I picked up my knife, which had fallen in the dirt beside me, checked that the pouch was still firmly strapped around my chest, and rose. The dying Broghen was silent at last. A death for a death. But neither it nor Brod’ar had come here willingly. When, nearly a full remove later, I came upon it stretched dead across the ground, I felt pity as well as horror.
I had drunk from the mountain stream and eaten several handfuls of cappa fruit as I waited the day before, but by now my stomach ached and my mouth was raw with thirst. My left shoulder was matted with dried blood where I had scraped it lifting the wooden beams and I had had little more than a few removes of sleep.
As I walked, I heard now and then the scream of a Broghen, its predatory hunger bouncing from wall to wall until it seemed to come at me from all directions, louder and still louder. I fell back against the wall holding my ears and closing my eye as though to prevent the insanity from entering my very heart.
On the evening of my second day inside the walls I heard the sounds of a battle: the savage howls of a Broghen and the throaty yells of a Ghen. Saft’ir! I thought, and then another voice: Sim’en!
I broke into a run, pounding down the corridor only to be blocked by a sudden twist in the wall. If only the walls weren’t so high—but even two or three Ghen standing on each other’s shoulders could not have scaled them. I took the turn, trying to find a route back in the direction of the cries I’d heard, but their echoes were all around me now and every twist confused me more until I no longer even knew which way I wanted to turn.
Finally the noises of the battle subsided. Into the heavy silence I began to scream, “Saft’ir!”
I ran forward, blinded by tears, falling against one wall and then the other, all the while screaming, “Saft’ir! Saft’ir! Saft’ir!”
I no longer cared if the Ghen waiting outside learned there was a Bria in their hideous ceremony, didn’t even care if a Broghen lurked around the next corner, drawn by my screams. I only cared that somewhere in this hell Saft’ir was fighting monsters with his bare claws, and I might be only a corridor away with knifes and a firearm when he died in its jaws.
My screams soon died in my parched throat. Still I stumbled on until the narrow corridor twisted once more and spewed me forth. A sudden sense of space stopped me.
Wiping the tears from my eye, I stared in amazement. I stood at the edge of a courtyard perhaps as big as an unjoined Bria’s house. The sky was clear overhead and the last of the evening light poured in unhindered by any kind of covering. Half a dozen cappa shrubs grew about the clearing and in the middle was a huge fountain.
I was almost afraid of such open space after being constrained by walls for so long, and was at first convinced I was hallucinating. Saft’ir was dead and I wished I were, also. Even so, the fountain drew me. I went to it and submerged my burning head beneath its cool waters.
When I emerged, I heard a low moaning from behind the fountain. There, beneath a cappa bush, lay Sim’en. He was feverish, barely conscious. I brought him water and he swallowed, weakly at first, then greedily. I fed him cappa fruit and ate some myself.
While picking them, I came across a patch of bannot roots. Yanking on their leafy tops I tore a half-dozen from the ground and washed them in the fountain. They would be hard to chew uncooked, but I was glad to find them. I cut small pieces with my knife and gave the smallest ones to Sim’en, who swallowed them whole. When he had drunk and eaten, he raised shaking hands.
“Brod’ar dead,” he signed slowly in the mountain language. “One Broghen dead.”
“Yes, Tyannis sees Brod’ar and Broghen.”
“Broghen wounds Sim’en. Broghen is hurt, runs away. Saft’ir little wounded, carries Sim’en here.”
I waited, almost unable to breathe. Afraid to ask.
“Saft’ir goes into walls,” Sim’en pointed to an opening on the opposite side of the courtyard. I barely stopped myself from rushing toward it.
“Saft’ir hears Tyannis screaming. Tyannis is outside. Saft’ir finishes labyrinth to find Tyannis outside.”
“Labyrinth,” I signed. It was a symbol I hadn’t seen before.
Sim’en gestured around us. “Walls narrow, turn. Pathway difficult. Labyrinth.”
The enclosure, he meant the entire enclosure. And Saft’ir meant to finish it. Was there a way out of these walls, then? A way not barred and guarded?
