by K. Johansen
Some had dismounted, were methodically beheading the kneeling men. They made no resistance, these last, and she reined Lark back. Chest heaving. Face wet. Sweat. Tears. Spat, wiped her mouth on her glove. Mouth bleeding. Nothing worse than a split lip.
How had she even ended up here? She was a cowherd.
The river-crossing was a slow affair. Some miracle—a settlement of a few families who lived by fishing and fowling. A handful of boats, and the families, their faces tattooed with fish, calling themselves Kinsai’s folk, but not any connection to the strange clan of the ferrymen. They had boats, far too few, and had already been packing up their meagre possessions, rounding up their geese and driving and dragging their cattle, ropes about their horns, to swim the river, in fear of the Westrons. Whether they were entirely pleased to find themselves folded into a West-grasslander flight was doubtful, but Lazlan gave them little chance to object to their boats being taken over.
Jolanan grew cold, muscles stiff, sweat drying, as they kept their watch over the ferrying. The current buffeted them, unfriendly. Fear seemed to have infected the horses. Some, when it came time for them to swim, did not want to enter the water.
Holla hung back, watching to the south, downriver. He always seemed the first to notice anything amiss in the landscape, Westron scout or bad weather or a passing fox. Jolanan walked over to him, leading Lark. He gave her a look like a sleeper waking, cold, almost not recognizing her as anyone who mattered, she could think.
Something in his hand, held against his chest. His amulet pouch. Blinked, warmth returning, seeing her properly. Tucked the token of lost Sayan away inside his shirt again.
He looked worse than that first time she had seen him. A greyness to his face, and lines—eyes, mouth—that she had never noticed before, ageing him. She remembered that brown-haired woman who had worked the harvest with them that bad year, coming to her where she struggled with an overloaded basket of wet linens she’d been spreading on the hazels to dry. Your papa’s hurt, Jo. You’d better come… The woman’s face had been like that, with the news she carried.
Had he taken some hurt…? Before she could ask, Holla said, “Kinsai’s dead.”
Jolanan felt…not nothing. Weight, pressing down. More. And more. She had thought, had hoped—Kinsai was so vast a power, compared to the gods and goddesses of the Western Grass with their small lands. Dark tales even said she had long ago devoured the lesser gods and goddesses of her shore to make herself greater, perhaps in wars against the devils. And her folk, though so few, only the two communities of the Upper and Lower Castles, numbered so many wizards among them, and scholars and seers…
The horses knew, reluctant to enter the water. The river was turned godless.
And Holla…
Gods, was he one of those Kinsai had taken as a lover, or was it only that he felt, like the horses, some pain she could not? Not the first time she had wondered if he were secretly a wizard himself. He twitched and muttered in his dreams in a language she couldn’t even name.
What could mortal folk say to comfort one another, when a goddess of the earth ceased to be? And what could she? Kinsai was only a name, a story. The wild spirit of the river, mother of many mortal children, lover, seducer of travellers male and female alike.
“Come on, then,” Jolanan said. “I—there’s nothing we can do, and we’re on the wrong side of the river. Rearguard’s one thing. Having to swim myself because they’ve made the last crossing without me isn’t what I intended.”
“Yes,” he said, as if it didn’t matter very much. “All right.”
The river seemed no different than before to Jolanan. She dipped a hand in the water, mid-stream. Only water, which was all it had ever been to her.
But it had been in all of their minds that to the All-Holy it must be a barrier, a live and active enemy his folk would not dare to engage. Great Kinsai, their salvation, a force to resist the evil that destroyed the gods of the hills and the goddesses of the grassland waters.
No respite, no sanctuary now on the eastern shore, or in the hills about At-Landi. No sure safety beyond the Bakanav, where Reyka intended to build a fortified camp, with or without leave of the scattered folk of that land and the guild-council of At-Landi.
They camped that night on the eastern shore of the Kinsai’av. No jubilation in their victory, or for the Westgrasslanders who had escaped enslavement, in their freedom. Too much lost, too much unknown.
