Dejah made it clear that there was only a pretence of suggestion. "I'll fit in perfectly, and we won't have to worry about anyone noticing that Braun isn't Na'Lein."

Dejah replied before Kyp could. "And what would a woman be doing alone, unchaperoned, in a market?" The fighter shook her head sternly. "You know—"

"Then Braun and I can go together, whatever." Sanar rolled her eyes. "I'm hardly defenceless."

"Unless you want to be stoned, you are," Dejah snapped, well-aware of the events preceding Sanar's exile. Niha had made it very clear that Sanar was to stay as safe as possible. Judging by Sanar's expression, however, Dejah would have to form a compromise or risk Sanar running off to get herself killed.

"Very well," she conceded, quite grudgingly. "You and Braun will barter for our supplies—together. I have to meet with Teigra, or neither of you would be coming."

Kyp looked determined. "I—"

"Unless you can suddenly speak Na'Lein, you are practicing your swordplay." Dejah's interruption rang crisp and unmoved. "Until we actually start fighting, the rest of you just draw unwanted attention to us."

The Kavishka glanced at Sanar, who pointedly looked away. Dejah wondered what was going on between them, but she refused to get involved. As long as he played his part, she planned to avoid Kyp Durron. She was rather sick of dealing with kryntathi.

She, Braun and Sanar set out for Afaloque immediately after breakfast. If Sanar seemed hell-bent on getting away from the Kavishka, Dejah was quite sure to ignore it.

"We will enter right through the market, so you won't have to look for it." Dejah looked at Sanar as they ascended the hill on which Afaloque was built. "Dried foods, for the most part. If there is any money left, after, you might look for hair dye for Krista."

Sanar nodded and glanced up at the sky. "It's almost nine, I think. What time do you want to meet at?"

"Hopefully Teigra will not take long to persuade." Dejah's lips pursed. "She will want to fight. I will be at the gates within an hour. If you need extra time, we can go back."

Braun checked his blasters. "And in the case of an emergency?"

Dejah slid a glance at Sanar. "If she kills another priest, try to claim responsibility. Then escape the city. We don't want anyone to know that Sanar Klis is alive and back on NLY."

"And to think, I always expected the Kavishka's presence would be hardest to hide." Despite his fragmented relationship with Sanar, Braun looked more amused than disgruntled.

Sanar snorted. "Good thing his isn't—Durron draws as much attention as a mob of hyper five-year-olds."

"Only if the five-year-olds were chasing their sleep-deprived parents." It was the first attempt at humour Braun had made since his wife's murder. Judging by his expression, it hurt like hell.

"He isn't very good at discretion," Sanar agreed. Her face was expressionless.

They passed through the gates with little enough trouble. As an important trading city, Afalogue was used to strangers, even if they did look down upon their visitors.

"The gate in two hours," Dejah repeated to her companions once they had been admitted. "Be careful."

Dejah wasn't sure she trusted Sanar not to lose her temper and expose herself. But she left the infamous virago with the grieving, vengeance-driven widower. At the time, it didn't really seem like she had a lot of choice.

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"Well."

The infamous priest-murderer scanned the marketplace. Already Dejah had disappeared in the bustling crowd. "I'll get the fruit and spices if you get the meat."

"Sanar—"

"Braun," she interrupted sharply. She caught herself, however, and carefully moderated her voice. "Do you really want to spend the next hour with me?"

He looked away. "It isn't safe for you—"

"For the love of—" She stifled her Mujir just in time, and pulled Braun out of the busy street. "I can take care of myself. Anyway, we'll finish more quickly if we separate." When he still looked hesitant, she rolled her eyes. "Braun, if someone decides to grab a girl for their pleasure, they won't choose a woman well-used and late in childbearing years. And I can play the aging-but-married woman if I have to. Without causing trouble."

Braun gave her an uneasy look. Sanar was older than what, perhaps, most went for, but that hadn't stopped Durron, and it might not slow the older, more experienced men here.

"We'll stay in the same area," he finally conceded. "So I can intervene, if you run into any trouble. I'd rather not have to deal with an inflamed Kyp Durron," he added.

