They are our children. Your children. Yours especially.
No. Not this one. This one is not ours. She never was.
Her mother was yours, before.
Yes. But this one is not.
She is the Hope.
Yes. And we must protect it. We must protect her. Or she will fail. She must have her strings. They are her strength. It must be so. Do not disobey. Now we must give her the gift promised.
The multitude of disembodied voices floated through Reisil’s mind, distorted and rippled, as if through deep waters. One was stronger than the others, deeper and edged with fire. Ilhuicatl.
Warmth wrapped her in a gentle hand, swirling inside her like a spring breeze. She smelled sweet honey-thistle and pungent sage. There was a feeling like bubbles in her blood and a frisson of tickling inside her skull. The feeling passed and a wave of lassitude and comfort spread through her. As she felt herself drifting away into a deep sleep, a sudden flare of something too bright to look at flowed across her mind’s eye in a slow, undulating spurt.
Sleep. Rest. When you wake, there will be much to do.
The voice paused as if debating something. At last it spoke again.
My children mean well. They live and die to serve me, and Cemanahuatl. But . . . there is more here than they can see. And they are bound by what they are. Be warned.
Then the light of Ilhuicatl faded and Reisil fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 29
Reisil woke groggily, gasping as her wounds flared and her muscles protested. Hunger made her weak. She was lying on the chilly gold floor of the sacred room. Above her, the statue of Ilhuicatl loomed grotesquely. She stared at him. It was difficult to equate the statue with the voice she’d heard and the elegant fire-trail in her mind.
She rolled onto her stomach and awkwardly pushed upright. She groaned, every bit of her hurting. Her stomach made a rumbling sound and she winced, rubbing her brow, trying to remember what had happened. She had been visited by the Teotl. They’d done something. . . . She frowned, trying to remember, but it all crumbled away like ash, leaving behind phantom impressions. Something about strings, something about the nahuallis.
Reisil ground her knuckles into her temples. Ilhuicatl’s warning rose stark in her mind.
My children mean well. They live and die to serve me, and Cemanahuatl. But . . . there is more here than they can see. And they are bound by what they are. Be warned.
Gooseflesh pimpled over her arms and down her back. The nahuallis had sent Yohuac to find her. They resented that they had to depend on an outsider, but surely they would help her? Surely they wouldn’t endanger themselves for pride?
Be warned.
Reisil drew a deep breath. All right, she’d be careful. There wasn’t much else to do at the moment, but find Saljane and something to eat. Reisil limped back to the doorway, moving sluggishly, her body not wanting to obey. She gritted her teeth and zigzagged back through the passage and up the tunnel, wanting nothing more than to be out of the chamber and back outside. She dreaded passing back through the vast emptiness of the great cavern. But when she came to the end of the tunnel, she found herself instead at the foot of the stairs. Mystified, she turned to retrace her steps, but found only a wall behind her.
She retraced her path up to the meeting room where she’d entered, walking quietly on the balls of her feet. She paused when the silence was broken by the sounds of women talking. Not just talking. Arguing.
Reisil inched higher, straining to hear. Surprise rocked her to the soles of her feet as she picked words out of the rattling voices. She grinned triumphantly. The gift she’d been promised. Understanding.
She came to the doorway and paused, hanging back in the shadows.
“I say again. She is not one of us. No matter who her mother was.”
Reisil flushed angrily. Did everyone know about her mother but her?
“It is agreed, Piketas, but we are bound to help her. That is what my foreseeing revealed. She is the one who will help us cleanse Ti’Omoru. She is the key.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Nor any of us. But we cannot do it ourselves. We have tried all we can. I do not know why you argue.”
“We have not tried everything,” Piketas said.
There was an ominous silence.
“We must heed the vision.”
“Perhaps it is false.”
“Do you think Ilhuicatl, would send lies? Do you say you doubt me?”
“How can you be certain the vision came from him, Ampok?” came the strident response. “Many of the Teotl would enjoy watching us suffer the indignity of sharing our secrets with this clecha. They are jealous of the favor Ilhuicatl shows us. They would enjoy such a trick, seeing us crawling on our knees. Or perhaps we misunderstand the message. How can we be certain? We must not trust her. She does not care about Cemanahuatl. She wishes only to save her own land. What does she care if we perish? If the magic dies entirely?”
