The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  She wasn’t quite sure when she’d started taking the whole idea seriously. Something about Feor’s quiet faith was infectious. It’s the least I can do to play along, if it helps console her. It was hard to remember that behind her temple-trained facade of seriousness Feor was still half a child.

  “I will,” Feor said, and then, “I will!” as though arguing with an invisible presence. The half-light filtering through the blue canvas made her gray skin look like marble. She turned to Winter. “I’ll need a bowl of water.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve got a bowl,” Winter said. “Will a kettle do?”

  Feor pried the top off the kettle, peered inside, and nodded. She looked up again appraisingly, and then turned to the tent flap.

  “I need you to make absolutely certain I am not interrupted. Do not allow anyone to pull me away from her, you understand? No matter what.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s likely to come bursting in here—,” Winter began.

  “No matter what,” Feor insisted. “Even if it’s the . . . the King of Vordan himself. It cannot be allowed. It is not just her life at risk, but mine, and . . . other things.”

  “Right. If His Majesty turns up, I’ll tell him to cool his heels.” Winter caught the full force of Feor’s glare and raised her hands. “I understand!”

  “Afterward,” Feor said, more calmly, “I will probably sleep. It may be some time before I awaken. Do not fear for me.”

  “Got it,” Winter said. “Anything else?”

  Feor shifted uneasily. “This will be like . . . lighting a beacon, in some ways. The sorcerer who rides with your army cannot help but see it. He may investigate.”

  Winter thought about protesting, but the girl’s conviction that the Vordanai were led by a wizard seemed unshakable. She simply nodded, and sat down halfway between Bobby’s pallet and the tent flap, ready to intercept any incoming sorcerers or kings. This seemed to placate Feor, who picked up the kettle with some difficulty with her good hand and placed it beside Bobby’s head. She closed her eyes, dipped her fingers into the water, and waited.

  It was some time before Winter realized she had begun to speak. The girl’s lips barely moved, and the sound was just the breathiest whisper on the still, parched air. But it went on and on, a sibilant, muttered litany just below the threshold of understanding. Something in the air shifted, as if in response to the sound. The flimsy canvas walls of the tent still surrounded them, but the quality of the space had changed, until Winter had to fight the impression that they were in a vast stone hall. She felt as though any noise she made would echo for hours.

  She’d seen the Khandarai at prayer before, and it had seemed ordinary enough. A little exotic, all those gods with fanciful names and painted statues, but fundamentally no different from the services offered by any village priest back in Vordan. “Keep me safe from harm and disease, protect my family, let me live and prosper.” The homilies were different, but the lessons were the same, too—respect your superiors, live orderly lives, honor the gods. The only major difference Winter had been able to observe was that the Khandarai had priestesses as well as priests, and they got to wear better costumes.

  This was nothing like those services. The archaic form of Khandarai used in religious ritual was grammatically complex and difficult to speak, but still basically comprehensible. As Feor’s voice slowly rose, Winter began to catch her words, but they sounded like no language she had ever heard. She wasn’t certain if there were words at all. Certainly the girl didn’t pause in her recitation, even to breathe. Each syllable flowed into the next in an unbroken stream of gibberish, and yet . . .

  And yet, oddly, Winter felt as though she could almost understand. That there was meaning there, so clear that it lurked just below the surface, nearly comprehensible, slightly out of reach. As though—the thought crept in, ridiculous but still true—it wanted to be understood, wanted her to reach out and grasp it, like plunging her hand into an icy stream . . .

  Feor raised her hand from the kettle. It ought to have been dripping wet, but the water clung to the surface of her skin, as though she’d dipped her hand in translucent tar. The tent had grown shadowed around her, the full light of day fading into twilight, and in the semidarkness motes of light darted and spun around her fingers.

  Without ever halting in her recitation, the girl leaned forward and touched the tip of her index finger to Bobby’s eyelids, each in turn. Winter had to stifle a gasp. Where Feor’s wet finger had been, Bobby’s skin glowed, a shifting miasma of color that wavered from brilliant blue to sickly green and back again, like paint swirling in a bucket. She paused, still speaking quietly, and studied the effect. Then, carefully, she started to draw.