“Ghen not let Saft’ir leave labyrinth,” I signed.
Sim’en waved his hand in the negative. “Saft’ir finds path out. Ghen happy. Saft’ir brings help Sim’en. Saft’ir, Sim’en join Ghen.”
“Saft’ir, Brod’ar, Sim’en come in labyrinth happy.” I couldn’t believe it.
“No. Must come in labyrinth.” He paused then grimaced painfully. “Leave happy.”
I touched my breath.“Tyannis follows Saft’ir.” I pointed to the opening he had shown me.
“Saft’ir marks trail.”
Now I grinned in earnest. No more guessing at every crossroad, no more retracing dead ends or searching the ground for footprints that went both ways, footprints that could be Broghen as easily as Ghen. “Tell Tyannis.”
“Stone.” Sim’en picked up a pebble, rubbed it against the palm of his other hand. “Stone marks trail on wall.”
“Tyannis brings weapons.” I opened the pouch and handed him his knife, and then the firearm. He took the knife in his hands, almost lovingly. Briefly he held the firearm, stroked it longingly before he gave it back to me.
“Saft’ir, Tyannis die: Sim’en die. Saft’ir, Tyannis live: kill Broghen, bring help Sim’en.”
Tears came to my eye, but Sim’en was right. If there was a way out and we could find it, we might all live. Otherwise, we would surely all three die. I returned the firearm to its pouch.
Sim’en showed me the small water-skin he’d been given on entering the labyrinth. I refilled it from the fountain for him and drank again myself. After taking one last look at him, I turned and left.
At the first turn in the corridor I found Saft’ir’s mark—a rough > scratched into the wall at eye level. I ran to the next corner, which was a fork leading off in two directions, and searched until I found his > again. I didn’t care whether he’d chosen correctly or not; I was glad I no longer had to choose for myself.
The evening had lengthened while I was in the courtyard and soon I was unable to see Saft’ir’s marks and was forced to stop. I almost cried in frustration to finally know my direction and be unable to follow it. Saft’ir was still weaponless against two Broghen. What if he died tonight, with help so close? I banged my feet and hands against the wall like a child in a temper, but I couldn’t risk going on blind and losing his trail.
I heard the roar of Broghen in the night, sometimes far away, sometimes coming nearer; twice so near I expected to see one turn the corner and fall upon me. Always, the walls came between us, like the hands of Wind, keeping me safe. Like the walls around our distant city, that protected us against our own Broghen.
In the long, dark night I faced the fact that we, too, must birth Broghen. I had recognized it in the sleeping, white infants, heard of their existence in Saft’ir’s silences, in the way he turned away from me when I denied it. In the long, dark night I sat with a wall at my back, protection and prison both; as solid as the wall of ignorance I’d lived behind all my life.
Walls were not the Wind’s work. We built them and it was up to us to tear them down. All through the long, cold night, monsters raged; and they, like the walls we built against them, were all our doing.
I sat out the night with my knife in one hand and Saft’ir’s firearm in the other. I had cocked it in the dark, bracing it in the sharp corner of two walls and using both hands to pull the trigger back until I heard it lock with a “click!” as Saft’ir had shown me. The Broghen howled continuously. They were crazed with hunger now, as desperate to feed as we were to escape.
At the first light of dawn I rose and ran through the corridors, pausing only to loc
ate Saft’ir’s marks on the walls. I stumbled when the screams of a battle erupted suddenly behind me, and fell against the wall, my every instinct urging me to turn and run toward the sounds, even though I knew I’d never reach them that way. None of my senses served me here. All I had were a few marks scratched on the wall before I arrived. Scratches made by someone as lost as I was. I ran, clutching the knives and the firearm, as fast as I could away from Saft’ir’s screams.
The corridor twisted at last and I was able to race back toward the sounds of battle until it turned again, and once again I had to follow. At the next turn I almost ran over the white body.