Piketas’s last words sounded shrill. Reisil grimaced. The air of superiority and strength the nahuallis wrapped around themselves was paper-thin and shredding. Which meant she had to work quickly. Their magic might be fading, but they were still very strong. The spell they’d cast in Oceotl was proof enough of that. And if they decided she wasn’t useful, or was a threat, who knew what steps they’d take? What if they tried to destroy their version of Mysane Kosk—Ti’Omoru? She shuddered. It could only be a disaster. The end of both their worlds.
“What do you suggest?” Ampok asked. “She is here. The Teotl has welcomed her. Ilhuicatl has blessed her. We are bound to our word.”
“Then let us watch her carefully. We must guard ourselves. She must not learn how weak we’ve become. We must be ready to stop her. She is strong, but she cannot stand against all of us.”
“Sister, you speak true. But we must also welcome her. She is our gift. She has passed the tests of senior nahuallis. She has stood in the presence of the Teotl. She is one of us now. She will add her strength to ours, and Cemanahuatl will be saved.”
“And if she does not agree?”
“She will.”
A worm of fear and anger inched down Reisil’s spine. There was a fanatical, relentless promise in those words. She thought of Tapit.
“She will not succumb easily,” came another voice, younger than the first two.
“Nothing valuable is won without cost. She will help us save Cemanahuatl, and then she will be ours. Or her children will. Her blood will enrich us. It is enough.”
Suddenly the lush scent of food came drifting into the stairwell, and Reisil’s mouth watered painfully. She had to catch herself to keep from blundering into the midst of the women. Instead she retreated quietly down the stairway about twenty steps. Then she jogged upward, letting her feet slap the stone noisily. She didn’t stop at the top, but strode into the meeting room, stopping abruptly in pretend surprise.
The gathered women had already turned to greet her, hearing her coming. They smiled at her, their teeth white and predatory. Reisil felt like a fish among sharks.
“We greet you, sister,” said one, stepping forward. Reisil recognized her voice. It was the third speaker. She was shorter than the others, and lithe, with strong, calloused fingers. She gripped Reisil’s hands in hers, pulling her forward while another offered her a loose robe to wear. “I congratulate you. You have proven yourself to be one of us.”
One of us. When pigs rode horseback. But Reisil only smiled. “I am glad to be here. To at last be able to speak with you.”
“We are glad as well. But come. You must be hungry. And we will see to your wounds. My name is Ilhanah.”
Reisil was introduced around. Three names stuck with her. Ilhanah, Piketas and Ampok. The three she’d overheard talking.
They chattered at her and amongst themselves while she bolted her food voraciously. They asked about the ivy on her face, about Kodu Riik, whether there was the same trouble there as in Cemanahuatl. Rei
sil was too busy eating to answer in more than grunts.
After she finished, they dressed her wounds. The salve they smoothed over the cuts numbed her skin, giving immediate relief. There were several places where it was necessary to stitch the gashes closed. Reisil refused anything stronger than the salve to deaden the pain, biting on a length of green wood when the agony was too much.
When they had finished, she found she was hungry again. When she set aside her cup and plate, she looked up to find Ilhanah watching her.
Ilhanah smiled. It was a feral expression, like a jungle cat stalking its prey. Unaccountably Reisil thought of Ceriba’s words: His heart is black. As she looked at Ilhanah, Reisil felt a terrible qualm. The nahuallis might not have black hearts. But certainly they were ambitious. And scared. They trusted Reisil as much as she trusted the wizards. Maybe less. She thought of the ominous silence when Ampok had said they had not tried everything. Reisil’s chest tightened and dread coiled around her throat. There was a spell so dire, so awful, the nahuallis would rather trust Reisil than try it. For now. But if they thought Reisil would fail, or betray them, they’d risk it. And anything they were afraid of doing made Reisil very nervous. Their hearts didn’t have to be black. Only cold and desperate.
Reisil was yanked out of her reverie by Ilhanah’s next words.
