The Seared Lands

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Hannei.

  Saskia.

  Daru.

  Mother…

  It was a litany of guilt played over and over in her mind, a dirge sung in counterpart to the constant hum of atulfah, the relentless drumming of her heart, an endless canticle of wishing herself back into a life that was gone, long gone.

  All because of me.

  It seemed then that the wind spoke with the voice of her old youthmistress. Dear Ani, lost like Daru or dead like her mother no doubt, because she had been too foolish to stay with her sisters and live an ordinary life.

  Such power you claim, to have unleashed massive destruction upon the world. In that moment the voice of Ani mocked, both gentle and sharp. And so much of it while you slept. For one so mighty, you seem to be spending much of your time wallowing in self-pity.

  Sulema straightened, wiping her face and looking around. Surely that voice was a shadow in her mind only. Istaza Ani was gone.

  She is right, though, Sulema thought to herself. Even though she may walk the Lonely Road, Istaza Ani shows me the way. For a moment, standing beside the river with her father’s sorcerous globe, her good mare, and a heart full of ghosts, Sulema felt less alone in the world.

  Perhaps Ani is not dead, she mused. Leviathus said that she was alive, last time he saw her, in the company of those false Mah’zula. She brushed away the rage that swept over her at the thought of how her brother had been abused by those false warriors. Then she peered at the globe. I wonder… could this be used to find a person? To see things as they are happening? Perhaps I might see how the people fare. I might find Ani… or Daru.

  Sulema used both hands to bring the globe close to her face. It was dusty from long travel, so she blew upon it, and it seemed to her that the Zeera glowed faint gold in answer. She held the globe so close and stared so hard her eyes crossed and hurt a little.

  Probably wishful thinking, she decided at last. I long to go home, so—

  But no, this close she could see that there had been changes. Parts of the Zeera, where she had blown away the dust, indeed gleamed in the rising light of dawn. Other parts, especially at the junction of the Dibris where lay Aish Kalumm, seemed to lie in shadow. Sections of the globe also seemed troubled. The Valley of Death emitted a faint, ugly light, and even—she sniffed—a whiff of corruption.

  A strange dull haze lay over the far-off country of Sindan. Sulema touched it, and marveled that her fingertips felt cold and wet, as if they had been thrust into a mist. These things, combined with Leviathus’s description of the Mah’zula, gave her a pang of disquiet. If she left now for Quarabala, would she be turning her back on the people when they most needed a warrior?

  If I do not, I am turning my back on a vow, she thought. How, then, could I ever again call myself Ja’Akari? Can a warrior who is no warrior serve her people?

  A dull headache began to pound between her eyes, in time to the world’s endless insistence that she be this, do that, come here, go there. Sulema wished she might leap onto Atemi’s back and ride… but where, exactly? Which path might lead her to peace, when the whole world seemed to have gone mad?

  The only peaceful road is the Lonely Road, and I am not yet ready to die.

  Then live, Ani’s imagined voice replied. Do what needs to be done and stop whining.

  Sulema snorted a laugh. If Ani was, indeed, dead, perhaps this was the youthmistress’s spirit, showing her no mercy. And Ani or no, the voice was right. She might as well pull up her warrior’s trousers and get on with it. There would be no peace for her until she did so.

  Sulema gave the globe a final longing glance. Ehuani, there would be no peace for her anywhere until she had fulfilled her duty. A true warrior could not simply set aside the burden of her obligation—not until she had breathed her last. Probably not even then.

  I wanted to be a warrior more than anything else.

  And do you still? the youthmistress asked in her imagination. Knowing more of life, understanding the weight of duty, do you still choose the way of Ja’Akari?

  Yes, Sulema realized, I do. I would not choose another road, truly, even if it were the path to peace and ease for myself.

  Now, my girl, Ani’s voice came, fading but full of pride, you are truly a warrior.

  Though she knew it was but the faded ghost of memories, Sulema smiled for the first time in a long while. She tucked the globe carefully back into its pouch and gathered up Atemi’s lead. Her mare came away from the sparse river grass with no show of reluctance. Indeed, her ears pricked forward, and her huge soft eyes shone with eagerness.

