Temoc worked out in the courtyard before dawn: weighted one-legged squats, handclap pull-ups and pushups, a back bridge held for a slow count of one hundred. When he was done he knelt facing east and drew his knife. He checked the black glass blade as he did every morning and found it sharp. The cutting edge was thin enough for light to shine through.
“You’re up early.”
Mina wore a white terrycloth robe, and her feet were bare.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied. “How long have you been watching?”
“Long enough to get a good view,” she said with a smile he remembered from nights beneath a desert sky. “Meeting’s today?”
He nodded. “The King in Red. Tan Batac. Both in our camp, to talk. It might even work.”
“You’re wearing your deep-thoughts face.”
“You always think that.”
She walked to him, took his arm in her hand, and squeezed. “Tell me.”
“Caleb.” He had not known what he would say until he spoke his son’s name. “When I was his age.”
Mina smelled of sleep, and her robe smelled of laundry. “When you were his age, the world was a different place.”
“When I was his age, I earned my scars. They’ve kept me safe.”
“Not against this.” She dragged her fingernails across his skin, leaving white tracks that faded fast. He felt exposed with her so close. Vulnerable, bounded. He liked the feeling, though every old warrior’s instinct rebelled against it. “You’re scared, so you run scenarios. I understand.” She slid her hands over his chest. The creases at the corners of her eyes deepened. She read him as if he were a strange text in a familiar script. “It’s okay.”
He stepped back. “If this meeting goes wrong, I become a target. So do you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Caleb has no scars to help him.”
“That was the idea. He can be the sweet kid neither of us were.”
“But if I fail—”
“You won’t.” She kissed his cheek.
“You were worried, before.”
“I still am,” she said. “You mind if I head-shrink you a bit?”
“No.”
“You’ve grown up good enough to want to help people, and strong enough to do it. That has nothing to do with the scars your father gave you, and everything to do with the man who wears them. But you don’t know that. You’re scared of what happens to us if something happens to you—and since goodness and strength and scars are tangled in your head, you worry you haven’t done right by Caleb because you haven’t scarred him. But our son will be good and strong without the shit your father did to you, or the shit my parents did to me. My husband is about to make peace with the King in Red. I’m proud of you.”
“I love you,” he said.
“Damn straight.” They kissed again. He lifted her, and she laughed. Her kiss lingered on his lips, her weight in his arm. Later, when he stood in Chakal Square before his congregation, blade raised, sacrifice bound on the altar, she remained. But chant swelled to climax, the blade came down, pommel striking sternum like a hand on a drum, and in that sweep and the exultant rush that followed, he lost her.