“Drink this. It is necho. It is the blood of Ilhuicatl. In the name of the Teotl, we welcome you to Atli Cihua and Cemanahuatl as our sister.”
Ilhanah handed Reisil a blue-stone cup the size of a thimble. Inside was a golden liquid that looked like honey and smelled like spring. Following Ilhanah’s example, Reisil tipped it back and swallowed it in one gulp. It tasted sweet and hot. Heat ran through her in lazy ripples that grew more powerful with every passing moment. A feeling of languor and wholeness suffused her.
“It is well?” Ilhanah asked, smiling that same, predatory smile.
“Yes. Very well.”
“Good. The council will meet at moonrise to discuss our situation with you. Until then, you should rest. Then Ampok will show you to a room. Ampok?”
Reisil didn’t argue. A few hours would make little difference, and the sleep would help her think better. She rose and followed after Ampok, feeling as if she were floating.
She was a stocky woman, perhaps thirty summers old. Her face was broad and her features coarse. Her eyes were muddy-looking and her mouth was too wide.
Ampok led her into another part of the building. The corridors snaked in looping curves. Reisil soon lost all sense of direction, her head muzzy with the effects of the necho. At last they arrived at a plain wooden door. It was streaked red and black and had no handle. Ampok touched it, muttering something beneath her breath, and it swung open.
Reisil went inside, noticing only the bed in the center of the room. She tumbled into it. Her last coherent thought was of Saljane.
Chapter 30
Tapit sauntered across the courtyard, looking for Tillen. He’d returned to Mysane Kosk four weeks before to await Reisil’s return. After he’d made known his ability to read, write, and cipher, he’d quickly been passed along into the keeping of Tillen, the Head Steward of Honor. Tillen received all newcomers, assigning them lodging and work with a blunt, cheerful disposition that brooked no argument. More important, he doled out supplies, organized work schedules, routed building materials, and gave daily reports to the Lord Marshal.
Through Tillen, Tapit learned everything that was happening in Honor, from the smallest to the largest detail. He knew more about midden waste and laundry than he ever wished to know, but he also knew a great deal about more important things, like the secret tunnels connecting the stockades, and the plans to withstand an attack.
The wizard made himself indispensible and quickly became the Head Steward’s prime assistant. Soon, Tapit hoped he would be invited to the daily briefing of the Lord Marshal.
Oddly enough, Tapit found that he enjoyed the work. And Tillen. The stocky, snub-nosed man had sharp wits and did not suffer fools lightly. He was forthright and honest, something Tapit appreciated. His own brethren, while genial, tended to be secretive and somewhat morose. A natural development, having had to retreat to the stronghold with their tails between their legs.
Tapit sighed, realizing he’d made a mistake in adding a column of figures. He began again. As far as he was concerned, retreating to the stronghold had been fortuitous. The change in their habits of magic and the isolation had forced his brethren to become more inventive. With the aid of the power provided by captured nokulas, they were swiftly overtaking their previous feats of magic. Even with the inconvenience caused by Reisil’s attack. But she had galvanized the wizards to action. They had foolishly neglected to guard the fruits of their labor—Mysane Kosk. But there was time to correct that mistake.
Tapit scratched a number at the bottom of the column, setting the pen down and rubbing his eyes. He yawned.
“Done with the weeklies?” Tillen asked, coming into the room behind him.
“Right here. Wait a moment. It’s still wet.”
Tillen pinched the top paper between his thick, calloused fingers, perusing the numbers with a knowing eye. “Looks well enough. We’re going to need a lot more salt, though. And we’ll not have as much wheat or barley as we first planned. The nokula battle took a heavy toll on the fields. Still, should be enough to keep everyone fed, including the horses. Maybe not as well as they like, of course.” He shrugged. “We’ll send harvesters out to cut hay if we can spare anyone before the snows. At any rate, the Lord Marshal will be pleased. And the Dazien,” he added, flushing pinkly.
Tapit lifted an eyebrow. He hadn’t bothered to disguise himself with Reisil gone from the encampment. In fact, since his return, he’d resisted any use of magic, not wanting the witch woman they called Nurema to notice him.