At least there was fire. Warmth. Jolanan sat close against Holla’s side, not caring who saw. Tibor, who knew, frowned at her nonetheless. Holla wasn’t quite old enough to be her father but he didn’t approve. Kinless, even if not entirely friendless.
“Will he cross?” Lazlan asked, meaning the All-Holy. “Will he turn north, do we think, or go south down the caravan road? Or is the Western Grass enough to content him?”
Throwing out questions to lie between them all, this fire where the commanders, informal though they were, gathered. Smoky tea, rich with milk from the fisher-folk’s cattle. Holla sat withdrawn, staring into the fire.
“He’ll cross,” he said to the flames. “It’s Marakand he wants.”
“The wizards of the library will put an end to him,” Kahren said.
“It’s not rumour. The All-Holy is the devil Sien-Shava Jochiz.” Holla looked up, the firelight gleaming in his eyes, a flare of almost green. “Nothing will stop him, whatever it is he wants, wherever it is he’s going, except—” He shrugged, didn’t finish his thought.
“There was a mountain demon killed two devils,” Lazlan said. “But they say the Blackdog died at Marakand, defeating the false Lady.”
“My god fought the servant of a devil,” Kahren said. “When first he came into the land, there was an empress possessed by a devil, and Nabban and the Rihswera defeated her.”
“The what?” Jolanan asked.
“The priest of the god. An immortal warrior from—I don’t know where. I think maybe he was Northron, or maybe Taren? A king, who gave up his kingdom and was killed and came back from the dead to follow Nabban, for love of him. He fought the false empress and drove the devil out of her, and left his body to fight the devil soul to soul. There are songs. I could—”
“Nobody here speaks Imperial, Kari,” said Caro. “No, don’t translate. If Reyka guesses right, and if we stay beyond the Bakanav—if the All-Holy, whether, he’s truly inspired by a devil or not, is intending to march on Marakand—we’ll be safe for a while.”
“Till the folk of the north hills drive us out of their pastures,” Jolanan said. She had no place at this fire, only that she trailed after Holla and they all accepted that.
“He’ll cross the Kinsai’av and head for Marakand,” Holla said. “I thought she might hold a time, but—he’ll cross before winter. And once he controls the desert road, he can deal with the folk between the rivers— At-Landi and Varrgash and all the hills between—whenever he has a mind to. And all their gods as well.” He got to his feet, fastening his coat. Something in his face. Grim. A stranger. He’d never been anything but. Yet she caught at his coat-hem.
“Where are you going?”
“To the castle,” he said. “To see the Warden of the ferry-folk. Lazlan, Caro—listen. Believe me. There’s no ‘if.’ The All-Holy is a devil. I don’t know what he wants, but he’s killing, devouring gods, enslaving the folk—he’s not going to rest content with the pastures of the Western Grass even if he does make a winter camp, and I don’t think he will. I wouldn’t. Not if Marakand were my aim. Better to keep moving, keep my momentum, keep the harvest being carried with me, after me, than to leave it sitting garnered for the conquered folk to raid and spoil and burn. You should get these folk moving, come the dawn. Head up to At-Landi, beg the mercy of the folk there for them, join Reyka. Build your camp and your walls if you think you can, but don’t consider there’s any lasting safety in it.”
“You’ve got a place here,” Lazlan said. “You can’t just ride off.”
“Desertion,” said Kahren, and his tone was only half joking.
“Never said I was staying long,” Holla said. “Just across the rivers. Rode with you longer than I intended.”
“You’re not serious, Holla.”
“Sorry, Caro. Admit I’m leaving you in better state than I found you, anyway.”
“You bastard.”
Lazlan rocked to his feet. “You’re going nowhere. We’re—”
“Talk to you alone,” Holla said.
“What?”
“I need to talk to you alone.”
“I want not to have some damned traitor riding south into Westron reach knowing where we are.”
“Come on.” Holla detached Jolanan’s hand from his coat, gently— but he always was gentle, in his words, in his manner, as if he felt the world to be fragile as an egg. “Just you, Lazlan.”
“Great Gods damn…” But Lazlan followed him off into the dark. Kahren poured them all more tea. Silence. They listened, of course they did. Only the camp. Talk. Singing. Someone playing a fiddle. A dog barked, once, not an alarm, just bored. One of the fisherfolk children was crying.
