Amero knelt by Zannian and reported he still lived.
Pakito said, “Take him to Karada’s tent. Bind him, but not too harshly.” Two men took Zannian by the hands and feet and carried him out. Pakito went with them.
Alone with his sister, Amero stared at the dead woman, shattered by what he’d heard and seen.
Tearing his gaze away – and forcing himself not to look on Nacris’s severed head – he whispered to his sister, “Are you all right?”
“Of course I am.” Karada bent and cleaned her bloody blade on a fold of Nacris’s shift. “There’s one problem solved.”
Amero was shaking. “How can you be so hard? Does life mean nothing to you?”
Karada slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “Pity can get you killed,” she told her brother. “I have none for her, and neither should you. How many times will you let a mad dog bite before you strike it down?”
He couldn’t answer. He could only regard her in silence with wide, shocked eyes.
Her voice softened. “She mentioned a prophecy, an augury made by the green dragon. He told her neither water, nor fire, nor stone would kill her, and no man living would strike her down.”
Amero looked down at his feet, his buckskins splashed with blood. “How did he know?” he asked. “How did Sthenn know Nacris would die at the hands of a woman with a bronze sword?”
“He was a dragon,” Karada replied, shrugging. “Dragons know too much.”
*
Late in the night, a log raft pushed out from shore. Two people stood on it. The taller one gripped a long pole, with which he propelled the raft out into the lake. His companion stood on the other side. Between them lay a long, hide-draped bundle.
No stars could be seen through the rushing clouds, but the last flickers of the Ember Wind provided a pulsating light to guide them away from shore. When the raft neared the center of the Lake of the Falls, the man stopped poling. The raft drifted slowly under the momentum of his last push.
“This is good,” said Karada.
“How deep is the lake here?” asked Harak.
“Deep enough.”
He hadn’t asked a single question, not even when Karada, cloaked and hooded, had arrived at the prisoners’ pen and bade him come with her. A simple job, she’d said. A special task she didn’t want her band to know about.
She threw back the hide cover. Underneath lay Nacris, gray hair combed and face washed, wrapped up tight in a fine white doeskin. Only the pale oval of her face showed.
Harak gave a surprised exclamation. He knew he’d helped load a body on the raft, but he didn’t know whose.
“Shut up.”
Karada moved the body to the edge of the raft. Leaning on his pole, Harak heard the clink of metal. It was then he saw the heavy bronze chain wrapped around Nacris’s waist.
“That’s a lot of bronze to throw away,” he remarked.
“Shut up.”
Harak sighed.
Karada eased the body into the water, and it sank without a sound. Immediately, she ordered Harak to take them back to shore.
Nothing else was said until the raft bumped into the pebbled shallows. Stepping off, Karada reminded Harak of his oath to say nothing of what they’d just done, and without a backward glance, she walked quickly up the stony hillside. She disappeared in the deep shadows of the cliffs.
Harak jumped down into the water and dragged the log raft higher onto the beach. It was very late, and everyone in the valley seemed to be asleep. He wondered where the villagers stowed their stock of wine.
Wandering up the hill toward the village, he heard a faint clang of metal and stone. Off to his right, outside the village wall, Harak saw a bright orange light flaring at the base of the cliff. Muffled voices accompanied the sounds of work. He ambled that way. It seemed more interesting than returning to the prisoners’ pen.
The light turned out to be a fire, burning inside a broken-down structure built hard against the base of the mountain. Four or five figures were silhouetted against the glare. Unlike an ordinary fire, this one didn’t waver or flicker; it burned steadily. Harak made out a new sound he couldn’t place: a regular, deep panting, like a bull ox gasping for air after a long run.
Closer to, he spotted the Arkuden in the group. The rest were Silvanesti, including the elf lord Balif. What were they up to? Was this some arcane elven ritual to call up spirit power at the Arkuden’s request?
“See that?” one of the elves said, pointing into the fire. “That’s the red stage. Now it’s ready to pour!”
“Stand back!” said another, but the Arkuden shook his head.