“I’ve heard some say she is too weak to take on her brother. That we can’t win. Do you think so?”
One of the things that impressed Tapit about Tillen was that the other man’s loyalty was not blind. He frowned, one eye narrowing as he considered.
“She’s green, that’s for sure. But the Lord Marshal is sharp as any I’ve seen. And so’s that Patversemese knight of theirs. She’s doing her best to learn, and she’s not a fool. As to whether we can win—” Tillen bent forward conspiratorially. “I’m not here to die. But even if I was, Reisiltark won’t let it happen. She’s true ahalad-kaaslane. She’ll be back to take care of us. No need to worry about them Scallacians.”
“You sound like you know her,” Tapit said, straightening up. This could be useful.
“I do,” Tillen said proudly. “Happened when we was living in the Fringes outside Koduteel. Family was sick, and the baby wasn’t feeding. Times was getting downright hard.”
Tapit snorted low. He’d been in the Fringes when spying on Koduteel. He knew well enough what life there had been like.
Tillen nodded. “Exactly so. Reisiltark was the only ahalad-kaaslane interested in the Fringe folk. She came down, took care of Suli and the baby. Then she healed a whole lot of others. It was like the Lady Herself came down. . . .” He trailed off, lost in the memory. Then he shook himself. “Anyhow, I learned then what Reisiltark is. She don’t desert her friends, and she don’t forget her duty. Now them wizards, I hear tell they’d as soon eat their children raw as not, if it meant getting ahead of the others. Scallacians ain’t no better. Reisiltark would die to help Kodu Riik. More than that. She’d suffer for us. Not many as can say that.”
Tillen’s faith in Reisil was somewhat unsettling. If only because it reminded Tapit that he himself had liked her. She was strong and had courage. He’d been tremendously impressed at her final apprentice trial. He sighed quietly, picking up his pen and twisting it through his fingers. Hunting her down had been a stimulating challenge. He liked that about her too.
“You’ve been working like a donkey for weeks,” Tillen said suddenly. “Time you took a few hours’ rest.”
Tapit
looked up in surprise. He opened his mouth to argue, but Tillen cut him off.
“Not a word. I’m your master, remember? So off with you. I’ve seen you looking at the mountains. I know you weren’t meant for this kind of close quarters. Go stretch your legs.”
The idea sparked a sudden longing in Tapit. He stood with alacrity.
“I’ll go now.”
Tillen’s grin did not diminish Tapit’s eagerness. He fairly trotted out of the room. He did not immediately head toward the gate, but went to the stockade kitchen and collected some bread and cold meat, two hard-boiled eggs, and several carrots. He stuffed these in a sack and filled a water pouch before making his way out Eagle’s main gate. He veered south around the wall, mostly to avoid the rush of people along the road. He crossed the harvested wheatfield, past Lion and up the sloping feet of the mountains.
His heart expanded as he left behind the gabble of voices, horses, hammering, and all the other sounds of too many people gathered in one place. He climbed swiftly, his legs tiring more quickly than they should have. But he’d been stuck behind a scribe’s table. He hadn’t had to climb.
He found himself drawn to the overlook above Mysane Kosk. He climbed up the rocky slope and out onto the overlook. It was late afternoon. There was a refreshing chill to the air. He sat cross-legged on the ground, setting aside his meal sack and water pouch. He gazed down at the mist-shrouded city below. It was magnificent. He closed his eyes, feeling the magic inside it like the sensual sweep of feathers over his skin. His body hardened. He sat for a long time, enthralled.
At last, when his body began to ache and and the sharp prod of a rock in his posterior grew too uncomfortable to ignore, he pulled himself together, shifting his seat and reaching for his food. As he munched, he considered again Tillen’s words. He thought about those who’d been killed by Reisil. He’d known most of the dead wizards, some better than others. But he didn’t feel any particular loss at their deaths. Mostly it had meant a setback in the council’s plans. For Tapit, it had confirmed that Reisil was a worthy challenge, an opponent to test his skills. Much as he’d enjoyed hunting the nokulas and the coal-drake, they did not fire his blood the way pursuing Reisil did.
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