  Wherever her finger passed, it left those eerie, glowing traceries. The pattern she built up, line by careful line, started from Bobby’s eyes and spread across her face, down her neck, out across her shoulders. It was abstract, asymmetric, a complex map that ran over the girl’s skin with a geometrical exactitude, as though the design took the contours of her body into account. The lines thickened, thinned, began and ended, but never crossed or touched, no matter how close Feor drew them.

  Feor passed her hand along Bobby’s arms, the underside of her chin, her collarbone, her slight breasts. Winter wasn’t sure if the tent had darkened further or the pattern had gotten brighter, but everything was fading away except for the glow of the lines and the rising sound of Feor’s voice. Every syllable echoed as if she were speaking from the pulpit of a grand cathedral. Even Bobby’s skin vanished, leaving only the pattern, a glowing web hovering in the void. Once again, Winter had the odd feeling that there was order there, an understanding that beckoned to her beneath the apparent chaos.

  Finally, with great solemnity, Feor turned Bobby’s right hand over and pressed it to her own. Light bloomed between their palms, and when Feor took her hand away the blaze from Bobby’s skin outshone even the rest of the pattern. Her recitation rose to a crescendo, the sound of her voice crashing around them like waves against a rocky shore, and almost lost in the rising roar were a few words that Winter recognized.

  “—obv-scar-iot!” Feor’s eyes glowed with reflected light from the thing she had drawn. All the sound vanished at once, as though someone had dropped a velvet rug across the tent, and the light on Bobby’s skin flared so bright it was painful to look at. Winter tasted blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her lip.

  And then, apparently, it was over. The light disappeared, and for the first time since she’d begun to recite Feor was silent. For a moment Winter thought they were still in darkness, but as her eyes adjusted she realized it was only the dim half-light of the tent in daytime. Bobby lay still on her pallet, and Feor sat equally still beside her. For a long while, nothing moved.

  Eventually, Winter could no longer restrain herself.

  “Saints and fucking martyrs!” she exploded, the sound of her own voice alien in her ears. “Brass Balls of the Beast, Karis Almighty on a fucking crutch. Holy . . .” She ran out of breath, and by the time she’d gotten her wind back her composure had at least partially returned. “Feor? What happened? Was that—did it work?”

  The girl didn’t respond. Winter shuffled forward on hands and knees. “Feor?”

  Hesitantly, she prodded Feor’s shoulder. The girl toppled over, nerveless and boneless, falling across her broken arm and lying in a tangle on the floor like a discarded puppet.

  • • •

  Winter dragged Feor to her bedroll and laid her out, trying not to jostle her wounded arm. Her eyes were screwed shut, and her breathing was so shallow that Winter had to bend across her face to be certain it hadn’t stopped entirely.

  As for Bobby, Winter couldn’t tell if anything had changed one way or the other. She’d peeked under the bandages, but there was so much blood that she couldn’t see much, and she didn’t dare investigate. The corporal’s face had relaxed a little, at least, and her breathing seemed steadier. Winter covered her with a blanket up t
o the neck and worried.

  The tent suddenly seemed stifling. With a quick glance at her two sleeping companions, Winter slipped out through the flap. She was surprised to find Folsom standing just outside, stiff as a sentry. He saluted grimly and looked at her with questioning eyes. Winter sighed.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Graff says he’s not going to make it.” She’d almost said she. “I’m hoping he’s too stubborn for that. We’ve done everything we can.”

  Folsom nodded. He cleared his throat and proffered a folded sheet of paper, which Winter took curiously. Only when she opened it did she remember the errand she’d sent him on to get him out of the tent. In his broad, neat hand was a list of names, most of which Winter barely recognized. Beside each was the notation “dead,” “missing,” or “wounded,” with the last bearing additional notes on whether recovery was expected. Winter folded the paper again and noticed that the list continued onto the back of the page.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” she said. “You can go. Get some rest.”