“Let me do it,” he insisted. He and an elf inserted forked wooden poles into holes in the sides of a heavy clay pot. They hoisted the pot out of the fire, sidled sideways, and poured the contents into an unseen container. Lapping over the rim of the pot was a brilliant orange-red fluid. Harak’s eyes watered just looking at it. The fiery liquid hit its destination, and a loud hissing resulted. Steam filled the air.
Balif glanced away and saw Harak highlighted by the glow of the burning liquid. “Who’s there?” he said sharply.
Caught, Harak stepped up boldly and announced himself. Balif drew his sword, though he kept the point down.
“Do prisoners have the run of the valley now?” asked the elf lord.
“Your presence here seems to say so,” Harak replied genially.
Amero and the other elf put the hot pot back on the fire. “Never mind!” said the Arkuden, his voice full of excitement. “Come here, you. See what we’ve done!”
Harak had no idea what to expect. Upon reaching the scene of the strange ritual, he saw they’d poured the brilliantly hot liquid into a rectangular box on the ground. The box was made of wet clay, bolstered by a few wooden planks. A hole in the top, about the size of Harak’s thumb, plainly showed where the fiery substance had been delivered.
“I’ve just cast my first bronze!” Amero exclaimed. “Farolenu showed me how. The secret is forcing air into the fire to melt the copper and tin together – but not too much air.”
“You made bronze?” Harak was interested. Here was a task much more rewarding than summoning spirits.
Amero nodded vigorously. “We melted down some scrap and poured it in that mold. When it cools, it will be a sword.”
Harak regarded the unlikely looking wooden box with great respect. Like many plainsmen, he had handled bronze, but he had no idea how it was made. Some mysterious process of the Silvanesti, it was said. Now he was seeing it for himself.
He turned to Balif. “Why are you showing a human how to do this? Aren’t you afraid we’ll make weapons to fight you?”
Amero suddenly looked distressed. It was plain he hadn’t thought of that.
“Bronze is a secret humans are destined to learn sooner or later,” Balif said, “and though I am loyal to the Speaker of the Stars, I have my own views on the policies of my nation. There are those in Silvanost who want to spread our hegemony from the southern sea to the capes of the north, westward to the Edge of the World and east to the ocean of the rising sun. I do not agree. I believe the true realm of the Silvanesti is what we have now, the forest sacred to us, and continued aggression outside our natural homeland will only result in needless bloodshed.”
Balif gave a small, tight smile, adding, “Endless conquest is like burning down a forest to stay warm; it works for a little while but is short-sighted. So no, I’m not worried about giving away the secret of bronze. If the war-minded lords in Silvanost see a bronze-equipped army of plainsmen opposing them, they may recognize at last the wisdom of peaceful neighboring.”
The appreciative silence that greeted his thoughtful words was disrupted by Harak. “Faw, they call me a talker!” the ex-raider said. “I’m as tight-lipped as an oyster compared to you!”
The mold had cooled enough to be opened. Amero fidgeted about, nervous as a newly mated man. Farolenu and his helpers slipped hardwood wedges into the seam and, in uni
son, tapped them with mallets. With a slight hiss, the mold split apart lengthwise, falling into two halves. The crudely formed sword, still glowing faintly with heat, lay in the right half of the mold.
“Let it cool thoroughly,” Farolenu said. “When cold enough to handle, free it from the mold. Then you can begin filing it to shape and giving it a sharp edge.”
“Can you use water to speed the cooling?” asked Amero.
“For short, thick blades, yes. For swords, no. Quenching will make the sword brittle. At the first stroke, it may snap off at the hilt.”
The elves and the Arkuden plunged into a deep discussion of metal-working, leaving Balif and Harak far behind. The elf lord yawned and excused himself. Harak took the opportunity to depart, too.
As they walked across the slate-strewn ledge toward Yala-tene, Harak said, “I hear Karada intends to leave in three days’ time.” Balif nodded, and the ex-raider asked, “What will your people back home make of all this?”
The elf lord’s face was unreadable. “Some will hail me for escaping the clutches of barbarians. Others will condemn me for aiding enemies of the Speaker.”