  “Are you ready for a new journey?” Sulema asked, and she grinned at Atemi’s answering snort as the golden mare danced in place, eager to be moving. “We will be riding over mountains thick with wyverns and mymyc and worse, and then straight into the Seared Lands themselves. Yet you do not care which road we take, do you, my love? As long as there is adventure at either end, and danger in the middle. So bold, my sweet girl. So beautiful.” Sulema kissed Atemi’s nose and thought she could do worse than emulate her horse.

  She will ride into danger and never look back.

  I will do no less.

  TWENTY

  Now, my girl, she whispered to Sulema, you are truly a warrior.

  Ani watched with her mind’s eye as the daughter of her heart shook her head and smiled, no doubt believing that the voice in her head was nothing more than a memory. Nevertheless the seed was planted. How many times had she given one of her girls such a gentle nudge? How many times had she advised Hafsa Azeina thus, with a rough-edged tongue and a too-soft heart?

  As many times as there are stars in the sky, she thought, as many times as there are worlds in Illindra’s web. She liked to believe that not all her advice had fallen on deaf ears, that not all of her tears had been shed in vain.

  Letting the vision fade away she grimaced at the pain. Her skull felt as if there were a dragon inside it, trying to get out. I wonder if the world hurts like this, she thought, as Sajani fights to wake?

  The ground beneath her feet rumbled in answer as an aftershock sent small pebbles tumbling.

  A cool breeze rose from the river and caressed her sweat-beaded forehead, played with her hair. She sank to her knees and then twisted to sit cross-legged upon the river’s edge, listening to the song of the Dibris. How like the Lonely Road it must be, going on and on, ever changing, never resting, never returning to the lands or lives it once had touched.

  A soft whicker sounded behind her, and she was shoved half over as Talieso nudged her shoulder.

  “You know me, eh, my love?” she said, reaching up to stroke his silk-soft muzzle. “True friend. Though I hardly know myself, these days.” It was true. The hand that reached up to touch her horse was a stranger’s hand, the dark braids whipping into her face were glossy-black without the slightest hint of her hard-earned gray. Gone were her scars, marks of struggle and honor. Gone were the laugh lines and frown lines given to her by her many students.

  Just as Askander was gone…

  For one so mighty, you seem to be spending much of your time wallowing in self-pity.

  You throw my words back at me? she growled at Inna’hael.

  I mirror your truth, just as the Web of Illindra shows all truths, the feline answered, unperturbed, even those truths which are lies we tell ourselves.

  You speak in riddles, she told him. You would have gotten along very well with Hafsa Azeina. The memory of her lost friend brought tears unbidden to her stranger’s eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of one hand.

  The dreamshifter and I were… acquainted, he said in an odd tone. And I am not wrong.

  Are you ever wrong? she asked. There was a long silence, and at last he answered in a voice as strange and sad as any she had heard.

  Yes. Yes, I have been very wrong… but not in your lifetime, little huntress. The grief in his words echoed the grief in her heart, so she did not press. Besides, there was work yet to be done.


  The girls’ fight in the pit had passed without either of them killing the other, thanks in some small part to her meddling in their skulls, but in every future the bones whispered to her that one would kill the other. Some fates were preordained, her father had insisted, fixed as stars in the night sky.

  She would have none of that. She had never believed, as a good Dzirani might, that there were songs written into a person’s bones which could not be unsung. Ani was as stubborn as the desert is hot, as Askander was fond of saying, and not even bones were immutable to a bonesinger. Any path might be abandoned, once one realized it led to dark places. She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and thought of Hannei.

  It was a simple thing, to picture the girl in her mind’s eye. She drew from the deep well of her memories: Hannei as a fat-cheeked cub, cutting her first teeth. Hannei as an angry new orphan, come to live with the youthmistress and those of her year-mates whose mothers had died or, like Hafsa Azeina, declined to raise their own children. Hannei with her arm in a splint after some foolery with Sulema. Ani pictured herself standing next to the girl, laying a hand on that arm and speaking to those broken bones, so long knit, stronger now than the surrounding tissue but never perfectly straight. It was a break, a discontinuum, a doorway—

  A doorway through which the bonesinger entered, unbidden, forbidden. Ani found herself in a dark, warm, alien place surrounded by the song which was Hannei, and let herself spread out like drops of blood in the river, or like drops of poison in a lover’s cup.

