Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  “Nothing that matters,” she answered at last. “At least not to anyone but me. Just more secrets.” She felt Kebonsat flinch at the bitterness in her voice, as if she’d pointed a finger at him.

  “You should have stayed in bed,” she said to Juhrnus, trying to lighten the mood.

  He shook his head. “I’m on my way, too. Down to the Straits of Pleanar to meet Dannen Relvi, and then back to Koduteel.”

  “I thought Karina said she wouldn’t be able to send out any more information.”

  “I can still spy on the Regent’s preparations. He’s got to have a staging area for his army. And I might discover something about the Scallacians.” He gave a lopsided smile that lacked humor. “Don’t want ’em sneaking up on us unawares.”

  “Have you heard from her?” Reisil asked with a pang of guilt. She’d forgotten about the sorceress—or rather, about how important Kedisan-Mutira had become to Juhrnus. She was different, he claimed. Exactly how different, Reisil didn’t know. Nor did Juhrnus. He didn’t believe that she was going to turn against her fellow sorcerers or the Regent Aare. He seemed sure of that—sure that he could not trust her. But still he hoped. So did Reisil, for his sake and Honor’s.

  She nudged her horse close to his and pulled him into a hug.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said softly.

  “Look who’s talking,” he jeered. “Come home soon.”

  “Soon as I can,” she promised.

  “Try not to die first.”

  “Yohuac says the nahuallis have spirit-catchers. I’ll come back one way or another,” Reisil promised, pulling away.

  She turned to Kebonsat. His face was white and sunken beneath his hood. His skin wrapped his skull tightly. He looked eerie and hopeless, like a rashani—one of the soul-destroyed, condemned to roam the land long after their bodies rotted away and their sins had no meaning. Reisil suddenly regretted the jibe she’d made. She reached out and grasped his hand. He wore gloves, but he seemed to radiate cold. The same cold that clutched her, only far more bleak. Hopeless. Her grip tightened.

  “You cannot let go,” she said. “You cannot abandon Metyein and Emelovi. They need your experience and wisdom.”

  He looked at Reisil, his eyes fathomless. “I am forbidden to see or speak with her. She does not trust my word.” He paused. “I have no place here. I have no place anywhere. I have no family and no country.” He cocked his head in an oddly unemotional way, as if considering the price of dishware or candles. “I have no claim any longer to my name. Do you know the suffix sat refers to the titular heir? I have been disowned. I am nothing more than Kebon, a blank shield.”

  Reisil wanted to grab him and shake him out of his apathy. No, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was more that everything that anchored him to this world had been torn away: his name, his family, his country, his purpose. She knew how that felt. She had felt the same way when her magic had failed, and the ahalad-kaaslane and nobility had shunned her. She’d never felt so alone, so useless. More than useless; she’d felt as if she were causing harm to those she was supposed to be protecting.

  She pulled him close, so that her nose nearly brushed against his. “You are Kebonsat cas Vadonis. You are my friend. I trust you. I need you to look after them. I need you to keep Emelovi safe, and to help Metyein fight the Regent and his father. Do you understand? There’s no one else who can do it. Can I rely on you?”

  Reisil released him.

  He was still, everything but his cheek. It twitched just below his right eye. Reisil held him snared, refusing to let him look away, refusing to let him withdraw any farther.

  “I—” He closed his mouth, clamping it shut. A full minute passed. The horses shifted uneasily. Reisil’s copper gelding pawed the ground, shoving his nose out against the reins.

  “I . . . yes. You can.” The words were low and tight, barely audible.

  It was enough.

  “Bright journey, then,” Juhrnus said, extending his arm.

  Reisil grasped it firmly, and then Kebonsat’s. “Lady hold you in Her hands while I’m gone,” she said. And then she wheeled and urged her chestnut up the hill. Kebonsat would not fail her. He’d broken his word once. He would never do it again.

  Tapit learned of Reisil’s departure two days later. He was trundling a barrow of dirt from one of the tunnels to fortify the earthworks of Raven when he overheard the worried conversation of two guards.