The last part was supposed to be quiet and lost in the crowd. Sanar, however, managed to pick up on it. She sent him a black glare. "Durron has nothing—"

"I believe I see a dried meat kiosk," Braun interrupted blithely. "Stay within sight, won't you?"

"—me, and did everyone know except me? Braun!"

He had hurried away, though, and Sanar wasn't about to justify Dejah's wariness by drawing attention to herself. She dragged her temper back under her control with something like caution. Despite her bravado, Sanar was very aware of the eyes that made a point of judging her.

Khalan, stranger. If only she could depend on the stigma and prejudice striking her from the list of pleasing girls….

Sanar took a step toward the group of kiosks selling spices, and one away from Braun's "within sight."

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As far as mistakes went, she hadn't made a big one—it was actually kind of monstrous. And Sanar was certain no one (especially Jaina, if she ever found out) would ever let her forget it, either. The dark-haired woman had just finished bargaining for a pound of various spices, and the kiosk owner had left to package her purchase. Waiting impatiently, Sanar had glanced around—and caught the eye of an older, elaborately decorated man.

He reminded her of Gaffil's men, which was her first clue. Gaffil Jir was a cold, ruthless man unblended by impossible ambition or fanaticism. He used everyone. The man staring at her now had been born to be used while thinking himself a prince. Gaffil stole such men from his imperial brother, who could not bear the unreligious. It was to Sanar's confusion—and perhaps some concern—that Rafintair chose to deal with his quite religiously indifferent brother. Rafintair was horrifying; Gaffil, especially a Gaffil unchecked, was—

But she stopped her thoughts. The stranger had removed his eyes from her, but she quickly fell back into that old knowledge which warned her—she had not passed the danger. He was looking for her companion.

Larifx. She, too, scanned the crowd for Braun, but could not see him. "Larifx," she cursed again, this time out loud. The stranger was moving, now striding toward her, and she felt her heart constrict. Maybe if she ducked into the crowd—maybe—crossed into an alley, and darted into a building—

"Such words for so lonely a girl."

It was pathetic, as far as "creepy insinuations" went, but Sanar didn't delude herself. This man wasn't a beginner; he expected her to recognize the lack of trying.

—Panicked, she felt her finger, and there was no ring, and she was not wearing a matron's veil, and Horaire's mark had long since been surgically removed.

(Oh, Mujir, no)

"You really shouldn't swear. It isn't a proper habit."

"So long as my husband does not mind…." She fisted her ring-less hand within her concealing sleeves.

The stranger gave her a crooked grin, and his eyes devoured her. Sanar was no longer the beautiful slave girl who had incited Onyx's interest, and she clung to that. This man couldn't want her, could he? Not Sanar, with her few, hated grey hairs, and her faint stress lines, and her strength gained from experience. No one wanted those, right?

"Your spices, miss." The kiosk owner returned, grumpy from her drastically lowered prices. She thrust the bag into Sanar's hands, and waved away her bargaining-savvy customer.

Sanar had instinctively caught the bag with both hands; her fingers, ring-less and unmarked, betrayed her lack of protection. Having clung to the excuse of only husband, she had lost any claim of brother, father, or owner.

Big—monstrous—mistake. Never going to hear the end of it. Ever.

The stranger smiled and drew her by the elbow into a quieter alley. She thought of running, but doubted she would be able to move—quickly or stealthily—through the packed crowd.

"I haven't seen you before," he commented. He hadn't let go of her elbow. Everything felt cold. "You are not from Afaloque, are you?"

"No," she muttered quickly. No answer was a good one (the truth would label her ready-for-the-taking, a lie would be caught), but silence would have been worse. "No, I'm not."

His hands—big, bejewelled and smooth hands that never worked hard a day in their existence—started to run up and down her arms. Her own limbs hung at her side, frozen. "Please," she heard herself whisper (so weak). "Kryntath, I am…I am not yours."