  Hannei, or Kishah as she was called now, had been cold-faced and silent when Ani had seen her. She had accepted the basket of salves and harmless apothecaries, though one nondescript bottle had been discreetly tucked back into a fold of Ani’s robe; the poison meant for Sulema’s rival would not, on this day, end Hannei’s life. Hannei had received the medicines silently and without so much as a flicker of recognition. Had she not raised the girl herself, Ani would have thought her a still pool, unruffled by the wind.

  On the inside, where her bones held the truth, Hannei was a raging storm. The red song of heart’s blood, of fury; the black of betrayal. Little was left of the song of Hannei, soft-hearted warrior girl of the Zeera. All that remained was what could be seen on the outside, a scarred and broken shell of a woman fit only for killing things.

  Oh, Ani thought, her own heart breaking again. Oh, my poor girl. A second heartbeat thrummed along with the first, fast as a hummingbird’s, soft as spidersilk, bright and lovely and very, very small. It flitted round the storm that was Hannei, wings caught and tattered in the tumult of her wrath, breaking itself against the hard edges of her heart. A child, its life scarcely more than a candle lit against vast darkness, trying to win its mother’s love, and failing utterly.

  Not again. The thought came from that part of Ani that could, as Askander would say, outstubborn a rock. Never again. I will not make the same mistake Hafsa Azeina made, to turn aside from a child in the pursuit of pain. I failed her in this… but I will not fail you.

  Softly she began to sing a canticle, a hymn, a lullaby for bones. She sang of long days on horseback, of fighting-drills and mead, sandstorms and giggling girls. She sang of saghaani, and mutaani, and ehuani.

  Kishahani, Hannei sang back. The only beauty is in vengeance.

  Still Ani went on. She sang of the river in springtime, of stallions and mares, of mothers and babies and handsome young men. She sang of sword-sisters and lionsnake whelps, and spiders’ eggs, and courage. She sang of Hannei Ja’Akari, champion of the people, as true a friend as any woman could ask for.

  Remember who you are, girl, she coaxed. You are Hannei Ja’Akari, daughter of Deaara and of Mazuk Ja’Sajani. The blood of queens flows hot in your veins and your bones sing of honor. Remember.

  I am no one, Hannei replied, wroth and aggrieved, heart’s voice black and ragged. I am nothing. I am Kishah, and my heart is hollow.

  You are Hannei, Ani soothed, gentle and implacable as any Mother. You are beloved.

  The tiny heartbeat flared in agreement, so bright and sweet and pure that for a moment Hannei’s attention was turned from the source of her own pain. She looked toward the child’s bright light. For a moment the storm stopped raging, the voices stopped screaming. In her mind’s eye Ani saw her as a young girl standing naked and alone in the desert, surrounded by enemies—and night was falling.

  Come, Ani said to her, holding out a hand. Come. Let me help you. Let us love you.

  I cannot, Hannei answered. I cannot. She turned her face and thrust Ani and the child both away from her. Ani fell from the song of Hannei into darkness, into the soft cold well of her own being, but not before she saw hot tears on the girl’s frozen cheeks.

  Well? thought Inna’hael, as she returned to herself—as much of herself as remained, in any case. Have you convinced them not to kill each other?

  It was a start. She curled forward and held her head in both hands. Ai yeh, the pain. I showed my girls the path of love. It is up to them to walk it. There is yet hope.

  Foolish little huntress, Inna’hael chided, though not without fondness. You and your little human dreams. While you were tracking tarbok, you missed the scat of the greater predator.

  What? What are you talking about?

  Only this, he answered. Come see.

  Abruptly Ani cried out as teeth seemed to close on her neck and yank her backward. They pulled free her spirit form, and she watched her body slump into the dirt as her essence was carried away as if she were an errant cub.