My sudden appearance stirred it from its death throes and it half-raised a gory arm against me. I leaped away, slamming against the wall behind me. Even dying, it terrified me. I would birth one of these? And unleash it on Wind to destroy everything it came across? I gagged, nauseous with horror and disgust. The dying monster fell back, the last of its life spent. Only my ragged panting filled the corridor.
My panting and the distant shrieks of the third Broghen. I leaped over the still, white form and ran on. There were no more marks on the walls. I didn’t need them; the trail I followed now was marked in blood.
Why wasn’t Saft’ir screaming?
“Hold on,” I whispered as I ran.
“Hold on,” I sobbed, still hearing only the Broghen up ahead.
“Hold on!” I screamed, “Saft’ir, hold on! I’m coming!”
One last turn and I saw them. Saft’ir lay bleeding upon the ground, backed against the wall with his arms raised before him, claws extended. His breath was ragged, as though he were drowning in the blood that covered him. Over him leaned the Broghen, waiting, sensing that Saft’ir’s wounds would soon weaken him beyond resistance.
At my approach it shrieked anew, raising its massive arms to claim its prey before I could intrude. And in that moment I raised Saft’ir’s firearm and pulled the trigger.
The recoil threw me to the wall, knocking the breath from my body. The thunder of its eruption echoed from wall to wall throughout the labyrinth. Blinded by spots of blackness and flashing lights, and deafened by the noise, I staggered back up. The Broghen lay dead on the ground, its lifeless arms stretching toward Saft’ir still.
It was repulsive even in death, a thing capable only of destruction. I looked at the firearm in my bruised hands, and threw it from me in revulsion. A thing capable only of destruction.
When I looked up, Saft’ir was staring at me. “Are you all right?” His hands shook as he formed the words.
I closed my eyes for a moment, forcing down hysterical laughter. Was I all right? I knelt beside him. There was so much blood I couldn’t find his wounds. “Where are you hurt?” I signed.
He grimaced. “Everywhere.” Then he reached up, touching my lips to feel my breath on his fingers.
Before Saft’ir would let me help him through the final turns of the labyrinth, he made me bury the knives and the firearm. The mountain Ghen knew nothing about firearms, but if they saw us with one they would guess it to be a weapon. Without visible evidence, however, they could make what they would of the noise they’d heard.
I dug in the soft earth to make a hiding place. I felt I was stabbing my knife into Wind itself, opening a wound into which I would insert, like poison, the weapons which made me a killer
“We’ll have to come back for them later,” Saft’ir signed as I stamped down the earth, trying to make it look like the rest of the ground, which was torn up anyway from the fight between Saft’ir and the Broghen.
The dead Broghen stank in the close walls. I began to shake with reaction and weariness. The worst of it was, I wasn’t sorry. In fact, I half wanted that firearm in my hands when we met Teralish at the end of the labyrinth. The thought shocked me so much I began to cry.
I hated the mountain people with a rage I hadn’t known I could feel. Hated them for what they’d put us through, and even more for what they made me into. I wasn’t the heart of Wind. It was only a matter of degree that separated me from the vicious beast I’d shot.
I heard Saft’ir’s guttural voice and saw through my tears that he was signing, but I was too ashamed to tell him the reason for my grief.
“For Brod’ar,” I signed. I cried harder. “And I was afraid.” I remembered racing through the corridors after Saft’ir’s screams had stopped.
I slid to my knees, rocking in the dirt, my arms tight around my abdomen. Saft’ir crawled forward slowly, until he reached me. I lay my forehead against his arm and howled, a sound as hideous as any made by a Broghen.
When the worst of my grief was spent, he touched my shoulder gently.
“We have to go,” he signed when I lifted my head. “Sim’en is waiting for help. Can you face them?”
I touched my breath.
“You make too much of them,” he signed, when I had risen.
“Not anymore.”
“Now as much as ever.”
I helped him stand and eased myself under his arm to support the wounded leg. Together we made our way through the last twisting corridors of the labyrinth.
***
When we emerged, we were greeted with smiles and signs of welcome.
“Rock accepts Saft’ir!” Teralish signed for all to see, the pleasure and relief clear on his face. He gestured to the assembled mountain Ghen: “Welcome Saft’ir.”