  “Them’s sayin’ she’s gone off agin, Reisiltark. Since two days.”

  “Gone? Where? What fer? What we gonna do without ’er?”

  “Ain’t no tellin’ where. And now, when the plague’s got us by the balls. I tell you square, not much sense stayin’ here now. Ought to be gettin’ goin’. Git away from this cursed place and take . . .”

  The rest of the conversation was lost to Tapit.

  He upended the barrow, seething. Gone? Where? And why? He lowered the barrow, swinging it around to push it back toward the mounds beside the tunnel opening. He strained against the mud, his face slick with sweat, his undertunic damp and clammy.

  She’d come to the wizards’ stronghold to learn what had been done to Mysane Kosk, and to ask how to reverse the spell. Her shock had been laughable when she learned that no living Kvepi knew what had happened. And neither did they mean to undo the spell. Though it hadn’t happened in the expected way, the original goal had been accomplished: the creation of a vast source of power. And it had also unlocked the door to using magic inside Kodu Riik. What had happened at Mysane Kosk had turned out better than they hoped.

  Tapit reined in his thoughts, scowling. She still meant to reverse the spell. Where else could she go for help? He thought hard, but his mind remained empty. A niggling thought. Unless . . . the Whieche? He almost laughed aloud.

  That gaggle of weak-stomached cods wouldn’t know rinda from a chamber pot. They called themselves wizards, but had never wanted to make the necessary sacrifices to learn their craft. What puling few there were left after the Nethieche had purged them. No, the Whieche wouldn’t be able to help her. But crossing into Patverseme to find them meant she’d be in Tapit’s homeland. He chortled. It would be almost too easy to get ahead of her and set a trap.

  The lean wizard parked the barrow, making a show of grasping his gut and pretending the need to void himself. The other men hardly paid attention to him as he wandered toward the trees for a moment of privacy. His mind raced. He’d circle the valley for her trail. He could track her. A two-day trail was not so difficult, even with the smothering magic of the place, even with the rain. A fierce smile spread across his face. She could not hide her path so well that he could not find it. It was his gift. And capturing her would be all the sweeter for a good chase.

  Chapter 17

  The grueling journey east and north across the Karnane Valley to the Melyhir Mountains took six weeks. At every stop, Reisil checked the horses, healing bruised hooves, pulled muscles and tendons, scrapes, torn frogs, and twice sprained fetlocks. It was easy enough to do, and tired her no more than hauling wood for the fire or cooking, both of which the others delegated entirely to themselves. Harder was setting the wards in the evenings, though practice made it easier. They each still took watch, to call a challenge and recognize a friend, but more than once the wards proved their worth by killing marauders that meant them harm.

  “Handy, that,” Soka said the first time they were attacked. He knelt, turning over the body of a ragged man who sprawled lifeless, a battered sword clutched in his hand, his body emaciated beneath his filthy clothing. “Be nice if the buggers worked when we were moving.”

  “Nurema said it was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the spell. Wards guard places. You have to lay them out in a pattern so they connect to create a kind of fence, with everything inside protected. But it won’t work on water, horses, or even a man walking. You walk right out of the spells. I don’t know why you can’t make them more portable.”<
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  But the question niggled at her. It occupied her so that she didn’t have to think about her parents, to wonder if they still lived. In the evenings while the food cooked, Soka, Yohuac, and the four soldiers sparred and wrestled with one another. As much as Reisil could use the practice, she ignored them in favor of studying the ward spells. She tried modifying them, but it was no use. She hadn’t any idea how to read the nahualli rinda, much less use them. They could be letters, words, or entire sentences. Or numbers. Equations. The possibilities seemed endless and hopeless. And she hadn’t learned enough of the wizard rinda to create much of anything.

  “I should have taken that blighted book,” she said in disgust, throwing the rock upon which she’d been trying to set the changed ward spell.

  “You were otherwise engaged,” Yohuac said, panting as he settled behind her on the ground, his hair damp with sweat. He rubbed gently at her shoulders. “Saving me and Baku. Not to mention the plague-healers.”

