by Jane Baskin
One look into his dark eyes. Her own sea green eyes becoming, just for that moment, almost as dark and full of sorrow as his. Then igniting the spark, tossing the torch.
Leaving the room as the fire caught, roared up the walls, blasted out the windows behind the long curtains. Standing just beyond the entry arch, watching the place become an inferno. As if memory could be burned away. As if ghosts would cease to walk where fire burned off the stains of their dying.
Nayan, now taking her arm. Gently. We have to go, Zoren. The fire …
She, nodding to him. Knowing the flames would soon ignite the many explosives set around the castle and bring it to its knees.
Riding away, then. She, the young lords, their friends among the People. These, the last to leave the keep. Aurast and the others, long gone in staggered groups. The injured, taken away in stolen wagons, pulled by stolen ganthas. The dead as well (although not too many of these). All surviving riders away, to confront the equatorial jungle one last time.
Zoren-te, halting her gantha on a rise where forest bordered the northern side of the keep. Turning, just watching. Listening, as the charges went off with terrible resounding booms; as the castle groaned, fell into itself. Watching the clouds of smoke and dust rise on mighty air currents; move off, not so strangely, in the direction of Darleigh. The dust, rising in a dirty column, rounding itself into a heavy ball that seemed to hang in place where the castle had been. Zoren-te, seeing in her mind’s eye: the unflinching resolve of the ghosts, determined to stake out their territory and remain here, on their turf, after every effort to wipe them away failed.
Noar, growing impatient. “We need to be going.”
Nayan, flatly: “How would you feel if that were Cha-ning?”
Not a word from the others. Noar, once again feeling dismissed by his brother. His brother who was now the Lord. Who outranked him. Who had edged him out so often on the field … who had even taken one of his conquests out of his bed. The last, still rankling. Remembering his words to his mother, that morning so many months ago: That’s the one thing I’m better at. The only thing.
Noar, turning his gantha back toward the North. “Okay, watch it burn. Take your time. I can cross by myself. I’ve done it before.” Taking off at a gallop.
And Nayan, just letting him go.
This crossing: harder than Nayan could remember. Had crossed through the jungle three times now (not counting the one legal time, on the train). Had faced it in its most awful moments. But this: the most awful of all.
For he felt like he was towing behind himself some terrible weight. The weight of the South; all its stolid ideas, its wasted lives, its brutal social system. The drag of a culture so foreign, so unjustifiable … hard to believe he had laid waste to a small chunk of it.
Still, the guilt. Riding like an unseen passenger behind his saddle. Having moved quietly into his mind; after the battle, after the carnage, after the flames that could cleanse everything but memory.
The dead, howling behind him. The taste of blood, still in his mouth. Still making him sick.
What have I done? These words, his eternal passengers. What have I done what have I done what have I … I have defended against raiders. I have never been one.
And the other thing. I have wiped my beloved’s entire history.
She, riding quietly. Nayan, looking over at her now and then. Wondering what was going on in her head as she navigated the treacherous ground, brushed sweat soaked hair out of her eyes. Wondering if she thought of her family, her dead peasant lover, her dead in-laws over at Darleigh. Wondering if she wondered if they had suffered. Or even, were in pain right now.
Can pain continue after death? In some ghostly form? Looking at Zoren-te, Nayan began to believe it could. That it could cast its sucking darkness over the living and all they loved, even if gone on ahead. Nayan, wondering if Zoren-te would ever smile again.
Finally … the crossing completed. The air, cooling down. Cool streams found, in which to bathe. Ganthas watered, cooled. All, finding the energy that had been evaporated out of them crossing through the hostile, steaming jungle. Soaking away the sting of a thousand insects; snake bites, stinging plants. Washing sludge out of their hair. Washing clothes. Releasing the weight of unrelenting heat and moisture. Releasing themselves from their own sweaty reek.
Emerging into the temperate zones. Heading through meadow, canyon, wood. Bearing steadily north. Avoiding the cities. Arriving, months after their departure, at the village before Cha-ning.