They cheered again. Then, “Rock accepts Tyannis!” he signed, and turned once more to the Ghen: “Welcome Tyannis.”
I was shocked at being included in the ceremony until I saw Shebabeth standing among the Ghen.
“I told him that our Bria don’t fight Broghen,” Saft’ir signed to me. “Otherwise you would have been included from the start.”
“You knew about this?”
“I began to guess some of it when I saw the sleeping Broghen. Their children are all taught to fight.”
“They put their own children in the labyrinth?”
“At three years of age both Bria and Ghen, together with the Broghen of their birth year, run the labyrinth. The children have been trained to fight together and the Broghen are outnumbered three to one. Not many Broghen survive, but those that do are freed. And the children, apparently, are never again afraid of Broghen.”
“Those who survive.”
“Those who survive,” he agreed.
Because they know they are more deadly than the Broghen, I thought bitterly.
The Ghen approached us and gently lifted Saft’ir onto a courrant’h pelt stretched between two poles.“Sim’en waits beside fountain,” Saft’ir signed to them. “No Broghen lives.” Several of the Ghen hurried into the labyrinth with another of the crude stretchers.
Shebabeth came up to me. “Tyannis strong. Rock accepts Tyannis.” He grinned happily.
“Brod’ar dead. Saft’ir, Sim’en hurt,” I signed.
“Rock accepts, not accepts.” Shebabeth touched his throat in a gesture I’d come to recognize as resignation.
I raised my hands to sign that I didn’t accept rock, or any of their gods and ceremonies, or them. He saw my face and grabbed my hands to quiet me.
White and black his hands and mine were, together.
Light and shadow, shadow and light, intertwined.
We bear Broghen, too.
Council Relations
(Briarris)
When I approached the sandy field beside Savannis’s—no, Yur’i’s—house, I was surprised at the number of adult Bria already there. I’d been told Yur’i put out benches, encouraging parents to visit storytime, but I had no idea so many attended.
“I’m glad you came,” Tibellis greeted me.
“I’m glad you suggested it.” I looked around. There were so many younglings I had trouble picking out my grandchildren, Kayjais and Zipporis. They must have been watching for me, however, because in a moment they came racing over.
“This means so much to them...” Tibellis stopped, embarrassed. I touched my breath, f
luttering my hand. Pandarris wouldn’t consider interrupting his work to attend storytime, even when his younglings were involved. I could imagine the look he must have given Tibellis when he suggested it. But I’d been just as preoccupied with my work when Pandarris was a youngling.
“One has more time for grandchildren,” I said as Kayjais and Zipporis threw themselves into my arms. Nodding over their heads at the Bria parents and the crowd of Ghen and Bria children, I added, “This appears to be something a councilor should know about.”
When Yur’i called all the children to him, I moved with Tibellis to the benches. “Sit here,” I said, “and translate everything.”
He sat beside me. I said once again, “Translate everything. Every sign the children make, even to each other. And everything that Yur’i signs to them.”
He touched his breath and I saw in his expression that he had intended to invite a councilor as well as a grandparent.
***
“The Story of Riattis.” A solemn little Bria stood beside Yur’i, translating his occasional narrative comments for the parents.
Kayjais leaped as far as his small legs could carry him. He landed on his tiptoes, arms outstretched, his long fingers extended, pointing to the ground. He stood poised a moment, then leaped again. The two- and three-year-olds, Ghen and Bria alike, followed him and everywhere he landed several of them stayed, twirling, bending, shooting up and twirling again.
“You are fire,” Yur’i reminded a little, grinning Ghen, and immediately a more solemn expression crossed his face. “Good.”
Kayjais reached the first of the four-year-old Ghen lying together on the ground in pretended sleep. Just as he reached them his sibling, Zipporis, followed by a line of four-year-old Bria, came racing between the twirling little flames toward the sleeping Ghen. Zipporis bent over the first one, urgently shaking his shoulder.
Walls of Wind and the Occasional Diamond Thief Boxed Set Page 24