  “I’m not sure I didn’t dream them,” Reisil said, leaning back against his chest, breathing in his scent. She wasn’t in the least embarrassed at their intimacy, though Soka wasn’t above the occasional teasing jibe.

  “You did not. Baku and I remember them.”

  “You weren’t entirely in your right mind.”

  ~I was. I remember.

  Reisil smiled. “Saljane says she remembers too.”

  “Remembers what?” Soka sprawled flat on the ground, groaning. “I wouldn’t refuse a shoulder rub of my own, preferably from the lady.” He waggled his brows at Reisil.

  Yohuac shoved his foot against Soka’s thigh and the other man rolled onto his side, affecting an expression of pitiful desolation.

  “What I wouldn’t do for a hot bath. All those years in Koduteel, envying those who had the freedom to ride for days and weeks, anywhere they wanted to go—sheer madness. I didn’t know what I had. Feather beds, rich, remarkable delicacies, the best liquors, and the women . . .” He flopped onto his back, his arms outstretched above his head. “I was a colossal fool.”

  “Was?” Reisil said. And then before he could retort, she went on. “I said I wasn’t sure the plague-healers were really real. But Yohuac, Baku, and Saljane insist they remember them as well.”

  “So then, your mind is not going soft. That must be a comfort.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I can’t figure out how to make these ward spells work on the move. If only I hadn’t left that book—I just don’t know enough rinda! And without knowing more, I’m stuck.”

  “You can’t do magic without these rinda? But of course you can. You’ve been keeping the horses sound.” Soka hitched himself back up on his side, leaning his head on his hand. “So what’s the problem?”

  Reisil sat up, drawing with a finger in the dirt. “Well, with rinda, you can set spells to trigger without you there. You can set them to use stored magic. It keeps you from exhausting yourself every time you want to do something. And you can create more powerful and complex spells by laddering the rinda on top of each other and interweaving them. The wards do that. But they want to guard a space, not a thing. So it isn’t that the wards are protecting us, so much as they are protecting the ground we stand on. And I don’t know how to change it. At least, not with the rinda I know, and I left the book I was using to learn them in the wizards’ stronghold.”

  For a moment she remembered Tapit’s derisive words—the stronghold still stands and only a handful of us lost. Was the book lying where she’d left it? On her bed? In the workroom? She couldn’t remember. Much as she wanted the stronghold to have been destroyed, obliterated by fire and the falling mountains, she hoped the book had survived.

  “What’s so special about these rinda?” Soka asked, breaking into her thoughts. “If they’re just words, why not just use ordinary ones?”

  Reisil opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of an answer. Why not?

  “The rinda are the sacred language of the gods,” Yohuac said, pulling Reisil back against his chest and encircling her warmly in his arms. “Other words are just . . . words.”

  It was a reasonable answer. Still, Reisil wondered. . . .

  “Ah,” Soka said mockingly. “Just like the language of love. The right ones unlock the bed and drawers of the most coy lover.”

  They continued east until they came to the Elii River, which meandered through the Karnane Valley and ended in the salt marshes in southeast Kodu Riik. As they descended out of the Suune Vaale Mountains and into the southern part of the valley, the rainstorms ceased and the ground turned hard and dry. Dust puffed with every step, clogging their noses, mouths, and eyes. The air was still, the sun unrelenting. Saljane and Baku scavenged constantly for food, bringing back snakes, scrawny rabbits, and occasional squirrels.

  Most of the villages they passed were either deserted or burned to cinders. The blackened husks of the latter served as grave markers for the victims of the plague, for the victims of the drought, for dead hopes and stillborn dreams.

  The repeated devastation robbed Reisil of any appetite. How many had died in the flames, burned by their friends and families? Or had entire villages been annhilated by neighboring towns in fear of the plague?

  As the days passed, she found herself growing silent and somber, her stomach churning with bile. Her resolve hardened. She had to—no, she was going to—find the answer to saving Mysane Kosk. She ate because she would not permit herself to become sick or weak. She slept for the same reason, ruthlessly repressing her dreams and nightmares. Her land and people were dying. Time was running out.