Finally into the castle. Nayan and Zoren-te, into their rooms, welcome and cold. Nayan, happy to have to light the fireboxes. Almost at rest, sitting with Zoren-te by the fire in the anteroom. Mugs of gell tea. Looking almost peaceful.
But.
No parents in rooms upstairs. No Ania-te, warming the ale for supper. Knowing that whenever they did descend for the evening meal, the population of the hall would be sparse. So many missing.
For all their trouble, for all the war and vengeance exacted, the missing would still be gone.
So, with this knowledge, staying overlong by the fire. Sitting side by side, entwining their hands, with absolutely nothing to say. Except, of course … that.
She, having seen it in her mind before he showed her, naturally. Having seen it back there; back then … when it happened. Had said nothing, though. Too overwhelmed by death. By ghosts she could see right before her, sadly wandering the halls of what had once been home.
When he emerged from the bedroom, holding it, she: already looking up at him expectantly. His right hand, clenched. Zoren-te, not losing the eye contact for a second, but reaching for his hand with hers.
Show me.
Unfolded his hand. In his palm, a bullet.
You stopped it with your mind. I saw it, even all the way over at Vel, even with a gun to my head. You were aflame. When we’re like that … there is no distance. No time. You saw Che, dying. You – everything in you, everything you’re made of – couldn’t let it happen. So you went into the same place as the bullet, the same time. And picked it out of the air.
Zoren, how is that possible? How did you know?
For some people, this is normal. I saw my father stop a huge stone that was about to fall on my head when I was a child. We were walking in the wood, by a mountain stream. At the foot of a cliff. A big rock fell, and he held it while I got away.
Your father?
Yes. Did you know my father was a northerner?
You mentioned … once …
His mother was from the North. The match was arranged, one of the thousand times South and North tried to bridge the distance. I believe she was from Rhymney.
Nayan, trying to remember. Yes. Minor relatives, here and there bartered away to the South. To stop the raids …
Nayan, now risisng to put the absurd bullet on the mantelpiece. Thought better of it. Closed his hand over it. With his back still toward her: Zoren, I did more than stop a bullet. Out there in the field … we were so outnumbered …
I know. I saw it. Or felt it … or something.
It was murder, Zoren.
It was battle, Nayan.
Nayan turning, returning to the chair beside her. No words.
My father told me his mother said this thing … was not uncommon in the North. But no one spoke of it.
But. Zoren … Nayan, taking a deep breath. Tell me, Zoren. Do you have this ability? To move things with your mind?
No, Nayan. I do not. That is very rare.
There, then. The mystery explained. Of how she could be taken. Of how she could be held against her will. By the hideous commander.
By Noar.
And now, how he would worry that she was so vulnerable, for the rest of his life.
Then the two of them, folding their hands over the magical bullet, just staring into the fire. Something else, undefined, entering the room. To educate, to comfort. Memory – not entirely their own – wafting about them, recalling times they had never seen, place
s they had never been. But things they somehow knew. Incomprehensible, barely believable. But the magic of heredity, swarming between them.
Messages. Of course. From all the ghosts that would live in and about them as long as they drew breath.
And the grinning clown, horrible; the stocky passenger of guilt, of fear. That rode with them from Vel, through the jungle, all the way home. That also would never leave them.
What have we done?
His ability to phase … the communication … do you suppose she is a carrier?
I suppose we’ll find out at the first breeding.
That night: could not face the great hall. Took some snacks and ale in their rooms, went to bed early. Fell asleep in each others’ arms, without making love. But waking later, in the early hours of the morning. Reaching for one another with quiet desperation. Needing this; needing once again to beat back the ghosts. Banish them – at least for now – with the fire of living, against all odds.
The next morning, faced the hall. Relieved to see their brothers and sisters in arms, the lord and lady of Aurast, the elders from Rhymney. Nayan’s cousins from Rhymney as well. Aterya-te, formally engaged now, with her fiance beside her. The table near the serving counter: thankfully filled.