He turned away to enter Yala-tene through the south baffle. Harak watched him go, wondering what the Silvanesti was really thinking. Would a noble elf warrior really give away the secret of bronze for such high-sounding, unselfish reasons?
A wide yawn interrupted Harak’s cogitations. The doings of chiefs and lords was beyond him, he decided, shaking his head. He went back to his pen to sleep.
Chapter 18
The Ember Wind increased in fury in the days that followed. Vast clouds of dirt were scoured off the windward side of the mountains, darkening the sky and drifting into the valley. Landslides shook the upper passes as the hard-driven dust loosened boulders. To many, it seemed the mountains themselves would tumble down and fly into the air. Amero consulted Duranix, who circled the valley at great height, above the Ember Wind. The dragon reported the brown river of air stretched away far to the north, but it did not extend more than a few leagues east or west of the valley. The Ember Wind would blow itself out, Duranix reassured Amero, though it always worsened before ending. The stronger the wind blew, the sooner it would end.
Beramun found herself helping a band of village women bathe the children. Long lines of yelping youngsters wound down to the lake, where each child was scrubbed head to toe by mothers, aunts, and older sisters. Pumice removed dirt and sometimes a little skin, too.
Talked into the duty by Lyopi, Beramun discovered she enjoyed it. Her hands grew raw from washing, and she stayed wet all morning from wrestling with balky and rambunctious children. After so much fighting and cruelty, it was good to exhaust herself in such an ordinary, useful job.
When the last child was scrubbed clean, the tired women trudged ashore. Hulami the vintner sent skins of wine retaken from the raiders, and never was the drink better appreciated. Loud laughter echoed against the walls of Yala-tene, bringing curious villagers to the parapet to see the cause of so much merriment.
“There’s a happy sound,” said Jenla, watching from the wall.
“Happy but dangerous,” opined Tepa. He looked ten years younger since Jenla had returned alive.
“Dangerous? How?”
“There’s a hundred women down there, all made merry by Hulami’s good wine. I would sooner cavort with centaurs than try to cross that crowd!”
Jenla laughed. “You’ve learned a few things in your long life, haven’t you?” She left her old friend on the village wall and went down to join the women by the lake.
Preparations for the coming feast were well underway in the nomad camp. Three firepits were dug, and more wood was gathered for the bonfires. The raider prisoners who remained were set to digging the holes and gathering wood. They gave the nomads little trouble. The worst of Zannian’s horde were either dead or had escaped with Muwa. Karada, having no desire to shepherd a bunch of prisoners around the plains, wouldn’t let Bahco track them down. The sooner the ex-raiders were gone, she said, the better.
The fifty-odd men who remained in the captives’ pen chose Harak as their spokesman, as he seemed to have access to Karada and the Arkuden. They wanted their fate settled. Their pen was rife with rumors that they’d be put to the sword before the nomads left the valley. Harak couldn’t believe it himself, but he didn’t object when his fellow prisoners demanded he seek out Karada and speak to her about their plight. It was a good excuse for him to slip away from the feast preparations, too. No one challenged him. People had become accustomed to seeing him roaming the camp.
Laughter and singing drew Harak to the lake. The impromptu party was breaking up, and women streamed up the hill to village or camp, some weaving a bit as they went. Harak passed unchallenged through the flow of cheerful, red-faced women. He saw many he knew – Samtu, Lyopi, vintner Hulami, and the tough old woman called Jenla, whom Zannian had captured early in the battle. Karada was nowhere to be seen.
He was about give up his search and look instead for a place to stay out of sight until the toil at the firepits was done when a face caught his eye.
It was Beramun, walking slowly up the lakeshore, carrying a baby on her hip. She looked so content and easy with the child that a stranger might have thought it hers. Harak fell into step beside her.
“I’m looking for Karada. Have you seen her?”
Beramun shook her head.
“Whose baby?”
She hefted the year-old boy leaning his head on her shoulder and he gave her a sleepy smile. “This is Kimru, son of Udi and Tana.” The names plainly meant nothing to Harak, so she added in a quiet voice, “Udi and Tana are dead. Kimru is an orphan.”