  Folsom nodded and lumbered off. Winter cast about for something to sit on and found an empty hardtack box, which she dragged in front of her tent. She would have liked to sleep herself, but she felt too keyed up for it, full of the nervous, manic energy that comes with the promise of a vicious price the next day. Besides, it was only midafternoon.

  Her mind kept going back to what she’d witnessed in the tent, but her thoughts skipped off the surface of it, like a rock bouncing across the thick crust of an icy lake. When she closed her eyes she could still see that tracery of blue-green fire hanging in the darkness like an unfathomably complex equation. It seemed . . . unnatural somehow that after witnessing that she could emerge into the sunlight and see the camp spread out around her as though nothing had changed, stacked arms and hardtack boxes, the distant sounds of horses and shouting men. She would have been less surprised to find that the tent flap had opened onto a fairy-tale kingdom full of dragons and talking animals.

  Feor . . . Her mind shied away again, but she forced it back. She’s the real thing. A wizard, or a naathem, or whatever you want to call it. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed in such things, exactly. After all, the Wisdoms preached regularly against the evils of wizardry and the vile practice of congress with demons. One whole order of the Sworn Church, the Priests of the Black, had once dedicated their lives to rooting out the arcane in all its forms, though they hadn’t existed for more than a century. Still, everyone knew magic existed, somewhere.

  That was the point, really. Wizards and demons were something that happened to someone else, in some faraway country, or else deep in the past where they belonged, with the saints and knights in shining armor.

  On the other hand, I suppose that for most people Khandar is a faraway country. Most Vordanai would not be at all surprised to hear about magic in such a distant land, so why should she, having gone there, be surprised to find it?

  Another thought occurred to her—as far as the Church was concerned, what had happened in the tent was nothing less than the work of a demon, the unholy spawn of the vilest pits of hell. Feor herself had said it was heresy, although presumably judged by different lights. Winter had never been a particularly religious person, but she’d absorbed enough in her years at Mrs. Wilmore’s that the idea made her uncomfortable. She quashed that feeling irritably.

  If it works . . . She almost didn’t dare think about that. If it works, I don’t care if Feor is some fiend from the black pits. If I can talk to Bobby . . . The need hung in her chest like a painful lump. Something had changed, she realized. Before the revelation of the corporal’s gender, he’d been a friend and comrade-in-arms. Now she was something else—a co-conspirator, possibly—and the possibility had knocked a scab off a part of Winter’s heart that she’d long ago closed off. The thought that there might be someone who shared her secret was exhilarating and terrifying, both at once.

  “They’re leaving the wagons.”

  Winter almost fell off the box. She’d been so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed that anyone else was nearby. Looking up, she found herself sharing her impromptu bench with a young Vordanai woman in trousers and a loose wool blouse. Her hair was pulled up tight, which gave her a severe air, but she smiled at Winter’s obvious discomfiture.

  “I’m sorry. I startled you.”

  “I was just . . .” Winter shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.

  “It’s understandable,” the woman said, and for one mad moment Winter thought she knew everything—her secret, the magic, everything. Then she went on. “The battle seems to take everyone in different ways afterward. Some men want to dance and sing, or go whoring and drinking, whereas some just want to . . . sit.” She gave a little sigh. “It was terrifying enough at the bottom of the hill. I can only imagine what it must have been like to actually go up it.”

  Winter nodded, feeling a bit at sea. She sought for something concrete to focus on. “What did you mean about the wagons?”

  “They’re leaving them behind. Look.”

  The woman pointed. The First’s tents were near the edge of the camp, and Winter had a view of what had been the regimental drill field the previous day. Men were forming up there now, carrying heavy packs as if for a long march, but the horse lines beyond remained undisturbed and the wagons were still unhitched.

  She blinked. “What’s going on? Are we marching?”

  “The Second and Fourth battalions are. They had the easiest time of it in the battle, the colonel said, so they get to go fight in the next one.”

  “The next battle?”

  “The colonel is all in a lather to go assist Captain d’Ivoire. We’re behind schedule, apparently.”

  Winter could well believe that, given the delays they’d suffered on their approach. “What about us?”