  Let me go!

  Inna’hael ignored her cries and struggles—perhaps he laughed a little, catlike—dragging her helpless ka over the city and the river, along the trade road and across the singing dunes toward Aish Kalumm. Even from this distance she could smell the savor of burnt bones, hear the weeping dead seeking, seeking the lives they had known.

  Please, she begged, please no. Not there. I cannot—

  But he was not taking her to Aish Kalumm.

  Inna’hael’s spirit form stopped high in the air above a small oasis, midway between the Nisfim herdgrounds and the Valley of Death. Once a great lake favored by herders and hunters, it was now barely more than a muddy pit. A force was gathering there, armed and armored, ten thousand strong or more, or she was no battle-mistress.

  Atualon invades the Zeera! she thought, and redoubled her efforts to break free. Let me go! I must warn—

  Bonesinger, he snarled around a mouthful of her spirit. You are not stupid. Neither are you blind, or deaf. What do your eyes tell you? What do the bones tell you?

  Ani stopped fighting, stopped being stupid, and looked again. Really looked this time, with the eyes of one who had walked too near the Lonely Road. She listened, as well, so that she could hear the bones. For where there had been war there were always bones. The bones were singing to her. They sang, as always, of mortality, of breath cut short and stillborn dreams. They sang to her of their own deaths, those of their beloveds, deaths to come.

  Ani stared at the dark mass of warlike figures far below. One of them stood above the others, armored and with an antlered helm, his arm draped about the shoulders of a young girl. As if he sensed her presence, this man turned his face up to the sky. Ani saw him clearly, and her soul froze in horror. She knew this boy, burned face or no, dead eyes or no. The last time she had seen this youth, he was trying to convince Sareta to allow him to ride as a warrior.

  Ismai, she thought dismayed. Ismai, what is this madness?

  The bones sang to Ani, enjoining her to share their delight.

  The king is risen, they rejoiced. The king is dead. Long live the king.

  TWENTY - ONE

  “A beautiful sight, is it not?” The Zeerani warrior and her horse, glowing in the sunlight as they prepare for a great quest. She does not have the braids for it, of course, but they will grow back.

  “Unlike your tongue.”

  Hannei tensed beneath the hand that was laid on her shoulder in a false show of sympa
thy. Sharmutai laughed and went on.

  “They say that little golden mare was one that had been taken from her? How touching, and how fortunate for your pretty friend. I do not suppose you will ever see your own horses again, your weapons and leathers, those things you barbarians hold so dear. Certainly you will never again gaze deep into the eyes of—oh, you never told me his name, did you? The father of your brat? So much has been taken from you, my poor little pit slave. I know how you feel.”

  Anger rose in Hannei’s gut with every word that fell from the whoremistress’s rouged lips. She jerked her shoulder from the touch, risking a beating. Sharmutai laughed again at Hannei’s broken growl. The laugh was a beautiful sound of honey and venom.

  “Oh, but I do know how you feel, little pet. I know just how you feel. To have everything you love stripped from you, to have your body savaged and torn for the amusement of men.”

  Sulema stood with Atemi by the river, oblivious to all the world. Hannei turned from the sight of her onetime sword-sister and stared with surprise at Sharmutai. She had a mymyc’s voice—now soft and low, then seductive, then harsh, but always dripping with deceit. Never had Hannei detected the faintest ring of truth from this woman, but she heard it now.

  “Yes, even so,” the whoremistress said. “I was not always as you see me now, you know. Powerful, wealthy beyond imagining, untouchable…” She raised her hands high, salt-stained blue silk shivering in the hot wind, and fixed her eyes on the sky. “No. I was young once, and I was owned even as I own you. In my case, however, I was not sold. I gave myself away, and freely.” Her beautiful face stilled into a mask of perfect hatred. “I gave myself to a king’s son, body and heart, sa and ka. I walked in his footsteps as if he were the sun and I no more than his adoring shadow. When I was scarcely more than a child myself, I grew round as the moons with his child. My child.” She lowered her arms, her eyes, and smiled such a smile that Hannei recoiled.