“I’m sorry,” Harak found himself saying, for reasons he didn’t understand. He hadn’t killed anyone named Udi or Tana – at least, not that he knew.
“Udi’s father, Tepa the beekeeper, has him now. He’s an old man, though, and I fear the child will lose him before he becomes his own man.”
By the north baffle Beramun handed young Kimru to a village woman. She gave the boy’s downy head a final caress and watched until he and the woman disappeared behind the wall.
Sighing, she said, “I will miss him.”
Harak trailed after her. “You act as though you aren’t going to see him again.”
“I’m not.”
“Karada’s not leaving for another two days.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Beramun said flatly.
He caught her hand, stopping her. “But why? You have Karada’s favor. If you remain with her hand, you could he chief some day.”
Anguish bloomed in her dark eyes, but she shouted, “I don’t want to be chief of anything!”
People nearby glanced their way. Beramun pulled away and started walking faster.
Tall Harak, with his long, lean legs, easily caught up with her. “Where will you go? What will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll wander. It’s the life I was meant for.”
“What about a mate and children? You seem to like children —”
She whirled to face him. “Will you leave me be? I don’t want to answer your questions! I’m in this place because men like you murdered my entire family!” She tore at the neck of her doeskin shirt, exposing the green triangle high on her chest. “This is why I must go! The green dragon gave me this mark. It binds me to him!”
Harak frowned. “Sthenn’s dead. What hold could he possibly have over you now?”
“Just because a viper dies doesn’t mean its venom becomes water. Duranix says I’m tainted forever by Sthenn’s mark,” she said and backed away from him, retying the lacings of her shirt tight at her neck. “What did the green dragon intend for me? Will I end up like Nacris, crazed, eaten up with hate? How can I live among good people knowing I may grow evil in time?” With a violent shake of her head, she added, “No! Better to be a wanderer for the rest of my life. Alone!”
She ran. A bit stunned, Harak did not react for a moment. Then hi
s thoughts sharpened, and his choice became clear. He ran after her.
Zigzagging through the rows of tents, Beramun ended up at Karada’s. She ducked inside, thinking he wouldn’t dare follow.
Mara was there, kneeling by the entry flaps, a whetstone in front of her. She was sharpening the bronze dagger she always kept in her shirt. When she spied Beramun, she recoiled like a guilty thief.
“Where’s Karada?” asked Beramun, breathing hard.
“Not here,” Mara replied. “What —?”
Harak barreled into the tent, nearly knocking Beramun off her feet.
For a man – a raider! – to enter Karada’s tent in such a way was unforgivable. Mara leaped to her feet, presenting the dagger point-first to the intruder. The newly sharpened tip gleamed like gold.
“Who do you think you are?” Mara shouted. “Get out! This is Karada’s tent!”
“Shut up, girl!” Harak snapped. Mara jabbed at him, but he stepped nimbly back, unharmed.
“Put that down! I’m not here to cause harm. I need to talk to Beramun.”
“Get out!” Mara repeated shrilly. “Karada will hear of this intrusion!”
Harak lashed out with his foot, kicking the weapon from her hand. The blade spun through the air, and he caught it neatly. Mara let out a short, horrified cry and ducked behind Beramun, then continued her furious denunciations.
“Leave,” Beramun said, interrupting Mara’s tirade. Arms crossed over her chest, Beramun glared at Harak.
He flipped the dagger, catching it carefully by the blade. He presented the pommel to Beramun.
“Hear me out and then I’ll go.”
Beramun took the dagger. Mara promptly tried to snatch it back, but Beramun thrust her aside. The girl tripped over a pile of furs and fell backward to the floor.
“Don’t listen to him!” Mara urged. When Beramun paid her no heed, Mara crawled away. She circled wide of Harak and, near the entry flaps, rose to her feet and dashed outside.
Harak said, “We don’t have much time before she brings Karada. Listen to me, Beramun. You don’t have to go away alone. I’ll go with you!”
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