  “First Battalion?” the woman said, and when Winter nodded she continued. “Taking a well-earned rest, I should think. First and Third are staying behind with the trains and the wounded.” She looked down at herself and smiled ruefully. “And other impedimenta.”

  Winter put on a vague smile of her own, at a loss how to proceed. The woman regarded her thoughtfully.

  “What’s your name, Sergeant?” she said after a moment.

  “Winter, ma’am,” Winter said, feeling suddenly formal. “Winter Ihernglass. And it’s lieutenant, actually.” She hadn’t yet bothered to track down a lieutenant’s stripe to replace the pips on her shoulders.

  “Lieutenant,” the woman said. “Excuse me.” She extended her hand, and Winter took it and shook cautiously. “I’m Jennifer Alhundt.”

  The handshake lasted perhaps an instant longer than it should have. In that instant, Winter got the queerest feeling that there was some thing emerging from this woman’s skin, some invisible fluid or gas that raced up Winter’s arm and wrapped itself around her, sinking by degrees through her uniform and then through her skin to embed itself in her flesh. Goose bumps rose along her arms, and she let go a bit too hastily.

  “Is this you?” Jen said, jerking her head.

  Winter, suppressing a shiver, forced herself to focus. “What?”

  “Your tent,” Jen said patiently. “Behind us.”

  “Oh. Yes. Why?”

  Jen shrugged. “Just curious. I’m always amazed at the conditions in which you soldiers manage to survive. Four men to a little tent, for years at a time. I’ve got one to myself and I’m still not going to regret leaving it behind when this is over, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “It was better when we were in camp by the city,” Winter said. “We had time to—spread out a little.”

  “You’re Old Colonials, then?” Jen said.

  Winter nodded. “They brought some of us in to teach the recruits a few things.”

  “Interesting. Is it working?”

  Winter thought of the folded paper Folsom had brought her. “No,” she said. “Not really.”

  For some reason that
made Jen smile. She stood up, brushing off the seat of her trousers.

  “Well, Sergeant Ihernglass—sorry, Lieutenant Ihernglass—I’m sorry to have imposed on your time. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  “Not really, ma’am. Except maybe sleep.”

  “That’s awfully important,” Jen said. “I’ll leave you to it. Thank you for the bit of company.”

  Winter nodded, and Jen strode off.

  I wonder who she is? There had been no Vordanai women among the Old Colonials, so she had to have come over with the colonel. Some civilian functionary? A mistress?

  Winter shrugged and turned back to her tent. There were more important things to worry about.

  • • •

  Drying blood had stuck the bandages solidly to Bobby’s skin, even once Winter had untied the knots.

  She really ought to have called Graff back, but he was probably asleep somewhere. And Winter wasn’t sure what she’d find, but the fewer people who knew about Feor’s—about Feor, the better. She glanced over her shoulder to confirm that the Khandarai girl was still sleeping.

  Bobby was sleeping, too, and looking considerably less drawn than she had when Winter had left her. Whatever Feor had done was having some positive effect. Winter brought one of the kettles and a supply of fresh bandages to the side of the sickbed and poured a trickle of lukewarm water across the stiff, scarlet-soaked cloth. Once it had loosened a bit, she peeled the ruined linen away, leaving behind a mess of caked-on gore. She soaked a fresh cloth and went to work cleaning the blood away, trying not to touch the wound itself.

  Only—something was wrong. With some perplexity, and then increasing excitement, Winter worked the cloth across the spot where the gory hole had been and found nothing but smooth skin under her fingers. She poured another stream from the kettle and wiped it away, then sat staring.

  The injury was gone, but not without a trace. An irregular patch of skin, vaguely star-shaped, was changed. It was white—not the pale, ugly color of a scar or the sickly white of a fish’s belly, but the pure, brilliant white of marble. Winter imagined it even had a bit of sparkle to it, the way some marble did, as if someone had replaced that patch of Bobby’s skin with a perfect replica grafted from a statue. Winter touched it, carefully, half expecting to feel the cool hardness of stone, but it gave under her finger just like ordinary skin.