  They forded the sluggish Elii River, its flow turbid and less than half of what it should be. Because of this, they crossed easily and started north. On flat land and close to water, they could make much better time. Game was more plentiful as well. But this path also brought them dangerously close to those towns and villages yet inhabited. These were forbidding, hostile places, and attempts at approach resulted in hails of arrows and shouted warnings. No one new was allowed. Take the plague back where you came from. Come near and die.

  But far more perilous were the raiders. They gathered in voracious packs, hunting travelers and those who strayed too far from the walled towns. Their fear of the plague could not withstand their greed for horses, for weapons, wealth, and women. They reveled in the lawlessness that came with the plague. They could rape, pillage, murder, and steal, and no one would stop them.

  Except Reisil.

  The first bodies they found were of a family. The father’s throat had been slit, his eyes gouged out, his intestines spilled out on the ground. The mother and five children had been raped. The youngest was a boy, could hardly have been more than three. Reisil could hardly look at his battered body. His teeth were knocked out, his arms twisted at unnatural angles. His pale skin was washed crimson in his own blood.

  Reisil retched when she turned and found the rest of the family, her stomach convulsing. She grasped the Lady’s talisman at her neck, its hard edges cutting into her hand, recalling her to herself.

  The other children were stair-stepped up in age to about ten. Like the youngest, like their mother, they were blond with brown eyes. And they’d also been brutally raped. The mother had clearly died trying to fight the men off her children. Her jaw had been knocked askew, her breasts nearly carved off her chest. Animals had been at the bodies, birds and wild dogs. The stench of decay was thick in the air, like putrid syrup, mixed in with a sharp smell, and Reisil realized with horror that the men had urinated on the bodies.

  She started violently when from the trees, magpies, jays, and crows screeched furiously. Above, the vultures that had drawn their small party circled lazily.

  Yohuac gripped Reisil’s shoulders, pulling her away.

  “There’s so much blood,” she said, her sobs knotting in her chest, tears streaking her face. Again her stomach twisted and she retched, her ribs convulsing in short, chopping heaves. “Who—what—could do such a thing?” she gasped.
/>   “Juhrnus spoke of raiders,” Yohuac said, his voice like molten steel.

  ~Unnatural, evil men, Saljane added darkly. She gave her piercing cry, chasing the scavenger birds from the trees. Baku roared and joined her.

  They built a pyre. Reisil blasted it. The destruction did little for her fury and frustration. The tinder-dry wood exploded in flames, the bodies burning quickly in the inferno. The smell of cooking, crisping flesh turned Reisil’s stomach. She staggered away up a knoll, to sit with her arms wrapped around her knees. She lifted her head to let the breeze stroke her face, cooling the heat of her tears.

  It was to be only the first of many atrocities they encountered, each as brutal and sickeningly gruesome as the first. And when they found themselves becoming the hunted, Reisil hungered for retribution.

  The wards worked only when their group stopped and Reisil established the magical boundary. When they rode, they were protected only by their own strength of arms, and Reisil’s magic. Yohuac was too unskilled to direct his with any purpose, and he remained unwilling to learn. And Baku . . . He had done no magic since he’d saved Yohuac from the nokulas. Reisil still did not know what Baku could do. Or what he would do. Nor did she ask. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her. He could, and did, fight with his teeth and talons, but never did he mount any other defense.

  Reisil didn’t care if he did. She wasn’t going to let her companions risk their lives against the butchers who’d begun to hunt them. She smiled in ruthless anticipation. None of the cowardly ganyiks would get close enough to send an arrow, much less torture and maim. As far as she was concerned, anyone who’d do what they did, deserved to die. Painfully.

  The idea should have appalled her, but it didn’t.

  She’d been trained as a tark, taught to heal and to preserve life. As such, she found death a bitter thing, an enemy to be fought against, tooth and nail. But on her journey from tark to ahalad-kaaslane, she’d learned sometimes death was to be welcomed. Sometimes killing was necessary. Sometimes killing a person meant saving others. Some people needed extermination.