Nayan and Zoren-te, serving themselves, taking their places at table. Lord Gan, quick onto the topic: “So, what now, Nayan?”
Nayan, looking mildly startled. “What do you mean?”
“What are your plans?”
A shrug; some confusion. “Return to life as much as possible. Gather in whatever harvest hasn’t been gotten, process and put up the food. Check the meat stores, hunt as necessary. By then it’ll be just about time to harvest the gell.”
Lady Jiren-te: “So you think there’ll be no reprisals.”
“Reprisals?”
“Surely you don’t think our little foray into the South will go unnoticed, do you Nayan? We fired two of the strongest keeps in the region.”
“Of course it’ll be noticed. Has been noticed, by now. But … I hadn’t really thought of reprisals. Our action itself was a reprisal.”
Lord Gan: “You think they know that? Or care?”
A sigh. Put down his meat roll. “I don’t know what they know, what they care about. Odds are, they don’t know what Darleigh did here; the old murderer had his secrets. As you know, he blamed Vel’s death on peasants. But to be really honest, I don’t really care. Soon it’ll be getting very cold. It’ll be too late for raids. We’ll worry about that in the spring, when they come for the gell.”
Aurast, a pause. Thoughtful. “Very well then, Nayan. Makes sense, I guess.”
Noar, listening intently. Shaking his head. “I don’t agree.”
Aurast, turning to him. “You don’t agree with your brother’s assessment?”
“No. I think he doesn’t like fighting, and thinks it’ll go away if he refuses to think about it. But the South is the South. We opened a wound when we exacted our revenge. Wounds in the South fester. They never close.”
Nayan, just staring at him. Is he getting more thoughtful, less impulsive? Noar’s opinion: perhaps rashly stated, contained more sense than typical for him. What’s going on with him?
“What do you think they’ll do, Noar?” Nayan listening to him, now. How long had it been, since he gave his brother the gift of credence?
“I think they’ll come roaring over that hill in numbers so vast we can’t count them. They’ll come in hordes, before the real cold sets in, before the gell harvest. And after it, in spring, as well. They may even come by train, like they did before, and move on the cities.”
“That’s a lot of war, Noar.”
“That’s what they do in the South. It’s what they live for.”
No response around the table. Zoren-te, looking at her mug of tea. Aurast, looking at Nayan. Then everyone, looking at Nayan.
Finally Che: “Noar’s not entirely wrong, Nayan. I mean, they still have their peasant revolt to deal with, but … he has a point.”
Noar, startled. Then angry. Angrier even than when he brought up the challenge to his brother’s opinion. Becoming, in seconds, furious. Not entirely wrong. Is that the best they can do?
When would he be right? When would his opinion be counted as worthy, not remarked upon as being not so foolish as usual?
Nayan: “No, Che. He’s not. But we’re worn out. What do you suggest?”
Addressing his comment to Che. To Che! ‘What do you suggest, Che?’I raised the issue. Look at me! Talking like I’m not even here.
Che: “Maybe we should take some measures … just some protective stuff. More than usual, this year.”
“Increase patrols?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, do it.”
Okay, do it. To Che. Not to me. Talking to Che, his captain. Not me. Che is his captain. Not me. I’m the sub lord. I’m supposed to be his captain. Not Che. Me! Noar, his heart burning with the slight. Got up from the table without finishing his meal. Left the room.
While he fumed – unnoticed by Nayan – Nayan, forming another disinformation plan in his mind. Discussing it later, with Zoren-te. There were a lot of survivors among the defenders. We killed a lot, but more got away.
You released the ones at Darleigh.
I won’t burn men alive.
And I admire you for it. Still, every one of those men knows it was northern raiders who attacked their keep.
It’s no secret. So we have to find a way to undo that knowledge.
How do you undo facts?
By playing to the stupidest people. They’re usually the ones in charge.
By the way, Nayan.
Hmmn.