No exclamation, no outcry. Well, they weren’t expecting for the two of them to come to drawn blades. Were they?
Lazlan came back alone.
“Well?” asked Caro.
“He’s going down to the ferry-castle. We can do without him. Kahren, you’ll take his place as Caro’s lieutenant.”
“But—”
“Just leave it, Caro.”
“Mistress Varnouri always called him a fey bastard,” Caro said. “He’d up and leave without a word and be back a week later, out of the desert, no warning.”
“You could have mentioned that,” said Lazlan. He sounded angry. Found his cup and wrapped both hands around it.
“I liked him,” Caro said. “Stupid bastard. What’s at the ferry castle? Nothing to help us. The Westrons’ll take it before long. What’s he going to do then?”
“His son’s there,” Lazlan said. Laughed, still with anger in it. “Gods, I—” Shook his head, dumped the dregs of his tea hissing on the fire. “Are the watches set?”
“Yes, marshal,” Kahren said, sudden formality.
“Good. I’m going to sleep.” And abruptly, looking down. “Jolanan. Jo. Oh Sayan, Jo, I forgot. He said to tell you—he was sorry. That’s all.”
Jolanan hunched up, pulled her coat close. Cold. Nothing to say. She wasn’t going to shout or weep. Just another blow, another piece of what was hers ripped away. Of course it was. Nothing endured. A breath, no more. Each day its own thing, nothing to follow, each gift, every shaft of sunlight, broken, swallowed in grey cloud. She couldn’t even complain, rail of seduction, abandonment. If anyone had been doing any seducing—
Son. Well, why not? A man might have a child and still take a lover. Lazlan didn’t say wife, partner. Just a child. Of course he would ride to take the boy out of harm’s way. Wherever that might be.
He could have asked her to come.
No place was safe.
Lazlan’s hand on her shoulder. He stood there. Squeezed it, then, and walked away without speaking.
Pity she didn’t need. Nothing endured. They were all just leaves, battered in the wind, tearing free one by one to fall and rot and go back to earth.
“Jolanan…” Caro began.
“I’m going to see Tibor,” she said, cutting her off. Angry at the shake in her voice. Furious. Stupid, traitor, childish voice. Walked off into the dark. Tripped on a saddle left where it should not have been.
Holla’d be at the horselines, saddling the black stallion he had named Fury. His idea of a joke. She wouldn’t follow. What would she do? Shout? Cry? Curse him? Beg?
Maybe he was hoping she would follow.
Then he should have asked.
She wandered the scattered fires. A few greeted her. Most were already rolled in their blankets. Tibor…she found the patrol group he usually rode with, nearly all asleep. He and another lying close, sleeping, but the woman’s arm was over his chest. Did she really want to be crying on his shoulder, anyway?
Wanted something to kick, to scream at. Wanted to be home. Wanted to make a fool of herself. Back to the lancers’ horselines, and of course Holla was already gone.
“Who—? Oh, it’s Jolanan,” the young man on watch there said. “Looking for the lieutenant? You just missed him. I don’t know what the marshal’s thinking, sending him south in the dark, and after the day the horses have had.”
“I know,” Jolanan said. “I wasn’t supposed to go, but second thoughts…” Lazlan’s, hers, she didn’t need to say. “He’ll have to stop to rest the horse, at least, in an hour or two. I’ll catch up then. Can you give me a hand with Lark?”
She had nothing but her sabre and buckler, which no one set aside even at the campfire. The heavy brigandine and the bulky sheepskin vest over it. Not even a blanket, a water-gourd.
At least Lark was easy to find by the white splashes on him. The moon, just about full, was climbing in the east.
“You know where you’re going?” the boy asked. She couldn’t remember his name. “I guess if you head down the river, you’ll pick up the road where it swings over around this hill. It’s more a lot of cow-paths, not a wagon-road, from what the caravaneers say.”
“Camelpaths,” Jolanan said.
“Yeah. Well, take care you don’t break anyone’s leg, yours or the horse’s. Don’t fall in the river.”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t be any Westrons over this side of the water, anyway.”