(broken toy weapon)

She had forgotten, while playing house with Jaina, what this felt like. Helplessness always choking her, even when she possessed the desperation to lash out in final defence. Horaire, in his twisted way, had been almost easier to fight than this—or any—stranger. She had been young and unbroken, fighting with her family (Clayra—protect, Devnos—scorn, Mama—forget) in sight, and she had known how far, and when, and where to fight Horaire. This stranger wanted a shell ready to crumble, and she had no idea who or what he was.

Stupid, weak, niftyax. Just another broken girl.

But, she thought as her heart re-hardened, she would fight—of course. She always fought. She always—

Can't. Not here.

The crowd, even abruptly thinned in the alley, now roared in her ears. The stranger was still speaking, but she couldn't—couldn't quite make out what he was saying, not over the noise of a hundred witnesses.

We don't want anyone to know Sanar Klis is alive and back on NLY.

A hundred witnesses would become her murderers and there would be no Onyx to stop them this time. All she would get for fighting was a hail of stones.

Cold slithered through her blood. Maybe, she thought, if she had just listened when Jaina and Kyp tried to teach her mind manipulation—

"I think you should come with me, Quatroc girl."

So he had recognized her accent. Maybe, by now, he'd guessed about her "training" in a priest's house. Wrapped protectively around the Holy City as it was, Quatroc was not known for its innocent girls.

Finally shaken out of her stupor (though still as at a loss as ever), Sanar tried to tug her arms free. If he pulled her to his house, she might be stuck—she would lose so much room for escape— "My husband is just at another kiosk," she babbled, hardly understanding her own words. "We split up to shop more effectively, that's all—my ring was stolen—he'll be here in just a few minutes, he won't appreciate this—"

"No, I most certainly do not," a voice slashed through the din.

Sanar nearly collapsed in relief as she turned to the interrupting voice. Her first thought was—Braun, thank Mujir, Braun realized—but instead her eyes met not cool grey eyes but furious green ones. No, she quickly amended. Not furious. Kyp Durron was several stages beyond furious.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" her unlikely saviour demanded. He required barely a second to take in the hands on Sanar's arms, or the command in the dark eyes. "If you don't let her go this instant—" But Kyp didn't wait for the stranger to obey. Sanar felt herself pulled free of the stranger's arms and into the safety of Kyp's arms.

The stranger shifted. He had noticed Kyp's use of Basic—usually spoken fluently and well only by Na'Lein nobles. "I apologize," he demurred in rough Basic. "She wears no mark or ring."

Kyp gave the man a look of pure disgust. "And so you decided to just take her? Who do you even think you are?" He had completely donned the arrogant, sneering mask of Carida's butcher.

"I am Henreich Hamlein," the stranger schmoozed. "Several priests are visiting my home this and future nights. I could never so fail as a host to not provide my guests with entertainment."

"I think you should focus more on preparing your house," Kyp snapped.

"Of course, kryntath," Henreich murmured (as well as he could over the crowd) obsequiously. He fiddled with his canteen, then took the cap off. "Pucijir hazarach vida omnis," he muttered, and tossed some of his water at Kyp and Sanar.

Sanar flinched. Pucijir, lord forever of all. Devnos….

Henreich scurried away quickly, but Kyp's glare did not abate until the man was well away. "Braun and Dejah will meet us at the gate," he finally told her. Almost belatedly—or because perhaps he knew her pride all too well—he looked down at her with concerned eyes. "Are you alright? Did he—"

"I'm fine," she bit out. It wasn't as cold as it should have been; she quickly fixed the flaw. "Just another day on this cursed planet. Can we go now?"

When she realized she was still leaning against him, Sanar stopped. She would not be weak.

"Sanar—"

"Don't."

He visibly struggled, but held his peace in the turmoil. Instead, in an attempt to distract her, he commented, "Do I look so awful? Really? Because everyone seems to think I need a shower."

She blinked at him, her cold mask faltering slightly. "…What?"

"The water. People keep tossing their water at me. I keep looking around to see which direction the soap is coming from."

She shook her head, and forced a laugh that sounded too thready. "Later." Despite herself, she glanced over her shoulder, where Henreich had disappeared. "Are we going?"