It’s … it may be none of my business, but …
What? Just say it.
I think you should be more careful around Noar.
What?
He’s touchy lately.
He’s my brother. I’ll handle him. He’s often touchy; don’t worry about it.
Line messages, spies. Put to work in earnest, now. Spreading an outlandish story. That any thoughtful man would have found laughable. But Nayan: not directing his message to thoughtful people. The lie: that northern mercenaries had been hired by peasant armies since the murder of Gwildan. For their reknowned guerilla skills. To lead attacks on the two great keeps responsible for their leader’s death.
A wild story, of course. No such thing as northern mercenaries. But with enough repetition, anything becomes believable. Especially to the stupid. The leaders of the remaining lords, still engaging the remaining peasant armies. Still riding their rage to the finish line. Still believing … the righteousness of their cause. And their captains: not a whole thought between them.
To these men: a plausible story. Everyone knew: northerners were soft on their peasants. Even rumors they had freed them, in the far north. Wild rumors, of course. But believable. Everyone knew: northerners were weird. Maybe too much gell. Accepted as true: gave gell to their babies in place of mother’s milk.
And … they had given comfort to Gwildan. This fact: spread by Darleigh himself, to give credence to his own lies about the murder of Vel.
Nayan’s careful web of deceit: playing to these suspicions. Even going into fine detail, believable by those who loved easy answers.
Now, hearing how the North was becoming split, culturally. The cities against the gell masters. Cities, more forward thinking. The nature of cities: to have flexible principles, if any. Loyalty of the cities to the rural lords: questionable at best. These cities: filled with southern visitors; even southern residents. And filled with desperate, out of work soldiers. This, also believable.
“That’s what too much peace ‘ll do to you.”
“What a joke. What do they plan to do with all those soldiers?”
Apparently – so the story went – the soldiers had found work. Working for the peasants of the South. Working for peasants!
So bizarre, it was believed.
&n
bsp; So these people, the remaining great houses, mustered their armies, redoubled their efforts; then spent all their time hunting down remaining peasant rebels. Hiring northerners to outfight them! Beyond outrageous. No one outfights the South. Such unspeakable action … peasant survivors must be punished.
Nayan, correct in his assessment. Earning yet another measure of respect from the elders, from People. “The young lord is gifted.” A statement with, by now, more than one meaning.
While Southern lords, turned all their attention to the uprising, now. The far North: redoubling patrols, just in case. But knowing: this winter: would not bring retaliation from the South. At least, not yet.
Settling in – or trying to – to life as it was dictated by seasons in the North. The fall, becoming winter now. In the two months’ absence, the brief fall, almost over. Frost on the meadow. Occasional roars from hungry lions drifting out of Cha-ning Forest.
Nayan and Che, among others: hunting a lot. Bringing in deer and game birds from the wood. One time, chased by a lion trying to steal their kill. Probably should have left it to the lion. But both young men, rising from cover to do battle with the huge beast. Insane? But driven. Both of them, like insects attacking a god. Still, possessed by some weird drive, inexplicable to both of them. Utterly determined not to lose that kill.
Che, firing near the animal’s feet, to hold it back. Nayan, rushing to get the long whip off his gantha’s saddle. Just automatic. A quick thought, misting through his brain: why not just use the gift? But away in milliseconds. No. It’s wrong. Isn’t it? This is a Cha-ning lion. A holy creature.
His gantha: hysterical with fear. Pulling at the reins wrapped around a nearby lashigah tree, bucking and prancing. Making it difficult to get the whip. The lion, his snarls heard all the way back to the castle. Taking tiny runs at Che, like it knew he would not fire directly upon it.
Brilliant creatures, Cha-ning lions. Known for intelligence that could only be estimated, since no one could get close enough to ascertain exactly what they were capable of doing. But. Known facts: they lived in social groups, hunted in groups when necessary, eluded traps, frequently stole game from humans. In particularly bad winters, even known to approach human storehouses. In groups. And get away with food.