“No.”
Lark was reluctant to be saddled up again. She couldn’t blame him. Thanked the youth and rode away, around the camp, aiming for the deepest darkness. Any watch should challenge—
Movement.
“Jolanan?” Woman’s voice in the night.
They were so few, and Lark so recognizable a horse. Even by moonlight.
“Did you see which way the lieutenant went?” Jolanan asked. “We’ve missed one another in the dark.”
“Right down the track along the river. Was he going to wait?”
She made her voice rueful. “He’s expecting me to overtake. Thanks.”
Urged Lark on before she had to explain anything. Was anyone going to miss her, come after her? If they thought she’d gone off to her friends among the skirmishers, maybe not, till it was too late.
Deserter.
She didn’t have a son to worry about. Or a partner. He wasn’t hers. He and she were just—something that had happened. Obviously. Nothing more. He could have mentioned he had a child. Could have said. Could have asked her, could have at least said, I don’t want you, or, stay here where it’s safer. Just to leave, without a word—
Might as well die following him as die following Reyka and Lazlan. The Westrons would come, either way. This month, next season, next year…
There was a hollow, ripped, hurting place in her chest, that was what it felt like. Like someone had died. Again. And she didn’t want it there.
She wanted to know why it was there, for a man she’d just wanted— the way sometimes you just wanted to be drunk. She had thought.
Now she wanted…
She wanted she and Lark not to fall in the damned and goddess-less river, for starters.
The road a rutted, lumpy darkness between the paler grass of the rolling land, the water distant to her right a different darkness, moon-flecked, whispering.
No glimpse of Holla, no sound of a horse’s hoof. No point, either, to dismounting to scour the rutted paths that crossed and recrossed, braiding themselves into confusion, for hoofprints. No scent of recent horse’s passage, but Lark was less contrary that she would have expected, so perhaps he smelt what she could not.
Put her faith in that, and let him walk on, slouched and swaying. Don’t sleep. Not quite.
She had to stop after a few hours. Tired, hungry-sick, afraid. Her journey east from the Jayala’arad all over again. Num
b. Like a lost dog, heading mindless for where home should be. Except it wasn’t, and he wasn’t. If she thought he was…she only imagined it.
But she could shut her eyes and feel him by her. The way he smiled, and his eyes, as if she mattered, when he looked at her. Which she didn’t. Not to anyone. Her goddess was dead. To Tibor, a little? Not to matter as if her absence would change the world.
Which obviously it wouldn’t, not for Holla. He hadn’t even come back to the fire to say farewell.
After midnight, the moon past its height. Lark had halted, sleeping on his feet, and she hadn’t noticed, sleeping herself in the saddle. Way to ruin a good horse and break her own neck. Caravaneers might drowse in the saddle, it was said. She certainly didn’t feel safe doing so. Let Lark drink, leading him down to the river, feeling her way. It was very still— water, air. An owl called somewhere, another answered from across the river. Faintest whisper of water against the stones. Then Lark’s splashing, slurping. She shouldn’t drink straight from the river but though she had flint and firesteel, she had no kettle. Cupped water in her hand, upstream of the horse. Tasted mud. No food. Lark was peevish. Not even a handful of grain to appease him. A rope in the gear she did have, at least. Tied him to a twisty little bush and let him sleep or graze as he chose. She curled up, cold in her brigandine and over-large vest inherited from Nessa, arm pillowing her head. Woke stiff and with her hip aching, damp through with dew and the sun rising, the river breathing out fog.
Warmer than it had been.
Smell of smoke.
Warmer because there was a blanket over her.
Fire. Battered iron kettle.
“Porridge,” Holla said.
He hadn’t crossed the river again, running to the Westrons. She hadn’t thought it. Not more than once or twice in the night. Not really.
She couldn’t tell if he was angry, or pleased, or just resigned. Nothing at all. They might have set off together. Except he didn’t say anything more, while they shared the porridge, which was oats and lentils with a lump of salt butter thrown in at the last. She couldn’t find words to speak herself. Blame or apology—she didn’t want to offer either.