"Of course." Kyp reached as if to take her arm, but she stalked past him.

It was still cold, and the sun felt very much like just a star millions of kilometres away.

Dejah and Braun were, indeed, at the front gate waiting for them. Dejah looked drawn too tight, and Braun upset. Sanar rather doubted she would be allowed on any more shopping trips. Convenient, she conceded reluctantly, since the freedom had been completely spoiled.

Quickly, Dejah checked Sanar with her eyes. "You are okay?" she asked impassively. Only the briefest softening in her eyes betrayed her concern—and guilt, perhaps?

"Don't worry," Sanar all but snarled back. "There aren't any bodies for you to cover up. Ready to go?"

"You don't have the fruit," Braun remarked, not looking at her.

Sanar clutched the neck of bag of herbs. "Oh. Okay." She blinked rapidly. "I'll go back—"

"No." Dejah's eyes flashed. "Braun and I will see to it. You and the Kavishka should go ahead."

Sanar refused to look at Durron. "Whatever," she muttered. "We'll see you back at the camp."

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Just rest. I'll watch over you.

She stopped the trembling. She made her hands stop fluttering, and forced her legs to hold her weight.

I promise it will be okay.

Kyp had given up trying to comfort her after the second time, when they were out of Afaloque. She'd been unaccountably nasty to him, even for her. Her spewed acid had made its mark, though, or at least reminded him of one of their similarities.

I love you. Stay as long as you need to.

But he kept talking to fill the void, as they got further and further away from any other people. Sanar's demands that he stop were no more than half-hearted. His rambles jumbled together in her head and interrupted—

I can't fix it. It's just—temporary. Just for now. I'm so sorry.

—her worse thoughts.

"I just had a bad feeling about the trip, so I followed you. I lost sight of you for a minute—the crowd—or I would have been there sooner."

"I had it under control," she muttered. After glancing around at the isolated region they were walking through, she turned to scowl at her companion.

He gave her a look, and couldn't contain his snort. "Yeah. Right."

Sanar's eyes flashed. "What the kriff is that supposed to mean? I'll have you know, I've gotten out of plenty of worse situations. Without your help. If you were looking for a shrieking damsel, you picked the wrong girl, Durron." She jabbed him in the chest with one finger.

Kyp didn't fall a step back; he took half of one forward. "A shrieking—" he repeated, incredulous. "Who ever gave you the idea, even for a second, that I would want—"

She made a rude, disbelieving sound. "Oh, please! Like there's a single trustworthy guy out there—"

"And we're back to your prejudiced walls again, are we?" he sneered. "Hey, guess what? Besides being wrong, those things aren't doing you much good, if that guy could almost—"

Sanar's fragile hold on her emotions broke. "He didn't do anything!" she all but shrieked. "And I wouldn't have let him! I'll never—it'll never happen again and I would never let him—never again!" And her eyes were almost bursting, trying to keep the tears inside her, but she wouldn't let them escape, even if her heart was clenched so tight she didn't think it still beat, and her body stayed together only through sheer force of crippled will.

Her fists—her knees, her insides, her soul—shook, but she wasn't cold anymore. "I'm not here for you, and I'm not doing anything for you, so you can just—take your stupid—" she gasped and sobbed, "stupid dream visits and just—"

But I want you to thrive, love. Will you do that for me?

If you wanted me to, I could fly.

Briefer than a second of surprised confusion flickered across Kyp's face, but just as quickly it vanished. Instead of pursuing her meaning, he took that last step forward and cupped her face in his hands. "Sanar," (Beloved,) he said.

His voice had changed again, from hard and callous to gentle and—oh Mujir—loving. "Sanar, I know," he deliberately whispered. "You could have taken him out in a second."

It wasn't what she expected, the change was too quick and she hadn't raised her walls against tenderness, so she couldn't stop it and—and—

(I love you. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouI—)

And she shattered in his arms.

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* Niftyath = plural of "niftyax" (and I assume you all know what that one means, after all this time ;))